souvenirs from madagascar

It is a city like so many in Africa. With a sadness that saturates everything, until it is visible in the rooftops, the bright-colored clothes on laundry lines, the busy traffic. Trash lines the streets. Houses, made of anything and everything, are bursting at the seams with more people than they can hold. Taxis pass by, overflowing with people, luggage, chickens. Children laugh and shout, making a game of an old tire and a stick. There are smiles. There is laughter. Yet, that sadness is still there. It's palpable--reach out and take hold of some. Put it in your pocket as a lasting souvenir. You'll never forget it, that's for sure.

But it's also a city unlike so many in Africa. The rolling green hills stand out, but that's not really it. In the countryside, on the outskirts of the city, the houses look more like homes, but that's not really it either. The people and their culture are more Polynesian than African, a striking difference. Their facial features are bold, yet soft. Their eyes shine, yet seem dim. Their smiles genuine, yet subdued.

I've never seen rice fields before. They are the vibrant green of limes, and look as soft and inviting as a lush carpet. I'm intrigued by the random clusters of homes built up on a foot or two of packed soil in the middle of the fields. Cows, wading up to their shoulder blades in the soggy foliage, enjoy lunch on-the-go as they munch their way across the field. I've never seen anything like it. It makes me smile. Add that to your pocket. Another souvenir.

I am overtaken by an oh-so-familiar smell. It is distinct, but indescribable. It is memorable, yet impossible to be fully recalled. It is the smell of Africa. In spite of all the differences, I remember I am still here. I am still in Africa. Can you smell it? Once you breathe it in deep, it stays with you. Should you ever smell it again, you are instantly brought back to the very first time. Nothing compares with the smell of Africa. Bottle it up, cork it tight, and put it in your pocket. There will be days you'll long to uncork it, press your nose against the mouth of the bottle, and breathe it in to your Africa-starved lungs.

Truly, these are the best souvenirs.

simple truth

(I wrote this on Christmas, but since we’ve been internet-less for a few days, I’m posting this a bit late…)

It’s only Christmas because my calendar says so. It doesn’t feel like Christmas. And not just because I’m in Africa, and it’s summer. This year, Christmas just feels…distant. Maybe it’s not so much that it doesn’t feel like Christmas, but that I don’t feel like Christmas. That makes sense inside my brain; I’m not so sure it does outside of it.

But I’m thinking about Christmas, since my calendar reminded me and all. And the thing that keeps skating around my thoughts is this: There is always redemption. I think God had that in mind on the very first Christmas, and He has it on His mind on this one.

I need to remind and be reminded of that simple truth often.

Months ago, I read something that is so simple and yet so powerful. The Hebrew word shalom (peace) literally means nothing missing, nothing broken. And the word shalim (restore) means as if it never happened. There is such hope, such promise in those words.

Nothing missing. Nothing broken. As if it never happened.

There is always redemption.

Merry Christmas, friends.

holy moment

We experienced a sort of holy moment at our women's conference. One of the speakers had the women partner up and wash each other's feet. It was very "improv" in that we used glasses of water and napkins to do the job, but the awkwardness of the supplies was not enough to override the holiness of the moment.

Throughout the room, women were weeping as they served each other. They wept as they themselves were served. Walls were broken down, hearts opened wide, and the presence of God was thick and palpable.

Linda, a missionary in Botswana whom I respect deeply, called me over. "Can I wash your feet?"

I sat down and removed my shoes. As she started to wash my feet and speak words of affirmation over me, I just started to cry. I can't even put my finger on what it was that moved me; I don't think my heart was stirred by any one specific thing she said or prayed. The whole moment was just overwhelming.

Then we switched places; I washed her feet. We continued to cry together as I lifted her up before our Father.

To be served by this beautiful woman, to be flooded with sweet words from her heart, to be immersed in the presence of God... It was a holy moment indeed.

like now

I have a friend coming to visit on Monday. This year seems to be the exception to the rule in terms of how many of these visits we've been blessed to have. There's no complaints here, that's for sure.

I'm really looking forward to having Laura here. She adds much joy to my life, and I know there are fun times ahead. I'm just not sure my heart is ready yet.

It's still aching from the Natalie-size hole that's been left behind. In my house, on my couch, in my day, in my life. I've been spoiled; I'm not sure I'll ever "recover". I'm not sure I want to.

The revolving door that is my life gets a little overwhelming at times. Like now...

so they say

Bono, in his book On the Move, casts one of the most compelling visions I've ever heard for the cause of eradicating AIDS in Africa. He says what I've been unable to find adequate words for. Here's a glimpse.

God is in the slums, in the cardboard boxes where the poor play house. God is in the silence of a mother who has infected her child with a virus that will end both their lives. God is in the cries heard under the rubble of war. God is in the debris of wasted opportunity and lives, and God is with us if we are with them.

6,500 Africans are still dying every day of a preventable, treatable disease, for lack of drugs we can buy at any drugstore. This is not about charity; this is about justice and equality.

Because there's no way we can look at what's happening in Africa and, if we're honest, conclude that deep down, we really accept that Africans are equal to us. Anywhere else in the world, we wouldn't accept it. Look at what happened in Southeast Asia with the tsunami. 150,000 lives lost to that misnomer of all misnomers, "mother nature." In Africa 150,000 lives are lost every month. A tsunami every month. And it's a completely avoidable catastrophe.

There is a continent---Africa---being consumed by flames.

I truly believe that when the history books are written, our age will be remembered for three things: the war on terror, the digital revolution, and what we did--or did not do--to put the fire out in Africa.

History, like God, is watching what we do.