The Job.

Liberian Asset and Entrepreneurial Development – what a mouthful. For a non-business major, that’s a lot of business words. I have to admit I was a bit intimidated by the title and by the vague job description. I feel like my offerings are often petty and my experience minimal, and these overseas exploits require me to do: program development. A similarly opaque title.

Opaque, though it may be, thus far, my daily grind with LEAD has been anything but. The “office” is a small, single room that has been sectioned off into 5 tiny rooms, two of which are located in a hand-made “loft,” a couple steps up from the ground floor. With nine people sharing a space fragmented only by thin bits of plywood, we have all become quite good friends J Aside from the occasional outburst, all nine, of the 30-somethings employees are always cracking jokes and sharing bowls of macaroni and stew for breakfast. Strangely analogous to my own household growing up, a friendly wrestling match continually ensues between the guys in our 8x8x8 box.

My workday takes place in the “loft” where my duties, as my enigmatic title would suggest, vary from day to day. Yes, the walls are cracked, the ceiling is so low, I have to duck to enter my office, I just saw a mouse crawl up one of the bookshelves, and there is not always electricity. But, this is a place of joy and vivacious energy. I get to work with young Liberians who have a passion for national change. As the country prepares for is next presidential election, in just three weeks, many fear violence. The supporters for the powerful incumbent, set again the ruling party’s Ellen Sirleaf, are aggressive. The ruling party fears aggression will be set against them in the upcoming weeks.

However, this weekend, as I found myself between batches of South African stew, a chimpanzee couple, gianourmous rhino-beetles, and a 300,000 acre rubber plantation, I again wallowed in the fact that I love this game. The uncertainty, the challenge, the adventure, the struggle, the beauty amalgamates into a giant picture of grandeur. Where else can you go mudding as a part of your day job? Or live three blocks from the beach? Or meet so many different people; you forget you haven’t seen an American in weeks? To lose yourself in the wonder of God’s world and his people is beautiful.

Africa: Chapter 2

Hot, foamy, whole-fat milk, poured into a paper cup with a strong shot of black espresso compelled into a leaf pattern on the top. Creamy white starched sheets covered by a plush down comforter. Orange nail polish. A bottle of South African red wine, with a string of colorful beads anointing the neck. Chocolate breakfast crepes and plain yogurt with cashews and wild honey. TIME magazine, books, and a poolside afternoon.

Needless to say (as I savor my undeserved simplicities) it is a fabulous week in Nairobi, Kenya. A gentle pause before the commencement of Africa chapter two…Liberia. I am peaceful. Grateful for the break, and enthusiastically expectant for West Africa.

I step off the plane. I begin to sweat. The rainy season has transformed the tiny nation into a giant greenhouse. Forty-percent of the West African rainforest lies in Liberia, making the current weather wetter than a South Florida summer. It is beautiful. We roll down the tarmac from the airport to the city center in a rusty old jeep. Bump started, missing cushions, one window broken, moldy smell, eats diesel fuel, oil, and power-steering fluid. I have already fallen in love with it. The absolute perfect car for Liberia, for the beach, for the bush, I need to think of a name. Suggestions?

Robertsport. The surf capital of Liberia, and home of the “annual surfing competition,” which just so happens to be the day after I arrive. Pristine beach, white sand, black sand, beautiful waters, gorgeous waves. I shall try my hand at surfing. Fail. Not strong enough yet and the waves are too big. It was a three-hour ride on a bumpy road up to the town, but totally worth it. I’m thinking… idyllic. Can’t beat that for the first day in country.

Day two. Monday morning. I am greeted by beautiful, kind, Liberian faces, but the office is out of power, so I can’t truly make out everyone’s features. It’s dark and hot inside…steamy, in fact, due to the incessant levels of rain the ground has absorbed in the past 24 hours. Its two stories, very small, five rooms constructed out of what could be one. The ceilings are low, so low that I duck below the door frame to enter my office, which I will be sharing with the National Director.

Business at hand: Driver’s License and Residency Permit. Check. Next, a cup of good coffee at Evelyn’s. Surprisingly restful and pleasant for a local joint but the café and the painfully slow internet, combined with the smells of African food, tile floors, and a half-hearted air-conditioning unit make Evelyn’s $1 morning coffee my new favorite treat.

An excellent orientation and wonderful welcome to the beautiful country of Liberia. Homework? Name for the car. Bless those around me. Shine Jesus into the deepness and sadness that is pervasive, and lurks just below the surface, hiding in the poverty, injustice, corruption, and simple daily life of people…everywhere. More to follow…

C'est La Vie

“C’est la vie,” she said in her beautiful Congolese accent as I attempted to apologize for the gross injustice in broken French. After months of work with no salary and no food, the refugee had just been manipulated out of her wage. Yesterday, I delivered money to the Yambio Diocese in hopes the labor of their clinic volunteers might hold enough importance, to be rewarded. Most of the workers had been denied salaries since April; it was now July. Their toil virtually unnoticed by their superiors and expected by their community, had taken its toll. I searched the face of the Congolese doctor. His resolve like granite, his eyes were somber and deep from 36 years of strong suffering, and his skin an ashy gray from months of malnutrition. As I looked at his face, my attempts to remain emotionally distant from my present dissolved. African bureaucracy was gnashing its teeth at us both and we both seemed to be losing. Africa Wins Again.

With the introduction of money came the fierce vengeance of greed. Siphoning off over 1/3 of the clinic staff’s hard earned money, the diocese devoured my offering and burped with satisfaction. I had been shaking with anger as the spineless leaders, cowered behind attempts to portray me as tyrannical, parsimonious, and indolent before the crowd of workers. Meanwhile, victimizing themselves as helplessly poor, they had manipulated names and numbers so as to reduce the already meager offering, to a fraction of its previous size. One thousand three hundred and fifty pounds was signed for, under what can only presumed as an alias, and placed in the pockets of an unknown member of the church leadership.

Was not the church required to treat all people with dignity and love, especially all aliens and foreigners? For we are all as such. Aliens of the world, beggars of grace, and heirs to the kingdom based purely upon the veracity God’s magnanimity. We are all pilgrims hoping for a better homeland. At least, these were the teachings of Jesus. Unfortunately for my counterparts and me, the theological subscriptions of the church seemed to be pre-reformation in nature.

C’est la vie…In Africa the whites become the problem and the solution all at the same time. You hold the purse strings, and for better or for worse oppress and liberate simultaneously. I would love to tell you my appalled sensibilities and strong words turned the tide of fraudulent dealings within the diocese. But they did not, and I remain unconvinced that I did any good at all to help the people. After my initial assessment of the situation, I unilaterally decided not to provide the next month’s salary for the clinic workers to the church leadership. I decided that if I provided the money, I would further oil the corruption machine. However, at the same time, I withheld any sort of assistance that might have reached the hands of the workers, however small the cut.

I also purchased $400 USD worth of materials for the clinic building itself. Paint, soap, cleaning materials, mosquito nets, etc. Church leadership confronted me after the delivery and asked for a list of the items. They said that if I did not provide them an inventory count, the items might be sold by the staff or misused or stolen. I did not provide them with an inventory list. If the staff sold the items and used the money for themselves, was that actually so wrong at this point? Very rarely is there a true right and wrong. It was Social Darwinism, survival of the fittest. Why should my inventory list give the diocese a leg up when they had already skimmed their portion off the top? How were the Congolese going to survive? On one hand I assisted by providing a bit of money to a few people and standing up to corruption. On the other hand I virtually fostered another form of corruption by dumping a load of “no strings attached” items on the clinic floor.

I am always a problem and a solution. In the harshest terms, intrinsically, my survival rate is high because I am white, American, and a 22 year-old female. My life is valued highly. Theirs are not. Why is that? How can we be more of the solution and less of the problem? In some ways, it saddens me that my life is valued so highly. Not only is my organization caring for me, but my family, my friends, my government, and the expat communities in Sudan all look out for me. I am surrounded by protection.

What is the heart of the matter? Corruption? Social Darwinism? I think to start becoming more of the solution and less of the problem we need to ask ourselves certain questions. We do not need to be the holder of the purse strings or implement more programs. To me, the biggest question is, how do we transmit this value we have as Westerners, to Africa? How can we actually assert, “All men are created equal?” Or do American citizens only subscribe to these principals on their own soil? The media tells us what we value. They report on what we think is important and showcase our own biases by juxtaposing the stories of the Somali famine and the US weather side by side. How is does 90 year-old American woman’s life, who died of heat stroke, hold the same level of importance as the famine that currently exists on the entire Horn of Africa. I don’t know the answers to my own questions, but I know they should be asked…

the world's Newest Nation...

So I’m living in the world’s newest country….that’s pretty cool. This past weekend, on Saturday, South Sudan officially became the world’s newest country, the 193^rd nation recognized by the UN. After 50 years of civil war, many years of colonialism, and a history of oppression, which spans hundreds of years and pre-dates the colonials, South Sudan finally has its own nation. It was an honor for me on Saturday to participate in the festivities and the joy of a people, most of who were born into a country at war. Many people have labored for years in Sudan to bring basic services and education to the people. I only began learning about the country last year and have been following the countries activities for the past 15 months. Despite this fact, I was able to sit, in Juba, in the heart of it all and hear speeches from world leaders and dignitaries on one of the most historic days of 2011. Amazing.

On Friday night, the beginning of it all, my roommate’s mother, visiting from the UK, made a wonderful celebratory dinner for several guests. I thoroughly enjoyed the food, however I mostly enjoyed the Lambrusco….wine, unspoiled by the heat, is an INCREDIBLE luxury.

After dinner, our company piled into a pickup and drove around the city, taking pictures and shouting our congratulations to the people in the streets. The town was manic the entire night. Everyone was out, rejoicing and yelling and honking horns and lighting sparklers and singing. The South Sudanese have an unprecedented affinity for Americans. This is due to the fact that George Bush and Colin Powell helped to broker the peace deal, the signing of the Comprehensive Peace Agreement, between North and South, in 2005. So, because of my white skin, the locals were more than happy to receive my congratulations. I sat with my $600 Canon on the tailgate of the truck, while guys in the street took bottles full of water (some clean and some yellow…yes), pouring them on me. “USA! USA! This is blessing! This is blessing!” they shouted, in reference to the support our country had shown them. (Thankfully my Canon emerged from the night, unscathed).

The next morning came early after a full night. I arrived as a part of the Episcopal Church entourage, bishops and company. The archbishop of Sudan, leading his rather large flock, walked us through security and up the steps to the VIP seating. I sat next to government ministers and delegates from around the world at the top of the stands, in the shade. Literally, best seat in the house. Notable attendees included UN secretary general, Ban Ki-moon, Robert Mugabe, Jacob Zuma, Colin Powell, Omar al-Bashir, Hassan al-Turabi, South Sudanese officials, of course Riek Machar and Salva Kirr, and many others.

The event was incredible and surreal in many ways. It seemed so humble and yet so definitive. So small yet so significant. So disorganized yet so meaningful. It was the biggest event ever to have occurred in South Sudan. I think the sheer number of people was overwhelming to the planners. Not only that, but the diversity of the people and their level of importance on an international scale was overwhelming. China sent a representative to deliver a speech during the ceremony. The delegate did not speak English, and therefore had a translator relaying his speech. At the sound of Mandarin, the audience began to laugh. I asked the men next to me why people were laughing. He said, “This is a new language to us!” Amazing. An entire audience of grown people about to begin a country laughing at the strange sounds of Mandarin.

Then of course, there was the overall poignancy and underlying tension in the presence of Bashir. The oppressor and mass murderer of Southerners stood up to give a speech about brotherly relations. In the audience in the distance there were banners, which read, “Stop genocide in Darfur and Nuba Mountains.”

Throughout the ceremony, soldiers and civilians alike fainted from the heat and dehydration. Thankfully the Red Cross was running the “hydration campaign” and was ready with stretchers and hydration salts. You could see a little white-uniformed army, running around the crowds below, carrying large numbers of people to a tent behind the stands for water.

I couldn’t help feeling like I was at a giant football game, except with speeches and guns. The subject was infinitely more significant but the participants and the crowd seemed similar. I was left in a daze as to how I should react or behave to all the things surrounding me. It was an over stimulation, physically and emotionally. Their chant raged on “We will never, never, never, never, never…Never, never, never, never sur-ren-der, sur-ren-der!”

God Bless South Sudan…

Arrow Boys and Border Towns

My most recent travel in Sudan has lead me to one of the more interesting stories I’ve heard in a while…so I thought I’d share it.

This morning I packed up my things in Yambio, and headed out to perform assessments on some clinics in a town called Ezo. Ezo is directly on the border of Central African Republic (CAR), and the Democratic Republic of the Congo (DRC). This being South Sudan, there is no demarcation, but apparently there are a pile of stools…yes like wooden stools… in a market, that designate the tri-border. Unfortunately I did not get a chance to document the pile of stools…but we did drive on a road, half of which belongs to Sudan, and the other half of which belongs to CAR. I fully appreciate that in another 50 years, there will most likely be security and guards and fences…but not yet ☺

The town of Ezo has been plagued by attacks from the Lord’s Resistance Army (LRA), a rebel/terrorist group based out of northern Uganda. Their leader, Joseph Kony has terrorized citizens on the borders of Sudan, DRC, CAR, and of course, Uganda. The LRA are know for brutally torturing and mutilating their victims as well as forcing children to become child soldiers. The group is so effective because they are always on the move, constantly taking refuge in the jungles, and running from place to place up to eight hours without rest.

Since last year, LRA activity has significantly diminished, in Sudan in particular. In Ezo, for example, citizens are beginning to return to “the bush” or to their rural homes or villages. Most reports state that there only about 200 LRA soldiers, which operate in bands and groups of 4-5 individuals. Previously, the LRA has operated in bands of 30-40 and village raids have been much more violent. The decline in activity is due to several factors including the Ugandan Army, the Southern Sudanese Army (SPLA), and my personal favorite… the Arrow Boys.

The Arrow Boys are young men and local villagers who have equipped themselves with bows and arrows to fight Kony’s LRA. A blacksmith in town makes the arrowheads and distributes them to various young people in the region. The boys go out into the bush in groups of 2-3 in search of LRA members. Those who are founds are immediately killed. When LRA members try to raid villages or homes, taking captives with them, the Arrow Boys quickly mobilize and follow the group until they stop for rest. During their rest, the boys spread out and shoot at the LRA members with their arrows, which ensure silence. Their position is never surrendered and they can pursue bands of soldiers and captives more quickly than the SPLA.

When I arrived in Ezo I sat down to talk to some of the staff in the clinic. The building looked like it had been through hell. The clinic was evacuated and moved into town until the SPLA set up camp and secured the area surrounding the clinic and a school. I found it fascinating discussing “primitive” warfare tactics with a hardened clinical officer on the boarder of three suffering nations. The people were so wonderfully welcoming to me and grateful for my appearance in their town. I always am stunned by the disparity between my life and theirs and I am so thankful they tell me their stories. What an honor to hear about their lives…

Walk.

So yet again, I find myself in South Sudan. I am truly so happy to be here once more, and to be able to witness this historic period in this country’s history. I am here to work with the Episcopal Church of Sudan and help church health clinics around the county implement pharmacies. This week I will be traveling from the capital to remote locations in the west of the country. So I am here in Yambio, the capital of Western Equatorian State. I have been asking myself what lessons I am learning from these travels, what God wants to say to me. I feel like I keep searching and listening to hear God’s voice. So here is what he has said so far.

Keep listening. ☺ You know that verse that says be still and know that I am god? Everyone always says, I should be still more, and listen to God more, and find out what he is trying to say to me. Then, inevitably, people keep living their lives, which never include any sort of stillness. By no great virtue of my own, I have had TIME to be still. The church sent me to “the bush” “the field” “the random-village-that-you-have-in-your-mind-when-you-think-of-africa”…what does that mean? It means I was stuck in a mud hut by myself with four hours of generator power a day, and no internet or television save a season of West Wing someone had brought out. My generation does NOT know how to handle life without the Internet. I had four days of isolation, and I was dying…I was like WHAT do I DO with the HOURS of time I have at night?! I didn’t learn anything profound in four days without Internet or friends, but it is in some ways it was very good to go without things for a time. It wasn’t like I sat and meditated for hours, but I did think many times, what shall I learn from this, and what shall God teach me today. I think it was my thought process that made the difference. It was that I was walking with him. Not perfectly, but I was listening. I was open… for a time…I should do more of that ☺

Second thing, my father keeps sending me Micah 6:8, which basically says “act justly, love mercy, and walk humbly with your God.” This is a good reminder and it ties into what I was saying above. Walk. You know, I had to pray for the past couple months to desire to walk with God. I think often we don’t want to walk with him, because if we really are in close communion, then we are accountable to our actions. If we walk closely with God, our sin will be apparent. I want to hide it. So I think it took lots of prayer for God to change my desires to want to walk with him. So now, it is a matter of doing it. It is a matter of walking humbly, and asking for repentance, and asking god to continue to change my desires so that I really do love mercy. It is a matter of “coming” to the Lord, lying before him and before his cross, each day, each hour.

May He continue to teach us to walk with him, walk in him, and work through him. Blessings.

Unfit but Incomprehensibly Loved.

HE IS JEALOUS FOR ME.

Arrogance must be the downfall of us all. Arrogance that tells us that we are worthy of service, able to love, and valuable in our own eyes. I am gifted, loved, and unimaginably blessed…therefore I am worthy. I am unbroken, whole, and fit, therefore I can serve. I am good, righteous, knowledgeable, therefore I can love. I am ready, I sit at the Maker’s feet, worship occasionally, therefore I am valuable.

God comes. He whispers, I am jealous for your affections. I am worthy. I serve. I love. I am the utmost. Little one, you are nothing. Little one, you are crowned in my kingdom, therefore you have been made worthy. Little one, I am holy, you are sin.

I beat my fists. I cry and scream and wrestle and tell God that I am worthy to work. But he says you are worthy because I made you worthy. I touched you lips and made you clean. I opened your mouth and enabled you to speak. Come to me. Worship me. Lay at the foot of my cross…there you are worthy. Your mind is small, my thoughts are high. Rest. Come and love me. Experience my joy. I am jealous for your affections.

Don’t serve. Don’t work. Don’t beat your fists. Worship me. May your joy abound, overflow, and testify to my holiness.

May I be sanctified by his blood and know that my worthiness for service, love, and work come from HIM. May his jealousy lead me to the foot of his cross. May I be cleansed by his perfection. Made fit by his provision.

Paso a Paso

Last week I had the opportunity to go to Paris and meet up with one of my college roommates. This being the second time to Paris for both of us, we shied away from tourist attractions and explored the lesser knows regions of the city. We began our exploit with a Senegalese meal in the African neighborhood, Goutte d’Or, a truly cross-cultural French and Irish St. Patrick’s Day, and finished up by attending a jazz show in an underground bar.

While my trip was wonderful, I often struggle with how to serve God in these contexts. My future is extremely uncertain, as a 22-year-old recent graduate, and often the reality of this uncertainty completely overwhelms me. I want to have a clear answer, a clear direction, a clear path…and most of all, I want to be able to see the road ahead. Since my graduation, I have hardly been able to see a month into the future. It is frustrating and exhausting and it doesn’t fit in my box, my limited understanding of God.

On Sunday, I attended a Hillsong United Church in Paris. Hillsong is an international music group started in Australia with large church plants in many prominent international cities. The service was completely bilingual (English/French) as was the worship music. I always enjoy going to churches in other countries because you get to be apart of the international body of Christ. Worshiping in different nations gives me a little taste of heaven and reminds me of how every tribe, tongue, and nation will be represented in the throne room.

The sermon was on 1 Kings 19. Elijah is fleeing from the wrath of Queen Jezebel and becomes so exhausted he asks God to take his life. The Lord’s response is “Get up and eat, for the journey is too much for you.” Elijah eats and then spends 40 days traveling and waiting upon the Lord. In the case of Elijah, his strength is renewed through waiting. Isaiah 40:31 says “but those who wait upon the Lord will renew their strength…” The word wait in Hebrew is qavah, which literally means to wait or look eagerly for. The more I wait upon the Lord, the more my strength will be renewed. The journey is too much for me, so I must learn to eat the bread of God’s provision and wait.

Human nature dictates we have trouble walking “paso a paso” or step by step. I don’t want to wait, or trust, and I don’t believe that if I close my eyes and ask Jesus what to do next, he will be enough. Some how I am tricked into thinking that if I could see ahead I would worry less and be more “prepared” for the future. This thinking is flagrantly idolatrous and reveals my attempts to be my own god. I don’t want to ask God what I should do every day, every step, every moment, but that is exactly the kind of communication and surrender required of a disciple.

I was reminded of a lesson I learned long ago: the measure of your joy is equal to the measure of your surrender. Surrender. Close your eyes. Fix your heart on the cross. Paso a paso. Find strength in waiting upon the Lord. St. Augustine said, “Thou movest us to delight in praising Thee; for Thou hast formed us for Thyself, and our hearts are restless till they find rest in Thee.” May our souls find peace and delight in waiting upon Christ and trusting him to direct every single step.

"the pursuit of god" Tozer

The modern scientist has lost God amid the wonders of His world; we Christians are in real danger of losing God amid the wonders of His Word. We have almost forgotten that God is a Person and, as such, can be cultivated as any person can. It is inherent in personality to be able to know other personalities, but full knowledge of one personality by another cannot be achieved in one encounter. It is only after long and loving mental intercourse that the full possibilities of both can be explored.

All social intercourse between human beings is a response of personality to personality, grading upward from the most casual brush between man and man to the fullest, most intimate communion of which the human soul is capable. Religion, so far as it is genuine, is in essence the response of created personalities to the Creating Personality, God. `This is life eternal, that they might know thee, the only true God, and Jesus Christ, whom thou hast sent.' (John 17:3)

God is a Person, and in the deep of His mighty nature He thinks, wills, enjoys feels, loves, desires and suffers as any other person may. In making Himself known to us He stays by the familiar pattern of personality. He communicates with us through the avenues of our minds, our wills and our emotions. The continuous and unembarrassed interchange of love and thought between God and the soul of the redeemed man is the throbbing heart of New Testament religion.

This intercourse between God and the soul is known to us in conscious personal awareness. It is personal: that is, it does not come through the body of believers, as such, but is known to the individual, and to the body through the individuals which compose it. And it is conscious: that is, it does not stay below the threshold of consciousness and work there unknown to the soul (as, for instance, infant baptism is thought by some to do), but comes within the field of awareness where the man can `know' it as he knows any other fact of experience.