I have camped upon the rugged, emerald cliffs of Ireland, watching the wind and rain dance upon the crashing sea, drops hanging from my eyelashes due to the rushing spray flying from the jagged rocks below.
I have walked the Salthill prom in the drizzling grey dusk, electrifyingly alive, guided into Galway by the lights of pubs and the ferris wheel blazing forth radiant light patterns against the purple-clouded night.
I have gazed at the jaw-dropping beauty of the sunrise peaking over the purple Carpathian mountains of Transylvania, horses and buggies slowly pulling men to work in the green-carpeted fields of gypsy villages spotted with the most peculiar-looking haystacks that more resemble a friendly monster in a Maurice Sendak illustration than food for the livestock.
I’ve walked the regal streets of Budapest at midnight, mouth wide open at the most ornate buildings and castles that I never dreamed could be real.
The Balkans of Bulgaria were the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen as we drove through the mountains, thick with mossy forests and mountains that reached higher than the clouds as mists of stratus hid the top from my view.
I’ve overlooked the Biblical land of Thessaloniki, Greece, as the sun went down on ancient palaces and modern apartments, the Mediterranean a crash of orange and purple against the setting sun, and thought I’d never seen anything so incredible in my entire life.
I’ve watched herds of wild camels tear through the desert where Abraham and Sarah traveled and where Jesus was tempted by Satan.
I’ve floated in the Dead Sea, completely awed by the views of Jordan and the radiant colors of the desert all around me.
I’ve seen Simon Peter’s house in Capernaum where the four friends lowered the paralytic that Jesus healed, I’ve walked the very same road where Jesus bore the cross for my sins, and I’ve placed my hands upon Calvary’s skull and kissed the ground where the cross sunk into the earth.
I’ve seen the most breathtaking and gargantuan of the world’s mosques in Istanbul, spiraling minarets stabbing the nighttime sky, surrounded by dozens of screaming gulls flocking the domed ceilings as they float inland from the sea.
I’ve watched the sun set over the Agean Sea and watched all the fishermen come home.
I’ve walked the crumbling, ancient streets of Ephesus and seen the ruins of the Roman Empire, and I read Acts 19 in the very ampitheatre in which it happened thousands of years ago.
I’ve walked through the beauty of Kenyan forests and crossed bubbling streams in search of giraffes, which we found at the top of a hill in the open plains.
I’ve been humbled by the beauty of the screaming Nile, splitting the mountains and forests of Uganda with a roar so loud it could be heard through the cool, green miles to come.
And I’ve seen Kilmanjaro in the fog, and watched the Tanzanian countryside for hours, unable to tear my eyes away from the most unbelievable beauty I’ve ever seen as tribesmen and wild giraffes roam past my window.
I could paint pictures for hours of the physical beauty I have seen on this journey, but even the humbling, overwhelming emotions I feel at the visual display of how much God loves us, even these emotions can’t describe the beauty of what I’ve seen God do.
I’ve walked through the filthiest streets you could imagine, the stink of refuse and sewage and garbage choking all clean air from the slums, from the lungs of beautiful, hungry children, and I’ve seen God. I’ve seen His love for them as they play, totally unaware that they are poor, that in other places, people have parents and three meals a day. I’ve cried as a child named Nicholas, a first-grader, looked into my eyes through the hundreds of mosquitoe bites on his face, and smiled as he pressed the button that lit the numbers on my watch. I’ve had my heart torn and my stomach turned inside out as I’ve passed men who walked on legs swollen five times that of normal size, I’ve cringed and swallowed lumps the size of my fist as I’ve seen lives robbed by AIDS, lying in gutters with tin cups extended, too weak and feeble to even ask for help anymore.
And somehow, in all this pain, God is there. I’ve felt Him more tangibly among the sick and the dying than I have ever felt Him in my life. As clearly as I can almost see the face of God in the wild mountains, I more clearly see the eyes of God watching these who are in pain. As I’ve laid in pain this year, through food posioning and malaria, through tears that wouldn’t end for my father’s death and my childhood lost, I’ve felt the arms of God around me.
How is it that the farther I go, the more I see God? The more I see, the more sure of God I become. The more rugged beauty of earth I see, the more I understand my Creator and His unbelievable imagination and creativity. The more pain and hardship I endure and see others endure, the more certain I become of his immovable, invasive love. I preached a sermon in Kenya on how suffering brings us closer to God, because it was through suffering that God was brought close to us. The more suffering I endure, the more this is sure. And yet, paradoxically, the more joy I feel, the more of this I’m sure, as well. In every season, in every trial, in every circumstance, God is coming close to me.
I have much yet to see and do, but this I know: I’ll never be the same again. When all that is known and comfortable and certain is stripped away, I’ve found God in every unknown, every discomfort, and ever uncertainty. Not only have I found Him, but He has found me.
