Be Thou my Vision, O Lord of my heart; Naught be all

else to me, save that Thou art. Thou my best Thought,

by day or by night, Waking or sleeping, Thy presence

my light.

Be Thou my Wisdom, and Thou my true Word; I ever

with Thee and Thou with me, Lord; Thou my great

Father, I Thy true child; Thou in me dwelling, and I

with Thee one.

Be Thou my battle Shield, Sword for the fight; Be Thou

my Dignity, Thou my Delight; Thou my soul’s Shelter,

Thou my high Tower: Raise Thou me heavenward, O

Power of my power.

Riches I heed not, nor man's empty praise:

Thou mine inheritance now and always;

Thou and thou only first in my heart.

High King of Heaven, my victory won, May I reach

Heaven’s joys, O bright Heaven’s Sun! Heart of my

own heart, whatever befall, Still be my Vision, O Ruler of all.

White Robes and Old Monks..... and little me.

Standing there in his robe of all white, this monk stood with me as my rabbi for the hour. He was short in stature with a speech of soft fire and a loving way that softened your spirit. Within a few minutes, I quickly felt I had known him all of my life. His eyes teary to the point of wiping them at times and laughing just as passionately at others. Full of Life, yet vastly unattached to the world.

"Freedom. Great freedom is living unattached to those things that are not of God. It is being able to experience pain, anger, and suffering but knowing that God's peace is bigger. Letting it come and go without attaching yourself to it. We forget how much the Creator of the World longs to bring us Peace"

This man. This mighty frail man. He has lived in this monastery longer than I have been alive.

"We make a promise to stay. I go to and from the doctor sometimes. But apart from that, I am here. I have been here." He says that casually as if it had only been a few years. It has been 43.

The very first word of the Rule of St. Benedict is "Listen" All of the rest of the Benedictine discipline grows out of this one initial gesture of wholehearted listening. They sense that an effective way to insure this preciousness of listening and dignity is to practice compassion. Listening. Being Compassionate. Their two points of focus. I saw both in Brother Thomas.

"I am praying God's will. I want to travel. I want go out on some days" His eyes began to dance. Looking around shyly. Like a school boy revealing hidden secrets. His passion for life and learning even more and more about connecting to the heart of God reminded me of a dreaming college kid....But he had never been to college. And he was no school boy. He was 75 years old and his face spoke of each year. Covered with sun spots, aged wrinkles, and topped with silver white hair. Yet, he was full of beautiful Life that so ignited his spirit he would often lean in close to make sure I could feel the magic of each word. He wanted so much to share with me what God had taught him over the years. I wanted to learn.

"What is the hardest part about being here?"

"Hmmmm" He gently looked around. His voice softened, "Living within the community. It is the most trying, but it is the most purifying." His smirk unveiled his full smile. "It gives me the opportunity to live more out of the heart of Jesus. God is life. God is loving. We cannot extend compassion unless there is pain. It allows me to extend Jesus to them. To my brothers."

We talked on and on. About God's love. About His presence. About the Dark Night of the Soul and the beauty that can only come from the darkness. About how communing with the Spirit of God is better than anything we can attempt to superficially mend our wounds with. "It is more fulfilling than anything you can imagine" His smile lit up the cold stone chapel.

As I left, he looked at me and his eyes started to fill with water again. "Thank you" he said, "I don't get to share my passions with so many. You have brought me joy today...."

Two teary eyed souls parting ways. He, a 75 year old monk who had given his full life to God. Dreaming of life on the other side of the mountains. Me, a 38 year old free-spirit craving settled constancy and a companion. I walked out to my car and stopped for a minute just to thank God for moments of Life that I can soak in as a blessed memory. This was one. For the books.

Thank you, Brother Thomas. Thank you, Lord.

Worlds Colliding

There is something about empty church parking lots. Late at night. Or very early in the morning. Like tonight. Like now. I just left my 20 year class reunion. Heart so full that I had to pull over, get out my computer and park in this empty church parking lot to type these words. It's rare that I can't put a word to a feeling - I mean I'm a shrink for Pete's sake. But it's happening. Tonight. In an empty church parking lot. With my computer in my lap crushed up against the steering wheel.

I had a lot of worlds collide tonight. In wonderful beautiful colors. You see, I was raised in a small town, on a country road, surrounded by family. Graduated with over 200 of the most down to earth, genuine people you could meet. There's a funny thing about home. It brings security and it brings reality and it brings faith.

Tonight I was filled with more encouragement in 5 hours than in any other 5 hours of my life. Genuine. Heartfelt. Soulful encouragement and appreciation. I would say that I was humbled, but it's just not a strong enough word. Undeserved appreciation taps it a little.

Sometimes you live your life because it's supposed to be lived. Sometimes you do right because it's what you are supposed to do. Sometimes you fight for children because someone has to. You're 38 with no 401k and no means of retirement, but it doesn't matter because you know what DOES matter, and that makes everything ok. I realized tonight that people really care. That this heart cry living inside of me that has drastically altered the past 2 years of my life has deep meaning to other people outside of just my heart - and it, honestly, blows my mind a little. A lot.

Him: "I read your blogs" Me "You do?' Him: "Of course I do. We all do. I think what you're doing is great and there are very few people that would do that. Do you know that?"

"Do you know that?"

The answer: No. I don't. I don't know that at all. But maybe I'm starting to.

The fact that people I used to play chase and catch lightening bugs with have followed God's carved out path through war-torn countries and into the hearts of deeply wounded children doesn't even seem real. But these words ring truer and truer:

"If anything matters, everything matters"

Strange to think something hidden so deeply in my soul could have such meaning to other people. To see them come to life when they become a part of it. To see the team that surrounds this mission and how passion has been given wings to create all that is surrounding us. All that is surrounding those children. I just don't have words for that.

To know that other people really care. Really. Care. Means more than I can say. And gives me hope. Needed. Hope. Thank you, old friends. A heartfelt thank you for reviving my spirit. I am thankful for you.

Much Love.

His Hands....

When I first saw her, I knew something was different about her. When she speaks, she looks around the room. Her movements are somewhat odd and she touches her stomach at inappropriate times. She occasionally lifts her shirt up for no apparent reason, but not high enough to reveal her development. She has a difficult time simply sitting in a normal manner, appears somewhat unkept, and seems untrained in a structured environment. She is 11, and she has been raped by multiple men. It began at age 7 by a neighborhood boy….. and it has continued every since.

“The older girl in the group. Has she… has she been abused? Sexually? Do you know her story?” I asked. Sometimes I just know – I just know things. I don’t know how. I call it a blessing and a curse. But I knew when I saw her that she had not known love. Not real love.

“I do not know…but he knows. He knows about her” Pointing to one of the social workers.

After more questioning, we found out that she had been more than just abused. The story went much deeper. She was living with her father with whom she shared a bed. Her mother lives in Ghana (a neighboring country) and she crosses the boarder by herself to see her when she misses her. She plays a gambling game in the streets of her village during the day, and she sleeps with the young men who live close by in order to get money for food. She has the insight of a prophet and a cunning way to see to the heart of each story we told and each part of the program we were teaching.

“God’s hands much be bigger than all of the world if He has all of our names written on them’

I looked at Marilyn’s fingers spread out on the table. She had all of the fingers of both of her hands spread out…. Counting. Using her fingers as a way to help this 11 year old girl count how many times she had been raped. We had already exhausted one hand. Five fingers. She was now on her other hand. Six. Seven. Eight.

“I am not going home. I am staying here. They can go home, but I am staying” She said throughout the week. She loved it at the camp. I would too if I were her. But she didn’t stay.

“Can you look in my eyes?” I asked her. She had trouble even doing that. She looked and then she would look away. I held her hand and held back tears. “I want you to know this was not your fault. I want you to know that God sees you as beautiful and treasured and new. I want you to always remember that. We are going to help you. I’m so proud of you. You were so brave today.”

Marilyn translated. She acted as if she didn’t hear her. Like the words didn’t mean anything. But they did. I knew they did.

Throughout the week, her remarks resembled someone who was experiencing a new world for the first time. Because she was. She has limited to no contact with girls/women or people who generally love her for who she is. I’m not sure if she’s ever had that. Actually, I am pretty sure she hasn’t. Each story we told or scripture she read was knew and fresh. Even the concept of being loved unconditionally seemed to be foreign. And prayer. It was as if she didn’t know how to pray at all.

The journey is even more beautiful when you have never traveled it. It will be a long road for her – but she’ll get there. I know she will. Sometimes you can see God in someone’s eyes even when they don’t know Him. Because HE knows them. Sometimes that’s all that matters. At least for the time being…..

Because she is in His hands.

I know it.

Under a Togo Moon

Sitting outside on deck 8 of the Africa Mercy under a full moon, on a breezy night watching the deck hands across the way load and unload cargo. It feels a little like I’m in the movie the Titanic. Except I’m in Africa doing ministry work on a Ship of 300 that provides medical services and it’s 2010. And I’m not wearing a beautiful gown dancing to beautiful music with a gentleman gently taking me by my hand and twirling me around. Except that.

Strange for me not to be leading a team on this trip. Stranger still to have so much alone time. I love every inch. God ordained, I am sure.

I’m with a team of 7 women who are leading a trauma care workshop for children who have been emotionally wounded out of political violence in Togo or girls who have been sexually violated or boys who have been particularly abused. I am honored to have been invited to be a part of such amazing minds and seasoned clinicians.

As a part of eXile, we always say we do not want to re-create the wheel. These women have written impressive curriculum and books on trauma specific to the culture of Africa. It’s been wonderful already to simply learn from them so we can take what we learn and use it in Congo and Eastern Africa. We have been asked to incorporate more of the dance, music, and drama into their already amazing program. Excited for that opportunity.

So I sit here on this beautiful African night, praying for the children we will be working with this week. Praying for every one of their hearts. Praying as well for the girls and boys in the orphanages in Congo and Uganda that we love so dearly. I feel so much closer to them just being on this continent - maybe that's why my prayers for them are deeper.

Lord, use me. Simple prayer on this simple night. Help me to be all that you would be to them if you were here. Bring me to Life - for you. For I am -

Yours, b

If Humility....

If Humility were an oil, I would ask you to anoint me with it. That it might cover my Prideful Wounds and my Defensive Spirit sometimes causing pain to those I love.

If Graciousness were a cloud, I would wish to be surrounded. So that even the slightest peek of the world could be seen in the vision of Pure Appreciation and Gratitude.

If Courage were a breath, I would dream of it filling my lungs from the outside in. Putting to death any attempts Fear would have of suffocating my life.

And Peace. If Peace were a Presence I would ask to be lost in it. That I could be at rest in my Solitude as heavily as if I were in a marketplace of thousands. Gently smiling at all that I do not understand and calmly laying down a load that is not mine to carry.

In search of a Prince that catches all I cannot carry and cloaks all that I cannot see.

All For You

Sitting on the floor of my condo, they knelt down beside of me. On the concrete. Daddy to my left. Mom to my right. They had gotten down on the floor to pray with me before leaving.

Surrounded by paint, art supplies, anti-bacterial gel and piles of randomness. I was re-packing my suitcase for Africa. They were getting ready to leave the next morning to drive to Virginia where they were going on a door knocking campaign to reach those who needed God.

We circled up, sitting on the floor and held hands. Dad started praying and, for whatever reason, it was all I could do to keep from crying. I don't remember his words. I don't have to.

What I do remember is that they seemed to be some of the rawest, most authentic, humbling words I have heard. Simply words. Straight words.

Forgive us for we are sinners and are in desperate need of you... words. Words that quickly put us in a place of being the Created and God in the place of Creator.

I am sitting on a plane headed to Africa at this moment. Delayed. On the runway. My heart so full that I have to get out my computer and start typing before my passion begins to give way to forgetting how remarkable that moment was. I am in thought today about this word:

Authenticity.

Maybe because I think I lack it sometimes. Maybe because I crave it so badly. Maybe because I am in awe of it. Yes, I honor it. Authenticity. Originality. Realness. Rawness. Brave - It's only for the Brave.

Definition?

authenticity - undisputed credibility genuineness, legitimacy believability, credibility, credibleness - the quality of being believable or trustworthy real McCoy, real stuff, real thing - informal usage attributing authenticity

Based on WordNet 3.0, Farlex clipart collection. © 2003-2008 Princeton University, Farlex Inc.

---

authenticity

noun

1. genuineness, purity, realness, veritableness Some factors have cast doubt on the statue's authentcity.

2. accuracy, truth, certainty, validity, reliability, legitimacy, verity, actuality, faithfulness,truthfulness, dependability, trustworthiness

All those words I strive for..... and I have to admit (being real) I have been in a place of numbness. My soul is weary and tired. A place of walking through life like I'm going through the motions and pulling from deep places to even take the tiny steps. And when THAT becomes real, then being Un-Authentic becomes somewhat of a survival. We've all been there.

What does it mean? What does it REALLY mean?

When push comes to shove it simply means Being True. Being Pure. Being You.

We try so hard to be someone we aren't that we never find out who we are.

Or we become entangled in the facebook, iPhone, text message relationship web of False Intimacy and we never find True "Authentic Look in my Eyes when I tell you of my Greatest Fears and my Wildest Dreams" Love. We stay so connected to so many objects that we forget to Breath or Feel or Play or Dance or share time together around a table - or on a concrete floor. Counting notifications, likes, unlikes, be-likes and we forget.... What ..... We ..... Like.

INTIMACY: IN ~ TO ~ ME ~ SEE

But fear of truly being Known at the risk of not being Loved takes over the deep soul survival of True Communion with others.

I see Authenticity at the purest level in children and when I go "home" to Kentucky............. and in Africa. One of the purest most genuine and most gracious people you will meet. Just being around them makes me more grounded and real, and I leave having a fear that I will loose the fairy dust of Genuineness they have brushed off on me. I often do.

In this world of plastic people and plastic dreams and plastic cards that buy plastic things - I sit on this Big Bird of a Plane looking out the window Dreaming of Dancing in the rain that keeps us sitting here and I listen to Jars of Clay sing....

"Sitting silent wearing Sunday best. The sermon echos through the walls. Calls to the people who stare into nowhere who can't feel the chains on their souls.

He's more than the laughter or the stars in the heaven. Close as a heartbeat or songs on our lips.

Someday well trust Him and learn how to see Him

Someday He'll call us and we will come running

We'll fall in His arms. The tears will fall down and well pray -

"I want. To fall in love. With you"

Mother Teresa said this to me today,

"There is much suffering in the world - very much. Suffering from hunger, from homelessness, from all kinds of diseases. But I still think the greatest suffering is being lonely, being unwanted, being unloved, just having no one, having forgotten what it is to have the human touch, human love.."

MAY WE BE KNOWN AND TAKE THE RISK OF RAWNESS.

It's takes much less energy than hiding.

Engine starting.... off we go

Lord, Help me to be Brave. To be Real. To find Authenticity at the core level. To Be the truest version of myself. I have a deep feeling these next few weeks are going to be as much about taking me to far away soulful places as it is being used to heal tiny broken hearts.

For you

All For You.

Yours, b

Just One. One. One.

Some people talk about hunger, but they don't come and say, "Mother, here are five rupees. Buy food for these people." But they can give a most beautiful lecture on hunger.

I had the most extraordinary experience once in Bombay. There was a big conference about hunger. I was supposed to go to that meeting and I lost the way. Suddenly I came to that place, and right in front of the door to where hundreds of people were talking about food and hunger, I found a dying man.

I took him out and I took him home.

He died there.

He died of hunger.

And the people inside were talking about how in fifteen years we will have so much food, so much this, so much that, and that man died.

See the difference?

I never look at the masses as my responsibility. I look at the individual. I can love only one person at a time. I can feed only one person at a time.

Just One. One. One.

You get closer to Christ by coming closer to each other. As Jesus said, " Whatever you do to the least of my brethren, you do to me."

So you begin.... and I begin.

I picked up one person.

Maybe if I hadn't picked up that one person I wouldn't have picked up 42,000. The whole work is only a drop in the ocean. But if I didn't put the drop in, the ocean would be one drop less.

Same thing for you.

Same thing for your family.

Same thing in the church where you go.

Just begin.... One. One. One.

At the end of life, we will not be judge by
how many diplomas we have received
how much money we have made
how many great things we have done;

We will be judged by this:

"I was hungry and you gave me to eat. I was naked and you clothed me. I was homeless and you took me in."

Hungry not for bread - but hungry for love. Naked not only for clothing - but naked of human dignity and respect. Homeless not only for want of a room of bricks - but homeless because of rejection.

This is Christ in distressing disguise.

Mother Teresa

Bend me Break me Make me Yours

Survival. Suffering. Strength.

There are certain wisdoms and understandings that one can only learn in suffering. Songs that can only be heard in the pits of despair. There are lights that will never seem so radiant as when we are covered in darkness. I only know this because I have seen it.

I saw it this past week in the eyes of an orphaned child.

“When my father died..... I died too" That didn't break my heart as much as the smile covering his face as he said it. As if it were normal. As if it were just a part of life. 

It is. And because it is - it will make him stronger. I believe that. I see it in his eyes. And his smile. 

There is a richness in the Core of Pain that we miss sometimes. A sweetness of the first foods eaten after one has been starved for days up on days that can never be tasted again. Not like that. 

The breath one is finally able to breathe just seconds before suffication is the most precious air that will ever cross their lips. 

Many a breath they have taken. But none like that one. There is a Treasure of Life felt by a dying man given a second chance of living that those who have never looked death in the eye will ever grasp. Not really.

It is so with suffering. You see we can be Broken but not Desperate. We can be Desperate but not Broken. But when we allow ourselves to be Desperate for God out of our Brokenness – then there is a part of us that surrenders out of survival. When you have nothing else to hold on to but God – All of a sudden, God is all you need. You treasure Him. Like breath. Either that or you blame Him. But one certainly brings more life than the other. 

“What about blaming God? Do they not blame God for what has happened? For their loved ones who died?” I asked a survivor of the earthquake.

He shook his head. Almost in pity that I would ask such a question. Even seemed to smirk at me.

"I have never heard of this. He is God. He is good. He can do what He wants when He wants how He wants. He is God and He gives life." 

He made it sound so simple.

God brings Life. Life brings death. There is no blaming. It's a part of living. As is suffering. And in the middle of suffering lies the heart of God. The core of the Cross. It's in our deepest despair that we even brush the suffering of the Cross. Communion with the heart of God. I saw this today: 

We were standing in front of at least 100 children sitting on a rocky and dry ground in a tent camp under a summer sun with a heat index of 115 degrees. They were dirty and hungry, and we were surrounded with what seemed to be 1000 people at one point. Telling them how God was actually the closest to them at the very moment they felt the deepest abandonment. As if we knew first hand. We had just given the children paper to draw their heartaches and stories of the earthquakes. Starting to hand out the crayons one by one - there was quickly a mob of little Haitian hands surrounding us. Poking us. Prodding us. Louder and Closer and Pushing and Shoving and beginning to Yell. For what? 

For One Crayon.

I was handing them out as quickly as I could and they were grabbing them even quicker. All I could feel was little fingers all around me.

"Blanche! Blanche!" ("white person. white person")

Sweet fingers poking harder at every inch of me they could find. Mother's shoving their children closer and closer to me. My heart racing faster. The sun beater harder. Space to even move become scarce. 

Poke. Prod. Shove.

Handing out crayons as fast we we could move. One prod. One poke was more intense than the others. Poke. Prod. Poke. Irritating, actually. Fed up - I looked down. 

It wasn't a hand asking to receive a crayon at all. It was the first hand practically begging me to take what was in it. A picture. Of her heartache. I looked in her eyes. The hundreds of children faded away at that one moment, and I took her gift to me. She was smiling. So much. 

As if it were normal. As if it were just a part of life. It is. 

Her drawing? Her mother lying down dead after the earthquake and what seems to be a spirit or an angel in the room. She wanted to show me. Desperately show me. And soon there were more. Giving out crayons quickly gave way to grasping drawings as quickly as I could. They wanted to give us their drawings of their heartaches as much or more as they wanted a crayon.

One crayon. One heartache. One day. One earthquake.

Hundreds of broken Haitian hearts resulting in a flood of forced Hope that most of us would have stopped searching for. But not them. 

"Many have come to God from the earthquake. Out of their suffering they have found Wisdom. They have found Hope...."

The question for us is this: 

Can we say that we welcome suffering if the ending of the journey of Pain means that we look more like the heart of a Savior on a cross? 

You see it is in Suffering  - the Heart of it – the Core of it - that the center of Chirst is the most Alive. It is then that He is breathing in us the deepest.  His Greatest Comfort can be found in the Marrow of of our Pain. If Jesus had a living breath we would be filled with at the very moment we are drowning in Hopelesslessness. Why? Because He was born to suffer. He came to earth to suffer. His purpose of living was to die.  So when we become closer to pain – we become closer to His heart.

The questions is this: Is it worth it. I believe - Yes. So Does Mr. C.S. Lewis.

"We think all of our childish toys brings us all the happiness there is and our nursery is our whole wide world, but something must draw us out of that nursery in to the world of others. That something is suffering"

Do We....

Does it hurt us as badly when we hurt someone else as it does when we ourselves have been hurt?

Do we desire to be His love to others as much as we desire to be loved?

 

Do we wish to be used by Him for His glory as much as we wish for our own glory to be be seen?

 

Do the desires of our hearts reflect the hope to be His vessel in this world as much as our dreams reflect our own ambition?

 

Why are we so uncomfortable with feeling guilty?

 

Why do we fight feeling sorrowful when we have harmed someone?

 Why are we so fearful of asking forgiveness?

Do we seek to be kind as deeply as we seek to be right?

Do we seek to understand more intently than we seek to be understood?

Do we seek more than we wish to be found?