My computer broke. Crash-o-rama. First time in my laptop history that I’ve had a computer crash on me. It’s at the computer doctor right now having a dataectomy. I pray it all gets transferred. My life is on that laptop! Lord have mercy!

Daryl and I spent a week in sunny Mexico for our vacation. It was a good time, but they did have record-breaking cold temps. Nothing like here in KC of course, but cold for them–57 degrees.

We’re home now and preparing to head out again. We leave for Texas on Tuesday, January 26. We’ll be speaking at Le Tourneau University’s missions emphasis week and then we head down to Houston for the IICS January board meeting. We’re also hosting a dinner down there. Fun times. Looking forward to seeing good friends and wonderful coworkers. I’ll be speaking at a Sunday School class at West University Baptist Church in Houston on the 31st. If you’re in the area, would love to see you. Also, the IICS dinner is going to be held at the Houston Marriott Westchase Saturday night, January 30th. It’s a free dinner and IICS professors will speak and it’s gonna be a lot of fun. If you want to come, just call the office or email Katie for a reservation: 800.776.4427 or katie@iics.com.

I’d like to give an update on Mike’s and my book. It’s a praise the Lord and “WOW” kind of thing, but I never want to come across as bragging or boasting. I just want to let folks know that prayers have been answered and that God has been gracious. First off, IVP wanted me to do a book signing at Urbana ’09 in St. Louis. I was glad to do it and really looked forward to meeting folks at the bookstore. They scheduled me to sign from 3:00 to 4:00. The IVP rep told me it would probably last 45 minutes. It actually lasted two hours! They sold out of the book! I was so thrilled. I think for the folks at IVP our book was kind of a dark horse–a gamble. Selling out of the book means that their risk wasn’t in vain. I’m thankful for that. I didn’t want to disappoint our editors.

Secondly, World Magazine did a review in their January 30 issue. Susan Olasky reviewed it as one of four “notable” books for the New Year. I was blown away. Of all the books she could have chosen, I was so surprised she picked ours. Surprised and grateful.

Here’s the other side of writing. I put together a collection of stories, much like what I’ve written on the blog. Stories of life on the mission field, stories of Lao Deng, Mr. Xu, Natasha and Little Olga. Stories of God’s faithfulness to a big old donkey girl. I put the book proposal together and sent it to three publishers and all three turned it down. Baker, Zondervan and IVP all said they had no niche for this kind of book. Please pray with me that I may know what to do. Do I let it go and move on or do I continue to send it off to publishers? I need wisdom.

Well, thanks for letting me ramble and share. I was so happy to see that the blog is nearing 10,000 readers. Who knew? I’m looking forward to the New Year and to seeing what God will do in each of us and through each of us. Haiti wakes us all up to see that we live in a broken and hurting world. May we each prayerfully seek God’s will and way that He might use us to live out His love for this world. Peace.

Sunday’s service was amazing! We heard evangelist Chuck Millhuff speak. This man is in his 70’s, been an evangelist most of his life, spoken around the world and now is the resident evangelist at our church. Still very Hollywood handsome and a very sharp dresser, I wondered what on earth this guy was going to say to us when he entered the pulpit. Daryl leans over to me and whispers, “I heard him speak a few years ago. He’s really good.”

“I’ll see for myself,” I thought. Too flashy. Too good looking for my taste. I’m so non-judgmental you know.

“I’m a donkey!” he declares right out of the box. “I’ve always wanted to be and considered myself a prancing pony. A show horse. But now after all these years I’ve realized that is sin. What God has really called me to be is a load-bearing, hardworking, service animal—a donkey.

My heart was pierced. Immediately I felt the Holy Spirit’s touch on me. It was one of the sermons that, you know, you are certain was written specifically for your situation. Daryl didn’t even hesitate or look my way. He just pulled out the old hanky and handed it over. And yes, the tears came. I almost shook convulsively.

I am a very pride-filled person. Oh, I cloak it in abject humility, but I’m prideful alright. I don’t want to be a servant donkey. I want to be the prancing pony. The beautiful show horse that everyone oohs and aahs over. I like praise and affirmation and compliments and words that assure me that I’m the greatest. It’s awful. It’s worse than drug addiction.

When I was young I had this problem. I guess I’ve had it all my life. But when I was young, I kept thinking my dues would eventually come. Sure they would. Just wait it out, keep training, keep getting more education, keep performing and eventually you’ll be the famous rock star of Christianity you always knew you were meant to be. That was when I was young.

Unfortunately, age didn’t purge me of this despicable sin, but actually has enhanced its flavor…much like aged fine wine or a good wheel of cheese. Why? Because as I’m older I realize the rock star dream is more and more unattainable. The harsh reality sets in and resentment becomes a stinky, oozing sore in my already sin-infected flesh. (Wow. That’s some allegory there sister! A little gross actually. Sorry.)

The evangelist was right. I’m called to be a donkey. A big old donkey girl. Like he said, it was a donkey that carried Jesus into the city of Jerusalem. It was a donkey that carried a pregnant Mary into Bethlehem. Also, let’s not forget it was a donkey that warned old Balaam of judgment and disobedience. It was a donkey that carried Abraham and Isaac to the place of sacrifice. A donkey serves. A donkey works. A donkey carries the load for its Master. A donkey is not flashy or fancy or prancy or considered even very beautiful. But a donkey is a symbol of humility in the Bible.

Am I content to live a life of obscurity? Am I at peace with an audience of One? Do I really mean it when I say, “To God be the glory?” Or are those just words to cloak my pride? God knows what is best for each of us. He knows what we need. And He is more concerned with me being formed in the image of His Son than with my sense of fulfillment and the realization of carnal dreams. I believe that God is more concerned with my holiness than with my happiness. And the odd thing about being formed in the image and character of Christ is we gotta die. Galatians 5:24, “And those who belong to Christ Jesus have crucified the flesh with its passions and desires. If we live by the Spirit, let us also be guided by the Spirit. Let us not become conceited, competing against one another, envying one another.”

Matthew 21:5 “Tell the daughter of Zion, ‘Look, your king is coming to you, humble, and mounted on a donkey’.” I want to be a donkey. I want to be the kind of servant to my King that would carry Him into the city and all eyes be on Him and none on me. Today I’m asking the Lord Jesus to forgive me of my dreams of being a prancing pony and to allow me to be His servant donkey. I can only do it through His strength and His work in my life. Only He can transform a prancing pony wanna be to the donkey servant girl He’s called me to be. Peace.

As a deer longs for flowing streams, so my soul longs for you, O God. My soul thirsts for God, for the living God (Psalm 42:1-2).

Urbana ’09 was one of the best Urbanas I’ve ever been to. The numbers were down—17,000 instead of the 23,000 of ’06. But the quality of each person there was unmatched in my five-Urbana history. There was a beautiful spirit there. The students were kind, generous, very reflective and earnest about their walks with God. I was blown away by the people I met—by their sincerity, their passion for the lost, and their deep desire to follow Christ.

One question I was asked a lot, “How do you know where God wants you to go and serve?” Good question. And for each of us that might look a little differently. If it’s okay, I’d like to share what my experience has been when trying to find the answer to, “God, what do You want me to do?”

I am very fortunate to have been mentored by great writers. Not that I knew them personally (except Richard Foster of course), but fortunate in the sense that somehow God was able to get their books into my hands and speak to me through their lives, their testimonies, and their experiences. I’ve learned so much about God through folks like Corrie ten Boom, Elizabeth Elliot, Don Richardson, Reece Howells, Amy Carmichael, Joni Ericson Tada, Roy Hession, David Wilkerson, and anything written by or about Hudson Taylor. These godly men and women taught me God can and does extraordinary things through ordinary people. People just like you and me. People with flaws and fears and imperfections, but people who loved God with all their hearts, souls, minds and strength who wanted His will and His way in their lives more than they wanted breath. And through them and their lives, I believe I have been able to discern and follow God’s will these 30 years.

Years ago when I finished my bachelor’s degree in journalism I knew what I wanted to do. I wanted to be a first-rate, well-known, excellent journalist. I wanted to serve God through media and to right wrongs, protect the underdog, expose the bad guys, help the good guys and to make a name for myself as a journalist that was fair, accurate and always cutting edge. I was a follower of Jesus with a plan. A good plan. A worthwhile plan. A plan that would honor God in the world of journalism—a noble and worthwhile calling. Unfortunately, I took a class from Richard Foster. That was my first mistake. It was called “Spiritual Pioneers.” It was a class that focused on men and women who had changed the world for the Kingdom just through ordinary, everyday, heartfelt obedience to God. It was convicting. It was eye-opening. It was transformational. I took this class my last semester before graduation. Oops.

How can I describe an upset stomach? How does one explain “a spirit of uneasiness?” How is it possible to give details of restlessness? I don’t know. But I do know that the discomfort I felt every time I went on a job interview or talked to a friend about my future, well, that was a real sensation that left unattended, was keeping me up at nights. And because I’d read all the stories about men and women of God who followed Christ regardless of what they thought they wanted to do, that Great Cloud of Witnesses sort of haunted me. Sleepless nights, dry devotional times, an overall discontent—these were letting me know that God was urging me to look elsewhere for His plan and His will for my life. I hated it. I didn’t want my life disrupted by anything that would take me off my path to journalistic history making. (Or so I thought).

But there comes a time in the life of every Believer, (at least I think this), that we must “wrestle with a man” the way Jacob did. And I believe we’ll often leave that experience with a name change and a bruised hip. (See Genesis 32).

I had just been offered an amazing job at a local television station. The perfect entry position for my perfect plan. As I sat in the station manager’s office I could see her face, but it was fuzzy. I could hear her voice, but it seemed distant. I wanted to respond to her job offer immediately, but it was as if I couldn’t quite get the words out. Frustrated and on the verge of tears, I left the station manager’s office and ran to my car. I headed home. Once safely inside my apartment I began to cry and rant and rave. “What’s wrong with me?” “Why am I so distraught?” “Lord Jesus, please, help me.” And I, like Jacob, began to wrestle. Not with a man, but with myself. I wrestled and fought and cried out to God, “But I want this! This is my plan!” It wasn’t that I knew what God wanted me to do. I just knew He didn’t want me to take that job at the station. I didn’t know what direction He was wanting me to take. I just knew He didn’t want me to go there. Finally, broken hearted and confused I decided to surrender. I lay face down on my apartment floor and buried my face into a deep old green shag carpet. I lay there prostrate before God and said, “I’m not getting up until I know what You want for my life.” (Or, like Jacob, “I’ll not let go until You bless me.”)

The first few minutes I cried and I prayed and I wept and I prayed and I told God how unhappy I was. I looked up at the clock and only ten minutes had passed. It seemed like hours. I went back to my wailing, and crying and asking God, “What? What do You want of me? What do You want me to do?” I looked at the clock. Only another ten minutes had passed. Still nothing. And finally, worn out and exhausted I laid my face back down and softly said, “I want Your will in my life more than I want to live. Please show me what to do. I can’t figure this out on my own and I need You to tell me what You want.”

I lay faced down on the nasty shag green carpet for nearly four hours. I wouldn’t budge until I knew what my God wanted me to do. As a deer pants for water so my soul was panting after Him. Then the phone rang. It was Richard Foster. “Teri, have you ever considered going to China?” Six months later I was standing on Chinese soil.

In all my years of walking with God I have come to realize a very simple truth: God is pleased to reveal His will to His children. “Fear not little flock for it is your father’s good will to give you the Kingdom.” God wants to give His kids direction and guidance. If I’m having trouble hearing Him, the fault always lies with me. Never with Him. If you want to know God’s will and way for your life you have to get serious and block out time for Him. Time for reading His word, praying and yes, fasting. Fasting not only from food, but from TV, media, the Internet, friends. Jacob wrestled alone. He sent his family, his possessions, his servants and all of his work across the river and spent the night alone and that is where he wrestled with the man. Many commentators (and uncommontaters) believe that it was an angel Jacob wrestled with and as a result of not letting go until he had been blessed a nation was born. Jacob became Israel. He got a bruised hip, sure, but he also got a name change that forever changed the history of mankind.

Want to know God’s will and way for you? Tarry. Lie on your face before your heavenly Father and say, “I won’t move until You speak and when You speak I’ll obey no matter what the cost.”

My prayer for anyone reading this today who is seriously seeking God to know His plan, is that God will lead you and bless you and make His will known clearly to you. “He will surely be gracious to you at the sound of your cry; when he hears it, he will answer you. Though the Lord may give you the bread of adversity and the water of affliction, yet your Teacher will not hide himself any more, but your eyes shall see your Teacher. And when you turn to the right or when you turn to the left, your ears shall hear a word behind you, saying, ‘This is the way; walk in it’” (Isaiah 30:20-21). Peace.

I was just a big ol’ dumb, white girl from Kansas living in a city of 1.5 million Chineesers. In fact, in the fall of 1983, there were only about 15 foreigners total in our city of Changchun (this was the old Manchuria). I was there with two other women and we were the first Americans to teach at the Changchun College of Geology in the school’s 35-year history. We were a part of Deng Xiao Ping’s Open Door Policy. Oddly enough, China’s ruling powers believed that China needed to learn English in order to modernize. Hmmm. Looks like they were right on that one.

I’ll never forget my first moments on campus. The taxi pulled into the parking area of our new home! It was a gray, unpainted Soviet-style concrete cracker box with three stories. Though the building could house 100 to 150 people, the administration decided it would be best to house only the foreign teachers there so as to keep our foreignness from contaminating the whole campus. So we were the only ones living in the entire building. We were on the first floor. The second floor housed the ping pong table and none of us ever dared to venture up to the third floor.

The school administration and the Communist Party had appointed a man by the name of Lao Deng to watch over, manage, and take care of the building and all its contents, including us. He hated us. He hated our guts! Lao Deng didn’t take too kindly to foreigners, especially useless women from America trying to poison students’ minds with the English language. His country didn’t need foreign ideas, foreign languages, or foreign teachers.

Lao Deng was an army man. He had also been part of Mao’s Red Guard that wreaked havoc over all of China during the Cultural Revolution in the 1970s. He wore a green army uniform that looked a bit like pajamas. He always stood very straight—at attention. He wore a cap with a bright, shiny red star of China just above the bill. He wore his hair buzzed, only about a quarter of an inch long all over. He never smiled. He never engaged in small talk. He was all business and his business was keeping an eye on us.

Lao Deng’s responsibilities included providing our toilet paper, changing light bulbs, delivering our mail, inspecting our rooms for contraband like hot plates or Chinese Bibles. He loved the part of his job where he got to do the surprise inspections of our rooms. It gave him a real sense of control. He loved that. Also, there is an important principle in life that I have learned: He who holds the toilet paper holds all the power.

Lao Deng obviously knew that too.

He expressed his hate for us in all the small, irritating ways that can destroy one’s day. A letter from home opened and handed to me with congratulations on my sister’s pregnancy. News I had not yet heard. He instilled fear in us, so much so that running out of toilet paper became an emotional, as well as physical, crisis.

“You ask him.”

“NO! You ask him. I asked last time!”

My team members always voted me to be the one to go and humbly, embarrassingly, kowtow to Lao Deng and beg for toilet paper. (Believe me! It was one of the first words I learned when I started studying Chinese. I hated these times of begging). Once when I went to him with this request he shouted at me, “NO! You Americans are so wasteful. You need to learn how to conserve. No more toilet paper this week!” It was Monday. We were three women. It was horrid.

By October, when the first snows of northern China began to come daily and stay on the ground, we three American teachers (why did I just hear a Christmas carol?) had settled into our teaching, living, learning—daily routines. It was about then that the Communist Party officials and the university administration decided it was time for our first sixty days meeting. They explained that they wanted us to bring our complaints and criticisms to them so that they might do their jobs better. A little Mao-style rap session where criticism brings growth. Yeah. Right. Just think “Cultural Revolution” where an estimated 15 million Chinese died as a result of just “being honest.”

Our team of three met before the big Pow Wow and made a long list of complaints. Topping the list was Lao Deng’s mean-spirited way of dealing with us. He had withheld light bulbs and for three nights I sat in my dark little room (Note: in northeast China in the winter, night comes about 3 o’clock in the afternoon!) If we ran out of toilet paper he constantly reminded us of rationing and conservation. He never spoke kindly to us and he was always angry at our every request. He made our lives miserable and that was what he was trying to do! He hated us. He barked at us. And the authorities on that campus needed to know the abuse we were enduring. The meeting for us meant that Lao Deng’s bullying days were finally over!

Irma, being the oldest of the team at 65, was elected as our spokesperson. We dressed up for the meeting in our best professional clothing and came to the room armed with our very long list of complaints about the Dengmeister.

The meeting began. All Chinese protocol was followed. Have some tea. Warmly welcome you. We appreciate you. We appreciate you too. Life is good. Students are smart. Then they asked the million dollar question, “How can we improve our service to you? Are there any complaints at all?”

Now just moments before they asked the million dollar question I had started feeling a pit in my tummy…a kind of knot. In certain circles it might be called “a check in my spirit.” Whatever you call it, it was telling me that we shouldn’t unload this dump truck full of complaints about Lao Deng on to the administration. I wasn’t seated next to Irma, so I couldn’t discreetly get her attention. So, I prayed.

“Lord, if you want to you can stop us from reading our list. Give us a heads-up here please. What should we do?”

Suddenly, the Party Secretary looked directly at me and asked, “Huo Chi, (that’s my Chinese name) would you please represent your group and give us your criticisms and complaints so that we might do our job better?”

Why me? I know. I was the youngest; I was the dumbest; I was the least qualified to speak for the team. But, I’m loud. Very loud. In a meeting room of this size, it was important to be heard. My Mom always said people could hear me long before they could ever see me. In this case, my loudness was an asset.

I stood up and bowed to the table of VIPs. Irma took out the list, but I motioned her to keep it. The Lord had given me the words to say. You know there is that funny passage in the Gospels where Jesus tells His disciples not to worry about what to say when brought in before the magistrates, but that the Holy Spirit would fill their mouths with words (Luke 12:11)? It was kind of like that.

“First of all,” I started standing very straight and using my best English, “I would like to thank all of you for the honor and privilege of teaching at the great Changchun College of Geology. My teammates and I are very happy here and find our students to be some of the brightest and hardest working students we have ever encountered.

“We especially wanted to take this opportunity to recognize Lao Deng. He is a great man who is so helpful to all of us.”

Lao Deng was sitting in a folding chair near the door. When my words finally reached his ear of understanding his expression was notably one of shock—complete and utter surprise. I went on…”We are foreign women in a new land and he has done such a great job of making us feel at home and welcoming us to this new place.” Deborah, my other teammate, was kicking my leg under the table skirt. Still, I continued, brave pony soldier that I am.

“So, for the team I would like to offer this word of appreciation to Lao Deng.” And I began clapping. Deborah and Irma joined in not to appear rude. Then the entire table of VIPs stood and applauded old Lao Deng whose face had turned very red and whose smile (something I had never seen on him before) was starting to emerge. And we clapped, and clapped, for an uncomfortable length of time.

For the Chinese of that period nothing was more important or more significant than being recognized and honored by high Party officials (not stoned, but high-ranking). It was a defining moment for Lao Deng. The meeting ended. Everyone shook hands. At dinner that night neither Irma nor Deb would speak to me. Can’t blame them.

The next morning, sitting outside my door were six rolls of toilet paper.

That afternoon Lao Deng brought me a hot plate. I asked him, “Isn’t this against building regulations?”

“You let me worry about that,” he smiled. And plugged that sucker in. In a building that only had heat four hours a day in a land where temps could plummet way below zero, a hot plate was a great thing to have.

Now, Christmas was not celebrated in China in those days. Mao had only been dead four years and much of his doctrine and philosophy was still deeply rooted in the people. But the director of our sending organization had already negotiated with the college that we American teachers could have December 25th off. But the campus would go on with business as usual.

Early Christmas morning, around 5 o’clock, there was a banging at my door, more like a pounding, that woke me from a very sound sleep. My room was freezing (we only had radiator heat from around 10 PM until 3 AM). I forced myself out of bed and grabbed my robe. I searched for my bunny slippers and was stumbling around the small, dark room. Finally, I opened the door thinking it was probably one of my teammates eager to start Christmas Day, but it was Lao Deng standing there at full attention in dress uniform. “Lai le! Lai le!” he shouted at me and motioned me with his arms. “Come! Come!” he shouted again. I wrapped my robe tightly around me and ran after him down the cold concrete hallway to the front lobby of the building. There standing in all its glory was a three foot rubber tree plant potted in one of those Chinese-style planters covered with red hand-made paper chains, hand strung candies; little pieces of string and on the top was a perfectly shaped Red Star of China. I didn’t know what to say. Lao Deng was so proud of himself he beamed. He looked at me as if to say, “Well what do you think? Do you like it?”

It was the most beautiful Christmas tree I had ever seen. (Though a little Charlie-Brown-Christmas-tree like).

I cried. Like the big dumb donkey girl that I am. I shook his hand and said thank you over and over again.

After we stood there admiring the Christmas Tree, he decided to walk me back to my room. On the way back down the cold concrete hall I asked him, “Lao Deng how do you know about the Christmas Tree?”

“Well,” he said, “when I was a little boy my Father died in the war and my Mother died in the famine. My little brother and I were orphaned but in my village lived two American missionary women. They took us in and adopted us. They taught me about baby Jesus and God. They taught me songs and I learned to read the Bible. They always celebrated Christmas. You always remind me of one of them………………………the really, really fat one.” (Uh. Ouch).

“They were my American Missionary Mamas.”

“Lao Deng,” I hesitated. “What happened to you?”

He told me how the Japanese had taken his American mothers to prison camp. He never saw them again. Even though they survived the camps, they were immediately sent home to the US and not allowed to take him or his brother with them. He told me how he had no way to feed, clothe or shelter himself or his little brother. Then one day the Communist Army came marching through his village. They told him if he joined the army they would provide for both him and his little brother. They promised that his little brother would be given an education. Lao Deng said, “It was then that I turned my back on God who had abandoned me and I bought the Party ideas—hook , line and sinker.”

He was sad. I was sad. I wanted to hug him or touch his arm, but that would have been so inappropriate for his culture.

He started again, “I forgot all about God until the day you got out of that taxi. When I saw you I was reminded of my fat American Missionary Mama. You look so much like her and your personality is the same. Then I started remembering what I had learned–thinking of them. But that is all finished now.”

“No it’s not!” I said sharply. “What do you mean ‘it’s finished’?”

“I have done things Huo Chi that cannot be forgiven,” he looked away from me.

My heart broke. I didn’t know how to say Bible verses in Chinese. I wanted to remind him of 1 John 1:9. But I couldn’t. I wanted to say to him that God is faithful to forigve us when we ask. I was able to say that God is a forgiving God. Not very convincingly though.

“Merry Christmas Huo Chi!” he shouted trying to shake off the gloom and regain the joy of the moment.

“Merry Christmas Lao Deng!” I shouted back. Smiling. Waving as he left the building.

I went back into my room, crawled into bed and curled up under my down comforter. I started thinking: Maybe this was why I came to China. Maybe the Lord loved Lao Deng so very much that He wanted to remind the little orphan boy of His love and His Word. (Good thing all those diets hadn’t worked too!) I said a prayer for Lao Deng while snuggled there in my bed. Quite honestly I fell madly in love with him that day and that love never ceased. We did a lot of stuff together after that. He helped with me with my shopping. He helped me with train tickets. I went to his home to meet his wife and for dinner. His attitude completely changed. To me, he became a different man.

The next year it was the same ritual. Early Christmas morning there was a loud pounding at my door. He was all smiles and not as stiff as last year. He grabbed my hand this time and practically dragged me down the concrete hallway. There she was, a little bigger this year and with lights! We stood there admiring her, just the two of us on that bitterly cold Christmas morning.

“Merry Christmas Lao Deng.”

“Merry Christmas Huo Chi.”

I had gotten him a little gift–a small silver-plated business card holder.

He had made me a small bamboo box with a design burned into it. I have it still. It is one of my treasures.

A few years later I returned to Changchun to teach for the summer. Lao Deng was nowhere to be found. I asked around and someone sadly reported that he had liver disease and was bedridden at home. I borrowed a bike and prayed my way through the maze of the old part of the city. Even though I had been to his home before, it was a long time ago and old Changchun could get very confusing. Finally, I found the worn out dilapidated building where he lived. I knocked on the door. His wife answered and invited me into the crowded single room with one window and a bare light bulb hanging from the ceiling. The space was the size of my Mother’s kitchen and three adults were living there (Lao Deng, his wife and his mother-in-law). They had a set of bunk beds on one side of the room, a cot on the other. There was a small wooden, square table and a makeshift kitchen in the corner. The floors were cracked concrete. There was a small three-legged stool under the window near the bottom bunk where Lao Deng was lying. When I came into the room he tried to raise up to meet me. I motioned for him to stay down. I pulled the three-legged stool near the bed and sat next to him. I laid my hand on his and prayed quietly, softly, that the Lord would touch him and that I might know what to say.

“Lao Deng, how are you doing?” I asked almost in a whisper.

“Not too well Huo Chi. You know I’m dying,” he said.

I nodded. Someone at the school had prepared me. I was crying silently. I couldn’t stop the tears and I had a lump that was hurting deep in my throat. He was jaundiced. His hands were bony. He looked tired and so very frail. So different from the strong soldier man that met the taxi my first day on campus.

“Lao Deng, are you ready to die?” It was the hardest question I had ever asked anyone in my life.

“Yes Huo Chi. Don’t worry. I am ready to see the baby Jesus.”

And I knew he was. In that filthy, crowded little room lost in the maze of an overpopulated city in China I knew God was watching over a little orphan boy whose name had never been lost nor forgotten to an all-loving, ever-watchful, merciful and tenacious Heavenly Father. Peace.

The Chinese government had a funny way of doing things back in the day when I first started teaching there. The Communist Party had a strict policy protecting its citizens from the invasion of dangerous stuff like “foreign ideas and philosophies” coming into the country through the massive influx of English teachers from the West. Their policy (loosely translated) was called “The Crackdown on Spiritual Pollution.” Christianity topped their list of biohazardous materials.

The policy dictated that foreign teachers meet with the Party Secretary of each campus every week to discuss the dos and don’ts of the “crackdown.” We were not permitted to wear nail polish (that went for the guys too); we could not wear bright clothing, like my favorite red sweater. We were not allowed to wear bluejeans. Foreign films were forbidden, unless prescreened and approved by top Party officials. And to ensure that we followed the regulations of not discussing democracy, religion, or politics in the classroom, each class was given a monitor—the human kind. The monitor was someone that actually wanted to be in the class to learn English, but was also a person the Party could trust to report the hazardous use of materials. i.e. Christianity, democracy, human rights, etc.

The monitor’s job was to keep an eye on the wily foreign teachers, but, just as important, their job was to watch over the students and make sure they didn’t make any comments in class that would make China, or its governing leaders, look bad.

The first day of class Mr. Xu came up to me and introduced himself. “I Xu Yao Shi. I am class monitor.” He spoke the sentence with some difficulty. I could tell he’d been practicing it for a while.

Mr. Xu was a little heavier than the average Chinese man. He was in his mid 30s, wore very thick horn-rimmed glasses and had kinky curly hair which he wore very short. All the male students wore Mao jackets and dark colored pants. Mr. Xu’s jacket was not the usual army green or navy. His was a dull gray.

One afternoon I was in my room reading when there was a gentle knock on the door. I opened the door to my small room and was surprised to see Mr. Xu standing there all alone. First of all, no students were allowed to visit the foreign teachers without a buddy. Secondly, the monitors never came by for a friendly visit. I thought I might be in trouble.

“Mr. Xu,” I said warmly, “Won’t you come in?”

He wouldn’t pass over the threshold. “I can only stay a moment Miss Teri,” he was struggling with the language.

“I have to stop coming to class and I am very sorry about it,” he was twisting his woolen cap in his hands.

“Mr. Xu,” I began, “why do you have to drop out of the class? Is there a problem?”

Even though he was the monitor, I really liked the guy. He was a gentle soul and always helped in class. He straightened up the room; cleaned the chalk board; made sure I had chalk each class period. These were really big things back then.

“It is my wife,” he said. “She is very ill. The doctor have found seven different cancer in her body. They told me she to die. So I must stay with her in special part of hospital just for dying.”

His face was ashen. His voice was soft and low. Without a doubt Mr. Xu’s marriage was one of love and not convenience as so many were in this mixed up place.

In Chinese hospitals at that time nursing care was unheard of. If someone had to be in the hospital, it was their family’s duty to take care of them. The family was required to provide the bed linens as well as all the patience’s meals.

The ward Mr. Xu was talking about was the ward for the terminally ill. His job would be to watch over his wife twenty-four hours a day, feeding her, bathing her, caring for her every need until she died. This was the Chinese way.

Mr. Xu said again how sorry he was to miss the class. He thanked me for being his “most excellent teacher.” As we stood there in the doorway of my little room I felt sorry for Mr. Xu. I felt sad that he was suffering this tragic blow. About that time a voice sounded off in my head, “Tell him you’ll pray for her. Go on, tell him!”

I wasn’t going to tell the Communist Party monitor that I would pray for his wife. I had two very good reasons: He would report me to the authorities and if she died he would be even more convinced that there is no God. Forget it. I’m not sayin’ it.

Mr. Xu and I bowed to each other and shook hands. I expressed my condolences and offered my help if they needed anything. I watched him walk down the long concrete corridor of my building leaving my room and heading toward the foyer.

Then the voice shouted at me, “Tell him! Tell him you’ll pray for his wife!.”

“I can’t,” I argued under my breath. “You know I can’t and besides, what if she dies?”

Then, on an impulse stronger than fear or reason, I shouted after Mr. Xu. My voice echoed and bounced off the long concrete hallway walls, “Mr. Xu! Mr. Xu!” I shouted. He turned around and looked back at me.

“I’ll be praying for your wife…uh…that…God will heal her.”

He smiled and nodded the way an adult does when a child speaks of the tooth fairy or Santa Claus.

I slipped back into my room and shut the door, I leaned against it. “You idiot!” I said out loud to myself. “Why did you have to add the healing part? Why didn’t you just leave it at ‘I’ll be praying for your wife’?!?”

I really beat myself up over that one.

The months passed and spring finally came to the city whose name is ironically Eternal Spring, although it snowed on May 1st that year. Classes wrapped up and I successfully completed my first year of teaching in China. With the summer break many of the foreigners decided to head home to pick up supplies, see family and get some R&R from the strain of living in a Third World country with a Communist government. I decided to join them.

Summer back home was fun. I asked all the women’s groups and churches where I spoke to please pray for Mr. Xu’s wife. Since the day he visited me I had kept my promise and habitually prayed for her healing. Now I was asking for good, strong backup. Many people across the U.S. were praying for Mr. Xu’s wife.

Summer faded and before long I was back in Changchun unloading my suitcases full of bounty. It was unusually warm for Changchun so I had my windows open and was giving the small room an airing. Lost in thought, I jumped when I heard a loud pounding at my door. I opened the door and there stood Mr. Xu. He lunged toward me, closed the door and then he said to me, “Your God healed my wife!”

I was stunned. I was absolutely shocked out of my mind.

“What? Tell me what happened,” I said anxiously.

“After I left your room that day I went straight to the hospital and told my wife about your kind words, how you said that you would pray to your God to heal her.

“Soon she was feeling much better and within weeks the cancer was gone—completely gone. She is home. Doctors cannot explain to us why. We had a very good and active summer. She is stronger than ever and your God did it. Your God healed her. Now we want to believe in your God. How do we do that?”

Twelve months of praying, interceding, hoping for a convert in China and this was my first one. Mr. Xu and his wife were the only people I led to Christ my first year there. But what a miraculous conversion it was. Everything about them changed—their countenance, their conversations, their outlook on life—everything.

Mr. Xu was once again assigned to be my class monitor that fall. He gave me total freedom in the class. My students, most of them graduate students, were eager to discuss the deeper things of life and the hard issues. We had lively discussions; we put on plays and learned English songs. One afternoon after class Mr. Xu and his best friend Mr. Yang, also in that class, came to me and made an outrageous suggestion. They thought it would be a great idea to put on a Christmas play in December. They wanted to do the story of Jesus. Would I mind writing it?

“You see,” Mr. Xu stated his case, “Christmas is culture for Americans. We need to learn your culture. Also, if all the parts are in English, we can say it is a tool for learning the language. Last year one of the classes did Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs. This might be considered by some as just another fairy tale put into play form.”

“Do you think it’s safe?” I asked them both.

“Let us worry about that and you just take care of writing the play,” they responded. After all, Mr. Xu was the class monitor.

The gospel according to Luke was the best place to start. I wrote the play and made sure there was a part for each person in the class. The one Muslim student insisted on playing the Inn Keeper who refused Joseph and Mary a room. He was hilarious and quite good at his part.

Mr. Xu and Mr. Yang wanted to be the shepherds and we all agreed that Mr.Wu, 4′ 11”, had to play Herald the Angel.

We had a Mary, a Joseph, shepherds, an angel, we had three wise men, an inn keeper and a narrator. Two weeks before the play was scheduled to be performed, someone showed up with a blond-haired, blue-eyed, white-skinned plastic baby doll. We wrapped it in a blanket and that was our baby Jesus.

The class really got into the idea of putting on the play. They made costumes and rehearsed and everyone memorized their parts—all taken from Holy Scripture.

One afternoon during rehearsal, in front of the entire class, the angel Mr. Wu announced that he believed in Jesus Christ as his Savior. I just stood there and looked at him. We all were shocked. Some even laughed nervously. “Why do you say that Mr. Wu?” I asked, trying to break the silence.

“Well I was thinking about the words I say in the play, ‘Fear not for behold I bring you good tidings of great joy which will be for all people. For unto you this day in the city of Bethlehem a child is born, a Savior who is called Christ the Lord. Glory to God in the highest and on earth peace and goodwill toward all men’.

“I like those words and they made me feel something. So, I decided that I would receive the baby Jesus as a Savior and when I did His peace came to me. My wife did this also.”

What could I say? Mr. Xu and his wife had done the same thing months earlier. Mr. Yang was contemplating it, but hadn’t quite made up his mind.

“Well Mr. Wu, thank you so much for sharing that with us.” I patted him on the shoulder and we continued with rehearsal.

On December 25 we had our opening night. Mr. Xu had asked permission to perform the play before the entire campus. The school had agreed believing it would be a good English language exercise for everyone.

The room was packed with old cadres, students, parents with children, grandparents, husbands and wives of the cast. We were all dressed up and the set looked beautiful.

Mr. Xu spoke to me and suggested that he give a brief introduction in Chinese to explain the story about Jesus so that those whose English wasn’t so good wouldn’t miss the really important message of the play. We agreed and he blew them away.

So there, in full shepherd’s costume, Mr. Xu eloquently explained to the audience the story of Christ’s birth. The play was a great success. Quite honestly, I think Mr. Wu came under the anointing as he said his part. His face literally shone and I “got a witness!”

Baby Jesus was laying there in the manger all wrapped up in a Chinese baby blanket and split pants. “Oh baby Jesus,” I prayed, “please come and visit this place the way You did 2,000 years ago. Please reveal Yourself to these dear ones and their loved ones whom I care for so very much.” And I think He did.

The Christmas story has never quite been the same for me since that night. Star of wonder. Peace.

I love missions! I love everything about missions. I love the fact that God uses mere mortals to participate with Him in His great Redemption Story. I love the joyful and miraculous idea that God invites His children to be a part of what He is doing around the world and in the hearts and minds of the human race.

Missionaries, to my mind, are people who cross borders. Border crossing can take place when we cross from one country into another; it can also be when we cross from one culture into another. Jonah was a missionary, albeit a reluctant one. And he didn’t have the Good News of Jesus to share. Paul was definitely a missionary—missionary par excellence. But the best border crosser, the best missionary that ever walked this earth was Jesus. Yup. Jesus.

Think about it—He lived in paradise. He didn’t suffer there; He had no needs. He was loved and adored. He had a great Father. He lived in a perfect place, with perfect beings, and was accepted and understood by all those around Him. Then the Father asked, “Will you go?” And Jesus said, “Yes. I will be about my Father’s business.”

And Jesus Christ, the Son of God, crossed a border. He left His home and His comforts and came to earth to live among people who did not respect Him, who questioned His every move, who doubted His every word. He lived on earth and had to experience cold for the first time, thirst for the first time, hunger for the first time, heat for the first time, rejection for the first time, and He cried for the first time. (After all, scripture tells us there are no tears in heaven and scripture also tells us that Jesus wept when Lazarus died). Jesus crossed a border and left all of paradise behind so that humankind could know God the Father’s unconditional and boundless love.

And His appearing, His border crossing is called Christmas. Jesus—the baby in the manger, the Son of God, the missionary came to earth.

I had a friend tell me once that she could never be a missionary to a foreign land because she was just so happy with her life here in the United States. “Why would I go overseas?” she asked. “I’m so happy here and I have everything I could ever want. I love my job, I have great kids and they’re in terrific schools, I have a lovely home. Why should I give all this up and go to another country?”

Okay, maybe not all are called to be global missionaries. (I write that to appear open minded and objective, but the truth is I think everyone is called to be a global missionary!) Let’s look at Jesus’s words. Jesus said, “Go!” He commanded us to go! His last words to the disciples were, (Acts 1:8), “But you will receive power when the Holy Spirit comes on you; and you will be my witnesses in Jerusalem, and in all Judea and Samaria, and to the ends of the earth.” At home. In neighboring towns. In other counties. In other countries. In all of these we are to be His witnesses.

Matthew 18-20, “Then Jesus came to them and said, ‘All authority in heaven and on earth has been given to me. Therefore go and make disciples of all nations, baptizing them in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit, and teaching them to obey everything I have commanded you. And surely I am with you always, to the very end of the age.’”

Mark 16:15, “And he said to them, ‘Go into all the world and proclaim the good news to the whole creation.’”

In Luke 24:46 Jesus said, “‘Thus it is written, that the Messiah is to suffer and to rise from the dead on the third day, and that repentance and forgiveness of sins is to be proclaimed in his name to all nations, beginning from Jerusalem. You are witnesses of these things.’”

We don’t cross borders because we’re unhappy in our present circumstances. We don’t cross borders looking for adventure. We cross borders because Jesus said to “Go.” We cross borders because we want to follow His example. We cross borders because the hurt and the dying need to hear the Christmas Story of the gift of salvation God the Father has given to all people everywhere. We cross borders because we love the Father and want to obey Him.

It’s tough. I know. And not everyone has a sense of calling to cross an international border and share the Gospel. But can’t we at least cross the street? Can we share the love of Christ with our neighbors? I know each of us can pray. So, here are some ideas of how we can celebrate Christmas this year by demonstrating God’s gift to the world and cross borders in perhaps non-traditional ways.

1. Call your church and get the names and addresses of your church’s missionaries. Then send them all a thank you note and perhaps give a special love offering for each of them and their families this Christmas season.

It’s not too late to send a care package either. When I was on the foreign field I loved getting care packages from home: a Christmas CD, a box of instant cocoa mix, candies, a warm set of gloves, or homemade drawings done by kids. Good stuff. And who cares if it’s a couple of days late, right? It’s the thought that matters.

2. Get a list of missionaries’ names from your denomination (or church) and begin to pray for each person on that list. Prayer support is vitally important for those serving in distant lands. (If you need a list of missionaries to pray for, email IICS! Our professors need dedicated Believers praying for them: margaret@iics.com).

3. Plan your next vacation to go and visit a missionary family and encourage their hearts and watch them do their work. I loved having visitors from home when I served overseas! This is a great opportunity to learn and to serve.

4. Buy a copy of Operation World and commit this New Year (2010) to pray your way through the nations. This book lists every nation on earth, the names of its leaders, and what the political/social atmosphere is like in each nation of the world. It’s a daily prayer guide for the nations! Cross borders in your prayer life.

5. Get a world map and place it on a wall where you can pray your way across the globe interceding for the nations. Speak a blessing to a nation in Jesus’s name!

This Christmas let’s celebrate the Baby in the manger, Who became the Sacrificial Lamb on the cross, Who rose from the dead and is now the King of kings and the Lord of lords and Who rules and reigns over the entire universe. Jesus is the preeminent Border Crosser whose glory is worth proclaiming to all nations. Peace.

My girlfriend and her husband have just taken a pregnant teen in to live with them. They have two kids, a set of parents to care for and both work fulltime jobs. Wow! I don’t know if I could do that. Ministry is messy. The young girl got pregnant while away at college. When she found out she was pregnant she decided to go home and tell her parents. Before she ever reached home, her Mom was killed in a tragic accident. The girl decided not to tell her Dad as the whole family was trying to recover from the loss of the Mom. So, the girl returned to school alone, afraid, mourning her mother and guilt-ridden. But my friend and her husband have taken her in to care for her, to love her, to give her a place of rest. This is ministry. This is the kind of “neighbor love” Jesus told us to do.

“They’re so into the social gospel! I just don’t know if I can go to that kind of church.” I heard someone say this once walking to the parking lot after service. When Daryl and I got in the car, I asked him, “What other kind of Gospel is there? I mean social is society, right? And society is people, right? And Jesus came to save people. If the Gospel (Good News) isn’t for society/people, then who’s it for?”

I need to note here that I do understand where the term “social gospel” comes from. It’s a term originated to describe doing good works without presenting the salvation that Christ offers humankind. It became, and with good reason, a catch phrase to describe liberals who only believed in doing good works, but did not believe that Jesus is imperative for salvation. But today, it’s evolved into something different. Folks are using the term to describe something else.

For example, I was listening to Ligon Duncan III and Mark Dever the other day on the radio. Duncan is a Presbyterian blueblood pastor (eighth generation) and Dever pastors Capitol Baptist in DC. Both Duncan and Dever were commenting on the ills of good works without direct evangelism. They too would be very opposed to what they call the “social gospel.” In fact, Dever actually says that no preacher should ever deliver a message from the pulpit without the primary focus being evangelistic (i.e. including the plan of salvation). They both were concerned that Christians might be feeding the hungry, clothing the poor, digging wells for clean drinking water and providing medical care for poverty stricken nations without a direct evangelistic emphasis. Duncan specifically said that he worried about Christians doing “neighbor love” without evangelistic outreach.

Huh. That’s interesting. Because I thought “neighbor love” was a command. And for me personally, it’s pretty hard to share the Four Spiritual Laws with someone when they’re starving. Or homeless. Or bleeding to death. But if I serve them by meeting a specific need, then I might have a better chance of sharing my life with them. Right?

Isn’t loving our neighbor demonstrated through our meeting their physical needs? Jesus said to feed the hungry, clothe the naked, visit those in prison, take care of widows and orphans and to give a cold cup of water in His name. Isn’t that preaching the Gospel? Isn’t that good news? Don’t I need to obey these commands? St. Francis of Assisi said, “Preach the Gospel and when necessary use words.” Of course Duncan and Dever wouldn’t agree with old St. Francis.

I like the way John Stott puts it, “… let me say something about the relation between the words and the deeds of Jesus. The Gospels are a record of his words and works, or, as the evangelists call them, of his ‘mighty works’ and ‘gracious words.’ The two belong essentially together, for his deeds dramatized his words, while his words interpreted his deeds.”

In fact James tells us that “Faith without works is dead.” If I don’t live out my Christianity (i.e. good deeds), then I must question if I am truly a Christian at all.

There are three things about Duncan’s and Dever’s emphasis that make me anxious. First, the Church in the US is inactive enough. We don’t need to have preachers giving us even more excuses to be inactive. “Well, I’d go feed the hungry and homeless downtown, but if I can’t preach the Gospel to them, then it’s a waste of time. My preacher told me that.” Sometimes we have to live the Gospel before we can share it. There’s such a thing as earning the right to be heard. As trite as it may sound, the old saying is still true, “People don’t care what you know until they know you care.” And isn’t feeding someone who is hungry noble and right even if they don’t embrace the plan of salvation? Jesus never said, “Feed the hungry, give them the plan of salvation and then if they don’t receive it, stop feeding them.” Even in the passage where He tells the disciples to shake the dust from their feet, in those cases the disciples were on the receiving end—they were the ones without food, extra clothing or money.

My second anxiety is the marginalization of those who are doing good work and living out their Christianity without being preachers. There’s more to Christianity than Church planting and evangelism. Sometimes those things come about as a result of good works, as a result of the “social gospel.” I have labored in nations where it was illegal to share the Gospel—to proselytize. Does that mean I should only go to nations where it’s lawful to preach? No! As followers of Jesus we must go to all nations and give of ourselves. While there we pray and intercede on behalf of those we have been called to minister to. I’d go to North Korea in a heartbeat even if I knew beforehand that I’d never be allowed to speak Jesus’s name in public. Why? Because, as all followers of Christ, I am a vessel of the Holy Spirit, and this jar of clay filled with the Power and Light of Christ can be His presence there in darkness. My love for the nationals, my prayers for the nationals, and my service to nationals—all of these things still bring glory to God because my heart is towards Him! It’s part of loving my enemy in Jesus’s name.

My third anxiety is brought on by the only logical conclusion this type of thinking brings. Preaching that elevates evangelism over all other works forces followers of Christ into a secular and sacred dichotomy. It leads us to say, “This work is holy” and “This work is not holy.” But the truth is that all work is to be holy. Everything that we say, do, think—all of our lives are to be under the Lordship of Christ. When the spiritual gifts are listed, evangelism is only one of the gifts. There are different callings. Look at Romans 12:4-8, “ For as in one body we have many members, and not all the members have the same function, we are one body in Christ, and individually we are members of that body. We have gifts that differ according to the grace given to us: preaching, in proportion to faith; ministry, in ministering; the teacher, in teaching; the exhorter, in exhortation; the giver, in generosity; the leader, in diligence; the compassionate, in cheerfulness.” For the life of the Believer, all work is sacred if done with a heart and mind of worship. Martin Luther said even changing a baby’s dirty diaper is sacred work when the mother’s heart is focused on Christ.

Is evangelism important? Of course it is. But it is only one part of what God has called us to. That’s why some plant the seed, others may water it, but only God can give the harvest of that seed. Sometimes loving our neighbors (those next door as well as those in distant lands) is just planting seeds and years later someone may come and water that seed. Paul writes in I Corinthians 3, “The one who plants and the one who waters have a common purpose, and each will receive wages according to the labor of each. For we are God’s servants, working together; you are God’s field, God’s building.” Three years after I left my city in China a great revival broke out in that city and people were coming to Christ in droves. I went to visit years later and Christian workers said, “We have no idea what is happening here except a sovereign work of God. People are coming to Christ so quickly we’re having to baptize them in bathtubs.” But quietly, in my heart of hearts, I knew that years before I had taken a city map and over a long period of time I had walked every street in that city and prayed for God to pour out of His Spirit in that place. Did I preach? No. It was not permitted. Did I evangelize? No. It was not allowed. Did I share the salvation message with many? No. I was able to share the plan of salvation with only three or four people in all of my years there. Was I participating in the social gospel by teaching English there? Absolutely! And I’m so glad I did. If evangelism alone had been my only focus, I would never have been allowed to go to China.

In closing, I just have to address Dever’s remark that every sermon preached from the pulpit should include the plan of salvation. I wish it was that easy. I wish we could formulate preaching to that type of method. But we can’t. The truth of the matter is, no preacher, no pastor should ever get behind the pulpit to deliver God’s message until he/she has prayed, waited on God, sought the Lord, read the word, asked to be filled with the Holy Spirit and cried out to God, “What is Your word for this congregation at this time, in this place and this hour? Lord God I seek You and You alone to speak Your words through me to Your people.” And when a pastor has done this, God’s message is multifaceted and reaches the needs of the whole congregation. I took a friend from work with me to church. The message that morning was directed to Believers; building them up in their faith. The plan of salvation was never given. But the Spirit of God was there in the worship, in the fellowship and in the pastor’s heart for the congregation. The pastor ended his message and asked if anyone needed prayer. My friend touched my arm and asked, “Will you go down there with me? I want to ask that man more about Jesus.” And she gave her heart to Christ that day and was baptized the next week. Why? Because the Spirit of the Lord was there and He moved upon her heart. The majority of us there didn’t need to hear the plan of salvation. We were saved. But we did need to hear the message on faith. And, my friend came to Christ. When the Holy Spirit has inspired the message, then all the people take something from it; all needs are met in Him and through Him. Peace.

If this is your first visit to this blog, please look around and read one of the older posts. I recommend “Redemption Can Be Found in Every Pile of Garbage” or “Mean Old Lao Deng” which is really good for the Christmas season. For those who are regular readers, I wanted to let you know that I’ll be on Prime Time America today. It’s a radio broadcast out of Chicago. I’ve been interviewed by Tracy Haney. I thought the interview was to focus on Mike’s and my new book with IVP, but Tracy’s first words to me were, “I don’t want to talk about the book!” So, we went another route. This means I have no idea what the interview is going to sound like edited on the air. It airs today from 4-6 PM Central time. You can access it through their website: www.primetimeamerica.org. In Kansas City we don’t have any stations that carry that program, so I have to access through the web as well. If it’s frightening, and chances are it will be, just turn it off and don’t listen to the rest of the train wreck. I’ve been taking a lot of Nyquil lately, but I can’t really use that as an excuse. I’d prepared to discuss the book and its contents and Mike’s and my motives for writing it and when Tracy made his statement, well, my mind froze and I have no idea what we talked about. Seriously. Shock.

Daryl got home from Australia just fine. Actually got bumped up to business class and enjoyed the 13 hour flight back to the USA. Glad to have him home. I plan on posting a new blog tomorrow. I have a story I want to share that’s so heart-warming and encouraging about a friend of mine. Talk to you tomorrow. Peace.

I’ve been bit! Help me! I’ve been bit by the flu bug and I can’t get up! Six days of this stuff (and being homebound) has made me slightly more cuckoo than usual. And while I’ve been under the weather, Big D’s been down under in Australia. (Sorry. It’s the Nyquil). He’ll be home Wednesday. He’s been speaking at an InterVarsity conference there and has had a great time. Weather? Ninety-five degrees and sunny. Here? Cold. Very cold. And they’re predicting snow. Lots of it.

Hope everyone had a great Thanksgiving. We celebrated at SGC Donna’s lovely home and we had 28! Lots of fun; lots of food. Fun and food are synonymous. Funny thing, my book arrived the Wednesday before Thanksgiving. It was so strange to be worrying about mashed taters, sweet potato casserole and smoking two enormous turkey breasts when the box from the publisher arrived. It’s odd how real life propels us on. Daryl wanted to take my picture with the book and all I could think about was, “Are the potatoes boiling over?” I feel badly for Romanowski, my writing buddy. He lives in the Middle East and the book can’t be delivered there. So, he hasn’t seen it. Remember how in February I was crying and asking everyone for prayer–deadlines, creativity, follow through? And now it’s done. IVP did a good job. I’m grateful.

Urbana 2009 is just 19 days away. This is the big triennial (don’t be too impressed, I had to look that word up) missions conference held in St. Louis. They’re expecting over 20,000 college students. It lasts six days and is one of my favorite things on earth. Can you imagine? TWENTY THOUSAND college students all gathered together in one place over Christmas break to seek God and to find out how they can be a part of the Great Commission?!? Amazing. The worship times are out of this world and I love visiting with the students and hearing their stories and seeing how God is working in their lives. I heard a statistic today that over 50% of tenth graders here in the US have been sexually active! Scary. Depressing. Heartbreaking. But nothing gives me more hope for this world or more excitement than to see the faces of (and to interact with) college kids at Urbana. God is still on the Throne and He’s still moving among His people. And these university students who give up their Christmas break to come to Urbana are proof of that!

On New Year’s Eve they have a huge communion service and it’s so…well…holy. I love Urbana. I love missions. I love college students. (Sorry. It’s the Nyquil again). Margaret, my BFF and coworker, Spence, my BWB (best working buddy), Daryl and I all head out December 26th for St. Louis. We are all super pumped. IICS will have a booth there. Please be praying for us during this time. We need health and energy and we want to minister to these college students who are earnestly trying to discern God’s will for their lives.

Being sick these last few days I had to cross off several things on my “Getting Ready for Christmas” to do list. Things that just aren’t going to get done! Losing a week was tough. But the truth of the matter is Christmas isn’t about how much I get done, or how perfectly the house is decorated, or even about how many cookies get baked. Christmas is about staying focused on the most important event in all of mankind’s history–the birth of Jesus Christ. He alone is the hope for the human race. He alone is our Redeemer. He alone is Savior, Lord and King. Christmas is, and should always be, about Him and Him alone. So even though I lost a week, I feel I gained some perspective. This year I’m just gonna relax and breathe and celebrate the birth of my Beautiful Jesus and rest in His Peace. Peace.

Well, Happy Thanksgiving everybody! We’re celebrating with a pretty big group–almost 30 at my SGC’s house. (That’s sister-girlfriend-cousin). We’ll be doin’ the traditional meal wearing our matching Paula Deen aprons. I love Thanksgiving ’cause it’s all about the food. (Also my SGC is actually Daryl’s cousin, but I love her so much that I claim her as my very own).

Lots to be thankful for this year: Big D’s arthritis pain is completely gone thanks to his new meds. Praise God! I got my Daryl back! InterVarsity called on Friday and the book is in! So excited about that. They mailed mine on Friday so it should get here this week. Yippee!

Our daughter-in-law Jamie is expecting baby #3! What joy a new life is. And our daughter and her husband are adding to their family as well. A niece is coming to live with them and so we’re very excited about our family growing. More to love.

IICS had a wonderful year financially–one of our best even in this crazy economy. All I can say is God answered prayer. It’s the only explanation. He is faithful.

This year I reconnected with my extended family (okay, some for the first time) and found precious jewels in each one of them. What a blessing to have such amazing kinfolk! I’m thrilled. I love these people like crazy.

Also through FB I was able to reconnect with my college roommates. Most awesome girls that I love so much and have missed terribly. What a blessing.

I’m always thankful for my sister who is a Marathon runner when it comes to her faithwalk. She and her family are a lifeline to me.

I’m also very thankful that I was able to go an entire year and not have an operation. Last year I had two. So this is great news.

Please know how thankful I am for those of you who have been so kind to read this blog. Your generous comments and words of affirmation have meant so much to me. The blog has been a very unexpected joy and an unusual way for me to express myself…an outlet that has provided me with great opportunities to get things off my chest, to reflect on God’s goodness, to remind myself of lessons learned that are still relevant for my life today. You reading the blog has been icing on the cake for me. Thanks guys! And I hope and pray y’all have a great Thanksgiving! May it be your best one ever. Peace.