You would've also been impressed with what our team did with eight (nine?) 300 ml glass bottles of Krest (bitter lemon soda, deelish!), an already empty (not by us, I promise) beer bottle and some water. You could only imagine the sense of accomplishment we felt when we performed "Silent Night" and "Jingle Bells" with these instruments. And you had to be there and, to be blunt, on our squad, to fully enjoy the comedic genius of Ben Eppinger and Emily Rhea.

 

But of course, to make this a truly well-rounded New Year's Eve, I had my share of tears along with the belly-aching, imma-pee-myself laughter. 

You see, one of the few, if any, expectations/hopes I had as I embarked on this crazy trek was to fall in love with God. In the past few weeks, I've been getting schooled about what love truly is. I even had a chance to share with some young Kenyan women the idea that Jesus is our bridegroom. 

I've been reminding myself that I'm spending this year recovering from being Martha to become more like Mary. What I realized ten minutes before it became 2009 was that falling in love is scary. It dawned on me the reason why I don't think I've been "truly, madly, deeply" (thank you, Savage Garden) in love: because it means I have to let my guard down. 

Perhaps this is blatantly clear to most of you, but if you're in love with someone, if you do love someone, you risk getting hurt. Getting intimate will mean getting uncomfortable. I didn't want to take that chance with a person, but now I see it's not the same with Jesus.  

Being vulnerable to Him is not a gamble; while the stakes are high, the cross is proof that he put Himself out there, on the line, to love me. 

I used to get tired of people praying over me that He loves me. That's it? I'd wonder; but that's so obvious, I'd protest. Why I can't get a sexier kind of prophesy? Something involving me curing x number of babies from AIDS in month y, you know? 

Yet hearing the simple but deep truth that He loves me never fails to make me cry. And with tears, I confessed that this month of being in the desert, literally and spiritually, left me so dry and thirsty. Then Summer prayed briefly over me – that He's delighted in me – and I was so stunned, yet again, that He. Loves. Me.

"My heart is yours," I hear God say in a song we sang over a bonfire tonight. Love as strong as death, jealousy demanding as the grave. . . this is His love for me. 

Yeah, it's gonna hurt a lot. There's a lot about me I know needs to change. I'm coming to terms that I'm not as wonderful as I thought I was. But, I sense that that's not the end of it, there's no need to despair.

He still loves me. "I am my beloved's and my beloved is mine." His love is transforming me, but He doesn't love me any more or less where I am right here, right now.  

Towards the end of my last post I mentioned how Allison sensed something holding me back from really going for it on this trip, as if I were just letting the World Race pass me by while I was standing still. The first month I was held back by some homesickness and nostalgia, but I was pretty sure I got over that hurdle by now. 

Then what, if anything, is holding me back? As I thought about it, I came to the conclusion that my very desire a World Race of my own, unique to and authentic for me is what's keeps me from drinking the kool aid. I dunno about my fellow pilgrims, but I am tired of the World Race lingo that's sprung up, some more than others: choosing in, it's okay not to be okay, pressing in, this is Africa, and welcome to the World Race. I mean, I'm tired of typing out "the World Race" and "the Race." Gaaaah, it drives me nuts.

Our debrief at the beginning of this month was like a pep rally and pep talk from our coaches: we were pumped to pray boldly, filled with a "double portion" (another one of those) of faith, encouraged to expect and "great things" from God. But as our team got out on the field, we had some good passes, and a field goal here and there but no touchdown. 

What gives? For me, I chalked it up to persevering in faith – that God is willing and able to do great things we didn't see; that when the young boy I shared the gospel with said he wanted to accept Christ, he meant it.

Why do I write all this? (Because) I don't know. Eight months is both a long and a short amount of time I've got left of this trek. As we debriefed with Allison and Jake, all that I've been processing is nothing new to them. It's all going according to plan, and (ugh) that's what pisses me off [I said all this laughing all the while]. 

Whose plan?! No offense to the leadership of AIM intended, but I don't want this experience to follow your formula or template. I don't want the time I have left to be categorized into the patterns that you've noticed. I don't even dare place my own expectations of all this.

And yet. . . that's completely okay, say Jake the logistics guru and Allison the awesome squad leader. I don't know what to think of this month, with all the misgivings and stretching and challenges and victories and joys. . . but that doesn't bother God. We might experience tension between polar opposites, but God is not two-dimensional or dichotomous.

So if anyone is reading this that actually has never met me and is considering this crazy way to spend eleven months. . . please don't imagine or forecast it based on my ramblings. I'm telling you not to drink the kool aid – but that doesn't mean you shouldn't do it. . .

Does that make any sense? If it does, that's okay. And if it doesn't, that's okay too.

So, by God's goodness and grace, I made it through the third month of the World Race. Hallelujah! Only eight months left. . . ah, the passage of time is such a contradiction. At the start of our ministry in each country, 3 weeks = an eon. By the time we've acclimated to the place and rhythm and the people, our ministry concludes and we debrief, preparing to repeat the cycle in our next destination.

It's been an interesting month. I don't know if I want to describe it as pivotal as I still feel like I'm close to the beginning of this journey, but the path certainly took a turn. The honeymoon is over, and different realities have set in for me.

One of my teachers in high school said that physics is simple; it's not easy, but it's simple. What he said applies to a lot in life, but I found this month especially that this description is most applicable to love.

Last month, I had been reading through the book of John and his account of Jesus washing the disciples' feet struck me.

Now before the Feast of the Passover, when Jesus knew that his hour had come to depart out of this world to the Father, having loved his own who were in the world, he loved them to the end. During supper, when the devil had already put it into the heart of Judas Iscariot, Simon's son, to betray him, Jesus, knowing that the Father had given all things into his hands, and that he had come from God and was going back to God, rose from supper. He laid aside his outer garments, and taking a towel, tied it around his waist. Then he poured water into a basin and began to wash the disciples' feet and to wipe them with the towel that was wrapped around him.

- John 13:1-5 (ESV)

Then Ian invited me to read a three-part blog series he's been working on, which I hope is published on his blog by the time I post this one. He writes of the hype versus the reality of the World Race. Please check it out!

I had finished reading Genesis a week earlier when Ian shared his thoughts, so the story of Jacob came readily to mind as I mentally responded to them. Jacob is sent to Laban to escape from his twin brother's fury and to find a wife among his kin. As he stops by a well to ask some folks if they know Laban, they point to Rachel, Laban's daughter. 

Now as soon as Jacob saw Rachel. . . and the sheep of Laban. . . Jacob came near and rolled the stone from the well's mouth and watered the flock of Laban. . . Then Jacob kissed Rachel and wept aloud. . . Jacob loved Rachel. And he said, "I will serve you seven years for your younger daughter Rachel." . . . So Jacob served seven years for Rachel, and they seemed to him but a few days because of the love he had for her. Then Jacob said to Laban, "Give me my wife. . . for my time is completed." So Laban gathered together all the people. . . and made a feast. But in the evening he took his daughter Leah and brought her to Jacob. . . And in the morning, behold, it was Leah! And Jacob said to Laban, "What is this you have done to me? Did I not serve with you for Rachel?. . .

- Genesis 29:10, 18, 20-23, 25 (ESV)

Perhaps I can empathize with Jacob. Please don't misunderstand me; I'm not disappointed by any means. Despite having spent a year researching and preparing myself, I shed all the preconceptions and expectations. I surrendered so to avail myself fully to Jesus.

Yet it appears even after the first few months, I haven't been running this race full speed. That is, everyone else is sprinting and I'm jogging, per Allison (those weren't her exact words, but I think that's the sentiment). What's holding me back? Am I subconsciously trying to repeat someone else's World Race, one that I might've experience vicariously? It's quite possible.  

That's the first line of a praise song I first heard over ten years ago. It sounds rather pretty, but putting it into practice is not. This first week here in Lodwar, in the Turkana district of Kenya, was a rather stark snapshot of this realization.

I learned my lesson three years ago, while on missions in Honduras with CTI Music Ministries and Youth For Christ, to be gracious in response to the assumptions and comments made regarding my ethnicity. Was it the fault of the kids we'd minister to that to them, Asia = China + Japan? Even back home in the States, where most Americans (more or less) are exposed to and learn of different cultures and such, I've confronted my share of racism.

Could I set the bar of diversity awareness so high as I travel overseas? Only if I really wanted to be disappointed. So I haven't.

Here I am, in Africa, for not one but three months. So while getting pelted with shouts of "China! China!" or cheap mimicry of Mandarin à la Rosie O'Donnell and questions such as "Are you Chinese? Are you Japanese?" doesn't hurt much the first seventeen times.

The best is when [here's where you pretend you can see me roll my eyes] a few kids contort their faces as to make their eyes small. If these were isolated incidents, it's like, whatever, right? But after 53^rd time (give or take), they leave a mark.

Being here costs more patience than I had thought and I'm caught short. And it's a little awkward when the little ones just stare warily ‘cause while mzungus (Swahili for "white person") are far and few in between in these parts, I'm a novelty. It takes a little longer for them to approach me ‘cause they're still trying make sense of me.

I guess the timing couldn't be any better. The stark reality of Christmas is that Jesus came as a foreigner to the world. He lays down His divinity and clothes Himself with the frail humanity of a newborn baby. Shortly after being born, His family flees, making them a refugee for a time. Then when He does return to Israel, the family settles in a city of a not-so-hot reputation.

I don't mean to analogize myself with Jesus by any means, but I feel like I get to identify all the more closely with Him this year. A foreign foreigner (mmmm, double portion). I've lost count of the times I explain what it means to be a hyphenated American. Perhaps this is all part of the cross I'm called to carry as I follow Him.

Frankly, it sucks and all that keeps me from letting go altogether is the promise (which I totally don't feel right now but it's not always about our emotions, right?) that such trials and suffering (could I really call it that?) bring me that much closer to Christ. This is a cross I can't share with my teammates, who were wonderful listeners as I tearfully vented the frustration of it all.

It's such a delightful truth that though the sorrow may come for the night, the joy comes with the morning. I can only hope that I don't have to carry this cross for much longer. In the meantime, God has given me grace to show grace to all I meet here.

It's not quite giving sight to the blind or raising the dead, but it ain't no small miracle.