10 July 2011, 4:30AM.
Good morning Islamic morning prayer bullhorn! Good morning punctual rooster! Please let me sleep more. If I find you, I will eat you, although...
It feels like we haven't stopped eating the last few days, as we've been getting acquainted with the various slumvilles along with the band of food bloggers who have been raising tremendous financial support for Goducate's work in Sabah--their goal this year is 100,000SGD. The fifteen of them, led by Dr. Leslie Tay, are united by passion in eating. But through the budding relationship between I Eat I Shoot I Post and Goducate, many of these epicureans are hearing about the Lord of the Feast for the first time. Many of them were moved emotionally, especially by the "sacrifice" of those who are the gears of Goducate. Who though they were rich in the world, poured themselves out as an offering for their fellow poor. With us constantly the last few days were a Filipina missionary who oversees the work in Sabah and who is often away from her three children and her husband, a pastor in Kuala Lumpur, and from her homeland where she has legitimate papers and jobs... A local Chinese recycling tycoon who is an elder at his church, who donated Land Cruisers and other 4WD's as well as a house now used as a training center, and who chauffered us around since our arrival... And of course Dr. Paul Choo (now Papa Choo) whose wallet is thinner than it once was but whose heart is fuller and whose ministry is larger every day...
Praise God for the many conversations that were had since we all met Thursday. They marvel at "sacrifice" and compassion for the least of these. And they ask why, how. May there willingness to ask, seek, and press in bear fruit. We are grateful for the opportunity to share the way we understand all that we've encountered (I've been praying, as a foreigner in SEAsia and in this world but also especially for our times spent in the slums, that God would tell me what I am seeing and help me see things the way He does). The way I see it, poverty is swimming in your own poop.
Pray for those foodies to know Christ and to hunger and thirst for righteousness. May their curiosity deepen and our new friendships continue. Maybe I'll even follow through on their many invitations to show me what Singaporean eating is all about, and on their inviting themselves to food-tours of Chicago/NYC now that they have a host/friend in us.
Pray for Ali and Steve and PC's return home. I'm so thankful for them and I learn so much from these brothers who plant one developmentally minded foot each in both the City of God and the City of Man. Remember Ali especially as he flies to NYC Thursday, he has been away from Wendy and you all for six weeks. He and his gargling stomach have endured much especially from traipsing around with Singaporean foodies, ever since a spicy pawn he ate in Indonesia. We did have high tea yesterday during which he taught Steve and me how to play croquet, which he then did not win. They've just left for the airport and will be attending church this morning in Kota Kinabalu, then returning to the Sings--Steve to his work and his Lish, Makeila, and the gestating one. I'll be staying here, living with the missionaries and walking alongside the teenage teachers, girls who just a year ago were themselves Goducate students. When I look at them I see God's gracious hold on Ellen, Connie, Carissa and such girls.
Please continue to pray for the locals. Both the majority Muslim Malaysian population of the town and the displaced, stateless migrants of the slums, who constitute the largest unrecognized refugee population in the world. The UN has taken no action here and Malaysia is not a signatory to the declarations for the protection of children's health.
Pray for me both at home and abroad to love the LORD with all my heart, soul, and strength, and my neighbor as myself. And against falling through rotting wood planks into poop, mosquito-borne malaria, farmer's burns (not tans), theft and assault. Also I may need to drop another $250 to rebook the correct flights to and from the Philippines and anti-malarial pills tickle my gag reflex. Will be heading to a local church for service soon. Until then I will be thanking God for you while I improvise my "universal" travel power adapter with a nail file to accommodate that darned American third prong.
Love, peace and fried chicken grease (the foodies' last meal was KFC for yesterday's dinner... they were not pleased),
E.
P/s Feel free to write back, let me know how you are and how I can pray for you. I'm textable! Technology is amazing.
Sunday, July 10, 2011
Saturday, July 9, 2011
On clean hands and dirty feet.
The missionary said that if the villagers name you, you accept the name. Not only does accepting their acceptance demonstrate humility, but for the missionaries also this helps preserve anonymity in the event of immigration raids on the village. A frequent thing. Just last week a teacher and a TA were taken into detention, which technically means 90 days in custody then deportation. But the police, of course, accepted bribes for their release.
Yesterday under the high noonday sun in a slumville--the poorest of our kampungs, a group of seven young girls of varying ages no older than nine or so were laughing and walking with me. I tried asking their (very long) names, shaking hands, telling them mine when the tallest among them took my hand and suddenly dropped to the ground and bending her forehead to my feet called me Maganda, which the other girls approved with nods and smiles, What, don't do that, I wanted to say, I froze. Quick what do I do, stoop down with her? Pull her up? But it was over before my shock was and so I did not carry through a response in time.
My shoes are disgusting. Maybe my name means Smelly or Poopy. I don't know, but I do know from that silly Urbana 09 song that Magdan in Arabic means glory maybe they're cognates somehow? This is a predominantly Muslim community after all. The only English they were saying to me was hello and thank you. Not a bad choice of first and only two words to learn in a language, I think.
I looked at their feet.
Some were crusty and dirty, bare and bleeding.
Would I wash them? Wouldn't He?
Lord, grant me a pure heart to love like you do. Give me clean hands for their dirty feet.
Yesterday under the high noonday sun in a slumville--the poorest of our kampungs, a group of seven young girls of varying ages no older than nine or so were laughing and walking with me. I tried asking their (very long) names, shaking hands, telling them mine when the tallest among them took my hand and suddenly dropped to the ground and bending her forehead to my feet called me Maganda, which the other girls approved with nods and smiles, What, don't do that, I wanted to say, I froze. Quick what do I do, stoop down with her? Pull her up? But it was over before my shock was and so I did not carry through a response in time.
My shoes are disgusting. Maybe my name means Smelly or Poopy. I don't know, but I do know from that silly Urbana 09 song that Magdan in Arabic means glory maybe they're cognates somehow? This is a predominantly Muslim community after all. The only English they were saying to me was hello and thank you. Not a bad choice of first and only two words to learn in a language, I think.
I looked at their feet.
Some were crusty and dirty, bare and bleeding.
Would I wash them? Wouldn't He?
Lord, grant me a pure heart to love like you do. Give me clean hands for their dirty feet.
On swimming in poop.
In the South Bronx with Harv and Robyn Bowman was when the idea first began to entertain me, that poverty means sitting in your own filth. Poverty means you cannot be clean. Worse, that you do not know you are unclean.
We cleaned that basement of dilapidated 1800 Grand Concourse, where the kids from the hood snuck in to play, despite three years of sewage backed up over the floor. They didn't know how toxic it was. Or maybe they did but didn't mind. Liked it, even; they called it Turd Surfing. Here in Sabah too, the children sleep above and play in their poop.
I shoveled crap with work boots and gloved hands those days and washed up before dinner and bed. And these days I hold sickly children in slums and breathe the stench of their waste, excremental and non, covered by muddy high tides for half a day and baked in the tropical sun the other half. But at night I return to AC and running water. I am a visitor, with bottled water and soapy showers and shoed feet.
Why do you come? Why do you bother with us? Why do you care about our people, you are not even Filipino. Says the missionary who left her legal permanent residence to minister to the stateless refugees who could ask her similar questions. Resounding in every testimony is the memory of first being visited by Christ, who though he was rich, became poor.
Though he was holy, became filth. Even before he bore the world's wrongs and rags on the cross, he laid in a dirty manger. And before that even, he swam in an amniotic sac of his own poopies.
Poverty means I cannot make myself clean.
We cleaned that basement of dilapidated 1800 Grand Concourse, where the kids from the hood snuck in to play, despite three years of sewage backed up over the floor. They didn't know how toxic it was. Or maybe they did but didn't mind. Liked it, even; they called it Turd Surfing. Here in Sabah too, the children sleep above and play in their poop.
I shoveled crap with work boots and gloved hands those days and washed up before dinner and bed. And these days I hold sickly children in slums and breathe the stench of their waste, excremental and non, covered by muddy high tides for half a day and baked in the tropical sun the other half. But at night I return to AC and running water. I am a visitor, with bottled water and soapy showers and shoed feet.
Why do you come? Why do you bother with us? Why do you care about our people, you are not even Filipino. Says the missionary who left her legal permanent residence to minister to the stateless refugees who could ask her similar questions. Resounding in every testimony is the memory of first being visited by Christ, who though he was rich, became poor.
Though he was holy, became filth. Even before he bore the world's wrongs and rags on the cross, he laid in a dirty manger. And before that even, he swam in an amniotic sac of his own poopies.
Poverty means I cannot make myself clean.
Blessed are the poor in spirit.
Visit us and make us clean, LORD.
Thursday, July 7, 2011
SEAsia Update #1
7 July 2011
Hello from an air-conditioned condo in Singapore! It's 2:30AM here and I'm enjoying the AC while I can and the jetlag while it lasts.
Tomorrow morning I'll join up with teammates from EPC, and in the afternoon we'll be flying to Malaysian Borneo with _____ and with ____'s group of fifteen or so. Please be praying for us for wisdom to perceive the potential, power to do the Father's will, freedom to enjoy His promised provision, joy in the work Christ has done through His body, safety, unity, and preparedness.
After everyone else leaves, I will be staying on in Sabah, then traveling to Dumaguete City, Negros (a province of the Philippines) to participate in Student Movement for Christ International's evangelistic campaign there. Including the two segments that bore me safely to S'pore Tuesday/Wednesday, I'll be on 11 different flights before returning stateside! Transportation and accommodations have been arranged but please do pray for me especially for my alone times in transit around Southeast Asia with my papers, cash, electronics... And for lonely times in general, that I would find and feel the Lord hiding me in His word when I crave comfort and company. I'll remember and be grateful for your thoughts and prayers! Feel free to write me.
I'm excited that God has prepared me for and led me to this point. I spent the last month in Chicago with my parents and with the church community that I was raised in. I also did a lot of Bikram to prepare for this saran wrap + blowdryer weather. For all the different ways I have been readying myself for this trip, I'm finding--and they are my witnesses--that God has used the last month to empty me. And that this is the preparation He has chosen. I hope to run faithfully before you as we watch and wait to see how He fills me and moves me toward greater freedom to choose Him! Pray that all my encounters with people will be a spilling over of His life in me and that I would not shrink from these opportunities despite knowing I may never meet the people I'll be meeting again after I leave Southeast Asia. I am grateful for the ways NYC in particular has stretched me in this area of welcoming people in and then letting them go.
I'll try to keep these letters short but will be blogging and reflecting more personally at http://estherogen.blogspot.com.
Thankful for you!
Hello from an air-conditioned condo in Singapore! It's 2:30AM here and I'm enjoying the AC while I can and the jetlag while it lasts.
Tomorrow morning I'll join up with teammates from EPC, and in the afternoon we'll be flying to Malaysian Borneo with _____ and with ____'s group of fifteen or so. Please be praying for us for wisdom to perceive the potential, power to do the Father's will, freedom to enjoy His promised provision, joy in the work Christ has done through His body, safety, unity, and preparedness.
After everyone else leaves, I will be staying on in Sabah, then traveling to Dumaguete City, Negros (a province of the Philippines) to participate in Student Movement for Christ International's evangelistic campaign there. Including the two segments that bore me safely to S'pore Tuesday/Wednesday, I'll be on 11 different flights before returning stateside! Transportation and accommodations have been arranged but please do pray for me especially for my alone times in transit around Southeast Asia with my papers, cash, electronics... And for lonely times in general, that I would find and feel the Lord hiding me in His word when I crave comfort and company. I'll remember and be grateful for your thoughts and prayers! Feel free to write me.
I'm excited that God has prepared me for and led me to this point. I spent the last month in Chicago with my parents and with the church community that I was raised in. I also did a lot of Bikram to prepare for this saran wrap + blowdryer weather. For all the different ways I have been readying myself for this trip, I'm finding--and they are my witnesses--that God has used the last month to empty me. And that this is the preparation He has chosen. I hope to run faithfully before you as we watch and wait to see how He fills me and moves me toward greater freedom to choose Him! Pray that all my encounters with people will be a spilling over of His life in me and that I would not shrink from these opportunities despite knowing I may never meet the people I'll be meeting again after I leave Southeast Asia. I am grateful for the ways NYC in particular has stretched me in this area of welcoming people in and then letting them go.
I'll try to keep these letters short but will be blogging and reflecting more personally at http://estherogen.blogspot.com.
Thankful for you!
Wednesday, July 6, 2011
On airplanes and my praying mom.
When my planes begin to taxi, I begin to pray. Not that I've ever been afraid of flying, as far as I remember. In fact I loved riding in airplanes as a child, and I always took the window seat. For the view. And because then I get to be the arbiter of lighting.
I always took the window seat, and I always sat next to Mom who was usually the buffer between Josh and me. At takeoff she would always take our hands and pray, for safe passage and smooth sailing I think. Watch over us, Father, keep us.
So now, though I've mostly flown alone since that first time in August 2007 when New York City upturned my life and God invaded my heart, whenever the seatbelt clicks and tightens and the airplane rolls to the runway, I instinctually begin to pray.
Because Mom taught me in the way I should go, when she would take my hands to ask for travelling mercies, that it's not ultimately this heavy, metal gravity-defying tube that upholds me in the air, nor its hurtling through the clouds that ultimately bears me to my destination. She taught me to pray.
Airplanes remind me of my praying Mom and her desire that I, too, would rest my faith beyond , airplanes, and that I would commit my sinner self into the hands of God who is merciful at home and abroad.
Airplanes help me to be grateful for her. Thanks Mom, for picking up my antibiotics, hemming my linen pants, and for doing and buying everything you could think of to make my trip even a tiny bit more comfortable. I didn't choose to come to be comfortable, and I know that this frightens you. I am thankful for your heart behind the meticulous care. Don't worry, Mom I am in good hands. The ones that hold airplanes, the universe, those nails, and me. And you.
I always took the window seat, and I always sat next to Mom who was usually the buffer between Josh and me. At takeoff she would always take our hands and pray, for safe passage and smooth sailing I think. Watch over us, Father, keep us.
So now, though I've mostly flown alone since that first time in August 2007 when New York City upturned my life and God invaded my heart, whenever the seatbelt clicks and tightens and the airplane rolls to the runway, I instinctually begin to pray.
Because Mom taught me in the way I should go, when she would take my hands to ask for travelling mercies, that it's not ultimately this heavy, metal gravity-defying tube that upholds me in the air, nor its hurtling through the clouds that ultimately bears me to my destination. She taught me to pray.
Airplanes remind me of my praying Mom and her desire that I, too, would rest my faith beyond , airplanes, and that I would commit my sinner self into the hands of God who is merciful at home and abroad.
Airplanes help me to be grateful for her. Thanks Mom, for picking up my antibiotics, hemming my linen pants, and for doing and buying everything you could think of to make my trip even a tiny bit more comfortable. I didn't choose to come to be comfortable, and I know that this frightens you. I am thankful for your heart behind the meticulous care. Don't worry, Mom I am in good hands. The ones that hold airplanes, the universe, those nails, and me. And you.
Tuesday, July 5, 2011
On praying on airplanes.
These last four years I've flown in and out of NYC a lot. My plane-ride prayers are different now than when both of my clasped hands could fit neatly into one of Mom's.
It's not so much now "please don't let us crash or get lost" (quite literally--I used to marvel that the pilot never had to stop and ask for directions at a refueling station or something)... Sometimes now I pray for that great city as it shrinks below my window. Should I not love it? Surely it's not so overwhelmingly out of control from Your side of the sky. In fact it is quite small and still shrinking... What is NYC that You are mindful of it?
Or sometimes I pray, LORD ready me for where I am going. Because whether it's Naperville or NYC I have variously felt trapped--crap, why did I get onboard?--a lamb to the slaughter.
Today though as UA 835 lurched away from O'Hare, it was simply, Thank You Jesus for staying beside me, for staying with my heart.
My heart that sometimes needs airplanes in order to remember that He's there beside me. But He is kind to remind me. You always stay. I was moved to grateful tears that He would comfort me this way at the beginning of this vision trip, there is nothing else, no greater vision, that I need to glimpse but the face of Him who says Take heart, do not be afraid, it is I.
It was enough to settle yesterday. A thousand yesterdays. But yesterday in particular, was not a celebration of freedom for me, but a day of eating, drinking, and being... sorry? Quite possibly the weepiest shakiest 4th of July ever. The Independence Day that laid bare my misdependent heart--divided over many losses and the heartbreaking incompleteness of relationships. I ran to and from the wreckage, through which You stay beside me. I know I am Your choice. There is joy beside You, so thank You for yesterday. For making me Free.
Grateful for the hugs hankies and prayers of so many sending friends. Ellen Carissa Steph Christina Jessica Pearl Selina Danny Charlie Mike Jerry Jon Rebecca James Andy Jimmy George Michael Larry Franklin and the ones who will forgive me for leaving them out. Who have seen how the last month has emptied me. Who will see how the next month will fill me.
Christ commissioned, "Go... I am with you always, to the end of the age" (Matt 28.18-20)... so here I am. Shanghai airport now, Singapore tomorrow, Kota Kinabalu the day after, Sandakan Sabah... Coming because He invites me, going because He is with me always. May every move we make be made toward Him, to be with Him, to see the One who stays beside us, Emmanuel.
It's not so much now "please don't let us crash or get lost" (quite literally--I used to marvel that the pilot never had to stop and ask for directions at a refueling station or something)... Sometimes now I pray for that great city as it shrinks below my window. Should I not love it? Surely it's not so overwhelmingly out of control from Your side of the sky. In fact it is quite small and still shrinking... What is NYC that You are mindful of it?
Or sometimes I pray, LORD ready me for where I am going. Because whether it's Naperville or NYC I have variously felt trapped--crap, why did I get onboard?--a lamb to the slaughter.
Today though as UA 835 lurched away from O'Hare, it was simply, Thank You Jesus for staying beside me, for staying with my heart.
My heart that sometimes needs airplanes in order to remember that He's there beside me. But He is kind to remind me. You always stay. I was moved to grateful tears that He would comfort me this way at the beginning of this vision trip, there is nothing else, no greater vision, that I need to glimpse but the face of Him who says Take heart, do not be afraid, it is I.
It was enough to settle yesterday. A thousand yesterdays. But yesterday in particular, was not a celebration of freedom for me, but a day of eating, drinking, and being... sorry? Quite possibly the weepiest shakiest 4th of July ever. The Independence Day that laid bare my misdependent heart--divided over many losses and the heartbreaking incompleteness of relationships. I ran to and from the wreckage, through which You stay beside me. I know I am Your choice. There is joy beside You, so thank You for yesterday. For making me Free.
Grateful for the hugs hankies and prayers of so many sending friends. Ellen Carissa Steph Christina Jessica Pearl Selina Danny Charlie Mike Jerry Jon Rebecca James Andy Jimmy George Michael Larry Franklin and the ones who will forgive me for leaving them out. Who have seen how the last month has emptied me. Who will see how the next month will fill me.
Christ commissioned, "Go... I am with you always, to the end of the age" (Matt 28.18-20)... so here I am. Shanghai airport now, Singapore tomorrow, Kota Kinabalu the day after, Sandakan Sabah... Coming because He invites me, going because He is with me always. May every move we make be made toward Him, to be with Him, to see the One who stays beside us, Emmanuel.
Sunday, July 3, 2011
finds all its strength in the heart of the King
thank You for loving us enough to conquer our hearts without coercion.
The soul does not love like a creature with created love. The love within it is divine, uncreated; for it is the love of God for God that is passing through it. God alone is capable of loving God. We can only consent to give up our own feelings so as to allow free passage in our soul for this love. That is the meaning of denying oneself. We are created for this consent, and for this alone. // S. Weil
Naught of good that I have done, but simply being a conduit, a vessel, of the Godhead's Trinitarian self-Love.
- - - - - - - -
Naught of good that I have done, but simply being a conduit, a vessel, of the Godhead's Trinitarian self-Love.
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