Spread the Syrup (I Mean Love)

Some decisions are simple.

Some are not.

You would think that deciding what to have for lunch would be easy.  Not really.  You have to think about what you have on hand...what needs to be used up...what's healthy...what sounds good to you...what sounds good to the others you're feeding.

But when you have little ones, on top of all of that, you have to ask yourself, "How messy will it be?"

Not long ago, I didn't consider that last question long enough. (OK, I often don't consider that question long enough...this instance is just an example...)

Lunch with the kiddos.  Time to use up leftovers.  They both loved the chili we had last night.  Why not?

Ten minutes later, I texted a picture of Moses to some of my family members: red-orange chili "juice" smeared all over his face and hands.  My sister-in-law, who has a baby just Moses's age, texted back something along the lines of how brave I was to let Moses have at a bowl of chili.

I'm not sure if "brave" would be the best word to describe this mommy.  No, setting a bowl of chili in front of Moses and letting him feed himself with bare hands and a spoon that to him is more of a play-thing than a utensil...that was more about trying to snatch a few minutes to scarf down a little food myself.  Any time saved, however, I quickly realized would be lost, as the poor child, chili all over face and hands and head and clothes and toes, would need a bath immediately after lunch.

Toward the end of the meal, I realized another problem with my decision.  My sweet little guy, much too close to his afternoon nap time, began to rub his eyes...and I don't need to elaborate on what happens when chili powder meets baby eyes.

The moral of the story:

Don't let fifteen-month-old little boys feed themselves chili.

Another troublesome meal is pancakes.  I know I ought not to expect much from my little guys when I myself have a hard enough time with it.  Syrup somehow has a way of launching itself from the business end of the fork to the handle end...and from there, transferring to your fingers...and then the table...and your cup...and who knows where else.  Napkins really aren't much help.  All they do is threaten to plaster little sticky torn pieces of themselves onto your fork and your fingers.  The only way to deal with the stickiness, really, is to thoroughly lick your fingers...and your fork...and perhaps even that stray piece of your hair that managed to drape across your last bite...

All this is why I tried to keep my little guys content for as long as possible with dry pancakes and a side of fruit.  I groaned inwardly when first CJ, then Moses, were first introduced to that sweet warm stickiness (by their daddy, of course), because I knew that once they had their first taste, there was no going back.

There wasn't.

Oh, well.  Wet wipes galore and extra laundry and an early bath time every now and then...I guess it's worth the joy and excitement on their faces when they see me pull out the skillet, pancake mix, and syrup.

Often when I eat pancakes, a phrase of Romans 5:5 comes to mind:  "...the love of God has been poured out in our hearts..."

Long ago--I have no idea when or where or who--someone elaborated on this verse, and likened the "poured out" to pouring glistening, warm, sticky syrup onto a plate of pancakes, generously, until the pancakes fairly swim in it.

I like that analogy...especially when I think of the way syrup has a way of getting itself all over anything.  Because isn't that how love ought to be?

In John 13:34, our loving Savior commanded us, "A new commandment I give to you, that you love one another; as I have loved you, that you also love one another."

Our God has poured--lavished--His love upon us, fairly smothering us in it!  But we aren't meant to just sit back and enjoy that love all to ourselves.  No, we are to pass on that love.  It's a love to be shared...with everyone.  Always.  Generously.  Freely.

Just like syrup never really stays on our plates and forks...just like it has a way of getting all over anything...

Maybe our love should be a little more like syrup.

Maybe instead of carefully licking our fingers clean, we should plunge our bare hands into our syrupy plates and then smear that sweet glistening goodness all over the place...(but don't tell my boys I said that!)

Maybe we should be a little "messier" with our love...a little less reserved...a little less careful...

To love or not to love...

That should be an easy decision.

"And may the Lord make you increase and abound in love to one another and to all..."

I Thessalonians 3:12

"Whatcha Doin', Mommy? Why?"

CJ learned long ago how to say, "Why?"

It's a question he has repeated countless times since then.

There are the "why's" about everyday life...

"Why it cold outside?"
"Why it snowing?"
"Why Daddy go to work?"
"Why Annabelle barking?"
"Why it not time to go ni-night yet?"
"Why it spicy?"

Then there are the "why's" that follow our requests for him to do something...accompanied by that never-ending debate of "Is he really curious this time, or is he just stalling again?"

"CJ, go pick up your toys."
"CJ, keep the bathroom door closed so Moses doesn't get into the toilet."
"CJ, don't tease Moses."
"CJ, you need to be quieter now."
"CJ, obey right away without arguing."
"CJ, stop asking 'why.'"

"Why?"

Then there are the questions about what I'm doing, followed by another "why"...

"Mommy, whatcha doin'?"

"Folding laundry."
"Washing dishes."
"Making your bed."
"Getting your clothes out."
"Making supper."

"Why?"

For this last set of "why's," I've found myself skipping over the explanations of the importance of clean clothes, a neat home, and healthy food.  I've started giving him the pat answer of "Because I love you."

That answer, given so many times without really thinking about it, finally started convicting me.  Is that really why I do what I do?

Is that why I try to keep the house from looking like a tornado went through it?
Is that why I try not to let the laundry pile high in every corner of the house?
Is that why I try to keep good food stocked in the pantry, and good meals on the table?

Maybe I should ask that little question, "why," a little more often myself.


Why do I do what I do?


One "why" that really convicted me recently is,
"Why do I try to be a good mom?  Why do I try to do a good job disciplining and training my kids?"

Proverbs 29:17 says, "Discipline (correct) your son, and he will give you rest (peace, comfort); he will give delight to your heart."

Yes, well-trained and well-disciplined children are a delight to be around; clear and firm instruction backed up by consistent and calm discipline can turn a chaotic home into a peaceful one.

But is that really why I want to do a good job training my kids?  So my life will be easier?

Proverbs 29:15 says, "The rod and rebuke give wisdom, but a child left to himself brings shame to his mother."

Yes, undisciplined children bring shame.

But is that really why I want to do a good job disciplining my children?  So I won't be embarrassed by them?

Deuteronomy 5:16 says, "Honor your father and mother...that it may go well with you..."

Children that are taught to honor authority, according to principle, will have things go better for them.

Authority and obedience are foundational in almost every relationship...
Parents and children.
Teachers and pupils.
Employers and employees.
Husbands and wives.
Government and citizens.
GOD and MAN.

The first interaction that children have with authority is with the authority of their parents; if they are taught to obey--thoroughly, cheerfully, diligently, respectfully--early in life, they are given a "head start" in having "success," so to speak, in almost every other relationship they will have in life...especially, and most importantly, the last one on the list above.

So...do I want to be a good mom...so my life will be easier?  So I won't be embarrassed by unruly kids?

Or because I desperately love my kids, and want them to enjoy the benefits of obedience and submission, and want them to be prepared for the challenges ahead of them in life?

James 5:19-20 adds to these thoughts, "My brethren, if any among you strays from the truth and one turns him back, let him know that he who turns a sinner from the error of his ways will save his soul from death and will cover a multitude of sins."

"Cover a multitude of sins"...
In disciplining and training my kids, am I not helping to prevent a multitude of sins, along with the guilt and heartache that always follow disobedience?



Maybe I need to be a little more like CJ...
Maybe I need to ask myself a little more often...

"Mommy, whatcha doin'?........Why?"

Sneaky Habits and Righteous Ruts

Habits are funny things.  They have a devious way of sneaking up on you and entrenching themselves behind your back, until finally you turn around and find yourself staring at them stupidly, wondering where they came from, while they sit there, firmly rooted, smiling smugly back at you.

A couple of months ago, I "turned around" and realized that a habit had formed.  Thankfully, this one is a good one!

Moses takes two naps a day, so including bedtime at night, he gets put down three times a day.  I had started asking him, "Moses, you want to go 'ni-night'?" (I ask rhetorically; he's going 'ni-night' whether he wants to or not!)

But almost every time, he jumps right into the routine:  he takes stock to make sure that we have the essentials (binky, blanket, and sippy cup) and then toddles off to his bedroom, climbs into his rocking chair, and reaches for the lamp to (try to) turn it on.  Then, after I pick him up, sit down, and cuddle him in my lap, he lunges over the side of the chair, reaching for the books in the basket on the floor.  I read him a few little books, turn off the lamp, sing "Jesus Loves Me," and put him in his crib.

Nearly every time (three times a day!), the whole operation goes off without a whimper.

To understand how amazing this is, you need to KNOW Moses...my always-on-the-go, never-stop-moving little boy.  If he doesn't want to sit and cuddle in your lap, he will make it very clear.  And he almost NEVER wants to sit and cuddle...except for at bedtime.

When I first started reading to him, he would squirm and grab at the books and try to pull them away to chew on them or throw them on the floor or turn the pages at his own rate (very quickly!).  Before long, though, he learned I wouldn't let him...and my rambunctious, energetic little guy now settles back against me, cuddling up quietly to listen to familiar rhythms of words and enjoy the same sweet pictures.

It's become a habit.

I've been studying Psalm 23 recently, and I learned that in verse 3 ("He leads me in paths of righteousness for His name's sake"), the word "paths" can be translated "tracks" or even "ruts."  Paths, tracks, and ruts are all formed the same way--one travels over the exact same spot enough times that the way becomes worn down, making it even more likely that the person will continue following the exact same way in the future.

Just like habits.

So Moses slips just as easily into his bedtime routine as a wagon wheel slips into a rut.

So CJ won't settle down properly at night unless he's been read a picture book AND an excerpt from his Bible story book AND he's been prayed with AND first one parent, then the other sings "Jesus Loves Me" to him.

So CJ reminds Micah that he has to kiss him AND Moses AND mommy before he walks out the door, EVERY TIME.

So Moses toddles to the front door, squealing excitedly, EVERY TIME he sees daddy's truck pull up (even, unfortunately, when Micah's only home to grab a tool from the garage!).

They know what to expect, because the same course of action has happened enough times that a rut has formed.

Unfortunately, bad habits form just as easily, if not more easily, than good ones.

I've formed many habits in my life, too.  Good habits and bad habits.  Habits of action...and habits of thought, too.

The Lord has convicted me recently about certain attitudes and thoughts, and together we've been "working on" these things.  It's been a struggle.  Certain things happen, and my automatic mental response seems to always be the same, no matter how hard I try otherwise.  I was getting so frustrated!

But then I stumbled across the explanation of Psalm 23:3, and I realized why I was struggling--I had reacted with the same thoughts to the same circumstances so many times that I had formed "thought ruts"!  Mental habits!  So to break these wrong attitudes and thoughts, I would need to form NEW habits, NEW ruts...ruts of RIGHTEOUSNESS!!

Because those are the kinds of paths God wants us to follow...righteous ones.  For HIS NAME'S SAKE.

Proverbs 31 says that the excellent woman "looks well to the ways of her household" (v. 27).  There's that same idea--ways, paths, ruts, habits.

So what are the ways of my household?  What paths do we follow...together and individually?  What are our ways of doing things?

Bedtime routines?

Morning routines?

Mealtimes?

Use of free time?

Reactions?

What are our habits?  Are they righteous?

Are we bringing glory to the name of our Good Shepherd...or shame?

"He leads me in paths of righteousness FOR HIS NAME'S SAKE."--Psalm 23:4

Who, ME?!?

There's nothing like the look on a little one's face when he knows he's been caught.

Moses learned to crawl when he was about nine months old.  This new ability opened up a whole new world of interesting things to explore...and a whole new world of "no's."

In our hallway, we have a small nightlight plugged into the wall.  A few times I had caught Moses touching it, or about to touch it, so I told him "no" the first time, and then each subsequent time combined the "no" with some...hmm...gentle convincing that it was in his best interest to resist the temptation the next time. 

One day I sat in the doorway between our living room and dining room, in clear view of the plug, watching Moses crawl around.  He crept closer to the night light then slowly reached out a small, chubby finger to the forbidden object.  Firmly, I said, "Moses, no."

He jumped as violently as if he had been shocked by the light and whirled around to face me.  I suppressed a smile, realizing that he hadn't known I could see him.  Plastered on his face was a look that has become a classic for him, one of complete (feigned) innocence, as if he were saying very emphatically, "Who, me?"

CJ, too, has long demonstrated that he clearly knows the difference between what is right and what is wrong.

Before I discipline him, I always ask him why he is being disciplined, and he always has an answer.  Lately, he has gotten creative in answering--he acts out what he has done wrong, including sound effects.  "I do dis...and dis...and I run 'way..." he says, as he twists and turns, using sweeping hand motions and even running across the room.  Again, I have to hide a smile and resist the urge to join in his game of charades, and instead tell him, "CJ, use words."

God has given humans, His image-bearers, even very tiny humans, the ability to know what is right and what is wrong.

But knowing what is right is vastly different from doing what is right.

CJ knows he should obey the first time.

He knows to be respectful and friendly to adults.

He knows not to whine or throw fits.

He knows to be kind and loving and to share.

Moses knows many of these things, too; the others he is learning...quickly!

But to go beyond knowing to doing takes a little decisive action.  OK, a lot of decisive, repeated, consistent, diligent action, mostly on the part of their mommy and daddy.

Because CJ and Moses were born to two sinful parents, they were born with a bent, a natural inclination, to sin.  To look out for their own interests rather than the interests of others.  Training them to choose to do what is right, to be selfless, takes work.  It will not just happen naturally.

Going from knowing to doing takes a lot of work.

It's the same for big people, too.

Just because we KNOW certain attitudes or actions or reactions are wrong, doesn't mean we automatically stop doing these things.  We are capable of learning to choose to do what we already know is right.  But learning to make this choice takes decisive work.

It might mean changing our environment.  Removing temptation.  Throwing away certain media.  Unplugging the TV or computer or turning off the cell phone.  Refusing to allow our thoughts to run down certain paths.  Sometimes, even avoiding prolonged interaction with certain people.

The writer of Proverbs says it this way:

"Do not enter the path of the wicked 

And do not proceed in the way of evil men.

Avoid it, do not pass by it;

Turn away from it and pass on."

(Proverbs 4:14-15, NASB)

Jesus said it this way:

"If your right eye causes you to sin, pluck it out and cast it from you...

And if your right hand causes you to sin, cut it off and cast if from you..."

(Matthew 5:29-30, NKJV)

That's decisive action.  Sin is that serious.

But sometimes, the temptations aren't things we can avoid or cut out.  It's a battle!  All we can do then is do our best to retrain our choices and our reactions...decisively, repeatedly, diligently.

And fall on our faces before our Jesus and plead for mercy from the only One Who can, one day at a time and bit by bit, help us replace our sinful nature with His divine nature.

"Grace and peace be multiplied to you

in the knowledge of God and of Jesus our Lord,

as His divine power has given to us all things 

that pertain to life and godliness,

through the knowledge of Him who called us by glory and virtue,

by which have been given to us exceedingly great and precious promises,

that through these you may be partakers of the DIVINE NATURE,

having escaped the corruption that is in the world through lust."

(2 Peter 1:2-4, NKJV)

The Visitor and the Visited

A couple of Sundays ago one of the believers in our meeting shared some thoughts about Jesus' coming to visit us on that first Christmas so long ago.

It started me thinking.

I know we're past Christmas, but Jesus wasn't an infant in Bethlehem only for the duration of that  Christmas night so very long ago.  He was there the next day...and the next...and the next.

I wonder what would have greeted Him when He first arrived...

The hushed silence of holy reverence.  The sweet smell of fresh hay. Precious strains of heavenly singing drifting to His little ears and rocking Him to a quiet sleep.  The gentle glow of a majestic star.  Worshipful shepherds. Gentle animals, quiet "moo"-ing and braying.  Perhaps a lamb kneeling beside the manger.

Not likely.

Instead, what comes to my mind is the scene that greeted me when I visited the slums of Nairobi a few weeks ago...

Poverty.  Filth.  Sickness.  Trash everywhere...in piles, in the nearby river, draped in the bushes beside the river, layered into the dirt and mud.  Open sewage.  Rank smells.

I wasn't there long before part of me was ready to leave.  I loved the people I was meeting, but the atmosphere was...repulsive.

And I wonder if the scene greeting our Savior wasn't a little more like this...

Busy, harsh sounds of a crowded little town full to overflowing with stressed, travel-weary, irritable people and animals...women fussing and chattering.  Babies crying and whining.  Men drinking and laughing.  Shouting.  Fighting.  Probably all night long.

Not the smell of fresh hay, but the smell of fresh (and old) manure.  Musty hay.  Dirty, sweaty, unwashed animals.  Shepherds who had (very obviously) not seen baths in far too long.

But even worse, we can be sure, was the open sewage of SIN that greeted...and surely repulsed...the gentle, holy spirit of our Jesus...

Rank smells of pride and self-seeking.  Stockpiled trash of unforgiven faults and unconfessed bitterness.  Open sewage of sin intentional and unintentional, confessed and unconfessed.  Oozing from every  human heart in the stable, in the inn, in Bethlehem, in Judah, in the world.

Oh, how He loved, and loves, each precious human.  But the filth of sin, each and every offense a direct, rebellious defiance against Him, the Creator and Law-Giver...how it must have grieved and repulsed Him.

And yet His visit wasn't short, like my two or three hours in the slums.  He was there day after day after day after day...until that final day, thirty-three years later, when He actually took that filth of sin upon Himself.

Thank You, my Jesus, for visiting me.

Another parallel jumps out at me, between my visit to the slums and Jesus' visit to this broken world.

In this season of giving gifts, I remember a gift someone gave me while I was in Nairobi--a small, dirty, unremarkable plastic ball.

One of the most precious gifts I've ever been given.

Now, obviously, what is precious to me is not the intrinsic value of that gift.  In fact, I couldn't wait to wash both it and the hand that held it.

Rather, what is precious to me is the heart of the one who gave it.  And who was the giver?

A small boy, one of the many who lived in the slums.  One of many who had nothing.  And out of his "nothing," he gave me a treasure, perhaps the only treasure he had.

I visited him, and he gave me a gift.  A gift so precious to me...because it was precious to him.

My Jesus has visited me in the filth of this world, in the sewage of my sin.  He came, and He stayed until He paved the way for me to join Him in rising out of these "slums."

The shepherds gave what they could.  They left their sheep, their livelihood, to the mercy of the wilds, and rushed on legs young and boyish and legs old and arthritic, through dark fields and busy streets, till they came to that little stable.  There they knelt, and worshiped.  Then they took their worship public, and, oblivious to scorn or disbelief, proclaimed the unbelievable message with joyful confidence.

The wise men gave what they could.  They travelled long, dreary, weary months across desert sands, putting their lives at home on indefinite hold, until they knelt, the regal, the esteemed, before the young Child, born into poverty.

Simeon gave his blessing.  Anna gave her worship.  Mary gave her wondering heart.  Joseph and Mary both gave up their respected reputations.  Another Mary gave a box of perfume.  One named Stephen gave his life, the first of many.

My Jesus visited me.

What gift have I for Him?

Common Trials: Sharing Life's Experiences with Brethren in Kenya

In my last post, I shared a lesson learned from a little teacher all the way over in Kenya.  I'd like to share another lesson two other little teachers taught me, this time two little girls.

First let me set the scene.

Kenya is beautiful.  Most of our time was spent out in the middle of nowhere, near Lake Victoria, in the sprawling village of Kagan.  The country lavished its beauty on us...rich red earth; waving grasses; lovely trees whose tops seem somehow flattened; sharp-thorned acacia trees; bulbous lion's ear flowers; graceful animals; gorgeously flaming sunrises and sunsets.

The scenery was dotted with small homes of earthen walls and metal roofs enclosed in square courtyards edged with green walls of trees and bushes.  One or two roads eroded deep into the red earth, etching their ways across the countryside.  One such road lead the bumpy way all the way out to the compound where we stayed, past homes and fields, flocks of sheep and goats and herds of cows tended by small dark-skinned boys.

And the people...oh the people!  Beautiful faces, dark skin, ready smiles; hands and feet toughened from the hard work of farm life; gentle hearts brimming with generosity and hospitality. Unashamed of their love for the Lord.  Unabashed in the exuberance of their worship.

In the scenery and in their ways of life I found many differences from what was I was used to back home in the States.  In the people, I found more differences...but many similarities, too.  Especially as I watched from the perspective of a wife and mom.

People came from all over...wives, husbands, moms, dads, grandparents, kids.  Most came dressed in their Sunday best (to see the nurses and doctors...dressed in scrubs!).

People milled all over the compound, waiting to be seen.  And every morning and evening when we trekked to our host, Ishmael's, home, another crowd waited for us...small boys and girls, adorable kids, eager to play with us while meals were being prepared.  They were ready for any kid of fun...soccer, football, balloons, stickers...anything! (No TV or video games there!)

We had a blast with those little guys!

Once or twice, though, I saw coming out in them that little thing common to children (and adults!) the world over...that little thing called their "sin nature."  And I found myself saying same things I say so often to my own kids at home..."Share!  Be kind...don't hit...don't throw rocks at each other..." and so on.

And I was reminded that all moms and dads, even in Kenya, face the same difficulties and hurdles I do in trying to raise my boys to be godly, loving young men.

Another incident reminded me of the same thing.

We were in one of the gospel meetings we had each evening after the clinic was done for the day.  We were sitting behind a few rows of women, all standing and singing.  (Those dear people love their singing...and dancing!)

One woman a couple of rows ahead of us had with her a small, dear little girl, maybe about two years old.  This little girl cried and cried throughout the singing, seated on her mom's chair while her mom stood in front of it, singing and clapping along with the rest of the congregation.  The little one never let up, wailing and pulling at the back of her mom's shirt and skirt, though her cries were nearly drowned out by the enthusiasm of the music.

Finally, the singing was over and the speaking was about to begin.  The mom turned around to face her little girl.  She grasped the little girl by one upper arm, using that hold to pick her up (a common way to pick up their little ones, I noticed).  The woman then used her free hand to grab the back of the plastic chair and tilt it forward...and I watched as she poured out a clear liquid from the seat of the chair onto the dusty concrete ground of the church.  She then promptly sat in the chair (without wiping it off) and plopped the child into her lap.

A little later, still during the meeting, I watched as the mother pulled off the little girl's wet undies so she could run around bare-bottomed under her little dress.

Oh, how I smiled!  How very many times have I found myself in similar situations, over and over again, as I went through long, drawn-out months of frustrating potty-training! (Though, I admit, I handled the clean-up a little differently...usually I came armed paper towels and some kind of cleaning spray.)

And as I sat watching, still amused, part of a verse popped into my mind...

"No temptation has overtaken you but such as is COMMON TO MAN..." I Corinthians 10:13

And so I thought...about those little, every-day frustrations that have a way of needling their way under our skin and tunneling a burning path to our hearts and minds where they fester and ferment and threaten to ruin our whole day...or week.

Like...

CJ wet his pants.  Again.
Moses just WILL NOT nap!
If those kids don't stop whining and fighting I'll never get dinner on the table!

Or sometimes the issues are a little different...Sometimes the trials are "little," like potty-training and fighting kids.  But sometimes they're "big," like the trial faced by by little Cynthia and her parents.

I met Cynthia during our first day of clinic.  Sweet little girl, just three years old.  Ready smile, sweet giggle.

But scrawny arms and legs...and no muscle tone.  At three years old, she can't even hold her head up.  Can't talk.  Can't feed herself.

Cynthia's dad brought her in, strapped to his back with colorful African cloth.  He was quiet...and in his eyes I caught sight of a hesitant hope.

But, in our simple little clinic, there was nothing we could do for her.  All we could tell her dad was that she needed tests they couldn't afford...hospital visits they couldn't afford...and treatments and therapy they couldn't afford.

My heart broke for them as I watched Cynthia's dad stand, holding her tight in his arms, and walk out of my triage room.  Such a little girl...the exact same age as my CJ.

You and I also face trials and heartaches bigger than potty-training, difficulties like...

The bank account, credit card bill, and calculator just can't seem to get along.
We leave church or some get-together of friends feeling slighted, or ignored, or targeted, or defeated.
We leave the doctor's office...or the funeral home...knowing life will never be the same again.

I thought over these things...and realized in a new way...that these difficulties and temptations are common to men and women the whole world over!

This isn't to say that these things aren't hard, painful, or life-shattering.  It's just to say that other people experience them, too.

So often, when I'm going through a hard time, I focus on "poor me," listing off all the hard things life has brought me, all the painful things I've had to endure. Unconsciously I start thinking that I'm somehow special and set apart by these oh-so-awful trials.

When I think this way, in my mind, the whole world begins to revolve around me.  Everything else grinds to a stop and all I can think about is "poor me."

Watching those moms and dads and kids in Kenya reminded me that I'm not special and set apart by these trials...they're common!  And when I realize that there's nothing really that special or different about my particular trials, then I'm free to focus on others and the trials they're going through...and how I can help them.

Let me get back to 1 Corinthians 10:13.  This verse comes just after a passage describing the trials the Israelites faced in the desert.  Some of their trials were relatively mild...like the fresh fruits and vegetables conspicuously missing from their cupboards.

Some trials were harder...like the many dying at the hands (fangs!) of fiery serpents.

The Israelites faced these trials, these tests...and most of them failed the tests.  They grumbled.  They complained.  They rebelled.

And so Paul leads up to verse 13.  Here's the rest of the verse:

"No temptation has overtaken you but such as is common to man; and God is faithful, who will not allow you to be tempted beyond what you are able, but with the temptation will provide the way of escape also, so that you will be able to endure it."

Yes, life can be hard.  Yes, night after sleepless night rocking a sick infant can be so draining and so exhausting.  Yes, the dog vomiting on the carpet at just the wrong time can threaten to ruin your day.

Yes, a visit to the doctor or a visit from a policeman can turn your world upside down and hurdle you into hours and years of agony and grief.

But other believers the world over, countless myriads of them, have been through the same things.  They've cried, they've hurt, they've asked "why?"...and they've grasped Jesus' hand tightly, and He gently, tenderly, has led them through.

And He'll hold my hand, too.  And yours.  And He'll lead us through.  We can stand the test.  He's provided a way out...a way through.

Sometimes we won't be "through" until we open our eyes to see the face of the One who held our hand the whole way.  But sometimes we're "through" the temptation the very instant we decide NOT to give in to grumbling, complaining, and rebelling.

Let's take that "way of escape."  Whether the trial is trivial and irritating or big and life-changing, let's hold His hand tight...and trust Him...and He'll lead us through.

Just like He leads the believers in Kenya...in all of Africa...and Europe...and Asia.  The whole world over.

"This I recall to mind, 

Therefore I have hope.  

Through the Lord's mercies we are not consumed, 

Because His compassions fail not.  

They are new every morning; 

Great is Your faithfulness. 

'The Lord is my portion,' says my soul, 

'Therefore I hope in Him!' 

The Lord is good to those who wait for Him, 

To the soul who seeks Him.  

It is good that one should hope and wait quietly 

For the salvation of the Lord." 

Lamentations 3:21-26

I didn't get any shots of the little girls in the stories above, but here are some of the sweet kiddos we played with.

 Barbara, Adam, Joy, Trezi, Josh

 Joy in action

 Adam.  Love that smile!

 Trezi

Barbara

Nairobi's Best...and Worst

Two nights ago I arrived home from a medical missions trip to Kenya.

I feel like my mind is full to overflowing with all I saw and experienced.  I have a lot to process through.  Yesterday, during one of my layovers, I called my parents.  My dad asked me what the highlight of my trip was.  After thinking for a minute, I answered.  I definitely would not call it a highlight, but it was the experience that affected me more than anything else.

We visited one of Nairobi's slums.

Our host, Ishmael, took us to see the home office of Shelter of Hope, a ministry providing education, physical care, and spiritual hope to, as Ishmael would put it, "the widows and orphans and those who have nothing."

I didn't realize that Shelter of Hope was in the middle of Nairobi's second-largest slums.  I'll never forget what I saw.

"Homes" were little shacks made of corrugated metal siding and roofing, or mud-and-stick walls with metal roofing.  These were pasted together, one after another after another, to create row upon row upon row of these shacks.  A complicated maze of alleyways between the rows branched off again and again, growing more and more narrow as we went.  Had we not been following our host, I would have quickly gotten lost.

Trash was piled everywhere...an unimaginable amount...plastic bags and old shoes and broken glass.  The ground was a combination of mud and hard-packed earth with trash layered into the dirt.

There were no bathrooms.  Open sewage cut jagged, foot-deep ravines into the alleyways.  At times the smell was nearly overpowering.

Navigating was tricky--we jumped over foaming sewage trickling through, trying not to brush up against the sharp edges of low metal roofs crowding together over the alleyways.

Mini open markets lined some of the wider thoroughfares, displaying food of varying freshness and covered with flies.  One stall featured dozens of small birds, skinned, cooking, but still raw...and crawling with flies.

People were everywhere, mostly children and women, overflowing from the little homes and crowding the alleyways.  Most wore dirty, ripped, faded clothing, and were barefoot or wearing only flip flops.  But they were smiling.

They crowded us, especially the kids, shouting "Mzungu!! Mzungu!!" ("white foreigner") and reaching up warm, dark hands, longing for us to shake their hands so they could run off and tell everyone that they had touched a Mzungu.  They also parroted "How are you? How are you?" with unforgettable accent and cadence, a common phrase that nearly every little boy and girl seemed to know, even if they knew no other English word.

Walking into the slums was...overwhelming.

We trekked to Shelter of Hope's little compound, right in the middle of it all.  Hope Bible Chapel stood alongside it.  By the time we got there, I leaned over to one of the other girls on the trip and whispered, "I see why they call it Hope Bible Chapel."

As Ishmael showed us around the tiny compound, little offices and schoolrooms and a primitive kitchen, buildings made of the same materials as every other building in the slums, children spilled through the doorway into the courtyard of the church.  "Mzungu! Mzungu! How are you??"  They stretched out their hands, longing to be touched...smiling shyly but longing for their pictures to be taken...singing for us, "Jesus Loves Me" and other songs.

One little boy pushed through the other kids and came up to me.  He was maybe four or five.  Faded, ripped green shirt, hanging lopsided off one shoulder.  Runny nose.  Shy smile.

He reached up, holding a small, dirty, plastic ball, about the size of a ping pong ball.  He placed this ball into my hand and closed my fingers around it.

He wanted me to have his ball.

I whispered, "Thank you," but my throat was so tight hardly any sound squeezed through.  I spent the next fifteen minutes blinking back tears and trying to breathe around the lump in my throat.  He, who had nothing, had given me, who had everything, a special treasure...maybe his only treasure.

I can hardly thinking about it without tears springing back to my eyes.

Fast forward a few hours.

We were at the airport, waiting for the announcement to board our flight home.  I was so ready to get home, to hug my husband and cuddle my boys.  But instead of hearing, "Now boarding..." we heard "Due to mechanical failure, the flight has been cancelled..."

Chaos ensued.  Passengers flocked the counters.  Finally the answer was given--there simply was no other flight until the next morning...nearly twelve hours later.

The crowd moved on to another counter where we waited for vouchers for hotel rooms for the night.  After nearly half an hour, the crowd still had not grown any smaller.  Over the hubbub of grumbling travelers, a gentleman started shouting, declaring the inefficiency of the Kenyan airway workers and his frustration with them.  He even got behind the counter and rummaged around as he shouted, while the workers just stared with wide eyes.  Several in crowd clapped.

Finally we got our vouchers and were bused to one of the nicest hotels in Nairobi.  Each of us enjoyed a room to ourselves--suites, actually.  Free dinner.  Free breakfast.  Hot showers and clean sheets.

In one day, we went from witnessing the worst of Nairobi to enjoying the best of Nairobi.

In one place, we saw filth, poverty, disease...smiling, singing children..singing, dancing women.  Joy.  Hope.  Giving.

In the other, we saw finery, cleanliness, comfort...and grumbling, shouting, unhappy travelers.  Rights demanded.  Injustices decried.  Indignation flaunted.

Contentment is all about perspective.

The humble realize they have more than they deserve.  They know gratitude.  Know joy.

The proud are demanding...and miserable.

Perspective is everything.

"Buy truth (right perspective!), and do not sell it, get wisdom and instruction and understanding."
--Proverbs 23:23

The giver

 The gift

Straddling one "ravine" we had to jump over.  It's a good foot deep.

 One narrow alley

Some of the happy kids