Faith Crises

The earliest one I remember happened when I was about eight or nine. It was at our church camp, and Pastor Neivelle had shared the story of his life as an ex-con. I remember him saying that even if our lives are not as colourful as his, God still wants to use us. As an eight or nine year old, I struggled with that. I was the good kid that stayed out of trouble. How could God possibly use me if I didn't have a fascinating story to tell? Pastor Neivelle then said we could invite Jesus into our hearts and he would help us figure that out. So I did.

Only a few years later, another crisis season hit. My brother and I had been the stars of our Sunday School as the kids who had been a part of the worship team since we were eleven and thirteen. We were also the Sunday School teachers' dream because we knew Moses from Abraham and found great joy in acing Bible quizzes. But by the time I turned thirteen, all I could think of was that someone was eventually going to call me out as a fake. I did all the right church things and tried my best to believe in God, but I didn't know what any of that meant. I even knew the right answers to the questions in the grown-up Bible study, but my questions were starting to be bigger than just about righteous living. You didn't have to follow Jesus to be a good person. I had been a good person my whole life, but I somehow knew that still wasn't the same as following Jesus or worshipping God. Those were frustrating years, and since I couldn't find answers in Church, music became my life. It only worsened the guilt of pretending to be a good Christian, but I didn't care since being a band geek gave me a high.

The year I turned sixteen, Pastor Caleb sat me down while we were at another church camp. He listened to my questions and he prayed with me. He talked me through the role of music in my life and what it could look like. About a year later as I was getting ready to leave for Anderson, he gave me the words from Luke 5, "Go a little deeper". It became the theme verse for the next big wave of what I now call "all the crazies". I don't remember much of what else happened then, but I remembered thinking maybe that season of crisis was over.


I was at the Connect Rally last night sponsored by the Wesleyan Church in New Zealand and the athletic department from Indiana Wesleyan University. Several of the youth and athletes from both Auckland and Indiana shared parts of their life story. There was a common thread in all the stories: crisis moments. Sports athletes whose worlds revolved around the sport they played crashing out because of injury and finding God in those moments. Family crisis, bullying and the death of close friends.

The thing about crisis moments is that they are often pivotal points in our spiritual journey. We hit those low points and in the moments of darkness and wrestling comes a point where we make a choice whether we hold on to the things we have always believed in, or we let go and embrace something else.

As I sat listening to those stories last night, I couldn't help thinking about my own faith crises. I'll be the first to admit that I'm a bit of a wuss in my seasons of crises. I wrestled, but I was always too afraid to let go completely of all the things I've always believed in.

When Keren died, I found myself surprised that I never questioned God. I remembered feeling like my world was completely shaken, but it was more because I was realising these things do actually happen in real life than because I was questioning whether God existed. I wondered then if I was wallowing enough in the depravity.

When I started seminary, I was looking forward to that season of existential crisis that all my other seminary friends talked about. But even my season of existential crisis was short. There had been two deaths in the family within a month of my starting seminary, and only a year after Keren had passed. I found myself struggling with being far away from family in that time, and began wondering if my call was even real. It was around 3am one night and I was trying to finish writing a paper on sanctification when I began realising I couldn't talk about sanctification if I wasn't even sure at that point if God was real.

In that moment, I panicked. And this is where I sometimes feel like I had wussed out instead of completely diving off the deep end. I emailed Greg and told him about my crisis moment, and explained that I probably wouldn't be able to finish my sanctification paper while I wasn't sure if this God thing was real. Then I turned my computer off and went to bed. Even in those moments, I prayed and prayed that when I woke up in the morning, God better show up and prove that God was real. When there were no fireworks or handwriting on the wall the next morning, I panicked even more.

I told Paul the next day about the crisis moment, and he gave me the very annoying, "aww, how cute" smile. I wanted him to push me off the deep end, but instead all he said was, "Even if you don't believe, God is big enough to believe in you." I silently cursed him out inside.

When I eventually came around, it wasn't because I had done all the scientific research and digging to prove that God is real. No, it was because Paul and Jen and Amity amongst others kept doing the very annoying, "aww, how cute" thing of reminding me that my faith was bigger than that.

As I thought about all these moments last night, I found myself wishing again that I had been braver and dove off the deep end into the unknown and embracing the possibility of life without God or acknowledgement of a greater being. The truth was, in all those moments of faith crises, as small as they were, my biggest fear wasn't of the unknown. I've lived with enough unknowns to not be afraid. I was more afraid of what I would become if I didn't have hope and certainty in a being that is bigger than the limitations of my human mind. I was afraid that in that dark space, I would no longer have reason to live. And because I'm too much of a wuss to even inflict self-harm, I would just be trapped in this in-between space of neither living nor dying.

And for that reason, I will always have great admiration for those who have dove off the deep end and is continuing the search for Truth because I think they have greater courage than me. And I get to live vicariously through them in their search for Truth and asking bigger questions that I lack the courage to ask.

This weekend marks six years since Keren's passing. I daren't claim to have achieved much in the last six years, except to have learnt to turn the crisis moments into stories that perpetuate the hope that keeps me going. It's the only way I know to find resolution to all of these crises.

Tribal Stories: Tilling

She patted down the last bit of dirt, covering the last of the sprouts. Dusting her hands off, she pushed herself back on her feet, took a step back and took a deep breath.

Days had passed since her most recent visit to the city. The road had led her down an unexpected winding path toward the giant, giving her a bit more time to think. In the last few days, she set up camp at the base of the mountain and waited.

Her mind drifted back to the days before the war. Life had been pleasant. Simple. Her mothers and grandmothers worked the earth, and when she had been adopted, she eventually picked up the trade as well. She remembered the long hours of tilling the land. As a child, it wasn't the most pleasant way to spend the days because it seemed like tedious work with nothing much to show. But her mothers and grandmothers would always say that tilling was an important job; for a well-tilled land made good seedbed for crops.

As she grew older, she began to understand her responsibility better. There wasn't much to show, but she began to enjoy digging deep into the ground, turning up the earth, and loosening up hardened dirt. It used to frustrate her that she would only be allowed to help with that little bit before she got moved to a different plot of land. She wanted to do more; sow a few seeds perhaps, even help gather in the harvest.

"We don't always get to choose what we're good at, child," her mothers and grandmothers would say.

So she decided to learn everything there was to learn about tilling--it was her responsibility to their people.

In the more recent days since the exile, she began remembering that there was tilling to do even in the desert lands if she were to help the desert people begin life. As she spent her days working the land, her mind was still on the giant, and she feared what he might bring for the people in the desert lands. She wondered if her work on the ground would be worth it if there was to be no life after the encounter with the giant. And she wondered too, if she--they--would get away unscathed, and if she had what it took to stand up against him.

Then she remembered what her mothers and grandmothers used to say.

"There is no 'Them'. There is only 'Us'. We are all Us."

She brushed away the first tear with the back of her hand. Perhaps that was the hardest part of the war--that it was all "Us" fighting against "Us". But the years of war left her wondering if they still believed they were all "Us". She herself, she knew, was guilty of forgetting every once in a while. One of her tribespeople once had to remind her to dig deep into the stories of their people--that Love was their story.

The giant, too, was "Us," and only wanted what was best for the desert lands--even if she may not completely see eye to eye with him. She hoped they both remembered that when they eventually meet.

She picked up the rest of her tools, including the two rocks.

"Love the Lord your God with all your heart, and with all your soul, and with all your mind."
"Love your neighbour as yourself."

Looking to the heavens that evening, she whispered words of blessing and thanks for her mother and mothers, and her grandmother and grandmothers, for the sages, for her tribespeople, for the critter, for the village people, for the gypsy, and even for the giant. Most importantly, she gave thanks that the forces had allowed her that little extra time to not just till the land but sow a few seeds this time around.

Tribal Stories: Earth and Time (Guest Post)

He sat thoughtfully at the edge of his field while the last rays of daylight disappeared over the horizon.  Many weeks had gone into the preparation of this year’s crops, and soon it would be time for the harvest to come in.  He always felt a sense of ambivalence about this time of year:  the harvest could be magnificent, or it could be eliminated through any of a number of tragic circumstances.  Storm, drought, thievery, and even the nature of wild beasts threatened to harm the labor of his hands.  He could sense that the harvest was near.  For all his readiness, though, only Time would dictate when the ripening would be complete.  All he could do is sit and wait…and keep watch.

News from a far-off land occupied his thoughts:  details of the escalating war in the southern desert lands.  He first learned of this news while conducting business in the city.  The wanderer, soon to depart for the war-torn south, had met with him in the city some weeks earlier.  She was concerned about the war, and yet she felt compelled to give herself for the peacemaking efforts.  She spoke of her tribespeople and of their shared mystical heritage.  He could not fully understand her native dialect, but their common respect of Earth and Time helped them to communicate with each other. 

Earth and Time.  His business, his activities, his religion revolved around these two poles of faith.  From his earliest days, he had been taught to respect Earth and Time.  He had learned his father’s trade, that of growing crops for the community’s good, by studying his father for some years.  Now he worked his own field, applying the basic principles of his religion, the depth of which he was only now beginning to appreciate:

“Respect Earth, for Earth gives life.”

“Respect Time, for Time gives friendship.”

Respect for Earth was easy; growing crops took all his strength, but those crops gave life to him and his community.  He could not understand Earth, but he depended on Earth’s love for each year’s needs.  Respect for Time was more difficult.  Surely, Time dictated when the ripening would be complete, but from his childhood a question plagued him:  How could Time give friendship?

Once he began working Earth on his own, he learned the true value of Time:  not to ripen crops, but to strengthen relationships among fellow laborers.  Growing crops was a lonely profession, but his time in the city had reminded him that he did not labor alone.  The wanderer, different as her journey was from his, sat next to him in the city one night some weeks earlier.  She spoke of her tribespeople and of their shared mystical heritage, and then she spoke of how he was included in those groups.  She gave thanks for Time which had brought them together in the city.  She gave thanks for Earth which would connect them even after they parted ways.  And then she pulled two small stones out of her pack, gave them to him, and said:

“You say, ‘Respect Earth, for Earth gives life.’
You say, ‘Respect Time, for Time gives friendship.’
I say, ‘Love the Lord your God with all your heart, and with all your soul, and with all your mind.’
I say, ‘You shall love your neighbor as yourself.’
Perhaps we are not so different.”

He sat thoughtfully at the edge of his field.  Daylight was fleeing.  The harvest was not yet ready, but soon it would come, just as it always did for his father.  He rolled the two small stones over and over in his hands.  And then he looked to the heavens and uttered a prayer of thanksgiving, for Time indeed had given friendship. 

Tribal Stories: Gypsy

It had been another restless night. Between another haunting dream and the critter's visit the day before, she hardly slept a wink.

The critter had brought a fresh basket of supplies and a word of warning. There was a giant up ahead in the mountain who was known to be temperamental. Her tribespeople who had had previous encounters with the giant had come home with battle scars, but there had also been others who had friendly encounters and came home unscathed. She recalled the promise she had made to her tribespeople, that when the time came to meet the giant, she would hold to the stories of their people as her guide.

Even though she came from a people of peace, she couldn't shake the feeling as if she was getting ready for war. As she gathered up her tent that morning, she made up her mind to head for the city not too far away. In the more recent years of war, she would visit the other cities nearby whenever she needed to clear her head. The little adventures renewed hope for her to keep at the restoration efforts, because they reminded her of what good cities could achieve.

She knitted her brows together as a sad smile crept on her face. For all the years of war she endured, her instinctive reaction in times of uncertainty was still to return to the city--even if not the one she just left behind. The city was everything she had dedicated her life to, and even in the worse years of war, it remained the parent that taught her all she knew. That morning, she needed comfort and reassurance that the forces were still at work to make all things good--and the only place she knew to go was back to the city.

When she arrived that morning, she hadn't unexpected to run into the gypsy lady, even though she knew that was a place she frequented. Their first encounter had been equally unexpected. She was walking home with someone she had just met in the market after the day's work, and the gypsy lady was there at the door to greet them as they came through. In the short exchange, she couldn't help noticing she had the pattern of threads on her sandals. She couldn't make sense of the threads at the time, but she ran into the gypsy lady again and again--too many times that she eventually realised the forces were at work again. In the more recent years of war, the gypsy lady had been the first to remind her of her dream of village life when she invited her back to her village.

She hadn't encountered the gypsy lady since before the night of the exile. In all their exchanges prior, the conversations had been brief, but there had been enough trust built between them that she knew to depend on the friendship of the gypsy lady. She had promised herself not to talk about the exile, but as mystical encounters go, the gypsy lady asked enough questions that she found herself giving away half the exile story.

Again, her friend reminded her of the village life. Again, she felt the beckoning to the southern lands.

As the friends parted ways that day, she found confidence in her steps again. The giant was still ahead, but she had found peace enough for the next leg. Even if she would have to battle the giant, the forces continued to be at work for good.

Her fingers found their way to those rocks again.

"Love the Lord your God with all your heart, and with all your soul, and with all your mind."
"Love your neighbour as yourself."

As she began her journey back to the road, she looked to the heavens and again whispered words of blessing and thanks for her mother and mothers, and her grandmother and grandmothers, for the sages, for her tribespeople, for the critter, for the village people, and for the gypsy. Most importantly, she gave thanks for the forces that held them all together.

Tribal Stories: Threads

Her fingers grazed the surface of the water lightly. Good enough, she thought. Her feet badly needed soothing after the distance they had covered, but she wasn't sure how the afternoon sun would have affected the water in the stream.

She stuck one foot in then another, as she slowly exhaled and allowed the shallow stream to wash over her feet. Of the days since she left the city walls behind, the last few had been the hardest. The more distance she covered, the further away she felt from her mother and mothers, her grandmother and grandmothers, the sages and her tribespeople. What if the southern lands were only a myth conjured up by the sages? What if there would never be life there? What if all that they had taught her would never be enough for her to survive by herself outside of the city walls? What if they had all been wrong about her leaving, and she had simply been too prideful to turn around and walk back?

She thought again of her tribespeople. Would they understand that she was still a part of their cause? Would they forgive her for walking away while they were entrenched in war? And more importantly, could she forgive herself?

There was a stinging in her eyes as she fought to hold back the tears. She hadn't cried since the night at the tree with the sages and her tribespeople, and she was determined that she wouldn't. Warriors don't cry, she told herself. They all knew it was going to be a hard journey, but she hadn't expected it to get this hard so quickly. She missed the comfort of the city walls and the predictability. Even if the wars continued to rage, at least there was a routine and rhythm to life in the city. Most of all, she missed the conventional wisdom of her mothers and grandmothers and the sages. No one knew what laid ahead on that road, except for the forces that held them together. On the easiest days of the journey, she could be at peace with that.

She waded a little deeper into the stream, trying to forget for a few moments that the road was still calling. There was an odd texture under her right foot, and the stream was shallow enough that she caught sight of a small piece of red material.

It was a pattern of threads she recognised from the ancestral home. She fingered it lightly, wondering how it would have gotten there in the barren desert. There was something haunting about its appearance in the desert road, but she couldn't quite place it.

And then she remembered. It had been many, many years ago before the war, and even before her arrival in the city. It had appeared in her very first dream, before she understood dreams to be significant, and even before she knew about the existence of the city. She remembered the dream too well, and all the dreams in between, if only because of the ways they haunted her.

So much time had passed since that very first dream. The years in the city had cost her the innocent wonderment she used to have for those dreams. It wasn't that she didn't believe in them anymore--she couldn't help it because they haunted her especially in the years of war. It was that she had stopped being in awe of the way they carried her through the uncertainty.

And the threads. There was no way to explain how and why they bothered her, except that it was as if the forces had timed their appearances. The years in the city taught her to be rational, but nothing about the threads was rational. Not when she had found the threads on the road into the city at the very beginning, or when it was on the material worn by the village people when she first met them. There was nothing rational about it appearing on the unexpected basket of supplies the sages handed her when she first began her apprenticeship collecting stories either. As she allowed herself to dwell on it, memories of the other numerous occasions of their appearance came to mind.

"Trust your instincts," her mothers once told her. She hadn't realised it then, but she had only learnt to fully do that not just because it had been wisdom from her mothers, but because the threads would show up after as a mystical guide.

She still struggled to make sense of how walking away from the city walls was supposed to help with the war efforts. She only knew it wasn't that she no longer believed in the city walls, or that the village life would be better. The sages once spoke of the mystical ways of their ancestors. That mysticism came from the stories of her people gave her peace enough to keep walking the road of the unknown. She could only trust in the stories of her people that it will all make sense when the time came.

The road was still calling, but she pulled herself out of the stream and pitched her tent for the night. As she laid her head down that evening, she picked up the rocks marked with the stories of her people and recited the words again.

"Love the Lord your God with all your heart, and with all your soul, and with all your mind." "You shall love your neighbor as yourself."

And then she looked to the heavens and whispered words of blessing and thanks for her mother and mothers, and grandmother and grandmothers, for the sages, for her tribespeople, for the critters, and for the village people. More importantly, she gave thanks for the forces that held them all together.

No Words

Dear Keren,

I feel like out of obligation to what has now become tradition, I need to say something on here because it's your birthday.

There's so much to say, but at the same time, nothing at all.

So I'll leave it at that.

Happy Birthday, dear friend.

Me.

Tribal Stories: Village

Her pace had slowed down since the first days of exile. The initial adrenaline was wearing off. The sages had cautioned that this was going to be a long journey, and that she would eventually need to slow down to have enough for the rest of the road.

A few days had passed since the critter's last visit. She hadn't been willing to admit it, but the critter's words bothered her a great deal. Had she given up too soon? Should she have tried a little longer? What if he was right that she still had something good by remaining in the city--even if not as one of the restorer of the walls?

Her mind drifted back to the years in the city. There had been other times that had past where she had been just as close to leaving the city, but there was one in particular that came to mind. She struggled to push aside the sorrowful memories that came with that time because she only wanted to recall why she had stayed.

She had gone to see one of her mothers then, hoping for a remedy that would help her through that period of pain. But there was no offer of an elixir or medicinal herb; she was simply told of a village outside of the city walls where she could go to find some rest.

No one could tell her what life was going to be like in the village, except that it would be good. She hadn't quite learnt to naturally trust her mothers and grandmothers or the sages yet, but there had been something in the forces that held them together that compelled her to walk in the direction of the village.

In the years since her involvement with the war, the time in the village had been the brightest spark in her memory. It had given her hope that a different way was possible--a way that involved simply learning how to build life together, how to dispute without bloodshed, and more importantly, how to communally appreciate the forces that held them together.

The night she began her journey back to the city, she had resolved to find ways to continue the village life while continuing the restoration work. She wanted to believe that her time in the village wasn't simply respite, but that she had learnt skills that she could bring back to the city to help at least herself and her tribespeople live differently. But before long, the restoration efforts took too much from her, and she quickly forgot about the village life.

She hadn't said much to her mother or mothers, or her grandmother or grandmothers, or to the sages or her tribespeople, but she had wondered if the path to the southern lands would lead her to start a village. There was so much uncertainty along that road to begin, and she feared that mentioning the village that early in the journey would only raise hopes for a greater disappointment should it not turn out that way.

Her mind drifted back to the critter's words.

"The road to the south is rife with uncertainty. Wouldn't it be better to go with a little more support from the city?"

She wondered if he was right. Perhaps it had been too soon. Perhaps a few more battle scars wouldn't make that much of a difference on her already battered-down body. But then she remembered the nights of darkness when the pain had been so intense that she pleaded with the forces to quickly end it for her. And then she remembered the words of one of her mothers.

"It's not supposed to be this hard, child."

If she had been willing to admit it, it was the dream of life in the village that had finally given her the freedom to go into exile. The village had been a part of those dreams that haunted her too, but it had seemed too big to become reality, and too good to be true. The years of war had taught her to stop believing good things would ever happen for her. Besides, she was too young to know how to start a village.

She shook her head as if it would help clear her thoughts. She had learnt from her time in the village that life was different in the village. The village people had taught her that the village didn't start because one person decided a village needed to be started. No, it was a group of people deciding they wanted to form a way of life together, and everyone had a role to play. There were the ones who prepared the meals, and the ones who taught the way of the forces that held them together. There were the ones who were healers and the ones who welcomed others into the village.

She had learnt that her role was the collector of stories. The village people valued stories as foundation for their way of life. Collecting stories came easy for her, but she had never understood that to be of value until then. The years of the war had limited her time for stories, and she found that she greatly missed that. She wondered if life in the southern lands would allow for that.

But it wasn't time for life in the southern lands yet. With the southern lands still far out of sight, it wouldn't be appropriate to dwell on those dreams yet. Her role until then, was to keep walking.

Her fingers found their way to those rocks again, and she clasped them firmly in her hands.

"Love the Lord your God with all your heart, and with all your soul, and with all your mind."
"Love your neighbour as yourself."

As she continued putting one foot in front of another, she looked to the heavens and again whispered words of blessing and thanks for her mother and mothers, and her grandmother and grandmothers, for the sages, for her tribespeople, for the critters, and for the village people.

Tribal Stories: Way

The sun was shining as she opened her eyes.

It had been a restless night as her sleep was plagued with dreams of the city walls, and she was startled to find tears streaming down her face as she awoke. It bothered her greatly because she had learnt from the years of war not to ignore those dreams.

But there was no time to think about those dreams. The southern lands were still a long distance away and she had to keep going. She slowly crawled out of the tent and waited.

Finally, the critter appeared with the basket of fresh supplies for the next little bit of the journey. The critter was not one to follow a regular schedule, but she had come to learn that each time her supplies got low, he would be there.

He lingered longer than usual that morning, casting a questioning look every once in a while, but not saying a word.

"What is it?" she finally asked.

"I don't get it. Why did you leave? Sure, nobody likes war, but there still was a place for you in the city, and there was certainty. All the years you gave to the wall restoration efforts would have equipped you well to lead others in that cause. Why didn't you wait a little longer, train up a few others before you go? Besides, the road to the south is rife with uncertainty. Wouldn't it be better to go with a little more support from the city?"

She looked straight past him as her mind went back to the dreams that had plagued her while she lived in the city. She thought of the baby amongst her tribespeople that she got to hold just before her departure from the city--the same baby in the dreams that plagued her. There was too much to explain, and she didn't know where to begin. The southern lands had been a part of those dreams too, but she had spent so much time deliberately ignoring them while focusing on the restoration work that she had forgotten about them until they recently came back to haunt her.

Finally, she shook her head.

"Way has closed, Monchhichi," she said, recalling the words of the sages. "I don't understand it enough to tell you the story yet, but maybe someday that time will come. All I know is, way will open. I don't know when, where or how long it will take. But certainty has never been a part of my story--except for the certainty in the rocks that hold the stories of my people."

Her fingers found their way to those rocks again.

"Love the Lord your God with all your heart, and with all your soul, and with all your mind."
"Love your neighbor as yourself."

They had become the only guide for her journey. As she gathered up the last of her tent-pegs, she looked to the heavens and again whispered words of blessing and thanks for her mother and mothers, and her grandmother and grandmothers, for the sages, for her tribespeople, and for the critters.

Way will open. Until then, she will keep walking.

Tribal Stories: Exile

She drove the last tent-peg in the ground before dusting her hands off. There was just one spot outside the tent where the rocks were smooth enough for her to plant herself down for a few moments to take in everything that had happened.

She had been on that path for days now. The city walls were no longer in sight, and every day, she had to tell herself to take another step forward so that the pain of leaving those walls behind wouldn't consume her.

Dark clouds had been looming over the city for a while. She wanted to stick around as long as she could to continue the battle that the whanau had unwillingly gotten involved with. The ancestral stories spoke time and again that they were people of peace, warriors who would only defend the weak and powerless. She remembered sitting with her mother and mothers, and her grandmother and grandmothers, as they told her the stories of their people. And every time they told the stories, they brought out the two small rocks that had been passed down from generation to generation.

Ka mea a Ihu ki a ia, Kia whakapaua tou ngakau, tou wairua, tou hinengaro, ki te aroha ki te Ariki, ki tou Atua.
He rite ano te tuarua ki tenei, Kia aroha koe ki tou hoa tata, ano ko koe.

She had heard those words over and over as a young child, and had done all she could to defend those two small rocks that held the story of her people.

But the time came when some grew restless and no longer believed in the city. She wondered if they had forgotten the stories as she grieved over the threats of civil war.

War eventually came, and she couldn't simply sit and watch. At first, she tried to restore the walls that had begun crumbling, because it was against all that her mother and mothers, and her grandmother and grandmothers had taught her to pick up arms. Before long, she realised that it was going to take more than her and a few of her tribespeople to restore those walls as timber and ore continued to fall from the destruction of the walls. Few in the city were left unaffected as the war raged on, and she wasn't sure if her own battle scars hurt more or if watching the hurt inflicted on others did.

The years of war dragged on. She had little strength left to keep working on the walls, but it had become her new normal.

The night came when a fire broke out and she tried to help put it out, but they told her she didn't belong. She was a child adopted by her mothers and grandmothers, but she had never felt that she didn't belong until then. They said that in a city already war-torn and low on resources, they couldn't keep her around, and told her to return to her birth-mother and grandmother. None of it made any sense to her because they were all only a part of that city by adoption. All that she had given to restore the city didn't matter. Neither did the scars inflicted on her by the years of war. But she came from a people of peace, and it was against everything her mother and mothers, and her grandmother and grandmothers had taught her to try to speak against them.

Uncertain of how to proceed, she went back to the tree where the sages gathered. They were just as war-weary as she was, if not more. For a while, they simply sat and wept over the state of the city they loved so dearly.

Finally, one of them spoke up. There was deep pain in his eyes as he spoke.

"Child, it might be time for you to leave. Not forever; just until your wounds begin to heal. The fire has nothing to do with you, but you're not going to be able to achieve anything while your wounds are deep and many."

The other sages gathered around him in agreement. They sat and wept a while longer, and she found her mind drifting to her other tribespeople knee-deep in war debris. She hoped they understood she wasn't leaving forever, or abandoning their cause.

They sent her away to gather the essentials for her journey. Her mother and mothers, and grandmother and grandmothers packed up her tent and spoke words of blessing and protection. The sages brought out duplicates of the two rocks of their people, and the third that they kept for war-time as they spoke the blessing ritual given to those who, like her, have gone into exile. And finally, her tribespeople came, each one with one of her tent-pegs with their names marked on them, symbols of the tribe that go with her and keep her grounded to her people as she went.

The sages spoke of a desert land down south where she could rest for a while. The land would be dry and barren, and she would have to travel alone for a while. But her mother and mothers, and grandmother and grandmothers, and the sages and her tribespeople went with her, if only in spirit, and new life will begin again eventually.

That night, in that desert land, she picked up the rocks marked with the stories of her people and recited the words that had become so familiar.

"Love the Lord your God with all your heart, and with all your soul, and with all your mind."
"You shall love your neighbor as yourself."
"Do justice, love kindness, and walk humbly with your God"

And then she looked to the heavens and whispered words of blessing and thanks for her mother and mothers, and grandmother and grandmothers, for the sages, and for her tribespeople.

Akan Datang Explained...

David asked earlier what the significance of "akan datang" and Luke 5 (the parts of the address of this site) were. I guess in the three years that have passed since this blog came into existence, even I have forgotten the significance.

So I guess it's time to revisit it.

This blog came into existence to document my experience when I did my internship in Berlin, Germany. At the time, the words "akan datang" came to mind because I had no other way of explaining what I was going to do in Berlin.

"Akan datang" is Malay (the language of the natives in Singapore) for "coming soon".

Luke 5, specifically the story where Jesus tells Peter to cast his nets deeper in the water, has been a key portion of scripture for my call to ministry. I don't know where I'm going half the time, except just a little deeper. "Coming soon" is a statement of faith for whatever it might be that is to come...

Years later, the journey hasn't changed that much. Still trying to convince myself there IS stability in living out that statement of faith, and going just that little bit deeper. I don't know that stability will ever happen for me in this life, except for the stability that comes from simply being faithful.

Joe reminded me recently that "simply being faithful" was the crux of our call. I remembered writing about it here. And that's what this blog is about. Documenting the very feeble attempt to simply be faithful. I'll probably get it wrong more than I'll get it right, but that's where grace, far greater than the human mind, comes in.

The rest of the call story can be found in the latest edition of "Called to Minister, Empowered to Serve". Available on Amazon.

Have I mentioned that I belong in a group of very, very quality people? Because I really do. They do a great job keeping me on the path of "simply being faithful," and I cannot be more thankful.