See Something More

Opening my journal to the most recent page, I find a small blank space at the bottom of the right hand side. I pause, tempted to turn the page and start a new entry and dedicate a whole page to what I am about to write. It feels significant enough. I have been waiting to write this since the moment I started this journal back in the summer. I began writing at the same time that I began feeling that God might be leading me somewhere different, somewhere unexpected. Since writing the first Scripture on the first page, I have embarked on an adventure of seeking God’s guidance for my next steps. That’s why I have been waiting for this moment, this monumental entry. I finally get to write about how God has spoken and how he has guided me. Instead of writing questions, I finally get to write answers. He has revealed the steps I have been asking him about over and over again; he has opened doors for the future. He has responded to my prayers and been faithful in my waiting. I turn to a cl...

I tried to place myself in her shoes, and I got a pit in my stomach. She was entrusted with the Son of God. She would raise the Savior of the world. Holiness, growing in her abdomen, birthed into her home, raised under her watch. I bet she imagined what the birth would be like. Maybe she played it all out in her head. Had Joseph already made a beautifully crafted wooden crib? Had she sewn a blanket? Had she saved up to purchase some quality soap and clothes so she could wash him and dress him? How do you welcome the Son of God into the world? I’m sure she did her best to start right. And I sure a stinky barn and a dirty manger in a city not her own were not a part of the plan. As she laid Jesus in the manger, did she feel guilty? This is not how I wanted it to be, God. It certainly wasn’t the start she had planned for. I wanted his birth to be like I prepared for, like I envisioned in my mind. I wanted his welcome to be special. You’ve entrusted your son to me, and I’ve alread...

“When did you get back?” is always the first question people ask, and I’m okay with that because I know the answer. It’s the second question that gets me.  “And when are you going back?”  This shouldn’t be a difficult question, but this year I feel like the college senior in May who still doesn’t know what she’s doing after graduation and is tired of everyone asking.  But actually, it’s a great opportunity to say, “I don’t know and it’s okay.” And then I explain why.  We live in a society that emphasizes planning. Even from a young age, kids are taught how to plan and organize - from color-coded binders to chores to-do lists and rewards charts with gold stars. At the university level, we are trained to set short term and long term goals with a pathway of how to accomplish our ten year plan. These are high cultural values: setting goals, making plans, and being organized because that leads to success and wealth and long happy lives, right? I’m sta...

I rubbed tired eyes and stepped over small children sleeping on mats as I made my way out of the small two-roomed house that was sleeping all eight of us. It was barely light outside, and these are the quiet moments of African life when everyone is still resting before the sun comes up. Glancing towards the sky, I noticed it was slightly ominous, but I was also stubbornly determined. And I didn’t get up before dawn just to be rained out. A few drops landed lightly on my skin as I made my way up to the hillside, but then they stopped and I just knew God would hold off the rain so that I could spend this time with him.  Here, in this quiet place on a hillside overlooking a water reservoir below and a lush plain that slowly ascends into rolling hills, I have met the Lord many times. It’s a hidden place, one that many people who live in my city don’t even know about, so I can get away to this little sacred place from time to time, just Jesus and me.  On this morning, I didn...

“What is the main food that people in Burkina eat?” Many ask. I can’t answer for all of Burkina, but I can answer for the people group I live among. “Tô and sauce,” I say. “Like leaf sauce, tomato sauce, onion sauce, fish sauce...” “Did you say toes and fish sauce? Fish and toe sauce? Sauce and fish toes?” I laugh and explain. “Tô is their staple food made out of corn flour that is boiled to a certain consistency. But they rarely eat it plain, rather serving it covered in a sauce made from locally available ingredients, like fresh vegetables.” This seems to make it a little more palatable for most people, although I have to confess that tô has really grown on me in the past three years. So much so that I brought some flour home with me to make it during my stateside visit. What is more, a precious African friend prepared dehydrated local squash, squash leaves, osé leaves (whatever that is), and ground local peanuts to send with me to America so I could make my favorite sauce to...

Immediately upon arrival to the Chicago airport and the world of fast internet, I called my mom using FaceTime since I didn’t have a phone that worked in the United States. “Mom, I’m in America!”  She squealed with delight. She is always the first one I call, even though this year was a little different in that she wouldn’t be the first one I would see. Or so I thought.  After a year in Africa, I was flying into my hometown of Little Rock which is no longer where my parents live. There, I would do three weeks of visiting and reporting before seeing my family for Thanksgiving.  However, I was in for a great surprise when Mom panned the phone around to show me who she was with - her best friend who lives in Little Rock .  “What? This means that...that...” I was speechless and almost didn’t want to say it for fear of being wrong.  “I’m in Little Rock!” She exclaimed.  And sure enough, just when I thought that I wouldn’t get to see my m...