CLT Airport: Friday, March 24th, 2017
“Where is your destination?”
“Cairo, Egypt”
“What is the purpose of your stay?”
“Missions”
On Monday, I returned from my last mission trip before leaving for the Race. It hit me while traveling to Egypt that in September I will be in the same position; the difference? Ten days versus nine months. I asked both myself and God a lot of questions going into this trip. How do I leave for that long? Am I ready? Is my faith ready? The answers I was greeted with could only be orchestrated by a Father who knows every part of me. How did we meet two people in Egypt who are from North Carolina? How did a close friend suddenly feel like she needed to walk alongside me through the Race immediately after I prayed for a person? I’d try to break down the trip and all of the ways we saw the Lord working, but I’m afraid that wouldn’t do it justice. Instead, here are some of my favorite stories from this past week:
Merna. The younger sister of a sponsored girl named Youstina. We met this family at the end of a long day, but what a great ending to the day. The house was filled with joy and laughter. Mary, the youngest, clung tight to their mother, who had such a gentle spirit. She was sweet and welcoming. Youstina possessed the same nurturing way about her, as she helped to look after her sisters. Then comes Merna. She runs in the room giggling and squealing, playing with us like we’re distant relatives coming to visit. She runs to her room and changes hair clips every few minutes, waiting for us to notice. She is unapologetically herself and filled only with silly laughter. Is this what it looks like to have childlike faith?
The second day of home visits in Minya, I felt a lot of things. I felt eager to meet the kids we were going to visit, but I felt unsure of what I had to contribute. I’m not confident in praying aloud. I don’t have words that could heal brokenness. So I entered into Issac’s house questioning a lot within me. Most streets were flooded with kids playing soccer and running around. When we would enter into a home, they would follow and pile at the door to see what was happening. Some would be siblings of the sponsored child, while others would be neighbors. On Issac’s street, however, there were few people. No one ran to the door when we entered. In the corner was Issac’s father, struggling to breathe. We learned that he has lung problems along with a type of dementia. In the bedroom was his grandmother who had broken her hip, but was too old to have surgery. Issac and his mother greeted us, both with tired yet resilient eyes. Issac is thirteen years old and an only child. He is soft spoken, but polite and gracious. While we asked the typical questions – What’s your favorite subject? What do you do for fun? Do you have a favorite bible story? – his mother watched so hopefully like a parent at a band concert. The parent that sits in the back so others have a better view but still stands up cheering the entire time. Waiting for his solo with baited breath, because he’s practiced for so long and she’s so proud of how far he’s come. I watch her watch him as he answers the questions and want nothing more than to heal the hurt of this family. In that moment, I stop and ask God “What can I do? Why am I here?” to which he responds “See him. Let him know that he is seen and loved. That he is more than what he has to endure.” We asked Issac what he wanted to be when he grew up, expecting a doctor or engineer, which was most of the younger kid’s answers. Confidently, Issac says “an artist. I want to paint.” He is thirteen, but carries the weight of three other lives; still he has passion. We go through his gift bag together, and he pulls out a small notebook. Smiling, he holds it so fragilely. “You can paint in it!” I say. And then I see it. I see a calloused man melt into a boy. For just a few moments, he lets go. This is what God meant. I can’t fix it all, and I can’t assure him that it will always get better. But I can be there to see the few moments of liberation from the weight he’s bore. And let me tell you, that’s beautiful.
Our last few days, we attended an international prayer conference, which represented about 30 countries and nearly 10,000 people. There were so many lessons that were taught and so much truth that was spoken. We stayed in a villa with two Lebanese women and an American who lives in Dubai. I learned there that culture is not always cookie cutter nor is it easy to always adapt. Culture is messy and intricate. Culture is adjusting to different boundaries or tones of conversation. I learned that this is what unites us; the ability to not just look at a person and pray quietly over them, but to understand why they are the way they are and appreciate that. Merely tolerating someone is a testament to how comfortable we grow in our pride. In one session of the conference, one of our Lebanese roommates sat next to me. At this point, my prayer was that of exhaustion and patience. I watch at a distance, which can come across pretentiously. She speaks directly, which can come across as gruff. I knew I needed to get over myself in order to love all of her. During worship, she took my headset that translated Arabic to English out of my ears. My initial reaction was to be annoyed, but she grabbed my hand and said “Stop.” I looked at her, confused, waiting for an answer. “You focus too much. Just listen. Stop focusing on the words and just listen.” Thank you, my Lebanese friend, for all that you taught me in those three days.
JFK Airport: Monday, April 3rd, 2017
“Where is your destination?”
“Charlotte, NC”
“Where are you coming from?”
“Cairo, Egypt”
“What are you bringing back to the States?”
“A new perspective. A heart on fire for the Middle East. A faith that believes Isaac can become a painter. A joy that will always hear Merna’s laugh.”
