Trust > Clarity

Mother Teresa once said, “I have never had clarity; what I have always had is trust.” and I read those words over, and over again. Listening...thinking...learning.

I have never had clarity --- what I have always had is trust.

Chuckling--- I laugh to myself because i know, there have been times i thought i had clarity, but then it always flew out the window liked a winged bird... and then the chuckling stops when i measure the trust meter i've parked at for all my sunrises. i know i've not always put enough coins in that slot. 

Don't we always seek clarity? Am I the only one in the q-line for “answers”. We want to know the plan. We want to see the road map before we pack the car, right? The only way we'll know what to pack is if we can know where we'll be going and what the weather will be like when we get there. And in our age of internet with instant answers ---- shouldn't we be informed?? We can do a quick internet search and within a minutes know the projected weather for the day in Nairobi-Kenya or Cades Cove-Tennessee. We can know --- so why shouldn't we.

But then life rolls us into places where there are no clear answers, no definable solutions, no projected outcomes, and clarity is lost. What do we do then?

For we've allowed ourselves to be lulled into a sense of believing if we manage the input, we can control the outcome.

Walk into any emergency room in the world ----- and the look on the faces there will say, “we couldn't control the input... and therefore we are not able to manage the outcome... we need help.”

We work to control inputs...

we feel almost irresponsible if we don't.

After all ---- sometimes we can control outcomes by planning, organizing, managing, and preparing.

The lady who knits can control the results of her fastidious work if she prepares, plans, and works with steady hands.

The mechanic can control the condition of the motor by replacing filters, renewing fluids, tightening plugs, etc.

The mother can control what her children eat for dinner by planning, shopping, cooking.

The employee can control the bosses approval by following the rules, doing the work, showing up early and staying late.

Some of us love to control. It feels sort of ….... safe.

But are we called to...safe.

Really --- 

And what does "control" have to offer to the legless woman begging on the street this morning or the mother of six begging at the gate today ... when there is no amount of input or planning or management or effort that will ever control the overwhelming need.

And how many times do we turn away from the very thing we might have been born to do ---- just because we couldn't get clarity on how to manage or control it...
Are we addicted to safe?
Are we resigned to only touch the input button of life if the outcome button is producing guaranteed results?

One of my clearest memories as a young woman was sitting on my grandfather's porch as he answered my many questions. The world disappeared from around us in those moments.

He never once acted like he was wise. But he was... and God knew the little girl in front of him had lots of questions.

“Pop, if God is so good, and if He is the WAY, then why did He let men like Paul suffer so much?”

The memory is as close as yesterday's air, I was questioning the wisdom of believing and obeying something that had landed a man with beatings, mob-violence, imprisonment, and shipwrecks (just to begin the long list of persecutions Paul endured). So I went to the wisest man I knew --- the one I believed to be the most honest --- who would tell me the truth without judging me for asking.

He looked at me and said, “That's a good question, I'm proud of you for asking donna. Because you see it was not just Paul who suffered for following Christ, there were and are so many more. Look at the 12 disciples who lived with Christ ---- it seems that all of them suffered painful deaths for the furtherment of the Truth, save one. John died of old age we believe... but all the others died as martyrs.”

“WHAT?”

“Pop, it sounds pretty cut and dry to me ----- following God is not a smart investment of my life.”

He smiled as he paused and allowed me to hear my own words.

Then he said words that have never left me.

“Your life, your existence, has two parts to it donna. The first part you are living now. The second part will come after you die. You get to have really, really GOOD days, but they will be mixed with some really, really bad days. No one can avoid this. Everyone has two parts of life and everyone has good/bad days. You can't change those facts no matter how hard you try, how rich you are, how powerful you become, or how sweet you choose to be. They are set and unchangeable.

“But here's what you can control...

You can have it really 'good' during your days here on this old earth if you want. You can live it up big. You can work to make lots of money and then spend it on all the things you want, the things that will make you 'happy'. You can live where you want to live and do what you want to do. You can love who you want to love and hurt who you want to hurt. You can have it all your way and eat all the chocolate cake you can hold for the rest of your life... but then the second part will come. And if you've lived the first part all for yourself... the second part will be hard. If you've not lived for Christ in the first part, you will wish for all the second part that you had.

But then there's another option.

You can choose God's ways in the first part --- live for Him, obey Him, let your heart break for what breaks His heart, let Him and His ways lead you while laying yourself and your ways down... and life here on this rolling ball will be very challenging on many days. People won't like you very much, they'll say bad things about you and talk you down ---- if you're not joining in with their crowd and doing what they're doing. You'll find yourself in hard places, doing things for other people you never would have chosen --- but you'll know you're right where you're suppose to be. You can give God the first part, and He will carry you through. You'll still have days of goodness, but you won't be the one controlling when they come or how they look. You'll know --- when it's good, it came from God's hand to you. When it's bad, lean into Him and you'll make it through. But donna, for those who choose God in the first part ----- the second part is filled with Heaven. God promises that if we give Him the first, He will amaze us in the second.

“The first lasts a few years --- maybe 80 or so … but the second part lasts for all eternity.

That's the truth of it donna.

You can throw out the Bible along with all that God business and live it up your way.

Or you can do it like some half-in-half-out“Christians” do it. You can hold the Bible in one hand and your ways with the other hand. You can say you love God with your mouth but love yourself most with the way you live. You can do all that and more for the short first part ------ but then the eternal second part will come, and you'll get no do-overs. You'll receive in the second part what you earned in the first.

Then he said, “donna, to simplify it, you can have it great in one or the other... but not in both. And God is good enough to let us decide which way it will be.”

“So Pop, the disciples have it good now ---- but they didn't have it so good when they were where we are... right?”

“That's right donna. They didn't choose to die painful deaths, but how they died was so much less important than how they lived. They didn't want many of the things that came their way. Even Jesus was honest with us when He prayed in the Garden of Gethsemane and asked if God would find another way.

“But when God gave no other way, Jesus chose God's way over His wants.”

Pop prayed with me before I left him that day.

As I drove away, I rolled it all through my inner-most self. Still do today.

Pop's words, “You can have it great in one or the other... but not in both... and you get to decide that part.”, well those words make more and more sense every year that passes by. Combine those with Mother Teresa's words, “I have never had clarity; what I have always had is trust.”

There's rich wisdom buried there.

I may not have clarity, but I know i'm trusting the One who is in control of this first part and will carry me through to the second part.

The little cares that fretted me,

I lost them yesterday,

Out in the fields with God.

(author unknown)

©2013 Donna Taylor/Reaching for the Robe

...what is needed more...

She sat at the round table, taking her tea; it's a daily practice of hers. Most days I buzz by her continuing on with the whirl of “doing” whatever it is that seems so important at the time. But last week, I sat with her and we talked of Christmas.

Eve is a blessing to me, to our home, to our puppies, to everyone. She arrives at our house singing every morning. You can tell exactly where she is on the property if you'll just pause to listen... she's always singing.

Two weeks ago while working in the kitchen, I could hear dear Eve singing in the wash room (she calls it her “store”). Always singing in Swahili, I can often recognize the tune and enough of the words to know she's worshiping our Abba. On this particular day, I thought I recognized the tune. It was a song i'd heard so often in my childhood... “Come thou fount of every blessing, tune my heart to sing thy praise... streams of mercy never ceasing, call for songs of loudest praise..” Subconsciously, unknowingly, I began singing in the kitchen the song her tune brought to my mind. Oh what a comfort to sing that old hymn in this kitchen sooooo far from where I had first learned it.

Sometime later, still kneading dough in the kitchen and still singing, she comes mopping through the house, still singing as well.

Both of us consumed in the work before us, hardly noticed each other's presence ---- until...

simultaneously, we froze and looked at one another...

we paused for about 10 seconds...

and then laughed ---- soul-laughed ...

I said, “Eve, where did you learn that tune?”

“From a mzungu missionary when I was a child.” she answered.

“Eve, do you know the words in English?”

“Yes, but they come more freely in my tongue.”

“Oh Eve, may I sing for you... and you tell me if they are the words you learned long ago?” Her sweet smile said, yes.

And I sang...

“Come thou fount of every blessing, tune my heart to sing thy praise.

Streams of mercy never ceasing, call for songs of loudest praise.

Teach me some melodious sonnet, sung by flaming tongues above.

Praise the mount I'm fixed upon it, mount of they redeeming love...”

I continued on with the next verse --- as she began singing with me --- in her tongue.

Oh Lord.

In a kitchen in Kenya --- two daughters worshiped you in different tongues with the same words, and you drew near. We felt you as close as the air passing through our lungs.

… and You whispered “home” to me. “you're beginning to understand what 'home' is really like”

How often have I shed tears over missing home ----- and there's nothing wrong with that. Surely some of those tears our Jesus cried were over the “culture shock” of being so far from His real home... Heaven.

But still, singing to Him, with her, a song from my childhood, from the other side of the world, and feeling His Holy-skin-closeness... I learned something new of His definition of home.

So as I sat with her for tea-time last week, I should have known class was back in session. But some learners are a bit slower than others...

We talked of the days she would take-off for Christmas to be with her children. We talked of a special meal we could plan for our two families to share during the holidays. We talked of her daughter's recovery from a recent bought of malaria. Then I asked, “Eve, we would like to bless you this Christmas with a gift that will bless your home. But I do not know what is most needed or wanted...” She smiled that timid, humble smile and remained quiet. She's truly such a beautiful daughter of God.

So I said, “Last week in town I saw a jiko (cook stove used here) that is much safer than those usually used. It uses less charcoal and it does not produce carbon monoxide. I wanted to buy it for you Eve, but I felt I should ask you first.” She said, “Mom, may I ask how much it cost?” “Yes, it cost 3800 ksh.” She gasped and said. “Oh mom, I have a good jiko that cost me 250 ksh, and while the other might be safer... I will share with you what is needed more.”

“Clothes for my children.”

clothes ---- for her children ---- shoes for their feet ----- food to cook on the jiko she already has ---- oh Lord.

For how many years have i viewed Christmas presents through the lens of “what do they want...?”

But today, it is truly as it should be...

“what do they need...?”

It's surely the words you asked your Holy self... even You who knows ALL... You looked down at Your scrambling children and faced the words... “What do they need...?

And THAT is what You sent on that first Christmas morning.

You did not send us what we would have “wanted”.

You sent us what was NEEDED.

We would have asked for this... or that... and the gift would have been forgotten weeks later.

But You sent us what we needed. And now over 2000 years later the Gift is still living inside us and being offered again and again to those who haven't yet accepted it.

Eve's words --- “I will share with you what is needed more...”

She didn't see my soul vibrate when the words spilled out of her mouth.

“I will share with you what is needed more...”

and YOU did.

Forgive me Lord for all the years I spent trying to figure out what was “wanted more” ---- when there is a whole wide world around me who is hoping someone will share with them what is “needed”.

3 weeks ago, I visited dear Eve's home. We are trying to find her a safer place to live, but in our driving about one day, she invited us to come visit her children and see with our own eyes “why” she is praying for a better place to live. She raises 4 children, alone. Their father/her husband deserted her before the last were born, twins, a boy and girl. She is thankful he left, because with him left the beatings. She lives in a stick/mud home with 2 windows (no glass) that is about 10x15. The two older daughters sleep in chairs, while Eve and her 9 year old twins sleep together on a twin bed. Small, crowded, dark --- but neat, welcoming, and... dare I say it... Holy. There was a sure sanctuary in that tiny space. She is a beautiful daughter of the Most High God.

“I will share with you what is needed more...”

It's taken 51 Christmases to get me to this place of understanding ---

You shared with us all what was needed ----- forgive us for warping it into wants Lord.

May I be a daughter who remembers, truly remembers, Your Gift ---- You gave us what was needed. And You've placed us in a world full of needs... needs trump wants...
You showed us that didn't You?

Last week, I had a private crying session.

I cried because I couldn't go shopping with my daughter, walk through the Christmas lights, listen to Christmas music, have something warm to drink, share a Christmasy evening with her...

Then I sat with dear Eve at the round table --- and heard, “I will share with you what is needed more...”

Tomorrow she and I will go shopping...

in the open air market (the place where the “discards” from wealthier places are sold) --- with no Christmas sights or sounds.
It will be dirty and dusty and it likely won't smell very good at all.

But our thoughts will be steady on “what is needed more” --- 

My Christmas looks different, yes. But it's being Authored by the One who cares most about “what is needed more”.

I'm learning Lord...

Merry CHRISTmas ---
may you get “what is needed more”.


©2013 Donna Taylor/Reaching for the Robe

With Paper Dolls in a Cardboard Box...

With cut paper doll toys in a cardboard box filled with sand, we lay on the grass under blue skies, and he told me a story.

He's a boy in Kenya ---- a boy with a story.

But on this day, he didn't tell me “his” story. Instead, he shared one he made up in his mind.

A story of forgiveness... coming from one who has solid grounds to hold unforgiveness inside.

Allan is his name. I asked if I could share his story with many. His soft smile and gentle nod is why I now humbly share it with you.

He said...

Once upon a time there was a man, a woman, and a baby. They lived in a small house together. They had a garden but nothing was growing there.

One day they found a large parcel. They were excited. They hoped something special would be in the package. But when they looked inside, nothing was there except for one tiny seed.

The man and the woman thought perhaps it was a bean seed, so they planted it in their empty garden.

Every day they cared for the seed. They watered it and watched over it carefully.

Day after day the seed grew until finally it grew into a tree. They were not sure what kind of tree it was until one day an apple grew on the tree.

The man picked the apple and took his knife to cut the apple in half so they could share it for dinner.

But when he did so, they found gold coins inside the apple.

Wow! They were so excited. Never had they ever had so many coins.

The family put the coins in their pocket and went to town to buy food. Each day they picked another apple from the tree. Each day they went to town to buy more food.

Soon they had plenty of food so they began to buy others things with the coins found inside the apples from the tree.

They bought new furniture and clothes and many other things for their house.

Then the man decided to build a very big house so his family could live in a nicer place with many things.

The apple tree kept growing coin filled apples so the family was soon able to move out of the small house and into the big house.

When the man and the woman saw their neighbors on the roadway or passed by them in town, the man and the woman no longer greeted them. They were so busy buying things for themselves they seemed to have forgotten their neighbors.

When the family had lived in the small house they had always welcomed their neighbors and given them kind greetings when they passed by.

But not now.

The family was so busy picking apples and buying new things with the coins inside, they forgot to continue caring for the apple tree.

The tree became unhealthy and was not able to give so many apples as it had before.

Then one day the mother said, “We must remember to water our special tree or it will die.”

And so they did.

Soon the apple tree began growing apples again.

The family was very excited.

One morning, when the apples were nice and ready, the father picked one and cut it open with his knife.

But no coins were found inside the apple, only dust was found where the coins had been.

The family was very sad.

What would they do?

In time, the family decided to sell all their fine furniture so they could use the money to buy food for their stomachs. Then one day the father said, “We must sell this big house we built so we can buy food. We will need to move back into the small house where we use to live.”

The family was very sad and hungry.

One day the family heard voices.

They saw their neighbors coming down the path leading to the small house.

They remembered how many times they had not greeted their neighbors and even ignored them when they saw them in town. They were sad.

The neighbors knocked on the door of the small house.

The man and woman opened the door.

How surprised they were to see their neighbors arms filled with food and water! They welcomed the neighbors into their house and knew ------ they would never forget this kindness.

And the lesson to my story is this...

We must always forgive.

White clouds were floating overhead. Birds sang loudly. Dogs barked in the distance. Wind slid silently through tree leaves above us. And in front of me ----- sat a tiny teacher.

We sat in silence after the story ended.

He smiled a shy “did you like my story?” kind of smile.

I smiled a “that was a wonderful story” kind of smile.

And I wondered...

did young Allan know he was preaching a sermon better than any pastor in any pulpit?

This wounded child was teaching me, the one who was working to minister to him.

I'd learned the lesson of forgiveness before. I'd memorized the scriptures and even told the Bible stories to others. I'd spent a whole year of my life repeating the simple words “be quick to forgive and generous with grace donna, quick to forgive and generous with grace” and worked diligently to live the words, not just say them.

But never had the reminder come in such a way as this; with little dark-skinned hands moving cut paper doll toys across white sand ----- and narrations spoken in soft, lyrically laid words rolling from such a tiny tongue.

We can read of it in Matthew 18: 21-35.

It's straightforward.

Forgive others when they have wronged you or the Father who loves most will allow the “torturers” to torment.

We don't forgive because the offender deserves it... rarely could they ever deserve it. We forgive because we are told to do so by the Father ---- and we can trust that He truly knows what is best.

Is it any wonder my blood chilled through and through as I sat with this child who had been rendered deeds that required MUCH to be forgiven ----- and forgiveness flowed all round.

©2013 Donna Taylor/Reaching for the Robe

Whatta ya' do with that ?

There's this Holy tension that keeps pressing in.
Whatta ya' do with it?
I wake up peaceful each and every morning here --- that's a pure, straight-up miracle in itself. The one who wakes up beside me begins every morning praying. We hear the world waking up around us outside as we talk to Abba about everything you can imagine. Seriously --- everything...
The roosters crowing.
The dogs yelp and snarl (the guard dogs here on our compound are intense!)
Cars rattle down our bumpy dirt road.
We don't budge from our bed until we've established again exactly who is Boss.

We make our way downstairs to the kitchen. Coffee and toast for Steve, tea and granola for me. Silently we gravitate to the veranda with our books and Bibles and breakfast tray.
The bird sounds in the morning are mesmerizing here... birds do mornings so much better than people.

Then the tension begins.
The voices of people --- speaking words we don't yet understand fully. We can grasp just a touch of what's being said --- but all those words in between that we don't yet know, we're clueless about.
She walks in the gate, early, early. Seven days a week we hear her rattle that early morning gate. She speaks no English, but she's slowly come to trust us.
When veggies are gathered from our garden, we always make sure she has some in her bag at day's end.
Khesed love tears down walls.
Khesed --- the original Hebrew word referring to "loving-kindness". The kind of love that is given with no measure-for-measure return expected. It's the kind of love that focuses on giving --- not receiving. Ruth loved Naomi with a khesed kind of love. It's such a beautiful love, with clear waters around it. Not muddied by the ugly tinges of "I'll scratch your back if you'll scratch mine...".
So after 4 months of living here, she finally smiles and waves big to us each morning. It's taken some work to get this far.
We've learned... her mother is a Christian lady who loves her very much. But she married a drunkard who beats her hard. When my day is tough ---- i think of the dear lady who rattles our gate each morning as she comes to work for another after enduring another night with the drinker.
Tension.  Not just my tension ---- but a Holy kind of tension ---- because i don't think for a second my Abba is ok with her world.

The donkey drawn cart goes rattling by. Two donkeys pulling a too-heavy-cart. The man on top whacks them again with his heavy stick. The pop makes my stomach roll over. i want to run out of the gate, chase him down, grab the stick from his hand, and smack him until i hear the same deep pop (yeah, some great missionary i am huh). Tension ---- righteous anger mixed into that tension...

Our new missionary friend has taken in a tiny baby. It was abandoned at the hospital by it's too-young mother. The hospital called her to say, the child is too small to survive in the hospital, there aren't enough hands to give it the care needed. Paperwork is completed, the 3.5 pound treasure finds itself cradled in creamy white arms. After many nights of round the clock feedings, we get to help care for the miniature angel, while those who have brought her under their wings get a good, long, uninterrupted night's sleep. We hold her. Almost losing her in the blanket that swallows her. What a beauty she is. How could a mother abandon such a treasure. As the nighttime gave us silent visiting hours together, i talked long with Abba. He was very near. And my words rolled into praying for the mother who knew she couldn't take care of this little one she had held inside. For all her days ---- she will miss her doll. She was a girl herself. I wept for her "mother-heart" as i looked into the perfect round eyes she had never seen. And i knew... she was not a "bad" person. She went to the hospital, she gave birth in a safe place, then she... ran. But she did NOT use a wire on herself to abort the little one inside. She did not throw her baby in the bushes. She did not keep the child only to watch it suffer in her world. She went to perhaps the cleanest place in town, gave birth, and ran. Tension --- oh such a gut-rending tension.

The street "man" (not a boy, but not a man by any stretch of the imagination) argues with my husband, spouting out lies, "you said you would give me money for food today... you promised..." No such promise had been made. But how do you talk rationally with a drunk, high, street guy. Street boys gathered 'round. They're learning. My husband stands his ground and speaks truth to the obstinate, toothless, loud drunk. To give him a shilling would be to teach the boys how to stay on the street. To walk away... is hard. We're here to help... right? But when he continues to rant his lies, louder and louder ---- "the very thing i do not want to do, that is what i do..." (Paul would have understood the tension.) I raise my voice and act nothing like i want to act, but the confrontation is short and effective. Oh God... the Tension on that day deserves a capital "T". But as the man walked away, even through his drunkenness, he understood full well, he had gone too far. There is a line.

Twenty women have gathered in the room with me. I tell them the story of Ruth. Three times i tell the story. They are frozen in their seats. Like beautiful, little girls, their eyes remind me of little girls. And we talk of the love we see woven throughout the story. It's not just any kind of love ---- it's that beautiful khesed love. We "cough" the "k" sound together as we say the word aloud. Eyes become misty as we realize the great tension that was surely there with Ruth as well. Husband dead. No food. No home. Gleaning in the field her only option.
But everything she did, was wrapped in khesed.
... and God sees...


©2013 Donna Taylor/Reaching for the Robe

Going Home...

Eager but timid feet followed the missionary in front of me. I had asked her several times to take me to the slum. She use to go there weekly, to teach a Bible study and pray with the ladies. But demands of work at the Children's Home had taken priority; she hadn't been to see the ladies in weeks. The urging inside me to visit the ladies was a pressing that came from above. It wasn't “my” plan ---- but it was something that daily came to my mind --- a Holy Spirit whispering, i've learned to listen.

My mind told my eyes to take pictures as we walked. I brought no camera with me for two reasons:

1. Hungry people sometimes measure things by how many meals it will put into their stomach, a camera translates into food for many nights in the slum. Why tempt in that way...
2. To take pictures would have felt disrespectful. I was not there to capture glimpses of poverty --- I was there to obey...

We walked with two beautiful, young, women, maybe in their twenties, if I were a modeling agent they both would have been hired on the spot. Slender with high cheek bones, small features, bright eyes, and skin that glowed, I wondered if they realized how stunning they were. They were kind and gentle; dressed in jeans, t-shirts, and wearing flip flops. I was amazed these two “models” were trekking through the mud and trash with us. But this is their home; this is where they live and minister.

Children were everywhere ---- children = hope.

As we entered the slum, school children were sitting on mesh feed sacks working busily stripping dried kernels from cobs. The pearly grains fell around them onto the waiting sacks. What a picture --- happy, busy hands all pausing to greet the wzungu shouting, “How are you?” in the common high pitched, nasally sound. It's comical the way they mimic the english accent. These were happy children --- they held golden grains of food in their hands. Returning greetings, we walked through winding, dry-mud pathways weaving between stick/mud houses, dodging low hanging tin roofs. We were fortunate the rains had not yet come for the day and the drunks were not yet saturated. I could smell the “brew” cooking; a homemade concoction that sells for cheap and rots the brain --- used by those who have lost hope (or thrown it away) and are willing to rob others of the little they might have.

Hut after hut we visited. Small doorways led from bright sunlight to a dark room. Each abode had two rooms, one for sitting and cooking, one for sleeping. Dirt floors under our feet, mud walls around us, tin roofs overhead with no electricity – we relied on the light flooding in from the open door. The smell of burned kerosene and homemade charcoal mixed with “living” was consistent. But each home we visited was neat as could be (all things considered). In a space roughly 10x12 there were usually six places to sit, a “coffee table” in the center and stacked bags of treasured belongings filling 3 corners with clean doilies (just like my great grandmother used) spread carefully over the couch and two chairs. It was their way of “welcoming” us. For surely the moment our car had parked at the slum entrance news had spread of our arrival --- their hands had been busy making jewelry they hoped to sell. Paper beads strung together = food for their children.

We sat. Talked. They would empty onto the table one of the plastic bags from the corner. My friend and I would buy what we could and then we would all pray together for their health, provision, protection, healing... prayers i've prayed over my loved ones ---- but somehow here it feels... different...it's Him or death (usually with much pain).

I was entering their world. They were allowing me to. And in the midst of the dirt and mud --- Light was near. These ladies (some of them) glowed with Abba. He was their most prized possession, something no thief could steal and no drunk could beat out of them. One older lady was quite mesmerizing --- did she know the Light inside her shined brightly? She was enchanting. The light grey halo in her cataract altered eyes drew me. Her unhindered smile and her gentle hand on the head of the child beside her warmed me. She wore a light blue t-shirt and a clean,old skirt, a simple white beaded necklace around her neck and a worn-tattered scarf on her head --- but the air around her sparkled. My friend shared with me, “She's a grandmother who cares for all these little children running around here – if they need anything, she is the lady they come to. She feeds them and loves them. They don't belong to her, but she makes them feel as if they do.” I loved her.

Sunlight poured into her tiny portion of the slum--- no dark shadows hung here.

How could beauty be found in the middle of------ this?

I was reminded of many houses back “home”. Just prior to leaving for Kenya I had visited a newly remodeled home. It was elaborate and beautiful but shadowy, filled with well-decorated “empty” spaces. But here, I stood beside a simple, mud hut filled with Light and children and a woman that was known as a giver, a lover --- children twirled around her and she radiated goodness and kindness and gentleness and peace. She wasn't “trying” to be enough or have enough ---- she was busy --- living and loving. Oh how I wish I could put her into words --- for if I could, we'd all want less of what we work so hard to have and we'd want more of what she so simply is. As we prayed, I thanked God for sharing her with me. He flows through her in that place...

A few huts more took us to the home of Martha. We entered her neat dirt world, pausing again to let our eyes adjust to the shadowy light inside, and found her lying on her bed. Our beautiful guides shared with us how long Martha had been sick. Her swollen body was weak, her voice came only in a whisper. Someone cared for her well though --- her grown son was just outside, a kindness to his face that spoke of his mother's goodness. She spoke in her native Turkana which was translated for us. She knew she was dying. She repeated softly, “i want to go home, I want to go home...” Quick conversation shared her story with me. She was Abba's daughter, my “sister”, now living far from where she had been born. Her dying wish was to end her life where she had begun ---- north of here, not in a slum, she wanted her tired body laid to rest in her homeland. She wanted to go home before she went HOME.

As I held her arm and looked into her half-blind eyes, my mind traveled back to my grandparents. While Turkana words filled the air around me I whispered out-loud to my Yahweh. “Lord, if she were my Pop or Papa James, i'd be emptying my pockets to honor their dying words. Oh Lord, what is my part here, why am I sitting beside your Martha, what words will you allow to flow from You to her ears. Can I please be your girl in this dark room with this dying woman...?

We prayed together.

She squeezed by arm.

Death was tangible in the room.

I whispered to our lovely guides, “What would it cost to get her to Lodwar?”

They answered, “1500 KSH” (my mind converted quickly ---- less than $20US)

I asked, “But how will she get there, she can not go alone?”

“Someone would need to take her...”

I whispered more softly, “If God provided the bus ticket, is there someone who would take her?”

Bright white teeth shined in the dark room as Patricia smiled. “If God buys her a ticket for tomorrow's bus, I will carry her on the long journey back home.”

Steve and I have precious supporters (you may be one of them). Dear ones who would want to reach 10,000 miles with love and buy a one-way-ticket home for Martha. I began to weep as I thought of their faces. I'm here out of obedience. I'm here to love. I'm here to be ready to speak Truth and live Love. Martha needed help--- she wanted to say goodbye in peace --- so she could finally go HOME.

“Patricia, I think I hear God saying, He's bought her a one-way ticket on tomorrow's bus, and He's bought a round-trip ticket for you.”

Mud/stick walls do not limit the reach of the Shepherd.

Sickness draws Him nearer ------ it does not repel Him.

Dirt floors do not hinder Him, mud matters not to His feet.

Whispers from a dying soul, like prayers from a child ----- capture the Holy One.

In Kipsongo slum I felt "the shelter of the Most High" and witnessed Martha "rest in the Shadow of the Almighty".

… “i will say of the Lord He is my refuge and my fortress, my God in whom I trust...

… my heart is not proud... my eyes are not haughty... I do not concern myself with matters to great or too awesome for me to grasp... instead I have calmed and quieted myself... like a weaned child who no longer cries for it mother's milk... like a weaned child is my soul within me... oh martha... put your hope in the LORD now"... and prepare your eyes to behold His face at last.

(taken from Psalm 91 and 131)

"God isn't looking for people of great faith, 

but for individuals ready to follow Him." 

Hudson Taylor

©2013 Donna Taylor/Reaching for the Robe

Bones in the Mountain

A short drive from Kitale town rises impressive Mt. Elgon. Mountains seem so mighty, like majestic, unmovable giants. When living in Georgia, Steve and I would “run away” to the Appalachian mountains. There's a sense of Godliness when sitting atop something created by Him that proves our tininess. How like God it is, that after moving us all the way to Kenya, He places us beside massive Mt. Elgon. He knew of our love for tall mountains and quiet nature, He placed that in us.
Nature here is quite different than that of the Blue Ridge Mountains in North Georgia. Black bears are replaced by leopards, deer by antelope, horses by zebras, and cattle by water buffalo. Oak, pine, dogwood and poplar trees from home are dwarfed by the massive trees growing in this wild land. Acacia trees decorate the mountain side while dense forests are filled with nandi-flame and baobob trees. Black and white monkeys dance through the high limbs here while black and white skunks hold fast to solid ground back home.
The mountain was formed by volcanic activity millions of years ago. The same earth shifting movements that shaped the Great Rift Valley also pressed the mountain up into the sky. Caves formed over time as rushing waters eroded softer soil, but water was not working alone. Elephants discovered salt in the walls of the caves on Elgon.

 No one knows for sure how long ago the elephants began excavating for salt, no one was there to witness their initial digging. But great tusk scrapings can be seen on the cave walls and ceilings of Kitum Cave, the elephants have “owned” the caves for longer than men have visited them. Crystals are embedded in the walls, alongside salt deposits, bat perches, and spider nests. To step inside the caves of Mt. Elgon ----- one can't help but be visually reminded of our small “vapor” like existence.
Last week we returned to the mountain, thankful for the chance to visit a place that is controlled ONLY by God. Men seem to have their hands on almost everything in this world. Even our churches are managed by skin-covered-clay-vessels. Stepping into the wild places created and controlled by Abba --- there's something much akin to Holiness there.
As we drove through the muddy, wild, winding roads underneath the massive trees that dwarfed us, we came to a trail leading to Chepnyalil Cave, a place we had not yet visited. A short hike up a sharp incline carried us to the waterfall beside the cave opening. Wildness all around, we were transfixed by God's beauty. Staying ever alert, we were watchful as we stepped into the mouth of the cave. These places are not tame; they should be approached with respect. The dank, musty smell of the great vertical hole in the earth is the first to greet. But then immediately we notice the huge boulders that have fallen from the cave ceiling above us. No walls are shored up or supported, we walk cautiously. Next our eyes see drawings on the wall --- or are they fossils? We aren't sure.

 I crawl up the slanted cave wall to touch the marking, there are no grooves, they seem to be drawn, but not with an ink that will rub off. I sense that what I am touching is old, very old. Am I touching something that was touched by another 10 fingered person --- millions of years ago? Or perhaps it was just last week? But, I think of the scripture, “...ask for the ancient paths, where the good way is and walk in it, and you shall find rest for your souls.” Jeremiah 6:16... I know what I am touching is “ancient”(but I will receive not directions from it's lines). There is a sense of awe and wonder in the air of this musky cave as I look around me. My skin shivers when I begin to grasp what my eyes are actually seeing ---- huge, old, ivory protruding from the stone walls and ceiling over my head.

 Bones... ancient bones... bones large enough to carry massive creatures... they surround me. No signs are posted, no guides or museum curators are present. Just these massive white messengers whispering to me. In their silence I still hear... “I use to walk about like you, I use to breath and move as you do ---- but now, i'm silent and still ---- just as you will be someday.
I was overcome and speechless (if you can imagine), and yet squealing with excitement all at the same time. Overhead was a grouping of bones that most surely could have come from something the size of the dreaded T-Rex. We walked further and found more bones... a huge jaw-bone with teeth still set into it, teeth that spoke of fierceness and danger, but held still above me. My imagination was overwhelmed. A hole in the cave ceiling presented lacy fern frond fossils.

It was mesmerizing --- so loud in its silence. We climbed up on the massive boulders, careful at first, then more bold as we felt their solidness underneath us. And my dear Steve said ----- “What could have caused these huge pieces to fall from so high above us? Surely it was an earth shaking of some sort... I wonder if they could have come crashing down on the day Jesus was crucified and the earth shook in darkness?...”

Imagine...
The reality that where we were standing had once been visited by huge animals created by the same God who created us, and the earth had shifted and now held their mighty bones tightly in stone before us, and these bones were tucked into their rock blankets long before Christ walked under the skies above them... it all felt so Holy.
So many had been born, lived, and died between the breathing of these huge animals and the breathing of me... Abraham... Ruth... Noah... Moses... David... Christ... … …
The brevity of our breathing days is undeniable.
There is much to be done, many to be loved, more to be given, but ---- there will always ONLY be ONE to be worshiped...
When my bones lay still ----------- will it have mattered that I took up space and breathed air? Most of all, will I have worshipped the ONE by the way I lived?
The Alpha and Omega was here before the bones of the cave carried muscle ----- and He will be here long after my bones lay silent and still.
May they move while they can, for good, God-honoring reasons... until...

Hebrews 11:32 – 40
And what more shall I say? I do not have time to tell about Gideon, Barak, Samson and Jephthah, about David and Samuel and the prophets, who through faith conquered kingdoms, administered justice, and gained what was promised; who shut the mouths of lions, quenched the fury of the flames, and escaped the edge of the sword; whose weakness was turned to strength; and who became powerful in battle and routed foreign armies. Women received back their dead, raised to life again. There were others who were tortured, refusing to be released so that they might gain an even better resurrection. Some faced jeers and flogging, and even chains and imprisonment. They were put to death by stoning;they were sawed in two; they were killed by the sword. They went about in sheepskins and goatskins, destitute, persecuted and mistreated—the world was not worthy of them. They wandered in deserts and mountains, living in caves and in holes in the ground.
These were all commended for their faith, yet none of them received what had been promised, since God had planned something better for us so that only together with us would they be made perfect.


©2013 Donna Taylor/Reaching for the Robe

Some things never change...

Our sweet Talouse cat back in Georgia

We're living in the middle of unfamiliar and “different” these days. And “different” is slowly becoming the new familiar. So, this past month i committed to making note of things that have not changed – the things that can feel “just like home” if i'll let them. In the beginning i believed i would find little to journal about. But...

For fun, next month i plan to journal on the “unfamiliar and different”.

This month, however, has proven to be an exercise in “comfort”.

Here are 36 simple things ----- that have not changed ---- neither geography nor culture has altered them an ounce... and i'm so very thankful.

• the way flowers bud and bloom
• the smell of fresh plowed dirt
• the way birds bathe in puddles of water
• the way white clouds float in blue skies
• weeds grow in gardens – even though no one planted them
• the way water falls
• the way hurt people cry
• the way happy children bounce when they walk
• the smell of cut grass
• the way people sit down
• the way birds build nests and feed their baby chicks
• the way death comes...
• the way birds perch in trees and watch the world below them
• the itch of bug bites
• the way babies want their mothers... and the way good mothers respond
• the way it sounds when paper is crumpled
• the way selfishness poisons everything, even the one at the center of it
• the way it feels under a shade tree on a hot day
• dust --- it's everywhere (but it may be different colors in different parts of the world)
• the feel of clean water on dirty skin
• sleep
• the way rain slows everything above ground but waters everything beneath
• God's Bible – it says the same thing... no matter where it is
• the way it smells after rain
• the way a real smile comforts a lonely heart
• the way wind moves tall grass
• the elusive line between “too much” and “not enough” --- (contentment with what we have)
• the way bruises prove something hit too hard (but bruises are harder to see on dark skin)
• the way a leaf falls to the ground
• the fact that birds sing so much more than people and people waste too much time talking
• the darkness of loneliness
• the way it feels to be authentically loved --- when nothing is expected in return
• the sound of thunder and lightening in the sky and rain on windows
• the smell of puppies
• the moo of cows and the way they move so slowly (back home it was in a pasture, here it's more often on the road)
• the way cats act, whether they weigh 5 pounds or 500
  
  

  

  Taken last week in Nakuru.

  
  
  
  
  "I am the same as you in God’s sight;
      I too am a piece of clay." Job 33:6
  
  
  “It was the same in the days of Lot. People were eating and drinking, buying and selling, planting and building." Luke 17:28
  
  
  "There are different kinds of service, but the same Lord. There are different kinds of working, but in all of them and in everyone it is the same God at work." 1 Corinthians 12:5-6
  
  
   "Jesus Christ is the same yesterday and today and forever." Hebrews 13:8
  
  
  
  
  ©2013 Donna Taylor/Reaching for the Robe