heading 'cross the Rio Grande

Tomorrow I'm boarding a bus for Juarez at 11 pm and will be crossing the border in Wednesday morning's wee hours to board yet another form of mass transportation in El Paso, and drift into beloved O'Hare Wednesday afternoon. 

Yup, I'm headed home. And I'm happy. 

Two more sets of exams to grade and final grades to calculate, but it shouldn't be that consuming. After that, it's all downhill. America, land of infinite comforts and conveniences, here I come!

...but that's what worries me. The part of me that loves my homeland's appeal to my every need and want that money can buy (central heating, dishwashers, drive-thru everything, Blockbuster) just has a heyday every time I return to the States. And it so easily satisfies me. 

I love those good things: soft carpet, plush down comforters, snow outside and a roaring fireplace inside, excellent food without limit, hot chocolate, Christmas treats and goodies, shining Christmas decorations, a well-equipped kitchen, and I believe those good things come from the Good Creator. 

But oh, how easy it is for these good things to come in between the Good God and my soul that so desperately needs him. 

Jesus, maintain our gaze on your inconvenient, uncomfortable Advent so our souls will be satisfied with our good Father.

Billy and Dave's Adventure in Chihuahua

Well, my friend David and I took an interesting trip to Chihuahua today to pick up our work visas. The 6 am bus trip was halfway pleasant -  a little cold on the bus, but I actually slept well and enjoyed the scenery on the way into the city. After taking a taxi to the immigration place, signing the essential paperwork, and receiving all our visa stuff, we had several hours to kill before we were to eat with our pastor's son and his recent bride at their house at 1:30. So we started walking, and found ourselves on one of the main streets. 

The city bus system in Chihuahua is funny - there are a bajillion buses, so you never have to wait long at a stop before one comes by. One passed by that said it was going to the Plaza del Sol (the big mall in Chihuahua). So we took it. It took us around the whole city, a 30 minute tour that only cost 4.50 pesos. Pretty good deal, I say. As we approached the mall, we saw (miracle of miracles) a brand-new Starbucks, just waiting to serve up a nice hot drink to a couple of hungry travelers. 

So I ordered a Chai Tea Latte and Blueberry muffin in Spanish (which was really weird), and enjoyed the nice, comfy Starbucks environment...in Mexico...weird again. Dave and I got out our book we're reading together ("To Kill A Mockingbird" - excellent read!) and read 4 chapters, killing time from 10:00 to 12:45. Then we walked to the mall and Enrique picked us up at 1:30 to go eat at his house. We enjoyed a good meal and conversation with the newlyweds, and then he dropped us off at another bus station to grab a bus back to Parral.

But this is where the plot thickens. We saw that the bus was about ready to take off, and the driver came up to us and asked us, "You going to Parral?" We gave him the affirmative, and he told us to pay on the bus. This confused me, but I thought, "Well, maybe they give out the tickets on the bus." I saw a ticket office off to the side, but the driver insisted, and David and I followed him, the both of us a little confused. He told us the amount, I paid him, but he gave us no tickets. This confused me even more. We seated ourselves, and the bus took off. Then it dawned on David that the driver had simply pocketed the money and let us on the bus. It was too late. I just contributed to a corrupt system.

During the whole trip, I felt terrible. That, and there was a stupid movie on, which made me more depressed. It's really hard for me to avoid watching movies on a bus, especially when I don't feel like reading. So I watched the dumb movie, felt like I wasted my time, and felt bad for giving the money to the driver. When we got into Parral, the driver stopped about two blocks from the bus station and made us get off the bus. I suppose that since his number of tickets and number of passengers didn't line up, he had to make us get off to make things look good for him. Looking back in 20-20 hindsight, I should have just stayed on the bus and insisted on being taken to the station to buy a ticket straight-up, but again, in the confusion, we went with the flow. That irritates me so much that I didn't have the discernment or wits about me to confront the problem then and there. ARGH.

So we got off and started walking to the apartment (it's only about a mile and a half to the bus station). I wanted to go walk to the bus station and pay for my ticket, but David convinced me that the best thing to do would be to call the bus company's service line and register a report of what happened with the company. So that's what I did. We looked up the bus number and called the company to register the incident. They're going to track down the driver and hopefully make things right. 

But this whole thing has left me feeling really yucky. Even as I type, I've got this gross feeling in my stomach that I didn't have the righteous wits about me to do something about it then and there. Perhaps because I want to be a big superhero and stop crime as it starts. That's my ego speaking. I am praying about it, asking God, "If I were really walking in the Spirit, how should I have reacted? And how do I walk in the Spirit like that?" It's really making me think about what it means to be a Spirit-filled Christ ambassador at all times and in all situations. 

giving "gracias!"

Well, Happy Thanksgiving from the other side of the Rio Grande!

Although Mexico doesn't celebrate this most excellent American holiday, the four of us strange American foreigners made sure our community knew what Thanksgiving is all about. From explaining the Pilgrim's story to my fourth graders and watching them them eagerly devour the Thanksgiving word search I gave them, to eating turkey, potatoes, and pumpkin pie with my ninth graders and the kindergartners, I took it easy on the poor kiddies today to enjoy our day of giving "gracias!"

The pictures above show the Thanksgiving presentation my ninth graders did for the kindergartners, who looked really cute as a bunch of little indians (feather headdresses were a little easier to make than pilgrim hats). At the end of the presentation I asked the little ones, "So, did we learn what Thanksgiving is all about?" A slightly misguided boy answered me by shouting, "Yeah! TURKEY!" 

This is my second Thanksgiving to spend outside the U.S.A., away from family and the familiarity of home. I love celebrating Thanksgiving. It's the end of the fall season: the trees have shed most all their leaves, and the azure sky blends beautifully with the earth's brown carpet of dead leaves. 

However, the closing of November leads to the opening of December: the eager anticipation of seeing Jack Frost's geometrical wonders on my car windshield, having foggy glasses after coming in from the cold, playing Christmas carols on my guitar, and fixing up the Christmas tree bright and merry in our well-worn, toasty living room.

But all this must be experienced and seen from afar this year, yet again. Oddly enough, I have not felt resentment or self-pity. This is probably on the top of my "gracias!" list. God has been abundantly good to keep me content where I am. I am truly thankful for the relationships he has given me here, the opportunity to teach four beautiful groups of children and young people, to be a part of his Body in a foreign land, and to learn another side of life I never would have seen before had I not come.

May we all continue to remain grateful to the good Giver.

a great opportunity to give

The following piece I wrote as a description of what is going on with my school's satellite school that we've started in a poor, crime-ridden, and neglected part of Parral called Almanceña. We're right now in the process of trying to find more people would like to provide scholarships for the students, so I wrote this piece to post on the web for those interested in providing scholarships. The cost to support a child at Instituto Las Américas Almanceña is $800 a school year, or $100 a month from October to May. If you'd be interested in seeing the Kingdom come in the lives of these kids, post a comment or shoot me an email (billy@thenyes.us). Enjoy.

“I thank God for my school, because it’s giving me the opportunity to have a different life.”

“I know that I’ve been born again…”

“I’ve learned to work well…”

“Since I’ve been a student at this school, I haven’t stolen anything or said any bad words.”

“If my child changes, then I know that our lives are going to change as well.”

  These are the words of children and parents whose lives are being changed because the coming Kingdom of God. Instituto Las Américas Almanceña started as a dream in 2003, when a few teachers from a church called Vida Abundante in Parral, Mexico began thinking about how they could bring an excellent education to high-risk kids in a low-income, neglected part of town called Almanceña.

It all started in a converted house. Bedrooms became classrooms, and were promptly filled to the max with tiny donated desks and chairs. Well-trained, loving teachers began to speak life and order to children who were accustomed to hear nothing but death and live in nothing but disorder and abuse. Kids who would have never had a chance to learn English, the key to success in today’s global society, are now learning their abc’s and 123’s in Kindergarten.

After three years, the students were crammed into their rooms like sardines. A functioning school building was needed, so one was built. The church was given some land a few blocks away and constructed a beautiful new school. In the middle of a neglected neighborhood, whose reality is filled with abuse, the cycle of poverty, drug abuse, and violence, ILAA now stands as a monument of righteousness and the lavish love of God.

Children whose futures would otherwise be destined to the mediocre cycle of poverty are now being given the opportunity to see life’s other side: the way God intended it to be. A life of love and selfless giving. A life defined by discipline and excellence. A life that respects and treasures the beauty of God’s image in every human being. In the midst of darkness, the light of Christ is beginning to shine.

           So what does this have to do with you?

 As Cornelius’ care and compassion for the poor rose before God as a pleasing aroma (and thus opened the door for the salvation for his family!), your care and compassion for these kids in Almanceña will catch God’s attention as well. Take the following story as a beautiful example:

Arturo is a kindergartner whose single mother has no money to buy him food for a lunch, so he often comes to school without a lunch. In response to this, his teacher began asking his fellow students to give him a cookie or cracker so that he would have something to eat. One day, one of his classmates asked his mom to make an extra sandwich for Arturo, and gave it to him during the lunch break. Upon seeing this, his teacher told the friend, “Thank you so much! When you give to somebody who doesn’t have what you have, God sees it and is pleased!” After hearing this, two of his other classmates standing nearby immediately offered Arturo a part of their lunch, without being asked.

Giving is joyously attractive. Therefore, we hope that you take advantage of the opportunity you now have to give in order to bring life and hope to the lives of these children, their families, and their community. 

the teacher's worst enemy

Every morning from 9:10-10:00, I have the privilege to teach English to 28 beautiful Mexican 4th graders. I have really come to enjoy this class. After dealing with a few issues regarding order and discipline, I think I have come to the point of being able to coolly conduct the class with order, with a little fun thrown in there as well. 

But, no matter what degree of order I have in the class, it can be broken in an instant. All hell breaks loose, students start to howl, cover their noses with their shirts, crinkle up their cute little faces, and begin to yell, "AWWW! SOMEBODY FARTED!"

Yeah, you've just got to give it some time. Open some windows and hope the odor leaves quickly. If there's a teacher reading this that knows a secret to regain control of a class after somebody rips a bad one, please leave me a comment. It sure would be great to know. 

i've got to get over this...

I think I have "blogging perfectionism."

Every time I think about writing on this amateur electronic publication, I get overwhelmed with the thought that everything I write here must be flawless genius. And combined with a lack of Internet access (until recently - hallelujah for an apartment with a phone line!), and a severe lack of free time, I've abandoned my poor little blog. But to start off its re-ignition, here's a little sound-bite about what's been going on in Parral lately:

1. Passion Conference in MX City: I was privileged to go with my church youth group to Passion's World Tour stop in MX City in 3-4 October. Although the 20-hour bus ride and nonstop action during the weekend caused a little sleep deprivation, I thoroughly enjoyed being a part of the event. I was a volunteer, which meant I kept really busy during the whole event. I was able to practice my translation skills a lot as well. Our volunteer group leader was a girl from Brazil that spoke English quite well, but couldn't speak Spanish! So I translated for her to our group, half of which was Mexican and couldn't speak English. So that's a new favorite thing for me: translation!

2. "So, how's school?": I'm often asked this by friends (when I have the time to catch up with folks via chat, Facebook, or email), and my answer is always, "Busy!" Things have really picked up the last few weeks, and I've gotten a little behind in my plans, especially in my math class. Over half my math class failed the first grading period, which is rather alarming for a green algebra teacher. There's good reason for said failure: almost half the students are new to our school, which has an exceptionally high level of excellence for math, and these kids really had a hard adjustment coming in. Another reason is losing a whole week of school due to the flood. Also, many of the students are really quite lazy: they're failing because they don't work. So, that's been fun. But my other classes are going well: my history students are learning about WWII (my favorite period of history to teach), and my little 4th graders are in the process of earning lots of little "happy dollars" to get the chance to go to a special activity we're presenting on Friday. Oh, what fun it is to teach!

3. Parral and the Druggies: Mexico has been in the news lately for a whole lot of drug-related violence, and Parral has been no exception. A close friend of mine here was a witness to a shooting about a month ago: he saw a man empty an automatic weapon into a pickup truck and its passengers as he was walking down a relatively quiet street at twilight. The dad of one of my 4th graders was kidnapped about a month and a half ago, and showed up dead a few days later. Another one of my students' uncles was gunned down in Chihuahua 3 weeks ago. There's just a lot of violence going on here, and it doesn't help that the government and the police force are still fighting corruption within their own ranks. As much as the rest of this bloody world needs it, Mexico is in great need of God's justice. Pray that his Kingdom would come here as it is in heaven.

Well, that should serve for now. I'm off to do my Algebra lessons. 

I'm still alive.

I promise I'll write something of value soon. Just not right this instant. 

A shout out from dried-out Parral.

Losing and Gaining

The past few days, these eyes have seen much loss. Not my own personal loss: the loss of others. The loss of a 70-year-old man out of whose house I shoveled mud and now-useless possessions into the street as he showed me the Bugs Bunny drawings on the walls of his granddaughter’s room and told me about how he had lived his whole life in this destroyed home. The loss of a mother, whose now-ruined desire to have a stylish, well-presented home is evidenced the mud-splattered pile of home décor magazines found in a ruined dresser, chaotically turned over in a mud-filled bedroom of a once-beautiful house. The loss of property, personal possessions (in some cases, absolutely everything), security, comfort, privacy, peace of mind.

Now, I’ve lost a few things the past few days as well. I almost lost consciousness when I was standing in line to receive a Hepatitis injection at the Red Cross station near the disaster (David said my face was yellow). I chickened out yesterday, but bravely received two injections today, as my comrades kept me distracted, talking, and most importantly, seated.

I also lost my tennis shoe and my pride today after stupidly making my way through a lake of calf-deep mud. Having one’s sock-clad foot ooze into thick, soupy mud is an odd feeling – you feel utterly sick at the thought of it, but it’s almost enjoyable in a primordial, boyish kind of way. But, I found my shoe again (after much pulling and tugging and nearly falling into the soup), and was rescued from my predicament by a rubber-boot-clad Mexican who knew enough English to give my mud lake adventure some colorful names as he carried me back to shallower mud.

We’ve also lost some creature comforts. Running water, for one. I returned to the apartment today covered in brown gunk, ready for a hot shower, but due to a lack of city water (flooded and contaminated water system), there was no option but to wipe myself off the best I could and hope for some kind of water soon. So, we had the joy of bucket showers today. But apart from our very minimal “losses”, we are not suffering at all: only a few inconveniences.

The pastor had some wisdom in his words yesterday when he mentioned how the greatest loss to be seen in this natural disaster is not the loss of property, security, or convenience. The greatest loss is the closed hearts of the people to the Gospel of Christ. God has given them a great opportunity to lose their connections to this world by removing all their built-up kingdoms of wealth and material possessions in one night (sounds very much like Jesus’ parable of the rich fool, does it not?). And the response? “Well, let’s just get along the best we can, clean it up and start again, pull ourselves up by our bootstraps.”

This is the greatest loss. It is the greatest loss because the greatest gain lies before them in the person of Jesus. Paul, who had all the makings of a successful, respected Jew told the Philippians:

I count everything as loss because of the surpassing worth of knowing Christ Jesus my Lord. For his sake I have suffered the loss of all things and count them as rubbish, in order that I might gain Christ and be found in him.

Rubbish. Contaminated muck. Mud mixed with sewage and corpses from the cemetery. That’s what Paul considered the best his flesh had to offer, compared to the riches of knowing Christ, which is the greatest gain. Gain. Gain!

Flood Pictures

Here are a few photos from the flood damage. And perhaps I should add a qualifier to the last post: not all of Parral is under water, and those parts that were under water are now just full of mud. Thank goodness, the water is receding due to two days without rain.



This was our old house. Thank goodness we moved out nine months ago!

Parral under water

Just thought I'd update everyone on things around crazy Parral. It's been raining more than wet season in Seattle here lately, and Parral just isn't well-suited to receive this much rain (for being 400 years old, its drainage system isn't incredibly functional). Saturday night, many parts of the city were flooded, because the river that runs through town rose up in several places. It was so bad in parts that some houses were completely flooded or in some cases, just washed away. I've never seen such power in nature up-close and personal.

The grandparents of a family in the church (a well-off couple) had the river rise up behind their house and flood their house terribly. I wish I would've had my camera with me to take pictures. Unbelievable. I went there to help their family take the non-destroyed items out of their house. At its highest point, the water had risen to about neck-level (from the water marks on the walls), and left everything else absolutely COVERED in mud - thick, sticky mud. The floor was covered in about 2-3 inches of mud and dirty water, all their things were chaotically strewn about, the windows busted out, the bathtub and sinks were full of mud and water. There were broken dishes and shattered furniture scattered about, giving you the idea that the water came rushing in with such a force to break windows and even deposit large logs carried by the river into the living room. The 500-lb. piano was completely upside-down. Imagine the power necessary to turn a quarter-ton piano completely upside-down. I've never seen anything like it.

I went walking along the street where we used to live, in the big house next to the park (these grandparents lived close to our old house). The house is completely gutted by water and mud. Destroyed. I was floored by the fact that we were living there 9 months ago, and now it's useless and worthless. Amazing. That whole neighborhood (where we used to live) was flooded out. The park was destroyed. The tennis court's chain link fence was smashed to the ground. All the playground equipment was destroyed and 30 meters from where it used to be. There were CARS stuck in the middle of the park, carried there by the water. I walked down to a friend's house near that area, and her whole neighborhood was flooded out, except her house and two others next to hers. Talk about divine grace. I saw a big delivery truck turned over on its side, and next to it, caught up in an uprooted tree, some sort of Plymouth resting on top of a cockeyed, washed-out VB Bug.

The mud is the vilest thing. It's everywhere. There is no escaping it. In the streets, in the houses, in the yards, filling cars. I got back to the apartment (thank God we're on the third floor, even though the water didn't get to us), took off all my clothes and stuck them, shoes and all, in the washer!

So in brief, it's been a wild weekend. There are no classes today. I know some of the students and their families were affected (I saw one family from the school whose house was flooded as I walked in the neighborhood next to the park), and there's still some danger in some parts of the city although the river is decreasing in size, thank God.

But all of us gringos are OK, there's no cause to worry (the river would have to be huge to reach us). Please pray for the families in the church that have lost their houses. One man's house is completely gone. Washed away without a trace. He's got absolutely nothing. Pray that God would use this time of suffering to try and prove his people's faith.

back to school

How I love the smell of fresh notebooks, newly sharpened pencils, and dry-erase markers heavy with watery ink! I remember my days in elementary and middle school, the nervous-yet-excited feeling in my stomach I got as mom walked us down the Wal-Mart back-to-school aisle, checking off a list of new school supplies to acquire, along with the rest of Joplin's school-age population.

And now I'm on the other side. I confidently walked into my 4th grade class on Monday, looking at my students' excited (but apprehensive) faces, and started up my well-practiced "Teacher Billy Voice," which includes very colorful explanations and a lot of clearly-enunciated, oft-repeated words. As I left the classroom, I could feel their nerves twisting and turning, some of them not sure about this new Teacher.

Classes have gone well this week. We English teachers decided that a strong, firm front at the beginning of the year would be the best approach. As I gave my classes their syllabi, putting forth my expectations for the year, I basked in their quiet acceptance of my authority. Much different than last year's chaos, I commented to myself.

With the commencement of classes also begins our morning routine. David and I have discovered the happy secret to making real Quaker oats by simply putting the oats (and Craisins!) and boiling water in a covered bowl, letting it sit for 5 minutes, and POOF, yummy Craisin oatmeal. So, after a steaming bowl of Cran-oatmeal and perhaps some hot tea to kick-start the day at 6:00 am, we're off to school.

Even we teachers have our peculiar school routines. :)

hanging on

I happened across this picture looking through my files just now, and thought I would share it with you all. This is my housemate David and I, exhibiting our respective personalities to the extreme on a swinging bridge over a gorge in the Sierra, close to the Basaseachi Waterfall. It was taken by our dear friend Kristen as we were traveling with her family when they came in April.

And no, I'm not eating David's hand.

Not only is the picture funny, but I think it humorously illustrates the way I feel right now: just trying to hang on and ride the storm.

School starts on Monday. I'm teaching Algebra II to high school sophomores, the majority of which don't have a great level of English, which means I'll probably be using a lot of Spanish to communicate mathematical ideas. I also feel way behind in preparing my 20th Century History class.

Church is pretty wild right now, as well. We've been having services about 4-5 nights a week, because there's a revival going on, so I haven't had much time to prepare classes aside from a few brief hours in the morning and afternoon, since we've been teaching English to all the school personnel for three hours in the morning.

So, part of me feels worn a little thin, trying to hang on to something solid during this tempestous time. I read a Puritan prayer this morning that said something about the Spirit guarding my soul that its waters would remain undisturbed by worldly gales.

"When peace, like a river..." and "when trials, like sea billows" - two extremes held together by the "It is well, it is well with my soul."

May the peace of Christ attend your souls...

bumbling thoughts on poverty

The following is free verse that I wrote after walking through the center portion of the city 2 weeks ago. I see a broken and limping humanity, but my compassion for it is just as weak.

Who cares about the trash you’re moving around in the street?
Are you the only one?
That spent styrofoam cup, the chip bag tossed aside by a carefree kid
Are more like treasure than rubbish to you.

Drawn coffee-brown skin, filthy long fingernails,
Scraggly yellowed hair, scrawled mutterings of a neglected soul.
Your dark race put you here, tramped-on leftover of a white-eyed society.

What am I bid for the street beggar?
50 centavos, no mas.
Where does he sleep? Who cares.
What’s he like? Well, he babbles a lot.
What thoughts does he carry in that patent-busting brain?

The crowd around loves the flash, the look, la moda.
Looking to drop plenty to catch the envying eye
Of those supposedly less fortunate,
Jockeying for position.

In the bustle, he’s huddled up
(I almost stepped on him),
Busted, rusted guitar strains out what he knows,
A few broken chords,
A symphony of pleaded sympathy.

What’s the value of that human soul, so easily kicked aside
Like a used styrofoam cup?

Could it be as much as my own?

A Healer

One of the many facets about our God with which I am very unfamiliar is his role as our Healer. I know God (or at least I say I do) as Redeemer, Justifier, Sanctifier, Lord, Savior, for these facets are well-preached and well-discussed in American evangelical circles, which is absolutely essential to our faith. But I am seeing some things on this side of the border that are surprising me about another facet of our Lord’s person: his power to heal.

Now, I’m not an expert on healing. In fact, being turned off to the idea by some of the extremes of “healing ministries” that romp around the world, wowing folks with miracles but bearing no real fruit, I’ve often avoided the subject. I know that Christ healed multitudes, I know miraculous healings took place in the Bible, and I’m confident in the biblical principle that God is a healer. But in regards to seeing it happen today, I’ve been a little sketchy until recently.

Maestra Ceci is one of the Physical Education teachers here at the school. I love watching her run around with the little kindergarteners, playing games all over the courtyard. She’s in the middle of doing a distance education program to get her bachelor’s degree, even though she’s forty-something years old. She takes the bus to school every day, because she can’t afford a car. Her unbeliever husband divorced her suddenly last spring, and her two college-age children are living lives away from God. Needless to say, her life isn’t easy.

But things didn’t get much easier in April when she found out that a cyst had developed on her womb and had become large enough that the doctor told her he had to operate and remove it soon, before it caused her any harm. I’m not a woman, but I imagine that this would not be a very fun operation. She began the process of scheduling the operation, putting the date sometime in May.

She told her immediate friends and through word of mouth, various groups of believers began to pray for her: a small group of women, a special speaker lady who came to the church in April prayed specifically for her, and a group of young people I was privileged to be a part of went to her house and prayed for her there.
She went back to see the doctor one last time before the operation, and after examining her, found no cyst whatsoever. Her womb was perfectly whole.

Crazily enough, almost the same thing happened with another lady in the congregation, a sweet-smiling woman named Anabel. Her womb became infected somehow, and an operation was necessary. The Body began to pray for her, and what do you know? No more infection. Perfectly whole womb.

And if that wasn’t enough, my friend Omar’s mom, a pistol of a woman named Betty, has had bone-eating cancer for about 2 years now. She’s undergone chemo, and wears a scarf every day to adorn her hairless head. I forget the exact kind of cancer she has, but it’s caused her bones to weaken to the point of being able to break with just a little pressure. But, after the constant prayers of the church, the usually serious doctor gleefully greeted her at her last checkup, telling her that something happened in her body to cause her bones to become much stronger now.

I’m not a real big fan of the whole idea of “faith-ing” your way into healing and wholeness. I think that idea can get really dangerous, treating God as the path to the good life and totally bypassing his person. But isn’t the other extreme of unbelief just as perilous? I think I’m beginning to learn a little from these fellow disciples: God loves to heal as an expression of his goodness to us, the end of which is a robust glorifying of his name, our Healer.

The Pit

A man is trapped.

Since he can remember, he has lived the entirety of his life in a deep, obscure Pit. The Pit's walls are shallower than that of circular well but steeper than a Saving Private Ryan bomb crater, and made up of solid, slippery rocks held together by gritty masonry.

The Pit is his home, but he knows that he is not of It. Having once been told, the man knows he belongs to the Land Above, but the longer he dwells in the Pit, the more it defines him. His eyes are accustomed to the dim, tired light. At times, Light - pure golden beams from a rich, holy country - shines down on him from above, but those occurances are rare, and often unpleasant for the man. He feels a strong desire for his homeland during these illuminations, and is motivated to escape from the pit in a burst of energy and strength. However, after beginning to climb, handholds and footholds become scarcer and less secure further up. He invariably slips, falling down to the unforgiving bottom, which causes him a great deal of pain and discouragement. The higher he climbs, the more painful and damaging the succeeding fall.

Sometimes, his Light-induced motivation to escape is so strong that he will attempt climbing several times in order to succeed, but he is never able to make it. Eventually, he becomes very discouraged and surrenders to the thought that he will never leave the Pit, so he might as well just make the best of it. Besides, the Pit wasn't all bad: in fact, it pleased him in many ways. It was cool and damp, and he never suffered from heat. Solitude was another plus; there was plenty of time for deep, introspective thought and philosophical writing.

But without fail, the Light returns, awakening the desire to climb out, and the cycle repeats again, with the same result. Each time it looks a little different, as if he would be able to do this time, but he always ends up falling.

One glorious day, Help arrived. Help was strong, full of life, and had a specific mission: to get the man out of the Pit and restore him to his homeland. He was so capable of helping the poor man that one giant reach from his arm would take a hold of the man and lift him out. Help's voice boomed out to the man, huddled and shivering at the Pit's bottom, and the Light from the Land Above brilliantly shone all around: Are you ready to come out and be free? The man, so full of happiness from seeing the Light shine so brightly, responded, YES! I'll be there quickly - just give me a boost, and I'll make it out. I'm so glad you've come! You're just what I needed to make it to the top! Help replied, No. I alone must do it, because I am the only one capable of placing you where you truly belong.

But I almost made it last time, replied the man. I just need a little help at the end - that's the tricky part. So the man began climbing once again. He made it pretty far, and was nearing the 3/4 mark of the Pit wall when he looked up to expect Help's intervention. Help was nowhere to be found, and the Light had faded. Unfazed, he clung to the Pit wall, shouting, Hey, look at how well I'm doing! I'm almost there! I don't need any Hel---, and then noisily fell down to the bottom once again.

Help's head appeared at the Pit's opening again, and the man begged forgiveness: I know, I should have let you do it. I'm such an idiot. I'll never make it out of here. I'm so stupid - I'll never be able to trust you, because I'm so-- Help interrupted him: The only way you will return to your homeland, to true life, is trusting in my ability to get you out of this Pit. You must submit to this and allow me to destroy every trace of self-confidence you have built up over the years. No amount of determination on your part will restore you to true life, the life you were made to have. The question is, will you actively trust me each day and remove your trust in yourself?

a brief update

Please forgive my lack of blogging the past month. Computer problems and the intensified busyness of a school year wrapping up has limited my blog life a little. However, I wanted to update a little of what's been going on and what's currently going on in our life down here.

A Decision: First of all, I've officially made the decision to stay in Mexico for another year. A lot of factors went into this decision, but the most important one is the "incomplete" feeling I had in my gut about leaving. I miss my family and friends a ton, but I don't believe that this season of my life is quite over yet. Mexico still has some lessons to teach me about the Kingdom, especially through the church I'm a part of here. That, and I'm really enjoying life here. Being a part of the community of the Body of Christ, however different it may be from my expectations and tastes, is causing me to grow and learn in my relationship with Christ our Head and his Body. For this, I am very thankful to God for the opportunity he has given me to be here.

Some Visitors: Two weeks ago, we had the joy of receiving several JBU friends as visitors here in Parral. Mark Dawson, Ryan Likes, Micah DeKorne, and Emily Pritz came down and spent a week romping around Parral with us, and we had a wonderful time of fellowship together. Then, with the arrival of a few beloved JBU Latinos (recent graduates Ruben Estrada, Pepe Lopez, and Parral native Isaac Gonzalez), our party was complete. The American boys are all living in community in Denver in an ethnically diverse neighborhood and are a part of a house church movement that is bringing the life of Jesus to Denver. Having the boys camp out in our living room for a week brought back treasured memories of dorm life in J. Alvin - organized disorder, using the bathroom all at the same time, sleeping in close proximity, and late night discussions filled with laughter that probably woke our poor neighbors multiple times. We climbed "the Molar" rock that juts out of Parral's landscape, ate and worshiped together on top of Antenna Hill, and ate delicious Independencia Street gorditas on top of our apartment roof.

I have tried about 4 times to download some pictures from our dear friends' visit, but I have been unsuccessful. Perhaps sometime when I'm home this summer I'll get some up.

Summer Plans: Speaking of being home this summer, I just wanted to let you all know that I'll be heading back to the States for three weeks in July. We're flying out of El Paso on the 2nd of July and heading back on the 24th. I'll be in Kenosha for most of that time, but I will be in Joplin (and possibly Northwest Arkansas) for about 10 days. Just for your information!

New Apartment Search (a little prayer requested!): Also, David and I have to find a new apartment pretty darn fast, because our housemate is getting married and our lease is up in July. So, help us pray that the Lord puts us where he desires. We really want to continuously pursue the Kingdom, wherever we are.

Kingdom thoughts

Dear friends,

For those of us who believe in resurrection power of Christ and are waiting and working for his Kingdom, the darkness of this damned world (I don't use that word lightly) is just a passing blip of a shadow compared to the Light that is coming. Although the fullness of Jesus' reign is not yet here, it's in the process of arriving. And we are to live in the coming reality of his authority, delighting in the exercise of his righteousness and fighting against that which is against his nature.

In the light of this truth, I ask your prayers for the city of Parral. Recently, our city has experienced several heavy blows from very unrighteous people. There are a few drug cartels in Mexico (some are also rumored to have come from Columbia as well) that are power-fighting against themselves and the federal authorities here in Mexico. As I understand the news, the U.S. and Mexican governments have been putting heavier pressure on these drug cartels as of late, and the scoundrels are reacting against it by trying to scare local authorities into submission through kidnapping, hostage-taking, and murder.

Unfortunately, Parral has been one of their battlegrounds as of late. Some of these drug lords have kidnapped and murdered a few policemen, and their persistence is scaring a lot of these lawmen to resign, weakening the strength of the law in the city (which is already weaker than it needs to be). Last night, the city sounded with several gunshots in various neighborhoods throughout the city, and as David and I were running this afternoon, more shots were fired in an area about a 1/2 mile from where we were.

I'm not afraid, and neither are the believers with whom I have the privilege of fellowshipping. The church here is firmly planted in the truth of the Gospel, which declares the decay of this world and the glory of the one to come. This is a glorious opportunity to share the Good News with those who do not have the Hope we do.

So, please pray for open doors to share the Gospel with people during this dark time. Pray for the piercing Light of Jesus to shatter this crummy dark world. Pray that his Kingdom would come and will be done. What an honor we have to ask the Father for our hearts' desire in the Son's name (See John 16:23-4).

To close things off, I thought I'd include a quote from The Return of the King, taken from the scene where Frodo and Sam and on their journey through the Land of Shadow. I think it illustrates our situation rather well:

There, peeping among the cloud-wrack above a dark tor high up in the mountains, Sam saw a white star twinkle for a while. The beauty of it smote his heart, as he looked up out of the forsaken land, and hope returned to him. For like a shaft, clear and cold, the thought pierced him that in the end the Shadow was only a small and passing thing: there was light and high beauty for ever beyond its reach.

longing for my home

There’s a place where I come from
It’s the place where I belong
Where you will never die
Wipe the tears off from your eyes
-Burlap to Cashmere

Two days ago, I was walking to the church in order to meet some friends to go visit an elderly lady in the congregation. As I walked up a hill on Zaragoza street, I began to pass a dirty-looking, green house on the right, from which emanated a displeasing odor. There were two middle-aged women outside of the house, one of which was yelling something at the other. Having my iPod in my ears, I didn’t understand the yelling, but I understood the situation perfectly as soon as I saw the other woman.

Her dirty, matted hair stood wildly on end. A blank stare filled (or emptied) her face. And she was almost completely naked. In broad daylight, standing in the street, she was covered only with a bra and a towel stuffed between her legs. The other woman continued to yell at her, supposedly trying to get her to come back into the house. I passed by this bizarre scene, trying not to stare, and quickening my pace out of fear that the crazy naked woman would chase me down the street.

As the fear passed, a tremendous sadness set in. We were not made for this. But this is where the Enemy wants us, and this is what our human nature accomplishes. With these forces against us, the original beauty and dignity of humanity disintegrates into the depravity of this poor woman.

In contrast to this story, allow me to tell you another.

One of my 10th grade students, whom we’ll call Fernanda, just came to know Jesus. The whole year up until now, she was an Emo girl. Dark eyeliner make-up, super-intraverted, hardly ever smiled at anything, always writing dark song lyrics in her textbooks. She has a rough family situation: her parents are separated, and although she lives with her mom, the mom doesn’t really care for her or her siblings.

Then she came to church about two weeks ago. I was surprised to see her, and although she looked a little shy at the first, something appeared to be different about her. That whole week she was definitely different. She was smiling. Beaming. I began to get curious. So I called her aside one day at school and asked her what was going on. She told me, “I don’t really know. I came to church and began to sing the songs, and I couldn’t stop. Then I started jumping and dancing, and couldn’t stop. I just felt God enter my heart. I can’t describe it any better than that. I don’t know when it happened, it just happened.”

I saw how Fernanda was before. And I see her now. Joy and happiness radiate from her face. She’s encountered something different. She’s found the One to whom she truly belongs.

I checked my Facebook account the other day and found something I wasn’t expecting to find among my friends’ status updates (for you old folks that don’t know what I’m talking about, ask the nearest high school or college student). One of my friends, a deep thinker and Christ-lover, had written “Sarah can’t wait for heaven.” Sadly, directly beneath her status update, another friend of mine (neither a deep thinker nor Christ-lover) had posted, “Jessica is loving the drink.” [real names not used].

Seeing these polar opposite statements in such proximity made me laugh out loud at first, but I quickly sobered after realizing the gravity of such a contrast. The latter friend is content in this world, satisfied (supposedly) with what it has to offer: fun, drink, boys, girls, parties, etc. The former friend is longing, aching for something more, knowing that there is something far more complete and solid beyond our broken, empty world.

The naked crazy woman on Zaragoza street and the pure joy I now see in Fernanda’s life are vivid illustrations that shout at us to be like my friend Sarah, who longs for heaven. To ache for that place where we truly belong, where everything of this world will only seem like a shadow or an echo in comparison, that is our call, our lifeline.

Oh, to one day be like Jewel the Unicorn in C.S. Lewis’ The Last Battle who, upon seeing the beauty of the real Narnia after the destruction of the old one, cried:

I have come home at last! This is my real country! I belong here. This is the land I have been looking for all my life, though I never knew it till now. The reason why we loved the old Narnia is that it sometimes looked a little like this. Bree-hee-hee! Come further up, come further in!

springing forward

First of all, many apologies for the faithful blog-checkers (you know who you are) who have been greatly disappointed the past few weeks with the lack of new material. It's been a couple busy weeks of school, with lots of planning, teaching, giving homework, grading homework, making tests, and (soon to come next week) grading tests and calculating monthly grades. However, that's pretty lame excuse.


Sometimes I forget the purpose of having a blog. My ideal purpose is to compose deeply thoughtful, intensively reflective, and yet easily readable essays to stretch my brain, soul, and writing ability, inspiring my readers with a distinctive viewpoint on life lived in Christ. But, thinking that way puts my performance at the center of everything, filling my blog with self rather than the glory of the Creator. I forget that the best function of the blog is simply to inform those who care about my life abroad.


I'm in the midst of writing a short update about life in Parral, which I will hopefully post this weekend. But first I'd like to give a little visual of what I wrote about in the last two posts: my experience thus far in Albergue, and our visit to Basaseachi Falls. Enjoy the pictures!

Family Vacation in Mexico, Installment I

Cuauhtemoc’s Motel Tarahumara treated us well Tuesday night. It was a quiet, enjoyable evening, including a lively card game and a good laugh at poor Mom’s expense, who just couldn’t understand the concept of losing-in-order-to-win in the game of Hearts. After a traditional Andy Griffith to close down the night, we hit the sack around ten.

Wednesday morning’s events included an easy check-out of the hotel, a delicious (and nutritious) breakfast at a nearby Nutri-Vida store, and the unfortunate discovery that my poor brother had a horrible sore throat and the beginnings of a nasty cold.

Leaving Cuauhtemoc turned out to be pretty easy - we found the highway without a hitch, and began passing by endless, perfectly ordered rows of apple trees, staked out and pruned, ready for the summer growing season. These apples are the famous Cuautehmoc Mennonite apples, which along with its Mennonite cheese, makes up a large part of the region’s economy. This part of the state of Chihuahua is highly populated with German Mennonites that immigrated to the area in the early 20th Century from Canada and Germany, in order to found a religious community free from persecution. Through German ingenuity, hard work, and John Deere tractors, they transformed this dry valley into a fertile, highly-productive farmland. It’s quite interesting therefore, to pass by several businesses along the highway, whose names and advertisements are in Spanish and German!

We passed out of the Cuauhtemoc region in the mid-morning, and began entering the more mountainous and forested Sierra Tarahumara. Our destination for the day was the famous Basaseachi waterfall, which is reported to be the tallest waterfall in North America. Although it was a long 3-hour (one-way) drive through the mountains to reach the small Basaseachi national park, it was well worth it. We parked at the little tourist town, and then started a short 15-minute walk on a stone/gravel path through the delicious aroma of pines and alongside a quick-flowing little stream that cut through a stone gulley until we arrived at the waterfall itself.

Although I had first surmised that we were going to encounter the waterfall at its base, I quickly realized that we actually arrived at its mouth! Suddenly the little stone path gave way to a large opening, the ground now completely made of rock, and the little stream gathered up force for a 1000-meter tumble off the cliff on which we were now standing! As my eyes took in the majestic sight before them, I couldn’t walk any further. Monstrously tall cliffs, the big brothers of the one on which we stood, encircled and formed a massive pine-carpeted canyon, through which flowed the same stream that was falling from our feet to the canyon floor. The immensity of those sheer cliff walls astounded, frightened, and awed me.

Grand. That is probably the best word to describe Basaseachi, although it falls short. Staring into the grandeur, watching stone cliffs rocket out of the evergreen reminded me of the abruptness of Petra’s regal rock face, jutting out of the desert floor in declaration of its uniqueness and majesty. It was as if they had kingly countenances, mouthing words of defiance to the puny, camera-toting tourists standing on their little brother’s bald stone head.

Still savoring those words of terrible beauty in my mind’s eye, we returned the way we had came and found a small, home-kitchen restaurant that offered authentic Mexican food to hungry travelers like ourselves. We devoured the enchiladas, burritos, caldo de res, and chile pasado, my family relishing the new flavors of Old Mexico, and I taking joy in their relishing of my newfound culture.

Coming to places like Basaseachi and experiencing its breathtakingly majestic scenery often puts a mixed emotion in my heart. Yes, I feel wonder and joy, astonishment and even dazzled disbelief at the spectacle before my eyes. But I simultaneously have a sense of disappointment, which is attached to my inability to fully experience the beauty. I can only go as far as the chainlink fence will allow me, and there must my experience stop. Or, even if I am able to go past the legal boundary and explore the depth of the beauty until my body wears out, I am not confident that I would be fully satisfied.

Here’s what I mean: the part of my soul which is so greatly thrilled by the majesty of Basaseachi’s cliffs can only truly be satisfied by drinking from the Source of such beauty.

Delighting in the depths of the Creator is the only means to fully experience the beauty of creation.

A Tale of Green and Brown

Since I haven't written in a while, I decided to make up for my lack of communication with a long story. Apologies for its length; it's something that has remained powerfully engrained in my mind the past few weeks. Hope you enjoy it.

On the outskirts of this valley-bound city under the shadow of tan, rugged hills spotted with scraggly bush-trees, lies a forgotten suburb named Albergue (pronounced "Ahl-BEAR-Geh"). Just recently has this part of the city of Parral been connected with the outside world with a paved road. Before, dirt truck-paths were its only access with the city itself, even though it's only a mile from one of the busiest parts of town.

Although I'm still being educated on its demographic makeup, Albergue apparently has a large Tarahumara Indian population, who are the native peoples of this part of the world. They were here long before the Spaniards arrived in the 16th Century and mixed their white European blood with the sun-tinted Talahumaras.

Most Tarahumara are on the fringe of society here. Many don't speak Spanish and live in the mountains, far away from the bigger Chihuahuan cities, completely disconnected from society in a way similar to the American Indians, but even more so due to the language barrier and cultural prejudice. Some come down from the sierra to live on the streets of the cities, begging for money. On the streets of Parral, I often encounter them: dark-skinned, ebony-haired women in brightly colored clothing, carrying little babies with dirty faces on their backs, asking people for money with their native tongue. "Codima?"

The people in Albergue are of this heritage of poverty and social rejection. This is the torn, stained curtain of a cultural backdrop for the story I'm about to tell.

In the church here is a guy named Mike. He's a good 6 inches shorter than I am and sports a good lookin' mustache, like most Mexican men. But unlike many Mexican men, Mike truly, humbly, and passionately loves Jesus Christ. And it shows. It's hard to have a conversation with Mike without out feeling the bombshell effect of love, joy, grace, and humility that Jesus has caused in his life. I heard one day that Mike was in charge of leading an outreach to this place called Albergue, and they were in need of somebody to lead worship. Being able to pluck a few strings on the guitar, I signed up and started going with Mike and a sweet spitfire of a lady from the church named Lucy.

My experience in Albergue can be summed up easily: Mike (or occasionally Lucy) picks me up from my house around 4:00 pm every Saturday, and we drive to the other part of the city, where Albergue is located. We descend off the paved road onto a dirt one which leads to a dusty soccer field, whose goals are made of rusted iron posts poorly welded together, ready to fall apart. The boundaries of the field are piles of dirt and rock on one side and a dirt wall on the other, on top of which is the paved road. There are often young boys and girls playing soccer there, covered in dust and yelling at the top of their lungs in the midst of a spirited game as we drive up.

We begin to talk and play with the kids as they arrive, knowing that we come every Saturday at this time (of course, the fact that there will be something yummy towards the end of the Bible lesson never hurts). My friend Judith (a young single girl from the church) also comes and accompanies me in leading worship, so we get out our guitars and begin tuning up. After a short worship time, we engage the kids in a short Bible lesson about Jesus' life. When we finish learning the memory verse for the week, the yummy something always emerges from the trunk of Lucy's car and we enjoy a snack on the dusty field as the yellow sun sets behind us.

Last week, I was privileged to play an important part in the lesson and become the man blind from birth in John chapter 9. One of the guys that comes and helps out with the outreach played the part of Jesus, and in place of putting saliva-made mud on my eyes, we substituted chocolate. It worked out just fine - I threw off my dark sunglasses and began declaring the technicolor wonder of my newfound reality (in less-than-perfect Spanish, of course).

After getting the chocolate fully off my face, I sat down with some of the kids as we enjoyed Lucy's snack. The sun was setting; its soft, warm yellowness bathing me as the casual mountain wind brought a slight chill to prick my skin. I sat in the evening's fading glory, the sound of chattering children filling my ears. Like every foreigner often does, I reflected on the oddity of my situation: a privileged white nerd from the US, sitting on a bare, brown soccer field on the outskirts of a city I had never heard of a year ago.

Suddenly, gazing at the stretching brown before me, my eyes saw something unexpected. There was green in the midst of the brown. On this dry, dusty soccer field, I saw a few small patches of green grass, subtly yet stubbornly holding its place in the brownness. The revealing power of the sun's yellow light drew my eyes to the clear contrast of emerald on dirt. I had never seen it before. It smote my vision like Rembrandt masterpiece. How was it possible for green grass to grow on this overused, tramped-on field that hasn't seen rain for months?

In the midst of the wonder, I saw a metaphor emerge. There was life in the midst of death. There was a clatter of awakening bones in the dry valley. It was springing from the dust, like Lazarus out of the tomb. Light issuing from darkness. There was something, a work of divine sovereignty and mercy, materializing in front of my eyes. The Kingdom, arriving humbly but powerfully in a place of desolation and brokenness, brought by the dusty, beautiful feet of those who preach the Good News.

Not only for Albergue, but this metaphor soon brought its guns to bear on my own broken life. I don't wear my frailty obviously, like this poverty-stricken place, but I'm poor nonetheless. Weak. Dry. Withered. Cracked. Dust itself cannot produce verdant fields. Only mercy brings life out of death and produces lushness in the desert.

I will open rivers on the bare heights,
and fountains in the midst of the valleys.
I will make the wilderness a pool of water,
and the dry land springs of water.
I will put in the wilderness the cedar,
the acacia, the myrtle, and the olive.
I will set in the desert the cypress,
the plane and the pine together,
that they may see and know,
may consider and understand together,
that the hand of the LORD has done this,
the Holy One of Israel has created it.

Isaiah 41: 18-20

an abnormal post

hey ya'll...

usually i try to make my blog posts profound, meaningful, and insightful, a clever mixture of real-life situations i'm experiencing and deeper thoughts i'm having about the ever-present eternal reality of the Gospel. usually i deceive myself in my cleverness, and the purity of what started out to be a grace-prompted revelation often gets corrupted through my desire to dress it up in pretty language in order to impress my readers.

i hope this post is different (and shorter, as you're probably hoping:). perhaps a little more like a brief mass-email update. over the past couple weeks, life has continued as it normally does: nonstop teaching and preparation during the week, intermingled with a few welcomed breaks, and a "cool-down, relax, get laundry done and clean the apartment" weekend filled with a variety of social and church events.

as this latin rhythm follows its normal course, so does the swing of my daily life. some days (like yesterday for example) are great. i feel wonderful: time spent with God and people is meaningful, I do things well, I get things accomplished, and maybe toss in a few good selfless deeds (like making my roommate a sandwich or witnessing to somebody about Jesus).

and of course, there are moments with my rhythm gets thrown off and i misstep, causing others to wonder what the heck is wrong with me. i start dancing my own steps, to the beat of the desire of self, and eventually trip up and land on my bum, stupidly looking around in the hope that nobody noticed, especially the band leader. of course, he always does.

but the rhythm of grace never alters. never slowing to match my weakness, nor accelerating beyond the strength given me. my performance has no effect on its continuity. the best days don't surpass my need for it, nor do my worst days exhaust its supply.

asi es nuestro Dios, lleno de gracia.

the real and the VERY real

rrgh.

That frustrated little grumble pretty much sums up my day. I started Tuesday, February 5th slightly irked at my inability to accomplish very much this weekend, even though it was a long weekend (Mexico celebrates their Constitution Day in early February, and we had the day off school yesterday).

I walked in the school office this morning, greeted a few teachers, and quickly set to work trying to plan out my day, as well as finish my weekly plans, which were due on Friday. After getting the minimum amount accomplished, I grabbed a portable stereo (for the listening portion of my classes) from a cabinet, and headed out the door toward my 8:20 4th grade class.

I walked halfway there before realizing that the little electronic adaptor at the end of the stereo’s plug was missing. I therefore retraced my steps all the way to the office, found the adaptor, reconnected it, and walked to the 4th grade classroom, now slightly late to class.

When my little 4th graders were finishing up their workbook assignment, the clock approached, then passed 9:10, the starting time for my next class, and the homeroom teacher still hadn’t arrived back from her break. I can’t leave the class until she gets back, so I was stuck waiting until 9:18, until she finally returned.

I booked it to my 9th grade class, got things somewhat organized, and began teaching. After finishing two/thirds of my class plan, I realized that I had ran out of time to do all that I wanted to, so I let them go to recess and I walked upstairs to meet my 10th graders, whose class actually went pretty well.

Recess allowed me to chomp down some granola and yogurt, get myself configured for my 11:30 12th grade Philosophy class, which I was pretty excited about. I recently re-watched The Matrix, and was inspired to use the film as an illustration of our knowledge of reality. I was pumped about using this cool medium to convey philosophical concepts to my students. As we began viewing the movie clips in class, one of the other teachers knocked on the classroom door and announced that some university representatives were wanting to use my class to give a presentation about their university to these high school seniors. With a polite smile on my face but a “You’ve got to be kidding me” thought in my heart, I consented. I shut down the movie and left the reps to do their thing.

12:20 brought my other 4th grade class to bear on my nerves. They’re beautiful little children, but I’m still trying to teach them the value of speaking one at a time. I came back to the office, tired and feeling defeated in not being able to control my students.

One of my good friends here invited me, David, and a few other folks to his house to eat. It was one of the girls’ birthdays, and the whole group was really enjoying the time together, joking around and acting ridiculous, as good friends do when there’s no inhibitions on being themselves. But my attitude was far from merry. I was tired and didn’t feel like talking or joking around – my sense of humor had long since gone. I enjoyed being with them, though. The lighthearted atmosphere gave lift to my spirit. However, I have two extra English classes on Tuesdays and Thursdays, so I had to leave the dinner early.

And here I am, sitting on my living room couch, having returned from my two extra classes, which I’m not convinced are doing a whole lot of good to help these kids learn English.

You’re probably wondering, “Why the heck did he just write all about his semi-depressing, ho-hum, I’m-not-making-a-difference day?” Good question.

Ever since I read the book of Ecclesiastes in one sitting a few days ago, I’ve been thinking about the meaning of life. Ol’ Solomon seems to think that our whole life is one big cycle, void of meaning, and that the only good thing for us to do is to work hard and enjoy whatever gifts God gives us. The Gospel of John has been bringing a little balance to these melancholic thoughts, but simultaneously adding more confusion by persistently bending my wandering sight toward a Rabbi from Nazareth who made lame men walk, turned water into wine, and told people that they only way to eternal life is by eating his flesh and drinking his blood.

These two pieces of Scripture are being connected in my heart and mind by the grace of the Almighty through the idea of worship, strangely enough. In Piper’s Desiring God, I’ve been reading that worship is an act of the “religious affections” (Piper quotes Jonathan Edwards in this), which are awoken through the vision of the reality of God, revealed in Jesus Christ. Apart from this, worship is a meaningless ritual – a cycle void of purpose and life. Worship is the true emotion of treasuring Jesus Christ as an end in himself.

It might be easy for me to see through the eyes of Solomon today: well, it's one more day in the cycle of good, bad, good, bad. It's all a cycle under the sun, right? But something within me longs for a different answer: something past the sun, something greater than its light. A Light beyond the sun.

Yeah, my day was a blah sort of day. We all have those. Yet I want the reality and light of God, as revealed through Jesus Christ, to stir up in me a true affection for him in worship, regardless of the circumstances. He is the greatest good – there is nothing beyond him.

Let us sink deeper into his reality and lose sight of our own, which passes through this time and space at the lightning speed of insignificance.

i'm still here

Faithful readers, I apologize for the absolute silence the past few weeks. Things have been rather ridiculous here in the beautiful pueblito of Parral, Chihuahua. My good friend David spent the week away from school all last week, and I helped cover some of his classes (those which began at 7:30 in the morning: ouch!). On top of that, high school classes began last week, which added another nine hours of teaching to my schedule. Needless to say, after teaching 6 classes in a row, 3 days in a row, I was bushed!

I don't have a whole lot of time to tantalize your minds with creative and profound thoughts, which I always feel the pressure to do as I publish my thoughts on the Web. But, I would like to briefly relate to you what a good work God continues to do in me, softening up my heart and mind.

Lately, I've been reading a book by John Piper entitled Desiring God. I highly recommend it as a profound read. I have been challenged to look at life through different lenses as I read this book. The main thrust of the book is to expose the glory of God and point to it as our true human desire: to know God and be with him, which is the greatest pleasure of all pleasures. He uses the parable of a man finding an invaluable treasure in a field and then going to sell all his possessions in order to buy the field, in order to obtain the treasure. As created beings, our greatest possible pleasure is to know and enjoy our Creator. Piper contends that the whole point of life is to become a Christian Hedonist: addicted to the pursuit of true pleasure, which is found in no other place save God alone.

Being in the Gospel of John at the same time has made me very conscious of this theme which weaves in and out of the fullness of the Gospel of Jesus Christ. In the grace and truth of Christ is revealed the exact image of the Father, in whose fellowship the Son took the fullest pleasure. And through the ridiculous mercy of God, he has ushered unworthy, filthy rebels into the midst of that fellowship, into the midst of the purest pleasure that can ever be experienced. And if this is the case, why the heck am I not reveling in it?

May you experience the fullness of the pleasures found at the right hand of the Father (Psalm 16--read it before you go to bed tonight and chew on it for a while).

the perspective of grace

Well, at this point in the story, I'm sitting in the school office at the end of a slow, semi-successful day. I played a crazy game with my 4th graders, which involved their sprinting to the whiteboard from their seats in order to touch an illustrated vocabulary card, shouting "I DO!" in response to my question, "Who likes to go bike riding?" My attempt to teach the structure of three-word phrasal verbs to my 9th graders went pretty well - they seemed to understand what I said. High school doesn't start classes for another two weeks, for which I am thankful. I still have much to prepare for my 10th grade English class and 12th grade Philosophy class. Yes, I said Philosophy. I'm going to be a Philosophy teacher. Yikes.

Personally, I'm feeling a little more confident in my being here. Actually, the picture above illustrates that confidence quite nicely. While at a friend's house last week, I browsed through her library and encountered a book full of M.C. Escher's works. This particular piece caught my eye immediately.

I've always been an admirer of Escher. His works are mind-boggling and perplexing, for he was able to create deceptively possible images through the use of perspective. It makes one wonder whether he had the superhuman ability to enter into his own works, gaze at all angles of their artistic construction, and then somehow re-arrange everything from every possible perspective before re-entering the real world. His art has an otherworldly sense about it, and yet its meaning is often very concrete.

The piece above caught my attention because its subjects are living, breathing, eating, loving, thinking creatures (quite humanlike), but they exist on entirely different geometric (or terrestrial) planes. There are three sets of living creatures in the same place, but they literally live on different perspectives. One is obvious: the normal up-and-down (right-side-up) geometric plane through which we view the world from our position, taken captive by gravity. The other two planes exist when you tilt your head to view the piece from one side to another.

The name of this work is entitled Relativity. I wonder why.

Interestingly enough, this wood engraving is a good illustration of how God is working in my life. Through the process of time and the mercy of God, He has begun an understanding in my mind and heart that although the people with whom I work, worship and live may be on another cultural and theological perspective, we remain in the same place. Different planes of perspective perhaps, but the same place nonetheless. And that place is both physical and spiritual. I not only live and work alongside with them, but I am also bound to them as a fellow part of Christ's Body.

And if I do not love them regardless of our differences, how can I be called one who follows Christ? Did not our Lord place on his church a new command? Love one another.

Should I be surprised that the command isn't, Be right and prove it to others? But alas, brothers and sisters, this is my own command to obey 99% of the time. Please pray for me, that my strength to love would come not from my own weak reserves, but from the working of the Spirit of God within me.

home, part 2

"Well, I'm back."

The last words of J.R.R. Tolkien's Return of the King reflect a bit of where I'm at right now. Sam just returned to his home at Bag End after watching Frodo, Gandalf, Bilbo, and others board a ship bound for the Undying Lands. I've always enjoyed reading over the last part of that epic story because it has an unfinished feel to it: the life-threatening, adrenaline-pumping adventure of the Fellowship has ended, but the journey still continues for Samwise Gamgee.

Now, I haven't just returned from an epic adventure that resulted in the salvation of the world, but my time at home was high-pitched, fast-paced, full of life, joyful reunions, and deep conversations.

Seeing my mom and dad from the top of a O'Hare escalator thrilled my heart and reassured me that I had finally returned to a place of love, warmth, and security.

Opening the door of my house to the faces of old friends filled me with old memories and new thoughts of true, God-given fellowship.

Having a deep conversation with my 89-year-old grandma who told me she has a greater hunger for God than she has ever had floored my "I've already arrived" pride and ushered me into a self-defeating, joyful place of humility.

Talking with my dad about all my life struggles over a Starbucks mocha and listening to his humble-yet-assured responses gave me a sense of security and confidence in God which still tells me, "Blessed is he who trusts in the Lord."

And now, I'm back. Here in Parral. Without being too dramatic, this city has showed me more of my weakness and insecurity than college did. It's a place where I'm tested and often found wanting, because of my blasted sense of self-reliance. But, it's a place that God uses to lift a hidden veil in my soul, touching an exposed nerve and revealing my obvious need for Him.

I still feel slightly melancholic about leaving goodness of home life and embracing the fact that it will be several more months before I'm able to see my family and friends again. However, a conversation with a good friend and his wife over break has helped me see this place in a different light.

He encouraged me to view Parral as my home, even though it is far from my idea of home. Christ is my home, he told me, and wherever he places me, there is my home, for I am there with him. Love those around you like family and old friends, he said, for that is the example he left us: he came to our home, a far cry from his heavenly dwelling, and loved us as family and friends.

And this is our calling. Let us live it obediently and confidently in the grace He has provided.