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The Dining Room Table

We have a kitchen table with a built-in leaf that allows the table to expand and contract. As a family of four we really only need the table to be on its smallest size. But because we regularly have folks over for meals, we keep it at its largest size to accommodate as many people as possible.

            We had to do some work on the kitchen floor this week, which required us to move the table. To make things easy, we reduced the table to its smallest size. When the kitchen repair work was complete we moved everything back to its original place. I was about to elongate the kitchen table when I realized that we won’t be having anyone over. I stood there staring at the table thinking of all the friends and family who have sat around it. The meals we’ve served and the stories that have been told. The messes that have been made and the laughter that has filled the kitchen and spilled out into the entire house.

As I looked at the little round table, it seemed so strange. So small. Sure, there’s a lot more space now to maneuver in the kitchen, but I would trade the inconvenience in a heartbeat to have friends back around the table. To shake hands, hug, share life shoulder to shoulder.

The increased space in the kitchen feels symbolic of the increased space that we are facing as a country. Social distance, physical distance, and separation creep into our ordinary conversations. Wide spaces that can make our homes and routines and lives feel lacking and empty.

In the days ahead, whenever I sit down at the kitchen table to eat I’m going to be intentional about praying for one of the families that has sat around the table with us. When you notice the spaces where things and people are missing because of the current pandemic, I invite you this week to take time to pray. Pray for the people who come to mind. Friends who you regularly see at your gym or yoga class, your colleagues from work, church family…

The time is coming when we will one day sit around tables together. In the meantime may we fill the empty seats and spaces with prayers for those we love. May we continue to live with hope and gratitude.

The questions of Advent

I’ve been packing up our house over the past couple of weeks. Endless boxes of books (seriously, I need to get rid of some theology books), paintings coming down off the walls, trash bags of clothes, heirlooms and artifacts carefully wrapped then disappearing into plastic tubs. Our home slowly becoming more and more sparse, barren, like the day we first moved in. Like a light slowly dimming. Soon all that will be left are memories as we lock the yellow front door for the final time and drive away.

In the midst of all the sorting and taping and labeling with my faithful sharpie, I have found myself wondering what it was like for Mary and Joseph as they prepared to head to Bethlehem all those years ago. How long did they have to pack up their home? Did they even have a home? Did they agonize over what to bring and what to leave behind? Were they lucky enough to have family who were willing to watch their things while they were away, or had the scandal of Mary’s pregnancy caused too big a rift for such a kindness?  Were they planning to be gone for a week, a month, a year? How much stuff could Joseph fit on the donkey alongside pregnant Mary? What travel snacks did they bring?

As the days before their departure dwindled, was their enough time to say their good byes, or were their old friends painfully absent, afraid to be connected with the scandalous couple? Did they have any inkling of just how much their lives were about to change as they embarked on this new journey?

How did Mary and Joseph handle the stress of packing up their lives at such a tenuous moment? Did their anxiety slip out in snippy comments and huffy looks (this never happens in our house…). Did Joseph find himself waking up in the middle of the night with his mind racing with a million questions and things to add to his to-do list? Was there the ever-looming dread about finances and how they could afford this unexpected trip?

I find myself carrying many questions as our family prepares for our journey to Kenya. Will we be safe? Will we like our new home? Will we make friends? Are we crazy for uprooting ourselves in the middle of a global pandemic? Will it be worth it?

Maybe this is twisted, but I have found comfort this Advent in imagining that Mary and Joseph’s journey to Bethlehem was fraught with questions. Not just the question of where they would stay, but all the other questions along the way. The questions that could not be neatly boxed up, labeled and packed away.

We find ourselves living in a year and a world filled with questions, and I’m grateful that there is space in the Christmas story for our questions. Jesus arrives in a sea of questions and unknowns with all manner of unexpected twists and turns. When he is born they don’t even know where to put him! Immanuel, God with us, is not a guarantee that we will get all the answers we want. It is a promise that for those of us who are willing to embark on the journey of faith, God is with us in the midst of our many questions.

Perhaps this year you are not journeying to Kenya. Perhaps due to Covid this is the first time in recent memory that Christmas will not involve any sort of a journey at all. No going to visit friends or families, no Christmas parties, no caroling. More staying and sitting and staring at screens that you are used to. More unanswered questions and uncertainty than normal and a harder time finding hope, and peace and joy than in Advents past.

Friends, may we be reminded that God was present in the mist of the uncertainties and the hardships of that first Christmas, and in the midst of this difficult Advent season God is with us still. So, bring your boxes of questions and fears and disappointments and place them at the foot of the manger. Immanuel is waiting.






The Stories We Carry

The Stories we carry end up carrying us. They shape us and form us like clay. I am grateful to carry many incredible stories from my childhood. Stories of seeing the world and growing up in a diverse, multi-cultural community amidst the breathtaking mountains of Papua New Guinea. These stories have formed my view of myself, the world, and my place in it.

These stories are sacred. They are the stories that have carried me through the difficult times. I go back to them when I need to find myself. Over the past few months I have been part of a diverse community of adult third culture kids (TCK’s) who grew up in Papua New Guinea. Together we have been looking at the ways in which race and privilege impacted our experiences growing up and permeated our most sacred stories and memories.

Much of the work we have been doing is intentionally looking back at our sacred, formative stories through a new lens. We have been challenged to ask new questions that we didn’t know to ask before. We have been encouraged to see things that we were blind to, and we have been forced to reckon with the painful truth that there is more to our sacred stories than we ever imagined. There are layers and complexities that many of us were woefully unaware of, or turned a blind eye to. There are ways in which our sacred stories and beautiful memories came at the expense of others, leaving them with scars inside and out.

This work of reflection is soul-wearying. I can only imagine the toll on those who lived out the injustices I am just now learning about and coming to reckon with. It has been heart-breaking to hear the stories of others who grew up in the same space I did, but experienced a very different reality than the rosy one I grew up with. As stories have been shared and voices have emerged to speak that have long been silenced and marginalized, I have been forced to question and re-evaluate my own stories. Under closer scrutiny I have found that the sacred stories I carry are cracked and incomplete. There are pages and chapters missing that tell a much bigger much more challenging narrative.

I find myself, along with others, asking new and challenging questions. How do I affirm the good of my childhood while also acknowledging the bad? How do I truthfully reshape my stories and resculpt the world I knew? Now that I see with new eyes and know in new ways, what am I called to do?

In the midst of asking these questions about growing up overseas in public forums there has been some backlash. People have demanded that we stop meddling, stop ruining their pristine childhoods, stop questioning their sacred stories. Some current missionaries have reached out saying we should stop focusing on the bad and just focus on the good. We should stop asking these types of questions and be grateful for the opportunity that we were given, but their words and demands ring hollow: fake, afraid, dishonest.

It is precisely this type of thinking that is so damaging, this need to label something as all good or all bad. This isn’t Disney. Real life just isn’t that simple or neat. Life is messy, and we as humans, despite the stories we might carry about ourselves, are a mixture of good and evil.

My hope is that we will learn to walk the middle path of celebrating the good parts of our stories while also wrestling with the ways in which our lives have and continue to cause damage to others. I pray that we, no matter where we grew up or where we live now, would look and see that no stories are so sacred that they cannot be questioned and re-evaluated. If our stories are so fragile, then perhaps they are already broken.

So friends, in the midst of the growing global awareness of the pervasive evils of racial injustice and systemic poverty, may we not turn a blind eye to the painful and difficult stories swirling around us. May we not ignorantly overlook the ways in which our sacred stories intermingle with the stories of others’ suffering and dehumanization. May we not use the privilege afforded us to focus only on that which is good and beautiful, but may we instead turn and listen and learn and grow.

May we surrender our sacred stories. May we add to them, amend them and pick up new stories to carry. I’m slowly coming to realize that my stories are too small. I need the stories of others to carry me into the future that I hope for and imagine. A future that is bigger and brighter and more beautiful than the sacred stories of my past.

And so it begins…

Lydia informed me this morning as we were driving to her preschool that she didn’t need me to walk her to her classroom. She was ready to do it by herself. This took me by surprise. This newfound confidence and independence were a far cry from last year’s version of Lydia who often did not want to let go when I gave her a goodbye hug at drop off. The little girl standing in front of me was different. She’d picked out her outfit, dressed herself, gotten her own cereal, and belted herself into her car seat.

We arrived at preschool, and I was curious to see if she’d follow through with her words. We held hands, as we always do, and walked to the outside door. Lydia stopped, let go of my hand and faced me. “Daddy, why don’t I just give you my hug now.”

“OK, Sweetie.”  She wrapped her tiny little arms around me and gave me a quick squeeze. Then we stepped into the large lobby where the check-in lady took her temperature. She was good to go. Her classroom was down the long hall and around the corner. This was the moment.

Lydia looked at me. I looked back. She didn’t move.

“Do you want me to walk with you?” I asked.

She tugged on the straps of her bright pink, sparkly backpack. “No, I’m OK.”

With that, she was off. Her tiny legs striding down the hall not once looking back. I watched her go until she rounded the corner; then I burst into tears.

OK, I didn’t burst into tears, but on the inside I did. Big, ugly dad tears. And so it begins, I thought to myself, and so it begins.

 I walked back to the car and sat there for a few silent minutes. This felt like a massive moment. It happened so unexpectedly. I wasn’t prepared, and yet as a parent this is what I’ve been preparing Lydia for. Preparing her to become her own person. Preparing her to be brave and venture out into the world and down the long halls of life and around the corners into the unknown without me.

It’s such a strange thing this whole parenting experience. I feel within myself the yearning for my kids to grow up and become independent people. I see that as part of my role as a parent. It’s my job to help launch them, but I also long to be needed and central in their lives. There are moments when I swear I cannot play one more round of Candyland or house, and I just want Lydia to go and play by herself. Today I wanted the opposite. I wanted her to need me to make it down the hall and around the corner. I wasn’t ready for her newfound level of independence.

As a parent, I wrestle with those competing forces inside me. The pull to protect and control and the desire to release and empower. The struggle is real. The fear is real. The wondering if I’m doing it right is real. Being a parent is hard work- emotionally, physically, spiritually. You name it.

So as I’m sitting here writing I have to remind myself that Lydia did something brave today. She stepped out and took a risk. Now I have to do something brave too. I have to let her keep walking and keep growing and keep blossoming because that is love.

Knotty Hair

These are the reflections of a stay-at-home dad, or soon to be mostly stay-at-home dad. Beginning this week, I have a small part-time gig lined up at a local church. One of the parts of my daily routine with Lydia is to brush her hair. Lydia has inherited her mother’s wild, curly hair. I learned early in my marriage not to call it “frizzy!”

Lydia has this little pink spray bottle and comb that sit atop her dresser, and every morning we engage in the ritual of taming her tangled locks. It can be quite the time-consuming endeavor. It’s like a miracle in reverse the way her hair manages to tie itself into knots while she sleeps each night. Every morning she wakes, and her hair needs assistance. A few squirts of water, some good chit chat, and the working of the brush through her hair to get out all the tangles.

Each day brings with it the need for more brushing. More untangling. More work and effort so that she can have beautiful hair. After the 4th day of doing this, I found myself getting annoyed. Isn’t there some way to just fix this so that her hair doesn’t keep getting tangled? (maybe there is and feel free to share) Isn’t there some simple one-time fix that will work forever so that she wakes up without knots?

As I sat impatiently brushing her hair I realized that this was a perfect metaphor for sin. I so often wish that I could just sprits my sin away with a quick prayer, read a few Bible verses and have it disappear forever. I often wish it was that easy, but the truth is that it’s not. The tangles of sin, pride, fear, the need for control, unforgiveness and racism show up each morning. The temptation to love myself and not my neighbor is a knot in my soul that doesn’t disappear once and for all. It is a daily challenge. It requires work and time and is sometimes painful. The knots in my soul are far more unruly and messy than the knots in Lydia’s hair.

As I reflected further, I recognized that Lydia needs someone to help her with her hair. There are some parts that she can brush by herself, but to get out all the knots she needs someone else. There are places that she cannot see. There are areas that she is blind too,  so there is partnership and trust required for the daily eradication of knots.

It is the same with sin. Overcoming sin is not something I can do by myself. I too have blind spots and places I can’t reach. I need the power and presence of the Holy Spirit. I need Godly friends who will pick up the brush and point out areas that I have overlooked or have been unwilling or unable to see. And it’s not enough to do this every once in a while. I need daily communion with God and others.

So, I’m choosing to make the ritual of hair brushing a sacred one. A daily reminder of my own need for help and healing and wholeness so that I might live the good and beautiful life to which God has called me. I pray that you too will find small, sacred spaces to connect with God and recognize your need for help. A knotty soul is much worse than knotty hair.

Lesson #1 of a stay-at-home dad

Yesterday marked the start of my second week being a stay-at-home dad. Something my wife did for years, and now the roles are flipped as she’s working. I can tell already that this new gig is going to teach me a lot about myself, and not necessarily all things I want to learn. It seems that school has begun for everyone now, myself included.

One of the first moments for learning and self-reflection took place in the afternoon. Lydia and I were outside playing make-believe. Per usual, she was princess Leia, I was Han Solo, and we were getting married. Lydia was busy preparing the slushies for our wedding while I got fitted for my tux. I set my phone down on the front stoop to fully embrace my role as Leia commanded me to go to the dressing room located by one of our giant oak trees.

Off I ambled, and by the time I returned decked out in my fancy invisible duds, I noticed that my phone was gone. I looked around, patted my pockets. I swear I’d put it right on the stoop. I looked at Lydia and asked if she’d seen my phone. She smiled at me, put her hands on her hips, and then declared with great sass. “No phones allowed at the wedding. They are much too distracting for adults. I put it away. You can have it back when we are done.” She punctuated this statement with an emphatic stare down.

I took a sharp inhale of breath. Was she being Lydia or was she being Leia? Was she talking to Han or was she talking to me? Perhaps she was talking to both.

I’m only a few days into this stay-at-home gig, but already I have felt the growing itch for connection to the outside world. It’s amazing how easily my phone finds its way into my hands when there is a spare second. Gotta check Facebook or Instagram or ESPN. Gotta make sure the world is still out there beyond the four walls of the house.

Sadly, the constant need for those external connections stops me from being present. So much so, that Lydia has already picked up on it. Is she not more valuable than a like on Facebook or an article on a random sports athlete? Is this time and space with her not sacred space waiting to be claimed? It doesn’t necessarily feel that way when I’m playing Han for the thousandth time chugging back another invisible gravity grape slushy.

Lesson 1 of week 1 is the importance of presence. Not just for Lydia but also for me. To regain and recapture the ability to be fully in the moment. To notice and enjoy the small but beautiful things that take place in the midst of the ordinary: playing make believe, folding clothes and packing lunches. It’s too easy and too natural for me to look to escape these moments. Escape to social media platforms and other people’s lives and other people’s stories all the while missing out on my own life and my own story and the goodness of God.

I’m going to work on putting down my phone so Lydia doesn’t have to hide it. I’m going to work on embracing this unexpected season at home that I have been given. Raise your invisible glass of slushy, and join me in a toast. “To being present.” May we each strive to be more present right where God has placed us.

Stuck in the mud

I was sitting in the back of a Gator vehicle with a couple of kids this morning at a friend’s farm. We were doing some solid off-roading down by a little creek when the driver swerved to miss the low-hanging branches of the tree in front of us. Next thing we knew, we found ourselves with the vehicle completely stuck in a muddy bog hidden by tall grass. No matter what we tried, the Gator was sunk good and deep. It wasn’t going anywhere without major assistance.

So, I ferried the kids two at a time through the swamp sinking up to my ankles in mud. My new running shoes, probably ruined now, squished and squelched as mud flicking up the back of my calves and clothes. By the time everyone was on solid ground, the muddy mire had left its mark. We trudged the rest of the way home to finish our unexpected adventure with a round of popsicles.

Driving home, my feet still soaked and toes starting to turn all wrinkly, I reflected on that moment in the mud. That moment of being stuck, of watching the wheels on the Gator spin but go nowhere. No traction, no forward movement, no getting out of the mud and getting free. As I thought about that image I realized it was a fitting image for how I’ve been feeling.

I feel like there is plenty of mud in my life. Plenty of stuff that sucks me in and holds me down stopping me from moving forward, stops me from being free- material things, old wounds, sin, and more. How often I try to push and pull myself out of the mud, but all I do is spin the tires and sink a little deeper. I rev the engine, make a lot of noise, spray mud all over the place, but inevitably I’m still stuck. Still in the same place, just a little dirtier and worse for wear.

Today, we quickly realized that there was nothing we could do to get the Gator vehicle unstuck. We realized that we needed help. Someone with a truck and a tow rope. Someone with more horsepower than we could muster. Someone who wasn’t stuck in the mud but could pull from dry ground, and help us get free.

I was reminded today that getting out of the muddy messes we so easily get ourselves into requires recognizing that we need help. We have to recognize that just trying harder might not be enough. While we might be content to spin our wheels and feel self-justified that we are trying to get free, we know deep down that we really aren’t. We’re going through the motions. Pretending, avoiding what really needs to be done.

 To get to dry ground and freedom requires humility and a willingness to confess to God and others our need for help. It requires community, connection, self-reflection. It requires reaching out and directing our energies in new healthy directions.

Most of us, if we’re honest, have some serious mud in our lives. Most of us are really good at spinning our tires and complaining about how things aren’t changing, and we can’t seem to get to dry ground and freedom. I hope this image will help you as it has helped me. It’s time to stop spinning our wheels. We were created to be free. We’ll still carry the mud spatters with us to dry ground. Our shoes may be wet and muddy for a while, but they’ll dry and clean up. We were not created for the quagmire, friends. Let’s not stay there. Let’s reach out and reach up. Together there is hope. The dry ground is calling.

Gratitude in the messiness

Exactly one month ago we were supposed to leave for Nairobi, Kenya. Contracts were signed, bags were packed, dreams of a new life were about to come true, and then in a matter of days all the plans we had carefully built came crashing down. It was a mess. We were a mess. The world felt like it was a mess.

But in the midst of that mess we were reminded that we were not alone. God showed up in the messiness. God spoke words of love and affirmation through the texts and calls and drop-ins of friends. God provided for us with Ali getting a job teaching elementary music at a nearby school district. God blessed us through the generosity of my parents who temporarily gave up their house to our would-be renters and moved into our basement so that we could have some sense of stability. Not only that, but they’ve helped with meals and dishes, watching the kids, and they haven’t even complained about all the noise we make and our incessant singing.

God has reminded us through the radical generosity of others that He is still a God of Manna in the desert. While the last month has been difficult and painful and filled with plenty of unknowns and unexpected challenges, we have been reminded that we are not alone in the messiness. God is here. God has always been here. Our God is Immanuel.

To those of you who have prayed for us, sent us job postings, baked bread, brought over a 6-pack of beer, sent cards, and checked on our spirits, please know that we are incredibly grateful for you; grateful for you being the hands and feet of Jesus for us and with us. Thank you for surrounding us with love in our hour of need and for giving us hope. From the bottom of our hearts we thank you.


Simeon, Alison, Lydia and Sam

The End of Holding Hands

I took my 7-year-old son on a special day out yesterday. For a looooooong time Sam has wanted to go to Hershey park, so at long last we did. He was so excited the night before he could barely sleep. When we finally arrived, parked, put on our masks and started heading towards the entrance Sam slipped his hand into mine. It was such a sweet and simple and beautiful thing. He wanted to be connected. Even as he jumped up and down with anticipation he never let go.

He held my hand all the way through the parking lot and into the park. After a little while I found myself looking around and noticing that there weren’t others boys his age doing the same thing. None of them were holding their dad’s hands, and I felt a little self-conscious. On top of that my hand was getting quite sweaty as the sun was beating down on us, and I really wanted to say to Sam. “Let’s not hold hands. I’m right here beside you, that’s good.”

But as I found myself wanting to say those words Sam wrapped me in a big hug as we waited in line for our first ride, the biggest roller coaster he’d ever been on, and he said, “Daddy, this is the best day of my life. I’m so glad I get to spend it with you.” As he said those words my heart melted. Here I was about to tell him we should stop holding hands because I was self-conscious and my palms were sweaty, and what he was trying to say to me was that he wanted to be connected. He wanted to share this experience together.

We held hands for nearly the next 6 hours in the heat as we walked all over Hershey park. His little hand in my larger sweaty hand. Swinging back and forth as we walked and chattered and decided which rides to do. It was a beautiful day.

 As our day came to a close and we walked back to the car, Sam’s little sweaty hand was still slipped into mine. I found myself wondering if this would be our last trip to the park where he’d want to hold my hand and be connected in this way. He’s growing up fast, and we live in a culture that doesn’t value this type of connection for men and makes it feel uncomfortable. I’m living proof of that, sadly.

Dads, I wonder what messages we are sending our sons with the ways that we choose to be physically present with them. Do we teach them with our actions that it’s OK to be tender and gentle with other boys as well as to be rough and tough. Do we show them in our own male friendships that physical affection is not only OK, but that it’s good and necessary.

When I look back on our day together years from now I will assuredly forget the rides we went on, the food we ate and the things that we talked about, but I will always remember holding Sam’s hand, being connected to him and being filled with love for my sweet, sensitive son. It may be the end of holding hands at Hershey Park, only time will tell, but it will be a day that I will never forget.

Through an outsider’s eyes

I grew up most of my life in the lush green mountains of Papua New Guinea- a place of beauty and adventure. I lived on a mission base with hundreds of other missionaries from around the world. The majority of families were from America and in many ways it felt like a mini-America. There was a smattering of Papua New Guineans who attended the international school for missionary children, but they were the outliers in our mostly white missionary bubble.

Almost all of the missionaries hired Papua New Guineans to help around the house. We had a wonderful woman named Jonah who cleaned for us, and Iyah who mowed the grass and did other odd jobs around the yard. The narrative I grew up with was that we were helping them, providing them with steady income in a world where most Papua New Guineans were subsistence farmers on their ancestral lands and couldn’t find paying jobs. To work for a white missionary family was a coveted position. I never thought twice about this arrangement growing up.

About 10 years after I graduated I returned to Papua New Guinea and the mission base where I grew up. I returned to be the speaker at the high school’s annual spiritual retreat. I brought my good friend Nick Peterson with me. I told him so many of my stories about growing up in PNG, and was excited to show him the amazing place in the flesh. I couldn’t wait for him to get a window into my childhood, so he could better understand me.

48 hours after hopping on our first plane we arrived at Ukarumpa. Being back, it felt like nothing had changed. All the same houses and trees were still there, some of them still with the same missionaries. The clay was as red as I remembered, and mountainous landscape was even more breath-taking.

 As Nick and I walked around the mission base on our first afternoon, I was jabbering away pointing out all the places of importance from my youth. I was caught up in that invigorating yet surreal feeling of being back in an old familiar place that you have been away from for too long. While I was seeing everything through old eyes, Nick was seeing it all through fresh eyes. Eyes that were very different than mine, African-American eyes that were attuned to issues of race and privilege that I was clueless about. Eyes that had seen and witnessed racial injustice in ways that my naïve sheltered eyes couldn’t even imagine. My privilege afforded me the opportunity to be ignorant and blind to the very race and power dynamics at play all around me growing up.

            But Nick walked into my missionary bubble, a safe haven of whiteness, and within hours he burst the bubble. Nick began to point out things I’d looked at my whole life but had never seen. He began to ask questions that I’d never known to ask. When I saw Ukarumpa through Nick’s eyes, eyes that were never afforded the option of naivete, my world was forever changed.

            Nick immediately recognized the gaping disparity between whites and blacks. The white community had better jobs, houses, transportation, clothing, access to material goods, medical care. The list could go on. The Papua New Guineans all worked FOR the missionaries. Never the other way around. The balance of power was greatly weighted towards the white missionaries. Nick commented that it felt like he was in a time warp going back to the Southern United States from a former era. We always laughed at Ukarumpa that we were behind the times, but the truth of his observation about our little community was sadly no laughing matter.

 I didn’t spend much time thinking about the differences between blacks and whites in PNG, because the emphasis of the community was unity and togetherness. This message of unity lacked the necessary nuance to navigate the discrepancies in privilege and opportunity that existed. Hidden within the message of unity was an unspoken message of sameness that was sadly not true. My existence at Ukarumpa as a white missionary kid was NOT the same as the Papua New Guinean kids who I grew up with, from the food that I ate, to the vacations that we took, to the bed that I slept in. Our lives were profoundly different. A difference that I was vaguely aware of on the periphery of my thinking, but not one that was openly discussed and explored within the public life of the broader missionary community.  

When I think back to all the hours I spent in church, and Sunday school and in youth group and school chapels I cannot recall any teaching or seminars or sermons focused on racism or injustice. Public conversations about the inequity of our community were generally absent. (It’s possible these conversations were happening among adults but kids and youth were not invited to participate).

There was a fixed focus on the mission at hand- Bible translation. We were taught to have great compassion for the Papua New Guineans because they didn’t have access to the Bible in their own language. We were greatly concerned for their souls, but the same level of compassion was not cultivated for the physical state of the people we had come to reach and their access to medical care, clean water, safe housing, jobs, quality education. The message that the Bible is a sacred book and tool to save the souls of the unreached came through loud and clear. Jesus’ message of justice and equality for the poor and the marginalized was but a whisper in comparison. The focus on souls and the future allowed for a type of blindness to physical bodies and the present.

            I don’t want to live blindly anymore, which is why I’m sharing this reflection in hopes that it might help you see a little more clearly as well. I’m profoundly grateful for Nick and his willingness and ability to help me see and learn and grow. I recognize that I still have much to learn. Speaking up is part of me trying to foster conversation so that we can continue to learn and grow together.