lord, take me to the world.

Throughout my three-and-a-half weeks on the other side of the globe, I found myself repeatedly asking God, "Lord, what are you trying to teach me? Why did you send me on this trip? What do you want me to leave having learned?"

And throughout those three-and-a-half weeks on the other side of the globe, I didn't really have an answer. I didn't (and still don't) feel like there was one, single aspect of the country or the culture that impacted me.  I didn't (and still don't) feel like there was one, huge lesson God was trying to teach me.

Upon returning, I'm realizing that maybe there wasn't one thing he was trying to teach me. 

Now, I'm more confident that he used this trip to affirm the things that have been on my heart for quite some time.

So ultimately, this is what I feel like I've come away with:

This is what I have been created for. This life of ministry. This life in the mission field. This is what I'm supposed to do.

For so long, I've felt called to overseas ministry. But having never really been on a missions trip, I was worried that "call" might just be an over-dramaticized excitement for cross-cultural experiences.

In the weeks leading up to my departure, I found myself considering this trip the turning point: what happened on this trip would indicate whether or not this feeling, this call was true. (Perhaps not the most wise thing to do: to base my call to ministry off of one experience. But the Lord works in mysterious ways, right? Just kidding.)

Regardless, I feel like I've returned with the assurance that God has called me to vocational ministry. 

There was no other place I would rather have been than 

asking Byron Borden questions regarding the way we do church, the purpose behind short-term missions, and why he's in Tanzania,

holding those orphaned infants,

listening to my 14-year old rafiki, Immanuel, describe what it's been like to lose both parents,

or sitting and marveling at the way in which God was using Pastor James in Maasai land.

Describing it is difficult. All I can say is that in those moments, I felt like my life meant something.  In those moments, I was participating in and contributing to something greater than myself. In those moments, there was something real, something lasting, something true. 

My love for this God. My heart for his people. My desire to join the work being done to redeem the nations. They all seem to collide here: in ministry and missions.

I have to admit, however, that realizing this and then coming back home has been hard. I now find myself wondering, "If I'm called to ministry there, what do I do here?"

But as someone reminded me at church tonight, God knows me. He sees me. He's placed that desire in me. And he won't forget me. He'll call me back there someday. But until that day, he has a purpose for me, here and now.

I need not forget that.

With all that being said, I know now that I'm called to this. But I'm not sure if he's calling me back to Tanzania. And I'm not sure when he'll choose to send me out.

Nevertheless, my prayer remains: "Lord, take me to the world."

pastor james.

I've attempted to start writing this post several times. And each time I do, I'm at a loss for words. How does one describe Pastor James?

He was out of this world. A walking, living, breathing testament to the power of our Lord.

Born to a Maasai diviner, James was expected to assume his father's role as the tribe's laibon (a mystic; a ritual and spiritual leader believed to have healing powers). After learning of the love, sacrifice of, and redemption in Christ, however, James' life was changed. Thus, becoming a laibon was out of the question. But in refusing to accept the inherited position because of his faith, James faced immense persecution from his tribe. Breaking the norm and going against the grain is unacceptable in a culture so focused on unity and togetherness. Yet he remained strong. And since then, God has rewarded him: James is now married with six children, and he pastors a rather large church in Maasai land.

I had the privilege of sitting and listening to him share his testimony and his heart for the Maasai. And I was in awe. Despite the oppression this man endured, he still feels so strongly for his people. He desires to see young people raised in the way of the Lord to grow up and become Christian leaders in their communities. He believes that this drought (possibly the worst Tanzania has ever seen) is God's way of redeeming this land and this people. I literally could have sat there and listened to him all night!

It's sad to think that finding people with a love and a passion for the same God halfway around the world surprised me, but it really did. Once I got over that element of surprise though, excitement set in. 

Our God is at work in a Maasai village on the border of Tanzania and Kenya.

Our God is using a man like Pastor James to lead a broken people home.

Our God is just as present there, as he is here.

His mission is global. He wants to see all people return to him. We Westerners have never been needed to facilitate the salvation of the nations (despite what some people might like to think). God does that on his own. God raises up leaders in communities around the globe to be exactly what a people need.

And it's this mission, with these leaders, that we're invited to join. Not take over. Not run. But join.

May God continue to bless James and his beautiful family. And may God continue to equip the nations with leaders like James to bring hope, salvation, and redemption to lost people.

(I took the picture above on our descent into the gorgeous valley where the Maasai village, in which Pastor James lives, is located.)

missionaries of charity.

We arrived in Nairobi, Kenya twelve hours later than planned. Despite the setback, we all made an effort to drag ourselves out of our mid-morning naps to visit the charity home in Huruma (the second largest slum in Nairobi) established by the Missionaries of Charity ministry Mother Teresa started. (Picture is above. Notice the contrast between the slum outside and the charity home.)

We pulled in with the expectation that the sisters would let us come in and volunteer for a few hours, only to learn that most of the kids were being put to sleep, and we could only go on a tour. Figuring a tour was better than nothing, we commenced our walk through the home's three wards: the orphans' ward, the disabled orphans' ward, and the disabled women's ward. 

Not only was I unprepared for what we saw, but I was not aware of the toll this short visit would take on my emotions. 

Choking back tears, I marveled at the beauty of the home. Here we were, in the middle of a slum, watching women, who have given up their whole lives to compassion, care for unwanted children. 

In the midst of a place that should be ridden with despair and sadness, I felt such an overwhelming sense of peace and joy. The sisters were happy to be there, caring for these women and children. It was inexplicable. Only the presence of God could make such a place so hopeful.

As we walked back to the entrance, I was talking to the sister who took us on our tour. I asked her how often new orphans come, and if they ever turn people away because their facilities are "too full." She ever so gently told me that infants are left at their doorstep just about every other day, and they never turn any away. 

It seems so obvious that they wouldn't turn children away, but it really struck me. I found it reassuring to know that somewhere, in this world, people are being loved. 

Somewhere on our globe, people aren't being turned away because it's too hard to care for them. 

Somewhere, in the middle of a slum, the least, the last, and the truly unwanted are welcomed.

In a matter of minutes we were on our way out. But I found myself wishing we could go back. I wanted to turn the car around. I wanted to work there. I wanted to interact with the sisters. To see what they're all about. To understand what keeps them there. I wanted to hold the children. To show them love.

And by the grace of God alone, we were able to return some twenty days later, in the last two days of our trip.

We spent nearly a whole day holding infants. 

I will never forget walking into that nursery, lined by rows and rows of cribs. Many of the babies were still sleeping, but one little girl caught my eye. Lindsey (as I later learned she was named) was wide wake, wrestling around on her little mattress. I walked up to her, patted her back, and looked into her big brown eyes. Through tears, I tried to comprehend how someone could leave her, could give her up. How could someone discard her: a precious, perfect infant? 

My heart broke. Within minutes of meeting her (if you even consider an infant able to formally meet someone), I already found myself wanting things for her: To grow up with joy. To find love in Christ. To have peace. To remain innocent. To avoid deceit, cruelty, and pain.

(I love the picture above. It's as if the Lord's Spirit is truly being poured out on this place.)

I left that day feeling two things:

1. The sisters, they were saints. Literally. From the deepest part in me, I admire (and am somewhat envious) of their work. What greater thing can one do than give up their life in service to our Lord, to care for people the rest of the world has rejected? That is love. I want to be like that. (And thus begins my quasi-obsession with all things Mother Teresa.)

2. The orphans, they need love. The Bible always mentions God's heart for the widowed and the orphaned, and I see why. These children have no one. They are alone in a cold, corrupt world. If ever I thought I was convinced that I'd adopt, I'm even more so now. I cannot and will not forget them. As Brooke Fraser sings, "Now that I have seen, I am responsible." It is my duty as a follower of Christ to love the fatherless. 

Because "faith without deeds is dead."

tanzania.

I very recently returned from a three-and-a-half week missions trip to Tanzania (it's in Africa, in case you just got up to find a map). And feeling like I'm finally over jet-lag and on my way out of culture shock, I thought now would be an appropriate time to share with you my experience.

I'll start by saying that I'm refusing to call these past three weeks "life-changing." 

It's as if it's become stereotypical to go to Africa and come back changed and saying, "They have so little, and yet they're so happy!" (My team nearly dissected this phrase one night and finally came to the conclusion that this statement is really a facade, masking what one is really feeling, "I have so much, and yet I'm so unhappy.") I feel like it's these very same people who also return from short-term, "life-changing" mission experiences with a lot of empty promises and goals. For instance, they promise to be less materialistic. And for a week, sure. It works! But eventually, they adjust to life in the states and fall back into their old habits.

(If you find yourself identifying with this hypothetical individual I described, please don't be offended. I am confident that God has used that experience to shape you, regardless of whether or not you remain completely impacted by it to this day.)

Thus, my refusal to consider this a "life-changing" experience (though life-changing it was indeed) springs from a desire to not be another statistic. 

I don't want to be one more kid who comes home and forgets about their experience abroad in a matter of weeks.

I want to be the kid who remains changed,

 

who remembers the orphans' names, 

who remains touched by their smiles, 

and whose heart is continually broken for the least, the last, and the lost.

Because, to be honest, my heart was broken, and I am changed.

(Rather than compose a single, ridiculously long post of my Tanzanian adventure, I've decided to write a few posts focused on different, specific experiences. Please standby...)