Our Privilege

Several days ago I passed one of my 117 students as I drove home from school. We both pulled to a stop light—I in my Toyota, he on his bicycle—and waited our turn to cross the busy intersection. I guessed from the dashboard clock that he’d gone to tutorials or served detention or stopped over at a friend’s house before heading home. The student didn’t realize it was me, or at least pretended not to, but I couldn’t help watching him while we waited.

This particular boy is the sort of freckle-faced kid who’s pretty good in math, but more interested in being a clown in the classroom. From time to time, I grind my teeth over him, but we get on all right for despite his efforts, he’s not a very successful comedian.

Seeing him there cast him in a different light. Daylight, actually, for I teach in a windowless, basement classroom. But more than that. I’d forgotten how small he is until I saw him in contrast to the cars rushing by, buildings and trees and lampposts dwarfing him, wide blue sky curving overhead. I thought about how hard he tries to gain attention and acceptance from his peers—not unusual in middle school—and about how often I raise one eyebrow at him.

My heart was overwhelmed by compassion for this kid trying to find himself and his way in the world. I regretted the times I’ve felt frustrated by him; felt anything less than the love of Jesus for him.

I said out loud, “He deserves to be loved. Everyone deserves to be loved.”

Just then, two men with backpacks and dirty clothes crossed the street in front of us, and as clearly as if He’d spoken out loud, God reminded me, “Everyone is.”

Now I have no way of judging whether the three people in my line of vision know the love of man or God, but tears gathered in my eyes because for a split second, I felt the crushing grief of all the people in this world who feel unloved. Had it lasted longer than a heartbeat, the pain would have been unbearable. At the same time, my heart was pierced deeply by how many men, women, and children have yet to experience the overwhelming and unconditional love of their Father.

It’s our job, you know, to tell them. To show them. To live the love of God in Christ Jesus among them. To experience it fully in our own lives.

It’s our privilege, but we forget that. We forget to see people the way Jesus sees them. Forget that our loving relationship with the Creator of heaven and earth is something most people can't fathom. That it comes with a responsibility to every living person.

But I'm glad He reminded me.

Press Release

Some of you might be interested in today's press release about the ABNA contest on Forbes.com

http://www.forbes.com/prnewswire/feeds/prnewswire/2008/02/19/prnewswire200802191514PR_NEWS_USPR_____NYTU122.html

. . . or that might be just me. :)

I MADE TOP 100!!!

Just discovered my novel "Children of Light" made the top 100 cut in the Amazon Breakthrough Novel Award contest (out of 5,000 world wide entries)! If you could possibly help me out by posting a review (or commenting on someone else's review), I'd appreciate it. You must be an Amazon customer to review or comment, but anyone can visit my profile and download an excerpt (for free) at http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00124COPM

Thanks friends!

An Invitation

Hey friends,

Want to know why I wrote "Children of Light," an Amazon Breakthrough Novel Award semifinalist? Go to http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00124COPM and scroll down to my latest blog post.

Haggling Over the Cost

I was reading about the cost of discipleship in the gospel of Luke this morning, and I feel foolish.

Just the other day I felt a bit sorry for myself, enumerating in my mind what this mission of ours has cost in terms of relationships, primarily. I actually said to God, "I had no idea it would cost this much." The financial aspect I can live with, money being such a fickle part of life anyway. But by calling and choice we’ve stepped outside the comfort of our established relationships and started over.

Yet even as I whined, I couldn’t help seeing God’s wisdom in putting us through this specific training module. What in the world did I think would happen when we move to a large metropolitan area in another eighteen months and instead of joining an established church with a ready-made family, we start living the life of Christ in the midst of those who don’t yet know him?

Jesus said, "Anyone who does not carry his cross and follow me cannot be my disciple." That particular cross is not simply some trial or tribulation—we all have plenty of those forced on us by the nature of things—it’s the cross on which we voluntarily crucify our own plans, desires, and self-will for that of God’s.

In a reading last week, Oswald Chambers questioned, " . . .do you say, 'I am not willing to be poured out right now, and I don’t want God to tell me how to serve Him. I want to choose the place of my own sacrifice. And I want to have certain people watching me and saying, Well done.'"

Well, yes. Sometimes I do.

But here’s another truth: there is nothing I must give up that compares to knowing Jesus and being transformed into his likeness. Nothing so sweet as volunteering to be sent and having Jesus push me out of the nest and into the hearts of people who need him.

I’m stronger now for my wrestling with discipleship self-pity. Wrestling with it and winning by the power of the Spirit at work in me. If this is what it costs, so be it. I’m not haggling anymore, for I’ve gotten the better end of the deal no matter how you slice it.

Self-Esteem, Schmelf-esteem

I’ve decided that self-esteem isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. I mean, seriously, look at how fragile it is. How quickly it dissolves into an insecure mess, giving up its strength at the smallest hint of criticism. Felled like the giant-above-the-beanstalk by the absence of just one hoped-for affirmation. One phone call that never comes. One ignored email. One day of obscurity.

Or maybe that’s just my self-esteem.

I recently entered a novel of mine in the Amazon Breakthrough Novel Award contest and made it to the semi-finals. Okay, so did 846 other people, but it’s a move in the right direction. Anyway, I received very nice reviews by Publisher’s Weekly and two of Amazon’s top reviewers as well as some others. But two or three mediocre reviews really got under my skin. I went to bed early after reading one of them, convinced I’m a terrible writer with no business letting anybody read my stuff. Good-bye self-esteem; you’ve been edited.

I have a friend that was twice supposed to let me know when we could meet for lunch. I never heard from her again. Ciao self-esteem; you’ve been dropped.

I shared some exciting news with someone. They replied with a lukewarm “how nice.” Au revoir, self-esteem; you’ve been boring.

I had something important to say in a conversation in which it was impossible to get a word in edgewise. Adios, self-esteem; you’ve been silenced.

I know better. I really do. I spent a couple of years wrestling with adolescent-style insecurity and finally realized the only ticket out of that mud pit was to put my confidence not in myself or in the favor of others, but in God alone. Call it God-esteem. But every now and then I forget.

So, I’ve decided I want to get rid of my self-esteem entirely. It’s a fickle, demanding, mean-hearted lover with serious control issues. Enough navel-gazing. Enough hurt feelings. Enough measuring myself against people who appear to be more successful, more beautiful, more interesting.

Sayonara self-esteem. You’ve been kamikaze-ed.

Amazon Breakthrough Novel Award Semi-Finalist!

Out of 5,000 world-wide entrants, my historical novel "Children of Light" is among fewer than 1,000 semi-finalists as judged by Publisher's Weekly! The farther along I move in the contest, the more professional feedback I get. Of course, if I actually win first place, my novel will be published by Penguin Books. But the exposure and feedback will be very valuable for me. You can help me by reading and reviewing a 5,000 word excerpt of my novel at http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00124COPM.

PLEASE HELP ME BY PASSING THIS ALONG TO YOUR FRIENDS!

You'll need an Amazon account (free) before you download the excerpt (for free).

Here are a few points to remember:

* When you read excerpts from the semifinalists and post reviews, you’ll be in the running to win a prize package (including an Amazon Kindle, a $2,000 Amazon.com gift certificate, and an HP photo printer) for providing the most--and the most high-quality--reviews.

* Read and review by mid-February so I can make it to the next round.

* On the link above, my novel is listed as "Romance" but can be found elsewhere as "Historical." I'm not going to squabble over the mixed labeling issue. :)

(Tips for reviewers from Amazon:)

• Be persuasive. Experts at Penguin will be relying on customer reviews as they prepare to select the finalists, so don't hesitate to tell us what you really think. The reviews that provide the most thorough, thoughtful feedback are the ones that will help Penguin choose the Top Ten.

• Quantity and quality help. The more reviews you write, and the more helpful each review is, the more likely you are to win one of our three prize packages.

• Discuss. As with customer reviews for all our products, you can comment on others' excerpt reviews and rate them. Any discussion and activity we see around specific titles will only keep us coming back for more, so feel free to speak up and banter with your peers.

• One quick heads-up: Per the contest rules, every excerpt is a maximum of 5,000 words in length. As a result, you may find that excerpts vary in length or end unexpectedly. Consider yourself warned--and happy reading!

Thanks friends! Caron

Charlie Brown Christmas

Our family follows my husband's tradition of decorating our Christmas tree on Christmas eve. We usually purchase a live tree just a day or two before Christmas. In recent years, we've managed to find great buys on full, gorgeous, 10-11 foot trees that would normally be far out of our price range earlier in the season.

But this year we sold our home with its spacious and vaulted living room and moved into a small duplex while my husband's back in school full time. We knew we would have to go with a much smaller tree this holiday.

As timing would have it, our first-born son was married in a city ten hours away ten days ago, and the past week was hectic with end of semester demands on my time as a teacher, and we still had most of our Christmas shopping to do, and then we had a bitterly cold and snowy Saturday, and well . . . we forgot to shop for the tree until Christmas eve day. Our local nurseries were closed. By the time we found a dead tree at WalMart and another pitiful casualty at Lowes Hardware, we had decided to finish our other shopping and just pull out the old artificial standby from the garage later.

Of course, that would be the single-car-garage-turned-storage-unit that holds everything we didn't sell or give away during the down-sizing last August. Turns out the Christmas tree box is THE foundation upon which sits every other box, mattress, or piece of furniture in our garage. If we could somehow manage to pull it out--most likely a physical impossibility--the whole Jenga tower would come crashing down.

We discovered this at 6 pm. My husband and youngest son made a mad dash to the stores for another artificial tree. They were all closed except for a grocery store with a small floral department--and they were pulling the gates shut on even that. Bob grabbed a holiday decoration that most closely resembles a two-by-four with green fuzzies on it, but--for the uneducated--is really a four-foot-tall Charlie Brown Christmas tree.

Our college-aged daughter laughed/cried when she got home from her job at the mall. Then she and our sulking thirteen-year-old Caleb strung it with a very short strand of lights. We apologized profusely to the kids--the tree playing such a key role in our Christmas eve tradition. Then we turned on the Christmas music, poured up the non-alcoholic eggnog, began to laugh together, decked the thing out with this year's ornaments and Caleb's keepsakes, loaded it with tinsel, and realized it didn't matter too much after all. Took us two minutes and thirty-eight seconds, total.

Family, love, laughter, and forgiveness triumphed. And, therefore, so did the spirit of this holiday season.

God bless you, loved ones!

The Unlearning Curve

For those of you who don’t know it, Bob and I have moved. We’re living in a foreign country, learning a new language, immersing ourselves in an unfamiliar culture, dealing with culture-shock at times, starting from scratch as we build relationships with the strangers that surround us, trying to find our way among a people whose mores and unwritten rules are confusing and awkward for us at best.

Oh, we’re still in Amarillo. We’ve simply stepped out of traditional Christian culture and fulltime ministry, and into the realm of the unreached. At the very least, it’s been mindboggling. In fact, one of my friends who’s experiencing something similar calls it the “unlearning curve.”

In essence, God has stripped away what I thought I knew about ministry, my own heart, those outside of Christ, Christian culture and its place in the world, missions, and church. Just yesterday I told our small home fellowship that I feel like I have nothing to hold onto anymore except God.

I suspect that’s where He wants me.

And to be sure, one of the only things He hasn’t “undone” has been the truths I know about Him.

Yes, the weak, human side of me would love to tell my family and friends about the wild success the Lord has given us in reaching the lost for Christ. But the truth of the matter is that while we still feel confident we’ve been called to serve as missionaries in our own culture, we’re realizing that the Father has some serious work to do in our own hearts and minds first. Honestly, we had no idea what He was calling us to and the depth to which He would ask us to invest in His mission. We just knew there was a fire in our bones, and that we had to answer the call.

Don’t get me wrong--we’re not miserable or even unhappy. We’re certainly humbled. Impatient. Stretched. Oddly experiencing a level of peace in the midst of all this. Constantly asking the Lord, “Well, okay. If not this or that, then what? If not yet, when? If not them, who? If not here, where?” We probably just need to shut up and listen.

Please pray we’ll keep our hearts and minds open to what God wants to tear down and build up in us. Pray that we’ll not grow weary or discouraged before His work is finished. That we’ll pursue Him single-mindedly, not worrying about what people think of us or “where we should be by now.” That we’ll trust Him whether He moves us forward or back; whether we’re in the process of learning or unlearning.

Seeking the Heart of Jesus

I’ve been blessed to be in fellowship with some Christian brothers who’ve taught me a lot about reading Scripture to find Christ, rather than reading Scripture to find rules or church structure. While we can certainly discern how to live and organize our corporate gatherings by reading the Bible, we don’t find eternal life in those things. We find life in Christ alone. I’m learning to read Scripture to discover who Jesus is, who I’m to become, and what God wants to do in me. And somehow—as I’m shaped more and more into the image of Christ—a lot of those other questions are answered as well.

So this morning when I was reading Luke’s version about Jesus sending out the Twelve and afterward feeding the five thousand, I was struck by Jesus’ heart. He sent the Twelve out to preach the kingdom of God and heal the sick. When they came back, he took them and withdrew to Bethsaida. Word got out and they were overrun by the crowds. So Jesus welcomed the masses, likewise speaking to them about the kingdom of God and healing the sick. When the Twelve told him to send the people away to get something to eat, he told them to feed the people themselves. You know what happens next.

Here’s what hit me: To Jesus, healing the sick and feeding the hungry was an integral part of preaching the kingdom of God. No big surprise there, but I wondered if the apostles were more interested in preaching than in ministering. I wondered why there seemed to be a disconnect between their ability to cure diseases (and drive out demons) and their willingness to feed the people. Maybe they were tired. Maybe they never considered that they could—through Jesus—multiply food. I wondered if after preaching from village to village they were ready for a break and a bit resentful that they didn’t get one.

All those questions, but I really couldn’t find strong evidence in this passage to support my line of thinking.

And then it occurred to me that my questions had revealed the weakness of my own heart. That maybe sometimes I’m more interested in “preaching” than in ministering. That there’s a disconnect between what God has empowered me to do and what I’m willing to do. That sometimes I let my energy level dictate my ministry. Or that I can't even imagine what God wants to do through me. That sometimes I’m ready for a break and a bit resentful when I don’t get one.

I confessed all this to God, and now I’m confessing it to you. I want to have a heart that can’t separate the message from the ministry. A heart that always welcomes the people around me. A heart that isn't too timid to entertain the possibilities of God's redemptive power. I want to have the heart of Jesus.

Authentic Parenting in a Postmodern Culture

You might be interested in a radio interview with my new Shoutlife.com friend, author Mary DeMuth, on the subject of parenting in a postmodern culture. The interview and her recent book are largely based on her church planting experiences in southern France--a generally secular and atheistic culture. You can tune in online at Moody Midday Connection (http://www.mbn.org/GenMoody/default.asp?SectionID=BF789E22FCAE4F7EBEFACD2AC725BDA2). Click the link for Nov. 13, Authentic Parenting in a Postmodern Culture.

You can also order Mary's book at:
http://www.amazon.com/Authentic-Parenting-Postmodern-Culture-Practical/dp/0736918620/ref=sr_1_1/103-7898786-1018205?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1176385630&sr=8-1

Some Days

Some days what we are doing feels so slow-going . . . even insignificant. —church planter Jared Looney of the Bronx Fellowship, from an email I received this morning

I needed to read that today. Needed to discern a little bit of the melancholy in Jared’s full email. Not because I want this friend and mentor of ours to ever be the least bit discouraged, but because I find myself a wee bit discouraged this week.

Of course my discouragement is not quite so noble as the feeling I might get because we're not seeing rapid progress in the network of home churches we’ve planted . . . because we haven’t planted a network of home churches, though God-willing we’ll do so in his timing.

I suppose what I’m feeling is rooted in loneliness. Right now, we’re between two worlds: not fully enjoying the familiar comforts of our Christian culture, and not yet established enough in the kinds of relationships that make the sacrifice seem worthwhile. In Jared’s words, we’re intent on being the kind of missionaries that move “into the high rise in Tokyo or into the village in Kenya, that [live] among the people and incarnate the Gospel there through relationships. But in this case . . . [we’re] simply moving out into relationship in a lost world right here among the broken and the blind in the U.S.A.”

I can live with that. In fact, we’ve chosen to obey God’s call to do this very thing. Some days I’m giddy with the possibilities of what God’s asked of us. And some days I’m lonely in this calling.

Some days, I need emails like Jared’s. Emails that remind me that no matter how I feel . . .

. . . We are following a missionary Lord and participating with Him in the work of redemption.

. . . Mission and incarnation is certainly not a place of comfort or safety, but the impact of a missionary people is immeasurable.

. . . Generations will be set free as we persist in serving the cause of Christ in our city.

Some days I need more prayers than other days.

www.shoutlife.com/caronguillo

Hey, loved ones . . . It's not exactly a website, but I'd love for you to visit my profile on Shoutlife. Shoutlife is a networking site that anyone can join, however, it caters to Christian authors, musicians, comedians, etc. I stumbled upon it through my agent, Terry Burns. You have to sign up if you want to view my photos or make comments, but if you do, be sure to leave a message in my guestbook. I'd love to hear from you there!

Loving Much

Lately I've been pondering the story in Luke of the woman who washed Jesus' feet with her tears. In my heart of hearts, I both admire and am shocked by her humility. Seriously, can you picture anyone doing such a thing today? I want to have that kind of attitude toward Jesus, but I'm more like the Pharisee than I want to admit.

You see, I was probably in my mid-thirties before I really believed I had all that much to be forgiven of. I knew I wasn’t perfect, but I was pretty sure I must have been one of God’s favorites. After all, I was a compliant kid. I’d never lived a wild life. I was nice.

But then I started asking God to reveal my sin to me. Ouch.

To be honest, though, I can’t thank him enough for humbling me by doing so. When I finally began to realize the extent of my hopelessness without him, I began to truly belong to him. I mean, right there in that same passage in Luke, Jesus said, “He who has been forgiven little, loves little. He who has been forgiven much, loves much.”

Of course the truth is that we are all hopelessly sinful without Christ. We just don’t always realize it. And until we realize it, we love little.

It’s that simple.

Spirituality

You were taught, with regard to your former way of life, to put off your old self, which is being corrupted by its deceitful desires; to be made new in the attitude of your minds; and to put on the new self, created to be like God in true righteousness and holiness. —Eph. 4:22-24

In the context of our conversation yesterday, my husband asked me a question that really started me thinking. He asked, “Who is the most spiritual person you know?”

After some deliberation, I offered two names. Then he told me who he considered the most spiritual. To be honest, at first I was a bit taken back with his choice.

You see, my husband and I were using different criteria to answer the question. My response was based on two people who, by their language and demeanor, communicate a deep spirituality. Whether or not their lives truly measure up—and they really seem to—is another matter and one only our perfect and grace-giving God can judge. Despite the direction of our conversation, I really don’t want to try to discern that.

But my husband’s answer was based on who he knows that most exhibits transformation.

I was still thinking about that conversation as I got ready for work this morning. And as I put my plate in the dishwasher after the great dinner my husband made tonight. No, I didn’t continue to ponder who, indeed, is the most spiritual person I know. Those kinds of questions are really rather dangerous if dwelled on too long, leading to all sorts of judgments and comparisons and other foolishness.

What really stirred my thoughts and chastised my heart was the fact that I didn’t link transformation to spirituality. Maybe I would have gotten there eventually, but the point is that I didn’t get there immediately.

And me, with all my talk about transformation.

I love that my husband quite confidently and simply boiled spirituality down to a transformed life. There’s something to be argued about that. I mean, what’s the difference if I read all the right books or know how to pray good prayers or can teach publically or visit orphan feeding centers or manage to win people to Christ if I’m not putting off my old self and becoming like Jesus?

How much more spiritual can you be than to become like God in true righteousness and holiness?

Using that criteria alone, I pray that someday I’ll be able to answer my husband’s question: “Who’s the most spiritual person you know?” with one short, truthful answer and in absolute humility: “Me.”

WalMart Did Me In

I ran into WalMart last night on my way to meet with the SW Life Group that has adopted us and felt bowled over by the carnival atmosphere. My footstep slowed as the lights and music and color and food, food, food crowded 'round me. A vision of empty store shelves in a shop lit only by daylight from the window at a gas station with no fuel slammed my mind and stole my breath. I took a cart and headed down the aisle fighting back tears.

It's not that I felt guilty for our abundance; I felt compassion and powerlessness in light of the enormous poverty I've recently witnessed.

I had only a few things to purchase, but didn't think I'd make it. How strange would it be to see a middle-aged woman sobbing in the salad dressing aisle? I swiped at the tears threatening my cheeks, allowed my mind to linger only a moment on the faces in the hut where fifty-five of us crowded in to sing Shona praise, swallowed the lump in my throat, took care of business, and fled the store, forgetting one of the four things I intended to buy. I let a few tears escape on my way to the Bible study then wept at home later when I told Bob about it.

I know it'll be like that. When I'm in Zimbabwe I mostly function as the situation demands. Once home, I deal with the emotions of the experience. Often at all the wrong times and when I least expect it.

I see this morning that my one missing post written on Wednesday from Imire Game Park arrived at last. If it wasn't emailed directly to you, it's located between "Our hearts are full" and "We are SO in Africa." Ironically, it's titled "Better Late Than Never."

Pray for me today if you read this early: I've been awake since 2 am and finally gave up and got out of bed at 4:45. It's off to school in a little over an hour now, and I don't want to be a bear or a zombie for my students. It will likely take divine intervention.

Pray mostly for Zimbabwe and her people. I take great comfort in knowing that God is already at work intervening--I see it in the many Christians and other organizations stepping in to feed and clothe the people and treat the sick. I see it in the faith expressed by Zimbabwean men and women who have little more than faith to live on. I see it in the smile of an orphan who's treated with compassion by an old woman dishing up sadza.

Yes, WalMart did me in, but God binds me up. His compassion is far greater than mine and he comforts and intercedes in a way I am powerless to do. I rest in his faithfulness.

On The Way Home

I know it's Sunday and I'm home now, but I wanted to share with you the blog post I began in a little spiral notebook on the way home Friday. I was delighted that we flew from Zimbabwe during the daytime--so often on overseas flights one travels at night when you can't see anything. Loving geography as I do, I kept my nose plastered to the window during most of our ten-hour flight from Harare to London. I can't tell you how short those ten hours seemed!

I most anticipated flying over the Sahara Desert and it didn't disappoint. Every glance out my window revealed a different Sahara--a sort of topographical schizophrenia. There were great sand storms, dust rising for miles above the earth. I saw mountains, plateaus, massive black rocks, and curious white pockmarks. There were a multitude of designs in the sand, like a child's finger drawings: straight furrows like plowed fields, round bubble clouds, diamond-shaped ridges that reminded me of the pattern on my grandmother's worn couch, and lunar-style surfaces.

From my vantage point I could see ancient riverbeds as brown, cracked, and dry as the heels of a Zimbabwean bushwoman. Apricot mists of dust hanging low over barren valleys. A stray wisp of cloud. A road, needle thin and orange, notable only because of its inflexibility. Dunes the shape of continents and the size of small countries, vast carmel canyons and dramatic cliffs, deceptively smooth peach-colored expanses like frozen lakes in a Michigan winter. Brown fingers clawing toward the western horizon. Giant chicken scratches from a land beyond the beanstalk. Papaya-colored waves on a stormy sea of sand, the veins on an old woman's hands, broccoli floweretts of stone.

The seatbelt light came on with a ding as a blanket of taupe clouds muted the landscape below to a boring putty. Before long, the clouds thinned and the seatbelt light popped off. I'm quite certain I spied a plateau the shape of a stegasaurus--the jolly kind, round and friendly like an illustration from a toddler's book.

At last we popped out over a sheet metal gulf on our way to the Tunisian coastline. A large frighter below looked no bigger than the smallest Battleship gamepiece.

Within minutes we were back over land again, a patchwork of browns crisscrossed by etch-a-sketch roads. At long last, cities and villages became visible. We flew over dotted fields and terraced farms. Milk chocolate terrain gave way to a startling dark chocolate canyon. A green lake nestled among rugged hills, its tributaries wandering off to become lost in the valleys, its surface turning white as frosting in the changing sunlight as we passed by.

And then we were over the sandy beaches of the African coast, the Mediterranean waters close to shore a vivid blue-green. October is typically a stormy time in the Mediterranean, and though the clouds were thin, turbulence forced us to 40,000 feet.

Soon we reached the island of Sardinia, water filling in the gaps of its fringed coastline. It's a rugged land, dark as potting soil, smoothing out to a gentle northern coast.

We crossed the European border at Nice on the French Riviera, its beach barely discernable though I know it to be rocky from the afternoon I spent lounging there twenty-six years ago this month, I believe. I've not had a glimpse of France since my semester in Italy with Harding University.

Like a blanket tossed in a heap on the floor, the French Alps mounded below us. I spotted a rainbow among the thin clouds and a mountain peak pushing through the mist. A smaller airplane left its jet trail as it crossed our path far below.

Eventually, jagged treeless peaks rose high above green river valleys, their rocky crags packed with last winter's snow. Finally, low thick clouds hugged the earth like a mantle and only occassionally did a mountain top peek its head out.

The clouds refused to part so that I could see Grenoble, Lyon, Macon, Auxerre, Vaux-le-Vicomte, or even Paris and the English Channel as the onflight map indicated. I couldn't even view London until we dove through the cloud cover just before landing.

Five hours at Heathrow--including a three-hour flight delay--allowed us to reacclimate to Western culture as we enjoyed Starbucks drinks, piped-in contemporary music, a purchased USA Today newspaper, Dr. Pepper for Adrian and Brian, and pizza at an Italian restaurant near our gate.

We were gratefully, brilliantly, amazingly, definitely on our way home.

Home

Brian and I arrived home safely yesterday afternoon; Jerry and Adrian caught an earlier flight out of Boston. The Leveretts are due in today. I've slept a lot, trying to be rested for work this week, and have shared many stories with my husband and son. Our little rental seems so luxurious; our simple Sunday lunch so rich and elaborate.

In Zimbabwe these days, one can hardly find bread or milk or sugar or salt or cokes or matches or fuel. Grocery shelves are largely empty. The electricity is off perhaps more than it's on. If you're lucky enough to have a borehole, then you only need to boil your water. If, as in Harare, you're forced to use untreated city water, then you must freeze, boil, and freeze the water again in hopes of killing all the microbes that pollute it. That's if the water's running at all. And you're fortunate if you don't live in the neighborhoods where raw sewage floods the streets.

I spoke with a young Zimbabwean man who dreams of coming to America where he can live a comfortable life. I admitted to him that he would likely be able to do so, but warned him of the spiritual poverty that plagues our culture. At least in Zimbabwe, people are drawing near to God, for He is their only hope. Here, we hope in many lesser things.

So, as much as I'm delighted to be home--where I can love on my family and use a real toilet that I fully expect will flush and open a refrigerator filled with anything I want and ride in a car that doesn't rattle my teeth--I'm returning with a sharpened focus on what's most important: Jesus, and the hope he gives. Jesus, and the relationship he offers. Jesus, and the love and compassion he models. Jesus, and the tranformation he works in us.

For without him, we're all in poverty.

Finishing up

It's nearly two weeks now since we left home and we're eager to return, but I won't say it'll be easy to leave Zimbabwe. I'm not sure it's possible to take you're whole heart home with you once you've been here. We must be at the airport by daybreak tomorrow--which is quite early here--to catch our 7:30 flight to London. Jerry, Adrian, Brian and I will continue on to Boston from there while the Leveretts stay overnight. The four of us will arrive late in Boston and must stay less than 12 hours before our flights to Dallas and home. Fortunately, we have hotel rooms booked. The Leveretts will fly to Chicago on Saturday, stay the night, and then home on Sunday.

 

Today we drove about an hour to Marewa and then another 20-30 minutes down a dirt road to Rapenga school where a church and several area schools met us. The children sang and recited Bible verses. The older women requested their pictures taken and the younger asked us to help them get to America. The area around Marewa actually seemed to be slightly better off than many areas where we've travelled, though that is by far a relative term. Southwest church in Amarillo has several new World Bible School students in this area, and a former WBS student is evangelizing there. His name is Peter Marumba, and he lives with the village head. He introduced us to his girlfriend whom he'd like to marry, but he doesn't have the bride price and hasn't yet persuaded us to donate it to him, though he has tried. We did purchase a bicycle for him with funds given to Brian by friends from Southwest; he was very excited to receive it today. We made it very clear that we only had an hour to spend in Marewa, but the introductions and messages and mingling ran long and then Peter took us to the home of a family who'd prepared rice and chicken for us. The mother and one of the adult daughters knelt on the floor and poured water over our hands into a basis to rinse them before dishing up our plates. We were very fortunate to have spoons to eat with. The family had a pen with turkeys and washbins full of chicks which are hard to come by these days. We are on Africa time, of course, so it was no surprise that our one hour in Marewa stretched to four. And that was with the itinerary Peter made for us quite unfinished!

 

Upon our return to Harare, Washington took us to the market where the guys and I purchased some souveniers. We spent nearly $25 million Zim--every $100,000 note we had on us. :) The exchange rate has changed since last week, so that is not even $50 worth, but we made some craftsmen very, very happy.

 

I'm sorry to say that we brought Brian to Zimbabwe and he took a turn for the worse--literally. But his driving improved once he got us out of the middle of the intersection and back on the correct side of the road. Actually, Brian and Jerry did a fantastic job of driving us down single lane roads, dirt roads, oxcart paths, and around (and occassionally through) large potholes. Paula says Jerry has earned his PhD here--he's now a certified pot-hole dodger.

 

Soon we're taking the Mhlangas to dinner and will meet Alvaro Dos Santos's brother, Chris, as well has his son, Phillip, there. We're looking forward to seeing Phillip whom the Leveretts and I have known for some time now. The Mhlanga's have no water today, but fortunately they've stored some up; nevertheless, I'm really rooting for a shower before heading to the airport in the morning. I rented a shower at Heathrow in London on the way, but our layover will be short tomorrow. Adrian received his dufflebag only yesterday, but he's looking forward to wearing clean clothes home. We're looking forward to him doing so, too!

 

It's doubtful I'll be able to write before Boston at least, so I will give you all my love and ask you to continue praying for us. Our souls are good.

 

 

Our hearts are full

Today, Wednesday, we drove up and down hills, past goats and cows along the roadside, around curves that gave gorgeous views of mountains and craggy valleys to Dorowa to visit the church there and Assan, our native missionary. Assan and his wife also run a feeding center in the front yard of the home he built himself. He even made the bricks, digging the dirt from an anthill and mixing it with water to bake in a homemade kiln. Last year when we were there he'd completed the walls, but had no roof and only thorn branches at the windows to protect the structure from intruders. Today it was finished--a diminuitive small three-room home for a family of seven now that he's raising his brother's children who lost their parents to AIDS. He'd plastered the inside walls and the outside were plastered and painted a light pink. The children sleep on a reed mat on the concrete floor and a live hen nests in a bowl on the floor in the corner.

 

I say the feeding center is in the front "yard," but it's nothing more than dirt. They feed many children there and have constructed a canopy of small tree trunks or limbs for support and scraps of tarps overhead. It provides a welcome bit of shade as there is not one tree. The vat of sadza--a large barrel or drum--was so deep, and the mixture so thick, that it had to be stirred by men using four-inch diameter, five-feet long tree branches stripped of their bark. The children ate only sadza and beans. We were served rice, chicken and goat meat, but I was much too hot to be hungry for more than a little rice. Assan and the men have dug a well by hand on the property. They've reached water at 29 meters, but need to go to 50 for better quality, so we left some money for them to buy dynamite to blast the rest. They will need concrete to line it so that it does not collapse, though that is a commodity hard to come by as it's being bartered for grain.

 

We drove back to Wedza and past Imire on our way to Marondera where we met Kennedy at his home. He was able to provide us with more diesel for the Land Rover--we were nearly through the second tank that's been added to the vehicle. Fuel is very difficult to obtain in Zimbabwe, but Kennedy owns busses and was able to assist. We had a great visit with Kennedy who helped us get soccer balls as gifts for Wedza area schools and the police who made a request we can't afford to refuse if we want their continued friendship. He also obtained five bicycles for us to provide for three local preachers and two others who are dear to our hearts. We also met and visited with Clyde, the preacher in Marondera who has gone through SEMP training in the USA, for those of you familiar with the material Brian, Doyle, Bob and I have edited and re-written and elaborated on (with permission, of course) to become the "Line of Departure" seminar. Kennedy bought us cokes, which is almost as difficult to come by as fuel, so we felt very refreshed and pampered before heading on to Harare.

 

Alice and Washington were on their way to their Wednesday small group meeting when they saw us driving into town, so they followed us home and made sure we knew where to find the dinner she'd left for us. We're relaxing now and so glad to be back in the comfort of the Mhlanga's gracious hospitality.

 

We are so weary, but our hearts are full. I wish everyone could visit this place, even those who have no interest in it whatsoever, for it only takes a moment to love these people, to appreciate the beauty of this land, and to feel your heart break for the great needs that define this place and time. I'm convinced that our hearts must learn to break so that God can show us the extent of his great love, mercy, compassion, and comfort.

 

We continue to miss you all and are looking forward to returning this coming weekend, Lord willing. Thank you for your prayers and for taking care of our families!