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A Better Country

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I grew up on a farm in Southwestern Michigan. I vaguely remember the hired hand that helped my dad when I was very young. “Lou” was African-American as were about three other families in our immediate community. During high school, we had several exchange students — one from Japan, and a guy from Germany. Otherwise, we were pretty White Bread America.

The community where I attended college and later lived for years, was rich with multi-cultural families. My own children lived in a neighborhood and attended school with children from around the world. Now their in-laws are people who were born on vastly different continents from our family.

Little did I realize when I took my graduate course in multiculturalism, that I would later live in a place where a majority of my counseling clients would be first or second-generation immigrants to the United States. And again, many of my neighbors are from far away countries. My best friend across the street is from the Philippines, another acquaintance is from Peru, several doors down is an Indian family (I love the smells coming from their kitchen), and on around the circle. One of my writing friends was born in Southeast Asia. Our church has had a group of Filipino worshippers, as well as Russians. I got a new client this week from another Caribbean island.

I am always amazed at the challenges the immigrant families have endured and their tenacity to transplant in a new country. By faith they have traveled great distances with very little money, to find better lives, or to minister to other people. Many were still living by faith for their descendants when they died. I remind myself that my own heritage is just a few generations removed from other lands. I probably could not communicate with some of my own great-grandparents if they were alive. Several of my grandparents could hardly read or write, yet some of their grandchildren have master’s degrees. We have changed and accomplished so much in very few years.

We live in a delicious stew of faces and cultures. We all have similarities, however, language and custom differences can create barriers. Sometimes, I really don’t feel at home. I have been reading the book of Hebrews and the faith of “aliens and strangers on earth,” is the theme of chapter 11 — all the spiritual ancestors who were looking for a country of their own. Current politics, problems and practices remind me that I belong to God first and that creates an inclusive community.

I have a door hanger that states: “Home is where the dog is.” I think it really should read, “Home is where God is.” That is where my heart can really find peace and I don’t have to go anywhere.

Questions for personal journaling and group discussion:

1. Respond to the verses in Rev. 3:20 and John 14: 23.

2. How could you reach out to an immigrant and welcome them to your community?

Written by Karen Spruill

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Article excerpt posted on en.intercer.net from Answers for Me.

Who Cares?

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Is the world better off because I’m in it? Is it better off because I am a Christian? Is my family, church and community better off? Or does it have little consequence, sort of like one’s color preference? I prefer blue over yellow, but who cares?

Interestingly, “who cares?” has become the over-riding question in many circles. Who cares about interpersonal relationships? About the Golden Rule? About ethics? About “the least of these” that Jesus spoke of in Mathew 25? Does anyone care about others, not just to further their own interests, but truly about the concerns, hopes and dreams of others?

In light of what Paul says in Philippians 2, we all have things to pray and care about.

“Don’t be selfish; don’t try to impress others. Be humble, thinking of others as better than yourselves. Don’t look out only for your own interests, but take an interest in others, too. You must have the same attitude that Christ Jesus had” (Philippians 2:3-8, NLT).

If the world is no better off for me being a follower of Jesus, am I really following him?

Written by Rich DuBose

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Article excerpt posted on en.intercer.net from Answers for Me.

Midnight Climb

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It was my freshman year in college and a group of friends and I decided to go camping in Yosemite National Park. My friend Noel proposed we climb Half Dome to experience the next morning’s sunrise from its peak. A granite hood jutting 4,737 feet above the valley floor where we camped, Half Dome is accessed by a one-way nine mile hike hooking up and around the massive rock and then scrambling over the back of the dome for a view of the Sierra Nevada Mountain Range.

We cooked dinner and went off to bed at midnight, looking forward to hitting the trail. At 2 a.m. we groggily dragged ourselves out of the warm sleeping bags into the freezing night air. There were about 25 students gathered, warmly layered with packs stocked full of water and PB&J sandwiches.

We set off in our bubbles of light as we silently pushed on in a hypnotic cadence where all sense of time was quickly lost, the miles and altitude literally falling away behind us, my focus solely on where to place the next step. The group quickly split to accommodate those going different speeds. Ours rarely stopped, and only ever for a couple of minutes at a time.

The path eventually shifted from hypnotic switchbacks to snake its way through woods. My new companion Emmanuel and I turned around realizing the rest of the group had fallen behind. The sky was the faintest of greys hinting at the sun to come. We knew we couldn’t wait. We pushed harder than we had before, exhaustion falling away to the knowledge we were close.

Finally the end was in sight, a quarter mile climb of rock steps zigzagging up the shoulders of the mountain right before the infamous cable climb up the back of the dome. Even without much weight on our backs, each step was a challenge. At this point the combination of distance and extreme gain in elevation had already reduced our legs to jelly. Each step was punishing. On a route where we would normally rest regularly to catch our breath and give our legs a break, we knew that time was against us, so we pushed on. Breathlessly we tackled the final 400 feet of elevation pulling ourselves up the slick rock face too steep to climb without cables bolted into the rock.

We had made it with only a few minutes to spare. We turned to feel the sunlight wash over us. Nature’s beauty was overwhelming, and as the beauty of God’s creation so often does, pushed me to quietly reflect. How easy would it have been to stay in those warm sleeping bags and take the route with the rest of the crowds the next day? Instead I found myself on top of the world with the satisfaction of a challenging journey tackled, a grin on my face, a new friend to share the experience with, and the inspiration only creation can provide.

Written by Trevor Boyson

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Article excerpt posted on en.intercer.net from Answers for Me.

Muddy in Cambodia

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The mud was as slippery as wet ice. The van in front of us was trying to make forward progress, but every time the driver gave it a little gas, the wheels would spin and the van full of people would slide closer and closer to the edge. “He better stop or he’s going into the water!” our driver said in broken English.

A couple of hours earlier we had finished a concert — sharing Jesus through music and speaking with several thousand people — out in a grassy field. We were in the northern reaches of Cambodia, out in the middle of nowhere — the jungle. It was late, very dark, and raining. We were slowly making our way back to our hotel for the night. That’s when the three vans all started sliding as we made our way on a skinny mud road with deep swamp on both sides. And the worst was yet to come.

As the van in front of us started to slide into the swamp, our group leader, Bobby Michaels, invited us to pray together. He knew that without God’s guiding hand we would all be in the swamp. And he knew that up ahead was a bridge we had to cross that just might give way — with us on it.

All the vans stopped. Some of us got out to gather with people from the other vans — and we prayed. We prayed that God would give the tires traction, hold us on the road, and that He would support the bridge. (The bridge was nothing more than a few logs with planks thrown over them. When we crossed it earlier in the day there were a couple of local Cambodians in the river watching the little bridge to make sure it was holding.)

After our prayer time, we got in the vans, and suddenly wheels that a moment before did nothing but spin in the wet, muddy clay somehow found traction, and we all moved slowly forward. Then we arrived at the place we had been dreading — the bridge.

The downpour of rain — monsoon style — had caused the river to swell. There was great concern about taking the vans over it. The solution was a muddy and wet one, but nobody complained. We all got out of the vans, held on to each other (no one could stand since the mud was so slippery) and slowly shuffled over the bridge together.

We made it. And there were many prayers of thanksgiving that night. God got all the credit.

Every day of the two-week mission trip to Cambodia had a miracle of some sort like this. It changed my life. The stories are numerous. The experiences locked in place in my mind forever.

It’s easy to take the safe road — the one with the solid, dry pavement. But I’m convinced that life really happens when we stretch ourselves to do the uncomfortable, to get into the mud. That’s when we grow, when we discover who we really are and what God has called us to be.

Pray for guidance. Do something radical for Christ.

Written by Kevin Krueger

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Article excerpt posted on en.intercer.net from Answers for Me.

The End of the World

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We were studying about the last Days…raging fires, shivering mountains, approaching soldiers, and fearful saints. We charted the Time of Jacob’s Trouble, the Time of Jacob’s Little Trouble, the results of religious persecution, and God’s Promise of Deliverance.

Our group was diverse, a Summer Camp staffed with essential skills packaged in a crazy crowd of personalities. Chief “Runamuck” lit the tipi fires, “Mare” ran the horses, John milked the rattlesnakes, and John Wycliff burned at the stake every Friday night. We worked hard, caring for 100+ kids each week. Then the scheduling gods gave us a week off to clean the pool and recuperate before joyful parents put
120 more kids on the buses.

We cleaned. Slept. Studied. Talked. Prayed. And ate all of the ice cream bars in the dining room freezer.

Frank came on Tuesday. Frank, a Forest Service Ranger in a Smoky-the-bear hat, telling us that our water supply had run out and that he was not going to allow our camps to continue.

We begged a four-day extension and prayed for rain. Frank promised to return with his yellow “CLOSED” tape Sunday morning. The Time of Jacob’s Trouble had arrived. The end of camp was near.

We prayed for rain, enough rain to fill the tanks and care for the needs of kids.

Everything stayed dry.

Discouragement grew. “Maybe God doesn’t care about our camp.” “Maybe we haven’t been praying hard enough.” “Maybe there is sin in the camp.”

We prayed longer, confessed deeper, studied harder, and watched for clouds.

No clouds. Much discouragement.

Don wondered if “maybe God is waiting for us to get ready for the rain.” In case he was right, we worked all day cleaning the spring and digging trenches.

Clouds came. And went away.

Saturday night we met in the dining room and whined about God. “He doesn’t listen.” “He’s ignoring us.” “We’ve done our best and nothing’s happening.” “He doesn’t care.”

We were not a pleasant group.

Then Cindy exploded. “I don’t understand you guys! You say you believe in God and talk as if you can hardly wait for him to come, yet you whine if he doesn’t do everything you demand. So what if he didn’t answer our prayers with a thunderstorm. Maybe he has a better way. Why does he have to fit into our box? Maybe he wants us to fit into his!”

We sat in stunned silence, waiting for the next shoe to drop.

“OK!” she continued. “Get out of here, get down on your knees and tell God you’re sorry. Ask forgiveness for your pride. Tell him you trust him with or without water. Apologize! Repent! Let God be your God his way!”

We followed her out the door and knelt in the dust.

Twenty minutes later Chief Runamuck came screaming down the hill toward the dining room. “TANK!” “TANK!” “TANK!”

We ran to the empty water tanks, and found them overflowing with clear, cold, sweet water. The spring was still dry. The pipes were still dry. But water was gushing out the overflow valves.

We were all amazed! But Cindy just smiled and pointed up through the dry sky. The End of the World would have to wait awhile.

Written by Dick Duerksen

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Article excerpt posted on en.intercer.net from Answers for Me.

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