One of the most unsettling parts of this time in Germany and
Africa is my seemingly uncontrollable desire to put things in little boxes. I want to
understand. I want to see what is going on so I can plan and communicate with
others about what I know. I have learned over and over again, I'd better keep those little boxes open because my understanding is changing constantly and I don't want to miss the often surprising and wonderful adjustments.
I understand this to be Greek thinking. I want things to
make sense and be logical. “Since I observe this…this must be true.” A+B=C
Over and over again this mode of thinking has been shattered
and leaves me feeling humbled. People who are very very sure of things fascinate me. I’ve
felt wishy-washy in the past (like politics and personal opinions)
because I always think there is another side to every story. But, when I have a
set amount of time, like these 4+ months, in which to figure out new worlds and
worldviews, I keep falling into the trap of categorizing quickly, only to have to completely relearn and readjust later.
For example, some people seem to be intelligent because they
are verbal and expressive, while some seem to be more limited. Then, one will
open up in prayer or in conversation and prove all assumptions wrong.
People seem to not care because they aren’t all huggy like I
am. Then I see different kinds of acts of love and soften my thoughts considerably, apologizing in my head and hoping I didn't show what I was thinking.
I asked a question of a person yesterday and he seemed very
defensive. I found myself angry and wanting to write him off. I felt devalued
and untrusted. I knew I was very tired and just needed to get home and rest.
Today, I am ready to try to move forward with the person and the organization he works with.
The kids (especially the teenagers) don’t thank us for
things like meals out and lodge stays. It can be unnerving, especially when you
know you are overspending and will pay the price. I am so direct and believe in
open communication and the good in “teaching” young people so that they are
better equipped for the future. It seems like my direct approach can put people off here so I am more hesitant to speak up or to initiate dialogue about deeper issues. Then, I go to prayer, remembering
that I only have an ‘audience of one’ to please. We will see if I feel led to
sit down with the couple of teens we still have with us and talk about how it
makes Andy and I feel when we do something special and appears unappreciated. My hope is that I would learn something about how they see things too.
I could go on and on. It seems almost trivial as I list
these things. But it is not. My own insecurities cause most of my 'observations' which are mostly snap judgements. Again, I need to go back to the only One who matters. My insecurities lessen with Him so I can keep on trying with people, regardless of what I think they think of me or what I think of them with my limited understanding.
When we volunteers come to a children’s home, we fall in
love with individuals. We have the unique experience of falling in love with
what we see during a glimpse in time. A precious glimpse. There is a
multidimensional person and life situation and world view behind each person we
meet, that takes time and trust to come to understand. Do the children like going to
see family on holiday or it is traumatic? Is it good for kids to be exposed to
the outer world when the world is so corrupt, or is sheltering them from pain best for them (the way I CRAVE to do!)
How should a young country like Namibia, with many challenges
like the tidal wave of unwed mothers raising children they can’t really care for, and HIV/AIDS
looming, educate about sex and God’s plan for 1 woman/1 man for life? I also find myself wondering why the
heck aren’t condoms given out by the busload instead of held behind the counter for sale at the store?
Over time, I realize I MUST adopt a more Hebrew way of
thinking. Hebrew thinking can allow things to exist that appear to be opposites
or conflicts, simultaneously.
It can be difficult and even traumatizing to the children to
go to family they didn’t grow up with. They may even be in circumstances of
poverty, harsh relationships, and where
Jesus is not honored. Still, I hear stories about kids choosing this over the
advantages of the children’s home. Both are true, the good and the bad of this whole, seemingly impossible, situation. By the way, I find the same difficulties with the foster youth at home. So hard to grasp.
Body language can be totally wrong, or at least the way I
understand it. People can be quiet and not respond to questions as if they
don’t understand, and be very intelligent and insightful when the time and
communication is right.
The hugs and kisses of volunteers can be wonderful and can
hurt too. Others who don’t seem to show love the same way can care deeply and
hurt just as much as "we" do when they see the children hurting. I suspect many of the people here have had to toughen up over time. I have trouble gaining insight into any of this without feeling like I am prying.
Kids who have been brought up in a children’s home where
food comes from the kitchen or the Ark’s budget, not from the result of
particular people working for it, may not appreciate ‘us’ for buying it. They might also think we have unlimited resources. Hopefully, they appreciate God for providing it.
Besides Greek vs. Hebrew thinking, this all makes me think of the concept of “Multiple Intelligences" and "Emotional Intelligence or EQ.” I teach these concepts in my classes, mostly as a
way to help people see that they have much to offer, but may be very different
that those around them.
I need to ‘pearl dive’ for those valuable differences in
others and that takes time and overcoming language barriers and...it takes holding back my judgements and opinions from forming much longer than I usually can. Keeping the boxes open to adjustment seems to be my only hope to gaining any understanding at all.
Sometimes it is really exhausting and I just want to run
home to where it is more familiar and easy. On the other hand, I want to wallow
in the differences and savor the morsels of understanding I get into the people
I am with. For example, all the Aunties and Christina, Heidi, Kim, and 2 of the teenage boys
were here this morning for devotion time. I shared the story of Uncle Joe and Ephesians 3:14 - 21. I have shared that as a Lenten Devotion at MOO. I'll paste it at the end of today's entry because I want to have it as part of this record. Afterward, I simply opened the prayer time with, "Holy Spirit, please lead us in prayer." I couldn’t understand much of the other's prayers in Afrikaans but I could hear their hearts open up while they prayed. It
was one of those experiences I want to hold onto. I also took some video another day of the aunties praising God spontaneously that I never want to forget. I'll try to insert it here. They gave me permission to tape it.
This morning while the aunties were praying so powerfully, I was also reminded of something Jos had mentioned to us about
Liberia and the story of the women of the little African nation “Praying the Devil
Back to Hell.” I’m going to try to download the documentary to show everyone
here when we have time, before we start the Vacation Bible School week. I’ve
pasted some details I looked up below.
I wish I could write a book about all the
people here. They are fascinating. We over simplify problems and people and I want so badly to break through that and understand. It is so easy to think the
aunties are "just" employees. The kids are "orphans." The whites are "blinded and heartless" for not getting involved with the orphan crisis here. The
blacks are "too ill equipped." The cities are where the "movers and shakers" are. Whatever.
It is all of this and none of this at the same time, or so I think I at least
have that right.
Pray the Devil Back to Hell is
the astonishing story of the Liberian women who took on the warlords and regime
of dictator Charles Taylor in the midst of a brutal civil war, and won a once
unimaginable peace for their shattered country in 2003. As the rebel noose
tightened around the capital city of Monrovia, thousands of women – ordinary
mothers, grandmothers, aunts and daughters, both Christian and Muslim – formed
a thin but unshakable line between the opposing forces. Armed only with white
T-shirts and the courage of their convictions, they literally faced down the
killers who had turned Liberia into hell on earth. In one memorable scene, the
women barricaded the site of stalled peace talks in Ghana and refused to move
until a deal was done. Their demonstrations culminated in Taylor’s exile and
the rise of Africa’s first female head of state, Ellen Johnson Sirleaf. Inspiring
and uplifting, Pray the Devil Back to Hell is a compelling example of
how grassroots activism can alter the history of nations.
Because God loves Uncle Joe...
I wondered
all the way up there. The 50 minute drive had me looking at my Bible I had come
to cherish…and believe. But they don’t want some zealot rushing in. Would they think we are disrespectful of
their beliefs? Of them?
We pulled up
to the hospital. Uncle Joe has always been so grumpy, opinionated, and gruff.
Somehow he had shown his softer side to the two of us, though. I always figured
it was because he didn’t really hurt us when he growled but his ways did hurt
his own kids and their spouses. We were able to dismiss his hurtful comments
but his own kids just couldn’t, of course.
I decided
not to take my big study Bible in with me. I had no idea what to expect but I
had heard he wasn’t doing very well. He had been in the hospital for weeks.
Chamie, our associate pastor’s young, beautiful, and somewhat controversial
wife had shared with me that a group of women had prayed Ephesians 3: 16 – 19
for her when she needed faith. They had inserted her name where it said “you”
and “her” in for “your”. I had begun praying this for Uncle Joe, inserting his
name. I wanted to share this with him but my heart pounded whenever I thought
about sharing scripture with these people who believe in such things as praying
to people other than Jesus and feared Purgatory.
The elevator
door opened and we were surprised to see Andy’s cousin right there to meet us.
We hugged and he quickly told us, shaking his head slowly, that Uncle Joe had
been out of it for days. He was hallucinating and it was often troubling with
fear, like he was in a nightmare (I can’t remember his exact words here).
Andy paused
to talk to sweet, hunched over but beautiful, Aunt Dolores. They had been
married so very long…and raised so many kids!
I saw Uncle
Joe in his bed and walked up. He looked straight at me and said, “Hi.” He was
there. 100% there with me, and then us, as Andy came to the other side of the
bed. My love for both of these men deepened as my big handsome husband stroked
the hair of his dying uncle. I could not have imagined that I’d ever see Uncle
Joe accept such tenderness, but he did.
His eyes met
ours. We sort of stumbled over small talk and then Andy asked him, “Do you know
the Lord Jesus, Uncle Joe? Will we see you in heaven?” The answer was so cute
and short and sure. “You betcha.” I will never forget the love and relief and
peace I felt. We asked a few more questions like if he knew we loved him. He
answered the same way each time. We stayed just a few more minutes and went
home. Amazed. I thought all the way home about Ephesians 3:16 – 19. God had
given him a glimpse of his love for Uncle Joe and this man who had acted so
stubborn and hard headed, responded. I just knew it.
Uncle Joe
died soon after. We arrived at his funeral service. The large church they had
gone to for decades was bustling and full. Andy and I were stunned when one of
the cousins (Joe’s children) asked if we’d share at the funeral. I knew
instantly what I wanted to share: Ephesians 3:16 – 19.
When I got
to the front of this huge church and turned around, I felt the air leave me and
I felt as if I could fall backwards. To look at a huge sea of mourning faces, I
hadn’t really prepared for that. The family was right there in front of me. I
felt embarrassed to be up there. But I began.
Being who I
am, I felt compelled to share the background story of how I prayed for Uncle
Joe. Somewhere in that, I somehow blurted out words about him being such a
“grumpy old fart.” I couldn’t believe what I had said but I saw shocked faces
soften, smile, and laugh, especially those of the elderly men in the audience.
I looked
over to the priest. He looked visibly perturbed.
Uncle Joe’s
son, Mike, a pastor, spoke after us. He shared how his father had been in the
hospital, dying, for 40 days and 40 nights. He pointed out the biblical significance
of that. Uncle Joe needed all that time to come to Christ - to respond to the gift
of soul piercing faith which must be freely accepted to be received. It was
amazing.
After the
service we went to Uncle Joe and Aunt Dolores’ very cool house in the San
Gabriel foothills. It is the only family home I’ve ever been to that had an
elevator. We were sitting outside with some more of the family.
Aunt Dolores
approached the table. I couldn’t wait to apologize to her about the “Grumpy old
fart” comment. She smiled and reassured me that it was fine. Then she said to
Andy and me, “All I know is that, when you walked into the hospital that day,
the Holy Spirit came with you.”
Thank you God for the way you work.
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