My Life: Part #2

Getting ready for a 6-week journey to Hong Kong and Japan... Starting the practical readiness by throwing stuff I'll need on my floor. The stack is going to grow...

Life: Part #2. I’m not calling these “trips” anymore, these journeys to Asia that I’m doing. It’s really more like My Life: Part #2. Part #1 happens in Kansas City with my incredible Boiler Room family. Part #2 is in Asia, with my family over there. Two lives but really just one. Two worlds in one big one. One God. One me. My life. Here we go.

The coming-together

I sat around our table tonight with nine other friends, warm lighting, a remarkable Vietnamese raw cabbage salad, veggie stir fry and unforced conversation, witnessing a coming-together of strands and streams that delights me and would be more weird if it wasn’t so much of my reality these days. History, relationship and dreams are gracefully and clearly colliding, in a way that reminds me of a fish tail, which is like the braided pony tail a little girl has, but with so many more cords than three all mingled together.

It’s easy. With all these manner of intersections, more is accomplished by just naturally being me than could ever be manufactured by slick strategy or clever planning. Meet that fatherly and motherly couple; take note of the resonance of values and language and file away joy at meeting them again down the road, should the Father deem it good. Have that dream one December night; write it down, share it with the appropriate people, and respond to God’s seeming invitation by saying, “Yes.” Receive that email invitation; see if the dates line up and when they do, respond with an assured, “Yes.” Gather the involved parties for dinner, cook up the food, and watch the magic happen while we sit back in our seats.

Alongside these clearly divine alignments, I am still so tempted to over-arrange, micro-manage and plan for all contingencies. I love to use my strong right arm rather than leaning into His. I can run around needlessly, my deep breaths stolen from me. I long and call for others to walk in rest and to work with effortless strength, and I am only wading knee-deep in these waters myself.

I’ll keep at it, striving to rest and resting in work.  It’s for myself. It’s for generations to come. It’s for nations of the earth. Teach me, Lord. Don’t let go Your grip. Do convince me that You’re the strongest, wisest One with the best thoughts and ways. I can only imagine what will become of the days and weeks and months and years unfurling before me.

I’m just being honest

I was looking forward to wandering purposefully around New York City by myself until I stepped out the door. Not to say that suddenly the cold air against my naked ears and my unfamiliar surroundings robbed me of this awaited joy, but the actual experience was clouded with an underground swirl of activity within me that dreaming from inside the warmth of my friends’ apartment did not contain.

I was glad to find it sunny so I could put on sunglasses and hide at least a bit from the strangers I’d encounter, particularly men. Feeling beautiful in front of my friends’ full-length mirror is one thing, but when the element of real men is added to the equation, and men of that neighborhood’s culture who often find me attractive and will usually let me know in crude ways, I found myself a bit anxious. I did not want this that morning. A guy I once dated let me in on some urban core vocabulary, where sunglasses are also called “hater blockers” – and I always remember this when I put my shades on to prevent objectifying eyes from piercing me.

I remember being a much younger girl on campus at the University of Wisconsin-Madison, where my one fear while walking alone at night was, “What if he rapes me?” “He” was general, of course, and I’d never so much as felt threatened in a real way, much less attacked, but the fear was there nonetheless – not to mention the statistic looming in view that one out of every three or four women will be sexually assaulted in her lifetime. I figured that would be the worst thing that could happen to a woman, and at that point I wasn’t confident it wouldn’t be my story. That pepper spray I got from Stephanie as a high school graduation gift stayed with me each day and night as I came and went. I never needed to use it, though, save that one time I tried it out downwind on a hill to be sure it worked.

And so I wandered out of that apartment on New York Ave, pretending to know where I was going. Though slightly over-dressed for 11am (I was ready for a Broadway show that night), I walked confidently, appearing as though I was supposed to be there while silently hoping that Franklin Ave wasn’t too far off and that I’d easily find the “brunch places” that my friend’s homemade map spoke of. I passed all sorts of men, and I made eye contact because they couldn’t see my eyes. That gave me a sense of power, of being in control of my outcomes.

It sucked the life out of and colored gray this experience that I idealized and dreamt about, though, little me soaring in the Big Apple. At least the first few hours of it.

I could have let the moment pass and just pretend I wasn’t irked at all, but by Anne Lamott’s encouragement, I’m writing instead. I took her challenge to look one’s subject directly in the eye, squint and strain and strive to make it out, and get it on the page. I didn’t know what I’d find till I started writing, and I was a bit surprised to find all this. You might be too.

I’m just being honest.

Captured by Flushing

Flushing, Queens, New York City, New York.

I’ve been there once before, to the neighborhood called Flushing. It was back in 2002, on a Spring Break trip with friends from my university. We spent a week there, and I only recall glimpses of that time, but somehow, it won its way into my heart.

I remember hearing that Flushing, Queens is the most diverse neighborhood in the entire world. Now, I know that at least 127 languages are spoken there. I recall the multi-cultural group of guys from that church on the corner who hosted us. I remember the shalom of sitting in the local Italian dive down the street more than once, with the Italian cook and that server whom we befriended. I can see myself walking from the subway station exit down that street, every ten steps experiencing a new culture: people, signs, shops, foods, words. A tour of the world in a city block’s walk. I recollect satisfyingly taking in the very diverse congregation at the church service we attended. The memory of my week in Flushing is somehow imprinted in me with romantic nostalgia, fondness that feels personal, longing that I cannot quite articulate.

I’m captured by Flushing. I journaled about her on the plane yesterday, as I descended on New York City once more, ten years later. I want to visit her again.

Color. Smells. Every sense alive. Life on life on life. Beauty and difference. Uniqueness and original design both celebrated and fought against. Clashes and harmony. Different-shaped puzzle pieces all composing one neighborhood’s score. Real, vulnerable, exposed: “here I am” embodied in diverse people after people going about life in the very same space. Complicated. Multi-faceted and shining with newness in every degree of tilt. Dirty. Absolutely glorious.

Perhaps I feel that Flushing reflects what I see inside of me.

And inside of Him.

I am captured.

It’s a beautiful life

I love being in my thirties. I’ve realized this (that I love it) a lot lately, especially as I recognize how my perspective on just about everything is so different these days than throughout the bulk of my twenties.

Life is a journey, and we’re really going somewhere. It’s just more of a marathon than a 100-meter dash. Long-term vision is good, and a ten-year commitment to something is going to actually fly by quite fast. God means it when He speaks something to us, and He is faithful to complete the circle that His word started. Our prayers matter, too. He hears us and knows exactly how to weave our journey together to produce in us and through us what we’ve asked for, and unlike us, He never forgets. We can actually rest in the midst of this journey with God, too, not having to grit our teeth and charge after the end result. He is our Shepherd every step of the way. Slumps, crash-and-burn moments and seasons of wilderness, desert and “dark night of the soul” are actually good for us, and they don’t concern God (in the way of making Him fear for our future) in the way that they do us. He’s confident in His ability to love us through pretty much anything. Yep, anything.

I sat with a friend this afternoon, a 25-year old guy who was part of my Collective (read: Acts 2 spiritual family) three or so years ago. We’ve kept in touch a bit since then, and last time I saw him – two years ago – he was in a hard place, the continuation of a two-year, four-month season of anger, disillusionment, disappointment and doubt over who God really was to him. I’ve always felt hopeful on his behalf, having been in a similar place myself just a short time before that, and I got the privilege a few times of listening to him talk honestly about his journey.

He called me again this week, two years later, saying he was in the area and would love to meet up. The man I sat with today is in a very different place than he was two years ago. I rejoiced to hear the incredible story of how God used a few older men and a spiritual family to love him right where he was, taking him in and letting him journey. Though he grew up in the “church”, he’s very recently had his first real and deep experience of the Gospel of grace and love.

As this man of faith, hope, love and very big dreams shared with me, I marveled. He’s had an experience of God that is grounding him for the rest of his life, and I rejoiced at another one coming through that very common 20-something breakdown to a place of experiential faith! What he knew in his head is becoming real to his heart. I live for this sort of thing! And the same God who loved me through this is loving him through this and using His one family to do it. So remarkable.

I am enjoying this season of life so much. Just about 2012 now. Fifteen years of following Jesus for me. I’m nearly 32 years old. So many prayers prayed, so much sown in so many people and cities and lands. Loads of exploration of who I am and who God is. And just about now, I’m beginning to see more clearly. Myself. Him. Others. Fruit that’s growing and ready for picking. My calling and how it’ll be fulfilled. Life, and its beautiful, winding journey that is more about love and family than anything else at all. It’s so good to have lived enough of life to gain this kind of perspective. My twenties were amazing too, in their own right, but this is even better.

It’s a beautiful life. I’m looking forward to 2012.

Provoked, here in Malaysia

“Seminary trained my mind, but the poor trained my heart.”

The Indian Malaysian man who spoke this piercing truth to my friends and I today, from his deep, painful and inexpressibly joyful experience, offered it to us, leaning forward with tears in his eyes. I could nearly see in his retinas a reflection of the 700 abandoned, poor and underprivileged children that he and his wife have adopted and given the privilege of quality, community-based education. They’re building a very big family, really.

“Our Father in heaven, hallowed be Your name…” Earlier this morning, Carla and I got the chance to lead about 50 staff from a church of 5,000 here in Kuala Lumpur in a time of devotion and story-telling. We shared the 24-7 Prayer story through the lens of the Lord’s Prayer: We start in the place of knowing we’re delighted-in-children of our Father, without doing a thing to earn it. Then, in a million different ways, we become the answers to the longings of our Father’s heart and see His Kingdom come and His will be done.

This Indian Malaysian man has done just that. And so has my new friend John.

John is a 21-year old Chinese Malaysian, a 3-year old believer from a Buddhist family. After giving his life to Jesus, he was adopted by a spiritual mother and father, mentored well, and grew so fast – eventually wondering why every believer wasn’t on fire and didn’t believe like he did that God was really real!

Two days ago, I sat over a meal with John and an incredible crew of other young people, hearing stories of their trip to Sabah in East Malaysia.

After praying for 8 months that God would send him to the poorest of the poor in his nation, he was invited to join an evangelistic training for young people in the poorest village in Malaysia. With gusto and the joy of answered prayer, he joined a team of five others for a four-day camp in Sabah.

They intended to do fifteen sessions of teachings, discussions and ministry times over the course of their time together. However, they got through four of the fifteen – “Is there more to life?”, “Who is Jesus?”, and “How to have Faith” among them – till the scene completely busted out of their control. Instead of teaching about the Holy Spirit, the Holy Spirit came and showed everyone present who He is.

For the remainder of their time, sometimes from 8:30am till midnight, this team ministered and worshiped constantly to more than 100 people from the village, 80% of whom were not believers. Brothers and sisters who’d visited spiritists and mediums, who’d been involved in Buddhism, animism and the occult, who were living in bitterness and unforgiveness, and who were trapped inside generational sin and curses, they came forward for prayer and came face to face with the God of Hope. Demons manifested, the doors of hearts cracked open, prisoners were set free and the Spirit of God came flooding in.

Countless of them received the privilege of becoming sons of God! This is true revival.

On the last day together, seven young boys (aged 8-9) were kneeling down during a ministry time. Their hearts were hardened, though, and John knelt down behind them, asking the Lord to soften them and make tears come from their eyes. As he prayed silently for them, he himself broke into tears, feeling the Father’s hearts for these boys who were hardened to life and God far too early. Suddenly, he felt God say he was supposed to give one of the boys a hug. He did, holding this boy, who broke into tears nearly immediately. One by one, he hugged all seven of them, each one breaking down, and the love of the Father was poured out from one generation to the next. Father spoke to John, saying, “Your clothes are going to be stained by their tears.”

I am provoked to tears and joy and repentance, both by this Indian man’s life and by John’s faith and his stories. I don’t live a completely comfortable life, and my faith is living. However, as I’m here in Malaysia this week, I find myself realizing that I have more than I know and that I do so little with it sometimes.

Come, Father. Continue to transform me to be like your Son Jesus.

Journey of Thanks-giving

I am in a room of 200 jumping, yelling, joyful mostly-teenagers. I think the last time that happened, I was a teenager myself! It’s the day after Thanksgiving, but it’s no normal day-after-Thanksgiving Day… I am in Hong Kong, at an English-speaking youth worship event, hosted by a good friend of mine here. I’m not participating in Black Friday’s ridiculously long lines, and I’m not with my family, either. At least, not my natural family.

I have good friends here! Friends that are becoming family. I walked up those million stairs to my host’s place the other night, after hanging out with my fashion designer friend Enoch, and joy and thanksgiving erupted from my spirit. Home is where the heart is, they say, and it takes a while for home roots to grow. After 11 trips to this city, after hundreds of hours of milk tea, rice and noodles and conversations with her people, I think I am beginning to find my home among them.

I have very few American friends in this city, but I didn’t even notice that till I tried to figure out who I’d celebrate Thanksgiving Day with. I convinced (it wasn’t hard!) some dear friends, a Hong Kong Chinese couple, to celebrate with me, added my resident American friend Marcus to the mix, and off we went: Thanksgiving Day preparations in a city I’ve never cooked in.

Follow my journey: For a proper Thanksgiving Day meal in my opinion, you’ve gotta have a pumpkin and apple pie, some kind of sweet potato casserole, and a turkey, of course.

Pies: Find an oven. Not many ovens here in Hong Kong kitchens…but thankfully, my hosts have one. Check. Find pie plates. Hmmm…a Western supermarket? CitySuper, ok. Try to explain pie plates to the store clerks who may never have eaten pie. They had something similar, and though not perfect, I knew they’d work. Check. Find pumpkin pie filling. Wait, I brought a can with me from Kansas City. Check. Find cooking apples (which can’t be found everywhere) and butter and a few other things to make crusts from scratch. Check. We whipped up the pies in an afternoon! Mission accomplished.

Sweet potato casserole: Find marshmallows and pecans. Wait, pecans are waaay too expensive – about $8/cup. Ok, let’s go with walnuts. My HK friend Elizabeth swore to me that Wellcome and Park N Shop supermarkets both have American marshmallows. Ok, scoured every aisle of the Wellcome at least twice, and no mallows. Froze in the meantime in the November air-con. Park N Shop had them, though – Rocky Mountain Marshmallows, that I’m sure they only sell here. Check. Ok, now to find sweet potatoes. Or yams. Either way. My host had her domestic helper get some for me – a combination of tiny Japanese yellow sweet potatoes and big, bright purple yams of some kind! Check. Yummy. An iridescent purple sweet potato casserole.

Turkey: Marcus figured out that he could order one for a good price, so he did from a place called Maxim’s. I was set to pick it up at 630pm on Thanksgiving Day night, for our 730pm dinner. Find Maxim’s. Wait, that’s the wrong one. The other one is across the street and down the road and by the bank. Ok, found it. Picked up that massive box and paraded down the sidewalk with it (my arms burning after a few blocks), in my Autumn-orange dress, laughing inside at the journey. I got some stares.

Met Marcus. Walked to the Wellcome and got some drinks and walked to Jason and Juliana’s apartment. I’ve been there a number of times before, but this time, I just couldn’t remember which of the absolutely identical buildings it was. Apartment number 4C. Wait, not that tower. Nope, not that tower either – it’s Hong Fook Court, not Hang Fook…hmmm. Up the ramp? Oh yeah. Phew! Made it. Earned that meal.

Had so much fun with my dear friends in apartment 4C. Ate more turkey and sweet potatoes than ever before. Hung out till 1am. Never done that before on Thanksgiving Day night, either. That’s a Hong Kong culture Thanksgiving for you!

I’m giving thanks tonight. Even if it weren’t the holiday for that, I’d be doing so.

Everything’s changing

“Have you girls ever seen two sunrises in the same day?” Our flight attendant asked this of Amanda Siebold and I, as we flew somewhere over the North Pole on our way to Tokyo. The route we took unusually afforded us two sunrises in one “day”, and I felt the Lord speak to me that this was a sign of what He’s doing in Japan right now. The “Sunrise from on high will visit [them], to shine upon those who sit in darkness and the shadow of death, to guide [their] feet into the way of peace” (Luke 2:78-79).

Amanda Siebold, Anna Walker, Christina Gilchrist, Katie Cornick and just spent a week together in Japan, spending three days in Ichisoneki, a northern tsunami-devastated area, and four days in Yokohama and Tokyo. It was an incredible week with a fantastic group of women, and I wanted to share with you a little of our journey because it speaks of the bigger purposes of God our Father in that needy nation in this important season of history. Everything’s changing in Japan, you know.

“Arigatoo gozaimas,” Pastor Fukiko spoke to us, giving us a heartfelt thanks in Japanese while bowing low, all to honor our investment in Tohoku, the region devastated by the March 11th earthquake and tsunami. We were privileged to join with CRASH Japan’s relief efforts in that area, at a base they’ve set up near a city called Ichisoneki. We prayed and worshiped, inviting the hope of God in Christ into a most hopeless situation, and we sat with survivors of the disaster, listening to their stories and thereby providing a release for their pain and despair. I’ve blogged about what a day at the CRASH base looked like for us, as well as about one story of a man named Kanno-san, whose life was literally swept out from under his feet in a matter of hours.

We connected with our friends in Yokohama after our time up North. These included the Ito’s, pastors of a small, vibrant Vineyard church there, Fukiko, the pastor of a prayer-loving church in that city, and Andy Game, one of our favorites – a wild man who’s catalyzing timely internet evangelism and e-counseling websites, who’s bringing the Gospel to young professionals in Tokyo, and who’s seeking ways to build the family of God among the younger Japanese generation who are literally dying for human connection.

I was also so glad to join my dear red-headed friend Katie in Japan, where she’s been living and sowing Kingdom seeds since September. She is doing so well, and I am proud of my sister and friend for pouring her life out for this nation that is also capturing my heart in a unique way.

Everything’s changing in Japan these days, you know. Since we’ve left I’ve received a few emails to this effect, one sharing about two mission organizations that are collaborating to plant 1,000 new local churches throughout the nation by 2020. Another speaks of one man’s sense from God that there is more healing and deliverance coming to Japan, a new prayer movement being raised up and a wave of “upbeat, user-friendly communication about the power of Jesus and the gospel” sweeping the highly-used internet lines in that nation.

I feel God’s presence so easily and quickly in Japan, and I sense His jealous desire to be welcomed and wanted in that land.

Let’s not forget about Japan, dear friends. There is so much need for the introduction and contextualization of the Gospel in that land right now – so many hearts’ doors are cracked open because of trauma and grief, and I know that Father wants to come rushing in. Let’s be part of the answer.

That triangle, powerful

Kanno-san sat down on the cushion on the tatami mats by himself, a late-comer to our mobile cafe. I offered him kohi, or coffee, and when I brought it to him he started speaking to me in Japanese. My new friend Andy, an American Japanese who grew up here but has lived in Chicago for the last six years, rescued the moment for us with his perfect Japanese. We three entered a triangle of emotion as Kanno-san recounted his story of the tsunami.

I listened for long moments till Andy translated chunk by chunk of Kanno-san’s remembrance of the giant wave that swept over his town of Kesennuma. Kanno-san and 300 others gathered on the roof of a community center, high enough up to be safe from the tsunami. They were stuck there for two days. Fires from the ships laden with oil and propane tanks raged throughout the town for ten days after that, a scene he said he’d imagined only in movies, an “ocean of fire” that looked like hell.

 

Heaviness. Darkness. Hopelessness, frustration, anger, rage. His weathered, red face and watery eyes told of pain and inner torture that only God and the four walls of his temporary dwelling know. I needn’t know Japanese to understand the weight dragging this man’s soul down.

Andy faithfully translated this man’s story for me, and I could barely receive each bit without breaking down. Caught in a moment of sight of something I wasn’t sure I wanted to hear, a man’s dignity and life shaken and swept out from under him. I was uncertain that I could stay in our little triangle without breaking out into a deep weeping. It is risky to live unguarded, to be willing to feel what He feels, what ones like Kanno-san experience; it is risky but I do not want to stay sheltered and unacquainted.

A doorway of hope, do you see one ahead of you at all, Kanno-san, a doorway of hope for your future? No, things are moving slowly in this prefecture, he said. He’s been randomly placed alone in temporary housing, away from neighbors and friends. If he were younger maybe he could get a loan and rebuld a home but the banks are reticent to loan to older people like him. No idea how long he’ll be in temporary housing, up here on this hill, a long walk from town and access to “real” life and resources he needs. The four walls feel like a prison. Some never leave, all day, all night, especially the older people. Depression digs deep. He wants to forget and move on but his dreams at night remind him, take him back. The TV news does too.

Oh, what only God and the four walls he lives within know and see and feel!

Kanno-san needs to share his story, he said. Many keep their stories and the way they feel stored up inside till it eats them up, he said. He, however, knows he needs to talk and that to this his freedom is linked. He shared and shared. I kept hearing that recognizable word “tsunami”, and it was clear he was processing that event over and over, around and around in purpose-filled circles.

He became lighter and lighter, though, as did the space in the midst of our triangle, as each word spilling out took weight off his shoulders. He even laughed, eventually, and joked with us, and he shared about how good it was to talk about this with someone (it’s been a long time). Our hour together was of visible and vocalized effect.

Oh, the power of empathy and of listening ears for Kanno-san and his immediate reality! Remember this, Wendy. Remember the effect of listening to another’s story, of absorbing the pain and the joy of it and lifting it to Jesus to bear.

8 cups of rice

Eight cups of short-grain Japanese rice. Rinse it, drain off the cloudy water. Fill to the 8-cup line with water. Push the red button with the Chinese characters on it, that I think says “zuo fan” – “cook the rice”. Ready for Japanese curry lunch.

Cartwheels and front handsprings out front of this building where CRASH Japan has set up the Ichinoseki base. Sun is out and it’s a beautiful 50-ish degrees. I love being here. So, so much; I really love this.

Our new friend Andy plays the guitar lightly in the corner. Katie and Christina are sending some emails right now. Anna and Amanda are getting some time alone. I am inspired as I do the same, caught by Father’s heart for the Japanese people: “For the Lord your God is a consuming fire, a jealous God…When you are in distress and all these things have come upon you, in the latter days you will return to the Lord your God and listen to His voice. For the Lord your God is a compassionate God; He will not fail you nor destroy you nor forget the covenant with your fathers which He swore to them” (Deuteronomy 4:24, 30-31).

I will carry the hope of this word and of the jealousy of Kami-sama – Father – for the survivors of the disaster in this area as we spend time with them this afternoon. Preparing a mobile cafe right now – coffee and waffles to provide a platform for fellowship, laughter, tears and stories…

Just returned from the mobile cafe. My team, we’re all sitting with our laptops, using the wireless connection in a little office here at the CRASH base. About 30 survivors of the earthquake and tsunami gathered together with us, sitting around tables, drinking coffee and tea and eating small, heart-shaped waffles made by one of the CRASH volunteers. I sat with the Japanese base leader as we listened to an 83-year old woman share: She sat down and immediately told us that she’s lived for 83 years old and has never experienced a tsunami like this, and she still can’t believe it happened.

She had a lot of good friends who went back to their houses to gather possessions before the tsunami swept in, and they didn’t make it. She started crying and went silent for some time, just two minutes into our conversation. Sharing her story of trauma and grief, expressing some of her hurt and pain with two strangers, one of us a gaijin. She shared too how she’d recently visited her doctor, but this man who was a bit overweight prior to this was suddenly quite slim. She learned that his wife and daughter had died in their car during the tsunami. We teared up with her.

Jetlag. It settles in my head right now, and my yawns are big. My feet and nose are cold in this chilly little room. Dinner is being prepared; Japanese hotpot.

My life continues on. Not sure how to feel except that all I can do is to be myself with Him in me, sowing seeds in love and prayer wherever I go…