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.
Saturday, September 29, 2007
Saturday, September 22, 2007
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."
"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."
Tuesday, September 18, 2007
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.
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.
Monday, September 17, 2007
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)
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)
Sunday, September 16, 2007
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.
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.
Wednesday, September 12, 2007
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.
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.
Sunday, September 9, 2007
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.
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.
Monday, September 3, 2007
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.
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.
Sunday, September 2, 2007
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.
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.
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