Refugee Arts

Welcoming Santa to Refugee Beads

2011-11-04T07:46:00.001-07:00

We have a new lady in Refugee Beads! She is Purna's best friend from her school house in the refugee camp in Nepal. Her name in Santa Darjee. She has a little 3 month old baby girl named Apakhcha. She has been in the states only 16 months now. Her husband is looking for work right now. We are so happy to welcome her into our community and praying we can help her family financially!

Race Report: Frogtown Trail Challenge

2011-10-09T14:28:00.000-07:00

Since going to Mount Everest in April, I've had some nagging knee problems which kept me from training for the StumpJump 50k, which I ran and loved last year.

But the weather in Georgia has been beautiful, and I didn't want the fall to go by without doing some kind of outdoors adventure. The Frogtown Trail Challenge presented the perfect solution. At ten miles, it was a perfect distance to be challenging without doing too much damage. Plus, the obstacles would add some excitement to the event.

I talked Brian Weldon, Jeremy Anderson, and Ruthie into running the race with me, and we all registered. Brian and I work at a nonprofit called She Is Safe, and they provided "Run to Rescue" t-shirts for us. R2R is an initiative we're developing where sponsored runners can free and empower women and girls against trafficking.

While Ruthie ran the four-mile course, Brian, Jeremy, and I decided to run the ten as a team. Besides being more fun that way, this allowed us to take pictures of each other throughout the race.

The first obstacle was a short drop via a rope onto a lower trail. Since the field of runners was still pretty much together, it was fairly crowded, but it got us excited for challenges to come.

While the overall elevation change wasn't that severe, whoever organized the race did a good job of designing some wicked climbs into the course. We regularly had to walk to the top of a climb, then resume running when the trail leveled out. Several times, we power-walked past runners who decided to gut it out.

While all of the race was enjoyable, we had the most fun during a mile-long portion of the race that took place in a creek. The water was cold, our shoes filled with sand, and there were fallen logs all over the place. I felt like a kid again, splashing full-speed through knee-deep water.

The final miles of the race were marked by hilly loops. Around mile 8, my legs started to feel heavy, and it was a challenge to keep up with my team. At this point, Jeremy took the lead of our little group, and Brian and I pushed the pace to keep up with him.

The final obstacle was a rope net with a drill-sargent-like volunteer yelling at you. Jeremy climbed to the top, took a snapshot of Brian and me struggling our way up, then scrambled down the other side.

We finished the race together, in a pack of three, all sprinting together for the line. I had to fight to keep from throwing up because of the final push, but I felt elated at the same time. We had run a good race together, pushed ourselves, and finished well.

Ruthie had finished her four-mile course long before us, and was waiting at the line to cheer us in.

I usually finish races one of two ways: barely able to stagger across the line and hoping to die, or wishing I had given more and done better.

With a two-hour finish time after starting in the last wave, I felt perfect at the end of this race. I had pushed hard, managed my energy well, and enjoyed a day in the woods with two of my favorite people.

Garden days

2011-09-10T10:56:00.001-07:00

This year, in addition to running the helping with homework, Ruthie has worked with volunteers, student leaders, and the kids to develop a community garden, where kids can help grow veggies to cook and eat in the afterschool program.

Here's one picture of some of the kids with Theresa, a faithful and caring friend of ours and the neighborhood. Miguel is taking a break from planting to stick his face in front of the camera:

The kids took home starter plants to nurture, then brought them to the garden to plant:

The Creek Kids had a great chance to play in the dirt and spend time together on the garden. We have one garden day each week:

Team USA

2011-07-11T09:41:00.000-07:00

-People are starting to talk about our team, so we need a name, I say as Marco takes another shot.

The ball goes sailing over the goal and toward the creek. Ivan puts on his socks on the sideline.

-Los Immigrants, Adrian suggests.

-How 'bout HB-87s? Alan jokes.

-No. I got it. USA. It's simple, Omar says, looking around for any dissent. Heads nod around the circle of players as it forms. Like that, we become USA.

This takes place on a Tuesday. We are fresh off a win against a team that beat us twice before I took over coaching. While we gather around, kicking soccer balls, joking in Spanglish, getting ready to do our sprints, the feeling is that we can make this little neighborhood team into something good.

I'm still reeling from the fact that I'm even here. Guys on this team have made fun of us, written obscenities on our door, picked on kids in our afterschool program, and generally avoided us for peer pressure reasons.

Then, one night while they watched a police officer grill some of the neighbors on something, I asked Ivan and Bon Bon what was going on. They shrugged, then asked, Hey, you wanna coach our soccer team?

I showed up at the first practice, not sure how things were gonna go. Then Omar, the other coach, who supposedly couldn't coach anymore because of a job at QT, showed up too.

It's been a bit messy ever since. Our players go back to Mexico, get distracted when their parents go to prison, show up to practice under the influence, and sometimes burst into tears. There are alliances and insecurities and everyone has to watch his back most of the time.

But we've started playing like a team. We're learning to build each other up. We're taking some pride in who we are, and where we come from.

For the first three years in this neighborhood, I prayed that God would give me a way to connect with the middle and high school guys. They are at risk right now for gang involvement, drug use, incarceration, gun violence and deportation. It's a good time to show them love.

Now, living out God's answer as their coach is a confusing, turbulent, hilarious adventure. It demands about ten hours a week in addition to my writing and ministry work. But the time, sweat, and pain are well worth it, to be involved in the turnaround we're seeing, to get to play during scrimmages, and to see the development of pride they've taken in who we are together, as team USA.

Thanksgiving in July

2011-07-05T16:52:00.001-07:00

This morning, on my drive to work, I did some thinking about this blog, where I have done a great deal of wrestling, where I have spilled some of my doubts and the mess of my life, and where I have proclaimed victories as they run through my hands.

And to those who read and to those who follow, I must give thanks. Without you, this is a clanging gong. It's a waste apart from you. So here are a few thanks I offer:

To Uncle Tim, who made this whole project possible. By loving us, inviting us, placing us here, and showing us how to make neighborhood ministries work.

To Dad, who tells me that he sees God's hand leading my life, which makes me tear up, but I keep cool for the sake of the conversation. To Mom, who loves patiently and hears the truth in the mess of the things I write here. To Lisa, Eric, and Gina. I'm proud to be a part of this wild clan.

To Adam Fites, who walks before me into the corners of man's mind, past those corners to the glory beyond.

To David Park, who fought for me, beside me, who gives to the Father's work in our life and in our neighborhood. To Josh, who has mastered at least three art forms (music, design, and bike mechanics), and still pretends like he's no big deal. To Jonathan and Kelly, who live more boldly than I ever could. And to Tim Isaacson, who inspires and leads us through the mess of life here in Chamblee.

To Eric Beach, for giving my writing a home back in the Brew days, and for the things you've said about it ever since.

To Kacie, an old friend with the courage to listen, read, think, and speak, all at the right times. To Ernesto, whose writing and reading led to the birth of this whole messy project, and whose work leaves me trembling, breathless. To Keith Evers, who supported us, housed us, and showed us what faithful friendship looks like.

To Jeremy, the brother of my heart. I know you read this stuff. You are, and have been, the best friend I could have hoped for.

Okay, I had about ten more, but this is starting to feel pretty sappy, so maybe I'll do another one of these later. To those listed here, and to the rest of you who follow, I feel that you are reading. I read your comments carefully, and they move me. Thank you.

Rwanda, Caanan, and Chamblee

2011-06-24T20:41:00.000-07:00

We are sending some of our best friends, Jonathan and Kelly Nolte, off to Rwanda in the next few weeks, so tonight we gathered to watch a movie about the genocide that happened there called Beyond the Gates. As you can imagine, it wasn't a very cheery movie. In fact, during the first hour, I was thinking, why doesn't God just blow this world up and start over?

One of the main characters in the film is a Catholic priest. As a horde of Hutus are about to rape and butcher their Tutsi neighbors, a young man asks the priest where God is.

"He's right here, suffering with these people" the priest replies, declining a ride that would take him from the massacre to safety.

That line rattled around in my head for a while. Not in the "it reminded me of a nice idea that I forgot" kind of way, but because it didn't sit well with me. At some point, I have to wonder how much it really hurts him, because he could stop it if he wanted to.

Rwanda isn't the only place that makes me feel this way. I see irreperable scars in my neighborhood. Kids get abused, raped, and abandoned. They build defenses against love. I do some writing for a nonprofit that works with women who are victims of sex trafficking, short-term marriages, slavery, starvation, neglect, and destitution. At some point, if it really bothers God all that much, why doesn't he just stop the awful stuff from happening?

I thought about Rwanda, then I thought about how the Canaanites probably felt when the Israelites came in with divine orders to wipe out every man, woman, child,and cow . Then I thought about friends who died young, and all the scars that their leaving formed in my heart, and I thought that there had to be something about God to be learned, if I was to believe in him at all.

Since it is all we have, human life seems to us the thing of highest value. But, based on biblical tales and the chaos I see around me, it's not the most important thing to God. He seems very little concerned with our comfort or individual survival.

I believe in a God who mourns with those who suffer. Who hates violence. Who grieves when we grieve. But all this has me thinking that the suffering is worthwhile to God because he has a higher value somewhere.

I'm going to propose my little view, which is that God does indeed hurt, but that he values a relational connection, he values the redemptive narrative, and he values the human struggle more than he values the mere fact of human life, and especially more than he values our neat little ethical systems.

So to survive where I live, where suffering abounds and lives are cut short all the time, I have to believe that the God who presides is telling us a story far bigger than our own lives, and he asks me to worship as he unfolds it before me.

This is going to sound weird coming from a guy who believes that Jesus wants us to care about physical needs and poverty (which I do believe, quite fervently), but I don't think God is out to cure every ailment and alleviate every pain.

If we learn anything from suffering, it's that God's priorities and ours are different. We have a choice. We can accept his values and move further into worship, or we can seek safety and avoid the pain that comes with knowing a God who can bear the weight of our suffering for the sake of something higher, which we can't quite grasp in our current state.

A Flood of Blessings

2011-06-16T13:16:00.000-07:00

You can tell how busy I am by the frequency of my posts on this blog.

I recently started a new job as a marketing and communications specialist for She is Safe, a nonprofit serving women in the toughest places on Earth. During my first week at that job, my sister called with the news that her small group wanted to install new flooring in our apartment. Ruthie and I had been praying for new flooring for a while, so we jumped at the opportunity.

In addition to that, a short story I recently wrote for Red Rock Review, a literary journal in Nevada, was noticed by someone who I would hope would notice it, prompting me to launch into editing and expansion of a novel I had been picking away at for a while.

As all these good things crashed into my life, a typo by GEICO resulted in the suspension of my driver's license, leaving me dependent upon the grace of Ruthie to get around.

On Thursday, as I hauled scraps of carpet from our disheveled apartment to a rented UHAUL, I saw some of the high school guys who had written and peed on our door, and I asked them if they knew why a police cruiser was parked nearby. They shrugged, we started talking, and the conversation moved to their soccer team, which they asked me to coach.

So now, I have a new job, a new floor, a new opportunity with the guys in the neighborhood, a chance at getting my weird little novel in front of some helpful readers, and no wheels.

The complicated, unprecedented levels of blessing and difficulty often overwhelm me, but I know that these opportunities come to me from a gracious hand, and I trust that hand to move the story forward in a good direction.

If you are a praying person, please keep us in your prayers. We are caught in a flood of blessings, trying to breathe, love and pray while God's story swirls around and over us.

A Temple to Foreign Gods (dispatches from the trek, pt 3)

2011-06-02T07:30:00.000-07:00

Do not trust the gods of the air of Kathmandu.

The thought flashes through my head as our taxi speeds toward Pashupati temple. Jeremy sits beside me, and we watch the city slide by in lurid color, its shacks bearing the stamps of Coca-Cola and Pepsi on bold, hand-painted plywood signs.

Street kids run through alleys bearing paper bags, which they place over their mouths and breathe deeply when their play slows. Western wear and saris dance and weave across sidewalks, shoes and sandals stir the dust of the streets, and we climb the last hill before the temple.

As we hop out of the cab, I see skeletal cows, rooting through piles of garbage like stray dogs.

Don't trust the hamburgers either, I think.

My friend Jeremy, clad in jeans and a soccer jersey, leads the way to the temple complex. He has lived in Kathmandu for a short time, and arranged this trip for me. Since we have one day in the city before beginning our trek to Mount Everest, he wants me to see this temple and get an idea of what kind of power rules this city.

"The kingdom is in us," I say as we approach the guard shack, where westerners are required to purchase tickets before entering. The statement is meant to identify conviction, but it's really a question, the central question of my journey from the outskirts of Atlanta to the base of the world's tallest mountain. I want to know if this kingdom that defines my life to is a real power. I need to know that it moves through cultures and across oceans, and into the temples of foreign gods.

Two weeks before leaving Atlanta, I visited a Hindu temple to open a conversation. After describing the various statues and telling me their stories, emphasizing the commonalities between his faith and mine, the priest took my hand, held it, and pointed to a string of Christmas lights that lined the ceiling tiles. "Many lights, one electric," he told me. I looked at the lights. "Many lights, one power," he said. I held his hand for a moment, watched a wealthy Indian couple approach the gods, then quietly left the room.

Now we walk past boxes filled with powdered dyes, oranges and yellows and reds, for some ceremonial purpose I don't understand. We mill past stalls, past shadus, the holy men with long beards, robes, round bellies, and painted faces. Jeremy tells me not to take photos of them lest they pursue us for money.

Ahead, I see a group of tourists standing on the concrete riverbank, cameras in hand, snapping photos. I turn to see their subject, and on the other side of the river are small gazebos with rectangular fires crackling and scorching. Near to the fires rest human forms, under fabric shrouds. In clusters standing by walls beyond the pyres stand Nepalis, milling around, chatting, watching the flames. Their dead are burning before us, and their possessions, now poisoned by mortality, are hurled into the grimy river below.

I gape at the shrouded bodies, feeling a tension over the ceremony before us. I come from a land where death is hidden from society's eyes, tucked away in nursing homes, and sanitized in funerals. Here it is, final, grotesque, and public.

A body goes onto the lumber. Men in tank tops uncover a face, light the head on fire, and the next funeral begins.

We mill on through the complex, where we see dozens of shrines, each with a phallic sculpture at its center. Explicit carvings outside the shrines depict horrific gods presiding over complex orgies. Nepalis mill around us, some seeking profit from the tourists, some seeking favor from the spirits, some to give themselves to worship of the gods.

Several buildings say, "Hindus only" on the outside, barring westerners from seeing inside. I ask Jeremy what goes on behind these walls. He shrugs and tells me we're in a fertility temple, so one can imagine, but he hasn't been inside.

We find a long set of stairs climbing up to a hill overlooking the city, and begin to walk. Here, moving away from the vivid altars to mortality and sexuality, I try to process what I am seeing. I am an alien here, so I am bound to feel confused by the native forms of worship, but there is a seething force in the air which troubles me.

This is my first day in Nepal, so I pass the sights quietly, waiting to understand, hoping that in the mess and mystery of this journey, as it runs through this complex, the city of Kathmandu, and the great mountains beyond, the kingdom of Christ will take on skin and offer hope. For the moment, it remains hidden in my heart, a small alien light in a noisy temple to local gods.

A Short Goodbye (pt 3)

2011-05-22T12:16:00.000-07:00

My phone rings late on Sunday afternoon as I trudge through dense undergrowth somewhere on the Near West Side of Atlanta. Jonathan and Kelly Nolte have invited me to join them in the search for a massive, hidden quarry that they saw in a TV show, but all we've found so far are vines, thorns, and barbed wire fences.

I pull the phone from my pocket just as it stops ringing. The caller ID tells me that I missed a call from Steven Finn. He and his wife, Rebecca, have been giving Susan and Astry rides to and from church for over a year.

I pocket the phone, deciding to focus on escaping the woods alive. A few minutes later, I get a text from Steven asking if I can call him when I get a chance.

We emerge from the forest into a rundown neighborhood and find our way back to the Noltes' car. I sit in the passenger seat, pull a few thorns out of my legs, check for ticks, and then call Steven. He has the beginning of a miracle on his hands here, and he tells me about it as we race North on I-85.

Susan and her family, in the face of poor wages, stood to lose their small apartment, and were planning to go stay with family until they could find more work. They decided to ask Steven if there was any way he could help.

A few days ago someone anonymously gave Steven $600 for youth ministry in the neighborhood around Open Table Community. So now Steven's wondering if God didn't do that to provide for this very situation. I encourage him to call Susan back and find out a) what the long term plan is, and b) exactly how much money Susan's family needs.

After I hang up, I discuss the Situation with Jonathan.

-Yeah, he tells me, we can either use that money to buy cookies and lemonade or to actually help the youth stay in the neighborhood.

That night, Steven calls me and lets me know what he found out. Susan's family needs exactly $600 to finish out their lease, and the money would buy the family time to look for new work, finish out the school year, and prepare for a proper move. And it would give us just a little more time with two of our favorite kids.

-They need exactly $600? That's exactly how much you have, right?

-Yeah.

-Well, this sounds like a no-brainer.

-Yeah.

We talk about logistics, and we rave a little bit back and forth about how God seems to be showing his hand here. Susan accepts the grace of Jesus one week, then receives the love of his church, then God provides for her family's material needs. We really can't wrap our heads around this series of events.

The next day, when Steven goes to the gas station to buy the money order to pay for their rent, he only brings the $600. Because he doesn't have any other money with him, the staff just gives him the order for free, making sure that this kindness just passes through Steven from one place to another.

When he gives the money order to the family, he asks Susan to translate for him, and tells them that God provided the right amount of money just for this situation.

When I hear this, I spend the next couple of hours giving thanks and wondering exactly what the Father is trying to build into our character through this miracle.

He placed us here to show His love, provided the resources, and then opened a door for us to care for a family on every level, from spiritual to economic. Maybe he's trying to show us that it's all one thing, that the Gospel, when accepted and lived, encompasses all of who we are, and the kingdom we have been given passes through our fingers in tangible ways to the world around us.

What this teaches us, and how this truth resonates through God's work in the months ahead, remains to be seen. We wait with eyes open. One miracle opens the door for many more, and we expect to believe in them and be changed.

A Short Goodbye (Pt 2)

2011-05-17T06:27:00.000-07:00

-Dude, Susan's leaving, John Ibsen told me.

I stood in a small cluster with my friends John, Jake Warren, and David Park before the service on Sunday morning.

-Wait. What? When? I looked around to see if anyone was smirking, hoping maybe it was a joke. The faces reflected shock and pain back to me.

-She just came up to me and was like, 'Goodbye. My family's moving to Alabama,'

While I reeled from the news, John told me that Susan and Astry were going to have to leave town and move in with family in Alabama. Economic pressure and unjust wages had squeezed their finances dry, and rent was due.

The sisters were some of the first from our neighborhood to attend Open Table Community, and Susan was one of two youth who decided to trust Jesus the week before. We had been working with them for a few years, and they had changed the tone of the children's and youth programs with their unguarded enthusiasm and energetic presence. Several of us had rich relationships with them.

With the service starting, we quickly determined that an offering would not help at this point, and that, although we wanted to help, there was little we could do in the way of permanent solutions. We took our seats, stunned, feeling helpless.

As Peter, our music pastor, led us in a prayer for the poor early in the service, I felt restless. I felt a need to cry out to God, to say goodbye to Susan, to show her that she is loved and to send her off with hope. This service can't end without a proper goodbye, The Spirit seemed to be telling me. I crept over to David and asked him if we could do anything. He suggested that I talk with Peter.

David Park began to speak on the twin biblical themes of justice and compassion. Peter and I searched for ways to respond to Susan's crisis. As we all did the tasks we had been given, a sense of God's timing whispered through. The Father had given David a powerful message and had given all of us an opportunity to see its incarnation.

As the sermon ended, Peter handed me a microphone and went to bring the youth in. A wave of sorrow went through me. I lost control the moment it was my time to speak, choking out the short story of Susan's coming departure. As she and the youth entered the sanctuary, her friends in the church came forward as well. We told stories about her, giving testimony to the blessing she and Astry had been to us. We named her as our missionary to wherever God was taking her next, then the whole congregation gathered around to pray for her.

Susan and many of us were weeping as the prayer time ended. We had responded to the message of love and the prompting of the Holy Spirit to express God's love to Susan. Our time together on Sunday seemed like a beautiful ending to a sad story, but the turmoil and farewell only opened the door for the miracle God was about to work.

An Opportunity to Act

2011-05-11T18:48:00.000-07:00

Many of our partners and supporters ask us how they can help us. For those of you who are willing, I have an idea. The new HB 87, currently on Governor Nathan Deal's desk, threatens our ministry by scaring the people we work with out of the state and barring us from doing many helpful things for them (see section 7).

Deal is expected to sign or veto this weekend, so he will be listening with special care to the concerns of Georgians tomorrow and Friday. If you are willing to speak out on behalf of our immigrant neighbors, send Deal a note or give him a call. You can use an online form or dial his office. All the contact info is here.

Here's the letter I sent him. Please feel free to copy, paste, or borrow from it as you see fit. Please keep your tone respectful and hopeful. Deal has a tough decision to make, and he needs to know that we care:

Dear Governor Deal:

I write this letter to urge you to veto House Bill 87. I am a missionary for the Southern Baptist denomination. I partner with many local churches to care for immigrants and refugees in the Atlanta area.

I am concerned about this law for three reasons: First and foremost, it tells the followers of Jesus that loving their immigrant neighbors is a crime. Will the state criminalize us for giving our neighbors rides to church, helping with homework, and feeding and clothing the hungry? I would urge you to do the opposite and seek ways to empower Georgians to care for and show hospitality to aliens in our land.

The second reason I am concerned is because of the impact this legislation will have on children, many of them citizens. Under HB 87, the parents of many of the young Americans we work with can be detained, and the children will go hungry and will suffer tremendously. Those whose parents aren't directly punished will grow up in fear of the very country they live in. I would suggest that you reject this legislation and instead work with Georgians to create a constructive environment for the children of immigrants. These young Americans deserve a chance to love and give back to the country they were raised in.

My third concern affects all Georgians, not just immigrants and those who care for them. I believe that on an economic level this bill can do nothing but hurt Georgia and its residents. I understand that there is strong support for this bill within our state, but I believe that it will bring us under boycotts, inflation, and a severe labor shortage. It will hurt businesses that receive large amounts of revenue from immigrant laborers, and the prices of many basic services and goods will skyrocket. For the sake of all Georgians, please seek a better way to put people to work.

I have no doubt that the pressures of making such decisions must weigh heavily on you and your staff. But as your constituent, I wanted to make sure to express my opinion to you in hopes of informing the conversation from a Christian perspective.

Thank you for your service to our state and for your attention to our concerns.

Sincerely yours,

Ian A. North
MSC Missionary, North American Mission Board

A Short Goodbye (Pt. 1)

2011-05-10T06:59:00.001-07:00

S and A charged into our apartment with arms wide open. This was their way.

They lived at the back of the complex. At first, they came to our home quietly and disappeared into the afterschool program. After a few days, they burst into the apartment with shouts, and ran to us for hugs whenever we saw them on the playground or running around the parking lot.

Other kids watched their enthusiasm and followed suite. When the sisters arrived, love and noise rose around them.

S, the older of the two, wore glasses and tempered her energy with respect. She was imaginative, boisterous, and funny without crossing lines.

A, her sidekick and younger sister, lived with equal volume and far less restraint. She spoke full-throttle about Justin Bieber, her own ambitions for pop stardom, neighborhood feuds, pets, and the quality of our volunteers.

We slowly built Rapport with their family, and when we asked them if they would like to ride with us to a local church on Sundays, they cheered and danced.

Newsletter!

2011-05-04T19:39:00.000-07:00

For those who don't yet get our newsletter (also known as "primitives," languishing in the pre-North family ministry update dark ages), fear not! Here is the text of our latest:

Jenny stands against the wall opposite our door, leaning on the splintering wood, speaking quietly.

She saw a ghost, and she recounts the experience for us in low tones, recounting the hunched form, the pale surface of the spirit. She couldn't breathe. She called for help, but couldn't make the sound come out for minutes. And when her mother finally heard her and walked into the room, the form evaporated.

Ruthie and I stand across from her, listening for clues, reaching for good things to say.

This comes in the middle of a troubling week. The windows of a building across the parking lot lie in splinters after a prostitution-related battle. Graffiti adorns the walls of our building, some of it directed at us. And I am not one to make a big deal out of the warfare side of what we do, but it seems to be breaking down doors throughout the neighborhood.

And here now is one of our leaders, a high-school-aged girl, telling us that her whole family has been seeing the same ghost.

Miguel, a young Christian who watches a lot of horror movies, saunters into the hallway and makes a few jokes, then tells us he doesn't believe in ghosts. Then Susannah finds us and tells Miguel to shut up and listen to what we have to say. It comes around to us, and in front of this small group of our favorite youth, we need to know how to respond to this ghost story.

"I don't know exactly what you're seeing," I tell Jenny, "and there are a lot of ways to explain it, a lot of theories. Miguel thinks it's a dream. Maybe. If it's a spirit, there are a lot of different things people say about what it really is and how to deal with it. I don't know. There's a lot of hocus-pocus out there, but I don't think we can know for sure. You need to connect with someone who knows what's going on and has the power to deal with it."

She nods, listening, as I urge her to dive deeper into her relationship with Jesus, to explore Him and to call on His power to overcome her fear. I say, "when He comes alive in you, you have God's power working from inside you."

After I have said my little piece, she lights up, and says her mom has been telling her to read her Bible more and to pray, and that she needs to do that. We encourage her to find the peace that Jesus offers.

After dark, though a good moment has come and gone, I lie awake all night. I pray for Jenny's family, feeling the weight of the violence and fear that swim through the lives around us. When the light of a new day brightens our curtain, I feel weary, tiny, and ready to follow my own advice. Only through Jesus can Ruthie and I keep going. It's only through knowing Him that we find hope. His spirit guides us forward, and reveals in small ways that the madness around us will end in redemption.

Thank you for being a part of God's work in this neighborhood. Ruthie and I are weak to face the enemies that rage around us. But we trust that God is at work through us. Please keep praying, donating, and volunteering as we seek God's Kingdom in this neighborhood.

Your partners in Ministry,

Ian and Ruthie North

HB 87

2011-04-26T11:25:00.000-07:00

I came back from Nepal to a tragedy in the making.

Nathan Deal, the Governor of Georgia, has stated that he will sign HB 87 into effect. The bill is an adapted version of the Arizona laws, and is designed to make it impossible for undocumented immigrants to work to feed their families and go about life here in the United States.

There are plenty of political and economic downsides to this bill that I won't go into here. The real kicker is that the law would get so much support from "Christians" in Georgia.

In the Bible, God repeatedly, under every covenant, tells his people to care for the aliens in their land. It's a top priority.

So to the Church in Georgia: Our God gave us a job to do. He brought aliens to our doorsteps. He gave us the resources to care for them. They came hungry and thirsty, and we rationalized a way to blame them for their own suffering, then turned them away.

God is a redeeming God. His church can repent and turn to love. But we need to do it quickly, before our fear and greed do more damage to the cause of Christ and to the lives of those He loves.

Dispatches from The Trek (Pt 2)

2011-03-27T04:59:00.000-07:00

March Something, somewhere out over the Atlantic:

In the line for check-in, a balding man in a cowboy hat shouted complaints about everything. My one prayer for my boarding pass was that it place me as far away from that grumpy old fart as possible.

So far, so good. We are an hour into an eight-hour flight from Atlanta to Frankfurt. The heavyset (Iranian? Romanian? German?) passenger next to me carries the weight of a fairly interesting conversation.

He discusses his kids, kayaking, travel, and the lessons he has learned at his job as a VIP tech support guy. His thesis seems to be, "take care of yourself first, and your family will follow."

I hope he's right, although as I nod and mumble assent, I think of the 40-plus kids at our afterschool program, and I know that they can't follow me on this adventure. Sometimes you need to have a go at The Mountain without any thought to who will follow, and why.

Dispatches from The Trek (Pt 1)

2011-03-26T17:32:00.000-07:00

Note: I am currently heading to Mount Everest Base Camp in Nepal. I will be posting dispatches from the trip whenever I get the time. Here are a few snippets I wrote on the plane.

I say goodbye to Ruthie first at the door.

We embraced through the morning leading up to this farewell, the silver hands on the red clock inching toward departure. Here a hug. There a hug. As Jarrett sipped his coffee. Passing one another in the hallway. An arm reached out, my kiss on her hair, her head nestled in my shoulder.

I feel guilty for leaving, but the trip to Everest has been paid for, and Ruthie agrees that it is the thing to do.

She walks out the door prepared, and I wonder if I should follow her to the car, but I stand instead smiling and waving in the living room as she pulls the door into its frame with a thud.

I run to the patio door, but the key to the two-sided lock hangs in our bedroom. Too far to grab and return. I pound on the glass. She hears, sees, and waves.

We installed the lock to slow down the smash-and-grabbers who struck last time we weren't home. It occurs to me as I watch her pull away that this is the first time the threat of violence has seperated us instead of drawing us together.

When I was a kid, my parents said during one of our hundreds of departures for boarding school that it is easier to leave than to watch someone else leave. Since her cost on my adventure is high, I watch her drive out of the parking lot as a small form of penance, thankful for a chance to be the one who is left, if only to make it a little easier on her.

Bloodstains/Prayer

2011-03-23T08:24:00.000-07:00

Bloodstains in our hallway and on the sidewalk this morning:

My prayer: Our Father in Heaven, may your Kingdom bring peace to this neighborhood. We have no other hope.

Kingdom (Song from the Archives)

2011-03-19T22:30:00.000-07:00

I went back and reread some of my old writing tonight. Very little of it appeals to me now, but this song that I wrote with Jonathan Kotulski, one of my closest friends and my favorite musicians, still resonates with me.

In fact, if I were to pick a theme song for everything I have done and seen since moving into Atlanta's International village, it would be Kingdom. Here are the words:

I’ve seen your glory in the gutters
I’ve seen your blood upon the street
I’ve seen hand upon the widow
And your fire upon the meek

And the aliens, though strangers
Hold your kingdom on their tongues
And the children, when we shush them
Hold your cries within their lungs

Oh Redeemer can you help me
To believe that you can
Keep your kingdom here within me
Just as you have with these

My love I’m prone to sell it
To the gods of Babylon
My heart and my frail body
Will be broken and soon gone

And the aliens, though strangers
Hold your kingdom on their tongues
And the children, when we shush them
Hold your cries within their lungs

Oh Redeemer can you help me
To believe that you can
Keep your kingdom here within me
Just as you have with these

And when your crow comes
And life rattles from my bones
And my flesh falls from my spirit
May your kingdom take me home

Oh Redeemer can you help me
To believe that you can
Keep your kingdom here within me
Just as you have with these

A Few Things about Pain and Love

2011-03-19T13:22:00.000-07:00

I sat across the table from a friend I hadn't seen since I was 18. He and his girlfriend came into our neighborhood to reconnect, and we sat over a dinner of dal, pratha, and mixed grain rice, talking about how God had shaped our lives.

At one point, I mentioned that I wouldn't wish our life on anyone. This was true in its own way, but it bears some explaining.

I spend a lot of time talking and writing about the beauty of living a life defined by the love of Jesus. We have made a serious gamble on the idea that we were created for love, and that our lives are best invested in loving God and our neighbors.

I believe that this is true. But what I was thinking about when I said this, is that apart from God's activity, and His faithfulness in bringing fruit out of the chaos around us, our life is stupid.

We live as aliens in our own country. It is hard to know our neighbors, and knowing them, it is hard to trust them. Someone broke into our house when we were gone. Another kid we invited into our home keeps stealing from us. One kid writes on our door. We are always on call for the neighborhood, and we carry burdens much larger than our shoulders were made to bear.

But the fruit of a life like this has been good because God brought us here and wrote a rich story from our struggles. Apart from that, we're a sinking ship.

So while I can't go back to a comfortable life, and while, knowing what I know, I wouldn't want to, I wouldn't wish the circumstances that I face on anyone else. I'd hope that everyone I know can find fulfilling, moderately challenging jobs and make piles of money. Sincerely.

Of course, God calls us to where he wants us, and I wouldn't wish a life outside his will on anyone, either, so it's hard to know what I would wish upon anyone.

This whole post is getting rather confusing, even for me. Basically, readers, may God guide you to the life that he wants for you. But before you dive into ministry of any kind, count the cost. And the cost is high.

Expect to be molded into the kind of person who would put her/himself on the cross for her/his neighbor. And the kind of pain it takes to train us to love that much is great. I've only seen its fringes, and it's already almost too much to bear.

Rage/Forgive

2011-03-14T19:26:00.001-07:00

"Fuck you white crackers" "Fuck ---" "--- is Gay"

If any of the above language offends you, just try finding it on your door, directed at you, written in the hand of a student who you have invited into your home, taken to a local bike co-op, played soccer with, and generally treated with as much care as if he were your own.

These are the things a teenager in our neighborhood has been writing on our door about us in sharpie, on and off, since we asked him to apologize for calling a younger kid a prostitute.

Each time these things have appeared on our door, we've cleaned them off, wrestled with our anger, forgiven, and reached out to the guy.

I realize that it seems petty, but this is what we have given our lives to, and it's been rejected by one we care about.

Then, tonight, when we think all this stupid rage has died down, we find the following:

I've been guilty of writing complex, inconclusive stories on this blog, but here's this one, straightforward and simple: Every time this kid writes on our door, I feel hurt, hated, and enraged. And I want to forgive, and I want to be like Jesus, but it gets harder every time.

Rethinking Radicalism: A review of my previous post

2011-03-04T17:26:00.001-08:00

For those who haven't yet read my friend Tim Isaacson's thoughtful response to my last post, here's what he said:

Have you had any conflicting thoughts about the experience? It doesn't sound like you do - which is totally fine. I'm trying to figure my inner-turmoil out and having a difficult time doing so. I mean, the up-side was huge. I'm trying to figure out what was off-putting for me. Or, rather, what was off-about-me that had me excited about some parts and wary of others. Any thoughts?

Actually, Tim, yes.

In fact, in the days following the post, I did a lot of re-thinking. I'm going to walk through my current thinking on this and see if it gets me anywhere. It's going to sound more like an argument against a current bill, but it's moving toward a response to your question.

The Georgia House's vote in support of HB 87, while invisible to most Georgians, was felt very clearly among the kids in our neighborhood. Many of them are aware of it, and it's quite possible that whoever wrote "Fuck you, white crackers" on our door today did so partly in response to that law.

When I think about the law, I realize something: It will probably never make it to the enforcement level. The federal government will probably sue Georgia, the state will get locked up in costly litigation, and even if they win, working down to enforcement will be a massive, expensive task.

Then there's the fact that the economic forecast for a state that passes and enforces such a law is pretty bleak. Labor costs go up, raising the prices on pretty much everything, businesses shut down, tourism wanes, and a huge chunk of the populace who don't pay income tax but still pay sales tax, rent, and grocery bills, will disappear quickly. The jobs that open up are difficult jobs that pay little money.

So, practically speaking, there will probably be no economic upside to this bill, although it will cost GA millions on almost every front.

If that is so (and it pretty clearly is), then why would the politicos vote for it?

The republicans voted for this to look courageous to their constituents. And this is where this law got me to re-think my interest in engaging immigration on a political level. Politics are a big, crooked machine, far detached from the individual lives they affect.

Being one who believes in the power of the kingdom, I have become wary of throwing my shoulder into the work of a system that is corrupt to begin with, that see-saws in its decisions, and that rarely, if ever, has any space for love in its workings. Government is the exact opposite of the kingdom I claim.

Then I thought about what we do. Introducing these immigrants to the host culture. Building good will. Showing love. Defying stereotypes. Feeding the hungry. Nurturing. Treating aliens with the dignity that the kingdom demands. These are all things that have a powerful impact in the lives they touch.

So it may be that one who loves in small ways will be inclined to care about the national stuff, but working with the government and its laws is murky and can be dreadfully distracting for ground-level guys like us.

Perhaps it is good to speak when issues arise, but I for one am prone to let the grand arena of politics and ideas distract me from the work I am specifically called and equipped to do: loving my neighbor.

So I still hope to be a radical, but my focus must remain squarely on the neighborhood work. On living and loving alongside immigrants. If I do speak to the political issues of the day (an aggravating, exhausting process), I must do so out of conscience and I must quickly turn back to my neighbor, lest I lose focus on love.

I have no idea if this is what bothered Tim, but it bothers me. My thinking is like a pendulum on this issue of faith, hope, love and politics.

Any of my readers want to question or add to this conversation? I could use your help here.

Slowly Radicalized

2011-03-02T09:22:00.000-08:00

I realized yesterday, as I sat in on a meeting of Georgia Immigrant and Refugee Rights Coalition (GIRRC), that somewhere over the course of the last year, I have started to transform into a radical.

When I moved into this neighborhood over two years ago, I did so out of spiritual convictions, not political ones. I did not have an opinion on what should happen or what should not happen as far as immigration law. I only knew that I had been called by Jesus to care for the needy, and so I went to a neighborhood where I could do so.

Upon arriving and immersing myself in the neighborhood, I heard some disturbing stories. These immigrants are truly refugees. Life under threat from the ongoing drug war back home is untenable. The poverty, violence, and corruption that these immigrants have fled is equivalent to the situations in Bhutan and Burma.

Upon arrival in America, these survivors find themselves hatefully unwelcome. I see families with whom we work for years suddenly torn apart and left without income because a father or mother or aunt is pulled over and doesn't have proper documentation. America has internment camps for these immigrants which have worse-than-prison conditions, where women and children are held captive. I learned of these camps when people we knew were taken there.

Searching for a way to speak on behalf of these immigrants, out of love for the young people who would gain hope through the DREAM Act, I wrote a concerned letter to two of my congressmen, only to learn that they were committed to making life as hard as possible for my international neighbors. As if they hadn't already suffered enough.

So I still do the same basic work of caring for those in need and discovering with them what the Lord's love can do in our lives. But I have become actively concerned with the way we as a nation treat these people. In fact, I think of it as the deciding moral issue for our country in this generation.

It is my hope that our nation will follow the Lord's heart- I would love to see them work out His love for the aliens in our land, and to invite them to contribute to and partake in the American Dream. While I have little hope in our partisan political system, I still believe that if I love, I must use what resources I can to care for these kids and their families. So from here on out, my votes, my hands, and my speech will be offered in love for the Ends of the Earth who have come to our doorstep.

And while I cringe to count the cost, I will be as radical as I need to be in pursuit of seeing this love realized on a national level as well as in the lives in our little neighborhood.

Reach Your World

2011-02-23T07:22:00.000-08:00

Ruthie and I spent the weekend at the Reach Your World youth conference in Dacula, GA. We received several extra tickets when we signed up for a Refugee Beads booth, so we brought along two of our student leaders, Miguel and Jennifer.

As I was running the booth, several thoughts occurred to me:

We set up next to a ministry called "Project AK-47," a ministry to rescue and rehabilitate child soldiers. While we avoid using terms like, "Social Justice" and "Community Development," they describe concepts we love. We felt thrilled to see that two out of five booths at the conference represented ministries dedicated to bringing the kingdom to bear among the poor and oppressed.
Jennifer and Miguel are two gifts from God to us. They are honest, funny, straightforward, relational, and helpful. Ruthie and I couldn't do what we do if these two weren't there with us, impacting the kids around them.
While "Christian Illusionist" Brock Gill did his show, which was pretty impressive, I had to wonder, "Would you be wise to accept the gospel as presented by a guy who just spent 30 minutes tricking you?"
I grew up in the Philippines, and the American Christian Youth subculture often baffles and embarrasses me, with all the lights and sound and money and politics that flood it. However, Seeing Jennifer and Miguel enjoy it helped me see it in a more positive light. Or at least open up to seeing it in a more positive light.
Finally, I thought about the future of Refugee Beads. This concept, and the women who are involved in it, are headed in great directions. Seeing the way the youth connected with the message, approach, and products of Refugee Beads made me excited about the future.

We arrived home exhausted, thankful, and optimistic about this conference, our student leaders, and the direction the Church seems to be heading.

A Record-Setting Day

2011-02-17T15:49:00.000-08:00

Today, we had four volunteers show up to help with the afterschool program. Which turned out to be a lifesaver, because 36 kids showed up.

That's a record for our little apartment, and it only went smoothly because of the excellent help. So today's blog post is dedicated to Sharon, Cliff, Jarrett, and Mr. Bob.

We have a few kids with special needs, and our volunteers adapted well to the situation. Sharon was able to walk Julissa through some of her worksheets:

Jarrett is our resident math expert. Here he is trying to focus on helping Bryan while Cliff does some posing:

Kids who finish their homework get to do puzzles until the lesson begins. Asberry and Natalia worked on one together today:

Ruthie rounded the kids up and warmed them up for lesson time:

Sharon and Cliff had prepared a lesson on the Ten Commandments. They taught them all from the perspective of LOVE, which is the central message and the driving force of the whole afterschool program. It's great how these things line up sometimes:

And, to demonstrate love to all the hungry kids, Mr. Bob ran the kitchen. He made enough chicken noodle soup to feed all the kids and the volunteers:

Clean-up Time

2011-02-16T18:31:00.000-08:00

Sometimes I am stunned by how rewarding the afterschool program is. We have a rotating group of over 30 kids who are relational, funny, intelligent, helpful, and eager to learn.

The end is always the most fun, where we pick the more mature kids and allow them to stay late and help with clean up. It gives us some more focused time with the older kids, and we don't have to work as hard to keep order, so we can relax, joke around, initiate meaningful conversations, and learn more about their lives.

We had a new eighth grader with us today named Susanna. She volunteered to help clean up, and took charge of the dishes from the meal we fed the kids:

While Susanna washed the dishes, Maritza and some of the other girls brought some fresh greens and carrots out to our rabbit, Leonard:
Karina, who is usually diligent during clean-up time, roamed the apartment harrassing the other helpers. Here, she snagged Vanessa's power cord. It took Vanessa a while to figure out what was going on:

Purna's Crisis

2011-02-15T09:19:00.000-08:00

Ruthie spent the morning with a Refugee Beads artisan and a good friend of ours named Purna.

Purna has three children and she is far along in her pregnancy with a fourth. Purna's husband, Santi, has stopped paying the bills for Purna and her kids, and has decided at this most inopportune time to seek a divorce.

So now Purna has no help with her kids, no heat, no hot water, and a baby about to be born. Obviously, a divorce would probably work in Purna's favor from a legal and financial perspective, but in the meantime, she's about to have a baby in extremely stressful and dangerous conditions.

We will be working with her and with some of our other ministry partners to figure out some options, but the whole situation would warrant as much prayer as our readers can muster.

Below are a few pictures of Ruthie's time with Purna and her two daughters, Susan and Selena:

Valentine's Day Party

2011-02-15T08:34:00.000-08:00

This Saturday, Cornerstone Christian Academy threw a Valentine's Day party for the kids in our neighborhood. 40 kids came for games, a craft, and a meal time.

The party gave us a context to express love to our neighbors, allowed us to initiate new relationships, and resulted in four kids coming to church the next day. Behold:

The Creek Kingdom (Part 2)

2011-02-09T17:54:00.000-08:00

There was a part of the story which played into my distress, which I omitted in the first post because it seemed petty. In January, I bought a nice coat for traveling to Nepal with a gift card I got for Christmas. Upon checking out, I asked them what would happen if it got ripped.

-Don't worry. We'll just swap it out and get a voucher from the manufacturer.

I tore the fabric of the coat on a car door handle. I brought it to the store on Sunday, after that sermon on Acts, before seeing the cop run down the homeless guy, and they refused to exchange it.

So, while there were plenty of big issues to be upset about, I was already predisposed to think of the world as a cruel place. Sometimes my big distresses come from embarrassingly small incidents.

*

The morning after the nightmares and the writing of the preceding post, not having slept more than an hour, I picked up Nivin for a Refugee Beads event. Ruthie had to leave early, so I gave Nivin a ride to the school where they were speaking, and she asked how I was.

I told her a little bit, mainly the part about not sleeping, wondering about the disconnect between our ministry and the ministry done in the Bible. Saying it seemed to me like broken things stay broken.

She said, basically, that I just don't see the results yet. That God uses us in ways we don't understand.

I wish I had recorded it. I have very little memory of the exact words, since my mind was somewhat disengaged at that point, but I remember watching the road, listening, thinking about the kids and what we hope for them, and knowing that whether or not we turn the city or neighborhood or even one family upside down, that Love is doing a small, good thing here.

*

That evening, I walked up to my door to find the words "FUCK IAN" written in sharpie on the wall by our door. I know who wrote it. I had asked him to apologize for calling a third-grade girl a whore, and he stormed out instead.

I kicked a chair over when we got inside. I fumed around the room. I was just barely hanging on.

Ruthie's sister told us to try nailpolish remover. It took about two minutes to clean the graffiti off. I didn't know what to do about the kid who wrote it. He wasn't talking to me apart from the writing on my wall.

*

Today, my friend Jarrett called the store about my coat. I asked him to act on my behalf since I'm non-confrontational. He told them the situation, asked what could be done, and, upon hanging up, announced that corporate had e-mailed the store, and that I could get my coat back.

When we went to the store to make the exchange, we found that the coat was now on sale for $70 less than I bought it for. So I got a new coat and $70 back from the purchase.

It was hard not to feel elated leaving the store. If the store had accepted my first attempt to exchange it, I wouldn't have made the extra $70.

*

Inevitably, as we drove away from the store, I thought about all the other, more significant injustices that were wearing on me.

At first, I felt stupid for feeling happy about the coat. Then later, I wondered if somehow I couldn't read this as a sign of greater things to come. If this little working out could precipitate bigger workings out, or at least it could show me how limited my perspective is.

Which was the whole point of my first post. That there is too much I can't see. That I experience and respond to this tiny sliver of what's really, actually going on.

The difference is whether I feel hope or despair in response to that fact. That's a question of Faith, and mine is admittedly weak. Sometimes a coat can make or break it.

*

Today, a new tag appeared on the wall. In the same handwriting, "Ian is Gay."

I took about 30 seconds to clean it off the wall with nail polish remover. My new goal is to spend less time removing the graffiti than this angry teenager spends making it.

The Creek Kingdom (pt 1)

2011-02-08T02:51:00.000-08:00

I dreamed nightmares, one after the other. I was pinned to my bed, unable to breathe, trying to call out the name of Jesus, but there was no air in my lungs. Each time His Name came to me, the torment slowed, I awoke muddle-headed, and I drifted off to the next horror.

The first one I remember with clarity had me suffocating under my sheets as they ballooned around me. I watched shapeless shadows play across the translucent fabric. I knew if I could reach Ruthie, I would wake up, but I was paralyzed.

In the final dream, I prayed for God to open my eyes to His truth, and the room flashed before me violently like a caught reel of film, on and off, meaningless and horrifying with the silhouetted outlines of pines and empty branches clawing at the walls. I couldn't breathe. Then I woke with one bright flash into a dark room.

When I came out of the dream, I went to the book of Acts, where I have been reading sporadically. It seemed like the thing to do.

The story goes that when Jesus was here on earth in skin, he did his own work and teaching. Then when he had died and risen, and it came time for him to get sucked back up into the sky, he promised that something better was around the corner.

No one knew what to expect, especially his followers.

Then, in a rush of fire, they found out what had been promised. That the kingdom, the power, and the glory that Jesus had held in his person was now loosed in them. And that through them it would overturn the world.

And when they went out and preached, their message was some variant of this: The Kingdom is here.

On Sunday after we heard a sermon on Acts, a police officer nearly ran Ruthie over in his haste to bully a homeless man for blowing bubbles in a parking lot. We saw the policeman slam on his brakes mere inches away from the homeless man, get out of the car, and charge over to establish his kingdom in that parking lot.

It was an injustice like all the others I witnessed during the week. I have been worn down by the laws which guarantee that kids we love will never be able to find legal work in this country. I am oppressed by the collapse of families all around me. The damage done by physical and sexual abuse to the kids and adults we work with will not go away. And despite all our hopeful stories, money pretty much tells us what we can and can't do.

Everything that I see suggests that what is broken must remain so, and that everything is broken.

And the church nowadays seems mainly interested in getting people zapped up to Heaven instead of announcing that The Kingdom of Heaven is here. It seems like they've admitted that Jesus, while He can do some pretty cool things in the unseen forever, is pretty much impotent for now.

I'm sitting in front of the computer now at 2:28 AM, contemplating my nightmares, trying to understand how they fit with the distress I feel.

Are they my mind's way of grieving and letting go of a false faith? Some physiological result of the Indian food I had for dinner? Are they God's Spirit, awakening me to know his power? Are they demons, come to torment me so I will be impotent for the Kingdom work?

As I write this, the answer is out of my reach. I feel though that writing this entry is the task before me. I stare at what I have written. I wonder how it will be read. With no conclusion to draw, I commit the final words to my readers and place the period that ends this moment in the story.

Miguel's Story (By Popular Demand)

2011-01-26T15:47:00.000-08:00

Editor's note: We have heard the public outcry and decided to publish Miguel's original story. We wish to note that the views reflected herein are not neccessarily the views of Refugee Arts or its affiliates.

The Apple and the Pear

by Miguel

There was an apple named Ian, and this apple was always picking on a pear named Ruthy.

"You are long and wierd shaped hahaha."

"Stop making fun of me," said Ruthy.

"No, I won't, you freak," said Ian

The next day a big storm came with winds going at 200 mph, and the fruits started running like crazy. OH NO HIDE OR IT'S THE END!

But Ian was going for a hat trick and locked the tree house doors.

All the fruits banged and banged to no prevail. The wind came took all the fruits away. When he opened the door they were all gone.

"Like OMG this is so cool," said pear (Ruthy) and the rest they were being made into food while the apple Ian stayed alone and rotted without being eaten.

Oh yeah Ian had a twin bro named Ian and got married with Ruthy and started a bully awareness club. The end.

A Day in the Life of an Afterschool Program

2011-01-25T17:05:00.000-08:00

When we began our afterschool program, attendance hovered around 8 kids per day. This semester, we have been hosting between 25 and 30 kids each day. Each one has been a gift to our home.

Below are a few photos from today's program. Brian and his pre-K posse usually get out the blocks and claim a corner of our hallway:

The kids get a snack and drink to get them through homework time:
Those who have a pretty good idea of how to do their homework tend to start first and work the most quickly:

We encourage the young scholars to help each other (without giving away the answers). Today, Miguel felt more intelligent because of his new glasses, and tried to assist with homework despite the fact that he was younger than Eric:

If help is still needed, we and our team of volunteers look at the homework and offer our counsel:

When the homework is done, kids are free to read, color, draw or write. We gratefully accept any artwork the kids hand us, comment on it, and hang it on the wall:

Today, one of our student leaders wrote and delivered an original story for the "lesson time." It was a hilarious tale of an apple named "Ian" and a pear named "Ruthy" who fell in love during a storm. In the end, they started a bullying awareness club to teach others how bullying was bad.

The Kids Are Back!

2011-01-19T08:49:00.001-08:00

There are few things I enjoy more than running the afterschool program. Yesterday, we re-opened our doors after the holidays and an ice storm. 28 kids showed up! We helped with homework, played games, ate spaghetti, and then cleaned up.

While the whole thing is challenging and rewarding, the highlight is at the end, where our leaders stay after the other kids leave and help us get the apartment back in order. Everyone grabs a cleaning implement (broom, sponge, vaccuum, spray bottle, rag) and gets to work.

Usually, we get about halfway through the cleanup before those with shorter attention spans start sparring, joking, and telling stories. The rest of us push through, and we usually take ten to fifteen minutes after cleanup to hang with the leaders. Sometimes we play games, and other times we talk about whatever comes up.

Yesterday, we addressed sports, the DREAM Act, and linear equations.

Every time the kids come back after some time away, it feels like our home takes on new meaning and our lives take on new and rich stories which are way bigger than we are.

Here's a picture from yesterday's clean-up time. I had to lean in at the last minute to make it into the frame:

Price Check (Hooking pt 3)

2011-01-17T09:04:00.000-08:00

Years have passed since we moved here. The work we have done in this neighborhood has all but wiped out unkind sentiments. Now my neighbors tend to look at me with a confused sense of gratitude.

That is why the look from the drunk man catches me off guard. I can't describe it as hostile, but there's something unkind about it that I don't understand until he speaks.

Our apartment stands at the corner of the parking lot by the office. Karina and Vanessa's sits kitty-corner to ours.

Ruthie and I knock on their door on Sunday mornings to pick up Karina for church. But it is Saturday night, and we are speaking at another church tomorrow, so we are knocking to tell Karina that Jarrett will pick her up instead.

The man, stout, Latino, mustached, and obviously a bit drunk, sways slightly on the sidewalk as we pass him. We mount the steps to the kids' apartment, and he and his friend follow at a distance. We knock on the door and he hovers about ten feet from us in the hallway.

Vanessa answers. We tell her about the ride situation and she talks with us, but glances over our shoulders at him.

He gives me a wierd feeling. I look at him, making eye contact, not macho or aggressive so much as curious what he's doing. He chins the air in my direction. I turn and say goodbye to Vanessa abruptly, and she gets the cue, and says, OK, and closes the door.

-Hey, he says to me.

I turn to face him and respond, Yeah?

-How much?

Later, after it all plays out, it will seem strange to me how it takes a moment to interpret the question. But Ruthie has never been mistaken for a prostitute before, nor I a pimp. And beyond that, we have a great deal of love for these neighbors, which makes my mind spin a bit to find a better understanding than the obvious one, which is that this guy wants to pay me to have sex with my wife.

-No way, I tell him, She's my wife, I tell him.

I run a check to see if we did anything wrong aside from being here when we don't really naturally belong. Ruthie wears slacks and a modest, long-sleeved t-shirt. I wear jeans and a button-down cowboy shirt.Avoid the appearance of evil, the Bible says, but sometimes good things are so strange that evil gets assumed.

Several understandings roll through my head at once. The first is that I am not angry. Then, in the dream-time that thoughts travel, in the moment of contact between my eyes and his, I feel that a good thing has occurred, that a mystery has been offered between us and this man. That the strangeness of our presence here tells a story.

Here's a truth about our neighborhood that dawns on me as I turn from him and follow Ruthie out to our car: That we are in America, but that when a white person enters this neighborhood, it is usually to exploit or arrest or pimp out low-class hookers to these people.

But here is the final fact, and the reason I feel glad as Ruthie and I laugh together at what has just taken place: We are changing a dynamic. We are breaking an evil norm. The fact of the norm is dark, tragic, and unsettling. It is a division defined by fear and greed. But we are defying it in the name and Love of Jesus.

So the pimps will continue to move through the neighborhood. The police will have their roadblocks and arrest those who would risk all to feed and offer a hopeful future to their families. Churches and politicians with their pamphlets will canvas the neighborhood then leave.

Our own love is shallow. Our sacrifice is small. But God has taken our decision to live in his love seriously, and he uses it to speak to our neighborhood.

A Big Announcement

2011-01-13T12:11:00.000-08:00

We are excited to announce a new partnership!

Focused Community Strategies, or FCS, is a collective of visionaries and social entrepreneurs dedicated to bringing God's shalom to bear in Atlanta. As of January 1, 2011, Refugee Beads is a member of this groundbreaking collective. Check out their website to see a snapshot of Refugee Beads and learn a little bit about our new team!

Cross Promotion

2011-01-08T17:43:00.001-08:00

I read over 100 books last year, and I enjoyed most of them immensely. However, I wished I had done a better job of writing a few thoughtful notes after each one. That way, I could track and remember my reading a little better.

That said, it's a new year, and I'm going to do a better job of responding to stuff I read. If you have any interest in reading my reviews or just seeing what I'm reading, check out my other, less popular blog, BoMuMo.

I've already posted reviews of the first three books of 2011. They are Ravelstein by Saul Bellow, Rivers and Tides by Michael Chabon, and Lady Chatterley's Lover by D.H. Lawrence.

And, to spice up the post a little bit, here is an action shot of me reading. My friend Jarrett Heatherly took it at Borders the other day:

The Set-up (Hooking pt 2)

2011-01-06T07:34:00.000-08:00

Your average Latino day laborer lives packed into a small apartment with several others like him. Early in the morning, he walks to the gas station on Buford Highway or Chamblee-Tucker Road and waits. The white men come by in pickup trucks, and he clamors with the others to be picked for work that day.

His family lives back in Mexico or Honduras or El Salvador, or maybe even Texas, where they settled before the work dried up. He's a hard worker when the work is available, which seems to happen less and less these days.

At some point, noon approaching, if he has not been picked, he heads home to spend the day alone or with his roommates.

He keeps his cash in a freezer or mattress or a hole in the wall, since the banks will not work with him.

He hears a knock on the door, and he opens it. A young woman or man smiles at him and offers to sell him jewelry or flowers or chocolates for his girlfriend or wife.

Our laborer, lonely, bored, and unemployed, tells the vendor that he has no girlfriend or wife, which is true in the moment, if not in a larger sense. This is the answer the vendor is looking for.

"We have something to take care of that," says the vendor, changing tone, confiding, offering a helping hand, suddenly playing the pimp or prostitute. And, for a small amount of his buried cash, our laborer can buy a little company to pass the time.

The women the laborer can afford are generally washed-up, often eastern European, missing teeth, dressed in secondhand clothes. They come into the neighborhood when ordered, and do their work day and night, according to the demand.

This is the set-up, anyway. The real story, the arc, the shame, the outside lives, remain obscure for those not in the trade. Ruthie and I are not in the trade, so we only know what we are told, and we have no strong feelings about it until our neighbor, lonely and a bit drunk, misunderstands our purpose in the neighborhood and invites us in.

Christmas Newsletter

2011-01-04T08:59:00.000-08:00

Below is a copy of our Christmas Newsletter, in case anyone isn't on our mailing list:

Two months ago, we stood outside of our apartment looking at the broken glass on our porch, wondering if we should move. We hadn't been living in the apartment due to mold problems, and word had spread through the neighborhood, resulting in a break-in.

We were at the apartment to assess the damage, and as we stood outside waiting for management to change the locks, a group of kids from the afterschool program gathered to encourage us and see if they could help.

"I'ma figure out who did it," Junior told us.

"Should we try to raise money to fix it?" Betzabe asked.

"I can't believe they did this to you," Vanessa said.

As the kids reacted to the event, and as we discussed our next steps, we realized that living in this neighborhood sends a message. No one could blame us for moving out, with mold problems, safety concerns, and now a break-in that resulted in the loss of over $5,000 worth of personal property.

However, in the weeks after the break-in, we made the decision that sharing the hardships of the people we work with is central to following Jesus' example.

Now, a few weeks before Christmas, we are back in the neighborhood, and the Church has rallied around us, contributing financially, working alongside us, and praying for us.

We are busier than we have ever been. We have been able to run two yard sales where we got much-needed clothes and goods into the neighborhood, we enjoyed a huge Christmas party where over 40 kids received gifts, and we have the privilege of feeding, teaching, and mentoring over 30 kids several days a week.

In the middle of all the demands of the holiday, it is important to remember that Christmas is about a God who "became flesh and dwelt among us." We have had opportunities to discuss, reflect on, and live out this truth during this season. In all its pain and glory, this truth is changing our lives and the lives we connect with.

We at Refugee Arts are so thankful that we have been put in a place where we can follow Jesus' example of moving into the neighborhood and living out God's love. To all our financial supporters, volunteers, and prayer warriors, we extend our heartfelt thanks. You have helped to make Christmas come alive in this neighborhood.

DREAM Act

2010-12-14T11:35:00.000-08:00

Today was one of those rare times when I engaged in a matter of policy.

Some of you may have heard of the DREAM Act. One of the kids I work with recently sent me a text asking me to speak on his behalf on this issue. This Act provides opportunity for the children of undocumented immigrants to become contributing citizens of America, but asks that they work to earn it.

After doing more reading on the issue, I was convinced that this Act could change the course of the lives of several of the young people we work with. It would also be a way to bring the Biblical values of loving my neighbor and showing kindness to aliens to life on a massive scale.

I would encourage anyone who reads this and feels like the DREAM Act is a good idea to contact their local decision makers in support of it. I wrote a message and sent it out to Georgia senators Johnny Isakson and Saxby Chambliss.

Another What? (Hooking pt 1)

2010-12-01T07:34:00.000-08:00

They are not our problem when we roll through in a car or see them through a window, but when we weave ourselves into the narrative fabric of the neighborhood, every subplot matters:

Jarret and I see her as we turn onto Plaster Road from Buford Highway. White, worn-looking. Her age is in question because her profession tends to exaggerate the years. A few absent teeth, streaks of white amid otherwise blonde hair.

- I don't know why they're here all of a sudden. I don't remember any hookers when we first moved here, I tell him.

- Or when I moved in, Jarrett replies.

She walks in the flash of our headlights, looks over her shoulder as if she knows she is being discussed, and keeps moving.

- I don't get the appeal, I say.

Jarret nods.

- Desperate times, I suppose.

We get to Jarrett's place, an apartment in our same complex, and he grabs a change of clothes before we head back out. Back in the parking lot, he says to me, There goes another one.

I look around to see what he's talking about and meet the eyes of a brown-haired, heavyset fortysomething white woman in loose-fitting jeans and a pullover rushing by.

- ANOTHER WHAT? she growls, and keeps walking.

It seems like there are more of them here every day, moving out across the neighborhood, looking cheap and tired, catering to probably the last market available to them in Atlanta.

They are not the ones we came here to reach, nor are they friendly to our purposes here, but here they are nonetheless, right in plain sight for management and the police and every lonely Latino laborer to see.

We have chosen for the story of the neighborhood to be our story as well. So when they move in and peddle their wares, they become players in a redemptive arc that has already been told somewhere, but remains obscure to us here, now. We are characters ourselves in this tale, and are neccessarily blind until the curtain closes.

Fall Festival- Cornerstone Kids

2010-10-31T18:13:00.001-07:00

This Saturday, we ran from the yard sale over to Huntington Creek, where a team from Cornerstone Christian Academy ran a major fall festival, complete with a clown, balloon animals, face painting, popcorn, and games.

Yard Sale

2010-10-31T18:06:00.000-07:00

Saturday's yard sale was a success on pretty much any scale you could apply to a yard sale. We were able to raise some money for the thrift store, connect with our neighbors, distribute goods at low cost, and, perhaps most importantly, wear silly hats.

Ruthie's dad and his friend Betty showed up. Betty faithfully ran the cash box, braving the early morning chill then the blazing sun, all just because she likes to help.

Black, White, Asian, and Latino visitors all mingled as they walked through the stuff, staring scornfully at lamps in hope of driving a hard bargain. We barely put up any fight if anyone asked for any kind of deal.

Stephanie, one of the key players in making this thrift store happen, ran the children's clothing tent. Here, she smiled for a picture. Our dear friend David took the opportunity to do Lord-knows-what with his face, to be captured on film and posted on the internet forever.

Theresa, one of our most faithful ministry partners, hung all sorts of clothes from trees and arranged items neatly on picnic tables for the neighborhood's browsing pleasure:

Jonathan Nolte of Communicycle sold a few bikes as well, providing affordable, much-needed transportation to our new friends:

Some of the kids from Huntington Creek served as helpers, and some just came to shop. Between errands, Ruthie got a second to pose with Leslie and Karina, who are way too cool to really smile for a picture:

And here's our helper of the day, Miguel, holding a shoe. Don't ask me why:

Yard Sale in Chamblee!

2010-10-29T18:33:00.001-07:00

I was talking to the student leaders in our afterschool program one day, and I asked them what they thought about opening a thrift store. Their faces lit up.

"OH! I took two classes on marketing! I can work there!" Miguel told me.

"Don't listen to him. I'm the one who should work there," Laura said.

Tomorrow, we take our first step toward developing a sustainable thrift store to meet material and economic needs in our neighborhood. We will hold a massive yard sale at Open Table Community Church in Chamblee.

If you live in the Atlanta area, please stop by. It will be at 2605 Chamblee-Tucker Road in Chamblee, GA, and we will have all sorts of stuff out between 8 AM and 12 Noon. Communicycle will be selling bikes there as well.

If you don't live in the area, don't worry. You can pray for shoppers to turn up, and you can stay tuned as we develop this into an exciting ministry to reach the families in our neighborhood.

Renovation

2010-10-28T08:05:00.000-07:00

If you walk into our apartment today, you will see a living room with a bare floor, a dining room with no chairs, and a kitchen full of the odds and ends that we picked up from all over the house.

We have removed everything from the carpet for a cleaning, which is the final step in restoring the apartment to make it liveable.

The parallell between the gutting, repair, and deep cleaning which is underway in our apartment and the gutting, repair, and deep cleaning that took place in my mind and heart during the nightmarish month of October is so obvious that I thought for a second that it might be too obvious to even mention.

But it is worth noting. We have been through some serious renovation lately. We had to look at everything in our lives from possessions to activities to relationships, and determine if we should keep, exchange, or dispose of them.

As the apartment awaits its final cleaning, we are searching ourselves before we re-engage, making sure that we have purified, realigned, and reorganized so that every corner of our lives will be as ready as possible for whatever comes next.

Springer Mountain Blues

2010-10-23T14:23:00.000-07:00

Those of you who are my Facebook friends might remember the photo shown above. On a twenty-mile-long training run on the Appalachian Trail, I was attacked by a bee at mile ten right after the turnaround, leaving me with no choice but to run back to my car with my lip bouncing out in front of me.

I was understandably nervous about returning to the trail that humiliated me so badly last time, but I needed to get in a strenuous 15-mile run, and the round trip from Amicalola Falls to the Appalachian Trail trailhead atop Springer Mountain fit the bill (I added .25 miles walking from the parking lot to this sign, to those who are questioning my math).

I have been quite heavy-hearted about how things are going lately, not to mention physically drained. I felt exhausted on the run, opting to walk for large chunks of it. When I got up to the top of Springer, a big crowd had gathered and the smell of raw feces was thick in the air. I had a hiker snap this picture before heading home.
Out on the trail, I did a lot of thinking that led me mostly in circles, and I ended up just asking God to clear the way for us a bit. Sometimes it's hard to even know what to ask for.

A Few Caveats

2010-10-20T12:55:00.000-07:00

One of the decisions I have made with this blog is to keep it honest. So when we see things a certain way, or when something is a struggle for us, or when we don't like the way things are going, I try to say so.

This has been good and bad. Sometimes people involved read our blogs and are not exactly thrilled with the things we say. Sometimes those people's feelings really matter to us.

In the last few months, I've posted about two things which warrant an update, and maybe a correction:

The political problems that I discussed at our church have been resolved. Our relationships are healthy and loving. We just had to get through a rough patch. I still struggle with the big concept of church, but thankfully we have peace at our little church.
I have taken out some frustrations with our apartment management on this blog as well. But they care about us, and they seem to want us there. It's just a difficult job to keep a complex in working order. We understand that, and we hope to develop a more positive relationship with the new property manager in the future.

So I won't go back and unwrite the things I've written, but I would like to qualify them with the fact that we are not really qualified to judge why or how people do what they do, and that we are thankful for the team we have to work with, both at church and in the apartment office.

In the Air: a summary of recent events

2010-10-20T09:26:00.000-07:00

We agreed with the former manager of Huntington Creek to live and work out of an apartment to help build and educate the neighborhood at no cost to the property.

Recently, there was a management change that coincided with the discovery of mold in our apartment. We notified the new manager, asked her to take steps to fix the problem, and moved out temporarily so that the work could get done. She gave us a two-week timeline.

A month has passed, and the mold is still multiplying, the ceiling is still soggy from a leak upstairs. Because of this delay, someone learned that we were not there and broke into our home, stealing our valuables.

When this happened, management called us only to try to collect money for the window.

So the question we face now, with no apparent progress on the apartment, with the school year progressing for the kids, and with our time and money ticking away, is what does all of this mean for us? If we believe in a God who is in control- a pretty difficult concept to grasp at the moment- then where is He leading us through this mess?

Are we to renew our committment to the neighborhood and wait out the problems, losing money, time, and credibility with the neighbors? Are we to switch locations and start new work? Should I consider alternate work? Further education?

Everything is up in the air, and we can't predict where it will land.

Break In

2010-10-18T19:25:00.000-07:00

While the mold that had us staying with Ruthie's mom in Lawrenceville continued to fester untended in our apartment, word must have spread that we weren't sleeping at home.

The apartment manager called this afternoon to tell us that our window had been broken from the inside, by a hammer thrown in a domestic dispute between us, and that we were going to be billed for the window.

Since we were sleeping in Lawrenceville, I had my doubts about her story. Ruthie and I drove back down to check on the damage, and we found that not only was there glass shattered all over the apartment from the outside, but that many of our valuables had been stolen.

We talked to the manager, and she worked really hard to hold on to that "broken from the inside" story, despite the fact that shattered glass was spread all over our living room:

Our initial inventory suggested that we lost a Macbook Pro, over 70 DVDs (a collection I built intentionally over several years), our DVD player, our comforter (more on that in a second), and some breaded frozen eggplant from our freezer. Other contents from our freezer were scattered on the kitchen floor:
Luckily, since our iguana was sitting on the side of the couch, the thief or thieves seemed to be avoiding the area where her tail would strike (this meant I got to keep all my Coen brothers, Robert Altman, Sam Fuller, and Terry Gilliam films, thank God). We knew that Rockette would serve some practical purpose some day:

When they saw us at the apartment, several of the kids came around to tell us what they knew. One good thing that came out of this was that we had a good chance to connect with the neighbors, and many of them expressed regret for the break-in and offered helpful bits of information. Here is the Huntington Creek detective squad posing for a picture:

So, the best we can figure, it was a sloppy smash-and-grab operation. It seems the burglars broke a window, unlatched the patio door, and entered the apartment, going to the freezer (a common hiding place for cash, I am told).

They then went into our bedroom and threw what they could grab without getting smacked by our iguana (hooray Rockette!) onto our comforter, wrapped it up, and exited through the front door, which they left open.

In the morning, a cleaning lady saw the open door, closed it, and called the police.

We are obviously shaken by what happened. From a long-term perspective, we can survive the losses. In fact, I'm surprised we didn't get burglarized sooner.

But still, it feels awful. Especially since the manager, a new hire, seems intent on blaming the whole thing on Ruthie and me, who are probably her greatest asset in terms of improving the property.

And to add another difficult element, the mold problem is still unresolved, so we can't even stay there very long to deal with the fallout.

I'm still hoping for this long story of mold, burglary, and management trouble to turn a good corner. Fear not, dear readers, I'll keep you posted as it develops.

Race Report: The North Face Endurance Challenge Half Marathon

2010-10-18T07:22:00.000-07:00

This race was dedicated to my mom, who had a birthday this month in the Philippines, where she and my dad work as church planters. I got some letters and decorated my shirt in honor of her:

When I signed up for the North Face Endurance Challenge Half Marathon, I wanted to do a run where I could really push the pace, enjoy the scenery, and finish with a smile. The half marathon distance seemed perfect, since I've been running that distance regularly in training for a few months now.

Ruthie and I traveled to the race with one of my best friends and training partners, Dr. Charles Chung. Charles and I got into running at the same time. I tend to run a little farther than him and he tends to run a little faster than me, which makes us a good team.

We carpooled down to FDR State Park, a beautiful area boasting some of the gnarliest, most rewarding trails in Georgia.

Our friend David Taube met us there. David is a trail running veteran, and showed up to run this race just a week after finishing another trail marathon.

As we all lined up to begin the race, ultrarunning superstar Dean Karnazes gave a little speech where he asked who was running their first 10k. Since the race was a half marathon, no hands went up. Then he told us that it was a gnarly trail, and that he would see us out there.

Then a funny thing happened. The race started, and everyone made a hard right after the starting line, curling around into the woods. The race officials called out to us over the intercom that everyone was going the wrong way, and the whole field of runners did an about-face.

The runners around me took the first hill hard. I had run the course before, and I remembered that the most punishing climbs were in the first five miles, so I locked my pace at a slow jog and concentrated on breathing rhythmically.

My supervisor Tim Cummins has been coaching me on the mental aspect of running, and he has been helping me to let my instincts take care of the work of running while I focus on breathing well and relaxing.

This discipline served me well. I gradually passed other runners at a steady clip, especially on the climbs, and all my systems felt great. For a few miles, I followed an amputee who had one prosthetic leg. He was a powerful runner with a steady, aggressive pace, and I enjoyed watching him master the trail as we gradually caught up with and passed packs of runners.

The first aid station, a little beyond mile 5, popped into view quickly. I refilled my handheld water bottle and retied a shoelace while a few runners passed, and I fell back a few places. I took off into the woods for the second leg after a brief rest.

The second leg was the most enjoyable. I still monitored my systems closely, making sure just to drink and eat enough to keep going. The views got better and better as I crossed clearings where I could see miles of forest, other mountains, and sprawling valleys. Since the race had thinned out a bit, I was able to run alone for a few stretches. Solitude is one of the reasons I first got into trail running.

The second leg ended in a series of long climbs and switchbacks, and just as I was starting to tighten up and feel the fatigue, I passed the second and final aid station, where I learned that I only had 2.6 miles left.

There were several 10k and 5k runners on the trail at this point, and I lost a lot of time trying to get around them on the narrow, technical trails, but it was exciting to see runners of all fitness levels getting out and enjoying the trails. I picked up the pace as much as I could, keeping a steady jog up the hills and attacking the descents.

When I heard the finish festival, I turned on the jets and pushed my pace, feeling my muscles begin to burn and my lungs struggle. Just as fatigue threatened to overtake me, I emerged from the woods onto the final stretch of grass. Thrilled to be finishing, I picked up my pace to a sprint:

The whole race, I figured that Charles was behind me, since he had been ahead of me during the little wrong turn at the beginning. When I arrived at the finish line prepared to cheer him on from the sidelines, I found out that he had already finished ten minutes before me. Ruthie caught the moment on camera:

It's sometimes embarrassing for trail runners to tell road runners about our pace because we have to go so much slower on technical terrain and climbs, but I'll go ahead and say I was shooting for eleven minute miles for a total time of less than 2:30. My time according to my tracking chip was 2:30:19, with a pace of 11:34.

Although I missed both of my goals by a hair, I felt great about the race. I finished 55th out of 159 runners, and I performed well without getting injured.

Thrilled with the outcome, I took a moment to do a quick photo shoot with David and Charles before heading back to Atlanta to get a late lunch:

Class Day with Purna, Susan, and Esther

2010-10-13T16:34:00.000-07:00

Ruthie was able to get some time with Purna and Esther today at Refugee Beads class.

Susan's car seat is now a fixture in our Plymouth since Ruthie spends so much time helping her family get around. Here she is belted in and ready to go to RB class:

Purna and Esther are both excellent at detailed craft work. They put their talents to work on these rings, coming to a sales event near you:

Purna's daughter treats us like family and calls Ruthie "Ruthie Aunty." Ruthie always takes time to play with Susan during class:

After taking care of some errands and going on a quick trail run, I was able to drop in for lunch. The various facial expressions in this photo may or may not be in response to my special "runner's aroma."

Also note that I am sporting my t-shirt from the StumpJump 50k. After what I went through to get it, I feel entitled to wear it at least every other day.

What To Do With Growth?

2010-10-11T17:51:00.000-07:00

I have been encouraged not to measure the success of the ministry by the numbers.

I actually have the opposite problem. I tend to be a bit confused and concerned when our numbers go up, because we have such limited time and resources.

This Sunday, while Ruthie was out of town, I drove from Lawrenceville (the mold situation is still pending) down to our apartment complex to pick up some kids and bring them to a local church. After taking one carful of kids, I called a second family who sometimes comes along. I was running late, but I figured I'd give them a ring.

"Hey, Lesly, anyone coming from your house this morning?"

"Yeah. There's six."

"Six? Total? Who?"

"We're coming, and there's six more."

Meaning that Lesly's whole family of four wanted to come, and they had six others who wanted to join them.

I called my friend Jonathan from Communicycle and asked if he could swing by and squeeze in a few kids. True to form, he came to the rescue.

Even with Jonathan's help, I ended up taking a total of three trips between the apartment complex and the church, and when the service was over, I did it again to get them all home. By the end, I felt exhausted from the stress and disappointed at the rushed interactions that the volume of lives necessitated.

So the additional numbers give us a chance to touch more lives, and they look good on our blogs (the fact that 13 unchurched kids got to go to church this Sunday is an impressive stat. More impressive is that all of those kids were shown love in a small way, which is astounding. So please take what I'm about to say with care, because I don't mean to downgrade the blessing of a numerically growing ministry).

Here's the thing about numbers: I believe in a God who works on the micro- and macro- levels. But when it comes to frienships and time spent together, I'm a micro- kind of guy. I want to make every relationship in my life count, but it gets harder the more relationships I have.

Sometimes it feels like the opportunities multiply in direct proportion to how quickly our resources dwindle.

So to all those praying for our ministry to grow, please pray that we will have the resources, partners, time, and energy to meet the demands that those rising numbers bring. And that we will do a good job with every single life we touch.

Hyphens! Bullet Points! Exclamation Marks!

2010-10-07T22:00:00.000-07:00

To all who are wondering about the nitty-gritty-nuts-and-bolts status of our work, here is a bullet-point-style update. Forgive the overuse-of-hyphens-in-this-intro:

The afterschool program is temporarily closed. We are working with apartment management to get the mold cleaned up. We stopped in the other day to hang out with the kids, and they understand the situation. Hopefully their grades won't slip too far.
We are staying with Ruthie's mom in Lawrenceville until the mold is dealt with. The new maintenance supervisor is a Godsend, but this stuff takes time.
Ruthie and I are both battling residual sickness from the mold and/or the ultramarathon and/or the stress of our life recently. We can't seem to get healthy and stay that way for more than a few hours at a time.
Our newsletter is written, and it will be sent out next week.
Refugee Beads continues to thrive, with new partnerships built, a new member, and a whole big pile of events coming up. We should be adding another bio to the artisans page in the next few weeks!
Our Buick is still in the shop getting its transmission rebuilt. We thankfully report that our trusty Plymouth Acclaim, despite its constant complaints and hiccups, is getting us around in the meantime.

Okay, well there's much more, but that should be enough to keep our ravenous readers at bay for now.

StumpJump50k (Pt 2) or The Bonk at Suck Creek

2010-10-06T05:33:00.000-07:00

While a normal slip of this sort would elicit a statement like, "Guys, I just almost died," when my foot slides off the path around mile 22, all I do is lurch back onto the path, grunt, and resume my slow jog forward.

Dirt and some pebbles skitter down the face of the mountain behind me. Kevin, Eric, and I are engaged in a conversation about Flannery O'Connor, and for the first time in several miles, I'm glad to be here.

A massive valley sprawls out to our right. The air moves in cool and warm currents, and the sun splinters through multicolored leaves. We jog forward slowly, humbled by the miles we have already run, exhausted, and vaguely aware that after Suck Creek, we will have to finish the run with two massive climbs back up Signal Mountain.

All of a sudden, a new wave of nausea slams my stomach, and I feel the blood leave my limbs in response.

"Guys," I tell my team, "I gotta walk. Go ahead. I'll catch you at the next aid station."

I know this feeling, because I got it on my 20-mile training run. I've hit what runners call a "bonk," when your body runs out of fuel. With no way to get fuel to my system since I can't hold anything down, I am stuck dragging my heavy legs forward through the rest of the race, and I still have a long way to go.

I will skip through most of what happens during the final miles, because it would be just about as grueling to read about as it is to haul myself through. However, just to give my readers an idea of what it is like, I will mention that there is a tiny, older asian man in a safari hat who keeps overtaking me by walking slightly faster than I can. I pass him on the hard climbs, by sheer willpower, and the last few miles of the race feel like a battle between snails, with this guy hot on the heels of our team.

We break out onto the road at mile 30, and the race volunteers tell us just to run up the hill and around the corner. Eric and Kevin, who have waited for me, dragged along with me, and encouraged me to keep moving, both break into a slow jog. I speed up my walk to keep pace with them.

As we round the last bend, we hear cheers erupt from the finish line. Ruthie and my older sister Lisa have spotted us, and are going crazy.

I force my legs to jog down the hill. The better portion of the runners have finished the race and gone home, but many men and women I talked with out on the course are still here, watching, eating burgers and cheering for everyone else who comes across.

A few hundred feet away from the finish, I burst into tears. I fight the urge to double over, and I run with Kevin and Eric across the line, my face flushed, my legs burning from fatigue, my skin and clothes spotted with the crust of salt deposits left by long-dried sweat.

The feeling that washes over me as an official shakes my hand and gives me a finisher's medal is difficult to describe.

The moment is one of victory, the reason for 8 months of concentrated training, and I have accomplished something that few people even dream of. But I don't feel like a hero or a victor. I feel humbled, defeated, exhausted, and relieved.

Underneath the pain, as the minutes run by, as I hug my family, pose for pictures, try to sip a Sprite, a realization of what I have done grows alongside the pain. Something inside me changed between throwing up the last of my nutrition at mile 16 and stumbling across the finish line at 31.

I know the bliss of being completely exhausted, obliterated, embarrassed, and hurt. I know the kind of humility it takes to get to the finish line, because this course taught it to me.

As Eric and Kevin and I climb into the back of Lisa's car and head back to where we're staying, I feel and enjoy every twinge of pain from my knee, every screaming soreness that shoots up and down my calf, every reeking whiff of my own sweat-soaked clothes.

These are the things that tell me that we did it. That the race changed me in a profound way, and all I had to do to receive its gift was to drag my tired self through everything its long, slow miles had to teach me.

StumpJump 50k (pt 1)

2010-10-04T16:35:00.000-07:00

I stagger into the 19-mile aid station, ready to quit. Behind me lies the most hated stretch of the Rock/Creek StumpJump 50k, a patch of loose rocks and boulders called the "Rock Garden," which exhausted runners pick their way through, hoping not to twist an ankle or take a spill.

Three miles ago, I left the 16 mile aid station ready to throw up, and in the middle of the next climb, that was exactly what I did. I heaved violently, my body curling over a fallen tree, as runners passed on the trail. My brother Eric and his friend Kevin stood behind me, waiting for the nausea to pass.

Two tiny pieces of apple emerged, and my stomach relaxed enough for me to continue.

Now, with over eleven miles left, I need to do some serious thinking about what this race is worth to me. I haven't been able to hold down food or fluids. I have been running for more than five hours. If I continue, Eric and Kevin will either need to run ahead to the finish or add hours to their time.

A volunteer asks me how I'm doing.

"I want to die," I tell him, then stagger over to a bench nearby, where I sit down and work on figuring out if I have any resources left to rally.

"There's a van leaving in ten minutes. You have a long way to go. We don't want you to, but if you need to go back to the start, we can take you," the volunteer says, looking out at the ragged group of runners sprawled out around the clearing.

"Give me ten minutes," I tell Kevin and Eric, not knowing if the team will be one man down when those ten minutes pass.

I try to eat a peanut-butter-filled pretzel. I gag. I look at the pringles and animal crackers and gummi bears and moon pies and other snacks laid out for us, and I wonder how I was ever able to eat anything without throwing up, and if I'll ever be able to look at food in the same way again. Finally, I settle on two animal crackers, taking them in my sweaty hand and plodding back over to the bench where Kevin and Eric wait.

We sit quietly for a while. Nearby, I hear another runner telling his wife several reasons he might not continue.

The volunteer returns after not enough time has passed.

"I'm taking a van back to the starting line. If you need to go back, I can take you."

He looks around, making eye contact with me, specifically. I clamp my jaw shut and watch him turn, in what seems like slow motion, and head back to the van, which could have carried me from this godforsaken trail.

I stand up slowly, without much conviction, and tell Eric and Kevin I'm ready to get moving again.

Congregational Blues

2010-09-30T08:15:00.000-07:00

We are part of a small, local church that has its fair share of problems.

This past week I was blindsided by a combination of internal politics, miscommunications, and just plain unpredictability. It has robbed me of the little emotional energy I had left and, worse yet, it has taken my focus off of loving my neighbors.

I steered clear of any church meeting for much of my early twenties, but God ushered me back through a congregation whose main focus was reminding its members of the gospel. I found much healing there, and was optimistic about functioning within a local group of Christians.

However, I am starting to feel like every church is a trap to keep Christians from fully engaging their everyday lives and communities. Maybe this just comes in light of all that has happened recently, but it's a sincere concern. Why does church usually feel like a vacuum for my energy? Why are people always mired in politics?

I really want to know. When Paul said not to give up meeting together, was this what he had in mind?

Broken Scaffolding

2010-09-27T14:59:00.001-07:00

In a rare use of analogy, I described our situation to a friend like this:

"You have to put up scaffolding to build a patio. But we feel like we spend the bulk of our time on the scaffolding, and we only put up a board or two on the patio every now and then."

Strictly speaking, this is not the case. We spend a great deal of time in our neighborhood, talking with the kids, meeting with the refugees, shuttling people to local churches, government offices, and grocery stores, and doing the exact things we came down here to do.

However, the mold in our apartment is making an increased impact on our health, so we feel a bit like we're doing maintenance on the scaffolding, trying to figure out how to get apartment management to check it, trying to figure out where to sleep in the meantime1, trying to figure out where we would go if we had to move.

We may need to close the afterschool program for a few days, because we are concerned about the safety of holding it in a mold-infested apartment (although Lord knows how bad the conditions are in the kids' own homes).

We near the end of this post. It is, hopefully, one of those multi-post stories2 that arcs noticeably up after the few miserable early posts. We shall see.

1. Actually, during the writing of this post, a friend called and said we could use his guest bedroom this week. I left the concern in there and decided to footnote it instead because of the influence of David Foster Wallace, whose mammoth novel Infinite Jest has distracted me through the mold-related stress of this day.

2. For another example, see "Flesh and Spirit" series on this very blog.

Mold and Other Natural Disasters

2010-09-22T06:59:00.000-07:00

We realize that we face certain challenges when we choose a life of service. In fact, the challenges deepen, refine, and enrich our love, so we are thankful for them.

At least, that's what we're shooting for. A few recent challenges have proven more challenging than usual, though. So I am typing these concerns out so that those of our readers who pray can pray specifically.

- During the last year, Ruthie and I have been constantly sick with respiratory and sinus issues. It appears we have a lot of mold in our ceiling. I will be investigating today and exploring cleanup options. Please pray that we will be able to continue living and working out of this apartment.

- It looks like God will provide a reliable, working car for us in October. However, we decided to go ahead and get the transmission fixed on our Buick so that we could either use it as a second car or sell it. We had the money lined up to do the repair, but CCDA ended up draining us financially, so now the car is getting fixed, but we do not have the money to pay the bill. Please pray for the wisdom to manage our resources well, and for financial provision.

- The CCDA conference took a deep emotional toll on both of us this year. While it had its bright spots, the time was challenging to our friendships, our faith, and our relationship with our local church. Please pray that our focus and energy would return.

I hope that you understand what an important role your prayers play in keeping us here, keeping the work going, and bringing the love of God to bear among the lives in this neighborhood.

An Ideal Coup

2010-09-21T11:26:00.001-07:00

During our trip to Chicago, the women of Refugee Beads executed a coup. Purna and Nivin took control of Refugee Beads, running a sales event by themselves, without any help from Ruthie or me.

Upon Ruthie's return, she told them that she would start giving them bonuses each time they ran an event without her. Later, she overheard Nivin telling a friend, "We will encourage Ruthie to stay home and rest from now on."

Over at the afterschool program, the student leaders continue to show more and more of a passion for running the show. They now sign up for jobs, help the younger kids with homework, and lead prayer times.

I told Miguel, one of our young leaders, that I was only two years older than him when I ran my first afterschool program.

He thought about it for a minute and said, "I think I'd lose my temper with the little kids."

I was impressed with how seriously he considered it, and I think that he is getting a good picture of the challenges and rewards of leading in his own neighborhood.

Whether in Refugee Beads or at our afterschool program, we prayerfully pursue the development of local leaders, so that God's work in this neighborhood will take root and grow far beyond our own reach.

Chicago Tour 2010

2010-09-15T10:33:00.000-07:00

This year's Christian Community Development Association (CCDA) conference was held in Chicago, which meant that we would get to catch up with friends and promote Refugee Beads at the same time.

Our time was full of intense stresses, grand conversations, emotional interactions, and rich conversations. The only thing it didn't have much of was sleep. We returned home exhausted, barely able to keep the car on the road for the eleven hour drive from Chicago back to our home in Atlanta.

Today, after we've had a little time to rest and get back into life, we are growing more and more thankful for the conference and its aftermath.

Below are a few highlights of the trip:

I was excited to learn that two of my friends from college were performing with their new band Alert at the conference. We closed the booth down early to watch their set:
We finally got a chance to meet and spend time with my friend Tad's new son, Judah. Ruthie and I fell in love with him immediately. Tad and his wife Stephanie loaned us their couches for a few nights as well, and Tad and I went on a few runs, which helped me keep my sanity through the week.Ruthie used to work as a nanny in Chicago, and her boss became one of our close friends. We spent a day and a half with them right after closing down the booth on Friday.On our last night, before beginning the long trek back to Chicago, we got to experience a dynamic, intimate performance by a great band. My friend Jonathan is part of a group called Tango Espejo, and they were playing a combination of traditional tangos and pieces by Piazzola.

The next morning, after a brief barefoot run with Tad along the lakeshore, I hit the road again.

Weeklong Blitz

2010-09-01T07:18:00.000-07:00

Our desire to build connections between the christian, creative, and international communities here in Atlanta has been bearing fruit.

And when the fruit comes, we must pick it. Or something like that, anyway. I'm not much for analogies.

The point is, the ministry in our neighborhood is thriving, and that means that we have to be more careful with our time, more conscious of our relationships, and more energetic in pursuit of God's goals for these lives (our own and those we touch).

Just a few snapshots of what this week holds:

1. Afterschool Program: We are enjoying more trust with the student leaders, more response from the younger kids, more involvement from local church volunteers, and more opportunities to get involved in the lives of the families in our neighborhood.

2. Nation Celebration: The Zomi people of Burma have been flooding into Atlanta. We are working with Open Table Community as well as some Zomi leaders to organize a celebration of this people group. Stay tuned!

3. CCDA: The 2010 Christian Community Development Association conference begins next week, and we will be traveling up to Chicago to network, learn from similar ministries, sell Refugee Beads stuff, and spend time with friends. The prep work for this is intense.

4. Village Gathering: Ruthie has been training the Refugee women to hold events and tell their stories. While we are at CCDA, Nivin and Purna will be running an event without Ruthie. We are working to encourage and equip them to make the most of these opportunities.

5. Auto Repair: We've been driving borrowed cars since our transmission went out on us. We plan to drop off the car at Auto Shop (that's the name of our local auto shop- I'd like to shake the hand of the creative team that came up with that one), and have them work on it while we're in Chicago. Then we need to return the car we're currently borrowing and borrow another car to go up to CCDA. The logistics are going to be hairy.

If you are a person who prays, please pray that we will be able to manage the stress that accompanies these opportunities, and that God's love will be revealed through how we go about all the details.

Run the Good Race

2010-08-30T09:04:00.000-07:00

Since Monday is our day for non-work activities, I'll post a bit about why I spend most of my free time running through the woods.

A few months ago, I posted about an intended barefoot run of the Georgia section of the Appalachian trail. Due to several factors, the main one being reality, I had to postpone the adventure.

I am still confident that this run will happen, but I need to get a little more experience under my feet before I make the 80-mile run from Springer Mountain to the border of South Carolina.

In the meantime, I am training for two big runs in October. My inaugural trail race will be the StumpJump 50k in early October, followed by the North Face Endurance Challenge Half Marathon in mid-month.

Why spend the time buffeting my body out on my lonesome?

It's something like this: I do not believe that good character is something that just happens.

Virtues like patience, endurance, peace, and hope are woven into our souls as we get out and live. Out on the trail, I face fatigue, despair, and humiliation. They come in inevitable waves, and as I run, they play out a drama that teaches me to wait patiently through the slumps, to control my thoughts, and to rally my resources for a push up that steep hill or through those last miles.

I get to enjoy the rewards of discipline. After trudging up rocky hills for over an hour the other day, I emerged from the woods to find myself on the edge of a mountain overlooking a massive, foggy spread of forest.

There are also intrinsic rewards. I find myself relaxed and energized at the end of climbs that used to kill me. I can trace my progress as I increase distance and train for speed. I find my energy level more consistent and my moods brighter, even when I'm not running.

A lot of people talk about the importance of prayer as a spiritual discipline. But you don't have to be locked up in your prayer closet to pray. I feel like running strips me of my pretenses, puts me at the edge of my resources, and drives my emotions to a place where I can honestly commune with my creator.

Finally, here's a picture of me out in Utah, back when I was just getting started with this trail running stuff. It says a lot more than words could about why I run:

Flesh and Spirit (Pt 6 - Epilogue)

2010-08-25T12:00:00.000-07:00

Weeks have passed since I prayed with Jennifer's family.

That night, I felt a wonder at the narrative, the way it all fit together, the clarity of direction that brought us through it. Today, I sit in front of my computer, waiting for Jennifer and about 30 other kids to flood in with their homework.

The family whose house was haunted is moving apartments, and did not ask for any follow-up prayer or visits. The relationship with Jennifer's family keeps going, with exchanges of kindness and appreciation traveling back and forth. While the short story fit together in its own way, the ends still hang around, frayed and scattered in their own spaces.

So the questions I ask a week out are these: Did I follow this thing through? Should I have pushed harder for a conclusion? Did the story only seem orchestrated in a closed theatre?

So God and the Devil showed their faces for a week, and we did what we thought we had to do, and things went quiet again.

We write as far as we can, then we move on to the rest of the story, our flesh stumbling forward where the spirit leads, if and when it does.

The story ends this moment, with a knock on the door which I must answer, a thirsty kid asking for water. I leave the keyboard to answer him, knowing that I am at the end of what I can tell anyway.

Flashback: School Supply Handout

2010-08-18T03:39:00.000-07:00

I remember being in school. I was not a good student. But the worst thing was showing up to school without paper to take notes on, without a pencil to write with, without an eraser to clean up my mistakes.

For me, it was a case of irresponsibility. But for many kids in our neighborhood, having proper school supplies is a question of finances. We wanted to make sure that any kid in our neighborhood had a backpack and basic equipment to get through the first weeks of school.

Thanks to some help from Mount Zion Baptist Church, we were able to collect enough supplies and backpacks to help over 60 kids get ready for the school year!

We let families in to register for the afterschool program and pick up backpacks one by one:

As they came through, we saw the pile of backpacks shrink:

Lizbeth, our upstairs neighbor, was especially happy to be returning to school in style!

Student Leaders

2010-08-17T06:47:00.000-07:00

One of the main shifts in focus this year at the afterschool program is developing student leaders. We have picked out a group of kids, developed strong relationships with them, and given them shared responsibility for homework help, lessons, mealtime, and clean-up.

Last year, we would have scrambled to do everything for the kids. This year, we're mobilizing and empowering them to help each other.

So far, it has helped to unify the kids, create a rewarding environment, and prevented us from going crazy on days like today, where we had over 30 kids in our program.

This year's group of student leaders is pictured below:

Flesh and Spirit (Pt 5)

2010-08-17T06:32:00.000-07:00

Jennifer's mom loves her kids in the way that many single moms do, with an exhausted, worried kind of love. She has a new boyfriend named Jesus. He's a tall latino with a crew cut, muscled and tattooed.

Jesus' presence in the room is the first surprise. He makes it a little tricky to talk about his namesake, the Son of God, without snickering.

The second and third surprises are the two young children from the photo in question. The fourth through sixth are the teenaged friends of the family. I have seen them before, but I can't remember their names.

I walk into the living room, and they are all there, looking a little out of sorts. I can't tell if it is the strangeness of this gathering or the photo.

Jennifer's mom shuts off the TV and tells everyone to listen to me. I survey the room and laugh out loud that anyone should listen to me. We swap names, and I ask how everyone is feeling about the photo.

Those who are scared say so, those who are skeptical say so a little defensively. I nod, and summarize what I think about the photo, that I'm really not sure what I'm seeing, but that I understand their fear, and that I believe it's possible that something supernatural caused it.

I relay a story from my past (see pt 1), and I offer them two pieces of advice:

1. Spiritists live on our fear. Do not waste your money on them. You'll come out broke and just as afraid. And they substitute hocus-pocus for real power.

2. There is real power over fear, and it comes from knowing Jesus (not this Jesus, I joke, pointing to the boyfriend, although I'm sure he's a good guy to know). Because when you know Jesus, when you turn to Him, His power moves into your heart.

We talk more, back and forth, and I notice that these teenagers are really listening, leaning forward, joking with me, asking questions, nodding.

I tell them that if they want, I can pray for them right now, and that if they ask, I can bring back a pastor and some church leaders to pray over them as well.

Melvin, Jennifer's younger brother, shouts, I'm okay with praying! Everyone close your eyes and bow your heads!

- No one has to close their eyes or anything, I laugh, I'm just going to ask God to be with you.

Still, eyes close and heads bow. Together, we pray for help.

Flesh and Spirit (Pt 4)

2010-08-13T19:30:00.000-07:00

Crazy stuff happens in cameras, I tell Jennifer before she leaves the car, I'm not saying that there's not something weird going on. I don't know where that picture came from, but the worst thing we can do right now is be afraid.

She nods. She takes her bag and her new cd, and she leaves the car.

Ruthie studies the picture on her cell phone as we complete the short drive from Jennifer's home to our own. We see what Jennifer is talking about, but it's blocky, pixillated, small.

I dunno, I tell Ruthie, It doesn't look like anything to me, but I get a feeling.

Yeah, she says.

No one is really giving me anything to run with right now. I think. I pray for some sense of what is going on, and why this little photo seems so significant to all of us.

I call my friend David Park, and he's on his way to a speaking engagement. I tell David something like the following, except much longer: There's a crazy picture coming out of a house where crazy stuff happens, and everyone in Jennifer's family is scared, and I don't know what to think about the photo, but the fear is a bad thing. Also, I have a feeling that this is a good time to talk to them about Jesus.

I tell David I'd appreciate his presence when I visit the family, and he agrees, but tells me he can't be here until tomorrow because of this speaking thing.

I hang up, and a few minutes later, I get an overwhelming impulse, like a command, to talk to them before they go to bed.

I'm in a world beyond my strategies here, so I submit to the impulse.

When Ruthie and I make it back to Jennifer's at ten at night, I see why someone needed to be here now with some good news.

(Intermission) Kids on Peace

2010-08-11T15:43:00.001-07:00

This year at the afterschool program, we are orienting our craft and teaching time around a "Word of the Week." This week's word was "peace."

We gave the kids this quote from Robert Fulghum:

Then we asked the kids to write down one way that they could make, do, be, or give away peace. Here are some of their answers:

Tito: I do peace when I help other people

Kevin: I share my school supplie with my frifened in school!

Gabriela: Peace is kind of like loving yourself. You can't wish to love yourself, you have to do it for yourself.

Maritza: Peace Be in you. god prtekst you and other peopole But the mean peaple He prteks the holl world but down. Peaple that go to church are nice more in sunday.

Yesenia: Peace is what I give away and what I give away is kindness. And some of my love of course NOT all of it. Thats peace!

Flesh and Spirit (Pt 3)

2010-08-11T06:11:00.000-07:00

This is what it feels like to be in ministry most of the time: Running around from here to there, taking care of this or that, hoping that God will intervene at some point. When He does, I have no idea what to do.

Jennifer sits in the back seat, Ruthie and I in the front.

An hour ago, we registered over 60 kids for our afterschool program and gave out over 30 backpacks. Now we have a window of time to get Jennifer to Best Buy and help her pick out a CD for her fourteenth birthday before figuring out how to get backpacks and school supplies for the thirtysomething kids who didn't get any.

- Ruthie, my mom wants to know if she can send you something, Jennifer says.

- Send what? asks Ruthie.

- It's cause there's this picture, and it's so scary of Leslie. I couldn't sleep last night, and my mom was crying.

As Jennifer tells it, the story behind the picture is this: Jennifer's mom has a friend who lives nearby, and the kids play together while the moms hang out. Jennifer's younger sister, Leslie, has a white hoody which she wears whenever she can, even in the heat of July in Georgia. So Leslie goes with her mom to their friend's house, plays with the two younger kids, and goes home.

The next day, a picture shows up on the friend's cell phone. In the picture, the friend's two youngest kids are walking in the foreground, and a figure wearing Leslie's hoody sits in the center on the bed. But where Leslie's face should be, a pale, grotesque, masculine face stares straight at the camera.

- Well who took the photo? I ask.

- No one remembers it, Jennifer says.

- And you're sure it's Leslie? She was there on that day?

- Yeah.

- Did they have a mask or something?

- No, but that house is haunted, Jennifer says, there's a ghost that throws stuff and makes noises.

I tell Jennifer to send us the picture. I'm a bit of a cynic about spiritual manifestations, and I still wonder if my experiences in the Philippines were just vivid products of my sleeping mind.

Still, I feel familiar chills moving up my spine and crawling into my skull.

Afterschool Program Re-opens!

2010-08-10T18:03:00.000-07:00

Flesh and Spirit (Pt 2)

2010-08-10T09:47:00.001-07:00

There are the days when I can only believe in glimpses, and there are days when I can't seem to believe at all.

But there are words, with which I spend a great deal of time, because they build a story. If you ask me why the idea of God will not leave me alone, and why I give myself to the teachings of Jesus, I will respond that The Story is one that points to Him.

How it all adds up and fits together is a question I can't answer. The math is beyond me.

I find it absurd that a guy who can barely scrape together enough belief to keep living is here, in an international neighborhood easily overlooked by the Bible Belt that surrounds it, with the charge of living and speaking the Love of Christ.

But I am willing, and that seems to be enough for now.

Flesh and Spirit (Pt 1)

2010-08-09T18:09:00.000-07:00

I sat behind the driver, on the passenger side. Outside the jeepney, vague yellow lights advertised a vacant city.

The vehicle looked like any other jeepney populating Manila's streets. Vivid patterns adorned the ceiling. Two cushioned benches ran along the sheet metal siding, from front to back.

He did not turn to face me. I only saw the back of his head, his hair black and shiny, typical of filipino men.

- I go to Faith Academy, I told him.

The small missionary boarding school felt as if it was around us in the dark, somewhere undefined behind the electric lamps.

Something entered the dream. I felt it lock me in.

The driver turned to me, his face pale, grey, hollow. I know your school, he said, as something dark worked its way around under his skin, like blood, rushing, cascading from top to bottom.

- We have several students there. Our blood runs in their veins, he said.

I could not breathe. I twisted, turned. His glare was gripping. It was all around me. It was the jeepney, the night, the yellow lights. He went on, but his words were deep, indistinct, a fierce growl, and I reached for the name of Jesus. I tried to call it out, but I had no breath. A rasp.

Jesus, I said from the bed. I was awake before The Name left my lungs. I was eighteen, sleeping in a bunk bed below Jon, across from Brendon. Faith Academy and all of its other dorms were asleep, except me and God and the Devil and only they knew what else.

Our dorm stood still atop its hill, and a GE wall fan rattled from side to side as I placed my feet against the cool wood of our floor.

Fortunately, Unfortunately

2010-07-20T15:57:00.000-07:00

Monday:

After a great lunch meeting, I stepped out of my car by the mailboxes, and A---- yelled a greeting from the playground, which sits right next to the boxes.

I was surprised that he acknowledged me, since he was yelling at me last time we spoke. I had asked S---- about some gang graffiti in our hallway. Despite the fact that I had just asked if they knew anything about it, A---- and S---- got very angry and defensive while their posse watched from the stairwell.

"Yo, Ian, wanna play soccer?"

"Definitely," I responded, excited to be invited back into their circle.

We divided up into teams, and kicked back and forth for a while, trash talking each other and having a great time. When it was over, S asked me if I could drive them to soccer practice on Tuesdays, since there was a team forming at a nearby school. Glad for the opportunity to get more time with them, I quickly agreed.

Tuesday:

I drove the car to my mechanic this morning to check out a small problem and get it fixed before driving the guys to soccer, and after a wait of several hours, he gave me some bad news. Transmission problems. I delivered the car to another shop that specializes in transmissions, and they said they needed to hold it over night and check it in the morning. I handed over the keys.

I got a ride home with my sister, Lisa, who teaches a Bible study to some of the kids in our neighborhood. I arrived at our apartment feeling depressed about our finances. We were already about two grand in the hole from taxes, and now we have to deal with transmission repair costs, not to mention that we barely make enough to cover our regular bills.

I was so depressed that I completely forgot about agreeing to take A----, S----, and their friends to soccer practice until they came knocking at our door, dressed up and carrying soccer balls. I had to tell them the bad news. They left to try and find another ride.

Yesterday was one of those days that felt like everything clicked into place. Today felt a bit like it all clicked back out again. Hopefully tomorrow will contain another upswing. It's the pendulum of faith-based neighborhood ministry. We can predict and plan all we want, but circumstances always shift around us.

On days like today, the best we can do is believe that the Father has some perspective that we lack. We ask for his peace, and love and serve as faithfully as we can.

Refugee Beads Open Class

2010-06-06T12:19:00.000-07:00

To those of our readers who look at the pictures below and think, why can't I be a part of this? we reply, "You can!"

On Friday nights, all those interested are invited to join Ruthie, Nivin, Purna, Esther, Juli, and their families for some conversation, music, kid time, and, lest we neglect to mention it, jewelry making.

Here are a few shots of our time on Friday Night:

Incarnation Station

2010-06-02T06:05:00.000-07:00

13 miles into an 18-mile run/walk/jog on the Appalachian Trail, about four miles past total exhaustion, when we were tripping over small stones, running into trees, and laughing at dumb jokes, my brother Eric and I had a brief but rewarding conversation about theodicy.

Loosely translated and contexualized, theodicy is the ever-confusing and oft-asked question, "Where is God when the kids in our neighborhood get abused or neglected at home?" Variants of this include, "Where is God in the aftermath of Hurricane Katrina?" "Where is God in Darfur," or "where is God when my BMW gets a flat on the way to my beach house?" - All asked with the same degree of desparation by those in the situations.

I spent an unsatisfying three years in Christian academia, where I banged my head against this question in all its different forms. Toward the end of my time at Moody Bible Institute, as my answers collapsed and my angst grew, I gave up on an intellectual solution.

As I traveled to New Orleans after Katrina and then later as I suffered under depression, I began to realize that, in the odd economy of the Kingdom, the answer seems to be "God is in us as we respond in love."

That was the beginning of my journey toward an incarnational ministry model, where we choose to live among the needy.

So much of God's character, so much of His perspective, so much of His logic seems beyond our reach. But when we move in love, His life seems to grow in us and connect with the world around us.

That's why I believe that so much of Jesus' teaching focused on Love. As small as we are, as limited as our understanding is, we must go about this confusing life focused on the central goal given to us- to live in love.

Then, within the context of that love, I believe that all other things find their place. Our intellect, gifts, interests, histories, weaknesses, and hungers all find their place in submission to the rule of divine love.

Nude Feet (Pt. 2)

2010-05-25T11:53:00.000-07:00

About 75 miles of the Appalachian Trail (AT) wind through the mountains of North Georgia. It has been calling my name since I got lost on it about 6 years ago, and my desire to run the entire Georgia section has intensified after a hike to the top of Blood Mountain, the highest point on the trail in Georgia.

So here is the idea: My brother Eric and I train all summer for long-distance, barefoot trail running. The last week before he returns to college, we begin running the AT in 15-20 mile chunks. Our support team (Ruthie, anyone else who wants to see us suffer) will travel to meeting points where we will set up camp, eat, rest, and prepare for the next day. Over five days, we will run the whole GA section of the AT.

So what does this have to do with our ministry? Plenty. We will be doing the run to raise money for the arts program at a local school, in order to improve our community, build relationships within the school, and demonstrate God's love in a way that will provide creative opportunities for the neighborhood.

I sent an e-mail to barefooting legend Barefoot Rick, who has a huge heart for ministry. I told him about the plan, and he is praying about the possibility of running with us. He offered me some great tips, and suggested Isaiah 52:7 as a theme verse.

"How lovely on the mountains are the feet of him who brings good news, who announces peace and brings good news of happiness, who announces salvation, and says to Zion, 'Your God reigns!'"

It's funny how well this verse fits with our vision for this run. Thanks, Rick!

I'll post information on how to contribute once I work out the logistics with the school, but look for more information as August draws nearer.

O Canyoneers!

2010-05-25T10:18:00.001-07:00

Last week, my friend Charles Chung, my brother Eric, and I embarked on a Mantastic journey to Utah. While there, we camped at Canyonlands National Park and went running, hiking, and bouldering, with or without shoes. Here are a few pics:

From the Arch

2010-05-19T00:15:00.000-07:00

Before I unveil the idea advertised in the last post, and before I go into detail on where I was over the last five days, and before we get on with all that we must get on with, I would like to show you this photo of Mesa Arch holding my brother Eric and me as we peer, awestruck, at the thousands of feet between us and a canyon floor. This was taken two days ago.

Nude Feet

2010-04-30T06:33:00.000-07:00

Those of you who read my facebook or spend any kind of time with me know that I have a new obsession - barefoot running.

A couple of my mentors, when I told them about the injuries that keep me from running, mentioned that there are ways I can run to improve my health instead of damaging it. My research led me to a whole community of runners who are healing from injuries and running greater distances by unleashing and listening to their feet instead of insulating them.

While the data on this is still coming in (research generally happens wherever money will take it, and Nike ain't paying for any research on the benefits of running without shoes), I've seen so much improvement in my knee pain, form, endurance, speed, and just plain enjoyment of the run that I'm now a big believer in barefooting.

I've been running either in my bare feet or in a minimal pair of running shoes called Vibram FiveFingers (pictured above, right after their inaugural 4-mile trail run).

So Ian, why exactly are you telling us this on your ministry blog?

Because I have an idea, which I will post on this blog shortly, which ties my passion with barefooting and my desire to see refugees get educational opportunities.

To be continued...

Sacramental service

2010-04-29T07:47:00.001-07:00

I've been corrected by Christian hipsters when I used the word, "sacred," because there's a cultural shift away from the sacred vs. secular mindset. For the most part, I agree with this shift. I think we often miss redemptive opportunities because we dismiss conversations or art work or tasks or people as "secular," and outside of the realm of "spiritual" Importance.

But I do think that, once we understand that even the smallest impulses of our hearts have sacred significance, there are certain actions or moments worth setting aside, worth treating as "sacred," because they bring the rest of our lives into focus. So when I speak of sacrament, I mean those God-given, significant activities that help to re-center us, and to turn hearts and minds back upon their creator.

Jesus set the eating of bread and the drinking of wine as a sacramental activity, to bring his followers into communion with Him. "This is my body, broken for you." "This is my blood, shed for you."

So we Christians treat communion with a special reverence, because it brings us in contact with Christ.

What I've been impressed by in the last few years is the power of serving the poor when we give it the same sacramental weight. Even as we do it to the least of these, we do it unto Him. It's so similar to communion in the way we encounter Christ when we serve the poor.

I've wrestled with the volume of the task before us. We can't really solve even one person's problems. We can't make someone realize the power of the gospel. We can't feed everyone, prevent all abuse, bring everyone to Christ.

When you look at it carefully, there's not really much we can do at all.

But we have been sent out to work nonetheless. So how do we sustain our desire to do the work? What holds us to the task? What refreshes and grows us if we're charging a hill we know we can't climb?

When we serve, we grow in relationship with Christ. So, when I face the kids, I wait expectantly for revelation. When I see the gang graffiti on our walls, I ask how I can meet Christ there.

I dig in to the community because, when I treat ministry as a sacrament, when I set out to discover Love, the work gives life instead of taking it. It refreshes and motivates me because the heart of my creator is hidden in the act of loving my neighbors.

So what of the harvest, then? I believe that the sacramental perspective actually makes me care more deeply, work more heartily, think more clearly, and get more done.

When I entered this ministry, I did it because I needed it to sustain my spirit. The call to minister was the call to grow in Christ.

Not that everyone should live in my neighborhood or do what I do, but I believe that a Christian who wants to know Christ should be engaged in loving service to those around them. Not doing so is like skipping out on communion, like living apart from your spouse, like refusing to eat.

Ministry is a sacrament. It has been given to us that we may live more fully, love more deeply, and experience union with Christ, who is the beating heart of the Christian's life.

Lessons Learned, Relearned

2010-04-27T18:50:00.000-07:00

Those of you who got our last newsletter, read about how a burglary attempt at a local bike co-op turned into a conversation about grace.

Today, we had another chance to take a seemingly bad moment and seek a redemptive response. We went into one of the rooms in the apartment to find the words "You Fuck" written on our futon in marker.

Presumably, the author of this statement got the words reversed, but the message still gets across to a discerning reader. The kids who had come for help on their homework had already started to argue about who had done it.

I fumed for a while, running down that usual line of, What did we ever do to the ungrateful brat who wrote that? How could they do this to us? but I didn't get anywhere. I just kept feeling angrier. Then I pulled away into a locked room and prayed, mainly so I could calm down.

We gathered the kids into our living room for a talk, and I decided to use this as an opportunity to explain to them why we decided to move into their neighborhood. It gave me a chance to talk about how forgiving God has been to me, and how we want them to know about his grace.

We went on to talk about the fruit of the Spirit, ending with a rousing song, and then we sent them home.

I go crazy sometimes worrying about how we are doing. Wondering what the long-term impact of this work is going to be. Wondering if our methodology is effective. Tinkering with Mission and Vision statements. Then there are some days, like today, where things fly in the face of my plans, and in my weakness, Christ's truth has a chance to move.

I pray that next time an opportunity arises, I won't get so worked up and prideful before I see the redemptive opportunity before me.

Nepal Nation Celebration

2010-04-23T06:05:00.000-07:00

One of the key ministries of Refugee Arts is to provide opportunities for relationships between local churches and the immigrant/refugee populations.

We hosted a "Nation Celebration" at Open Table Community to relate with our Nepali neighbors. Several Bhutanese/Nepali refugees came out to tell their stories, share a meal, and sing songs with us.

Their words and presence helped open our eyes to a God that works beyond and through cultural boundaries to show His love.

Here are a few pictures of the event:

Creek Kids Photo Round-Up

2010-04-23T05:44:00.001-07:00

Here are some recent photos of the kids at the afterschool program, along with a few of our star volunteers:

Mr. Muscles on the Court

2010-04-20T18:17:00.000-07:00

Tuesday nights are basketball night. A burglar broke into the bike shop where we normally go and stole the tools, so we asked the same group of kids if they wanted to shoot hoops during that time instead. While it started as a way to fill time until the new tools came in, basketball night has become a ministry of its own, with a unique tone and set of opportunities.

Luis and Edgar are brothers who I've been spending a lot of time with. Both aspiring rappers, we've been working on their storytelling style, and Josh Feit has been helping them record some material. Although I can't remember what we were talking about at the time this photo was taken, it looks like I'm telling Edgar, Luis, and their friend Eric to "hang loose."

My nickname in the bike shop was "Mr. Muscles" due to my "leave no bolt unturned" approach to mechanics. Edgar, my sidekick, is "Muscles Jr." Here we are strutting our stuff.

Girls Bible Study

2010-04-08T17:53:00.000-07:00

Ruthie has been working with some other women to teach a girls bible study for teenagers in our neighborhood. Here are some photos and a video from a dinner they had at our house. I can't comment on the goings-on due to the fact that I was out running through the woods when all this happened:

Afterschool Program Photo Round-up

2010-04-07T18:12:00.000-07:00

Easter Eggstravaganza

2010-04-07T17:47:00.001-07:00

Easter always seems to roll around right when we need it. When we begin to feel death creeping around us, that its victory is imminent, that the body of Christ has been bled dry and all is lost.

Then resurrection Sunday arrives, and we are reminded again what exactly we are doing here.

On Easter morning, we did not have any plans for the afternoon, aside from catching up on sleep after a draining week of seminars and services at NAMB, followed by a busy-as-all-get-out week full of meetings, logistics, taxes, errands, and busy work.

We picked Karina up, then rolled over to the Sosa family's house to pick up Lesly and Jennifer. It turned out that Melvin and their mom wanted to join us as well, so we all went to Church together. After Church, we all decided to have a picnic together in the park. What followed was an affirming time of fellowship and ministry.

I had a long conversation with a neighbor who is wrestling with the concept of grace. He spoke very kindly about our presence in the neighborhood and about the impact we've been having on his family. We made plans to spend some time together in the near future.

That's the story. Now see the pictures:

Choose Your Own Blog Adventure

2010-04-06T10:25:00.000-07:00

The past two weeks have been almost too eventful for me to handle. When I get behind in blogging, I feel compelled to fill in many of the gaps, so I'm going to do a multiple-choice thing here. Then the following blog will be an elaboration on any one point that my readers want to hear more about.

So first, read the following bullet points, then, if you want to hear more about any given topic, leave a comment specifying which one. I'll count up the votes and elaborate. If no votes come in, I'll move on to something else.

Topics:

Ruthie and I went to NAMB training, and, while there were some good relationships established and some good information presented, it was a hard time for us. We felt overwhelmed by the emphasis on numbers and results. I realized through the process that for me, ministry is a sacramental thing, like communion. A God-given way to know and worship Him. Results are encouraging and worth noting, but the relationships are what keep me here.
This Easter was a beautiful, unplanned time of ministry for us. We got to bring some people to church, have some powerful conversations, and enjoy the company of many of our international neighbors. As if by narrative design, I returned from the difficult training and commissioning to a vibrant, dynamic time in my neighborhood.
The boys in our neighborhood are now looking at porn in public places using borrowed internet, and I'm gonna talk to them about it soon. The last thing I want to do is issue a guilt-based plea, so I've got to speak well about how it can affect them, and be non-judgmental about it. Please pray.
We did taxes last night, and they were high enough to undo the last six months of debt repayment, and put us back securely into the hole. I'm having to do some serious work on my attitude toward finances, because it seems like whenever we show discipline and start making progress, God springs some huge setback on us to keep us under our creditors' thumbs. I know that's not the way it works, but that's how it feels.

Hopefully, no one wants to hear about 4, so please take your pick from the first three and influence the future of this blog. Readers, I leave it in your hands. Pictures will be included.

David Byrne, Fatboy Slim, Imelda Marcos

2010-04-02T11:25:00.000-07:00

I opened up my NPR Music Notes e-mail, and discovered that my old stomping grounds (The Philippines) is the star of a new collaboration between David Byrne and Fatboy Slim. They made a two-disc concept album that tells the story of Imelda Marcos! Amazing.

Click here to listen to the album for free (this week only).

Mission, Vision, and Distinctives

2010-03-24T08:07:00.000-07:00

In preparation for some training we will be attending this week, and because we should have done this a long time ago, I am working on defining Refugee Arts in terms of its mission, vision, and distinctives. Take a look at these and let me know your thoughts on a) if they line up with your understanding of our work and b) if you believe that they paint a picture of a biblical, effective ministry:

Mission: To open doors for the gospel by building mutually beneficial relationships between the Christian, creative, and international communities in Atlanta.

Vision: Refugee Arts will lead the way in uniting Atlanta-area creatives, church leaders, immigrants and refugees to meet one another’s spiritual, physical, and relational needs. Our work will multiply as we create practical ministry models, mentor young people, and empower leaders to impact their own communities.

Distinctives: The following characteristics, founded on the life and teaching of Jesus Christ, define the work of Refugee Arts.

Relational: Refugee Arts is defined by its love for God and its love for other people. Because of this, we give priority to building and sustaining loving personal relationships. Relationships between God and men are the goal, the method, and the outcome of our work.
Peaceful: Refugee Arts exists to foster peace in communities divided by bitterness, ignorance, and pride. We will encourage communication between parties and subvert widespread bitterness with healing love.
Humble: Refugee Arts refuses to condescend to the people it works with. We will show the same love to the poor and needy that we show to pastors, artists, and politicians. And we will remain open to the love that others show to us.
Hospitable: Refugee Arts sees the home as the primary ministry center. We will invite guests into our homes, and we will visit those who open their homes to us. We will seek to live generously, and enjoy the generosity that others show to us.
Holistic: Refugee Arts cares about individuals and communities in a holistic sense. Our passion to spread the gospel includes practical, consistent demonstrations of the love of Jesus, who fed the hungry, healed the sick, played with kids, and addressed the suffering of those around him.
Creative: Refugee Arts acknowledges that we worship a creator God, and that we can know and experience him when we are creative. Our work, words, and wrelationships (w added for alliteration) will all be avenues for us to practice creativity.

Slogan: “Reaching the Ends of the Earth in Atlanta”

Cycles

2010-03-22T11:49:00.000-07:00

I just finished a phone conversation with my younger brother, wherein we discussed the possibility of starting a saltwater aquarium-themed hip hop posse called the "Blue Tang Clan." We decided in the end that we are both too busy to make this dream a reality.

Back to the grind.

Melvin, although he has his share of issues (explosive temper and a total lack of filtration between his brain and his mouth), is generally open-hearted with Ruthie and me.

David and Omar go through cycles. They open up to me and have a good time at the activities center and at Communicycle, then they tend to rebel for one or two weeks after getting in trouble for picking on other kids (the main offense that Ruthie and I don't tolerate), then, after stewing for a while, they come back with or without apologizing, and we start over.

These little cycles have been testing my faith in our purpose here in this neighborhood, where it's hard to track any impact the gospel is having in the lives and hearts of the kids we work with.

But when I listen to the stories of my close friends and think back on my own journey, there were several mentors who showed patient, steadfast love to me without any results until years later. In fact, many of them probably have no idea how their love impacted me.

The model that Jesus gave us of caring for our neighbor requires a great deal of faith, because it doesn't normally create immediate results. While we do hear incredible salvation stories, and while the market-driven-church would lead us to believe that these stories are normative, my experience and much of what I read in the New Testament seems to call for something more than immediate results: we are expected to show faithful, whole-life care, tending consistently to all needs, from the spiritual to the physical, without expecting any thanks.

In short, it takes a lot of love to lead a soul home.

In the Neighborhood

2010-03-12T16:54:00.000-08:00

Friday nights are solitary for me. Ruthie has her Refugee Beads class, and the car, all evening, so I usually spend the time at home, catching up on reading or watching a movie.

Tonight, I felt restless in our apartment, so I decided to take a walk, which was an admittedly bad idea, seeing as how the sky was cloudy and thunder echoed through the apartment complex. I threw on my hoody and headed out, walking across Buford highway over to a used bookstore.

Atlanta Vintage Books is a bit of an anomaly in my hood, a literary haven with all sorts of literature, a great bargain basement, and two friendly owners. Not what you'd expect in a neighborhood full of immigrants who struggle to speak English. I arrived fifteen minutes before closing, and the owner greeted me and invited me in.

We immediately began telling stories about spending Friday nights in bookstores or libraries, and we talked about our common love for reading, which sometimes overwhelms our desire to hang with friends or do usual Friday night things.

I headed down to the basement to see if they had any copies of the James Joyce books I hadn't read. No luck. I found three other books (The Ugly American, The Hamlet, and Heat and Dust) that interested me and returned upstairs to check out. The sky had turned completely dark in the five minutes I spent downstairs, and rain poured down across Clairmont.

"I gotta walk home in this," I complained.

"We'll give you a ride," the owner responded cheerfully. Only in our neighborhood, I thought, and gladly accepted.

On the way home, we talked about the joy of living in Atlanta's international village, our love for the mix of cultures in this city, and what Ruthie and I do in the neighborhood.

This is one of the joys of living here. I had an unexpected opportunity to connect with someone who shares my interests, and he showed me a kindness I had not expected. It wasn't a big event, but it brought some joy to me to connect with an odd little corner of our neighborhood, and enjoy an unplanned moment of friendship.

Newsletter Time

2010-03-11T06:51:00.000-08:00

We've written up our latest newsletter, to be e-mailed out this week. If you haven't been getting them and would like to, drop me a message at the e-mail address to the right.

Short Stories

2010-03-09T07:25:00.000-08:00

I have a policy regarding writing time: The only permitted form of procrastination is blogging.

So usually, when you see a new entry on this blog or BoMuMo or Ghost Town Revival, it's because I sat down to work on a complicated short story, and hit a wall. That is certainly the case today- usually, cranking out a blog entry loosens something up, and I can return to the short story with some momentum.

This year has actually been a good one as far as writing goes. Two and a half months in, I have one short piece scheduled for publication in a literary magazine, a pending assignment for a Christian magazine on a refugee I work with, and one more short story which, although it hasn't been accepted yet, is getting good feedback from editors.

My current project is a series of five interconnected short stories. The plan is to write them all as standalone pieces, publish each in a different journal or contest, then, if successful in that, compile them as the first section of a novel.

So far, I've completed and submitted the first piece, written the second and sent it out to friends for feedback, drafted a rather weak first draft of the third, and written half of my first draft of the fourth. It is here, at the halfway point, where I need to switch from setup to action, that I am stuck.

Because I started the piece in a voice which was excellent for exposition, a rhythm built for setup, and I have to make things happen now without breaking stride, which maybe I can't do. We'll have to see.

Anyway, I oughta get back to work, so thanks, readers, for joining me on this little diversion.

Break In

2010-03-01T16:40:00.000-08:00

I took all kinds of meds and large amounts of caffeine to get me through a missions conference this weekend. Although I was feeling sick, I wanted to make the most of these opportunities. It turned out to be a rewarding time, and it seems like God ordained several connections that we made.

However, my illness caught up with me today. I spent the whole day in bed, and I didn't even feel like I could watch a movie because the the bright colors and noises hurt my head.

This evening, we got some bad news. Communicycle, the local bike co-op where I work with kids from the neighborhood to build their own bikes, had a break-in, and many of the tools went missing. They are valuable and not easily replaced.

Open Table Community, a church that has supported, encouraged, and hosted much of our ministry work, and the church that houses Communicycle, lost some important things in the burglary as well.

Ruthie is meeting up with leaders from Communicycle and Open Table to pray. They just moved into the neighborhood in January, and this could either galvanize the Church community or cause fear and division. We'll be praying for the former.

Steadfast Love

2010-02-25T05:40:00.000-08:00

Do not think the love, in order to be genuine, has to be extraordinary. What we need is to love without getting tired. -Mother Theresa

Suck dick, Ian! - Omar

This week has been testing. I don't feel angry or vengeful, which surprises me. My main feeling is helplessness.

Some of the behavior going on in our apartment would probably justify some rage. A kid who we have poured a lot of time, food, and energy into, has been bullying other kids. He belittles them, pushes them around, and sets a poor example for all the younger guys. After about eighteen warnings, I kicked him out on Tuesday for first berating another guy then talking back to me when I addressed it.

On Wednesday, in his unmistakable handwriting, the words "Suck dick, Ian!" were written on the wall in permanent marker. Then when some of the girls we work with started putting up posters for a club they've started, this guy and his posse of friends went around tearing them down and writing obscenities on them.

I went out to have a talk with him, and it was totally unfruitful. Any idiot could have predicted that, I guess, but I found it unsettling.

So my knee-jerk reaction is just to keep him out of our program, since he does damage to the other kids and shows nothing but disrespect to the the volunteers, Ruthie, and me.

But yesterday I was thinking about all the testimonies I hear from friends and acquaintances how the deciding factor in turning their life around was one or two people who stuck it out through the rough times.

I think we're called by our Lord's example to have an inexplicable love. I don't think that excludes discipline, but it certainly excludes dismissal. Or even if the afterschool program does not prove to be doable for Omar, at least I can still be a neighbor to him, which is the advantage of living where we live.

Anyway, I'm mostly writing this thing in the blissful morning hours, sitting next to a steaming cup of coffee, in order to brace myself for whatever comes next. Patient love is something I wish I had in greater measure, and I preach about it in order to hold myself accountable for its practice.

Iguana Love

2010-02-22T16:28:00.000-08:00

This has little or nothing to do with our ministry work, which is the supposed focus of this blog, but two nights ago, as I was wading through James Joyce's monsterpiece Ulysses, my iguana, Rockette (formerly named Rocket until we realized he was in fact a she), climbed up on my shoulder and started licking my cheek.

A little uncomfortable, I closed my eyes until the kisses were over:

Rockette then turned away, embarrassed after Ruthie, my jealous wife, caught this display of affection on camera.

Finally, the affectionate reptile fell asleep on my shoulder as I resumed reading:

A Few More Things about Preaching

2010-02-18T05:58:00.000-08:00

Over lunch at Wan Lai, my favorite Chinese restaurant (side note: their slogan is "where gastronomy and good times come together." awesome), my friend David Park and I got to talking about preaching. He has passed a few opportunities my way, and while I was able to make a few of them work, I generally bowed out.

I recently asked David, somewhat aggressively, why anyone would want to preach. After my time in Florida, my opinion is softening somewhat, but I still have a few hangups with the whole system:

It's impersonal - In what other setting would relative strangers sit down and listen to 20-45 minutes of another person's opinions without interrupting? When I hear the more "relevant" speakers like Rob Bell or Louie Giglio, they tend to create a good illusion of intimacy with their delivery, but who are we kidding here? This is mass media, a shotgun blast of Christian opinion.
It's top-down stuff - preaching reinforces the trickle-down, leader-reliant mode of Church that allows some Christians to be mere spectators. If I go into a church and talk about working in a community, people can tell me "good message" and they've fulfilled their role. But if I sit down with someone and we start talking about each of our lives, then we've got something to work with.
It's ironic - Ruthie and I are very focused on being good neighbors. We believe that's how the gospel works itself out. So dressing up and getting behind a podium to say that what's most important is not how we look or where we stand on Sunday seems a little silly.

However, there are some upsides to preaching as well, which are:

It's a gateway - what you say from the front can open doors for further conversation.
You can break rules once you're up there - I've seen preachers stop early to create opportunities for reconciliation and conversation among the congregants. Every time I see that happen, the results are stunning.
The audience is diverse - If you write or make music or make movies, your message will only reach the type of person who probably already thinks the same as you on whatever topic. When you speak in a Church, you connect with people from different walks of life, different frameworks of belief, and across socioeconomic lines. It's a unique opportunity.

For now, my response to speaking opportunities will be to accept them if they don't interfere too much with my other, more important work, which is caring for the people in my neighborhood. I'd way rather show the gospel in deed than get behind a pulpit and discuss it.

Preacher Man

2010-02-15T19:42:00.000-08:00

I am an admittedly incapable preacher. I bristle at notes, fumble through stories, and drive myself crazy trying to discern how the message is being received. When the message is over, I fall into a self-conscious spiral. It's almost enough to keep me from doing it.

Ruthie and I drove down to the On Mission Celebration in Sebring, Florida filled with anxiety. To start off, I made a directional mistake and had to speed from Atlanta to Sebring to make it to my first speaking engagement. I slipped into the church two minutes before Ruthie and I were to go up and give a brief overview of our ministry.

After the whirlwind service, we were greeted by our host church, Sparta Road Baptist Church. Ellen, our main contact there, showed us where we would be staying. To my delight, it was a home for retired missionaries who worked in Africa. Later on in the week, we got to join several of these missionaries at Ellen's house for an evening of conversation and some amazing food:

When speaking, I focused on the narrative of my journey to dwelling and working with internationals. I found that people at each of the seven churches we spoke at (notice the Revelation connection, anyone?) responded to different parts of the story.

Some responded to my battle with depression. Others grew excited about the possibility of reaching their own communities. Many responded to the fact that we were young, part of a generation lost to the church, and we were able to talk about why people our age have such a hard time digging Christianity, and some things we can do about it.

Here's a shot taken after one particularly rich time:

I met a beautiful Filipino couple in one of the churches. This couple was so encouraging to me, and we talked about places where I had grown up. They had been to Tarlac and Cainta, two significant cities in my life.

While we were there, Ruthie got to drive over to Ft. Myers, where her sister lives, and check out some of the local manatees:

It was a full, rewarding time, but the terror of speaking left me totally exhausted. After our last engagement on Wednesday, we had to drive through the night to get back up to Atlanta so I could work the next day. Today (Monday) feels like the first day where things slowed down a bit. Hence the blog entry. And now I'm off to bed.

Sing Silently

2010-02-02T06:47:00.000-08:00

Ruthie and I spent the weekend up in the mountains with a group of friends. My friend Josh Feit played a new song that he had written. Knowing the subject of the piece, I had tears in my eyes at the end.

The song was called "Sing Silently." The lyrics went like this:

Sing silently
Sing silently
'Till the bluebird mama can make it home
'Till the bluebird mama can make it home

Tread tenderly
Tread tenderly
'Till the blackbird papa can make it home
'Till the blackbird papa can make it home

Sing la la la
To the shadows in the room
Keep singing la la la
To the shadows in the room

He wrote it about a girl at a local apartment complex, who witnessed violence in her home and can't sleep well anymore. I think that, as we dive into the pain of the lives around us, art like this becomes more and more essential, both in ministering to that pain and in keeping our sanity.

Songs like this do a beautiful job of telling stories, of releasing pain, and searching for hope. I believe that Josh's example is one that more of us should follow. He makes art that relates to the overwhelming mysteries he faces, and the resulting song is such a powerful call to compassion, to hope, to love.

There's much more that I could say on this, but I'd encourage my readers to hop over to Josh's site and check out the song for themselves. A recording of the song is available at The Redline Project.

A Great Hidden Light

2010-01-31T18:20:00.000-08:00

Let me warn you that I will be writing about some difficult things in this post. My intent is not to darken anyone's mood, but I think there are some things we must look at and feel if our statements of hope and joy and faith and love are to hold any weight in a broken world.

I feel that God's call to me lately has been to behold a suffering world, and to expand my capacity for compassion.

There are the immediate pains in my neighborhood. A middle schooler we work with cares so gently for his younger siblings, two of whom are mentally disabled. The weight of responsibility on his shoulders keeps him from really being a kid. As a result, he is violently tempermental, resistant to any kind of correction, and subject to dark moods. He wants to be loved, but he can't open himself up to it. As a result, we see him regularly and share in his suffering, but our efforts at reaching into his life are resisted.

Few of the kids in the neighborhood have stable families. We hear stories of imprisoned or deported parents, divorces, affairs, estranged siblings, and all forms of abuse.

My friend and hero Ernesto, who helped guide my early explorations in film and literature, moved from his home in Michigan to work for the Church in India. He and his wife recently lost a child that was about to be born. His wife teetered on the edge of death herself due to related complications, and as soon as she was on the mend, the Indian government drove them out of the country, cutting them off from the work they had given the last few years of their lives to.

Haiti is in chaos, and my friend Ed, a Haitian immigrant is in Locust Grove, GA, trying to keep everyone in the loop, mourning friends and family, eagerly searching for opportunities to reach out to his homeland and to the wealthy suburban community around him.

Then there are the global things which I somehow feel very personally. The worldwide carnage perpetuated and incited by the companies that fuel my car. The tribal wars, the rapes, the massacres by tribesmen armed with American weapons. The people groups being squeezed out.

We're born into a collapsing world. We're born into nations ruled by corruption, hatred, and lust. This is a truth that comes at me hard these days, that knocks me off my comfortable cushion, that makes it difficult to talk, to listen, to write.

I felt as a younger person that I was called to be a prophet of pain. Maybe I was the voice to challenge the Church to stare suffering in the face, to understand the skin split and the blood shed, the stolen childhoods, the dark clouds of despair. I don't understand how Jesus' message means anything to us if we don't see the misery he came to address, the suffering he spoke into.

But I don't think that's the end of what I'm meant to say. Speaking to pain is only half the call.

I consider myself an optimist at heart. I'm not a "let's pretend the empty glass is half-full" type optimist, though. I believe that we must look the shadow in the face, that it must overwhelm us, that it must take us beyond what we can understand, and that under its cover we will dig for the truth of things, which I believe is held in the heart of God, which I believe is a great hidden light, which you can't see unless you recognize the shadow it penetrates.

For Further Reading

2010-01-12T09:55:00.000-08:00

Yesterday, I finished reading a deeply challenging book called Emma's War by Deborah Scroggins. I wrote about it and how it impacts the work of Refugee Arts on my media blog, BoMuMo.