Bazaar

One of the first comments of the morning spilled out the mouth of young Iasonas Katsaros.

"Your eyes have a white circle around them. That's weird," he informed me.

This tanning is not unusual to the rest of the world. When a person goes to the beach and wears their sunglasses all day, the result yielded is the infamous reverse raccoon. I, however, was not at a beach. There was sand all around but absolutely no water. Instead we sat, or rather we stood, in the blazing sun of the wadi desert at the annual Maadi Women's Guild Christmas Bazaar held at the Wadi Degla Sporting Club. The temperatures deceived us, thus the reason for our Rudolph'd noses and jolly cheeks and foreheads. When we left our homes at 9 am that morning the chill thrilled us all with a shivering 55 degrees Fahrenheit. The breeze and the chill never rose beyond 70.

Lucky for me, the work I had put into my tan earlier in the year barricaded the burn from any insinuating pain. Fearful of a day of sled-leading jokes and a crispy face, relief gave way to joy on the skip over to pageant rehearsal this morning.

I serve as one of the 4 wise kings of Orient. I did not mistype as you may be wondering. This year, there are four of us baring gifts to the glowing baby-King. One of the other kings, who is dressed as a pharaoh, brings the same gift I thought would be wise - gold. In the spirit of holiday cheer we duke it out while telling King Arthur and the pirate king of Asia to hush their oh so wise yappers.

I, the only king from the appropriate location and time period, get cut from the gift baring, leaving me only to kneel in shameful awe of the precious baby Jesus, of whom was a clay pot today. We didn't have a baby to rehearse with so we improvised.

All in all, its not too shabby of a gig. I get to dress up in a man dress called a galabeya, play a nerdy role that doesn't make the cut, and ride on a camel of which one of the wise men was tossed from in last year's performance. Now why did I agree to do this again? Oh, yeah, to spread the word of the birth of Christ. He better do something brilliant when he grows up.

Yule Tide Greetings

Though it is cooling off a bit here, I find myself stripping my shirt from a toasted torso when running in the wadi today.

Also, there is officially less than 2 weeks before a quick leap across the Atlantic puddle. It'll be a good skip home, or so I hope.

I had a Dr. Pepper today for the first time in over a year. It gave me a head ache.

The longer I spend with the Katsaros' the more it feels like family. I went to Yannis' soccer game yesterday and sat with the families. During a lull, I terrorized the young ones on the playground as the big bad playground monster, tagging and moving with great tact and rapidity.

I find the cynic in me bobbing for surprise visits more often than I'd care to see his gnarly disgruntled face. Some one please tell him to stop.

It would take great convincing to sway me from a belief that functional family and true social reform (what I refer to as dreams) do not coincide. Perhaps this is youthful ignorance chiming in, but I do not believe it possible.

Recently, my youthful immaturity blinds and exposes my frugalled experiences. In this, there has been a surge of disdain and apprehension for revealing immaturity. My whole life I've maintained the reputation as the one more mature than his peers. That slows as you age, I think. The expectation for maturity flattens out and climbs near a ceiling. Breaking ceilings is not an activity I'm accustomed to, though it is a growing family tradition (apologies, Dad. Terry I hope you are laughing while remembering that ordeal many years ago). Perhaps, I'll continue the tradition.

I burst with tension yearning the simple life.

Independence is my friend, but interdependence is my brother.

Big words (like interdependence) make me want to vomit. I wish I, and others, could write and talk with pictures like cultures of the East.

I am retiring for the night to sip some tea and lounge on the sofa couch.

In the holy, precious name of Jesus Christ our risen Lord, I pray. Amen

Greasy grasp of the Garden

The following is a rapid recollection of thoughts from the regretfully unrecorded conversation of the night with Kevin, more as a reminder than a full report:

This life sucks. Get over it. We live in a fallen world. We were not designed to live this way. Not alone, community, care for the land. There is no formula. "This is the most morbid picture of life I could have given." "But perhaps the most accurate one."
The promise of the best life is only based on an acknowledgment that others strive and don't find. At least we know we won't find happiness here. We aren't suppose to. Why would God do that? He must; we sinned. He can't be anywhere near sin. That's why He is creating a new Earth.

Peace of comfort vs. Peace of Hope
The rich will have a hard time getting into heaven, because when Jesus comes to save the rich won't feel like it is salvation. They had everything they wanted. It makes sense that the poor receive the Kingdom; they've been awaiting freedom from oppression. This would lead us to the same reason God would choose an enslaved nation such as Israel to claim as His. It is the sick who need a doctor, and the imprisoned who need a savior. A wealthy nation has nothing to be saved from but a low and crappy nation has everything to be saved from.



Check back for comments from the co-conversationalist himself.

Functional Design

Yesterday, and days leading up to it, boredom pluck a new cord. In most circumstances, this deadening nothingness is satisfied with a void filling video game. However, two circumstantial differences crashed the party this week, the first of which has been feeding on maturation. The snarling beast of lonesome fantasy games barks all the louder as its snapping jaw enjoys a muting muzzle. Though they video games still suffice as a source of sweet entertainment, they fail now in their former mutinies of the mind.

The following alteration to the week bounces in unexpected, but more warmly welcomed than anyone could anticipate. Due to unusual activity in the electricity, the power cord to the Wii surged and burned. We held a memorial service the same day for close friends and family.
This bittersweet passing melted away all ability to easily waste away our lives. It was that very moment when I realized we'd need to be more creative in our attempts to waste our lives.

My aimless body scuffled around the house lifeless. Fast forward to today. Normal routine ensued: Awake, pour the cereal, stare at the wall, then spend 30 minutes deciding what will happen next. On occasion I chat online with a friend when she is awake.

Today, I decided to watch a movie. The Last of the Mohicans survived as almost the last movie I hadn't seen in the drawer. Not a disappointment. The adrenaline gushed within me to become a Mohican myself, to know nature and control my surroundings as one intimate with its Maker. I launched out the door to set my body to such form and control. But it left me with these thoughts.


As the sculpting and flexing muscles surged, so did my mind. Why is it that I succumb to this perceived need to work out, to sear my body into a machine that can stand up to the challenge? I have nothing in my daily life or even in a yearly life that requires such fitness. There is no need for the power of a strong arm hold whatever social countenances I desire. But as for practical purpose, I glean none.

My suspicion veers toward a residue of a once necessitated survival requisite. We were designed to subdue to the earth, no? I fear that our current interpretation of such a command hits slightly outside the intended red dot. Why do athletes train now? To engage in less dangerous forms of "battle" where risks remain low and assurance finds a home. It is a remnant of what we used to do, how we used to conquer, a necessity for food and survival. Now, a structured body lives in the cage of social appearance and entertainment value.

I want to work out, but the desire slowly ceases. I lift only as a means of feeling good and "healthy" living. It all seems a bit more lackluster now.

Through the Glass, part 2

As promised, to everyone's surprise, the story continues.

We rejoin our hero after his quiet traverse across the wilderness and following the assent of the concrete castle. The games recommences as the youth tap a slightly deflated and dilapidated futbol soars across the musty cavern of a hallway.

It is in this adventure the youth find their joy not necessarily in the game's ends but more so in the cheating fun of pushing, wrestling, and falsely truced alliances scourging the game instead. Revenge not only expects a righteous seat but bows low in thanks when she is encouraged. Pinching, poking, prodding. Jabs, juts, jams. Wall slams, open field shoves, and unsuspected foot tripping skip playfully on this battlefield.

Eventually, when all the guests arrive, the prince's sister escorts the celebrated royalty to his well-contoured throne where we marinate his with lavish flattery on his special day. Though this day belonged to him, I protruded as the welcomed and honored guest at the occasion. As if the presumed righteousness of my presence required some reciprocation, both mother and father of this young prince fervently piled the dish in my hands with unceasingly amounts of pizza, apple slices, chocolate cake, and assorted candies. For just as apart of "the family" of the Godfather, when in the home of an Egyptian they commit to making you an offer you can't refuse [done in a gross Italian-Egyptian accent]. Its customary, an insult if you refuse to eat anything offered to you by your generous host. I had heard this before yet it took 3 months before I could fight my way into a true Egyptian home to experience it firsthand.

We implored God for a blessing on the boy. The royal party slighted me a bit in Arabic, all in good fun; then the prince's most trusted warrior guided me on foot across the treacherous hills back to familiarity. Though little depth was bled from the conversation, a bond was struck between this faithful coursing mercenary and my soul. Bound by what may only be shear sensation and speculation, I crave to teach this young lad the tactics of a warfare he knows naught of.

We shall see. My lingering fear pierces with a thought of my abandonment in a mere 6 months. Do we undertake and break his spirit and mine, or shall we let the heart continue on in this hardened state leaving it only to sink faster in the dark sands of a naively ransacked perspective? Though I wish it were not so, the answer bathes in crystal water.

Three Plates Plus Desert

As most anyone who reads this should know, gluttonous amounts of food gorged many stomachs this holiday weekend. Slammed to the ears with scents and stuffings enticing a fluid drool dribbling from our mouths, I actually paid a very tiny man to go into my belly and stomp on the inhaled grub as to make room for more than any human should ever eat in a span of so many hours. And I can take you to places in this town where a family would split a loaf of bread, if they were privileged on that day.

Ironically, one of our MCC staff asked me to lead our church staff prayer that morning. Feeling as unequipped and unworthy as usual, I leaned on the only prayer I can recite mostly by memory - the Lord's Prayer. And I sometimes forget all the words to even this. But the Lord's Prayer for 30 minutes? Holy crap. That's what I thought I was about to dish out. But because the Lord cares more for his people to encounter Him than to worry about what some flippant late-adolescent prepares for an assignment, He turned up. The irony arrives when a recollection of my last words words prayed escape to the surface:

"Daddy, in all these things we point to you; we draw the praise to you. May we as a church offer the kind of fasting you have requested – to loose the chains of injustice and untie the cords of the yoke, to set the oppressed free and break every yoke. Allow us eyes to see and opportunities to share our food with the hungry and provide the poor wanderer with shelter, when we see the naked, to clothe them.

"Then we will hear the LORD reply and answer, as we have cried for help, we will hear him say: 'Here I am.'” (adaptation from Isaiah 58)

Prayer of fasting on the day of over-eating and gluttony. Red-handed proof that God has a sense of humor. Perhaps this may live as a reason the the audibility of the Lord's voice grows faintly dim.

After all these dingy domestic dirges died off, I joined a pick up game of good old-fashioned American football; full tackle, full blitz. The was a trip down memory lane and around the corner from bruised up boulevard. We gotta have something so that us boys are socially allowed to touch each other.

One other thing druggedly drags on my mind from this weekend. After staff prayer, Larry Boss, the acting senior pastor pulled me aside (intentional or not, I've no idea) to express thanks and dig into a bit of my past. Where'd you go to college? Major? Etc etc. But the nagger binds me to his simple words after my answer to the reply "Oh, youth ministry. So you want to be a youth minister, huh?" I batted the question away with the rehearsed answer I've been spitting for so many years, "Not really. I don't care to officially work in a church." "We'll talk about this more later," sliced the nagged response I'd been running and hiding from for so long.

Its been a few years now since I vowed to the Holy One Himself that I'd never be an official youth minister or salaried church worker of any kind. Yet one of the most throbbing fears tailing my alleged story resides in a hesitant beckoning to follow through with the degree I originally intended to graduate with.

None of this speculation will mature to fruition. I boldly claim this as my mantra because our current leader remains active for at least one more year. And after that, should roar of the lion-esque schedule follow the path as I have created for it, there will be another tame year even after that before the fearsome adventure persists. All that to say, it should be at least 2 more special years before more consistent/ permanent travel attacks my passions again.

But who has the Lord ever asked for counsel? Certainly not this satiated stomach.

Through the Glass

Earlier this week, I bellowed into the ancient cell phone bestowed upon me only to be the recipient of a humble invitation to a middle school birthday party. If you do not know this about me yet, middle schoolers exist as my favorite age group exceeded by no other. Period. With this new knowledge, you might anticipate my ready answer. What you do not know is my schedule. Indeed, as the phone conversation progressed, a scooping fear jumbled my thoughts twirling me into the sketchy reciprocation of "I'll have to get back to you."

I know what this generally means to most Americans, especially for a man who has been rejected on occasion by a fair share of pretty girls. This nasty phrase some days ruined my life, yet like word vomit, this crowded phrase spewed out of my mouth. Nonetheless, things fell into place and the ball began rolling.

One thing I forgot to mention: this is one of our Egyptian youth. That means all his friends are not the typical Expat families we generally work with, but instead he kicks it with his Arabic-speaking, broken English, Egyptian compadres. 8 in total.

This single experience may have topped all other single experiences of this journey thus far. Here is how it came crashing down:

First, I hop in a taxi and relinquish my stone-phone to the driver. He takes me somewhere I don't recognize, pointing at an unfamiliar building and hold his hand out for a few pounds. I slapped him five and headed out. I again slid through the phone to redial his sister's (the youth's sister, not the taxi driver's) phone number, as he unwittingly awaited my surprise arrival.

Skipped up 6 flights of stairs where I recognized a similar structure of housing from my American memories. This building was appeared to be like that of low-income, government housing intended to roof a plentitude of families as "cost effectively" as possible. It was shortly after that observation that memory pointed to the surrounding circumstances: 1. We are in Maadi, a.k.a. Mini-America, translation = $; 2. He goes to a decent school where he has learned to speak fluent English, translation = $; 3. He comes from a Christian home, which in Egypt translates to (you got it) = $. To sum it up, as far as Egyptians go, this family has $$$. But their lifestyle would never lead to a typical American connecting such an observation.

On the way up, to make conversation, his sister tells me about the building which is what they would call a tower. Anything over 10 stories constitutes a tower. This concrete construction was well over 20 stories, 26 to be exact. She filled in the conversation by explaining how 26 stories meant over 500 flats (what we would call an apartment).

By now we have completed the spiral of stairs and embark down a dimly lit concrete hallway. Grey walls, gossamer glass, dank doors, all seemingly ready to crumble. So what did we do next? The six of us there at that time battle it out in a friendly fútbol match... in the eight-foot wide hallway. Highlight of the party.

Because of my mastery of the fútbol arts I decided to play goalie as not to cause the young men with me to stumble as we played. As it turns out, my goalie skills are slightly better than my other skills. They only scored through my legs 6 or 7 times.

Tomorrow will come the rest of the stories of:
glass broken
pushing, fun, cheating
eating - you eat whatever and how ever much they give you. you don't refuse food.
language - made fun, perfectly content
parents
walk home - daniel

Inebriated

Its as if a still photo has paused this moment. Plate dirtied with spaghetti residue, a few minced tomatoes, and a fork leaning over the protective curve of the plate. Tubaware silently waiting to find its use abroad the weary polka dot pot housing the remnants of its once steaming and seemingly prepared noodles. Now little less than lukewarm and top propped open by the wooden spoon and serving fork, the table itself mumbles, inaudibly in exhaustion. There is no action anywhere. All movement has ceased. A faint melody whispers into the scene – Intoxicating by David Crowder Band.

Without hesitation the serene plane syncs into fast forward – bodies spill in to splash the conforming noodles and sauce into the comporting container, dishes fall into the washer, chairs slide into line like a military unit, lights blink out, and a new storm of calm claims the counters. Music fades out without the song ending.

I wonder why I write. Is it so you know me? Or is it so you can hear me? I don’t think I do it for myself, not as a journal to account for the memories. Many have implied that this extended vacation proves how faithful or willing I am to follow our Lord Christ. I cannot at this time wholeheartedly agree. This evening some students and I sat around to discuss Mark 1:16-20. If you are as dulled to seeing scripture references in any kind of commentary as I am, let me spell it out for you for sake of your convenience.

“As Jesus walked beside the Sea of Galilee, he saw Simon and his brother Andrew casting a net into the lake, for they were fishermen. “Come, follow me,” Jesus said, “and I will make you fishers of men.” At once they left their nets and followed him.

“When he had gone a little farther, he saw James son of Zebedee and his brother John in a boat, preparing their nets. Without delay he called them and they left their father Zebedee in the boat with the hired men and followed him.” (NIV)

With this as our central message for conversation, we began something that vaguely resembles discourse (as much as we 9th and 10th grade boys can, not much talking happening there) placing on the discussion table a curiosity as to what is everything. Every time I hear sermons and extra words on this verse the presenter without fail notes how the disciples left everything behind. The word bellowing into the right side of my face solicits my hesitation and insecurity. What is this everything we impress so heavily? I’ve been taught as long as I’ve been (re)living that we can measure our Christianity by the amount of persecution we endure; or perhaps by the amount of sacrifice even those invisible to the searching public. Even when the right hand doesn’t know what the left is doing, giving, or sacrificing, there is measurement in evaluation.

As this discussion pressed on, I could not think of much that I had truly sacrificed to travel so far. Most of any friendships are still somewhat in tact and communication; money has never been my greatest concern, besides I living on that given by precious donors. This is none to mention my selfish craving to escape the complexity and frustration of Western perspective. Oh, and life in general, (sorry you have to hear this with the rest of the viewing public, mom and dad), I could die tomorrow and be fully content knowing this would happen. Aside: that may be the source of my audacity when taking the streets here in Cairo at large.

The only think I thought might be of sacrifice would be my reputation but even that is somewhat tainted by the general mystery that surrounds most people’s perspective of who I am. All this to say, persecution is counted dead if it ever lived, and sacrifice has been offered on the altar of itself.

With nothing now to measure, a problem seems to develop. I want to be a disciple but’ve nothing to leave behind. It would be here where I’d return to my nets and boat as a good disciple would when his Lord is crucified but I don’t even have nets or a boat to call home.


Then how do we finish? I scream and cry, aching to run barefoot, leaping of the cliff to fly as was intended. Now and again I hear these echoes of Eden sweet-talking my soul into a land of milk and honey reminding me of how we were designed to live. I often feel alone in these echoes, perhaps because they counter-collide with the swift depressions of this dank realm. Enter the hymning reminder, “When I die /Hallelujah by and by / I’ll fly away.”

Life speeds on, just as it should, not fast enough or desperate to slow down. As the bored and tired spaghetti pot, we fulfill our purpose regardless.

End note: I watched the scenario with the spaghetti play in my head first as I was writing, and chuckled softly to myself when it then happened in real time.

The Simple Life

Thanks to a growing friend who has become one of my closest companions, we have decided to become landscapers. It encompasses some of life's greatest needs: the desire to see results from what you have been working toward; creativity and ingenuity; in the States, everyone wants their yard to be pretty; and also, a certain starting and stopping point during your work day. This is a job where you cannot bring the work home with you. When you are finished for the day, there is no need to keep working. I am nearly positive this ideal is flawed but it tastes like seams of light shining through the huggable white clouds on a warm spring day.

Riverside

Riverside. This term lingers in my ringing ears from the good old days of Santa Fe Indian high school football. It meant we had reached the end of the field after a scrimmage series and coach wanted us to keep playing. Riverside. Turn it around and keep punching on.

If you follow the erratic and patchy writings of this web log, then you may or may not have read the entry former this. It mentioned something about how a job can become difficult. Who knew? Probably you did, but decided not tell me. To that I aim a satirical thanks in your general direction. At least you must refrain from dipping your tongue into the candied "I told you so" bowl.

Now that the intensity of this time has subsided for a few weeks, I'd like to reflect if only for a moment on some of the weeks' coherencies (and incoherencies).

The most presiding idea raps of the sophomore. The word, as it has been taught to me, is a paradox of a wise fool (Greek - sophos=wise; moros=fool). Being drowned with an influx of personal and externally observable circumstances, I applaud the man, woman, or child who pieced together this word. For the laws of this truth tingle the tip of my trembling fingers (my fingers have no known reason for trembling, but still true nonetheless). I'd like to start with sophomore year of high school but I attribute anything moronic I did simply to being in high school. Since the appetite of HSers eats a large chunk of my schedule pie, I feel justified in saying what I did.

Instead, I will move to sophomore year of our university work. In good sophomoric form, I anticipated knowing much more about school, life, and, well, anything even from the first day of my return to campus. Class would now be a breeze; I knew how to work my daily schedule; not to mention we were moving on up to the east side, to de-luxe dorm room on the third floor (the sky). We were no longer the fish to be eaten by the sharking seniors. How naive we were, [insert head shaking sigh]. When classes got harder, friends began to spin, and pledging a social club began to own our lives, humility gently removed the tiara of implicated jewels and crowned me with its martyr-marking thorns. Perhaps that is a bit much, but I do remember feeling strongly the stupidity and irreverence of my arrogance that year.


Shortly after that long year, I wised up and fell into a position of authority as the ACU Leadership Camps Head Counselor. The first time it was offered to me, I fervently, but politely, rejected the invitation to lead a battalion of men on a narrow path to toward a shared mental model (that was for you Jan) of leading others to Christ, one camper at a time. Eventually, there was enough flattery for me to acquiesce into the position. That summer finished with some freshman maneuvers but left me feeling as though I might actually deserve to lead again (I didn't). But they offered again. With much less, if any, flattery I jumped aboard. Sophomore year as a leader is not one I ever wish upon anyone. If you could skip to a junior year or pass off the requisite learning to another position, I'd advise this. That summer brought about significant more frustration than I care to recall. But it was good, nonetheless.

And now, I watch somewhat idly as our leader here, fends off the inevitables often associated with sophomore years. We know what we expect, but it is never the same people, place, personalities, what have you. This makes light of our wise plans that were slightly more foolish than we'd expected. Alas, we all come to this realization as time allows, however time is rarely so kind enough as to warn of such a predicament.

We learn and soon find ourselves nearing juniors.


Next, and final for this evening, I bring to you the deeper frustrations of my heart. I crave maturity. Kinda. I find money running more of my life than I'd like. Yet, I object to this aimless casting. I rebel. It will not rule me. But I find this law at work as well: I want to know money well enough to control it, as not to be its cowering weakling. The light bulb of the day shines brightly on the thought that I've been almost fully reliant on everyone around me for most any luxury and even many necessities of life. I suppose my truer desire resides in a hope that I could take care of myself. But even then, I hear Christ whisper in my ear, "11Whatever town or village you enter, search for some worthy person there and stay at his house until you leave. 12As you enter the home, give it your greeting. 13If the home is deserving, let your peace rest on it; if it is not, let your peace return to you." What I hear is as a disciple, we must rely on the good will and generosity of God and his faithful. I have a massive fear of being an imposing obligation, yet this links with an opposing desire to be fully connected with a community who is blessed by dispensing hospitality.

We cannot serve both God and mammon? See you on the riverside. Hopefully God will part the waters, as He did for Moses, so we can walk through dry again.

Turmoil

I've only a few minutes to write in order to meet my self-appointed bed time, so I will make an effort to be brief.


Rest defeated by a scourging mind is not rest at all. Harassed by the perceived need to accomplish even the minutest of tasks (which most of mine are), I scarcely find the usual joy in even just studying the Scriptures. Rest is minimal from the dogged, nagging tease of the full completion of a task. This is not a format my brain finds comfortable, typically due to its lack of task-inclined adjustment. "Learning and/or, more properly, growth requires stress," serves me as a daily reminder. Refinement solicits fire, and does anyone really want to walk through fire. Not even Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego choose to walk through the fire, however with faith like blazed by a kiln, these men stepped out onto something they could not tangibly touch nor visibly see.

Though it seems to downplay the importance of that story, my only solace resides in the recollection of this ancient faith. This must be preparing me for something greater. And if not me, the let the faith of the masses be inclined towards my God. His name be the glory I seek every day, in thought, word, and action.

Growing up

There comes a time in every youthful warrior's life when he must learn what it is to test his skills, refine the taught talents imposed by tireless tribulation. That day is today. And yesterday; and tomorrow. For within the city limits and suburbs of Cairo I've embarked up a new incline seeking the plane of responsible peace.

This day, I awoke later than usual to a reminder of my lone pilgrimage to the American Embassy in downtown Cairo, otherwise known as "Real Egypt." Maadi though tainted with with Western culture only tingles of a true Egyptian experience. But now, this morning, the venture groans with anticipatory anxiety. Finding myself more and more apt and armed to invite new adventures, this one snorted with battle readiness.

After one lost Arabian taxi, an unsure metro exit and a near connection with a rugged and burly Puegout that exceeded my years on this earth, tension in my revving body eased a bit when my rabidly attentive eye met the proudly swaying American flag.

Strolled up to the window, a well spoken and well dressed doorman informed me that Citizen Services closed at 11:00 a.m. Peeking at my wrist, I realized 11:00 a.m. was a leering 15 minutes past. Disappointed but not distraught, I considered that this would give me opportunity to try my arm again, this time with a round of practice under my belt seared with sweaty accomplishment.

Though the result was utter failure, the learning and wisdom added to me finds great solace in with my soul. There are more words and ideas to scribble regarding this title of Growing up, though today's panini lunch at the Pottery Cafe (see Mogamma and the Pottery Cafe) that tasted a delicious Chicken Tandoori has met its completion, just as this downtown scramble leaks into memory alone.

I'll be back. And for those who read faithfully, I am extending my apologies and sincerest request for forgiveness due to the sporadic and unpatterned postings. Thank you for your continued support with comments, messages, and prayers. All appreciated greatly.

Altered Title

The voices bouncing in my skull began dialogue today regarding the main title of these collective accounts. There was a motion to alter the title to read "The Pilgrimage of a Temporary Egyptian." The argument disclosed this reason, for we are entering into a new land that no one in my body has ever traversed before. There are unveilings of the newest creatures and beauties we never knew existed.

United Airlines might as well have renamed themselves Nina, Pinta, or Santa Maria (NPSM Air for short); or perhaps The Mayflower is more appropriate for the cause. Nevertheless, United remains as will Journeys, for just as being (re)United feels so good, so also the accustomization to our original caption seems broadly accepted and as any good brand name, it keeps the customer coming back.

Motion denied. Next.

Imposed Ironies and the Glory of Grace

inimical - unfavorable, opposed, adverse

As rare as unwrapping a new pyramid from the sands of Egypt is the frequency of exposing a true pleasure unattached to a coupling vice or irritation. It is the humor of a paradoxical God.

I have not had any overwhelming dispositions or inimical argumentation that have sweet-talked this conversation out of its dank cave; it is merely a law I've observed from afar and all too near. Allow me to explicate with anecdotes stumbling from my own hamartia.

As I denoted in yesterday's post, sloth torments my ability to prepare for public speaking engagements. Yet, God swoops in to save the day. The information falling out of my laughing mouth lay bare fantastic insight to the corners of life we cover our eyes to search for. However, the insight, erred and marred by lack of preparation, sinks in the muck when designed for the green pasture. Though my introduction was posted as revolutionary to the ears of a early adolescent, it only smashes with impact when delivered with emphatic pizzazz. This zeal turns and nonchalantly strolls whistling away from my stage presence.


You won't get my brain without the body. Beethoven composing in the ear of deafness. Valiant athleticism personified in the limbs of a 5' foot 7 inch frame. A most well spoken mind captured in a crippled voice box. The greatest romantic commitments made oceans apart. Full knowledge married to unresponsive forgetfulness. Ghandi's commitment notions to Christianity (not quite, but close). The culmination of millennia of prophesy scuffling as a derelict freeloader and mooch. But who could change it? Who would change it? The good must be adjoined to the bad and the ugly. The keys to the Kingdom cost more than everything you ever wanted, and that is never the same requisite for any two people (I feel your sorrow, rich young ruler).

But God. If these inherit and inerrant truths falter, where would we rest*? Ask George. That old Herbert knows me too well.






*THE PULLEY.
WHEN God at first made man,
Having a glasse of blessings standing by ;
Let us (said he) poure on him all we can :
Let the worlds riches, which dispersed lie,
Contract into a span.

So strength first made a way ;
Then beautie flow’d, then wisdome, honour, pleasure :
When almost all was out, God made a stay,
Perceiving that alone, of all his treasure,
Rest in the bottome lay.

For if I should (said he)
Bestow this jewell also on my creature,
He would adore my gifts in stead of me,
And rest in Nature, not the God of Nature :
So both should losers be.

Yet let him keep the rest,
But keep them with repining restlesnesse :
Let him be rich and wearie, that at least,
If goodnesse leade him not, yet wearinesse
May tosse him to my breast.



Postal Script to Mother and Angie: Return to The Perfect Crash and Burn Stop I left you a follow up comment Stop There you will find your only solace Stop Christmas is around the corner Stop

Memoirs of a Good Ol' Boy

Ever since I made a proclamation of integrity and erased all the illegally downloaded music from my computer years ago, I have not received the amount of country music that I wish kissed my ears.

But today, yes today, while in Cairo, Egypt listening to the DJ spout off some quips in Greek my inattentive audio assessors arched when this good ol’ country boy recognized a memorable melody that perked my now cropped antennas.

This one reason why I love this place. Though I do not have ready access to a new Bible (of which I am coming close to needing with Matthew 5 – Luke 9 threatening canonical expatriate status), country music now climbs the ranks of Americanism significantly available to the international community. American country music on a Greek radio station in Cairo, Egypt. If you are ever in Egypt tune into 97.5 FM LOVE Radio

“I’m buildin bridges / straight to your heart. / And all of this distance / won’t keep us apart. / Won’t keep us apart.”

That one goes out to one very special young lady.


On a completely unrelated note, tonight we met again for our weekly middle school event after a two-week break. The straw drawn for speaking about “What is Scripture?” lucked its destiny in my hands. After scourging the mind with some free writing on the subject, one main idea finally impressed me enough to be the elected as the central subject. Seeking the counsel of the Holy Spirit as to bring praise to the glory of God served as an intelligent avenue of guidance. So we all listened, self included to what words drove off this tongue. As it turns out, Scripture lives not just as the story of some old dead people who had some incredulous tales of spiritual experience, but Scripture lives as our story today. You who read this now, as an individual, it is your story. The people who raised you, i.e. parents, grandparents, all your family, you friends, your children, your children’s children, it is all of our story. It is your name written in that holy Script.

These men and women of faith (Rahab, King David, Christ and Paul), these are your family, your ancestors from whom you have learned the path set before you. Have you ever wondered what will happen to you? Look in the Gospels. Do you have days when you don’t have the words to explain how you feel? Flip the pages to the Psalms. If you’ve had dark days of pain, skim over Ecclesiastes. This is your story. Your identity is rooted in the identity of God’s prostitutes and prophets. God’s identity is rooted in the identity of these prostitutes and prophets. Kings and drunkards, sometimes both.


You are in this story. When you find yourself paused by the curiosity of the inquisition of humanity, I encourage you to pick up one of these tiny books and give it a glance. I promise you won’t walk away with some insight; it may not be the one you wanted to hear but insight nonetheless. This is your story. Love and rejection, love and rejection, over and over and over and over. This is Scripture; your life.

The Perfect Crash and Burn

Just that you are reading what I have now written should be testimony enough that my body is still in tact after today's 21.5 mile mountain bike ride. With an introduction like that, let me dispel the frightening thoughts pillaging my mother's now disquieted mind.

We let from the front of the CAC (Cairo American College) with a gang of riders all twice my age. Geared with some of the top equipment in the field, including pretty sweet bikes, we rolled out at 7 a.m. It is somewhere between 2-3 miles to Wadi Delga where the adventure prepared for us awaited our assent. And ascend we did. We did climbed so much, I actually cramped in my thighs for the first time in my life. In my defense, it wasn't until after the 3/4 mark in the ride.

Being a rookie on the course, I claimed and embraced the fullness of the learning curve sent from God the Father himself. Just before the halfway mark two of our dusty clan sided on the way of ease, parting them from us back towards Caffé Greco for their postride latté. The truest of our troupe soldiered on to punch out most of the rest of the typical route. It was at this moment, I remember thinking, in poor form, how those guys must not be manly enough to keep on.

These tougher-than-thou thoughts continued for only a short while longer. We came upon a set of steep descending and rolling hills. As we approached, the man was graciously invited me to ride with them paused to assert a bit more of his bountiful wisdom. He explained to me how to ride this part and to be careful of my speed when riding up the rapid risers. I took it in but after the upon a successful mounting of the first launch, the ignorant pride set it. One more shorter hop, the culmination of speed, and without my permission or consent, I was no longer on my bike seat... 6 feet in the air. "Well self," I said to myself. "Looks like we'll be trading cells with some of the sandy rocks below. Welcome them with open arms." And that is what we did. Within the second after introducing my whole left side to Egypt's foundation, I had popped back up and remounted to kickoff into the next jump.

Our fearless leader, Kenny, watched the whole account and swarmed over in a haste of concern. I was reminded that it would be good and preferable to take a rest up for a minute to regroup. With a shrug from the shoulder worked, and a half shrug that looked more like a limp from the other, I responded by persevering with my resaddle and an "I'm ok. Let's ride on," from my mouth. So we did. He handed me two electolyte capsules and rode past with surprised agreement.

Despite the circumstances, (for I have taken worse spills before) that was not one of the instances when fear flashed my life in my blinking eyelid. The desert, for those who have never been to a real desert, is full of rock formations, plateaus, and hills begging to be climbed. Because of the combination of these, we rode, on occasion, along some ridges deeper than I would normally walk. It is here that we found ourselves more than conquerors. Courage and adrenaline bounding excitement replaced fear in the crags and corridors of my soul. It did rear its deformed face a time or two when a jutting rock caused a detour from the intended path, and also when the tail tire lost grip along one of these imposing ridges.

All together, I finished with an overwhelming sense of pride, self affirmation, sore tail bone, and a few raspberries leperring my left side like a dalmatian. Some call them wounds, I prefer the term "battle wound."

These dangerous gentlemen ride out nearly every weekend. I hope to pass their initiation and be named as one of this crew of rowdy dirt gangsters.

The Overflow

Yesterday, I kind of made fun of the precipitation patterns here. I was put in my place when every couple of hours I woke up to the crescendo of mighty thunder clapping in my ears. Even lightning and power outages. Madness.

I woke this morning to the bleating of the most persistent car alarm to ever exist, I'm sure set off by the roaring thunder. I honestly did not hear the threatening cries of our favorite 3 year old, which reaffirmed my commitment to our standoff as of late (see previous entry The Love of the Father). Upon entering the kitchen in a groggy stooper, the first question on the heels of a gruff good morning tested my ability to sleep soundly. "Did you hear the thunder?" met my reply of "How could I miss it?" Despina then enlightened me as to the frequency of such a storm, once every ten years.

Yikes.

And I sat in bed as if nothing out of the ordinary was happening. Thus is the shame of an ignorant man. Maybe I'll see rain again when I get back to the States in June.

7 Habits of Highly Effective Top S(h)ell(v)ing Books

Severely contrary to my natural tendencies, and my dad can testify to this like a street corner preacher, I have picked up the book "The 7 Habits of Highly Effective People: Powerful Lessons in Personal Change" by Stephen R. Covey. Do not be fooled; this was not a book I chose to read. It came by divine intervention via the will of our boss and fearless leader, Travis Black. With all that burns within me, I do not want to read this book. But for the sake of team cohesiveness, I have decided to put my own desires in the dust, but not without a passive-aggressive taunt of dissonance to appease my pride.

Yet, with this self-authenticating book rattling in my quivering hand, I decided with encouraging exhortation from a wise friend or two to make the most of my time in these blubbering words. In practical terms, I will attempt to provide some two sided feedback on what I've read each week, though sometimes it may only be a sentence that beckons me to parse its meaning. Do not expect too much from these insights because I might accidentally come with a partial and bias approach but I do ask for accountability in this matter and criticism on my criticism. I want to grow, I really do. I even want to want to read these pages, but when spinning through them like a flipbook cartoon exasperation flowers my nostrils with the scent of the wooden pages, I can only solicit the guidance of Covey himself. So if anyone can send him this link, I would greatly appreciate his counsel and oversight. Without that, I cannot promise anything more than the offensive words of a heart-hardened vagrant.

Hope you'll join me in this pilgrimage to freedom from oppressive words of these "effective" persons. (Please take note of the satirical value of these words, though as in any sarcasm, there is a hint of truth).

Ask and Ye Shall Receive

It rained! Precipitation fell from the sky. Rain was not the only thing falling because here in the dirty desert; the leaves clothe themselves in dust. Here, your car is actually dirtier after it rains, even if you haven't driven it anywhere.

Nevertheless, for 3 minutes, it rained! And even thundered once. I heard a suspicious rumor about a bolt of lightning or two, but there is no way to prove it.

We didn't need it, but I missed it. Rain!

The Love of the Father

Mitch Albom writes a book entitled "Tuesdays with Morrie." I read this book years ago, sophomore year of university study. If you've not read it, it is important to note that I believe this book solves one of the major problems of our ever-changing world: genuine discipleship. I'll address the note of Christianity later.

Even before I moved abroad, I've been hoping and praying for a mentor seeping with wisdom and desire to teach an eager learner. Disastrous to my feeble hopes, I have not found a person willing to take me under wing as I had wished. There was a different method of mentor-discipleship moving my soul. I've been allowed the to sit at the feet of many wise rabbis passing through for a couple of days or sometimes even, a couple of weeks.

Today, as the heavy drawbridge lowered and opened to me the opportunity to return a shard of the patience blessed unto me. Markos, the youngest, and I coincidentally struck a hunger cord on the same harp as we sat watching Superman. So we ate. As usual, I finished first, for my mouth and appetite are slightly larger than his. As I progressed toward the snack cabinet, and retrieved a granola bar. With his sandwich almost half finished, he informed me, quite matter of fact that he was finished. Why I believed him, no one will ever know because he then turned to the snack cabinet and also attempted to retrieve some goodies that he refers to as "treats."

The natural response to his desire for these, at least from me, was to implore him to first finish his true lunch. He disagreed. The packet of sugary chocolate appeared much more appetizing, and who could blame him? But in the interest of his well being, I insisted that he first consume the first food. Markos does not like to be told no. And so the debate began; me with the proposition of all food or none and he with the demand for what he wanted, when he wanted it. Incited tempers commanded tears. I desperately wanted to give him the treat, but it hurt me more to think what it would be like for him to grow up missing such discipline in his life. As an older, wiser concerned man who wants only good for those near him, I refused to give in. Since my power was significantly more mature than his, he clawed and climbed, wept and drooled trying to attain this prized, sweet, sugary goodness. As the salty drops and gooey saliva gathered in a pool on my shorts, and amidst the flailing wails, all I could muster were memories of my own wailing and pleading for things not of what i needed but merely of what I temporarily wanted to gratify my my craving.

And just as Marko's bellowing echos in my ears still, I know that he, like me, needs a constant rabbi to teach us the ways that are better and higher than ourselves.

This was the first time I have acknowledged what it would be like to act parentally, in the best interest of a child younger than the ones I've lived with at summer camp. Mom and Dad, I've been continually thanking you for the work you've done in me over the last 23 (almost!) years. Today will be no different. Thank you for your perseverance in love. And to parents not my own, rest assured that your child too will soon enough understand your dedication and sacrifice for them. They may not thank you, but they may not know how. Accept this thanks as a representation of the appreciation you children have for you.

Writers' Block

It has now been a few days since we last met, dear friends, and for that I apologize. It seems that there are times when people seem to get tired in the evening when the sun goes down. Though this is not the case if you grew up Egyptian or have recently been a student at any university, living with a family solicits my recollection of submission.

With the madness that silhouettes the radiant life of a Maadi Community Church youth intern, we still have remnants of our past lives that pay alms on occasion. For instance, this past Sunday I lay down for a nap at 6:30 p.m. just before dinner only to rise again at to a darkened room and a tap tick tock of a silent clock whispering the midnight warning. Midnight? Indeed. Though not expecting to start my day by the renewal of a clock, the counting sheep were now asleep and their snoring kept me boring.

With little more to do than squirm in bed, I resolved to video games and instant messenger, rotting my brain with one, and satiating my social appetite with the other. Both like candy. But I didn't need candy. I needed NyQuil and a back rub. Alas, neither came despite my prayers.

There were a few moments, however, when one tactfully chosen individual sneaked through my impervious fortress of a soul and tricked me like a wooden horse, into rendering said soul into the satin hands of said friend. So don't jab too hard in days to come, for the tender soreness that comes from such an event lasts longer than I agree to. Not only is that so, but the same event occurred the following Wednesday night only a few hours later, with a small hand chopping at the 3. Neither solicited but both direly due.



Just as any normal week in Egypt, desperate rededication to the Lord found its form this time in the frame of a frightening car ride to the newest installment of fast food service. (That's right, we got a Burger King). Upon arriving at a restaurant where I can have it my way, it dropped to my knees and hugged myself and nearly kissed the ground but stopped when I remember how that would as likely die instantly of disease-saturated dirt if the car ride hadn't done it first. Elated to be alive, we ordered our food in this two table gas station restaurant. Conversation began and I like any true Israelite forgot what my God had just saved me from. In our defense, our conversation fell into a trance of learning how to more aptly identify the Gospel understanding to a misled and thirsty people, mostly Egyptian Muslims.

Our adviser was a 25 year old Egyptian man, Sanke, who had been working for a "worker" fund raising company. He had spent a good part of his life taking the Truth of Jesus Christ to Muslim companions. He could have taken a collection at the end of dinner and the other 3 of us would have paid for his trip to London in a few months; his words possessed inspiring power. He had these things to say to our intrusive curiosity: 1. Do not be like the Egyptian Christians, for they act like they are better than everyone else; 2. Do not be like the American Christians, for they act like they are better than everyone else. "So what do we do, Sanke? Be like Jesus? [scoffing chuckle, sarcastic nudge]" 3. Be like Jesus. "Oh."

We heard stories of Sanke's witnessing to Muslim taxi drivers withdrawing responses such as "Why don't they teach us these things?" (in regard to a loving, compassionate God). We asked of persecution and heard small tales of (il)legally restrained drivers' licenses by fasting and frustrated officers of the law (not as big of deal here as in the States). All with great adoration poured out to God the Father and Jesus Christ our Lord.



This week has multiple conversion experiences involving taxi rides you would have thought stunt movie worthy. I was taught how to make an omelet with the least amount of clean up. I even stumbled upon a fantastic idea for a satirical narrative, I want to call it Seussian Theology. It sounds great but I have very little inspiration. Perhaps, it is not appropriate to make fun of other religions, but it would be fun. For now, Muslims and Greek Orthodox can rest in peace for it will be many moons before or even if this endearing novella reaches Gutenberg.

This weekend we had 5 days off for the end of Ramadan. As I left Kevin's villa, the guard on duty didn't even allow me to utter a full good night before he exclaimed with every once of emitting exuberance, "We eat tomorrow!" We rejoice together for a moment and I traveled home. Also within this extended exemption from the week, my host family departed for a night of desert camping. They returned with petrified coral, shells, as well as a petrified sand dollar. I have seen the pictures of this place known for its remnants of whale bones. That's right, whales... in the desert. It is known as Valley of Whales near Fayoum. Incredible.

Finally finding the time and words, I have now chiseled out a block of what latest adventure we cross in the constantly whisking Egyptian winds. I offer you this writer's block.

Armadas, Influxes, and other gerbiling thoughts

Below are the daily thoughts that prevent my normality:

Attacks at every moment are difficult to defend. Remember the fortification of the King. His word is His sword. Defensive when required, offensive by nature. The swing of this mighty blade annihilates the oppressors.

Some days I have an influx and abundance of ideas. Others, I find these brilliant brigades immobilized and chronically cryogenic.

Why do words, like new cars, plummet in value immediately after they leave the lot of the mouth? I am restless with so much religious jargon. So many words have been exhausted, and should only be retired to return again in a retro-fashion with prodigal purpose. Forget the whales, save the words. (Its a pun. It means don't talk.)

And now I laugh, chuckle, smirk, and grimace at the sight of the schedule I've just been assigned to complete for myself. What is my objection to this structured lifestyle? Why do I constantly loathe responsibility?

Uninhibited. Uncovered. Undignified. These are what I seek. These are my longing. Why must we regard social invitations to present a united front, a perfect self? Did Christ ever admit ignorance? Or perhaps ignorance is not the item on the table.

A moment ago, I crashed through a door leading to what I thought would be our usual office. Within the minute, and it did take the full minute, my tread actualized not in stiff stale air, as is the norm, but instead to a humid mist of shy tears meek in presentation but bold in proclamation. Awkward, no. Jealous, desperately. There have been moments when the salty waters yelped for escape, but alas, the assumption of taught society sternly rebuked any welling or whelming proposing within my soul. How could such a superior entity as the soul be manipulated by a creature as duplicitous and serpentine as corrupted society.

I want a sword. A real sword. Like the kind that, in the past would have taken the head of some enemy. I want to battle. Its within me. To fight. Clank and assail with a bombard of silver steel upon an enemy as catharsis for the attacks received. As I pondered this, the voice of assumed wisdom crawled swiftly in, "You don't want to see war, boy. It scars." I lost my thought.

Upon a brother's trust steed, we strode gallantly toward a deserved lunch. Just as we began, an unsuspecting arrow of unexpected delivery announced its presence in my thigh. She asked, how are you, as would any gently cultured soul, and without biting as a posthumously desired upon the death of the conversation, I unwittingly replied a dull, ok. As if prompted, the next thought rose as like another arrow screaming to be launched back; "Such a loaded question. Ask only if you have the time and disposition to take the necessary responsibility to respond. Do you?" Or maybe even a simple "Heavy question; you sure you want to know the answer?" said with a smirk of sincerity. With this in mind; here is my motion, I motion we stop asking such questions. They place me (and assumed others) in a ethical quandary. Do we answer socially and save the person the time they intended to keep to themselves, allowing us to be passively polite; or instead answer with a lionheart and steal this self associated portion of the day? If you would like to keep your time to yourself, greet only with a greeting, such as hello, or good morning/evening, perhaps even a simple "I acknowledge your presence," for that is all a greeting serves to do. If your truly want to know me, you mustn't even ask these vague and ambiguous interviews but skip them all together and query the heart. Let the mind be free of mischievous responses. Let the heart do some talking. Deep cry to deep.

One last qualm for the day. When we address the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, why do we ask him to "just" do this or "just" do that? How about I just love another human being? Ever tried to "just" love someone. It is not a simple task. How about I just create a miracle from thin air? Or just create walking, talking, pondering man from dust? Yes, his power is more infinite than the greatest idea I've ever not put to use, however, is any kingdom work "just" a task? Why are our words with God more thoughtless, lacking intention, than those with our fellow sinners?

Uninhibited. Uncovered. Undignified. That is what I seek. This is where I want to be.

These former things are the plagues of a typical day. Most days I just want them to go away so I can adjust to normal society, but I cannot imagine living that way. Chew on them apples... you'll get applesauce.

Close Your Eyes and Cover Your Ears

Friends and family, I'll begin by warning you this post will not be the warm and fuzzy or even vulnerably honest insights from the heart. This post contains material that may not be suitable for ears and eyes of youthfully pure hearts. Even as I sit to rattle off a recitation of the evening, my very very expensive dinner threatens a retraction. If you have a light stomach, now would be the time to stop reading.

We arrived home from another visit to the Sakkara Country Club around 2 p.m. Weary from a weekend with wired middle schoolers, we unpacked the bus, wished well our young friends and spread the lengths of Maadi for an afternoon of recuperation.

Unenthusiastic about the looming dinner and dance party glaring over the ensuing evening, I munched down some real food just before pursuing my sweet, sweet bed to claim its promises of rest. Dreaming of dandelions and lollipops, I woke to the reminder of a much anticipated video chat with the fam. Elated with some exciting news, I forgot to wish my dear, blessed mother a happy birthday. It is here that I make my public apology for all to read. Please forgive me, Mother, for my unintentional memory slip.

Dinner at Max's Steakhouse and Restaurant, chased quickly after our chat, where I was introduced to Max himself. A side of potatoes, mussels, steamed vegetables, and one and a half rib eyes later, we kissed a cup of chocolate ice cream with hot fudge on the lips. Purposely slowing my collision with the coming events, I debated on whether or not I should attend this momentous dinner/ dance party. Giving in to the anticipated peer pressure, I swerved from the could've-been conversation and just took it upon myself to tumble on towards the party.

Arriving 20 minutes late, I was the first to arrive at the plotted location. Slowly but surely, our crew began to stumble in at faltering speeds. Some of us ate. Some of us chatted. We all laughed and reenacted our favorite moments of the weekend. Eventually our party grew to its invited size as we taxied toward Rio Del Cairo, restaurant slash dance club minus the dance club, since it is that special time of year where Ramadan negates any normal fun anyone would normally be allowed to have.

They stole our cake (we were celebrating a birthday, not my dear mummy's) and drew together several tables to seat us near the melodious enjoyments of Egyptian techno and hip-hop draining from a single seemingly broken and distant speaker. Lyrical attempts rejected by my ears coupled with the dimly lit exterior and tender smells of the opaquely green Nile forced from my curious lips, "This is where the magic happens, huh?" We sat. They poured the 20 of us some water just as one of our culturally aware friends informed us that there would be a minimum 55 L.E. (Egyptian Pound) note given to each person regardless of decision to order. It did not take long for us to spring from our seats and depart the premises. Oh, and I almost forgot, the dance floor was closed. Its Ramadan.

Before we continue, please allow me to preface with an explanation of the environment near the entrance to Rio Del Cairo. It resides in a part of town known as the Cornish (pronounced: Koor-neesh). Here there is a highway of sorts, home to innumerable speeding vehicles excelling at speeds that put drag strips to shame. In order to cross this road, there is a great deal of tact required. I recall a quote from our fearless leaders Travis, on our first experience with this raceway. "On average 3 people a day die on this road." Extreme but gullibly believable. Lights flash like strobes. Horns wish they could melt together to recreate the magical Egyptian hip-hop of our favorite Nile club. Cars zoom and people yell, both out of excitement and frustration.

Being one of the first to exit this deceptive, danceless devo, I glanced around grabbing the initiative to taxi back to our new destination: Travis's flat. I glance at my watch. 10:45 p.m. I glance to the right. Troubles of peoples ebb and flow from our central locale. Swinging my head from right around to left, I glance at cars parked poorly in spots hardly large enough for a person to reenter their vehicle, a woman waiting for a break in traffic robed with the normal and highly modest black garb and headdress toting a baby wrapped in red linen characteristic of this area of the world, more flashing traffic, a tree, and arriving alongside my left are some of our compadres venturing out to assist in taxi claiming. The fullness of laughter and smiles screeches to a eerie halt as we spin to notice our darkly clothed woman and child crash to the heavy heap while attempting to cross. The inciting car did not halt like our laughter.

Whether intended as humor or truth, Travis's former words peeled off in my head. "On average 3 people a day die on this road."

As if in slow motion, and yet very quickly, several bodies swarm the scene. It was in this moment that I first jumped to assist only to be covered with the realization that I had nothing to offer that was not already being done by 3 other people more equipped than I. I stepped back crying for a way to help and all I knew what to do was pray. "Oh God, do what you do best, right now." I remember thinking, this should seem very surreal. But it wasn't. It was very real. Woman in black lying on the ground. Baby in red, who knows what condition. The first time my gut wrenched was when I realized I did not hear anyone crying. Not the woman, not the baby. No one. I still hope my lack of perception was only because of the shouts of the crowd to filter the traffic around the fresh scene.

So what now? The onlooking conversation moved into serious and helpless speculation. Gordon and I started with thoughts on how anyone dressed in black could cross a street like that, especially in a country where vehicles neglect to employ their headlights. I added that it is for this reason specifically that I do not wear black or even dark clothes at night here. This was not the proof I wanted to satisfy my theories. While we noted on the details, others just gawked in disbelief at the presiding moments.

I also discovered more thoughts on the escaping motorist plaguing my consciousness. He did not stop. Why? Gut wrench. Would I have stopped? or powered on to forget as quickly as possible the life altering events that just occurred? Would I own up or cower out? I am still uninformed on the condition and physical harm that came to the woman and unsuspecting child. They may have died. They may have walked away, though I fear this is not the case. Nevertheless, there are moments when I ponder whose suffering will cause more damage; the medical bills of the woman and family, or the mental torture that man will inevitably be strangled by for the rest of his natural life? For whatever reason, and I cannot explain it, I identify with the cowardice driver.


But this story is not about me. To you this may be a story read and think nothing about, but to the man who taps these keys now, fingers tremble for a lack of understanding.

I apologize to my parents. I wish you would not have read this entry but alas, this is the culture I have voluntarily embraced. Take the following to heart; I do not wear black at night and my awareness serves me well. But I do not boast in anything of my own, only the glories of my Lord Christ. May his Spirit rest on both families tonight and the rough nights to certainly come. Let his people pray.

I wrote this while on youth retreat last night:

"Constantly restless. Or so it seems, each time we sit to worship, the truth associated with faith dwindles.

Tonight, our speaker woke up without a voice. We asked God to give him one. He did. I understood every word that dripped from his lips. But before he began, he had a moment when he waited for people who felt moved, to come and pray for healing so that he would have his full voice. Though normally I would prod and pray that some youth would arise, instead I myself decided to take a flying leap on faith. Guess what happened. He put the mike to his lips, then took it back down. We sighed, just to get out breathes back to prepare for the moment he would utter a testing word. The mike gravitated back towards his lips only to droop once again, but on the third time, there was not an absence of voice, but an absence of healing. Nothing had changed about his vocal quality. I had been the first to stand, and the first to pray, and perhaps the first to put my heart on the line.

The crushing blow was not immediate. I came slowly as a dark cloud hangs over a town deciding if indeed, it cares to drop its harsh precipitation. The sun is first blocked out, providing a welcomed coolness. Then the wind picks up and the air drops just a bit too chilly. And a lonely prophetic drop dives from the sky. “Maybe just a sprinkle,” you convince yourself, “then it will pass.” Then just as each time before, the dry flood coats your face.

I am not sure if the dry times are just moments craving some semblance of familiarity or fill in the blank. I did, at one point, think quietly, “I wonder if instead of social culture shock, I could experience religious culture shock.” Seems valid. I don’t see why that could not happen. The only real religious gatherings I’ve ever experienced on a true faith level come directly from a Church of Christ perspective. I have never consistently been associated with a instrumental worship service, though I have discovered I do ache for a quality of voice that does not exist with most instrumental services. I keep telling myself... (thought diminishes to an unimportant tangent)"

And then this morning:

"It feels like purpose. When I write, the articulation of life seems to exude out the fingertips. It feels like standing in a magical realm, I can command lightning bolts, as an expulsion zinging and dancing at request. Perhaps it is because I learned to write. I know many of the elements required to artfully and awfully swash together a luxuriant letter (I wanted to insert the word verbiquitous but it is not a real word; sounds cool though). This is not so eloquent when the words attempt to protrude out the mouth. Its like there becomes a traffic collision at my teeth and words lose their focus only to disappear from memory."

Ignore-ant Restlessness

It started off like any other day. -- That introduction automatically snatches your hope for an adventureless activity. -- It started off like any other day. Waking around 8:00 am-ish, I meandered from my lazy bed to a door sitting fixed in its position daring me to pull it off the hinges. And as every morning, I reluctantly humored the stubborn blockade by playfully tugging at the loosened handle.

Dressed ready for the excitement of the day (gym shorts and a raggedy cut off T), I took my place at the breakfast table with my dear friend, the honey nut cheerio bee. I quenched his milky thirst so that he would return the favor. Then it was off to my regular cushion on the couch for the morning scripture studies (this is where I pace and memorize the aforementioned Romans passage). The occasion workout took its role in routine with lunch on its heels.

Just as I sat down to spend my one hour escaping both the troubles of this world and the virtual police officers chasing down my video car, the cell phone beckoned my immediate attention. And then it came. The catalyst message that altered the course of my preplanned day. So I marched down the beaten path, around the mall, across the tracks, dodging any incoherent drivers while hiking in the general direction of our office in the church building.

Each outing requires a few elements in order to constitute a well walked day. The first is to ignore all the taxis that jockey for a foreigner's finance. The second requisite is to attempting ignore the plethora of guards jovially fraternizing on each block corner, sipping tea. The third is to cancel any eye contact you might have accidentally or ignorantly made with the tissue saleswomen that traverse the hole -ridden roads jarring for funds in order that they might eat that night.

There is a common factor in each of these events; can you find it? Let me help you for you might have ignored it. Perhaps you are just ignorant of it. You've found it now haven't you?

Once I've looked both ways before crossing (any Egyptian intersection), I stumble upon a rotting home? a couple of blocks from the church, not empty of inhabitants when I pass, ever. I wrangle my eyes onto the path before me as not to rudely stare at neighbors as if they were a sideshow but I must admit, my resolve is waning. It is this scene specifically, that I believe set in motion my malicious mood for the rest of the afternoon and evening.

Subconscious. I was not able to enunciate this erring in my heart until I munched on some marrow of my Lord. I implored of him the source of my malcontent. Why am I bitter toward coworkers? Why is my esteem dwindling? Why do my thoughts grow so critical of any shortcoming of any situation across my ears or eyes or even nose, for that matter?

The answer I heard in not so many words, "You are ignoring me." I cannot accept that the answer to a poor and broken heart is to ignore it, yet I am ignorant of truer ways to interact. How do you communicate love to a fellow well-woman who does not speak the same wallet as you? I am plagued by spliced speculation concerning the expectation of a pure intention. I want to drop my wallet all over these people but then what would that teach? that Americans are good for their pockets only? How I desire to instantly know Arabic or any other language but this inadequate English. (Obviously no other language would suffice when communicating with locals but that is the fullness of the frustration felt).

So tonight, my Friend and my God, and my soul sit to satiate. We've even scooped some schedule to run towards the desert (physical, and hopefully spiritual) on another day, just lay in the sand and lacerate my trembling heart before the throne of the King.

Daddy,
I can't take it any more. Forgive my selfishness and draw this prodigal son back to your bosom, by the power that raised Christ from the dead. It is in that sweet and precious name I beg that you would receive my jumbled and mumbled attempts at intimacy tonight. Bless you, Daddy.

Scripture

We are now in our second week of memorizing Romans. I should have 5:1-10 written on my heart by Thursday. I write to engrave the words on my brain and I thought, "What better place than on a weekly log?" So, unless you want to read my pitiful attempts of reciting, you can stop reading here for today.

Romans 5:1-as much as I can remember -- Therefore, since we are now justified by faith, we have peace with God, through our lord Jesus Christ, through whom we have gained access by faith into the grace in which we now stand. And we rejoice in the hope of the glory of God. Not only so, but we also rejoice in our sufferings because we know that suffering produces perseverance; perseverance, character; and character, hope. And hope does not disappoint us because God has poured out his love into our hearts by the Holy Spirit, whom he has given us. (v. 1-5, last week)

You see, at just the right time, when we were still powerless, Christ died for the ungodly. Very rarely will anyone die for a righteous man, though for a good man, some one might possibly dare to die. But God demonstrates his love in this: while we were still sinners, Christ died for us. Here is where a new paragraph begins but I have not entirely learned this portion. Soon, and very soon. (6-8ish, plus some additional text edited by Kyle J. Stallard)

The Reason for the Season

Its beginning to look a lot like Ramadan,/ Everywhere we go. / The fasting lasts til five,/ when they drink, feast, smoke, and jive,/ Til the long morrow.

This week marks the beginning of a lunar month long "celebration" of the holy Muslim month of Ramadan. This is a time of fasting and devotion to the almighty Allah. Allow me to enlighten you on the daily process: It kicks off with a huge feast the night before the fasting officially begins. All the Muslims then wake the next day and to starve themselves not only of the pleasures of tasty Egyptian food but also from the essential hydration found in such delectable liquids such as water. The sweltering Egyptian sun steals the otherwise cool breeze of the sweet evening chill, announcing a massive Muslim mood monopoly mourning meals until moon muddles more mystery in place of the blazing ball. The forks hover over husky plates hungry to splurge at the reminder of the five o'clock chime.

American radio stations spit out the garbáge colláge of advertising-indited Christmas tunes we all sweetly hum along to as we curse our trafficmate who is nosing into the line we patiently waited in while trying to access a remote parking spot a mere mile away from the mall entrance. One month. From Thanksgiving until nearly the end of our established year we graze in this holiday festivity. So it is with Ramadan.


The street lights are decorated with goofy Muslim festivities and strange lanterns hang from shop corners. There is one near our home here that has a hot pink man adorned in one version of a neon green (traditional) man-dress garb. The man-dress is traditional, not the lime green. The streets are a bit reminiscent of Christmas decor, and if you go out at just the right time, it almost smells like a turkey roasting on a sweet rotisserie until the gorgeous smell of guts and garbage burn our nostrils. Then there is a good chance you might dismiss those festive memories.

Story #2

Yesterday we went crept across the burning desert sands at a snailing 120 km/h yesterday. That's not really all that fast (75 mi/h) but we, on occasion scooted our little snail wheels up to a decent 160 once or twice since the Egyptian tollways refuse to police at night. As we inched forward on that ride, the white sandy beaches and salt of the sweet blue sea water stole away my thoughts to another time taking me back to the beaches of dear Mexico. And oh, how Ain Souhkna surpassed our expectation. Because of this, my forehead itches a bit from the slight singeing it received, but well worth it. I wish I had words to articulate the experience but as with many experiences here, I lack the patience to wait for my muse.

Onward to the next new experience.

the Walk

With purpose and intention each step narrows the chasm between the Wolf and his target. His awareness of the environment surrounding him heightens as the final goal plays into line of sight. He readjusts his earpiece as to confirm the clarity of sound, for he will not miss his cue. He reminds himself that if this were a movie, he would have the perfect background music accentuating the moments leading up to now. The swift and refined movements even seem to create a cinematic atmosphere.

While he uncinches the appropriate pack from its secured position on his sweaty back, he pretends that he has an audience watching him through some silver screen squatting on the fringe of their theatrical seats slurping up the last of their soda expectantly from the bottom of the red paper cup. With one suave motion he drops to a knee, withdraws from his bag a tank-like water bottle filled with just enough H20 to replenish his anticipated thirst, then gallantly lifts his pristine body back to upright. Almost like a machine, he replaces the bottle in the pack and recommences the powerful path he has planned. The people in the theater see it, but no one on the street would have ever noticed, especially the monochromatic street guards, the creatively quick concealment of his hidden weapon. As if nothing extraordinary had occurred, his pace down the dirty street resolved though divided from God by the dusty tunnel of trees and crumbling concrete homes on every side.

So much of the time of the time when I stroll through the streets of Cairo, this former paragraph articulates the atmosphere I perceive. Perhaps it is the guards on every block toting semiautomatic machine guns (with bulletless clips) . Perhaps it is the anemic dogs that follow you everywhere. Perhaps it is the Dekker novel about an assassin that has been consuming my thoughts. Or perhaps it is a desire to become a warrior, a soldier solicited for service in a transcendent army. In part, for me, it is the intention in my walk. In order to efficiently travel from destination to destination, an expatriate must do as little as ignore the honks and shouts and as much as shoo the taxis away with an unrepentant “La, Shokran.” (translation: No, Thank you.) accompanied by a stern face and hand motion or two. To survive you learn to severe the frightened impulse connected to jumping, especially at the sound of an unnecessarily loud car horn. In America, people will customize a car to look trendy; in Cairo, drivers customize their vehicle to honk louder.

I often pop a single earphone into one ear to partially distract me from the incessant noise pollution of the city’s crowing. Also, the invention of the iPod has allowed for every individual to silently choose their own life soundtrack to omnipotently air as they autonomously disassociate with the remaining masks of the a harsh and threatening world. I hate this about myself. I think I'll stop.

I rebukingly thank American cinema for instilling in my head the preconception that if I stroll the streets of a separate city, I suddenly and secretly switch into a soldier suited in civilian socks. Sharply, the contrast thuds. All this to say, I think my persona here would be a great cover for a CIA servant. But instead, the world must learn to suffer the foliage of a more fruitful forage: Messianic Disciple.

Flow

Just in time for Ramadan, our youth team schedules begin to find some consistency. We all have now been settled into a family for at least a week which finally allows me an anticipated eating schedule. As much fun as it was to live with a young ministerial bachelor, the cupboard was naked. With a family of my own, you can call me Hansel because my host mother's cooking is fatting me up. It serves as a pleasant antithesis to my grumbling-stomach college days. But fear not dear friends and family, the scorch of Egyptian heat will melt off most all of the coat of calories I adorn.

Due to my lack of recent entries, please allow me to swiftly recount a few of the more memorable moments of the past week.

The Katsaros family (self included) is trying to teach the youngest, Markos (3), to ask politely when requesting. The other morning, I dawned just before all the children of the house and met them at the table for a delightful cereal breakfast. Markos has recently found his desire to test his independence, specifically by pouring his own bowl. So, naturally when he voiced his grunting 3 year old desire for the box of milk, as I began to hand it him, I drew from him the magic word and passed him his beverage. He drained all that he wanted, twisted the cap back on, and returned the drink cartridge to the table, as a sidekick to his bowl. As I, in turn, reached to return it to the center of the table, the milk was swiped from my grasp and I found myself faced with a prompting for a specific word. Dumbfounded and defensive, a flustered "Please, may I have the milk?" scattered from my lips. With the milk box back in my possession, all I knew to do was chuckle aloud to myself.


Being in the presence of young children again on a regular basis has reminded me the complexity involved in maintaining a family. This morning, I sat helpless as mama Despina and young Markos debated the importance of lunch before cake.

And I sit here now, Iasonas and Markos ebb and flow between a balance of power control. I recall a time when my younger sibling and I once battled for the same perceived kingdom. Living with a family reminds me of the ceaseless sacrifice required for survival. I know what it is like to commit to this type of environment but never before have I been allowed to be grafted into a physical family just to live. There have been times when I accidentally stumbled upon a friend's family while some testing child dangled a tippy toe over the consequence line, resulting in some kind of discipline action, however I would never dream of discussing such an experience with the parentals of a colleague. But here, I am family. Much of the time what happens is beyond my linguistic comprehension. My appreciation fills when I am included in the dissection of the situation. George and Despina have unknowingly served as gracious avenues for me to further my gratitude toward my own folks. I am now convinced that the reason people begin to lose their hearing has a direct correlation to the amount of children borne to them.

So, Mom, I apologize for any deafening wails I bellowed into your ear as a wee lad. Dad, any names I've ever gulped out in the frustration of a heated discourse, please accept my heart-wrenched apologies. When invited to view parenting from the side of what had previously felt like the enemy, I can now understand that it was strictly my protection you were pursuing. If I am even a part of the parent you are, I know God will be content to pick up all that I will miss.

I'd like to thank all the parents who care enough to discipline their children with love. Thank you.

Daddy in Heaven,
Thank you for your love blanketed over us. Please continue to grow me more into our likeness and open me to new perspectives of life I've never considered. Your are gracious beyond comprehension. Bless you, Daddy. Hear this prayer by the power given to us through the Holy Spirit, delivered by Jesus Christ, our risen Lord. Amen.

Rookie Class

Over the last 4-5 years I have had several mentor characters stress the importance of defining, understanding, and articulating one’s testimony. It was the great weight with which they spoke about this testifying topic that led me to believe how influential such a story could be.
Without fail, within every cloud of witnesses with which I have ever associated, some one, if not many, dispute this rationalization for the prominence of testimony. They defend with thoughts justified, I think, by scripture.
Here is what I read on this morning of light from the rugged pages of these tattered Scriptures: (It is important that you read all of what follows and not just skip the scripture part because you’ve already read it a couple dozen times.)
Now one of the Pharisees invited Jesus to have dinner with him, so he went to the Pharisee’s house and reclined at the table. When a woman who had lived a sinful life in that town learned that Jesus was eating at the Pharisee’s house, she brought an alabaster jar of perfume, and as she stood behind him at his feet weeping, she began to wet his feet with her tears. Then she wiped them with her hair, kissed them and poured perfume on them. When the Pharisee who had invited him saw this, he said to himself, “If this man were a prophet, he would know who is touching him and what kind of woman she is -- that she is a sinner.”
Jesus answered him, “Simon, I have something to tell you.” “Tell me, teacher.” he said. “Two men owed money to a certain moneylender. One owed ten times as much as the other. Neither of them had the money to pat him back, so he canceled the debts of both. Now which of them will love him more?” Simon replied, “I suppose the one who had the bigger debt canceled.” “You have judged correctly,” Jesus said.
Then he turned toward the woman and said to Simon, “Do you see this woman? I came into your house. You did not give me any water for my feet, but she wet my feet with her tears and wiped them with her hair. You did not give me a kiss, but this woman, from the time I entered, has not stopped kissing my feet. Therefore, I tell you, her many sins have been forgiven -- for she love much. But he who has been forgiven little loves little.
Then Jesus said to her, “Your sins are forgiven.” The other guests began to say among themselves, “Who is this who even forgives sins?” Jesus said to the woman, “Your faith has saved you; go in peace.”
While reading this account, I begged for tears to trench down my face, but at the moment of true compassion all that streamed from my eyes was a a dry, arid lust to be forgiven much. It is here that I can see why so many “born-in-the-church” Christians are so hesitant to proclaim their love for a compassionate God. Their eyes have sinned little and been forgiven, though little. They want to love much but do not know what it feels like or know the feeling of being loved much.
This is not to say the Jesus does not love them as well. He is, after all, reclining at the Pharisee’s table.
Oh Lord, how I long to love much and acknowledge my desperate need for you. But as long as you continue to let me victory over anything, my will to love anyone besides myself lacks endurance. Convict me of my crimes. Take me to the desert to only rely on you. By the power in the name of Jesus Christ, our risen Lord, I pray. Amen.



rookie class -- those two words were typed by my new friend and brother Markos; he is 3. We learned how to type this morning. And how appropriate those words are when attempting to understand Adonai and all he encompasses.

Facets and Family

Friday afternoon I moved in with my resident family. The Katsaros' once lived with 5: Papa George, Mama Despina, Yannis (12), Iasonas (8ish), and Little Markos (5ish). Now, as it has been depicted "their older brother is returning home from university." The longer I stay in this place the greater my fascination bubbles. I am an American living with a Greek family in Egypt, and this weekend I spent several hours playing soccer with a crew of Canadians. That means there is Greek in the house, Arabic on the street, English in the office, and Canadian on the fútbol field. Speaking Canadian is a whole new translation.

We've spent many days preparing for the kickoff events of this year. As the green flag is raised high, each of us (youth staff) rev our engines, blood racing with anticipation of this Wednesday night. This will begin our Kickoff Collision for our high school group. Even while laboring "extensively" we managed to put together a choreographed dance routine to match our efforts. I need everyone to know, youth ministry is not all fun and games. Our eyes ooze with tears while our pores squeeze every last salty drop of sweat on our shirts and floor. Nevermind the roll-on-the-floor laughing outtakes we've had, or the frequent takes outside of the perfectly air-conditioned office we seemingly "survive" in, youth ministry is hard work. I mean, I had to wake up and be at the office by 10am this morning for final filming of our kickoff video.

Allow me to articulate the endurances of youth ministry. Over this past week, I heard the Lord telling me to sacrifice. In all my great and humble obedience, I laid upon the altar a prized weekend morning waking to sound of my screeching phone of an alarm scalding me from my bed at a horrid 8am so that I might arrive at a youth's home for an early morning bike ride in the desert Wadi Degla. And get this, he wants to go back next weekend for another ride! Oh the bondage we slave for under the cause of our courageous Lord, Jesus Christ.

Yet another difficult depiction of demanding department. Tonight, as a service to a treasured family, a few of us spent some time removing every speck of dust from their flat while they are gone on vacation. I found the pain not to be too overwhelming when, after cleaning, we spent some hours watching a movie on his cinematic project and resoundingly thunderous surround sound. Dam your tears for another day, for the Lord has blessed us with an abundance of perseverance and longsuffering.

I had better get some sleep; we have to be at the church to work (take staff pictures) by noon:30 tomorrow. All you reading back in the States and abroad, I hope this is a good reminder for you to show a greater appreciation for the gifts provided by your Heavenly Father, for not all are blessed by an abundance of material benefits.

Grace and Peace to all who believe.

When the music fades,

And awe is stripped away (1. see below) from the excitement of existing and thriving in Egypt for a year, and I simply come, what will I have to say?

The next print we struck was the picture of a footprint in the sandy Nile banks. Perhaps that image may be a bit misleading, as was the name of our retreat grounds: Nile Country Club. As my ignorant bliss twinkles into cultural appreciation, a broken and foreign question conceptualizes within me. Where do I pursue reform in a culture and where do I accept with grace the inconsistencies? Much of our ebbing intention at this esteemed estate ended with everly earnest erring. I caught my cohorts, then convicted myself of a deadly, insidious, and seemingly ethnocentric crime. Okay, deadly is an exaggeration, however, it felt deadly when we were consistently presented with clean white ashtrays in lieu of hearty, mouth-watering chicken and rice. We assumed our white dominance would supercede the years of relaxed and rhythmic reasoning behind sweetly impractical service expectations.

Each day we faced new and exciting(?) challenges. Our inaugural night smoked out any quiet conversation due to the presence of a bass blasting wedding party. I've been to a wedding or two. Perhaps the crowds I run with just do not possess the rowdy fortitude to compete with the night life of Egyptians but this banquet endured until the wee small hour of 2 a.m. Even if you were able to overrule the rattling clasps of our bass brothers, we rose half-heartedly upon the chimes of 8 and a half a.m. eager and aching for a burly breakfast. Still I ponder our immediacy expectations, especially when recalling the jumbled and irritated face of the club staff as we sat anticipating our unmerited meal. Our emotionless and drudging faces only sagged deeper when the news of breakfast hours crashed in our eardrums. "10 o'clock. We serve you at 10 o'clock," rattled the Arabic accented English, vocalizing a miserable truth.

The query at hand stays tattooed on my fingertips, inking each stop we pause at to collect and reflect. Where do I impose change and where does embracing further the Kingdom walls?

Daddy, my need for your obvious displays of Glory gasps for more breath each day I remain. I desire your guidance, especially concerning the interaction I receive from your friendly Egyptian children. Show the walls that fortify this Heavenly Kingdom so that I may assist and glory in the wrangling of new sheep into the moted protection of a high and craggy fortress. Heighten and widen, sink deep and stretch long my faith in your love. Assure my gut with passion and persistence along a narrow paved, tattered path to back-breaking and burden-crushing existence in the companionship of a dangerously fearless Lord, Jesus the I pray for your faithfulness to fulfill this prayer. Amen.


Side notes
1. This is an intentional replacement of the word "all" to be used a pun. Not "all" has been stripped away. In fact, many (but not all) of the facilities our youth and team reserve are better equipped than similar ones we would have used in the States. Awe has been stripped away. The wide-eyed faces are returning to some semblance of weariness and overworkedness.

Oh Sweet Rest, how my heart has ached for Thee.

I had planned on writing some phenomenal, articulate composition of the mesmerizing and miraculous conversations of the day. But instead, claim Sabbath on this melodious midnight.

I would like to thank all who support me in my adventures. As was noted in the letters some of you received, it is your hours in prayer that fuel this ministry. We drop to our knees on your account. Remember His faithfulness.

Daddy, we fall in love with you each hour you dance with us. We rejoice with you as you and the angels' voices steer our ears with fond sonantas of sweet sentiment swarming warmly over our souls. I beg you extend my Kingdom eyes to perceive your Glory falling on this dark world. You are good/ you are good/ and your love endures/ today. Bless us with an outpouring of your Holy Spirit in Egypt, in America, and across the homes of your redeeming renowned. Please, Daddy, end my search for the perfect word with a perfect acknowledgment that you are the Perfect Word. I love you. Please, accept this prayer like sweet incense in your home. By faith in the power that resides in the name of Jesus Christ, our risen Lord, may this prayer find fruit along its vine. Amen.

Legit Faithfulness

The exhaustion of today's events supplies me with a requirement to narrate some of the days events.

We began today with church (remember Friday is the holy day here). Led by TJ Stafford and his band, we crept into the holy of holies, only because God invited us. Indescribable. Such an appropriate song to spell out the truth of the day. But in spite of the impossibility true explanation, my pumping heart cannot hold all this excitement in.

While Travis preached at each service this week, 2 other members of our team would sneak away to fight the darkness trying to blanket our congregation. Kelly and I drew the 11:15 straws. Sometimes its fun to escape the confining social restrictions of the congregation. Like ninjas, we rolled up to the office to battle it out and rejoice with our Daddy. If the prayer time by itself was the only thing that happened today, it was well worth the lack of sleep.

But then we went to lunch with some super cool kids. Fun and fun, but the truly exhausting excitement found residence in the 107 degree heat of the Egyptian sun as we participated in the C.A.C. Grass Volleyball Tournament. CAC is the local American high school. Astounded by the irony, it was brought to our attention that in the States, we have a lot of grass, so we play sand volleyball. But in Egypt, we always have sand. Would fun would volleyball be if we only played it in our normal circumstances. In the spirit of mixing things up a bit, CAC grew some grass on it property or imported it or did something to create a lush and green field here in the arid awesomeness. So instead of playing sand volleyball, we played grass volleyball.

Keep reading. As our fearless leaders approached their opponents with false arrogance and party intensity, one of its members (who shall remain nameless for Dignity's sake) sacrificed his body in ways none of us would have begun to dare towards. He landed on the blunt end of a rope spike and tore a bit skin off his torso. That was not all that bad. Without delay we all soon realized that was not the only thing that lost some skin. The true damage sunk a bit lower. As all the men reading request that I type no more of this, I ask that you just hear me out for a few more simple sentences.

Our friend's manhood did survive, even with all the nerves and possible damage that could have been done, he then proceeded to an Egyptian hospital to go into surgery, just to make sure everything was still in working condition. Fear not, all is well, as much as any man could be after such an accident. So men, the next time you are in one of our favorite injury conversations, remember that some men truck through more than we ever want to fathom.

On top of the grace provided to his body, this valiant soul stopped to glory God's name even while under the anesthesia. That is my favorite part.

As he was under the unfortunate knife, the rest of us met and befriend a previous MCC youth pastor. This woman's story of adoption thrashed my heart out, and handed to the boy who was teaching me to slink along the floor as a powerful lion - king of the Egyptian flat. And he was the result of semi-adoption number two.

I did not hear all of the details of the beautifully gut-wrenching stories regarding the first orphan she mothered. That child had the "Simon Birch" disease. He died after only a few years with his brave mother. I recall her transition from the first child to the roaring lion beside me. She noted that at some point in the grieving process a congregation member inquired if she would ever do it again. As she tossed these uncautious words to the wind, she lived to laugh at God's favor: God would have to drop a child at my doorstep for me to do it again. A year later, He did. There was a knock on the door that opened to man holding the tiniest malnourished baby you could ever imagine. God said, its at your door step. So she laughingly cursed at God for his faithfulness in our ignorance.

My pouncing companion does not have a birth certificate. He does not have a residency in either Egypt or America. Essentially, the any official government, this child does not exist. He does not have an official identity. There is no legal way to get him one. But Caleb does not care. He spends his days with his obedient mother, as her mane man (spelling intentional, its a joke). She a single American woman living in Egypt mothering a "nonexistent" Egyptian child.

Words escape but so do tears. I'll take that trade.