I was much better at following God’s command to serve the poor when I understood that to mean on my own schedule and at my own convenience. Now that I’m trying to cultivate a lifestyle of serving the poor at every opportunity, I don’t do it well. I grumble a lot. I’m not sure I’ll ever do it well or stop complaining about the inconvenience of it all. But I’m hoping that serving will come as naturally for my kids as complaining comes to me. I pray it will be a given for them, not something they struggle against.
Last week we put together a Thanksgiving food basket for a needy family in town, and Wednesday was shopping day. We got to Walmart at 8:15 and left at 10. (I'm sorry to anyone who is offended that we shop at Walmart. Talk to me when I don't have cereal to buy for four children.) We had to find items that I’ve never heard of, in addition to all the regular household stuff we needed. The aisles were full of people—and how fun for me that many of them were people I knew, especially since I was wearing my fat-girl sweatpants and my five-year-old was doing the pee-pee dance. (You know the one.)
Our cart was flowing over when we at last made it to the check-out lane, where ten other lovely people stood ahead of us with their overflowing carts. How handy that at least we were only a few yards from the bathroom. Except that it was closed for cleaning. The pee-pee dance intensified until at last we pushed our way past the cleaning lady out of desperation. A half hour later, we were on our way out of the store and on the road again. It’s that bittersweet moment in which you celebrate the conclusion of another Walmart trip, but realize all the work that lies ahead as you attempt to find a home for all these new items in your over-crowded pantry. Ah, life in America.
I asked Brooka if she would be extra helpful and carry in some of the bajillion bags for me, then piled her up to her eyebrows. As we waddled in the house, she peaked out from under her load and said with cheery determination, “It’s like I’m carrying this for Jesus.”
At that point, I did everything you would imagine. I dropped to my knees. I hugged her hard. I thanked God profusely. “You get it!” I cried. “You get it, Brooka! Oh, I can’t believe you get it. Thank you, God!” I prayed some of that would rub off on me. Then I followed her gaze across the room, wondering why she was giggling. Our ancient relic of a dog—all shriveled 80 pounds of him—was laying on the “good” couch with the newspaper open, looking all caught up on the day’s events.
And somehow, putting all those groceries away wasn’t as bad as I thought it would be.
Sunday, November 22, 2009
Monday, November 16, 2009
When Moving On Means Staying Put
Eleven months ago, we planted a for-sale sign in our yard and buckled in for a wild adventure. We weren’t sure where we’d land, but we were full of faith and following God with reckless (some would say) abandon.
And how’d that work out for us? After scrubbing my kitchen floor more times than I thought humanly possible, we’re right where we started—except with new carpet and a new screen door.
It looks like we’re in the same place, but are we really? Fortunately, no. God made me, and He knows I’ve got to be able to find some purpose in hard things or I’ll just fall over and die. So as I meet with Him, He’s giving me some hint of what these 11 months may have been about:
Faithfulness. I’m very faithful to the things I want to do. But to things that take discipline, sacrifice, and selflessness? Not so much. I think God may have been testing my faithfulness through the little things. Some days I’d be home alone with the kids and have just an hour’s notice to stash the piles, make the beds, load the dishwasher (after unloading it), and everything else involved in showing a respectable home. I’d spend the first five minutes throwing the mother of all fits, screaming (in my head) at God, “I am SO DONE. I can’t keep doing this.” And every time I would hear the same answer: “Yes you can.” And every time it would get done, and I’d feel like a foolish toddler who had just thrown a pointless, selfish fit in front of my Father. It’s easy for me to be faithful to my husband, my children, my TV shows. But God wants us to be faithful in the little things—with the right attitude—before He trusts us with bigger things.
Risk-taking. When we planted that sign in the yard, we had no place to go. We had only a peaceful knowledge that when the time came, God would make a place for us. This is the complete opposite of how I prefer to live my life. I like to know what my kids are wearing to school three days from now, yet I wasn’t even sure where they would be sleeping in the next month. God didn’t call us on it, but I truly think I would have been OK if He had. There’s something about flying without a safety net that makes life richer, that makes relationship with God more urgent.
Surrender. In the past three months, my prayers have gone from bossy requests for God to sell our house (“You put us up to this, Lord, so you better do your part!”) to complete surrender to His will. I thought surrender meant selling our house and giving up our cushy suburban life. But now I believe that surrender only came when I threw up my hands, stopped telling God all my grand plans to serve Him, and finally said, “Whatever.” I think it’s in that whatever place that God can truly work in us. That’s the place I want to stay.
The realtor’s coming to take down the sign this week; we're calling it quits for now (because a sane Christmas is a merry Christmas). Do we feel defeated? Confused? Frustrated? Yeah, a little of all those things. But we also feel pretty certain that we’re right where God wants us, and it’s not a bad place to wait, especially with the new carpet.
And how’d that work out for us? After scrubbing my kitchen floor more times than I thought humanly possible, we’re right where we started—except with new carpet and a new screen door.
It looks like we’re in the same place, but are we really? Fortunately, no. God made me, and He knows I’ve got to be able to find some purpose in hard things or I’ll just fall over and die. So as I meet with Him, He’s giving me some hint of what these 11 months may have been about:
Faithfulness. I’m very faithful to the things I want to do. But to things that take discipline, sacrifice, and selflessness? Not so much. I think God may have been testing my faithfulness through the little things. Some days I’d be home alone with the kids and have just an hour’s notice to stash the piles, make the beds, load the dishwasher (after unloading it), and everything else involved in showing a respectable home. I’d spend the first five minutes throwing the mother of all fits, screaming (in my head) at God, “I am SO DONE. I can’t keep doing this.” And every time I would hear the same answer: “Yes you can.” And every time it would get done, and I’d feel like a foolish toddler who had just thrown a pointless, selfish fit in front of my Father. It’s easy for me to be faithful to my husband, my children, my TV shows. But God wants us to be faithful in the little things—with the right attitude—before He trusts us with bigger things.
Risk-taking. When we planted that sign in the yard, we had no place to go. We had only a peaceful knowledge that when the time came, God would make a place for us. This is the complete opposite of how I prefer to live my life. I like to know what my kids are wearing to school three days from now, yet I wasn’t even sure where they would be sleeping in the next month. God didn’t call us on it, but I truly think I would have been OK if He had. There’s something about flying without a safety net that makes life richer, that makes relationship with God more urgent.
Surrender. In the past three months, my prayers have gone from bossy requests for God to sell our house (“You put us up to this, Lord, so you better do your part!”) to complete surrender to His will. I thought surrender meant selling our house and giving up our cushy suburban life. But now I believe that surrender only came when I threw up my hands, stopped telling God all my grand plans to serve Him, and finally said, “Whatever.” I think it’s in that whatever place that God can truly work in us. That’s the place I want to stay.
The realtor’s coming to take down the sign this week; we're calling it quits for now (because a sane Christmas is a merry Christmas). Do we feel defeated? Confused? Frustrated? Yeah, a little of all those things. But we also feel pretty certain that we’re right where God wants us, and it’s not a bad place to wait, especially with the new carpet.
Monday, November 9, 2009
The Zone
Illumination came crashing down on me in the middle of a burger joint. It came with such force that Cherry Coke squirted out my nose.
Kevin was out of town, and I took the kids out to dinner. Putting all thoughts of coupons and food sharing aside, I let them go wild with burgers and shakes for everyone. We were there for about an hour, having a jolly time, when I decided it was time to go. Then we stayed for 10 more minutes, and I was REALLY ready to go. Kids were getting squirly, uneaten food was flying through the air, and mommy was done. That’s when I entered The Zone. It looks something like this: I have an agenda. I’m ready to get on with it already. Quickly and efficiently. The kids have an agenda (to have fun) pulling with equal force in the opposite direction of my agenda. I become hyper-focused and irritable and fall more deeply into The Zone. It’s now to the point at which someone could be holding their bleeding, severed toe between their fingers and I wouldn’t even see it. I am blinded and consumed by my own agenda.
My agenda was to leave the restaurant. Brooka’s agenda was to find a mint in my purse. So while I’m picking up trash and hosing down the chocolate-faced two-year-old, out come my wallet, my keys, my phone, my lipstick, and various and sundry other personal items from my purse. The dialogue goes something like this:
Brooka: Do you have any mints in here?
Me: I-don’t-know-wipe-your-face.
Brooka: But I want a mint. Don’t you have any?
Me (now working on the ketchup layer that was hiding under the chocolate layer on the two-year-old’s face): I-don’t-know-wipe-your-face.
Brooka: Why can’t I find any mints?
Me: I-DON’T-KNOW-WIPE-YOUR-FACE!!!
Now here’s the scary thing. I don’t actually recall saying anything about the mint or her face. I remember the face chiseling and passing out wipes all around, but I had no idea what words—or, more important, what tone—was coming out of my mouth. Braden, my 10-year-old, was kind enough to help me. He said something like this:
Braden: “What’s your phone number?” “I-don’t-know-wipe-your-face!”
“What’s the capital of Argentina?” “I-don’t-know-wipe-your-face!”
“What’s the square root of 91?” “I-don’t-know-wipe-your-face!”
I laughed hard enough to induce my own style of Coke snorting. I laughed so hard that I cried, so hard that my kids thought I had lost my mind because to them, it wasn’t all that funny. Truthfully, while it was funny, it was sad more than anything else. It was a sad revelation that jerked me out of The Zone and brought me face to face with the ugly truth of it: I want what I want. I want people to do what I want them to do. I want it done now.
But that’s not the way the world works. God is too kind to give us our way. He’d rather make us better than satisfied. Ouch.
Ironic end to the story: As we made our way to the van (picture me carrying five drinks and a kicking toddler with an agenda of her own), a young mom came up to me and said, “I was watching you inside. You’re really good with them.” Ugh.
People are watching. My kids are watching. God is watching. It’s time to get out of The Zone.
Kevin was out of town, and I took the kids out to dinner. Putting all thoughts of coupons and food sharing aside, I let them go wild with burgers and shakes for everyone. We were there for about an hour, having a jolly time, when I decided it was time to go. Then we stayed for 10 more minutes, and I was REALLY ready to go. Kids were getting squirly, uneaten food was flying through the air, and mommy was done. That’s when I entered The Zone. It looks something like this: I have an agenda. I’m ready to get on with it already. Quickly and efficiently. The kids have an agenda (to have fun) pulling with equal force in the opposite direction of my agenda. I become hyper-focused and irritable and fall more deeply into The Zone. It’s now to the point at which someone could be holding their bleeding, severed toe between their fingers and I wouldn’t even see it. I am blinded and consumed by my own agenda.
My agenda was to leave the restaurant. Brooka’s agenda was to find a mint in my purse. So while I’m picking up trash and hosing down the chocolate-faced two-year-old, out come my wallet, my keys, my phone, my lipstick, and various and sundry other personal items from my purse. The dialogue goes something like this:
Brooka: Do you have any mints in here?
Me: I-don’t-know-wipe-your-face.
Brooka: But I want a mint. Don’t you have any?
Me (now working on the ketchup layer that was hiding under the chocolate layer on the two-year-old’s face): I-don’t-know-wipe-your-face.
Brooka: Why can’t I find any mints?
Me: I-DON’T-KNOW-WIPE-YOUR-FACE!!!
Now here’s the scary thing. I don’t actually recall saying anything about the mint or her face. I remember the face chiseling and passing out wipes all around, but I had no idea what words—or, more important, what tone—was coming out of my mouth. Braden, my 10-year-old, was kind enough to help me. He said something like this:
Braden: “What’s your phone number?” “I-don’t-know-wipe-your-face!”
“What’s the capital of Argentina?” “I-don’t-know-wipe-your-face!”
“What’s the square root of 91?” “I-don’t-know-wipe-your-face!”
I laughed hard enough to induce my own style of Coke snorting. I laughed so hard that I cried, so hard that my kids thought I had lost my mind because to them, it wasn’t all that funny. Truthfully, while it was funny, it was sad more than anything else. It was a sad revelation that jerked me out of The Zone and brought me face to face with the ugly truth of it: I want what I want. I want people to do what I want them to do. I want it done now.
But that’s not the way the world works. God is too kind to give us our way. He’d rather make us better than satisfied. Ouch.
Ironic end to the story: As we made our way to the van (picture me carrying five drinks and a kicking toddler with an agenda of her own), a young mom came up to me and said, “I was watching you inside. You’re really good with them.” Ugh.
People are watching. My kids are watching. God is watching. It’s time to get out of The Zone.
Monday, November 2, 2009
One in a Billion
Have you ever seen a billion of anything? All at once?
Maybe I have, but blades of grass and grains of sand all just run together; I’ve never been aware that I was seeing a billion of anything before. And then I went to Fort Myers Beach in southwest Florida. I’m a beach girl and I’ve been to quite a few of them, but I’ve never seen anything like this. It’s made up almost entirely of seashells. The great majority are just fragments, but if you scoop up a handful of “beach,” you’re going to end up with dozens of whole shells, too. And the beach goes on and on for miles. Billions of shells, all there for the crunching or collecting, whatever your preference.
We saw lots of people walking with bags and buckets, gazing intently at the ground for just the right find. They all looked sort of the same to me, but apparently not to the hard-core shellers. I’d see a collector picking up a fragment of a shell, examining it and smiling as she held it in her hand like it was the only one in the world. “What’s so special about that one?” I thought.
Then I started thinking about all the people in the world. What if each of these shells represented one person on earth today? This is what we’d all look like if we could be shrunken down, stacked up, one on top of the other, and compressed into one tiny area. The feeling of insignificance was a little disheartening. But then I pictured God rooting through the millions and billions and pulling out just one. Me. God chose me. He somehow distinguished me from all the rest and selected me for His own.
I met a guy a year ago who said something I’ll never forget. He said that sometimes he tries to imagine that there are only a couple hundred people on the whole earth. He imagines what it would be like to bump into another human being. What if that janitor in the hallway was the first person you’d seen in many months? How would you respond? You’d probably grab him, hug him, and ask him all sorts of questions. That janitor, that three-year-old child in the park, that toothless beggar on the street would be precious to us.
I love it. I don’t know how you could go through life treating everyone that way, but I love that he even came up with the idea of it. And actually, it was God’s idea first. To Him, I’m not one of billions. I’m special. And I’m all His.
Maybe I have, but blades of grass and grains of sand all just run together; I’ve never been aware that I was seeing a billion of anything before. And then I went to Fort Myers Beach in southwest Florida. I’m a beach girl and I’ve been to quite a few of them, but I’ve never seen anything like this. It’s made up almost entirely of seashells. The great majority are just fragments, but if you scoop up a handful of “beach,” you’re going to end up with dozens of whole shells, too. And the beach goes on and on for miles. Billions of shells, all there for the crunching or collecting, whatever your preference.
We saw lots of people walking with bags and buckets, gazing intently at the ground for just the right find. They all looked sort of the same to me, but apparently not to the hard-core shellers. I’d see a collector picking up a fragment of a shell, examining it and smiling as she held it in her hand like it was the only one in the world. “What’s so special about that one?” I thought.
Then I started thinking about all the people in the world. What if each of these shells represented one person on earth today? This is what we’d all look like if we could be shrunken down, stacked up, one on top of the other, and compressed into one tiny area. The feeling of insignificance was a little disheartening. But then I pictured God rooting through the millions and billions and pulling out just one. Me. God chose me. He somehow distinguished me from all the rest and selected me for His own.
I met a guy a year ago who said something I’ll never forget. He said that sometimes he tries to imagine that there are only a couple hundred people on the whole earth. He imagines what it would be like to bump into another human being. What if that janitor in the hallway was the first person you’d seen in many months? How would you respond? You’d probably grab him, hug him, and ask him all sorts of questions. That janitor, that three-year-old child in the park, that toothless beggar on the street would be precious to us.
I love it. I don’t know how you could go through life treating everyone that way, but I love that he even came up with the idea of it. And actually, it was God’s idea first. To Him, I’m not one of billions. I’m special. And I’m all His.
Sunday, October 18, 2009
Ten Things I've Learned (Plus Two)
Limited by time this week (and preparing to leave four children and their busy lives at home with grandma for five days while Kevin and I are in Florida), I’m posting a list I wrote a few years ago. Prompted by my wise friend Becky to share ten things that I’ve learned—from the simple to the life-altering—I pounded out this list in about 10 minutes. With a few more years of living behind me, I’ve made a few additions. Here are some of the things I've learned:
1. I moved 18 times before my 18th birthday, and I learned that it’s good to be flexible, even when it hurts, and not to get too attached to your stuff.
2. When I was a senior in high school, I found out that my parents “had” to get married, and I learned that I’m bad at math and that the consequences of your actions follow you the rest of your life.
3. I am still close to at least one friend from every place I’ve ever lived, and I learned that friendships mean the world to me.
4. I witnessed the 1992 L.A. riots firsthand, and I learned that I prefer to watch breaking news from my couch and that perhaps I wasn’t cut out to be a journalist.
5. I married the best looking man I’ve ever laid eyes on, and I learned that not all blond jocks are what they appear to be.
6. I wrote 100 pages of a novel, and I learned that published novelists deserve the money they make.
7. Although I’ve never met another person with my name, I do share my name with a town in New South Wales, Australia. I haven’t really learned anything from this, but it’s still sorta cool.
8. I inherited close to a half-million dollars from a sad drunk, and I learned that God can choose to bless and provide for us any way He wants.
9. For three hours, I tried unsuccessfully to push my first baby out, and I learned the definition of unconditional love, even when someone is hurting you badly. I also learned that planned C-sections are good. Very good.
10. I’ve held the hands of two people as they died, and I learned that although I fiercely love life, I’m not too afraid of death.
11. I’ve discovered how important the poor, the oppressed, the widows and the orphans are to God, and I’ve learned that I cannot live the same.
12. I delivered a stillborn baby, and I learned that the promise of heaven is somehow even sweeter when you know you have a child waiting for you there.
1. I moved 18 times before my 18th birthday, and I learned that it’s good to be flexible, even when it hurts, and not to get too attached to your stuff.
2. When I was a senior in high school, I found out that my parents “had” to get married, and I learned that I’m bad at math and that the consequences of your actions follow you the rest of your life.
3. I am still close to at least one friend from every place I’ve ever lived, and I learned that friendships mean the world to me.
4. I witnessed the 1992 L.A. riots firsthand, and I learned that I prefer to watch breaking news from my couch and that perhaps I wasn’t cut out to be a journalist.
5. I married the best looking man I’ve ever laid eyes on, and I learned that not all blond jocks are what they appear to be.
6. I wrote 100 pages of a novel, and I learned that published novelists deserve the money they make.
7. Although I’ve never met another person with my name, I do share my name with a town in New South Wales, Australia. I haven’t really learned anything from this, but it’s still sorta cool.
8. I inherited close to a half-million dollars from a sad drunk, and I learned that God can choose to bless and provide for us any way He wants.
9. For three hours, I tried unsuccessfully to push my first baby out, and I learned the definition of unconditional love, even when someone is hurting you badly. I also learned that planned C-sections are good. Very good.
10. I’ve held the hands of two people as they died, and I learned that although I fiercely love life, I’m not too afraid of death.
11. I’ve discovered how important the poor, the oppressed, the widows and the orphans are to God, and I’ve learned that I cannot live the same.
12. I delivered a stillborn baby, and I learned that the promise of heaven is somehow even sweeter when you know you have a child waiting for you there.
Friday, October 9, 2009
Celebrating Diversity
One of the things I miss most about the working world is the exposure to people in different stages of life. Stay-at-home mom life is fairly homogeneous, at least for me. As I look at the other people in the carpool line, almost all of them are female, almost all within five years of my age, and they usually have lives pretty similar to my own.
There are times when I need the fellowship of a woman sitting next to me in the cry room at church, to talk about whether to get flu shots and how to make it through another sleepless night with sick kids. There are times when I leave a restaurant with a bunch of other moms feeling understood and less alone. And few things bring me more comfort than the sorority of women racing toward 40 right alongside me.
But then there are times when I’m just really kinda sick of that world and crave something different. And that’s when I really miss office life. I miss the daily closeness of my 50-year-old hero on the other side of the cubicle wall who is raising incredible teenagers and will tell me honestly if my copy sucks. And the 25-year-old who’s planning her wedding. And the deep conversations with my guy friends who are tiptoeing around midlife crisis and helping me understand the pressures my own husband feels.
It’s pretty hard to find this kind of diversity anymore, which is one of the reasons why I work so hard to maintain the relationships I have. Earlier this week I had lunch with one of my favorite people—a dapper 65 year old who seems 45 to me. Actually, two of my dearest friends are men in their 60s. One gave me my first job and taught me everything I know about editing and publishing books. He’s also tutored me in philosophy and Kirkagaard and rheumatoid arthritis and how to suffer greatly without losing faith. The other friend and I have collaborated on three of his books. He has shared nuggets of wisdom with me that I will never forget, while making me laugh so hard my side aches.
Thanks to my work, I also have a 70-year-old Iranian buddy and a nearly-70 Lebanese friend who’s an expert in Islamic fundamentalism. Not people I’m going to go shopping or clubbing with, but friends whose perspective and experience make my life richer. (OK, I haven’t been clubbing since the early 90s, but the thought of clubbing with Nabeel was too funny to leave out.)
So, yeah, while nearly all of the work clothes have been given away and the books and articles are all packed away in boxes somewhere, the diverse relationships were the biggest treasure I smuggled out of the work world. And thankfully, those endure.
There are times when I need the fellowship of a woman sitting next to me in the cry room at church, to talk about whether to get flu shots and how to make it through another sleepless night with sick kids. There are times when I leave a restaurant with a bunch of other moms feeling understood and less alone. And few things bring me more comfort than the sorority of women racing toward 40 right alongside me.
But then there are times when I’m just really kinda sick of that world and crave something different. And that’s when I really miss office life. I miss the daily closeness of my 50-year-old hero on the other side of the cubicle wall who is raising incredible teenagers and will tell me honestly if my copy sucks. And the 25-year-old who’s planning her wedding. And the deep conversations with my guy friends who are tiptoeing around midlife crisis and helping me understand the pressures my own husband feels.
It’s pretty hard to find this kind of diversity anymore, which is one of the reasons why I work so hard to maintain the relationships I have. Earlier this week I had lunch with one of my favorite people—a dapper 65 year old who seems 45 to me. Actually, two of my dearest friends are men in their 60s. One gave me my first job and taught me everything I know about editing and publishing books. He’s also tutored me in philosophy and Kirkagaard and rheumatoid arthritis and how to suffer greatly without losing faith. The other friend and I have collaborated on three of his books. He has shared nuggets of wisdom with me that I will never forget, while making me laugh so hard my side aches.
Thanks to my work, I also have a 70-year-old Iranian buddy and a nearly-70 Lebanese friend who’s an expert in Islamic fundamentalism. Not people I’m going to go shopping or clubbing with, but friends whose perspective and experience make my life richer. (OK, I haven’t been clubbing since the early 90s, but the thought of clubbing with Nabeel was too funny to leave out.)
So, yeah, while nearly all of the work clothes have been given away and the books and articles are all packed away in boxes somewhere, the diverse relationships were the biggest treasure I smuggled out of the work world. And thankfully, those endure.
Thursday, October 1, 2009
I Don't Drink Tea But I Sure Liked This
The bandwagon, as usual, was well down the street when I lunged forward and jumped on. The book came out three years ago, and I’ve heard constant chatter about it ever since. Finally, I read it for myself: Three Cups of Tea: One Man’s Mission to Promote Peace . . . One School at a Time. It was as good as the hype.
Up to this point, everything I’ve known about Afghanistan’s political history came from The Kite Runner. In 1989, I was the salutatorian of my class and couldn’t have found Afghanistan on a map, let alone told you that it had been occupied for the past decade by the Soviets. More recently, I’ve known it only as the suspected home of Al Qaeda and the place where many American soldiers lose their lives.
Greg Mortensen gave me a quick education. Three Cups of Tea is his story about stumbling, quite accidentally, on the poorest of the poor in the farthest reaches of Pakistan and Afghanistan. The picture he paints is hard to imagine. These are people who could only make it to the nearest city by traversing a canyon with a zipline and a basket. And their poverty, along with a cultural hesitancy toward education—especially of girls—left these remote villages with illiterate leaders and children with little hope for a better life.
In the past 15 years, Mortensen and the Central Asia Institute that he founded have raised up 128 schools across two nations known for breeding and training terrorists. His work also includes building women’s centers and medical facilities as well as feeding and caring for refuges and other victims of war. I don’t know where Mortensen’s spiritual allegiances lie, but I know this: One of my heroes, Kit Danley, says that the journey into the center of God’s heart lands you among the poor and the afflicted. In this book, I met a man who eats, sleeps, and breathes there.
I recently caught a snippet of director Michael Moore publicizing his new movie. Speaking about world politics, he said that a war in Afghanistan could not be won. I’m sure that many—including Michael Moore himself—would argue that this rogue movie maker is affecting the world by changing minds. Greg Mortensen, by redirecting the paths of those most vulnerable to the lure of power and terror, is affecting the world by changing lives. Try telling him that a war can't be won there.
Up to this point, everything I’ve known about Afghanistan’s political history came from The Kite Runner. In 1989, I was the salutatorian of my class and couldn’t have found Afghanistan on a map, let alone told you that it had been occupied for the past decade by the Soviets. More recently, I’ve known it only as the suspected home of Al Qaeda and the place where many American soldiers lose their lives.
Greg Mortensen gave me a quick education. Three Cups of Tea is his story about stumbling, quite accidentally, on the poorest of the poor in the farthest reaches of Pakistan and Afghanistan. The picture he paints is hard to imagine. These are people who could only make it to the nearest city by traversing a canyon with a zipline and a basket. And their poverty, along with a cultural hesitancy toward education—especially of girls—left these remote villages with illiterate leaders and children with little hope for a better life.
In the past 15 years, Mortensen and the Central Asia Institute that he founded have raised up 128 schools across two nations known for breeding and training terrorists. His work also includes building women’s centers and medical facilities as well as feeding and caring for refuges and other victims of war. I don’t know where Mortensen’s spiritual allegiances lie, but I know this: One of my heroes, Kit Danley, says that the journey into the center of God’s heart lands you among the poor and the afflicted. In this book, I met a man who eats, sleeps, and breathes there.
I recently caught a snippet of director Michael Moore publicizing his new movie. Speaking about world politics, he said that a war in Afghanistan could not be won. I’m sure that many—including Michael Moore himself—would argue that this rogue movie maker is affecting the world by changing minds. Greg Mortensen, by redirecting the paths of those most vulnerable to the lure of power and terror, is affecting the world by changing lives. Try telling him that a war can't be won there.
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