Just Friends

I barely knew what hit me.  I was sitting in church with some of my favorite guys and girls, young interns in a discipleship and leadership academy here in Swaziland.  An elderly white preacher from the states stood before us speaking on the love of God.  “The Love of God...”  One of my favorite topics.  The preacher began to share the idea that one manifestation of love is giving, and we reflected on verses like John 3:16 as some vocally affirmed the thought with “Amens.”  The white preacher from the states then went on to explain that we cannot really understand this concept (you know, how “God so loved that He gave...”) until we are put in a position of neediness; when we are the ones who have nothing, and yet we find that in great love and grace, someone who has more than us gives to us what we could never give to them in return.  

I should have seen it coming.  I should have seen it, but I didn’t.  So when the white preacher from the states asked all of the non-Swazis in the crowd to stand - I SHOULD HAVE SEEN IT COMING.  In a moment of awkward obedience, the white preacher from the states asked every missionary and visiting guest to stand to their feet, and then the white preacher from the states asked all of the Swazis (aka, the black people) in the audience to applaud what was basically a sea of white people who he was apparently now using as a visual to drive home his point: God loved so much that He gave... 

Just like we, the white people, loved you poor black Swazis so much that we gave?  

We came to you, we sacrificed to serve you, because we love you.  

So now, Swazis... applaud us?  

Applaud the white people from the states that loved you so much that they gave... ?

I was mortified.  As soon as I heard the word “applaud,” I shot back down to my seat and nestled as close to my Swazi friends as possible.  I hoped they knew that I didn’t feel this way about them or even myself.  I didn’t feel that I was better than them, or that they were soooo blessed that I came to them.  I hoped they understood that I understand: I am not the Messiah.  “What are you doing?!?” I thought.  “The last thing I came here to do is to separate myself from these people.”  Well-intentioned or not, this was one of the most degrading, humiliating, missing-the-point moments I’ve ever experienced in church.  

That night I wondered if my Swazi friends were as irritated as I was at this man’s incredibly poor choice of illustration.  Maybe I was feeling offended for them when they didn’t even take offense themselves.  I could only hope that the moment quickly came and went without taking root in their hearts.  As I lay in bed that night, I thought about what was making me so angry.  I realized that somewhere along the way, I grew very, very weary of applause.  I can’t say I am so holy or pure hearted that I don’t sometimes feel that lure for ovations and praise.  I do.  But beneath it all, something inside of me burns to still the applause, pull down the curtains and hide behind that very love of God.  I don’t want to be seen or noticed or applauded.  I don’t need to be applauded.  I need to be like Jesus.  Applause insinuates that I’ve done something extraordinary, something note-worthy.  But things that are natural; things that are obvious don’t gain applause.  And loving like Jesus should be natural; it should be obvious, not a great surprise, and certainly not applause-worthy.  In fact, it’s something more like cross-worthy.  

Still, I wondered more and more, why was I so heated over this stand-ovation for the sea of whites and their “great gift of love?”  I soon remembered a passage of Scripture that had recently struck me in a profound way.  It was sandwiched in one of those “I can probably just skip this part” sections.  1 Chronicles 27 details a list of the leaders of the tribes of Israel, saying things like, these people were over the herds, and these people were over the oil and the vineyards; these people were over the donkeys and these people were stewards over the King’s property.  It goes on to say in verses 32-34:

“Jonathan, David’s uncle, was a counselor, being a man of understanding and a scribe.  He and Jehiel the son of Hachmoni attended the King’s sons.  Ahithophel was the King’s counselor, and Husha the Archite was the King’s friend.  Ahithophel was succeeded by Jehoida the son of Benaiah, and Abiathar.  Joab was commander of the King’s army.”

How important is friendship?  So important that as Scripture lists the names and duties of those most important to the work and health of the King, they make sure not to fail to mention the one who was simply the King’s friend.  Placed purposefully between the mention of the King’s counselor and the commander of the King’s army, we find the quiet, humble statement: “...and Husha the Archite was the King’s friend.”

I can hear the important others asking Husha now: “What are you over?”  And Husha responds, “What am I over?  I am the king’s friend.  I am not over anything; I am beside.”

For the past 9 years of ministry, I have been “over” a lot of things and a lot of people.  It has been good, beautiful, redemptive, and I have loved the privilege of those days.  But returning to southern Africa this year, I felt a subtle urge not to be over anyone, but simply to be beside.  As I prepared for this trip, I asked the Lord to lead me wherever He saw most fit; all I hoped was that He let me build genuine relationships with people, walking and growing together one day at a time.  After three months in Swaziland, I couldn’t be more thankful to look around me and discover: the Lord brought me here, not to be a counselor or a commander, but to be a friend.  

And I don’t need any applause for that.

Let's talk about you...

When serving others, check the status of your own heart.  Knowingly or unknowingly, are you serving from an attitude of superiority?  If you were to get really honest with yourself, do you somehow feel that you are doing people a favor by loving them?  Let us never forget the greatest favor that was done for us.  The Father so loved that He gave His only Son to come and be Emmanuel to us - God is with us.  God is beside us.  He gave us, forever, a Friend.  Wherever God has placed you today, ask Him to reveal how you might serve beside like Jesus.  Beware, though: applause runs short under the weight of this cross, and rightfully so.  After all, it’s only natural...

There is great value in this ministry of friendship; this gift of “beside.”  Isn’t it lovely that when Jesus came to us in the flesh, He said, “I do not now call you servants, but I call you friends.”*  He, too, embraced the calling that stands beside. 

Now Jesus, make us friends like You...

*John 15:15

They Come Through Pain

This past week I sat with a dear Swazi friend who has captured my heart.  When I think of Nelly, I envision this beautiful, strong African woman with glowing eyes and a determined heart.  She is passionate and persevering.  She is convicting and compassionate.  She is, in a word, fierce.  Fiercely brave, fiercely devoted, fiercely alive.  

She is alive...

Fully

ALIVE.

Nelly is 37 years old with two daughters, 16 and 21.  She leads discipleship programs for children suffering from poverty, neglect, hunger, abuse and illness.  As we sit together, she tells me of the 11 year old boy that she can’t get off her mind.  He is HIV positive, has lost both his parents, and his grandmother who is now responsible for him is an alcoholic.  As Nelly attempts to take the young boy in for HIV care, the grandmother refuses: she doesn’t want anyone to know her grandson has HIV.  Instead, he will suffer and grow more sick, but at least no one will know... no one will know there is HIV in this house.  Nelly tells me of this young boy, and I know deep within that she is determined to save him.  She knows that God loves him and can rescue him, and she will find a way to be a part of that plan.  Nelly will see to it: this boy will not die; he will live.

Nelly knows that God loves and restores those with HIV, because Nelly is HIV positive.  In a nation where (conservatively) over 40% of the people are infected with HIV, still, no one talks about it.  You are HIV positive?  Keep it to yourself.  In the face of countless cultural misgivings, Nelly shares her wounds bravely, proud of the God who has redeemed her.  She tells her story openly; she loves the broken, and she reveals an image of a God who is with us in suffering, who is mighty to save in even the worst of things.

Yesterday Nelly told me how she loves the Word of God.  She told me that when she feels like she is going to die; when the enemy taunts her, the Word of God is a lifeline that brings salvation again.  

He whispers, “You’re going to die.  You will be alone and no one will ever want to marry you with HIV.  Your life is over.  You are going to die.”  

She whispers back, “Izwi lakho likuphila... Your Word is LIFE.”

Nelly writes beautiful worship songs.  One day I asked her, “How do the songs come for you?  Is it easy or difficult for you when you are writing songs?  What is your process?”

Her response:

“The songs come when I am in pain.”

And that was all: the songs come when I am in pain.  Maybe those songs are God’s gift to her; maybe they are her gift to Him.  Maybe when the enemy hisses whispers, “You’re going to die...” a song rises within as a sort of sword and shield that sings, “I will not die, I will live; and I will tell of the works of the Lord...  I will not die, I will live.”

I often envy people who have the gift of songwriting.  As much as I long to write and sing my own songs, they just don’t seem to come.  Sometimes I wish I was like those who, it seems, write so easily.  The next time I envy the gift of another, I will remember my beautiful friend Nelly who just happens to have HIV.  I will remember how she told me, “The songs come when I am in pain.”  I will ask the Lord to make me more like her, because she is so much like HIM.  I will ask him for a courage like hers, a bravery to persevere through pain toward the prize of His presence.  I will remember that HIS Word is life; that no matter what comes, “I will not die, I will live; I will tell of the works of the Lord and sing of His wonders.”

Izwi lakho likuphila...

Dirty Feet

I’ve been in Swaziland for a month now, and as usual, one of my favorite Swazi past-times is hanging out at Children’s Cup Care Points.  I absolutely LOVE hanging out with these kids.  Although we rarely understand each other, it usually doesn’t take long before there is a mass of sweet children - some shy, some playful - crowded onto my lap, tugging at my shirt and laying claim to a space on my arm.  I realize this is mostly just because I’m white, but I’m ok with that :)

I love how they investigate my hands and count my fingers, comparing our similarities and differences.  

I love how their little fingers slowly sneak their way into my hair, making tiny braids and terrible pony tails, and violently pushing my bangs to the side (ok, I get it, you don’t like the bangs :)

I love how they look wearing my sunglasses - and the little diva dances that follow.  

I especially love how there is always that one child who unknowingly puts the sunglasses on upside down, and everyone giggles while I say, “Oh, no no no, not like that!  Like this!”

I love how one boy can sit for 20 minutes pushing the same button over and over again on my watch, waiting for something amazing to happen.  

I love how that one super-shy little girl blushes when I finally catch her gaze and we share a smile.

I love the way they search my face; the way their dark brown eyes seem to read me inside and out.

I love coming home at night and finding their dirt on my clothes...  I LOVE IT.

So when I was at a Care Point a few weeks back, it broke my heart as one very playful little girl grew quite defensive toward the other kids in an effort to protect my “cleanliness.”  I was wearing hot pink nail polish, and she loved it on my toes.  After a while, any time someone would bump me and get dirt on my jeans or feet, she would holler something in SeSwati, then rush over, kneel at my feet and begin cleaning them off.  

Here is this beautiful little girl; there are holes in her shirt and she herself is caked in dirt, and she is bending down over and over again to wipe off my feet.  

“No, it’s ok,” I tried to tell her the first time.  But she wouldn’t listen (she really loved that pink nail polish).  I began to feel embarrassed, even a little angry, but not at her.  Who taught her this, I thought?  Who or what has made this sweet little girl think that she deserves to be dirty, but I deserve to be clean?  The gap between us felt much too wide.

Finally, after the 5th time of foot-cleaning, I caught her attention and she looked me in the eye: “It’s ok.  I don’t mind getting dirty.  It’s ok.”  I smiled, and she understood.  No more scurrying in to brush off my neat feet.  She leaned into me affectionately, then rushed off to play, and sweetly the Word whispered in my heart:

“How lovely are the feet of those who bring good news.”

Sometimes that very loveliness is found in the dirt caked beneath the feet that bear His good news.  Tonight I am reminded of the beautiful feet of Jesus, caked in the dirt and the dust of our land, our blood pouring out from the nail that we drove in Him, and I hear Him saying: 

“It’s ok.  I don’t mind getting dirty.  It’s ok.”  

Then He smiles, and I understand.  I lean into Him affectionately, then I rush off to play.  He has come to redeem my life from this dirt, and I am learning to let Him.  I am so, so thankful for His dirty feet, and tonight as I lay down to rest, the prayer of my heart is this: that when I enter into eternity, some observant angel or saint will take one look at my feet and say: 

“Oh, how she walked like Jesus.”

To be like Jesus; to be like Jesus.  All I ask is to be like Him...

Just Beginning

A few weeks ago, I sat in a room full of tools (actual tools, not the people kind) and had a heart-to-heart with an incredible woman who has become a sort of mother-in-faith to me.  As I've been preparing to leave my position with Teen Challenge, go jobless and head off to southern Africa, these talks have become increasingly precious to me.  When walking through a hefty period of transition, things can be both exciting and overwhelming.  All the while, this little spiritual powerhouse continues to breathe truth into my shaky soul every time we meet.  

Here she sits, 30-some-odd-years my senior.  We're sitting in this room full of tools and machinery through which she serves, doing the dirty jobs no one else wants to do day in and day out.  She works with her hands, but she lives from her heart.  She fixes a sink and mentors the girl living in that room while she tampers with pipes and drains.  She tells us when we are wrong and when we are right; she inspires us to turn our eyes upon Jesus in the mundane and in the magnificent.  She opens the Word of God to us humbly yet powerfully and we want to be more like her.  Then she says things like, "Oh no, I'm just the maintenance lady."  And I think, "Oh, you are so much more than 'just' the maintenance lady." 

I am full of gratitude for the women of faith and prayer that God has placed in my life.  As this friend and I talked that day, she ended our conversation by saying something I will never forget.  This woman who I so admire, who I pray I might have even a measure of her humility, faith and love, tells me:

"I think I am just beginning to find God's call in my life..."

Just beginning?  

Wait, you're like, 60-something, AND you've been serving God like a superhero for years now.  Just beginning?  

Yup...just beginning.

This is how it is with Him: beginnings...always new beginnings.  Beginnings that arise out of other beginnings, one creative move of God after another in a soul wholly surrendered to His love and His ways.  My dad used to say, "You will never come to the end of God."  I'm inspired tonight by the example of this mother-in-faith to me, who is living proof of this truth - you will never come to the end of God.  He is always working.

So this afternoon, I found my way back to a quiet room for some precious time alone with one of my favorite 60-something-year-old friends who is "just beginning" to find God's call in her life.  We talked about Jesus and how we love Him and desire Him; we talked about how He is drawing us nearer to His heart.  Once again she spoke truth and life into me; she challenged me and, in many ways, dared me to BE what I believe.  Then she prayed for me and we said, "Amen."  

And I walked away believing it too: "I am just beginning to know God's call in my life."  

Just Beginning,

Tara

His and Hers

I haven't written for about 6 weeks.  Somewhat intentional, somewhat unintentional, I've steered away from the public writing scene for a bit.  As I'm heading off to Africa next week, I'm certain there will be increased frequent writings and ramblings again, processing thoughts and experiences and sharing them with you.  But a while back, I sat down to write some things that were on my heart, and I felt the Lord whisper:

Tara, sometimes I want to talk to you just to talk to you, not so you can tweet about it. 

I reluctantly put my screen down, leaned back and thought for a moment.  

"I'm sorry," I whispered.  "Talk to me."

He's right.  In so many ways, I have allowed our conversations and experiences together to become material to share with others.  I know He's not asking me to never write or never share, but He's leaning up against me and nudging: 

Don't forget: I want you for you.  Not for the good you do or the significance you seek.  I like you, Tara.  And I want you for you.

So we've been quiet for a while.  Sometimes it's like that fire Jeremiah talked about - shut up in my bones.  Hard to contain.  I want to tell someone about it.  I want to get in long talks with a human being about the mysteries, beauties and complexities of this God I so love.  But sometimes I let those human beings take His place, and I end up talking way more about Him than I do to Him.  

I need to... I WANT to... talk to Him more.

I like singing in church.  I love leading worship anywhere, anytime.  But it is absolutely my favorite to sing when no one is listening but Jesus.  There are things that should get to be just His sometimes.  Things that we do because just HE will see us, just HE will hear us, just HE will know who we are and what we have done and how we have loved.

As I finish reading a Thomas Merton classic this week, I'm challenged by the idea of spiritual privacy. I champion the cause for authenticity and vulnerability in the Church (and society in general).  But in some ways, that leaning toward authenticity has moved me to think I should share pretty much anything and everything with everyone, all in the name of authenticity and vulnerability and joining in the grand conversation of the human race.  But maybe in that tension between authenticity and hypocrisy, there is a sweet value to be found in spiritual privacy - in allowing some things in our lives to belong to just Jesus:  

Things we say only to Him.  

Glances we give only to Him.  

Smiles that are "our smile."  

Thoughts and movements of our hearts and souls that we do not have to share with everyone else in order to be affirmed or applauded, but that we let just be... 

Just be His.

So today I am living in the "I am my Beloved's and He is mine."  I'm staying alert to those moments that clearly read: "His and Hers."  Sometimes I'll share them, and sometimes I won't.  I hope you will do the same.

Now... to be His.

*If you are wondering, yes, I realize the irony of writing a blog about spiritual privacy all the while sharing private spiritual moments :)  

T-to-the-Africa... Yes, AGAIN :)

Go ahead and say, "I told you so."  Yup, I'm headed back to Africa.  On September 1st, I will be leaving Indianapolis to spend three months in Swaziland.  As excited as I am to have this extended time in Africa, this decision has required a greater leap of faith than many others in my life thus far.  For one, going to Swaziland in the fall means I will be missing most of football season.  This a tragedy I'm not quite ready to talk about yet.  Beyond missing Colts games, leaping toward Africa means letting go of other "beautiful things" I love dearly here in Indy.  I'm not entirely sure what my life will look like when I return in late November, but there are glimpses; there are "leadings" in new directions, and as frightening as it can be to leap without a net in place, I'm provoked to believe that God Himself is the net, and so I leap.

This post will surely be followed up over the next few months with answers to questions like, "But what are you going to do when you get back?" and "What about TC?" and "What about pursuing your masters degree?"  These have answers - some of them I know; some of them I don't know (yet).  For now, I'd like to keep the talk on Africa.  So let's stop at just one question: "Why Africa...again?"

When I was a very little girl, Ethiopia was in the midst of a famine.  I didn't understand much about this at the time, but thanks to Sally Struthers commercials, I was inundated with images of starving children on a regular basis in those early years.  At 5 years old, I didn't know much, but I knew one thing: life is not supposed to be like this.  I was moved for them, and although I had no personal ability to change their situation, every time prayer requests were taken at church, school, home or elsewhere, I would pray "for the starving children in Ethiopia and Africa" (yes, that exact phrase).

So why am I going back to Africa again?  Because I want to be that little girl who is moved by suffering that really doesn't have to be her problem.  I never want to stop being her.  I could ignore it, but I don't want to.  I could hide in the borders of my own country and my own comfort, but I don't want to.  I want to be disturbed by the things that disturb the heart of God.  I want to be moved by the things that move the heart of God.  And sometimes that means stepping outside of yourself to see the world He so loves, that He gives... Himself.  If I want to be like Jesus, then my love must mean giving myself away, too.  

When I go to Africa I feel pretty useless.  I'm not a doctor, a nurse, an educator, or a brilliant business mind.  I don't know how to help make these problems resolve, and I certainly don't know how to take proper care of a person suffering from malnutrition or disease.  All I know how to do is to talk, to play, to laugh and to love.  That's all I got.  But I think it does me good to be in a place where I'm not so important.  It does me good to understand that I'm not the Messiah.  I'm not the answer.  I'm not the solution.  In Africa or in America, I'm just a girl, hopefully turning eyes upon Jesus, reminding those in despair that there is more than this.

So why Swaziland?  Well for one, Swaziland has the highest HIV/AIDs rate in the world, leaving the country with an average life expectancy of 46 years old.  Do I have HIV?  No.  Is it my problem that a bunch of people I don't know who live on the other side of the world have HIV?  No.  Could I ignore it and go on with my life just fine?  Unfortunately, yeah, I think I could - but I don't want to.  For the rest of my life, I want God to continue messing with my idea of normal, crashing the walls of every kingdom I try to build for myself, and wrecking my heart with the magnificence of His love.  So for three months, this will be my prayer - ruin me like You, Jesus.  Ruin me like You.

You can expect a ridiculous amount of blog posts, photographs and the like from September 1st through November 22nd...and probably a bit after.  Thanks to all my friends and family who have been so supportive through this season, always challenging me to follow Jesus wherever and however He may lead.  Looking forward to sharing more of this journey with you...

- TG 

The Details:

In Swaziland, I'll be loving on and ministering to children and youth through partnerships with Mission of Mercy and Children's Cup.  In addition, one of my dearest friends is a doctor with HIV/AIDs patients in Mbabane.  Through her connections with the hospital in Mbabane, I will be focusing much of my time working with the hospital social workers, shadowing HIV counselors and volunteering with Swazi children who also happen to be HIV patients.  If the majority of my time is spent reading to kids with HIV, I will be a very happy girl.  

Flipping Tables

Tonight in Addictions class we talked about identity, belief and the idea of what is normal.  We questioned the idea that what is "normal" is always good.  Just because something is normal, does that make it good?  And how does that normal thing shape who I am, what I believe and how I behave?  

When Jesus showed up on the scene, He flipped the tables on all that was considered "normal."  He said things like, "You heard this, but I'm telling you that..." or "You thought that, but I'm telling you this..."  He didn't eliminate all of the old ideas - He illuminated them.  He brought them to light.  He made sense of them.  He said things and did things that revealed a much bigger picture with much brighter colors, colors the world had not yet seen.  

God seems to enjoy tampering with my normal.  Sometimes I find myself banging on His chest, pleading with Him to just leave me alone.  To be perfectly honest, I had a moment just this past week when I snapped at Him in prayer: "Seriously, does everything in my life have to be about You?  Can't anything just be mine... just be normal?"  Whoa... ugly, Tara.  Real ugly...and probably a little stupid.  

I'm so thankful that when I'm banging on His chest, pleading with Him to leave me alone, He doesn't.  This is God's mercy - that He doesn't listen to everything I say; that I am not the boss of Him.  That He doesn't get offended or wounded and wander away, whimpering, "Why doesn't she love me anymore?"  He knows I love Him - and He knows I love me more sometimes, too....  We're working on it.  

But I love Him more every time He doesn't let go.  I love Him more every time He tampers with my normal.  Every time He "makes everything have to be about Him all the time."  Yes, somehow, I love Him a little bit more.  There's grace in this.  There is grace in this God who relentlessly, meticulously sneaks Himself into every picture and every painting hanging on the walls of my life.  He makes Himself the point of everything because He actually is the point of everything, so when I find Him everywhere, in all things and at all times, well... it's because that is the normal that is good - always.

This is how He does it.  This is how He makes all things beautiful: He places Himself in them.  And this is what He is doing with my life.  All of a sudden, I could not be more happy to be "normal."

Here we go, flipping tables...