“It really began in the days when the Love Laws were made. The laws that lay down who should be loved, and how. And how much.”
-from the God of Small Things by Arundhati Roy.
I started reading this book for a class I took in Scotland and ended up finishing it for myself. This idea of Love Laws has always stuck with me, especially on the Race where loving in community can be so incredibly difficult. I spent last night on our balcony wrestling with the idea that at some point, my American culture put boundaries on who is acceptable for me to love, has given me a measuring cup for how much love I can give them as if I were parcelling out sugar for a neighbor, has given me a time limit for when loving someone is acceptable. As if they can draw me parameters in chalk and say, “There you go, now don’t cross this line here or here or that one there. Just stay put. Good girl.”
As if I’m supposed to listen.
Yesterday, I sat in a wheelbarrow with children crowded around me. The kids live in the Internally Displaced Peoples (IDP) camp. They had mud on their fingers, their faces. They'd shown up at the church days before wearing the same clothes they had on now. They couldn't pronounce my name for anything. They may or may not have parents who love them. They may or may not go to school. They may or may not ever be able to leave the IDP camp for a better life.
These are the least of these that Jesus talks about loving.
And yet, in all their dirtiness and poverty and uneducation, they are often easier for me to love than my teammates, my squadmates, my family. The reasons for that are simple: these dirty, uneducated kids haven't done anything to hurt me. I don't have any reason to be offended by them.
I'm not right and they're not wrong.
My heart stood up and rebelled at this idea , broke out the picket sticks and chants and began marching around my mind like any self-respecting feminist. It would like to believe that it can withhold love because it's in various stages of brokenness (again). It would like to retreat into the familiar protective shell it's been kept in. It would like to not hurt anymore.
So I asked: Who should be loved, and how? And how much?
I wanted to know what my love laws are. How far does my ability to love selflessly reach? How much do I need to be shown love in order to give it back? Is it true that when someone hurts me, I love them a little less, as this book says? Or do I have a strong enough heart to love them not in spite of their faults, but with them? Not despite the pain that people are apt to cause, but in accordance with it?
On the Race we talk about dying to ourselves, about being selfless and putting others before us, regardless of the circumstance. Let me just say that putting that into practice is painful, humbling and one of the best lessons I've ever had to learn. It's taught me something really important when it comes to Love Laws and loving people well:
Boundaries.
It's meant giving hugs instead of ignoring pain. It's meant serving instead of deliberately walking away. It's meant being kind instead of angry. It's meant choosing to speak life instead of death. It's meant killing my selfish flesh on a minute-by-minute basis.
What it doesn't mean is choosing to allow my heart to be a doormat for just anyone to wipe their feet or their mess on. It doesn't mean putting myself in a position to get burned for the thirteenth time. It doesn't mean pursuing a one-sided relationship. It doesn't mean treating my heart as if it's disposable or unbreakable because, let's face it, it's not.
It doesn't mean not caring, not hurting when they hurt, not rejoicing when they rejoice. It just means that in some situations, I have to love through a glass wall: where I can see and love and pray, but keep a very necessary distance.
The heart is the wellspring of my life. It won't stay that way if I don't protect it, which is the whole purpose of having love laws in the first place. And for the record, my heart is valuable, worth protecting, worth fighting for. It's way past time for me to start treating it like something precious.
"Above all else, guard your heart for it is the wellspring of your life."
-Proverbs 4:23
I know I called last week, but since I was a little early, I thought I'd call to tell you again. I guess my sense of time is a little off, huh?
Anyway, I just called to tell you what an amazing Mom you are. I'm so blessed by you, Mama. You've been such a huge supporter of this whole Race thing. In fact, every time I tell you I want to leave the country and go on some new, random adventure, you support me. I'm so thankful for you.
Your prayers are powerful. I can't think of a single time where I've called you and you haven't ended the conversation by saying, "Ok, don't hang up. I'm going to pray for you."
In light of that, I'm just going to pray for you really fast, ok?
Abba, thank you for giving me my Mama. Thank you for her love, for the example she is, for her heart of encouragement. Thank you for the way she loves Daddy so wholly and openly, for the wisdom she gives freely. Thank you for how she shares her walk with you with me. Thank you for our friendship, for the trust we've built. LORD, she's such a blessing. God give her such rest this week. Let her know how loved and appreciated and approved she is. She's so precious to me and our family. Thank you thank you thank you for her and her heart for you, for our family, for me. We love you so much and give you all the glory for this day. Amen.
Okay, I think that's it... wait, no, one more thing:
For the record, if I'm half the woman you are when I grow up, I'm going to be a pretty amazing woman. You know that, right?
I love you, Mama. I miss you. Be home soon.
Oh, by the way, it's Heather, your wayfaring daughter.
I left Malaysia under duress. I didn’t want to leave Catherine, especially after Pastor Arul asked me to take her with me. Especially after Brother Joseph asked me to take her with me. Especially after Sharlini asked me to take her with me. Especially after Catherine called me "Mama" and asked why she wasn't coming with me. My heart broke to leave her behind, and yet I knew that the LORD hadn’t called me to leave the Race midway. He was calling me to Africa.
The squad flew out of Kuala Lumpur and into Bangkok. It was surreal to be back in Thailand, even for a few hours. I made sure to get a Thai Tea and mango sticky rice before heading outside for some time with Jesus. The airport was packed with people and I felt crowded, needed air. I ran out to the garden outside and plugged into my iPod. Jesus Culture blasted through the headphones as I slipped out of my shoes and began to dance.
It’d been month since I’d danced with Jesus. My heart felt so heavy, but as I danced less than gracefully across the courtyard it began to lift. I heard Him say He would take care of Catherine. Though I’d left, He’d not abandoned her.
I walked into Kenya with a longing I couldn't wrap my fingers around. The air was cool on my face and for the first time in four months, I wasn't immediately sweating when we stepped outside. As we drove away from the airport towards the retreat center where we'd stay for a few days, I was amazed at the colors around me. We saw giraffes walking along the side of the highway and baboons with their knuckles pressed to the pavement. We pulled up to a stone compound and, inside, found bunk beds where we could collapse, finally able to rest.
But I didn't rest. I went into the empty building next to us, turned up Bethel worship and danced again. And oh, it felt good to dance. After a while, I pulled out my red Moleskine journal--the fourth one I'd begun in eight months--and wrote:
"Father I give you Kenya. Thank you for his ministry you have planned for us, for the ways you have prepared us for it and it for us. LORD, I'm thankful for whatever you have. You've benen so faithful to provide everything I need, LORD. Above and beyond all I could ask or imagine is your faithful love, LORD. Father let my lips always praise you. Let my heart be full of your life-giving joy. Help me to find comfort and strength in you. To laugh without fear of the future. I know you have only good planned for me, Papa."
And it's true. He has only good for me. So far, the blessings are too many to count, but they include:
Being able to walk to the National Park, which means that we're NOT in a big city. Praise the LORD for a country month!
The precious little ones who seem to follow us wherever we go.
This view for my morning Jesus time.
Insta-Love.
Dancing with the beautiful little ones at a local children's home.
Our new brothers, Pato and Micah, who walked MILES in the rain to fetch gas when the car ran out on a remote dirt road near our church.
Our beautiful little church. See our awesome skylights?
But by far the biggest blessing of all is this lady right here. Her name is Pastor Mary Nyasende... but we just call her Mom. This is one of her amazing sons, Joshua, who just went back to boarding school. Mom's the definition of a woman of God. She loves us relentlessly. She speaks life into us, listens to the LORD to direct us as we begin to do ministry, and prophesies like no one I've ever heard. If HALF the things she's spoken of us come true (and I think they will) our lives are going to be pretty amazing.
We're working at Deliverance Church-Pipeline, a tiny offshoot of a big church in town. We've been to a local children's home and also plan on going to the Internally Displaced Persons Camp (IDP Camp) at soon. We've even had some hospital ministry happen because of a random stomach infection that swept through Erica for a few days. He's so good, so faithful, such a healer and redeemer.
The LORD is teaching me about taking spiritual rest (pretty sure you prayed me into that one, B.). He's showing me how to rely on Him in times of crisis. He's releasing me from strongholds, from intercessory burdens and from my own stupidity. Praise Him for the hard lessons, the smack-me-in-the-face lessons, the get-me-off-my-pedastal lessons that leave me winded, broken and desperate for more of my Jesus.
Pray for more of Him for us.
His strength in our bones.
His renewal for our minds.
His peace for our hearts.
His direction for our feet.
His love for our hands.
I was always meant to go to Africa. I'm starting to see why.
"The LORD says, "I will guide you along the best pathway for your life. I will advise you and watch over you."
-Psalm 32:8
Mom looked at the spread laid out on the kitchen table. “Oh, good,” she said, sounding less than convinced. “What is it?”
Caitlin, Leanna and I laughed. “It’s tacos, Mom!” Leanna said.
“Oh, okay.”
“Boo Boo why don’t you show Mom how to make it,” Caitlin said. By “Boo Boo”, she meant me.
“Alright Mom, this is how we do this,” I said. I grabbed a plate and pulled out one of the tortillas Leanna and Agape had homemade from traditional East African chapatti dough.
I layered her taco with ground beef, cheese, tomatoes, salsa and homemade guacamole. She looked dubiously at the plate when I added a scoop of beans and handful of tortilla chips. “This is how we eat tacos at my house,” I told her, handing her the plate. “No utensils.”
“Oh, ok, good.” She still didn’t sound excited, so I quickly reassured her,
“It’s really okay if you don’t like it, Mom. We won’t be offended.”
“Yeah,” Caitlin said. “We made pancakes in Cambodia and nobody liked those.”
“Or the spaghetti,” Leanna added.
“No, no,” Mom said. “I am now in America. I am eating with President Obama!”
We all laughed and filled our plates. Mom lifted the taco and we all froze, holding our breath. She took a bite, hesitant at first, and then smiled. “Oh, it’s so good!”
The rest of the night was spent laughing, watching Telemundo TV shows and dancing through the kitchen. It was one of those rate nights on the Race where everything is comfortable and feels like home. We became a family united by delicious food and a love for the big God we serve.
PS- Munzungu Miercoles (or, White-Girl Wednesdays) are now a running tradition. Next week, we're making Chapatti Pizzas!
“You are members of God’s family. Together, we are his house, built on the foundation of the apostles and the prophets. And the cornerstone is Christ Jesus himself. We are carefully joined together in him becoming a holy temple for the LORD.” -Ephesians 2: 19-21
Maybe the most amazing thing my team did in Malaysia was something we've come to refer to as:
EXTREME MAKEOVER: MALAYSIA ON A BUDGET EDITION!
In the span of 13 hours, we turned Rumah Shalom into a real home for twelve wonderful girls and one house mom. If a picture's worth a 1000 words, a video's worth a million. So, without further ado, enjoy this video of our crazy day, created by my wonderful teammate Miss Caitlyn Rogers.
So, some of our wonderful B Squad men missed the ladies so much this month that they didn't have words for it... they had to put it in a song. Enjoy this gem of a video featuring both my fabulous Kaleo men! <3
Catherine and I have our routine down to a science.
Sometime around five a.m. she wakes up and pads sleepily to the hallway. The girls pray for a few minutes and then all get ready for school. Catherine puts on her blue jumper and goes downstairs for a cup of Milo (hot chocolate) and piece of toast with kaya, a kind of egg jam. She’s long gone before I ever unstick myself from my mattress.
By the time she gets home from the Tamil school at two-thirty pm, I’ve drunk at least six cups of tea, had my quiet time and planned for the afternoon Bible study. She comes in quietly, both hands clutching the straps of her backpack, big eyes searching for me. I’m sitting at the kitchen table when she comes in, and she comes right over, knowing I’m probably sitting on her towel. She goes to bathe for the second time that day, a habit I really should get into since the temperature inside is a whopping 8,347 degrees despite the fans.
When she comes down for lunch at three pm, her hair is still dripping with water. She prays quickly over the curry, then digs in with one scooped fist. She looks at me and makes the “eehh?” noise in the back of her throat, asking me if I’m eating. I already have, I tell her, but I’ll sit with her. She downs the rice and vegetable dahl in minutes, but isn’t fast enough to escape Auntie’s scolding.
We pile onto the couch together to pre-read the Bible verses for the afternoon study and indulge in the first of many tickle fights. She’s realized that we have moles and scars in almost all the same places, which delights both of us to no end, so we spend a few minutes pointing them out. She tells me that my eyes are lots of colors. Today, they are “green color then brown color and orange color.” I remember a conversation in Honduras where someone stopped mid-sentence and said, “You have fire in your eyes.” I laugh and Catherine tilts her head, says, “huh?” “Nothing, baby,” I tell her. She points to the verses in Romans I have starred and says, “This one?” “Yeah, those.” “Ohhhh,” she lets the word drag out.
She sits through Bible study, mostly quiet as I read the verses in English, then Reetha reads in Bahasa and Angeline finishes in Tamil. I know that most of it goes straight over Catherine’s head but at least she looks like she’s paying attention. Under the table, her feet are wrapped around mine. Physical touch is definitely our love language, because we spend most moments sprawled over and around each other in an unending extension of arms and legs. After Bible study we go to the park or watch movies. She brings me her homework to check and practice English, then looks over my shoulder as I blog.
It amazes her to no end that if she hits the "c" button on my computer, the letter "c" shows up on the screen. She writes her name a half dozen times, then makes me write mine. We laugh. We sit down for dinner around seven thirty, more curry for her, a bowl of oatmeal for me. (There's only so much curry a girl can handle after all.) The questions start.
"Tomorrow, you go?" An indistinct wave of her orange-stained fingers.
"Not tomorrow, baby. Friday. Today is Monday." We count the days on my still-pale fingers. Monday, one.
Tuesday, two. Wednesday, three. Thursday, four. Friday, five. There are still four days between then and now.
"I go too?"
It gets me everytime. A rush like my lungs are about to collapse and then the memory of Shalini telling me to take her with me, that it would be better for her to go with me. But I say, "No baby girl. You stay here."
She gets quiet, turns those big brown eyes down and doesn't say anything. I tell her, "Remember, we said we wouldn't be sad till Thursday, ok? We still have three days until Thursday."
She stays quiet until bedtime, cuddled against my side. It doesn't matter that we're both covered in layer upon layer of sweat. It doesn't matter that we only have three days left. We're going to make those three days mean something beautiful.
"Just close your eyes / The sun is going down / You'll be alright / Noone can touch you now / Come morning light / You and I'll be safe and sound."
Our days off have come at fairly regular intervals. As you probably already know, we’re living in pretty tight quarters, so all we’ve really wanted to do is rest. This month, resting looks like a lot of long bus rides into the main city so we can get internet, good Lebanese food and the few things we need for Africa. Our spa days include the samples at the Body Shop and an hour in a free massage chair. Oh, and movies. We’ve seen a LOT of movies.
It’s official. My team has seen more movies while being in Malaysia than I have in—oh, probably—my entire life. We’ve watched Harry Potter and Chronicles of Narnia, Spiderman and the Cabin in the Woods, the Vow and Mirror Mirror. I’ve even seen the Hunger Games… twice. (No judgement, people.)
I’ve found it really funny—and vaguely frustrating—that I haven’t felt rested at all. In fact, this month has taken everything out of me emotionally. It’s by far my favorite month, just the most draining. I talked to a dear friend a few days ago, a man also on my squad who has far more responsibility than I ever will, and he said, “I think one of your biggest responses to me when asked how you are is tired. I am very thankful that you feel you can be honest with me and yet I am wondering, “When is she gonna figure out that whole rest thing?” There’s a difference between physical rest and spiritual rest, he told me, and I desperately needed to figure out the latter. He’s right, of course, but then, he usually is.
A huge challenge for me this month has been resting in the safety that the LORD provides. A lot of my past has come to the forefront, things I haven’t wanted to think about. I’ve had several flashbacks and a panic attack, which are serious attacks of the Enemy on my mental state, if you want the truth. My nightmares are back with a vengeance. More than once, I’ve looked at Kenra, my team leader, and said, “I’d feel so much safer if the guys were here. They’d know what to do.”
One of the great things about the B Squad men I’m blessed to call “mine” are that they’ve proved over and over that distance won’t keep them from me. What I mean is, all I have to do is ask and they’re there. They’ll answer the phone or an email just as quickly as possible. They provide emotional safety, even when they can’t be physically present. Let me just say that the fact that they are able to do that in my life is a huge, Kingdom victory.
But here’s the thing I’m learning—and it’s funny because it was one of ”my” men who first said this to me—God’s so much bigger than they are. When he told me this, we were wading across a river after team changes and I looked at him, tear-streaked and panicking. I asked, “What am I supposed to do when you’re not there?” And he said, “Heather, God’s so much bigger than I am.” He’s right, of course, but then, he usually is.
The LORD is my ROCK OF REFUGE (Ps. 71:3). He is my STRONG TOWER (Ps. 61). He is my DEFENDER (Is. 19:20). And I’m learning that though He’s allowed some really fantastic men to be His weapons to protect me, ultimately, He’s the one wielding the sword. He is the one to look to when I feel weak and alone and afraid, when I sense danger at every corner, when I feel the tightness in my chest stealing my air. He’s my safe and sound.
“I prayed to the LORD. He answered me. He freed me from all my fears.” -Psalm 34:4
She’s the last little girl to come home our first day at Rumah Shalom. She’s bird-boned beneath her blue and white jumper, with thick, dark hair chopped close around her ears and eyes like looking into a well at midnight. I could catch a flicker of the moon them if I looked, or maybe, my own reflection. Her mouth closes around words and holds them like chocolate; she doesn’t speak much. There’s a hesitation in her I recognize, and a joy that leaps out, surprising even her.
She’s beautiful and doesn’t know it. At eight years old, she still has the precious, earthy smell of childhood, but her eyes hold a knowing I wish I could take away. Every English word comes out spelled in a whisper, but Tamil tumbles over her tongue. Suddenly, I realize her inheritance was the wind (Proverbs 11:29). Yet she is light and lightness itself. The moment she walks in the door I know that she is the one for me this month.
Her name is Catherine, but she says it “Ka-ter-ine”.
Her house mother confirms what the LORD put on my heart: Catherine has been seriously abused. She is shy with us, dark eyes taking everything in with the caution of a habitual outsider. Pursuing her is a quiet, persistent affair, never raising my voice above gentleness. I talk to her as if she understands every word. I help her with her English homework, pointing to words and praising her as she spells every single one correctly. She’s a smart girl, there’s no question of that. Her eyes watch my mouth and she imitates the shape my lips make as I sound the words out with her. Slowly, slowly, she’s beginning to understand, not just mimic.
We watch the Chronicles of Narnia together. As Lucy meets Mr. Tumnus for the first time, Catherine sits perched on my knees, a cookie in one hand. By the time Aslan rescues Edmond, she’s curled up in my lap entirely, head against my chest, arm sprawled across my stomach. I bite my lip and try not to cry. An almost uncontainable longing to keep her safe rises up in me and I wish there was a way that I wouldn’t have to leave her behind.
Two nights later, a group of us walk back from a barbeque at the boys’ home, and somewhere between one breath and the next, the light leaves her eyes completely. My heart twists in my chest as I hug her close, praying that the LORD will somehow infuse my tongue with Tamil so I know she’ll understand me. I step away for a moment and Erica calls out that she’s fainted, she’s not breathing.
I’ve never run so fast for help. Caitlin and I arrive at the boys’ home out of breath and shaking, barely able to tell Reverend Arul and Brother Joseph to rush home. They take her to the emergency room and until she comes home, Erica and I stay on our faces, praying and worshipping. The diagnosis is that she’s had a panic attack. We praise God that that’s all it was, but I have to wonder what triggered the panic. It takes Catherine two days to come back to us fully. I wonder if this is how a mother feels when her child hurts. There seems to be an ache in me for her that won’t go away.
Sometimes we go to the park and I push her on the swings. She learns to pump her legs out and then in, flying so high that the entire set shakes. In those moments, her joy ricochets through me like a bullet from a gun. We read Disney stories and I tickle her until she squeals with laughter. I’ve never heard anything as sweet as her laughing and laughing.
She asks for me by pointing to her nose, indicating my hoop nosering, and saying, “Sista.” She taps the seat beside her at meals, insisting I sit with her. There’s something about this little girl that makes me want to stop whatever else I’m doing, to make her a priority. Most days, we spend hours sitting at the kitchen table or on the couch, trying to talk or playing made up games. I’ve never had my heart so completely taken captive by a child.
My heart longs to bring her home with me, to make her part of the next stage of my life, whatever that is. I know that’s completely impractical, impossible even. Yet there is something that has risen up in me, some love for her that is new and sweet and strange. Some love that makes me want to cherish and protect and be selfless. I want her to know she is always loved, permanently taken care of, eternally adored. I want the hurt of her past to be wiped away, so that every nightmare is gone forever. I want her to be free to be the girl on the swingset.
So I pray that long after I’m gone, she remembers she was once held with tenderness. I pray that after she forgets about me, she remembers the truth we spoke over her. I pray that after she closes the gate of Rumah Shalom for the last time, she remembers she is not abandoned, not forgotten, not alone.
She is safe. She is free. She is loved.
She is the light, and darkness can never touch her because she is the light.
I flew into Kuala Lumpur last Sunday morning. As the plane descended, I saw miles of trees, covering the hills until it looked like one great green ocean. The LORD whispered to me that this month would be different. It would be a beginning. The cage I’d felt so keenly in Vietnam opened up. Something in me lifted, took flight. It seemed my heart had finally decided to return to me, to become again something wild and untamed and free.
Sometimes I think my heart is very much like the sea.
We spent a few days as the squad. The squad leaders announced that this month would be our “Manistry – Womanistry” Month, which means that the men and women are completely separated. I laughed. On Talitha Koum, every month is Womanistry. This is normal for us. Our TK girls and the three wonderful women from Team Plunge were combined into one superwomen team: TKP! (You have to say it with some swag, people.)
The men went north to do the manly things that we women could only wonder at. I imagined them in war paint, carrying machetes, hunting their dinner in the wild, unknowable jungle, while we stayed behind to work in the city.
Half of the girls packed up and left for Penang, the Pearl of the Orient, the beautiful island in the middle of the Andaman Sea. I imagined them walking the beaches, making friends with locals and playing sand volleyball, while we stayed behind to work in the city.
My wild, untameable, and recently freed heart saw the cage doors swinging closed again. Not even a little piece of me desired another month of city life. I longed for trees and a place to watch the sky. I was jealous.
Especially when we walked into our ministry site and realized that this would be our living situation:
Twelve girls in one room is the definition of no personal space.
My mattress is the one over by the wall. Can’t tell the difference between mine and the next girl’s? That’s okay. Neither can we. The beautiful girl waving at you is Kearston, of Team Plunge.
\
That closet is shared by six of our eight girls. This is why the WR tells you to pack light.
Especially when Kenra assigned us our specific ministry for the month and I realized I wouldn’t be leaving the house hardly at all. Instead, I’d be spending my evenings doing this:
This is what the Night Shift looks like.
These are Sharon, Catherine, Angeline, Jaqueline and Reetha. Every night, we write essays, practice multiplication tables, and read stories. In the afternoon, we go to the park or play board games if it’s raining.
At first glance, this looks like the perfect recipe for making an introvert go completely bananas in thirty days or less. Honestly, it probably could have. No, it probably should have. But let me tell you the story these pictures really show. Look again:
This is what it looks like to live in community.
You learn to give grace for the girls’ five a.m. wake-up calls, for stepped on pillows and “borrowed” electronics.
You pray over each person in your household, by name, every single morning.
You can’t go anywhere without bumping into, knocking over or disrupting someone’s life and you LOVE the closeness of it.
You go to a church that is TRI-LINGUAL (English, Tamil and Bahasa) and learn to sing in all three.
You instantly respond to anyone calling for “Sister”, even if there are seven other white girls in hearing vicinity.
You give the hard feedback.
You have spontaneous, two-hour prophetic worship sessions with your teammates.
You have your first honest-to-goodness breakdown in over a year.
You eat fish curry until it comes out of your ears, and never say no to second helpings.
You spend more time around a kitchen table than you do anywhere else.
You drink no less than eight cups of tea every day because you plan on making full use of the kettle before you leave.
You don’t hesitate to put on whatever the girls hand you, because you know it makes them happy to see you dressed like them.
You read their Bahasa novels out loud, not caring if they laugh at your accent because you’re happy just to see them laugh.
You write a blog at midnight with at least one girl sleeping in your lap because she didn’t want you to be lonely while you wrote.
You fall asleep with the soles of your feet pressed against those of an eight-year old Malay girl who teaches you more Bahasa than you teach her English.
You decide to speak peace into a household at war.
You fall in love again, with big, dark eyes and a scar on a right knee that’s the same-same as yours.
You feel freer in a room of twelve than you did in your own bedroom back home.
You let your wildness come out in tickle-fights.
You un-tame your heart.
You love relationally, relentlessly, recklessly.
You just give.
And somehow, in the middle of all the crazy, you remember why you decided to do this World Race thing in the first place.
It was to see miracles.
Oh and Daddy, I found my Shalom place. There are trees and I get to watch the sky. Here it is:
“The one who refreshes others will himself be refreshed…” –Proverbs 11:25
