There is a noise: a sound so faint that it can only be heard in the quietest of rooms. And few ever allow themselves the time to hear it. We move on too quickly. We busy our minds with constant motion. We get caught up in the bright colors and loud noises and high emotions, and we’re all addicts; and we’re all afraid of what might happen if it gets too quiet. We just might realize that what we’re consuming isn’t satisfying us, only pacifying us, only gratifying the outer layers of a deeper desire – a desire we might not have the answer for.

But there’s something that lies on the other side of our restlessness. An invitation exists in the void.   

That’s where my story began. That’s where my life was formed. It was the hollow days, wasn’t it? It was those honest prayers: “I’m afraid.” It was that empty space where I found myself and was struck by my insufficiency. I was left alone with my thoughts and stood there: face to face with my fears and no defenses, and I knew that I needed real answers and authentic experiences, and the mere entertainment that I saw sedating the lives of those around me wasn’t enough. It was that desperation that made me search, frantically search, blindly grasp for something solid. And it was in that darkness that I learned to see clearly. It was in the bitterness of loneliness that I learned the sweetness of company. It was in the cold that I felt that subtle breeze, slightly warmer than the surrounding air, and I followed it. And I kept going. And I learned the truth from the lies. And I learned the real from the fake. And I found what I wouldn’t have known to ask for. The time was necessary. The struggle was imperative. True healing began in my honesty. 

The Spirit of God isn’t afraid to take His time on you. He’s not afraid of years or decades. But you’re afraid, maybe, to waste your time on Him, when there’s so much else you could be doing or consuming or hoping that maybe the next one or the next one or the next one will do it for you. And maybe it will, for a time, for a moment, but it doesn’t deal with the brokenness. It never did. It just gave you a way around, but it’s still there and you know it. You’re hoping it won’t come up again, but you’re afraid because you’re hiding. There are still corners of your mind that you won’t get close to, because, maybe, you’re scared your solution won’t work as well as you’ve told yourself.

Get alone – in the Void. 

Feel the nothing. Feel the longing until you know exactly what it is you long for, and you know that what you need isn’t what they offered and it isn’t in what you already have. And then, from the deepest places comes that cry, that honest prayer: “I’m afraid.” And that’s the kind that gets answered. 

Blessed are those who hunger and thirst.

We were young and naive and it felt like bravery and we liked it better that way. We trusted we’d be okay, and we dove in head first. We saw miracles and they moved us to tears. We knew He loved us because he proved himself. He answers our prayers and provided. We were overwhelmed and we worshipped. We sang how he would never let us down, and we were sure of it.

But then, the provision stopped. The pain came and stayed. The days felt heavy, and soon the weeks and months followed, and then it was a year. What do you when everything that used to come together falls apart? What do you do when you work harder and owe more? When your health fails and exhaustion tarries? When you try to understand what you’re doing wrong, to learn the lesson that would end the season, when you search your heart to find what could deserve this and find plenty, and so you cry and repent and commit to be better and become better and it doesn’t stop?

What then?

What do you do when you don’t feel what you vowed to never forget?

You let Him love you.

You let Him have you. You are only His anyway. You quit the evaluation of how well you’ve done, and you rest from trying to figure it out. You let Him celebrate you in your confusion, you let him enjoy you in your immaturity, and you let go of the pride that wants to earn it. You let yourself receive what you don’t see, and you break the connection between what goes on around and what’s on His heart for you. You quiet the thoughts that have kept you from hearing him, the sound of what must be done, of all you need to be carrying and thinking about and troubled over, and you practice the foolish, childlike art of listening to the the song He sings over you.

And the pain won’t stop, not yet. The disappointment still lingers. The healing hasn’t come. So work hard and breathe deep. Do all that you can, and admit your inability. Listen for His quiet guidance at every turn. In every moment surrender. And you allow this, even this, to be precious time with Him.

Jesus, thank you for this year.

Bright colors flashed on the backdrop of a black sky and softly faded as the sound finally reached my chest. The time between the seeing and hearing varied depending on the distance, and sometimes that time was too short for my comfort. In every direction, for as far as I could see, and as close as I could smell, the warm night air erupted in burning sulfur. NYC’s Fourth of July fireworks were visible a few miles away, but, though their budget was larger, our attention was given to the neighbors’. Every rooftop in Brooklyn was crowded, and as many were observers, there were participants. Families gathered together in parks, kids fired off bottle rockets in the streets. It was 11pm and everyone was still about. No outsider would assume that most of this was illegal. And I guess that’s New York. The rules are recommendations. There’s a spirit of independence, a disdain for authority. The graffiti that covers the buildings, the trash strewn across the streets, the makeshift sprinklers from opened hydrants, it all screams “I do what I want!” And yet, as disrespectful as it is, there’s something I respect about it. It’s honest. It doesn’t care what you think. It doesn’t try to make you comfortable. And if you can’t handle it, you can leave – many do. But for those who overcome the chaos, the opportunities are endless.

Maybe that’s what drew me here. Maybe it was that stark contrast between the strict, authoritative culture of Dubai. Maybe it was the authenticity of its residence. Whatever the reason, I came.

For three months I worked in a small structural engineering firm. The office was crazy – the kind of crazy that was almost enjoyable, because I felt I was written into some satire. An older Russian lady would be loudly swearing at the assignments she was given and how stupid the architect was. A Trinidadian sitting near me would be muttering about how he can’t work with her constant complaining. The head engineering would yell out a name, and a moment later someone would nervously scamper into his office. I had a front row seat to the action, and I dreaded my name ever being called. The atmosphere ranged from rushed to frantic, and I don’t work well with either. I’m the type to look at an assignment for a while, and then decide a new and faster way to complete it. They wanted instant results. I didn’t last long. My supervisor acted like it was her idea, but it was mutual. A few days prior I had said we might not be a good fit. Perhaps it was because of my comment, or maybe I sensed it was coming. Either way, I’m sure my boldness was built on having already begun the interview process with another company.

I had applied to a couple positions; both dream jobs. Two applications doesn’t have great odds, so I was surprised to see their email. The email lead to a phone call with Human Resources, which led to a phone interview with the team. Even at that stage I could see how much different this job would be then the little office with the swearing Russian. My ideas that were previously deemed “a little out there” were now received with interest and agreement. They said they’d like to have me come in, and so we planned a day the next week – I wanted to have enough time to request it off. But two days later I lost my job, so that wasn’t necessary.

The women at reception had me sit down as I waited for the interview to begin. I picked up a book that sat on the table in front of me. I casually opened it and began to read through an introduction on the founder and his philosophies. To instantly feel like you belong somewhere is rare, but as I read those words I felt equal parts inspired and understood.

There was such an ease about the whole process, which is odd considering my livelihood was dependent on these conversations. My time in Egypt and Dubai impressed them. And at my hope to go back there someday, they promoted the company’s value of having their employees travel to their other offices. I was honest, and it seemed like everything I said was what they wanted to hear. They said it felt like a good fit. I felt the same.

It was a couple years back that I found out about this company. Where I would wait for my bus to take me to work, another lady waited for her kid’s school bus. We talked often and when that job ended, she gave me her card and told me to apply. I ran into her on the street about a year later. I told her I was moving to Dubai and she reminded me they had an office there. She tried to connect me but nothing panned out. I reached out when I came back to the US, but again, nothing panned out, so I ended up in a small engineering firm with a swearing Russian lady. But my research in that company put them at the top of my list. They’re one of  the most innovative in their field; the only reason I was even qualified for the position was because I had decided to learn a computer program in preparation for a job opportunity I didn’t get in Dubai.

The pieces of this story are scattered and seemingly unconnected. The uncertainty pried my fingers off the controls, and I fought to hold on. I like to choose the direction I go. It makes me feel secure. It lets me pretend I know the way to where I’m going. Yet dead ends forced me into the only option left. And I watched on, skeptical and fidgeting, as I was brought down winding roads and uneven terrain to end up where I was trying to get to the whole time. The story isn’t finished yet. I’ve reached no pinnacle. But my pulse has regained its composure knowing that these unfamiliar paths were well designed.  

One more story. This was a few weeks ago. As I was eating in the break room, I heard my name called. I turned to see a friend I hadn’t seen since college. He was the top of the class, and we would often compete on our tests. I would get a 96, he’d get a 99. I’d get a hundred, he’d get the extra credit. This was the kid who worked part time senior year, and had grad school lined up while we were all looking to be free from education forever. And you know my story: I did missions. I pursued God’s heart and put my career on hold. I gave up climbing the social ladder to go deeper with him. But somehow, here I was: working for the same company as my rival. And better yet, I beat him by 3 months.

God values our dreams. He understands the deep groanings of our hearts and knows their difference from our fleeting cravings. He desires to satisfy us. And when you come to believe that, you can let go of your fear of neglect. You can trust that you won’t be abandoned. Your eyes begin to lift from your own needs to see what’s on his heart, and you break free from what drives this city.

New York is said to be where dreams are made, and in many ways it’s true. But oh, that our pursuit would be to know his! That we wouldn’t get distracted by the lure of success, but we would find something infinitely more purposeful to live for. When you look into his eyes you see it. You can hear it in the excitement of his voice. And when you take the time to ask, he’ll tell you.

I arrived in America in October, peak season in New England, which is, in my opinion, the best time of the year. The crisp air was a euphoric contrast to the desert heat I had lived in for six months. As I breathed in, I was struck with that familiar fragrance of dead leaves. It’s strange how the smell of something dead can carry so much life. Every breath held memories of past Autumns and the anticipation of all that this one would bring: the pumpkin pies, the apple picking, the turkey, and a table with family – yes, more than anything, dead leaves mean time with family.

And so it was, and so it continues to be. Only now, the fallen leaves are covered with snow, and Christmas lights and music are in abundance, which of course means more holidays and more time with loved ones.

It has been wonderful being back in this country and in a land that is so familiar, and yet, the joy has only been in part. With every nostalgic smell or sound, I remember that this is what I had said goodbye to. These people, this culture, it is all what I had given away. I had surrendered the comfortable to pursue God’s dream for my life. But here I find myself, not by desire, but by necessity. It’s an odd feeling, to enjoy what I had previously burned on the altar.

I’m in the process of getting an apartment in New York, where I’ll be working for a structural engineering company. You’d think that moving a city over with a job lined up would be less stressful than flying to Dubai without any prospects of work or housing, and yet, it hasn’t been. Failure got to me. Sending out application after application with no reply slowly numbed my expectancy. Watching the few potential opportunities fall apart created a subconscious apprehension. And now I find myself wincing at every risk.

The question of why? still echoes on. Perhaps I wasn’t ready. Maybe God had something for me to finish here. I don’t know. And I don’t suppose it’s the kind of thing I’ll figure out by thinking on long enough. It’s not something that can be learned in a moment, or even processed in a month. But over time, many years maybe, and I’ll understand. Until then, I’m faced with the choice — the same choice we face over and over again: To believe that what God is doing is good.

That simple idea holds an incredible weight. For if we don’t, then unfulfilled expectations lead to broken trust. We begin to guard ourselves against his guidance, and we move forward with trepidation. But if we do, then disappointment is replaced with surprise, and we eagerly await the unforeseen.

If we’re not careful, life can leave us with a heavy heart. We build walls and live half-alive, anxious of what misfortune could come. But the invitation is for us to move on, not understanding, but trusting, trusting that the fires are refining us, that the waters are washing us, that this story is worth staying awake for.

I want to be doubtless at crescendos, anticipant of discovery, and fully convinced that goodness and mercy follow me all the days of my life

2017 was a year of unfulfilled expectations, in more ways than one. Things didn’t end the way I had hoped. Yet as I look back, I find it hard to regret. The time was rich, and I see it as history with me and Jesus. It was pages and chapters that I got to spend with him.

We try so hard to get everything figured out, to be in the right place doing the right thing, and we’re afraid that if we don’t get there, we’ll miss God. But in doing so, we often miss the process. I’m not sure if feeling like you’ve arrived ever really happens, but I’ve learned that the in-between places are where life is, and it’s in the midst that you’ll find him.

It smelled like frying fish and cigarettes. It sounded like the Azan and broken English. It looked like cockroaches scurrying across the counters, undisturbed, as if some agreement was made that allowed them to live, so long as they cleaned up the crumbs.

For a month I lived in between the painted plywood walls of what they call a partition. It fit one bunk bed in width, with enough length for another. The remainder of the room gave just enough space for the door to open. Usually three or four would live in a partition, and there was about five in the apartment. We all shared a kitchen and two bathrooms. It was messy. And the lives of those living there were just as messy. But it was real. It was honest. And there was room for God in that space.

It smelled like lemons and freshly mopped floors. It sounded like birds chirping and Apple Music through Bluetooth Surround Sound. It looked like clean counters and large glass doors to a lush backyard.

For a month I lived in a gorgeous house in a gated community. We had a park down the street and access to a cooled swimming pool and a gym. I was there housesitting—feeding the dogs, cats, hamsters and tortoises of a family on vacation. And it was here that life got difficult.

It comes subtly. It comes in the mundane. It comes as you recline into comfort and let your mind wander away from the struggles of reality. You find yourself there, half-alive, wondering where the vibrancy of life went to. You readjust your posture. You try to get more comfortable, but with every breath you feel more life leave you. You’re tired, but of what? You find something to blame, some disturbance to silence. But the problem is you’re undisturbed. You’re tired of sitting. You’re tired of the selfish ambition that you were never made to live in.

I was there. I was rested yet restless, and didn’t know what to do. I didn’t know how to stir up the passion that had once come so easily.

Weeks went by until the time came when, by necessity, I had to leave. My month of the housesitting ended, and I moved out.

The same day I moved, I went back to my old apartment to pay an electricity bill. As I rode the Metro towards it, I thought of the faces I would soon see. Memories rushed back in. Tears filled my eyes, just like they had the day I left. And I felt it. Life. Purpose. I remembered the passion that had left me. It was like I woke up after a month asleep.

I walked down the dirty streets and into my that worn-down place. I went up the elevator that was three years overdue on its inspection. I knocked on the door and was soon greeted with excited expressions and that perfect broken English. The cockroaches didn’t acknowledge me. I hugged my old friends and asked about their lives. They were good, and I’m sure just as messy as before.

Dubai is an interesting place. It’s a world of glamour and luxury. It’s a city of cleanliness and wealth. Yet beyond this façade there is thousands and thousands of lonely and broken people. And more than anywhere I’ve seen before, there is the choice of what life to engage with. You can live the highlife. You can spend your time and your money staying above the grime and inconvenience of individuals, ignoring the stories of the grocer and the gardener. Or you can enter it. You can feel the real and the raw. You can stare brokenness in the eye, and sympathize with the struggling. It’s there that you’ll come alive. Selfishness gets old. Leisure drowns us. But this is what we were made for it. Oh, that we would get familiar with uncomfortable, and start truly living.

We are deep beings. Living in the tension of what we hope and what we fear. And we try with all our might to beat our fears into submission and fix our eyes on the hope until we’re convinced it’s the only reality.

We bury the fears deep in our subconscious, thinking that if we can just stop listening, they’ll stop speaking. But if we’re honest, they don’t. And they won’t. They keep speaking. And we keep listening. So we spend our lives fighting against the fears, trying to prove them wrong, not realizing that our attempt at silencing the voice is actually giving it power to guide us. We can fight against it all we want, and ignore the taunts, but as soon as something happens that doesn’t seem to line up with our hoped-in reality, the voice will mock, “See! I told you so!”

Maybe the voice questions the goodness of God. Maybe it tells you that you will always be rejected. Whatever it is, the falsity of the voice cannot be determined based our knowledge of the “right” answer. Because the concept that we fight against is backed by real experiences and informed reasoning which have given it the right to speak.

The only way to see our fears truly put to rest is to engage with them, to expose them, to allow them to come to the surface. We need to be honest. We must step into a process, a place where we let go of our grip on what we want to be true. And there, all of the foundation which isn’t solid will be burnt away, and what is true will again prove itself. It’s an unsettling thing – terrifying really – as all our airtight ideas are exposed as feeble concepts. For most of us, we would rather hold onto a familiar lie than let it fall away in hopes of reaching the truth. But we must let go of the image of God that we’ve gotten so comfortable with.

We created these images because we had to. The world was far too shaky, his voice too distant. We needed something to hold on to, and so we built an idol that we could imagine. One that we could understand and that was consistent. But those who trust in idols become like them: Fake. Insincere. Inauthentic. But this process, this stripping and reforming, leaves us with a true foundation, free from insecurity and the hollow clichés we’ve used to hold our hopes together.

In Exodus 32 the people of Israel created an idol, a calf made out of gold. It was a god that they had seen while in slavery in Egypt. In Exodus 33 Moses climbed a mountain and asked that God show him his glory. God came, not showing him his face, but covered Moses with his hand until he had passed, and then removed his hand so that Moses saw only his back. Moses was a man who wanted God, who wanted the real thing, as uncertain and mysterious as it may be.

In times of delay, in times of fear, we can either resort to a familiarity, or we can step into this journey of discovering God in all his ambiguity. Though we’ll never fully grasp him, will we still want him? Though we may not see his face, will we still trust him? Though it’s uncertain, will we still follow him?

Most people are afraid that God isn’t who they think he is. I write this to say that it is much safer to go on the journey of finding something real than it is to settle for something familiar.  

God loves authenticity.

I have a few days left in Hawaii, and in less than two weeks I’ll be in Dubai. This unreasonable attempt at following God is about to hit a climax. And the tendency, as always, is to find a solid footing. How I wish God would give me step by step instructions or a clear confirmation. I long for concreteness. But it’s here that again I am stretched. That I’m forced to release the controls. That I must embrace the discomfort, and journey through uncertainty, trusting in the indistinct leading of God.

This is where I must lean into a God who I love though I do not see and believe in though I do not comprehend.

Here in Boston the cold weather has sunk in, and we’ve fallen from autumn to winter. So long to the days of apple picking, and corn mazes, and pumpkin flavored everything; of flannels and cardigans as outermost layers; of hats and gloves being merely fashion pieces. We watched the foliage explode into vibrant reds and yellows, but they’ve since faded brown and left the trees bare or been replaced by Christmas lights. We now sing songs of white Christmases and it being cold outside as if it were some sort of wonderland. But this is simply a coping mechanism for the horror that waits outside our doors. The brave use skis and skates to mock the winter that assails us; the idealistic bring trees and branches inside to convince themselves that nature isn’t so unkind; but the honest hide away in the warmth of their homes, eating gingerbread, and waiting for spring.

I’ve been back for six months now, and in spite of the mentioned weather situation, my fondness for this city has never been greater. The community I’ve found has brought definition to my ambiguous longing for family. I’ve made amazing friends throughout my life, but during this season I’ve experienced new depths of closeness and vulnerability that has broadened my limited ideas of love. Soon I’ll say goodbye, and fight tears as parts of my heart get torn out. I’m excited to go, but sad to leave. And though I leave, I won’t leave unchanged.

Yes, I’m leaving. If you haven’t heard the story already, ask me to tell it. It’s a quite unfinished one. One that I’m in the midst of, and if it ended today, would not be one worth telling. But because of the hope I have and my confidence in the Author, I’d tell it.

I’m no professional at hearing God’s voice, and I never count out the possibility of getting it wrong. But when you experience God’s character, it rids yourself of the fear of hearing him wrongly. When you know what he’s like, it makes perfect sense to try to follow his voice. And when you understand his heart, you want whatever he has for you.

We have seventy years here. Maybe eighty. Ninety if you’re lucky. But often less. That’s it. So many will spend those years attempting to acquire some sort of comfort. They’ll try to hold on to as much life as possible, knowing all along that it will inevitably be snatched away. The dichotomy is that our fear of losing our life is what keeps us from ever finding it. I want to lose my life in the pursuit of God until I find it. I want to spend these years on God. I want to hear him, and know him, and follow him. Whatever the cost. And I suppose that’s what has led me to where I am now.

There’s a story in the Bible where Jesus is walking on the water in the midst of a storm. He’s strolling on past a boat occupied by his followers. One of them, Peter, sees him and has an astounding response. While the others look on in amazement, Peter calls to Jesus, and asks that Jesus invite him out onto the water, to which Jesus does. At the word “Come,” Peter walks out to him on the water. I wonder at what must have provoked such a request from Peter? Perhaps his desire to follow him? Perhaps his FOMO? Perhaps the fact that walking on water would be awesome? Whatever it was, I feel like I can relate. I’m not satisfied hearing amazing things God has done. Sunsets and rainbows are great, and I love the testimonies of various medical miracles and sightings of angels, but I long for something more. I don’t want to merely be an observer into the actions of God, I want to be a friend and partner in what he’s doing. I want to follow him. I want to jump out of the safety of my boat and walk onto the water. And so I asked him, “Call me out, God. Speak to me and I’ll follow.”

He did.

(Long story. Again, ask me and I’ll tell it to you.)

Come April I will move to the Arab Gulf. I wish I could tell you what exactly I’ll be doing there, but I simply don’t know. I have ideas and personal ambitions, but strategy is not the voice I’m following. I’m going simply out of an intimate “yes” to Jesus. It could have just as easily been China, or The Amazon, or Boston, or California. Location matters little. I imagine that someday I’ll look back and see how it all fits into to a master plan that God has going on. But I don’t need to see it to say yes.

I’ll be going with a team of 9 who have a similar heart to follow God and see his Kingdom come. Practically speaking, I’ll be working full time as a civil engineer. I’ll be spending a large amount of time praying for the city, making friends, and showing them the love of God. God has a dream for that city. Like most other places, there are people there who have never known his love or tasted of his freedom. God wants to change that. And so I’m going to partner with God in making his dreams become realities.

Before heading to the Arab Gulf, I’ll be going to Hawaii with the team. There we’ll learn about the culture, figure out the details of the trip, and ask God for his heart for the area. I won’t be able to share all of what I’m doing on this public website, but if you want more exclusive content, text me, Facebook message me, or send me an email at shawisrael@yahoo.com

I’m knee deep into this story, and my heart pounds harder every time I think about what I’m doing. I’ve made up mind to follow the voice of God as best I can. And you know, maybe I’m wrong. But I feel like this is what he’s saying, and I know that the reward far outweighs the risk. Time will tell how this story ends, but I know the character of the God I’m following, so I look onward with only a joyful expectation.

What am I doing?

I finally had time to think as I sat down in the navy blue seat of the airplane. It hardly seemed real. I pushed my duffle bag under the seat in front of me. Its contents were a rolled up sleeping bag, two pairs of shorts, a few t-shirts, a pair of boxers, some toiletries, and an iPhone charger. Even this was over-packing as my return flight was hardly a day after I would land.

The thought had come to me a couple nights before, but I had ignored it due to its absurdity. The idea was simple, I would fly to California, spend time with some friends at 21 Project and fly back. However, it was Tuesday night, and I would have to be back home on Saturday for my brother’s bachelor party. Not to mention, I didn’t really have the money for all this. Yet, for some reason, I spent the greater part of the next morning looking for flights, consistently reminding myself that it would be irrational for me to go. Flights to LAX were far too expensive, but surprisingly, the smaller and more convenient airport at Long Beach was more affordable. Afraid of what I might actually do, I called a friend to talk me out of it. The conversation ended with a resolution that it would make much more sense for me to go in a couple weeks. This would give me time to figure out the details of my trip, and I would still catch the end of 21 Project. The flight I was thinking of taking left in under two hours, so I decided it wouldn’t happen. I breathed a sigh of relief and hung up. A weight was lifted off my shoulders, but something still nagged at me, “there’s another flight tomorrow morning.” I spent the rest of the day trying to ignore it. But finally, to silence the urging of my spirit, I made an ultimatum: I would send a message to a friend in California. If I heard back by 3 a.m. and could figure out the details than I would take the 6 am flight. I could then take a redeye Friday night and be home Saturday morning, allowing me to be there for the greater part of two days. I went to bed, and woke up briefly at 3 to see no response. Another sigh of relief and I went back to sleep.

I woke up by 7, and after a shower, sat down to casually read a book. As I read, I came across a story where God had put a phrase on someone’s mind. Instantly a phrase came into my head: “You tried to build a bridge, when I asked you to fly across.” It seemed strange, yet as I thought for second I knew exactly what it referred to. I had tried to figure out the details of my trip before going, when God had asked me to go without having understanding. I put the book down and tried to clear my head. As I did, I caught a glimpse of my foot. I could see the scar on my skin and was reminded of what had happened a month before.

(Flashback)

I was finishing up my time in Hawaii and had gone for a run down to the beach. Like most beaches in the area, there was no sand, just huge waves crashing onto the lava rock. I had intended on going for a swim out to a nearby cove, but it seemed risky. Getting from the shore into the open water might require me to get smashed by the waves while still in very shallow water. It took a moment of hyping myself up, but soon I pulled off the maneuver. As I started to swim I was struck with intense fear. My heart pounded and I gasped for air. Swimming has always been easy for me, but this fear was crippling. An unexpected wave hit me, and I choked on a mouthful of salt water. “Don’t let fear dictate your decisions” I said to myself. It was a lesson I had been learning, but I was finding it difficult to carry out. I swam back and climbed onto the rocks. Breathing heavily, I listened for God’s voice. I felt him inviting me back out. A zeal rose in my heart and again I jumped in. The whole time, fear was strongly gripping me. I recognized its irrationality, but it still remained. “I’m more likely to die from a coconut than a shark!” I reminded myself. The statistic failed to comfort me. I paddled my way to the cove and then came back. I arrived at the shore, feeling triumphant, and relieved at my safety. I began to walk along the wet rock when I lost my footing. I fell backwards, cutting my back and arm, and gashing the top of my foot. As I washed the blood off in the ocean water I began to think. “We fear not having control. I was afraid of the ocean, because in the ocean I knew I didn’t have control, but it’s no more dangerous than the shore. The control I feel on the shore is actually deceptive.”

(End of Flashback)

I thought back to this as I sat on the plane, and the experience seemed to parallel this one. I had stepped out into the unknown, where I didn’t have control and nothing was figured out. I didn’t have a plan for California. I didn’t know where I would sleep or if I’d have anything to do when I got there; I didn’t even have a ride from the airport. I could potentially get to the airport, sit there for a day, and then hop on my return flight home. I felt the same fear that I had felt in the waves. A flight attendant walked by and passed out “Europe’s favorite cookie with coffee.” I hadn’t eaten breakfast, but the knots in my stomach took away my appetite. I put the cookie into the pocket of my duffle bag, adding to its meager contents.

Buying the ticket was the hardest part. Remembering my scar story made me realize that I had operated out of fear. And though I had no understanding of what might happen, I knew I shouldn’t need everything figured out before I follow God. I had begun to apologize to Him, when he stopped me to say, with a hint of laughter in his voice, “Okay, but don’t just apologize, repent. If you’re going to go, go now.” I was taken back. Surely it was too late to go now! It was 8 a.m. There was no way it would be worth it. “I can’t do it!” I replied. “Yeah, you can. And you can start by packing your bags.” I started packing, hardly able to comprehend what I was about to do. After I finished, I opened my laptop again. Ticket prices hadn’t increased, and there was a flight at 11am that would arrive at 6pm. This would give me 25 hours until my return flight. I watched myself buy the ticket, and with a glazed look of disbelief I hurried down stairs. “Can I have a ride to the airport?” I asked my roommate. His confusion was apparent. I’m sure mine was too. I briefly explained in the car, and before long I was getting my boarding passes. Except… I had somehow purchased them for the wrong day. “You can still turn back” fear whispered in my ear. You told me to go, God. If you want me to turn back, feel free, but you’re going to have to do better than that. I talked with the agent at the counter, and after much difficulty, switched the flight and was going through security at 10:30. I made it to my gate, and got onto the plane. That’s when it hit me, What are you doing?

The question persisted throughout the three flights. What if I heard God wrong? What if I’m being irresponsible? What if God is going to punish me for my lack of wisdom? I had to consistently remind myself of God’s character to silence the questioning. On the last flight, with a serious need to verbally process, I said to the lady sitting next to me. “Do you ever have a time when know you have to do something, but you don’t know why?” This sparked a lengthy conversation, where I described to her what had happened. She seemed to marvel at my recklessness. As we descended into the Long Beach area, I asked a simple question of where she was going… followed by how she was getting there… followed by a side comment about how I didn’t have a ride from the airport. Next thing I know, we’re getting picked up by her driver. After getting dropped off at her house, she paid the driver to bring me to my location. I sat in the back seat, riding down the Pacific Coast Highway and staring at the sun setting over the ocean. I was amazed that I had even made it this far.

We arrived, and I was dropped off, hoping that the address shown online was right. I walked into the building. There were some people inside, but I didn’t recognize any of them. I stepped out and made a phone call to a friend and got redirected a few blocks down. I saw a group of young adults outside a running car, and from one of them I heard the phrase “that’s a blessing” in its all too familiar tone. I knew I was in the right place. I introduced myself, and for the next few hours was greeted by huge hugs, bright smiles, and wide eyes, as old friends asked “What are you doing here!?” I found it hard to answer as this was the same question I kept asking myself.

To keep the story short let me just say that some bad weather in Phoenix on my return flight led to me spending 10 hours in PHX, causing me to miss my brother’s bachelor party (sorry Charlie!), which turned me around and changed the 25 hour stay in California to one lasting six days. During that time I was able to hang out with amazing people, get reconnected with old friends, and make tons of new ones. I played hours of volleyball on Huntington Beach, and cooled off in the refreshing waves of the Pacific. I ate Acai bowls and played corn hole. I stayed up late getting to know people, and I used fifteen different types of toothpaste because I had forgotten mine. I dreamed and planned with other circuit riders and missionaries about changing the world and our future adventures. It was honestly one of the best times of my life, and I left astounded by the faithfulness of God.

At one point, I was hanging out in Brian Brennt’s garage with about 30 others for this glorious time of inspiration. After it had ended and as Brian passed between conversations he threw his arm around me, and he said casually, yet quite prophetically, “You broke your boxes and your life won’t be boring anymore.” I’ve never been introduced to him, and I doubt he knew my story, but I sincerely believe those words. That week ripped some fear out of me, some thought that the known is safer than the unknown, some lie that obedience is limited to understanding, some need for control that only held me back from the abundant life that is waiting. I come away agreeing with what Dan Baumann always says: “I would rather live my life leaning forward on what I think God said, than leaning backwards, afraid that I heard him wrong.”

One last thought

You know, it’s funny. People kept asking me, “why do you think God sent you hear? What lesson did you learn?” And though there were many amazing things that happened while being there and many divine appointments occurred, and though I’ve clearly pulled a few lessons from it, I’m learning that not everything is about learning a lesson. Obedience is not about learning a lesson as much as it’s about relationship. Maybe God invited me on this wild time with him, simply because he wanted to have a wild time with me. Intimacy for the sake of intimacy is always worth it. At the end of the day, God wants to be with us more than he wants to teach us a lesson.

P.S. In case you’re judging me for going six days on two pairs of boxers… what I did was wash one pair by hand in the shower, and then let it dry all day. The next day that would be my clean pair, and I would wash the dirty pair in the shower. #thingsyoulearnatywam

Sometimes loving is hard. It requires us to care. And sometimes we would rather not care, because it hurts more than being selfish. We would rather do things to get them done than look into the eyes of a child who has little hope of a future and love him. The temptation is the mundane. The temptation is to disengage your heart and rely on your head to carry your shoulders through the comfort of day to day. But living like this, we find ourselves weary and worn, lacking motivation and wondering why we came.
Love is uncomfortable. Love hurts for people. Love sheds tears and gets in fights with passivity. It’s raw, it’s gutty, it’s tenacious, and without it we will dry up. Love isn’t clean, and it isn’t orderly. Love reacts to hatred, and it feels like blood boiling as I bite my tongue and look out the window of the twelve-seater van. Love tips over tables of compromise and shakes the confines of complacency. It sounds like cracking concrete and looks like lighting striking wooden beams. Let it lead you. Let it pull you chest-first past where your head would never dare venture. It will give your eyes the ability to see the overlooked. It will give your hands the strength to reach out of your comfort zone. It will give your knees the stability to step forward onto uncertain ground. It will give you the ignorance you need to let your flesh die as you feed the dying. It doesn’t know when to let go. It doesn’t know how to. It’ll get you into trouble and laugh at the consequences, because love never considered self on the list of pros and cons. I’m rambling. Anyway…

As I sat in a Starbucks, I was surrounded by Middle Eastern individuals, but still, it reminded me of America. I hadn’t realized that I missed it. I thought of how soon I’ll be heading home and was hit with a mixture of excitement and unreadiness to leave. I found myself questioning whether I had actually made any positive impact here. Gosh, that sounds lame and introspective. It’s easy to forget. It’s easy to live by your present emotions and not consider the amazement you experienced only days before. As I was in the process of criticizing my efforts when Jesus rudely interrupted my thoughts and began affirming me for all I’ve done. I stopped him with the question, “but did I actually do what I came here for? Did I do what you wanted me to? Was I successful?” I felt him clearly ask the question, “did you fall in love with the people here? If you learned to love than you were successful.”

My thoughts went to the boys at the orphanage where I had said goodbye for the last time only a day before. Through more than misty eyes I had watched them disappear into the rearview. I remembered the Sudanese refugees we would often visit. Their stories were tragic, yet as we entered their homes they offered thankful smiles along with a glass of tea or water. I remembered the Sudanese learning center where I did my best to teach them the complicated language of English. I remember teaching Sami how to use PowerPoint and Excel, and him telling me in his thick Sudanese accent, “Someday, I will be great in computer, and I will come visit you in America.” I remembered the many conversations with Muslims, introducing them to a God who is a father who desires relationship with his children. I remembered the friends I had made with shop keepers and store owners. I remembered rolling deep with local college students, playing street soccer until 3 in the morning. I remembered the continuous “Welcome to Egypt” and the countless selfies with strangers excited to see white people. I remembered the lines of people that would come to us after church services, asking for prayers of healing… and more selfies of course.

I looked around the classic brown and green coffee shop and saw all the tan faces and out-of-date styles that had now grown so familiar. I cold never deny it: yes, I’ve fallen in love with these people.

But why? It would have been easier if I stayed home. This country had had little influence on my life and had it disappeared into the desert my own nation would hardly notice. So why did I come? Why feel the pain of love for a people I hardly knew existed and would never have cared for had I stayed? Why give myself for those who could never give anything to me? Why? Because Jesus walks these streets. He sees every orphan and every refugee. He watches every confused and tired soul. He knows the shop keepers and store owners. He reasons with the Muslims, and shows them what he’s like. He intercedes for the hurting and dying. He chooses to love when it would be easier to look away. And as for me, I won’t let him walk these streets alone.

Flood LA

To start off the outreach we went to LA for 10 days leading up to Azusa Now. It was more than just an event, and the repercussions of it will echo throughout eternity. We called the ten days before the event “Flood LA.” This involved worship and team trainings in the morning and night, with a few hours of outreach in between. It was like everything that I learned for the past three months I was able to pour out, and you know what? people want it. America is so hungry for the gospel. They are hungry for the raw, unhindered, unrelenting love of Jesus. When they see people walking in the freedom of expressing his love, their hearts begin to hope again. We didn’t waste any time there, but dove straight into our ministry. The first week was spent in one of four LA communities. The one my team was assigned to was Evergreen, a poverished Hispanic community. Our days were spent telling people about Jesus and inviting them to two events we were having in the park at the end of the week. The openness of people’s hearts was astounding. Everyone wanted to hear. Everyone listened to our testimonies of what God had done in our lives and wanted to do in theirs. We saw healings, salvations, and deliverances.

The following week we were on the UCLA campus. There wasn’t the same openness as Evergreen, but that couldn’t stop us. Day 2 we walked into a hospital asking if we could visit patients and pray for them. When they wouldn’t let us, we just prayed for everyone outside the hospital and in the cafeteria. A few of us were able to get the permission of a visiting family to pray for their hospitalized family member. They were shocked when the prayer actually worked and the pain left the patient. We were just done with living a lifestyle of hindered love. The next day we stood by UCLA’s bear statue giving the message, “Anyone who wants freedom from fear, anxiety, and depression come and receive prayer and be set free today!”

One student didn’t have time, so I walked beside him, asking if I could pray for him. He said he had a lot of stress, so I prayed that the Holy Spirit would give him peace. He stopped and looked at me. “Do you feel anything?” I asked, not expecting much. “I feel like a ton of stress just lifted off my shoulders.” He was hooked. I then shared with him how Jesus came to give peace, and if he follows Jesus he can have that peace all the time. He nodded and I let him continue to class. Jesus has marked us to heal and bring freedom. When we move in crazy faith and outlandish obedience the Holy Spirit has a tendency to show up.

Azusa Now was a releasing of what God has been building within us. It was the tipping point, and we will watch the overflow sweep across America. Even as we made our way to the airport we saw this to be true. It seemed that everyone we ran into was impacted by the event. We stayed at a hotel the last night there and even the pizza delivery man got excited when I mentioned that I followed Jesus, because someone at the pizza shop had just given him prophetic word about his shoulder injury. As we left the hotel a group of people we walked by started praying for us to have a safe travel. And for me, it was all just the launching pad into the nations.

Burning in The Desert

My heart soared as our plane touched down in the desert landscape on the outskirts of the city. As I looked around I saw the faces I had prayed for a thousand times. It all felt strangely familiar, like I was landing home after a lifelong vacation.

After a few days of being here, a frustration grew in my heart. There are restrictions here to sharing the gospel. Evangalism is illegal, and not only that, but my meager Arabic is far too little to carry on a spiritual conversation with anyone. The freedom and passion that Azusa unleashed was suddenly boxed in, and my heart burned with passion. We have a song we sing that goes “I feel it in my bones, in my bones. It’s a fire! And I must let it out! I must let it out!” And those lyrics have never rung so true. For all of my life there has been so much opportunity to share the gospel, but little willingness. In a matter of weeks, my willingness has grown, but my opportunity taken away. I hope I never again take for granted the freedom we have in America to share the gospel so openly.

To contrast what I’ve just said, there is a wide open door here in the Middle East, and after getting some time to adjust, I’ve come to see that there are so many opportunities here. So far I’ve been here for 14 days of ministry and already I have pages of testimonies. At a large church area we were allowed to share the gospel, and in the process over 15 young men got saved. At a handicapped ministry we performed a skit and led a worship song. We followed it up with praying for every person there. We saw a ladies back and shoulder healed and her leg grow out. Another lady was filled with the Holy Spirit and started speaking in tongues for the first time. At a church service I was able to share a simple message on love, and follow it up with a time of ministry, where one of us got a word about someone’s left ear. Someone came up who was deaf in their left ear, and after being prayed for, they were healed. Now it started to feel like I was on outreach.

Feeling The Father’s Heart

Her dark eyes looked back at mine as she did her best to explain the reality she believed to be her existence.

The warm sunlight covered the surrounding sidewalk. Nearby cars packed themselves into what few would consider a parking spot. The consistent sound of horns had now grown numb from its monotony. Yellow tan so over saturated the urban landscape that the slightest green caught the eye like a refreshing oasis.

How could I question what she believed to be true for so long? How could I dismiss a belief that she has based her eternal hope upon? How could I introduce an idea that would shake her perception of why she is here?
How could I not?

My throat lurched as I held back heavy tears. What love is this? What love would so easily sacrifice everything one knows for a person unknown? Oh, it’s the love of a father. The love of a man who’s never held his daughter. The love of a heart that has been transplanted into my chest, and would shatter the feeble bars of my rib cage to let her know.

Her words came out. Confident, as if rehearsed a thousand times. Repeated night after night until the questions were sedated. Practiced until it sounded right. But her honesty overcame her ability to convince me that she was okay. It was close. Nearly overlooked. Nearly passed by as another soul managing her way through life without pain or discomfort. But a crack was shown, and I again remember why I came.

I did my best, through the use of wind through vocal chords to show her the beautiful truth I’ve discovered, though I felt that handing her my bleeding heart would speak much clearer.

I would have stood there for a lifetime trying to paint a picture of what could be her reality, but time’s demand pulled us apart. Our goodbye was sincere, but unwanted. What I wouldn’t give to open her eyes? What I wouldn’t do to make her realize who’s arms are open wide for her?

Suddenly dying on a cross seemed like the only natural response for a love like this.