What’s a confession? I’m not talking about a Catholic sitting down with his priest and telling him all he’s done wrong. Confession is anything we say with our mouth, right? Well, what God has been telling me lately has me rethinking this. And, honestly, for a long time I’ve known in part what He’s saying; I just didn’t admit it, or maybe I overlooked this aspect of it. The question God asked me is, what’s your blog saying for you?
Feeling skippy, I took the bus downtown to spend the afternoon in the park. I decided to bring my Bible along; I wanted to read in Revelation under the shade of my favorite Oak tree and observe the ocean of people, each minding his own business and simply trying get through the day. The bench under that Oak is the kind made of wooden slats and no back, perfect for a five-minute rest, but slightly uncomfortable for any further lounging.
Finding my book of choice, I began reading. I didn’t hesitate, I didn’t pause, I didn’t even look up. I read through the entire book in one fell swoop. I often consume entire books like that, but never before had I done so with part of the Bible, nor in a public park. I was surprised when I reached the end; the words of the book had gripped me like they never have before, sucking me into the storyline completely. I momentarily forgot where I was, for two seconds maybe. Then I heard someone call my name. I looked over to my right toward the voice. A huddled mass had just crossed the street and were now making their way to their respective destinations, and amidst the crowd stood my father.
My heart pounded; could this be real? Are my eyes deceiving me? Every ounce of sanity told me it wasn’t true, but my eyes and ears confirmed it: yes, he was real. He had to be real. But how did he find me? How did he know? It’s impossible … he couldn’t have … could he? And as I questioned, he faded and disappeared. I was torn with grief. I had been going through anxiety already because of our separation; at that time, I had been in Brazil for two months. But this pushed me over the top. I began to cry as I walked down the street, searching for something, anything. I need an Açaí.
I’m continually amazed at the evolution of our language, which seems to happen much more rapidly than our own evolution. And as such we’re forced to relearn English every couple of decades. Take, for instance, the changes that have happened in English just since the late ’80’s. Case in point. But internationalization has only amplified the problem. The entertainment industries overseas, I’ve noticed, try to keep up with the fast-paced evolution of English, but sometimes the results are less-than astounding.
We’re not really a family of traditions. It seems that every year we just take the Holidays in stride. This method has seemed to work well for us, because there is not one year which I can remember that I didn’t enjoy. However, out of all the Christmases I can recall, this one is shaping up to be the best.
I’ve always been close to my Aunt Elsie, but especially so during the past four years. While I was in Brazil, my mom wrote me a few times. In one of her letters she told me that my Aunt Elsie had started working for our company and was living with them during the week. I was actually pretty excited to be going home so I could see her again. It had been too long.
I’ve been thinking a lot about the Muslim religion lately. Not just because of the anniversary of 9/11, but also because of some recent acquaintances I’ve made. In a previous post I discussed my newfound belief in unity. I’m all-for a peaceful coexistence between tribes. I relayed in that post the ideal that, “… We can lock arms in love and face [our] enemy with the Word of God.” But can this really happen? Can we actually get to the point where we stop judging people by their outward appearances and beliefs and start accepting them for who they really are: a human being?
A story about my life as a missionary in Thailand.
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