A Man Who can Dance

Years ago when I was randomly dating pretending to find "the one", I would often meet someone and be overly optimistic about their potential. I never was really looking for "the one" but every one I dated was run through my internal scantron checking system to see if they were "it!"  If they didn't quite fit I either adjusted the scantron or created imaginary traits. My mother called this my dreamer side, or sometime more accurately my delusional side.  The last few weeks I keep hearing the song I Hope You Can Dance by Lee Ann Womack....I flash back to dating 10 year ago, hoping, wishing, and praying for someone to take these lyrics to heart. For a short period of time they made up a majority of my scantron. 

I hope you never lose your sense of wonder
You get your fill to eat but always keep that hunger
May you never take one single breath for granted
God forbid love ever leave you empty-handed

I hope you still feel small when you stand beside the ocean
Whenever one door closes I hope one more opens
Promise me that you'll give faith a fighting chance
And when you get the choice to sit it out or dance, I hope you dance

As I heard the song reappear on the radio recently, I realized I married a man who dances.  Not occasionally but every day.  Since we first met I have been in awe of his sense of wonder. He is intrigued by life, fascinated by people and has a hunger for the new... new people, new projects, new information, new adventures.   He takes nothing for granted, walks humbly before the Lord and every day, every single day strives to be a better person. And he dances...he enjoys...boldly, unabashedly, enthusiastically and with both feet in the water.  Sometimes he's a bit messy splashing in the water...like Gene Kelly in Singing in the Rain, jumping on and off the sidewalk, but you can't truly dance without some sense of abandon.   I approach both life and people with caution. Mick is fearless.  He gives freely of himself, his love, his knowledge, his joy.

I hope you never fear those mountains in the distance
Never settle for the path of least resistance
Living might mean taking chances but they're worth taking
Lovin' might be a mistake but it's worth making
Don't let some hell-bent heart leave you bitter
When you come close to selling out reconsider
Give the heavens above more than just a passing glance

And when you get the choice to sit it out or dance, I hope you dance

God has so blessed me by connecting me to a man so different from myself...one who takes me in his arms and dances me through the streets, across the bridges, away from my fears and    always with the most gentle and greatest love.  He is my greatest blessing each and every day.

My Father, My Hero

God is in the details.  When we are traveling in other countries, or involved in a ministry event or something else that is entirely God focused, we see God in the details.   But other times during normal, daily life, God can seem very quiet.  But is He?  Or is it that we have so much static on the line we can’t hear him, or don’t choose to?  This past week God has been amazingly loud in so many ways.  I write everything in my head before I put it on paper so I keep virtually writing this blog then God spins me in a new direction and I start over so nothing is getting on paper.
  

I had an amazing God experience this week.  He is directing me, moving me in new directions….not sure exactly where but He is definitely in the details.  Friday night I heard some statistics on the Vietnam War that I questioned.  Once home I began to research which quickly got my head completely wrapped up in Vietnam.   For some time I have been thinking that I should gather my father’s pictures, certificates, metals, letters etc.  and put them in a MyPublisher book, since I seem to be the collector of the family archive information.  Saturday morning I pulled out the 3 tattered binders and began sorting out the military certificates from the letters from the pictures to prepare for the scanning process.
  

I spent hours lost in my dad’s life from enlisting at age 16 through dying at age 32.  I traveled through serving in Japan, the Subic Bay Philippines,  fighting in the Korean War and then on to the Vietnam War.  The certificates showed a life dedicated to his calling, dedicated to serving his country, dedicated to being a Marine – above all else a Marine.  He joined the Marines before even graduating High School, yet graduated Officers Candidate School 7^th in a class of 600.   He led a Drum and Bugle Corps, though he didn’t play an instrument and coached a football team, though he didn’t necessarily play.  And in almost every picture he looked into the camera with a slightly crooked smile and I got a sense that no matter where he was, there was no place he would have rather been.  A  Marine.
  

In 1964, he was stationed in Okinawa, CO of Hqtrs. Co. 9^th, over and over he asked to go to Vietnam.  Every Marine I know wants to be where the action is – it is what they are called for.  After 7 months of asking, in January 1965, he received orders to go into Vietnam for one month. He went. He died.  In his role as a military advisor he was sent to Binh Dinh province with two battalions of Vietnamese marines. He was killed along with 7 Vietnamese marines during a heavy clash in the mountainous region of Binh Dinh.  He had been in country for two weeks.  He was killed two months before the military action was declared in Vietnam which was officially the beginning of the “war.”   When they asked my mother why an officer with a non-combat, secure assignment would plead to go to the front line, her answer was simple, “It was because he was a Marine."

I sorted the photos which showed buddies and fellow marines from a half a century ago smiling into the camera full of pride, youth and passion for their call.  The piles of letters and commendations spoke of a father I never knew but of a hero I always imagined. I couldn’t help but be entranced by his military life and the pile of information I was compiling.
  

As I returned to work on Monday, I received a random email with facts about the Vietnam Wall.   I read through it curious about the timing as so much of the weekend had been spent in this era.  I tried to remember where my father’s name was on the wall.  I knew his name was on the first panel 1e at the apex as his sacrifice was so early in the action.
  

So here is the God part…I went to a website to find out exact placement on the Wall (1e Line 93):  http://thewall-usa.com/guest.asp?recid=26928
  

I looked up my father’s name, read the basic facts…birth, death, birthplace, etc.  Then the button.  A comments button.  I clicked expecting to see nothing.  After all he was killed 46 years ago.  Speechless, absolutely speechless. There are posting and comments about him.  He died 46 years ago…the most recent posting was Memorial Day 2011.  How is it possible? 46 years and people are writing amazing things about who he was, the marine he was and the sacrifice he made.  It’s hard to describe the impact this has had on me.  I had just turned 5 when my father was killed.  I never had a chance to know him.  But reading others words, voluntary words of men who knew him, who served with him posted on a website….that’s impact.
  

What does it mean? I don’t know.  Why is God putting all this in front of me now?  I don’t know.  But God is very loud right now, and I am listening intently.

Seeking God

We returned from our mission trip to Brazil just one month ago.  My job on the trip was to watch and report God sightings.  Upon our return I wrote the following:

This trip was an amazing experience for all of us.  We learned about ourselves; we learned about service and support; we learned that there are many heroes out there doing God’s work; we learned it is not all about us;  we learned that we just may not know it all; we learned when we ask God to use us, we have to accept how He chooses to use us;  we learned we are incredibly blessed in our lives;  we learned prayer works even in the little things; and, we learned there are incredibly bright, almost blinding lights, in very dark places. We learned God works, we are just along for the ride.

These things were so evident in Brazil – partly of course because we were focused 24/7 on God, how He was using us and where He was directing us.  So why is that different now? Are we not called to be focused 24/7 on God? Are there not God sightings every day here in the United States if we watch for them? Do we not see God every day in our lives both in the simple things and in the big things? Yes…the answer to all in yes.

Years ago, in my pre-Jesus life (aka BC, before Christ or BS, before Salvation  J funny huh?), anyway years ago I used to write a lot…about life, about spirituality, about the God I thought I knew. I loved writing. When I became a Christian, I realized how little I knew. I discovered how small and insignificant I am in the presence of an amazing God. How do you write about that?  But traveling in Brazil, I sort of found my voice.  I am still humbled by how little I know and how indescribable God really is, but I do love seeking Him and sharing my sightings.  So I invite you to join me at my new blog  GodSight.blogspot.com.  You can join by email and receive an email when a new blog is posted or feel free to just check in once in awhile as we seek Him together.

Mission Trip to Brazil

In August 2011, I was one if eight to travel to Brazil on a mission trip to share Gods love and encourage the local churches in their work to claim their streets and minister to their people.  Below are my final notes from the trip:

My final thoughts are entirely wrapped up with our final night in Brazil.  On Wednesday I talked about walking thru the Caju favella with Fabio and Lia.  Fabio and Lia pastor the Igreja Batista Vida church in Caju.  When Mike first visited four years ago, it was a very small church within the favella. A favella run by drug traffickers.  The church is now housed in a warehouse by the shipping yards, walking distance to the favella. To stand on the street you’d never know it was a church, you’d never know the worship that happens inside. It is an old, run down, non-descript warehouse.  To one side is a simple single door leading to 3 flights of stairs.  The stairs open up to a large open warehouse – maybe 5000 sq. ft. – with rounded ceilings.  For the most part unfinished reminding me of an airplane hanger.  On the far side sits a stage, simple sound booth and a video screen.  An unfinished loft looks over the room and a tiny kitchen sits at the back.  It’s Sunday night. The band is warming up playing familiar Christian songs, sung in Portuguese.  Services begin at 7PM.

To fully grasp what we are about to experience, I have to back track to the days that have led up to this final night in Brazil.  As our trip began Saturday, we spent two days in Niteroi with the Sal & Luz Church.  By their own admission, recently they have not spent enough time on the streets, enough time reaching the unreachable, enough time calling Gods lost.  Mike’s message challenged the church to step up, to step out, to claim their church, to push back the darkness, to lift the veils, to go into the neighborhoods, into the favellas and unchain Gods people.  The church body came forward, tears were flowing, hands were raised, the Spirit was moving and God was oh so loud.  Pastor Moses pleaded and called to his church to go “out of the gate” to go beyond their comfort level, to reclaim the church, reclaim the neighborhoods and bring light to the “miserables.”, evangelizing in the favellas.  This is where our trip began….seeing passion breathed back into a church.

The time between this beginning in Niteroi and the ending at Caju was filled with slices of ministry. There was time on the streets talking to locals and sharing the Gospel. Visiting a home for the elderly and as pitiful as our singing was  – singing songs and chatted with them.  It didn’t seem to matter that our languages didn’t match.  In their world we were family members coming to visit and bringing them incredible joy.  One lady told everyone I was her daughter and she hadn’t seen me for a very long time. I kissed her on the cheek and told her I’d see her soon.

Wednesday morning we went to the Parada de Lucas, a favella in the North zone of Rio.  We went into the favella by car lead by two women on foot.  Of the entire trip this was the most tense or unnerving.  We made our way to a tiny, cramped school called Transformation. The people running the program were a huge light in an amazingly dark environment. We fell in love with them…a mother and daughter with a passion for change, a passion for God and a passion for education.

Thursday we drove an hour outside of the city to a Recovery Ranch.  Eighty men live on-site and care for the crops and animals.  We sang (again…Craig our missionary host was big on singing!), gave testimony and Mike talked from his heart.  This is so much Mikes calling, talking to these guys, telling them he knows where they are, where they come from and where they can go;  giving tremendous hope. 

As the week closed out, we talked and performed skits for boys at a soccer camp in the Cesar Maiar, a favella run by a Militia group instead of the more familiar drug traffickers.  These days, police officers, firemen and prison guards in Rio have been joining militias that are committing as much murder and crime as the drug gangs.  The militias started out filling the vacuum left by authorities in “arranging security for residents and small businesses from drug traffickers. Over time, however, they began demanding payments in exchange. Soon the militias also started controlling the supply of water and cooking gas, etc.  We went into Cesar Maiar to support the incredible work Pastor Francisco is doing there. 

Saturday, four of us visited the prison.   Again, the “prison” is nothing like what you could picture. It is a simple metal gate on a public street.   We were led into the prison by guards.  The guards are inmates.  Yes, the prisons are guarded by their own.  We walked thru a cramped alleyway, somewhat of a kitchen facility on one side, the living quarters on the other.    When ready, we were guided into the activity center.  The hallway was cramped, with series of metal gates to pass through; the ceiling was rough brick that even I felt I had to duck to pass through.  After a couple turns, we landed in a relatively large brick room lined with concrete benches.  As the first group of men were led in, all in their white t-shirts, it struck me how young they are – all looking like young boys, certainly not criminals. If you met their eyes, they smiled and nodded.  I felt like I was in a high school assembly hall.  We witnessed 3 men being baptized (water from a little beat up metal tray) and the room taking communion, such an honor.  It was hard to reconcile in my mind who I was looking at versus the stories associated with them.  As worship music played and prayers were spoken, they stood hands clasped, looking upwards.  I wondered if they were looking to God or looking for the glimpse of blue sky you could partially see around the perimeter of the ceiling.

I recap all this as I try to wrap my head around what I saw and felt in Brazil.  God.  I felt God.  Evil.  I felt Evil.  There is a very clear, sharp line….God or Evil – no in between.  You are saved or you are not, no in between. You are in light or in darkness….no gray.  Much of Rio exists in the shadows…..drug traffickers, drugs, weapons, spiritists, militia.  You call on God daily, hourly, constantly for protection, for favor, for intervention.  There is a battle taking place, not just the battle between government and traffickers, militia and people, but a stronger, bigger spiritual battle.  A battle so much more evident that what we experience here in the states.

So back to the Igreja Batista Vida church in Caju.  What comes to mind is the phrase My Future’s So Bright I Gotta Wear Shades. The band finishes warming up and the people begin to stream in, 25, 50, 75, 100…the seats of the warehouse church are starting to fill up.  150, 200, 300…the seats are full.  The band starts playing and the people keep coming, its standing room only with over 400 in attendance.  The church is bursting at its seams.  The backdrop of the stage is a large banner: 

Tomar A Cruz  (Take up your Cross),

A Lei do Discipulado (The Law of Discipleship)

Each person here was brought by someone following this banner, someone willing to go into the favellas, onto the streets, into the shadows and bring people Gods word.  They are not just sharing the Gospel, not just telling the story of Christ – they are fighting for souls.  They are facing down evil and shining a bright light into their community.  As the worship band plays, the energy in the room is exhilarating as people jump up and down, boldly and vibrantly worshiping our God.  Every person in the room, other than the first time visitors, is a member of a small group.  A cell group that meets in homes in the favellas, 15-20 people crammed into a small 10x12 room studying Gods word, keeping each other accountable and holding onto the light.  Each person has another to disciple them.  If a person leaves the group, the cell leader finds them to bring them back into Gods fold.  If necessary the entire group goes to encourage them back.  No lamb is lost, when they stray, the light follows and brings them home, home to God.   God’s glory is in every facet of this church from the Pastor to the associate pastors to the cell leaders to each and every person.  There is nothing we can offer this church, nothing we can bring to them.  They are living in the glory of God and He is guiding each and every step, and they know it.  They worship with abandon.

On this night, Mike gave a sermon.  He praised them, he honored them.  Mike has seen them grow from a little one room church in the favellas fearful of their streets to standing room only, bolding walking the streets and searching for lost lambs.  Mikes message was powerful reminding them how the battle continues, encouraging them to stay strong, to persevere in the fight.  He honored Pastor Fabio, reminding the church that their Pastor was a man of God, a warrior in Gods army, righteously leading them as they continue to claim their neighborhood.  The people cheered.

As the trip comes to a close, I keep thinking about Jesus as Savior.  As I flew home to the comfort of my little house and laid in the comfort of my bed, I keep thinking about my view of Jesus as Savior.  He saves us from hell, he offers us eternity with Him.  I call him Savior.  I think when I call him Savior, it is different than the people of Caju, or Niteroi, or Recreo.  When they call Him savior, He is also saving them from a darkness here on earth that can surround them like quicksand pulling them into depths of evil.

Continue to pray for the people of Rio De Janeiro…for the churches, the pastors, the missionaries and the people.

This trip was an amazing experience for all of us.  We learned about ourselves; we learned about service and support; we learned that there are many heroes out there doing God’s work; we learned it is not all about us;  we learned that we just may not know it all; we learned when we ask God to use us, we have to accept how He chooses to use us;  we learned we are incredibly blessed in our lives;  we learned prayer works even in the little things; and, we learned there are incredibly bright, almost blinding lights, in very dark places. We learned God works, we are just along for the ride.