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.
Wednesday, August 29, 2007
Saturday, August 25, 2007
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.
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.
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.
Thursday, August 23, 2007
Falucah Dreams
Another tour of Egypt today, totaling a whole two days. I acknowledge the miniscule perception that provides but allow me to enlighten you. Yesterday, the high temperature was a scorching 40 degrees celsius. That translates to 104 for all you fahrenheit Americans. When you traverse the desert plains of Egypt to look at camels and really old rocks, both your body and your mind start to question why the other agreed to follow on this tour.
Blah blah blah some other stuff happened. I thought I had the energy to write about but I was wrong. Moving on.
With Ray in town, our team (now in its entirety), decided Mr. Stokes should experience the falucah in all its glory. I hope all who may read this can handle some harshly vulnerable words from the heart. All week we've been contemplating the desire to submit and give God the authority deserved. There is something about a falucah that tweaks my perspective. Upon this crooked craft, I sat detached from the rest of the group. I think I made it the entire hour and a half without speaking a single word. Nay, I did mumble a few words to some hippie worship song Ray was teaching the rest of the party. He prefaced the entire encounter with a warning that if he felt the Lord speak about another, he would say something regarding the insight.
In all my insecurities, I expected, and prayed against, Ray to even turn his face in my direction. Mission accomplished. He didn't. My honest feelings? If I were honest, I'd tell you that it was the time was a bit hokey and yet I am not sure that I entirely believe that. He kept telling us to speak anything we had on our heart. As you may have guessed, I did not.
But you are special because there is a barrier between you and I, a face-saving process that keeps me from having to actually face up to any thought that you may think ill of. So in the spirit of catharsis, I will (ironically) vocalize the thoughts on "paper":
While the others were singing some song about God being better, I asked or He asked or some voice asked me if He truly was better. I wrestled with that for a while until it ended in a stalemate. With that topic indefinitely shelved, I moved a uncalled for and unpredicted distaste for our senior youth pastor. I am not entirely sure why but let me try and powerwalk through my thoughts.
At first, it was because I didn't like the way he sang. It always makes me think he is trying to draw attention to himself. On top of that, he was our guitar maestro. The challenge in my decided it was just jealousy. But at that same crucial moment, something else decided it was not just him. He embodied and personified every male mentor I could ever think of in my life. Every time I quietly exclaimed, "This man would teach me!" And they do. But never what I want to learn. Because they are leaders, they have more than a single person on their team and more responsibility than just watching over me. Just like me and the rest of humanity, they fall short. I blame them for this. Since this pastor is my new leader, he must endure the damage unintentionally done by previous leaders. Sucks for him.
This has been a process inching deeper with each falling sun. I have forced myself to believe that there is no man who can teach me to ride a mountain bike like a wild man. There is not a human who will teach me to read scripture with conviction. There are no people who really want to rub my back just because its nice. The deep longings of my heart are not filled in man. God has drawn me to the desert to rely on Him alone, just as I have been asking for 2 years now.
I am not sure if this is written any where but on the dusty pages of prayer books in heaven but for years now I've been requiring of God to take to a desert, to a place where I am required to look to him for every necessity of life - water, sustenance, shade. But when he took me to a real physical desert, I thought He was just being funny. I was wrong. The sweltering heat and arid sandy dunes are not just around the pyramids of Sakkara. A spiritual force has absorbed my ability to do anything on my own. Even these entries are not from my typical cognitive patterns, but it is as if once I arrived in Cairo all the senses received an amp. Well, maybe not all, but several especially important ones.
I had a point. I hope it has been made. Its 1am. I'm tired and we have church tomorrow morning. I need to rest.
I'd like to end with a quick shout out to all the peeps who actually read and comment on these seemingly endless blogs. Your encouragement is invigorating, reassuring, and effective. Keep telling me good things about myself. I put this at the end because the two and a half of you that actually read this far will see it. Most will not read for this long. Again, I thank you. Peace and Grace to all who believe.
Blah blah blah some other stuff happened. I thought I had the energy to write about but I was wrong. Moving on.
With Ray in town, our team (now in its entirety), decided Mr. Stokes should experience the falucah in all its glory. I hope all who may read this can handle some harshly vulnerable words from the heart. All week we've been contemplating the desire to submit and give God the authority deserved. There is something about a falucah that tweaks my perspective. Upon this crooked craft, I sat detached from the rest of the group. I think I made it the entire hour and a half without speaking a single word. Nay, I did mumble a few words to some hippie worship song Ray was teaching the rest of the party. He prefaced the entire encounter with a warning that if he felt the Lord speak about another, he would say something regarding the insight.
In all my insecurities, I expected, and prayed against, Ray to even turn his face in my direction. Mission accomplished. He didn't. My honest feelings? If I were honest, I'd tell you that it was the time was a bit hokey and yet I am not sure that I entirely believe that. He kept telling us to speak anything we had on our heart. As you may have guessed, I did not.
But you are special because there is a barrier between you and I, a face-saving process that keeps me from having to actually face up to any thought that you may think ill of. So in the spirit of catharsis, I will (ironically) vocalize the thoughts on "paper":
While the others were singing some song about God being better, I asked or He asked or some voice asked me if He truly was better. I wrestled with that for a while until it ended in a stalemate. With that topic indefinitely shelved, I moved a uncalled for and unpredicted distaste for our senior youth pastor. I am not entirely sure why but let me try and powerwalk through my thoughts.
At first, it was because I didn't like the way he sang. It always makes me think he is trying to draw attention to himself. On top of that, he was our guitar maestro. The challenge in my decided it was just jealousy. But at that same crucial moment, something else decided it was not just him. He embodied and personified every male mentor I could ever think of in my life. Every time I quietly exclaimed, "This man would teach me!" And they do. But never what I want to learn. Because they are leaders, they have more than a single person on their team and more responsibility than just watching over me. Just like me and the rest of humanity, they fall short. I blame them for this. Since this pastor is my new leader, he must endure the damage unintentionally done by previous leaders. Sucks for him.
This has been a process inching deeper with each falling sun. I have forced myself to believe that there is no man who can teach me to ride a mountain bike like a wild man. There is not a human who will teach me to read scripture with conviction. There are no people who really want to rub my back just because its nice. The deep longings of my heart are not filled in man. God has drawn me to the desert to rely on Him alone, just as I have been asking for 2 years now.
I am not sure if this is written any where but on the dusty pages of prayer books in heaven but for years now I've been requiring of God to take to a desert, to a place where I am required to look to him for every necessity of life - water, sustenance, shade. But when he took me to a real physical desert, I thought He was just being funny. I was wrong. The sweltering heat and arid sandy dunes are not just around the pyramids of Sakkara. A spiritual force has absorbed my ability to do anything on my own. Even these entries are not from my typical cognitive patterns, but it is as if once I arrived in Cairo all the senses received an amp. Well, maybe not all, but several especially important ones.
I had a point. I hope it has been made. Its 1am. I'm tired and we have church tomorrow morning. I need to rest.
I'd like to end with a quick shout out to all the peeps who actually read and comment on these seemingly endless blogs. Your encouragement is invigorating, reassuring, and effective. Keep telling me good things about myself. I put this at the end because the two and a half of you that actually read this far will see it. Most will not read for this long. Again, I thank you. Peace and Grace to all who believe.
Tuesday, August 21, 2007
Spiritual Whats?
For the past six hours we have been in Travis' flat with Ray Stokes, stabbing our minds, preparing them to marinate in the juices of his (but mostly scriptural) teachings.
Spiritual gifts.
Six hours of discussion/ lecturing on spiritual gifts is more than any faithful Church of Christ member has ever heard in their entire life. The background of religion that I place myself in rarely if ever maintains any real discussion on these so-called "gifts". So when this man whom I had chatted with the night before comes in and poses all these far out concepts of "intimacy with God" and "following when the Spirit leads" my brain naturally freaks out. For the first hour it felt like there were rocks in my ears; I did not hear most of what this man spoke. I could have been painted into the Charlie Brown cartoons as if I were in school, listening to a teacher: "Wah wah, wah wah wah wah." Nothing but jibberish.
Slowly after a necessitated snack break, I shook the rocks out of my ears and words began to retain meaning again.
Now that we have officially tabled our discussions until we officially practice them, I feel as though someone has taken a tiny little lunch box (you know the one with the cool superheroes on the outside) and is forcefully wedging a party size sandwich into it, maximizing the unavailable space in every nook and cranny of the pathetic pale. Processing has become difficult, mostly because of the massive amount of traffic scaring my brain at the moment.
Here goes nothing:
Spiritual gifts (i.e. word of wisdom, word of knowledge, prophesy, tongues, apostolic teaching in accordance with that of the apostles, etc) is all based out of two kinds of love. Primarily, the gift of healing, for example, comes from a deep connection and desire to glorify the Father. It is a grace, not because of anything we as humans have done, but simply out of a desire from God to enrich our lives in service to Him, to glorify His name alone. Second, these graces are given often out of an intense desire to help another person. In other words, when one person sees another in deep need of something (say healing), if the Holy Spirit so chooses to lead and the dense human grasps the presence of the Spirit, giving in to obedience, the human would then be gifted, at least for the moment with a healing, prayerful touch. This guy, Ray, offered to go as far as instant, visible healing. All of this because of a sweet, deep craving for the name of Christ to be glorified.
I am not sure I have succumb to all this craziness but the thought lingers; I've experienced some supernatural things before that I cannot explain. I have experienced (especially lately) a heavy prodding towards a growing and more powerful submission in faith, and have heard stories from men I trust as mentors and "spiritual giants". These men have labored tirelessly in the mission fields of Africa and returned with stories no American would believe. This cumulative procession of thoughts implores my hesitation to at least give ear to a deeper intimacy with God.
When drawing conclusions, on my throne of thought, a blessed seat that some call a toilet, I cannot help but inquire what if...? What if this intimacy with God is real? What if He really would have me so close that I can hear him whisper; a whisper so purposed that action must be taken? What could it hurt to find out? I am scared. I like it here in the comfort of controlled Christianity. I was just forming a relationship where I could control Christ as a weapon of personal gain. Now what is he doing? Using me for his personal gain? But that would mean... I am not the controller any more. Oh, crap; here we go.
Spiritual gifts.
Six hours of discussion/ lecturing on spiritual gifts is more than any faithful Church of Christ member has ever heard in their entire life. The background of religion that I place myself in rarely if ever maintains any real discussion on these so-called "gifts". So when this man whom I had chatted with the night before comes in and poses all these far out concepts of "intimacy with God" and "following when the Spirit leads" my brain naturally freaks out. For the first hour it felt like there were rocks in my ears; I did not hear most of what this man spoke. I could have been painted into the Charlie Brown cartoons as if I were in school, listening to a teacher: "Wah wah, wah wah wah wah." Nothing but jibberish.
Slowly after a necessitated snack break, I shook the rocks out of my ears and words began to retain meaning again.
Now that we have officially tabled our discussions until we officially practice them, I feel as though someone has taken a tiny little lunch box (you know the one with the cool superheroes on the outside) and is forcefully wedging a party size sandwich into it, maximizing the unavailable space in every nook and cranny of the pathetic pale. Processing has become difficult, mostly because of the massive amount of traffic scaring my brain at the moment.
Here goes nothing:
Spiritual gifts (i.e. word of wisdom, word of knowledge, prophesy, tongues, apostolic teaching in accordance with that of the apostles, etc) is all based out of two kinds of love. Primarily, the gift of healing, for example, comes from a deep connection and desire to glorify the Father. It is a grace, not because of anything we as humans have done, but simply out of a desire from God to enrich our lives in service to Him, to glorify His name alone. Second, these graces are given often out of an intense desire to help another person. In other words, when one person sees another in deep need of something (say healing), if the Holy Spirit so chooses to lead and the dense human grasps the presence of the Spirit, giving in to obedience, the human would then be gifted, at least for the moment with a healing, prayerful touch. This guy, Ray, offered to go as far as instant, visible healing. All of this because of a sweet, deep craving for the name of Christ to be glorified.
I am not sure I have succumb to all this craziness but the thought lingers; I've experienced some supernatural things before that I cannot explain. I have experienced (especially lately) a heavy prodding towards a growing and more powerful submission in faith, and have heard stories from men I trust as mentors and "spiritual giants". These men have labored tirelessly in the mission fields of Africa and returned with stories no American would believe. This cumulative procession of thoughts implores my hesitation to at least give ear to a deeper intimacy with God.
When drawing conclusions, on my throne of thought, a blessed seat that some call a toilet, I cannot help but inquire what if...? What if this intimacy with God is real? What if He really would have me so close that I can hear him whisper; a whisper so purposed that action must be taken? What could it hurt to find out? I am scared. I like it here in the comfort of controlled Christianity. I was just forming a relationship where I could control Christ as a weapon of personal gain. Now what is he doing? Using me for his personal gain? But that would mean... I am not the controller any more. Oh, crap; here we go.
Sunday, August 19, 2007
Mogamma and the Pottery Café
Sounds like a children's book. Let me assure you, it is not, and pray that it never shall be. But this is a tale of one bold troop who faced evil eye to bloodshot eye, who not only escaped death but slapped the Reaper in the face. These fearless fighters though spiritually bloodied and demoralized stood to the test only few in history still live to tell of.
Today we traversed the great lengths of desert-ridden Cairo on expedition to slay the trepidatious Mogamma. This fabled place is home to the feral visa extension offices. Through the slashing claws and sweat-drooling gnarls, we crashed a rugged path through the gruesome creatures with grit and passion.
We paused to petitioned Sanctuary inside the fortified walls of benevolent Pottery Café, where we buffed our abraded armor with caramel conviction and frappé fortitude. At this citadel, we wiped clean our blades of the nerves of hideous whistling guards and veins of the villainous stark-eyed trolling ogres. Once our lion-hearted team replenished, we again infiltrated the lair of vile creature in order to retrieve the golden papers of passage.
Stabbed but not slain, we wounded the massive beast and lived to fight another day. I do not believe it to ever be tamed, but it can be subdued. Be strong brothers and sisters of the holy cloth. Don your swords and raise your shields. The snarling titan no longer retains the fearful influence it once so tyranically wielded.
Grace and Peace to all you souls, suffered and survived.
Today we traversed the great lengths of desert-ridden Cairo on expedition to slay the trepidatious Mogamma. This fabled place is home to the feral visa extension offices. Through the slashing claws and sweat-drooling gnarls, we crashed a rugged path through the gruesome creatures with grit and passion.
We paused to petitioned Sanctuary inside the fortified walls of benevolent Pottery Café, where we buffed our abraded armor with caramel conviction and frappé fortitude. At this citadel, we wiped clean our blades of the nerves of hideous whistling guards and veins of the villainous stark-eyed trolling ogres. Once our lion-hearted team replenished, we again infiltrated the lair of vile creature in order to retrieve the golden papers of passage.
Stabbed but not slain, we wounded the massive beast and lived to fight another day. I do not believe it to ever be tamed, but it can be subdued. Be strong brothers and sisters of the holy cloth. Don your swords and raise your shields. The snarling titan no longer retains the fearful influence it once so tyranically wielded.
Grace and Peace to all you souls, suffered and survived.
Saturday, August 18, 2007
Movement
The following is an entry from another journal I hide from others. I hide it because it prevents me from worrying what others will think of each entry and I can write with as much freedom as my soul will allow. I have actually prettied this one up a bit, due to the incoherent nature of the punctuationless and misspelled paragraphs but I may have missed some here or there. Please forgive. Now, in an attempt to become more vulnerable and trusting of this regular audience and any who might read me, I deliver this:
If you'd like, leave a comment. Criticism is welcome and praise builds confidence. I will be soliciting your praise, thus the reason I posted this to begin with.
Shukran (that is arabic for Thank you).
All week, we've been moving constantly, tapping into the culture and community of this new place. I write so much more. And for whatever reason I have so much more to write. I long to expose my heart to someone here, but I just do not trust enough. I do feel alone. Here lie the scriptures of this invulnerable heart:
Alonely Earred Unexistence
Movement all the day
Like the rain, Misting
Fragile existence yawns our purpose
Against the downcry I swash,
Crawling up the sky
An awkward protusion
lifting screams consumes the thirsty waters.
Obtusely Crying, weeping
Ne'er clinching companionship.
Exhausted by his
lover's oppresion
Yard after yelping yard yEARning to yield his yoke,
unbeknownst to passion,
patternless publishments prove pointless and impotent.
Tongue topples tireless torrents of tyrany
from a verbose vagabond.
Eventually victory vivifies at the mention
of fragile existence steels the perfect word from Strength.
A translation or to recall the emtions of today, we explain a part of this swept heap:
Title - A One Yeared Unexistence OR Alonely Earred Unexistence
I tried to portray a part of me that so often feels left out. Scarred by the inability to remain in a single relationship, flowing over into nearly every moment of conscious thought. Desire to interact. Lost in the masses, as they say. A drop of rain, just like any other, differing only in his direction. They all fall down, smashing and stealing part of him with them.
"Fragile existence yawns our purpose" - soft and breakable as the rain (yet rain can reform and destroy) in a mist hanging (yawning) with dispassion of purpose.
In a picture of a desparate seeker drenched in the downpour of domestic (internal and external) discouragement, the single drop unites, nay, melds with ears of that desolate soul in whom he tries to find refuge. The drop embraces the screams of the ears. How can an ear hear if the ear itself is screaming? The function of an ear is not to create sound. The ear, the year, the drop of rain, is lonely. For why would any come to this place without first knowing what resided in a desert.
But slowly a voice, Tongue, is made audible despite the stupid yelps of the lonely trio. Audible because fragile existence (life, love, hope, a word from God) is stolen and shielded from the the yearners. It is not to get what we seek but to exist for what we were made. Place and purpose are pointless regardless of desire lest we grasp our design, our meant-to; our Mentor. Upon this revelation, the word saught finds the original revelation, "the perfect word" stolen from "Strength".
If you'd like, leave a comment. Criticism is welcome and praise builds confidence. I will be soliciting your praise, thus the reason I posted this to begin with.
Shukran (that is arabic for Thank you).
Thursday, August 16, 2007
after a couple of days
Its been a few days now. This morning we took the Metro to another part of Cairo where Travis spoke with such authority on the Word that it dripped from his lips like sweet sticky honey that you just can't get off your fingers or out of your mouth. And to have thoughts of submission sticking to your fingers all day will manipulate one's attitude. I rolled in it.
While we were there, we young and virginal interns dipped into the Egyptian culture for the first time. The roads were a bit more frightening (for the girls, not me; Me man -- me no scared of big dumb machines). Then once we arrived, and I'm not sure any of us knew exactly what we were to uncover when we stepped into the dawning room. Before I type another letter, I feel it necessary to mention that the hospitality of this country, whether resident, refugee, or expatriate brings shame to the term "Southern Hospitality". Egypt wins. Back to the shyly curious interns. My personal thoughts moved towards listening to Travis speak about something Biblical for an hour or so. How wrong was I.
We began by splitting up. I don't care to expound on this but I've observed a couple different times when our intern team chooses to split rather than gather the same experience. The invitation for each of us to join a separate group sprang to my dumbfounded ears. As I dug the rocks out, I blessed God for removing that rubble so that I could for the first time see the look on an Egyptian face when he and I connected despite our linguistic differences. At that moment, the discussion meant so much less than the connection that had just happened. Why these people are so enamored by we Americans, I will never know. Someone tried to explain it one time. Perhaps I am just a bit too calloused by my criticism to find the glories of my native land.
We took pictures, exchanged email, and left.
The present 71.4% of our youth team (5 of 7, I had to use a calculator) worked for most of the rest of the day and blah blah blah. Boring boring things that are probably important on some level but useless to write about, just as the time it takes to write that it is useless to write about how useless it might be. Follow? Good.
Shower, rest, be late to Thursday night church (holy day is Friday here, by the way), grab dinner and head to a falucha (sp?). Our team plus a few loving souls joined us for this ride. A falucha is a traditional Egyptian river sailboat. We fumbled across a couple other rickety rockers before we planted a wobbly stomp on our own vessel. Departure and we kicked back and set sail for a 3 hour tour, a 3 hour tour. Really it was only 2 hours but a strong 2 hours. We spent our time with conversation that only a falucha could solicit. In the dim twinkle of the bulb above us we poured out our souls with scorching vulnerability. Who does that? It rocked more than the our tiny ship.
Though we actually had 8 we still personified that dearly loved cast - With Gilligan (KG), Skipper too (Travis), The millionaire and his wife (Annie and Revo, actually two girls attached at the hip), the movie star (Ashley), the professor (Colin) and Mary Ann (Mo), here on Gilligan's Island. I'll be the at-home viewing audience, since that is how I felt most of the night. Even as I spoke, the scene was so surreal that there was no way I was actually experiencing this trip.
We never did crash on any deserted isles but Maadi will suffice. I like it here. I think I'll stay.
While we were there, we young and virginal interns dipped into the Egyptian culture for the first time. The roads were a bit more frightening (for the girls, not me; Me man -- me no scared of big dumb machines). Then once we arrived, and I'm not sure any of us knew exactly what we were to uncover when we stepped into the dawning room. Before I type another letter, I feel it necessary to mention that the hospitality of this country, whether resident, refugee, or expatriate brings shame to the term "Southern Hospitality". Egypt wins. Back to the shyly curious interns. My personal thoughts moved towards listening to Travis speak about something Biblical for an hour or so. How wrong was I.
We began by splitting up. I don't care to expound on this but I've observed a couple different times when our intern team chooses to split rather than gather the same experience. The invitation for each of us to join a separate group sprang to my dumbfounded ears. As I dug the rocks out, I blessed God for removing that rubble so that I could for the first time see the look on an Egyptian face when he and I connected despite our linguistic differences. At that moment, the discussion meant so much less than the connection that had just happened. Why these people are so enamored by we Americans, I will never know. Someone tried to explain it one time. Perhaps I am just a bit too calloused by my criticism to find the glories of my native land.
We took pictures, exchanged email, and left.
The present 71.4% of our youth team (5 of 7, I had to use a calculator) worked for most of the rest of the day and blah blah blah. Boring boring things that are probably important on some level but useless to write about, just as the time it takes to write that it is useless to write about how useless it might be. Follow? Good.
Shower, rest, be late to Thursday night church (holy day is Friday here, by the way), grab dinner and head to a falucha (sp?). Our team plus a few loving souls joined us for this ride. A falucha is a traditional Egyptian river sailboat. We fumbled across a couple other rickety rockers before we planted a wobbly stomp on our own vessel. Departure and we kicked back and set sail for a 3 hour tour, a 3 hour tour. Really it was only 2 hours but a strong 2 hours. We spent our time with conversation that only a falucha could solicit. In the dim twinkle of the bulb above us we poured out our souls with scorching vulnerability. Who does that? It rocked more than the our tiny ship.
Though we actually had 8 we still personified that dearly loved cast - With Gilligan (KG), Skipper too (Travis), The millionaire and his wife (Annie and Revo, actually two girls attached at the hip), the movie star (Ashley), the professor (Colin) and Mary Ann (Mo), here on Gilligan's Island. I'll be the at-home viewing audience, since that is how I felt most of the night. Even as I spoke, the scene was so surreal that there was no way I was actually experiencing this trip.
We never did crash on any deserted isles but Maadi will suffice. I like it here. I think I'll stay.
Tuesday, August 14, 2007
Mary, Mother of Jesus.
Day 1:
Yesterday I arrived in Cairo. There is so much to write about but I just do not have the time to explain it all. I will make an effort at articulation.
To begin, I found out a several days ago that the family I was suppose to be living with had to move. Eh, military; what can you do? So for now I am living with our senior youth minister, Travis. His flat is quaint and comfortable. It reflects well what I think the flat of a mid twenties, unmarried, missional youth minister should feel like. I will enjoy staying here, though I do not know how permanent my presence will be, should we find a family for me to live with.
This morning we (Travis and I) woke up and cooked some delightful scrambled eggs coupled with little baby grapes on the side. I prepared for the day not knowing at all what to expect, only much walking. With my camelbak lightly packed, I waited for the rest of my comrades (Annie, Ashley, and Mo) to arrive. We strolled to the church building to take a small tour. We only took a small tour because there is not all that much to tour. The Anglican Church has been supremely gracious enough to share with us a piece of their facilities. We hold church activities under a tented area on this tiny patch of busy desert.
We then wandered over to Road 9, or Street 9, or Lane 9, or Avenue 9, or Speedway 9, or some driven area followed by the number 9. The meandering lasted a short while until we decided to head to Lucile's, a semi-American restaurant. We met up with Travis, ate, then hopped back to the church to begin meeting the MCC staff and jump into the work staring us in the face. Mo and I have been given the assignment of planning the two retreats we have coming in 5 weeks. We spent a while discussing the new installment of an 8th grade program tailored to the specific direction we are seeking to lead our yearning young'ens. That sweet assignment was assigned to Annie and Ashley. There is an excitement building in me to see where that class will run to.
Eventually, we trekked over to VBS which is being held twice a day, morning and afternoon. In the morning, the normal congregation of MCC members send thier children. In the afternoon (which is when we arrived), we participated in the Africa Live VBS. Let me try to explain the glory that rose from those who attend the Africa, Live! services. As I understand it, Cairo has a large Sudanese refugee population that gathers here. This was without a doubt, my favorite part of the day. Interaction with people other than a culture I am even even remotely familiar. (I apologize for that ugly sentence.) We arrived with enough time to see them in class for a few minutes and plenty of time for children's worship. We met some of the people that work/volunteer for MCC in the Africa, Live! services. We met Jan, an Australian woman who essentially runs the entire program. I think I might have a picture of her I'll post. But alas, for tonight, the batteries are dead and need to be charged.
We met very many people today whom I hope to remember half of their names. We have now met a couple of incredible families who have welcomed us into their house with more hospitality than any other family I have ever known before. One of my favorite superficial things about being a Christian are the connections. I am halfway across the world from what I would call home, only to meet a family of whom I went to school for a year and half with their son; and another man from MCC now living in Houston works for my father. Apparently the rest of our youth team thinks I know everyone in this city. Not true. That would be impossible.
We also met a super cool Egyptian girl who works for the church, Revo. We have Egyptians, Australians, Brits, and Americans on staff. We have Lebanese, Sudanese, and I am sure there are others I am not aware of. After one full day, I'll step out and say I like it here. I think I'll stay for a while.
After reading through this, that description of our day is sickly pitiful but I already feel like I have taken more time than I should.
Oh, I nearly forgot one of the more important stories of the day. This evening, after dinner when Revo was driving us all back to our perspective flats, she dropped me at the street Travis lives on. I began to walk, fairly uncertain where I was going. All I truly remembered from the groggy night before was making a left turn up a couple of flights of stairs. From the outside, most of everything looks... identical, especially in the dark. So upon departing from her car, and realizing that in was in that zooming car, I had left my cell phone. The address was in my backpack... that I had left in my room in the flat. I knew I was supposed to be on road 209. Luckily for me, 209 is not long, only a couple of blocks. Something I forgot to mention earlier: In Cairo, there are stationed guards with slightly intimidating automatic weapons sitting around, every few blocks, or so. I do not have this spiritual gift though it might be cool if I did, this evening it was simple to read the minds of these guards. I am a young white man, aimlessly pacing a confused look mounting my face pretending like nothing is wrong. Out of nowhere, I hear a shot fired and something whizz by my ear. Okay, that last sentence is completely false but it would have made for a better story. Seriously, I did get asked if I needed any help but what was I going to tell the guy; "Um, yeah, I am a dumb fragile American who was stupid enough not only to forget my cell phone in a friend's car but I also forgot where I live. I don't know the address or even what door number I live. Could you please provide some direction? Thanks." No. I am not going to do that. Instead, I proved just how stubborn I could be, though at the time I told myself it was simply "peace from God." After trying to enter a few different buildings and knowing with a solid belief that each of them was not the correct place, I eventually and by the grace of God waddled to well lit door that I thought, was surely not the structure we should be living in, but I was wrong. I tried a couple of different doors, since I also did not remember what floor we lived on. For some unsensical reason, I tried the key in a door that could not possibly be the correct door but the lock turned and when I stepped in, it was indeed the bachelor pad I remembered. I dropped to the floor and kissed the ground, ran and hugged the sheets, and blessed the lock and key that so blessedly turned so smoothly leading me back to freedom and hope. I do not think I will forget again, despite all the fun I had.
Daddy, I love you. Remind me constantly that nothing is impossible with you, and to respond appropriately as the Lord's servant. Remove any barrier keeping me from you and keeping me from befriending and embracing any of your people you allow me to meet. Take me. I am yours. I pray in the name of our risen Lord, Jesus that you accept this prayer as a sweet scent to your heart and respond with your unfailing faithfulness. Give me oppurtunity to be the hands of my compassionate Lord.
I love you.
Friday, August 10, 2007
The time is drawing near
In exactly two days from the time I am writing this, I will be preparing to load a plane to Washington D. C. Once in D. C., I will have less than 90 minutes to navigate the treacherous bowels of our capital's airport in order to jump on a short little plane to Frankfurt, Germany. Upon arriving in Frankfurt, I am hoping to still have the full 80 minutes I am scheduled in order to slide onto my final departure to Cairo, Egypt.
It finally hit me on the way home from Abilene this last week, how much different this year will be. I left behind (in Abilene) the people for whom I have worked for four years. On top of that, some of the things I would normaly have taken care of did not get taken care of, creating a bit of a disappointing mess. I was hoping for a relaxing, less than adventurous week. I got most of the less than adventurous part though there have been a few less than relaxing events (mentally and emotionally). Regardless, the excitement of this journey is overwhelming.
Not finished. Will return later.
It finally hit me on the way home from Abilene this last week, how much different this year will be. I left behind (in Abilene) the people for whom I have worked for four years. On top of that, some of the things I would normaly have taken care of did not get taken care of, creating a bit of a disappointing mess. I was hoping for a relaxing, less than adventurous week. I got most of the less than adventurous part though there have been a few less than relaxing events (mentally and emotionally). Regardless, the excitement of this journey is overwhelming.
Not finished. Will return later.
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