five minute friday: writer

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I always wanted to write, but never thought I could be a writer. 

I thought to myself, “Maybe I can write, but surely I cannot be a writer. Writers are qualified and experienced. They know what they’re doing. And I do not.”

But then Jesus whispered into the very depths of my soul these words: writers tell stories. Writers create. Writers breathe life into dark places. Writers inspire. Writers tell the truth. Writers encourage. 

I paused. I wanted to tell stories, wanted to create. I wanted to tell the truth, and to inspire and encourage. 

It dawned on me then. I wanted to be a writer. 

But am I qualified? Am I experienced? Do I even know what I am doing?

Doubt clouds my thoughts all the time - but still, I write. 

Even in my under qualification, my inexperience, my self doubt, I. Can. Be. A. Writer. 

Because writers are anyone who want to tell their story, and the story of others around them. 

I want to write. 

I want to be a writer. 

I write. 

I am a writer.

STOP

Linking up with Lisa-Jo Baker today

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the best gift I ever received (& the boy who changed my life)

I am weeping on this Christmas night, a day in which our Jesus was born, a day in which we celebrate life with one another, a day in which Africa perhaps knows no different then the day before. I cry for Africa. And I cry for myself.

I cry because I have forgotten what I vowed to remember - the desire to create an impact in a world so desperately longing for hope. I cry because I have forgotten Africa. In this hustle and bustle of festivities and chaos, I have forgotten Africa.

I sit here tonight, among presents and gifts and treasured memories that have been created today, and there’s a sadness in my heart that sinks deep inside me.

I sat on the stairs in my home, and thought of my friends in Rwanda. Christmas is such a North American thing - isn’t it? The stockings and gifts and Santa Claus and turkey and carols and snow and reindeer and elves, and as I sat on my stairs, I wondered to myself, “What are they doing in Africa today?”. And for the first Christmas in my life, I really thought of other people besides myself.

I had wanted this Christmas to be special. I decided this year I wanted to give gifts that “gave back” and was able to give a scarf and necklace and tank top and t-shirt and framed prints that went towards enabling sustainable business for HIV women in Ethiopia, providing a meal for the homeless in downtown Toronto, and giving more shoeboxes out this Christmas for Operation Christmas Child. They were wonderful, and gave a deeper meaning knowing they were helping someone else in our world.

And then my sister and brother-in-law presented me with a gift. They gave me a card which said, “Ashimwe will be receiving a present this Christmas” - and as I read those words the little six-year-old boy that stole my heart this past summer imprinted himself into my mind, and tears streamed down my cheeks, the same way they’re streaming now. (You can read about Ashimwe and the impact he’s made on my life here.)

My sister and brother-in-law sent money to a missionary in Rwanda, who is making sure Ashimwe is given something. I’m overcome with joy, and I ask Jesus to hold Ashimwe tight for me tonight. I wish I was there to hold him myself.

So tonight I cry, a mix of joy and sadness. I miss Africa today. But tonight, in my heart, I know a difference has been made - in the lives of Ethiopian women who create scarves and necklaces, in the life of a homeless person in Toronto, in the lives of children who have received shoeboxes filled to the brim with toys and candy and love, and in the life of dear, dear Ashimwe. In my life, too.

I want to thank my sister, my brother-in-law, and Jesus. This gift for Ashimwe... it’s the greatest blessing I could ever imagine.

Thank you... Thank you.

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breakfast with Jesus

If I could just have breakfast with Jesus. It would be on a beach, and though I picture Hilton Head Island in place of Lake Tiberias, I think it still would be holy. And it would be overcast, and we would sit on the hardened sand and on a charcoal grill he would cook the food and then he would look at me and say,

"Come and join me for breakfast."

And I would oblige. Of course I would. I cry just thinking about it.

Perhaps we would have fish like he did with his disciples when they ate their breakfast on a beach so long ago, or perhaps I'd bring him hot coffee and vanilla cream and we would share a thermos together.

But it doesn't matter what we'd eat or drink, because I'd be with him.

And I try to imagine the kindness in his eyes that I'll see as I sit across from him, but I know they'll hold a kindness in which I cannot understand. And I'll want to take his hand, and I briefly wonder: will they still hold the scars of the world? Will he hold me and allow my fears to wash away like the tide that kisses the shoreline?

I wonder if he'll ask me three times if I love him. I'd say yes. I'd say yes. I'd say yes.

And I wonder if I'd ask him the question that presses in on my heart.

How can I love you deeper?

And I wonder if he'd answer me or simply smile, and I hope I'd thank him for saving me and setting me free. I hope I'd fall down on my knees in front of him and tell him he is still good, when sometimes life isn't.

Or perhaps, I wouldn't say anything at all. And maybe I'd just listen.

If only I could have breakfast with Jesus.

John 21

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26 things Rwanda taught me

I have learned to constantly strive for a bold, authentic faith. I have learned that Milo, brownies and cheesy broccoli are absolute  staples.

I have learned that there is a time to speak and a time to stay silent.

I have learned that our God-given purpose is to embody love.

I have learned that the largest frustrations can be as simple as awful  internet connection.

I have learned to French braid.

I have learned that my heart has gotten much, much softer.

I have learned that sometimes I can be very feisty...particularly when  I’m feeling a bit moody and some silly motorcycle taxi driver tries to  charge me more simply because of my skin colour.

I have learned that Fanta fiesta’s are extremely delicious!

I have learned that vulnerability and fragility are not necessarily bad things at all.

I have learned that I am terrible when it comes to budgeting.

I have learned that I would be perfectly alright with having a bunch of little black babies of my own. (Though I suspected this before hand.)

I have learned that life is a process.

I have learned that most Rwandan kids seriously can dance.

I have learned that some Rwandan kids seriously can’t sing.

I have learned that wisdom can come in the form of a six-year-old.

I have learned to sort of play the ukelele. Sort of.

I have learned that having friends who live in Australia is a VERY good thing.

I have learned that strength and independence can sometimes transition into an unfulfilled need for protection.

I have learned that the extraverted Aliza in Canada can be become an introverted Aliza in Rwanda.

I have learned that language barriers can be broken with a smile.

I have learned that I take communication, water and love for granted.

I have learned that we can all take steps towards changes. With those steps comes a difference. And a difference is a difference, no matter how small.

I have learned that writing is my worship.

I have learned that sometimes what Jesus asks of us, the world will think foolish. I have learned to do it anyway.

But above and beyond all these, I have learned that God can do anything.

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85 dreams

In my hands I hold the dreams of 85 children. These papers feel quite holy. Last night when I was semi freaking out (that’s an understatement) about what to preach on this morning, (my topic was God’s purpose for their life) my good friend had an idea. He suggested giving all of the children a piece of a paper and a pen, and asking them to write down their dreams. I am so thankful God has put wise people into my life!

After I told the children about how God chose David to be king, even though he was a simple, ordinary, typical boy, I asked the kids what their dreams and their desires were. I handed out the pens and papers and told them that they could draw or write what they wanted their life to be. It took about a half an hour for them to complete the exercise, and I watched as their eyes grew wide with anticipation, as some of the younger one’s hands clapped with excitement, and as they carefully uncapped the pens and wrote their heart-filled ambitions on the yellow card stock in front of them.

I think Africa is making me emotional or soft or something. As the minutes passed by and the papers started to collect in the palms of my hands, I fought to hold back tears. Here I was, in the center of a concrete room, watching children who were allowed to freely dream. Who were allowed to think beyond the scope of imagination, even for a few brief moments. One by one the papers piled, the pens were put away, and a circle of children was formed.

I sat in the center, the stack of papers beside me.

"We’re going to pray." I told them. "Because we believe in a God who can do the impossible. We believe in a God who can fulfill each one of these dreams."

I prayed in English, though the translator did not translate, and they did not understand me, they were beaming as I looked up at them after my prayer. I asked them if they wanted to pray over their dreams too. The littlest one - I think he is 4 - jumped up, ran over to me and placed his chubby little four-year-old hand on the pages. He prayed over those dreams like there was no tomorrow. I learned that four year old’s can fervently pray. Again, I fought back tears (I seriously am becoming a cry baby), and I encouraged more kids to come pray over their dreams. More came and more prayed. And I was blessed to be in a room with 85 children who believed with such passion that God has given them dreams for a reason.

These are their dreams:

4 dreams to be soccer players 3 dreams to be rich 1 dream to be an artist 1 dream to work in an office 8 dreams to be teachers 1 dream to be a business man 6 dreams to be pastors 11 dreams to be pilots 14 dreams to be doctors 5 dreams to be soldiers 9 dreams to be nurses 1 dream to be a bank officer 1 dream to be a parent 1 dream to be a minister in government 1 dream to be a construction worker 2 dreams to be engineers 2 dreams to be mechanics 1 dream to be a carpenter 4 dreams to be singers 6 dreams to be drivers 2 dreams to be superheroes 2 dreams to be kings 4 dreams to be the President 3 dreams to be policemen 1 dream to help the helpless 1 dream to be a queen 2 dreams to be policewomen 1 dream to be a cashier 1 dream to lead others in industry 1 dream to be a captain of a ship 1 dream to be a defender of human rights 9 dreams that are still nestled inside of their hearts

I told these beautiful children that I will take their dreams, go home to Canada and pray over them. I told them I would ask my family and friends to pray along with me. I hope you choose to walk with me in this.

I, for one, am a huge believer in dreams. And I think God is too. Are you?

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expectations and limitations

Tomorrow morning I am preaching at the day camp. I am not a preacher (nor do I ever want to be a preacher), and at this moment I am totally procrastinating putting together the message for tomorrow morning. My theme for tomorrow’s message is: “I can depend on Him because He created me with a purpose.”

In my head I’m thinking, “How on earth am I supposed to convince 85 African children that their lives have a rich, meaningful purpose?” And then I wondered if perhaps it’s not just African kids who may not think their lives hold purpose - maybe it’s children, maybe it’s adults, maybe it’s just people - not just in Rwanda, Africa, but all around the world.

We have expectations. But our expectations do not define our purpose. For example, a lot of these kids expect to wake up hungry each day. They expect to drop out of school because they won’t be able to afford to continue on to college or university.

I have expectations, too. A lot of them. I expected these kids to have angelic voices. I’ve quickly realized some children here are just as tone deaf as some children in Canada. (Why did I think for some reason that every African child could harmonize beautifully? It’s a myth, I tell you!) Teaching these kids to sing is a lot harder then I expected. Their voices may not at the moment be always aesthetically pleasing to my ear, but my, oh my, are their hearts ever pleasing to Jesus.

I think our expectations can quickly become limitations. It’s hard not to have expectations in life. I had expectations coming to Rwanda - though I tried my absolute best not to - and though some expectations have not been met whatsoever, others have been taken up and away, soaring past all that I wanted Rwanda to be.

My prayer tomorrow is that these kids will begin to realize that the expectations they have placed on their life do not determine the purpose their life has. God doesn’t require expectations for us. Surely if He did, not one of us would ever be able to meet them. But He has placed a purpose on our life. And doesn’t a purpose seem so much sweeter then any expectation ever possibly could? I’m shrugging off the expectations I’ve placed on myself, and instead focusing on the sweet, sweet purpose God has placed in front of me.

Now, let’s hope these 85 children might just believe the same..

a collection of extraordinary dreams

Today I made an inspiration board. I have decided that dreams are important. Really important. I have also decided that it’s ok to have a lot of dreams. Even a million dreams. Even a new dream, a new inspiration, every single day. I think I used to be afraid to dream big…I mean, how on earth are any of those gigantic dreams supposed to come true? But then I realized, God gave all those dreams to me in the first place. Why dream small when you can dream extraordinary? I decided I didn’t need to hide my big - perhaps outrageous - dreams anymore. So, today I made an inspiration board. A dream board. A collection of extraordinary dreams..