Journey to Bulembu: Reflections

NOTE: This was written yesterday before we actually left Bulembu but Internet access was nearly impossible. So, I am posting this as it was written…

The heat is relentless as the sun reminds me it isn’t quite ready to release its grip on summer. Sitting outside the Bulembu Country Lodge under the protective covering of a tree, I am reflecting on the last week. The Lodge is empty save for a few Swazi’s who are preparing for lunchtime guests. My roommates, Monique, Michelle and Vange, are all off on their special project assignments. My special project is this: writing. I am tasked with continuing to tell the story of Bulembu; the assignment handed to me by both God and some of the staff of Bulembu Ministries Swaziland.

My first thoughts return to the men singing to me through my iPod, The Canadian Tenors. I am here because of them. It was their music that first awakened a sleeping and broken heart, bringing to me emotions I thought were long gone after the events of 9/11 ripped them from my soul. At the time, all I ever wanted to do was to say thank you to them. The only way I knew how to do that was to write about and for them.

But once my heart began beating again, they reached further and opened my eyes to the plight of the citizens of Bulembu. The first time I interviewed the Tenors last June, they shared deeply personal and profound stories of their visit to Bulembu nearly two years earlier. Clifton had not yet joined the group and was anxiously awaiting his first trip. I recall being so touched at the pure emotion in Remigio as he expressed what he witnessed, and what he hoped for the people he’d come to love. Victor kept explaining that his life and that of his Tenor brothers had been forever changed. Fraser made it clear that what he saw was both lovely and heartbreaking. From each of them, I felt a longing to make a difference in Bulembu. And the one word that kept coming back to me through our conversation was joy. As difficult as things were for the Swazi people, all of them, the Tenors told me, had enormous joy.

I know their visit to Bulembu was exceptional but I simply couldn’t fathom the joy they spoke of. While I was touched by what each of them shared, I’m not sure I really got it. But as time passed, my heart kept getting pulled in the direction of Swaziland and specifically, Bulembu. Had what the Tenors seen really been all that bad? I watched their second trip to Bulembu unfold via YouTube, and what they shared confirmed it for me. While so much progress had been made in the two years since their last visit, so much more still needed to be accomplished. As I watched, I began to discover that I had fallen in love with a group of people I’d never met before, and I knew I had to keep telling their story.

God opened the door for me to come to Bulembu to experience it for myself. I remember thinking not long after we’d arrived that this place was so ugly yet so beautiful. The massive mountains that surround the area look as if they’re close enough for you to reach out your hand and touch them. The crisp, green trees that dog the landscape, the abundance of variety of trees and plants, all of it showcasing God’s handiwork and impeccable design.

Look away from the landscape for a moment and your eyes will be greeted by a landscape of buildings at various stages of disrepair, weeds that have overgrown in unkempt areas, roads with too many potholes, and ghosts of a painful past.

Inside lives hope. Amidst the heartache of success followed by too much physical, emotional and mental torture is a community that has been given a mulligan. The orphans that come here are plentiful but they are in a place where love abounds and healing is taking place. There aren’t many middle-aged people. Many of them died off due to the ravages of HIV/AIDS. Most of the residents here are either older or younger than 40. You won’t see kids wearing Polo’s or Nike’s. If they are wearing name brands, they’re often either too small or dirty or both. And there’s never a rush-hour traffic jam unless you count the hundreds of people who walk everywhere they go. Most of the workers homes in Bulembu don’t have electricity but it’s good enough to the people who live there because their homesteads are in far worse condition; barely fit for farm animals.

All of these ugly things are just that: things. The beauty of Swaziland extends far beyond the lush greenery to the people themselves. I see adorable faces of young girls and boys who have found a safe place to live. Their eyes reflect a haunted past, but they are learning that the future doesn’t have to equal the past. There are handsome men and women working for the first time again in years; employment that gives them pride once more. No one turns up a nose to someone else based on status in society or race. They all walk the same dirty, bumpy road. And together they walk with not only hope but also pure, unrelenting joy.

You can’t come to Bulembu and not feel their aches and longings. You can’t come to Bulembu without sharing in their hope and yes, even their joy.

Bulembu Country Lodge

9/11 – Today I Remember

Today America solemnly reflects back to the exact minutes when our homeland was attacked by terrorists. It’s hard to believe that it’s been nine years. For many, including yours truly, it feels like yesterday. The emotions are still so raw, and the memories are still fresh.

Today I remember what it sounded like when American Airlines flight 77 breached the core of the Pentagon. I remember wondering if the terrorists on board that flight could have carried some other type of WMD on the plane with them. I remember the heat and the smell of jet fuel. I remember bloodied and battered people being carted to waiting cars and emergency vehicles. I remember the silence that lingered over Washington, DC for what felt like an eternity because the skies were empty of airplanes. I remember seeing armored military police vehicles stationed at nearly every corner. I remember not knowing for more than a week if a friend had perished in the Pentagon only to learn he had been out of town on Pentagon business but that some of his peers had been killed that day.

I remember watching all the video from other news gathering sources. I remember the man and woman who jumped from one of the towers. I remember the color of her hair, her skirt as it billowed like a balloon, his tie. They were holding hands. I wonder how they made the decision. Were they a couple? Did they even know each others name? Did they get to say goodbye to anyone else? What were they thinking as they watched the earth come closer and closer?

I remember a dismembered hand and wondered if the body to which it belonged was among the living or the dead. I remember the faces of the brave firefighters climbing the stairs as frightened citizens walked the opposite direction. They never flinched at what they were facing. Would they do it again if they knew the outcome? I believe they would. I remember the clouds of ash when the buildings tumbled. I thought it ironic that even the walls of the Pentagon came down, although it was only the facade. Everything crumbled that day.

I remember Members of Congress, normally at each others throats suddenly comforting each other, encouraging and inspiring their constituents, singing God Bless America in unity and meaning it. I remember many of those same Members gathering for a private (no media allowed) night of prayer for our nation, the victims and the victims families. When had that ever happened before? I remember when our country believed in its president; when politics and religion didn’t matter because we were all wounded.

Most of those memories linger in my mind not just on the anniversary but quite often on a regular basis. Thankfully, less and less often as time passes. For many who witnessed or survived 9/11, like me, the wounds are internal. They cannot be seen. But we are called – yelled at, really – to get over it. Move on. It happened; deal with it. The same isn’t true for someone who lost a limb or was severely burned or has some other physical evidence of their 9/11 experience. And yet, as we reflect and remember, I have come to see an America that is once again divided. The sense of unity once felt is gone.

The wounds unseen are trampled for the sake of political and religious tolerance. We cave to those who claim to be peaceful but show intolerance by threatening with violence but declare those who have invisible scars as insensitive and inconsiderate. Whatever happened to compassion?

Today my grief continues whether a mosque is built or a Quran is burnt or neither happens. Tomorrow it will be the same. Because today I remember; every day I remember. I cannot forget, and I wish others would not forget.

The Grace That is Sufficient

Today we’re switching gears. Today’s post won’t focus on the Canadian Tenors or Voices for Bulembu, although those things are still on my mind and there is still much work to be done. But this is the time of year where my thoughts typically turn to memories I would rather not have.

This is the time of year where images and sounds and unsavory odors return to haunt me and remind me of an incident that is seared into my brain. This is the time of year when I start to look skyward and watch airplanes as they make their landing approach like a mother watching from the front stoop of her home to make sure her children make it safely off the school bus at the end of the day. This is the time of year when I start to think of the men and women who wear blue to serve and protect or run toward a fire instead of away from it just to save one more life.

This is also the time of year when overwhelming grief and sadness envelop me like a giant wave crashing against the shore. I can see it coming every year but it still takes me by surprise. Every year it takes longer for the wave to reach the shoreline, and I’m thankful for that. There was a time when the darkness and depth of the waters that surrounded me lasted year-round. But with time, I found my way to the top, then to the shore, then to the beach.

Perhaps the grief is my homage to those who died on 9/11. Perhaps it is my penance for not having done enough to help. This year it feels like punishment because I have found new healing although not entirely complete. So many others wear permanent scars from what they experienced that day. I suppose I do too but they are buried deep within. No one sees them and for that reason, they assume things – incorrectly, I might add.

Despite the many blessings in my life, I will carry this great sadness with me until 9/12. That’s just the way it’s been for these last nine years. I wish it could be different but I don’t know how to change it. I still think of that day throughout the year but as the anniversary draws near, every year my grief becomes a casket of nearly 3,000 souls I wear around my neck. And the memories are as fresh as if I were living it all over again, every single day.

This morning, I read these words from 2 Corinthians 12:9: “My grace is sufficient for you.”

How often do we pray, “Lord, make your grace sufficient for me”? But He says, “How dare you ask me when I have already said it is so!” A quote from a devotional I read on this topic this morning: “The Lord says it in the simplest way: ‘My grace is [not will be or may be] sufficient for you.’”

Get up and believe it to be true in your life. I am doing the same even in these darkest hours. The grace that is sufficient is indeed sufficient.

The Global Orphan Crisis Part II

Allow me to overwhelm you with a few more staggering statistics.

If orphans were a country, it would be the 8th largest country in the world in population – ahead of Russia.

Every 5.2 seconds a child dies.

On 9/11 – 2,972 people died. Today, 16,600 children will die but you won’t hear about it on the news.

On 12/26/04 – 298,000 people died in the Asian Tsunami. Over 300,000 children will die in the next 21 days.

From 1939 – 1945 – Hitler executed 6 million Jews. Over 6 million children will die this year alone.

Every 2.2 seconds an orphan ages out of the system worldwide.

Every day 38,493 orphans age out and are sent away.

In Russia, of those who age out:

• 10-15% commit suicide by age 18
• 60% of girls become prostitutes
• 70% of boys become hardened criminals

In the United States – more than 520,000 kids are in the foster care system and 120,000 are immediately adoptable.

In New York’s Foster Care system – 60% of kids who age out end up homeless.

There are 27 million victims of human trafficking worldwide. Of that number, 13 million are children.

(Statistics according to UNICEF)

Where does it end?

Well, first it has to start somewhere. Click here to learn about National Orphan Sunday, which is on November 7, 2010. See what you can do to help. If you can’t find a church in your area that is participating in Orphan Sunday, consider supporting Voices for Bulembu, a supporting arm of the Canadian Tenors and The Bulembu Foundation. Funds donated will aid the 2000 orphans in this tiny town in Swaziland, hit hard by devastating unemployment and the highest rates of AIDS in the world.

Contact me directly if you have questions. Children are the future, and we can’t keep our eyes closed anymore.

Bring Him Home

What does it feel like to live life without a soul? I used to think that only people who had surrendered to the great Enemy could roam this planet soulless until I lost my mine. It happened for me on 9/11 when I was across the street from the Pentagon. What I witnessed and experienced that day and on the days that followed as a journalist in Washington, DC left me feeling as if my body was an empty husk without the soul that used to drink in the beauty and wonder of life. I felt as if my very core rose to the heavens with the smoke that billowed from the burning wreckage that was the Pentagon. Nothing mattered anymore; not even the things what once stirred within me. Nothing moved me for nearly nine years.

I realize now that my soul never left me. I simply kept it hidden from the pain that was simply too much to bear. I think I forgot where I put it because I eventually got used to feeling nothing. The reunion of body and soul took place in February 2010 when I heard the first melodious strains of the musical group, the Canadian Tenors. The emotion that poured out of me was unlike anything I had ever experienced. And I have been making up for lost time ever since.

With this renewed awareness comes new passion for things I’d never dreamed possible. I have been blessed in recent weeks to get to know the men behind the voices of the Canadian Tenors – Remigio Pereira, Victor Micallef, Clifton Murray and Fraser Walters – and am even more blessed to walk alongside them in their journey of philanthropic efforts, especially Voices for Bulembu, which supports the Bulembu Foundation.

Bulembu is a small town in the northwestern region of Swaziland and is privately owned by the aforementioned Foundation. It was purchased with a vision to rejuvenate the now devastated town into a self-sustaining entity.

What makes the plight of the Swazi children so compelling to me is in knowing that I can make a difference by writing and telling their story. These children and their families know of anguish and sorrow on a level most of us will never comprehend. Many are born with HIV/AIDS; generations of families have been wiped out. It is the only country on earth that is experiencing a negative population growth rate and the Swazi people could cease to exist by 2050. Despite the strife they see every day, their souls are filled with joy for the little things, the relationships they have with one another, and the lives they get to live, no matter how short.

My heartache will never completely go away but I also have tools and resources available to me to make the path bearable. For reasons beyond their control, the people of Bulembu have been dealt a hand that can’t be played alone. They haven’t had access to the same type of care and support accessible to us in richer nations. The Canadian Tenors are trying to change that through Voices for Bulembu and the Bulembu Foundation. They are working in harmony to help this tiny town return to vibrancy by combining innovative enterprises with orphan care for Swaziland’s most vulnerable children.

God has given me the wonderful burden of caring for these orphans I’ve never met. If I can find hope and healing through music after experiencing what is hopefully a once-in-a-lifetime incident, what more do these children deserve for all they encounter every day without end?

Tenor Fraser Walters sings the haunting hymn “Bring Him Home” from Les Miserables. The song speaks of one man’s plea to God to save the young man he cares for as a son, going so far as to ask God to let him die and bring the young man home safe from battle.

In many ways, God brought me home; home from the internal battle that was keeping me from peace and joy. And someday, He’ll bring me to His Home. Who am I that I should have this opportunity when others cannot? For the children of Bulembu, I now offer whatever I can so God will bring them rest, peace, and joy; so He will bring them home and let them live.

Bring Him Home (Lyrics by Herbert Kretzmer)
God on high
Hear my prayer
In my need
You have always been there

He is young
He’s afraid
Let him rest
Heaven blessed.
Bring him home.

He’s like the son I might have known
If God had granted me a son.
The summers die
One by one
How soon they fly
On and on
And I am old
And will be gone.

Bring him peace
Bring him joy
He is young
He is only a boy

You can take
You can give
Let him be
Let him live
If I die, let me die
Let him live
Bring him home.

Nobodies Hero

I always watch with great fascination anytime I see a story of lifesaving heroics. A man lifts a car off of a child by sheer strength. A mother jumps into the freezing river to save her child. Witnesses rush to a burning car to save trapped accident victims. These are the moments when I think of the Bible verse that says, “There is no greater love than to lay down one’s life for one’s friends.” (John 15:13)

At some point in my amazement at the unselfishness of those who act without hesitation, I always think to myself, “If I’m ever in that kind of situation, I’ll be a hero too. Nothing will stop me from helping someone in need.”

I had such an opportunity on 9/11/01 when I was across the street from the Pentagon when its core was breached by an airplane. As soon as I heard the plane crash, I had a decision to make: Run to the scene and help, get to my new job at CBN News to help inform the world, or do nothing. Although it wasn’t what I wanted to do, I chose the latter. Actually, the choice was made for me by a body frozen in fear. I literally could not move.

In the years since that day, I have struggled not only with what I saw (in person and on video) but also with what I didn’t do. So many people – including a few therapists along way – have reminded me that, even with my press passes, I probably wouldn’t have been allowed to get close enough to help any of the victims. My mind often goes back to those who were in the burning Twin Towers with no chance of escape. Watching video of the jumpers haunts me to this day. But again, I have often been reminded, there is nothing I could have done. I wasn’t even in New York, and even if I had been, I couldn’t possibly have saved anyone trapped above the point of impact.

At the very least, I could have helped humanity by doing my job and reporting the facts as they unraveled. I should have helped a frightened America with news and knowledge that could have possibly provided some sort of comfort. But I didn’t even do that much. I was too scared to do my job.

I have heard from many who care – including a number of therapists along the way – who have said that I did help by coming to work the next day and relieving those who had been working through the night on this breaking story, which is what my boss asked me to do. To be honest, I think that’s just fluff to make me feel better, but I try to accept it for what it’s worth.

I really wanted to be a hero that day. And in so many ways, I haven’t been able to forgive myself for what I didn’t do. As I continue the healing process, I am learning to forgive. It is, however, a slow process.

I wonder what will happen if I am ever presented with a scenario that requires swift action, the kind of action that could possibly save a life. Will I respond differently? I would like to say that I will. Perhaps I’ll never have to find out, and that would be ok, too. In the meantime, I try to help in other ways, including telling my story. I doubt it will save a life, but perhaps it will help someone in some small way.

Is there something you did or didn’t do for which you haven’t forgiven yourself? What’s stopping you?

Laugh Again

I always appreciated the sentiment behind working for a Christian organization, and the same was true when I worked for CBN News in Washington, DC as a producer. That warm, fuzzy feeling was quickly put in its place once I realized they (the people who work there) are forgiven, not perfect. Yet, every once in a while, true agape love was shown in meaningful and often simple ways.

In the days and weeks after 9/11, I walked around much like the rest of the residents in DC and NY – like a zombie. One of our photogs noticed the deep depression washing over me. After another long day on Capitol Hill, we made our way back to the office. I wrapped up my duties and headed for the door when Jeremy caught up with me and said, “I’m really concerned about you. Take this and read it. Maybe you’ll discover how to laugh again.”

I looked down and found in my hand a small book – no bigger than an iPod – called “Laugh Again” by Chuck Swindoll. It’s about how the Apostle Paul found reason to laugh, or at the very least, smile, through every circumstance, even the trials of life. I mumbled my thanks and left.

The book remained cupped in my hand as I entered the Metro, which was typically packed. I noticed a few empty seats even though there were plenty of people standing. I found myself oddly drawn to sit next to a young man who had the kindest looking face. Once the train started moving, the man said, “How do you laugh?”

“Great,” I thought. “I had to sit next to the only quack on the train.”

Without looking at him, I said, “What?”

“How do you laugh? You’re holding that book called ‘Laugh Again’, and I just wondered how you laugh.”

“I don’t have much of a reason to laugh anymore,” I said, still not making eye contact.

“Not many of us do,” he replied. “But, while those men meant to harm us, God meant it all for good.”

I nodded half-heartedly. He paused for a minute or two, then said, “Do you know that God thinks you’re beautiful, and He’s going to do amazing things through you.”

This time I looked at the young man. His face still presented gentleness, his eyes filled with loving compassion. Inexplicably, every person on the train seemed to disappear, and there wasn’t a sound to be heard, save for our conversation. It was just me and that young man.

“What?” I asked again.

“God thinks you’re beautiful. He is going to do amazing things through you.”

I collapsed into the arms of this stranger, sobbing uncontrollably. His words – and the truth of them – pierced my heart with profound conviction. He held me as I cried and kept reminding me how much God loved me.

As I eventually pulled myself together and out of his embrace, our surroundings returned to normal. I looked around to see if anyone was starring. No one seemed to notice my meltdown, and I was thankful.

“This is my stop,” said the young man, whose eyes were as brown as his hair. “Don’t forget what I have told you. And you will laugh again.”

With that, he stepped off the Metro, disappearing into the crowd. I never saw him again. But I have never forgotten his words. They were the beginning of intense sadness and pain and healing, and yes, eventual laughter.

How do you laugh in the midst of trials and tribulations? Are you able to laugh at all?

Oh, What a Feeling

Most of my days are filled with silence. At least that has been my preference ever since I lost my connection to music after the events of 9/11, as I described in a previous post. Before my intimate encounter with terrorism, I listened to music constantly. It was part of the fabric of my being. But the numbness that greeted me that day left me wanting nothing but silence; not even music could move me anymore. If I did listen to a song on the radio, I often felt worse, knowing what I was missing and being reminded of what I once had; pure joy, passion, excitement, peace, intimacy with my Heavenly Father. I was in enough pain, so why torture myself with more. I often felt turning on the radio or popping in a CD was a useless attempt to recapture what I was certain would never return. So, in my car, which is where I usually listened to music, I drove in silence.

All of that ended when my soul was re-awakened the first time I heard the Canadian Tenors when they appeared on Oprah earlier this year. Since getting their debut and Christmas CD’s downloaded on my MP3 player, I am rarely without the sounds of music. More specifically, I am rarely without the sounds of the Tenors! At times I listen just to see if my soul is still alive, as if the emotions I experience through their voices would no longer rise to the surface. Thankfully, that has not happened!

But I mostly listen because I simply love their music and the sound of their voices. I hear something new practically every time I turn on the player. I can once again hear four-part harmonies, which always send chills down my spine. Clifton brings such a gentle strength to the ensemble through his wide vocal range. You can’t help but stand a little taller anytime he sings. Remigio’s enthusiasm is exquisitely articulated through his voice and in the strumming of his guitar on various songs. (And if you’ve never listened to any of his solo works, you’re really missing out! This guy is talented!) Victor brings romance through his operatic voicing; the kind that makes you want to grab the one you love and just let nature take over! Fraser has the most pure-sounding voice I have ever heard. He forces you to connect with the music in such a way that leaves you feeling as if you are one with him and the song. But the intimacy and emotion he exudes allows you to melt willingly. Who else can do that?

My husband and I just returned from a road trip to South Carolina to visit my parents. I brought lots of writing material and, of course, my MP3 player, intent on listening to more of the Tenors. It is about a 10-11 hour drive, and I’m certain I could have listened to them repeatedly for the duration. But I decided to spare my husband and used the earplugs. But even then, I couldn’t exactly ignore him through our entire commute. And I wouldn’t be able to use the earplugs during my leg of the drive. When I climbed behind the wheel, I chose some of my old favorites, just to pass the time. I played Celine Dion, Carrie Underwood, some old gospel music, Point of Grace, and Faith Hill; songs I hadn’t heard in a long time. And I couldn’t believe what happened.

Instead of the emptiness I’d felt so much before, I felt full of life listening to these artists and their music. Instead of the dark clouds that hung over me, I felt clear skies, as if God was caressing my face with the sun. I found endless wonders in the melody and strains of the instruments. It was almost like what I had experienced the first time I heard the Canadian Tenors, albeit not as intense. It was just like before 9/11 robbed me of the sweetness, purity and innocence I felt in life and song.

I wasn’t expecting this surprise. But isn’t that how God works? Mysteriously and usually when we’re not looking. While we’re busy looking for the burning bush, He sends His love in the soft, melodious sounds through the voices of the children He created. And, oh, what a feeling.

What do you feel when you listen to music?

BONUS: Check out this sneak peak of the Canadian Tenors and their upcoming PBS special (The Canadian Tenors: Live in Toronto)

Who am I?

The question of “who am I” is commonly asked among the younger generation. Tweens and teens alike wonder what their purpose is in life and how they’re supposed to go about accomplishing that purpose. Even youngsters in college seek clarification in their identity, wondering what to study and how their education and social experiences will make a positive impact on the world. I have often heard people say that the older you get the more you know yourself. I can testify to the validity of this claim but I have also learned, as I have gotten older, if you’re willing, you never stop growing.

Remaining stagnant in anything is not an option for me. I hunger for God’s wisdom and crave being all He destined for me to be. More often than not, the growth that comes with that wisdom is painful. I liken it to open heart surgery – without anesthesia. I have, in recent months, gone through a number of such procedures, and have discovered a few things about myself that I didn’t know before. While I know I’m becoming exactly who God wants me to be, I am finding myself grieving over who I know I will never be. And I feel an ever-increasing isolation because, like I did in high school, I feel like I don’t fit in.

One of those areas of understanding and acceptance is related to my 9/11 experience. I so desperately wanted to get the heck out of Washington, DC after the attacks on America. I was surrounded by a fraternity of journalists who had gone through what I went through. But, our club meetings were always silent. No one spoke of what they saw or felt or experienced that day and in the days afterward. With that silence came a feeling of alone-ness that has yet to leave me. I needed to know I wasn’t the only one feeling what I was feeling. Those answers never came from my brethren.

Moving to Indianapolis was, in my mind, the safest place I could get without having to remove myself from the planet yet still close enough to be able to get home to my family in SC in a matter of hours all while still working as a journalist, albeit in print instead of TV news. What I have discovered here is even more isolation. To my knowledge, I am the only person in Indianapolis, Indiana who heard the plane crash into the Pentagon in person, the only one who watched video of the jumpers from the World Trade Center buildings before they collapsed, the only one who felt the heat rising from the Pentagon for days after the fire was extinguished. I am the only one in Indianapolis who covered the events of 9/11 in NY and knows the stench of 3,000 dead bodies. I am the only one.

That’s not to suggest others in Indiana were not affected adversely by the attacks. Perhaps they lost a loved one or a friend. Perhaps they were a first responder who went to NY or DC to assist in recover efforts. In those experiences, there is a common bond. But from 8:48 am, 9/11/01 to this very minute, I know of no one else that can relate. I have had so many conversations with people about what I saw, desperately needing someone to say, “I understand.” I continue to wait for those words of comfort.

Everyone has experienced pain; that is the common bond in the human race. But somewhere in this town is a woman who can relate to a mother who lost a child because she has lost one too. Somewhere in this town is a man who knows what it feels like to have survived cancer because he had it too. Somewhere in this town is a son who knows what his friend is struggling with watching his parents battle dementia because he is watching it in his family too.

Somewhere in Indianapolis, Indiana is a woman who is isolated because no one else in this town understands because they have never walked in my shoes. Who am I if I am alone?

God Does Not Lie

A portion of Titus 1:2 reads, “…God, who does not lie, promised.”

I have never once thought that God ever lied or is capable of lying. There have been times, however, when I doubted His sincere promise to me. It is in those moments when my faith is tested, and I become impatient or bitter because my time-table has been dismissed. In a small daily devotional book given to me by my friend and fellow writer, Diane Markins, I learned a valuable lesson about God’s promise and faith. Here’s what I read:

Faith is not conjuring up, through an act of your will, a sense of certainty that something is going to happen. No, it is recognizing God’s promise as an actual fact, believing it is true, rejoicing in the knowledge of that truth, and then simply resting because God said it.

Faith turns a promise into a prophesy. A promise is contingent upon our cooperation, but when we exercise genuine faith in it, it becomes a prophesy. Then we can move ahead with certainty that it will come to pass, because “God… does not lie.” (“From Days of Heaven upon Earth”)

I often hear people praying for more faith, but when I listen carefully to them and get to the essence of their prayer, I realize it is not more faith they are wanting at all. What they are wanting is their faith to be changed to sight.

Faith does not say, “I see this good for me; therefore God must have sent it.” Instead, faith declares, “God sent it; therefore it must be good for me.”

Faith, when walking through the dark with God, only asks Him to hold his hand more tightly. (By: Phillip Brooks)

I have often prayed for more faith but now understand that more faith isn’t what I really wanted. I wanted desperately for my faith to be changed to sight. For the things I wanted, things I believed were sent of God (or going to be sent of God), my faith said that once it arrived, God’s promise was kept. But what if those things never came to fruition? Does that mean God lied? Too often, my faith has been too weak to declare, “God sent it; therefore it must be good for me.”

This is true of my struggle and fear with writing and moving beyond what I experienced on 9/11. My immature faith found a way to conjure up “God’s plan” for my life so I wouldn’t be exposed to the pain of walking through the darkness that hovered around me. Instead of holding on to His hand more tightly, I ran away.

But God, in His infinite wisdom and grace and mercy, patiently waited. He didn’t give me what I wanted because he was protecting me from the evil that would have come (Isaiah 57:1). Rather than change my faith to sight, He sent the darkness to me and watched for my cooperation.

Clarity is my companion now but the heartache is not yet over. There will be more to come as He reveals His will further. And I am again in a holding patter; a season of waiting. But my faith is steadfast because God does not lie. He has already promised I will see my dream come true as I walk in His plan that was set since the foundation of the world.

God does not lie.