Five women sitting in a living room, taking turns reading from Nehemiah. We are studying that book because in the rebuilding of a wall God can speak much about rebuilding lives. And in that second chapter, starting right there in that 17th verse, something speaks to me.
‘Then I said to them, “You see the trouble we are in: Jerusalem lies in ruins, and its gates have been burned with fire. Come, let us rebuild the wall of Jerusalem, and we will no longer be in disgrace.”’
Disgrace. (It rhymes with shame.)
Nehemiah saw his broken city with broken walls, and women see their broken lives in much the same way. And in the time it took to inhale that 17th verse something grabbed hold and won’t let go.
The only way out of disgrace is to step into grace.
And I find myself stepping in, in more ways than one. As I sat on that couch in that circle of women, I had no idea that God was searching something out in me. Something that caught my heart by a painful surprise.
Later that night something was said that pulled a trigger and a dam broke open and disgrace spilled out, and I learned that scar tissue won’t hold a wall together because grace is the mortar of God’s rebuilding.
I discovered, as I tried to stop the flow of pain and tears and years of pent-up shame, that the city walls begin to fall into ruin when a little girl is held to a secret as hands go where hands aren’t supposed to go. Shame makes a little girl feel alone and somehow ‘wrong’, and in her attempts to feel ‘right’ again she runs as hard as she can away from her pain, only to discover she has just been running with her pain. Until one day she falls in a heap. Disgraced.
But God. He knew where she would fall and He made sure it was at the feet of Grace.
(Because sometimes the only way out of disgrace is to fall into Grace.)
For days now God has been pulling away scar tissue and putting grace in its place. And for once, I understand His timing. Because the women who are studying Nehemiah are the staff at Grace House. And this is where God has me now, about to step into full-time ministry to women with broken walls. To cities in ruin. And I needed to know that God doesn’t rebuild with scar tissue, but with grace.
It came to me as I stood on the chair, almost cutting off my head in the ceiling fan blades. Maybe not cutting off really, but the thwack of even a dull fan blade would have hurt. Anyway, that’s when it hit me. Right up there on the chair, in my little prayer room, as the woman on my couch looked on with a deer-in-the-headlights look on her face. And who could blame her? I’d have that look too if I was her and not me.
Faith is moving.
That’s what came to me as I stood on the chair trying to demonstrate trust to the poor woman on my couch. I stood there and pretended to fall back because I need visuals most times and I hoped she appreciated my attempt, awkward as it was. The look on her face never really changed, so I couldn’t tell.
Faith moves, even when we are “being still and knowing that He is God”. Because being still is movement too, I think. It takes a lot of trust to stay very still when you want to hide or get busy fixing this mess. Being still is still falling backward, as long you know that He is God.
Faith is trust and trust falls backward into the waiting arms of God, knowing He will be there. It knows and it falls back and God always catches faith.
Faith reaches for the hem of the garment, falling backward into the Healer’s arms. “Take heart, daughter…your faith has healed you.”
Faith follows, crying out for mercy the whole way. “Do you believe I can do this?”. Blind men see because God always catches faith.
Faith steps out onto water and it speaks to mountains and it walks through the fire and all of it is letting go, knowing God won’t drop you.
I listened to the woman on my couch, heard her hard story, and her brand new, shaky, trying-to-believe faith that was keeping the needle out of her arm. As she talked, I could feel myself getting overwhelmed. It felt like that time last year when God said “Pack” and I was looking at 28 years of stuff and thinking there’s not enough boxes on earth and where do I begin?
So faith reached for my Bible and He caught me there and said “tell her about love”. Because her life had been just so hard and when someone has been kicked around that much you have to start with the love that died for her before the needle ever left her arm, before she stopped being for sale. She needs to know that we don’t fall backward into anger or disappointment or “shame on you”. It’s love that has arms out to catch us.
And every little movement is faith – the reaching, the leaving, the following, the coming through the roof for your healing. This is the falling, the trusting, the letting go and believing He will catch you and not drop you.
Faith must move.
Because faith that stands still, unable to move, unwilling to even shift its feet? That’s not faith, that’s fear and there will be no falling backward in that. And every so often I have to repeat it to myself, God doesn’t catch what isn’t falling.
Today, let your faith move.
Reach for Him.
Speak to a mountain.
Come through the roof to get your healing.
Step out of the boat.
If you don’t have enough, give anyway.
Share the gospel.
Go.
Love.
God will catch you.
Matthew 9:22; Matthew 9:28-29; Matthew 14:29; Matthew 17:20; Romans 5:8;
I am prone to forgetting so I want to memorialize my very first mission trip. I want to put my memories in writing for my grandchildren and their children, but also for me. Because remembering is sweet.
(Ignore the dates on the photos. They were all taken in March, 2007.)
Sudan – Part 3
The final days of my trip to Sudan were spent in Bor, the birthplace of the second Sudanese civil war. We were there to host a retreat for church leaders and the local church. We stayed at the church “compound”, made up of numerous huts.
My first sights of the compound can really only be described through the pictures.
A child at playShe captured me, but I could never get her to not be afraid of meA tired mom and her kids
The women looked so tired, and they were very shy. But they served us so graciously, and when we were leaving, they seemed genuinely sad to see us go, and kept thanking us for coming.
We were there for two days. The first day started with everyone gathering in the church for worship, and then the teaching we had prepared to encourage them.
The church at BorInside the church, gathering for the retreat
Yes, it was hot inside the church, but not as bad as you would think.
The look on this woman’s face says so much to me. Life is hard for her, and she has endured much. It is etched into her. One of the most difficult things for me to realize was that, though they are part of the Body of Christ, they rarely received encouragement from the rest of the Body.
And I thought of how accessible it is to me. How much I take for granted the fact that at any given time I can go to my computer and have dozens of people praying for me if need be. How much encouragement I receive just from the Christians in social media. I thought of how I never feel alone, or forgotten by the rest of the Body of Christ. But they do. They told us more than once that it meant so much to them to have us come because it let them know someone else cared about them, that they had not been completely forgotten.
The worship band and his drum
The worship has to be one of my favorite parts of the trip. I did not understand their songs, but I knew Who they were singing about, Who they were worshiping.
It was beautiful to watch, beautiful to be a part of these brothers and sisters as they bowed before God.
On the second day, after the teachings, we all went outside. The temperature that day was 103 degrees (F). For three hours we all stood outside, taking communion together and praying. What were we praying? That God would forgive the bloodshed of war, and heal their nation. They felt it was time to take back the land for the purposes of God. The civil war that began right there in Bor, lasted 22 years and cost the lives of millions of people, and displaced millions more.
But they loved their country, just like I love mine. And this confronts my pride head on. Because I, like the majority of Americans, have believed my country to be the greatest on earth. In my own arrogant patriotism, I believed that, if given the chance, anyone would want to live here. But on that day, I witnessed a people who didn’t want to live somewhere else. They loved their country, and they wanted to see it healed. I saw men and women spend three hours in prayer, intense prayer, in intense heat, because they believed God could redeem their nation. I saw them weep in the dirt over the sins of war and the lives that had been lost. I saw them do the only thing they knew to do for a nation that had been ravaged, both physically and spiritually. They fervently prayed. I want to be like them when I grow up.
Pastor Dave led us offThe sound of her weeping and praying filled the airTaking back the landWhat a privilege for meAnd in the end, God is worshiped
That night, we all sat around a fire. Well, our team sat around a fire with the men of the church. The women stayed with the children. At some point, I saw them preparing mats outside, and then they, the women and children, all laid down to go to sleep.
But before that, we had an impromptu worship service, as all of a sudden one of the men began clapping and singing, and soon others had joined in. It was a joyous sound and soon they were dancing and laughing and singing praises. I remember sitting there watching and listening and thanking God for this gift. It was beautiful.
The next day, we began the long journey home. Back to Uganda, then to England, and finally landing in Chicago. The very next day I was driving to Kansas to my mother’s funeral.
Putting this trip into words and photos has been good, as I let God speak what He wanted to speak to me through my memories. It has also been sad, as I look at some of the faces and remember their painful stories. But mostly, it has reminded me that God’s world is big and I am small and He is the same on one side of the earth as He is on the other. His Spirit is at work in His people, and in the nations and right here in me.
One last look…
We had brought bottles of bubbles with us for the children, much to their delightSome of the beauty of AfricaCoffee break timeThe church ladiesThe African sky
I am prone to forgetting so I want to memorialize my very first mission trip. I want to put my memories in writing for my grandchildren and their children, but also for me. Because remembering is sweet.
(Ignore the dates on the photos. They were all taken in March, 2007.)
Sudan – Part 2
So far, my African experience was fairly mild, I would say. Other than having to hold onto a pole so I didn’t fall into the toilet, nothing had been too difficult or inconvenient. So when we headed out to our next ‘motel’, in Juba, the capital of Southern Sudan, I wasn’t worried.
My first glimpse of Motel Juba.
We pulled into the motel. I don’t know another word for it, so I’m just calling it what my team leader kept calling it. The motel.
All I remember thinking, with amazement, is, “This is how some people live.”
I thought that way because I didn’t realize that I wasn’t in the majority. When you are surrounded by people who live the same way you live, you lose sight of the fact that much of the world lives in poverty. Poverty that, for the most part, you do nothing about.
It’s the same with our faith. When we surround ourselves only with people who know Jesus, we don’t realize we aren’t the majority. If you do life only among the living, you rarely think about the dying, until someone forces you to think about them. Most of the world is going to an eternal death, something so many of the living do nothing about.
Lesson #1: Don’t get attached to the goats. Just don’t.
As we pull in, the motel was on my left, and a goat was on my right. Someone in the vehicle said “Oh, there’s someone’s dinner”, to which I laughed, which I thought was an entirely appropriate response to the statement. Later, the goat was gone. I almost cried.
Our motel in Juba, the capital of South Sudan.
Each room had several metal beds, and a “bathroom” (and yes…those are air quotes). The bathroom had a shower, a toilet, and a sink. And no running water.
They did have large barrels filled with water and crammed into the bathroom. If we used the toilet (as opposed to holding it for days), we had to then pour water into the toilet to make it sort of flush. But I found a far more valuable use for the water.
It was hot, as one might imagine Africa to be. Two of my teammates had gotten heat stroke. Sleeping was very difficult. But I discovered that if I took off my clothes and dunked them into the barrel of bathroom water and then put them on as I went to bed, I slept very well. My wet clothes kept me cool long enough to fall asleep.
Speaking of clothes, my suitcase never made it to Sudan. In fact, the very first time I saw my suitcase after we departed from Chicago, was at the airport in Uganda on my way back to the U.S. They had it in a huge room with hundreds of other pieces of lost luggage. So, that means I spent 21 days in Africa with only the clothes on my back, and one extra shirt (which ended up with a hole in it so I couldn’t wear it anymore). I did have a backpack with my toiletries, my bible and beef jerky in it (my alternative to ‘goat’), thank You, Jesus.
The awakening was rude but necessary. To discover how many ‘can haves’ became ‘must haves’ over the years. To realize that I need very little, but demand much, want much, take much. Awakened to the gifts of God.
To the hungry…every bite is a gift…to the thirsty, any sip To the homeless, any shelter is a gift To the dying, every breath is a gift To the lonely, the discouraged, the beaten down ones…every kind word is a gift To the naked, one set of clothes is a gift.But to the one who has demanded much, wanted much, taken much…very little is a gift.
The passing scenes of Sudan
The road we traveled to get to Bor. Yes, I use the word ‘road’ loosely.
I am prone to forgetting so I want to memorialize my very first mission trip. I want to put my memories in writing for my grandchildren and their children, but also for me. Because remembering is sweet.
(Ignore the dates on the photos. They were all taken in March, 2007.)
Sudan – Part 1
After we left Uganda, we headed for Sudan, to a town called Bor. On our way, we stopped to stay in tent city. It was a ‘hotel’ made up of what looked like army tents with two cots in each tent. Quite nice, really. It was in tent city that I first came to appreciate the headlamp. The headlamp was a small flashlight that sat on your forehead, held in place by an elastic band around your head. When my team leader first stressed the importance of bringing one, I really didn’t understand why. Besides, I looked every bit as silly as I felt wearing it. But the first time I had to go to the bathroom in the dark, I discovered what really mattered. I needed that flashlight on my head because my hands would be busy holding onto the pole that would keep me from falling into the hole in the ground that was the toilet. Awesome.
Salvation. I think I was overwhelmed by the beauty of this moment.
It was in tent city that I would meet a most beautiful girl from Kenya (I can’t for the life of me remember her name). She worked at tent city and was our hostess, more or less. She liked us and hung around our team a lot. She told me she missed Kenya. She missed her home and her family. I don’t know what brought her to Sudan, but I got the impression she couldn’t afford to leave. The day before we left, she was sitting with us in the meal tent and someone led her, weeping, to Jesus. Later, she came to a couple of us, with her small bible, and asked if we would show her what to do. We showed her where she should begin reading and we prayed for her. My heart has always remembered her, even if my mind cannot recall her name.
Once lost, now found, in a tent in Sudan.
Our first night in tent city, our team sat at an outdoor table by a group of trees, planning and yawning. There was a group of people not far from us, sitting around talking. One of them was a young man who, upon realizing we were American, came over to us to say hello. His story was stunning. He was one of the Lost Boys of Sudan and was among those who had been allowed to resettle in the United States. Almost all of his family members had been killed in the war, and his village had been destroyed. He was one of the boys who escaped on foot into the bush, finally ending up in Kenya. After relocating to the U.S., he finished his schooling and got a good job. But Sudan was his home, and he had returned because he wanted to rebuild his village and look for members of his family. That day was his first day back in Sudan since fleeing for his life.
It is these things, these stories of people longing for their home, that pushed against the walls of my heart, trying to make room for something bigger than my own life. There is something so powerful about ‘home’, that a lost boy from poverty would grow into a man surrounded by wealth, and return to poverty, because it’s home, and it matters to him. And a girl from Kenya so lonely you could see it on her face, and for whatever reason, she was there, in Sudan in a tent city, when a group of missionaries needed a place to stay. To be present at that moment that had been arranged by God, watching a young woman cry as Jesus entered her heart, was so surreal to me. I don’t think it was that I suddenly felt very small so much as it was that the moment seemed suddenly so very big. As though nothing else in all the earth mattered at that moment, except that God had arranged a meeting.
As all of this comes to me at this moment, I know what I want…what I’ve been wanting since I returned. I want something to push against my heart. Something bigger than me and my life to push its way in. I want moments that are so much bigger than me, moments where nothing else matters except what God is doing.
Sudan’s poverty was a shock to senses that had never seen anything like it.Meat for saleSoldiers in the streets…a reminder.
I am prone to forgetting so I want to memorialize my very first mission trip. I want to put my memories in writing for my grandchildren and their children, but also for me. Because remembering is sweet.
(Ignore the dates on the photos. They were all taken in March, 2007.)
Uganda
In March of 2007, I took my first mission trip. A small team from my church went to Uganda and Sudan. Our purpose was to bring encouragement and support to a group of pastors and their wives. They would be traveling, many of them from very great distances and on foot, to the location of the retreats we were hosting.For most of them, it’s their first time being together as pastors. The majority of them are very isolated from the rest of the Church, because of the great distances and obstacles they would need to overcome in order to come together.
Suitcase ripped at O’Hare Airport. Team Leader pulled out his duct tape and went to work on it. That suitcase still has the duct tape on it six years later. Makes me smile when I see it. I wonder if Americans are the only ones who believe duct tape can fix anything, so we carry it everywhere.
I don’t care for fish. But I was in England, so on that day, I loved it!
First stop was London for a two-hour layover. Enough time to go out for fish and chips and my first peek at England. It wasn’t nearly enough. I hope I can go back there someday and really have a good look around.
Finally boarded the plane to Entebbe, Uganda. It was now late, and everyone settled down to try to sleep. It was the first and only time that grief welled up and almost became too much for me. I cried quietly, but deeply, with my head under a blanket on the dark plane heading to Africa. I felt like I had taken a giant leap down the rabbit hole, and nothing felt normal anymore.
On March 20, 2007, the day before I left for this trip, my mother died very unexpectedly. She lived in another state, so I was not with her when she died in the middle of a very routine blood transfusion. The news was devastating, and I had no idea if I was supposed to go to Africa or cancel my trip. About an hour after I had gotten the news, I called my dad. Some of his first words to me were “Go to Africa. Your mom was praying for your trip and was excited for you to go.” He held off on her memorial until my return three weeks later, and I left for Africa the following morning. Other than on the plane to Uganda, I did not grieve or cry for my mother until I returned home. I believe God’s grace surrounded me the whole time, and protected my mind and my heart from the fullness of the pain of my loss. It only occurred to me just recently what kind of sacrifice that was for my Dad to tell me to go, and to hold off my mom’s funeral until I returned. Three weeks without closure for his loss. Three weeks of waiting for the healing to even be able to begin. Three weeks of anticipating feeling fresh pain over his wife’s death. Such selflessness in the midst of such pain. Thank you, Dad.
My team leader disembarking the plane in Entebbe.
Eight hours later we arrived in Entebbe, Uganda. I remember the smell when I got off the plane. It was the smell of dirt. Very earthy, hot dirt. Not a bad smell, just very foreign to my senses. And I remember the flight attendant standing on the tarmac to greet us when we came down the steps. She was dressed in a crisp uniform and was smiling at me. She looked professional. She fit my picture of normal.
Later, as I traveled through the overwhelming pain and poverty of Uganda and Sudan, the image of that flight attendant would continue to come back to me. Because it was deceiving. Most of the women I saw over the three weeks did not smile much, and nothing about their lives fit into my ‘normal’. I would learn that many of them had suffered atrocities that I had no grid for. I had no place to put the things I heard from these women. Their stores assaulted everything “normal” in me.
This deception is not contained to Africa, or to third world countries. It is everywhere, including here. In any city, any neighborhood, you could walk past someone every day who fits your picture of normal, but if you heard their story, it would feel like something in you was being assaulted. Things they are suffering or have suffered that you have no grid for, no place to put their pain so that it makes sense to you. All of humanity is broken, in pain, and in need of Jesus. We can’t just walk past what appears normal.
My hut in Jinja. I shared it with a rather large black spider that lived in the shower.
From Entebbe, we traveled to Jinja, Uganda, to a resort near Lake Victoria. We were hosting a church leader’s retreat, a first time experience for most, if not all, of these men and their wives. The “resort rooms” were small, thatch-roofed huts. They were clean and really rather nice. I shared mine with a large spider.
I’m telling you, it was a tough audience.
It was here, in Jinja where I met a woman from Sudan who told me her story of having to run from her village with her small children. Her husband had gone to find work, and while he was away, the war came to her village. She and other villagers, mostly women and children, ran for their lives. She described the fear of trying to stay hidden while foraging food and water for her little ones. She and her husband were finally reunited at a refugee camp in Uganda. They were hoping to be able to return to Sudan soon. I could tell that talking to me was difficult for her, and I soon discovered that talking to me was difficult for almost all of the women I encountered in both Uganda and Sudan. In their minds, how could I possibly relate to anything they would tell me? With my life of privilege and normalcy, how could I ever understand the suffering that filled their everyday lives? What was normal to them would be shocking to me, perhaps repulsive.
On an earthly level, they would be right on some counts. But the Holy Spirit closes all gaps, does away with ‘normal’ and levels every playing field. I did not need to relate to their lives in order to love them, to lay hands on them and pray for God’s healing in deep places, to feel overwhelming compassion and at the same time admiration for them. They had no idea that when I listened to their stories, I no longer felt strong. Their strength to endure made me realize my own weakness in the face of anything that deviated from my ‘normal’. But witnessing their love of God and their commitment to Him, even after all they had gone through, felt holy to me. Yes, in the natural, I led a privileged life by comparison. One I took for granted. But the real privilege was stepping out of my normal and into theirs, if only for a brief few days. Because it allowed God to re-define normal for me.
The beautiful leaders at Jinja. I’m the white girl in the blue shirt!The view not far from my hut. I experienced beautiful sunrises and sunsets with Jesus there.Sudanese pastors getting a rare opportunity to pray for one anotherThis is so rare in their lives. Being in the midst of God moving all around them was a true privilege.
“For this reason I, Paul, the prisoner of Christ Jesus for the sake of you Gentiles—”
This is Paul’s opening to chapter 3 of his letter to the Ephesians. And then he goes off-roading a bit, with the explanation of his calling to preach to the gentiles. This is why we have to connect Paul’s prayer in chapter 3, not to the 12 verses above it, but to the ending verses in chapter 2.
So it would look like this:
“Consequently, you are no longer foreigners and aliens, but fellow citizens with God’s people and members of God’s household, built on the foundation of the apostles and prophets, with Christ Jesus himself as the chief cornerstone. In him the whole building is joined together and rises to become a holy temple in the Lord. And in him you too are being built together to become a dwelling in which God lives by his Spirit.”
“For this reason I kneel before the Father…”
His language points back to the Old Testament and the building of the temple…the dwelling place for God’s glory.
And then he prayed for power. Power to trust Christ so He could dwell in their hearts. Be at home there. Settle down and ‘dwell fixedly there’. (Vines Expository Dictionary)
He tells them that they are rooted and grounded in love. The words speak of a foundation. The foundation for the gentiles being included into the family of God was love.
{We, you and I, are laid upon that same foundation. Love is why we are His.}
He prayed that God’s power would enable them to grasp the dimensions of Christ’s love, how truly expansive it is, and to know that love.
And I heard God speak to me words that began a quaking in me.
“How wide, high, long and deep was the chasm that sin created between you and Me? I want you to intimately experience the love that poured into that chasm, filling it completely and beyond, until it was a chasm no longer.”
{This grasping has me gasping for air.}
..and to know this love that surpasses knowledge.
gnōsis. It is the general knowledge of the Christian religion.
{Take what you think you know about the love of Christ, throw it as far as you can and see where it lands. His love will go beyond it. That is love that surpasses knowledge. It is beyond what we can know with our minds, no matter how much we investigate and study.}
HeLOVESmorethan wecanKNOW.
Power for faith. Power to grasp love. Power to know love.
{Everything needs the power of God. Everything.}
Why was he praying for all of this?
So that God, and His glory can fill the temple…the Church…you. me.
Paul didn’t pray what he prayed because it sounded good, and maybe had a shot at being answered.
{He prayed what God breathed.}
But it is God’s next breath that has changed my prayer life.
More. IMMEASURABLY more. Exceedingly above and beyond more. More than I can ask. More than I would even consider asking, could imagine asking.
My prayers do not set the boundaries for God. They are not His finish line, they are His starting line.
Five women sitting in a living room, taking turns reading from Nehemiah. We are studying that book because in the rebuilding of a wall God can speak much about rebuilding lives. And in that second chapter, starting right there in that 17th verse, something speaks to me.
I discovered, as I tried to stop the flow of pain and tears and years of pent-up shame, that the city walls begin to fall into ruin when a little girl is held to a secret as hands go where hands aren’t supposed to go. Shame makes a little girl feel alone and somehow ‘wrong’, and in her attempts to feel ‘right’ again she runs as hard as she can away from her pain, only to discover she has just been running with her pain. Until one day she falls in a heap. Disgraced.
Karla Jo Wasion 