Free Agency

I always seem to take things personally even when I tell myself that I don't take things personally. When my fifth grade students act up for a sub, I sometimes blame the sub, or I blame the kids for showing out in front of a stranger. Inevitably, I feel responsible for their behaviors even when I am not around. I take it personally. When my junior high kids at church participate with shoulder shrugs or "I don't knows" I blame the curriculum, their attention deficits and their backgrounds. But in the end, I always feel I can do more with them. I feel like I'm not being much of a factor. I take it personally. Same thing goes when I lose a friend, or when I haven't been as close to a friend in some time. I blame their kids, I blame their schedules, sometimes even their values, but in the end it always comes back to me. Did I do enough as a friend? Was I being judgmental? Was I not kind enough? Did I open my mouth and say something stupid? I take it personally.

And it's the same feeling I have when someone leaves my church.

It's a heart check for sure. With a church this large, I doubt I know half of the people who regularly attend, much less leave. But the friends who do hit a nerve, that's for sure. There's been lots of articles recently as well, about how the church (not necessarily the one I attend) is dying, how attendance is dropping, how much men hate church and an overall dissatisfaction with anything religious or Christian. It's a trend that was foretold in 2 Timothy 4:3--For the time is coming when people will not endure sound teaching, but having itching ears they will accumulate for themselves teachers to suit their own passions (ESV).

I can't say I'm that surprised or that the aspect of leaving church or any institution is far removed from my own experiences. My own family seemed to move every summer. My favorite football team, the Houston Oilers left an entire city! Hakeem Olajuwon, my all-time favorite Houston Rocket, didn't even retire in Houston. Moving all my life, I met plenty of teachers in new schools. Some I never saw again. I even left Houston myself once I was married. Leaving isn't anything new under the sun but I think the reasons why we do are ever elaborate. While my daughter played travel softball, we were always meeting a family who was one their newest team.

In a sense, we have put our lives, especially the life we have with Jesus as a sort of free agency. Who do you know anymore that makes commitments? If our sports culture is any indication, our souls can be bought by the highest bidder. This is true on some accounts. There's something attractive about something new. A church has recently moved into a new building up the road. Some of our congregation members have left ours for theirs. I wonder if the new pew (hey, some churches now don't even use pews anymore) smell is still evident in the air.

There's something attractive with the material value of something new. A new phone, a new computer, an updated model, a new car. We want and want. Our church life is no different. As a consumer society, we want the church to make us feel better, to feed us. When's the next big event? Can I get a coffee and a Danish with that sermon? Wow, look at those awesome screens! This church has a band! My church is no different. We have a new café that sells cinnamon rolls and diet Coke. Our worship team is superb at belting out the newest Christian hits. My church isn't that different from what I just described above. But the difference, at least for me, is the feeling I have for the people inside those walls.

For me, I don't mind the corny welcome handshakes before the sermon. I don't mind the robo-calls from my pastor or the fact that I think there's a huge hole in men's ministry that can be served (and yes, I'm part of that problem too) and aren't, or that we have guest pastors who I have zoned out on once or twice. Regardless of all those petty nuances, it's the people.

I know there are those people out there that don't go to church on a regular basis. While I might find it somewhat skeptical that one can keep a relationship with God strong without regular church attendance, for me I know it's all but true. The months I spent away during the summer while my daughter played softball were pretty grueling on me in the long run. I need the relationships of people, serving side by side, the feeling of accountability when the truest form of accountability is with me and God. Being away was not something I needed, despite what others might have said to me at the time about being with my family. I wasn't even much of a father during those softball times. I could have been better, that's for sure.

I now that people who don't attend church think there's a hypocrite behind every corner. I'm one too. But the Holy Spirit prunes away when I get too beyond myself. Sure, I've called out people for not journaling as a way to help them study the Bible. And I've been known to make comments at home about why my friends, some in my own life group, don't even have their own kids involved with the 11 o'clock hour table talk, but I only know what my heart tells me. I know that what I am really trying to say is that my family and I need certain aspects of church and without it we are not as good as we want to be. I just have a bad way of saying it.

I also don't know every situation. I now how hard it was when our kids were younger to get them up and dressed. The days when my son was throwing tantrums at church are still fresh enough for me to understand that. I am blessed with a job that gives me time to serve in different capacities. As a Christ follower, I want to serve. If the church sponsors those activities, that's even better. If I get to serve with friends, even more so.

So for those that haven't found a church home, or have allowed someone to enter their heart and wreck their experiences, I hope they find a community of believers that will walk alongside them. No one can do this life on their own.

I do miss my friends who have left. I miss my friends who still attend too, the ones I don't see as often as I'd like. Sometimes I email them, a text perhaps, and there is sometimes no reply. How else can I feel but personal when it gets that close? I see a Facebook post about finding a new church, or those cryptic "it's time to move one" kind of posts. I know that God places people in your life, both good and bad. Sometimes he wants to teach you something about life, mostly about yourself. Right now I think God is teaching me something about myself too. My reactions to seeing someone go without a proper goodbye probably need some refining. What's awesome is that those who have left our church are finding new ways to serve, new ways to love and new opportunities to tell their story.

My place is home. I'm seeing new faces each week. Perhaps there's a family out there looking to make those connections too. Maybe they want the type of connection with someone that goes beyond a "like" on a Facebook posts, the ones Christians send en masse about the persecution of Hobby Lobby or why they love Chic-fil-A so much. Christianity is not about our eye-rolling attempts to fight a culture war with department stores that don't say "Merry Christmas." It's not about judging women for wearing yoga pants or wishing ill on those who voted Obama. It's not the cinnamon rolls at our café or the new hipster musical director who plays all my favorites in slightly different keys to make them seem new.

In the end, none of us are going to be under some Methodist banner, sitting in heaven cliques, wondering why we haven't seen the arch angel Gabriel in a week. Did he go over to that other church? You think he's just busy with work? With those kids, I wouldn't come here either? None of that is even going to matter.

So, today, no more taking it personally. Love who is here. Love who leaves too. And make sure to love the ones coming in. Get past the corny welcomes and free gift cards. There are relationships to be had in the midst of the noise. Taking it personal? I wouldn't have it any other way.

These Cornerstones: Brookport Mission Trip Final Blog

I need to remember the next time I'm on a winter mission trip, take the next Monday off! Finally feeling like myself again, more than 2 weeks removed. Today, Kelcy,

Kelcy and Lisa making buckeyes

 

a young lady at Murray State who we basically "adopted" posted a picture of our group t-shirt.  I wore mine on Sunday, and I've had more than a few occasions to speak about the trip with people from my church and random strangers (like you, miss Verizon lady who helped me upgrade to my ridiculously expensive iPhone6!).

From left: Nate, Maddie, Brooke, Vic, Miranda, Miss Lucille, Rocky, Me, Lisa, Catie and Sarah

Then, with every intention of coming home to serve my wife, I end up being sick. Not only that, but my good-feeling rainbow lasted about 2 minutes. It's not cool how I can be so intuitive to her feelings and then turn around and be so dull to them. So, advice to any future mission workers--don't come home and complain. Trust me.

Her week was one where she was dealing with sick kids on her two snow days. My son promptly hurled on our clean bed sheets on Tuesday, which sent my wife to the nearest laundromat on one of the coldest days in January. My daughter felt ill too. I just contacted the illness that was still lingering in the home upon my return. The devil knows how to use our immune systems to his advantage.

It wasn't his only trick that week, especially on my family. One of the girls who could not travel with us had problems of her own which directly influenced our mood. Her mother has been dealing with brain cancer (not sure of the duration, but cancer in that area would be a major cause of concern) and she was reluctant to make the trip. That week, her mom went into the doctor to set up surgery, which they ended up pushing to the end of the month. We ended up praying for Ashley there in the van, and when we said our devotions, because most of the group knew her, especially Brooke who is a best friend. Sadly, Ashley's story does not end there. Upon our return, Ashley's mother fell into a coma and later passed just a few days back. Such an awful feeling it must be to lose a mother. I don't think I'd be ready at any age, and Ashley is in college. Young girl with a tremendous weight to carry.

Brooke was beset by another factor earlier in the week. A year ago, she went on a mission trip to Haiti. She's since come back totally transformed to the nth degree than she already was (she gave her life to Christ on a mission trip to Alabama about 4 years ago, one where my daughter served as well). Well, one of the special needs children she met there, Naika, was born with hydrocephalus which causes swelling in the brain. Shortly after her own surgery where a shunt was placed to alleviate the swelling, she passed away. You can read some of her story and her family's lives here.

The trip started with a death in my family as well. My aunt Rachel passed after a short battle with cancer herself. What a woman of faith. I will always crave her macaroni salad and remember her laughter. She was one of many sisters to my step-father. She came to live with us when I was in junior high. Despite the trouble I was and regardless of the divorce that separated our families, she always proved that love can conquer all things. I know my sister took the news pretty hard, and all I wanted to do was somehow be there in Texas for the Castillo family.

I can't say that these stories of death or strange coincidences are anything new to any trip. Satan is always at work. He surely wasn't even done with me or my family. While away, my wife's family dealt with the effects of alcohol abuse and a defiance of God's authority. While I'm not going into certain specifics because much is still ongoing, I will say that you can pray for my brother-in-law and his family.

On our last night together, Rocky had all of us perform a "Talking Behind Your Back" ceremony of sorts. One by one we sat in front of the group while the group spoke indirectly about what God was doing in your life, of how they saw God in you. Powerful. We were all in tears much of the night until way past midnight. If the bonds of this group weren't already defined because of earlier friendships, they were sealed there in that church basement. Such power in the words God's gives us when we life one another up in Spirit. Such power in relinquishing all the hurts that bind us, of which there were many. I know God is saddened to know that these rocks, these cornerstones of faith, have backgrounds in brokenness that is still unhealed. Alcoholism, atheist siblings and parents, temptation and broken hearts. Without God, none of us would have been there on that trip. With God we were all made beautiful, and all of our plans were His plans and not ours. Such power in giving that away to a God who wants to steer the ship of our lives into safe harbor.

Indeed the tapestry of coincidences I always find within a group were very evident once again. One of the girls, Sarah, reminded me of one such story. When we first got Lisa into our family and changed her school, Sarah was one of her very first friends. She lived down the street--where she still continues to live--went to our church and befriended Lisa right away. I have pictures of them back in junior high just before trick or treating on Halloween and ones like these.

Sarah and Lisa

 Once they were in high school, they remained friends, perhaps not as close as both would have liked. Lisa was an athlete and was always surrounded by softball girls and baseball boys. Sarah was in band. The one thread that kept them in common was being in youth group.

In 2011, a swath of tornadoes repeatedly hit Alabama for 4 consecutive days in April. The news was reported here in Ohio, and typically all you do is watch the destruction, listen to the stories of perseverance and maybe make a donation. I'm not sure all the ins and outs or the conversations of who inspired whom, but our church ended up recruiting over 50 youth and adults to help in clean up. Those efforts led to camera crews and stories in our local paper. And who was interviewed?--Sarah. It was her heart that brought many of those college kids together for their first ever mission trip when they were in high school. In a sense, if it weren't for her endeavors, Brooke would not have met Christ because it happened on that trip. My daughter most likely has a different path because of it as well. Vic, Miranda and Catie (you can read some of their testimonies on that link) also went on that trip.  Much like the interweaving of stories with Miss Lucille and her former student, each person there in Illinois have helped shaped someone else's life, brought them closer to God or got them to see a person of faith in a new way, simply by saying "yes" to Jesus. They sure have helped shape mine.

And dear reader, this is my hope and prayer, that by sharing my stories is that it will allow someone to question their heart. It may inspire them to go on a mission trip, or maybe just to pick up their Bible. I am beginning to understand that I don't have to see someone literally get on their knees because of my experiences (and that would be strange, let's be honest). I'm just a conduit for the Holy Spirit. God doesn't need me to bring glory to him but it sure feels good to know that someone as insignificant as me can somehow have that type of affect on someone else. In my worse I am just me. He provides everything in me that is my best.

 I terribly miss my college crew. I know there's a scene in Miss Lucille's life movie where she gets to move into her new home. Cue the inspirational music. I know there's a scene in the life movies of Brooke when she exits the plane on the tarmac of an airport in Port-a-Prince, leaving a life of comfort for one in Haiti. The look on her face is priceless. Cue the tears. And other milestones too. Maddie spending a Friday studying for a test that's coming up in two weeks, a Chipotle bag of chips by her side. Vic at Bowling Green doing Bowling Green things (being a sneaky little snake--shameless inside joke). Catie in Vietnam looking like a natural in some village. Rocky preaching on a Sunday, Lisa in the audience, proud and loving. "Blue Eyes" Miranda cutting someone's hair and making them fall in love with her with just a smile. Sarah

Crying on My Apple Dumpling: Brookport Mission Trip Blog, Day 5

There was a moment last week when God specifically tapped me on the shoulder and pointed my direction to what was going on in front of me. I could hear him telling me to observe like I always do. That's one thing God has given me, is that eye for detail. It's helped me write stories when I was in junior high. It's helped me read situations with adults and it helped me navigate my way through college poetry sessions. While I have been patted on the back for some of the stories I have told, there's nothing like seeing a life story written by God unfold right before your eyes. He's the best scriptwriter the Oscars never acknowledged.

I found it ironic that God had sent Miss Lucille Shannon our way to begin with. Her house was our first job in Brookport. We had already begun working on it before we even met her. All of us were anxious to meet her, as mission work is truly about serving a community member in need. In she walks, all smiles and wide-eyed appreciation. I knew in my heart that Miss Shannon was someone special. When I found out she was a retired teacher, I told myself, "No way, Lord."  There was no way God would send me on a trip to meet a teacher. He knows what's been on my mind, that's for sure.

It was another God coincidence that Miss Shannon had spent over 20 years as a fifth grade teacher--the very grade I have been since 2011. It's the same grade I kick around like a stone. The same grade I sometimes ache to think about. The testing, all 29 of them, loud, with issues and all varying degrees of need. I saw myself in Miss Shannon. She talked about her classroom and her kids as if they were running through the house. I could tell she told great stories, and that she was one of those no-nonsense but loving type of people. She told me that other teachers would always say, "Miss Shannon, I don't know how you can say what you just said to a parent," and she'd reply, "Cause they know it comes from love." I know that the experiences she had were very similar to my own, regardless if the town was small. There were kids coming to her broken and needy. Kids coming to her with barely a support system or a home to call their own. The uniqueness of Miss Shannon's experience was that she had also taught cousins, siblings, sons and daughters. A big city doesn't always offer those family dynamics.

Each day we were served lunch by another local church. And I mean it was down home country love. Meatloaf, soup beans, blueberry cheesecake, made by Mr. Dale, the 2 Barbaras, Miss Shannon and a few other volunteers. We would all start the meal with a prayer, sometimes a quick one, just to alleviate the smells coming from the kitchen. On this particular afternoon, a younger daughter (probably in her late 20's) of one of the Barbaras, came in to see her mom. She had noticed Miss Shannon across the room but Miss Shannon hadn't recognized her. Now I've seen older students before, but the oldest I have are in college, my daughter's age. By the time the girl came around, Miss Shannon recognized her.

After a hug, Miss Shannon introduces her to all of us, letting us know that she was an all around best-student-ever kind of kids. The rest here is as close as possible to the retelling:

I had a kid that year. Trouble trouble. But he had no family and all sorts of problems. Well, the school wanted to kick him out, and I told them, "no way, you can't kick this kid out." Then I told my class, she was in it. You remember, right? Barbara's daughter knows exactly who Miss Shannon is referring to.

Well, I get to telling the class why he needs to stay. The class was always used to my stories. Everybody knows Miss Lucille likes to tell them stories. I told 'em, "every one of us is one event away from not having a home. Or from not having a mother or a father. Don't make no difference between you and him." 

Barbara's daughter nods in agreement.

So listen here, pulling her closer. All this time, Miss Shannon has her arm around her. This one gets to high school. They get a chance to nominate a teacher for teacher of the year. It was that story she used to nominate me. The topic was 'What teacher inspired you?'

I'm going to admit that men do cry. Especially me. And sometimes we cry in our apple dumpling dessert.

For the past several months, despite the feeling of rejuvenation at my job, I still felt at times that the work I was doing wasn't amounting to much. That goes with the service and volunteer work with the youth at my church as well. I didn't realize that I had basically been asking God for a limited contract. One that I could sign that promised I'd see some tangible results. Can I get my own this-kid-came-to-Jesus story? Can I get some satisfaction that some kid down the line remembers the rants and the lunch bunches and the semi-sermons? But I wasn't really asking God for a miracle, I was asking for a sign. I was testing him. So when Rocky, our leader, brought up Gideon from the Bible, it had cemented for me what I had already feared. Stop asking for signs or the blessings may not be evident when they arrive. So in that embrace of a former student and Miss Lucille I saw my life, and the lives of all the teachers I loved, for all the teachers that are grading papers on a weekend, buying supplies out of their own money. Finally, the spotlight was off of me and onto what was more important--others.

And so despite some of the other frustrations of the trip--like not having my breathing machine!--I came to love the little nuances and annoyances. As I sit here days removed, I'm thankful for the shooting ache I had in my right knee every time I hoisted myself up into the church van. I miss the midnight trips to the bathroom in my bare feet when the weather was 7 degrees and the side door had to be propped open to allow the water hose from the shower trailer to run. I miss the pile up of outstanding young women in the back of the van, with their lack of self-importance but with an abundance of selfies. I miss the trim and sanding work that gave my arm twitches of carpal tunnel, or the fact I was rationing my underwear and clean shirts.

I had a student today who was reading my shirt I received from Brookport. It was given to us by the Presbyterian pastor (who said that we Methodist are just as bad about having a shirt for every occasion) without worrying about order forms. The date on the shirt is from November 2013, and the student of mine said, "That shirt is old." I told him that was when a tornado hit. "That's where I was all week working on getting Miss Lucille back into her home."

"You help people who are homeless?"

I guess you could say that. It's on my official credentials.
Reynaldo Cordova, home builder. Heart wrecked. 

Amenities from God: Report to Brookport Mission Trip, Day 4

Today was the day I gave up on showering. In every blog I've read about mission trips there's rarely the gem story that gives in graphic detail what it's like being in a modified camp setting within a group. Almost inevitable, you find out way too much about the digestive system of the people in your group. In Oklahoma, there's even picture evidence of oversharing. The same thing happens amid of group of college kids. I thought going in that they wouldn't be relaxed enough with an adult around to be themselves. Nothing could be further from the truth.

Did I mention shower issues? The church we are housed in has no showers, but they have a FEMA inspired shower trailer behind the building. It has 4 stalls. It's a tight fit, but there's privacy. What we don't have is hot water. The cold spell that has hit this area has been a nightmare on the poor farmer who has been working on getting us up and running all week. The first day we had no water at all because a valve was stripped. The second day we had working showers. It was cold going to and from the building but having some hot water and a clean body was worth the cold trip. Then the wind chill dipped further.

The following day we had zero water of any kind. The pipes froze. When the water returned on Wednesday, one of the frozen ones burst so that the water was flooding the trailer. The poor farmer/handyman was the most frustrated of all. Each time he fixed a pipe or connected a new hose, the weather came from behind and undid his work. Eventually we were taken in by Pastor Jeff, a leader from the local Methodist church who has been around the work areas, dropping off supplies and checking in to make sure we had what we needed. He had invited us to dinner and showers. You had not seen such a happy group in your life.

I was reluctant to even make the trip. I could feel the pressure building from my own lack-of-amenities- frustration. Each day I was reminded of what I had left home, a breathing machine, not enough clothes, my medication, etc., and when I mixed that in with fatigue and my own expectations, I began to see my mood change.

By the time I did shower, I was all but spent. However, the actual experience was not what I had expected. By the time I went in, 9 other showers had already been ran. I didn't think there was much chance for warm water as it was, but when I couldn't figure out how the shower head worked, I ended up basically bathing in ankle deep lukewarm water, as if the basement had flooded on a spring day. I'm freezing, the soap is applied and rinsed by the wringing of a wash cloth, all the while was trying to figure out what to touch, push, twist or pull to have the water release from the shower head. I felt like my kids when they call me from the bath to get them a towel. Except, here I am, a grown man, with the film of soap layered on my semi-wet body like a Popsicle sleeve that won't come off. Who was I going to call?

I tell you these things dear reader in the hopes that you understand that not all mission trips are created equal. Each time I've been away, therein lies different stories of binding, frustration and weariness. What else can I do but laugh about it with you now, share the story and add it to my list of experiences.

After a tremendous meal and a new BBQ sauce recommendation, we headed out bowling. During this trip we met up with a lovely young lady by the name of Kelcy. She is a student at Murray State who introduced herself when we first arrived. Her mom attends church in Mt. Sterling where we are housed. She grew up in the town we were coming to assist. Needless to say, she's been with us this entire trip. She's helped out at the work sites, learned how to play Euchre, attended our marathon late-night Bible studies and even brought another friend too. It's been one of these blessings to have met her. She has repeatedly told us how our group coming to serve her town has inspired her to reacquaint herself with the God she fell in love with as a child. Her presence is a gift that God sends along the way.

Seeing the kids bowl lifted my sense of weariness too. The owner of the establishment came down for a chat and after hearing our story, passed on a game of free bowling and turned on the disco globe for some late-night neon bowling fun. Any other college student a week before they return to school are partying, drinking, avoiding any kind of responsibility. Here are these kids, forgoing the pleasures and comfort of home to work. Many of their friends and parents have been texting them all week. "How is your retreat?" "What are you even doing?" By the looks of them dancing, taking selfies and laughing, I understand why I sometimes don't get answers back from my daughter when I text her during the year. They're living life the only way they know how. With fellowship.

We didn't do much study that night. We shared our Jesus moments in the church parking lot, in a warm van, still laughing and sharing what was on our hearts. It made me think back to the previous night when we studied Gideon from Judges, chapter 6 verse 33 to verse 7:7.  Here's Gideon, a warrior, being summoned by God to fight the Amelikites for their idol worship and to free the Israelites from their rule. Gideon, however has plenty of "ifs" and rebuttals. He puts God to the test more than once to prove Go would be with him on the battlefield. Even with everything we know to be true, we still yearn for the visible signs that God is with us. Oh Gideon, how you're just like me!

In my life, do I choose God's best or do I choose what's left? Even with the proof in his hands (look it up, it has something to do with fleece!), Gideon's army was whittled down to the bare minimum. Perhaps God was teaching Gideon a lesson. If you have full trust, you could have had it all. Since you kept questioning me, I'm going to give you only what you need. Gideon won anyway, but in such a way that showed God had his hands on the battle plans.

This trip has helped me see that I can do more with less. If that means a shower, so be it. If that means a borrowed pillow, that too. We've already been given so much, and in our work, have sometimes felt so weary and frustrated. We have been sanding, spackling and detailing a home for Miss Lucille. But there's God all in, like always. He brings us men and women who have made meals, opened their homes and businesses for the things that get us by. A hot meal, fellowship, a prayer and most importantly, a new friend. New friends rock.

Sacrificing Isaac: Report to Brookport Mission Trip, Day 3

I rarely feel I’m ever prepared for a mission trip or work camp. There’s always a tool resting back in the garage that could have saved us a half day’s work, or a personal item that magnifies some weakness. On this particular trip, I left behind my breathing machine. By Tuesday, the sleep I would have had was interrupted by my endless snoring (luckily I’m in my own room or I would have driven back the 6 hours to retrieve it) that later turned into a sore throat. I keep emptying my suitcase as if somehow it would appear, as if it were hiding under the socks and underwear waiting to be found.

On Monday night, a bed fairy surprised me by supplying me with a pillow and a quilt that has kept me warm all week (yes I forgot my pillow and the two blankets I left in the dryer). It’s been that kind of trip. The first full day working at Miss Lucille’s home, she arrived in the afternoon with coffee mugs filled with assorted candies. She asked us if we liked blueberry cheesecake and sure enough it was on the menu for lunch the next day. And lunch? A local church down the road from our site has been providing meals for us all week. It’s blessings upon blessings. Here we are working to help someone else and we are the ones that have gone without any needs.

Each night we have devotional time where we tell one another where we saw Jesus in action. Among the group of volunteers who have served us meals, one particular gentleman has gone above and beyond. He provided each of us with agape forms of love, from beef jerky to pocket crosses. I’m almost certain there will be another surprise waiting for us tomorrow.

But I will admit that every form of agape and every uplifting moment has kept me from becoming weary. Every time I hike myself up into the church van, my right knee reminds me how overweight and old I am. On Tuesday, we worked well into sundown, pushing through the painting we needed to finish. We were told that Miss Lucille could move in by the end of the week. Looking at the house now, without its flooring, the cabinets and bathroom components still in boxes, it feels like a dauntless task. You wouldn’t know it from the crew. Everyone finds their job. Everyone finds their purpose. It’s a clear example of the Holy Spirit giving a person the strength persevere. No one is an expert. No one is a professional.

At devotional time, our leader Rocky presented to us the story of Abraham and his son Isaac. Abraham has been given a test from God. “Take your son, your only son Isaac, whom you love…..and offer him there as a burnt offering on one of the mountains of which I shall tell you” (Genesis 22). Adam packs the essentials. He brings with him Isaac, a donkey, two servants and cut wood. He had to have had the knife too. The one that would be needed to slay his son. The son that was promised to him by God years ago, the son God told him would be born from Sarah, in her old age.

God could have choses Ishmael, the illegitimate son, or a goat from his own herd. Why did God choose the very son that was a miracle to begin with? Perhaps Abraham had begun to take Isaac for granted. Here was a blessing from God, and perhaps Abraham had not been thankful, perhaps he didn’t quite understand the bigger picture.

In this ongoing story of rebuilding our hearts this week, it’s been time to take a personal inventory. If God had told me to sacrifice the Isaac in my life, what would it be? What blessing was given to me from God that I essentially had nothing to do with? Where is God sending me that involves this metaphorical Isaac?

I texted my wife this week that in all the times I had been away from home, this was the one that I had missed her the most. Not because she would have reminded me to pack my bags correctly, or that she would have offered me comfort in my weakness this week, although I’m sure she would have. It was the fact that is God is pruning me towards a new heart, my wife would be the closest thing to my Isaac. Her and the family.

I wonder if Abraham had these same feelings walking with Isaac up to the mountain. Surely God will provide a substitute for this sacrifice, he must have thought (and in Genesis 22, there are clear indications that Abraham perhaps knew that God had a surprise waiting for him on that mountain altar). When I say “yes” to anything, my first no is to my family. I’m basically binding them up, having them carry the chopped wood up to the mountain, ready to be sacrificed.

I spoke to my son today. He told me he got all A’s on his report card. Back at home there has been one work day sandwiched between snow days. I miss them. While I don’t believe that God closes doors of serving, he does see a way past our own eyesight. Perhaps the first thing after I tell my wife about an upcoming trip, I’ll make sure to add the one essential request I should have known to use the first time I left. “Want to go with?” I can’t wait to see what her answer will be.

The Storms We Try and Nap Through: Report to Brookport Mission Trip, Day 2

The first day at any work site, both from work camps and other mission trips I've attended, are always a patchwork of delays, delegation and expectations. The limitations on supplies are always overtaken by the eagerness of the workers. Instead of a slew of rookie high school kids who are about to embark on real physical labor for the first time, this group has been well tested from experience. It's like bringing an all-star team of Christians to a bible trivia contest. No job seems too big, no task too challenging.

Among the Ohio 9, almost half have been to a foreign country or plan to be in 2015 doing some kind of mission work. Haiti, Tanzania, Puerto Rico, Taiwan, the list goes on. Some of the 9 are looking into careers that will bring them into the mission field. A pastor, a social worker. Almost all have seen the effects of a home wrecked by a tornado or hurricane. Yet, there are moments that even among them cause them to pause and listen. such was the case on our first day.

We drove about ten minutes through rural roads to get to our job site. The new home belongs to a Ms. Lucille Shannon. She's a retired fifth grade teacher who has spent more than 30 years in Brookport. Everyone knows her. Many of the pastors, community members and other youth have been touched by Miss Shannon's presence. The minute she walked into the home to introduce herself we knew right away that we were among someone special. A life touched by God is something so bright you cannot contain its energy.

We ended up putting down our paint rollers to hear her story. Her original home had all but been destroyed. She had been misplaced for over year, still awaiting the day she can finally move back, call it home. As with any tornado survival story, the question always comes: did you have any warning? In tears, she began to tell us how she felt the storm would pass like many before she had been warned about. Living so close to the Ohio River allows some protection for disastrous storms like tornados. "I was going to go and lie down, let it pass," she said. "They've never hit before."

I saw myself in her home on that day, watching her nonchalantly going to her bedroom to allow the storm to rumble past. Perhaps on any other day like that one, she had fallen asleep, only to awaken to see the clouds dispersed and the rain gone. This time, the storm did hit. She felt the rumble of the oncoming disaster. It shook the floorboards and it shimmied a sense of urgency up towards her heart, she remembered. She prayed for Jesus, not for her, she told us, but for her kids who were at work, saved that day because of their jobs. The house was twisted into a slanted trapezoid. The corners had gone from 90 to 35 degrees, as if the tornado reached down its hand and twisted the frame of the home until it leaned inward and outward.

I think we have all been in a position of Miss Shannon, waiting for the impending storm to rattle some windows and make some noise, but in the end we nap through the commotion. The storm will pass, it always does.

The one thing about this God-imitating life is the storms we create, the ones we find ourselves in, do seem to pass. We grow reliant that the emergency broadcast system is really just a courtesy call. It's an "ahem, pardon me," in an otherwise innocuous day. We take score though, weak as we are, because the storms we try and nap through end up becoming the testimonies as to why we don't obey. In just 12 short weeks, I beat smoking. I never touched a drop again in my life and all it took was (fill in the blank). I knew it would all come out alright.

God isn't in the business of storm chasing. He doesn't create the storms either, in my opinion, but he does allow them to effect our lives. If Jesus is so vital to our everyday relationship with the Lord, why do we have rows and rows of self-help books in our stores? We pay for medications with questionable side-effects. We invest our monies in retirement funds to build something that we can take nice pictures form place them in a frame or photo album to make sure we always remember the days on the beach, the days we worked hard for. Those of us that have been in a storm with god always have the best testimonies. They understand their lives in these moments of near death.

Miss Lucille Shannon is a living stone. I'm referring to a passage we studied after a full day's work from the first book of Peter, chapter 2:  As you come to him, the living Stone—rejected by humans but chosen by God and precious to him— ⁵ you also, like living stones, are being built into a spiritual house^[a] to be a holy priesthood, offering spiritual sacrifices acceptable to God through Jesus Christ.

A stone isn't a great form of nature's wonder at first sight. It's shapeless and oblong, gray or a mixture of drab colors and earth. There's nothing special about rocks. Stones we keep in jars, or we skip them along the water. We drill holes through them and make them into jewelry. But a rock? We plow them out of the ground to remove them from the land. We toss them aside. We break them apart. So here's God letting us know that Jesus is a living stone. One word alive and the other inanimate. How can a stone be living? be alive? But somehow God is placing these rocks, our lives, into the shape of a precious, spiritual house. Even the best human architects need special epoxies to keep rocks together, to make them livable. God takes what's there and forms them into one. Somehow the erosion of life, the sanctification stamp of approval forms a house built for His purpose. None of us can brag, because without him we'd be just a measly rock with no purpose.

Tonight we were asked to take an inventory of our spiritual homes. What stays when we have to rebuild? What needs replaced? We can either go into the field and fish rocks form the earth, stacking them as high as a Babylonian tower but in the end how far will you go before the work of your own hands crumbles? I find myself tripping over the stones in my life. Tasks, to-do lists, concerns and worries. None of them are helping me build a spiritual home that lasts. The most important stones, my obedience, my family, my love for others, gets placed in a pile of rocks. I'll get to them later. Let me prioritize this pile first. I'll get to it. When is it time for a nap?

Miss Lucille is starting over. Among her new possessions is a scrap book containing pictures and letters from the various crews that have come in to help rebuild. By the looks of the home, the pictures, we can all tell that God has a hand in all of it. I'm not mad at God for causing this tragic event in her life. She's not just some living rock, I think. She's the one made of alabaster. Her new name has been written on her rock. It's now a precious stone, too bright to hold. Too loving for one person to have. On that new stone is her new name. God knows for sure what that name is, lovely and bold. Did you know that to have that stone all you have to do is let Him in? The master craftsman. I hope that when I see him face to face, I'm still not trying to pull an oxcart full of lumpy stones towards a destination too far away for me to see. What stays? What goes? This trip is helping me find those answers.

Rebuilding: Report to Brookport Mission Trip, Day 1

There was a story during devotions tonight among the ten of us, as they usually are, about how one can feel like we are so close to the pinnacle of God's touch, that the second we look away we realize the fall was so great. We try and jump across the expanse like a Christian Neo from "the Matrix" and when we fall, we get absorbed into the asphalt. We bounce back, but the ego, that sense of failure, wakes us to an alarming truth. It reminds us that we really weren't that close to begin with. What were we doing that made us fall so hard?

This is my third mission trip to help tornado victims rebuild. Oklahoma, Arkansas and now Brookport, Illinois, a small rural community just outside of Kentucky across the Ohio River. I didn't realize that rebuilding wasn't really what our team was doing before coming here. We did cleanup. We cleared a wheat field in Oklahoma to help a farmer plow his crop. We cleared debris from a house that had been obliterated. We purchased toys to give to several families who had no home so that their kids could have some sense of comfort. But here, starting tomorrow, we actually help someone who has begun to lay the foundation of a new home. Rebuilding.

It occurred to me tonight during devotion time that rebuilding has so many connotations. In one sense it can all deal with construction. But it implies that what came before it was insufficient, or that it was not up to code. It has to be torn down before it can be rebuilt again. Renovations aren't rebuilding. Renovations is putting new paint on the stains of before, adding a semi-gloss to the walls so that no one will remember what was there.

What does it look like when we rebuild ourselves? That was a hard look. A fall from God's touch like some three dimensional scene from the Sistine Chapel. Almost there, Adam, but don't look down at the glowing fruit of knowledge that Eve just took a huge bite of, handing it over with the look in her eyes that says it's fine. Go ahead. Surely we won't die if we take a bite.

Perhaps that is what my spiritual life is really like. A total obliteration of what was before. I have used the God coming in to renovate the rooms in your heart metaphor more than once. It makes sense to me for someone who has moved so many times in my life. God wants to come in. Replace the kool-aid stained carpet, replace the linens, paint the walls, cover up the stains. But tonight the metaphor didn't quite capture the feeling I had looking back on my life, my current life actually, the one I'm trying so hard to keep together.

You see, rebuilding for me means that God wants to lay a new foundation. Coming to Christ several years ago painfully awakened me to the realization that the roots I had established in God were either withered, chopped away or had grown sour. My efforts were not producing good fruit. There was still work that needed to be done to the basement. There were cracks in the concrete. I have always felt that I could seal them over, cover it up like my own personal version of the Tell-Tale Heart. I can cover up the body beneath the floorboards but the sin that trues so desperately to get out creeps back. Moldy soul.

It's a hard truth to realize that God will destroy my house of idols to rebuild my foundation. This does not imply that God needed to wreck the homes of the several hundred here in Brookport. I don't believe that God needed me to suffer either. He wanted a simpler route. It was I who continues to distrust, who continues to disobey. Even through this process, he's been equipping me along the way. You see, you cannot hope to rebuild a foundation in Christ alone. There are others with gifts who pour out their love upon me, sometimes without me even knowing it. I'm totally pouting upstairs in my make-shift home i'm so desperate to keep, while Jesus, the master carpenter, is arranging the chess pieces of my life downstairs, setting up this surprise party that's only for me.

So our group of ten is setting up tomorrow for a rebuilding project. God has maneuvered our lives to intersect in such a way that it will help pour the foundation for a family in need. Already, we have been blessed beyond measure. The church here, Mt. Sterling Presbyterian, is between a graveyard, a dirt road and farmland on all directions. It's a congregation small enough to know that when the pastor testifies to the dwindling attendance at Bible Study, you know exactly who he's referring. But my contemporary worship style met a small town feel this Sunday. Singing from a hymnal, revisiting Jeremiah 29:11 (and a blog of its own perhaps one day), and worshipping with townspeople who have all been impacted by last year's storm.

I sat in an adult Bible study class where the adults had the same concerns I did just 6 hours away in Reynoldsburg. How can we support my church? What gifts do I have? Ho do I utilize them to their greatest potential? I heard the nuances and voice inflections that reminded me that they were concerned about loved ones who lived far away from the Lord. They too were wondering if what they did mattered. It's funny because I wasn't headed towards the adult Bible study class (our groups was going to sit in at some of the youth classes), but before I made my way upstairs, one of the ladies who I had met that morning tapped me on the shoulder and said, "We're meeting downstairs," with the assurance that she was showing me exactly where I needed to be. There's God again. Those nudges to get me closer.

During worship today, the pastor revealed a truth from his own life. Instead of praying for the blessings he so desperately wanted, he asked God to "put me in your plans." At home we have had a huge dry-erase calendar that sits next to the fridge. It helps my wife and I keep our schedule, to make sure we don't double book any appearances. It helps us maneuver our lives. But no where on that board is there anything that simply says, "God's plan." How many "good things" and I filling up with my life that I potentially miss the great things He's so willing to offer? God intervenes in our schedule even when we have a calendar of events. He's always trying even when we sometimes think we have been inconvenienced. That traffic jam. The student who pesters me to have lunch with them even when I'm busy. The phone call or email that needs attention.

It's late here as I'm typing. The kids are below in the sanctuary, not yet ready for bed on the night before rebuilding. There won't be wreckage to be found, unless we dig deep and listen to the stories of hope and loss. We don't know if the home is being rebuilt on something that was before, or that it will serve a new occupant. What we do know a little more about is that cornerstone foundation. Is there really more to give from each of us this week? Luckily we have enough clothes and tools for a week to find out.