Dear _____,

It’s that time again for a new blog post, but I ran out of new and creative ideas for blogs. I hope you don’t mind I’ve stolen this topic from a fellow missionary (Jenn). I hope you enjoy it!

Dear Dust Storm 2012,

I really, really love the wind you bring to Dakar. The cool spring breeze upon my freshly sunkissed face is marvelous. I can’t explain to people how much I love it when you make my hair dance in the wind.

This picture is of a missionary friend, Tricia’s, house. They got it worse than we did for sure!

What I don’t like about you, however, is that when my happiness eludes me and a large smile sweeps across my face, you- in all your glory- hit me in the face with excess dirt. I am getting rather sick of having brushed my pearly whites, only minutes later to feel like I bit the dust while running down a sand dune (Katie).

This just isn’t working out for me. I might see you around, but I really would prefer for you to clean yourself up next time around.

Sincerely,

Crusty.

Dear Ladies Outside the Mosque,

I. Love. You. Buganala torop.

I love the fact that we don’t speak each other’s language, yet we get so much joy out of seeing each other. One day, I would love to be able to sit with you and find out about your life. If only I could speak Pular, Wolof, and Serar… un jour mes amies… un jour!

Even though I can see the hardness of African life on every wrinkle on your face, I think you are all so beautiful. You are all so unique and welcoming. You were created for a purpose and you are so incredibly loved by the maker of Heaven and Earth.

Sincerely,

Yaangi Ci Sama Xol, Buganala

Dear Americans Who Donate Clothes To Africa,

Please do not send used underwear.

Sincerely,

Person Who Sifts Through “Gently” Used Underwear At The Market

Why Bubbles Don’t Work.

Life is not a bubble.

As much as I try to create a comfort-friendly, safe-zone that happens to be flimsy, translucent and encircles me, life is not a bubble.

We spent New Year’s Eve with German, British, Irish, and two other American missionaries who were all so fabulous in every unique way possible. I loved investing in them, getting to know them and sharing our deep love for the Savior with them. I loved praying in the year, singing worship songs, and aligning our hearts to seek Christ in all things in 2012. But that sweet, little, enjoyable bubble I created didn’t last.

Let me back up a little. Can I be totally honest here? Of course I can. This is my blog. I didn’t want the Europeans to come over on New Year’s Eve. I thought, “Thirteen people? Here? I can’t entertain that many people. What if they have an awful time and hate us?” Anxiety set in. Of course, these thoughts were highly irrational. I usually am able to humble myself and admit this after I’ve had a rare case of irration-ability (yes, I made that word up). Nonetheless, this was not the first time that week that fears, anxieties, and undealt with emotions have had a foothold/stronghold effect on me.

Sometimes here, I have a fear of going outside. Sounds crazy huh? Just wait, it really isn’t that insane. It is easier to stay inside than to see the faces of the women who are living, begging for food and money on our street. It is easier to hide from the hundreds of Talibe boys who grow up without family, who beg on the streets, and who are often sexually abused. It is just easier for your heart not to break for the people here who do not know the name of the One who brings salvation.

[So, insert bubble.] Last week, my bubble was my home. Once that bubble was burst, I recreated it briefly with our new Euro-American city. Now that they have all left Dakar, and we’re back to work, my bubble has burst once again. And this time, it is good. It hurts, but it is so good.

Bubbles don’t work. They are not reality.

My reality is that I serve with a team of eight Christ-followers in a nation where 95% of people do not have hope, where up to 12 students live together in one dorm that is smaller than my kitchen, where friends have been kicked out of their homes for giving their lives to Jesus, where friends do not know where their next meal is going to come from. I am serving God in a place where He is. Despite the circumstances, despite what my anxieties, fears, and failures try to tell me, God is here and He is good.

The reality is that God wants to use me here. I’m realizing that ministry is going to look different in Senegal than I thought it would three months ago. And that’s okay. I am learning that I’m here because God lead me here. He wants to lead me still. Despite my expectations of what everyday “should” look like, I am praying that I would follow faithfully in every moment. I am praying that I would surrender to the Spirit’s prompting even if it doesn’t fit into my schedule. I pray that I would put His will before my will in all things. I pray that I would commit to trusting Him for my security instead of running to things I feel I have control over.

My security and comforts are being gently removed so that the only thing I have left is Christ. And I pray the same for you. I am being beautifully broken in the sweetest way possible. And all I want to know is Christ and Him crucified.

The Depth of the Hurt

I’ve been thinking about blogging about this incident for a few weeks now, but I haven’t been able to truly process it fully (to be frank, I still haven’t). There is are more layers to this story, but for the sake of your time I’ll try to give a little summary. Please bear with me as this blog might be a little bit scattered and probably long. *Also, feel free to share this blog with people, but please don’t tag me in it on Facebook. This is a highly sensitive post and could be controversial and problematic with my students. So, again, feel free to share it, but please make sure it stays off of my Facebook for the sake of the gospel.

A few weeks ago, Rachel and I went on campus to try to meet new students. We had a pretty good day practicing our Wolof and French and meeting students who were waiting to find our their grades from the summer’s exams. As we were leaving campus, this male student came up to us and acted like he knew us. I thought that he looked familiar and was a friend’s, Oumy’s, boyfriend. So I started talking with him. Not even 45-seconds into the conversation I realized that he was not Oumy’s boyfriend.

This student starts talking to us about why we’re in Senegal. We tell him that we’re working with Campus Pour Christ (by the way, that’s the name for Campus Cru. for Christ in Senegal). And he tells us that he’s seen a bunch of Americans here over the summer and during the past two years. That was actually the most encouraging part of our conversation. He had seen previous missionaries on the campus and our summer project team from earlier this summer. I thought maybe he had been exposed to the gospel. After that “intro” to conversation it went sour. 

He began to talk to us about “beach girls” in America. For the sake of my supporters who might be reading this, know he wasn’t trying to say beach. He was talking about prostitutes in the United States but referring to them in a duragatory way. And once I figured out what he was talking about I quickly said their situation was sad. He asked why and I responded with, “Because they don’t know the extent of God’s love for them and that they don’t have to live like that.” He started to talk about prostitution in a glorifying way. My heart started to break/become enraged. One of my hopes and dreams is to help get women who are in bondage to prostitution off the streets and walking with the Lord.

 He then brought up the depth of poverty here.  Now, I have seen the poverty gap here. We went over this one. Right, God?  This student told us that there was nothing wrong with selling sex and selling one’s own body. He continued to tell Rachel and I how he has to prostitute himself in order to have food. The simple question he posed, “Have you eaten your breakfast today?” made me sick to my stomach realizing the amount of food we have in our kitchen could feed this man for a year. He has to give the only thing he has to live. He described this “necessary evil” as something that was good. He claimed, “Since God is the creator of good and bad, whose fault is it when we choose bad? God’s. And if God created evil, is evil even bad?”

This broken man was trying to justify the wrong that had been done to him by ignoring the fact that evil even exists.

I think that moment, for several reasons, was my breaking point. I came home and walked into Michelle’s, Paige’s and Katie’s apartment and just cried. I was frustrated that the guy didn’t understand that God is good and in Him is no darkness. I was frustrated that he crossed a social boundary by talking about that stuff with women, especially because he brought that up in front of sweet, innocent, pure, little Rachel. But most of all, I was angry that he showed me a part of African life that I had been choosing not to see. That conversation opened my eyes to the depth of the hurt that exists here. Sometimes I’m so very disillusioned by the mask that my students wear so well. Sure, life is hard here, but they’re making it. They don’t even think they need God, so why am I here? In this converstation I saw it especially. The lies, the mutilation, the death, and destruction… Satan’s rule and reign is so strong here. Where was my God?

I wrote later in my journal:

“Lord Jesus, how overwhelmed and defeated do I feel in this battle? I cannot see past these battles in front of me to see Your faithfulness and Your heart to redeem these people. I am stuck in combat without the slightest hint that the war has already been won… I am wanting to see the gospel go forth and for people to come to know you, but that isn’t happening. Lord, do you even care for these people?”

To which He replied,

“I have conquered sin through my Son’s death and resurrection. I have already won the war, and even though you don’t feel like it, I’m fighting your battles for you. My timing is perfect, and my ways are not your ways. My love for that man is great, much greater than you can imagine. I do love these people way more than you do. My word never returns void even though you might not see how it permeates the human heart. I am faithful to the least of these and have a redemption plan for all the nations. Do you trust me?”

I am learning that my questions really are a perfect representation of my view of God. What do I believe about His character? Me asking if He loves the Senegalese is basically saying, “Hey God, I don’t trust that Your character is always the same with everyone, and Your word might not be true about your love for every single person.” He loves them more than I can imagine. Everytime I am asking God “why?” on their behalf, He reminds me that although I do love them very much, they are not mine. My Senegalese student’s are His. Do I trust Him with them? Do I trust Him to open the eyes of Miriama, Oumy, DiaDia, Isatou, and Awa’s hearts? Or do I think I am more able?

I’m growing more and more while being here, but it isn’t pain free. There are things I’ve seen, things I’ve experienced and things I’ve heard that grieve the heart of God. I’m learning more and more that when I asked to be His hands and feet, I was given His eyes, ears, and heart.

I am so thankful for this experience to be able to mirror Jesus to 60,000 college students. I’ve been able to see the depth of hurt, pain and evil here. But what I know from experience is way more powerful than any darkness. God is Lord over all. He is author of creation. He is King of kings. He is bigger than our trials.

I am here to testify that my God is good and does good. The God of the universe is orchestrating and weaving events in our daily life for our good. I am here to “have a big, high, right view of God and [have] my life testify to it and my lips proclaim it.”- Ryan Kucera. I am here to show a sick, fallen world the Healer and Redeemer. I am here to tell people that the only thing we have to give to God is our lives and that is where we find true life. I count it as joy to be able to serve Christ in this way, knowing that though there might be heartache, God is worth every, single ounce of it.