Fresh Perspective

  A gorgeous view (in the distance the Mediterranean Sea) in the mountains of Lebanon. One of our 4 sons had a make belief world when he was a little boy.  This world was named Townasia and was filled with wonder, joy, and adventure. In Townasia , friends and animals were delightful companions and accompanied this little boy in his tree forts and tromps throughout our property. Mysteriously, I didn’t quite know how to navigate his escape world, especially when everything in Townasia was “perfect” compared to real life that was not always so delightful or magical.  I remember, repeatedly gently re-orienting him to real life and the joy that could be found here in this world despite its imperfections. Eventually, Townasia disappeared from little boy chatter and was replaced with realistic playing, companions and less escaping. Recently I have begun to ponder Townasia more. Transparently, I recognize that I have for all my years of living overseas (and perhaps longer) escaped to my

Adelle swung by to pick me up in her car to meet our newest refugee artisan. All I knew was that she had four little boys and that she was sewing hand embroidered bookmarks after the boys went to sleep at night. Driving through the local neighborhoods, Adelle and I were able to handle other Woven Dignity details. Soon, the neighborhood changed into buildings that were run down and uncared for. As we climbed the stairs to Malak’s apartment, I couldn’t take it all in fast enough.  The stairs had pieces of crumbled brick from where the building was disintegrating.  The word “Condemned!” should have been written across the entrance way, but instead the building was fully occupied. I could feel the eyes of the tenants watching the foreign lady arrive. Electricity wires ran everywhere in haphazard, couldn't-care-less, chaos. Four flights of stairs and we arrived at the “home” of Malak and her children. This home was one room with a tiny kitchen attached. There was one window with no

  Hitting the ceiling of our human tolerance is a common experience for all of us navigating this journey called “life”. Bumping up against that ceiling happens even more frequently when living as an expatriate in a foreign land.  The cultural differences, the absence of family, the political tensions, the lack of home comforts and a long list of “more”, tests the strands of resilience and grit. Each ceiling hit being unique and different for each of us. The more we bump that ceiling of high stress, the more water in our “buckets” (souls) gets sloshed out.  Without care and attention that bucket can run dry.  On our recent annual leave, as the plane took off from the Beirut, Lebanon runway, I recognized that I had been bumping up against that ceiling too often and that my bucket had only a little water sloshing around in the bottom.  I asked the Lord to lead me into green pastures and to restore my soul besides still waters as I returned “home”. Darron and I are not used to li