Strike Sparks

God is Faithful Even When We're Crazy

I often think I can do more than I'm capable of. I'm pretty sure I get this from my extremely loyal, overactive, Hispanic mother who tries to be all things to all people, whether or not her foot is broken, she's down with a cold, or has to drive her van up and down the road 20 times that day. She's also the kind of person who refuses to go to the doctor. Go figure.

So it comes as no surprise to me, that on my recent trip back to the States I took on a little more than I could handle. Pretty standard overcompensate mode which I'm sure is rooted somewhere deep in my parent's early growing up years in Catholicism and all that goes along with the idea that you should feel guilty 99.9 percent of the time.

So my month consisted of this: trying to help my very brave, but very pregnant older sister give birth on time through a variety of methods. 1. Walking. 2. Spicy food. 3. Episodes of “How I met your mother” (note this is not a proven method) 4. Pineapple 5. Eggplant parmesan 6. Breast pump. Notice that the methods become increasingly more desperate as baby's due date passes. And yes, we did contemplate castor oil. We had visions of a wonderful, natural birth with family around and lots of breathing.

However, this was not the case due to an infection and at 1am I was jolted upright in sleep by my father saying we needed to rush to the hospital. I had never really feared birth until I saw one of my pregnant Ugandan girls give birth in a hospital with nothing more than a flat table as equipment.

So when we arrive and we are told the baby is in distress and she is being rushed into an emergency c-section, to say I was terrified is an understatement. I think this is where the rubber meets the road when it comes to faith.

My moment to be brave and prophetically speak life comes out choked and shaky. But there's hope: I see the glimmer of a stained-glass window pane. A chapel. Cool. Dark. And a reprieve from endless pacing.

Jesus, are you here? In this makeshift hospital chapel?

I need another miracle.

This one's a little more personal.

I need you to show up here.

I need her to be ok and for the baby to be ok.

Can you do that for me?

I throw in a desperate, Please.

For good measure.

And I feel peace. She's going to be ok. I just keep repeating it.

And then my mom is calling me to come see the baby. And he is perfect. And enormous. And doesn't have 12 toes. And Christina is ok.

And I think of all the women in Africa with no technology giving birth on hard tables or in bushes, and the reality that some women still do die in childbirth, and I am overwhelmed with waves of gratefulness.

For God.

And for machines. And for doctors. And fetal heart monitors. And America. (Insert National Anthem here)

Two days later, as I'm about to fly off to California, my grandfather passes away. I had been able to see him while home. Had showed him pictures of Africa as my father took care of him. And realized this simple fact which my father knew well: That sometimes love is to sit with someone as they waste away.

Love stays. Even when it hurts. Even when its easier to look away, or not visit the hospital, or go to the funeral, or grieve with those who grieve. In America we are oftentimes afraid of suffering. We don't know what to say to the person who has lost someone. We shy away from that which is uncomfortable. But to see my dad just be there, through the ugly grip of cancer and let a blind-slit of light shine through, made me see that is who I hope to be here in Uganda.

And God cares about the small things. Things like how I was desperate for a drink from Him and I needed to go to California to the conference where Heidi Baker is going to speak. So he worked a tiny miracle and made sure the funeral was on Monday just so I could get what I needed.

And here's where it gets crazy (er?)

I show up at LAX to meet my dear heart friend Cassandra (who is another crazy missionary in Congo) where we proceed to look around for our ghetto car rental company entitled Executive Van Rental.

Now I love Cass. But she is the cheapest person I know. She will sleep in a brothel if it saves money.

Not surprisingly our company does not have a pickup point and we still have 4 ½ hours of driving, after a 5 hour plane ride, on 1 hour of sleep the night before, to go. I'm what you might call...grouchy.

After phone calls where I describe myself (its harder than you think) a shady van pulls up with no markings. Now, Cass and I both work with sex-trafficked girls so the first thing I say to the Mexican man driving the van is, “Do you have any identification?” I'm not about to be trafficked on the streets of Los Angeles right now. (which does happen: Watch this trailer) I've got an Iris Reunion to get to people.

It is a wonderful adventure road trip adventure full of music and mexican food. And we make sweet new friends (shout out to Claire & Kylene and late night Denny's food) and see old ones and God shows up and worship is amazing, and its so good to be home in His arms.

And then Shawn Bolz challenges us to hear what God is saying for the next three months and I hear:

1. Write

2. Congo (where 80% of women are raped)

3. Buy land

And I'm like whoa all of those are unsettling and outsize my comfort zone and yet thrilling in a way that makes my heart skip a beat. (Still figuring out what all this means) But there is a chance I'll be visitng Cass in Congo in November.

Also in answer to that we are spending this next week with my staff and ladies praying into God's strategy for us for this next season. Please be praying with us.

But we haven't gotten to the best part:

Cass and I pull an all-nighter so I can make my 6am flight to be just in time to go out with my best friends, and then be ready to speak at Oakbrook church the next morning. Yeah, I'm crazy.

And God is good. Because even on little sleep, even knowing the fact that I had to rush off for family night, even being totally unprepared with what I was going to say---God showed up.

He had prophetic words for people, he had heart issues to heal, and my sermon turned into more of a ministry session, which was awesome. And in the midst of it all I realized how very little it has to do with me. That morning I just prayed, “Lord I want to be a fool for you.” And every day I want to be.
So I can see Him move.

We also sold a ton of jewelry and bags. And I got to eat cheese.

So all in all, it was good.

The craziness never stops. A new volunteer. Uganda. Women who make way too many beads way too fast so they don't have to sell their bodies. Children who leap on me and make me think I might throw my back out.

A husband I missed who is starting a pineapple farm and has it in his head he wants to buy a sheep. Even though they're loud and dirty.

And a God who keeps asking me to go further than I ever thought I could.

Here we are, striking sparks together.

ps—thanks mom for somehow still managing to help me pack my bags in the middle of chaos. You're the best.

pps—no, I did not have a baby: the above pic is my little obsession with my new nephew Ethan