Jesus Freak

  

   I was in high school in the 90's.  One of my favorite memories from that time in my life was Christian skate night at our local roller rink.  Our youth group used to go often.  It was good clean fun.  It was also a time of getting great exercise while listening to the latest in Christian music.  My tastes in Christian music veered toward Rich Mullins (who is now with the Lord) or Steven Curtis Chapman, among others of similar genres.  Most of my peers didn't share my taste (but my taste was shared by people in their 20's and 30's).  Most of my peers liked DC Talk, especially after their "Jesus Freak" album came out.  They really weren't my style, but nevertheless, I heard them at Christian skate night.  I can still hear it now..."What will people think when they find out I'm a Jesus Freak, what will they do, when they find out it's true..."  Since, as I said, this really wasn't my style of music, it rattled around annoyingly in my head.

     I have had a long and very complicated relationship with this song, and I want to explain it.  

     When I was in junior high and high school, God led me to take stands for Him that brought some authority figures against me.  I faced some humiliation.  Rejection.  Things Jesus warned us about.  Looking back, I should have rejoiced, because Jesus told us to (Matthew 5:11-12).  But, I was a teenager--a time in life when acceptance means everything.  I would do it again.  We can never do enough for Jesus, because He died for us.  But it was still painful.  I was just discovering where I fit in the world, and many in my little world rejected me.  I saw this as a reflection of myself.  I went through the rest of my teen years with a major chip on my shoulder (unfortunately carrying it into my 20's and even 30's.  Sometimes I still struggle with it).  The experience drove a wedge between other people and myself.  Other Christians and myself.  

     Then this song became popular.  Jesus Freak.  The chorus' lyrics say: "What will people think when they find out I'm a Jesus Freak?  What will they do, when they find out it's true?  I really don't care if they label me a Jesus Freak.  There ain't no disguising the truth."  I can now say that the message is good (even if the grammar isn't!).  We should stand and not care what anybody says or does.  Stand for the Lord at all costs.  I think that's what the song is really trying to say.  However, the me of 20+ years ago saw it differently. The next paragraph will be a reflection of how I viewed it at the time (not now).

     First, if someone had to question what people would think when they found out this person was a believer, they'd already failed in their testimony.  Why didn't people already know?  Second, was the worst thing this hypothetical person was afraid of simply being labeled a Jesus Freak?  That's pretty tame persecution.  It's very tame compared to things believers in the Middle East or China go through, and it's even tame compared to what I went through in my life.  It cheapened real persecution, reducing it to simple name-calling.  I felt my peers who liked this song were shallow.

     I can see now that my attitude was rigid.  God meets all of us where we're at.  He had brought me to a deep place of sharing in His sufferings at a young age.  Not everyone my age was there.  If the song Jesus Freak helped them, then I should have been happy for that.  Second, the hypothetical person in the song could be a brand new Christian, questioning what awaits him now that he's a "Jesus Freak."  He hasn't necessarily failed in his testimony.  Maybe he's just getting started.  Third, regardless of how tame or extreme persecution is, any bad treatment we receive for Jesus is rewarded in Heaven.  My looking down on the tame persecution in this song is like Middle Eastern believers looking down on Americans because our suffering is so much lighter than theirs.  I was wrong.  I was so jaded by my experience that I couldn't see other people were trying to take the same stand I had taken.  They just did it with poor grammar (that's a joke😉).  

     God is continuing to help me not get my validation from others, but from Him.  That's what it was all about.  I wasn't a mean, judgmental person.  I was a very kind person, but a very hurting person.  It's okay for me to not be real keen on a song others like.  It's okay for them to be keen on a song I don't like.  It isn't a reflection of any of us.  

     I still love listening to Steven Curtis Chapman and Rich Mullins music (as well as other favorites).  I want to close this post with some lyrics to one of my favorite Steven Curtis Chapman songs that captures this message:

I'm dying to live,

Live for Jesus

Dying to give myself to Him,

And the life He gives will be mine

If I am dying to live

Live for Jesus

I want to give myself to Him

Going to give up--from now on I'm dying to live

Greatest Fruit in the Worst of Times

Heather and Janelle--a ministry friendship forged in crazy times!

     I love to think about the happy times I have had.  God has blessed me with wonderful life experiences which are now precious memories.  So many wonderful people have contributed to make my life wonderful.  Of course, like most people, there are times I don't care to relive.  Bad memories.  Pain.  Those are part of life too.  Recently, I was thinking about some of the greatest triumphs God did in and around me, and, oddly, I realized that most of them were born out of those worst memories.
     In the summer of 2002, I was walking with a spiritual limp.  I had just experienced some deep hurt and humiliation.  I had learned the hard way that ministry organizations often really care more about numbers than about integrity.  My spirit had been wounded deeply by some fellow missionaries.  The organization just glossed over it all.  To be honest, the experience nearly destroyed me.  My soul hurt so much I was in physical pain much of the time.  I woke up every morning with an ache in my chest.  Any time I was alone, I was crying.  I daily asked God to take me home to Heaven before the day was over.  Suicidal thoughts consumed me.  One day in particular, I was pumping gasoline into my car, and I was struck with the temptation to drink gas myself and end it all.  I was horrified that it had really come to that.  Not even sure what I still had to live for, I got back in the car fast and drove off (I had paid at the pump with a card already).  I literally had to have Christian music playing 24/7 in order for the pain to be even remotely tolerable.  I could understand why David's playing soothed King Saul.  Godly music does that.  Prayer was my lifeline to sanity.  It was a time where it was just God and me.  I felt I had no one to turn to.  No one wanted to hear about what I was going through.  The one or two people I tried to talk to told me to "snap out of it".  I was in a very dark place.  It felt like nothing good could ever come from that.
     And in the middle of all of this, I still kept getting up and doing ministry every day.  I trusted no one.  But I still kept doing what I had been doing,  One thing I did was go to a small Baptist Church in Riverside, California and do a ministry presentation.  My heart wasn't really in it, but it was a duty I needed to do.  This particular presentation was to promote our high school summer missionary program.  So, that Sunday, I went to the little church and spoke about this ministry.  I honestly can't remember a word I said.  I passed around a clipboard and asked the teens who were interested in being summer missionaries to write their names and phone numbers.  At the end of the service, I retrieved my clipboard from the back of the sanctuary.  Three names had been written.  One was the name Heather Dowding.
     Heather was a sixteen-year-old girl in the congregation.  She had been a part of that particular church family for years.  I ended up speaking with her, and was struck by her friendliness and enthusiasm.  I asked Heather her testimony.
     "Well," She began, "My mom and I were out driving at night, and we were in a bad area.  The car stalled, and we were really scared.  We prayed to God and asked Him to help us, and as soon as we did, the car started.  We wanted to start following God, so we came to this church the next Sunday, and we've come ever since.  We learned about the Lord, and we got baptized here,"
     It sounded good to me.  Heather ended up becoming one of our summer missionary evangelists.  I had to admit that getting into summer ministry was helping keep me busy and helping me feel a little bit less alone.
     The summer missionary program was very evangelistic.  Teens learned to share their faith.  I had attended as a high schooler, and was now a leader.  I saw Heather and the others enjoy themselves, but I also saw a lot of intense spiritual battles.  I didn't know why.  I also started experiencing some backlash from my earlier struggles and betrayal in ministry.  Some very vicious rumors started circulating about me on email, and I had to change my email address (I'm just thankful this was before Facebook existed!).  I was plunged deeper than ever into darkness.  Those who had hurt me the most were being honored by the ministry, and that was hard.  Why was all this happening?
     Toward the end of training, Heather had a profound experience.  She was teaching a group of children.  As she explained the gospel, she burst into tears, describing what Jesus had done for us by dying on the cross.  She gave the most heartfelt gospel message you can imagine, and several children prayed to receive Christ.  It was wonderful.
     Heather spent the rest of the summer helping me do Bible clubs all over Riverside County.  At the end of it, she confided, "You know, I always thought I was a Christian, but I realized that I didn't really understand the gospel until this summer.  That day when I was crying at the Bible club, it was because I was realizing for the first time what Jesus had really done for me, and I received Christ with the kids that day."
     Wow!  Heather had fallen through the cracks.  Her Bible-teaching church had thought she understood the gospel.  I had thought she understood.  But that summer, the Spirit brought that truth to her!  God was really at work.  No wonder Satan was attacking so fiercely.
     Two summers later, in 2004, I was doing much better (in that I was no longer suicidal), but I still had yet to experience true healing.  A few more residual things from that earlier hurtful experience occurred in '04, as well as new battles.  It was a hard summer in several ways.
     Heather was on her third year as a summer missionary.  One night that summer (which was actually on the hardest day of that summer for me), Heather and I had a chat.  Now eighteen, she said she was discouraged, because she didn't know what God had in store for her.  I listened.  I can't recall I said anything profound, but I asked her where she wanted to see her life a year in the future.  She told me she wanted to see herself on the mission field.  I told her to go for it.  I don't recall what else specifically I said.  Anyway, as a result of that conversation, Heather ended up going full time into the ministry!  She attended ministry institute.  She ended up serving for a few years with our ministry on the East Coast, and is now married, serving full time with her husband in the Philippines.
     Also in 2004, I was discipling a friend, a new Christian about my age.  This young woman had some baggage.  I don't really know how I knew what to say or do, or even if I did or said the right things.  I know I failed at times.  Mostly, I had a wonderful time with this friend.  We spent most of 2004 (January through December) studying our Bibles together, reading Christian books, doing ministry together, and having fun (like going camping, bowling, to the movies, or out for ice cream, etc.)  The year ended, though, with her making some decisions that ended our time of discipleship and even friendship.  Some of it was because my reaction wasn't the best.  It was hard, and I felt like I had blown it and failed this friend.  I also wondered if I had wasted my time.
     Years later, this girl, her husband (she was now married), and her two children began attending my church in California.  They began coming weekly, getting involved.  In a short time, we were able to pick back up where we had left off.  This friend told me, "When we used to hang out in 2004, that was the best year of my whole life."  Wow, God had used a year when I was struggling myself, and even made mistakes in my discipleship, to plant seeds in this friend that would later bring her whole family to our church and into service there.       So much fruit came out of the hardest times of my life.  The times when I could barely carry on.  The times when I felt like my heart was breaking inside of me, and it took everything I had inside to keep going.  God is the One who did this, not me.  I take no credit.  I just stand amazed that our God can redeem anything!
     First Thessalonians 5:24 says, "Faithful is Him that calleth you, who also will do it."  I definitely experienced that.  I certainly wasn't at my best in the early 2000's when these experiences happened.  But God was faithful, and He did it!  He produced great fruit.
     One of the passages that kept me going back when things were really dark, especially in 2002, was Second Corinthians 4:8-9, in the Living Bible.  "We are pressed on every side by troubles, but not crushed and broken.  We are perplexed because we don't know why things happen as they do, but we don't give up and quit.  We are hunted down, but God never abandons us.  We get knocked down, but we get up and keep going."
     Now, in retrospect, I am encouraged when I think about different times of ministry in my life, including these hard times.  God was always producing fruit.  Second Corinthians 6:3-10 (also in the Living Bible) really speaks about the different conditions of our lives and hearts at different points in ministry.  I will close with this challenging passage:
      "We try to live in such a way that no one will ever be offended or kept back from finding the Lord by the way we act, so that no one can find fault with us and blame it on the Lord.  In fact, in everything we do we try to show that we are true ministers of God.  We patiently endure suffering and hardship and trouble of every kind.  We have been beaten, put in jail, faced angry mobs, worked to exhaustion, stayed awake through sleepless nights of watching, and gone without food.  We have proved ourselves to be what we claim by our wholesome lives and by our understanding of the Gospel and by our patience.  We have been kind and truly loving and filled with the Holy Spirit.  We have been truthful, with God's power helping us in all we do.  All of the godly man's arsenal--weapons of defense, and weapons of attack--have been ours.  We stand true to the Lord whether others honor us or despise us, whether they criticize us or commend us.  We are honest, but they call us liars.  The world ignores us, but we are known to God; we lie close to death, but here we are, still very much alive.  We have been injured but kept from death.  Our hearts ache, but at the same time we have the joy of the Lord.  We are poor, but we give rich spiritual gifts to others.  We own nothing, and yet we enjoy everything."

Thou Shalt Not Judge!

 

Amy Grant

    In the last 24 hours, I have been accused of being "judgmental" more than the entire rest of my life combined.  And why?  Here is why.  Two days ago, I found a song online that I had loved and sung in church as a young teen in the early 90s.  The songs was "Thy Word."  In our church's bulletins, it was accredited to Michael W. Smith, but it was sung by Amy Grant on one of her albums.  Our pastor used to tell us the real author was David (the biblical king) because the chorus of the song "Thy word is a lamp unto my feet and a light unto my path..." was directly taken from Psalm 119:105.  As is the case with many church songs, they kind of lose momentum, and new songs take their place.  This is normal, to be expected.  I, personally, love Christian music from all eras--old hymns to the present, and want it all to be preserved and used.  I was so touched at finding this old song that I shared it on Facebook.  I hoped my friends would listen to it and feel the uplifting message in their hearts.  Well, was I in for a shock.
     I found myself in a battle I never expected.  Some objected to my posting a song sung by Amy Grant.  Amy Grant has made some decisions that many disagreed with.  I have my own feelings and opinions as well, but for me to draw a real, concrete conclusion, I would need a lot more information than I was ever given.  It just isn't that important to me.  Besides that, it was a very long time ago.  I honestly have no idea what Amy Grant is doing now.  I haven't kept up with her work in years (I'm just not good at keeping up with ANY artist...I was as a teenager, but I don't have time now).  Amy Grant, personally or professionally, was the last thing on my mind as I shared the beautiful song.  My thoughts were on memories of singing it with my own church family over twenty years ago.  I thought of Christian friends I hadn't seen in a long time, and how we worshiped the Lord with this beautiful song.  

     Amy Grant was not real high on my priority as I shared.  But it was as if I'd shot a bullet through a beehive.  The bees came stinging.  I was shocked, and tried to explain that I wasn't referring to Amy Grant, but the song.  Then, other people, who are on the complete opposite end of the conviction spectrum about Amy Grant, came after me for "judging" her past.  Good grief!  Did I judge her?  I shared a post of her singing "Thy Word".  How was that judging her?  True, I did try to placate those who objected to my using her song, but I wasn't making harsh statements about her.  It was like watching an accident in slow motion as people from both sides of this attacked each other and me.  I kept trying to direct people back to the beautiful lyrics, but that seemed to anger them more.  It was a hurtful mess.  I am genuinely grieved.  I shared a gorgeous praise song to bring people joy in the Lord, but started a war instead, likely bringing out all of our "less than Christlike" side.  One friend got very angry at something someone else said (I didn't even make the offending comment) and decided our friendship was over.  Good grief!  How did this get so out of control!  I feel sick to my stomach about this.

     I would like to isolate something for a minute.  I was accused of "judging" Amy Grant.  I absolutely deny that.  I made no comments about her at all.  I sympathized initially with someone objecting to her choices, but even in that, I didn't make a declarative statement against Amy Grant.  If you want to know my opinion about Amy Grant's music, or the impact of her decisions on Christian culture, you can talk to me personally, and we can have a casual discussion about it.  But that wasn't my goal at all.  I never "judged" her.

     This brings me to another point I have wanted to blog about for a long time.  It is as if "judging" is the new unforgivable sin to Americans.  My pastor in California used to say that John 3:16 was no longer the most commonly used verse.  Now, he said, it was Matthew 7:1 "Judge not, lest you be judged."  And he's right.  Even unbelievers are so quick to accuse people of judging, and admonish people not to do it. 

     It is true that Jesus said the words in Matthew 7:1.  We are not to have a critical spirit.  I will give an example of judging.  Let's say I'm walking late at night, and I happen to walk past the pastor's house.  I see a strange new car parked in his driveway, and I recognize it as belonging to a single woman in town.  I have no information about why her car is in his driveway, but let's say I assume, "Hmm, I bet they're having an affair!"  That is judging.  That is drawing a conclusion without having all the facts.  Are there other reasons her car could be in his driveway?  Absolutely.  Maybe the pastor and his wife are giving this woman counsel.  Maybe the pastor is fixing her car for her (I've left my car at other people's homes for this reason before).  So, to assume they are having an affair is judging.  I also think it is judging to make negative assumptions about people's motives.  I once read about a woman who judged a teenage boy as a punk because he never took his had off.  She later found out he had been mugged and had several chucks of his hair ripped out of his head, and had nearly died.  He wore the hat to conceal the damage.  This woman judged the young man without knowing his motive.  We can guess at people's motives, but we can't know without asking.  We should always be willing to get to know and understand people.

     However, it is as if the Christian community in America today is terrified to use any common sense at all to form an opinion, because it might be seen as "judging".  This carries over into calling out sin for what it is.  I have stated that the Bible defines homosexuality as sin, and I have all kinds of people telling me I'm judging.  No sorry, I'm not.  Judging in that case would be, "Hmm...why are they gay?  I'll bet they're doing it for attention, or maybe their dad molested them..." that's judging, because it is assuming something about the person's motives without knowing the facts.  But stating that it is a sin, per God's word, is NOT judging.  We should never compromise the truth for fear of being called judgmental.  That's what a lot of people feel we should do.  Some even call it "judging" if I won't go along with their politics.  Disagreeing isn't judging.  It is having an intelligent mind that has thought through all conclusions and formed the belief system.  That should be respected, not criticized.  As a Christian, I form all of my beliefs on God's word.  It is as if we have been programmed by our godless society to accuse each other of judging, instead of really thinking things through. 

     Several years ago, I served as a juror on a trial in Riverside County, CA.  We found the defendant guilty.  It was like living through an episode of Matlock as we listened to witnesses and deliberated.  One thing the district attorney told us has stuck with me, even a decade later.  He said, "You must find on the evidence, but that doesn't mean you check your common sense in at the door."  So true.  That's my guide for forming conclusions.  Find on the evidence given, but don't check my common sense in at the door.  God gave us discernment for a reason.

     In many cases, I have sadly seen the whole "not judging" thing as a control method.  In Christian circles, this can look like using the analogy Jesus gave about the speck in your brothers eye and the plank in your own.  This is a good, true passage, but it is very much misused sometimes to keep people from being able to question things that aren't right.  No one questions anything, so there is no accountability.  This isn't right.  God wants us to live Godly lives and be accountable to other believers.

     A very personal story about judging happened to me the summer I was eighteen.  I went on a 

mission trip.  There was another summer missionary.  He was from another state from me, and he made me very uncomfortable.  His bizarre behavior was seen as "all in fun" by everyone else, but I felt very worried for my safety.  He would follow me everywhere.  He would sit as close to me as he could without actually sitting on me.  He would touch me awkwardly.  He would talk to me in weird voices and say bizarre things to me.  I tried to get help, but everyone accused me of gossiping about him and judging him.  Because no one took me seriously, this man had a green light to do whatever he wanted, and he ended up majorly overstepping bounds and being the biggest stumbling block to me that I could ever have imagined.  I struggled for years with what happened.  When I ever tried to share about this with others, I was still told I was judging him.  Folks, this whole "don't judge" thing has gotten way out of hand.  Use your common sense!  God gave it to you!  It is okay.

     And, for future reference, 90% of the time, if I like and share a song, it is because of the song itself, not the artist.

Humble

    The summer of 1997 was a turning point in my life.  That was the first year I was a summer missionary with Christian Youth in Action.  It literally altered the course of my life forever.  My heart and confidence were built up.  I began to see the ways God could use me.  A whole new world was opened up to me!

     Christian Youth in Action (CYIA) was held at California Baptist College (now California Baptist University), in my home area of Riverside County, California.  I literally remember every single detail of every single moment from that summer.  In my mind's eye, I can see everyone exactly as they were.  The boys with their 90's "curtained" haircuts.  The girls in their bell bottoms (late 90's was mostly 70's styles revisited).  Everyone in their Christian T-shirts (many with Veggie Tales).  But, of course, when we were out teaching 5-day clubs, we all wore our Sunday best.  

     I can hear their voices, laughing, talking, lifted up in praise to the Lord, practicing evangelism on each other.  I can smell the scents of summer all around me. During CYIA, we had three earthquakes, and I can still feel them (even though I have experienced many earthquakes since that summer of 1997).  

     If I were a prisoner of war, I could replay that summer again and again in my mind.  Relive it minute by minute.     

     Everyone that summer was so wonderful.  The youth my age were true friends, and the adults were mentors.  It was a "prelude to Heaven" experience.  

     One group of students who served that year came from a church in Santa Barbara, California.  There was something very special about them, and for years I could never put my finger on it.  Most of them had never served with CYIA before, so they were first-timers, as I was.  They had come together in a church bus.  I felt oddly drawn to this group.  One friend I made who was from the Santa Barbara group was a girl my age I'll call Amy.  

     I was at a point in my life where I needed encouragement (the why behind that is another story).  Everyone at CYIA was used of God to meet that need in my heart, but especially Amy.  Amy was soft-spoken and reserved.  She talked in a gentle voice, and always had a kind word for everyone.  Her smile could light up any room she was in, though when I pointed this out, she was surprised, saying she considered herself to be plain.   

     There is a biblical parallel to that summer.  In First Kings chapter 19, Elijah was at the end of his spiritual rope.  Queen Jezebel wanted to kill him.  He was fleeing for his life, and at the height of his discouragement, he wanted to die.  God sent an angel to give him food, and it says that Elijah traveled on the strength of that food for forty days.  That's how the summer of 1997 was for me.  I moved forward on the strength of it.  I came defeated, and left in victory.  Everything I did after that had a deep sense of joy.  Sometimes I still think that summer influences me.  I kept in touch with my encouraging new friends.  I still have a scrapbook with all their letters.  Amy and I wrote back and forth for years.  She never returned to CYIA (I returned in 1998 and 1999).  Amy got more involved with mission trips her church youth group did, but we still wrote back and forth.  

     When I think about that summer, I ask myself what made everyone there stand out?  The answer is that they were given completely to the Lord.  What made the Santa Barbara group especially unique?  What made them appeal to me?  What made Amy in particular seem like a good friend?  What was it?  

     The answer is one simple word.  Humble.  These people were all humble.  Humility, even among Christians, is a rare find.  When I meet truly humble people, I desire their friendship.  Maybe, on an even deeper level, humble people reflect Jesus to me.  Philippians 2:8 says that Jesus "humbled himself" and became obedient to death.  

     Humility isn't putting oneself down.  Sometimes, I think a really negative self-concept is inverted arrogance.  Humility also isn't a personality trait.  It is something God has to create in us as we become more like Jesus.  That's what I want.  I hope I am as refreshing to someone who needs encouragement as Amy was to me in 1997.  I am a work in progress, but God is working it out in me, and in you!

The King is Naked!

    You're probably familiar with the story of the Emperor's New Clothes.  The emperor is given clothes that can supposedly only be seen by the wise.  In actuality, there are no clothes, but nobody wants to be considered a fool, so they all praise the king's nonexistent garments.  It is only a very wise child who is not afraid of repercussions who eventually says, "The king is naked!"

     Sometimes, I feel it is easy to be like the peer-pressured adults in this story.  Maybe you do too.  Go along with the consensus.  Don't make waves.  Most of us don't like controversy.  I know I hate going against the grain.  But, sometimes God calls us to that.

     When I was 22, I was in a college/career Bible study.  There were group leaders, but mainly, the older students (like myself), facilitated the discussions in small groups.  We would read the passage together and answer questions.  I really enjoyed being a table leader.  I liked everyone from the group.  At first.

     That fall, a new batch of high school graduates came to our class.  One was an 18-year-old boy I'll call James.  James was antagonistic to everyone, and made challenging statements on every subject we covered in the Bible study.  I don't mean he was truly seeking out the claims of scripture and asking honest questions.  I mean he was mean and rude for the sake of being mean and rude.

     One day, we were studying the Promises of God.  James piped up by saying that God sometimes lies to us to test us.  There were new believers in the group, and could see confusion on their faces.  As the leader, I felt responsible for what was said in this study.  I wanted everyone  to leave knowing God better than before, not being confused.  So I looked at James and said, "Chapter and verse, please?"

     He stammered. "Well, it's not something that's in the Bible."

     "Then," I replied, "it's not something that's true."

     He continued to insist that God was capable of lying.

     I brought up Numbers 23:19, "God is not a man that He should lie, neither the son of man, that He should repent..."

     James looked disgusted.  "I hate it when Christians use the Bible against me!"

     "If you didn't make heretical statements, you wouldn't need to worry about it," I told him.

     "Ding, ding, ding!  End of round one!" One of the humorous girls in our group chimed in, bringing a little laughter to the group.

     I left that day really hoping that the truth about God's character had gone out, and that no one had left with the wrong ideas about God.

     Imagine my surprise the next week when several of the more mature believers in the group were mad at me!  And why?  Because I hadn't said enough to refute James?  No.  It was because they felt I had been argumentative!

     Wait a minute here.  James came in swinging.  He was angry and unkind to everyone.  And most importantly, James had said untrue statements about God.  Yet they chose to be mad at me for refuting what he said!  In their mind, the right thing to do was cower, and the problem would magically go away.  They used the verse with me about being peacemakers.  I guess to them, peace meant ignoring what is wrong, rather than resolving it.

      I tried talking with the couple who was ultimately in charge of us (in their late 20's or early 30's), and they really didn't want to touch it.  They just said, "Well, he's a weak Christian, and you probably handled it the right way..."  but they wouldn't back me up or help me.

     After we finished that study and moved to the next, the groups were mixed, and James became someone else's problem (actually, he ended up in the same group as my brother, and started an argument with him about whether Mary and Joseph ever spanked Jesus).

     I went away from that experience very confused.  Yet this is not the only time I have seen this.  Many believers are terrified of conflict.  They're afraid to say, "The king is naked."  They are terrified of rocking the boat.  And they look down on those who do feel called upon to speak out.  I don't know why, but they often vilify the one who declares the truth, and turn the one who was wrong into the victim.  The one who is trying to address it is said to be judging.

     Judging is, in my opinion, the most misused idea in American culture, especially in Christianity.  I don't know how many times I have been accused of "judging" simply because I disagreed with someone or had a different opinion.  This is not judging.  Let me tell you what I believe judging really is (the kind that Jesus warned us not to do).  Let's say I'm out for a walk late at night.  I walk by a pastor's house.  In his driveway is the car of a single woman in town.  I ask myself, "why would she be at his house at this hour?  I bet his wife isn't home.  I'll bet they have an affair going..." and go on from there.  That is judging, because I don't have the facts at all and am making really bad assumptions.  This is what judging is.  But to see something I disagree with and say that I disagree...that isn't judging at all.  I'm not making a statement about the person's motives.  I have no idea what their motives are.  I just know I disagree with what has been said.  Like with James.  I never guessed at his motives or tried to ascribe values to him one way or the other.  I simply had problems with his statements.

     I don't like arguing with people.  It terrifies me too.  But when truth is at stake, or when something wrong has been done, I have to do it.  I pray.  I try to do it in a right way.  Sometimes I let fear hold me back, or sometimes I am too quick to speak without letting God temper my response.  It is a hard balance to achieve.  I'm still working on it.

     In Acts 1:8, Jesus said the Holy Spirit would give us power to be His witnesses.  This is the power to preach the gospel.  It is also the power to discern what is right or wrong, and when to speak out.  I want to encourage my brave friends who speak out about truth to keep doing it, tempered with the Holy Spirit's love.  And to my reserved friends, I want to encourage you to support those who speak out, instead of looking down on them.  They are not causing the conflict; they are trying to resolve it.  They are not getting any enjoyment or pleasure by confronting a situation.  They're responding to something God has given them to do.  Sometimes, all it takes is someone to stand up and say "The King is Naked".

True Love

     I am madly in love with my wonderful husband Walter.  It was so clear, right from the start, that God was bringing us together.  I love that God brought me a husband who loves Him first and foremost.  I love that Walter knows and honors God's word.  There is so much else I love about him, and I could write a book about all of it.  However, all of this begs the question, when did I know that it was true love?
     I knew I liked Walter and had a connection at our first meeting, and even then, really felt like it was God.  But something that really clinched it for me happened on our first date.  Something that, in and of itself, might seem funny.  In fact, it kind of is funny!
     To properly explain, I have to back up.  Several years earlier, I had encountered someone while doing ministry.  I will refer to this gentleman as Pastor Max.
     Pastor Max taught very deep biblical lessons.  Over the three or four summers he was our ministry's camp devotional leader, I heard him teach on the 23rd Psalm, the book of Joshua, and Paul's epistle of the Philippians.  It was all very in-depth, and left everyone with a greater understanding of God's word.  However, while the actual teaching itself was very biblical, the way he would apply it was unrealistic and angry.
     One time, he told the youth it was wrong to be angry at others, and if they were angry, it showed they were really the ones in sin.  Of course, this teaching goes against Ephesians 4;26, "Be angry and sin not; let not the sun go down upon your wrath."  The Bible teaches (in several places) the right way to express and handle anger.  It never condemns simply being angry.  Sometimes there's a good reason to be angry!
     As Pastor Max continued to teach, everyone hung on his every word, almost elevating him to a position of lordship (little L!).  As I said, his interpretation of the Bible was correct, but the way he applied was a little off.  Most of his themes were along the same lines as what I expressed above.  The application was basically, "It's all your fault.  You don't have a right to own your feelings.  You sinned somewhere.  If you do what's right, everyone else will too.  To see the problem is to be the problem."
     I could only take this so long.  I felt he was giving the kids a wrong message, yet they were too duped to see it.  Legalism can appear attractive.  My second summer under his ministry, I felt I should say something.  I didn't wish to be challenging or rude.  I didn't know when or how to approach him.  Perhaps I just misunderstood him.  But I wanted to understand where he was coming from.  One day, his message was about forgiving.  Sounds good, except his application to the teens was, "If you're offended with someone, it's really your fault that person did anything to you in the first place.  You caused it!  Nothing is ever one person's fault.  Ever!"  Then he gave a time for questions and answers.  So, as politely as I could, I raised my hand from my place in the back of the room (where the staff all sat).  He called on me.
     "Sir," I said, "What you're sharing really intrigues me, and I want to be sure I understand it correctly.  So are you saying that it's never the other person's fault completely?  That in no circumstance is it ever one person's responsibility?"
     His face took on a look of complete rage.  "You know what?" he spat out vehemently.  "Yes it can be one person's fault!  It's all your fault!  If there's a problem, you caused it!  To call something else out means deep down, you really did it!"
     It took a second for it to sink it that he was attacking me.  But this couldn't be right, could it?  What about cases where someone abused a child?  By his logic, it was the child's fault, and I knew this was wrong.  I felt so embarrassed.  But I had to clarify.  I was committed now.  "So if a person broke into my house, robbed me, and harmed my property, and then I called the police and he got arrested, I'm really at fault that he broke in in the first place?"
     "I'm not talking about that!" he lashed out.  "I'm talking about how it's a sin to confront people!  If you confront someone, it really means it was your fault to start out with!"
     I could have said a lot.  First, if his logic was true, then it would carry over and be true in the context of someone breaking into my home and me calling the police.  After all, isn't calling the police on a burglar a sort of confrontation?  Secondly, though, saying that confrontation is a sin is incorrect.  Matthew chapter 18 gives a perfect guideline for confronting.  Jesus wouldn't have given that guideline if confrontation was a sin.  I have found that those who are ultra-against confronting and act all spiritual about it are really people who like control and don't want to be questioned or brought to account.  But anyway, I didn't say another word.  My feelings were hurt, and I was humiliated.  I got no sympathy from anyone, because they all ate out of Pastor Max's hand.
     After that was calmed down, a teenage boy raised his hand.  "Yes?" Pastor Max called on him.
     "Well, sir, you're a pastor.  I am interested in that.  How do you recognize if God is calling you into the ministry?"
     I felt this was a good question.  This boy was probably seriously thinking about the direction of his life, and God's call to him.  This was Pastor Max's big chance to impact him positively.
     Pastor Max looked at the boy with disdain.  "You look around!"  He shot back.  What was that supposed to mean?  It came off as insulting to the boy.  I felt bad for him.
     Yet after all this, everyone still practically worshiped him unconditionally.  No one was critically analyzing what he was actually saying.
     In a staff meeting, I shared that I felt uncomfortable with Pastor Max.  Everyone jumped on me and told me to stop "judging" (probably the most misused accusation in American Christianity).  So, I had just been told everything was all my fault, and yet I was judgmental?
     I worried about this.  Was I really wrong?  Was there a reason I was the only one who saw Pastor Max this way?  Did I have a critical spirit?  I didn't want to.  I prayed and really asked God to help me, but I couldn't make myself agree with Pastor Max's application to scriptures.  It was inconsistent with the God I knew, and the Bible I daily read and memorized.
     What I had no idea of was that, twenty miles away, in Pastor Max's church, was my future husband Walter.  Man, if I had known it, I would have high-tailed it over there!  Not only that, but Walter was facing the same rude-but-spiritual-sounding treatment I had faced.  So was his family.  So was the mutual friend who would introduce Walter and me.
     I moved on in my life.  Pastor Max wasn't a very important person in my further experiences.  
     So, as Walter and I sat down at the Queen Bean coffee shop during our first date, we got to chatting (we had chatted at our first meeting some days earlier, and over the phone since, but we were still getting acquainted).  Through this conversation, I discovered he had attended Pastor Max's church back during the time when I had known him.  I wondered if Walter worshiped at his feet the way everyone else seemed to.  Would I feel like I was the judgmental one all over again?
     "So," I ventured, "What did you think of Pastor Max?"
     Without hesitation, this spiritual man who loved the Lord with all this heart replied, "Oh, he's a jackass!"
     Shocked but validated, I burst out laughing.  This was a defining moment for me.  It told me Walter had discernment and didn't play games of pretend.  I knew I could trust this man to see things clearly, and take my concerns seriously.  And for these deeper reasons, I truly went from being "in like" to "in love".
     Please understand that I am not putting Pastor Max down.  I honestly have no idea what was going on in his heart or mind when all this was happening. He is still preaching last I heard, and I wish him God's very best.  I am simply disagreeing with some of his statements, and expressing  my own past feelings of anxiety from when I felt I was the only one who saw it, and wondered if I was crazy.  Over the years, many Christian groups I have been a part of called people "judgmental" when they brought up stuff no one else wanted to deal with.  It's easier to accuse than to really examine honestly.  So having Walter validate my experiences like that meant a lot.  I am thankful to have a husband who sees the truth.

Taken By Storm

     I walked into my grandmother's house.  The heavenly smell of pulled pork met me.  My stomach growled!  

     "Grandma, is that wonderful smell our dinner?" I asked.  I had driven over to spend time with my grandmother that Saturday evening in 2012.  

     "It is, but not just ours." she told me.  "I don't know if I told you, but my church started a program where we feed the homeless and try to help them find jobs and get back on their feet.  It's my turn to bring the dinner to the church for them.  It'll be a great time. . We play games with them and just really help them have a good time."
     This sounded great to me.  So, we went down to my grandma's church.

     The people we met seemed very sweet, genuinely grateful to have the church's help.  Several told me about their attempts at finding jobs.  I could see the hope and joy in their eyes, and I knew the church had played a part in giving them that.  

     All was going well when the door opened again and in strode someone else.

     "Sorry I'm late!" a boisterous voice called out a moment before a tall young man came into the room.

     No one paid him too much attention.  They clearly knew him and were used to him.  I was about to discover what that meant!
     "Hi!" he jogged up to where I was talking with some other people.  "Wanna hear the ocean in this seashell?" he asked.

     Before I could reply, he put said seashell by my ear.  Of course, he was never quiet enough to let me hear the ocean.

     "Isn't that amazing?  I couldn't help but ride my bike down to the beach today!  I spent all day collecting shells."
     "Even though you were supposed to be looking for work?" One of the women asked, slightly annoyed.

     "Oh, I'll do it Monday," He waved her off.  "But these shells!  Can you believe how lucky I was to find them?  When I save up thousands of dollars, I'll mail them back to my mom in Michigan so she can enjoy them!"

     I was confused now.  "Thousands of dollars?  It doesn't cost much to send a package.  You could mail the shells to her for less than ten dollars."

     "But I don't want them to break in the mail, so I need to get bubble wrap.  So I really do need thousands of dollars!"
     Was this guy for real?

     About then, he noticed I was playing a scrabble-type game on the ipad with the people at my table.  My grandma had brought it along, as well as card games (which she was playing at another table with more people).  This odd guy grabbed the ipad out of my hands.  "Let's play Angry Birds!"
     No one else wanted to, but he didn't listen to them.  He turned off our game and started playing Angry Birds, laughing the whole time.  The others at the table rolled their eyes.

     "Hey, wanna see something really great?" He asked.  He got out of Angry Birds and turned to YouTube.  "These are my movies.  They're really funny!"
     He played them, laughing hysterically.  He laughed alone.  The videos were all the same.  They were movies of him running into trees and falling down backwards.  "Isn't that funny!"  He laughed.

     We all wanted to play our game again.

     "I'm trying to get famous with these movies.  I think maybe I'll be on TV one day!  I'm going to take California by storm!  Listen to my song!"

     He pulled a micro cassette player out of his pocket and pushed play.  A crudely recorded song began to play.  It was his voice, singing about beating people up!  It was a troubling and violent song.  "Isn't that great!  I'm taking California by storm!"
    "How are you doing that?" I tried to sound polite.  "Are you pursuing a record deal?"

     He looked at me as if I'd said something very stupid.  "That's too hard.  I do it the easy way.  I walk up and down the street playing the tape and people can hear it.  One of these days, an agent will hear me and beg to take me on as a client!"  

     Was he for real?  

     Fortunately, we were able to get our scrabble game up and going again.  I was happy to see how God was at work in these people's lives.  I was thankful to be a part of brightening their evening.  

     As Grandma and I left, she said it best of all.  "I think we really took the church by storm!"  The evening ended in amused laughter and prayers for our friends to get back on their feet.

Scavenger Hunt

     "You guys have worked so hard," Tom told us, "that tonight, instead of studying, we're going to do a fun outing."
     At this announcement, everyone sat at attention.  Twenty of us Christian teenagers from all over California had spent the last eight days doing evangelism and teaching Bible clubs for kids.  While it was a blast, and spiritually rewarding, it was a lot of work and study.  The idea of going out for a night of fun on the town seemed very appealing.
     "You'll be doing a scavenger hunt," Tom continued.  "We're taking you to the Tyler Mall, and you'll be in two's.  The first team to find everything on the list gets a prize."
     "Do you want to be partners?" I asked Rachael, a friend who had come from San Diego.
     "Sure," she smiled excitedly.  "I love scavenger hunts."
     "Me too," I nodded.  "And I know the Tyler Mall like the back of my hand.  I'm the only one here actually from Riverside.  So we'll have an advantage."
     I went to Christian Youth in Action (or CYIA) every summer of my high school years in the 90's.  Fortunately for me, training was held in my hometown of Riverside.  Some of the good friends I made (like Rachael) came from different areas.  Part of the fun each summer was seeing my friends who lived in other parts of the state.  During the year, we all wrote letters to each other.  The joy and fun from those times are some of life's happiest memories.
     That particular summer that I was sixteen, I was the only summer missionary from Riverside.  I liked doing ministry in my area.  And I was excited to be doing a scavenger hunt in the mall I had frequented all my life,
     The different staff drove us down.  I rode with a group of girls.  The whole way there, we chattered happily about the fun evening we expected to have.  About halfway there, one of the girls started singing silly preschool songs, and the rest of us (being very mature) joined along.  I still remember Mrs. East, our driver, trying to drown us out with her cassette tape of hymns (which I actually preferred over preschool songs when I wasn't caught up in the moment!).
     We all met at the mall's entrance.  Tom gave each team a list.  "You have an hour," he told us.  "Meet back here then."
     "Let's go!" I told Rachael as we excitedly entered the mall.
     Rachael looked at the list.  "First thing is a gum wrapper."
     "Candy shop's this way," I pointed out.  Grinning, I added. "We can buy some cheapo gum for the wrapper, but we can also buy candy for us!"
     Rachael liked this idea.
     After securing the the gum wrapper, Rachael told me the next item was a toothpick.
     "Let's check the Carl's Junior [fast food joint--my favorite chain in the western US, but it is no longer in the Tyler Mall]," I told her.  "It's this way,  My dad always gets a toothpick when we go to Carl's Junior, so I know they have them."
     Following the toothpick, we needed to get the price of a deck of cards, which we got at the game and hobby shop.  We were making excellent time.  We very quickly got the other items on the list.  Even in our excitement, we tried to be a good witness.  After all, we had spent all week sharing Christ, and we were wearing Christian T-shirts.  We were good teenagers, not like some of the rough ones who came through the mall on Friday nights like this.
     "We're almost out of time," I told Rachael, looking at my watch.
     "That's good, we only have one thing left!  We need an ATM receipt."
     "Here's the ATM machine," I said.  We were in the food court, and the ATM machine was right there.  "Maybe someone left their receipt."  No such luck.
     "What are you two looking for?" A voice asked us.  We looked over to a nearby table.  Four women were seated around it.  They had Bibles open.  Clearly, they were Christians studying the Word together.  This was great!  Other Christians might be able to help us win!
     We explained that we needed an ATM receipt to help us win the scavenger hunt.
     "You can have mine, as long as it's okay if I rip off the part with my account number and remaining balance on it."
     "Of course!" We excited told her.
     We were happily telling these women how we were Christians too when suddenly, a heavy hand came down on my shoulder.
     Nearly jumping out of my skin, I turned, as did Rachel.  A tall, burly man in a uniform stood behind us.  Beside him were our CYIA friends Crystal and Jeremy, one of the other teams.
     "Are you part of the scavenger hunt?" the man asked seriously.
      We admitted we were.
     "Well, it's against the mall ordinance for you to have a scavenger hunt, so I have to escort you out.  I just caught your friends here," he indicated Crystal and Jeremy.
     "Can I at least go to the bathroom?" Crystal asked.  "I'll go out right after."
     "I'm sorry," he said seriously.  "This is a serious rule you've broken and I must escort you out.  You can come back to this mall tomorrow, as long as it's not for a scavenger hunt."
     "What's going on?" Two other teams came up to us.
     The security guard repeated his announcement.  "You can come back to this mall tomorrow," he said again.
     "Oh, we'll probably never come back," Paulina told them happily.  "We're not from Riverside.  Only Janelle is!" She pointed at me.  Thanks a lot!
     "Well, take me to your youth leader," He said.  I guess he surmised by our Christian T-shirts and relatively cooperative behavior that we were a church group or something.  As we walked out with the security guard, other shoppers looked at us.  Parents told their children not to grow up to be bad teenagers who needed to be taken out by a security guard.  It was embarrassing!
     The further we got, the more of our friends were caught and added to our group.  Poor Crystal could barely contain herself!
     "Hey Janelle!" A voice yelled.
     I instinctively turned at the sound of my name, but then wished I hadn't.  A woman from my church was waving excitedly.  She was at the mall with her husband and children.  This woman worked in AWANA with my family, her husband taught Bible studies in our church, and I babysat the boys.  What would they think of seeing me escorted out?  Well, maybe she couldn't tell what was happening.
     "See you Sunday!" I waved back with no explanation.  Yes, being from the same city had been an advantage in the scavenger hunt, but not so much now!
     Once we got outside, the security guard confronted our summer missionary staff, who promised we would never do a scavenger hunt in the mall again.  After he went back inside, Crystal sneaked back in quietly just to use the restroom right inside.
     The good news was, Rachael and I had won.  Our prize was a box of candy apiece (we didn't eat it then).  On the way back to missionary training, we got ice cream.
     "What are our parents all going to say when they find out we got arrested!" some of the guys started laughing.  The rest of the summer, everyone kept talking about our experience as our "arrest".  Even though it was not a real arrest, there was very little worse for a 90's teenager than being kicked out of a mall!
     What I glean from this is twofold:
     1) Youth leaders need to clear activities with local authorities (even innocent ones like ours was).  I always remembered this when I worked with my church kids on fun activities (and yes, I did a scavenger hunt with them--but at a different mall where it was allowed).
     2) In the worst situations that seem like a bad testimony, the best thing we can do is still act godly.  I'm sure our cooperation went a long way in being a good testimony to the security guard.  Christians are always on witness for God.  We may not have control of circumstances, but we can control what kind of testimony we'll have.

Dogs, Seat Belts, Pay Phones, Ten Dollar Bills...and Faith

    BRRRRRING! The telephone on our counter rang, shattering the Saturday afternoon silence.

     "Janelle, can you get that?" My mother called from the laundry room.  

     "Sure!" I shouted (so she could hear me over the sound of the washing machine and dryer).  Lifting up the cordless phone, I answered. "Hello?"

     "Hi, Janelle, this is Sarah Upton* [*name changed]."  

     Sarah Upton.  She and her sister Ruth* had become friends of mine over the summer when I had taught a 5-day Bible club in their home.  Our local director of Child Evangelism Fellowship had set it up.  The Upton* sisters were high school students, like I was in 1997.  We had seemed to hit it off, at least on a basic level.  We were all Christians, and shared some common interests.  It was during the Bible club I taught that I discovered there were some interesting differences.  

     On the first day, we'd had the Bible club in the front yard.  It was nice out, and it seemed like a good idea...until a dog next door began to bark at us.  My guess is, the poor dog wasn't used to so many people in the yard next to his.  Like any dog, he barked to let us know he had his eye on us.  Nothing really unusual about that.
     Apparently, Mrs. Upton saw this as something very different from me.  Standing up, she walked over to the fence and yelled "I rebuke you!"  

     I was surprised by this.  Was she implying the poor dog was possessed?  

     Her demonstration didn't change anything.  The dog kept on barking.  This led us to have the Bible club in the Upton's living room the next day.

     Later in the week, in the course of conversation, Sarah Upton said it was a sin to disagree with one's pastor because they're "God's anointed".  I didn't even know how to process this.  Ruth jumped in to tell me how wonderful their pastor's sermon had been that past Sunday.  I asked what it was about.  Ruth smiled, "It was all about how women talk too much, and never think before they speak, but men always think it through first."

     "Don't you think that's a little sexist?" I asked.  Both girls had looked surprised and confused.

     This had really rubbed me wrongly.  Who was this pastor, if he didn't allow his congregants to disagree with him, and said such disparaging things about women?  Why would any female listen to him?  I liked Sarah and Ruth, but wasn't sure I could ever go to their church.

     So now, a few months later, I was receiving a phone call from Sarah.  We had kept in touch a little since the 5-day club, so it wasn't that unusual she'd call to chat.

     "What's up, Sarah?" I asked.

     "Our church youth group is having a picnic next Saturday, and we want to invite you to come with us."

     Her church youth group?  The church with the "anointed" pastor you weren't allowed to disagree with?  

     "Is your pastor going to be there?" I asked.

     Sarah didn't seem to think this an odd question.  "No, just the youth group.  It's at the park.  There'll be food, volley ball--all that fun stuff."

     Hmm, this sounded like it could be fun.  Sarah told me they would pick me up.  What did I have to lose?  "Let me ask my parents.  I'll be right back."

     My mom and dad were talking in the kitchen.  I asked them if I could go with Sarah and Ruth to their youth group's picnic.  

     "As long as the Uptons have enough seat belts in their car," Mom told me seriously.  Several of our friends crammed as many people in the car as possible, and my parents were very against breaking the seat belt law. 

     "I'll ask them about that," I promised.

     Returning to the phone, I told Sarah I could go, as long as they had enough seat belts.  

     "Seat belts," Sarah seemed to be thinking.  "Sometimes we have them.  We should definitely have them by next Saturday."

     This sounded very odd to me.  "Wait, sometimes you have seat belts and sometimes you don't?" I asked.  

     "Forget it.  We'll have seat belts.  Don't worry."

     Well, the Uptons did have seat belts.  Mr. and Mrs. Upton sat up front.  I sat between Sarah and Ruth in the back seat.  Mr. Upton had a deep frown on his face as he drove.  He said very little, but his silence was deafening.  Something did not please him, and I had the suspicion it was me.  When he did speak, he snipped and snapped at his wife.  Everyone acted like this was perfectly normal, so I tried to as well.  

     Before I had left, my mom had only one request.  "Please find a phone and call me when you're heading home."  No problem.  I had a quarter in my purse.  

     Mr. Upton pulled onto the freeway, his intense face getting redder by the second.  I was confused.  "Where are we going?"

     "Our church.  It's in Orange County," Sarah told me. 

     "That's a long way," I remarked.  Like me, the Uptons lived in Riverside County.  

     "It's a true church," Sarah told me.  "Lots of people come from Riverside County to our church."  

     After an hour of Mrs. Upton's hard-to-understand jokes, and Mr. Upton's brooding crankiness, I was relieved when we got off the freeway.  We drove slowly up the road.  We passed a street sign that said Ball Road.  Mrs. Upton laughed and said, "Basketball!"  I pretended to laugh, since everyone else seemed to think it was hilarious.  Next we passed Chip Street.  "Chocolate chips!" Mrs. Upton laughed, and again, we all joined her.  

     The picnic was actually fun.  The youth group kids were pretty nice.  I almost forgot I had an hour drive home with the Uptons.  A while later, they picked us up.  

     "Can we stop at a pay phone?" I asked.  "My parents want me to call them."  

     "A pay phone!" Mr. Upton grumbled under his breath, as if I had just asked them to buy me a Rolex watch.  I felt nervous.  I did not want to make this man mad at me.  

     "There's a pay phone," Mrs. Upton pointed to the side of the road.  

     Mr. Upton pulled over sharply, kind of scaring me.  I hopped out and walked to the phone.  There was a sign over it that said, LOCAL CALLS 25 CENTS.  I was concerned.  Since I lived in a different county (with a different area code) than we were currently in, I didn't think it would count as local.  Would my quarter be enough? 

     Mr. Upton got out of the car and stood by me, glaring down at me.  He acted like he suspected my phone call had some subversive motives far beyond calling Mom and Dad.  Nervously, I pulled out my quarter and deposited it in the phone.  I then dialed my home phone number.  An operators's recorded voice said, "Please deposit an additional ten cents to complete this call."  

     "Shoot, I don't have a dime," I said aloud.

     "Here," Mr. Upton put a dime in the phone slot.  The phone began to ring.

     "Thank you," I looked up at him before my mother answered the call.  I told her we were heading home from Orange County and would be there in an hour.

     "Take your time and have fun," my mom replied.  We ended the call.  I hung up.

     "You are going to pay me back, right?" Mr. Upton frowned deeply at me.  I was shocked.  He wanted his dime back?  I didn't have a dime.  If I did, I would have used it to complete the call.  

     "I don't have change.  Just bills--"

     "I'll take it," he held out his hand.  What?  He wanted a dollar to pay him for giving me a dime?  So instead of giving up a measly ten cents, he wanted to extort ninety cents from me?  Back in 1997, ninety cents could buy more than today, and to a teenager who enjoyed riding her bike down to the store for a Pepsi or candy bar, ninety cents was a lot.  But he was frowning seriously and holding out his hand impatiently at me.  I didn't know what he would do to me if I didn't give it to him.  Sighing, I reached into my purse and pulled out a dollar bill and forked it over.  He wasted no time in taking it.  "That's very nice of you to pay me back for doing you a favor," he said.  "You didn't have to."

     We got into the car.  I thought we would get on the freeway and go home.  No such luck.  Mr. Upton pulled in at a drive-through fast-food joint.  Was he buying us all dinner?  I wouldn't ask, but I kind of hoped so.  I was getting hungry, and the picnic lunch had been quite a while ago now.  

     "Yes," he said into the drive-through intercom, "I'd like a jumbo cheeseburger, an extra-large fries, and mega iced tea, easy ice."

     "That'll be three-seventy-five, sir," the voice on the other end told him.  

     "Thank you."  We drove up to the next window.  

     So Mr. Upton was buying himself food, but nothing for his wife, girls, or guest (me).  How rude!  

     "That's three-seventy-five," the cashier told him at the window.
     Mr. Upton felt in his pockets and scrounged up two dollars and some change.  "Oh, no!  I don't have enough," he growled.  What was he going to do?  I didn't want to know.  

     "I have another dollar.  Here," I shoved it at him.

     "Oh, thanks," he took it as if it were his due.  Happily, he paid for his food.  It smelled so good in the car, and it made me hungrier!  

     As we drove on, I wondered what kind of person went through a drive through and ordered without knowing for sure they had enough money?  For that matter, what kind of person ate in front of four other hungry people?

     On the drive back, Sarah and I began talking about an earthquake that had happened that summer.  I said it was scary.  

     This got Mr. Upton's attention. 

     "If you're afraid of an earthquake, you have no faith!  Faith and fear cannot coexist in someone.  You should be happy if you die in an earthquake, because you'll go to heaven!  And if you don't die, why be afraid anyway?  It's probably God's will!"  

     I didn't even know what to say to this.  "I trust God's will," I said, trying to jump on the same wavelength.  

     But Mr. Upton wasn't done with his crazy tirade yet.  He went on for ten minutes about how people who were afraid of earthquakes were abominable.  

     "God has a sense of humor," Sarah jumped in. "Having you live in California and scared of earthquakes."

     I didn't see humor myself.  I love my home state of California (and miss it now that I live in South Dakota).  Every state has some natural disaster that can be scary.  I didn't say earthquakes traumatized me or ruined my life or anything.  Excuse the pun, but earthquakes just shake me up for a minute.  That's all.

     We were finally getting close to home.  We had crossed into Riverside County, and were in the city of Corona.  I lived on the other side of Corona, and was delighted to be back in my own city.
     "Oh no!"  Mr. Upton exclaimed suddenly.  "I'm almost out of gas!"

     "There's a gas station on the next corner," I told him.

     "Not much good when you don't have money!" he snapped at me.  

     Why did they go to church so far away if they couldn't afford the gas to get home?  And this hadn't even been a regular church day.  It was a completely optional youth picnic.  Why on earth did they go if they couldn't afford it?  Kind of similar to going through the drive-through without enough money.  This was madness!  And now I would be stuck with them and their empty gas tank.  I couldn't take it anymore!

     I pulled out the last ten dollars.  It was a ten dollar bill, given to me by a family I babysat for.  Back then, ten dollars could practically fill the tank.  "Here," I thrust it at him before I could talk myself out of it.  

     Mr. Upton had no qualms accepting a tenth-grader's hard-earned cash.  He seemed to think I owed it to him.  He took it as if he'd been waiting for me to pay him.  

     "I'll pay you back," Mrs. Upton told me as her husband pumped the gas.  I doubted this would happen, but nodded as sweetly as I could.  I was so glad to be almost home.

     I got home and told my family about the crazy time I'd had.  About a month later, Mrs. Upton wrote me a letter with three one-dollar bills in it.  She assured me the other seven were coming when she could afford it.  My mother's heart went out to them, and she wrote back to Mrs. Upton, telling her not to worry about paying.  She said she had wanted to give them a little gas money for taking me out.  Mom then paid me the remaining seven dollars.  Good ol' Mom.

     I only saw the Uptons one other time after that, at a skating party.  Sarah and Ruth refused to tie the laces of their skates and kept tripping.  What can we say?  It takes all types.  Wherever they are now, I hope God's blessings befall them.  

Miracle Upon Miracles

    "Lord, don't let it die on me now!" I pleaded as my van and I came to a stop at a stop sign.  I was supposed to be meeting up with a church friend for lunch.  My van had been having more and more difficulties.  The truth was, I needed a new vehicle badly.  I didn't know just how badly!

     After stopping at the sign like a good, law-abiding citizen, I took my foot off the break and applied it to the gas pedal.  Nothing.  "Come on!  Don't do this!"  As if it understood me, the van lurched forward, but it wasn't promising.  I didn't know what to do!  Looking up, I saw a garage to my right.  I had used them before, and been satisfied.  Knowing my van might not go much further, I saw this as Providential as I pulled into the parking lot.  God hadn't let me get stranded in some inconvenient place.  That was something to be thankful for.  

     I had just gotten my tax refund, and I found myself wondering how much of it would be going into this repair.

     After checking it in and giving the mechanic my cell number, I then found myself with a new problem.  I was supposed to meet up with my friend.  The restaurant was three miles away, and we were supposed to meet in ten minutes.  I walk fast, but not that fast!  

     This was when a second miracle occurred (the first being that my van was almost dead right near the mechanic).  I looked up and saw that the bus was coming to a stop right at the curb!  It was the bus that went right by the restaurant!  I could just make it!  I hopped on and paid my dollar-twenty-five.  I arrived just as my friend Ruth was getting out of her car. 

      We enjoyed a pleasant lunch.  Somewhere in the middle of it all, the mechanic called to tell me some very bad news.  My van was too far gone.  Now what?  

     I told Ruth, and the two of us prayed together.  

     "I have an idea," Ruth said after we finished.  "My husband wants to sell cars to auctions.  He might be interested in buying it from you."  A quick call to her husband revealed that yes, he was interested.  He offered me $100 more than the junkyard would have paid me.  "If you can get it to our house," he added.  

     By this point, I saw too much of God at work to doubt the car would make it the few miles to their home.  

     This left only one problem.  Yes, I had my tax refund, and now the triple-digit check I would be given for my van, but how would I afford another vehicle?  

     Just then, my phone rang again.  This time, it was my sister.  She and her husband were getting ready to move from California to Idaho.  They were significantly down-sizing, and wanted to know if I wanted their second car, free of charge!

     Ruth and I were overwhelmed at how fast this was all coming together.  We rejoiced, thanking the Lord!  We made the plan.  She would drive me from the restaurant to my van.  I would drive it (praying the whole time it would make it!) to her house, following her.  She would then drive me to my sister's, and I could get my new (to me) car!

     As I followed Ruth to her house in my dying van, a scripture came to mind. Isaiah 55:12 You will go out with joy and be led forth with peace... That is exactly how I felt as I drove.  The sun was shining brightly.  God was at work.  It was so clear.  I felt deep joy surging through my being.

     To quickly wrap up the first part of this miraculous story, my clunker van made it (Ruth's husband paid me right away and then sold it within a few weeks).  I got my "new" car from my sister.  I was able to get it smogged (a California requirement for cars) before the shop closed.  The next day, I was able to switch the title and insurance to my name.  This was great!  God had really provided!

     If the scripture theme of the first part of this story is Isaiah 55:12, the verse I would give to part two is this: John 12:24 ...unless a kernel of wheat falls to the ground and dies, it remains alone, but if it dies, it produces much fruit.  

     I had owned my car four days.  I had told everyone how God has miraculously worked everything out.  I was coming home from work that day.  It was late afternoon, and the sun was sinking.  I was almost home.  The traffic light was red, so I slowed down, preparing to stop.  Quickly, though, the light turned green before I was stopped, so I sped back up and entered the intersection.

     CRASH!  I felt an impact hit the side of the car, right behind me.  I heard the sound of medal crumpling.  I was spinning.  It happened too fast to be afraid yet.  

     I came to a stop facing the opposite direction, on the other side road, but still in the intersection.  What had just happened?  At that moment, I felt real grief.  In one fell swoop, I had lost my miracle car.  What did it all mean?  It wasn't my fault.  My light was green.  

     I tried to get out, but the door was smashed shut.  

     "Ma'am, are you alright?" a woman ran to the side.  

      I rolled down the window.  "I can't get out."

     "Maybe you should stay inside," she advised.  "It wasn't your fault, by the way.  I saw it.  The other driver ran a red light."

     I appreciated her reaching out, but I had to get out of the car.  I climbed to the passenger side and got out.
     "Janelle, are you okay???"  

     I turned to see Mrs. Dawson, a woman I knew from Bible study. 

     "Mrs. Dawson?"  

     "Yes!" She gave me a hug.  "My family saw the whole thing.  We'll help you make the report to the police."

     The Dawson family are very special people.  Salt of the earth.  I later found out their daughter, twelve-year-old Chrissy (one of my former Bible students), was sharing the gospel with the other driver and her hysterical daughter.  Only God could have orchestrated that.  

     A police officer blocked off the intersection and took the report.  Paramedics looked me over.  

     The other driver apologized profusely.  The setting sun had blinded her, and she had thought her light was green.  She took full responsibility right away.  

     The Dawsons gave me a ride home (before going back to give the other driver and her daughter a lift).  They prayed with me before they left me.

     I got inside my house, and I broke down crying.  How could this have happened?  I was so sure God had worked everything out for me to get this car...now it was hopeless!  I slept fitfully all night.  Every slamming sound (car doors outside, etc) woke me up with a start.  

     The long and short of it was this: my car was totaled.  My heart was heavy.  But here's where things start getting really amazing.

     The other driver's insurance covered me to have a brand-new rental car for two weeks, and paid me a very generous check for my totaled car.  A friend found out about a man a few blocks from me who was a car dealer, but sold them at his house.  I took a test drive, and fell in love with what was to become my new car.  It had a salvaged title (meaning it had been totaled at one point, but repaired).  It was in excellent condition, but because of the salvaged title, it was being sold for a very low price--half the amount of the check from the insurance company!  All this and I still had my tax refund and the amount I'd been paid for my van!

     That car, my Ford Taurus, has proven to be a faithful car.  Not long after all this, I met and married my husband.  We lived in the San Bernardino mountains.  The faithful Ford Taurus kept us safe on the winding (sometimes icy) mountain roads.  It faithfully got us halfway across the country when we moved from California to South Dakota.  It continues to faithfully get us where we need.  God knew exactly what He was doing all along.  Had I gotten in the accident with my dying van, I surely wouldn't have gotten such a good check.  Had I not gotten in the accident and just kept my sister's old car, I would never have learned as much as I did about God's redemptive power.  Plus, this car is a little bit better.  God knew all this!  

     Whenever my faith is weak, I look back on this miraculous series of events.  God clearly showed me Himself at work all through this.  My van dying right at the mechanic; the bus pulling up right then; Ruth's husband willing to buy the van; my sister wanting to give her car to me right then; my van making it to Ruth's; getting my sister's car smogged and registered in my name so quickly; the accident at that exact moment in time; nobody being hurt; the Dawson family being right there and minstering to all of us involved; the other driver taking complete responsibility; the insurance getting me that rental; the very generous check; the inexpensive vehicle being sold just blocks from me.  These things don't just happen.  They're not coincidences.  God was involved in all of it.  

     I don't even believe this experience was so unique.  I think God is always at work in our lives.  He just showed me in a very concentrated way.  It might not always seem dramatic like that, but God is always faithful.  

Call of the (Really!) Wild

Monkeys at Victoria Falls, Zambia.  Right after I took this picture, they stole our lunch!

 

    "Well, here I am," I thought as the plane took off from the Detroit airport.  The last several months were now a blur of letter-writing, car washes, getting shots, and overall just psyching myself up for this.  Now, the time had come.  I was with my three teammates, leaving the United States behind.  My feelings were a mix of delightful anticipation, uncertain fear, and devastating weariness from our recently completed two-week training.  "Keep your chin up," I whispered to myself.  "Everyone's counting on you."  Everyone, meaning my family, friends, and church back home.  They all loved me and believed in me.  That love, mostly based in Riverside, California, would have to reach me halfway around the world, and carry me through a place where no one loved me.  This was before the Internet was widely accessible (even many of my friends in the US didn't use it, and it was virtually nonexistent in Zambia then.  Also, no telephones of any kind).    

     A few posts ago, I referred to my 2000 mission trip to Zambia (see the post Journey of Forgiveness).  I only touched on a very small aspect of that trip.  I want to share more about my craziest adventure ever!

     Backing up a little, I was a local summer missionary with Child Evangelism Fellowship's Christian Youth in Action (CYIA) program in 1997, 1998 and 1999.  Some of my happiest high school memories were my times with CYIA.  I made good Christian friends, learned skills in evangelism and teaching, and saw many children receive Christ as their Savior.  I will probably share specific stories from my CYIA years in a later post.  By 1999, I was a senior, among the oldest students.  I didn't know what the next summer would hold.  Our state director's wife gave me a brochure for the Overseas Summer Mission (OSM) program.  It was Child Evangelism Fellowship's program for college students.  It was very similar to what I had already been doing, but I would get to go overseas!  Exciting!

     I readily applied and was accepted.  I was originally placed on the South Africa team, but a month later, found out I was going to Zambia instead.  As I completed my senior year, my focus was more on preparing for the trip than anything else.  My church was very supportive of me, as I have said. They treated me as something of a hero.  

     Four days after my high school graduation, I boarded a plane at Los Angeles International Airport.  This was the first of eight planes I would board that summer.  This first one would take me to St. Louis, Missouri, where I would be trained.  I was very excited.  I fully expected it to be like my times at CYIA, only a bit more mature.  I wasn't prepared for how mature.  

     I could write a book about my two weeks of training in Missouri.  There were twenty-nine young adults, going to a total of eleven countries.  They came from all over the United States.  Most were very nice and godly.  A few, though, made me wonder about the screening process.  I am sure legalities were covered, because this was a professional ministry, but I still wonder how much prayer and discernment was used.  One difficult was one of my teammates (whom I call Tasha).  Another was a young man I'll call Herb.  He was twenty-two, four years older than me.  He seemed captivated by me immediately, and basically stalked me the whole two weeks.  This weird behavior included following me into a phone booth, sitting beside me at all times, following me, spying on me, touching me in any way he could, and talking to me in strange voices.  I was really uncomfortable, but everyone said I was overreacting and that it was just a joke.  Some joke.  The last night we were there, Herb made a clumsy advance that, while foolish, was still a very deep stumbling block to me.  When I declined, he had a royal fit.  Everyone was on his side and acted like I had the problem.  I felt really crazy inside.  I was also the victim of some gossip about the situation.  It was like we had our own bizarre little soap opera. 

     By the time all the different teams flew out to their countries, I was already emotionally exhausted and depressed.  I felt humiliated by how I had been treated.  I just wanted to go home. Our team flew from St. Louis to Detroit.  We barely spoke.  I think all four of us were exhausted.  From Detroit, we were to fly to London.  We would be there for almost 24 hours.  I was excited about this!  Looking forward to that kept me going.
     Upon boarding our flight, I was sort of accosted by a British couple saying I was taking the wife's seat.  They were kind of angry and aggressive about it, and a flight attendant had to get involved.  I had to prove my seat was my seat (which I did by showing my boarding pass).  Upon being proven wrong, the couple chuckled happily and said, "Oops.  Sorry about that!"  I might have been able to laugh too, had I not been so weary.  But the last fortnight's drama in my life certainly wasn't their fault, so I forgave them on the spot.  I tried to relax into my seat, very thankful I wasn't next to Tasha (or even my nice other teammates).  I needed to be alone...but alas that wasn't to happen.  A happily drunk British man ended up sitting beside me.  His silly but harmless babbling kept me awake all through the flight.  He mostly wanted to ask me about rattlesnakes (since I'm an American, he naturally assumed I'm an expert on such things).
     Our day in London was a blast.  I really enjoyed myself.  We went to Buckingham Palace.  On the train through the city, I had a fun conversation with a little boy and his grandfather.  The little boy told me he was "four, but near five."   He said his birthday was "September the seventh."  I loved his perfect accent.  Of course, I was really the one with the accent there.  When I told the grandfather I was from the United States, he laughed and said, "You didn't have to tell me that, Yank!  As soon as you started talking, I knew you were from the States.  You have an American accent."  An American accent.  What a concept!
     So, before I go further, I had three teammates.  I'll call the two nice ones Mary and Rachel.  I had different things in common with each of them.  The three of us got along well, and could have been a wonderful team that summer.  We were all in it for the Lord.  Our fourth teammate was Tasha.  She had something of a split personality, and had major boundary problems.  When we had been at training in Missouri, she had been quiet, dull, and slow.  She didn't say much, and what she did say was harmless enough.  But in any given situation where she felt she could gain control, she seized it in shocking ways.  She was extremely manipulative when she could get away with it.  Long story, but she had already destroyed some of my personal property while at training.  In a passive-aggressive way, she had helped the loud-mouth spread rumors about me.  I hate to say it, but I knew early on that I did not like her.
     Arriving in Africa, a little alarm must have gone off in Tasha's mind: "Hey, nobody here knows American culture.  You can get the upper hand and control everyone!"
     She spent every moment criticizing me.  Literally.  No matter what I said or did, she had to contradict.  She twisted everything so our host missionaries (Zambian nationals) liked her and disliked me.  It got to the point that I had to be silent almost all the time. I got the reputation of being unfriendly, and as such, didn't really bond with people in Zambia.  I deeply resent that.  There is one exception to this.  I'll get to that in a few minutes.
     Tasha would criticize everything I said, even when I was teaching the kids.  If I set my Bible down, she would move the bookmarks in it so I would use the verses she thought I should use.  I had to keep my hands on my Bible at all times to avoid this.
     One time, our host asked me to peel potatoes.  They didn't have a potato peeler, so I had to use a knife.  Tasha came into the room and saw me doing it.  "You're doing it wrong!  Hold you wrist this way, so you're not scraping off half the potato along with the peel!" she ordered.
     "Thanks for the advice," I told her, continuing to do it as I had.
     "Aren't you going to change and do it the way I just said?"
     "No, but if it's that important to you, you can peel the potatoes."
     "No!" she shot at me.  "I  want you to do it, and I want you to do it the way I say!"
     "Look!" I stood up, raising to my full height (three inches taller that Tasha).
       Tasha ran out of the room screaming bloody murder.  She later claimed she thought I was going to stab her!  Of all things!  Really?
     At the moment, I was so furious I ran out the door and wandered around town all afternoon.  I cried and prayed.  I felt like I would lose my mind.  On this and many other occasions, God became my lifeline like never before.
     Another time, Mary and I were talking about our churches back home.  She shared her church was large and had several services every Sunday.  I told her that my church was pretty small (maybe 120 at the time).  I said we had Sunday school hour and one church service on Sundays.  I added that we had a Sunday night Bible study as well, but that I didn't usually go to that.  Tasha, who hadn't even been a part of the conversation, had a colossal fit about this, how it's a sin to miss Sunday night services.  She said I wasn't right with the Lord, and how the President could make it illegal to hold Sunday night services any day now, and I didn't go while I could.  I couldn't believe anyone could be this stupid.  First, the President doesn't have that kind of power to just make Sunday evening services illegal.  Presidents aren't dictators.  Secondly, our government could never disallow Sunday evening services because the Bill of Rights grants American citizens the freedom of Worship and Assembly.  But I don't think Tasha really cared about this.  She just wanted to start a fight with me.  In a moment of "weakness" I had tried to have a pleasant conversation with another teammate.  Whoops. Couldn't do that anymore.  Back to silence.  For the record, I did challenge Tasha in this instance, and she cried like a baby.  She told me I had better not write bad things about her in my diary.  I challenged this too, and she said she didn't want my heirs to read it a hundred years in the future and have a bad opinion of her.  I told her she had a choice about it by the way she treated me.
     One night at dinner, Tasha told our Zambian host family all about Herb, my "stalker" back at training. I kept asking her to stop, but she would't.  Pretty soon, everyone was laughing and joking about my most humiliating moment.  I wanted to crawl under a rock and die.
     The final big blow-up (and there were many others that I didn't share here) came when Tasha made a mean comment about California one evening (she was from the East Coast herself).  I politely told her she was mistaken in her information.  She began screaming like a lunatic.  At the moment, we were listening to a Christian cassette, and she was holding the box it came in.  She slammed it down and it broke into a dozen pieces.  She kept screaming and screaming until our hosts (the husband and wife) came running.  Then Tasha turned on the water words.  She made me out to be the proverbial "bad guy".  They hugged her and told her to forgive me.  If I could ever have committed a crime, it could have been that moment!  I wanted to scream, "Forgive me for what!?"  I literally hated everyone in the room right then.  I hated Tasha for the obvious . I hated our hosts for choosing her over me.  I hated Mary and Rachel for being cowards.  If they had backed me up, it could have put her back in her place.  The whole summer, it was like they resented my very existence for Tasha's behavior...instead of resenting Tasha for Tasha's behavior.  Any time I tried to stand up for myself, Rachel would look at me in resentment, and often, Mary would whisper, "Can't you let it go?" As if the problem was all mine.  Why couldn't Tasha knock it off?  Why was it all my fault?    I had just about nobody on my side, nobody to talk to.  Only God.  I had been eighteen for a few months, but that summer, I became an adult in every sense of the word.  I lost some innocence and idealism, but I found completeness in Christ.  Jesus was once in a foreign land too (Earth!), away from His Father.  Nobody completely understood how He felt.  He was constantly misjudged by others.  I identified with Jesus in a new way that summer of 2000.  I believe I shared in Christ's sufferings.
     All was not bad.  Remember my one exception?  My interpreter was wonderful.  Her name was Joyce (that was her real name).  She was a wonderful person.  I felt I needed to be careful talking about Tasha with her, but I could still talk!  She was the only person I could speak to all summer for longer than a couple minutes.  I would go to her home after we had finished ministry for the day (my teammates went back to our host house to watch the black and white TV set).  Joyce would fix us some tea and scones, and we would talk about the Lord.  She was an angel of mercy to me.  We are still in touch today.  I love her so much,  I may never see her again in person until Heaven, but when we do meet up again, I am going to give her the biggest hug.  God used her so much in my life.  We taught so many Bible clubs together, and saw Christ work in hearts and lives.
     The national language in Zambia is English, so people generally could understand us.  However, most people speak it as a second or even third language.  There are more than 70 tribal languages spoken in different regions of the country.  I met one man that summer who spoke fourteen different languages fluently!  The English they know is generally British, so our heavy American accents were a little harder for them to understand.  The more educated people there sounded like Londoners.  Most TV shows were British.  The few white people we ran into there were British.  I got to the point that summer where I had a hard time telling the difference between American and British accents on TV!  That's how bombarded we were with it.
     One Sunday, we visited a church.  The pastor was a white missionary.  He greeted us at the door and began chatting with us.  I couldn't quite pinpoint his accent.  It was beautiful, and sounded sophisticated.  At first, I was convinced he was from England.  Then, after a minute, I thought he must be from Australia or New Zealand.  After about five minutes, I couldn't hear the accent anymore.  I asked him where he was from, and he said, "Long Beach, California, United States."  Less than an hour from my hometown!  That must be how my accent sounds to British ears.  I loved it!  Just a fun little quirk of travel.
     Most of our Bible clubs were taught in schools.  Public schools are open to Christianity there.  School principals (they called the headmasters and headmistresses) were thrilled to have the American Christians come and share the Lord with the student body.  At every club we taught, children would make professions of faith.  Unfortunately, we weren't able to do a lot of personal one-on-one counseling with them, so only God knows the results.  Joyce and others did follow up after the summer was over.  Our statistic (for what it's worth) was that about thirty-five hundred children received Christ.  As I said, only God truly knows.  I did have a few personal encounters with children we had shared with, and they really showed understanding at having trusted Christ for salvation.  That was a good feeling.  Some of these children were orphans.  Many of their parents had died of AIDS.  Some of these children's only clothes were the school uniforms they wore.  Two little orphan sisters made me cry.  Here, I was alone in a foreign country, but they were alone in the world without family (except each other).  This was a reality.  Yet, they received Jesus, and came to know that hope that comes from Him.
     The only communication I had with home was writing postal letters.  Writing helped keep me sane and battle culture shock.  I would write to my family and friends.  We had been warned that it wasn't safe for us to lick the postal stamps.  Too many germs.  So I would affix stamps to envelopes using toothpaste. It worked every time.  All letters I mailed were received.  I found out upon returning to the States that people in my church had enjoyed my letters a lot, and had shared them in the congregation.  That made me happy.
     We were also warned to be careful about dairy, because a lot of their cows are unhealthy and carry disease.  So we pretty much avoided any dairy products all summer.  By the time I flew back to Los Angeles in August, I was craving a large strawberry milkshake from Burger King!  I made my parents take me there posthaste!  Best milkshake I ever had!
     The last thing we did before flying back to the US was to visit Victoria Falls.  That is the biggest waterfall on earth, supposedly one of the seven wonders of the world.  It is on the border of Zambia and Zimbabwe.  It was across the country from where we were.  It should have been an eight hour drive, but was more like twenty-four hours, due to the flat tires we received on the primitive road.  I used to complain that they're always tearing up the roads and making improvements.  After that summer, I realized why they did it, and stopped complaining.  The Zambian roads were covered with potholes.  They had been paved many years earlier, and pretty much left alone since.
     The ride to Victoria Falls (then following this, up to the airport) was a blast.  I barely had to be near Tasha.  She and my other teammates sat in the back of the trunk.  I chose to sit inside with Joyce and other other Zambians.  I felt some of them actually got to know the real me at that time, which was a blessing.  One of the men said that when I had come to Zambia, I had a very small heart, but by the end, it had grown.  I think this is his perception because I had been unable to speak when Tasha was around.  It saddens me that I wasn't able to truly be myself most of the time.  But that trip to Victoria Falls was wonderful (well, aside from having monkeys steal our lunch, then chase me!).  That night after seeing the Falls, we stayed in a guest house, and I got to room with Joyce.
     We flew back to London.  This time, we did not leave the airport.  I bought a copy of A Little Princess in the bookstore.  I wanted a copy of a British book that said, Printed in the United Kingdom inside.  That was my souvenir from England.  I read while we waited to board our flight back to the United States.  As my teammates slept by our bags, and I sat reading, I asked myself, "Did I pass the test this summer?" I still wonder that at times.  I think I did.
     Nothing could have prepared me for landing in the US.  As the plane came to a landing in Detroit, I saw a giant American flag out the window.  My eyes filled with tears, and a lump came to my throat.  I was home.  I wanted to kiss the ground.  I wonder if this is just a small picture of how it will feel to be truly home in Heaven one day?
     We had a recap back in Missouri.  I just wanted to fly back to California.  Herb acted awkward toward me.  The recap couldn't have ended soon enough.  I was delighted to fly back home!
     I was emotionally shaken up from that summer.  Returning to church was harder than I imagined.  Everyone viewed me as a hero.  In fact, the pastor told me I was his hero.  That was wonderful.  Everyone was so good to me, and I love them all so much. I just didn't feel like a hero.  I felt like a wreck.  I felt like a POW from a failed mission.  Yet here were these enthusiastic people, loving me, excited for me, wanting to hear wonderful stories of my trip.  By God's grace, I was able to share the good things He had done. I even was able to make some fun jokes about the difficult moments.  But no one ever knew the depths of my suffering.  That's okay.  It remained between God and me for a long time.  He wanted it that way.
     Missionaries may seem like heroes, but they are regular people God is using.  They struggle, doubt and cry out to God.
     Another thing that can be learned is that there is an effective way to deal with bullies.  Tasha was a bully, and everyone's passivity basically allowed her to reign sovereign.  That wasn't right.  She was sinning and should have been corrected.  Even someone saying, "That's not right.  You shouldn't say that," would have been helpful.
     I guess the biggest lesson that can be gleaned from my summer is discernment.  Ministries need to be discerning about the people they allow to serve.  Tasha should never have been involved.  Her support didn't come in, for one thing.  This should have been a wake-up call to the people in charge.  Sometimes God uses money (or lack of it) to guide us.  Herb should never have been there either, or at very least, his weird behavior should have been questioned by leadership.  Those in charge shouldn't be looking for warm bodies.  They should be looking for surrendered hearts.  It may mean less people serving...but it means better service.