on serving the God of christmas tree lights

In a country like this one, it’s very easy to lose your perspective on a lot of things, it can happen almost instantly. Surrounded by so much devastation and poverty, you can find yourself asking a lot of different questions. The one I’ve found myself wondering lately isn’t so much Where is God in the midst of all this madness? No, the doubt that has been slowly eating away at my faith has been this one: how can God care for my needs -my frivolous, petty wants- in the midst of all this? Because surely I am so insignificant, so unimportant.

Hunger is huge, poverty is huge, sickness is huge. Ask me what things I think are closest to the heart of God are and I will say: the widows and the orphans and the sick and the dying. I do not doubt for a second His love for those dears ones. Those are the things He cares most about because those are the important things, the big things. But tonight I was reminded about Who my God is, and what His heart cares so deeply about.

Our kids have a Christmas tree set up in the downstairs of the orphanage. There’s red and green paper loop chains and glittered snowflakes hanging from the ceiling and garland and jingle bells strung across the entire downstairs. And in the corner there’s a Christmas tree covered in glass ornament bulbs, lit up only because we serve a God who cares. We couldn’t find the Christmas lights; the ones we had were broken, no good. And nobody had any extras to loan us. Eventually the kids were told no lights, we're so sorry. We started to get ready for supper. And then she finds them, in a box in the storage room, beneath all the stockings. Laying there, where He knew they’d be: new, beautiful colorful Christmas lights.

I have no doubt that my God is a great, big, powerful God who does great, big, powerful things. Actually, on a day-to-day basis, it’s easier for me to believe that than to believe the opposite- that my great, big, mighty God works in the infinitely small details and whisperings of today.

It’s easy to imagine the Almighty God caring about ‘big and important’ matters in this life like famines and droughts and wars. You know, the save-the-world kinda stuff. But how much harder it is to believe His hands that hold galaxies and oceans and the highest of mountains and lowest of valleys are also the same hands that wrap themselves around my every day needs, and hurts, and fears. It’s easy to believe that my insecurities and my fears and my dreams are somehow too little for Him to take note of. It’s easy to forget that He sees the school days and laundry that gets hung on the line and children playing basketball on the court in the hot afternoon sun. It’s tempting to consider it true that He doesn’t hear the voices that sing His praises every afternoon at 4 pm and the quiet prayers murmured before schooldays and Bible study and mealtime and bedtime. But yet, He is Who He is because He cares exactly about those things.

Yes, my God is the God of the stars and the rushing rivers and mountain peeks and incredible sunsets. And the reality of that is humbling and, oh, it brings me to my knees in awe and wonder and worship. But do you know what leaves me more awestruck tonight? Remembering that He’s the God of Christmas lights and peanut butter sandwiches, the God of broken hearts and unspoken dreams, the God who sees a little girl’s tears fall to the ground when her school uniform gets ripped and holds those tears precious, the God who has counted the hairs on my head and yours, and calls us by name, the God who knows whenever a single sparrow falls to the ground. He’s the God who settles Himself right into the everyday and the ordinary. Simply because He loves us. How extraordinary is that?

As we embark on what could be the busiest time of the year -with the family gatherings and the parties and the to do lists and errands to run and cookies to bake- let’s not forget to slow down and take the time to be still. It’s easy to glimpse past it and fail to see the beauty of it: the God of Christmas lights is here among us, doing wonderful and mighty things. And He’s standing there with hands outstretched, inviting us to join Him.

on sketching schooldays

Some days, teaching a classroom of seven kids (6 of them being boys) ages 9-12 has me running around in circles, exhausted, frustrated, ready to rip my hair out and sit on the floor and sob. If there is one thing the past month of school has taught me, it would be that teachers (no matter the country, or realm of experience, or grade) deserve some of the most utmost respect for the work they do. Seriously, go encourage a teacher you know and give them a big thank you. They need to hear it, from you. Kids are kids, and they like to whine and push your buttons and procrastinate and goof around and daydream whether they live in America or Uganda, Haiti or China.

I’ve had mornings where, after the school bell rings and notebooks are closed and pencils put in their proper places, I walk upstairs and sit down at the table and feel defeat; absolute and utter defeat. The rush of thoughts is overwhelming and discouraging. The feelings of ineptitude and inadequacy roar loudly, because a skilled teacher could do this job so much better. I think of my patience that wore thinner and thinner as each minute passed and the thoughts that ran through my head when so-and-so wasn’t listening, again. I think of how love is patient and love is kind and where did my patience go this morning when the trouble-child needed it most? I think of the same concepts I have been explaining for 2 weeks now, and how no one is getting it. I think of all the spelling words and reading lessons and phonics that still need to be covered, and how will I ever explain that and how will they ever grasp it all? 

It’s easy to paint a pretty picture in your head and imagine what something may be like. It’s entirely different to see that dream into reality, and accept what is. In an ideal world, a classroom of students would listen quietly and raise their hands and be excited about learning and keep their desks neat and tidy and know where their pencils were every morning and we’d all walk out of the classroom with big smiles holding hands (and yes that was supposed to sound as corny and far-fetched as I made it sound). But the reality is kids chitter-chatter and are unmotivated, they tell jokes and shout out answers and procrastinate and whine and papers are falling out of desks and the floor hasn’t been swept and somebody is always missing their pencil every morning. Always. The puppy snaps at the end of your skirt and a radio is blaring in the next room and wait, who’s running out of the classroom now? All the while, this single thought replays in your head: what wrong is with you, that you can’t keep things orderly and under control, that you don't inspire a love for learning? What is wrong with you?

It’s wonderful to live life dreaming, always imagining what something would be like but never having to set about the reality of it. And, sure, it’s easier there, it’s cleaner there, the lines on your painting are nice and neat and orderly and there aren’t broken dreams and broken hearts in that painting. But it’s not real. No your days won’t be as you expect them to be, they never will be. There will be more splotches and blots and eraser marks on your painting than you’d like there to be. But you realize along the way, those splotches eraser marks and blotches and scribbles outside the lines make the picture what it is, and you wouldn’t want it any other way.

Because Maxson may shout out the answers and not listen, but you’re thankful because it means he’s learning, and wants you to know it. Abel’s consistent need for his work to be acknowledged after each and every question may grate on your nerves, but you’re thankful it means he cares about what he’s learning and wants to share it with you. Ricardo’s goofing around may drive you absolutely crazy when you’re trying to explain 2-column addition, but you’re thankful for those rough moments where his sense of humor melts your frustration and makes you smile in the midst of a hard day. Bello may not participate and whine and take twice as long to grasp concepts, but it makes it all the more sweeter when he does participate and the lesson does click for him. The reality is chaotic and messy, but it’s also beautiful beyond description.

These days and these moments are not picture perfect; our classroom is so far from it. But long ago the painting was surrendered to the Master Artist, and He’s drawing our lines and mixing our colors and painting the picture far better than we could ever imagine. 

on being Esau

"See to it that no one misses the grace of God and that no bitter root grows up to cause trouble and defile many. See to it that no one is sexually immoral, or is godless like Esau, who for a single meal, sold his inheritance rights as the oldest son. Afterward, as you know, when he wanted to inherit this blessing, he was rejected. He could bring about no change of mind, though he sought the blessing with tears." -Hebrews 12:15-17

I love it when the Lord takes a familiar passage of Scripture, an oft-told Sunday school story, and reveals it to me in a fresh, new way. There are times when these new revelations come as an encouragement, an uplifting for my weary soul. And there are times where it's an in-your-face, shake you to the core kind of lesson. Sitting in church last Sunday, the pastor preached from Hebrews 12, and while he mainly focused on verses 28 and 29, that night the Lord drew me further up towards verse 15 of Hebrews chapter 12, and then all the way back to the book of Genesis. To the story of a man named Esau. 

What do I know about Esau? Honestly, not very much. I know he was one of Isaac’s son, favored by his father. I know his brother very well, as the man who became the father of Joseph, and as the one who wrestled with God. But Esau? In Sunday school I imagined him as a bit of a cave man, covered in red hair from head to toe, dressed in a sheep skin tunic, sort of a Flintstones look about him. But really, mostly all of what I know about him is that he was the man who sold his entire birthright for a single pot of soup.

Could you sell your entire inheritance for a bowl of soup? I shake my head at the story, wondering how a man could be so blind. To give up his inheritance, his birth ordered right, to be in the genealogy of Christ! All for a pot of soup? Famished and tired from hunting, he gives up all that to temporarily fill his belly and satisfy his needs? I usually skim past this story, because what do I really have to learn from it? I don’t have any sort of birthright to sell, I don’t have a brother whose name means deceiver. This story was never one that I could understand or relate to. Until now... because recently I realized, I have done the same thing. 

As believers in Christ, we have inherited a kingdom that is unshakeable. Through His adoption of us as His beloved, we have inherited eternity. We’ve inherited the ability to be part of this grand story the Lord is writing. And oh, how marvelous that sounds. Who could ever dream of giving it up for anything, right? It is so precious, like the man who found treasure in a field, so he went and sold all his possessions to buy that field. I should be willing to lose everything for it, holding nothing back, selling things and sacrificing everything for it. But I’ve inherited this kingdom, and I've taken it for granted. No, I have done more than that. I have spend days dreaming of giving it away.

I am here in this country, with the opportunity to be used by the Lord in such an incredible way, to be a small part of His grand story. And I spend days dreaming about going home, back to comfort and ease for my flesh. I think of the hot shower I cannot wait for, the Christmas baking I want to do, the clean sheets I want to crawl between at the end of a long day, the comfort of waking up under the same roof as my family, the ease and simplicity of it all. I want to go back to a place where I can pretend that I’m not accountable for starving children and showing His love to the unlovable and being an example of Christ to a dying world, because that responsibility is exhaustingly great. 

How many times have I come so close to giving up and calling it quits, because in this moment now it’s too hard and I can’t do another day? I’m so caught up in the mindset of here and now, that I’m willing to trade my part in His story, my inheritance of His kingdom through the blood of Christ, all for some temporary comfort and ease? I am, in a sense, selling my birthright for a pot of soup. Esau and I, we aren’t so different anymore. Perhaps the only difference between us is that the selling of my birthright is more subtle than the selling of his... a pot of hot soup doesn't sit in front of me, just the daydreams and longing for home and comfort and ease. My birthright is eternity, which is a far-off concept sometimes. And also a kingdom that cannot be seen on this world just yet. And what I'm trading it for, it's very real right now in this moment. It's not a day where I know I will hear my father verbally bless me, or have my name written down in the book of Matthew as part of the genealogy of the promised Messiah. It's a subtle losing of my birthright.

I’m afraid, at how easily I am swayed and how in-the-moment my heart can be. If I lose my perspective on eternity and God’s kingdom for more than just a second, will I find myself sitting at the table one day with an empty bowl of soup, while my brother prances his inheritance around the room? Will I come to my senses, realizing what I’ve done and sob before my Father, begging for some kind of blessing? The thought makes me shutter, because the possibility of that happening is too close for comfort. The flesh screams loudly, demanding to be soothed and eased. And for some reason, it’s easier to quiet a suffocating eternal spirit than a suppress the cries and longings of a temporary body that is here today and gone tomorrow.

Guard our hearts, Oh Lord. Keep us in Your will and seeking Your kingdom first, above all else. May we hear Your quiet whisper over the cries and longings of our flesh. Our spirits within us are weak and feeble and easily swayed…  encourage us, empower us, and strengthen us.

You walk in, after a long and exhausting day of hunting. Your brother stands there, cooking a pot of soup over the stove. And the aroma that fills the room overwhelms you as you unstrap your hunting gear and remove your boots. The day has been long, tiring, and cold. You are so weary. Every muscle in your body aches as you sit down at the table, the chair squeaking beneath your weight. Your brother, he stands before you, a bowl of steaming soup in his outstretched hand. And you realize you have a decision to make. That soup, or your birthright? Comfort and satisfaction in this life, with all the luxuries a heart could desire? Or the ability to take part in building and belonging to an unshakeable, eternal kingdom? What will you choose?

on crazy hope and the champion speller

The recess bell rings, and he runs to me, his excitement growing with each step. “Hannah! Hannah!” out of breath he yells. I look at him, “Yes, Carl?” the sight of his state brings a smile to my face. “Hannah, I got 100 on my spelling today!” he announces proudly, head held high. The feelings that flood my heart in that moment are hard to describe—pride and excitement most assuredly, but even those words don’t quite capture it. It’s a feeling too sweet for words to even express, which makes it all the more beautiful.

My first week here I watched him struggle to pay attention through class. I watched him choose his bicycle over his spelling homework. I watched as he daydreamed through math and spelling and Bible and singing. And I watched as –unsurprisingly- he failed the spelling test he chose not to study for all week.

I found him on Saturday afternoon that first week. “Carl,” I say as we walked in our usual way, his arm wrapped around my waist, mine resting on his shoulders, “This upcoming week, we are going to study your spelling words.” I stare at him, trying to read the look about his face. “We are going to study so hard, you will get only minus two!” I speak with more determination and faith than I feel. “Ok Hannah,” he says, “Okay.”

That next week I watch him. On Monday I watch him copy the words from the blackboard diligently. On Tuesday I watch him run up to me after class, notebook pages flying, yelling, “Spell me! Spell me!” On Wednesday the sun beats our shoulders brown, and I watch him spell all his words right as sweat dripped from his brow. And on Thursday, I watch him be one of the fastest spellers in the class. And oh, Friday… Friday I watch his face as the teacher pinned his spelling test to the wall. 100% for Carl.

He looks at me with a smile that melts my heart. We walk the compound later that day, hand-in-hand. “I am so proud of you,” I tell him, stopping to look him in the eyes. “You studied and you studied hard and you got 100!" I bend to my knees, eye-to-eye with this little boy. "You’re my champion speller.” He looks at me, “Champion speller...” The words roll in his mouth, as if he were tasting them, “Champion speller.”

Some days I wonder what I’m doing here. More often than not, I feel so unqualified, like I’m in way over my head. And more often still, I get lost in my doubts, choosing to believe I don’t have the experience or the knowledge or the education or the years to be of good help. What can you do?  the whisper at the back of my mind growing stronger, more urgent. You’re 20. A child. And you think you can have some sort of impact here? You’re such a fool.

There are days I believe the doubts, days I get caught up believing I am of no use here, days I believe I should just board a plane back home, because what can a 20-year-old do for a place like this? There are days I let that voice get the best of me and immobilize me until I really am useless, selfishly stuck in my own self-doubt.

But another voice whispers, a voice of Truth and Love; and some days, I choose to listen to It, to not turn a deaf ear towards It. And I remember my little Champion Speller. Sweet child of Mine, you are more valuable and useful than your own eyes can see. At His voice, the doubts and the insecurities fall silent. He tells me, tenderly and gently, that His power can be at work through me. That He longs to use you, me, all of us… no matter how under-qualified or inexperienced or young or old we think we may be. I’m tired of believing lies, rendering myself useless to Him in the process. My heart is alive in this moment, wildly so. Full of the imagination of what we –His beloved children- could be used for, if only we would stop believing the lies, and start believing Him. Today I’m choosing to believe this hope… this crazy, beautiful hope.