No longer a slave to fear

I am a child of God.

I feel led to share this part of my testimony with you because this is something we all experience... even though (and maybe because) it's a lot more vulnerable than my average blog post. But if I can be honest about my story on my way to freedom, maybe you can too.

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I had the privilege of interpreting for a thirteen-year-old American girl in another part of the Dominican Republic earlier this year. Raised in a culture of missions, she had a clear message she wanted to share. Every time we went out on an outreach, she found a likely looking girl on the sidelines and encouraged her to believe a life-changing truth: “Did you know you are the daughter of the most high King?” You are not alone; you have a Father right with you.

A Father. More than just a male parent, biblically this tough concept implies a loving, caring, wise, involved, proud, reliable, trustworthy, admirable authority figure of integrity and strength. And the parent/child relationship implies a dependent relationship of trust and unconditional love, in which the child knows Daddy has the child's best interest at heart and will love him no matter what. Tall order? Probably. Earthly dads hardly ever live up to that descriptor, even the best of them. Sad to say, in the DR we often see a shortage of examples of fatherhood of any kind, save the dads who drop out of the picture, abuse their children, and "father" kids with lots of different women. 

I know my dad isn't perfect, but honestly I have a hard time identifying his failures. He's about as perfect as it gets. And my mom is also extraordinary. I know both of them love me unconditionally and would never try to hurt me.

So how did I ever end up struggling with the mentality of the orphan spirit? I could probably delve into my childhood and dredge up a handful of wounding experiences, not necessarily at the hands of my parents, but through rejection or disappointment from other people I thought I should be able to trust. I'm pretty sure all of us could. Though the "how" is important to our healing, it's different for all of us. The point is that all of us, eventually, have to deal with orphan thinking, which is characterized by self-reliance, love of the rules, insecurity, striving for acceptance, shame and guilt, self-rejection, and seeking comfort in counterfeit affections like addictions and escapism and compulsions. Orphans hold others at arm's length, afraid of being disappointed.

A couple of years ago I found myself at my wits' end.  I was working two jobs plus volunteering as a worship leader 6 hours a week plus devoted to working out for a couple hours each day plus trying to be a good roommate. I had just lost a lot of weight and changed myself completely, but I could see myself on the verge of gaining it back because suddenly food was my answer to every question and my hard-won self-control was going down the tubes. Then I found out I needed a hip replacement and I suddenly had no idea which end was up or even who to ask for help-- I felt like an inconvenience and a burden. And I feared asking for help because I was afraid I was important to nobody but me, and that others would disappoint me. And my insecure mind consistently focused on all the ways I felt I didn't fit in whatever situation, rather than on how God wanted to use me and mold me the way he made me. 

Yep. Wits' end. Out of control. Other little selfish or greedy behaviors started manifesting themselves, and I felt like a failure because I couldn't live up to the standards I had set for myself. Even a twinge of loneliness sent me scrambling for a spoon and the peanut butter jar. I came to the realization that I had an eating disorder, compulsive overeating, of all things... So, orphan mentality in mind: In that scenario, we see striving, busyness, shame and guilt, insecurity, over-self-reliance, self-rejection, and seeking comfort in counterfeit affections and addictions! I was a textbook case of orphan mentality and slavery to fear, and I didn't even know it. 

I have gained a lot of the weight back. But I have come to recognize that this, too, is part of my journey to find a healthy space. 

Seeking to deal with my "symptom," the disordered food mentality, I spent time talking and praying with friends. One of them prayed out against an "orphan spirit," a concept I had never considered at that point. Orphan? Me? With my awesome loving parents? Yet... who was this person inhabiting and consuming my body, who ate like she didn't know where her next meal was coming from? As if somebody else who didn't care about her needs at all might get the pleasure of that morsel if she didn't snag it first? As if she didn't have a place just for her at the table? I am living like an orphan, I realized with shock.

Not too long after that, I read Heidi Baker's Compelled by Love, in which she describes an orphan child sneaking a Coke from the family fridge when he could have just opened the fridge and taken it, not able to grasp the fact that the Coke had been put in the fridge for him in the first place. That's... me again, I recognized. In so many ways, spiritual as well as literal.

A spontaneous prophetic song in Spanish by Marco Barrientos put me in tears not long after that. "Believe that I am your father, and you are not an orphan anymore! Believe that through the blood of Jesus Christ, you have been redeemed. Believe that all of your needs have been supplied for through my riches in glory. Believe that for you there is a place at my table! That you are not a stranger or foreigner. But believe you are a citizen among the saints, and a member of the family of God!" The simple truth of that passionate prophecy continued to guide my heart toward the truth: I needed to find my place at the table of God.

As we grow in confidence in our identity in Christ, each of us must deal with our own walk from slavery to sonship. So many of our offenses and reactions, and even the ways we treat other people are embedded in a belief that we must try harder, perform better, be something other, and earn respect and advancement. Orphans are willing to put others down if it will take them higher. Orphans are willing to blame authority if it means a better situation for themselves.

Sons and daughters don't need that. They understand that their position is secure because it's based on their identity as children of their father, not on their actions as mere employees or strangers who must prove themselves before they can belong. They are already invested in the family business because it's their inheritance. So the journey from slavery to sonship does not merely mean an identity change-- it requires a mentality change as well.

In fact, it represents our perceived identity as humans to an uncanny degree-- it even shows up in pop culture. Take for example all 3 main characters (Harvey, Louis, and Mike) from the TV show Suits. Harvey is a self-made man, disappointed by his mom's infidelity and abandonment in his youth, now an externally successful lawyer internally closed to legitimate love and feeling. Louis constantly seeks affection and approval and is willing to put down or betray others to get it. Mike was actually orphaned as a kid, and through his masquerading as a lawyer, is seeking a place to belong as if he has no home. Did the show's writers sit down and go, "Hey, let's give all our characters orphan complexes!"?? I think not. The orphan mentality is ingrained in our broken state. 

Since my recognition of my orphan mentality, I have had to do battle with it. The war hasn't ended yet. My first year in the Dominican Republic I didn't really feel I had a home. New culture, new job, new family, no friends. New attack of the orphan spirit. I didn't even have so many of the things I count on for encouraging others-- not even a thank-you note to write in or a pencil to write it with. I've had it so much easier than so many missionaries before me, but I see those things as vital to my identity. So what did I default to? My "identity" as an orphan. Self-reliant, independent, and freaking lonely because I was afraid of crossing my perception of other people's boundaries. Life as an orphan sucks.

Then I started noticing the sons of the folks I work for. They are unafraid to let their personalities or their desires influence the group activities or atmosphere. That confidence brings their mother joy, because I think she knows (like the wise woman she is) that it's a sign of them knowing they have a place in their family. When we are confident enough to share who we are... we have more potential to bless other people.

I've been here more than a year now-- this is my home, too, and my community, if not my family. The same dynamics apply. And if I hope to be effective in ministry I need to be all that I am, with no apologies (unless of course I am in the wrong).

I am not their child. They don't owe me, and I'm not entitled. I don't want to inconvenience people... but neither should I live invisible. That prevents me and my personality, however crazy we might be, from being useful and impactful to other people. That insecurity and fear is what keeps me quiet when I have a chance to speak up. That's what holds me back when I have a chance to make a difference.

Living with less fear (because I'm still on the road to eradication of it) has given me more freedom to just be me. Living as a child of the king gives me a sense of authority and confidence. 

What if we all understood who we are as children of the king? What if we based our actions less out of fear that we would lose our hard-won position, or worse, never advance at all-- and based them more on our solid identity as children of a most high God? What if we walked in confidence and security, as well as the understanding that this means coming underneath those in authority over us to push up and make their vision come to fruition? 

Do you realize you are the child of the most high King? Do you know what that makes you? Do you know the inheritance that's yours?

Me, I have a place at his table.

(If any of the ideas in this post speak to you at all, I highly recommend Jack Frost's book Spiritual Slavery to Spiritual Sonship. A lot of the ideas in this post come directly from its pages.)

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Raindance

Even the slightest hint of rain gets me looking hopefully out windows these days. During a light sprinkle from a cloudless sky not too long ago, I convinced Nancy to brave the wetness to join me up on the roof (a favorite place of mine lately). The drops fell cool and refreshing on my skin, and together we saw both ends of a blazing rainbow in the distance on the golden horizon, our shared experience the pot of gold.

When it finally full-on rained, I dodged raindrops through the yard to run up onto the roof yet again and just soak it all in. I sloshed through puddles and turned my face heavenward, praying that it wouldn't relent until I was drenched clean through. And it didn't. Waves of raindrops blew over us on a persistent wind, trickling in rivulets down my arms and dripping off my hair. I found a puddle to perch on and sat there, a very very happy mess, smiling at the gift of a rainy day. 

I stayed until lightning streaked across the sky and I decided that being the tallest thing on a watersoaked roof was maybe not the most strategic position for survival. As I stayed low and darted for the stairs back down to earth, I heard a familiar whisper in the corner of my heart.

What if, every time you saw a remote possibility of getting drenched by my presence, a worship service or even just a few drops of my glory, you ran toward it with everything you are, hoping you will be completely soaked?

Only if we brave the droplets do we get the chance to be cleansed, which happens only if we saturate ourselves completely. Braving the rain gives us the opportunity to spot a rainbow, the promise of color to come.

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Antagony

By all rights, we should not have allowed John Boy Walton to live.

Ants like John Boy have this obnoxious tendency to call in the rest of the Walton family to do their best impression of Hugh Jackman as Jimmy Fallon's Aussie houseguest. So I reiterate, John Boy's laborious trek across Kristan's pockmarked concrete floor should have been curtailed the moment we spotted him trying to cart off remnants of our apartment-christening picnic.



Ants in the DR generally have overactive lifestyles, anyway... Hundreds (literally) of the little toilers have taken up residence in the walls and under the floor of my room, until drinking ants in my coffee is a pretty unshocking event, and I've even tried a peanut butter and honey with ant sandwich, which was quite delicious. Standing at my dresser feels like a visit to a peculiar kind of arcade, where "Whack-an-Ant" is the main attraction... as my friend Jay so accurately depicts here:

Ah, a life overseas.

Kristan's thoughts on ants and cohabiting with them generally resemble my own... This is, of course, why she and I have found a remarkably solid friendship. That plus a bunch of other things. Ant-hatred is an important detail in life and relationships.

But instead of conspiring to assassinate this wee invader, we turned into the paparantzzi, getting down on his level to try to get a selfie with the crumb-bearing celebrity.

"I GOT HIS GOOD SIDE!" Kristan hollered.

She did, too. Entertainment is hard to come by here, what can I say?

So we snapped some photos, then sat back to finish our picnic and watch as Walton struggled across the pitted and peeling concrete floor with a burdensome crumb as big as he was, and it almost looked like he was traversing a map of the world, continent by continent, canyon by canyon.

Like us.

I think we all feel like John Boy Walton from time to time, weighed down by a load heavier than we can bear, trying to make our goal and get our stash from point A to point B, a journey that probably only matters to us ourselves, though we might get surprised by the occasional paparazzi squad of onlookers who don't help so much as provide irritation or maybe entertainment. Because our journey isn't the same as anybody else's and giants might lurk somewhere out there, ready to squash us at their slightest whim. A journey like that, in a big, big world like that, where we feel so small and insignificant, makes it easy to cower in fear and never even get our crumb from point A to point B.

The Israelites felt that way as they were looking at the Promised Land. Great produce, fertile country... but they were just one nation... plus, GIANTS!!!

They rebelled against their journey, and it took 40 years in the desert for them to realize that the giants didn't matter because God fought for them. He fought for them, and he won them a home. They were only responsible for carrying their crumb and trusting.

I am responsible to carry my crumb of my purpose and trust that in his greater, bigger plan he will guide my steps to fulfill his goals and get all the glory. If I am truly his daughter... that's all I need.

Night Momma. Night Daddy. Night Mary Ellen. Night John Boy.

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luv u

As a proofreader and editor, few online abbreviations accost my creative conscience like the grammatically gauche "luv u." The simply sweet sentiment it serves seems squashed almost completely by the apparent lack of respect for proper spelling of the person on the other end.

But... my personal annoyance with the term aside, and for reasons completely unrelated to its grammatical disrespect, those words are hard to respond to or reciprocate. Why is that? I've recently had a few revelations about love, and I thought I would share them.

Nope, sorry, I have no announcements to make about my romantic life. Ah, well. However, I have been learning more about what it's like to love others on purpose... and even to have love for others (and from them) sneak up and surprise you.

In Greek, there are four different words for love. Storge, the unforced familial love. Phileo, the generous and affectionate "brotherly" love of close friendship. Eros, the love that's... a bit more than brotherly, if ya know what I mean. And lastly agape, the unconditional love.

It has been the development of storge and phileo that has surprised me most. God has blessed me with a few pretty unusual but pretty special relationships... friends that I never expected would truly feel close to me, a crazy collection of people I call brothers and sisters or family in general. Some of the things we have walked through together, and the way we've ended up pulling together on the other side, have made me realize that that "family" title isn't just for fun. I mean it. I love them. Which can feel a little scary sometimes (especially when some of them have the tendency to leave you the shudder-inspiring note, "luv you." They can't mean it....).

Understanding that lovely side of relationships changes things. And has brought a few revelations about love to mind.

1) To love is to leave yourself vulnerable, to let what someone else knows about you matter, and to trust them with that.

Few things are as painful as a previously close friend turning on you and using the things that the two of you shared in confidence to tear down your relationship with their own two hands. But to have a true relationship, you have to risk that vulnerability and recognize that their opinion of you is going to matter. A lot. And regardless of what they do with your confidence, you can love them anyway.

2) Satan will use the doubt of love to make us insecure and unable to trust.

Lack of love means broken relationships. If we doubt others' intentions toward us, it becomes extremely difficult to trust them at all... or to trust others we may come across later. When doubt becomes part of our relational pattern, we lose potential for the intimacy God designed as part of relationships. So we must first trust him with the people we decide to confide in, and make our own objective, then, to be people of integrity who never give our loved ones reason to doubt us. Not because we expect them to be able to deliver us the same, but rather because we do love them unconditionally and don't want to hurt them.

3) To love is to sign up for hurt. 

Not necessarily because of points 1 and 2, in which the other person betrays a trust or our doubts are justified. Simply put, it is impossible to pass through life without experiencing pain, and when something hurts those we care deeply about, it hurts us, too. When we sign up for love, we sign up for the other person's aches and wounds. Sometimes we sign up to feel pain they themselves do not have the capacity to feel as of yet.

We can only truly agree to love when we acknowledge this, and recognize that the relationship itself is worth all the pain it will bring. From a philosophical perspective, pain is one of the beauties of life... though it sure doesn't seem like it when we pass through it.

4) Loving is worth it.

Despite the hard moments, the occasional betrayals, the rifts that arise, we grow through love. Life is enriched through love. Especially love that purely desires the thing that is best for the one who is loved.

Truly loving someone gives us the ability to serve them without seeing it as demeaning or somehow beneath us. It enables us to be for them the very thing that we would desire for ourselves if we could give voice to that deep, often hidden longing. And the beauty of love is that it often has the tendency to come full circle: when we love others well, they may very well come full circle to love us in return.

Being loved by someone, in a pure, unforced, self-sacrificing sense, is the sweetest gift you could receive. It's worth the pain. Better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all.

luv u.

I've had to learn to read it for the sentiment it conveys. There is somebody on the other end of that phrase who cares. Cares enough to write me those words, in fact. So at the very least, that person is my friend. And I very likely love them too.

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Rebel Respect

Picturing Poverty

Sometimes being a missionary takes you to oases where being a photographer is almost a natural happenstance...

 

 Because let's face it, we missionaries like taking selfies just as much as the next millennial. (If slideshows are no longer scrolling, just hover over them and click the little arrow "play" button that appears.)

Photo Gallery by QuickGallery.com And it so happens that as a missionary, I have the privilege of living in a country that could easily be the most beautiful on earth (if you shove the poverty, lack of education, and the streetside trash under the rug, if you've got one).

And that's the Dominican Republic that everyone wants to believe in. When I say this is where I live, the first images that pop into people's minds are the resorts and beaches... turquoise pools like jewels rimmed by swaying windblown palms and white sand beaches. Coconuts with little umbrellas and straws, beachside vendors selling jewelry and tasty treats.


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Reality is, that's reality for remarkably few people on this island. If you go to those places, you usually don't see Dominicans. Most families live on the primary breadwinner's earnings of less than $1/hr, and despite what most folks would like to tell you, living here is not actually cheaper than living in the USA. Food and anything produced (furniture, cars, dishes, paper products, etc.) are just as expensive, if not more so, due to import costs.

Statistics indicate that most of the "real people" on Facebook and social media dress up their lives by choosing what they post, so that it makes things look better, richer, more comfortable, and more fun than they actually are, on average. For the most part, we make posts when we're happy, when we have something we want to make others envious of, when we want to share a pretty photo we took.

Because the unhappy things in life aren't beautiful.
The unexciting things in life aren't sharable.
The unlovely things in life aren't worth "liking."

Enter my little rant's sarcasm here: Unless, of course, you're a missionary in a foreign country. Then the poverty, the discomfort, the hardship, is expected, romanticized, and becomes our cover photos, profile photos, and memes, accompanied by little heart shapes and smilies. We intentionally trade the "happies" for evoking emotion.

I guess that I do fall too often into the trap of wanting to share only the beautiful. The things we want to believe in. But... I want to tell the whole truth, with my words or with my camera lens. Just in a way that truly respects who people are, what they do, and how they live... without exploiting it to gain emotional responses from others.

Last week when we had our Operation Christmas Child shoebox distribution event, one of the mothers practically begged me to take a picture of her twin sons. "¡Mellizos! ¡Mellizos!" she told me, pointing and pulling their little brown faces together. "¡Una foto de mis mellizos!" So I smiled and pointed my Rebel their way, wondering why that was so important to her, or why she was so sure I would need a photo of her two adorable little boys. But... sometimes snapping a photo is a way to make a person feel important, like they matter, like someone wants to remember them. Snapping pictures can actually be ministry.

Regardless... I got a cute picture of a couple adorable kids out of the deal!

I just wonder how often the subjects of our photography recognize our boldfaced, wide-eyed, ethno-centric, point-and-shoot reactions as the pity it is for a lifestyle they've worked hard to be proud of. They sweep their dirt floors, shower several times a day, and almost always dress their best-- with more conscientiousness than most USA-ians, to be truthful.


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Somehow we feel justified sticking our camera lenses into their everyday reality because "Everyone wants to see the little naked babies!"

Do we see the sanctity to their poverty? The singularity to their struggle to make life work, that their determination merits our respect? Don't get me wrong. As this post exemplifies, I love photography. I love the art of composition and showing people things they wouldn't otherwise see. I just wonder... are we extending others the same respect and courtesy we would expect of them were the shoe on the other foot?

I don't mean to be abrasive... this is just food for thought: If it were my naked baby, would I want his picture plastered on National Geographic?

That's why I had a hard time photographing anything outside our outreaches or moments of tourism for the first several months of living here. I lived with a Dominican family, and traveled with a couple of my Dominican friends. There was an indescribable richness to those experiences, and pulling out my camera to photograph the differences in lifestyle felt like a demonstration of disrespect tantamount to "slumming" in a Hooverville of the Great Depression. It's just how they live, what they do. Why do I get to take its picture?

 I wonder sometimes if we do more damage to the people we photograph than anything else, invading their privacy, capitalizing on their inconvenience, and discounting their lives as "quaint" or "picturesque" when the reality is... that kid is naked because he doesn't have clothes, the currency is worth nothing, and there are very few jobs. I've even heard stories of tourists having the local kids volunteer to be in photos with them...then turn around and expect to be paid for the job. Even their image is valued in pesos.

So if I post all pretty pictures, I seem like a pretty awful missionary. And if I post all poverty pictures, I'm a pretty awful Christian. So how do I balance that--share stories without soliciting censure of well-meaning individuals who don't understand why some of that beauty they equate with "vacation" is just a small sliver of my workday--ten minutes we carved out between outreaches, or an afternoon after running an errand to the beachside city? Or without becoming a cultural voyeur who exploits poverty for another "like" on Facebook just because it is somehow a romantic concept for those who have never seen it firsthand? Maybe I would be better off never to post at all.

But there is so much joy and so much enjoyment here, too! So much color in the culture I feel I would be selfish not to share that richness with others, even if it's just through that singular eye of my Rebel. When I share pictures, it's because I want to share the story. It's an attempt at portraying a perspective; a lens through which we almost never view the world. And it's a balance I'm constantly reckoning: to rebel against the tendency to unintentionally exploit, and instead portray beauty and Story in a different light.

Sometimes a picture's worth a thousand words...sometimes even words fall flat. But there's a depth to the beauty that goes beyond color and contrast. If you truly want to experience that wealth, a photo's never going to do it. You've got to see for yourself, smell for yourself, taste it and know that it's good.

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Protecting God...And Other Short-Lived Tales

Sometimes prayer is hard. Trust is hard. I don't have high expectations for the people around me...so I apply the same low expectations to God to make sure I don't get disappointed by him, too.

Do you ever find that it's hard to ask God for something specific? Sometimes if the conversation starts leaning any particular direction of desire, I’ll say, “Well, Lord, you know.” And then I shut up. Like I’m going to be a bother or he doesn’t want to hear it. Or something.

Because after all, he doesn’t deserve ridicule on my behalf, for failing me. His reputation doesn’t deserve damage. Besides, he’s the one with the all-powerful plan, so … whatever he says goes, right? Why should I ask, pray, plead? God always does what he wants in the end. If he doesn’t do what I ask, he’ll have a reason.

Yet we’re supposed to pray.

“It’s painful to ask,” my roommate commented to me once when I mentioned my question. “It’s painful to keep your heart open.”

Why is it painful? It's vulnerable. It leaves a part of us open and raw and available for damage...unless the one we're entrusting ourselves to is capable of holding us gently. I believe that part of us is a precious piece of the honesty involved in truly having a relationship with God.

I hazard a guess that sometimes what we call “faith in God’s sovereignty” actually provides a glitzy religious mask that no longer requires us to ask him for anything, since it disguises our fear that he will not do or be all that he has promised, fear that we will end up disappointed, discouraged, and discarded.

It also leads to a dangerous self-reliance that might also be called idolatry, as we look to ourselves (or maybe other sources) to provide the things that God has promised, things only he is able to provide.
I think my “faith” sometimes becomes either false optimism or a peculiar fatalism that simultaneously removes me from control (because God is sovereign) and removes God from any responsibility or authority if He doesn’t seem to answer (because he is sovereign, and he knows best).

 Oh, I’ll say it’s trust or faith, but I’m not actually willing to go out on a limb to ask for it, just in case God doesn’t come through for me the way I think He ought to. Then I won’t be disappointed, because well, my expectations weren’t all that high to begin with.

I’m protecting myself from being failed.
I’m protecting Him from failing me.
Because if He fails me, where will I run?

Because I need Him. Like a soft shroud of protection, a refuge. I need Him to be what I think I need. What I think I need is pretty limited. Pretty basic.

I ask for a kitten, when what I need is a lion.
For comfort, when I need defense.
I ask for a blanket when I could have a furnace.

And He is what I need. The trouble is, He is so much more. My low expectations limit how I see His character and provision. He is able to do exceedingly abundantly above all that we can ask or imagine.

As His people, people with a true relationship with our Father, we are summoned away from self-reliance into a place of childlike dependency on Him. God is able. More than able. He is willing to become what I cannot become for myself, take me places I never thought I could go.

When our hearts are aligned with the will of God, and our lives are lived out with his interests in mind (and by the way, his interests are in his kingdom and his glory—not necessarily in our comfort) we can ask in faith, trusting, believing that he truly answers. Because he will.

I always said I didn’t want to raise support. I said I didn’t want to be dependent on others for my needs. Neither did I want to be dependent on God! And often, when I prayed it seemed my requests went unheeded. But the moment I stepped out in faith, my requests automatically aligned themselves more with the purposes I know to be God’s in this world. And he has provided. Completely and abundantly. This has been one of the biggest faith-builders of my life, this journey. But it required that I seek him first, and then get out of my “boat.”

It’s not that God doesn’t care about our little requests. It’s not that he doesn’t want us to appreciate “life abundantly.” But I think we need to remember sometimes that he sees the end from the beginning, and he knows what true abundant life means. What it is. Lots of times he uses those little requests we make to build our faith… but sometimes he knows it will actually harm us in the long run to have the things we think we desire. The secret to having what we desire is to view our desires through the lens of God’s perspective and align them with his purpose.

He wants us to ask, because the act of asking acknowledges his sovereignty and his desire to supply for us, and causes us to consider why we want what we do. It acknowledges our relationship with him as our Father.

When we protect God, we put him in a box that limits the way he moves. True trust, making honest requests and believing God actually wants to step in, requires surrendering far too much of the control I treasure. I have to recognize that “control” and “protection” are his job, not mine.

What if our sincere faith gives him not more room to fail, but more room to prove Himself faithful and make his glory known?

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A Defective Missionary Comes Clean

So here I am, sitting in a non-air-conditioned, tile-floored room in the southernmost corner of tropical, non-USA North America, where I have no electricity today except for the battery-powered inverter whose name I bless every time the power goes out. Calling myself a missionary, learning how to minister to other people. But... I'm going to make a confession.

I don't like evangelism.

There must be something wrong with me. I mean, I clearly felt a call to missions. Isn't evangelizing what missionaries do??? But the thought of standing on street corners, preaching to convince people to change their ways, persuading crowds that there's a loving God who desires relationship with them... honestly does not inspire me. One on one I could share my faith til I'm blue in the face, based on my relationship with that person. But I just don't get excited about "the lost." I am not impassioned to reach this enigmatic "lost."

Aren't we all called to evangelize? Great Commission and all that?

This is something I thought about before I signed up to work with an evangelistic missions organization here in the Dominican Republic. A lot. And don't get me wrong, I feel like I'm in the right place at the right time for my journey, and I have a TON of respect for the ministry here at La Casa Grande. For this season, I'm called to serve them and learn from them. And that's good. 

Based on some reading I've done (the Perspectives course, John Piper's Let the Nations Be Glad!) and some helpful conversations with my friend Stacey, here's the conclusion I've come to about my mission-- as well as missions and evangelism as a whole.

Evangelism is a gift, and it's a phase of missions as a whole. But we are NOT universally CALLED to evangelize.

The Great Commission says "Go and preach" and "Go and make disciples," depending on which passage you read. Nowhere does it actually say "Go and evangelize."

A "mission," any mission (a spy mission, a shopping mission, a military mission) has a specific goal. For us, as Christians? It's to make disciples. Evangelism isn't the goal. It's a tool and a step along the way.

*Insert sigh of relief here.* I don't have to want to evangelize. I don't have to weep over the multitudes of lost souls in the world--although I may still have compassion for them. Very rarely is it even possible to deeply love faceless strangers whose stories we don't know. 

God's purpose in missions, come to find out, is his own glory. He works in us to demonstrate his glory in our lives-- thus, he is best pleased by us when our joy in serving him as a disciple, our joy in worshipping him, also points to his glory. When people who turn to follow him increase the amount of worship he receives from his creation. My ministry, my mission, is to help others learn to love God. To enter into worship with him. And that is an idea that truly thrills me to my core.

So sharing our faith, encouraging others to worship with us... isn't necessarily motivated by our love for people. It's motivated first by our love for God.

Missions exists because worship doesn't. 

Not because heaven's not full enough yet. Not because people are going to hell.

It's because God covets glory from his creation. 

And that's why I'm sitting here, hoping for a breeze. That's why I have to wipe sweat off my guitar in some of the windowless box churches we visit, why I keep going to evangelistic outreaches. 

That's how a defective missionary revives a mission: His is the kingdom, the power, and the glory forever.

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Speech Recognition

Language. Communication. Identity. Any sociologist could tell you they're related. And sometimes this language-learning thing I'm currently engaged in pinpoints something in life that's a little larger-scale.

So last night we were in the car, headed to our missions-themed church service, when I found another question to ask. I've had a lot of those lately as I tackle Spanish-- specifically the rapid-fire shortcut Spanish spoken here in the DR. Hearing and truly understanding is still my biggest battle, especially when it comes to specific expressions and idioms, whether they're de la calle (street slang) or campesino (lower register, from the country).

"Hey Conrado," I said. "I read a list of expressions this week that might be specifically Mexican. So do they say 'por si las moscas' here?" (Translated literally, it's "for if the flies," though it's used like "just in case.")

"Yeah, they use it here," Jhon said.

I could tell Conrado was frowning. "Yeah... but it's like street language, you know? You shouldn't use it. It doesn't sound right."

"Why not?" As far as I knew, the phrase was nothing obscene, just a local idiom.

"Because the kind of women who talk that way are callejeras," (meaning they hang out on the street all day) "and you're different. You're not like them. You're a daughter of God. Una princesa."

This made me think. Learning the slang and street-speak is actually pretty fun, but still. Think Professor Henry Higgins: From listening to you, an astute person can tell where you're from, your education level, the type of work you're involved in, who your parents were, what your values are, your social strata. 

I hadn't really considered that the language I choose to use actually depicts my identity in the kingdom of God. It identifies me to those I talk to as someone with grace or love, as someone who knows who she is, as someone with confidence in her identity-- or as none of those things. 

The mouth speaks what the heart is full of. (Lk. 6:45)

It's not a matter of pride, or of somehow trying to show I'm "better" than anyone else. There is value in using street-speak at times, to reach and relate with those who are there right now (or heck, to make jokes because it sounds silly when I talk that way with my gringo accent). Or from a spiritual perspective, to speak to those who may only hear words that are presented that way. But for me to adopt that kind of language as my own would be a contradiction and denial of my true self, and would negatively affect my potential efficacy. Take James 3:9-12, for example: 

With the tongue we praise our Lord and Father, and with it we curse human beings, who have been made in God's likeness. Out of the same mouth come praise and cursing. My brothers and sisters, this should not be. Can both fresh water and salt water flow from the same spring? My brothers and sisters, can a fig tree bear olives, or a grapevine bear figs? Neither can a salt spring produce fresh water.

If I have the authority of "royalty," choosing speech that can't convey or command that would be a serious error. If I am royalty and still speak as a (figurative) peasant, how am I identified as being different while I travel through this world, but still am not "of" it (Jn. 17:16)? 

What's the true language of our kingdom? Well, since God has put each of us in different places and created us with different strengths, your "royal speech" might sound pretty different from mine. But the language of God's kingdom will always share some strong common characteristics. 

• Loving (1 Cor. 13:1-- If I speak in the tongues of men and of angels, but have not love, I am only a resounding gong or a clanging cymbal.)
• Life-giving (Prov. 18:21-- The tongue has the power of life and death, and those who love it will eat its fruit.)
• Unconformed to worldly patterns (Rom. 12:1-2-- Do not conform to the pattern of this world, but be transformed by the renewing of your minds.)
• Discerning (Prov. 13:3-- Whoever guards his mouth preserves his life; he who opens wide his lips comes to ruin.)
• Reverent toward God (2 Tim. 2:16-- But avoid irreverent babble, for it will lead people into more and more ungodliness.)
• Truth-telling (1 Pet. 3:10-- Let him keep his tongue from evil and his lips from speaking deceit.)
• Blessing (Rom. 12:14-- Bless those who persecute you. Bless and do not curse.)
• Edifying and encouraging (Eph. 4:29--Let no corrupting talk come out of your mouths, but only such as is good for building up, as fits the occasion, that it may give grace to those who hear.)
• Self-controlled and not obscene (Col. 3:8-- But now you must put them all away: anger, wrath, malice, slander, and obscene talk from your mouth.)

I'm sure I'm missing a few. Suggestions welcome!

Whatever language I'm speaking, it's got to be flavored by the language of the kingdom of God. So what do the words we choose, the idioms we employ, and the sentences we speak (whether in English, Spanish, street slang, country twang, or whatever language) say about who we are in Christ? What's the best way to keep that powerful tongue in check?

Other thoughts?

Kingdom people at a street outreach in Pueblo Nuevo, Santiago.

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Dominican Dreams Installment #3: In the Haitian Village

Called Out of Darkness

I found this article among my notes from the Perspectives course I took a couple of years ago. These were things I saw and experienced during my first visit to the Dominican Republic, and images that I haven’t been able to shake since.

Down by the docile, dwindling river’s coursing bed, a small Haitian village has sprouted up. Haitians find little favor in the Dominican. Their culture is frowned upon. They’re known as wily, deceptive, shrewd—even predatory salesmen.

They migrate to the Dominican because of opportunity. Circumstances of poverty are a stronghold here, but much less so. Here in the DR, the Haitians have choices. They are not loved by the Dominicans; prejudice rules the social strata. But rather than stay in their home nation, they so often they choose to live… here.

You might never know to duck down the alley and around the narrow corner. In the shadows the road becomes dirt, and then, amidst wind- and water-washed discarded clothes and other debris, the first door appears.

I feel I’m intruding. I feel we’re uninvited gawking spectators, observers who are here to make an appearance, after which we’ll all go bathe our pity in perhaps some ice cream, take a shower, and crawl into a soft bed to dream about air conditioning.

I don’t know their circumstances. But they don’t know the same normal I do.

Strongholds—limitations that keep us from forward motion. We have been brought out of the kingdom of darkness, but somehow we still harbor the perpetual tendency to the dark.

They choose here. It reigns over them. Like the rain that falls and overflows their riverbanks, that rises up. They can’t escape life here, any more than they can escape the rising tides that evacuate the village and sometimes drown their precious loved ones.

That first door is perhaps eight feet from the second, which is just like it—hinged into the wall of a brightly colored aluminum shanty. Narrow. There’s a woman lingering in the doorway, watching us.

Smells assault, mingle, clash. I smell wood smoke. I smell dinner—Cajun spices, beans perhaps. I smell home—when in my pride perhaps I had expected sewage and unwashed bodies. In the DR, even the very poor do not seem to go hungry. Even dirt floors are swept and “clean.”

Brown faces peer at us, old and young.

I hear French. “Bon jour.” I hear Spanish. “Buenas tardes.” I hear quiet Americans. I can almost hear their wide eyes, echoed, mirrored in my own. Everything we see reverberates within, a colorful vibration of poverty, striking a chord of compassion.

A child scurries across the path.

And before too long, the crowd of Americans calls attention, draws a crowd. We start to preach, start to share. Offer to pray. And one woman says please, please pray for her.

So we gather around.

Touch. There’s power in touch. I like things and people to be clean. The people I share myself and my possessions with are the ones who are clean. The ones I will drink after from the same cup.

But I touch her. My hand reaches for her shoulder. Under uncertain fingertips I feel smooth, soft, supple skin. Warmth as my skin meets hers. In the marketplace, these are the untouchables- sometimes Haitians are known to drug, then mug unsuspecting victims using a skin-permeating drug on their hands and an innocuous handshake.

But here in her home, we touch. Jesus, how do you want to touch her? How will you touch her through me? Where is this woman’s power encounter?

More than ever I wish I spoke her language. Creole, French, Spanish. But I don’t. So I pray in my own—may the Spirit give me voice! May I have faith sufficient. Healing is a strange, confusing doctrine for me. I’ve prayed for it so many times and never seen or received it. The “everyone should be healed!” preachers leave me with an offended and betrayed feeling because I can’t believe their passion.

Is my new friend healed when the pastor and I pray? When he counts to three and gives her “a moment to look back on”? She indicates yes in a vague kind of way. But as I cannot feel her pain, neither can I feel her healing. Faith, Lyndi. Trust. Firm.

Lord, I long to see you do this!

Maybe I have.

We pray. Standing in the midst of the crowd we’ve attracted, someone takes advantage of the moment. Perhaps the pastor from Puerto Rico who brought us here. He tells them the Truth. He explains the Light. And he asks for a song. We begin to sing about how our “Cristo” is able to move mountains. As the words float heavenward I pray these people hear them. He can move their mountains. Even the mountain of this poor, hidden community. The disease and death and difficulties they face every day.

I wonder if they could ever trust me.

Our brief church service is over, and we turn to go. Over ruts, skirting puddles, climbing across doubtful natural bridges, offering a hand or clinging to the faces of the walls nearby. Shadows have fallen. Somehow we’re far from the city that’s driving itself crazy behind the curtain we’d drawn behind us when we stepped into this tiny underworld.

And we leave, we’re gone, our presence a vapor… may the Spirit linger.

Brief encounters plant seeds we trust God to water. But I still feel impressed: We are not to forget. The temptation is to leave places like this village and carry the memory, the fuzzy-feel-good of having done something for someone. But what if we also carried the burden? The burden to pray, even though we don't return? Or even... the burden to return? How might God use our prayers and our faithfulness to his people we carry in our hearts?

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Dominican Dreams (Installment #2)

Delicate snowflakes drift down from an overcast ceiling above. I'm in my basement lair, curled up under a few blankets, a mug of the chocolate coffee I got for Christmas steaming on my bedside windowsill as I type here, avoiding a few things on my list by doing something that's been on it for an eon: Update blog.

My fingers are cold. No wonder I'm dreaming once again of the DR.

Some dreams take a while to awaken to reality (that is, if dreams themselves can awaken). Some dreams have to be attached to a call. And dreams in general are like little streams of effervescence inside--they bubble up and up until they have to spill over.

I just got back to Colorado from Michigan yesterday, apparently my last flight back from that place until I move to the DR. Because now there's no doubt: after almost eight months of unrelenting mind-mulling and a lot of prayer, in May I finally asked Tim and Trena if I could come back to work with them full time as a communications coordinator. They said yes. And that was the first green light that I could start jumping through the subsequent hoops.

Various conversations, job changes, and the beginnings of support raising have led me here: realizing how terrifying it can be to live by faith, but that God is ultimately the one in control as I see an almost-clear path to getting to the Dominican Republic and this new job by ... APRIL, 2014.

Which is the date I wrote in my "dream journal" only two months after getting back from the Dominican the first time. It's sorta crazy, kinda beautiful, and totally God.

But anyway... the time is getting short. It's time to start the countdown-- two months til I leave my incredible Colorado... three months til I leave the States. It's coming!

For the time is coming and has now come when worshippers will worship in spirit and in truth... and I will be there, pressing in and pressing on in the Dominican Republic, helping people see the Spirit in action and worship Him in truth and in reality. This is so exciting, I can't even begin to express it. Please pray for me!

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Dominican Dreams (Installment #1)

The Beauty of the Blessing

 A week ago my missions team flew back to the States from Santiago, and I’ve dreamed of the Dominican every night since. I can never remember what it’s about the next morning, but I wake up in a color-splashed afterglow with familiar faces, voices, and laughter ringing in my internal ears, and I know my heart spent the night at least partly elsewhere. Funny how fast you can fall in love with people in new places—their hearts, faces, scenery, culture, language. Their openness.

I'm the gal top left with the crazy dancy hair...see me??? :)

Most of the ministry and outreaches done by La Casa Grande would never work (at least, not as effectively) in the States. This concept firmly rooted itself in my mind as I watched our repeated performances. We Americans aren’t too willing to stop and listen to street-corner preachers. With our social state, we’d be a bit wary of someone who uses a smoke bomb as part of a drama. We might pause for a moment to watch a drama, but… where are the lights? The fog machine? The multi-media presentation? Our expectations obscure the message.

Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.

I wonder what we could receive if we could admit that we don’t already have it all.

Tonight the memory lingering in my mind resounds with ear-numbing volume, like the church we visited that Sunday morning: The phrase I heard most often in the communities we visited was “Dios le bendiga,” or “God bless you.” Maybe we feel like we say that a lot here in the United States—but in Dominican Christian communities, they’re so eager for God’s blessing that the greeting, exclamation, or thankful expression may be repeated three times in a single conversation, or more in a sermon. What’s the proper response? Well, here in the States, we usually say “Thank you” or “You too.” For the Dominicans, however, it’s liturgical. “Que Dios les bendiga!” the pastor or interpreter exclaims, “Amen!” the people reply.

“Amen.” So let it be. This really struck me because, instead of voicing passing thanks, what it does is point the focus back to the God who does the blessing. Amen. So let it be. I accept it eagerly, and I’m open and waiting for rain.

How often are we truly waiting in agreement with the Spirit of God for Him to move and truly bless? We take blessing so generally. I believe God does want to bless us in general—but what if He wants to bless us specifically as well? What if the concept of blessing goes beyond something we accept and forget? Maybe we can view our blessings in His everyday kindnesses—things like having a place to stay on my strange overnight leg of the trip from Denver to Miami, or the gentleman who both put my bag into the overhead storage on the plane and brought it down again when we arrived, letting me go in front of him in line. In Scripture, blessing occurred not for food or after sneezes. People reserved blessing for other people and for God. I believe we can bless God when we leave ourselves available to Him for His use and His blessing (both of ourselves and of others through us).

Everyone who goes on a missions trip says they come away feeling ministered to on a personal level (another blessing!), and I know I have. I spent time relatively immersed in the Dominican language and culture. I developed existing relationships and new friendships, spending time I treasured with my brother Jonathan. I had the opportunity to play with kids, take lots of photographs, and connect with people on their own ground. And as with any extended period of travel coupled with spiritual openness, the adventure brought to my attention plenty of areas with room for personal growth.

I even received the same word of knowledge from two new friends. Susan Haddad, from another group who stayed at La Casa Grande with us, told me that God will open my heart to all the things, new things, He wants to do through me. And Jhon Cruz, a faithful helper to Tim Johnson and the rest of us as well, hailed Conrad to interpret for him, telling me not to limit what God wants to do in me. Neither of them had any idea of the other’s words, and neither knew how much I needed to hear them. Something was birthed in me during the experiences of this trip, and my spiritual self reawakened with a passion that the rest of this summer had effectively quenched.

I can’t wait to see how their words apply. But until then, with Dominican-church enthusiasm (though maybe a bit less volume), I say Amen! Lord, I’m ready—so be it! May I be poor enough in spirit to acknowledge how much I need despite how much I have.

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Of Coon Hounds and Christians (And Their Arch-nemeses)

Dog Doors and Deserts

"C'mon, Katie Sue!" I urged. "You can do it! It'll be great! I promise, there's nothing to be afraid of!"

I heard a tormented squeal from the other side of the doggie door, toenails tapping on the concrete floor just inside. I clapped my hands to help build excitement and momentum. "Just come on outside! You know you need to!  It's outside!" I trilled emphatically. Just how had I ended up dogsitting for the one paranoid coon hound on the face of the planet who can't go outside by herself because she's terrified...of the doggie door? And she'd been inside for quite a while-- an outdoor adventure/bathroom break became more necessary by the moment. What's that make me? You bet. Doggie Cheerleader. "C'mon, puppy! You're an awesome dog! You've got what it takes! You can do it! I'm right here!"

This excessive usage of exclamation points quickly exhausted my enthusiasm, which then waned a little cynical. Still upbeat and encouraging, however, I continued. "Katie Sue! Oh Katie Sue! It'll be amazing! This is OUTSIDE! You LOVE it out here!"

Nothing. The door didn't budge, and I knew Katie Sue was on the other side of it, trembling and watching it longingly as if it would suddenly swing wide as the screen door (which is apparently less scary). She wanted everything that was in the great outdoors with everything that was within her (and believe me, I wanted her to experience it all!) but she just couldn't take a leap through the door that would get her there.

"It's just a door! You'll go down in history as the dog who went through the door! Just PLEASE come outside!" Please! I added inwardly, either a prayer or an attempt at doggie ESP. I'm really not sure which. 

Of course nothing happened except a couple of frantic barks. And I couldn’t wait there all night. With a sigh I took the human screen-door route back inside, came around behind her, and gave her rump a shove. Somehow that did it, and with a tremulous wriggle she burst forth like a racehorse from the gate...and made it all of three feet from her nemesis "DOG DOOR THE BURNINATOR" before the call of nature was just too strong to resist anymore.

I slumped against the wall inside. Canine cheerleading is exhausting.

I wonder how often "people cheerleading" is exhausting for God. He knows what we need, what we want, what's good for us. He places opportunities in front of us, worlds of new Creation for us to explore and enjoy. But sometimes we just can't make ourselves walk through the narrow way to get there. Maybe there's something we can't see on the other side. Maybe we're looking for the catch or the booby trap. All that really stands between us and His promise is equivalent to a flimsy flap-door. 

Sometimes moving forward blind actually makes us stronger. God is outside time. He's both behind us, urging us ahead, and in front of us in the Promised Land, calling us toward Him. He knows what we'll find there and He knows that His promises are good. The giants on the way? No biggie.  The desert in between? The blind spot? Only a problem if we don't trust Him and stop moving, paralyzed in fear. Sometimes we stay in our deserts a lot longer than we need to because we stop taking steps of faith that would take us forward and out.

"But what if it's not God's will?" we whine (I'm picturing us all as Katie Sue, with tremblingly rigid tails and a couple of panicky yipping barks). "What if this is the wrong path?"

Well, friend, are you saved? Sanctified? Are you Spirit-led? Are you submitting? Then, as John MacArthur says in his book Found: God's Will, do whatever you want! When our hearts are submitted to God's heart and we understand Him and His character, the passions He places within our spirits, opportunities He places in front of us, and free will are an indomitable force.

Don't be paralyzed by the doggie door or the desert. Take the next step and know that the Promised Land with all its possibilities is just on the other side.

(C'mon! You can do it! It's gonna be great! You know you want to!!!)

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It happened again...

Tonight, driving in Indianapolis, it happened again:

This time, our car full of professor and three students was approached by a thin, desperate-looking woman at a red light, begging someone, anyone, in plaintive, deadened tones to “Help me out, will you?” with her hand extended as she wound her way through the cars that stood still at the light.

Of course we didn’t.

Of course no one did.

You don’t open your window in the middle of a dark inner-city night to hand money to a strange, filthy woman outside. You lock your doors and keep driving. And you certainly never make eye contact.

Linette said that the hard part is that… looking at the woman, standing as a vague, hungry-looking silhouette in the middle of halted traffic that glowed dimly in the rosy traffic-light wash, you can’t see her story. You don’t know how she became who she is.

Does that matter? Jesus saw the outcasts- the lepers, the woman at the well. He did see their pasts, but that didn’t seem to matter as much. What he saw and acted on was who they were at that moment– both their immediate needs AND the people they were meant to become. And then he took care of both. Even at risk to himself.

“Lady, I’ll pray for you.” Is that the best we can do?

Why do I keep seeing this? Why does this keep happening to me?
Maybe God’s trying to tell or show me something…

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Did I Blow It?

My roommate Corrine and I went to Walmart this morning because we have some weekend *PLANS* that involve people and food. (Can you say party time? ohhh yeah!) If everybody we’ve invited comes over on Saturday night, we could have 16 people in our apartment. We’re wondering where we’re going to put them all. What a great problem to have!

But all that aside. We were headed out of Wally-World with our plunder when I saw this man walking the same way we were. As we got to the car, I heard him call out, but assuming he was talking to someone else, I pulled open the door and put the milk on the back seat.

But he walked right toward us with this preface: “I don’t mean no harm.”

Um… Awkward moment. I wasn’t sure whether to just hop in the car and tell Corrine to start driving, or… warily stay and finish the conversation. I didn’t think he DID mean any harm, but still… two single girls, a strange guy… I kind of blinked toward him, not sure what to do.

He stopped just a few feet shy of us. “I don’t mean no harm,” he reasserted. ”I just need 80 cents. Tryin’ to buy gas for my mower so I can mow my grass, that’s all. This is embarrassing, I’m sorry… I just need 80 cents. Can you help me?”

He must have come from the Walmart gas station across the parking lot.

Talk about an awkward moment! What should we do? I was brought up by parents who always told me a) that I should be kind to people, but b) that I should never give money to strangers, because who knows who they might be and they could totally be some psycho freak drug addict who just wants to know if you have money and really wants to kidnap you, shove you in their trunk, and take you to Tuscaloosa where you’ll likely live out the rest of your life chained to a flagpole in a closet feeding rats that escaped from the local experimental laboratory.

But… this guy seemed sincere, at least. I glanced at Corrine because I was closer to the guy and the likely one to act, but frankly, she was no help. I was on my own, drat it.

Ummmm… Well, I have to admit, I’ve been that guy before. Stuck without enough cash in a place that’s only full of strangers, wondering if there’s anybody who’d trust me enough- and anybody I could trust enough- who I could get help from. I pulled up my purse and opened the top, glancing down inside to see if I had enough change. I knew I did… somehow over the course of this semester I’ve actually accumulated a little cash (sooo unusual for someone who lives on a debit card, but hey, I’ll take it).

But… I chickened out. I almost grabbed my three quarters and a nickel to offer to him, but I suddenly went into a FREEZE mode. I can’t do this… I thought, and all those what-ifs that I was raised to think about in the interest of personal defense flooded my mind.

So. I looked back at the guy and I lied. “I’m sorry,” I said with an apologetic, if slightly nervous, smile. “I don’t have 80 cents.”

“I don’t, either,” Corrine echoed.

“Sorry,” I said again, as if saying it twice made it somehow more true. I was sorry. I felt awful.

And that feeling just intensified as we got in the car and shut and locked the doors, glancing back at the man who was left in our wake, now trying to find someone else to accost in his pursuit of money to pay for his gas.

If I hadn’t been scared, I could’ve made a difference in somebody’s life today. Did I totally blow it? What harm could there have been in giving the guy 80 cents? He was probably legit… Yeah, I know, who knows? But still… What would Jesus have done?

Sometimes I think we let our fear get in the way of helping other people out with the little things. If I were bold, maybe I could have used that 80 cents as an avenue to share my faith. I wonder if God was testing me, trying to show me how I can do things differently.

What do you think? Did I blow it completely? What would you do?

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