today

During any given day, so many different things capture me, even if just for a moment. A familiar smell, a favorite song, a sight that brings a smile -- all attached to a friend, a memory, a feeling. They leave me wrapped in a blanket of familiarity. In them I hear faint whispers of home. Belonging. They make me feel comforted.

There were many things today that reminded me of my friend. And they made me smile.

And then I got to talk to her online. We commented back and forth about the goofy pictures we took together. And in the way she does best, she made me laugh. Out loud.

The sound of my own laughter was like audible comfort.

Today was a good day.

brokenheartedness

I've heard it said a thousand times. I've probably said it myself equally as many.

Break my heart for the things that break Yours.

And I agree with that wholeheartedly. It's a prayer I need to be mindful of praying more often. I so easily get caught up in the routine, the busyness. The to-do lists and endless meetings. My heart breaks over unaccomplished tasks, unmet goals, insufficient funds, inadequate sleep. My heart needs to break more often, more consistently, for the things that break God's.

God's heart breaks for lost sheep. Prodigal sons. Rich young rulers. Prostitutes and tax collectors. Priests and agnostics. Kings and commoners. And for them -- for the people He loves -- my heart needs to break more. Much more.

Lately, though, I'm even more captivated by this thought:

God's heart breaks for my broken heart.

He loves me that much. His compassion is that far-reaching. His grace is that incomprehensible. God's heart hurts for my hurting heart.

The King of the Universe aches for me. The God who spread out the expanse of the sky, flung the stars into place, set the sun in its perfect position, and carefully placed the moon to simply reflect a light not its own...this God also reaches out to me, pulls me onto His lap, wraps His arms around me, holds me tighter than I realize I need, and refuses to let me go.

He weeps with me.

He doesn't say much; He doesn't need to. He certainly doesn't feed me ridiculous clichés: "Smile, I love you." "I work in mysterious ways." "When I close a door, I open a window." "Let go and let Me."

His tears say enough. They tell me He understands. He cares. He sees my hurting heart and He holds it in the palm of His hand. And He holds it ever-so-gently.

God's heart breaks for your broken heart. I hope there is a peace, a reassurance, in that for you as much as there is for me.

everyone has a story

My waiter was tall, with wide eyes and a big smile. And a non-South African accent. Turns out, he's from the DRC. As I asked questions, his story unfolded.

What's your name again?

Eli (pronounced ellie). E-L-I. I know our French names are different and hard to say.

In English, we'd pronounce your name as Eli (ee-lie). There's an Eli in the Bible, you know.

Really? Are you Christians?

Yes.

Church-people?

Yes.

I love church-people. So you are missionaries?

Yes.

Mmmm... I'll be right back; I want to talk with you...

When he asked "Church-people?", Eli's eyes got brighter. When I told him we were indeed missionaries, you could see on his face the comfort it brought to his heart to be flooded with the familiar.

Eli attended a missionary school very far from his home. Because of the distance, and possibly the expense, he never got to visit his family during his school-going years. When he graduated high school, the country was up to its eyeballs in civil war and it was too unsafe for him to go home. The missionaries helped him escape to South Africa; he's been here for 7 years. He hasn't seen his family for 15.

"If it weren't for those missionaries, I probably would have become a child soldier," Eli said.

He told us we were doing a good job. "I'm proud of you. Keep up the good work." We hadn't told him anything at all about our ministry or what we do. I'm convinced, though, that he could say that -- confidently and genuinely -- because he knows the impact missionaries have made in his life and he's convinced we're having the same impact on others.

My heart will hold onto this for a long time...

just call me spongebob

I've never actually seen a single episode of SpongeBob SquarePants. But I keep using his name lately.

I love learning. I thrive on absorbing things, through a variety of mediums, that will help me grow and develop. Personally. Spiritually. As a leader. I seek out opportunities for it. I ask questions, read books, listen to sermons, peruse blogs.

I love to be a sponge -- soaking in as much as I can so that, later, I can squeeze it out for others. This weekend, I'm being SpongeBob.

We're attending a leadership conference in Durban.

Which means that on top of the awesome soakage-in of great leadership lessons, I'm enjoying the beautiful view of the Indian Ocean, down time with our team, and a day at a water park.

Yeah. Pretty awesome weekend.

(How do you rate your sponginess, and who/what have you been absorbing great things from lately?)

random ramblings

My ears perk up at the sound of an American accent. I look over to discover six guys around the table, all American. I chuckle at the sight: They're all dressed in shirts and ties, each one a different vibrant color. From deep purple to bright burgundy to coral blue.

Between friendly banter and easy laughter, each one hovers over a newspaper, magazine, sudoku game, or cell phone.

Together. Yet separate.

I enjoy that very same thing at times. I love being altogether separate; with someone, but not necessarily doing something with them. Enjoying nothingness, individualness, in the company of someone I feel completely comfortable with.

The eclectic group of rainbow-colored shirts has grown quieter. Burgundy Shirt is talking, and has captured their collective attention. I wonder what story he is telling. The web he's weaving has them all fully engaged.

The laughter is flowing faster. It's getting louder. And louder. Deep Purple is now dominating the conversation. Apparently, he's hilarious. Uproarious laughter erupts from the table and oozes over to mine. Even though I don't know what's so funny, their laughter is enough to make a smile cross my face.

I just heard the first intelligible sentence in quite a while: "Well, I was born 3 days before the Challenger exploded." I remember watching that event unfold from the security of my tiny desk and chair in elementary school. And Burgundy Shirt was crying in swaddling clothes at the time. His collared shirt, rolled-up sleeves, and bold tie certainly made him seem older than that. But now I see it. His youth.

These young corporates have spent 20 minutes trying to figure out how to split their bill. They've now resigned themselves to asking the waitress to print individual checks. I can't help but laugh.

Why this whole scene compelled me to write is beyond me. The random unfolding before me of colorful sights and sounds seemed to captivate my mind. My pen.

Okay. I thought they had actually tackled this bill-paying quandary. But they're still surrounding the waitress at the check-out, trying to make sense of it. Their ineptness at this simple task -- in spite of ostentatious shirts, Windsor-knotted ties, and pointy black shoes -- is hard not to notice.

Aaah! They've got it.

The rainbow has left the building.