Recently, my friend Jeff Goins, who runs a writing course I’ve taken (Tribe Writers) challenged us to write a manifesto about something we care about. Many of you know I write a lot about modern day missions and social justice based on my six years spent living in a war affected region of Uganda as a missionary and non-profit founder. I write a lot about how we need to change the paradigm, in order to shift from the way things have always been done. So this is my missionary manifesto, this is my clarion call to the world about what missions and social justice should look
It’s been a few weeks since I returned from the Justice Conference in Philly. But many of the thoughts, emotions, and inspirations sit with me as I go back to my new existence in America that I’m still getting used to. I’ve been compelled to write about something I’ve been thinking of for a while. This Justice movement, so beautiful and brave, and yet how do we make it more than just a fad? More than something “cool” to get involved with or post on our facebook. More than something other people will pat us on the back for. What
I’m at Bethel Church in Redding, California and had an encounter last night with Father that was so real and so amazing. It reminded me of the teaching of Jennifer Toledo (my personal hero) on The Weeping Room which I am re-posting here. (Jen, I hope this is accurate–it’s one of the most beautiful revelations of Father’s heart.) But also that entering into Father’s heart and feeling how His heart breaks—for all the raped women, for all the scared children, for all the lonely missionaries, for ALL His children—-that it is a pathway into strategy. I feel like this is
Baby E* is just the cutest little guy ever. And he just got adopted! Baby E, 11 months They say that once you hold your baby you forget everything that happened before. All the pain, all the tears dissolve into the glow of tiny fingers and tiny toes. The red birth becomes bright. Even though E* did not come out of my body. In many ways it feels like he’s mine. And when I look at his cheeks and his eyes, and hear his soft baby noises, I too feel the memory slipping away. But I don’t want to
Vanessa pulls her orange skirt over her feet. Her shirt is covered with red hearts. She traces the ground as she cries. Her step father used to call men over to rape her. Used to pimp her and laugh as she cried behind the curtain. Too small. Legs, too small for her age. She is only seven. The tears gather in the middle of her pupils and spill down her face like drops of rain collecting on a window. Where is that smile? Where is that smile I love to see. Where has
Caught in the crossfire of bullets they only wanted to survive it. To outrun the cycle of war, rape, and the blaze of huts as they were destroyed. They promised them safety. A future. Maybe even a marriage. A truck out of hell, out of the heart of darkness. But it would cost them something. Just a body. Just a soul. Just a life. When the Ugandan People’s Defense Force (UPDF) rolled out of Congo in a billow of dust and sand it took the beautiful, fair-skinned Congolese women with it. Traded one hell for another. Dropped them off in
The shadow of the banana tree leaves dancing on the courtyard wall. The guitar chords strummed softly in the house, the birds of different colors chiming in with the sound. The sun’s long afternoon rays lazily alighting the tile floors, the rhythmic scrubbing of the muddy brush against the walls, the water dripping off the banisters, the smell of soap as an African man lays into his work. I feel a sense of belonging finally. And freedom. I have missed that feeling like I used to feel on nights in Colorado in the middle of fields and sweet-sticky hay barns, a
Every morning I shut off my alarm about six times, pull my ear plugs out of my ears, untangle myself from my mosquito net, roll over and somewhere in there ask God to give me the people he wants me to help that day. Some of us like to call them “divine appointments.” Beth Moore likes to call them “God stops,” but whatever one calls them it’s a moment when we recognize the gravity of a person entering our life and another layer of meaning behind our simple encounter.
Writer. Missionary Coach. Recovering perfectionist. I want you to know that you are loved and already good enough. I am about helping people move from brokenness into wholeness. Together, we'll make a more beautiful world.