We had the good fortune to travel to the balmy island of Kaua’i (notice the apostrophe – I’m pretty much a local now) last week. We try to get to Hawai’i (again, notice apostrophe) every February to escape the gray doldrums of living in the Pacific Northwest in the winter. Mid-January, our Southern California blood starts demanding we get it some Vitamin D. We use our companion tickets for airfare and my in-laws graciously cover the accommodations. So, the trip really is almost free, if we refrain from eating out too much while we’re on the island. Almost free paradise is my kind of paradise. We were in Kaua’i when we got the news that we can go pick up our son at the end of March. The news felt surreal, dream-like. We weren’t expecting this news until at least mid-summer. I e-mailed a few friends about the news but mostly just walked around in a daze induced by tropical landscape and shock. Toward the end of our trip, I was finally able to blog about it somewhat articulately to announce the news to the world (see previous post).

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There is a line in the Sara Groves song Add to the Beauty that says, “Redemption comes in strange places…”  This has been true in my life.  I’ve experienced some of the most poignant moments of grace in unlikely places, most recently in a county jail. 

I recently visited a friend in jail.   When I go to visit him the guards are rude.  They treat the visitors as if we are criminals, ordering us around and getting frustrated when we don’t go through the motions right.   About a month ago I had a minor run in with one of the sheriffs when I made a suggestion.  This put him out and he quickly put me in my place, cutting me down with his words.  His response took me aback and I found myself cowering inside, embarrassed and hurt.  I don’t expect to find grace in jail.

I did expect to find grace at a recent community event.

What do you think? Can the church be both attractive and missional? What would this look like? Or should church be only attractive or only missional? How do churches continually mobilize their congregants to be missional, taking church outside the church walls and into their communities?

We all have people in the public eye who annoy us.  Close to the top of my list are Heidi Montag, reality TV star, and Pat Robertson, who needs no introduction.  Yesterday both came out with shocking announcements. Montag had 10 plastic surgery procedures in one day at the age of 23. Robertson blamed the earthquake in Haiti on it's people making a deal with the devil. Both appauling stories that made me shake my head in shock, saddness, horror, and grief.

These two have a lot in common: They love the spotlight. People either love them or hate them. They have platforms which to speak to entire cultures of people. They both have been molded by cultural expectations that are unhealthy and lack accountability. Maybe most importantly, they both provide a distraction in a deeply troubling time.

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There was a shooting a block from my house less than 48 hours ago.  We heard the cracks from the gun in quick succession -- bang - bang - bang - bang - bang.  Five of them.  We wanted to believe they were fireworks.  However, the with the cop car shining a light in our front yard and a helicopter spotlighting our backyard, it clearly was not celebratory.

A 22-year-old young man lost his life.  It appears that 5 gang members killed him.  His girlfriend was shot in the foot and watched him die on the side of the street. It's the week before Christmas -- all is not calm; all is not bright.

Yesterday I was trying to find news reports about the shooting and began thinking about gang violence.  Our neighborhood is generally quiet and family oriented.  There was a random shooting over 2 years ago, but the police claimed to have done a sweep of the area and locked away all those wrong-doers.  It might take me another week to walk down the street in the evening, but I do believe and know that this is a safe neighborhood.  It will, though, take us coming out of our houses to unite in peace to overwhelm the kids with the guns.

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This week was our city prayer meeting.  A group of us from different sectors gather monthly to seek the peace and prosperity of our city together.  This month we were praying for the lonely in our community.  We split into small groups and the pastor in my group started it off.  "Lord", he prayed, "I'm lonely today."  That was as far as he got.  He hung his head, unable to continue.  We sat in silence for a moment and then I reached out and began praying for my brother.  It was as if his sincerity broke open our prayers.  From there we prayed for others who may be lonely:  single parents, seniors, prisoners, the hospitalized, , those far from home...it just kept going.  As we prayed for each one, the Holy Spirit led our prayers, reminding us of others. 

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This week my neighbor, Karina, borrowed some money so she could pay a physical therapist.  This summer she fell into an unmarked, open trench where our city had been doing street construction and broke her arm.  It still doesn’t straighten out despite her surgery so she’s seeing a physical therapist. 

Karina doesn’t have insurance so her community has rallied around her.  Some neighbor ladies watched her kids during her recovery and appointments.  Her husband has stepped it up at home.  A friend of a friend prays with her.  A doctor comp-ed his fee.  I help her fill out all the paperwork.  Another friend gave his law expertise toward the claim with the city.  

Don’t get me wrong- I’m all for insurance.  It’s just that my dependence on insurance is all part of the lie telling me I don’t need others.

When Tiny Tim (as played by Kermit the Frog) begins to sing at the end of the Muppets' version of A Christmas Carol, I have to be honest and just admit that I cry.

"God bless us all," he sings, "... who gather here, the loving family we hold dear. No place on earth compares with home and every path will lead us back from where we roam."

That Kermit. He wrecks me!

Having moved multiple times in and between six countries and three continents, I am an accidental expert in the emotional travails of separation and loss, boxes and crates, dismantling home and recreating it once again. The drama of moving has it's own set of pains and joys, my considerable experience of which are a byproduct of the adventures I've found.

Now, there is a certain range of hills that run along the southern border of Kenya named, quite simply, Loita. (That's "loi" as in loiter, not lo-ee-tah.) Byron and I lived there for 10 years and, given that I've never remained in any other spot for that long, I often wonder if anywhere will ever feel like home the way Loita did... and does.

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Note: this is a guest post by good friend and pastor Richard Lee. He can be found here.

Back in 1996, I went to a Missions trip to Shanghai, China. During our debrief period, we took an 18-hour train ride (that took 24 hours) to Beijing.

We did a bunch of sightseeing including Tiananmen Square (somber), Temple of Heaven (ornate), Summer Palace (huge) and Maidonglao (McDonald’s).

But the place that I was looking forward to the most was the Great Wall of China. We had an opportunity to choose which Great Wall we wanted to visit: the restored Great Wall or the original Great Wall. Luckily, we were persuaded (by me) to visit the Original.

There was something profound and ponderous about sitting on a wall that had been built a millennial before me. It took longer to drive to. We had to climb through shrubs to get to it. The steps were ridiculously steep. It wasn’t as pretty (and certainly more dangerous) as the rebuilt wall. But it was the authenticity of the Wall that made it profound. It was the knowledge that these stones were carried and laid here by people that had long since passed on that led to its impact. Rather than a reconstructed version that was better suited to sell souvenirs and keepsakes. There was something undeniably real about this wall.

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