Praises for a God Who Is Beyond Time Zones

Have you ever gone on a God Hunt? A God Hunt begins when you teach yourself to look for God’s hand at work in the everyday occurrences of your life. Here’s one of my personal God Hunt Sightings:



 

Most of us have agreed that going west across time zones requires minimal adjustment. Coming home, however, flying east, is a whole different matter. I have come to the conclusion that it is just going to be a full two weeks before am I really back.

The first night at home after 21 days in Africa, I kept waking up thinking I was still moving through the streets of Nairobi. In a few days, I began to catch seven to eight hours of sleep. Five days home, I didn’t need an afternoon nap, but I was still not wanting to be around ANYONE but my family. There was a displacement of my inner time zones; morning hours took forever to live through. It felt like two in the afternoon, as though I had been awake that long since morning, when it was still only 10:00 A.M.

How comforting to know that God is a God who is above all time zones and not limited by any of them. I wrote out in my prayer journal:

I praise you God of all Time Zones:

• that you neither slumber nor sleep

• that you are never jet-lagged

• that you are always here and always there

• that you are present in all the longitudes and latitudes

• that your love stretches from the North Pole to the South Pole; and that your grace tracks through the equator and the meridians.

You are my Place before all others.

This is a solace for the jet-lagged travelers.

I spy God!

Flowers for Mother’s Day

Have you ever gone on a God Hunt? A God Hunt begins when you teach yourself to look for God’s hand at work in the everyday occurrences of your life. Here’s one of my personal God Hunt Sightings:



Cirilo Leon, from Oaxaca, Mexico lives with us in the gardening season. Cirilo used to be my brother-in-law’s gardener for eleven years, and after the estate was sold and still needing to make money to support his wife and children, he picked up other clients along the estates up our road. Cirilo eventually came to live with us. After all, he was practically one of the family.

In Mexico, Mother’s Day is a big day for honoring the matriarch. Any daughters throw a big fiesta, the family gathers, gifts are given and mother is highly honored. Cirilo has concluded that my family—and since I only have one daughter, so particularly Melissa—do not do enough to make me feel special. “Why you not have fiesta?” he asked Melissa once. “Your mother a good lady.”

Actually, Melissa is a wonderful and generous (overly-generous) daughter. I have no complaints about any of my children. I figure three out of four (cards, phone calls, Hi, Moms!) each year is pretty good. Generally, one of the four forgets that it is Mother’s Day, but the rest always manage to fit something in.

So when I came downstairs early in the morning last Sunday (Mother’s Day) there was a pitcher of flowers for me on the coffee table in the living room. Cirilo had bought me flowers for Mother’s Day. I was surprised by how touched I was by this small token of remembrance. “Cirilo,” I said when he came up from his room in the basement. “You bought me flowers! How lovely of you!”

I did make a point of telling Cirilo that we had celebrated Mother’s Day the evening before by going to see The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel with my daughter and son-in-law (if you haven’t seen this film with Judy Dench, Maggie Smith, Tom Wilkinson and Dev Patel of Slumdog Millionaire fame, do fit it in). Then I told him that the family was gathering in the evening, but I don’t think it all quite fit the standard of a Mexican fiesta Mother’s Day. I could tell he was thinking, Well at least they are doing something for this nice lady.

I’ve passed the flowers on the dining room table several times a day since Sunday, and I always think, “Oh how lovely. Cirilo gave those to me for Mother’s Day.” It is a reminder of his kindness, a marker of a kind of goodness.

This reminds me of the Scripture verse from Psalm 103:1-2:

“Bless the Lord, O my soul, and all that is within me, bless his holy Name. Bless the Lord, O my soul, and forget not all his benefits.”

The world this May spring is like passing Cirilo’s Mother’s Day flowers on the dining room table. Every green thing, every bee buzzing around the bee hive, the rabbit eyeing my just-planted garden, the robins waiting to bathe in the fountain when it bubbles up are a reminder of all his benefits. Bless the Lord, O my soul.

I spy God!

There’s Money in Poverty

Have you ever gone on a God Hunt? A God Hunt begins when you teach yourself to look for God’s hand at work in the everyday occurrences of your life. Here’s one of my personal God Hunt Sightings:

 

 

 

For years, since we started the initial phases of the Global Bag Project in 2008, I’ve heard the name Barbara Harrison, a business gal from Canada who had trained some of the HIV/AIDS widows in Kibera Slums how to put a business plan together (selling swaths of fabric, dried fish—small enterprises). Through the years since, I’ve heard Barbara this, Barbara that; you know, the Barbara from Canada.

This time David and I got to meet Barbara Harrison, in the flesh. Barbara had actually given the money for the first two sewing machines before the Global Bag Project was even started. We invited her to come sit in our room and get acquainted. A midlife working woman, single, one of ten children herself (number eight), Barbara filled the room with her energy—truly she was one people dub “a force-of-nature”.

She’d bought eight acres of land outside of Nairobi and helped a local pastor start an orphanage for 30 children. They employ 10 workers and she had just built a hen house for laying hens, teaching the helpers to lay bricks.

“Well, how did you learn to lay bricks?” I wanted to know.

Turns out that Barbara is a steel worker and worked in the steel foundry driving a forklift for the early part of her career. “Aw I did that stuff all the time. Got so hot in there, we’d have to tear a wall down and build it again.”

Barbara uses her vacation time to come to Africa, bringing in $15,000 (Canadian I’m supposing) from a recent fund-raiser. “Yeah, I helped put up that greenhouse.” She pointed to the white canvas frame sitting beside the garden path. We could see it outside our window; it had appeared during my visit two years ago.

Determined that the orphanage would become self-sustaining, a garden and a greenhouse not to mention the hen house had gone up there as well. A contract had been obtained from the government to knit school sweaters and two looms had been constructed to fulfill that obligation. (I could hardly write fast enough to capture all this amazing women mentioned in our brief conversation.)

As far as Barbara was concerned, there was no braggadocio in all this; she was simply recounting facts in answer to my questions. A phrase kept coming up, however, one she mentioned scornfully time and again: “There’s money in poverty, you know.”

This is true. For instance, big banks that once wouldn’t consider giving a $75 loan to an impoverished signee for a microenterprise startup have discovered that since there are so many poor people (millions), even with small loans and small interest rates, they can make money. Lots of people make big money on the backs of the wretched of the earth.

 “Oh, yes, and I’ve gone into the movie business!” Barbara continued. She has been a longtime collector of antique garments. The basement, I gather, is filled with stuff. A movie company’s costume supplier fell through and someone said, “Talk with Barbara Harrison.” Sure enough. Barbara made $4,000 (Canadian again) renting her collection out to the filmmakers.

When I meet people like this—a steelworker from Sault Ste. Marie—I’m often forced to consider: What makes people do what they do? Why does a woman like this go plunging into the needy hotspots of the world, shamelessly go home and raise funds from people who would never take such a dive? And why do so many people do next to nothing with their lives? What, apart from a rare combination of indeterminate genes, makes the difference?

Frankly, I don’t know. But I’m glad I met Barbara Harrison—Barbara this and Barbara that, Barbara from Canada. I’m thinking of taking a trip up to the locks, of visiting nearby Macintosh Island. But the biggest attraction, really, is visiting Barbara Harrison.

I spy God!

I Am Here For You

Have you ever gone on a God Hunt? A God Hunt begins when you teach yourself to look for God’s hand at work in the everyday occurrences of your life. Here’s one of my personal God Hunt Sightings:



The name of our driver for the two weeks we are in Kenya is Farage (I believe it is Faragi but Kenyans often give you a name they think Westerners can understand and pronounce).

“I am your driver, Farage,” he says. “I am here for you.” This saying was repeated many times, gaining more meaning with each repetition.

This is a relief. Getting across town in Nairobi traffic (in the rainy season) during peak driving hours is a nightmare. The crush of traffic, pedestrians, the backed-up roundabouts, not constructed to absorb the volume of cars is daunting even to think about by the driver used to more of an orderly system (or perhaps one used to his/her own disorderly traffic system). I do not want to be driving on these roads; it is not like in England.

One evening, not knowing exactly when we would be returning, we decided not to order dinner in the Kijiji dining room. Arriving home before dark, we attended to a quick business meeting, then realized we had sent Farage along and had no way to get to the nearby restaurant down the road. “Oh, we’ll just walk,” we said to Mary Ogalo, our GBP Coordinator. “No! No! No! That’s too dangerous. Just take my car to drive the little way down the road and back.” It was now night.

So David got into the right-sided driver’s seat, took the bumpy lane to the security gate, turned right—across the highway—and suddenly discovered what Mary had meant when she said, “No! No! No! That’s too dangerous.” We were in utter blackness, with cars approaching on our left side with their high beams on due to the fact that there were no streetlights, no white lines on either edge of the road, no dividing yellow line, and people walking on both sides of the street who could not be seen until you were almost upon them. David eased the car down the road, with the other three of us peering in hopes of seeing the Rusty Nail Restaurant sign. Finally, right upon us, there it was. No lights marking the location or the driveway; David turned into a farther drive, the wrong drive, had to back out, missed the huge stone none of us saw, made it into the right drive, but we could hardly see where to go once the guard opened the gates to let us in.

“I’ll drive back,” I said to David after dinner. My night sight is a little better than his—the passenger in the front left seat, helped me steer down the road when high beams coming at me blinded me. I flipped on the turn signal, only to have the windshield wipers swish on. My passenger figured how to turn them off (several times). The road was wet; pedestrians were still walking on the sides, and I totally missed the turnoff to the entrance to Africa International University. No lights again.

“I think I’ve gone too far. Watch for the entrance.” Turning the car around, I aimed it in the pitch-black night down the left side of the road, twisting the steering wheel that was on the right side of the car.

Finally, greatly relieved, we turned into AIU. “Don’t ever loan your car to Americans!” we warned Mary the next morning. “We are, most of us, incompetent on your highways.”

I kept thinking of Farage’s words: “I am here for you.”

We changed driving plans daily. “Change of plans, Farage. Bet we didn’t surprise you with that, did we?” He would bob his head slightly, smile and forgive us our vagaries, “I am here for you.”

He took awful drives across town to the Kenyatta International airport—in heavy stalled traffic, in lanes fouled by downpours with water rushing across the roads—and delivered or picked up all assigned to him without incident. “I am here for you.”

He waited interminably when we didn’t get out of meetings at the time estimated. “So sorry, Farage…” I am here for you.”

Farage is a devout Muslim and one afternoon he wasn’t present. “Another driver will drive this afternoon.” No one said, “Farage is at Friday prayers. He is at the mosque with other observant Muslims.” Perhaps they thought we would be offended. We weren’t offended; we would have understood absolutely.

We were concerned about something and Farage said, “I will pray for you.” We had interesting conversations about the meaning of our faiths. David said, “You see, Farage, when we are friends, like you and I are friends” (this after driving for hours together for almost two weeks), “we can talk about what we believe without arguing about it.”

I suspect Farage understands, as deeply as I, about the power of his words. These are the same words God speaks to us when we are driving on the wrong side of the road, lost, with dangers on every side, with the windshield wipers going on when we needed the turn signal. “I am here for you.” Overcome with night-blindness, late from our appointments, stalled in unbelievable traffic with the torrents of rains making our vehicle hydroplane across the road, confused—these words are a deep comfort, a source of solidarity, a kindness, a profound reminder.

And if you are in a place in your life when you can’t hear these words, I know this driver in Kenya, a Muslim man with a baby daughter whose photos he proudly showed us one afternoon. He says the words frequently, easily, with meaning because he is always there when you need him, on time and waiting (except for Fridays during prayers). He’ll get you thinking. He’ll get you started. Perhaps listening to him you’ll be able to hear the same words spoken on a deeper listening level—I AM here for you.

I spy God!

Friends and Stranger

Friends and Strangers chronicles the beginning of the journey into self-knowledge, a painful odyssey particular to the work of the middle years. This narrative focuses on the ages from 38-45. Each of us has hidden areas, lies we tell to ourselves that we don’t know we are telling. The work of the Holy Spirit is to continually bring us into truth. In this book I begin to look at truth through encounters with strangers, people I meet along the way, brought to me by God, who have rich gifts to give that shake my smug thinking. I am convinced that no encounter is casual, as each has the potential to move the ground beneath our feet, which is never as solid as we like to think.

Featured Book: Quantum Physics and Theology: An Unexpected Kinship by John Polkinghorne

If you are into physics (yes, some people really, really are), don’t miss the opportunity to expose yourself to the elegant thinking of John Polkinghorne. I will admit that I had to work at this some, but even then, I kept taking deep breaths and thinking, I am being exposed to a true mastermind. What a privilege! 

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Wouldn't You Like to Do Something Good for the Women of the World?

The moment I write the title “Wouldn’t You Like to Do Something Good for the Women of the World,” I am afraid I will lose my male readers. So before continuing, let me make the point that in all of history one of the greatest advocates for the empowerment and the advancement of women was our Lord, Jesus Christ. Read Luke, the whole book, and ask why the beloved physician included so many stories of Christ’s interaction with old women, young women, healthy and unhealthy women. I have concluded and have often taught that Jesus was the Healer of Women. He believed in them, sustained them, often commended them, traveled with them, looked on them as among His chief boosters.

So when I ask the question, “Wouldn’t you like to do something good for the women of the world?”, I am extremely conscious of the fact that Christian men (as well as Christian women) must become active advocates for helping to improve the appalling conditions that entrap and degrade a good 80% of the women of the world.

I often wake up thinking, Oh thank God that I get to do what I do. For some reason I have been positioned to be in a place where I can influence the betterment of women in over 100 countries in the world. The men on the Board of Directors of Medical Ambassadors International have allowed me to be champion of the Women’s Cycle of Life training, a unique, learner-centered, highly participatory teaching methodology that seamlessly integrates Scripture with practical lessons on women’s health.

In fact, David and I leave on April 11 to take Women’s Cycle of Life training with African counterparts. As a member of the Board of Directors, I have taken the weeklong training TOT1 (Training of Trainers One); now I am credentialed to take the training for WCL. This means I will be able to train Women’s Cycle of Life trainers as well. So hats off to the men on the Medical Ambassadors International board who are some of the greatest advocates of doing something good for the women of the world that I know. They have found funding for us, pushed us to become better organized and are highly interested in encouraging the growth of this division of the Medical Ambassadors ministry.

So I honor the men of the church who have become champions for the underprivileged, under-resourced women of the world, for those women who live in an atmosphere of oppression and abuse. 

Will you pray for us as we are in Africa? 

•  Pray for travel mercies—that is a phrase that has poignant meaning as David and I age. 

•  Pray that the filming we will be doing for Medical Ambassadors International will go well; it is extremely difficult to capture the footage necessary with some of the travel and communication differences that occur in cross-cultural environments. 

•  Pray that our work with the team of Global Bag Project colleagues will go well and that we will move quickly to self-sufficiency for the Kenya GBP Project.