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From The London Times - December 27, 2008

As an atheist, I truly believe Africa needs God:
Missionaries, not aid money, are the solution to Africa's biggest
problem - the crushing passivity of the people's mindset
by Matthew Parris

Before Christmas I returned, after 45 years, to the country that as a
boy I knew as Nyasaland. Today it's Malawi, and The Times Christmas
Appeal includes a small British charity working there. Pump Aid helps
rural communities to install a simple pump, letting people keep their
village wells sealed and clean. I went to see this work.

It inspired me, renewing my flagging faith in development charities.
But travelling in Malawi refreshed another belief, too: one I've been
trying to banish all my life, but an observation I've been unable to
avoid since my African childhood. It confounds my ideological beliefs,
stubbornly refuses to fit my world view, and has embarrassed my
growing belief that there is no God.

Now a confirmed atheist, I've become convinced of the enormous
contribution that Christian evangelism makes in Africa: sharply
distinct from the work of secular NGOs, government projects and
international aid efforts. These alone will not do. Education and
training alone will not do. In Africa Christianity changes people's
hearts. It brings a spiritual transformation. The rebirth is real. The
change is good.

I used to avoid this truth by applauding - as you can - the practical
work of mission churches in Africa. It's a pity, I would say, that
salvation is part of the package, but Christians black and white,
working in Africa, do heal the sick, do teach people to read and
write; and only the severest kind of secularist could see a mission
hospital or school and say the world would be better without it. I
would allow that if faith was needed to motivate missionaries to help,
then, fine: but what counted was the help, not the faith.

But this doesn't fit the facts. Faith does more than support the
missionary; it is also transferred to his flock. This is the effect
that matters so immensely, and which I cannot help observing....

....Removing Christian
evangelism from the African equation may leave the continent at the
mercy of a malign fusion of Nike, the witch doctor, the mobile phone
and the machete.

To read the full article, visit:
http://www.timesonline.co.uk/tol/comment/columnists/matthew_parris/article5400568.ece

Thanks, I needed that

The following is from a blog that has made me a reader; it is about a family that uprooted their life in America and moved to Africa to adopt a little boy.

"We've noticed that Sterling has a tendency to clutch his food tightly, and we've realized that probably comes from his time at the baby home, where having food taken from you by a greedy peer is a real possibility. I'm sure the powers-that-be discourage that sort of thing, but they can't watch everyone all the time, and so his food has probably been forcibly removed from his shrimpy little hand a time or two. So today I gave the kids one of their favorite snacks: sweet bananas with peanut butter. Everyone gets a banana and a spoonful of peanut butter to use as they wish. But I upped the ante today and gave them all a few dark chocolate chips to add some depth to the flavor. The other kids all left their chocolate on the table and picked them up one by one to eat. But Sterling gathered them all in his hand and clutched them tightly. They were his precious sweeties, and he wanted to keep them safe. Of course, they melted in his hand and turned into a gooey brown mess. He salvaged some of it with his spoon, but most of his chocolate wound up getting washed down the sink with soap and water, lest he paint the walls, table, benches, beds, toilet, light switches, door handles, and Lord knows what else with his soiled mitts. He tried to hold on to the gift I'd given him, and only wound up losing most of it down the drain. By clutching his gift so tightly, by refusing to trust that it would be there if he remained open-handed and left it on the table, he lost what he was trying so hard to keep. Someone else once said something along those lines.
It was a vivid reminder to me of the whole reason I'm here: to live an open-handed life. And I'm still learning. And my kids are teaching me."

Thanks for sharing the lesson.

Read more at: oneroofafrica.blogspot.com

BROKETY BROKEY BROKEN

I'm not sure what more I can do
to make myself small
and scattered around

I've tried hope
and hate
and being okay with this

Each time
I get smaller
and more crumbly
and more realistic

I'm running down a life

HAPPY IS A YUPPIE WORD

Everyone dies
Everyone loves a fight
Nothing is sound
Nothing is right side right
Evening comes when the sun goes down in red
Nothing is cool
When will all the fighting end
When will all the fighting end

Happy is a yuppie word
Nothing in the world could fail me now
It's empty as an argument
I'm running down a life that won't cash out

Everything fails
Everything runs its course
A time and a place for all of this love and war
Everyone buys
Everyone's got a price
And nothing is new
When will all the failures rise
When will all the failures rise

Happy is a yuppie word
Blessed is the man who's lost it all
Looking for an orphanage
I'm looking for a bridge I can't burn down
I don't believe the emptiness
I'm looking for the kingdom coming down
Everything is meaningless
I want more than simple cash can buy
Happy is a yuppie word
Happy is a yuppie word

-Jon Foreman

The Sweetest Place

Sit still, my daughter! Just sit calmly still!
Nor deem these days--these waiting days--as ill!
The One who loves thee best, who plans thy way,
Hath not forgotten thy great need today!
And, if He waits, 'tis sure He waits to prove
To thee, His tender child, His heart's deep love.

Sit still, my daughter! Just sit calmly still!
Thou longest much to know thy dear Lord's will!
While anxious thoughts would almost steal their way
Corrodingly within, because of His delay--
Persuade thyself in simple faith to rest
That He, who knows and loves, will do the best.

[This is where it gets good:]

Sit still, my daughter! Just sit calmly still!
Nor move one step, not even one, until
His way hath opened. Then, ah then, how sweet!
How glad thy heart, and then how swift thy feet
Thy inner being then, ah then, how strong!
And waiting days are not counted then too long.

Sit still, my daughter! Just sit calmly still!
What higher service could'st thou for Him fill?
'Tis hard! ah yes! But choicest things must cost!
For lack of losing all how much is lost!
'Tis hard, 'tis true! But then--He giveth grace
To count the hardest spot the sweetest place.

--J. Danson Smith (emphasis, mine)

"The Rest"

from Streams in the Desert:

"'There is no music in a rest, but there is the making of music in it.' In our whole life-melody the music is broken off here and there by 'rests,' and we foolishly think we have come to the end of the tune. God sends a time of forced leisure, sickness, disappointed plans, frustrated efforts, and makes a sudden pause in the choral hymn of our lives; and we lament that our voices must be silent, and our part missing in the music which ever goes up to the ear of the Creator. How does the musician read the 'rest'? See him beat the time with unvarying count, and catch up the next note true and steady, as if no breaking place had come between.

Not without design does God write the music of our lives. Be it ours to learn the tune, and not be dismayed at the 'rests.' They are not to be slurred over, not to be omitted, not to destroy the melody, not to change the keynote. If we look up, God Himself will beat the time for us. With the eye on Him, we shall strike the next note full and clear. If we sadly say to ourselves, 'There is no music in a 'rest,' let us not forget 'there is the making of music in it.' The making of music if often a slow and painful process in this life. How patiently God works to teach us! How long He waits for us to learn the lesson!" -Ruskin.

One year later

March 3, 2009 – Happy 83rd Birthday, Dad

I am a writer. I can trace my abilities as a writer to my father (who, due to overactive tear-ducts, could not always express his feelings in person but was articulate on the page) and paternal grandfather (a poet). His father (my great-grandfather) was a Member of Canadian Parliament in the mid-1800s and a great orator. While a full-year has elapsed since I saw my dad for the last time, the need to remember, the need to record, and the need to write has not diminished.

In May, I was at a place in my grief where I attempted to categorize events as B.C. (Before Cari), A.D. (After Dad), or something in-between. For the events that occurred B.C., I am entirely dependent on the memory of others; for the nearly thirty-three years since my birth, I am mostly responsible. I am beginning to feel anxious that both my busy schedule and my imperfect memory are working against me and my attempts to remember all the lasts: the last time Dad said, “I’m sorry you have to go” (or was it “I’m sorry you have to leave?”) as I left for work. When did we do our last puzzle together? What day did we have that conversation about heaven? When did we pepper dad with questions about his past only to have him say, “I can’t remember?” And then there are the A.D. types of questions: Was Dad still alive when we watched “Dan in Real Life”? Wasn’t dad there when we had that St. Patrick’s get-together? Oh, that’s right, he was gone by then.

A few weeks before my father’s death, when he was recovering from the flu, I had pulled out a manila folder full of talks he had given at several Catholic retreats back in the 60s and 70s. Although my father was a man of faith, he never really talked about what he believed. Since he was often more eloquent as a writer, I wanted to read them with him; but the day wore on and the folder returned to the bottom drawer in the yellow hutch.

My father died on March 2, the day before his 82nd birthday. Two days later, my brother and I sat on the couch in the dim light of the living room to write his eulogy. We sought to outline his best qualities: generosity, humor, and faith. The first two were easy enough to demonstrate through examples, but describing dad’s faith was more elusive. It seemed best to refer to his words when fleshing out the latter, so the folder came back out of the hutch.

Reading my father’s manuscripts, and seeing the things he crossed out or changed, was like looking over his shoulder during the writing process. He jotted the names of jokes in the margins, jokes that he would tell to loosen up the crowd, jokes that are now infamous among his family and friends: Lousy Lover; Mother-In-Law; Fat-Ass.

While Michael typed away, I interrupted his brain-storm with, “Listen to this: ‘I have learned that people will be more impressed by what we are [and] by the way we live and act; the joy inside has a way of showing itself.’ ”

“That’s it,” he said.

My father was gone, and I was still getting to know him.

Since then, mother has explained that when she and dad were asked to speak at a retreat, they were often given an outline that included a topic (ie: What is Piety?), main points, and Scripture references; many of the words they spoke were not their own. She is also quick to point out that the most powerful and memorable things were the personal stories and examples they shared. This was where they shared their experiences of God’s love and faithfulness; His provision during difficult times; His grace in the midst of sorrow.

Yesterday, I spent the anniversary of my father’s death looking through that same manila folder and found that I am guilty of the same failings that my Dad admitted to in his talks: of being over-zealous, judgemental, unforgiving; I am also offered the same forbearance, grace, and forgiveness. I am my father’s daughter, and I’ve never been prouder to admit it.