Don't Forget the Salt

This is Post #2 in a series on "Salt." Please feel welcome to slip over here and here to read the other posts in this series. Karibu tena (Welcome again).

I walk to the local market, at least a few times a week to get our fresh kill or straight from the garden produce for dinner that night. I buy a bag of dried red beans, a few small purple onions, several  plump garlic cloves, deliciously green cilantro, fist-sized bell peppers and hot, red tomatoes from a lady named Royce at a shanty kiosk that sticks out a bit into the road. Her kiosk is one of many that have been shabbily built up on government land along a road that can barely be called a road. Built of stolen/borrowed planks of battered wood, sheets of tin, and cardboard to fill in the holes, each of the kiosks are illegally occupying the land on which they stand, and so can be bulldozed by the government at any point in time. Everyone knows. But for now, local farmers run their businesses out of these roadside huts, seeing the temporary benefits far outweighing the potential risks. 

Royce teaches me to speak some Kikuyu words as I fumble to buy our goods, her warm smile welcoming us back over and over again. She pulls off a couple of bananas to hand to the girls who are clinging to mama’s side as cars inch behind us on the narrow dirt road. The girls thank her for the bananas and then we all smile and wave at each other, the language barrier preventing much further conversation.

“Roishio!” she yells. Tomorrow, we will see her again and bid goodbye in the language that she taught us. The basket weighs heavy in my hand as we make our way back home along the rough dusty road, just wide enough for two cars to barely fit side by side. The potholes make it a challenge to drive down, so cars weave in and out and around each other to make their way, dodging the many pedestrians bustling up and down the street all the while. The goats lazily scoot off the road as the roar of an engine approaches, and then makes it way back to whatever trash it was consuming. I understand why the ladies opt to carry their baskets on their heads rather than allowing the rough straw handles to cut into the palms. One doesn't have to walk very far before the weight of the fresh produce really settles in. 

As we make our way through the street on the small journey home, we hear the shy whispers of nearby children, “Mzungu! Mzungu!” as they tap their friends on the back to be sure everyone gets a glance at the white women and her somewhat white children. They laugh, gazing in wonder and awe, peeking from behind corners or mothers' skirts.

A woman in brightly colored dress and braided hair stops me as we are walking, basket growing heavier by the moment. “You don’t have a helper in your home to do this shopping for you? It’s unusual to see someone like you here.”

I smile and laugh, not really sure how to respond, other than to assure her that we enjoy getting out and meeting the people in the community.

“Are you sure you don’t want a helper?”

“Asante sana, mum. We are doing ok with it. Tutuanana.” I know we will see her again, as many faces are becoming more familiar as we walk through the community.

“Habari asibuhi, Mama!” We wave to the gentle, old mama at the end of the row. She doesn’t speak a lick of English, but has a smile that could save the world. She is usually hunched over a massive pot of maize boiling over hot coals. 

"Mzuri sana, rafiki! Mzuri sana!" She says she is doing very well, and we buy a large bunch of bananas from her. She bags up some boiled maize to carry home. The men will enjoy the maize. We fumble through the language to agree on payment.

“Bei gani?” How much is it?

She responds in a soft Swahili and I have no idea what she just said, so I hand her a few coins, hoping it will be enough, and she passes a few coins back in change. We laugh and I bid her goodbye for now.

“Asante sana, mama. Tuonane kesho.”

“Karibu tena, na tena!” she responds. Yes, we are welcome again and again.

We stumble over rocks and trash, stepping wide to avoid the holes and divots in the road, passing ladies sitting inside of ruddy kiosks having their hair braided. I see a foot sticking out of another one with the toes being painted, by a man no less. Fresh chapati is being cooked next door and the smell is just downright intoxicating. The air is full of such a potpourri of aromas, from the row of butcheries with fresh goat hanging in the windows, to the leg that is roasting just out front, to the various fruits and vegetables that are expertly lined up out front of each kiosk. This small strip of road is busy, crowded and full of life. 

A small girl with braided pigtails on her head toys with a plastic bag, blowing it up in the air and chasing after it as it floats away. A roar of boys pours down the street, dragging behind them juice boxes that have been cut in half with four wooden circles added all around. A boxcar derby has been created and the boys are racing to the finish to see which juice box is still intact by the end, scattering goats and dogs along the way. For some reason, an old, beat-up bathtub has made its way to the side of the street, sitting just outside of a broken down wooden shanty structure, now being used to hold supplies for the vendor inside. And the street has become a veritable graveyard for broken down buses. Currently there are 5 lines up on either side of the end of the street, just past the end of kiosk row. They are stripped of doors and window, tires long gone, just empty shells of a structure. I have seen them cut down and taken apart, small bit at a time. A plate of steel cut out by one group of men, bumper stripped by another, hood lifted by yet another, until it is cut down to not much of anything. Then a fire is started and an empty space revealed until another bus dies. 

We wave to everyone and greet all those we pass as we finally make it to our gate.

The security guard unlocks the black steel gates and greets us as we pass. “Karibu, mama. Good to see you again.” The girls run ahead and play a bit more carefree now that we are inside the confines of the neighborhood. Once we finally make it back to our house, I reach in to unlock the padlock and we all file through the door.

Time to get to work on dinner. It’s ten o’clock in the morning.

I set the water to boil over our two-range gas burner. Red beans are added to the water, as veggies are being chopped and sautéed.  All is thrown into the pot to simmer for the day. Knife and cutting board are washed by hand in the cold water and set on the rack to dry. I turn to walk out of the kitchen, and pause. I have forgotten something.

The salt.

Without salt, all the fresh deliciousness and amazing flavors that are simmering in that pot for the next several hours will remain unlocked, hidden from the taste buds to enjoy. I walk back to the burner and reach into the cabinet just above it to pull out the small bag of salt. Pour some in my hand and sprinkle it around and around the pot, eyeballing and guestimating the amount that will bring out just the right flavors.

Now we wait until the evening.

Join me over at So Much Shouting, So Much Laughter to hear the stories of other pilgrims and sojourners.

It's Kind of Like That

My youngest daughter is 15 months old. She is chubby, and funny, and beautiful, and precocious, and manipulative, and cuddly, and a monster, and outrageously precious, sometimes all at once. There are days when I just absolutely cannot get enough of her. She is my baby. My last born. I want to eat her up, especially those cheeks, have mercy! She loves my lap, or my hip, or my back. She loves being close and snuggling in. And I, being the mama who adores her girls, would hate to miss an opportunity to snuggle.

These days are passing quickly, as I am acutely aware, and so desire to soak up every last giggle possible. The days and weeks seem to be melting into months and years that are flying by more quickly than my mind can grasp. Everyday, small though it may be now, my precious daughters are inching further and further away from needing a mama like my 15 month old needs her mama now, and the pain and joy of it is almost too much to bear.

But then there are days when she screams if I have the audacity to even consider setting her down. She hits her sisters or pulls their hair. She grabs toys away and then cries that I won't pick her up. There are days when I am quick to roll my eyes because the baby is crying yet again. Days when I pretend to not hear her when she wakes from her nap too early. Days when I absolutely need a break from her. There are days when all three are crying at the same time, or all three are fighting each other for the same toy.

There are days when being a mama is not fun at all. But then, I'll hear a giggle, or I'll hear two fighting girls say sorry to each other and hug. My oldest will flash me a smile, or sing me a song. My middle will make a funny face or do a dance for me. And the youngest will gingerly climb into my lap and make herself at home, directing my hands to wrap around her. My heart turns to mush and my love for these girls is absolutely out of control.

I'll ask my oldest, "Do you know how much I love you?"

And she'll reply, "Yes, mama, I know. To the moon and back again. I know, I know."

But she doesn't. She doesn't understand that this human heart, this once cold rock that beats hard in my chest, this wellspring of life in me is so fully alive in love with her. She just doesn't understand the depth of it all yet.

The girls were watching the Disney cartoon movie of Tarzan this afternoon, and at the very beginning, there is a scene where the mama gorilla is rescuing the baby who will be Tarzan from the leopard. And the mama is relentless in pursuing and protecting the baby. She fights and tumbles and growls, and tucks the baby under her arm in the safety of her warmth and strength. And she fights like only a mama knows how, with every breath in her.

And my oldest says to me, "Mama, I wouldn't mess with that mama gorilla. She is fighting and protecting that baby."

"Yes, baby. That's a mama's heart, to protect her young."

There are days when my girls need to be disciplined, and I hate it. With everything in me, I hate it. As the infraction is going down, I think to myself, "No, please don't do it. Don't take it there. Let's not get it to that point! Please, make a good choice here. Let's not go there!" But they are children and their hearts are rebellious at times, foolish at times, undisciplined. And I hate it. So we discipline, in firmness, in swiftness, and in absolute love. And when it is done, tears flow, and hugs abound as they are reassured that Mama loves them no matter what. And we pray for wisdom to not make the same mistakes again. But they do happen. And it is dealt with in the same manner. And I love them still.

I am learning day in and day out about the love of my Heavenly Father, who, for most of my Christian walk, has been like a disappointed grandfather, sitting high above, removed, arms crossed, looking down his mighty nose while shaking his head in disdain.

"She did it again. Why won't this girl get it right? She messes it up every time. Will she ever get it right?"

That is not only hard to live up to, but it's hard to get close to. If I know that I will only disappoint and let Him down, why invest in trying to get close to Him? I only feel bad about myself when I am around Him. I cry in shame, wishing and wanting to finally get it all together. I hang my head, embarrassed, broken on the floor, knowing that I have no right to stand.


Matthew 7: 9-11
Which of you, if his son asks for bread, will give him a stone? Or if he asks for a fish, will give him a snake? If you, then, though you are evil, know how to give good gifts to your children, how much more will your Father in heaven give good gifts to those who ask him?

If I, in my brokenness, in my evil, in my sin, know how to shower unconditional love on my children, recognize when they need discipline for the sake of saving their lives, and live to see them built up and flying, how much more will the Father in heaven dole out love for His children, for me, holding nothing back? Oh. My. Goodness! I can't even wrap my mind around it!

When my children smile, my heart comes alive. How much more the Father! When my children learn a lesson and stand tall because of it, my heart wells up in pride till my chest has doubled in size and my throat is all choked up with emotion. How much more the Father! When my children need discipline, it crushes me to the core. How much more the Father! But when the discipline has been administered, the relationship restored, and laughter has resumed, I feel such a completeness of joy in the growth that has taken place. How much more the Father!!

I would never dream of looking down on my girls, even in my most exasperated state. I would never dream of throwing my hands up in the air and giving up on them, for anything at all. I dream of how they will excel in life. I dream of their potential and all that they will grow into. I revel in how beautiful they are, everyday. I catch myself everyday staring in awe, at each one of them, marveling at their incredible features, these precious creations of the Most High.

Now, if I am capable of such love for these precious children, how much more the Father. He dances over us. We bring joy to Him. He sings over us. When we fly, the heart of the Father is honored. When we fall, the heart of the Father is broken. When we need discipline, the Father rebukes, as one who loves His children. His statutes are not there to suck the life out of us. He doesn't sit on a high removed throne shaking his bony finger at us with all his rules. He is the preserver of life, because He revels in the love of His children.

Being a daddy's girl myself, I get that. Oh, to make my Father proud. His love, my Abba Father, my heavenly Father, is kind of like that, only so, so much more.

But let all who take refuge in you be glad; let them ever sing for joy. Spread your protection over them, that those who love your name may rejoice in you.
Psalms 5:11

My newly begun, yet ongoing list of God's goodness


Thank you, Abba Father, for:
#2. Discovering that the love of the Father, my Father, is so deep, so personal, and so amazing.
#3. Blowing raspberries on a round baby belly
#4. Deep belly laughter of three little girls being tickled
#5. Being caught staring at how beautiful my daughter is
#6. The 3-yr old who asks for "pachati" instead of "chapati"
#7. Sunday afternoon alone to shop at the Maasai market





Take a peek over at Holy Experience to see what others are thankful for today.

Have you counted your blessings today? What are you thankful for? 

The Grime is Washed Away

Another laundry day has come and gone, and I am praising Jesus that my hands are holding up better than they did for the first several weeks that we were here in Kenya. Now I can make it through a washing session without broken skin, raw knuckles, or bleeding wounds. Great rejoicing over this not-so-insignificant fact. But today as I was scrubbing the clothes, somehow a great wave of satisfaction came over me.

While I would not readily choose to do laundry by hand for the rest of my days, I am finding something so very cathartic about sitting out under the sun, scrubbing the clothes for my family. I see the dirt and stains with which the scrubbing begins, and as my hands work the fabric, suds of cleansing water washing the grime away, the sweat of my brow seeing the reward of its effort. As the final product hangs on the line to dry, made new by the grease of my own elbows, restored to what it was made to be, I feel great pride and satisfaction to know what I have done.

I know it may sound simple, but the African dirt has coated these clothes well as my girls run and jump and play with no hindrance at all for the stains that they are setting in. When all the clothes from a bucket have been washed and moved to a bucket of clean water for rinsing, I see the extent of the filth. The water is grey-brown, thick, cloudy, murky. It is full of grime that my hands scrubbed out. As I dump the bucket out, there is great joy in knowing that it has all been washed away, that all that was once covered in filth is now clean and sparkling, like new again. There is such joy in my heart at this simple realization.

And then I begin to wonder if this is just a glimpse at how God feels as He washes us white as snow. He knows our filth. He knows our grime. He knows the deepest, darkest recesses of our hearts, and He does the hard work to wash us clean. He puts in the elbow grease, He wages war on our behalf, and He asks us to trust Him as he twists and scrubs us in His massive, powerful, yet ever-gentle hands. I just wonder if this is just a small peek into how He revels over us.

For much of my life, I struggled with this idea of such hopeless, helpless brokenness. Maybe it was my pride getting in the way of truly understanding, or maybe I had just heard for far too long what a reckless sinner I was. I knew I was a sinner. I knew I was broken. I knew that I was a mess. And my ears heard the Church reminding me of that over and over and over again; until all I could think was, "What's the point, then? If I'm such a horrible human being, I can never live up to be any good for anything, what's the point of doing the "good" thing?"

I would then hear the inevitable follow-up of how God loves me anyway. He loves me anyway. So, I'm not really lovable, not really worthy of love because I am such a reckless sinner. Because I am such a sinner, I don't deserve love, but instead deserve to hang on a cross. I deserve death, but He loves me anyway.

Well isn't that big of Him.

Gosh...thanks?

Any sense of dignity has just been beaten down and ripped to shreds, but telling me that He loves me anyway is supposed to pick me back up again. Great.

The problem is that there were some true things that were being said, some true things that my ears were hearing, and some true things that my heart was taking in. But they were not all truth. They were not all Truth.

Yes, I am a sinner. No, I am not unloveable.

Yes, I am broken. No, I am not hopeless.

Yes, I am a mess. No, I am not undeserving of love.

Yes, I do fall short of the glory of God. No, I am not to loathe myself for it.

Many times, my ears would absorb a teaching, receive it as a condemnation, and then continue to condemn self for it. So where I was told that there is now no condemnation for those who are in Christ Jesus, for some reason that wasn't enough to cover all the other condemning things that had already been taken in. And so they became chains around my ankles, shackles on my wrists, bounding my heart in lies that were set on repeat in my head.

You will never be good enough for love.

You can never live up to this standard, so why bother? Just give up. You're not worth the trouble.

Somehow, the fact that I was a sinner translated into God hating me. But His Word doesn't say that. His Word says this:

The Lord your God is with you,

he is mighty to save.

He will take great delight in you.

He will quiet you with his love.

He will rejoice over you with singing.

And again it says:

He will cover you with his feathers 

and under his wings you will find refuge; 

his faithfulness will be your shield and rampart.

Those are not the words of an angry father who is counting up how many times he has to bail us out. Those are the words of a lover, of one who rejoices when we are free and joyful, and one who rejoices when we surrender ourselves to Him to be our shield and our rampart.

And so I just wonder, as He dips us into the water and scrubs away the dirt and filth that has built up on our backs, if He doesn't take great joy in the process, knowing how beautiful the end result will be, knowing that even in the midst of the grime and muck, there is already beauty, because He made it so. And though the process might be a bit painful at times, humbling to have this stain scrubbed away, hurting to see Him toil so on our behalf, the process of surrendering to His cleansing ways is so freeing.

And I believe He takes great joy in it all, as he watches the murky, filthy water washed away from that which He created to shine.

I believe He will rejoice over it with singing, because that's what His Word says.

And so I will not hang my head in shame, as there is now no condemnation for those who are in Christ Jesus, but I will rejoice over His love with great singing as I return it back to Him.

Happy Sabbath, friends. Praying for God's peace and grace to fill you to overflowing today.

Taste and See

This is post #1 in a series on "Salt." To read the follow-up posts, please feel welcome to visit here and here. Karibu tena (Welcome again).

Tonight I sit in the dark, an old Coleman lamp providing a small amount of light by which to see, and the glow of the computer screen for as long as the reserve battery will last. No power, distractions removed, all other options turned away. Time for reflection in the quiet of the early night, the hum of electricity silenced.

Soon after we first arrived to Kenya, I remember posting on facebook that I didn’t feel like cooking dinner for the night. The cooking process here is elaborate, time consuming, and in many cases, serious manual labor. I was tired that particular night and just really craving the convenience food of home. But none could be found. Several precious friends responded with quick ideas, none of which I could implement because we lacked the supplies, the spices.

Spices are hard to come by here, as most of the food that is cooked is either fresh kill or straight out of the garden. Great for the body, but not as full of flavor as the seasoned, artificial, preserved, colored, tampered, engineered food that I grew upon. At home in the states, we use lots of seasoning, lots of spices and many different kinds of foods. For instance, think of how many different kinds of cheeses you will use in just one week. Parmesan, cheddar, American, swiss, mozzarella, brie….oh my mouth is watering. Why do I do this to myself? Cheese is not part of the Kenyan diet (though I did discover a place to but some imported Brie, yum!). Fresh kill or straight out of the garden.

Not to say that things are flavorless here, by no means at all. Add a little salt to fresh garlic, bell pepper, and onion, throw that in the mix with some chopped up cabbage and tomatoes, and your mouth will be hopping fresh flavors. Just add a little salt, and it brings out the absolute best.

Isn’t if funny that we have been called to be salt? Throw a few salty people into the natural arena of life, and it should be a very God glorifying situation, where the best of what has been created is brought out, enhanced, magnified. Throw a few salty people into the mix, and all things should be edified, built up, made better.

But we who have been called to be this precious flavor enhancer have to be careful. Too much salt ruins the meal. Not enough salt will go completely unnoticed, leaving the portion bland and undesirable. Too much destroys, not enough blends into the surrounding. We are looking to be just the right amount.

So how do you know? How do you know if you are too much salt, not enough salt, or just the right amount? Well, how do you tell when you are cooking?

Taste and see that it is good.

Taste and see that the Lord is good. 

Pursuit of a New Normal

I see the divine in their eyes, the precious innocence that keeps their wellspring pure,

And I am keenly aware of the pressure to get this right.

And by get it right,

The only possible thing I could refer to is grace,

Becoming a woman who embodies and extends grace,

As there is so very much I have received.

Their normal is one I have never known.

Even I am learning, perceiving, taking in, absorbing.

The baby slept as we prayed over a mad man in the den.

He was clothed in prayer, and then our own rags.

The eldest watched on, unphased by the happenings.

She knew it was time for the divine.

A life undisciplined will not bear the sweetness of vines tended.

But a life of routine risks ruts and roots lacking passion.

Teetering between the two, desperate to stay centered,

That their laughter is ever grounded in the security of the Father.

Steam rises, dances from the tea that sits before me now.

Like a worshipper, dancing around the fire

Lifting holy hands to God, offering whole self as living sacrifice.

The worshippers are gathering at the circle,

Acutely in tune, in sync, in rhythm with the community as it dances together,

And yet all eyes are focused on the Throne alone,

As if there is no one else in the room.

The gaze of the King embraces, warm and focused, yet gentle and cushioned.

Of all the worshippers in the room, the eyes of the Almighty see me.

Emotions balls at the throat, climbing higher.

Breath escapes me, stuttering, stammering

Unsure of whether it is tears or laughter that are soon to belt out,

The body explodes in praise.

And the dance grows wilder and the voice grows louder

Because love has set me free with eyes to see the divine.

Gratitude meets grace

And a new normal defines us all.

Today I am linking up to Imperfect Prose at In the hush of the moon. I'm excited and certainly humbled to join this community. Hop on over to take in some amazing prose and poetry.

You Capture: Everyday Things

Today's You Capture challenge is Everyday Things. Oh, this one was fun, because it caused me to take another look at little things that I might otherwise overlook, take for granted. Turns out, my everyday things are quite beautiful, bring many smiles, and hours of entertainment. I had taken some photos of our everyday tea, carafe, and the cooking utensils, since I feel like I spend quite a bit of time cooking here. But it turns out, my precious angels are so much more my everyday. Between the arts and crafts, funny faces, running and squealing, and lots of loves and hugs, they are a joy to me that I do not want to overlook or ever take for granted. I am a blessed mama.

Juju is wearing her craft for the morning. She was very proud of the hat that she made.

Toria with ever busy hands, creating, creating.

Run and squeal, run and squeal. Repeat.

She is quite the ham when the camera comes out. 

And I could just nibble on those cheeks all day. Oh wait. I do.

Endless funny faces. Endless life and vibrance in this gift of God. 

She just makes me laugh. All day. 

This would be her surprised look. 

Quiet, unassuming, and outrageously funny.

I mean seriously, I am totally, head over heels, in complete adoration of these girls. 

Everyday. Even the hard ones. 

Those are my everyday joys. Hop on over to I Should Be Folding Laundry to check out other shots of everyday things. Can't wait to see what others have captured.

What about you? What have you captured this week?

My Story: The Beginning of a Downward Spiral

**This is the next installment of His Story:My Life. To catch up on the first portions of the story, feel free to jump over here.**

I spent most of my childhood in Houston, rather a suburb of Houston. Houston is a good place to be from, and the suburb where we lived was a relatively great place to grow up as a kid. There were lots of other children in my neighborhood, where we filled our days with splashes and games at the neighborhood pool, and filled the evening hours with massive expeditions of Capture the Flag. We were an active family, with soccer games and swim meets keeping the family van moving.

Life after church was just, well, life. All things carried on in a status quo manner, and we were just good people just making our way. There was summer camp, and tents in the backyard, and surprise parties, and orchestra events, and all manner of busyness that goes with a growing a family. And I never knew the difference of the whole God-thing, and never thought to give it a thought.

That was up until my freshman year of high school, when my little world got it's first deep rocking. I was a member of the high school swim team and felt so privileged to be able to spend so much time with my fellow team members. It seemed I had finally found a niche where I felt I belonged, and all the deep insecurities from teasing and striving perfectionism settled into a tolerable rhythm.

But then just a few months into the year, tragedy struck our sheltered little suburb when we heard the news that one of our swim team members had been murdered, along with his older brother and his father. This person, this friend, this team member with whom we had spent many hours in training, was now gone.

Shock, confusion, and great despair spread throughout the community. Their church family was beside themselves. No one could understand how this great family, these upstanding Christians could have been caught up in such violence. They didn't understand where God was in the midst of it all, and for me, on the outside of that church family, it was one more confirmation that church held no lasting benefit for anyone at all.

In the mixed up emotions and angst of my teenage mind, I reasoned that a God who treated his followers like that was not a god to be followed. In the arrogance of my youthful invincibility, I reasoned that I was surely better off on my own, and that church was for the weak, the ignorant, the desperate. And I had already decided that was not to be me. As so I resolved that I was indeed better off on my own anyway. Decidedly, there was no reason to seek after God. He’ll only hang you out to dry and die in the end anyway.

Looking back on those years now, I can easily see how that period of time was like standing at the top of a downward spiral. I was on the edge of the widest circle, moving slowly down, around, and was slowly picking up speed. I just didn’t know it.

At the end of my sophomore year of high school, my family moved to Little Rock, Arkansas, a beautiful little city where no one knew anything about me. I could be whoever and whatever I wanted to be, because no one knew me.

There was a culture shock that was experienced in Little Rock that I did not expect. The racism that thrived in that town of the South ran so deep that both sides of the fence were tainted with ugly words and evil thoughts. I discovered a new kind of teasing at school, as racial slurs were thrown in our direction as my brother and I would walk down halls lined with much darker skin than our own. The tension was palpable and made school a painful thorn in my flesh.

This straight A teacher’s pet began skipping classes for the sake of avoiding the place altogether. I discovered a quiet park where other delinquents gathered and quickly became friends with my fellow ditchers. Truly, there is only so much that a bunch of teenagers can do while avoiding school, and alcohol and cigarettes were always a part of it. I spent many school afternoons out drinking and smoking for hours. I even showed up to my teenage job slightly tipsy one day. Very dumb.

Oh, if that were where my dumb choices stopped, I would rejoice greatly and write it all off. But with each afternoon where I was tipping back booze rather than sitting in typing class, for each day that I was lighting up smokes and kicking back with new friends, I was stepping further onto the downward spiral with the slippery slopes.

By the end of my junior year of high school in Little Rock, Arkansas, I rarely stayed at school for an entire day. My grades had begun to suffer, and my apathy was overwhelming. On a whim, I decided to apply to be a cultural exchange student. At that point, I was looking at anything to avoid having to return to school the following year. I wrote an essay to compete for a scholarship to send me to Ecuador for a year, and won. Crazy!

So the school year ended, I squeaked by to the finish line, and before I knew it, was packing my bags to spend the following year in a small town on the coast of Ecuador.

Oh boy, that downward spiral was beginning to get very slippery. 

Called By a New Name

There was a time in June when I met with a group of amazingly godly Maasai women. These women had been trained previously by other Kenyan women in biblical storytelling, and I was there to follow up with the women and hear their stories. I have written previously about the experience here. It was humbling and beautiful and inspiring and sad and challenging and so much more, all at the same time. These women toil, often in places where there are no other Christians. They alone are the pillars of the Church, carrying the torch of salvation to regions who have not yet seen the Light yet.

When our session came to a close, the ladies were milling around, chatting and gabbing as only women can, (that doesn’t change from culture to culture) when it was asked if I had been given a Maasai name. When I answered an honest, “No,” it was decided that today was the day that I would be called by a new name.

And so they stood and discussed for a moment, and then announced.

Nassirian, meaning “Woman of Peace.”

At first I was taken aback, humbled, embarrassed.

In my head, I heard this: “It’s only because they don’t know you. If they knew you better, they’d take it back. Your life is full of turmoil, strife. There is no peace in you about anything.”

And yet the name was spoken, and in all grace, I received it, holding back the welling up in my eyes for fear that they might be misunderstood. My heart swelled, suddenly blocking my throat, making it difficult to swallow, as it thumped louder and stronger there.

I smiled humbly. “Thank you for that name. I am greatly honored. I will treasure it for life.”

And the conversation quickly moved on to name others. But me, I was stuck there. My world paused. No one knew it but me. They will never know how that one moment in time will forever be memorialized in my heart. It will forever be a stone that I carry with me, just as the Israelites carried a stone up out of the Jordan River.

Thus far has the Lord brought me, and I have this stone to show for it. Nassirian.

One other name was given, and then the rain began to fall. Gently, softly, big cleansing drops pouring forth from Heaven.

He has heard the name. Nassirian. Woman of Peace.

He ordained the name, and though I am not yet who He has created me to be, He is doing a new thing, and new Name has been given, so that I too know where He is taking me.

The water of Heaven baptized my hair, running a stream down my cheeks, dripping off the end of my nose. It has been washed. I have been washed, and He is doing a new thing.

Blessed are the peacemakers, for they will be called sons of God.

I have read it often. I have pondered what it would be like to be called a peacemaker, and not in the sense of pleasing man, but in the sense of embodying grace and mercy, letting gentleness be evident to all. I can see her, the woman who God is calling out. I can almost touch her, and on good days, I feel my heart consumed by her. She is gentle in tone. She speaks with wisdom, and faithful instruction is on her tongue. She demonstrates mercy to all other fellow sojourners, knowing that not one of us has yet reached our destination. Her hurts have been many, her bruises in various stages of healing. Because she knows the pain of mankind, and knows the comfort of the Comforter, she is able to offer comfort to all others in her path. A safe place to land.

I can see her.

And on quiet, dark mornings, when I beat the sun and children in rising, and I greet my Savior with crusty eyes, bare feet, opens hands, and moldable heart, He welcomes her to the day, this woman of peace.

He calls me by a new name. And I will ever praise Him.

Today I am linked up to ShoutLaughLove, as we journey to joy together.

On Change and Gratitude

The breaking of the habit of anger starts with two words:

Thank You.

When anger has taken up residence for so long, eyes for the divine, the appreciation for smiles, the ability to give and receive joy is quenched, closed, suppressed. Where others see hope and possibility, the angry heart sees only doors that have slammed shut and evil intentions. It is a strange phenomenon, oozing in slowly, quietly, until the fleshly heart is hard and cold, a stone void of feeling and responding in love. A heavy lump of nothing, taking up space in the chest, making it difficult to breathe.

But a simple thank you, primitive, basic, desperate.

Thank you for the day to try again. Thank you for the mercy for another chance.

Life-generating.

And suddenly there is a pulse; a small blip on an otherwise flat line. Deep red river flows to cold, hard darkness, and precious oxygen is sucked into the lungs that have forgotten how to breathe. The first inhalation in a very long time. That which was black and dead is being transformed, renewed, brought back to life.

Thank you for the smile.

Thank you for the deep, belly laughter of three beautiful little girls.

Thank you for the little girls.

Breathe in. Breathe out. Blood pumps and flows, less constricted. The strained breath of before relaxes, diaphragm rhythmically flowing up and down, up and down. Life giving. Life restoring. Life healing. Life generating. Breathe.

Eyes for the divine are opening, the Father’s love gracing His children. Every bit of joy, every smile, every giggle, every moment of contentment and peace is the grace of the Father, manifesting itself in everyday interactions. He reveals Himself. He shows His mercy, His beauty, His grace in all of creation, asking if His children are aware enough to see.

See Me, That I Am.

And in those moments of awareness, I say thank you. 

And so a new journey of healing and renewal has begun, with a simple acknowledgement of gratitude, and counting of blessings received.

#1. Thank you, Abba Father, for new life.




Today I am choosing to join a community of grace and gratitude, counting the blessings that God has given. Gratitude will be the new habit that replaces the dead chaff that is being blown away. In the counting of blessings, I must be intentional to look for them, asking God continually for eyes to see and ears to hear.

What about you? What you thankful for? Have you counted your blessings lately? Would you like to  join me in the journey of counting one thousand, and beyond, gifts? 


Take a look over at A Holy Experience, full of beautifully raw and humble writings of a journey to God,  to join the community.

Some Habits Must be Broken

There are words, themes, lessons of sorts that have been swirling around my head for quite some time. It has stumped me, unable to move forward in words and thoughts until this is sorted out. I know that God is teaching, transforming, so I search for a quiet moment on this precious Sabbath to process and decipher what it all is. By God's grace, now I sit alone, away from the tugs of little hands and demands of household chores, with people milling all around in laid back, African style, and a welcoming latte resting in front of me. The foam of the drink has been artfully shaped into a gentle heart, wispy and light, reminding of of what it is that God is after. Mine. My heart. The steam rises up as I struggle to offer up these thoughts and words.

Speak Lord. Your servant is listening. God of order and comfort, bring order to the tornado of thoughts. 

God, I hear you speaking.

He speaks healing.

He speaks comfort.

He speaks joy.

He speaks gratitude.

He speaks peace.

He speaks Life.

Anger is a habit, detrimental, devastating, destroying habit, but a habit nonetheless. Learned. Practiced. Mastered. It starts out small. Someone offends, betrays, wrongs in some way. I feel the offense and take it in. I welcome it in to unpack and make itself at home. It dwells, and welcomes its sisters, bitterness, resentment, and rage. They are messy houseguests, but stay for quite some time. They begin to call the shots. 

In a move of protection from further offense, I callously write the person off, shrugging of the hurt as no big deal. Doesn’t bother me. I don’t need that in my life.

So in the name of defending self, in response to a small hurt, a small corner of the heart hardens, blackens, and dies. I don’t feel it because it was small, an inconspicuous death numbed by the sense of justification and gall. It crept in unnoticed and now sits quietly, brewing, waiting to spread.

The first death took a small toll, though ire and disgust glazed the view. But by the third or fourth death, the response is a killer on autopilot, and the funeral is swift and emotionless. The mourners stand on the graves of previous victims, as the cemetery is becoming quite crowded. There is no thanks for things seen, or unseen. Nothing can be offered up, not even condolences for the tragic passing, as the true tragedy lies in the lack of vision for what is happening. The eyes are closed to the divine, and only hurt lingers. Gratitude is dead.

And so the cycle is formed, the habit established. Anger has moved in, as it alone can live in the blackness of a dead heart. Lifeblood cannot pump to those regions. Light cannot dwell with anger. Growth cannot compete with despair. A slow shut down has begun.

And yet He has spoken Life. The heart can only house one feeling at a time. It can only be filled with one spirit at a time. Life and Death will not cohabitate. Light and darkness with not reside side by side. Anger and peace will not live together. Mercy and disgust will not hold hands. Gratitude has no dwelling with such darkness ruling the land. So when He speaks Life, He speaks change, transformation.

He speaks a new thing, just as He is calling His children into a new creation, with a new name.

But then this habit must first be broken.