Te Alabaré

En todo tiempo te alabaré... En todo tiempo te adoraré.

I felt a rush surge through me. It hadn't been that long since I heard Spanish worship music. Though I generally pray in English, read my Bible in English and even sing worship songs in English, something about being in corporate worship and singing in Spanish always captivates me. My heart and mind zero in on my precious Father in a different way.

But this time was different. We got to the chorus and it felt like a flood of tears was locked behind my eyes.

I'm the God you trusted in Colombia-- the same one you follow here. I never change.

Chills shot down my spine and my hair stood on end. This wasn't a new concept... this idea of Christianity being monotheistic. Of course the God I loved and trusted and followed in Colombia was the same one that I follow when I'm in the USA. Of course he is.

The song ended and I just stood there, knowing that I had just had a profound moment with God. As the next song began, I let my spirit be stilled by his and focused on the words.

All I know is I'm not home yet

This is not where I belong

Take this world and give me Jesus

This is not where I belong

They hadn't finished singing the first line before I felt the floodgates unlocking. The tears just flowed. I  just stood there until my lips were salty. Take this world and give me Jesus. Sometimes the groaning in me for home is so strong that I can't breathe right. Sometimes the mention of home brings tears to my eyes. Sometimes I just want to pack up and go home. But as we sang this song, I remembered that this was only sometimes.

Yes, sometimes I wanted to be home.

But I want my heart to always be caught up in the beauty and the hope of my heavenly home. I want to always remember that this is not where I belong. Oh, takes this world and give me Jesus.

Give me Jesus.

Never Forget

Sometimes I'm just disgusted by this world.

Today is one of those days.

It's so easy for me to look around and hear their cries, see their misery, feel their brokenness and I just want to scream. I study history and my stomach feels sick; my thoughts swirl thinking of the atrocities that have been committed. Why did the world stand still and watch it happen? My tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth. How did they ever hate this much? My heart squeezes shut and I don't know what to feel... or maybe I forgot how to feel.

And then I'm disgusted by this world.

I'm taking a class called "International Humanitarian Intervention." I guess I should have known what I was getting myself into. We weren't going to talk about fluffy stuff and pat ourselves on the shoulder because the United States sends the most money (not percentage) of foreign aid abroad. I knew the class wouldn't be like that. I knew that we'd look at genocides and natural disasters. I knew that we'd analyze the effects of the international community intervening... or not.

And I knew I'd get disgusted by this world.

I felt nauseous as our professor told us that when the Hutu Power government in Rwanda imported 500,000 machetes, the world simply watched. Oh wait, they didn't. They sold them the machetes. They sold them enough machetes so that 1 in 5 working-aged men could own one. Machetes-- the historical weapon of choice in this nation.The historical background was stacked against peace in this small nation. The red flags were pretty apparent. And yet that wasn't enough to stop the mindless massacre of hundreds of thousands of Tutsis and Tutsi sympathizers.

 In 1994 Rwanda had a population of about 7.5 million people. In 100 long days, a minimum of 800,000 people were slaughtered. In 2001, New York City had roughly 8 million people. On the tragic day of 9/11, about 3,000 people died. To put it in perspective... Two and a half 9/11s happened for 100 straight days in Rwanda. How is it that the United States lost their mind after 9/11 (yes, admittedly, an awful event in American history. I am in no way minimizing it's horror) yet stood still, even opposed (for some time) peace keeping operations in Rwanda?

Almost 20 years have passed since the Rwandan genocide. Twenty years. We hear talk about genocides and then the phrases like, "Never forget" and "Remember" are thrown about. What exactly are we remembering? Are we choosing to never forget enough to prevent future genocides? Do the nations of the world have enough political will to step in and prevent these kinds of massacres? Will they own up to their Responsibility to Protect?

But it's so easy to point fingers. And blame? Oh, there's plenty to go around. But if I really stop and ask myself what makes me different from them, I have to hesitate. What assures me that I'd never be capable of committing such horrible crimes? What makes me so sure that I would stand up and speak for those who can't?

I'm human just like them. Without the redeeming work of the Spirit in me, I'd be done for. I could fall into that kind of depravity... without Jesus, I am that depraved. I wasn't just a "generally good person" and then Jesus came along and made me into a "better" person.

No. I was a dead person. Jesus came, stepped into this world of suffering, poured out his blood and grace and extended a new life to me. He made me into a new person.

And because of that... because of this new creature dealeo, I can't be disgusted by this world. Because Jesus loved this world enough to suffer for it... I must love it enough to hurt for it. I need to let my heart hurt because of the suffering. I need to ache because of the depravity. I need to cringe at sin. I need to cry out on their behalf.

I must never forget that I was once dead. I must remember that I am new. I must love.

No, I can't be disgusted.

Nomads

“Man, Vivi. You just got here… and now you’re leaving again,” my dear friend Karissa said as she squeezed me tightly, wrapping me into a friendly hug. I did the math. I flew in from Colombia on Saturday and I was packing up for Canada on Wednesday. Yes, I was already leaving… again. I chuckled. Isn’t that the truth? How do I ever explain this nomadic life to those who have never lived it? Why is packing up, picking up and going so normal… even second-nature to me?

Though I absolutely love traveling to new places and experiencing new cultures and meeting new people, airports don’t carry a sense of excitement for me. Seeing terminal signs and arrival and departure tv screens don’t send thrills through me. Airports are sterile. Airports, rather than embodying new adventures and fun new places to discover, hold too many cold goodbyes and quick embraces. I was recently in California with a friend from high school. As she dropped me off at the airport she said, “Airports always make me feel sad. Yes, I like travelling, but airports always make me sad.” Ah, a true third-culture kid.

My heart goes out to nomads in the world.

Last week when I was in Colombia I had a gut-wrenching, tear-filled conversation with a wonderful friend. We talked about home. We talked about wandering the Earth… choosing—or choosing to obey—the call to a life of pilgrimage. Why are there so many of us who live lives far from the place we call home? We struggled to understand how God, in his sovereignty had placed me in her homeland and her in mine. There wasn’t a lack per se of people willing to live in Colombia or Champaign; we would have switched places if we weren’t so sure of God’s specific call on our lives to be in the places that we were.

What was God up to? Why was he in the business of uprooting people and replanting them in new communities elsewhere? It isn’t a new phenomenon—as much as we’d like to attribute it to this term we’ve coined: “globalization.” No, the Bible is scattered with those who we, looking back, would label as “third-culture kid (adults).” We find Daniel and his three friends captured and taken to Babylon where they were forced to learn the new language and culture of another people group—a people group oppressing their families. We see Moses, an Israelite by birth, adopted by Pharaoh’s daughter, raised in wealth and luxuries different from that of his native people. And then, called back to lead and minister. I’m sure he didn’t feel fully “Israelite” all the time. We see Joseph, sold into captivity and after many trials, establish an entire, separate life as an adult in Egypt, far from his relatives in Canaan. Abraham leaves his family and follows God to this land that is promised to him, choosing to become a foreigner. The list is extensive… it could go on.

And I'll use my friend's words from her own blog because they were phrased so perfectly:

"Yes, even my savior himself was ripped from his heavenly home in order to walk this desolate Earth among us for 33 years-- in order to save us. . . 'Home' is not here. It's not in Colombia and it's not in America. It's not on the gorgeous beaches or in the humble farmlands. You can sweep the entire planet and not find a place that is really, truly 'home' because we weren't created for this planet in the first place."

And when I get a glimpse of the place-- oh, that glorious place-- that we were created to for, I am overcome with emotion. I can't stop the tears the fill my eyes and I can't swallow the lump that sits in my throat. I just can't.

It's just too beautiful of a picture. Oh, the day when my heavenly Father opens up his arms and whispers, "Welcome home." Oh the day when I hear those blessed words and don't question or ask myself where home is... because I just know... that finally, finally... it is here. And those glimpses are so glorious that they are enough to convince me that this is a passing world and it is temporary and one day, it will be worth it.