Thoughts on the twenty-one who wear white robes.

"Let me tell you about the Christians of Egypt."

That's what I wanted to write about and reflect upon; to encourage and inspire my fellow believers with what I have seen in action, because it is more real than we comprehend when we only see it in the news.  I lived in Egypt for a significant period of time.  It was my privilege to sit in their churches, share in their communion, walk their streets, live their life, call it mine, and be called "Egyptian" by my brothers and sisters.  For so many reasons, I want to brag on the reality of the faith of the Christians there.  We could learn much from their example and have our perspective greatly improved by it.  It is very different from anything you may have ever seen.

But it will have to wait.  Right now, I am overcome with too many other thoughts.  So here they are, just thinking out loud, raw and open.

I am full of heartache.

Twenty-one Egyptians went to Libya simply to make a living.  Twenty-one seemingly common men.  Kidnapped by Jihadists, slaughtered to send a message to the rest of the Egyptian Coptic Church ("the nation of the cross") and the world.

I am full of heartache because these were sons, husbands, fathers... their heads severed on video; the water and the shore turned red with their blood.  They will never in this life see their families again.  They left young wives, children, and parents who will have to do life now without them.  It's heart-rending.  Grief unspeakable.

I am overflowing with joy and with love.

I am overflowing because the testimony left by the parents and wives of these men is bullet-proof.  The forgiveness they have shown toward the killers of their loved ones... the sheer joy they have exuded over the knowledge that Heaven is their new home... even the pride about the fact that all these men from their village were strong until the end and died for Jesus... It makes no sense because it is Christlike.  It is other-worldly.  It is Heavenly.

"And they overcame him [Satan] because of the blood of the Lamb and because of the word of their testimony, and they did not love their lives even when faced with death."  (Rev 12:11)

"These [men] insisted to remain in unbelief," read the caption on the video.  Every one of these men had the chance to convert rather than die, and every one of them chose to die rather than dishonor their Savior.  Even with knives at their throats, they called out to the Lord Jesus who they knew they would be meeting soon.

I am overflowing.  There is hardly anything so sweet as pure faith in Jesus.  "Precious in the sight of the Lord is the death of His saints." (Psalm 115:16)

I am angry.

I am angry because while twenty-one precious believers were forced to the sand, their heads sawed off brutally with knives, all America could talk about was Fifty Shades of Grey.  Fifty Shades.  Of freaking.  Grey.  A movie that glorifies and celebrates violence, abuse, and rape.  A movie whose leading actors admit to hating themselves for even acting it out.  I want to tear my hair out by the roots.  My heart is sick.  So is my stomach.  Because all the body of Christ can do is argue about how the the worst thing you could possibly do is to be "judgy" about the movie.  All Christians can do is point the finger back at their brothers and sisters and say, "We have enough of our own problems!  How dare you get angry about this movie."  And that's just the Christians who aren't going to see the movie themselves.

Let me tell you something, American Christians.  Egyptian Christians would be shocked out of their minds to know that this movie does not anger you.  To know that too many of you would even consider seeing it.  In my mind's eye I can vividly see the faces of my close friends there... the blood draining from their mortified faces.  Confused.  Unable to believe that anyone claiming to follow Jesus could in any way justify not being outraged over such things.  They would be embarrassed even to talk about it.

I am angry because of the continual, unbelievable lies spewed and spread by our government.  The statement issued by the White House did not acknowledge that the victims were Christians.  The White House will not even use the term "radical Islam" because including Islam at all "would not be accurate."  Apparently, we may call it "terrorism," but it is terrorism that the leader of the free world says is "randomly" perpetrated.  People in that part of the world think he's a joke-- that he's either extremely ignorant, or a total liar.

Don't you dare tell us that this has nothing to do with religion when these Jihadists state, with every beheading, that they kill for the sake of Allah.  And don't you dare try to cover up the fact that this is persecution in its most obvious form.  The video was addressed to Egyptian Copts.  It was titled, "A Message Signed With Blood To The Nation of The Cross."  But, according to our government, it has nothing to do with targeting Christians.

This is absolutely nothing new.  But it is still disgusting.  The Church is called to endure persecution.  The government is called to end injustice.  God will hold every man accountable.

I am angry and concerned not only about the carnality and the easily-excused sin issues in our Western churches, but also about the sheer banality with which we seem to be so contented.  We spend morbid amounts of time on entertainment, alarming amounts of money on stuff we don't truly need, and a mortifying amount of energy making ourselves more happy and comfortable.  I'm angry about the status quo with which we are so comfortable.  How very wrapped up we are in mind-numbingly pointless discussions... activities... movies... humor... pastimes... celebrities... gossip... things that in the end of all things and in eternity simply. don't. matter.

It angers me that we throw around the term, "persecuted," and don't really understand it; that we all pay attention to the "big" incidents like this-- "wake-up calls," we call them-- but in between times, we forget all about the fact that our brothers and sisters are suffering around the world on a daily basis.  This is not some grand wake-up call, Christians.  Things like this, and far worse, have been happening ever since Lucifer pitted himself against God.  All throughout human history.  We may not be living through them in this particular country at this particular time, but we are utterly surrounded by such things.

Here's a question for us to ponder:  "What if it was me?"  What if it was my husband who was slaughtered on the southern shore of the Mediterranean?  What if my little boy's life was threatened before my eyes in an attempt to get me to deny my Savior?  I feel like we always read these stories about persecution and react with, "That's so sad!"  And we follow it up with, "I could never..." or, "I know I'd never have the courage..."  Why do we react like that?  Here's another question, if you find yourself thinking that way:  "What in my life needs to change?"  Why am I not at that place where I love Jesus so much and know Him so well that I would be certain of Heaven with a knife at my throat?  Why is my heart not so full of His forgiveness that I could extend that forgiveness to another?

It angers and saddens me that if the the time we spent with our fellow believers was truly "fellowship," few would actually enjoy it.  That if, when having other Christians over for dinner, we spent most of the evening in prayer, singing, worship, or actual edification, it would come off as weird.  Awkward.  Definitely unconventional.  Not a time of great joy and happiness and praising God-- the one thing that we would claim brings us together.  I promise you that the reason Jesus was on the lips of these twenty-one saints as their throats were slit is because they knew Him.  They loved Him; they lived for Him.  He was and is their Life.  He was real to them both in their quiet times and when gathered with their friends.  I miss that about the church in Egypt; miss living with my Christian friends and Jesus being so central.  I miss it with every beat of my heart.

I am full to the brim with hope.

I am hopeful, not in the way we commonly think of "hoping" as if it were a wish... not as when we say that "hopefully" something will happen.  I'm hopeful in the way that the epistles describe "our hope"-- certainty.  Complete and utter certainty about what is to come.

I am hopeful when I read the Book of Revelation.  I absolutely love that book.  I could read it every day and derive endless bounds of joy and hope and purpose because it gives us the big-picture perspective of the eternal.  We KNOW, people.  Unlike anyone who does not have our hope, we know what happens in the end!  Nothing should be a surprise to us in the meantime.  Things gets confusing and shocking when we start looking through our tiny, everyday-perspective lens too much.  There is nothing that is not going according to the overall, eternal plan.  God is not confused or shocked.

I am hopeful because torture and physical death cannot kill the soul.  It cannot kill love.  It cannot kill faith.  It cannot kill the resolve of Jesus followers-- it never has, and it never will.  Death, and all of Satan's armies, cannot kill the absolute certainty of God's cosmic plan for the ages and the fact that it will be accomplished.  It is irrevocably written into the story of the ages that Satan will be destroyed in the most majestic and epic war story of all time.  For now there is suffering, but never forget this:  Satan and all the enemies of God are going down in an event that will  be so much more than apocalyptic.

I am hopeful because even as Christians are killed, even as the Gospel is perverted, even as false teachers rise up and deceive millions, even though many who think they are Christians are not and successfully lead others astray... even as Satan is given reign over this world for a time, God is not mocked.  The Gospel is still going out, and people are still being saved.  His people are still His and He knows who they are.

Amid the tears, agony, injustice, and grief, there is joy, redemption, beauty, and a whole lot of hope.  There is still much to be done before Jesus' return, and it is only God's mercy and patience that allow more time for anyone who will believe to believe in Him and become a child of His.

Christians, we are all given different gifts and roles in life, but we all share the same purpose.  Let us stay connected closely to our Life source, fight the good fight, finish the race, and keep the faith.  Let us live every day to hear the sweetest words we could ever hear from our Father:  "Well done, good and faithful servant."

"The fields are white  unto harvest."

"Even so, come, Lord Jesus!"

10 Things My Dad Taught Us

I'm one of eleven crazy children raised by my parents. The indisputably most important thing they have imparted to us has been a knowledge of God and His Word. And from that knowledge of God were derived other principles, these primarily from my dad. Most of these he taught explicitly; others, in not remotely so many words, but by his own actions. I share them as a tribute to him. While admittedly far from exemplifying many of these currently, I definitely find that I nonetheless still tend to see them as what ought to be the norm for myself.



1.)     Do the hard thing…

…On purpose. Be uncomfortable. Do not even have a comfort zone – if you do, go outside of it, obliterate it, and then never go back. Do the awkward thing, the difficult thing, the sweaty thing, the distasteful thing, the miserable thing. Soon, one finds there are few actually disliked things left. “To built character,” he would say, “a person needs to do two things, at the very least, that they strongly dislike… each day.” Oh, we regularly surpassed that number... [Is it any wonder that the majority of marriages fail, in a time when difficulty is reason enough to quit?]

He summed it up something like this: “Comforts and luxury are to be enjoyed and appreciated when you have them. But don’t go looking for them.”

Perk: Everything seems relatively easy when you regularly seek out the difficult stuff.

2.)       Pain is your friend.

When you embrace pain, it doesn’t hurt as much, if at all. Make friends with it, and you won’t be fighting it anymore. The resulting relief and the freedom is almost palpable.

I first began to understand this in reality while marathon training. Running mile after mile can be both painful and boring. Originally, my approach was to grit my teeth and “gut it out.” That, however, produced a vicious inward battle: me fighting against the misery. I found that when I surrendered and accepted it—“This is going to hurt for the next three hours, and that’s okay”—that suddenly all was well. It wasn’t so hard. Nothing had changed except my attitude.

3.)       Overcome your fears.

No one should live with debilitating fear. I did not know until later how rare it is to grow up sans ordinary phobias. Spiders, heights, snakes, small spaces, germs, lightning, flying, the dark, shots? Noooope. [There is one, but it doesn’t stop me... if you know me, you know what it is! Haha.]

When I was 9 years old and we were farming with horses, I fell and my little frame ended up underneath an implement. (This particular farm accident was no one’s fault.) A metal disc sliced deep into my tiny leg, taking it and me out of action for quite awhile.

The very next morning, early, my dad carried me lovingly out to where the horses were hitched, set me up on the seat, and had me take them for a few more passes on the field I had been working the day before. I didn’t understand why at the time, nor did I ask; I assumed he knew what he was doing, and he did. My dad didn’t want his daughter to grow up with a fear of horses or a fear of disking a field.

He took the principle of “Get back up” or “Get back on” to a whole new level, and his children were the undoubted beneficiaries in every other area of life. Love isn't always accommodating.

4.)       Target your own weaknesses.

Personal growth and self-discipline are not too popular today. The message of the time is, “BE YOU.” Period. If it’s not comfortable, don’t force yourself. 

My dad, on the other hand, saw it as normal and necessary to address areas of inability or lack of natural talent. He recognized that everyone has their own God-given gifts, areas of expertise and personal strengths, but that “I’m just not good at that” or “That’s not my thing” should never be an excuse. I never remember us once calling a mechanic, a plumber, an electrician, construction workers, even a vet. He, my sister and I built our barn, for goodness’ sake. His method was simple: If he didn’t know how to do something, he whipped out a manual and studied it. He talked to people and asked questions. He made observations.

No wonder it seemed like my dad could do absolutely everything—he basically could. He is a true James Bond-esque jack-of-all-trades. Not by birth, but through sheer hard work and intentional character development.

5.)       American culture is not your authority.

In fact, it’s a crock of junk. (To love America and her freedom is not the same as being characterized by her lazy, immoral, entertainment-centric lifestyle.) “My children will not be Americanized,” my father was fond of saying, frequently.

Years later, it was strange and gratifying to hear that line of his quoted with a gleeful chuckle, and a thick Arabic accent, by an old Egyptian doctor I worked with in the Middle East. Doctor “E” LOVED it. He had seen the proof of that principle as it played out in life there.

It was not difficult for me to live completely removed from American culture. American culture, after all, was not my home. 

6.)       Check how you react to “No.”

“We don’t always get what we want.” He said it so many times that I can hear it almost audibly in my mind now. He and Mama drummed into us the manner of thought that understands two simple things: Often in life, we do not get our way – and that’s okay. Sometimes we do, but not right away – and that’s okay, too.

In a time and culture that probably couldn’t even define the concept of delayed gratification, my dad instituted in our home and on his calendar something he called “’No’ Days.” On those particular days, anything my siblings and I requested was denied. (Within reason… we still had our three square meals and every other facet of a normal day.) Our job was to respond cheerfully. It was not hard. Our parents loved us like crazy; when they said “No,” it was never vindictive and we knew it was for our own good. 

Turns out that we never understood the concept of “begging,” and to see a spoiled child screaming his head off in the grocery store was sheer trauma.

7.)       Give everything you’ve got.

Hold nothing back. “Leave nothing on the table,” as it were. If it’s worth doing, do it all the way; put all of yourself into everything you have weighed and deemed worthy of pursuit. Be all there. Do not get in the habit of being a half-hearted creature.

Because of how we were expected to work this out in other areas of life, we understood the concept of giving all of oneself, unreservedly, to something/someone. It’s pretty darn helpful in jobs, relationships, marriage. It propelled my success in search and rescue. It was the only way I knew when I gave myself to God. And I thank Him eternally for my earthly father’s wisdom.

8.)       You can always “make do” with what you have.

We rarely had the luxury of simply going out and buying the tool or ingredient we needed. It was not even an option, really. For the longest time, we didn't have a wheelbarrow, and God knows we could have used it. Find something, invent something, make it work. That was the idea.

Also, nothing ever has to be “just so.” “Only a poor runner blames his shoes.” If circumstances have to be just right and certain conditions have to be met in order to perform – in whatever area – you are handicapping yourself. Leave yourself no excuses; get in the habit of doing what “cannot” be done.

If you do not have the money, well, you spend nothing (in our earlier days, anyway). The reason so many people’s lifestyles do not match their income is because they are unwilling to live within their means—i.e., “make do.”

9.)       Learn from others’ mistakes.

It was a rare evening indeed, if my dad’s dinnertime spiel did not include an exhortation on why or why not to do as so-and-so did. Sometimes it was a news story he shared with the family. Sometimes, it was an unfortunate incident suffered by the farmer down the road.

As watchman for the family, he took it upon himself to warn us and make us aware of reality for our future survival. The big world out there was not all that up-close and personal in rural Wisconsin. Tales of another abduction of a teenage girl, someone gored by their own bull, a neighbor with health problems, or a friend’s divorce were common such topics. They never drove us to paranoia, but to think, be smart, and try to make wise decisions in life. He taught us to use the brains God gave us. Why repeat a mistake you’ve seen someone else make if you can learn from them instead?

It couldn’t make us immune, but it helped to make us more aware.

10.)   Treat people well: Listen to them, value them, put them first.

I cannot remember hearing him say anything remotely like this, but he screamed it through his actions with others. He gave his full, genuinely interested attention in conversation. He did not demand his own way or squawk for his “rights,” even when he could have. He despised that sort of thing and rose above it.

He always bought the most inexpensive thing possible, but never tried to cheat or even talk his way out of a price unless it was ridiculous. He wanted to be fair. He often gave people things he could have sold them instead. The person was more important than the price. Even with money, he treated others as he wanted to be treated.

This is the distinct notion I got from watching my dad deal with other people, including complete strangers: They, their thoughts, feelings and needs mattered more than his.

11.)   The people you love need to hear it, often.

You need to show them, and you need to verbally tell them. There is no reason to be content with just one or the other. I don’t know that my dad believed in particular love languages so much as all of them. Whether they came naturally or not was a side issue. I really think that sometimes we cripple ourselves by categorizing ourselves.

Looking at this list, one might get the notion that my dad was harsh and unfeeling with his kids. We would laugh at such a preposterous notion. The discipline never felt unfair because he was so obvious in his expressions of love. The love truly felt limitless.

Would you say something at your loved one’s funeral, from the heart, that they were unaware you felt for them while they were here on this earth? Tell them. 

Also, “Love” is spelled T-I-M-E, not M-O-N-E-Y. Especially as a father. We rarely had the one. We always had the other.

My Very Own Christmas Shoes

I moved back to school about a week ago with one pair of “shoes”: flip-flops.


Granted, I own other shoes, but had left them at home over the summer while interning at Wayumi. Figured I could always go home one of these weekends and bring some belongings back to school with me upon returning. My beloved running shoes, which had cost me all of $1.50 at Goodwill, bit the dust around the time the summer ended – the soles having separated entirely from the rest of the shoe after a hike.


Selling bracelets from early morning to late at night for Threads of Hope at the state fair during this past week, there was no chance during the day to head to the store and replace them. Nonetheless, I kept up with my morning jogs for the most part. Nothing says, “You’ve gotten soft since your days of farm life” quite like running barefoot for a few miles on Waukesha asphalt. It went well until a few days into doing so; blisters were imminent if I continued, and I lamented this to myself alone as I walked down the hall to the kitchen on 2nd floor one late evening.


Next to the kitchen is the free pile. Keep in mind there were really only a few people living at NTBI then, thus no “pile.” But there in that spot was a pair of tennis shoes. I thought, jokingly, “Well that’s funny. What are the odds they would be my size?” To my shock and joy, they were. Size 9.


Maybe it seems like a little thing, but not to me. And you could call it coincidence or good timing or anything else imaginable, but I know my Heavenly Father. It was one of those moments where it’s as if He goes out of His way to say, “Hey.. you know that ‘If that is how God clothes the grass of the field, which is here today and tomorrow is thrown into the fire, will he not much more clothe you—you of little faith?’ (Matthew 6:30) You didn’t even ask, but I saw, and I care. I love you.”


It reminded me of yet another testament to God’s faithfulness at another time in my life… also involving shoes. Seems to be His loving little inside joke with me! Here’s what happened…


In 2010, at the end of my Discipleship Training School in Egypt, our team was on our way to live and work in a remote area in Ethiopia for a month. We were told what we would need before leaving Egypt, which wasn’t much; but again I owned only flip-flops, which had served me well in the dusty Middle Eastern climate. Now we were leaving for an area of jungles, rivers, tall grass, mud and poisonous snakes… and it was required that we have shoes or boots.


I scoped out my options and decided on this pair of high-top hiking shoes. Black (goes with everything! haha) But alas.. not a simple fix. First, it was tough to find anything in my size (Egyptian women have tiny feet, and they usually don’t wear athletic shoes), but I figured I could always just go with men’s wear if necessary. The real issue was a lack of funds. For just SHOES, you ask? Well, yes, and frankly I felt humiliated; I had paid all my dues and fees entirely, but my visa and a trip to the Ethiopian embassy had gobbled up all but what amounted to about 5 U.S. dollars. Not even the cheapest shoes there (I’m talkin’ twine-and-duct-tape-on-cardboard-type quality) were going for that rate. Not even to the most sweet-talking bartering pro.


We’re supposed to, with thanksgiving, make our requests known to God, yes? We know that He hears, and we know that prayer truly is so powerful! I knew that, in my head. But all I remember of my pitiful prayer in regards to shoes was that it amounted to an offhanded, brief, fleeting sort of complaint in the middle of my prayer time one morning. It honestly didn’t even count as a request.


The night/morning of our flight to Ethiopia arrived. We were spending the night in a semi-enclosed “house” tacked onto a church in the middle of Cairo. Still I owned no shoes. We’d spent several hours in prayer for each other, for the team where we were going, for the Holy Spirit to be going ahead and paving the way, keeping us humble and using us as He saw fit – it was around 2 AM. Our flight was leaving around 4 or 5 AM, as I remember.


Out of the blue, somebody knocked on our rickety door/gate and delivered a package from a very dear Egyptian brother we all knew who I’ll call “Sam.” (haha.) It was New Year’s Eve, and he was passing on some gifts which had been sent to him by his brother (who was in Italy!) for Christmas. (Christmas celebrates Christ’s birth and therefore isn’t recognized as a holiday in the Islamic Middle East…)


Sam specifically marked one gift for each one of us; a notebook, for example, or some candy, or a clothing item.


Imagine how the blood drained from my face when I unwrapped mine to find shoes. Hiking shoes. High-top. European size 40, which for us is a size 9. BLACK. Better quality than the ones I’d checked out before.


Oh yes, I cried. I cried a lot.


Sam had absolutely no way of knowing that I even wanted shoes, much less what kind. He did not know my shoe size. I had not told a single soul that I was in need of footwear.


There is nothing like that moment when it hit me – not in the head, but in the heart – that my Creator is in reality here with me, right now, always, sees every little thing, and knows me more intimately than I know myself.


This came during a low point for me, in a season when I was begging God frequently for faith (I firmly believe it is something God gives; I could not muster what I needed on my own). I was a lot like the man described in Mark 9:24 who cries, “I do believe; help me overcome my unbelief!” Or the story in Luke 17 where the apostles say, “Lord, increase our faith!”


So people ask me if God really cares about every facet of the lives of His children. If He really hears. Answer? Absolutely and unequivocally, beyond a shadow of a doubt, YES. God is not Santa Clause, He owes us nothing, and these things don’t happen all the time; still, sometimes He just delights in blessing us in ways we definitely do not deserve… in this case, in order to patiently grow my faith. His answers don’t always look like we want them to. Sometimes His answer is “NO.” But does He hear, does He love us, is He working everything out for our good and His glory?


More than you or I can possibly fathom.


Even right down to the itty bitty “trivial” details. Like our toes.