My whole life I've been known as the chill guy who functioned as a wall to anger, frustration, and stress. Much of last semester I would question why all the expats seemed so aggresive all the time, as if compassion was canceled from one's vocabulary.
Even as I write now, anticipating what I am about to say, my blood pressure boils and my chest is pressed in like a vice grip. It is not that I ever had anything against my fellow expats but I stood and watched their screams from afar, keeping my distance as if to post a chasm between me and the infectious disease of instantaneous outrage. Without warning, without precedent, without invitation, after building this barrier, I climbed out of the valley and smiled content when I looked around and realized my company... Greetings my fellow expats.
That's right. I am Kyle's ever-complaining, ever-aggravated feeling of mistreated, misunderstood, and maligned. What led me to this? I have some speculation on which I will not embellish but the important article is, this malice chokes quicker than the Cairo pollution.
Americans (and perhaps other cultures also) claim an old axiom, "The bigger they are, the harder they fall." Life experience teaches me how true this is. Falling from a tree didn't hurt like jumping from the 3rd floor dorm stairs onto cardboard boxes. This same truth retains its thudding impact even when the impact is not physical. Before when anger rose in me, a simple snuff out would cool my jets.
I hate being angry. Cyclical crossness. I hate this anger; my disdain for this anger builds onto and furthers my own.
Saturday, February 23, 2008
Friday, February 22, 2008
Take Your Own Advice
This evening, a friend asked if I was enjoying my internship. For anyone else wondering, I thought I might answer to the general reading public. "I wouldn't trade it for the world. Its difficult, but the pay is good." That's a joke, hopefully you laughed because there is a good chance if you are reading this, you probably contributed to my monthly income. There aren't that many hits on this blog, keep that in mind.*
But seriously, I wouldn't trade this time for any other year, except the one where Christ comes back. I know all of my posts are fun and games, full of laughter, frivolity, and boring nothingness, however on occasion our team, like a Cairo chariot taxi, forgets to watch the road for speed bumps and crashes over the crooked concrete mountains with little padding to absorb the stunt landing. That's hard for a team to work through when we go so hard, so fast, with so much momentum, for so long. It is only God that maintains control of this team, with such a multifaceted set of personalities. We are perhaps the most heterogeneous group I've ever been apart of (as if I have so much life experience to draw from in all my vast 4 years in any kind of workforce). Many days we are water to each other's oil spill, but there is an occasional moment once a month when someone actually sprinkles a tad of cinnamon on the group's proverbial toast (its a new proverb I'm starting).
All this to say, some days are more difficult than we wake up expecting. That ever happen to you? You must be in Egypt, too. Or human. Being both human and in Egypt, I decided to go take a look back at some of my older blog posts. Its always a fun exercise, kind of like getting your essays from high school or early college and rereading those. Great source of cathartic laughter for me. In my satisfaction to simply reminisce, recollection of the last blog I kept knocked on the door of my brain; they dropped by just to say hello. In the midst of the chuckles and giggles, and even floor-rolling, riotous cackling at a younger self, glimpses of maturity and hope costumed shy brilliance in early grammatical structures and adapted adopted images. Here is some of what I found:
P.S. - This ain't no picnic. Suit up, soldier.
What if we never acted superficial in anyway, ever again?
That's when God whacked me in the head with a two-by-four. Or my car door. Not really but that would have been a way cooler story. But, it was at this point when I sat in the seat of my car, inserted the key into the ignition, then realized that I am going to Hell. I recognized the insidious thoughts that I just allowed to waltz right behind my eyes. On occasion I physically slap myself. I didn't this time but it would have been a good to do so.
To all those who think I think too much, I think you are correct But this will not change how much I type. So, if you do not like the length of my entries, please by any means, do not read them. I will try to make an effort at being brief. (We'll see how that goes.) (I was unsuccessful, as you may have guessed.)
This was somewhat like flipping back through an old photo album for me. I hope you enjoyed this trip down e-memorylane.com. It was a great source of entertainment for me. I forgot about everything else that was going on, including a need to go to sleep. I motion that this meeting of minds recess until further notice. I second. Motion granted.
But seriously, I wouldn't trade this time for any other year, except the one where Christ comes back. I know all of my posts are fun and games, full of laughter, frivolity, and boring nothingness, however on occasion our team, like a Cairo chariot taxi, forgets to watch the road for speed bumps and crashes over the crooked concrete mountains with little padding to absorb the stunt landing. That's hard for a team to work through when we go so hard, so fast, with so much momentum, for so long. It is only God that maintains control of this team, with such a multifaceted set of personalities. We are perhaps the most heterogeneous group I've ever been apart of (as if I have so much life experience to draw from in all my vast 4 years in any kind of workforce). Many days we are water to each other's oil spill, but there is an occasional moment once a month when someone actually sprinkles a tad of cinnamon on the group's proverbial toast (its a new proverb I'm starting).
All this to say, some days are more difficult than we wake up expecting. That ever happen to you? You must be in Egypt, too. Or human. Being both human and in Egypt, I decided to go take a look back at some of my older blog posts. Its always a fun exercise, kind of like getting your essays from high school or early college and rereading those. Great source of cathartic laughter for me. In my satisfaction to simply reminisce, recollection of the last blog I kept knocked on the door of my brain; they dropped by just to say hello. In the midst of the chuckles and giggles, and even floor-rolling, riotous cackling at a younger self, glimpses of maturity and hope costumed shy brilliance in early grammatical structures and adapted adopted images. Here is some of what I found:
P.S. - This ain't no picnic. Suit up, soldier.
Does it take more heart to lay yourself on the table to be exposed and vulnerable to the possibility of rejection, dismissal, estrangement, or forsaken?
Question of the hour: When God made the animals, did He give them gender? If He did not give them gender then did Adam only name half of the species and the other half later after He created Eve? To put it simply which came first female animal or human? I would like to know if anyone has an answer to this query? (this one cracks me up)
I think it is completely appropriate in our Anglo-Saxon Protestant churches that the "body" of our blonde haired, Swedish Jesus is a white cracker. In black churches, is the Bread of Life still a "cracker"?
What if we never acted superficial in anyway, ever again?
That's when God whacked me in the head with a two-by-four. Or my car door. Not really but that would have been a way cooler story. But, it was at this point when I sat in the seat of my car, inserted the key into the ignition, then realized that I am going to Hell. I recognized the insidious thoughts that I just allowed to waltz right behind my eyes. On occasion I physically slap myself. I didn't this time but it would have been a good to do so.
To all those who think I think too much, I think you are correct But this will not change how much I type. So, if you do not like the length of my entries, please by any means, do not read them. I will try to make an effort at being brief. (We'll see how that goes.) (I was unsuccessful, as you may have guessed.)
This was somewhat like flipping back through an old photo album for me. I hope you enjoyed this trip down e-memorylane.com. It was a great source of entertainment for me. I forgot about everything else that was going on, including a need to go to sleep. I motion that this meeting of minds recess until further notice. I second. Motion granted.
Monday, February 11, 2008
A Tale of Two Cities
It was the best of times, it was the worst of times. It was the quietest of nights. It was the loudest of nights. It was the safest night I’ve spent in Egypt. It was the most dangerous night I’ve spent in Egypt.
For those of you who haven’t read up on your African sporting events lately, this past Thursday Egypt cemented their spot in the final football (soccer) match of the African Cup of Nations by toppling an ominous Ivory Coast with no more than a whim. Tonight, however, The Pharaohs soared into a sandy foot-to-foot battle with Cameroon's Indomitable Lions. And for a repeat championship title, the presiding champions indeed buried the now quivering street cats. Perhaps it was the cow they stabbed and slaughtered this week in practice. Perhaps it was luck, or it may have just been a superior skill set. I cannot give an answer, mostly because when living with an expat family, tuning into local television is near impossible unless you brave the chilly evening air and watch in the guard booth with the nearest officers and boabs. Final score 1-0. Egypt.
But the excitement leading to the game is not what I care to recount tonight. Instead, please allow me to drift back through a night in civilized Maadi, Egypt, where the respectable Egyptians coincide with the various expats.
We begin at the commencement of the second half of play.
I sat down around 8:00 p.m. to find out when the first kick would swoop through the air. To my surprise, I had already missed the first half entirely. But I had found the BBC Sports live updates web site. Score 0-0. Impressed, I called a friend who I knew had access to the appropriate channels.
A significant amount of time spent while I skipped the streets of the now ghostly Maadi. I could have waltzed down the middle of the street had I been so moved. The town was unprecedentedly silent. I actually heard a pin drop. That's not true, but in a city where I can hardly hear myself think, if someone had dropped a pin, I would have heard it. But without warning, as if assigned with simultaneous purpose, the soundless streets erupted with a merriment visible only by ears. [zooms out bird's eye view from street to city, then country, then continent, then space - still audible]
I glanced over at Kev, chuckled, and decided that Egypt must have just scored a goal. Never in my short little life have I ever been in the presence of such unanimous, synchronized joy. By the time we had arrived at the TV, another clamor at least as loud as the previous pierced even the concrete walls of the building. Victory chants joined our party, with no regard to invitation. Mere moments had past when the danger-seeking photographer on our team texted to ask if anyone wanted to join her on an expedition downtown. With a face of realization, we, in our own concurrent fashion, realized the implications: madness. Madness? THIS...IS...EGYPT! [followed by a Cameroonian soccer player kicked into an inhospitably dooming well-pit]
We decided not to go downtown when flames arose into the dark night sky above the inching traffic at Victory medan*. My attempts to describe the atmosphere can only be articulated as the antithesis of the streets Kevin and I had walked less than an hour before. Cars honking the popular Egyptian cheer - long, long, short, short, long - quickly overtakes your now tapping fingers to the same pattern. The everyday exhaust fumes bow to the sweet scent of victory spewing from the aerosol bug spray cans when coupled with matches and lighters to mutate into handheld flamethrowers. Anything red, white and/or black paint the sky as shoddy Egyptian-like flags blot out the moon and stars. Arabic shouts sear the noise air chanting "Masr Ah ra toul!" (Egypt Forever!) yet are consistently breached by the infamous "Ole! Ole! Ole! Ole!..." Young men on the shoulders of friends and strangers. Police failing to direct traffic or supress the masses. Faces painted, wigs waggling atop banging heads, air horns vibrating to the core of one's soul. Oh, and strike me down lest I forget to mention the multitudes of adolescents and adults alike protruding from cars like blurry growths at 60 kph, perched upon every open window, velcroed only by a scratching grapple to the underside of the car roof; dangling off hoods, trunks and severely overcrowed truck beds; crying out obscene Egyptian victory mantras just like any good adrenaline junkie would during a typical death-inviting action. Delirious dancing dented hoods and pronounced pandemonium solicited low blowing fireworks tailgated by forgiving laughter and renewed vibrance.
The olfactory bouquets of burning gunpowder, the impetuous, singeing warmth of illuminating torch light, taunting 8x11 signs displaying a broken english "Bay Bay Cameroon", and fist pumping mosh pits nearly trampling and hurrahing officers of the law - all will not soon be forgotten. Here rests the national pride on his pharonic golden seat. Here lies the unifying factor for this slumping nation. For it is a far, far better thing that they do, than they have ever done (except for perhaps the Pyramids); and this night is a far, far better rest that I go to than I have ever known.
*medan - a roundabout intersection of many streets
For those of you who haven’t read up on your African sporting events lately, this past Thursday Egypt cemented their spot in the final football (soccer) match of the African Cup of Nations by toppling an ominous Ivory Coast with no more than a whim. Tonight, however, The Pharaohs soared into a sandy foot-to-foot battle with Cameroon's Indomitable Lions. And for a repeat championship title, the presiding champions indeed buried the now quivering street cats. Perhaps it was the cow they stabbed and slaughtered this week in practice. Perhaps it was luck, or it may have just been a superior skill set. I cannot give an answer, mostly because when living with an expat family, tuning into local television is near impossible unless you brave the chilly evening air and watch in the guard booth with the nearest officers and boabs. Final score 1-0. Egypt.
But the excitement leading to the game is not what I care to recount tonight. Instead, please allow me to drift back through a night in civilized Maadi, Egypt, where the respectable Egyptians coincide with the various expats.
We begin at the commencement of the second half of play.
I sat down around 8:00 p.m. to find out when the first kick would swoop through the air. To my surprise, I had already missed the first half entirely. But I had found the BBC Sports live updates web site. Score 0-0. Impressed, I called a friend who I knew had access to the appropriate channels.
A significant amount of time spent while I skipped the streets of the now ghostly Maadi. I could have waltzed down the middle of the street had I been so moved. The town was unprecedentedly silent. I actually heard a pin drop. That's not true, but in a city where I can hardly hear myself think, if someone had dropped a pin, I would have heard it. But without warning, as if assigned with simultaneous purpose, the soundless streets erupted with a merriment visible only by ears. [zooms out bird's eye view from street to city, then country, then continent, then space - still audible]
I glanced over at Kev, chuckled, and decided that Egypt must have just scored a goal. Never in my short little life have I ever been in the presence of such unanimous, synchronized joy. By the time we had arrived at the TV, another clamor at least as loud as the previous pierced even the concrete walls of the building. Victory chants joined our party, with no regard to invitation. Mere moments had past when the danger-seeking photographer on our team texted to ask if anyone wanted to join her on an expedition downtown. With a face of realization, we, in our own concurrent fashion, realized the implications: madness. Madness? THIS...IS...EGYPT! [followed by a Cameroonian soccer player kicked into an inhospitably dooming well-pit]
We decided not to go downtown when flames arose into the dark night sky above the inching traffic at Victory medan*. My attempts to describe the atmosphere can only be articulated as the antithesis of the streets Kevin and I had walked less than an hour before. Cars honking the popular Egyptian cheer - long, long, short, short, long - quickly overtakes your now tapping fingers to the same pattern. The everyday exhaust fumes bow to the sweet scent of victory spewing from the aerosol bug spray cans when coupled with matches and lighters to mutate into handheld flamethrowers. Anything red, white and/or black paint the sky as shoddy Egyptian-like flags blot out the moon and stars. Arabic shouts sear the noise air chanting "Masr Ah ra toul!" (Egypt Forever!) yet are consistently breached by the infamous "Ole! Ole! Ole! Ole!..." Young men on the shoulders of friends and strangers. Police failing to direct traffic or supress the masses. Faces painted, wigs waggling atop banging heads, air horns vibrating to the core of one's soul. Oh, and strike me down lest I forget to mention the multitudes of adolescents and adults alike protruding from cars like blurry growths at 60 kph, perched upon every open window, velcroed only by a scratching grapple to the underside of the car roof; dangling off hoods, trunks and severely overcrowed truck beds; crying out obscene Egyptian victory mantras just like any good adrenaline junkie would during a typical death-inviting action. Delirious dancing dented hoods and pronounced pandemonium solicited low blowing fireworks tailgated by forgiving laughter and renewed vibrance.
The olfactory bouquets of burning gunpowder, the impetuous, singeing warmth of illuminating torch light, taunting 8x11 signs displaying a broken english "Bay Bay Cameroon", and fist pumping mosh pits nearly trampling and hurrahing officers of the law - all will not soon be forgotten. Here rests the national pride on his pharonic golden seat. Here lies the unifying factor for this slumping nation. For it is a far, far better thing that they do, than they have ever done (except for perhaps the Pyramids); and this night is a far, far better rest that I go to than I have ever known.
*medan - a roundabout intersection of many streets
Friday, February 8, 2008
One Fish, Two Fish, Red Face, I wish
"Blessed are you when people insult you, persecute you and falsely say all kinds of evil against you because of me. Rejoice and be glad, because great is your reward in heaven, for in the same way they persecuted the prophets who were before you." - Matthew 5:11-12 (NIV)
"Not only that—count yourselves blessed every time people put you down or throw you out or speak lies about you to discredit me. What it means is that the truth is too close for comfort and they are uncomfortable. You can be glad when that happens—give a cheer, even!—for though they don't like it, I do! And all heaven applauds. And know that you are in good company. My prophets and witnesses have always gotten into this kind of trouble."-Mt 5:11-12 (The Message)
For years now, I've prayed to God, "Show me what its like to be persecuted." Not a normal prayer for your general American Christian, I know. This evening, my blind eager eyes could hardly focus when the light shattered my night.
I'd been planning this evening's events for most of the week. There was mission trip training in the morning, sushi and assorted Japanese for lunch, followed by a sweet nap. I would wake up in time to stroll on over to CAC to cheer on some of our youth battling for spots on the traveling wrestling team. This would consume most of the evening's hours, beginning at 6 p.m. and wrapping up near 10-ish. I did, however, account for a brief time within those hours to attend a young adult worship gathering.
As I approached the school I noticed a recent friend, we'll call him Jorge. Jorge is one of our drummers for the worship band at MCC. He's a young guy, early twenties, attending college here in Egypt, studying English literature and minoring in Spanish. He's fluent in Spanish, English, and oh yeah, Arabic - because he's Egyptian. That becomes important in a moment.
I flash my pass to the desk workers and we walk into the campus. We hang out, watch the matches for a while, joke around with some of the high schoolers we know, have a good time. I look at my watch; its 8:45. "Jorge, you going to that young adult thing tonight?" I banter. "Yeah, you wanna go?" he returns. So I give a prompt, "Let's do it." We depart.
I had the road and building number on a posted note in my pocket but was pretty sure I knew where we were going, though I hadn't ever been there before. We find the building without any problems, except we don't see any stairs to the second floor. We knew we were in the right place because we could hear the singing from the road. It is not unusual that a set of stairs is hidden or around the back so Jorge and I motion to enter what appears to be the semblance of an entrance. Before we take more than a single step, we are halted by a booming arabic voice demanding, "Private entrance." We quickly apologize as we turn to find an older, slightly overweight Egyptian man with an bad attempt at a beard hanging off his face loitering amongst the cars parked in front of the building. My assumption, he's the boab/guard. No problem, we walk around. We had not gone more than 6 or 7 steps past this guy when he rushes over to Jorge, slaps him in the face and pushes him as if Jorge had just severely insulted the man's family. Now, I begin to lose track of the conversation because it rapidly becomes only arabic. I did pick up on a few things. A motion towards me, Jorge's repetitious reenactment of the face slap, and the large man using the same words in arabic again and again. Without knowing a single word that had just been said, here is what I assumed the situation was: the large man was angry that we had done something we "shouldn't" have done and used this along with his age as an excuse to attack a young Egyptian man associating with an American, both of whom are on their way to a Christian event.
So a minute or two later, Jorge pretends to amend as if it were nothing so that we may continue on with our friends awaiting us in the flat above. We walk in unnoticed, grab seats and listen to the rest of the group sing songs I'd never heard. A bit shaken up, I notice that the percussionist in Jorge is stomping a little more violently than these boring worship songs would generally incite. Its not long before he motions to me that he's going to take off, so I grab my coat and we exit as he persuades me its ok for me to stay. I exit also, anyway.
Once on the street, the man is now gone, or at least hiding for the shame of his retarded action. Jorge can't hold it in any more. He recounts to me exactly what was said in the flashbang conversation that still surged in my head. Essentially, the man decided we ignored what he had said and that was so disrespectful he needed to take it out on one of us, but not both since I am American. He claimed that he was just like Jorge's father and had the right to do whatever he pleased, even if that meant unnecessarily slap my friend. When Jorge asked him why he did not take the same actions towards me, the man only gave to same response, confirming my suspicions from earlier.
At this point in the conversation, I could smell the frustration on Jorge and see the fury whelming inside. This was not a shocking one time occurance. This type of interaction had happened before, more than once. This was a way of life Jorge constantly experienced. I had to ask. "Tell me the truth, and you don't have to answer, but did that man slap you because you are Egyptian going to a Christian event?" The relief showered Jorge's face. I thought the man would cry in the street right there next to me. But his elation with my understanding held back the tears. "This," he clinched his jaw, "this is just a small glimpse into what its like." That was all he said about it for the rest of the night. I talked incessently about it, admiring his courage, faith, and stamina. I rambled about how I did not understand what it was like to be persecuted, and was strangely jealous that his seat in heaven would be sweeter than mine.
As I sit comfortable, in a home provided for me, with a fridge overstocked with delicious, nutritious food, a warm bed and American friends to surround me I can't help but wonder what it must be like to traverse this country in the shoes of that man. Jorge is Egyptian by nationality but his professed faith in Christ makes him a minority in the only place he could possibly be a majority. He has no country. He has no home. Seen as a traitor to his countrymen and home, he is the walking, fighting, persevering persecuted that Jesus informs us heaven belongs to.
Blessed are those who are persecuted because of righteousness, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven. Let me also be persecuted, my Lord. May your name be given glory among men and angels when your children face death all day long for your sake.
Jorge, my man, you are the truth.
"Not only that—count yourselves blessed every time people put you down or throw you out or speak lies about you to discredit me. What it means is that the truth is too close for comfort and they are uncomfortable. You can be glad when that happens—give a cheer, even!—for though they don't like it, I do! And all heaven applauds. And know that you are in good company. My prophets and witnesses have always gotten into this kind of trouble."-Mt 5:11-12 (The Message)
For years now, I've prayed to God, "Show me what its like to be persecuted." Not a normal prayer for your general American Christian, I know. This evening, my blind eager eyes could hardly focus when the light shattered my night.
I'd been planning this evening's events for most of the week. There was mission trip training in the morning, sushi and assorted Japanese for lunch, followed by a sweet nap. I would wake up in time to stroll on over to CAC to cheer on some of our youth battling for spots on the traveling wrestling team. This would consume most of the evening's hours, beginning at 6 p.m. and wrapping up near 10-ish. I did, however, account for a brief time within those hours to attend a young adult worship gathering.
As I approached the school I noticed a recent friend, we'll call him Jorge. Jorge is one of our drummers for the worship band at MCC. He's a young guy, early twenties, attending college here in Egypt, studying English literature and minoring in Spanish. He's fluent in Spanish, English, and oh yeah, Arabic - because he's Egyptian. That becomes important in a moment.
I flash my pass to the desk workers and we walk into the campus. We hang out, watch the matches for a while, joke around with some of the high schoolers we know, have a good time. I look at my watch; its 8:45. "Jorge, you going to that young adult thing tonight?" I banter. "Yeah, you wanna go?" he returns. So I give a prompt, "Let's do it." We depart.
I had the road and building number on a posted note in my pocket but was pretty sure I knew where we were going, though I hadn't ever been there before. We find the building without any problems, except we don't see any stairs to the second floor. We knew we were in the right place because we could hear the singing from the road. It is not unusual that a set of stairs is hidden or around the back so Jorge and I motion to enter what appears to be the semblance of an entrance. Before we take more than a single step, we are halted by a booming arabic voice demanding, "Private entrance." We quickly apologize as we turn to find an older, slightly overweight Egyptian man with an bad attempt at a beard hanging off his face loitering amongst the cars parked in front of the building. My assumption, he's the boab/guard. No problem, we walk around. We had not gone more than 6 or 7 steps past this guy when he rushes over to Jorge, slaps him in the face and pushes him as if Jorge had just severely insulted the man's family. Now, I begin to lose track of the conversation because it rapidly becomes only arabic. I did pick up on a few things. A motion towards me, Jorge's repetitious reenactment of the face slap, and the large man using the same words in arabic again and again. Without knowing a single word that had just been said, here is what I assumed the situation was: the large man was angry that we had done something we "shouldn't" have done and used this along with his age as an excuse to attack a young Egyptian man associating with an American, both of whom are on their way to a Christian event.
So a minute or two later, Jorge pretends to amend as if it were nothing so that we may continue on with our friends awaiting us in the flat above. We walk in unnoticed, grab seats and listen to the rest of the group sing songs I'd never heard. A bit shaken up, I notice that the percussionist in Jorge is stomping a little more violently than these boring worship songs would generally incite. Its not long before he motions to me that he's going to take off, so I grab my coat and we exit as he persuades me its ok for me to stay. I exit also, anyway.
Once on the street, the man is now gone, or at least hiding for the shame of his retarded action. Jorge can't hold it in any more. He recounts to me exactly what was said in the flashbang conversation that still surged in my head. Essentially, the man decided we ignored what he had said and that was so disrespectful he needed to take it out on one of us, but not both since I am American. He claimed that he was just like Jorge's father and had the right to do whatever he pleased, even if that meant unnecessarily slap my friend. When Jorge asked him why he did not take the same actions towards me, the man only gave to same response, confirming my suspicions from earlier.
At this point in the conversation, I could smell the frustration on Jorge and see the fury whelming inside. This was not a shocking one time occurance. This type of interaction had happened before, more than once. This was a way of life Jorge constantly experienced. I had to ask. "Tell me the truth, and you don't have to answer, but did that man slap you because you are Egyptian going to a Christian event?" The relief showered Jorge's face. I thought the man would cry in the street right there next to me. But his elation with my understanding held back the tears. "This," he clinched his jaw, "this is just a small glimpse into what its like." That was all he said about it for the rest of the night. I talked incessently about it, admiring his courage, faith, and stamina. I rambled about how I did not understand what it was like to be persecuted, and was strangely jealous that his seat in heaven would be sweeter than mine.
As I sit comfortable, in a home provided for me, with a fridge overstocked with delicious, nutritious food, a warm bed and American friends to surround me I can't help but wonder what it must be like to traverse this country in the shoes of that man. Jorge is Egyptian by nationality but his professed faith in Christ makes him a minority in the only place he could possibly be a majority. He has no country. He has no home. Seen as a traitor to his countrymen and home, he is the walking, fighting, persevering persecuted that Jesus informs us heaven belongs to.
Blessed are those who are persecuted because of righteousness, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven. Let me also be persecuted, my Lord. May your name be given glory among men and angels when your children face death all day long for your sake.
Jorge, my man, you are the truth.
Wednesday, February 6, 2008
Land of the Weary
I almost died today. Twice. This is no hyperbole. We expats have a semi-serious joke that your life is threatened at least once a day. This time the semi stayed home and the serious took on a whole momentum. I know how much my weary and pregnant mother loves to read these stories so for the sake of the baby, I'll skip the gory details and give the PG version.
In short, when our ride to the wadi awoke ill and sickly, we decided to just taxi out there. This is nothing terribly unusual. As it turns out, if you party all night and try to drive a car the next morning, there is a good chance you may fall asleep at the wheel. However, when your passengers remain astute they may save your life, as was the case in our taxi this morning.
The other is also vehicle involved but slightly less dramatic. Acute awareness again architectured my evasion.
These are the daily nuisances the pyramid into the volcanic eruptions of anger and irritation. When I first arrived in this beautiful country, I wondered why so many of the expats had such a road rage, even when they were simply walking. Now, after a few months of attempted assassinations on my life, I begin to empathize with this great weariness.
They are not the only ones weary. One ride on the metro railway will serve as testimony enough to the ragged lives of the average Johammed Egyptian. I do not know how people can survive the way they do in this culture. Some don't. But perhaps there are those who might say the same of my homeland. How do we survive under such pressure and piggishness? (That's a fun word)
All in all, I've come to the conclusion and realization that this is not my home. I'm not talking about Egypt. I'm talking about earth. My most recent mentors have been St. Augustine, George Herbert, and Thomas Merton. Listen to their words:
"Our nature makes us wish for rest, that is to say, an increase in being." - St. Augustine
"But keep them with repining restlessness;
Let him be rich and weary, that at least,
If goodness lead him not, yet weariness
May toss him to My breast." - excerpt from The Pulley by George Herbert
"[...]for thou has made us for thyself and restless is our heart until it comes to rest in thee."
- St. Augustine
and perhaps the answer to it all...
"We look for rest and if we find it, it becomes intolerable. Incapable of the divine activity which alone can satisfy [rest]... fallen man flings himself upon exterior things, not so much for their own sake as for the sake of agitation which keeps his spirit pleasantly numb... [The distraction] diverts us aside from the one thing that can help us to begin our ascent to truth... the sense of our own emptiness." - Thomas Merton as quoted from The Ascent to Truth in John Eldredge's The Sacred Romance
I'm tired. Time to sleep.
In short, when our ride to the wadi awoke ill and sickly, we decided to just taxi out there. This is nothing terribly unusual. As it turns out, if you party all night and try to drive a car the next morning, there is a good chance you may fall asleep at the wheel. However, when your passengers remain astute they may save your life, as was the case in our taxi this morning.
The other is also vehicle involved but slightly less dramatic. Acute awareness again architectured my evasion.
These are the daily nuisances the pyramid into the volcanic eruptions of anger and irritation. When I first arrived in this beautiful country, I wondered why so many of the expats had such a road rage, even when they were simply walking. Now, after a few months of attempted assassinations on my life, I begin to empathize with this great weariness.
They are not the only ones weary. One ride on the metro railway will serve as testimony enough to the ragged lives of the average Johammed Egyptian. I do not know how people can survive the way they do in this culture. Some don't. But perhaps there are those who might say the same of my homeland. How do we survive under such pressure and piggishness? (That's a fun word)
All in all, I've come to the conclusion and realization that this is not my home. I'm not talking about Egypt. I'm talking about earth. My most recent mentors have been St. Augustine, George Herbert, and Thomas Merton. Listen to their words:
"Our nature makes us wish for rest, that is to say, an increase in being." - St. Augustine
"But keep them with repining restlessness;
Let him be rich and weary, that at least,
If goodness lead him not, yet weariness
May toss him to My breast." - excerpt from The Pulley by George Herbert
"[...]for thou has made us for thyself and restless is our heart until it comes to rest in thee."
- St. Augustine
and perhaps the answer to it all...
"We look for rest and if we find it, it becomes intolerable. Incapable of the divine activity which alone can satisfy [rest]... fallen man flings himself upon exterior things, not so much for their own sake as for the sake of agitation which keeps his spirit pleasantly numb... [The distraction] diverts us aside from the one thing that can help us to begin our ascent to truth... the sense of our own emptiness." - Thomas Merton as quoted from The Ascent to Truth in John Eldredge's The Sacred Romance
I'm tired. Time to sleep.
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