Pain is Exhausting

A friend of mine recently asked, “What makes life changing moments stick, what makes them significant. Moments pass by all the time, habits come and go. What makes things real versus just fading.” To be honest I do not have a profound answer as I write this, but I do have moments that stick with me, in this case, moments of pain. I called my father on his birthday, August 13 2019, we spoke, maybe I played him a ditty on my harmonica, who knows. After we spoke, he put my mother on the phone. We talked for sometime, she sounded tired, but was happy to connect. That was the last time I ever heard her voice. Sometimes I wonder if my conversations with people are the last and I try to make it sound super inspiring, most likely because that person has inspired me in some way. There is no way to know which conversation is the last I suppose.

        A week after I spoke to my mom, my sister called. “Moses, you better get out here. It’s not looking good.” 

“What do you mean?”

“Mami is not doing well, she says she is ready to go.”

Ready to go? Why would she say that? I was stunned. How do I process my mother wanting to leave this world. I hung up, couldn’t talk much with a face full of tears. 

Soon after, I flew out there. I live in Chattanooga and my mother was in Spokane, Washington. My father picked me up from the airport and we drove straight to the hospital. It’s a daunting feeling being so helpless, so out of control. This massive and strange institution is in charge of saving my mother? Are they competent? I ran into the room. Where was my mother? I saw my sister, then on the bed was an unrecognizable shadow of my mother. She probably weighed around 80lbs at this point, her skin had completely changed, tubes ran everywhere, she was intubated. I looked at my sister in shock for a moment, then ran to hold my mother. She cried, I cried. She pushed me back and asked for a pen. By this point, she had gone through several note pads, she liked to talk but now she had to write. The plus side is, we will never forget her last words (unless we lose those papers, in which case I will be absolutely devastated). She wrote, go with Michelle, get food, you need strength. No way, there is no way I am leaving what precious moments I may have with her to get food I don’t want from a subpar cafeteria. However, there was no use arguing with my mother. By all accounts, the hospital cafeteria was actually a solid 7.5, not bad at all. Michelle and I sat for a couple minutes trying to eat, forget it. We went back up. The pulmonologist stopped us. “Essentially, this is it. Excluding a miracle, ¾ of her lungs are not functioning at all, the last ¼ is going downhill fast. We will need to extubate her soon if there is to be any chance.” A nice ending would be that a miracle happened and it was a beautiful testimony, etc. That is not how it ended, but perhaps there was still beauty. “Give me a moment, I need to talk to her" I said trying to hold back tears. What do you say when you know this will be the last conversation, the last words. I went in, sat down and held her hand. We were just in the moment, emotion at its rawest form. Eventually I started speaking, the life she had inspired me by, the moments she taught me lessons, the moments of frustration, the moments of joy, I spoke of it all. I looked up at a painting on the wall, it was peaceful. Beautiful mountains, a pleasant creek ran through a valley with lush vegetation all around. It was so devoid of pain. “One day I want to walk in that painting with you” I told her “I want to see flowers, or the flowers you have grown, you love growing flowers and they are beautiful, just like you.” She looked at me, she had peace. She wrote something along the lines of, “I do want to live, Moses, I want to live, but the Lord will guide. What matters is that we live life for Jesus. Live for Jesus, Moses.” I held her for several minutes, it was time to go. Lindsey, (my wife) was flying over to Spokane, she talked on the phone with my mother. That was the last my mother wrote words to someone. She was extubated and for the next 12 hours teetered on the line of death and life. Around 2am I looked across the room, Michelle (my dear sister) was sleeping on a rough hospital chair. My mother struggled for every breath. On my harmonica, I played the songs my mother loved. Pain is exhausting. 

Around 9:30 the next morning she died. My father, Lindsey, Michelle and I all stood around in silence. Tears were flowing, they would for the next several days and weeks and years. My foundation, my source of confidence, joy, life and spiritual security, she was gone. Somehow, someone appeared in the corner of the room playing the harp. I was confused but most things didn’t make sense at the time, it was soothing at least. I kissed my mother’s forehead one last time and walked out. 

It has been two years since my mother died. I reflect on loss and pain, on life and joy it’s all so complex. The story of Job in the Bible talks about pain. The wild thing about Job is he never found any answers for his pain, on the pain scale he had a lot, but he found a way to live again, to thrive. He says, “I once heard of God (his friends talked about God, maybe there were legends and myths, stories of old that he heard), but now I have seen Him.” Job did not physically see God, but he saw peace and in peace he saw the work of God. I see peace to be love infusing the mind with the understanding that we are not alone, that there is an infinite hand that will hold us through this messed up life, because He loves us dearly. I do not write this to give a grand revelation or that I have found the answer to the journey of grief, I am still so confused. I write to express that this journey of life is painful, but we are not alone. This journey taught me a lot about empathy, how to understand pain and how to walk with others in this journey of pain and grief. It taught me more about God and His struggle as He also walks with us in this life of pain. He walks with us and it's as though He whispers, “You are not alone, soon I will take you home, where there is no crying, sadness, sickness or pain.” Pain gives moments I do not easily forget, but what is pain but a reminder that we do not belong.

 

Thoughts by the Gravesite

It was the evening before my wedding. My groomsmen were wrestling about the house and I sat on the large comfy couch laughing and texting a few last-minute arrangements to Kamron my best man. I was beginning to feel a bit nervous for the monumental event the next day, but haing my friends around made it more bearable. Momentarily, one of my groomsmen named Randy walked in and motioned for me to follow him out. "Moses, I don't know how to say this. Elliott has died." 

The first of my three summers working at camp was a radical experience. Everything was new, I had never worked or even attended summer camp before this time. Being in Michigan, I knew a handful of people but quickly made many new friends. As teen camp rolled around, I walked past a large grass field and saw a boy playing soccer. He was good. Precise foot work, quick skill, his talent was noticed instantly even from across the field. My friend Sergio (one of those guys who knows everyone and their great aunt) was standing next to me and said, “Yeah, that's Elliott, Elliott Ranzinger.” What a guy, the world is small, Elliott’s older brother had gone to my high school. As it turns out, the next summer rolled around and the girl that caught my eye (now my wife) was rooming with Elliott’s sister. They were best friends, and ultimately his sister was the maid of honor at my wedding. There are people who you meet once and never forget, that was Elliott.

I went to a small college near Chattanooga Tennessee. My senior year, he came to campus. We didn’t get to hangout much, but seeing him was always a joy. On a number of occasions, I would come to breakfast early in the morning, early being 7:30 a.m. I would see him eating by a window. After sitting down and chatting, I realized he was probably trying to have a nice meal with the young lady in front of him. But he was always gracious enough to hear me out and let me eat with him. Making time for a conversation ahead of a romantic pursuit says a lot about character.

At his memorial service, the pastor read from Elliott’s journal. He wrote,  “If we have not surrendered our lives to God and given Him control of our lives, the storm will follow us everywhere and will affect those around us. We can run from God, but we can’t hide from Him. Follow His call Elliott, and you will be truly happy and fulfilled.” Elliott embodied the idea that fulfillment does not come from the finite pursuits of life. The ultimate form of fulfilment comes from understanding and accepting the eternal. The eternal being the plans and purpose God destined for us to fulfill. There is a depth and fulfillment that comes from God guiding and controlling our lives. This is a deep and lasting relationship. Elliott knew about genuine relationships, he constantly inspired others through them.

The dripping rain provided a serene feeling as I sat next to his grave yesterday. It’s weird how rain, though gloomy and somewhat depressing can bring so much life. I sat under a tree that had started to bloom. White petals blanketed the green grass. Today would have been his birthday. I treasure the memories I have of him, his life, his words. His words inspire me to this day. Leaving his grave site, I was sad but reflective. The moment seemed to remind me, “Follow His call Moses, and you will be truly happy and fulfilled.”

I Want to Break Free

Homemade coleslaw flew in every direction. Little Johnny had some on his shirt, Sarah's shoe was covered, the aisle seemed to have a new color to it. I sat mortified, looking around in shock. What was supposed to be a discrete mission, became an absolute disaster. I had my blue Winnie-the-Pooh lunch box steady on my lap, but the tupperware container inside was harder to open then I imagined. When the lid wouldn't budge, I had to take it out and use all the force of my second grade self to open it. Snap! The noise alerted the entire classroom that I had indeed spilled my lunch. "What is that?" "That looks so gross!" "Ugh! It smells and it’s all over my clothes!" When I was a young boy, I attended public school, and for the most part the environment was not disagreeable. I made friends, played games on the playground, and maybe even learned a bit in class. However, I was always aware that I was different. As I remember it, there was not a vegetarian within one-hundred miles of that school. Except one family, my family. So there I was sitting in class, mortified at bringing my strange food to school and tremendously humiliated when my strange food became my classmates clothing.

I was always self-conscious about bringing food to school, but especially after that day. Years past and I grew older, but bringing homemade food to school did not become easier. Fast forward seventeen some years, life was radically different. I graduated college, married and started a new job. My first day of work was great, and even though a moderate amount of nervousness was present, what caused the most anxiety that day was pulling out my lunch. Still? Yes, sitting there twenty-three years of age I realized some things do not really change. Well, perhaps it was maturity, or the kindness of my coworkers, but eventually I started to find peace, even when I took food out of my lunch box.

I like to think of my struggle with people seeing my lunch as a metaphor or lesson to something deeper. We all have a "lunch box" experience that has radically impacted the course of our lives. As far as traumatic events go, my second grade lunch experience is fairly miniscule. Yet fear implored me to eat cafe food, buy pre-made lunches, anything but bring my own homemade food. I wonder why I so easily let fear control my life, especially when fear is wanting to keep me from living fully. I realized at the heart of this issue was a fear of what people think of me, a fear of not being accepted. I find myself striving to be molded into a routine so as not to incite the negative perceptions of those around. It's as though I am hungry for acceptance and love. I spend my life painting the picture of me I think people will accept best, and I want to break free.

The Bible says God died for us because He loves us (even though inherently we really do hate him). The Bible says in-spite of our decrepit human nature, He has made us His children and recipients of eternal purpose. This means someone cares for us regardless of what we fear people will see in us. Yes we spend a lot of time thinking of what people might think of us, but in a sense God does too. God cares so deeply about what humanity thinks of Him, that he gave up his life to paint the perfect picture of love for us to see. God knows what it's like to want acceptance and love, He is on a life mission to receive our acceptance and love of and for Him. This made me see that in the struggle to find acceptance, to be free from the fear of what people think of me, there is hope. There is hope because God can understand a part of that struggle too. Every step of the way, it’s like he is saying, "You are my child, you are loved, keep moving forward, take another step, I am with you, do not be afraid. I know your struggle to find acceptance, because I long for your acceptance too. I know your struggle for love, because I long for your love too."

I will always struggle with this, fearing what people think of me, striving for acceptance, but knowing who I am allows me to struggle in the right direction. I am a child of God, and I know that He has accepted me. The other day my coworker asked me to bring dinner roast for a thanksgiving lunch. Was I okay? Sure a bit anxious perhaps. Did I bring it? Definitely. The other day God came to show us who he is. He was a bit anxious perhaps, but He definitely made it abundantly clear, He loves us, his children, regardless of what we fear people see in us.

Immigrant Song

As the dust settles, white fluffy feathers float about the large building. A suffocating heat and stench make breathing almost unbearable. Low hanging lights illuminate the vast room, the house of many chickens. The noise was consuming, but this was their home. Stepping outside, the bright sun hurt the eyes. There was Opa, he had a way with these chickens as no one did, this was his life, his profession, his work. The work was hard, never ending, demanding every ounce of energy, yet his tenacious spirit was not easily broken. Persistence was his strong work-ethics best friend. After all, not only did he have thousands of chickens to take care of, he had seven children to feed, support and educate. Life was hard. (Isn’t it usually hard for someone in a new country.) A new language, culture, the whole way of life was radically different. He had immigrated to Canada, met my grandmother (Oma) and settled in a small southern Ontario town. Though life was not ideal and far from easy, they had each other, they had family. I fondly remember the simple times, driving several hours to see Oma and Opa. The old house, a large pond, Mennonites lived all around. We would make almond butter and applesauce, collect eggs and eat lots of food. Then curled up on Oma's lap, Opa would tell us stories. Stories of the far country that have since become legend in my mind. He would tell stories of the war, adventure, work and his pursuit of love. If I had not fallen asleep by this time, Oma would dust of her mandolin, tune the strings and we would sing some songs. These were songs in their mother tongue, old hymns, folk songs, songs that told stories. I could see in their eyes, memories being re-lived. These were songs of life, immigrant songs. Life had been hard, but now, they had a new one, a large family and a place to settle down and call home.

About two months ago, I was sitting down for lunch. I had some friends around, we were laughing and deep in conversation.  A text alert went off on my phone. The message was from my uncle, "Opa has unexpectedly died this morning." I put my fork down. I stared motionless at the wall ahead. "Moses, hey, Moses, you okay?" Brittney asked from her corner of the table. "Yeah. Just heard my grandpa died. Don't mean to be a mood kill, but thats what happened." I left lunch, went to my office and shut the door. For ten minutes I cried. Drying off my tears, I reflected on Opa's life, on the things he had learned and what he had taught me. In the end, while it was sad, he had lived a full life, full of memories, successes, defeats, triumphs and years. He taught me that with determination I can achieve my dreams. His hard work and persistent effort to succeed was inspirational. He inspired loyalty and a family that was always by his side. At the end of his life, he planted a garden, met with his children, told stories and rode a bike around the neighborhood without a helmet.

Wherever life takes me, I hope I can be a bit like Opa. Regardless of what life determines to be successful, will I take time to empower the community around me, work with abandon to drive the success of those I care about; will I find fulfillment in the things that matter most? Though Opa is gone, I know that his legacy will live on in my life. For two months I have struggled to process what his death means. I have found that there is joy in reliving the legacy of one I love. There is no more chicken barn, old story or immigrant song, just an allegory, a memory, a legacy worth reliving.

Bonding the Inanimate

As DJ in chief sitting shotgun, I naturally was deeply engrossed in my present duty. Pulling 1000 kilos of cement in a trailer behind our cruiser, we were going to build a foundation for a school in a nearby town, Chingoma. We traveled a dirt road outside the property of Riverside Farms; there was an electric fence to our right and trees and a hill to our left. Beyond the fence lay a vast plantation of banana trees. We had just picked up some kids and were bringing them to the nearby village. Cruising at a pretty decent speed for that kind of terrain (about 40km/hr), the ride was not out of the ordinary. Upon coming to this part of the road where everything was super sandy, I'm still looking at my phone trying to get a good tune to play. All of a sudden we start drifting, I thought, "nice, very nice, this is good." Then we just keep drifting pretty soon we are approaching a full 180. Im thinking, "okay maybe lets pull out of this." My friend driving, I could tell, was freaking out. He was struggling and doing everything he thought possible to get back in control of the now recalcitrant vehicle. But no control was given. I looked up to see that fence on our right approaching. And there we went. This was not a graceful message of cruiser and fence, no! We ploughed through that fence and all the electric line that was there. The bonding experience of both inanimate entities was amazing, we demolished the fence and kept flying forward. The cruiser started taking out banana trees left and right, well three big ones that is. Then, and only because the ground was raw mud, we came to a stop. I will not repeat my friends initial and only words to the situation...he then jumps out. The electric wires were caught all over the trailer and cruiser. It was a colossal mess. So I hoped in the drivers seat, put it in 4wheel drive and pull out, slowly. It was then that we realized the trailer had come unhitched and thus led to us not being able to control the vehicle. Sitting there I thought of how epic that just was and felt bad for the guy driving. But it was all good in the end. 

Sometimes life's greatest crashes or catastrophes are it's best lessons to cope with the present. 

Colour Peace

In moments of pure serenity, when the sun sinks slow, and the colours are bright; when the soft breeze cools and the painted grass is churned; when still waters run free to places unknown, it is these moments of purest peace where we see who we really are or who we really wish to be. Could it be that these moments were what we were made for? What we were originally made to thrive in? Moments of inner peace so intense, the soul knows nothing but this peace. It was in this moment that I sat, I watched.
A rustling noise had wrestled sleep from my mind. Sitting up and gazing through the tent screen revealed a sight I had longed to see. The great hippopotamus. Yes, Africa is full of hippos. But to see one in all its glory traversing the ground I traverse, that was my wish. And there in the peaceful stillness of the morning she stood. Leaving no thought to worry, she seemed to enjoy the early peace of morning light gently painting the grass she ate.
With the hippo being a mere ten yards or so from the tent, I did not dare move. I could only watch and soak in what was given. A moment of peace, this hippo had it. There was no concern for the upcoming day, no longing for a better life or wonder for food. As the sun edged the blackness of night away, the hippo gracefully slipped back into the stillness of the water. As though the life on dirt represented an abundance or hardship, she sought refuge in the stillness of the river-never to appear until dusk reigned again.
Peace? Where has it gone? A creature destitute of reason or any intelligence higher then how to eat and procreate, initiates a life more abundant with peace then I. Could it be that a world gone astray has given a peace that we think sufficient, and in turn we expel the true peace of the soul? Slipping into the still waters of the morning the hippo reflected the image of peace that to often slips from my mind into the peaceful waters of a forgotten past.

White Washed Tanks

Like a dark cloud looming over us, the day had come after six weeks. The anticipation had built the expectations to far exceed the task that was actually supposed to be accomplished. We had always heard whispers in the wind of this job, and now the day had arrived when the order came down-clean the water tanks. Clean the water tanks! Yes, this means that we would have to squeeze our bodies into multiple water tanks and clean them. 

I braced myself against the forrays of a drinking water deluge. Positioned for what possible harm may arrive, I peered into the inner blackness of the tank. After moments lasting eternal seconds, I jammed my entire person into the the cavernous tank, dropping into a deep four inch slim of river residue. 

Bucket by bucket, the mud was raised from the floor of the water tank. (If I had ever been tempted to disregard the warning to not drink the river water that came from these tanks, I now faced no such temptation.) Not only was the tank under the influence of a continuous layer of muck, the whole contraption had been baking in the ovens of hot African sun for many months. Without a doubt, the temperatures in that oversized water tub exceeded that of 110 degrees Fahrenheit. A combination of constant work and extreme temperature caused sweat to erupt from all available bodily pores. 

It was around this time when my friend who was helping me from the outside asked my opinion on scorpions. 

“Have you ever seen one?” 

“Yes. Why?”

“Is there one on the pipe right above your head?”

“What do you know, there is the most painful one in Zambia, right there above my head.”

“Yeah, it stung me.”

This was not the most ideal situation possible, yet no one died. Alas the whole incident caused the man to go to the clinic and we could no longer clean water tanks. 

Another simple day in the simple life of an African adventure. 

Sometimes I wonder if life is like cleaning water tanks. How many moments are spent cleaning those things which should clean us? Should not something change with the tanks? If we must clean our sources of cleanliness, then it may be time to find a new source. 

Reminiscing Africa

We live Africa.

Breathe the air

Heart Beating Africa

No time to spare

Life’s moving on in Africa

The harmonica's twang blended with the melodious flow of a mandolin creating a most glorious tune. The day fell asleep early, as usual in that country side, creating a serene backdrop for the glorious tune. The tune was carried by three young men, eager for an adventure in the newly visited land of Africa. A common sight in those first days, three boys jamming to random blues tunes in the cabin, provided amble entertainment for all who passed. A passing moment was not the only which was graced by those melodies. The trio walked up a nearby hill and began to play for an elderly gentleman. They soon discovered that this man was not only an ordinary gentleman, but was the previous ambassador from Zambia to USA. The trio was ecstatic. The night crept on and the trio went to their respective places of rest. The Sabbath had been good, and good day thus ended. 

First Day in Africa

Africa. The word that has never ceased to leave my mind since December of last year. Now I am in it. Bathing in the reality of its all surrounding presence, there is no escaping the present here. Is it what I expected? I can not remember what I expected. It is like a surreal dream that I am finally realizing is a dream no more. No longer will I see my friends, family and others on a regular basis as previously was done. Saying bye to those I left was more difficult then hoped, but for every gain is a cost. 

Arriving at the location, Riverside Farms, there was displayed a picture of supreme simplistic beauty. The first creak of the door revealed a light so pure and was filtered through the serene Zambian landscape. I knew I was in the place I was called to be. 

We did not do much anything today except realize how jet-lag really feels. 

None Left Behind

The chill of the night began to edge its icy fingers across the faces of all present. A boy was seen struggling in the arms of a young man. His struggle was one for freedom and liberation. He struggled for freedom, not from the arms but from life-he wished to die. The young man held on to the boy, pity was in his eyes. There were no words of remorse, condemnation, or anger spoken to the boy, yet the boy fought for what he wanted most. The boy began to curse the young man. He cursed the place were he was at. He cursed life, and he cursed God. His heart was scathed with the embers of hate, and love was drained away. The boy screamed again and again that if only given one chance he would experience love. No, not the love of the heart, but his love of death. All across the surrounding area echoed his cries, his curses. All around heard of his want to go back in, find a bed sheet, and die by it around his neck. The young man held him tight that evening saddened at the sight of such misery. The young man was saddened not at the cursing of peace but by the ignorance of peace. No longer had the nights icy chill only crept on all present, it had crept within the boy.

Peace is not the knowledge of a better life, it is the inward reality of a better life now. Wishing for a better tomorrow never brings a better now. There is no tomorrow. Humanity searches for peace and finds desolation. Every attempt to find peace in a better tomorrow is another bed sheet around the neck. There is no better tomorrow. To curse the present is to live a curse. How long will humanity wander in the wilderness of want when pastures of peace are all around? 

The chill of the night was then shattered by a wisp of calm. Providence saw it fit to place serenity in the house of distress and serenity destroyed that house. The boy surrendered that night to the force of peace. He did not always remain in peace after that, but who does? His disposition even worsened after a time, yet in that moment no one was left behind. That is, peace left no one behind. All had that inner changing of the heart to be content with now; peace, the satisfaction of embracing what is now and realizing that tomorrow is but a dream.

Conversations with St. Brown

To Elijah, the voice of God was not something he had to guess about, it was not a relic of past events, he knew the voice of God like he knew a friends. After all, his name did mean, "my God is Yahweh," and he believed that he was the last remaining worshiper of that God. However, when threatened with death by the one he once defied, he ran. He came to a mountain and searched for the voice of God. There on the mountain, Elijah witnessed great manifestations of Gods presence. He had just seen these very manifestations not to long ago. On Mt. Carmel, there was fire, and God was in it; a great storm and God was in it. But now, where was God? He was not in the great storm, or the earthquake or the fire. Elijah was trembling in the stillness of godlessness when the silence was pierced by a still small voice. And at the sound of a low whisper Elijah wrapped his face, and God was in the whisper. 

        During finals week a friend, who I call St. Brown, sat me down and said, "Does God ever speak to you?" I acknowledged that He did. St. Brown was unsure of how that happened. "But does He actually? How do you know it is not just another feeling?" It took a little while to ponder this idea, and it troubled me. Yes, I knew God spoke to me, but how would I ever explain how I felt. The voice of God is an intensely personal experience and cannot be simply put into words. St. Brown went on to say, "I have concluded that God does not speak to humanity, because of sin He cannot. In place of His voice, God has left a roadmap to lead humanity back to Him, the Bible, and by reading we will one day hear the voice of God again." How was I to explain to him that an experience with God cannot be confined to words? That until someone really experiences God, he will never understand God? 

        We all have experienced God. There is not goodness apart from God. I do not have a perfect image of God, and I do not always hear or listen to His voice. We often search in the great manifestations of life's events to hear God, but most times, He is not there. In the storms of sadness, the earth shaking moments of unexpected tragedy, or the fires of pain, we search for God; in those moments we wish to hear His voice. However, it is in the stillness of the mind, the personal indwelling of a whisper that God is often heard. Sometimes it is so quite we miss it. His voice, a whisper so low, yet a peace so sweet. How was I to explain this if St. Brown had never felt it? Sure, I have never awakened to a low voice parting the skies and talking to me. I have never heard God speaking in an empty room to me as I would hear a man speaking to me in an empty room. But God is not man, and He is not limited to the ways man communicates. 

So instead of trying to argue, I concluded with a simple line. "St. Brown, I know I hear God's voice. I am sorry you do not, but I am content. If you are at peace with where you are at with God, then stay there, but if you are not at peace, search for His voice and you will hear Him."

Our Need-Conversations with St. Brown

Around the table the discussion flew, but the ideas which the discussion picked up never seemed to land in a place that made sense. The topic was the church and its inability to reach the world. The question was brought up again and again, "What must we do differently?" New suggestions, opinions and statements came up each time but none satisfied the question. Off to the corner of the room I stood contemplating what was being said and was earnestly seeking a solution. The dim light room provided a serene atmosphere and there I sat in the stillness of the moment restless for truth. The low hum of the conversation was a soothing soundtrack to my thoughts and as the stillness and peace enveloped itself around me, the answer dawned in my mind. Prayer.
We have the doctrine, the truth as a church. We know the Bible, and have our own prophet, yet our knowledge is proven useless by the facts of reality. The church in North America is dying. Our growth rate worldwide is grossly shadowed by the population growth rate. Young people are leaving the church at incredible rates and we have no ability to stop them. If we know the truth, why do people leave the church. We have emotional drive in evangelistic series, in youth rallies, in week of prayers, but the numbers still dwindle.
What we lack however, is not truth it is life. The life of the early church was conceived in the Holy Spirit. The Spirit gave a life of fire, a fire that raged in the hearts of humanity for the salvation of humanity. But the Spirit did not leave, God did not say that it was for the early church only. Can we not have the same Spirit that the early disciples had? We do not have the same Spirit, this is evident, but why? The disciples had the life, the fire, because they asked for it. It says in Acts 1 that the disciples came together in prayer. After the ascension of their Master, they gathered together as one and prayed for the promise of the Spirit, the promise of life. The promise was given. The Spirit breathed into its nostrils and the church became a living soul.
We lack the unity of the early church. We have week of prayers with little or no prayer, church services with only a small portion for prayer,our  daily lives lived for the pursuit of happiness but lacking prayer. Prayer is gone. We have lost it and in turn have lost ourselves. The life of the church depends on the church to connect with life. We pray not for life, for Spirit, and we have not life, or Spirit.
As we parted ways that night, it all began to make sense. Our doctrine is not the problem, not even our bigotry or judgementalism, these may be problems yes, but it is not the reason for the lifelessness of our church. We have ceased to pray as a church but we continue to hope for a better life within the church. The solution to our church problems is a simple one, not a change in doctrine, or church format, or even ecumenicalism, its prayer, and when we pray we shall see this body of a church rise to life, and it shall be on fire with the Spirit.

The Balance of Anarchic Morality

Justice is blind; in one hand she holds a sword and in the other she holds a balance. Law is a lot like the balance in the hand of “Justice.” There is no set reason for law except the common sense of establishing order. The laws of the land are to create a blalance of life and to prevent chaos. Laws are enacted though different methods depending on the nation involved and are enforced using different methods as well. When considering the international theater, there is no central government or decision making body that creates obligatory and binding laws to be followed by all world nations. This is anarchy. However, without a a concept of right and wrong, the world would erupt in chaos. Every nation recognizes intentionally or unintentionally a binding law of morality that prevents them from destroying the world. The law of morality is an integral part of human exsistence and should be cultivated on an individual level to live a satisfied life. International law should not be a guiding force in the affairs of the world. A law instituted for all humanity to follow would result in the inevitable suppression of rights to certain minorities. Binding obligations between certain nations are benificial and needed at times, but international law would negatively impact the world and ultimatly lead to chaos. The current reliance on an integral sense of morality is the safest “international law” humanity can depend on for the security of national stability. 

All Was Vanity

That hindsight is 20/20 is an accurate assumption when realized to late.

Card in, pin dialed, acces granted, cash, always more cash, after all it sustained life. Cash is king and the old man seemed to make it a motto pasted to the pricy bumper. The old man's son was saddened at the thought of his fathers condition. So old, the breath of death about to breath its reality into his nostrils, did his father not get it. "Old man, your time is up, the time has come to move on, another season of life is through." When it was all said and done, what did the old man have? A fancy car, money, a caring son that perhaps wanted his money, and the warm welcome of an unknown reality six feet under ground.

To be born, what is received? Breath, light, warmth if lucky, and the promise of death. To be born is vanity.

To mature, what is received? Recognition, responsibility, restriction, failure, and the promise of death. To mature is vanity.

To increase in wealth, what is received? Stuff, broken friendships, increase of friendships, a miserable spouse, and the promise of death. To increase in wealth is vanity.

To grow old, what is received? Memories of the past life of failure, a reminder of the promise of death. To grow old is vanity.

All is vanity said the preacher and he said it right. But what is this end, this promise of death. When the promise is fulfilled, is that vanity? The one decided course in life that happens, we avoid. But, that all is hopeless is not the way to address our predicament. Death is conquered.

The apostles of Acts where exuberant and exceedingly joyful over the resurrection of Jesus because Jesus over came death. He has now given us a life to live with purpose, a life that is not promised an eternal unconsciousness  It is a purpose devoid of vanity, where the useless existence of humanity has been replace with hope, hope in the resurrection.

Dress code

Here is a paper that I needed to write for one of my classes. Any critics?

What is the use of covering my body? It would be rather unconventional to ask any random someone this question. However, it seems as though people on a daily basis are asking this very question with the way they dress. It appears that people ignore the true purpose of clothing. This purpose can be summed up into two simple points: to provide warmth and protection for the body; and to ensure that modesty and purity is protected. The common place trends of low necklines, high, tight fitting tops, and sagging pants, make us question why they want to conceal just enough to give urge to the onlooker to want to see more. I think that this is ludicrous. Questions on modesty have lead certain institutions to adopt standards of dress that seek to promote an environment of high dress standards. Two of these, namely Southern Adventist University (SAU) and Wichita State University (WSU), have to a certain degree, similarly modest dress codes. However, the reasons, purposes, and situations for which this code is applied differ between the two Universities. 

SAU has adopted the dress code for the reasons outlined in its handbook. “As a Christian educational institution, Southern has established a dress code emphasizing modestly, cleanliness, neatness, and professional appropriateness.” SAU has very strong spiritual implications for the code of dress. SAU has come to the conclusion that in order to promote a society of spiritual growth, it is best to avoid the distractions that come with immodest dress. Students should learn how to dress appropriately so that when they leave the campus, their fashion can be a Christian testimony to the world. WSU has adopted the dress code for a vastly different reason. (Although SAU does claim this as one of their reasons it is not their primary focus.) The purpose of the dress code at WSU is to look professional at job interviews. Both Universities have similar specific rules such as: modest skirts for women, no baggy pants for men, and both should keep sleeveless and sloppy clothing at home. Although they differ in their policies of jewelry, makeup, etc., they both seem to agree that a better social experience is created with the enforcement of a modest dress code.

Dressing modestly is not always easy in our present time. It even may be a bit distasteful or even aggravating, yet the fact remains that modesty encourages a better Christian experience and professional life on campus. Though not always easy or pleasant, a good dress code has, from my experience, enhanced spiritual life here at SAU. Although WSU may not require a dress code for every occasion, it certainly benefits the people who apply for jobs. In the world of business, or any line of professional work, there is a set standard for good dressing habits. Even though there are slight variations on the different dress codes, both SAU and WSU help benefit students for a better life tomorrow. 

Pathway

High school is done.
A new road begins and I have taken the first step.
I do not know where this road will lead, but I know one thing, direction.
That's the thing with roads, you cant determine the outcome, but you always can choose the road.
I am choosing a high road, and I don't want to go back.
To leave behind what I have is hard, right and good.
To leave it behind and move forward becoming stronger is harder, still right and best.
The feet hit the ground, the dust is stirred and all that is left from where I began is a footprint.
A simple reminder that I have already gone through, and have no need of treading there again.

Life at its best

It was past ten. All the lights were out, and there was peace. Under the beautiful canopy of the stars two friends camped in the comfort of their mattresses. Suddenly one spoke, "Why did his light just turn on"? They sat there and looked. A strange sight for sure. First the a boy, the occupant of a certain room, took one widow out. Then a long piece of duck tape was ripped off and the screen also came out. A small black object was placed on the widow. The lights then went out. The two friends thought to themselves, "Surly it is a bomb". One turned to the other and asked forgiveness of any grievances he might have committed against his friend. The one had an excellent idea, jumped up and ran into the building. Moments later he entered the room of the suspect and in a deep voice called his name. The poor boy had just finished placing the widow back in and was pleasantly frightened. In the end the strange object was not a bomb, but a camera. The boy was simply trying to take pictures of the stars.

I was walking down the road with my good friend Esra. Passing a lilac bush I glanced at my friend and said, "Hey I should pick one and give it to Beth".
"Ok, that would be great, but what if I gave one to Beth and you gave one to my cousin Agnus."
"Sure, sounds splendid."
The lilac bush belongs to a dear lady who also heads the student life department.
Just as we finished speaking, a sweet voice was heard.
"Go ahead and take as many of my lilacs as you want, I have a lot."
As Mrs. Roque spoke, Esra seamed to have sacrificed his ability to on the alter of uncontrollable laughter. I managed to somehow mutter the fact that I was simply joking and continued walking.

Esra had agreed to do worship this evening about ten minutes before the time. It was a good worship though, and he refreshed us all with important things to ponder. He gave us a challenge and that was to stop thinking and talking about ourselves. To move from a "me" centered lifestyle to an "others" centered one. I want to take it on, will you.

Silence

Often we are presented with many problems in life. In most of these times silence is eloquence. Recently a problem occurred on my blog, a dear friend of mine posted for me without my approval. I sincerely apologize and I will do my best to update ASAP. Have a good nite.

Respaulsibility

I had just stepped into the lobby when Michael Jensen approached me. "So do you think it's wrong to vote?" I was silent and then mentioned that I was not sure. That was about a year ago, and it wasn't until now that I came to a definite conclusion. 

Many people, if asked that very question, would not understand why there had to be any problem. However, there are multiple reasons why as a Christian and specifically an Adventist, I should be cautious in regards to this subject. 

Rome was oppressing the Jewish nation, and the Jews were tired of it. They were hoping, praying, and looking for someone who would deliver them. That is why the nation stirred with excitement, when a young man promised to deliver them. Jesus mission was not to deliver the Jews from the Romans, however, but from sin. The people did not understand that, and Jesus shocked the nation with His teaching. Jesus' teachings destroyed the foundation of thought that the people had built their traditions on. He made statements that were clear, unheard of, and very controversial: "Blessed are the poor," "Before Abraham, I am," and "My kingdom is not of this world." Not of this world? 

The Jews struggled to grasp the meaning of a kingdom "not of this world", and we today, still do. This statement is often considered when people approach the topic of voting within our church. If the God we serve has initiated us into a kingdom "not of this world", then how can we take part in the affairs of this world? 

Does the Bible not give more insight as to how we are to relate with the world? Is the Bible wholly and completely void on the subject of a Christians relationship with the government? No!

 Jesus was once confronted on the issue of taxes. A man asked if it was right to pay taxes to Rome. Jews hated Rome, and taxes were not an exemption from this hatred. Jesus answered the question by saying to give to Rome what belongs to it, taxes, and to God what belongs to God. There is something the government controls, Jesus was saying, and you should respect that. Complimenting that, Paul writes in the book of Romas chapter thirteen, that government was ordained by God, and we should honor the government. 

With choices come responsibility. If we choose to eat certain foods, we are responsible for the result it produces, whether good or bad. It is the same with thoughts, words, and actions. Voting is also a choice that comes with responsibility. When someone votes, they are responsible for the results that come about from their vote. The people of Germany democratically elected Adolf Hitler and reaped the results of their vote. Democratic nations are run by the people. The vote of the majority runs the government. If people do not vote, then democracy fails. America is a republic, and the vote is the determining factor for the success of the nation. 

To vote is a responsibility. However, if you are not willing to take the responsibility in voting, you are still responsible for decisions. As an example, imagine that a proposition is put forth to the people regarding the legalization of prostitution. You, who presumably does not support prostitution, decide that you don't think it is necessary to take part in politics, and as a result do not vote. (Or maybe you are simply feeling too lazy to vote.) If for some strange reason the proposition is voted on favorably and is made law, you are then responsible for not taking action against it. When someone says that they will not vote because they don't want to get involved, they are involved. They are involved helping the side they are not bold enough to speak against. Voting is neither wrong nor a light matter. It is a serious responsibility, a right that was zealously fought for, and a solemn action. 

You can not with safety vote for just anything. Voting for what you believe is a service that you "render unto Caesar" and is part of the duty the people owe the government. When your vote is cast and it produces detrimental results to the nation, you are partly responsible for the downfall. Every decision in life must be considered with thoroughness, and the vote is no exception. 

So is voting wrong? No. But you can make it a wrong choice. Is it good. Yes, if you vote for the benefit of the country as you see fit for the country. Remember, in this country the people run the government. You can change that with your vote, or even the lack of your vote. The bottom line is that voting is a big responsibility, and if you vote you must be ready to except the results, both bad and good, as your own making. 

Voting is a responsibility, vote responsibly. 

Are You Free?

Four feet meet, they are ignorant of the vice and corruption they carry about. Far above in a reality that is inconceivably evil, two hands meet. A trade is made, the deal is done. The light reveals a poor and once innocent child, now destitute of life, pleasure or the assurance of love. If she was being watched, and the horor of the moment caused a sickening silence to the watcher, the silence is now interrupted. A cloth washed in the sweat, dirt, tears and blood of so many before her is forced between the lips, sealing off the last scream that might grant her rescue. With a blow to the head, she falls to the ground. She wakes up in a cold, dark room. When darkness fades into its boundless realm, it seems to taunt her with realizations that she is trapped, nowhere to go. The years pass, people come and go from that room. Into her heart are etched memories of brutality, debauchery, and cold-blooded apathy. They provoke her thoughts to dispare, they torment her very existence, and in place of fear, she has guilt. Believing it to be her fault, believing that she was the cause of all this sorrow, emptiness, and horror, she decides to quite. The pander takes a cloth, a cloth once used to silence her screams, and silences the blood off the cement. The cold floor seems to mirror the heart of this man, he carelessly casts aside the blood-ridden cloth of his own making. He steps outside. Who is next?

Smoke ascends to the once clear sky. Painted on the earths blue backdrop is the remnants of a once peaceful village, no more peaceful or inhabited however, all dead or gone. Cries of war are heard in the distance. Chains clatter, a chapter closes, past comfort is no more. The sight of mother and father both slaughtered before his eyes, keeps him from feeling the real pain clasped about his neck, hands and ankles. Brutally forced into a distant land, he toils countless hours. His back aches from the continual strain of beatings and oppressive heat. The Cocca must be harvested, and comfort is not an excuses for respite. Eighteen hour days for fifteen years, completes the young and once healthy, happy boy's existence. No funeral, no mourning, just more Cocca. The cycle goes on, and does not end.

Then there is you. An everlasting chain of guilt, discouragement, fear and fill in the blank, makes it clear, you are a slave. Searching for satisfaction, deliverance and purpose, you fall deeper and deeper into slavery. We are all chasing wind. Grasping for something that is impossible to hold. The very thing we want, we can't seem have. The girl in prostitution is a reality. The boy in slavery is a very real occurrence. And yes, you are a slave, but to who? Yourself. Humanity stubbles in darkness, longing for light. Many do not realize they need to be delivered, but their cold blood spilt on the ground is a testament to their search.

So where are you? Will you chase wind? Will you realize that you are in need of deliverance before your death tells the world that you were. You can be delivered.

That cloth of sweat, dirt, tears, and blood must be taken from every girls mouth. The evil of this world can not go on. The slaves on Cocca plantations, and the slaves in our very own neighborhood, they must be delivered. And you. You too, must be set free.