tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-53214614397072125172024-03-15T18:09:25.724-07:00Breit Spotall of us :: to Africa :: with loveJohn and Janel Breitensteinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09922204773899069281noreply@blogger.comBlogger395125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5321461439707212517.post-74131328649922479722017-07-07T18:51:00.002-07:002017-07-07T18:51:19.948-07:00Memos from a Landing: Thoughts on a Bumpy Transition<img alt="" class=" wp-image-2858 aligncenter" height="373" sizes="(max-width: 676px) 100vw, 676px" src="https://i1.wp.com/www.agenerousgrace.com/wp-content/uploads/2017/07/StockSnap_TMYUIRV0BQ.jpg?resize=676%2C380" width="664" />Well—we did it.<br />
<br />
We got on the plane.<br />
<br />
After four months of playing some crazy game show of “Pack, Trash, Sell or Give?” with all our stuff <em>ad nauseam</em>, settling our respective work into trustworthy hands, and enough heartrending goodbyes that at the end my heart was twisted dry—we <span style="text-decoration: line-through;">neatly</span> <span style="text-decoration: line-through;">quietly</span> <span style="text-decoration: line-through;">faithfully?</span> closed the chapter of our lives that is Africa.<br />
<br />
Well. Scratch that, too. Africa’s far too kneaded into us, far too braided into the fabric that is us. And the work continues in Uganda, even if at a distance for us.<br />
<br />
I now find myself in that odd twilight that is having arrived, but my life still flayed open like a cardboard box. The pieces of me are finding niches, or seeking one, or temporarily cast aside, or still hiding out. I’m that inevitable bin at the end when you’re unpacking, where you dumped all the spare randomness. <em>Where in the world should this </em>go?<br />
<br />
Transition can feel…bereft.<br />
<br />
<h3>
Uprooted</h3>
<img alt="" class="alignright wp-image-2859 size-large" height="172" sizes="(max-width: 676px) 100vw, 676px" src="https://i1.wp.com/www.agenerousgrace.com/wp-content/uploads/2017/07/StockSnap_ZWH3M2EJAX.jpg?resize=676%2C451" width="258" /><br />
This week I giddily purchased some houseplants and, now that Uganda has spoiled me on fresh produce, some potted herbs (make sure you pronounce the “h”). They’re fragrant and green, and they make me happy. -Er. They make me happi<em>er</em>. Thankfully, despite a few lank leaves and a handful blossoms I needed to tug from their stems, I think all of them will pull through. There’s a reason my basil came in a neat little peat pot. The wrapper says it can help avoid transplant shock.<br />
<br />
Man. What I would give for a me-sized peat pot.<br />
<br />
I love the (finally!) creative part of moving and <a href="http://www.agenerousgrace.com/2015/04/10/why-cook-the-eternal-aspects-of-food-er-beyond-twinkies/"><span style="color: #a30015;">crafting a prepared place</span></a>. But when I’ve dug a little deeper in me, I’m still grappling with some fear. After a tight-knit community in Africa—will I find a friend in this small town? Having left two “jobs”—do I really have what it takes to freelance write full time, or am I about to perform an astounding career faceplant? My family seems so happy here. But will I be?<br />
<br />
Maybe that’s why the words of Paul David Tripp smacked me between the eyeballs this morning.<br />
<blockquote>
In the life of the believer, fear of weakness amounts to God-forgetfulness. Timidity is a failure to remember the promises of the gospel.<br />
….God has promised to supply and empower; your job is to follow him by faith where you live every day. You don’t wait for the provision before you move. God has not promised that you will see it beforehand…you move forward in the certainty that he is with you, for you, and in you.</blockquote>
This felt personal because, <a href="http://www.agenerousgrace.com/2017/02/17/broken-heart-leaving-africa/"><span style="color: #a30015;">amidst a transition I didn’t want</span></a>, I’ve met an overwhelming amount of spiritual…bewilderment. My perspective of God altered considerably. I don’t think this is actually bad. I think it was actually more truthful, less a God of my graven image. One of the odd phrases rolling around my brain has been the words of a shocked Catherine Zeta-Jones in the movie <em>Entrapment</em>. She says to Sean Connery, who has just betrayed her, “Weren’t we partners?” Amidst the thrumming purpose and worship that was Africa for me, which pulled me in so tightly to God’s heart and His ceaseless labor for the poor, I felt suddenly…alone.<br />
<br />
But here is what I know: Yes, we were partners. Yes, we still are. But ultimately, to cob a phrase from Tarzan: <em>You, Potter. Me, Clay.</em> God is not merely horizontal from me. He’s still vertical; still the holy, holy, holy from Isaiah 6 and Revelation. Which means He doesn’t fit it my box.<br />
And yet, yes. He is still with me. For me. In me.<br />
<br />
<h3>
The <a href="http://www.agenerousgrace.com/2017/05/12/no-place-like-home/"><span style="color: #a30015;">Dwelling Place</span></a></h3>
Strapped in to the gray hum of a 757, bits of the prayer of St. Patrick fell from my brain. It hung in my dorm a couple of decades ago in college—and it’s great for times of transition, where fear seizes my heart in fists.<br />
<blockquote>
<em>Christ with me,<br /> Christ before me,<br /> Christ behind me,<br /> Christ in me,<br /> Christ beneath me,<br /> Christ above me,<br /> Christ on my right,<br /> Christ on my left,<br /> Christ when I lie down,<br /> Christ when I sit down,<br /> Christ when I arise,<br /> Christ in the heart of every man who thinks of me,<br /> Christ in the mouth of everyone who speaks of me,<br /> Christ in every eye that sees me,<br /> Christ in every ear that hears me.</em></blockquote>
I don’t know where this post finds you. I guess there’s a decent chance you’re in some form of transition, as constant as change appears. Maybe you, too, feel like your heart is tumbling around like a rogue sock in a clothes dryer.<br />
<br />
Back to the plants that are waving at me right now from my deck. There’s a gardener’s phrase about transition: <em>First year sleep, second year creep, third year leap.</em> I expect for them to be a bit unproductive this first year. I keep an eye out for these plants I purchased, watching for limp stems, and watering them pretty vigilantly. God doesn’t break a bruised reed, right? So it fits that this God–who prunes me, and who’s also harvesting behind where He and I leave–is tender in my transition. He’s patient for blossoms and fruit that will push forward when the season’s just right.<b></b><i></i><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike>John and Janel Breitensteinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09922204773899069281noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5321461439707212517.post-74485635074069572332017-02-20T00:25:00.002-08:002017-02-20T00:25:19.695-08:00The Broken Heart: On Leaving AfricaI’ve wondered for awhile now how I would write this post; what I would say. Eight hundred words seems only enough to barely outline the dimensions of what I’ve wrestled with for the last several months.<br />
<br />
You see, we’re leaving Africa.<br />
<br />
(For now. …Or so I tell myself.)<br />
<br />
So many factors, really, have sifted out what feels like the remaining solution. Among the factors: My husband’s job. My kids’ education. Other family factors we’ve batted back and forth, scouring for solutions until it seems this is really the only way to love well. And in many ways, the poor and this work God’s been doing in our midst will be better served as my husband performs his leadership role from <a href="http://www.emiworld.org/"><span style="color: #a30015;">Engineering Ministries International’s </span></a>home office in Colorado. (Colorado! I should be thrilled, right?!)<br />
<br />
And yet.<br />
<br />
<span id="more-2448"></span><br />
This may clarify why I’ve penned (probably too many) posts on <a href="http://www.agenerousgrace.com/" target="_blank">my other blog</a> recently on delightful topics like <a href="http://www.agenerousgrace.com/2016/09/27/cry-hidden-art-christian-grieving/"><span style="color: #a30015;">Christian grief,</span></a> my <a href="http://www.agenerousgrace.com/2016/12/16/tackling-inner-grinch/"><span style="color: #a30015;">Grinchy struggles at Christmas</span></a>, <a href="http://www.agenerousgrace.com/2017/01/25/memos-myself-keeping-heart-soft-times-tough/"><span style="color: #a30015;">keeping your heart soft when what you really want to do is give up and get bitter</span></a>, what to do <a href="http://www.agenerousgrace.com/2017/01/17/off-season-where-you-wanted-when-you-wanted/"><span style="color: #a30015;">when your season of life feels…off</span></a>, and<a href="http://www.agenerousgrace.com/2017/01/12/guest-post-what-satisfies-you/"><span style="color: #a30015;"> how to work through our own issues of unbelief and their ties to what we think about how God loves us.</span></a> Y’know. Fun stuff.<br />
<img alt="" class="size-medium wp-image-1776 alignleft" height="193" sizes="(max-width: 300px) 100vw, 300px" src="https://i2.wp.com/www.agenerousgrace.com/wp-content/uploads/2016/07/Namuwongo-Janel-with-kids-in-Africa.jpg?resize=300%2C224" width="258" />Living here is an odd paradox of the most exhausting, <a href="http://www.agenerousgrace.com/2015/12/22/reflections-on-a-christmas-robbery/"><span style="color: #a30015;">dangerous,</span></a> and angering part of my life—<a href="http://www.agenerousgrace.com/2016/10/07/helping-hurts-part-iii-aisha-died/"><span style="color: #a30015;">injustice</span></a> (…and <a href="http://www.agenerousgrace.com/2017/02/04/whining-difference-complaining-healthy-honest-expression/"><span style="color: #a30015;">lack of utilities) </span></a>can do that to a girl—but it’s also been the place I feel most throbbingly alive. It’s where the rumblings of God’s work are keenly felt for me. As lean and muscular of a time as it has been—the purpose of it, the accessibility to helping people and working with the down-and-out has propelled me as I’ve found that rare privilege of <a href="http://www.agenerousgrace.com/2017/02/11/serve-sweet-spot/"><span style="color: #a30015;">the spot where I best connect to God’s heart. </span></a>It feels like a gold mine to me, to cultivate this field, uncovering the treasures He’s implanted in the poor and nurturing it toward a blossom. I love who it’s made my children; <a href="http://www.agenerousgrace.com/2016/02/01/love-is-the-new-sexy/"><span style="color: #a30015;">my husband.</span></a> Who it’s made me.<br />
<img alt="" class="size-medium wp-image-272 alignleft" height="172" sizes="(max-width: 300px) 100vw, 300px" src="https://i2.wp.com/www.agenerousgrace.com/wp-content/uploads/2015/06/berenga-2-1.jpg?resize=300%2C200" width="258" /> <img alt="" class="size-medium wp-image-123 alignright" height="300" sizes="(max-width: 169px) 100vw, 169px" src="https://i1.wp.com/www.agenerousgrace.com/wp-content/uploads/2015/05/cropped-corinne-in-berenga-africa2-1.jpg?resize=169%2C300" width="169" /> <img alt="" class="size-medium wp-image-12 alignleft" height="172" sizes="(max-width: 300px) 100vw, 300px" src="https://i2.wp.com/www.agenerousgrace.com/wp-content/uploads/2015/03/giving-tree-38-1.jpg?resize=300%2C200" width="258" /><br />
Even more, I love the Africans I know. Like Oliver, an AIDS orphan, who’s been a constant companion in our work and has labored to succeed in obtaining her counseling degree. Or Yokanah, who at a scrappy, compact 5’1” works his tail off to provide for his family, continually builds his community, and does it all with an infectious 1000-watt smile. Or Hope or Hattie or Pauline, whose intelligence, wit, and courage as brilliant African women use their gifts to serve the poor. Or Helena, or Gilbert, or Ashellah…<br />
<br />
(Right. Eight hundred words.)<br />
<img alt="africa" class="size-medium wp-image-2471 alignright" height="194" sizes="(max-width: 300px) 100vw, 300px" src="https://i1.wp.com/www.agenerousgrace.com/wp-content/uploads/2017/02/Janel-and-Oliver.jpg?resize=300%2C225" width="258" /><br />
…all the sparkling Ugandans more than capable of leading their own country while we wheel our bags onto a 757 and go back to a more anonymous life with a consistent electrical supply, like so many missionaries before us. Because we’re not heroes. This is God’s work to complete.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://yourmomhasablog.com/2016/12/13/even-if-he-doesnt/"><span style="color: #a30015;">Sometimes: God says no</span></a><br />
<span style="color: #a30015;">.</span><img alt="" class="alignnone size-medium wp-image-872 alignright" height="194" sizes="(max-width: 300px) 100vw, 300px" src="https://i2.wp.com/www.agenerousgrace.com/wp-content/uploads/2015/11/refugees-1-1.jpg?resize=300%2C225" width="258" /><br />
But as much as He is the God of the thunder in Job, so utterly “Other” and above my ways–He’s also a God of wounds. He intimately knows what it means to suffer, and suffering is His enemy. Ann Voskamp, who shares her path of reconciling the senseless death of her two-year-old sister, concludes,<br />
<blockquote>
[God] gave us Jesus….If God didn’t withhold from us His very own Son, will God withhold anything we need? If trust must be earned, hasn’t God unequivocally earned our trust with the bark on the raw wounds, the thorns pressed into the brow, your name on the cracked lips? How will he not also graciously give us all things He deems best and right? He’s already given us the incomprehensible.*</blockquote>
And if He asks me to step down, or perhaps I should say <em>away</em>, no role is too insignificant. God knows what He’s doing, I keep telling myself. I’ll step down from my dual roles as homeschool/refugee teacher (though I may still work with refugees; stay tuned). I’ll be freelance writing full-time (insert gulping, gasping noise), which holds nearly as much terror for me as possibility. I’ll continue to write over on my blog at <a href="http://www.agenerousgrace.com/" target="_blank">A Generous Grace</a>, hoping as always that God has an idea for whatever loaves and fishes I lob into cyberspace.<br />
<br />
As they say here, <em>Katonda amanyi. </em>The Lord knows.<br />
<br />
I don’t yet have much of a vision beyond the one for my husband and kids, who are infinitely worth this decision. But I have the <em>hope</em> for a vision. Recently I rediscovered the words of C.S. Lewis penned in <a href="http://amzn.to/2lGpAcP"><em><span style="color: #a30015;">The Screwtape Letters.</span></em></a> In them, a senior demon writes to his protégé:<br />
<blockquote>
Do not be deceived, Wormwood. Our cause [the Devil’s cause] is never more in danger than when a human, no longer desiring, but still intending to do our Enemy’s will [God’s will], looks round upon a universe from which every trace of Him seems to have vanished, and asks why he has been forsaken, and still obeys.</blockquote>
Sometimes the loss rolls over me in waves, my head tilted just above water. If you see me, I’m grateful for your grace that allows my sadness, occasional lack of direction, and even passivity or anger in a season I struggle to interpret. My goal is faithfulness; courage; to love well. To finish well, hopefully with work that will continue when we’ve clanged our gate closed for the last time. I know at times I’ve failed already.<br />
<br />
But His power has always been perfect for what He’s asked of me. May He give you, too, the strength for whatever He requires of you. Never forget you are dearly loved.<b></b><i></i><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike>John and Janel Breitensteinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09922204773899069281noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5321461439707212517.post-42666271769902487012016-09-23T18:54:00.000-07:002016-09-23T18:54:31.099-07:00In Praise of Sabbath: On Letting GoAnd…we’re gone.<br />
<br />
We wrangled our carry-ons into that taupe-colored hum of a 757, bound for six months stateside. (After the lunacy of the week I actually wrote this post, preparing to abscond for six entire months, I was surely thankful we made it to the plane.)<br />
<br />
I feel conflicted over this.<br />
<br />
<span id="more-1804"></span><br />
There was of course the sizeable slab of me that couldn't wait to throw my arms around my parents, watch my kids grab the hands of with my nieces and nephews again. I was geared up to sit around a table with the people I’ve loved for a lifetime, just like that. Perhaps in the next few weeks I will carry a dish of corn on the cob, say, to laugh at my sister’s jokes in crazy-easy normalcy. I hope to devour a slightly unhealthy amount of blueberries and bing cherries in these months; close my eyes over the quiet purr of a road devoid of potholes; throw a few dishes in the dishwasher just because I can.<br />
<br />
But I am going home a little heart-sore, I think. I said goodbye to no less than three close friends/family units who will no longer be serving in Uganda when I return. <a href="http://www.agenerousgrace.com/2016/07/19/hope-slums-finding-god-namuwongo/"><span style="color: #a30015;">My trip to the slums</span></a> is still sticking to my ribs, though the family who was starving is now on the mend. After some unnerving elections, <a href="http://www.agenerousgrace.com/2015/12/22/reflections-on-a-christmas-robbery/"><span style="color: #a30015;">a robbery</span></a>, and <a href="http://www.agenerousgrace.com/2015/11/10/for-the-days-when-helping-hurts-you-part-ii-when-helping-breaks-your-heart/"><span style="color: #a30015;">heart-rending stories of refugees</span></a>, my shoulders are slumping a bit as I zip up our bags.<br />
<br />
And there is of course the fact that I will be far from my current home in Uganda——<a href="http://www.agenerousgrace.com/2015/06/05/welcome-home/"><span style="color: #a30015;">home being the complicated topic it is. </span></a><a href="http://www.emiworld.org/"><span style="color: #a30015;">EMI </span></a><a href="http://www.agenerousgrace.com/2015/06/05/welcome-home/"><span style="color: #a30015;">will continue designing for the poor whether my husband contributes from Uganda or Colorado. </span></a><a href="http://www.refugeandhope.org/"><span style="color: #a30015;">Refuge and Hope</span></a><a href="http://www.agenerousgrace.com/2015/06/05/welcome-home/"><span style="color: #a30015;"> will continue changing lives without me. The baskets project will continue under my friend’s faithful supervision. God will continue working in astonishing measures no matter where our little family hangs our hats. As my wise friend has said,</span><em><span style="color: #a30015;"> No matter who we are, when we take our hand out of the sand, the hole fills in.</span></em></a><br />
<br />
But perhaps the underlying truth of expat life—<a href="http://www.agenerousgrace.com/2015/06/05/welcome-home/"><span style="color: #a30015;">of the Christian life, it could be argued—is to be longing for elsewhere.</span></a><br />
<br />
Because like any good American I, well, tend to <a href="http://www.agenerousgrace.com/2015/05/19/the-true-cost-of-overcommitment/"><span style="color: #a30015;">find my identity deeply in usefulness and purpose and work,</span></a> I liken this time away to a Sabbath—because it’s a general release of much of my work here for a time. (Whether home assignments are actually restful for missionaries is another complex question for another post.)<br />
<br />
I found this, too, <a href="http://www.familylife.com/articles/topics/marriage/challenges/finances/lessons-from-a-layoff"><span style="color: #a30015;">when I was suddenly laid off several years ago, and my identity floated around me, bereft and unmoored.</span></a> Sabbaths…aren’t always what we would choose. The work can feel too pressing; too necessary. And sometimes I need to be needed.)<br />
<br />
The older I grow, the more my gratitude heightens for the rhythms of God.<br />
<br />
Once a young friend sat exhausted across from me, her eyes a little more distant from me as we enjoyed lunch. It wasn’t that long before I figured out that she wasn’t taking a day off in her week. <em>I just can’t</em>, she reasoned.<br />
<br />
Funny enough, I convinced her that I think that’s what Sabbaths are all about: Admitting we can’t. Perhaps especially as a mom of young kids, when the house would plummet into utter squalor if I stepped away from cleaning up after eight pattering little feet, I found the Sabbath to be a rich act of faith and humility. It’s the paradox the Sabbath that in doing nothing, everything else exponentially blooms in joy and even productivity.<br />
<br />
(Interestingly, a 10-day week, <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/French_Republican_Calendar"><span style="color: #a30015;">the French Republican calendar</span></a>, was attempted in the Enlightenment to assist abolishing religious activity, but was overturned in part because the single rest day in 10 became overwhelming.)<br />
<br />
A friend recently reminded me of God’s reasoning for the Sabbath as described in Deuteronomy 5:<br />
<blockquote>
You shall remember that you were a slave in the land of Egypt, and the LORD your God brought you out from there with a mighty hand and an outstretched arm. Therefore the LORD your God commanded you to keep the Sabbath day.</blockquote>
The Sabbath is a sign of our freedom; that we are more than worker bees, but rather cherished, fought-for children. Author Mark Buchanan writes,<br />
<blockquote>
[The Sabbath] was designed to protect us, pay tribute to us, coddle us, in all our created frailty and God-imprinted beauty and hard-won liberty, in our status as men and women whom God made in his own image and freed by his own hand and own blood. It is a father’s gift to indulge his children.</blockquote>
So this time of stepping away for me—though periods of rest in this actual furlough may only be intermittent, and my husband and I will both still be working/schooling for several of those months—is a becoming a faith-filled release for me. It is trusting that in my doing less, He does more, multiplying loaves and fishes. It is an intentional loosening from the purpose of productivity, into the downy acceptance of accepting God’s seasons.<br />
<img alt="sleep rest in praise of sabbaths" class=" wp-image-1813 aligncenter" height="255" sizes="(max-width: 383px) 100vw, 383px" src="https://i0.wp.com/www.agenerousgrace.com/wp-content/uploads/2016/07/sleep-rest-in-praise-of-sabbaths.jpg?resize=300,200" width="383" /><br />
Sometimes, as Pete Scazzero suggests for church workers, “The soil needs to be replenished and to lie dormant for a season.”<br />
<br />
When my previously exhausted young friend returned to sit on my porch six months later, she was…sparkling. (The Sabbath can do that to a girl.) God’s rhythms, she told me, had changed her.<br />
<br />
Wonder how they’ll change me.<br />
<br />
<br />
<strong><em>Like this post? You might like</em></strong><br />
<strong><em><a href="http://www.agenerousgrace.com/2015/09/30/your-opportunity-vs-your-call/"><span style="color: #a30015;">Your opportunity…vs. your call</span></a></em></strong><br />
<strong><em><a href="http://www.agenerousgrace.com/2016/04/01/memos-to-myself-on-the-dangers-of-overcommitment/"><span style="color: #a30015;">Memos to Myself: On the Dangers of Overcommitment</span></a></em></strong><br />
<strong><em><a href="http://www.agenerousgrace.com/2015/06/05/welcome-home/"><span style="color: #a30015;">Welcome Home</span></a></em></strong><br />
<strong><em><a href="http://www.agenerousgrace.com/2015/09/01/for-the-days-when-helping-hurts-you/"><span style="color: #a30015;">For the Days When Helping Hurts [You], Parts I </span></a><a href="http://www.agenerousgrace.com/2015/11/10/for-the-days-when-helping-hurts-you-part-ii-when-helping-breaks-your-heart/"><span style="color: #a30015;">and II</span></a></em></strong><b></b><i></i><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike>John and Janel Breitensteinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09922204773899069281noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5321461439707212517.post-17946336648053040172016-07-19T03:03:00.000-07:002016-07-19T03:03:12.341-07:00Hope in the Slums: Finding God in NamuwongoSometimes it’s hard for me to locate the goodness of God in poverty.<br />
<br />
A project with a Ugandan friend of mine, completing her counseling internship, had trailed me into the slums after her. In some ways the dry season made it more tolerable than I’d anticipated. The unnaturally-colored, stagnant water clotted with trash would soon rise bearing cholera, typhoid, and worse.<br />
<br />
My heart and my senses were constantly scuffed to a raw alertness. The ten women our project was seeking to assist earned about 1500 shillings per day; about 50 cents. We ducked in their darkened huts, my rudimentary Luganda tripping over my tongue like my tennis shoes over the jutting paths outside.<br />
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Unquestionably the most searing moments were those with a large-eyed family of five a neighbor had recommended we check on. Flies circled a large raised, crusted scab on the head of one of the children, reportedly because her alcoholic father always beats her on the head in the same spot. The weeping mother, whom one of our group checked into a government hospital the next day, was emaciated and hacking from tuberculosis.<br />
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But the infant scared me the most: a year-and-a-half old, but about the weight of my boys at three months. Remembering my husband’s marvel at Jesus touching lepers and outcast, I reached through the burble of Luganda around us and lifted her frame to my chest, shoving aside concerns of TB. It felt like carrying bones. The next day the hospital would diagnose her pneumonia and obvious malnutrition. Her breaths were so shallow and rapid, I also had to stuff down my fear she would die in my arms. She only fell asleep.<br />
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Yet in a day of so many contrasts—my painfully white skin, for one, as I just hoped I wouldn’t cause more harm parading into these sacred spaces—perhaps it was only fitting that I would view such hope. That afternoon ten women gathered beneath a tin roof. They crowded around a teacher we'd found of a beautiful and unique form of basket weaving from local materials. I found myself grateful for her quiet, gentle tones, easy on these struggling women’s ears. I listened as my friend counseled them toward diligence, excellence, and careful savings.<br />
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At the risk of getting too sentimental on you here—it was as if not just a basket, but hope, too, were slowly being pieced together as the women leaned around it.<br />
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My brain is still detangling what I saw last week, recalled repeatedly in the continued tasks of our basket project and our machinations to help the starving family. Part of me doesn’t want to forget the knobs of the girl’s spine, or her naked ribs beneath my hands. Sometimes I think we are asked to mourn with God over the great loss in this world.<br />
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<a data-mce-href="http://www.agenerousgrace.com/2016/05/17/with-african-eyes/" href="http://www.agenerousgrace.com/2016/05/17/with-african-eyes/">It's relatively easy to thank God around my satisfied stomach, with my loving husband and educated children</a>. But I looked for the goodness of God there in the slums of Namuwongo, somewhere among the kilometer-long landfill with huts perching atop, or the alarming swarms of children with jerrycans around contaminated water sources.<br />
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And this is what I know: I saw God in hope.<br />
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I saw Him in the clean bathrooms constructed and maintained by Hope for Children, and the mothers relieved because nearly 150 students are sponsored there. I saw Him in the man recycling plastic bottles plucked from the refuse, forming paving stones. I witnessed Him in Maama Violet, our group’s leader, who trudges those 10-12 miles near daily, vigilantly monitoring her charges and, like that day, occasionally tucking new ones beneath her brown wings. And when I am tempted to question God about that battered family, I remember He heard their prayers, bringing not only this group of social workers, but also police to her door that night on her behalf.<br />
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Rather than evidence God plugs His hears, Namuwongo felt stocked with reminders that He listens intently and responds ardently, despite circumstances or the choices of ourselves or others that plunge us into darkness. Sometimes, His hope is delivered by human hands, or in meaningful work, or in another relieved recipient of daily bread. I have seen over and over that He is indeed the defender of the poor: <em>God will never forget the needy; the hope of the afflicted will never perish </em>(Psalm 9:18).<br />
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As much as God is evident in my neighborhood, He is just as fiercely present in Namuwongo.<b></b><i></i><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike>John and Janel Breitensteinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09922204773899069281noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5321461439707212517.post-65184137685568271872016-06-03T00:00:00.000-07:002016-06-03T00:00:20.959-07:00With African Eyes<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; background-color: white; border: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; color: #444444; font-family: Lato, sans-serif; font-size: 19.350000381469727px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: 32px; margin: 0px 0px 1.1em; orphans: auto; padding: 0px; text-align: left; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: auto; word-spacing: 0px;">
It was one of those weeks when the phrase from the Morton salt box from my childhood had to occasionally be batted from my mind: <em style="border: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; font-family: inherit; font-size: 19.350000381469727px; font-style: italic; font-weight: normal; line-height: 1; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;">When it rains, it pours.</em></div>
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It started on the way to the airport, where my husband would fly to Kenya for two weeks. (Perhaps you’re already seeing the writing on the wall with me.) That was when neither of our ATM cards were working; problematic in a nation nearly entirely functioning on cash. Of course, it wasn’t until paying for my parking that I realized I didn’t even have the eighty cents to make it out of the parking lot. (“Kids! Start looking under all the car mats! In the cupholders!” We were still about forty cents shy.)</div>
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<span id="more-1573" style="box-sizing: border-box; margin-bottom: 0px;"></span></div>
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The next day (thankfully not spending the night in the car park) <a href="http://www.agenerousgrace.com/2016/05/10/gods-leash/" style="-webkit-transition: all 0.1s ease-in-out; box-sizing: border-box; color: #a30015; outline: none; text-decoration: none; transition: all 0.1s ease-in-out;">was the day my son was hit on his bike by the motorcycle</a>. Liberally sprinkle in some hormones (that would be mine), mix vigorously with three rowdy boys without a father to wrestle them to the ground, marinate in intermittent water and power…and it was a recipe for one of those weeks where a momma resorts to Lamaze breathing. <em style="border: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; font-family: inherit; font-size: 19.350000381469727px; font-style: italic; font-weight: normal; line-height: 1; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;">Of course that would happen this week.</em></div>
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But part of the beauty, honestly, was living last week in Africa.</div>
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<img alt="kids+in+africa+at+school" class="size-medium wp-image-1579 alignleft" height="196" sizes="(max-width: 300px) 100vw, 300px" src="http://i0.wp.com/www.agenerousgrace.com/wp-content/uploads/2016/05/kidsinafricaatschool.jpg?resize=300%2C228" srcset="http://i0.wp.com/www.agenerousgrace.com/wp-content/uploads/2016/05/kidsinafricaatschool.jpg?resize=300%2C228 300w, http://i0.wp.com/www.agenerousgrace.com/wp-content/uploads/2016/05/kidsinafricaatschool.jpg?resize=768%2C584 768w, http://i0.wp.com/www.agenerousgrace.com/wp-content/uploads/2016/05/kidsinafricaatschool.jpg?resize=676%2C514 676w, http://i0.wp.com/www.agenerousgrace.com/wp-content/uploads/2016/05/kidsinafricaatschool.jpg?w=1010 1010w" style="border: 1px solid rgb(238, 238, 238); box-sizing: border-box; float: left; font-family: inherit; font-size: 19.350000381469727px; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; height: auto; line-height: 1; margin: 0px 1em 1.2em 0px; max-width: 40%; padding: 5px; text-align: left;" width="258" />It’s hard to complain about being 35 years old and having to bum gas money from a friend, when I have a car—and a cash source, once we get that pesky card issue straightened out. (<a href="http://www.tradingeconomics.com/uganda/motor-vehicles-per-1-000-people-wb-data.html" style="-webkit-transition: all 0.1s ease-in-out; box-sizing: border-box; color: #a30015; outline: none; text-decoration: none; transition: all 0.1s ease-in-out;">About .8% of Uganda owns a vehicle</a>.) It’s hard to be disgruntled about kid-wrangling on my own when a) my husband is serving God doing something he’s incredible at, and b) Uganda is flooded with single moms who have no rescuer scheduled for arrival in a week and a half. It’s hard to make too much of a deal at being without electricity, considering only 15% of the country is wired for it. It’s hard to make too much of my son walking away from his accident with an injured arm, in light of the <a href="http://en.rfi.fr/africa/20120325-boda-boda-ride-silent-killer-uganda" style="-webkit-transition: all 0.1s ease-in-out; box-sizing: border-box; color: #a30015; outline: none; text-decoration: none; transition: all 0.1s ease-in-out;">roughly five deaths per day from motorbikes in the capital city alone</a>, or the <a href="http://www.theguardian.com/global-development/2013/aug/13/uganda-motorbike-deaths-road-safety-boda-bodas" style="-webkit-transition: all 0.1s ease-in-out; box-sizing: border-box; color: #a30015; margin-bottom: 0px; outline: none; text-decoration: none; transition: all 0.1s ease-in-out;">40% of taxi-related trauma cases at the main hospital.</a></div>
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Author Kristen Welch writes in<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span><a href="http://amzn.to/1se8Yws" style="-webkit-transition: all 0.1s ease-in-out; box-sizing: border-box; color: #a30015; margin-bottom: 0px; outline: none; text-decoration: none; transition: all 0.1s ease-in-out;">Raising Grateful Kids in an Entitled World</a>, “Nothing makes us more grateful than perspective. Nothing. I think it’s the key to loosening the chains of entitlement in our culture.”</div>
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Welch tells of her daughter begging for a new toy she longed for.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span><em style="border: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; font-family: inherit; font-size: 19.350000381469727px; font-style: italic; font-weight: normal; line-height: 1; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;">Everybody has one, Mom.</em></div>
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I have so much respect for Kristen’s reply:</div>
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“Well, do you think Ephantus [one of the children we’ve sponsored for years from Ethiopia] has one?”</div>
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She thought quietly. “No, his house isn’t even as big as my room.”…</div>
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<strong style="box-sizing: border-box; margin-bottom: 0px;">“Honey…If we are going to compare ourselves to those who have more, we must also compare ourselves to those who have less.”</strong></div>
</blockquote>
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Clearly the goal isn’t to compare ourselves with one another anyway, but rather to cast a wide, truthful net as we search for what’s ideal. As more than one person has tearfully told me as they prepare to go back to the West, <em style="border: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; font-family: inherit; font-size: 19.350000381469727px; font-style: italic; font-weight: normal; line-height: 1; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;">I don’t want to forget.</em> If roughly <a href="http://www.statisticbrain.com/world-poverty-statistics/" style="-webkit-transition: all 0.1s ease-in-out; box-sizing: border-box; color: #a30015; margin-bottom: 0px; outline: none; text-decoration: none; transition: all 0.1s ease-in-out;">80% of the world is in poverty,<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></a>it is indeed the majority world.</div>
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See, Africa has marked me.</div>
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It has not altered me in a way that most people who see me will ever witness, though the difference is almost bodily. It’s as if I’d had eye surgery, and the world would never look the same, or as if I carried constantly a sensation in my right hand. And its mark is indelible, now, on my decisions; my perspective. (I’ve wondered if Jesus tells us to invite the lame and the blind to our parties partly to give us just that.)</div>
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<a href="http://www.agenerousgrace.com/2015/12/29/the-2015-list/" style="-webkit-transition: all 0.1s ease-in-out; box-sizing: border-box; color: #a30015; outline: none; text-decoration: none; transition: all 0.1s ease-in-out;">I wrote in this post</a> that looking back, sometimes I tend to shove some events into the category of “I want to forget” instead of <a href="http://agenerousgrace.com/2015/12/22/reflections-on-a-christmas-robbery/" style="-webkit-transition: all 0.1s ease-in-out; box-sizing: border-box; color: #a30015; outline: none; text-decoration: none; transition: all 0.1s ease-in-out;">training my eyes to find God in all that happened.</a> As C.S. Lewis pens in <em style="border: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; font-family: inherit; font-size: 19.350000381469727px; font-style: italic; font-weight: normal; line-height: 1; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;">The Magician’s Nephew</em>,</div>
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What you see and what you hear depends a great deal on where you are standing. It also depends on what sort of person you are.</div>
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A quote I once read from novelist Elizabeth Berg does remind me, <em style="border: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; font-family: inherit; font-size: 19.350000381469727px; font-style: italic; font-weight: normal; line-height: 1; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;">The person with the bleeding finger doesn’t hurt less for the person next to him with the bleeding arm.</em> <a href="http://www.agenerousgrace.com/2016/04/26/the-necessity-of-talking-to-yourself-and-not-just-listening/" style="-webkit-transition: all 0.1s ease-in-out; box-sizing: border-box; color: #a30015; margin-bottom: 0px; outline: none; text-decoration: none; transition: all 0.1s ease-in-out;">And there’s still value (spirituality included) to be had in my honesty that last week was discouraging; angering; painful</a>. I’m not seeking to encourage anyone to gloss over what hurts; dishonesty doesn’t set us free. But perspective, and gratitude…?</div>
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Last week, they just might have set me free.</div>
<b></b><i></i><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike><br />John and Janel Breitensteinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09922204773899069281noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5321461439707212517.post-22747810898376906102016-05-29T23:50:00.003-07:002016-05-29T23:50:34.312-07:00God's Leash<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; background-color: white; border: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; color: #444444; font-family: Lato, sans-serif; font-size: 19.350000381469727px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: 32px; margin: 0px 0px 1.1em; orphans: auto; padding: 0px; text-align: left; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: auto; word-spacing: 0px;">
A few Sunday afternoons ago, while on his bicycle, my eleven-year-old was hit by a motorcycle.</div>
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While he was applying his brakes, sliding on rust-colored mud into the intersection, I was at home, deciding I would take a Sunday nap. I’d barely closed my eyes when one of my children called my name. This happens quite frequently, as one might imagine, and my husband has lightly chided me on contributing to our children’s entitlement with my jumpiness to their needs. So I waited to see if they’d come get me. I don’t remember what finally tipped me off that this was not the typical, “She won’t share the biiiike!”</div>
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I didn’t expect the stranger at the gate, or my weeping son, clutching his shoulder, a small tear in the new shirt his grandma had brought over from the U.S. The sight of his mangled front tire unsettled me; somehow torqued metal seems to accentuate the gravity of an accident, alluding that our limping bodies don’t tell the whole story.</div>
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The congregated neighbors at the intersection made me jittery; past experiences cause me to associate African mobs at accidents with trouble. I waved and shouted my thanks, my stomach clutching further in my cultural bewilderment in these situations, then ducked into the safety of my compound to tend to my son.</div>
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I wish that I was one of those people who is a rock when crisis descends upon them. Though at times I have been this person—in this particular instance, already flustered by other preceding circumstances, I was a bit unhinged. A thousand thoughts collided. What kind of mother was I? My husband was in Kenya…should I take my son for X-rays? Was I foolish not to? I didn’t have access to cash since my ATM card wasn’t working… What if it had been just half a second later, or one foot further?</div>
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I prayed together with the kids, my voice throaty and breaking as I held my son in the cool of the hall. The verse clanging in my mind:</div>
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<div style="border: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; font-family: inherit; font-size: 19.350000381469727px; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 32px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;">
<em style="border: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; font-family: inherit; font-size: 19.350000381469727px; font-style: italic; font-weight: normal; line-height: 1; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;">Fear not, for I have redeemed you;<br style="box-sizing: border-box;" />I have called you by name, you are mine.<br style="box-sizing: border-box;" /><strong style="box-sizing: border-box; font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;"><sup style="border: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; font-family: inherit; font-size: 19.350000381469727px; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 1; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;">2 </sup></strong>When you pass through the waters, I will be with you;<br style="box-sizing: border-box;" />and through the rivers, they shall not overwhelm you;<br style="box-sizing: border-box;" />when you walk through fire you shall not be burned,<br style="box-sizing: border-box; margin-bottom: 0px;" />and the flame shall not consume you.</em></div>
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Here is what I know. When God responds to Job, He speaks of the boundaries He sets for the sea. I imagine Him setting that great blade of His palm in the cradle of land just before a beach. In my mind, the waters roll up to it and immediately relinquish their strength.</div>
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He prescribes the seasons for the snow. Everything, from the wind to the gestation months of a deer, He says, He has placed boundaries on with His hand.</div>
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All of this power—and pain, I see with Job, and suffering—are on His leash. His hand says,<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span><em style="border: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; font-family: inherit; font-size: 19.350000381469727px; font-style: italic; font-weight: normal; line-height: 1; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;">You stop here.</em></div>
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I see this in His promise to Abraham—that Abraham’s descendants will return to the Promised Land after 400 years; because the Amorites’ sin “is not yet complete.” (This theme cycles through prophecy of the end times of Earth.) I see it in His cryptic statement to Peter, that Satan has<em style="border: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; font-family: inherit; font-size: 19.350000381469727px; font-style: italic; font-weight: normal; line-height: 1; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>asked</em><span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>to sift Peter like wheat. I see it in Job, when Satan must present His ideas to God—who of course has already hijacked them for His own purposes.</div>
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My problem always seems to be with the<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span><em style="border: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; font-family: inherit; font-size: 19.350000381469727px; font-style: italic; font-weight: normal; line-height: 1; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;">length</em><span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>of said leash. Why not prevent the evil and pain entirely? Why not, say, prevent my son’s tears and my heartache altogether?</div>
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Today, as I<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span><span style="box-sizing: border-box; text-decoration: line-through;">ran</span><span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span><span style="box-sizing: border-box; text-decoration: line-through;">jogged</span><span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>jog/walked to<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span><a href="http://podbay.fm/show/352660924/e/1456441200?autostart=1" style="-webkit-transition: all 0.1s ease-in-out; box-sizing: border-box; color: #a30015; outline: none; text-decoration: none; transition: all 0.1s ease-in-out;">a podcast, I appreciated Tim Keller’s</a> illustration of a baby wailing in the delivery room. The child is thinking,<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span><em style="border: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; font-family: inherit; font-size: 19.350000381469727px; font-style: italic; font-weight: normal; line-height: 1; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;">I was fine. I was warm. I was safe. I was happy and fed. And now you’re slapping me and blood is everywhere and I am upside down.</em><span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>But from outside the infant’s perspective, all of this is for the child’s well-being. All medical professionals are focused on the baby, to bring it from infancy to maturity and thriving.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span><em style="border: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; font-family: inherit; font-size: 19.350000381469727px; font-style: italic; font-weight: normal; line-height: 1; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;">All of this, child, is for your well-being and good and flourishing.</em></div>
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After the tenor of Sunday’s chaos had muted to a dull throb, I held my tween son. Immediately after his accident, he had helped the woman who’d fallen off the taxi. I was proud of him. There as we talked, I felt a twinge of what I’d asked for with my son: connection, and that I would continue to have his heart as he developed into a man in this funky handful of years before us.</div>
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I thanked God that today, His leash stopped with an arm treatable with pain medication; with a wonky bike wheel that now sits round and again well-used in my driveway. That after making the rounds, I’d connected further with my neighbors and the honorable driver who brought my son and his bike home rather than running off. That my son was alive and teary and warm beside me. That today, His leash unfurled to a place I could understand—but and was deeply good even when I didn’t have that luxury.</div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; background-color: white; border: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; color: #444444; font-family: Lato, sans-serif; font-size: 19.350000381469727px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: 32px; margin: 0px 0px 1.1em; orphans: auto; padding: 0px; text-align: center; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: auto; word-spacing: 0px;">
<em style="border: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; font-family: inherit; font-size: 19.350000381469727px; font-style: italic; font-weight: normal; line-height: 1; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;">The Lord is my chosen portion and my cup;<br style="box-sizing: border-box; margin-bottom: 0px;" />you hold my lot.</em></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; background-color: white; border: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; color: #444444; font-family: Lato, sans-serif; font-size: 19.350000381469727px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: 32px; margin: 0px 0px 1.1em; orphans: auto; padding: 0px; text-align: center; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: auto; word-spacing: 0px;">
<em style="border: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; font-family: inherit; font-size: 19.350000381469727px; font-style: italic; font-weight: normal; line-height: 1; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;">The lines have fallen for me in pleasant places;<br style="box-sizing: border-box; margin-bottom: 0px;" />indeed, I have a beautiful inheritance.</em></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; background-color: white; border: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; color: #444444; font-family: Lato, sans-serif; font-size: 19.350000381469727px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: 32px; margin: 0px 0px 1.1em; orphans: auto; padding: 0px; text-align: center; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: auto; word-spacing: 0px;">
Psalm 16</div>
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<em style="border: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; font-family: inherit; font-size: 19.350000381469727px; font-style: italic; font-weight: normal; line-height: 1; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;"><strong style="box-sizing: border-box; font-style: italic; font-weight: bold; margin-bottom: 0px;">Like this post? You might like</strong></em></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; background-color: white; border: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; color: #444444; font-family: Lato, sans-serif; font-size: 19.350000381469727px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: 32px; margin: 0px 0px 1.1em; orphans: auto; padding: 0px; text-align: left; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: auto; word-spacing: 0px;">
<em style="border: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; font-family: inherit; font-size: 19.350000381469727px; font-style: italic; font-weight: normal; line-height: 1; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;"><strong style="box-sizing: border-box; font-style: italic; font-weight: bold; margin-bottom: 0px;"><a href="http://www.agenerousgrace.com/2015/12/22/reflections-on-a-christmas-robbery/" style="-webkit-transition: all 0.1s ease-in-out; box-sizing: border-box; color: #a30015; margin-bottom: 0px; outline: none; text-decoration: none; transition: all 0.1s ease-in-out;" target="_blank">Reflections on a Christmas robbery</a></strong></em></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; background-color: white; border: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; color: #444444; font-family: Lato, sans-serif; font-size: 19.350000381469727px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: 32px; margin: 0px 0px 1.1em; orphans: auto; padding: 0px; text-align: left; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: auto; word-spacing: 0px;">
<em style="border: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; font-family: inherit; font-size: 19.350000381469727px; font-style: italic; font-weight: normal; line-height: 1; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;"><strong style="box-sizing: border-box; font-style: italic; font-weight: bold; margin-bottom: 0px;"><a href="http://www.agenerousgrace.com/2015/10/26/when-i-dont-get-god/" style="-webkit-transition: all 0.1s ease-in-out; box-sizing: border-box; color: #a30015; margin-bottom: 0px; outline: none; text-decoration: none; transition: all 0.1s ease-in-out;" target="_blank">When I don’t get God</a></strong></em></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; background-color: white; border: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; color: #444444; font-family: Lato, sans-serif; font-size: 19.350000381469727px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: 32px; margin: 0px 0px 1.1em; orphans: auto; padding: 0px; text-align: left; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: auto; word-spacing: 0px;">
<a href="http://www.agenerousgrace.com/2015/12/29/the-2015-list/" style="-webkit-transition: all 0.1s ease-in-out; box-sizing: border-box; color: #a30015; margin-bottom: 0px; outline: none; text-decoration: none; transition: all 0.1s ease-in-out;"><em style="border: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; font-family: inherit; font-size: 19.350000381469727px; font-style: italic; font-weight: normal; line-height: 1; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;"><strong style="box-sizing: border-box; font-style: italic; font-weight: bold; margin-bottom: 0px;">The 2015 list</strong></em></a></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; background-color: white; border: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; color: #444444; font-family: Lato, sans-serif; font-size: 19.350000381469727px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: 32px; margin: 0px 0px 1.1em; orphans: auto; padding: 0px; text-align: left; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: auto; word-spacing: 0px;">
<em style="border: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; font-family: inherit; font-size: 19.350000381469727px; font-style: italic; font-weight: normal; line-height: 1; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;"><strong style="box-sizing: border-box; font-style: italic; font-weight: bold; margin-bottom: 0px;"><a href="http://www.agenerousgrace.com/2015/11/27/dont-waste-the-waiting/" style="-webkit-transition: all 0.1s ease-in-out; box-sizing: border-box; color: #a30015; margin-bottom: 0px; outline: none; text-decoration: none; transition: all 0.1s ease-in-out;" target="_blank">Don’t waste the waiting</a></strong></em></div>
<b></b><i></i><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike><br />John and Janel Breitensteinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09922204773899069281noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5321461439707212517.post-57193228750469878262016-03-08T04:36:00.001-08:002016-03-08T04:36:50.003-08:00Waiting for rainI have been waiting.<br />
<br />
The dust, fine and red, coats the plants lining our roads. Sweat beads on my upper lip. Last night as my children lay awake in bed, I stuck my head in and reminded them to keep guzzling plenty of water, after a friend of theirs landed in the clinic for dehydration. Cooking in the warm afternoons in my kitchen, with my hair twisted off my neck, I’ve been praying, coaxing the weather. <em>C’mon, rainy season.</em><br />
<br />
<img alt="waiting for rain" class="wp-image-1378 aligncenter" height="347" sizes="(max-width: 521px) 100vw, 521px" src="http://i2.wp.com/www.agenerousgrace.com/wp-content/uploads/2016/03/waiting-for-rain.jpg?resize=676%2C450" width="521" /><br />
<br />
I suppose it parallels my parched insides the last few weeks. So many tasks to which I put my hand seemed to droop, languishing and limp. The cost-benefit ratio of my parenting, my career, and a handful of relationships seemed tilting precariously in the wrong direction. It’s funny how failure stirs up silty questions that had lain quiet in the soul.<br />
<br />
<em>What am I doing here? Why am I doing this? Does any of what I do matter?</em><br />
<br />
A friend this past week had mentioned how, when we trust God in the dark, it’s amazing how so many things begin to happen.<br />
<br />
Honestly? I was thinking, what about the times when you trust big, and nothing big happens? What about when everything feels sluggish, fruitless, and cracked?<br />
<br />
Perhaps part of my withered outlook were the weeks I’d been away from the class I teach--I love!--at the refugee center. I’ve been prepping to do something new—something that wasn’t a slam dunk, but more of a venture; a sizeable, gulp-worthy leap. I was moving away from what worked, leaving that in the care of other teachers. I was opting for something that could either produce exciting results—life-changing ones in my students, I hoped—but that could also wilt in my hand. The stakes felt high.<br />
<br />
Normally, I’m not beyond attempting items in the “are you <em>loco</em>?” category. But now, I wasn’t sure if I could stomach more mediocre, questionable results.<br />
<br />
Yesterday, in faith of the rainy season—which in truth, has occasionally tarried until April (April!)—my ten-year-old and I transplanted a purple, spiky, unidentified shrub. He is anxious to use his new gardening tools, but cannot plant all his little seeds (“Jalapenos, Mom!”) until the season arrives. So he gleefully dumped black soil in the gaping mouth of the pot; gently nestled the plant in place; watered. I love the metaphor in these grubby, earthy actions: <em>I planted, Apollos watered, but God made it grow.</em><br />
<i><br /></i>
It wasn’t lost on me. No matter how carefully my son tends his garden, no matter how he prepares, growth is ultimately out of his hands. Out of mine.<br />
<br />
And two friends reminded me gently, <em>What if we redefine </em>success<em> to mean “faithfulness”? Sure, God wants us to get excited about results, too. He’s designed purpose for us. But don’t forget the “fruit” in His eyes starts long before what we see.</em><br />
<br />
This morning, I stirred in the early hours to a rushing sound outside of my flung-open windows; a deep rumbling had brought at least one child to bring pillows and blankets to the floor around our bed. And yes! The sunrise was grayed by pouring <em>rain</em>, sluicing down the sidewalk. I pulled the sheets taut around my shoulders.<br />
<br />
And today, grinning and bubbling over, I addressed my new class. Somewhere, amidst the raised hands and laughter, I thought, <em>I can’t believe I get to do this job. </em>I felt the term’s potential ripening in my hands, sweet and red.<br />
<br />
<em><span class="chapter-2"><span class="text Ps-25-1">To you, O <span class="small-caps">Lord</span>, I lift up my soul…</span></span><span class="text Ps-25-3" id="en-ESV-14255">Indeed, none who wait for you shall be put to shame. </span></em><br />
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<strong style="font-weight: bold !important;"><em>Like this? You might like</em></strong></div>
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<strong style="font-weight: bold !important;"><em><a data-mce-href="http://www.agenerousgrace.com/2015/11/27/dont-waste-the-waiting/" href="http://www.agenerousgrace.com/2015/11/27/dont-waste-the-waiting/" style="color: #1abc9c;">Don't Waste the Waiting</a></em></strong></div>
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<strong style="font-weight: bold !important;"><em><a data-mce-href="http://www.agenerousgrace.com/2015/06/12/god-as-a-good-luck-charm-or-where-was-god-when-i-totally-failed/" href="http://www.agenerousgrace.com/2015/06/12/god-as-a-good-luck-charm-or-where-was-god-when-i-totally-failed/" style="color: #1abc9c;">God as a Good-luck Charm (Or, Where Was God When I Totally Failed?)</a></em></strong></div>
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<strong style="font-weight: bold !important;"><em><a data-mce-href="http://www.agenerousgrace.com/2016/02/13/god-loves-strugglers/" href="http://www.agenerousgrace.com/2016/02/13/god-loves-strugglers/" style="color: #1abc9c;">God Loves Strugglers</a></em></strong></div>
<b></b><i></i><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike>John and Janel Breitensteinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09922204773899069281noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5321461439707212517.post-83371591554869537402016-02-09T08:45:00.000-08:002016-02-09T08:45:25.168-08:00The stories He writes<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjW2WmfqDAbyAyMGT1ysJzxAjSylbaLsUR00sMIRL9cnBZEEVkYNI1_W4bQSZLxJp3Tcp6JAEwdSg7bfyL2E-ltDEsedt9klOahq5DdEuuRqbTIfOY8pIAjhcG7KXz6URcQTwvRAgk4aWeX/s1600/the+stories+he+writes.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjW2WmfqDAbyAyMGT1ysJzxAjSylbaLsUR00sMIRL9cnBZEEVkYNI1_W4bQSZLxJp3Tcp6JAEwdSg7bfyL2E-ltDEsedt9klOahq5DdEuuRqbTIfOY8pIAjhcG7KXz6URcQTwvRAgk4aWeX/s400/the+stories+he+writes.jpg" width="400" /></a><br />
It’s strange being back here, in this place.<br />
<br />
I can still see the Nile directly out the window, though my husband and I actually stayed in the <em>banda</em> next door that night. They still leave in triplicate the same brand of packaged soap in the bathroom. I remember how the Nile had stretched before us in the morning, pink sunlight pooling on its surface while men fished from canoes hollowed from logs. On the banks, monkeys leapt like kamikazes from limb to limb. The scene is the same four years later. I remember crying, weeping, actually, from this very porch that night after dark under a spangled sky. I had been so very excited; so very afraid.<br />
I was wondering if God was asking us to come to Africa.<br />
<br />
<br />
Tonight I stood on the same small peninsula to which I’d walked with my husband. But on this night, our group from the refugee center sang worship songs, and I bumbled along when it was in languages I couldn’t even identify. There was something wholesome and good about hearing praise authored in their own language, spilling from someone’s heart like that. We sat on woven mats and talked about the love of God, about the lies we believe about it, about the stories He writes in our lives. And—looking how far he’s brought my family and me—I marveled.<br />
<br />
Moving to Africa, as much as I was flabbergasted that the dream would come true, also crumpled me with fear inside. Even more than my fear of the harrowing traffic (which, let’s face it, still holds its own little flame of terror in my heart): my fear that God would take the life of one of my children.<br />
My trepidation was enough that six months after we moved here, when my son fainted as we measured muffin ingredients for breakfast, I screamed and woke the entire house. I actually remember thinking, <em>Is this it? Is this when God takes one of my kids?</em><br />
<br />
Four years later, we have weathered malaria, weird tropical illnesses, <a href="http://everthinehome.com/safety-amidst-al-shabaab/" target="_blank"><span style="color: #a30015;">a terrorist threat</span></a>, and troubles closer to home. But even listing them out now honestly feels a little lame. Something about living around people in poverty, or working with refugees who packed only a suitcase and shattering losses to cross the border, makes you realize you are most certainly not the hero here. (He’s much bigger.)<br />
Nevertheless—there is nothing like God writing your family’s story. Somehow four years later, with this place holding very little fear and so much promise and beauty, I comprehend Jesus’ words more than ever: “My food is to do the will of him who sent me and to accomplish his work” (John 4:34). I get how it’s fuel for the soul. I know well how it sustains and comforts and invigorates in unthinkable triumphs and unspeakable pain.<br />
<br />
As a writer, I carry a keen appreciation for the creative mastermind behind a rip-roaring story with a timeless moral, with perfectly tuned characters I could never dream of myself. My Kindle books are full of highlights of brilliant turns of phrase, of vocabulary and characterization I applaud. But as I sit back and look at the stories God authors, each one far surpasses the human mind. Truth is so much more astounding than fiction. No novel could ever adequately appreciate the ways God’s engineered the intricate, elaborate paths that make up <em>us</em>. How He handpicks circumstances and conversations to mold lives into striking works of art our younger selves wouldn’t recognize. How he architects the world for the sake of His great name.<br />
<br />
The African worship leader there on the peninsula did interpret one of the songs’ lyrics, <em>Wahambanati,</em> written in Zulu. (I think it was after she insisted that us three white ladies needed to dance out of the fullness of our hearts for God just like everyone else.)<br />
<br />
She explained, “It means, ‘God, you have walked with us this whole way.’”<br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<em>For we are His workmanship [His own master work, a work of art], </em></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<em>created in Christ Jesus [reborn from above—spiritually transformed, renewed, ready to be used] for good works, </em></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<em>which God prepared [for us] beforehand [taking paths which He set], </em></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<em>so that we would walk in them [living the good life which He prearranged and made ready for us].</em></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Ephesians 2:10, Amplified Bible<b></b><i></i><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike></div>
John and Janel Breitensteinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09922204773899069281noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5321461439707212517.post-51797171334461091712015-12-21T22:36:00.000-08:002015-12-21T22:36:28.497-08:00Reflections on a Christmas Robbery<img alt="Christmas robbery" class="alignnone size-full wp-image-1068" src="https://agenerousgrace.files.wordpress.com/2015/12/christmas-robbery.jpg?w=676" />My husband and I, kids in tow, were maneuvering at a snail’s pace through a traffic jam in our trusty high-clearance minivan. Our speakers happily trumpeted the Christmas CD my mom had sent, and we chatted, our energy high for our Christmas shopping in the city and the Christmas party of our non-profit (which, with the barbecue and kids running around in shorts, tends to look a little more like the Fourth of July). It was sometime after “Let it Snow” that our heads all swiveled to the driver’s side, where a man was banging—hard—on the outside of our van. Never a good sign in Kampala.<br />
<br />
And that’s when his partner whipped open my car door and swiftly grabbed my bag slouched at my feet. My casserole dish skidded across the pavement as I unbuckled without thinking, standing between the unmoving lanes and yelling something very helpful, like, <em>“HEY!”</em> as he and his cronies ran away with my reading device, my phone, the drivers’ licenses from both countries, and our house keys.<br />
<br />
I make it sound lighthearted, typing to you over a week later. But really, I just started sobbing, my hands shaking–which probably frightened my children just as much as the stranger flinging open the car door.<br />
<br />
Truthfully, the highlight of my day took place about thirty seconds after that lowlight. My eleven-year-old: “Guys, it looks like mom is really upset right now. Let’s all pray.”<br />
<br />
You know, when he was born, all of the parenting magazines kept telling me how to keep him safe from everything: from choking, from bullies, from cyberspace. And keeping our children safe is a godly desire. But I’m also reminded that God’s “faith school” for my kids is so good, to teach them, even while they are quite young, who He is in suffering. As a friend wrote me this week, <em>The very thing we would protect our children from experiencing may be the very thing that God wants to use in their lives now so that when they are adults, they’ll know how to respond to crisis.</em><br />
<br />
That He gives, and He takes away, and we can sing Christmas carols with full hearts afterwards. That this isn’t a “when bad things happen to good people” kind of thing. From dust I came—and hell I deserve.<br />
<br />
After the police report, after the two hours spent at the phone company, after breaking in to our own house, my emotions were as tangled and frazzled as my hair.<br />
<br />
For one, all of my muscle to make it to the end of the year in a foreign country felt suddenly spent—a year complete with <a href="http://johnandjanel.blogspot.ug/2015/05/the-accident.html" target="_blank">harrowing accident</a> and move to a new neighborhood and all the little pecked-to-death-by-a-duck cultural frustrations. The sledgehammer in my heart had fallen, and the bell at “WEARY” dinged.<br />
<br />
I felt vulnerable. Violated. Stupid. Shaken.<br />
<br />
And still—I kept thinking, <em>This is why He came. This is why we need Christmas. </em>Not for some vague, nebulous, Christmas-movie “Christmas is about giving! The Christmas spirit is in our hearts!”<br />
<br />
Because it is—but it isn’t. We needed Him because Christmas—an unselfish, give-till-it-doesn’t-make-sense, fatal rescue mission—was <em>not</em> in us as we mourned in lonely exile here, basting in our own junk and selfishness, as both victim and criminal.<br />
<br />
He, too, was here to help, and people wanted to take what they could get for themselves. He was subject to far more injustice and hate than a purse-snatching. He bore so much more grief than I have, so that my treasure could be not in a purse or an iPhone, but in a place untouched by thieves and tears.<br />
<br />
This is only a pinprick of suffering. But still, it was as if His hand rested on my slightly-slumped shoulder this morning when I happened on C.S. Lewis’ words from <em>The Magician’s Nephew. </em>Somehow it reminds me that “faith school” though it may be, God’s pain in the midst of my pain is real: that I am not merely a project to be sanctified, but a child who is loved after a crime.<br />
<blockquote>
“But please, please–won’t you–can’t you give me something that will cure Mother?’</blockquote>
<br />
<blockquote>
Up till then he had been looking at the Lion’s great feet and the huge claws on them; now, in his despair, he looked up at its face. What he saw surprised him as much as anything in his whole life. For the tawny face was bent down near his own and (wonder of wonders) great shining tears stood in the Lion’s eyes. They were such big, bright tears compared with Digory’s own that for a moment he felt as if the Lion must really be sorrier about his Mother than he was himself.</blockquote>
<br />
<blockquote>
‘My son, my son,’ said Aslan. ‘I know. Grief is great.”</blockquote>
<br />
And so I find that this Christmas is yet again painting in vivid strokes that <em>God is with us,</em> wrapping our injured flesh around him, breathing our air and walking our sod.* Thank God for Christmas.<b></b><i></i><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike><br />
<br />
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*Lyrics from<em> Welcome to Our World,</em> by Chris Rice.<b></b><i></i><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike>John and Janel Breitensteinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09922204773899069281noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5321461439707212517.post-47369942879607863602015-11-26T11:10:00.006-08:002015-11-26T11:10:59.133-08:00Thanksgiving memos from a bunch of refugees<div style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;">
<img alt="refugees 1" class=" wp-image-872 alignleft" height="279" originalh="279" originalw="373" scale="1.5" src-orig="https://agenerousgrace.files.wordpress.com/2015/11/refugees-1.jpg?w=373&h=279" src="https://agenerousgrace.files.wordpress.com/2015/11/refugees-1.jpg?w=560&h=420" width="373" /></div>
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<em>Author’s note: This post, originally appearing on <a href="http://www.agenerousgrace.com/" target="_blank">my other blog</a>, is not at all intended to be a political statement regarding <a href="https://www.washingtonpost.com/news/acts-of-faith/wp/2015/11/19/stop-pitting-security-and-compassion-against-each-other-in-the-syrian-refugee-crisis/">the recent controversy over refugees (see this article for a Christian point of view on the tension between security and compassion). It’s simply a memo to myself as I look at Thanksgiving this year, in light of what I’ve learned from the crazy-fun group of refugees I teach on a weekly basis here in Uganda.</a></em><br />
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Sometimes I’m as much a student of them as they are of me, as they sprawl in their chairs there in the sticky heat or the lazy afternoon sun.<br />
<br />
Sometimes when they stand next to me, I have nothing to do but laugh out loud at the picture we must make: me with my German build and American clothing, my skin that best stay out of the sun after fifteen minutes, sky-colored eyes—and them, some even built like ebony marionettes, towering above me at six feet-two or –four, their toothy ivory grins and an arm around my shoulder, their tribal language to a friend resounding like African drums.<br />
<br /></div>
<em>Author’s note: This post is not at all intended to be a political statement regarding <a href="https://www.washingtonpost.com/news/acts-of-faith/wp/2015/11/19/stop-pitting-security-and-compassion-against-each-other-in-the-syrian-refugee-crisis/">the recent controversy over refugees (see this article for a Christian point of view on the tension between security and compassion).</a> It’s simply a memo to myself as I look at Thanksgiving this year, in light of what I’ve learned from the crazy-fun group of refugees I teach on a weekly basis here in Uganda.</em><br />
Sometimes I’m as much a student of them as they are of me, as they sprawl in their chairs there in the sticky heat or the lazy afternoon sun.<br />
<br />
And so I think of them this year, even as I look online for the best recipes for our feast with friends. Thanksgiving is a bit of a personal journal on the year for me. It seems like a good occasion to contemplate the year stretching behind me: What has God done? How do I remember Him being faithful? What must I be vigilant not to miss?<br />
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<br />
So my friends who have fled here from all over East Africa have reminded me, just from their own stories, the journal of their own lives. <em>Don’t forget.</em> <em>Count every single one of your blessings.</em><br />
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Count, they would tell me, your ability to speak fluid English—the doors it opens for you, the jobs it gets, the ease it provides you in so many places around the world.<br />
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Teacher, count that you have been born in a time of relative peace in your country, not war. That justice is often done when you go to the police or in your courts; that people do not have to take the law into their own hands. Justice in your country also means most of your friends and/or relatives are still living; thriving, even.<br />
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And that because of all this, you have received an education—and not just any education. You went to a school that has books and lunch and can make photocopies and has less than thirty students per class!<br />
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Count that your basic education means you know basic first aid, means you have a certain degree of reasoning and logic skills. That you have a mass of essential knowledge that, even finding yourself in a place of sudden poverty (the developing-world kind), would not leave you there for long.<br />
You can be thankful, Teacher, that your life expectancy is beyond 49.<a href="http://agenerousgrace.com/2015/11/24/thanksgiving-memos-from-a-bunch-of-refugees/#_ftn1" name="_ftnref1">[1]</a> That in your country, if someone steals, they keep both of their hands.<a href="http://agenerousgrace.com/2015/11/24/thanksgiving-memos-from-a-bunch-of-refugees/#_ftn2" name="_ftnref2">[2]</a><br />
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My friend, count that your home has a floor, that you have a car and know how to drive it, that you have been to a dentist in your lifetime. Remember you can easily find doctors who know what they are doing; the money to pay them and not draw it from something else you need, like your child’s school fees.<br />
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Thank God, Teacher, that you got to choose your husband! And he is a good man, with a job, who has never laid an angry hand on you. That you got to choose your job. That you have driven on smooth, safe roads. That you don’t worry much about your children dying; that malaria is no longer in your country, or typhoid, or cholera, or ebola. You have clean water—in your own house, right from your own tap!<br />
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You might think these are simple things, Teacher. But to me, they are not. Thank your God for these things on Thursday. They are sweet things, Teacher. So sweet.<br />
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<a href="http://agenerousgrace.com/2015/11/24/thanksgiving-memos-from-a-bunch-of-refugees/#_ftnref1" name="_ftn1">[1]</a> This is life expectancy in the Congo. South Sudan is 54; Somalia is 55.<br />
<a href="http://agenerousgrace.com/2015/11/24/thanksgiving-memos-from-a-bunch-of-refugees/#_ftnref2" name="_ftn2">[2]</a> See <a href="https://simple.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sharia_law">Sharia law.</a><b></b><i></i><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike></div>
John and Janel Breitensteinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09922204773899069281noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5321461439707212517.post-66685564335287025482015-09-23T11:01:00.000-07:002015-09-23T11:01:06.272-07:00For the days when helping hurts [you]<span id="goog_1731108423"></span><span id="goog_1731108424"><i><br /></i></span><i>
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This post originally appeared on my (non-Africa) blog, </i><a href="http://www.agenerousgrace.com/"><i>A Generous Grace</i></a><i>.</i><br />
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At first, I thought she cheated my son.<br />
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But when, yielding to my call, she trudged back up the steep grade of our hill, my frustration softened. Her wide black eyes slid up to mine, her forehead glimmering in sweat. Her faded, two-sizes-too-large men’s T-shirt was pocked with holes. She must have been walking nearly the entirety of the morning in those foam shower slippers with the toes long gone and sizeable gaps in their soles. She was thirteen, though looked all of eleven.<br />
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After greeting her in the local language, I turned to my housekeeper for help with translation. The girl’s utter fatigue was readily apparent in her soft answers. According to my housekeeper, the girl in her exhaustion didn’t even look at the bill my son had handed her. She returned the change.<br />
As I pressed her gently with questions, we found that she and her siblings were orphans. It was challenging for her elderly, unemployed grandparents to feed them, so her brother was canvassing construction sites for odd jobs, and she walked the local neighborhoods selling <em>kabalagala</em> for two cents per banana cake.<br />
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My heart broke for this girl before me as my kids and I rushed to find her replacement flip-flops, a couple of shirts, a glass of water, a snack. Hearing her story, this seemed like a time for relief rather than development. So my housekeeper and I hatched a plan over the course of the next week, trying to best imagine what would help her family but not hurt them, cementing them further in poverty and dependence. When we all waved goodbye to the two motorcycles loaded with school supplies, soap, and other provisions, I was nothing short of giddy. I love this part of my life.<br />
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What I didn’t anticipate: the occasionally thrice-daily (always unannounced) visits of her brothers and cousins, sometimes with the two-month-old baby strapped to the seven- or nine-year-old’s back–smack in the middle of a nutso homeschool day, or my first guitar lesson (same undiapered baby who peed on my slacks during the lesson). I forgot they would lack skills to keep them from shoving my children, then laughing at them.<br />
<br />
I was honored by the surprise visit of thanks from their grandmother (er, a half an hour before my dinner guest arrived, with dinner waiting on the counter for me to finish prepping it…and for me to find some deodorant and a comb, fast). I was less prepared for the subtle pleas for school fees that the children didn’t have–not really the truth, I suspected and later confirmed. I was also bewildered when children were sent to lie on the family’s behalf, in hopes for more “help.”<br />
<br />
My heart twisted for days in a collision of emotions. I<strong> am convinced that for every success story of helping people in pain, there are exponentially more stories of failure, of unsuccessfully (whether we know it or not) failing to pull people from the cycles and behaviors and environments and choices that continue to enslave them.</strong> Does that sound cynical, or simply realistic?<br />
<br />
Here is what I know. <strong>When God commanded us to “lift every yoke”–I’m pretty sure He knew the recipients would have issues.</strong> He knew they’d have their own moments of greed, ingratitude, pride, obliviousness, manipulation, like the rest of us. And as much as I wholeheartedly support concepts like those in <a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/0802409989/ref=as_li_tl?ie=UTF8&camp=1789&creative=390957&creativeASIN=0802409989&linkCode=as2&tag=agengra-20&linkId=WSKLV3BTALTM54J2">When Helping Hurts: How to Alleviate Poverty Without Hurting the Poor . . . and Yourself</a><img alt="" border="0" src="http://ir-na.amazon-adsystem.com/e/ir?t=agengra-20&l=as2&o=1&a=0802409989" height="1" style="border: none !important; margin: 0!important;" width="1" /> (and strongly recommend it)–no matter our best techniques, helping people who suffer will almost always be just plain hard.<br />
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How do I know He knows? Well, because I’m not the rescuer, as David Platt points out.<br />
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<strong>I’m the rescued.</strong><br />
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I still return to my ruts of self-destruction, tearing others along with me. I’m still ungrateful, haughty, and enthralled with all the ways I “deserve” to be helped.<br />
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Maybe, like me, you’re in a place where helping has hurt you. You may be raw, reeling, weary, confused…or alternately angry, jaded, or cynical. Perhaps you can sense the blisters hardening into calluses, or perhaps you’ve decided you just don’t have what it takes anymore.<br />
<br />
In a very real way, I think I get you.<br />
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This week I am remembering God didn’t ask us to step into suffering and poverty and injustice only because it does–slowly and gruelingly as a rule–<em>change people</em>. It doesn’t just put a foot down against the disintegration sin’s visited upon every crevice of this world. As my mom has so often remarked with arm around my shoulder, <strong>God calls us to faithfulness, not success</strong>. Compassion broadcasts what our God is really like: He’s the God who Sees, who adopts our pain. He remembers, even when it bites Him back. He walks into it not stupidly, but willingly and fully.<br />
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Compassion changes someone else, too: me. I see it morphing my kids into brave young people who see, and aren’t afraid of giving without great personal loss. I see them shaping treasures that aren’t from this broken world.<br />
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And that kind of success lasts forever.John and Janel Breitensteinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09922204773899069281noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5321461439707212517.post-2020020416206808982015-08-15T13:10:00.001-07:002015-08-15T13:10:31.981-07:00Dinner with Monica<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyLGn6oak7fMlfmjl6P08Oau8w7MikWZT8N-dLD7inDfWA_uBCEktW0RWyMtvjInC-eE8is4jsMLYydcf8K-VYhpnUhWwhJkOre1P7SdEJO-Lo56NBf6ECBfu7Scs9QKLirzLfwCYbU6rM/s1600/dinner+with+monica+text.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyLGn6oak7fMlfmjl6P08Oau8w7MikWZT8N-dLD7inDfWA_uBCEktW0RWyMtvjInC-eE8is4jsMLYydcf8K-VYhpnUhWwhJkOre1P7SdEJO-Lo56NBf6ECBfu7Scs9QKLirzLfwCYbU6rM/s640/dinner+with+monica+text.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<i>This post originally appeared on my new blog, </i><a href="http://www.agenerousgrace.com/"><i>A Generous Grace.</i></a><br />
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Months ago now, my family and I were invited to my friend Monica’s home—an experienced nothing short of delightful for all of us. We guffawed at each others’ comments, scooped steaming heaps of food on plastic plates, relaxed. But what struck me was the nature of my friend’s entertaining.<br />
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Monica is a local Ugandan friend. We drove to her home on roads with so many potholes our heads nearly hit the roof, save the seatbelt. She and her five relatives resided in a single concrete room with a barred window.<br />
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With her characteristic wide smile and giddy chatter, she dished the food in a small area partitioned off from the shared bunk beds by hanging bedsheets. Perhaps two of the worn plastic plates matched, but it didn’t really matter as we sat outside on fraying, hand-woven mats and plastic chairs, chuckling over stories about the waggling ducks and chicks that poked for food nearby. The food was local fare: not American, but more than adequate, and a clear display of her exuberance to have us there. <br />
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Together we washed the forks with soap from a plastic jug of water tipped over the dirt, then divvied out the sliced fresh mangoes and watermelon to share.<br />
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By the time we bounced out in our minivan, windows rolled down, she was waving with her entire body and already asking us back.<br />
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<strong>I realized what made my friend’s hospitality sparkle: </strong>It wasn’t her serving dishes, her perfectly-tuned recipe, or the (absent) centerpiece that made our time quality.<strong> It was simply her desire to honor us, to give generously, to connect with us and enjoy a relationship. </strong><br />
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Now, my own artistic nature is energized creating that kind of atmosphere. The next night, in fact, I spread jars and bottles of flowers from my beds on the table, spent the afternoon chopping and simmering for a horde of guests.<br />
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But there are times when my stress and preoccupation from hosting—or, let’s be frank, my concern with my image—actually corrodes my original purpose of true fellowship, of deepened relationship. I’m not unlike my old friend from Luke 10, Martha, all concerned with preparations, and missing out on the privilege of my guest, the richness of his or her company.<br />
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Courtney Reissig puts it this way:<br />
<blockquote>
<em>The purpose of the home is to be a place of refuge, grace, and productivity—not a platform for me to prove what a great homemaker I am</em>.</blockquote>
<strong>I’m grateful to my friend for pulling out her best for us, but allowing the centerpiece to be her love for us and our friendship in Jesus.</strong> I’m thankful she allowed loose ends to fall where they may, and embraced my husband and I and our crazy kids without embarrassment or pressure.<br />
I’ll sign up for that kind of hospitality any day.<br />
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<a href="http://everthinehome.com/hearthealthy-hospitality/" target="_blank">For more thoughts on heart-healthy hospitality, click here.</a><br />
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<em>Better is a dinner of herbs where love is…</em> Proverbs 15:17<b></b><i></i><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike></div>
John and Janel Breitensteinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09922204773899069281noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5321461439707212517.post-26284886387604373262015-07-17T05:14:00.001-07:002015-07-17T05:14:46.842-07:0028 Signs I Might Be Living Overseas
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<span style="mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;"> 1.<span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt/normal "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><!--[endif]-->I
set a goal for Myself while jogging: <em>If I can only make it to that goat.</em><o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
<div style="margin-left: 0.5in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">2.<span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt/normal "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><!--[endif]-->Everyone
speaks more languages than I do.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<div style="margin-left: 0.5in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">3.<span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt/normal "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><!--[endif]-->I
have partaken of creatures I would normally not consume by choice, e.g. fish
eyes, grasshoppers, and the like. <o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div style="margin-left: 0.5in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">4.<span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt/normal "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><!--[endif]-->People
dispose of trash by simply throwing it out the window.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div style="margin-left: 0.5in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">5.<span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt/normal "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><!--[endif]-->A
healthy percentage of my most delightful friends were born a hemisphere away
from where I was.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div style="margin-left: 0.5in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">6.<span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt/normal "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><!--[endif]-->I
avoid unfiltered water like the Plague. Because I’m pretty sure I've seen the
Plague in there. <o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div style="margin-left: 0.5in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">7.<span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt/normal "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><!--[endif]-->My
pothole-per-mile ratio exceeds 136:1.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<div style="margin-left: 0.5in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="color: #2f5597; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">8.<span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt/normal "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span><!--[endif]-->The concept of "home" feels
bewildering. <span style="color: #2f5597;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin-left: 0.5in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">9.<span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt/normal "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><!--[endif]-->I
answer to a wide variety of names that sound entirely different than the
one I've answered to for the majority of my adult life.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div style="margin-left: 0.5in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">10.<span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt/normal "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><!--[endif]-->Fruit
and other materials labeled "exotic" in my home country are available
at that little wooden stand down the street.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div style="margin-left: 0.5in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">11.<span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt/normal "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><!--[endif]-->My
children asked for a raise in their allowance based on the increasing value of
the dollar. <o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div style="margin-left: 0.5in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">12.<span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt/normal "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><!--[endif]-->My
electrical company is perpetually listed in my phone's recent contacts.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div style="margin-left: 0.5in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">13.<span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt/normal "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><!--[endif]-->Sometimes
home feels like camping.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div style="margin-left: 0.5in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">14.<span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt/normal "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><!--[endif]-->Despite
the lack of familiarity, there is something about the place I live that makes I
feel so...alive.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div style="margin-left: 0.5in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">15.<span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt/normal "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><!--[endif]-->I
adopt an accent when speaking, say, at the supermarket.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div style="margin-left: 0.5in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">16.<span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt/normal "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><!--[endif]-->My
suitcase is filled with odd items, like 6 of the same deodorant, 18 months of
underwear for six people, eight pounds of chocolate chips, and 12 jars of B
vitamins. My carry-on is where I stash the Hot Tamales and six packs of Slim Jims. <o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div style="margin-left: 0.5in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">17.<span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt/normal "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><!--[endif]-->People
attempt to compliment me by calling me “fat”, or in regards to my status, a
“big woman.” …Yeah. Thanks. <o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div style="margin-left: 0.5in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">18.<span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt/normal "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><!--[endif]-->Ants
in my home don't even capture my attention anymore unless in vast quantities or
floating in my drink.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div style="margin-left: 0.5in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">19.<span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt/normal "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><!--[endif]-->The
last trip to the States found me saying, "What in the world is 'Apple
TV'?"<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div style="margin-left: 0.5in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">20.<span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt/normal "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><!--[endif]-->I
are content with my "dumb" phone, because pretty much everyone else
has one, and if it falls in the toilet (or pit latrine) I can afford to replace
it. <o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div style="margin-left: 0.5in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">21.<span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt/normal "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><!--[endif]-->Cops
stop me because I are more likely to be a source of cash.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div style="margin-left: 0.5in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">22.<span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt/normal "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><!--[endif]-->"I'll
Be Home for Christmas" gets me all sniffy. <o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div style="margin-left: 0.5in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">23.<span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt/normal "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><!--[endif]-->My
bed is shrouded in netting, but somehow my arms and legs still have telltale
welts of those little (literal) suckers.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div style="margin-left: 0.5in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">24.<span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt/normal "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><!--[endif]-->I
keep toilet paper in my glove box.<span style="color: black;"> </span><span style="color: #2f5597;"><span style="color: black;">Because public
toilets, when I can find them, are BYO TP.</span> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div style="margin-left: 0.5in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">25.<span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt/normal "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><!--[endif]-->I
give up asking for decaffeinated coffee, because people don't really know what
that is (or why you would drink it), nor do they have it.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div style="margin-left: 0.5in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">26.<span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt/normal "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><!--[endif]-->I
can pronounce all of the ingredients in my food.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div style="margin-left: 0.5in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">27.<span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt/normal "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><!--[endif]-->I am
feeling a whole lot more deft with the metric system lately. <o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div style="margin-left: 0.5in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">28.<span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt/normal "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><!--[endif]-->My
employer contemplates sending out regular deworming reminders via e-mail. </div>
<div style="margin-left: 0.5in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;">
</div>
<div style="margin-left: 0.5in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;">
<strong>Time for some help with my list! If you've been overseas, what would you add?</strong></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<o:p> </o:p></div>
John and Janel Breitensteinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09922204773899069281noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5321461439707212517.post-33158084758690929982015-07-13T05:32:00.003-07:002015-07-13T05:32:39.269-07:00Life in Photo, Summer 2015<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWXnSruAQW5PhaTnFQcKEqud0-BcVRmqloYOsgfiCUsjno0NKY3IThrewY-Eyz24T-HCOLFRIuo-rWThng1LFg3tnjn42xjf6GIj6du8Xh0_G2i1-4s32-azI8-9bQAbYQJnKaSmigBojq/s1600/IMG_9444.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWXnSruAQW5PhaTnFQcKEqud0-BcVRmqloYOsgfiCUsjno0NKY3IThrewY-Eyz24T-HCOLFRIuo-rWThng1LFg3tnjn42xjf6GIj6du8Xh0_G2i1-4s32-azI8-9bQAbYQJnKaSmigBojq/s320/IMG_9444.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">We know so many strong, lovely Ugandan women! Pictured here left to right is H., who stays with some EMI staff; Hope, John's Human Resources Assistant, and Oliver the Great.</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsAsI2xObgPLbszWg-3JYkK1DBZgxPMxcT1OGLaUiM0HhvV9NtJnkgJac-R-Y7zp_EGebfbpx6-uIUAV2wFTiM6EbwL8JKYmE4_qHRRwAEFvSryMw1-JC2PIHG2lRP-vT7HZAeWK-6Suk4/s1600/Richard+and+Lydia.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsAsI2xObgPLbszWg-3JYkK1DBZgxPMxcT1OGLaUiM0HhvV9NtJnkgJac-R-Y7zp_EGebfbpx6-uIUAV2wFTiM6EbwL8JKYmE4_qHRRwAEFvSryMw1-JC2PIHG2lRP-vT7HZAeWK-6Suk4/s320/Richard+and+Lydia.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Marriage can be remarkably difficult in Uganda in light of the expense to honor family and tradition (and to express status)--as in, as much as an American wedding. We've also heard that only one quarter of pastors are authorized to perform marriages by the government. Most Ugandans "marry" by cohabiting. So EMI was very proud of construction foreman Richard Tatyabala for formalizing his vows in marriage to his wife, Lydia!<br />
<br />
</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0jBjElzPyLls7vVeVsAFuAudphy5FUyeuxd8hsdQDkyk5L3e7gBs4eNapW8LW7mf24K_UZ_Tdn-CGmH9PAkUB6KwJS-caBMcoyNYh56qRTyv06C8Fjq0tgY976jUuZwTgaMLBgwJHJzgm/s1600/IMG_9417.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0jBjElzPyLls7vVeVsAFuAudphy5FUyeuxd8hsdQDkyk5L3e7gBs4eNapW8LW7mf24K_UZ_Tdn-CGmH9PAkUB6KwJS-caBMcoyNYh56qRTyv06C8Fjq0tgY976jUuZwTgaMLBgwJHJzgm/s320/IMG_9417.JPG" width="213" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ugandans don't mess around when it comes to weddings! Pictured here is the wife and daughter of our finance manager, Semei.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjP6w9Kj6zizG3vweHFqlZprn-0V5TzB7YJ6-9EBzsgkHeSSUscgGcmJdzNOaCur89uhnC1YMlFFUirmZChFb53MmC_90Id_fd_GQlQvTCk7TaSze-yLSn1t9gwnXrq7tbUw_L9ooAXuHpl/s1600/Jay+Richard%2527s+wedding.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjP6w9Kj6zizG3vweHFqlZprn-0V5TzB7YJ6-9EBzsgkHeSSUscgGcmJdzNOaCur89uhnC1YMlFFUirmZChFb53MmC_90Id_fd_GQlQvTCk7TaSze-yLSn1t9gwnXrq7tbUw_L9ooAXuHpl/s320/Jay+Richard%2527s+wedding.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A good number of our EMI construction workers turned out for the wedding, all spiffed up! They're pictured here with one of our construction managers, Jay.</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgC9jSy37rVkxhFKLuiryCQyVa8SoIpXMjdQNvFfQO2b7hskx6dAZr_KCqcRAZq9QfqWoYHTj5k1Dw59XFVkVHSas-_OX28po0qWVhfvD5-F1Oj9BWrOmOAQ8nea-2pqAdL_718p09VSQb2/s1600/IMG_9414.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgC9jSy37rVkxhFKLuiryCQyVa8SoIpXMjdQNvFfQO2b7hskx6dAZr_KCqcRAZq9QfqWoYHTj5k1Dw59XFVkVHSas-_OX28po0qWVhfvD5-F1Oj9BWrOmOAQ8nea-2pqAdL_718p09VSQb2/s320/IMG_9414.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">L-R: Brittany, our highly talented office manager; S., one of our kids' close friends; and her dad, Steve, who pioneered our construction management program.</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkf2IQu98ICCc4sZQo-2f5oVt7aaicV9xEsHggsleI3ZO3GTSh2a54Og0wdkzvNHdb_LVpbZF136_GyQdiRB9hBAmDQAFPIQMM_mgsRSSAmoVzCVgWQHn7Cv_08lYh851aYxBFGaKRMy_0/s1600/IMG_9352.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkf2IQu98ICCc4sZQo-2f5oVt7aaicV9xEsHggsleI3ZO3GTSh2a54Og0wdkzvNHdb_LVpbZF136_GyQdiRB9hBAmDQAFPIQMM_mgsRSSAmoVzCVgWQHn7Cv_08lYh851aYxBFGaKRMy_0/s320/IMG_9352.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Making pottery at a local pottery studio that trains Africans in this art. <a href="http://agenerousgrace.com/2015/06/03/the-happy-potter/">You can read about my thoughts on this deeply rewarding experience here</a>. </td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6FIv74PBvmWiDS7na0pF1Z6-dDr1RY-gBdMaFG26rRRTRQ3luB_j0m_56IohMwtt-5TyvYGg4tQFd_Ljbksx_tEFMIOlNnzQC6fKpBr524JtH-rSnTapDnJIkqdoWJSpPEEiYlHwFWIgZ/s1600/IMG_9349.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6FIv74PBvmWiDS7na0pF1Z6-dDr1RY-gBdMaFG26rRRTRQ3luB_j0m_56IohMwtt-5TyvYGg4tQFd_Ljbksx_tEFMIOlNnzQC6fKpBr524JtH-rSnTapDnJIkqdoWJSpPEEiYlHwFWIgZ/s320/IMG_9349.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">You might be living overseas if...your son has a preference for termites over grasshoppers as a snack.</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjJYzO3dxlOi4ORPRWfBcLgeHGK98evd1wN5cWv2PeOxTnQPOCSesWbpCc4t8X7BtzPyo_PyGyGFHGk1r5u-n73WwsdG4CLqUALV02aVexdGNHDisWot28ckzO_i5EFyL8W_G2B3jtjJ0r/s1600/IMG_9346.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjJYzO3dxlOi4ORPRWfBcLgeHGK98evd1wN5cWv2PeOxTnQPOCSesWbpCc4t8X7BtzPyo_PyGyGFHGk1r5u-n73WwsdG4CLqUALV02aVexdGNHDisWot28ckzO_i5EFyL8W_G2B3jtjJ0r/s320/IMG_9346.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Intriguingly, we'd shake them up...and then they would all travel in a circle in the same direction as before. Weird.</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhy8DvaVHkF_FMkqSdwFWLgMsgicPh4Py9OTo4MN2lY5lUcjlOF6GKp-SxGdNHApVA-nENJVMC9nadIfY-oAHd0oGuDKk-nVbXgP39ynl5aVtm9lHBDdkGt9D3HVy9uetSFHPs-Fb20sgZ2/s1600/IMG_9344.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhy8DvaVHkF_FMkqSdwFWLgMsgicPh4Py9OTo4MN2lY5lUcjlOF6GKp-SxGdNHApVA-nENJVMC9nadIfY-oAHd0oGuDKk-nVbXgP39ynl5aVtm9lHBDdkGt9D3HVy9uetSFHPs-Fb20sgZ2/s320/IMG_9344.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Though I did eat fried termites, and they were good!--I didn't try this. (I have standards.)</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBY2CdZYNITSyejxyIEDN0jG8EQdyF3AImFL_RzFrGjbWvqta635u3alifAyqq7xNTRkw3pfySQfRUqemzLYKYH3_NdHUD0lAHsK9h5C_AJLl9xFj1F6MefvTYCh3xI2cl4GQsWkuHzRSR/s1600/IMG_9343.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBY2CdZYNITSyejxyIEDN0jG8EQdyF3AImFL_RzFrGjbWvqta635u3alifAyqq7xNTRkw3pfySQfRUqemzLYKYH3_NdHUD0lAHsK9h5C_AJLl9xFj1F6MefvTYCh3xI2cl4GQsWkuHzRSR/s320/IMG_9343.JPG" width="213" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">...So our guard, Yokanah, collected them. They're fried like grasshoppers, with onions and/or garlic; they have enough fat content that you don't even need oil! <a href="http://www.ted.com/talks/marcel_dicke_why_not_eat_insects?language=en">TED Talks actually says insects could be the next frontier of nutrition</a>, since it's a such a sustainable source of protein!</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxiVnNIvceYr4ZNJgQuGJJtRASQqneyg6w_86HXffouEW8Rhm6j23d5pj_F-IRycq9xD7fnu5RGxPkPWbutr1mFRzFTvlyAxZwOVbJR_Mu_zc0s-idSaT7jixdeoQ3NC-nep4aO1ZoV7yi/s1600/IMG_9336.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxiVnNIvceYr4ZNJgQuGJJtRASQqneyg6w_86HXffouEW8Rhm6j23d5pj_F-IRycq9xD7fnu5RGxPkPWbutr1mFRzFTvlyAxZwOVbJR_Mu_zc0s-idSaT7jixdeoQ3NC-nep4aO1ZoV7yi/s320/IMG_9336.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">While John was climbing Kilimanjaro, we had mountains of our own: of <em>wings</em>. This pile was in the corner of our sidewalk. Once a year, the termites perform their aerial nuptial dance, then those alates shed their wings. </td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrw_xzV5gxziRQYWHgahnETAOM-vKhZhbMoo6V-wPWP68_48BA3JxdrrSU3n2btxYUR5IQtGwRTSqso4v64kLayMdEE_bhmm0nETTCwISTs2ll1StbrD6zkVz87CqVPtY3zF0PjTEvYOma/s1600/Baden+Will+Jack+Jonathan+friends.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrw_xzV5gxziRQYWHgahnETAOM-vKhZhbMoo6V-wPWP68_48BA3JxdrrSU3n2btxYUR5IQtGwRTSqso4v64kLayMdEE_bhmm0nETTCwISTs2ll1StbrD6zkVz87CqVPtY3zF0PjTEvYOma/s320/Baden+Will+Jack+Jonathan+friends.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hanging with a <em>mzungu</em> friend this weekend</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEji4WUHfELqTTQj7eKjgIr2jY20Nr_2F8zWDGubQ5NjaH3KX4udtm8lgbW26M6AG3I5irjlGbsqaE8tjJuwm7z1Nkkh_W7m4MXkziU_Kwg-EIEdU4yBBbJho3kbpx2WtlbPdE4lIMw9edJ0/s1600/Sanyu+Janel+Coke.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEji4WUHfELqTTQj7eKjgIr2jY20Nr_2F8zWDGubQ5NjaH3KX4udtm8lgbW26M6AG3I5irjlGbsqaE8tjJuwm7z1Nkkh_W7m4MXkziU_Kwg-EIEdU4yBBbJho3kbpx2WtlbPdE4lIMw9edJ0/s320/Sanyu+Janel+Coke.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">So you may have seen the last posts' "John and Jamal" Cokes. Well, in Luganda, I've been named "Sanyu", meaning <em>joy</em> or <em>great happiness</em>. I like this. (C. is called "Mukisa," or <em>blessing</em>.) Finally got my Coke! Which my husband obligingly consumed.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgruOyYKi0cOW9JU63gOtGHnEJ9NcpvwrLl5VZZYlwKn-1nJxZvwA6eXGvyQE4-vFdKJ1HbyXtZBxYOnNldghMGDz-dKNTe_Et96BlvQJllDc2R4L2qHJ5aoLtP-thBhLrWiJ7VeQk2wYxi/s1600/Janel+Oliver+friends.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgruOyYKi0cOW9JU63gOtGHnEJ9NcpvwrLl5VZZYlwKn-1nJxZvwA6eXGvyQE4-vFdKJ1HbyXtZBxYOnNldghMGDz-dKNTe_Et96BlvQJllDc2R4L2qHJ5aoLtP-thBhLrWiJ7VeQk2wYxi/s320/Janel+Oliver+friends.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I love how everyone in the States asked me about Oliver, aka Oliver the Great and one of my favorite all-time people. This woman saves my life on, like, a weekly basis.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Father's Day 2015: W. wrote "An Ode to My Dad." This included lines like, <em>When you play with me, it feels like sunshine</em>. </td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Dad and paparazzi</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">...And then she turned 8. As in, one more year until our time with her in our home is half done! <em>Sniff.</em> This one's lovely inside and out!</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Look who's armed and 11?</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Is anyone else's living room constantly reshuffled into forts in various forms?</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This cutie, pictured here climbing trees with J., is one of our EMI staff kids.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Our East Africa office is full of BOYS! Here, we celebrate the 4th of July with friends.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">You're always welcome here!</td></tr>
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John and Janel Breitensteinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09922204773899069281noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5321461439707212517.post-89754845124467441382015-06-19T08:56:00.002-07:002015-06-19T08:56:31.873-07:00Photos from the top of Africa<div style="text-align: left;">
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEht7JkYE18Znz4Sgkgc9d5JGniNLUnTuyrTv-rjqrHTyhP6Ytttod4MBfzfaCKPcg4aXJd53nqXeqTf68f2egGapGVNWkyAffa0kiHqra3uJW3Yw3lId14ZcD2AXNnRkVkttIdqOXN4AxqT/s1600/Kili+sunrise+at+summit.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="105" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEht7JkYE18Znz4Sgkgc9d5JGniNLUnTuyrTv-rjqrHTyhP6Ytttod4MBfzfaCKPcg4aXJd53nqXeqTf68f2egGapGVNWkyAffa0kiHqra3uJW3Yw3lId14ZcD2AXNnRkVkttIdqOXN4AxqT/s320/Kili+sunrise+at+summit.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sunrise from the "Rooftop of Africa"</td></tr>
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John summited Kilimanjaro for the third time this past February--his second time to lead the trip--fundraising for our EMI East Africa office's Build Africa Together campaign. </div>
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The biggest highlight this year was, unquestionably, the presence of his dad on the trip, who also made it to the top at 19,341 feet. This was especially memorable as he and his dad have so many exhilarating memories from mountaineering together in John's teens and early 20's--and despite his dad retiring upon his return home, he's obviously still got it. </div>
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The Build Africa Together campaign's vast vision for discipling and training East Africa is nearly completed--as is the more tangible jointly shared office building with Mission Aviation Fellowship that will stand as a hub of missions support. The move is scheduled for mid-August! See photos for that below, too. </div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;">All photos except building photos are copyright John Breitenstein.</span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixcwNA8jVPeLkGPgs_jxbI9_C4xbGJjm0ooW27wTYnvc5ClKZmSqC0yIkhJ9rll5lgQ1n2AVCHjH3RFFIIPDuVIrPs46K1K1mLUq-RTqhCFgdXifpq2EewGePq3tR2oEb5nLnHS95MCQTO/s1600/Guides+on+Kili.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="256" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixcwNA8jVPeLkGPgs_jxbI9_C4xbGJjm0ooW27wTYnvc5ClKZmSqC0yIkhJ9rll5lgQ1n2AVCHjH3RFFIIPDuVIrPs46K1K1mLUq-RTqhCFgdXifpq2EewGePq3tR2oEb5nLnHS95MCQTO/s320/Guides+on+Kili.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The porters are incredibly helpful, friendly, and <em>fast, </em>climbing Kilimanjaro more than once a month, and often in running shoes.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Many species are completely unique to Kilimanjaro. These trees (not sure what their name is, so not sure they're unique) remind John of something from Super Mario World.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Together at the summit!</td></tr>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsjlMezS3CKDvbKxRzPtnGCaCZKtDtnIUauaBjOvpRrdikVCdglRSqLrfyXSiQF7Ebd9m80QQYGwJon3g6XrVqR5eFkb3KuoPVrtYPASUAsKBO-brf_68W6sHJltjUR2J4CUK937mhO2Cf/s1600/tents+on+Kili.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsjlMezS3CKDvbKxRzPtnGCaCZKtDtnIUauaBjOvpRrdikVCdglRSqLrfyXSiQF7Ebd9m80QQYGwJon3g6XrVqR5eFkb3KuoPVrtYPASUAsKBO-brf_68W6sHJltjUR2J4CUK937mhO2Cf/s320/tents+on+Kili.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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And for the photos of the current construction progress on the new building...pretty exciting stuff!</div>
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<br />John and Janel Breitensteinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09922204773899069281noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5321461439707212517.post-80480473877674623232015-06-02T00:48:00.000-07:002015-06-02T00:52:26.016-07:00Photo update<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCtHgBZ0PJOkuRyZOdEtIxwuD2XagsiRh1Hx02Gr7asJcCdel5hN6sgbnSRbdzJI1LqvNCjlQ775MiNlKIqWq53Jksrf49kx3xE_M3utuDvZ9WEhtZcXak4Ld_M_JmmRsNmaVL46GazFOS/s1600/Family+in+Africa+2015.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCtHgBZ0PJOkuRyZOdEtIxwuD2XagsiRh1Hx02Gr7asJcCdel5hN6sgbnSRbdzJI1LqvNCjlQ775MiNlKIqWq53Jksrf49kx3xE_M3utuDvZ9WEhtZcXak4Ld_M_JmmRsNmaVL46GazFOS/s640/Family+in+Africa+2015.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Some of our best. Gifts. EVER.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHvpTcj3PBzL-jKOSe-XpnBGWokhv7dBS1QVQKAjmV5Z2YR3IMG1BlquLx7lv2Cd9npCgd9Yr367F70U7gxdFPonvBOWgI_Fh_Wo43TNy8BDkoLN82GrZaviNSndi9Cf9yZGwFczgtdPES/s1600/Family+in+Africa+Will+is+a+nut.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHvpTcj3PBzL-jKOSe-XpnBGWokhv7dBS1QVQKAjmV5Z2YR3IMG1BlquLx7lv2Cd9npCgd9Yr367F70U7gxdFPonvBOWgI_Fh_Wo43TNy8BDkoLN82GrZaviNSndi9Cf9yZGwFczgtdPES/s400/Family+in+Africa+Will+is+a+nut.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">And it only took, what, nine tries to get a photo.</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"> We're getting so excited about the progress of EMI East Africa's new joint facility with Mission Aviation Fellowship! Check out the pics. (My kids are so stoked that it's on an airfield!) </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">We heart EMI! </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">P.S. </span><span style="color: #1f497d; font-family: "Calibri",sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="color: white; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Thank you for praying for us! Please ask God </span></span><br />
<ul>
<li><span style="color: #1f497d; font-family: "Calibri",sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="color: white; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">for discipleship opportunities and our maximization of them here in EMI; </span></span></li>
<li><span style="color: #1f497d; font-family: "Calibri",sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="color: white; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">that God would show us the “good works He has prepared in advance for us to do” as we address copious needs with limited staff; and </span></span></li>
<li><span style="color: #1f497d; font-family: "Calibri",sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="color: white;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">to continue to raise up local East Africans to train and disciple in our disciplines.</span> </span></span></li>
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<br />John and Janel Breitensteinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09922204773899069281noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5321461439707212517.post-79785356055134995042015-05-26T00:38:00.002-07:002015-05-26T02:59:26.337-07:00EMI in Nepal<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDhkwgmw4ucFOgxCRx3gKQ9rAQLtSFxwjJ_KH5CLsdMKQMbOooSeNqP_33nzU0v4gRMrDwrCNWspdswvndnrknOhWGn7TrmfC0a8A3vdTucT5q8nRoG1zWVpFIsodVJ32YwPFSraqnCYsy/s1600/nepal.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDhkwgmw4ucFOgxCRx3gKQ9rAQLtSFxwjJ_KH5CLsdMKQMbOooSeNqP_33nzU0v4gRMrDwrCNWspdswvndnrknOhWGn7TrmfC0a8A3vdTucT5q8nRoG1zWVpFIsodVJ32YwPFSraqnCYsy/s320/nepal.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="color: #999999; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Some of you have compassionately asked about EMI's response to the tragedies we've recently witnessed in Nepal. </span><br />
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<span style="color: #999999; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">EMI reports, "So far, there have been three
EMI people deployed to Nepal while several others have been assisting from
afar. It is quite likely that EMI will have another small team in Nepal
in early June. On top of that, we are in discussions with other potential
client ministries for projects that would happen in Term 3 [September to December] that would focus more on
long-term goals rather than immediate needs even though these goals were
brought on by the earthquake." Check out </span><a href="http://www.emiworld.org/disasterresponse_nepal.php"><span style="color: #999999; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong>EMI's disaster response page (and an opportunity to donate) for Nepal here</strong></span></a><span style="color: #999999; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong>! </strong></span><br />
<span style="color: #999999; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br />
<span style="color: #999999; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">From the page: "Over the last few weeks the EMI DR team has been moving around the Kathmandu Valley [<a href="http://www.emiworld.org/disasterresponse_nepal.php">see a map on the page</a>] meeting with partners, assessing structural integrity of buildings, evaluating damaged water systems, and offering recommendations all along the way." </span><br />
<span style="color: #999999; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br />
<span style="color: #999999; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">One woman voiced, “Since the day you came to our house we have slept in peace."</span><br />
<span style="color: #999999; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span> </div>
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<span style="color: #4f6228;"><span style="color: #999999; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Jesse, an intern in our India office, authored </span><a href="https://jessehoye.wordpress.com/2015/05/17/beauty-will-rise/#more-136"><span style="color: #999999; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong>a helpful blog post</strong></span></a><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="color: #999999; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">--with lovely photos--about his recent visit in Kathmandu. Our hearts are with yours for the people Nepal--and for the healing work God continues to perform there.</span> </span></span></div>
John and Janel Breitensteinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09922204773899069281noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5321461439707212517.post-65481772362837956692015-05-19T14:14:00.002-07:002015-05-19T14:14:24.303-07:00Going for it: A new blog(Deep breath.) Well, I'm doing it--launching a new blog (ack!) on practical spirituality: <a href="http://www.agenerousgrace.com/">A Generous Grace. </a><br />
<br />
Would you be willing to check it out, and even share it/like <a href="http://www.facebook.com/agenerousgrace">its Facebook page</a>/subscribe if you like it? And, while you're at it, pray that God would make Himself known through it. Thanks, friends.John and Janel Breitensteinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09922204773899069281noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5321461439707212517.post-18592892429321963462015-05-14T20:19:00.002-07:002015-05-14T20:19:39.337-07:00The accident<span style="color: #999999; font-family: "Helvetica",sans-serif; font-size: 10.5pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;">Life before we left for our home assignment was a bit complicated. </span><br />
<span style="color: #999999; font-family: "Helvetica",sans-serif; font-size: 10.5pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;"></span><br />
<span style="color: #999999; font-family: "Helvetica",sans-serif; font-size: 10.5pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;">I've been wondering how to write about this for some time. Even now, whatever I write seems either melodramatic or flat, or simply one-dimensional. </span><br />
<span style="color: #999999; font-family: "Helvetica",sans-serif; font-size: 10.5pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;"></span><br />
<span style="color: #999999; font-family: "Helvetica",sans-serif; font-size: 10.5pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;">When traveling home ("Uganda" home)
from the airport around midnight after a surprise visit to the
U.S. for my (Janel's) dad’s birthday, something very difficult
happened. A driver picked me up from the airport—a Ugandan friend we know.
Running on about three hours of sleep from my 24-hour travels, I was still excited to see my family. The windows were down, allowing the temperate breeze to refresh my skin, which seemed coated in that thin film of mysterious traveling gunk (my son has recently coined the phrase "feeling airplany").</span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: #999999; font-family: "Helvetica",sans-serif; font-size: 10.5pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;">But about twenty minutes into the trip, we saw a taxi minibus swerving in front of us.
There was a presumably drunk man who was trying to cross the road. Considering
we were probably traveling at least 45 mph, we couldn’t swerve out of the way. The
pedestrian turned directly in front of our car. His head hit the windshield above my
lap, leaving a basketball-shaped indention in the spidered glass. </span><br />
<span style="color: #999999;"></span><br />
<span style="color: #999999;"></span><br />
<span style="color: #999999; font-family: "Helvetica",sans-serif; font-size: 10.5pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;">He was killed.<br />
<br />
After reeling silent prayers and considerable pleading on my part with the driver, we stopped about a kilometer later. But
I think my driver was primarily concerned with getting out of there, and returned to his seat after checking the windshield. (Mob justice is a legitimate concern in Uganda.) He didn’t
want to stop at the police station, but finally caved to my wide-eyed pleas. </span><br />
<span style="color: #999999; font-family: "Helvetica",sans-serif; font-size: 10.5pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;"></span><br />
<span style="color: #999999; font-family: "Helvetica",sans-serif; font-size: 10.5pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;">We stopped, and
spent about three and a half hours at the police station, kind of a concrete bunker equipped with a corrugated tin roof, what appeared to be a filing room of tilting stacks of paper, a desk, a bench, and a clock as lethargic as the policemen. (I arrived home at
about 4:30 AM.) Another police station found the body. I saw no one actually
concerned about the man, another passenger after already another one or two deaths on the road that evening. My time at the station, aside from the ten
minutes to take my statement, were largely me declining subtle attempts to bribe and
trying to figure out how, in the confusing and, to my Western mind, illogical system of Ugandan justice (would quotations around that word appear cynical?), to keep
my driver out of jail. The driver was also trying to convince me to
give him $500, ostensibly for the same reason. After all, I had made him stop.<br />
<br />
The driver returned bright and early a day later trying to convince me to pay a
bribe. This was, I eventually gathered, so that the police station at which we spent those lovely midnight hours wouldn’t contact the station who
found the body: "You said you would help me!" I’ve had many conversations with both Ugandans and missionaries
to navigate how to actually achieve justice in a system where justice is rarely
found. As you can imagine, this situation is extremely complicated.<br />
<br />
I was quite shaken. Flashbacks were superseded by a general--but only
temporary--feeling of insecurity and unease, though I believe I am past that
now (the latter, not the former). Unfortunately, the accident occurred on the busy main road by our new home, which
we must take to travel anywhere. God has given wisdom, strength, and compassionate relationships to
handle this tragic, baffling situation carefully and with peace. </span><br />
<span style="color: #999999; font-family: "Helvetica",sans-serif; font-size: 10.5pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;"></span><br />
<span style="color: #999999; font-family: "Helvetica",sans-serif; font-size: 10.5pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;">Still--it took awhile to come to
grips with the fact that a man died. That people saw it as an
opportunity to make money. And that God still had a wise and loving reason for this situation in
which a man's life ended before my eyes--a more common experience for an African, but less so for me--in the vehicle He knew I'd take.<br />
<br />
These circumstances, along with moving in the span of a week, John
climbing Kilimanjaro, preparing to leave the country and the
office for two and a half months, and a number of frustrations with
our new home (e.g. dangerous electrical wiring, poor construction and
unreliable repairmen, swarms of mosquitoes making it difficult to sleep) found us arriving in the U.S. weary, at my lowest cultural point. This speaks loudly to me, since I hope you can tell how alive I typically feel here. I've been thankful for a couple of months to step away, have a few long chats and no few tears with friends and family, and now to return yesterday--my husband calmly handling the wheel on our drive home--</span><span style="color: #999999; font-family: "Helvetica",sans-serif; font-size: 10.5pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;">to the firm embrace and animated chatter of both Westerners and Ugandans. </span><br />
<span style="color: #999999; font-family: "Helvetica",sans-serif; font-size: 10.5pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;"></span><br />
<span style="color: #999999; font-family: "Helvetica",sans-serif; font-size: 10.5pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;">The ensuing questions I've grappled with around all this, along with their mysteries or consolations, are perhaps a post for another day. I will say that God is unquestionably a healer, and my trustworthy Holder of Answers (whether I know them or not). But thank you, friends, for your prayers.</span><span style="color: #606060; font-family: "Helvetica",sans-serif; font-size: 8.5pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;"><br />
</span>John and Janel Breitensteinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09922204773899069281noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5321461439707212517.post-19692676045495122352015-05-14T19:42:00.001-07:002015-05-14T19:42:03.666-07:00A preflight conversationBetween my son and I:<br /> W (despondently): I don't want to go.<br /> J (tiring a little of this continued line of conversation, opting for humor): What are you going to do, lay down on the tarmac in protest?<br /> W: Yeah. But if they ran over me, they'd probably just say, There goes another...STEALTH. MASTER.John and Janel Breitensteinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09922204773899069281noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5321461439707212517.post-51426887424663443392015-02-01T06:02:00.001-08:002015-02-01T06:02:43.645-08:00A form of "welaba" (goodbye)It's the end of an era of sorts.<br />
<br />
This August, our EMI office plans a landmark move to a joint facility with Mission Aviation Fellowship (MAF--remember Jim Elliot?). It's a move that carries <a href="http://emiea.org/buildafricatogether.shtm">tremendous implications for eMi's scope of ministry</a> here in East Africa. It's why my husband is leading eMi's third <a href="http://johnandjanel.blogspot.com/2014/04/photos-and-perspectives-from.html">fundraising climb up Kilimanjaro</a> two weeks from now! (Woot!) And it does mean that we'll save a bundle in housing costs moving an hour outside of Kampala. <br />
<br />
In light of us heading to the States for two and a half months of home assignment and our lease coming due, we've decided to move (Ugandans say "shift") early. It will be, in the manner it seems we are so fond of, notably nuts. I returned on the morning of January 30th. We move on February 6-7th, and John's dad arrives to climb Kili with John (!) on the 9th. They return on the 22nd, and we fly to the States on the 26th. Anyone else doing the math here? It's never been my best subject.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikv4GPimnlRyoVccz6J-x7kkyrP3M8La71lcUEV4aPyFMb7AEbhWbtbjJa4JHZQ-qQXHV1PUMb4KsvRx05Wqfj_sXxuMjVRTRFgFB7NacH8H_F_msyCBz9B74nDcNCRIzqqBKHcdSYKYTf/s1600/giving+tree+46.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikv4GPimnlRyoVccz6J-x7kkyrP3M8La71lcUEV4aPyFMb7AEbhWbtbjJa4JHZQ-qQXHV1PUMb4KsvRx05Wqfj_sXxuMjVRTRFgFB7NacH8H_F_msyCBz9B74nDcNCRIzqqBKHcdSYKYTf/s1600/giving+tree+46.jpg" height="213" width="320" /></a><br />
But more than the insanity hitting us is actually the good-byes.<br />
<br />
The kids completed their last <a href="http://johnandjanel.blogspot.com/2014/09/thursdays-at-giving-tree.html">library story time at the Giving Tree</a>, after which they were even given certificates of volunteering and vinyl posters of their time with the kids!<br />
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It's goodbye to the kids in our neighborhood who come over to ride the bikes or jump on our loaner trampoline.<br />
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No longer will all of our eMi staff live within five minutes of each other. Some will remain in Kampala for their kids to go to school. The new area is more remote, so we'll live spread among the corridor of rolling hills lining the road to Entebbe. This means our community will change significantly. <br />
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And I hope to be commuting to the refugee center once a week. For as much as I loathe Kampala traffic, I my heartbeat has been at the center this past year! (Unless God shows me something else I should be investing in more locally.) This means that someone else will be following up with <a href="http://johnandjanel.blogspot.com/2014/11/praying-for-friday-rest-of-story.html">students from my class who showed so much interest in Jesus</a> last term.<br />
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All in all,more is "shifting" than our boxes. Just as our <a href="http://johnandjanel.blogspot.com/2014/03/a-good-year-and-prayer-request.html">last return from the U.S. marked a tangible chapter</a>--a blooming of sorts--into such a fullness of ministry here, God's good plans following our next return remain to be seen. It's time to step out of the boat again. <br />
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And much as my heart is grieving the richness from which we are stepping away...He has yet to disappoint us. Bring. It. On. John and Janel Breitensteinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09922204773899069281noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5321461439707212517.post-51586401869308640182015-01-31T04:12:00.001-08:002015-01-31T04:12:26.973-08:00What we celebrateI'm going to diverge for a moment on a more family-related post. I just returned from an incredible journey of fifteen days (<em>thank you</em> to my incredible husband and remarkable housekeeper!) for a <a href="http://spurlockadventures.com/2015/01/20/the-epic-party/">truly epic surprise party for my dad's 60th birthday</a>. My eyes feel the sting of tears even now as I glance through the photos. My sisters and I, spread on four continents, haven't been on the same country for three years! You can see a video of the actual surprise moment on my Facebook page (if you're at all interested, it's worth it!).<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirqcZzZI-i3AfMNA9GjDbRJXHr_4OPYSdTgBATz3gT0-6K_Yfv_axqpoyRkPbIe8KSUXVz35RC18GYYWJYMHVvBI1iv_c8kxWsFO33IFrj8uviDQyBKGSEjIN7mI53NkS7RWRJssrs3cmV/s1600/dad+is+surprised+girls+on+stage.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirqcZzZI-i3AfMNA9GjDbRJXHr_4OPYSdTgBATz3gT0-6K_Yfv_axqpoyRkPbIe8KSUXVz35RC18GYYWJYMHVvBI1iv_c8kxWsFO33IFrj8uviDQyBKGSEjIN7mI53NkS7RWRJssrs3cmV/s1600/dad+is+surprised+girls+on+stage.jpg" height="213" width="320" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9151n9dX0Oer18IQ2-PaebRKheqbFE1khB7pVMgDr6PCPFwJTUcVIV3WqZxw60KPEwWW9PAVJySLYXEHEeJ3kjlgTzmZ8lcFBMlg9nql5AcmxJIlbhf1GDD9QjLLLyl0dZEVSiO-5Z1qk/s1600/Dad+is+surprised+people.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9151n9dX0Oer18IQ2-PaebRKheqbFE1khB7pVMgDr6PCPFwJTUcVIV3WqZxw60KPEwWW9PAVJySLYXEHEeJ3kjlgTzmZ8lcFBMlg9nql5AcmxJIlbhf1GDD9QjLLLyl0dZEVSiO-5Z1qk/s1600/Dad+is+surprised+people.jpg" height="213" width="320" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYWIs4zJU9JAZV9iUM-SMlDKanyPlXtDCpBJKwQOo2qUtmrXweihy7QqdjajygzJBJB_ZWRZrnGMrGghsPAq5L04X7gNaTzUekULYPZBeuq_c-ipTsBvWIS-ec2_j2KiE0byzmLMNY_MC_/s1600/dad+is+surprised+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYWIs4zJU9JAZV9iUM-SMlDKanyPlXtDCpBJKwQOo2qUtmrXweihy7QqdjajygzJBJB_ZWRZrnGMrGghsPAq5L04X7gNaTzUekULYPZBeuq_c-ipTsBvWIS-ec2_j2KiE0byzmLMNY_MC_/s1600/dad+is+surprised+2.jpg" height="213" width="320" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIge4ctcm1bdr6eKs4x2s7ojGlTB49to7HtZQsBb7JJEv2FtL3f6IVPAz-nballenngGk7O3Mkt33VmJEYWOhwNp3Q2KgpMrw6Sn0EXoIgOn3NcIx5MTE8MWjcUcK4_MWUMHAn_zPbJqHG/s1600/Dad+is+surprised.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIge4ctcm1bdr6eKs4x2s7ojGlTB49to7HtZQsBb7JJEv2FtL3f6IVPAz-nballenngGk7O3Mkt33VmJEYWOhwNp3Q2KgpMrw6Sn0EXoIgOn3NcIx5MTE8MWjcUcK4_MWUMHAn_zPbJqHG/s1600/Dad+is+surprised.jpg" height="213" width="320" /></a></div>
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What I will never forget--and which most people don't receive until their funerals--was an open mic time that lasted for an hour (with more still waiting to share) in which person after person shared slices of my dad's generosity, compassion, and courage in so many aspects of his life. I wrote an <a href="http://www.familylife.com/articles/topics/life-issues/relationships/honoring-your-parents/what-my-parents-taught-me-about-generosity#.VMzCuekcTIU">article a couple of years ago about my parents' tremendous legacy of generosity</a>, and it was something to behold to hear all the testimonies of this life well-lived. As I said at the party, my dad had always hoped to pass on the family business of farming to his kids, but then became the father of all girls. When they signed on as staff with FamilyLife nearly 20 years ago, that dream may have been confirmed as evaporated--but now, I see that as usual, God's dreams are bigger than ours. Because my dad's "family business", of compassion, generosity, and proclaiming the name of Jesus, has gone international. <br />
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A friend of his wrote a blog post about <a href="http://dadpad.org/2015/01/28/10-life-legacy-lessons-learned-surprise-party/">10 lessons of a life well-lived that he learned from the party</a>. A good man is indeed be hard to find--but I'm blessed to have way, way more than my share in my life.<br />
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Love you, Dad. And I celebrate your life.<br />
<br />
John and Janel Breitensteinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09922204773899069281noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5321461439707212517.post-90381822108070523932015-01-23T11:23:00.000-08:002015-01-23T11:23:19.923-08:00Don't waste the waiting
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">It was eleven months. Long ones. I'll acknowledge that in
the spool of eternity this is only a scrap of thread. Yet waiting seems to tug
extra thread from that spool, causing time to stand as still as the air of a
Mississippi August. Waiting, and of course outright suffering, are two of God’s
most effective chisels on the soul.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">In October 2013, my heart skipped a beat with an e-mail from
our office administrator—one of those good news/bad news kind of messages. The
good news: The Ugandan government had approved our work permit for another
year. The bad news: This permit was scrawled with the words “last”—as in, this
is your last one. As we researched this, its finality seemed hazy. A few had
appealed with success, but others had wheeled their belongings into a 757 and
departed this country. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">So much seemed to hang in the balance: Our investment of
ministry and finances, language acquisition and cultural adaptation, vital relationships
and family adjustments. But more than that, it felt like a dream, tied by the
hands and feet, and laid on an altar of stones. Would this be the time God
provided a ram, or did He have something different in mind?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">There’s a fair chance you’re waiting for something too:
hopeful, perhaps with fear crackling around the edges. Perhaps it’s the success
of a medical treatment, the news on a job, the end of a semester or trimester,
or the end of singleness. So much of life, from Heaven to the oven timer, is <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">waiting</i>.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">This year, God seemed to be whispering that I should not
waste my waiting, in its refining work for the soul.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Waiting seemed to unleash so many of my spirit’s
occasionally irreverent and usually quite revealing questions, allowing them to
bubble to the surface. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Why would God seem
to bring us to full stride in our work—His work!—here, and then pile us on a
plane? Why us? What if I have to go back, and why does that make me feel so
afraid? Does God’s will match my own? Does mine match His?<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Waiting is a deeply spiritual work, where our faith is
road-tested. It’s part of the Bible’s DNA: waiting for freedom from slavery, deliverance
from exile, the fullness of time to finally bring the Promised One. Waiting for
Him to finally make His kingdom come in all its fullness and staggering beauty.
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Waiting is when our faith makes choices—toward trust or
fear; toward my will or His. It jerks back the curtain of comfort to reveal
what we are clutching to ourselves, what has become so dear that the heart
feels suspended in mid-air. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">For me, it was a sense of purpose, identity, and flourishing
that—among all of their Godward benefits—had made themselves an idol in my
heart. Mine were questions I thought I’d answered. But the waiting left them
naked, exposed, bare in their faithlessness and restlessness. And during those
eleven months, God walked with me, settling my soul’s unsettled parts once
again, pressing them deeply into Him and all I knew Him to be.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">So imagine the shriek that filled our neighborhood last October when my friend Semei ducked his dark head through our gate, bearing his
trademark broad grin and waving a thin piece of paper. “I have good news!” he
shouted. My heart dropped in my chest. I swallowed. Surely not, after eleven
months. Could it even be over? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">And yet—it is. We have permission, for now, to stay another
three years. Even in leaving, I would not have been put to shame (</span><a href="https://www.biblegateway.com/passage/?search=Ps.+25%3A3&version=ESV"><span style="color: #0563c1; font-family: Calibri;">see
Psalm 25:3</span></a><span style="font-family: Calibri;">). But He chose to remember our family in this way, and to say, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I have plans for you here.</i> Tears leaked
from my eyes as I hugged friends and jumped up and down, and as my children and
I huddled to pray in thanks in the dust of our driveway.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Maybe you're waiting for something, too. If you are--don't miss the waiting.</span></div>
John and Janel Breitensteinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09922204773899069281noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5321461439707212517.post-26497014106199562952015-01-21T13:36:00.000-08:002015-01-21T13:36:30.170-08:00Pushing out the poorI sat in the back of a "special hire" the other night--our form of a taxi--beside the curious mélange of sights and lights that clamber together on a Kampala street on any given night. I was airport-bound, off to a priceless, once-in-a-lifetime surprise for my dad's (also surprise) <a href="http://spurlockadventures.com/2015/01/20/the-epic-party/">60th birthday party.</a> My heart felt full of emotion as I'd just kissed my children and husband goodbye for two weeks with two of them sobbing (thankfully, neither one was my husband). <br />
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But also leaving me relatively mute was my driver-friend Robert, navigating the clotted Kampala streets in fits and starts. I inquired of his family, but I knew what was really on his mind. I asked halting questions about his newly-closed shop, and how he was faring. But I didn't probe much deeper after I sensed dark embers of anger--another man providing for his family, brought to his knees in the impotence of poverty.<br />
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Two weeks ago via newspaper and likely radio, Kampala Capital City Authority--the maintenance and beautification arm of city government--notified all vendors that they must have a permanent structure (e.g. concrete) and a license for their building, or it would be torn down. Legal? Yes. Beautifying? Yes, physically speaking. <br />
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Yet Kampala residents realize the vast scope and repercussions of this measure. Nearly every single street is lined on both sides with temporary structures of haphazard planks, solid shipping containers, and odd conglomerations of tarps and materials. For people who've obtained precious little formal education, this is their available livelihood, allowing them to provide for their families feasibly and honestly. Robert's wife worked in the small corner shop he'd scraped to set up, saving money for their daughter's education. Now, a heavy padlock glints on its metal doors. <br />
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This is relatively mild compared to the tilting heaps of wood that lay dismantled up and down our street, some of them smoking. Some of our produce vendors have simply vanished. Certain goods no one can find because the sellers have scattered. Vacant slabs of concrete stare blankly, once having sold chapatti and samosas from a crooked, productive little window, Africans gathering to chat and grab inexpensive food. On the day our street was vertically flattened, friends reported that the vendors they knew stood with blank stares, directionless and, like Robert, perhaps flattened themselves. <br />
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Via word of mouth, I've been told by Ugandans that the government has expressed its desire to push the poor from the capital city of this developing nation. <em>Really</em>? Only those above a certain income rate are welcome, when Uganda's GDP is $248 lesser per year than Haiti?<br />
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Yes, our streets are looking more and more like Nairobi's, I'm told. Clean; less eyesores. But now, eyes turn to the crime rates, reflecting what some view as their remaining option. Will those look like Nairobi's, too?<br />
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The powerlessness I feel, looking at my friends from my relatively untouched perch of Western citizenship, boasts few adequate words. Since we arrived three years ago, the streets have grown smoother, the imports sparkle in their variation, and my grocery store started taking Visa! But to tell the truth, more rights have been taken away from average Ugandans than have at all been awarded or expanded--at least in my limited view. For someone on a justice-related mission, to say I find this disturbing is an understatement. And even more vacant is my understanding of what to do preventatively, rather than simply extend additional relief. What do I do for the Roberts of this city?<br />
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And <em>Lord, how long?</em>John and Janel Breitensteinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09922204773899069281noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5321461439707212517.post-11354712928212921112014-12-08T11:04:00.001-08:002014-12-08T11:04:54.238-08:0040 Ideas for Raising Globally-Minded Kids<em><strong>Author's note:</strong> This post of mine originally appeared on <a href="http://momlifetoday.com/">momlifetoday.com</a>, and is gratefully reprinted in part with permission! Please click <a href="http://momlifetoday.com/2014/11/20-ideas-for-raising-globally-minded-kids/">here for the first 20 ideas</a>, and <a href="http://momlifetoday.com/2014/12/20-more-ideas-for-raising-globally-minded-kids/">here for the entire second post.</a></em><br />
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My parents have four children, and we reside on four different continents: My sister teaches art in England, one aids refugees on the Thai-Burmese border, one is changing her world in the States as a nurse and a mother—and me, raising our four kids in Uganda.<br />
I love that my family has a vision beyond itself (admittedly, holidays can be a bit of a downer). But how can we instill a global, Great-Commission worldview in our own kids? Will they reject myopic entitlement for God-sized purpose? If you’re eager for mission-minded, compassionate kids, start with these practical solutions. If you missed part I, click <a href="http://momlifetoday.com/2014/11/20-ideas-for-raising-globally-minded-kids/" target="_blank">here</a>.<br />
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21. In conversations, differentiate between “needs” and “wants.”<br />
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22. Read missionary biographies together, in series like the Trailblazer Books, Torchlighters, Men and Women of Faith, or Christian Heroes Then & Now.<br />
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23. At year end, have a family charity game night, when your kids can win your end-of-year giving amounts to dedicate to a favorite cause.<br />
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24. Go on a short-term missions trip, starting locally, then beyond to a foreign country. A cautionary word: Educate yourself on what productive short-term missions looks like. Trips can actually undercut development in impoverished nations, or cripple missionaries themselves. Invaluable books like <em>When Helping Hurts</em> explain how to truly empower hurting communities.<br />
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25. Watch movies based on the lives of courageous Christians, such as <em>Faith Like Potatoes</em> or <em>The Hiding Place</em>.<br />
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26. Hold a monthly family cultural night: explore new food; learn about a new country; even dress, sit, or eat accordingly.<br />
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27. Pray over spending patterns. Since this is God’s money, where and how does He want it to be spent? Is there some “spending fat” that might be allocated to something more eternal?<br />
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28. Simplify. Then do it again. Personally, selling about 70 percent of our stuff to move to Africa was exquisitely painful. But I’d repeat it in an instant: It changed us! Commit to purging, eliminating, and generally minimizing the gravitational effects of “stuff” on your family.<br />
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29. Model contentment and gratitude. It helps us hold loosely: “the rich… [should not] set their hopes on the uncertainty of riches, but on God, who richly provides us with everything to enjoy” (2 Timothy 6:17).<br />
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30. Train kids in sacrificial generosity. Check out 1 Chronicles 21:24 and 2 Corinthians 9:6-7, and talk openly about ways you give until it hurts. Help kids to set aside 10 percent of their allowance for giving to a project they’re enthusiastic about.<br />
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31. Together, read strength-building stories like <em>Jesus Freaks</em> or <em>Growing Together in Courage</em>.<br />
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For the rest of this post, <a href="http://momlifetoday.com/2014/12/20-more-ideas-for-raising-globally-minded-kids/">please click here.</a> John and Janel Breitensteinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09922204773899069281noreply@blogger.com0