Weeds and the ultimate stalker: Dandelions and a God who won't quit

Hope.
It's that teeny little voice that whispers to you that everything is going to be okay. Some days it is the only thing that tells you that it's safe to go outside, or to venture and try something new. It's that beautiful little dandelion that grows in your yard: first yellow and vibrant, letting you know exactly what a happy thing it is. Then it turns white, waiting for a chubby little hand to pluck it and a breath of air to blow it so that it can scatter seeds and embed themselves into your life. It is the whisper in the dark room that some day everything will be okay. It is not something in the absence of pain/suffering/fear, it is something that plants itself in the midst of those things and grows up and spreads until it chokes out everything else. It is the weed in your desire to stay stagnant in the past.

The last few days have been... tough. There is the normal college thing of finals and stress, combined with friends, the job I have now, job(s) I may have over the summer, and life in general. Plus, there are my own little difficulties that I am dealing with right now.

On Sunday, pretty much from the time I dragged my sorry butt out of bed, I had the overwhelming, crushing feeling that God had given up on me. That he didn't want me. Because why would he want me???? After all, I'm broken, and I feel used up. 

Being as omnipotent as He happens to be, God kept leaving little messages for me. First it was a long Facebook message from someone I have never met before, telling me that she was praying for me, and that she believed that God wanted me to be happy and was there for me. It was pretty amazing.

I fought with God through the entire sermon. It went something like:
Me: "You don't want me. Why are you even still here? Go away, leave me alone, like you have always wanted to."
God : "How do you know what I want? I love you."
Me: "You don't love me. Why would you?"
God: "Because I made you. I love you."
Me: "You didn't make me like this. Just give up already."
God: "But I love you."
Me: "I don't think that's possible."
God: "Anything is possible when you believe in me. Do you trust me?"
Me: "Actually... no."
God: "OK. I love you."
Me: "Stop saying that!"
*The Pastor interrupts my thoughts with his sermon*: "God loves us all, and He is proud of every one of us. He is the true shepherd."
Me: "For everyone except me."
God: "But I love YOU."
Me: "Fine. Whatever. Let's just end the conversation here."

In case you didn't notice in that little exchange, I'm extremely stubborn and resistant when God tries to talk to me. But He doesn't give up. Ever.

I don't know a lot right now. Okay, that isn't true... it's finals and I'm writing my capstone. I should know a lot. But I don't know how God works. 

But God is the ultimate stalker: he won't leave us alone. He is the quiet voice of hope, that gets us through each tough day. But if hope is a dandelion, then God plants sunflowers of truth and love. Big, tall, yellow, and slightly obnoxiously happy. No matter what we believe about Him. 

God isn't about to quit on me, and I don't actually want Him to. I want to be a field that is completely yellow with dandelions. Maybe a few sunflowers, too. 

When Christ calls us to put His love above our lives, His people above our comfort.

I'm willing to bet that everyone who reads this will know what happened on September 11, 2001, but what people don't tend to realize is how much other places in the world live under constant terrorist threats. Reality, it seems, is not very favorable to those who are aware of the world.

On 11 July 2010, two bombs went off in Kampala, Uganda. 72 people were killed. My mom and I were unaware of what had happened; we were in Paris, on our last couple of days wrapping up a 5 week trip in Western Europe. When we went down for breakfast, the French news reported the bombings only a few hours after they happened. We could barely understand what was being said, but the pictures of torn apart bodies with the flashing headline "Ouganda" made it pretty clear.

Terrorist threats were not an uncommon part of life in Uganda. We always were aware that they were possible. I remember when I got my first "adult" passport and registered myself with the embassy. I received emails from the Warden almost constantly about terrorist attacks.

Now, almost four years later, bombs have rocked Nairobi and Mombasa in multiple attacks. Find more information at: http://www.bbc.com/news/world-africa-27443474

The US embassy in Uganda has put out a warning that they have intelligence of a planned attack directly aimed at churches that ex-patriots frequent. Here we go again...

In other news, a woman in Sudan has been sentenced to death and 100 lashes because she married a Christian man and will not recant her faith. Read the story at: 

http://www.cnn.com/2014/05/15/world/africa/sudan-christian-woman-apostasy/

Life is never dull, that is certain. I am also glad to be removed from some of the drama of the terrorist threats. However, it still hurts my soul to see the people that I love coming under threat. This is serious, and it concerns me. 

But work must not stop, and life must not stand still. Christians need to continue worshipping, because that is where strength is found. We will not back down, and we were promised this kind of persecution. While tourists evacuate, the time for missionaries and development workers to stay and stand firm is now. This is the world we were placed in, this is the world we were called to serve, this is the world in which we need to act as Christ would.

Let us stand strong and face the lives that Christ has called us to.

Suffering, safety, surprises

The following was part of today's scripture from 1 Peter:

23 When they hurled their insults at him, he did not retaliate; when he suffered, he made no threats. Instead, he entrusted himself to him who judges justly. 24 “He himself bore our sins” in his body on the cross, so that we might die to sins and live for righteousness; “by his wounds you have been healed.” 25 For “you were like sheep going astray,”[b] but now you have returned to the Shepherd and Overseer of your souls.

We at PLU and the church are currently on lockdown: there was a shooting less than a block away from me. First of all, I am safe. Second, as always, I have a few thoughts about this.

On Friday I did a job shadow at World Vision. I spent most of the day looking through pictures taken by World Vision employees... Pictures of the worst of human suffering on the planet. Central African Republic refugees at the airport, South Sudanese refugees, abandoned children, Syrian refugees.

Looking at these pictures reminded me of how complacent we become when we live in the United States; we do not worry about whether we will see tomorrow. And when there is a shooting, we immediately go into safety/hiding mode. 

Most of the world does not have this choice. Safety is a hot commodity, a novelty. It can be taken at the strangest of moments. Anywhere in the world, even in Washington, our safety is at stake.

But we cannot be paralyzed by fear and anxiety. We have to go face the day, and put our best feet forward. Thank God for every day we are safe, and pray for peace on the days we are not. We cannot hide from the truth of insecurity, but we can face it and approach the world with a smile. 

As ironic as this is going to sound, I am going to start the application for Peace Corps soon, with the intention (and prayer) of going to Jordan. I find that my heart is elsewhere--not in the United States. I got to see some pictures of the refugee caps in Jordan on Friday, and I am prayerfully deciding to prepare to go after I graduate. As I said, safety is a commodity. If we can have a shooting near campus, then I am no more safe here than in Jordan.

I thank God for the safety He has provided me with so far, and trust that He goes with me anywhere.

To Africa, with love

One of my favorite things about my body is the fact that I am a chameleon. In the winter, I become pasty, white, which does mean that I look great with blush. But in the summer, with even 10 minutes in the sun, I turn olive again, and my freckles pop up.

Everyone seems to try to hide their freckles. And, with an olive complexion you wouldn't think that I would have freckles. But I do. I have them all over my arms and my face, and pretty much everywhere. And I love them. 

I love them because each freckle tells a story. A few of them are from great memories of being little--those days at the water parks, or the days of running around with my friend, playing in the sun. 

But most of them come from happy memories in Africa. Little brown specks of sunshine that permeated my skin. 

They are from the day that I spent sun-bathing with my best friend at Kingfisher.

They are from the time I spent with another best friend writing stories on "Monkey Hill". And yes, we watched the monkeys on Monkey Hill.

They are from hours spent at events in the sunshine, long after the sun-screen wore off.

They are from the days when I just sat in the sunshine, and let it carry away my worries.

They are from the hours I spent with my gang of friends knocking mangoes out of a tree.

Each freckle tells a story, and each story adds to the awesomeness that is my life.

I love when my freckles come out again, because I can see that though I left Africa, Africa never left me. And it never will. 

Just like I am physically a bit of a chameleon... I am culturally a chameleon. Yeah, I can keep up with the modern pop music, and I can name most 80's groups, but I also know the names of Ugandan instruments and how to play some of them.

I change with each passing season, but one thing remains true. My life in Africa is a part of me, and I will always treasure that. 

I know what it's like to live with riots, and I know what it's like to live a life of travel. These are the things I treasure. My unseen freckles--the ones that hide in my spirit, remind me that I always have a part of my heart in Africa.

They are from the day that I painted one of my greatest friend's nails--the first time she had ever experienced nail polish.

They are from learning at the feet of an 84 year old missionary who worked with, taught, and loved Uganda's children.

They are from learning the hard way that you can't always save the people you love.

And they are from all of the joyous days that I spent learning, leaping, living.

First Christmas in Uganda... boat ride at the source of the Nile
with missionary friends!

My mom and I in our traditional dresses
Thank you to Susan for the graduation present
of sending me back with my Mushanana!

One of the only "tourist life" days--quadbiking and turning dust
to mud with our sweaty faces around the Nile. Maybe some freckles
are left over mud in my pores?! Haha!

To Africa:
Thank you for enriching my life. Thank you for leaving a whole in my heart. I will be back some day.

Thank you for the smiles and the laughter. Thank you for the beauty and the life that infiltrated my pasty skin.

Thank you for the joy that never leaves me.

With love,
Alyssa