Ya win some, ya lose some

Boo jacked a hub cap straight off my tire.

For reals!?

Good grief. Who steals only one hub cap, anyways? And I have a stinkin' Toyota Corolla. It ain't like I got rims of gold. Anyways, I was coming out of Indian Valley G-4, visiting Farhan and Ayaan, and I saw a truck skid/speed away from where my car was parked. Two guys. No big deal, right? Then I notice my front right tire is ... all black. Now, I did take my car into the shop on Saturday so I doubted myself for a second, thinking maybe the Toyota service people forgot to put it back on or something. But after a few seconds of putting together the 'evidence' of the speeding car and the loose hub cap on the back left tire, I realized those crazy fools was just tryin' to make a buck with a couple pieces of metal for tires... Oh well. I just laughed, really.

Theresa in the City

It has been a few days since my last blog entry because every time I sit down to write in here, I realize I have no idea where to begin. So many things happen every day. For example, last week a Somali man asked me (seriously) if he could speak with my father because he had a marriage proposal that he would like to discuss with my father [on my behalf]. Last week I had to make a very quick decision about the direction to take with a seven year-old Somali boy who has diabetes because his blood sugar levels had suddenly, unexpectedly dropped and he was at the point of fainting. Last week I learned several new phrases in Arabic, Somali, and Nepali. Last week a Nepali woman gave me a bracelet and a Somali family served me three bottles of water in one home visit. I taught someone how to use a stove, an oven, a car door, a seat belt, and a trash can. Last week, I cried and freaked out after a very stressful day at the SS Administration office and at the WR office. Last week, I watched two Chinese refugees hand out literature about the persecution they experienced in China for their religion/spirituality -- Fulan Gang (sp?) -- at the Georgia Department of Drivers Services with more zeal than the most stereotypically fervent evangelical Christians hand out tracks. Last week, I learned ALL about food stamps, Medicaid, GA-IDs, EADs, EBTs, the Match Grant program, DFCS, and more.

I've learned so much already and seen and experienced so much already. I can't possibly write it all, can I? No, I can't. That's why I'm about to write about something that has nothing to do with my internship at World Relief. (Or does it?)

-

Today I went to church in downtown Atlanta at City of Refuge off of Joseph E. Boone Blvd., formerly Simpson St. They changed the name of the road in an attempt to stave off its reputation as the most dangerous crime-and-prostitution-ridden street in the city. Or so says Jason L. I heard about CoR through Jason L., a former youth pastor at Perimeter Church in fancy schmancy Johns Creek whom I knew fleetingly as an acquaintance in high school. Andrew and I were having dinner on Thursday night, and we ran into Jason at Chipotle. We caught up and got to talking about what's new in each of our lives. One topic of conversation led to another, and soon enough I was telling him that yes, I'd love to come visit his church / ministry / new place of employment, and that I'd see him Sunday at 9:00.

When I got there this morning, I parked in the wrong spot, in the Women & Children's Center. Oops. So I found my way to the church 'area.' Jason told me church started at 9:00, so I got there at 8:55. Turns out, the service starts at 10:30. From 9:00-10:30, we prepared ham & cheese sandwiches to be handed out to members of the community later in the week. From 9:00-10:30, we hung out with people from the community; we talked, laughed, and swapped stories. Ha... church at 9:00? No. But Church at 9:00? Yes.

At about 9:15, I met a woman named Theresa. Theresa walked into the building in a very short, cotton skirt and a very old, big, baggy, dirty white t-shirt. No bra. She looked ... in need. I didn't know her story, why she was there or what or who she was looking for. But I just happened to be the one to 'intercept' her when she came through the doors. After just a few minutes of talking, I found out that Theresa wanted something to eat before church. "Okay," I think to myself, "No problem. We just made over 300 sandwiches. Surely...," I checked with the person in charge in the kitchen and he said, bluntly, "Nope, we can't do that. Those sandwiches are for Tuesday, and if we give one to her, we'll have to give them out to everyone who comes in off the streets." Okay... Now, I get his line of reasoning. Really, I do. I'd probably have a similar sort of 'policy' if I were in charge, too. But dang it!! This is the Church!! And this church has a kitchen. And there is a woman in the Church who is hungry. There should never be a question about what to do here.

I talked with a couple other people in charge and eventually got them to give Theresa a bowl of cereal. Somehow, the scant milk and cereal didn't satisfy me in that it would satisfy her. Plus, I learned that she was two months pregnant. (A mistake, she said. Her and her husband were supposed to be DONE with kids!) Anyways, I told her to hang on just a sec, that I was going to my car to see what I could find. Thankfully, I had a Protein Power Bar and a 32 oz. PowerZero drink for her. They were supposed to be for me after my hour-long run later today, but I had $3 to buy a snack or 30 minutes to wait to get home to eat if I really needed something. She didn't. I happily gave her the [unorthodox] food and drink from my car. When I handed it to her, and sat with her and talked with her while she ate, I realized that I am truly at my happiest and I feel the most joy when I am in just that kind of place doing that kind of thing with people such as Theresa. God has shaped and molded my heart for this, for her, for His cities. I love the City. Theresa and I sat together for the service.

Honestly, I don't remember what the pastor spoke about. I do remember, however, that Theresa has three boys - all grown. I remember the way she looked me in the eye and said thanks; I remember her persistence in repeating my name so that she'd remember it. I remember that she looked very physically ill with her skinny legs and droopy eyes. I remember the strength in her embrace.

I remember Theresa in the City.

Sparks Fly

Today I filled out a job application for an Iraqi man to work on a production line at a factor in Kennesaw. This man owned his own import/export business in Iraq. His refugee 'camp' was in Damascus, Syria. The Iraqis' situation is a little different that that of most of the rest of the refugees. The Bhutanese and Somalis, for example, have typically spent several years in refugee camps in neighboring countries. You know, the camps that you'll occasionally see featured in TIME Magazine or on the news -- decrepit conditions, shantytowns, filthy, overcrowded, in desperate need of ... everything. Most of the Iraqis, however, fled to neighboring countries and were somehow placed in apartments and several had jobs (albeit lower-class jobs than they were used to.) Most of the Iraqis come from relatively well-educated and affluent backgrounds. So one might think it a tad odd at first to hear them ask for a bike for their kid or for a TV or a 3-person couch. But, as I explained it to my very surprised parents ("aren't they happy just to be in America?!?!"), their situation is comparable to my family being uprooted and placed in a rural village in, say, Kazakstan ... Just chew on that for a while.

Later in the day, I took two Iraqi couples to a grocery store called Thriftown (similar to Save-A-Lot) to buy groceries. One of the men, Atheer, spoke good English. He was a civil engineer in Baghdad before he had to flee and thus was very well educated and came from a position of influence. He is jealous of my freedom to go to university and study whatever I please. I taught Atheer and his wife along with a couple from a neighboring family how to budget a week's worth of groceries for a family of four for under $150. They asked me to help them leave $5-10 off their grocery bill so they could have money to buy halal meat and bread. Halal meat is cleansed by the prayer and blessing of an Imam. . .

In the afternoon, I taught my new Somali family how to use their new, $5 calling cards to call relatives back home. I almost cried when I saw how happy they were to tell their friends back in the camp that they were safe and happy in America, and that they were very surprised at how hot it is here, and also that there are 'street people' here, too. I did cry when another Somali family came to their apartment when I was there - they all shouted with such incredible joy and laughter and hugs and kisses at seeing familiar faces and hearing the same language. It was like My Big Fat Greek Wedding except it was My Big Fat Somali Reunion. In the Somali family under my case management, there are three men and one woman. The woman is of the sect of Islam that requires women to cover every inch of their bodies except their eyes (rather than allowing the shawl to show their faces). I think I saw Sparks Fly in this woman's eyes as they lit up; I heard her smile when she saw other Somali women smiling and bringing comfort food.  

No one with any shade of dark skin seems to understand why I have "rash-like spots" all over my skin. They all think my freckles are some kind of terrible misfortune. When I was visiting with the Somali men, the time came to pray. They stopped the conversation, pulled out their mats, faced East, and prayed to Allah and praised Mohammed. 

... I prayed silently for Christ to stir their hearts.

Come And Listen

Maybe I write things because I can't [I don't] tell my parents, and because even my closest friends don't understand The City. Very few people (including a lot / most people in the Church) seem to be interested in the details, or even in the Why. If you want to know the details, just ask. It is my joy to boast in His good works. Sometimes I am no good at communicating. But just come and listen; let me tell you what He has done for me, what He has done for you, what He has done for ... the refugees.  

More than anything, I want people to know I'm not doing these things because they're the "cutting-edge" human rights issues to focus on or because it's "exciting" & dangerous or because I'm "obsessed with helping poor kids" (as I imagine Hedden would put it). . . . I do these things because God said to do right, to seek justice, to encourage the oppressed, to defend the cause of the fatherless, to plead the case of the widow; He said to act justly and to love mercy; He said to remember those who are mistreated as if I myself were suffering. I do these things because Christ is my model and Christ was the servant of all.

John 3:30

A Thousand Tongues To Sing

This picture is from when I was in Tanzania. Statistically, Christians are in the majority in Tanzania. But there are still a significant number of Muslims, and in Moshi, it felt like a pretty even split in town. Since I've slowly but surely been developing a heart for the 1040 window, particularly within the extremely legalistic Arabic North Africa region and also for the girls in the sex industry in many parts of Southeast Asia, I asked Mama Moshi if we could visit a mosque. I wanted to understand better. I wanted to get a feeling for what it's like to follow the prayer rituals and respond to the chanting in Arabic. I wanted to try to understand, if only in the slightest respects, the female subjugation in the world of Islam. Where is the draw? How much of this devotion to Allah is genuine and how much is the result of tradition, upbringing, or societal expectation? I was hungry to learn. 

Mama Moshi said she couldn't do much for us in this department since she's Catholic, and you have to be invited by a member to a mosque: non-Muslims cannot just go any time they please. However, fortunately, one of the ZARA drivers named Saleem, a.k.a. 'Slim,' agreed to have his daughter, Ama, take the four girls on one Thursday for the noon prayer service. We had to be covered head to toe in kangas (wraps around our lower bodies) and shawls (seen in the picture above). Not an inch of my 'nakedness' nor my 'dirtiness' was allowed to show. I had to wash my hands, forearms, face, ears, legs, and feet three times before I was allowed to pray in the line of women gathered upstairs. (The men were downstairs.) Finally, after we purified ourselves, the beautiful sound of the call to prayer in Arabic commenced the repeated standing, kneeling, prostration involved in the prayer rituals. We prayed, apparently, for forgiveness, acceptance, and cleanliness... Rather than declaring Allah as the One True God and His Prophet Mohammed as the Final, True Prophet, I prayed [silently] and declared [boldly] Jesus the Christ as the Son of the Living God and Lord and Savior for all.

I don't yet have the words to articulate what occurred in my heart that day in the mosque. I might not ever have the words. 

In 1739, Charles Wesley wrote the famous hymn, "O For A Thousand Tongues To Sing." David Crowder did another version of it in one of his recent albums. Of course, Revelation 5:11-12 says it best. Either and every way, I pray for the nations.

-

Today was my first day as an Assistant Case Manager at World Relief in Stone Mountain, GA. Though the office is in Stone Mountain, most of the apartments and several of the partnering agencies are in Clarkston and within the city limits of Atlanta. As the only full-time intern for WR this summer, my job is ... everything. 

- I'll pick up incoming refugees from the airport and watch them step foot onto American soil for the first time;

- I'll teach them that refrigerators are for food, not clothes (a tricky concept when you stop to consider how much a refrigerator looks like closet shelving);

- We'll walk and talk together and I'll try to be a good listening ear or strong shoulder to cry on;

- I'll take Mohamed and Ahmed grocery shopping at Kroger and model how to comparison shop and show them how to use the EBT card; 

- On Mondays and Wednesdays, I'll drive Uger's wife and sister (and others, etc.) to First Baptist Decatur to outfit their family of six; 

- Often, I'll file paperwork for hours; 

- More often, I'll pray for hours; 

- Sometimes, I'll explain to Hassan that his one year old daughter gets 1.6 mL of the medicine, not 0.8 mL, which means he'll have to fill up the tubule twice each time he gives her the medicine. 

- Everyday, I'll try to love and serve the widowed and the orphaned; everyday I'll do my best to love and serve the nations as Christ has modeled and commanded us to do; everyday, I'll be lost and broken without Him.

"भला-कुसारि" is transliterated to "bhalā-kusāri" which means "greetings and good wishes"

I would like to speak Arabic and Nepali. . .

Wholly Yours

Today I went to an 8-hour training session called "Hands That Heal" at Peachtree Presbyterian Church. It was the first prerequisite to becoming a volunteer counselor at the Wellspring / Redeemed emergency shelter that will open to the house mother on Monday and to women rescued out of the sex industry next month. These women may have been forced or coerced into prostitution (i.e. rape for profit) by traffickers and pimps, or they may have found themselves seemingly pigeon-holed into selling their bodies in a desperate attempt to alleviate crushing poverty, relational difficulties, childhood abuse, etc. How and why they got into the night clubs, brothels, and streets doesn't matter nearly as much as the fact that these women deserve to recognize their worth as whole beings of a loving Father who will not abandon or abuse. Somehow, God has given me the grace to work with a handful of these women for [at least] the next year. I'll be spending a couple of nights (in 24-hour shifts) every month giving around-the-clock care to women who've been physically, emotionally, spiritually, and sexually abused for nights, weeks, months, or years. My mom asked me if I really thought I was qualified to do this. "Mom, of course I'm not officially qualified. But I'm ready . . . to love these women." 

In one of the role plays, we divided into groups of three. There was one person in the middle whose only responsibility was to listen to the two people on either side of her. The person to the left screamed lies, deceptions, hurtful statements, and negative comments into her ear. The person on the right screamed love, value, worth, and God's truths into her ear. I happened to be the person in the middle. I heard "You're fat! You're ugly! You're a slut! You are not worth saving!" at the same time I heard "God loves you. You are beautiful. There is nothing you can do to make God loves you less. You have been redeemed." I'm not sure what I was expecting going into the exercise, but I came out of it feeling ... dizzy? It was hard to listen. I tried not to focus only on the lies, though that was my temptation because I hear that voice so often, anyways. People can give you compliments and speak truth into your life on a pretty regular basis, but it might only take one or two stinging, hurtful comments to a particularly vulnerable area of your life to pierce your sense of worth and identity. At least, that's what I found to be true. If this was true for me, I am horrified to imagine the implications of this exercise for the women with whom I will be counseling. 

At this I pray for grace, for wisdom, and for courage. For my own self and for every single woman at this emergency shelter, I pray to receive and to be Wholly His.

Everything Glorious

"My eyes are small 

but they have seen

the beauty of

enormous things."

(David Crowder)

Well kids, today is June 9th. I stepped back onto American soil around 3pm ET (10PM Tanzanian time) yesterday, on June 8th. I suppose that means I'm due to update this blog? Had the internet not been slower than molasses in Moshi, I'd have jotted down a handful of scatter-brained blog entries throughout the 31 days I spent in Africa. But the internet was slower than the herd of elephants I saw waltzing across the Serengeti National Park, so I just signed on every few days to update my amazing family and closest friends. 

It's too hard to write about it all at once, or to write about all of it at all since I learned and experienced enough to write a book. So bare with me as I piece together stories and memories bit by bit. It's likely that this will be chronologically jumbled. Hakuna mattata. ("No worries.") I'll continue to write throughout this month... 

An overview: 

I was in Tanzania for one month [May 8 - June 8] through a UGA study abroad program. There were 8 of us in the service-learning group and about 15 or so in the more academically-focused 'Maymester' group. The service-learning group stayed in Moshi, Tanzania for the first two weeks while the other group traveled through the country to Arusha, Dar Es Salaam, and Zanzibar before we all met up to go on safari throughout the Ngorogoro Crater, the Serengeti National Parks, and the Oldupai Gorge for the third week of our trip. Fourteen of us climbed Mount Kilimanjaro for the fourth and final week of our time in Africa.

Our service-learning was concentrated at the Kilicentre for Orphans and Street Children. We raised the money for and built a chicken coop (and contributed something like 100 chics to inhabit it), developed a library system with additional books and a check-out system for the school, and taught several classes including English, Swahili, Art, Music, and Math. Each of us took a morning or two to work with a small group of students in a manner that reflected whatever we're studying back at UGA. Accordingly, Anne and I worked for two mornings with about 10 children, aged 6-10, in documenting their life histories and assessing, as best we could, the status of their mental health.

For an entire week straight while on safari, I saw lions, elephants, giraffes, a migrating heard of thousands of wildabeasts, antelope, impalas, baboons, ostriches, pink flamingoes, warthogs, water buffalo, jackals, hippos, eagles, vervets (sp?), zebras, and several other incredible creatures. One day a bunch of funky monkeys were hanging around our safari vehicles. Two of them started to get frisky. We later concluded that their monkey business (ha) was a ploy for another monkey who had jumped from the tree to the truck and reached down to snatch someone's banana out of her lunch box! The monkey then jumped back up onto the tree and ate his banana. I am reminded of the Dave Matthew's song, "Big Eyed Fish." Later in the week, just meters from our camp, thousands of wildabeasts began their annual migration. It was just like the Lion King with a forceful stampede of hundreds and hundreds of seemingly magnetically driven animals, obeying the laws of nature as they ran towards the next source of food and water. I never would have guessed I'd have seen a migrating heard of any creature in my lifetime. My favorite animal was the male lion. Probably because it reminds me of King Asland in The Chronicles of Narnia and all that he represents. "'Safe?' said Mr. Beaver... 'Who said anything about safe? 'Course he isn't safe. But he's good. He's the King, I tell you.'" (The Lion, The Witch, & The Wardrobe; CS Lewis). 

I have more pictures of God's art, especially in His sun that faithfully and beautifully rises and sets each day and night, than I ever could have hoped for.  

Less than four days ago, I was on top of the tallest free-standing mountain in the world, Mount Kilimanjaro, along with nine other fantastic guys and gals from our group. I wasn't originally going to climb Kili because I expected to get an internship that would have started yesterday. But I didn't get the internship (because God had a better one in mind). My parents ROCK and shelled out the money for me to climb last minute. Fourteen of us trekked the Marangu Route over six days and five nights, June 1-6. Due to altitude sickness and other unavoidable ailments, only ten of us made it to the top at Uhuru's Peak at a whopping 5,895 m (over 19,000 feet). I didn't think I was even going to make it to Gilman's Point because about two hours from that landmark, my head literally felt like it was going to explode from an earlier bout with minor sun poisoning and a build up of fluids in the brain - the beginnings of altitude sickness. I was beginning to stumble like a [mildly] drunk skunk and I started to feel a little lightheaded. Fortunately, the guides were exceptionally experienced and kept a close eye on me the whole time. I never got quite sick enough that I had to turn back. 

I also uttered a small and desperate but powerful prayer: "Lord, if you want to show me your a picture of you and your glory from the top, you're going to have to carry me there. I cannot take another step on my own." It took an incredible amount of mental energy to focus my words enough to pray that, but God did hear, and delighted me with an eternal picture of His glory by helping me get to the top. The sun beamed its first rays amidst the pearly white glaciers on this dormant volcano while the moon and stars faded into the receding night as the biting cold wind sung high and sweet. Yes.

I don't have the words to begin to describe what I saw and experienced. I can say, simply, that I was blown away. I can say, simply, that I had never seen anything like it, that it was beautiful, that I saw His glory, and that I am changed. Climbing Mount Kilimanjaro was the most amazing thing I've ever done or experienced for several reasons, most of which I can't fully or adequately articulate. It was also one of if not the most physically demanding feat I've ever accomplished. (Considering I've busted my butt for 15 years on the tennis court, that's saying a lot.)

On the mountain, I saw Everything Glorious.

"My eyes are small but they have seen the beauty of enormous things."

I'm working on uploading pictures onto a dotphoto account and when that's finished, I'll post the link. 

We began the climb on Monday, June 1st. On Friday, June 5th at 12AM, we began our ascent to the summit. We hiked 5.5 hours in the black of the freezing night under the brightest full moon and billions of stars to reach Gilman's Point at 5:30AM and then, after a restless break where I became exhausted from chewing and swallowing a forced handful of granola in hopes of receiving even an ounce of energy that I so desperately needed, we hiked another 1.5-2 hrs to the very top at Uhuru's Peak. After just a couple pictures, I had to start going back down (the lack of oxygen was hurting). We began the descent around 7:30AM and got back down to Kibo just before 10AM. (That's right - 7 hours to get up, 2 hours to get down). A short nap and an early lunch later, our exhausted selves began the trek back down to the oxygen-friendly Horombo huts.

We flew for something like 20 hours to get home: Kilimanjaro to Dar Es Salaam to Amsterdam to Atlanta. Obviously I'm still processing everything from this past month - heck, I haven't even begun to write about my time at the Kilicentre with the amazing, beautiful children - but one thing I do know is that I was not ready to come home. I am so grateful for the experiences of this past month. All thanks and praise and glory to Him.