the art of story

I cannot hide how moved I am by the art of story, and by the way the Master Storyteller has brought me to where I am today. I had lunch with a beautiful friend this week... during that lunch, this person asked me to tell them more about how I got involved with the people pictured above. This is a subject that I can [and will, if you're not careful] speak at length about. As I was telling this person His story... it was like God was revealing more truth to me as I was retelling it.

About two years ago, these faces took up permanent residence within my heart. When I fell in love with Africa 5 years ago, I never thought that I would still reside in America... at 22. I longed for Africa. For years, I tried to force my way back... any way I could. I had several trips planned [Kenya, Nigeria, South Africa, you name it... I signed up for it]. With each trip [whether I had funds or not], God eradicated my involvement. Why would he give me such a passion for a place – but not allow me to return?

In frustration, I gave God a proverbial shrug, and said “Fine, do your thing. I'm done forcing it”. Somewhere along the way, my life shifted. Not so much unlike the shifting of baggage in the trunk of a car, really. No wait, that just sounds like my life is nothing but baggage.. and over all it just seems like a very unappealing simile.

When people ask me what Shiloh is exactly, I answer by explaining that it was “God's answer to my 'send me to Africa' prayer”. He sent Africa to me.

This year has been a year of the Lord graciously releasing me of my desire to control. If I am controlling how/where/when I serve Him – it is more about me than Him. It is more about fulfilling my desires. How infrequently we pray "Not my will, but Thine."

Last year, a refugee/friend/father asked me to go with him to visit his 4 children in CPS custody. His wife was incarcerated and his kids were in foster care for about 6 months. It was really selfish on my part, because I desperately wanted to see these kids... I needed to know that they were okay. Bukuru, 11 [she is deaf], Bosco was 5, Kristella was 14 months and Eranse was only a few months old. About an hour into the visit, Bukuru caught on that she was not going home with her father that day. She flipped out. Sobbed, fell to the ground, wanted no one to touch her. I sat on the floor with her and held her as she sobbed. My eyes welling with tears, and satan in my head... telling me that I couldn't handle this. My heart broke as the visitation was over, and the transporter had to physically pry her arms from around my neck. Screaming and fighting her way back to me. I stood in the lobby of CPS - unable to do anything but cry.

I will be honest, this heaviness I feel – was never what I thought ministry would be. Naïve, maybe. I have often returned like a defeated soldier; I have been intimidated by the size of the problems at Shiloh. I have, at times, lost hope for my Beloved to cover all of us and our sin with His Kingship and blood. I left in confidence and returned in fear. I left in the arrogance of my own strength and have returned knowing myself to be incapable and weak.

But His love cries out to me to be strong and courageous. To take my weakness and my fear and let it be the vessel for His strength and gospel audacity. I am still too scared, too frail to promise Him that I will obey perfectly, that I will go in His strength, fearing Him alone. But I swear by His goodness that I want to. And I am sure that by His grace I one day will.

I never imagined life would consist of picking out infant sized burial dresses for refugee babies that had died, or read over legal documents after children were taken away by CPS - explaining to the parents why their children are in foster care, or be the first one to be called after an emergency, or cry at random times – just thinking about how much pain they are facing.

On my drives to/from work every day, I try to listen to various podcasts. Last week, I chose Mark Driscoll's “Suffering to Serve” series... based on 1 Peter 4. So. Timely. Ministry isn't about comfort... God uses suffering for good and wants us to use our suffering to serve others. And that Jesus is our example... He shows us how to endure suffering and serve others with it. We should look to often finding ourselves in the house of mourning. A beautiful, comforting, rich, peaceful and yes - even life giving house of mourning. Not to request or seek out tragedy, but to be alive and active among a broken and mortal world.




Once again, He caught me unaware. Emmanuel got his family back a few months ago. The investigation was over, and they came to the conclusion that there was no abuse happening. Rosatta, his wife, was released from jail... and I waited inside their home [along with the entire community] for their children to be returned to them. I stepped outside to get some air - overwhelmed by how beautiful this community is, and how - despite how much it has broken me, God allows these glimpses of celebration to occur. As I was holding back tears, tears of joy rather than sorrow, Emmanuel asks "What is wrong?". I laughed through the tears that had started falling, and told him "This! This is beautiful. I love this gift of Shiloh"... Emmanuel's reply "Ohhhh, yes. Everyone - they know you. They say 'Ayleeesabit! Ayleeesabit!'. They love you. It is good". It was something like the feeling I get when small talk turns into a conversation with depth and leaves me thinking for days, even weeks about it. It becomes one of those little moments of life that we seem to think are reserved for only those close to us, until they artfully overtake us.

This idea, suffering to serve, has been resonating within me this week... and really – how beautiful it is. How beautiful that He considers us [me, of all people?] worthy to represent Him.

I am breathing in the moments that keep approaching me, each with another piece to add to this story. It is a story of redemption taking hold. Of a Kingdom that is ever-advancing and pervasive. Of a God who is quite literally running off the front porch to welcome home His prodigal daughter, of sorts, with open arms.

And, as always, I am still an imperfect, messy work in progress that spends a lot of time falling flat on my face. He is so incredibly faithful to pick me up, over and over again, dust me off and whisper His truth and peace into my ear... even when I doubt, attempt to take the reigns and listen to these lies that satan whispers. I am so thankful that God has rescued me from the tyranny of my misplaced desires. I'm constantly thanking Him for His “no's”.

Tozer says, “It is doubtful whether God can bless a man greatly until He has hurt him deeply”