.And We Worshiped.

We ended up there in Korah the day after we landed - still shell shocked and giddy to be back in Ethiopia. I honestly did not sleep much the night before, but I never do in Ethiopia. I am not sure if it is the time change or just excitement - I don't want to miss a moment in-country.

The church was in the middle of Korah. Korah is a community with 75 plus thousand people who live in the garbage dump of Addis Ababa, Ethiopia. It is where people who are sick with HIV, AIDS, Tuberculosis, Hepatitis, and Leprosy come because they have been made outcasts. There is a large percentage of sick widows in Korah. More often than not, the only way the people survive, is by picking through the garbage dump for their main source of nourishment. Jim was being given the privilege of preaching there. The "church" was a small tin shack with plastic chairs that had been rented for the day for us, and an old sound system turned up as loud as it could go, and little keyboard- also rented for us. Right from the beginning I was humbled and even slightly embarrassed over the fuss being made over us. We had come to serve them, and here they were doing everything possible to serve us.



The worship began almost immediately after we were seated. Worship mingled with prayers of thanksgiving. I understand very little amharic, but one word that I do understand, I heard over and over and over. Ameseginalehu - thank you. The worship and prayer time had hardly begun before I was looking around the tiny, dirt-floored room, at the ragged and dirty men, women, and children who worshiped the One true Creator, arms outstretched, eyes closed, faces relaxed, focused on only One, and radiating joy - in the midst of their bleak circumstances and surroundings -  they were worshiping the God Who had not forgotten them. They were not seated on plush pews or chairs - the room was so packed many were not seated at all. There was no pulpit, no cross, no decorations or grand piano, or electric guitar. No glitz, no glamor. No foyer or coffee or donuts or book store. It was just God's people - black and white - Americans and Abyssinians - together - worshipping the God Who had never let go of a single one of us- all created in His image - and in that moment we knew it and recognized it, and we worshiped. 

I have probably attended thousand after thousands of worship services in my life time - thousands of Sunday morning services. But this one was different. This time the worship was different. It felt different. It wasn't just the surroundings, or the cultural difference, the language, or the worship-style. This worship was unadulterated - pure, simple - something I am not sure I had ever really experienced before in my kind of church, where there are expectations and unspoken rules - even about worship. There is a sense of duty - obligation - ritual - and emptiness in what I am used to, and I didn't even know it until I walked into worship in Korah - which was none of those things. The Holy Spirit was evident in the people of Korah, and to my kind of church, sometimes the Spirit is over-looked, feared, and made light-of. But I saw what Spirit-filled worship could be. I felt so much gratitude and joy, in that little shack of a church that Sunday morning. It was a feeling I never wanted to lose again in worship. I sat in my plastic chair for the 3 hour plus long service with hot, ugly tears streaming down my checks, a trembling bottom lip that bled from biting it to keep the sobs down (Thanks Roger for pretending to ignore my ugly cry. You are a good man.), and I begged God to let us bring this back home with us. But I have to be honest, two weeks later I returned to my home church, which I dearly love, and walked back into our sanctuary, and back into my comfortable and the unspoken rules of worship, and it's gone. The first Sunday home I also cried during worship, but not the same joyful, humbled cry that rocked my soul in Korah.



We are missing it. Here in America in so many of our churches - we are missing the passionate, unadulterated worship that our Savior, our God longs for from us.

I am missing it.

I am missing it because I am proud, I am fearful of what the person next to me might think, I am calloused, I am comfortable, I am hurried and hardened, and I am selfish.



We are missing out on true worship, and I don't think we even know it. It took a church in Korah to show me what I am missing.

This is the poverty of America - our comfortableness, our ease, and our fear-of-man is destroying us - it's destroying even our intimacy with God and our worship.



I saw Jesus in Korah - in the faces of his children - dirty and scarred - in the the eyes of the Pastor as he rolled up his tattered sleeves and stirred the coffee beans - in the widowed mother who bent to kiss her child's forehead and wipe his little runny nose with her dress. He was there in all of them. He was there in their worship.

He's here too. I know He is. Perhaps I just need to look a little harder.                                 

.When You're Trying to Figure Out Grace.

Our van bumped right into that familiar spot, and I wasn't prepared. I wasn't prepared for any of it. I thought I was, but I wasn't. This time I wasn't scanning the sea of little brown faces and eyes for my boy, because he was right beside me. This time it was different - there were more shops than there were 15 months ago - but the difference this time was that I was looking at all of this through his eyes. And I took it all in, my eyes hungry for another glimpse of his life, and I swallowed it down bitter and stinging, because the truth is it was ugly and unfair and incomprehensible to the life I live and my other three children live back at home.

The dusty road meets the shops. They call it the post office district, because across from the little tented shops, where the street boys sleep, live, and gather to beg and sell gum and kleenex and tooth sticks or shine some shoes, is a tall building - the post office. It is busy and bustling and this time I saw that it is sad and heavy. People are drowning in the reality of poverty and dieing.

My heart lurched and twisted as I ducked out of the van, and I stared into the dark eyes of boy after boy after boy. Boys who were no bigger than my Scotty and boys that were almost men, all wearing rags - probably cast off from Americans who were appeasing some of their guilt by sending their used clothing to poor Africa - that hung on much too slim, dirty, smelly, scarred and beaten frames. Some had eyes so hard and cold that I shivered inside wondering what had happened to them, some were like my Habi was just 15 months ago - with hallow, dark eyes that shimmered with a ray of hope. I believe it can only be Jesus that keeps hope alive and flickering in any of those boy's eyes.

Anger quickly gripped my heart, and I tried to push it away. Anger is not what I expected to feel, but as we shopped and walked through the little district, and as I watched Habi shout greetings to friends and bump shoulders in an Ethiopian hug, I grew hot and angry inside.

Why?

Why did I have the luxury of being born in America? I am not any different than any of the boys except for the  plush zip code I was born into.

Why is it that just because these boys were born here do they have to suffer unimaginable things?

Why? Why? Why? If God is so just and so loving, which I know deep down that He is, than why?

I walked through the shops blinded by my hot tears, my heart racing out an angry beat. I could hardly breathe as boy after boy came up to me, palm open wide asking me for food or money or anything that would sustain them and carry them to the next day or even hour. I felt empty and worthless as their faces swirled around me. I cannot help them all. I can't, and it makes me burn with anger. It makes me burn with anger for the years of frivolous spending - those COACH bags that I thought were so meaningful and needed - how that money might have changed and even saved a child's life, the Starbucks coffees, which I still indulge in, they could pay for three meals for a child. Selfish. I am so selfish. How can I, who believes the gospel, just fall asleep every night in luxury, when these children sleep on cement and many will die never knowing the love of Jesus through His people and go to hell?

I caught the eyes of my boy. His eyes spoke a thousand words, and his heart read mine, and I closed my eyes and we turned away from one another. It was too much to take in together.

There was and is a whole community of homeless street boys just drowning in the life they were born into, and as I looked at them, I realized in the depth of my heart that God had only called me to make one my son.



And I was angry.

It hurts to do nothing. It hurts to feel useless when so many are crying out for help.

I love my Habi. I love my Habi just as if I had birthed him myself. He is mine. My heart knew it the moment our eyes found each other, but my heart also knows that he was not any more special than any of those other children out begging and starving to death on the street. Habi wasn't any more deserving of a family and a home and unconditional love than any of those other children.



And yet, God chose him for me.

But, just because those other boys are not chosen to be my sons, does that mean that I come back and pillow myself in the comfortable and not do anything for them? Who says that I should just leave the rest for someone else? Who says it is someone else's responsibility, and I have done "my share"? That tastes bitter on my tongue.

But I close my eyes at night, with my Habi safely tucked in a door down from mine, his belly full, his life safe, and I see the sea of brown faces. I have not forgotten. God will not allow me to forget the others.

One more. Can't I help one more? And one more?

Isn't His grace enough for one more? Isn't that what dieing to self, and taking up our cross looks like? Like reaching out for one more? Why didn't He give me one more? Why did I cover my eyes and sob into my arms inside the van? Why did I hide myself from connecting with one more?

I want to be like Jesus. I want my life to reflect the gospel.

There are so many more. So many more.

And I am angry, and it hurts, and I am pleading with God for justice.

Those boys could have been me, or my children. I could have been born into the middle of poverty in Ethiopia.

Except for God's grace.

And that is where I am landing - this is somehow all God's grace. Wonderful and confusing and perfect.

I'm still trying to figure out what that grace looks like and means for Habi, these boys and me.

 Because I can't forget.

One of them lives with me now, and is my SON.



I can never forget.

If all is truly grace, than what am I to do with that grace. Surely it does not stop here.

.Anguish.

I ran from it, turned from it, covered my eyes to hide from it, avoided it, put up walls - barriers, space - and protected myself from it, because I feared it. I feared what it would do to me, what it would make me feel, whether I could endure those feelings. I anesthetized my life.

And it seems that I am not alone - the Church fears it, our culture fears it, my family and friends seem to fear it, too. So we do what seems logical; we run from it. We deprive ourself of feeling it.

Anguish.

Acute deeply felt inner pain because of conditions about you, in you, or around you. [taken from a sermon excerpt by David Wilkerson - thank you Ramee.]

For my entire life I have been running from and shielding myself from anguish.

The truth is anguish is ugly and messy.

But anguish in this life is necessary, to ignite in us a passion and keep us from growing stale, dormant, un-moving.

Something has been stirring in my soul these past few years, and I have grown tired of trying to protect myself. It takes a lot of effort and energy to cushion and pillow myself inside of a false-reality that blinds me to the anguish that is everywhere around me. In protecting myself I became comfortable, taking a passive, back-seat approach to Christianity.

It was our first day being back in Ethiopia. I had been awake for the majority of 24 plus hours, I was emotional, having just been reunited with my oldest son, and I was walking around in a fog of surrealness that we were really back in Addis. Our schedule was to be light that day as we acclimated to the time change, the culture shock, jet-lag etc. We ate lunch out in typical Ethiopian fashion (- i.e. a loooooong lunch). Several of our team members actually fell asleep at the table. I am sure we were a sight to behold!

We were to take a quick tour of Mother Teresa's Hospital in Addis Ababa. We were hoping to get a chance to pray with some patients, but God had other plans - perfect plans - and for that day, He just chose to have us quietly see. I slowly felt God rip down the protective barriers around my heart, and I looked at, smelled, and experienced pure, powerful, and terrifying anguish. I had prayed and prayed that God would continue to rip scales off of my eyes with this mission trip, that He would continue to break my heart and align it with His, and that I would come home changed and with a better understanding of my Jesus.

He started with this hospital. Mother Teresa Hospital is a place that takes in patients of which many would consider to be "bottom of the barrel" - the least of the least. This was a place of hope and healing for the most destitute and ill people in Addis, a haven of sorts, where people could come for food, shelter, medicine, dignity, and sometimes simply to be acknowledged and recognized as a valuable human being- perhaps for the first time in their lives - before they died . We were given a tour of the clinic, and my heart raced as I walked through the hospital - completely overwhelmed by what I was seeing. It was hard exposing myself to that level of pain. I felt awkward and at times fearful that I was gawking, but even more, I felt the Spirit knitting and urging something inside of me. I quietly observed and listened and silently prayed -that is all God wanted from me in that moment. There was room after room of patients with such debilitating illnesses and heart wrenching deformities- mentally and physically. We saw patients with common African diseases like malaria, trachoma and tuberculosis, and we saw patients with diseases that we had never even heard of in our Western bubble.

One was a little three or four year old boy, with big doe eyes and long lush lashes, who had been born with spinal tuberculosis. The extent of his disease took my breath away and for a brief moment my heart felt his anguish, as my eyes took in the extreme curvature of his little back, I listened with tears and a burning lump in my throat as the doctor explained his deformity and illness and prognosis of this child the same age and size as my Scotty back home.

The little boy's shy eyes met mine, and he smiled. And in that court yard in the middle of Mother Teresa Hospital in Addis Ababa, while terribly diseased patients and the reality of the cruelness of this world swirled around me, God began to write a theme over this trip and engrave it into my heart.

Tiffany, don't you see? These are My children, My precious creation - all of them were intricately knit into the womb of their mother - every last one of these faces were created in My image. Look at them, I mean really look into their eyes and SEE. Look past their tattered rags, their wounds, and diseases, their poverty - they are Mine - hand-fashioned by Me. Look at them through My eyes - stop looking at their exterior, and look at the heart that I fashioned and breathed life into. Every single one of these people need Jesus and the Gospel, and you need to open your eyes and see them as I do - see them as the precious souls that I shed blood for - see them as I see you - stop hiding from the pain, stop running from the anguish, and invite the anguish into your heart as your own, in order that you may burn with the desire and the need to share my Gospel with the people that this world has forgotten. People right here in Ethiopia created in my image and people back at home - all lovingly created in my image and valuable because of the worth I have placed on them. Look at them and SEE.

And on that very first day, back in the country that will beckon me until the day I die, I chose to look anguish in the eye, and really, truly see, and as scary and painful as it was - I am thankful that I did.

Anguish is worth it. People are worth it.

Because my Jesus is worth it.

.I'm Scared.

I have been putting off writing this post. I think I was hoping that the feelings would fade or change, but they haven't. I leave for Ethiopia in three weeks, for my first ever third world country mission trip, and I'm scared. It's kind of funny, I have been to Ethiopia twice, and I fell in love with the country, the culture, and even more - the people. I truly love Ethiopia, and I am beyond excited to go back to a place that feels oddly very much like home.

But mingled in with that excitement is very real, very big, ugly fear.

I have never hidden the fact here that I am a big, fat, fraidy cat. I have mentioned it over and over. Fear is one of the biggest sin issues in my life. It crippled my walk with Jesus Christ for most of my life. I battle it daily. There are a lot of reasons why I could be scared to go on a mission trip. I am leaving my three children behind (one of whom has severe special needs and has only ever been left over night once since bringing him into our care), I am flying across the ocean, I am going to be exposed to parasites and diseases and filth, my comfort level will be shattered, I will see things that will haunt me for the rest of my life, my level of comfort in my American Christianity will again, no-doubt, be questioned, I will be sleep-deprived and emotional, etc. etc. But, oddly enough, none of that is what has my heart pounding in fear. I know beyond a shadow of a doubt that missions and spreading the gospel is God's will for every single disciple of Jesus. I know that He is asking me to love Him more than my children, and get on that plane, and go to Ethiopia. I know that this stay-at-home-mama needs her routine shaken up a bit in order to be used to advance the kingdom. I am at peace with all of that.

I have been praying over this trip. I have prayed for God to change me, to mold me more into His image, to allow me to be used for His kingdom, and I have even been praying those words that I so earnestly prayed last year before going to Ethiopia the first time. It was easier praying that prayer last year, before I understood the depth of the pain and hurt that comes with God answering that prayer.

God, break my heart for the things that break yours.

But even as I pray those words and prepare my heart, I have been holding onto a little corner of my heart - trying to hide it and keep it safe.

Because I am scared that it may really happen. I am scared that God is going to break my heart all over again. Just when things are settling into a more comfortable rhythm with our family, just when Habi is on the verge of possibly joining our family, could I really go through any of this again? I am scared that God may have another "Jamesy" or "Habtamu" in mind for me on this trip. And as much as I love those two boys with every inch of my heart and would never trade a second of knowing, loving, and fighting for them, I'm not ready to have my heart broken for another person. How can I possibly shed another tear for another fatherless child? I am afraid that my heart cannot take it again. I am not sure if I even want my heart messed up again. I am so sensitive and tenderhearted. I still have nightmares from what I witnessed a year and a half ago on my first trip to Ethiopia. I was not cut out for this kind of stuff. God gave me the gift of empathy, but that gift has morphed into something out of my control these past three years. I am not certain that I want to make myself look like more of a weirdo, or lose friendships over my intensity, empathy, and passion. I'm kind of ready to just fit in again, but I guess even going on this mission trip as a mommy of three littles takes me out of the running of fitting in. That's just not something most responsible mommies in my kind of church do. Teenagers, sure, but mommies?? Somewhere along the way I have turned into someone very abnormal. I am not sure how that happened to this perfectly contented to be, once upon a time, wallflower.

Even as I write this, I am getting more clarity, as I finally put these rambling thoughts into words and they flow from my fingers, I realize that this whole fear thing is wrapped tightly up in self. This has nothing to do with me. My response has been all wrong. What if God had decided that He did not want to "mess up" His own heart? What would my life look like if God had not loved me when I was so unlovable? What if He had said, Enough, I cannot take it anymore. It's too heart breaking, too messy, to love one more person.

I am not a hero. I am not a rescuer. I don't have a "white man burden" or savior complex.  I can never save the world or even just all of the fatherless children. I know that, and it's not my job. I am not even a good Christian or so spiritually mature.

I am just a shy, fearful, cautious, homebody, stay-at-home-mommy, who was shown the deep, deep love of Jesus. And that love is moving my feet - clumsily at times.

And even if it breaks my heart all over again - it's not about me. I don't want to miss out on what really matters in this life. I don't want to miss out on God's best for me in exchange for something really good. Even if I am made an outcast in the mommy circles. Even if it hurts, and is hard, and costs me and changes me in ways that are uncomfortable, and yes, even if God has in mind for me another "Jamesy" or another "Habi", it is the right thing to do. It is right to make my heart vulnerable to whatever and whomever it is that God has me going on this trip to Ethiopia for. Because this is not about me. This is about advancing God's kingdom and bringing glory to God!

So, I am doing it. For now, I am doing it scared.

But I'm doing it.