I Am

I am proud

You don't know me. What you think you know? It is only what I let you know. Nothing more. You can't help me; I don't need help.

I don't speak, because I'm better than that.

I take greater pride in my humility than anything else.

I am better than you, but I'll never say it, because I'm better.

I've never been given anything. What I have is my ability to overcome obstacles and get things done.

I don't want handouts. I despise charity.

I am completely independent. I rely on no one.

I don't need you.

I am irrational

The more people know me, the less they'll want to.

I'm a burden.

An obligation.

An annoyance.

I am unnecessary. I am unneeded.

Filthy.

Disgusting.

Pathetic.

The closer I am, the more hurt I'll bring you. I've done it before, and I'll do it again.

I don't want to hurt you, so I don't speak; even when I should. But I do so much more harm and speak when I shouldn't.

I don't want to be hurt, so I remove myself emotionally.

I turn to humor in pain. It's a strong coping mechanism. Truth is, I laugh it off because I can't find the emotion to cry.

My thoughts won't let me sleep, but thoughts elude my tired mind.

I am fearful

Of being known. Of being unknown.

Of being dismissed, or missing.

Of pain. Of feeling, and unfeeling.

Of reckless words and loving words.

Of weakness, failure, and vulnerability.

Of understanding and misunderstanding.

Of rejection and acceptance.

Of everything and nothing.

Of what I know, what I don't know, and what I wish I could forget.

I am weak

I can't help you, because I can't help myself.

I'm broken,

bitter,

beaten,

and bruised.

Knocked down; and too tired to get back up.

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.

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I am humbled

Spoken to existence.

Known intimately.

Understood fully.

Given everything.

Undeserving.

I am stable

Wanted.

Loved.

Cared for.

Healed.

Joyful.

Thankful.

I am unafraid

Of anything. Of everything.

I am strong

I can help you, because I know I can't help myself.

I'm broken, but not beaten.

Bruised, but not crushed.

Persecuted, but not abandoned.

Knocked down; but not destroyed.

Joy will come at dawn.

In His grace.

In His redemption.

I am His.

A Dirty Word in the Church: Why Abortion is Our Problem

In the past few years as a Criminal Justice Major, I’ve had a number of opportunities to do some pretty in depth research on a topic that is heavy and disturbing, to put it mildly. There is without a doubt a very real and very deep hatred and distaste towards those who prey on children. It’s a subject that will have even the most passive people up in arms almost immediately when the subject is brought up, and it’s not been uncommon in past years, with the introduction of notification laws such as Megan’s Law and Jessica’s Law, to hear stories of pedophiles being attacked and killed upon release from prison. Some of them don’t even make it out of prison. Such is the disgust that people feel towards these predators. And rightfully so. I’ll never forget the story of Jessica Lundsford, for whom Jessica’s Law was named. In brief, she was kidnapped one night by a neighbor, John Evander Couhy, who unbeknownst to Jessica’s father, had a long rap sheet and was a registered sex offender. Couhy kept 9-year old Jessica, bound and gagged in his closet, for close to three days. After he was done with her, be buried her in his backyard. Alive. We are appalled by stories like this, and yet we fail to even shed a tear for a much greater tragedy that happens every single day all around us. We are almost entirely apathetic to the killing of those who don’t have a voice—those who will never have a day in court or people to mourn their loss or show disgust for those who perpetrate and ignore this crime.

It is estimated that around 6 million Jews were murdered during the Holocaust. On September 11, 2001, 2740 Americans were killed in terrorist attacks across the East coast. On December 7, 1941, 2403 Americans were killed in Pearl Harbor. An estimated 800,000 deaths occurred during the 1994 genocide in Rwanda. And across the world, there are approximately 126,000 babies murdered. Every day. An estimated 42 million per year. The U.S. (using the year 2000 as an approximation) accounts for 1.31 million of these deaths each year. According to Finer and Henshaw (2003), abortion is one of the most common "surgical procedures" in the U.S. today. And one out of every six woman who has an abortion claims to be an evangelical Christian.

We feel so good about ourselves when we decry the injustices in Africa, when we mourn the losses and devastation in Japan, when we solemnly look to where the Twin Towers once stood. And this week, we danced in the street celebrating the death of one man who was responsible for the deaths of so many others. We are continually appalled by the stories of helpless children preyed on by old men and other trendy human tragedies that populate the newspapers and evening television. But bring up that one dirty little controversial word—people start looking for a door, or in this case (after you’re finished reading this)—a noose.

The last thing I want to do is further a political viewpoint. In the past when I’ve made this very point, people have told me I was ignorant for bringing up the topic and not expecting it to get political. I would agree that I am indeed ignorant, because I find myself entirely unable to comprehend why Christians would try to hide such a horrific issue behind something as petty and useless as politics. I can’t stand politics. So let me say this explicitly. If you call yourself a Christian, I don’t want to hear a political or logical argument from you. I won’t listen to a word that comes out of your mouth. You are appalling in your attempts to justify one of the most disgusting human tragedies that has ever occurred, and you should be ashamed of yourself for even trying. I’ve seen dying children. Believe me, there is absolutely nothing political about it. It is tragic. It is heart wrenching. But somehow we shrug our shoulders and yawn. We shove the issue into the political realm so that we can turn what is undeniably a moral issue right at the heart of the Gospel, into an intellectual exercise in debate, and don’t have to worry about the blood of innocence haunting our safe, two-dimensional dreams.

During the holocaust there were many people who were ignorant of what was really going on. The upper echelons of the Nazi regime did quite an impressive job of covering up what was really going on to the general public. But there were some things that just couldn’t be hidden. The majority of normal everyday citizens may not have known explicitly what was happening in the concentration camps—but they knew something was happening. The church didn’t know how to respond. Decrying these human wrongs was basically akin to putting a target on your back; on the backs of everyone in your congregation. It wouldn’t be responsible to draw attention to themselves—to take actions that could result in innocent bystanders getting hurt. This whole thing was really about politics, was it not? The church doesn’t need to be involved in matters of government. The church shouldn’t be. And so, this was how the church rolled over and played dead. They played a mean fiddle while the city burned around them.

Hitler’s philosophy was pretty straightforward. Inconvenient people should die. Of course he dressed it up a bit. The handicapped, the old, the inferior, the ugly—they needed to go. The mentality behind abortion isn’t terribly different. We have deemed a certain type of people, much like Hitler did, to be inferior. Inconvenient. That’s all there is to it. We hid for years behind our scientific ignorance. It’s not a human, it’s a blob of tissue. But what do we find now that technology has torched this argument? Nothing. Nothing has changed. There is no more scientific ignorance about the issue, just plain human selfishness and complete indifference to the lives of future generations. The former United States Surgeon General, Dr. C. Everett Koop, supported this when he stated that only 3-5% of all abortions performed are because of rape or incest, or the possibility of a deformed child, or even a threat to the life of the child’s mother.

Unlike some who lived in Germany (and other countries) during World War II, we do know what’s happening. We have no ignorance to hide behind anymore. No excuses. But one thing persists. As soon as someone brings that word into the conversation—we chastise them with our eyes (at best—I’ve seen some conversations almost reach blows), and turn the conversation to legislation, comparisons to prohibition, and all the inconveniences that would be caused by getting involved in such messy procedures. What are we going to do with all of those children, someone once asked me? It is one thing to say abortion is wrong, but the church needs to provide a clear plan and alternatives for people who are thrust into these situations, and even be prepared to deal with the repercussions from the outlawing of abortion, should it ever occur. First off, let me just say that I am neither condemning the women and girls who find themselves in these situations, nor am making light of the problem. I’m not trying to simplify the situation either. What I am trying to simplify is this—there is a very simple alternative to murder. Don’t do it.

On the other hand, maybe we overcomplicate it. When I was in Africa, there was a fairly wealthy, predominately white church (not unlike our churches here in the States) that had a very simple solution: they had a baby drop-off box. Once a baby was placed in the box, it would lock, and alerts would immediately be sent to appropriate authorities, as well as several members of the church responsible for responding to this very scenario. Of course, this was not their only solution, but the point still stands—maybe we don’t want to deal with the alternative. Maybe it’s easier to just ignore the slaughter that is taking place every single day right down the street and chalk up the answer to something that only political theories can fix.

Sadly, for the church today I don’t think abortion is even the heart of the issue. It’s just the tip of the iceberg. It’s a catastrophic, visible reality that is simply a symptom to the much larger, deadlier, more horrifying truth. That we are neglecting an integral theme; a blatant and unyielding facet of the Gospel: to take care of the poor. This is not a copout answer, so hold back your sigh of relief until I’m finished. This is a direct response to those who sit around and say there is nothing we can do outside of politics to make a change. My response is that we have ignored a stewardship; we have neglected a command that was given to us in the first place. This is not a political issue. This is not an issue of law, or the Constitution. It is not an issue of legislation. This is OUR ISSUE, and we’ve let politics wander through our doors, drag it off and beat it to death. This is not a question. It’s not a suggestion. It is a mandate given directly to believers in the church. Whatever you do for the least of these, you did for me. Maybe you still aren’t seeing the connection. You should.

"Open your mouth for the mute, for the rights of all the unfortunate. Open your mouth, judge righteously, and defend the rights of the afflicted and needy." (Prov. 31:8-9)

"The righteous is concerned for the rights of the poor; the wicked does not understand such concern." (Prov. 29:7)

". . . Defend the orphan, plead for the widow." (Isaiah 1:17)

"Religion that God our Father accepts as pure and faultless is this: to look after orphans and widows in their distress and to keep oneself from being polluted by the world." (James 1:27)

"A father of the fatherless, a defender of widows, is God in His holy habitation" (Ps. 68:5)

"Thus says the LORD, ‘Do justice and righteousness, and deliver the one who has been robbed from the power of his oppressor. Also do not mistreat or do violence to the stranger, the orphan, or the widow; and do not shed innocent blood in this place.'" (Jer. 22:3, italics added)

"Defend the cause of the poor and the fatherless. Vindicate the oppressed and suffering" (Ps. 82:3)

There is a plethora of scripture just like this in just about every book of the Bible—yet when was the last time you heard anyone preach on any of them? The General Social Survey (GSS) in 2005 shows that there is a very significant and direct correlation between poverty and abortion. Now obviously we know that poverty is not the only factor. But what if, in this one particular area, the church stood up and did what we are commanded to do in the first place? What if the church stepped up and made this our mission? What impact would it have if we decided to take this issue back? To make it ours again? What if we had baby drop-off boxes as a regular feature of our church buildings? What if we hung signs on our church that said “Give us your unwanted children”? I wonder if we wouldn’t see a direct impact on these figures after a decade or so.

You can call me ignorant. Call me intolerant. Allow yourself to believe that I am biased and blinded by an extremist political point of view in spite of my clear attempts to distance myself from a political agenda or ideology. Justify these attitudes by telling yourself that you are helpless in this situation to do anything useful anyway. It should be clear by now that your shallow excuses don’t matter to me. I understand that there will be things that I’ve done in my life as well as things I’ve neglected to do, that I will come before my Creator one day and have to provide an answer for. But my hope is, that some of the questions He will not have to ask me is, "Why, when I made it so clear how passionate I am towards the helpless, how heartbroken I am for the fatherless, how much I hate those who prey on the innocent, did you stand by and do nothing? Why did you turn your back? Why did you stay silent?" I don’t want to answer those questions. I pity those who will have to.

It Will Be Worth it at the Top (South Africa Journal, January 19, 2011)

So much of what we do seems meaningless. I don't say that to sound negative or dismal. When you think about life--at least the way that most of us live it--most of our daily activities are not memorable. On Friday, most of us won't remember what we were doing at 7:21 pm on Monday night. That's just the way things go. Time passes while we go about the tasks that fill our days. Days become weeks bleeding into months sneaking into years. And at the end of it all, do we really feel that most of our time spent was meaningful? Have all of the steps I've taken meant something? If they have then I certainly can't see what they all mean or how they all fit in to the journey.

This past Saturday, along with my 11 compatriots, I made the trek up Table Mountain, South Africa's most famous. While I was in better shape (better than I even gave myself credit for) for the endeavor than I'd anticipated, it was far from easy--especially at midday. Most of trip up is at extreme angles, using large stone steps. The peaks loom far overhead, and just when you feel you've made some progress, you realize that the path cuts off to the left or right for another hundred yards or so before you can continue your upward progression. There are points where you can't help asking yourself, Why am I doing this? All I see in front of me are stone steps. Above me, the mountain taunts, seemingly taking a few steps back every time I take one. Where is the meaning? What is this accomplishing? I want shade. I want to sit down on a block of ice and then take a nap. Then I'll get up and finish. Tomorrow.

We pressed on and finally made it. The top is mostly flat and can be picked out even as you fly into Capetown--hence the name. My brain is screaming at me for more liquid; I've made it this far with about 20 ounces--something I was proud of myself for until about 20 minutes after I ran out. But something gives me pause as I stumble up the last few steps. There is nothing but the expansive emptiness of sky above me. Aside from the sounds of other jubilant and exhausted voices, there is complete stillness. I am, quite literally, on top of the world. Every direction I turn I can see where sky meets ocean. Breathtaking in this case doesn't even begin to do it justice, and the most beautiful camera lens could not capture this moment. I turn around and look back from the direction we came. Between the two peaks we came between to reach the top, I can see the entire city. I can't see the bottom, but for the most part I'm able to distinguish our path up the mountainside. Part of me feels like it wasn't even me that made the journey.

It's because the journey is what changes us. It's not the beginning or the end. It's what got us through. It's what pushed and pulled us, from the first chapter to the last. The things that kept us moving even after we'd lost track of the "why's" and "how's". We won't always feel like our steps have meaning. Sometimes we can see our destination. More often we may not even know there is one. But now and again, we have the opportunity to turn around. To see where we came from. How far God brought us. And when we reach our destination, whether it's in this life or the next one, we will see the value in each meaningless step. The purpose in the menial progression. It will be worth the wait, I promise.

Greater Things (South Africa Journal, January 12, 2011)

On the outskirts of the township of Capricorn you will find what looks like a small, unimpressive rectangular building. Next to it is a small, unimpressive slab of pavement. Both are contained by a small, unimpressive fence, with an unimpressive gate topped with unimpressive razor wire. Things aren't always what they appear. Permanent buildings are not allowed to be built in Capricorn indefinitely, so what appears to be a building is, in reality, several storage containers with a wall filling in the gaps between, with a makeshift roof to protect the interior from the elements. I can tell you right now that on any given day, you would pass it by without noticing or recalling a single, unimpressive detail.

We are surrounded by big. Bombarded with it, seduced with it. We flaunt it, we work our whole lives to achieve it, and we will in some cases die for it. Yet we fail to realize that we die without it.

It's difficult to even express the ways in which one's perspective changes when you have caught a glimpse of what real life is all about and how it feels to live it. It takes hold of you like a drug. Sometimes you wonder why you put yourself through it, but again and again you find yourself craving more. You can't go back to the way things were. I find myself caught up in something that is not bigger, rather, something that is greater, than I could ever imagine. Things that in pursuit of something else, I may have passed by. The affection of a child. Late night conversations about life and faith. Friends that have become family. The more I experience of this journey, the more I realize that it is the little things that become big things. The unimpressive, the insignificant--becomes greater.

On any given day, you might pass the Capricorn center and not even know it. But had you walked by today, you may have heard the sound of hundreds of tiny voices lifted to heaven. The sound of praise amidst loss and suffering, hope amidst abuse, and dependence amidst poverty. The sound of triumph and joy carried by the wind, singing, "Greater things are yet to come, and greater things are still to be done in this city . . . "

“Enjoy the little things, for one day you may look back and realize they were the big things.”

-Robert Brault

So Unfit (South Africa Journal--January 8th, 2011)

I feel an overwhelming sense of gratitude, sitting where I am right now. There is a sense of desensitization that happens sometimes when you have been blessed with opportunities like this one so many times--it's a shame, really. As we waited to board our connecting flight in London, one of my teammates pointed out that I have been incredibly blessed to have had so many opportunities to travel overseas before even entering or graduating college. I continued to think about that as we boarded and well into our 11-hour flight. It's not like I don't think about it. There isn't a day that passes where I don't. But for some reason I just feel even more grateful to be here. Maybe it's because my fundraising didn't go very well. There were a number of times that I was convinced that I was done. That I'd been beat. That this trip just wasn't for me.

My faith is so fragile; so easily thrown about. How many times must I have the Creator prove Himself to my meager and wavering understanding of His plan before I finally surrender and admit that it may actually be superior to mine? In spite of this, He continues to bless me. I'm not just talking about my location--which is breathtaking. The house we're living in for the month sits right on the beach. Our backyard is composed of several mountain ranges. We have front row seats for the sunset every evening. But for all its beauty and allure, it is not my surroundings that I am so grateful for.

I am so unfit for the place I have been put. My words are awkward and fumbling. I feel like I have so little to offer. There are so many people who could do this better than I. Yet I am the one here. These things breach my understanding; my way of rationalizing things. I have no explanations--I simply know that I am here, and that God will use me in spite of myself. I know that His grace is great. I know that He has blessed me with an incredible spiritual family that will see me through this task, both in prayer, and in standing beside me this month.

I am so unfit. And yet for the first time--I'm okay with that.

India: Some Thoughts on the Past 5 Years of my Journey

"It's a dangerous business, Frodo, going out of your door . . . you step into the road, and if you don't keep your feet, there is no knowing where you might be swept off to . . . ". These familiar words have found a strange new meaning to me recently, as I’ve considered the 365+ days that have slipped past since returning to India last June. Sometimes I wonder what my life would be like had I not made that first trip in 2005. Or even the 2 following trips. I wonder what it would be like to wake up every morning to bare walls; absent of the large map of New Delhi prominently displayed over my desk, framed by newspaper articles and newsletters. I wonder what I would keep on my dresser, aside from the several framed photos of people I would die for, accentuated by a handmade Indian scarf (who’s tribal colors would, I’ve been told, get me killed no-questions-asked, were I to wear it in certain areas of North India), an 18-inch Maharaja sword, a signed Cricket ball, and a hand-made leather journal, among many other keepsakes thats meaning (and value) would be lost to anyone but myself.

It’s been a long 5 years. I haven’t had the flu since then. It’s odd; I keep thinking I’ll get it any day, but year after year goes by and I don’t get sick. My theory is that I picked up some strange foreign bacteria that first trip and it has altered my immune system such that the common flu cannot affect me anymore, though I have no evidence to back it up. Since that first trip I've been on 6 more mission trips, 4 of them just within the past 2 years. I guess you could say I've got the travelling bug. I bought a car. I've finished 2 years of college. I am now a proud Uncle twice over. Life has moved on, and moved on quickly. You may be wondering why I haven’t come back to explain the Lord of the Rings quote in my opening line. Could be that it’s after 3 AM and my thoughts are jumbled. Could be that I figure if you’ve read this far, you won’t mind reading a bit further for the connection (which isn’t terribly difficult to figure out on your own by the way). Perhaps this is an inaccurate assumption on my part and the last thing you will have remembered reading that I’ve written is this seemingly structure-less monologue. In that case I won’t apologize for boring you because you’ve already stopped reading.

In all seriousness, I don’t necessarily expect much of what I’m trying to convey to make sense. I cannot say that all of it makes sense to me. I suppose that’s sort of the point. This journey has changed me in ways that words will not begin to justify. That’s why Bilbo’s musings resonate so deeply in my heart when I think about how the things I’ve experienced have had such a profound impact on the way I view things—every single waking moment of my life since. I’m not talking about some cute, warm and fuzzy, super-spiritual kumbaya feeling in the deepest depths of my tummy. I’m telling you my life will never be the same again, whether I want it to or not. When you experience things that have this kind of impact on your life, it changes you. For better, or for worse--it changes you forever. And I really hope that you wanted to be changed, because ignoring it doesn't work. I've seen people try. It just makes them miserable.

When you step out your door, whether that step was by your own naïve decision or caused in part by some fantastical (or not so much) wizardry invoked by someone who knows you far too well, you are confronted with things that will be irrevocably captured in your memory. Why do you think I’m still awake? My life has become quite (frustratingly at times) tangled with the plotline of this new story. There was a collision, and the world I lived in previous to the beginning of my real life has been shattered beyond repair. The sad part is that I don’t always want what’s real.

Last week I held my niece for the second time. As she slept in my arms I remembered an orphanage I visited outside Delhi last year. Even outside of comparison to other children’s homes I’ve visited, this place was a palace. I have no doubts that the children living there were receiving the best possible care in the country, maybe even the best possible, period. Nevertheless, all it took was one sleeping child to rock my entire world back on its heels. She was lying asleep in a crib. She couldn’t have been more than 2 or 3 months old. She was severely malnourished; legs and arms nothing but skin and bone. But oddly enough it was not these facts that struck me. It was her face. It is an image that, even over a year later, is perfectly etched on my memory and is not likely to fade any time soon. Her face was perfect. I don’t think I could ever make anyone understand what I mean when I say perfect. I mean that this tiny child, peacefully oblivious of the dire reality surrounding her and even threatening her very life while she dreamt, was possibly the most beautiful thing I have ever seen in my life. I mean that my lungs suddenly felt painfully short of air, and I quickly passed her crib because the urge to pick her up and hold her was much too strong. Had I even been privileged enough to have permission to do this, I may have still turned down the opportunity simply because letting her go would have been too painful. You can call me melodramatic if you like, but my hands still shake while I type this.

Thinking back on this journey it’s impossible not to reflect on the relationships that have been formed along the way. Like the lessons learned and the things I’ve experienced, the people I’ve met and worked side-by-side with have left a mark on my life that will never leave me alone. Much akin to the unlikely "Fellowship" of Tolkien’s stories, my own journey has included a Fellowship of its own—I daresay even more unlikely and diverse than anything Tolkien could have ever dreamed up. Truth really is stranger than fiction, after all. These are not people that I would choose for my "Dream Team" of travelling companions. They are not necessarily people I would have expected or wanted along for the ride. But the pieces of life we’ve shared are more precious to me than any souvenir. I could spend hours simply telling you what I’ve learned from these little pieces. Some of these people I can’t even discuss in detail for their own safety’s sake. These people have taken lives. These are people the world gave up on. They have sacrificed health, money, and fame. They left behind their families, their countries, and their homes. Once dead, now transformed; once cut off and downtrodden, now sisters and brothers, brought together for one purpose—to do such a work that you would not believe, even if I told you.

Letting Go: Michelle & Melena

". . . I'm not a schemer. I try to show the schemers how pathetic their attempts to control things really are . . . It's the schemers that put you where you are. You were a schemer, you had plans, and uh, look where that got you. I just did what I do best. I took your little plan and I turned it on itself . . . You know what I noticed? Nobody panics when things go according to plan. Even if the plan is horrifying . . . nobody panics, because it's all, part of the plan."
-Joker, Excerpts from "The Dark Knight"

It was one of those nights that almost seemed like it was going to be totally unremarkable when it was all said and done. My doubts about my purpose in coming to Daytona Beach for Spring Break had caught up with me and were wreaking havoc on my confidence that this was in fact God’s will for me. This was the eighth mission trip I’d been on--my fifth just within the past 2 years. Sometimes it’s hard to gauge whether you’re actually called to go back, or whether you’re just looking for a spiritual "high" that often accompanies a service trip. My second-guessing continued well into this particular week and intensified ten-fold after the first day and a half, only having one conversation in the total of six hours we’d hit the beach and boardwalk doing contact evangelism. I tried to battle the discouragement and frustration that quickly arose as we approached people, and time after time were rejected. I didn’t want to have a bad attitude, but I had come with the intention of having good conversations with people about the Gospel, not wandering aimlessly down the beach, begging God to just let someone give us the time of day. I didn’t understand. And I couldn’t help asking God, why? I’m here. I’m willing. I came with pure intentions. So why can’t I just have "that one conversation"? As is often the case, God was simply preparing me for something bigger—I just didn’t realize it yet.

I am one of these aforementioned "schemers", trying to control my little world. Time and again God pries my hands off of what rightfully belongs to Him, and I am humbled and reminded that nothing is in my control. I need to let go. I’d like to say that these were my thoughts as our caravan neared the boardwalk on the evening of March 30th, but while I had certainly decided to let go, my attitude was much closer to that of shrugging my shoulders and saying "whatever", than that of trusting God to see His will accomplished.

My partner, Rebekah, and I had barely met previous to this particular evening, so as we strolled towards the boardwalk we began getting to know each other a bit better. We arrived at an open courtyard behind a strip of Bars & Restaurants, a Cinema Complex, and other tourist shops and attractions. There was a stage where concerts are obviously held off to our left, and straight ahead was a wall bordering the boardwalk. Along the wall we saw several pockets of people, high school kids, couples, even families, no doubt taking in the beautiful evening view of the beach. "What about them?" Rebekah asked me. She pointed towards two silhouettes almost directly in front of us across the courtyard. I couldn’t make out who these two individuals might be because they happened to be standing under the only light along the wall that was not currently functioning. I shrugged, "Sure, why not?" I said. After all, the worst they can do is say they don’t want to talk, right? We approached and introduced ourselves. They were mother and daughter, and though at this moment the four of us were far from any realizations about this encounter, this meeting had been set in place before the beginning of time; a divine appointment that could have only been arranged by an Almighty Creator.

After stating why we had approached them, Melena, the mother, started firing off questions at us, not even giving us much chance to answer.
"Why are you doing this? What do you believe? Do you believe in abortion?" She finally paused, waiting.
"No" we both answered.

"We do!" she stated emphatically. She waited, clearly expecting a reaction from us.

If she was expecting us to scream at her or pull out our Bibles and start beating her with them, she was disappointed. I can’t say at this point that I was expecting this conversation to progress much further, but then Melena asked, "How do you feel about me asking you guys all these questions?"

We laughed and stated that we were happy to answer her questions.

Though I didn’t realize it at that moment, the first barrier had just fallen. Melena and her daughter, Michelle, completely opened up to us and shared about their long and diverse history with religion. Michelle had just graduated from high school and was actually considering a major in religious studies. This family had experienced everything from Lutheran services, to Catholic, Mormon and Pentecostal churches, to Muslim mosques. They hadn’t been terribly impressed with any of them, and in some cases had faced blatant rejection for everything from the fact that Melena was bi-racial, to living with her partner outside marriage, to bringing her gay Nephew and his partner to these services. My heart broke for them with the knowledge that they were seeking answers so passionately and yet coming up short time after time. I shared briefly with them that I too, though from an entirely different background, had also faced rejection and a sense of isolation in the church. It had taken a serious faith crisis and a trip halfway across the world, to India, for me to make my faith my own and question what made my faith the one and only absolute truth.

At a certain point it hit me that this conversation had gone far beyond four strangers standing on the boardwalk talking. We were four friends, four fellow travelers, discussing life’s un-answerable questions, trying to come to a conclusion about the meaning of life and what God’s purpose might be for us. I didn’t just want to see them come to know Christ because I wanted to be able to say it happened and I was there to see it, I wanted to go before God—fall on my face and weep; beg that He reveal Himself to them; to set them free. My heart was broken for them in much the same way that I’m sure God’s heart breaks for those who do not know Him. I loved them.

Occasionally you will hear someone say that the words they spoke were not their own when they were sharing the Gospel. It’s cliché, I know. But it’s also true. There was no "out of body" experience, no flashing lights or tongues of fire. But I know that I never have and never will be capable of speaking the way I spoke that night outside the power of the Holy Spirit. Rebekah and I had barely met, yet we were finishing each other’s thoughts as if we’d been tag-teaming for years. Michelle and Melena spoke with us for almost an hour. We shared the entire Gospel with them—when it was all said and done we’d both shared our testimonies, as well as attempting to answer 5 or 6 tough questions that these two threw at us. There was no prayer at the end. No conversion or promise of one. We said goodnight and headed our separate ways.

Part of me wishes I had thought to ask for their contact information. But I’m glad I didn’t. It would have been another failed attempt on my part to close my fist around it. To try and control it. It’s in God’s hands—as it always has been. As it should be. We sat on a nearby bench for almost 20 minutes after we’d parted ways with Michelle and Melena and cried out to God, praising Him for His power and mercy, His eternal love for us. I couldn’t even stand; I was shaking so badly. I don’t think I’ll ever stop scheming. I’ll always struggle with trying to plan everything out. Trying to hold on tightly; trying to arrest control or at least maintain some illusion of it. But when I do, I might think twice. I may think back to the night I met Michelle and Melena. And I might remember what happens when I let go.