Be kind to your neighbor. We hear this time and time again. From first grade Sunday School to buying a house with your spouse, we have always been taught to honor the people we walk beside in our lives. God has once again brought to life a saying that I have always read, but rarely put into practice. He has placed a certain someone in my life who has exemplified this golden truth as I live out my last month as a World Race missionary, here in our eleventh country of Malaysia.

I type this to you as my laptop sits on a small table with a checkered tablecloth and Maroon Five plays over the loud speakers. I look around and see neatly framed posters of James Dean, Marilyn Monroe, and Elvis Presley, accompanied with blue walls and red ceilings. The white stars lining the ceiling seals the essence of Americana that the restaurant called Kennedy's is trying to portray. On our eleventh month on the race, the Lord brings us to America, in Malaysia, in the form of a restaurant. We are working at a restaurant called Kennedy's, pioneered by past racers, and promoting it throughout the community. My team is spread out all over this town, everywhere from teaching at the Burmese refugee school, to hanging out with students at the local campus, to waitressing at this innovative restaurant smack dab in the Westernized city of Kuala Lumpur.

But what I want to chat with you about has nothing to do with our ministry. Right next door to our little restaurant is a teashop. The very first day we came to the Kennedy's, I noticed the soothing water fountains and cool green colors of the interior of our neighbor's building. Stepping a little closer, a short, caramel-colored Pakistani man with a big, bright smile waved and motioned for me and my teammate Emily to come over.  We shrugged our 'Why Nots?' and meandered over to his restaurant. From that day forward, we spent most mornings trying all types of teas and different types of honey. We winced at the bitter teas, nodded politely at the warm, unsweetened "woman's teas," and cocked our head blankly at the ten-year old honey spoonfuls. Everyday we would waltz over and be greeted by our new friend, Shah, and surprised by the different types of warmed beverages he would bring out for us to try.

After about a week, we started bringing food from our American restaurant for him to try, and he started making us delicious Pakistani treats. We tasted a gamut of foods, from caramelized, sugared raisins, to baked eggplant with steamed veggies, and the most interesting rice I've ever put in my mouth. It tasted like he put cinnamon or a sweet ginger spice in it. One day he made us thick, round portions of whole-wheat naan bread, and we ate it with a thin, round, pepper and onion-filled omelet. My mouth literally started to water thinking back to how savory this combination tasted.

The most heart-warming part of this story is that we have not seen one customer enter his restaurant this entire month. Every day he sits on one of the beautiful, hand-made wooden swivel chairs and looks out of his glass door for us to walk by. He gives the first of his fruits freely to his neighbors, even when he is not seeing a steady flow of customers. He's looking from someone not only to fill up his chairs, but someone to share in life with. We couldn't be any more different; he is Muslim, we are Christians. He is from Pakistan; we are from America. He works at a tea and honey shop; we are traveling missionaries, but we live together. We walk through life together and share in our meals, our traditions, and passions as three very different and separated people.

The mornings we walk next door and share in life with Shah are some of the most heart felt and touching moments I've had on this race. We've shared our hearts, experiences, and God's love with him and all it took was one day saying 'yes' to a house visit. This wasn't part of our plan or scheduled in our ministry, but we made time for it. We made time for a person, and it's made our time here more precious than any scheduled work would. That's how God works. He doesn't run off of a schedule, or a plan, He runs off of how the Spirit leads. So I encourage you, follow that leading. It might lead you to thick, ten-year old honey, a good conversation or the most delicious meal you have ever had. But I do promise you; the fruits of your time invested will be worth it. J

Did you ever watch the second Indiana Jones movie? The one with the Temple of Doom? I wasn't allowed to watch it as a child. Due to my frequent nights of sleeping on my parent's bedroom floor, my mom knew that the scene when the priest or rabbi or whoever he is pulls the heart out of his prisoner would be too scary for me. But nine-year-old me knew that I could handle it. You should've known me then. I was the wisest, most intelligent, know-what's-best-for-me kid on my block. I did smart things as a young, Power Ranger loving, elementary school blondie. I did things like jump out of my mom's jeep while she was driving, and refused to pee for three days just to prove that I could do it. (Too much info? Maybe.)

But oh, was I wrong about watching this movie. My best friend and neighbor, Jesse, invited me over to spend the night one Friday and we had planned to watch the Temple of Doom. I was ready; I told myself. After all, I was a big girl. I was older than my two brothers and I got to stay up until nine p.m. The movie started and the beginning was good; a little scary at parts, but I was managing to keep my cool. And then that particular scene came. The 'rabbi' reached his hand through the prison bars and started to stick his ever so strong fingers through the prisoner's gooey, and almost playdoh-like skin. But Jesse and I didn't make it through the heart extraction. We automatically started screaming and ran into her closet, pulling the door closed. We curiously peered through the wooden slats of the sliding door at different moments trying to see if it was over, but we couldn't block out the prisoner's blood-curdling screams. It wasn't until Jesse's brother heard the ruckus, came in her room, and turned off the TV that we stopped screaming.

I tried everything I could to block out that scene from my vision and hearing, but the TV still blared on. No matter how much I screamed or covered my eyes, the movie was still on, playing as if its audience actually wanted to watch it.

Moments like these still happen in our adulthood, when we try to block out God screaming for us by covering our eyes or plugging our ears, but He still gets through. I was reminded of this childhood memory the other night when I was woken up by a car alarm at 1:30 in the morning. It was a scary experience for adult me, but in a different way. I wasn't having bad dreams in my sleep; I was living the bad dream! I was simply trying to get what every grown man or woman desires-precious sleep. But there I was, lying in between my three other female teammates squished onto three mattresses (you do the math), listening to that alarm blare. 

Honk, Honk, Honk! went the alarm for approximately one minute and 26 seconds, followed by a brief, tease of an intermission of four seconds, and then repeated itself, over and over again. I scrambled under my pillow, found my earplugs, and shoved them in my ears. Honk-Honk-Honk went the music to my ear, only now in a muffled tone. 

Letting out a sound 'hoorump,' I rolled over to my teammate Emily and watched her put in her iPod. No way is anyone sleeping through this. I thought to myself as I looked around the room and saw my teammates rustle around their beds and shove things into their ears to try to block out the noise. But nothing worked. So I did something. I let out one frustrated growl, got up, scrambled around the room for some proper clothes and was determined to find someone to turn off that terrible sound.

I managed to find my long, black Columbia skirt, and my teammate's tie-dyed white tee (which I put on backwards), and marched downstairs to find security.

With my hair in a messy bun tied up above my head, my shirt on backwards, and my leftover mascara smeared under my sleepy eyes, I quickly raised my finger and explained to the security guard what was going on.

"You need to find the tenant who owns this car and get him to turn off the alarm." I said in my most frustrated, but commanding voice. I don't know if you know me enough to know that I don't do well when I'm woken up... period. Much less by a car alarm. So the officer did as he was told and the most annoying sound in the world ceased. I got in the elevator with success written all over my face, and rode up to the sixth floor, finally feeling like I could sleep. I laid my head on my pillow and fell into a deep, restful slumber.

The next day I thought about this experience and how it related to our relationship with God. I was actually in the middle of going down a path that God had not chosen for me, and trying to shove as many things in my ears as I could find and wear tinted glasses to avoid the truth. I had accepted a job that was not in God's plan for my life, and was trotting along trying to ignore the 'Wrong Way' signs that he was putting in my path. Don't get me wrong; this job was incredible. It was more than incredible, more than I had wanted and a lot of what I had dreamed for my life. But it was my dream and not God's dream for this next season of my life. It was wonderful and good and pleasing to furthering the Kingdom, but for some reason, God said no to it. He said no to my plans. And I was standing in the closet, screaming, trying to block out his tender nudges in the opposite direction.

So I gave in. I stopped running to the things that I had deemed good for my life and started running towards the mystery of God's design for my life. And that's where I currently find myself. No plan, no job, and no clear direction for the next steps after the race. The only bit of information I have is that God said to trust Him. So I'm actually going to practice what I preach and trust that God will provide. He will provide a way for these next steps I need to take in my life and give me a dream to chase. He's provided in abundance throughout this crazy adventure across the world, so I think He can manage it in America.  As soon as I released this to Him, I was able to sleep peacefully. The anxiety of going into a new chapter of my life without the Spirit going before me was lifted and I was filled with inexpressible peace. I stepped outside of the closet and turned off the TV. I went downstairs and notified security. I rested in God's will. And it felt good!

I have a giant, 3-feet tall, paper mache lantern in my hand. The diameter of the lantern probably stretched out to about a foot and a half. I was lightly gripping the paper-covered metal rims of the bottom ring of the lantern. I watched the wax ring in the center of the lantern slowly catch a flame and push the rest of the lantern straight up in the air.

My butt was sticking out, and my back arched, as I made unnecessary squeals and dog-like pants trying to convey my excitement through some kind of audible expression. But alas, I could not find a sufficient way of describing the true zeal that was bubbling over in the pit of my stomach as we did something people only do in fairy tales-literally. Have you ever seen Tangled? 

The girls were on our own during the month of May; some of us working in prostitute ministry, some doing physical labor, and my team, working at a retreat center for local Asian pastors and ministers. We sent our guys packing out to goat land where they had the distinct honor of shoveling goat poop and harvesting tapioca fields all month.

The retreat center is in Phang Nga, Thailand, surrounded by the most beautiful mountains, waterfalls, and occasional elephants on the side of the road. It is called Eagles Rest Foundation, and they aim to provide rest and refreshment for local Asian nationals working in the ministry who can't afford to take a vacation. Our team of girls was partnered with another team of beautiful ladies, and with our forces combined, we were able to light that tiny town on fire with the love of Christ.

I was able to help with the ministries networking and marketing, while the rest of the girls did workshops for our contact's four children. We did everything from sewing, singing, culture days, art, crafts, cooking, sports, and all imaginable in between. It was a packed month and very much needed for my team coming off of China.

But what I want to chat with you about is the last night we spent with our contacts. It's a husband and wife team (Rommel and Janene Ala) and they have a special tradition that they do with every team, and it was on that very night that we got to participate in it. 

It was a humid night, and we had just finished chowing down some delicious BBQ chicken when our contact Rommel brought out eight life size lanterns. They were huge and paper mache and legitimately just like any bride would dream of for her farewell send-off.

As we each held onto our own personal lanterns, Rommel explained to us the meaning of this ceremony is surrendering everything to God. Every hope, desire, burden, and dream into the hands of the all-knowing Father. So there I was, with my legs spread and body arched, watching the wax ring on the bottom ring smoke up to the top ring and eventually gaining enough force to lift the lantern way up into the dark, starry night. As I silently prayed and got a neck cramp from looking up at my lantern, I let go of my dreams. I let got of my desires to one day get married, to one day adopt, to one day financially support a missionary, to one day travel to Italy, to one day change the world. I surrendered my desires and gave them to Him. I've gripped onto them for a long time, and my knuckles have grown white from trying to orchestrate my own life and plans. And it was tough. Parts of me still try to take back what I willfully gave to God, (like it wasn't already his in the first place) but I am walking in the confidence that it is surrendered to Him, and I am excitedly awaiting the day when he gives it back to me, in abundance. That's what I've learned on this race. That his abundance is better that mine. His homemade chocolate fudge cake is better that my burnt chocolate-chip cookies. And that's what I let go. I like cake much better than cookies anyways. 

"Then he isn't safe?" said Lucy.

"Safe?" said Mr. Beaver; "don't you hear about what Mrs. Beaver tells you? Who said anything about safe? 'Course he isn't safe. But he's good. He's the King, I tell you."

I've started to re-read the Chronicles of Narnia. I don't care how old you are, those books are the perfect combination of divine humility and sheer brilliance in the midst of a children's book.  You simply can't find this type of ingenious harmony in books written today. Every time I crack open that thick, weighty book, I am captured by the thrill, adventure, and mystery that Lewis penned to a manuscript in the 1950's, beer stein in hand.

Yesterday as I was reading along, I scanned across the quote above. There is something so magnificent about this explanation of Aslan. As any innocent and curious child would, one Lucy Pevensie tries to find out about the inexplicable and perplexing Aslan from her new friend, Mr. Beaver. Trying to mask his shock that this little one has never heard the name Aslan, Mr. Beaver tells her the honest truth about his character.

I love how Lewis uses the magnificent character of a lion to represent Jesus Christ (if you've never got around to reading the books and are confused by this reference, I highly recommend you read them. Preferably curled up in the corner of a mysterious room). In so many ways, the quote at the top of the page not only describes our Lord; it describes our life when you choose to follow him. It's not always safe, harmonious, or comfortable; but it is always good, and there will always be good fruit produced.

That's how this past month was for me. We were in a China, where we couldn't pray in public, evangelize, or speak the name of Jesus. We lived in the dark city of Hengyang, where each street corner was covered in grime and soot. The sky was blanketed with a heavy cloud of fog that refused to lift, which brought with it a dismal and gloomy atmosphere.

As we ventured out to our ministry site every morning, we were met with the cold chill of winter, and the solemn faces of every Chinese person we crossed on the road. Motorbikes and impatient taxi drivers hastily drove their way down the busy highways, as we tried to dodge the traffic and make our way across the bustling street. We splashed through mud puddles and hopped over rocky terrain on our way to ministry, where the only color throughout the entire journey was the bright yellow canola fields.

As much as I loved that 45-minute walk to ministry every day, my heart was always somber as I thought and prayed about what I was about to see. It's such a battle telling people about what we did that month, because I want so badly for people to know what I saw, but it brings up so many feelings of sorrow and ache to relive that experience. But it's a story that needs to be told. 

We worked with an organization called International China Concern, who took in and cared for special needs children. In a Communist society, every life is valued at how it can contribute; what kind of money, resources, and fame it can generate for the country. Since special needs children generally can't perform as a 'normal,' high-functioning child, they are tossed to the side and forgotten.

That's where we worked--in the housing for what they dubbed as the trash of society. Most of my team worked directly with the ministry, but I worked with two of my other teammates in the governmental owned and operated welfare center for special needs children. If a family has a special needs child and they decide they don't want it, they can give it up to the welfare center, or drop him or her off somewhere until the police find them. The police will then take him to the welfare center.

Let me take you through a typical day at the welfare center. As we entered the gates of the center, we were met with a towering, gray building, sturdy, but unwelcoming. As we walked up to the second floor, the stairway was wide, but it gave a sense that it wanted people to leave instead of come in. As soon as your foot hit the last step, the smell hit you. The smell of urine, feces, and the disregarded smacks you like a bus. It takes about 30 minutes before you are able to stop scrunching your nose at the unbearable smell, and then you have to register what you are seeing.

There were 14 children in the room I was working in, each one of them desperate for attention. This isn't a normal group of children. They aren't running around, or playing, or screaming at the top of their lungs. They are sitting or lying down; moaning or crying, searching and hoping for something more than this welfare center.

The ailments of the room include cerebral palsy, autism, trauma, and Down's syndrome. There is no light in the room, no pictures or sweet melodies to lift their spirits, just a dark and damp excuse for an existence. The caregivers work 24/7, live there with the children, and only get three days off a month. Needless to say, they suffer from compassion fatigue, or to put simply, they are burnt out. The month before we arrived, eight children died from that very room. A baby died while we were there. We named him Jude because it means praise in Hebrew, and we are determined to remember him, even though his family won't even know he died.

The children were starving, literally and emotionally. Twelve of the children shared four bowls of food twice a day, and the other two got bottles. The Welfare Center is vastly over crowded, and they do not have the sufficient funds to provide decent food or comfortable bedding.

I realized that I've spent the better half of my blog telling you about the terrible things I witnessed in the welfare center, but I want to take a minute and tell you about the incredible redemption I saw that month. Every morning I would walk in the sour-smelling room, I would walk straight over to my favorite little girl. We'll call her Harmony, because I love that name and I can't give her real name online. Harmony was about ten years old, and had cerebral palsy throughout her entire body. This disease affects each person differently, and with her, she had very little control of her limbs. She could stand up on her own, but needed assistance while her wobbly legs maneuvered their way throughout the room. Her arms were like tree limbs, stiff and inflexible. Her fingers were shaped like a witch's and bent awkwardly as she pointed to you as you entered the room 

Every morning as I walked briskly over to Harmony's corner, she would give me a sweet, slobbery kiss and wrap her awkwardly formed arms around my neck for a hug. I would crouch down to her level and she would whisper in my ear 'baby,' as she pointed to the next room. Now, this is where I get a little teary eyed when I tell this story. You see Harmony lived in the same conditions that I described above. She was cold, hungry and lonely each day, but she decided to live out her days in a different manner than most of the children do.

Before my knees had the chance to hurt from squatting down to her level, she would push herself up and start walking wobbly across the room to the door. Knowing what she wanted, I would take her arms and assist her like a marionette as we walked to the baby room. Once we reached the nursery, she would hurry over to the first crib and peer through the wood bars and look lovingly at the baby. She would stretch out her hand and gently stroke the baby's face, and if it was crying she would softly whisper 'baby' as she held his hand. I've never seen Jesus played out in such a pure and vivid form, and it was through a ten-year-old orphan with cerebral palsy. She was living in this prison of an existence and still choosing to love others before herself.

That little girl changed my life, and changed my heart in spite of the terrible things I witnessed that month. She reminded me that these children are still God's own flesh and blood, and there still is hope. During our month, we found out that space opened up at ICC, and that she would be transferred over to the girl's dorms. She would receive healthcare, schooling, and a house full of girls who could support and love her. She is the individual that we are fighting for, and the reason organizations like ICC exist. She is my reason for continuing to fight against the injustices of today.

***If you would like to financially support Harmony or receive more information about ICC, e-mail me at jessmit86@gmail.com***

THIS IS A BLOG I STARTED IN THE PHILLIPPINES (FEBRUARY) THAT I NEVER GOT AROUND TO POSTING. It is also not appropriate for a young audience J

I've always wanted to skinny dip. My best friend growing up Katie and I tried one time at the beach, but it was an epic fail. We swam out into the waves and tried to unhook our bathing suit tops while treading water. We ended up chickening out and swimming back to the shoreline, giggling all the way. There it is mom, my one obvious acts of rebellion during my teenage years. I didn't drink, curse, or smoke; I simply tried to flash the fish of the deep blue sea. No purple beads were won that night, only the bragging rights of attempted skinny-dipping. Hey, that was pretty hardcore for a straight-laced, collared-shirt wearing fourteen-year-old Georgia peach.

Before I describe to you my experience with skinny-dipping, first I need to give you a little insight of where I'm coming from. I'm generally they type of woman who doesn't worry too much about body image, which I know is very unusual in this day in time. I don't go to bed counting the calories of what I ate that day, or stress about that last piece of cake I devoured. I inherited my sweet tooth from my mother, who forced me to eat her delicious death by chocolate cakes, oatmeal-raisin cookies, and milky key lime pies (Mom, I'm going to need one of those when I get home!). Luckily, I also inherited her metabolism and have a few good years left of eating how I please until it all catches up with me (I also do really enjoy working out, which helps with the sweet tooth!).

My father also played a huge role in establishing confidence within myself. From a very young age, he spoke into me that I was a strong, smart, and beautiful young woman. The older I get, the more I realize how valuable those precious words were as I see women struggle day to day with their identities and fight to be noticed or valued. Over the course of the race, I've been learning my true identity in Christ, and what that looks like in terms of beauty, confidence, and acceptance of myself as God made me.

It says in Genesis 1:27 that "God created man in his own image, in the image of God he created him, male and female he created them." Notice that He said He created them "in His own image" twice. If we are created in the image of our Almighty Father, which means we reflect His beauty, meaning we look like Him. We reflect the glory and radiance of Christ through our actions, words, and yes, even our appearance. We are "fearfully and wonderfully made" in our best dress, oldest rags, and purest form, our naked body. 

Remembering that truth, I'd like to share with you one of the most freeing and purest moments I've ever experienced in my life. We currently have no bathing water at the ministry location where we are living. The water truck responsible for toting water to our camp every week was in an accident, and is not able to transport water. So we've had to rely on the good 'ole fashion way of bathing: putting buckets out and collecting rainwater.

To jazz up our bathing experience, our contact suggested that we go to a fresh water spring, bring our shampoo, and bathe in the water. About half or our group decided to go. So we loaded up the van with our shampoo, towels, and bathing suits on. As we pulled up to the spring, I had a distinct feeling that I was walking onto the set of the Swiss Family Robinsons. Remember that movie? They had everything from zebras for transportation and a bamboo pipeline for water. This 'lagoon' had a creaky wood high dive and gooey seaweed-like substance floating in the water. But, not having much a choice, we got in and started lathering up. The girls had their time first, as the guys waited up by the car, a good distance away. As I started to lather up, I remembered those failed attempts at skinny-dipping and secret desires I'd always had to try it.

This would be a great time to do it. I thought to myself.

"Hey," I said to the other women with me, "let's take off our suits and swim out to the dock."

A chorus of 'no's,' and 'I'd be too nervous,' and hemming and hawing continued as I made up my mind to do it.

"Well, I'm going to do it." I said as I pulled my top over my head and threw my bottoms on the dock near by. Gasps and breaths and shrieks escaped the mouths of my friends that day as my porcelain white body freestyle swam it out to the floating dock, completely buck-naked (keep in mind we were the only ones in the lagoon).

I pressed my palms on the wet, squishy wood and hoisted myself up on the floating dock. One knee at a time, I stood up firmly on the dock, and outstretched my arms to balance on the wobbly surface. As soon as I got my footing, I looked up into the trees as the sunlight cast shadows all over my naked body. I never felt more beautiful. I felt whole, new, and completely alabaster before my God. I reached my hands out to the Heavens and screamed at the top of my lungs, "I look like God!" And I truly felt it. I felt like I looked like the Savior of the universe; made in His image, without make-up, a fancy dress, or my hair curled. Just me and God, in my purest form. 

"I'm going to prison today."

-Me

"Ok, what time will you be back?"

-Stacey

"About 5:00. It's only about a 3 hour sentence."

-Me

Living on a banana plantation in the mountains of a Philipino Island is where I find myself this month. One of my goals during my time here is to see if I can eat 33 bananas in three days, but I'm slightly concerned about what the physical implications of that much potassium would do to my digestive system. Why do I want to do this you may ask? Well, Tommy, one of my teammates, once ate 33 mangoes in 3 days when we were in the African bush. His lips broke out from all of the acid, but it is an incredible story and I kind of want to have a similar story to tell for myself. I'll let you know by the end of the month if I do it.

***Believe it or not, I didn't type out that random dialogue at the beginning of this blog to throw you off. I am going to talk about my day in prison, I just wanted to share a little bit of my Jessica thought process with the crazy banana idea J.

Still stomping around in the dirt in my same 'ole trusty Chacos, I look around the ministry site I am living on and realize that I am walking into month eight of the World Race. With the same quick-dry shirt and red basketball shorts, I think to myself that within a month, my lifestyle has completely flipped, once again. We are partnering with Kid International Ministries here in Malabalay, Philippines, and doing a heck of a lot of unique ministries with this organization.

Today I found myself sitting on the world's tiniest bench, about a foot above the ground, with my knees jutting upward to compensate for how low the bench sat. I was looking through iron bars at the tender face of a young Pilipino man, intently listening to his heart about his past life addicted to drugs and why he was in prison. With the fingers on my right hand wrapped around the bar, I could feel the cheap, blue paint peeling off onto my skin as I loosened my intense grip. I was sitting outside of a jail cell, talking to inmates about their hopes, dreams, and faith in the Lord.

This prison wasn't like any prison I'd seen in movies, or pictured in my head. As we walked down the hall, by containers full of men, I wasn't greeted with crass comments or shouts for vain attention; instead I was greeted with hands outstretched, humble hellos, and gifts of beautiful beadwork. Each cell held about fifty men, sleeping stacked in bunk beds three deep, with hardly enough room to walk around, or get any kind of exercise.

Our contact helped start a prison ministry here at one of the Philipino prisons, (more like holding cells for people accused waiting on their trial) and he asked us to come see what the Lord was doing in these tiny cells. There are four cells full of men, one cell with women, and one cell for minors. With the ministry, our contact, William, first presents the gospel to the inmates, then disciples them, and finally helps them get a business started within the prison help support themselves. The prison only pays for their food, so unless they have family bringing them money (most of them don't), they have to beg for soap, clothes, and other miscellaneous items. William has been teaching them how to be self-sustaining.

With this program, cell number 2 has been the most respondent. They've seen the hope that comes out of following the Lord, and are starting to bring Kingdom within the prison. They lead bible studies every morning, sing worship song throughout the day, and constantly talk about the love that the Lord brings. They've started their own bead-making business, and craft bracelets, necklaces, purses, and all kind of artwork that they cell to the visitors of the prison. William told us that will three months of racers supporting their business, the whole cell (fifty men) will be self-sustained for the year. So friends and family, can you think of where you'll be getting your souvenirs?

Today I sat on that tiny bench and listened to accused murders and recovering drug addicts sing song after song about Jesus' mercy and grace. I sat and talked with an older man and his wife about the hope we have in Christ. He had been in jail for almost a year and was preaching to me about how we never have to worry because our Almighty God is in control. Again, my "troubles" begin to look very small as I see the hope burning in this man's eyes. Keep in mind he's still sleeping on a cement floor and spending his days just hoping for an hour outside in the sunshine.

It was so humbling to have to ask the warden permission for a grown man to be escorted outside for an hour to talk, only to finish our conversation through enclosed bars. But hope rang from floor to ceiling in that place. The Spirit is alive and moving in each and every jail cell; breaking hearts and bringing redemption to the wounds and "hopeless" situations of these forgotten people. That's the Jesus we serve; taking helpless hearts and restoring them to something greater than we ever thought possible. He's like a superhero-coming in at the last minute and doing the action no one thought could be done, and making it look effortless. 

Now, before you furrow your brow and give me the "you should know better" look at how politically incorrect this title is, let me explain (I can hear some of the mommas who were raised in the fifties softly gasp). 

In South Africa, there are three different types of races represented, and they are all proud of where they came from. There are white South Africans, who originated from Eastern Europe, mainly from Ireland and the Netherlands, and are decently respected in the larger cities. Then you have the coloreds, who basically have the complexion of a Dominican (dark tan), and originate from one single Dutch nobleman who came to South Africa and impregnated a bunch of black slaves. Can you say selfish? Hmm, I'd like to start my own race. Yeah, I'll just take it into my own hands. And then you have the black people of South Africa, who have migrated down from deep in the African bush, such as Malawi, Zambia, and Mozambique.

Now that you know this seemingly unless historical mumbo jumbo, I can explain to you where I lived for the month of January. As I noted a few blogs back, my team and I were living with our adorable contacts and their family. My contacts (Ma and Pa) are colored, and are very proud of their heritage. All month, we've lived in a colored community, with train tracks separating the neighboring black and white race neighborhoods. If you could step out of this blog for a minute, stand up straight, and bend your neck to look directly down at the floor. Picture three sections; on your far right, a block of black people. Draw a vertical line separating this block with a caramel colored block in the middle. Envision another vertical black line, and place a large white block of people on the far left. This is the geographical break-up of the races in the district we lived in last month. 

It literally goes, black neighborhood on far right, train tracks, colored neighborhood, train tracks, white neighborhood on the far left. One, two, and three.  Just like a having a sweet chocolate chip, separated by a liquorish stick, separated by a Werther's candy, another liquorish stick, and chunky bar of white chocolate,.  As we all know, a chocolate covered Werther's candy would taste delicious, and I'm sure a liquorish stick would have interesting taste if you dipped it in melted chocolate chips, but we will never know if we always keep them separated.

Ma and Pa have an incredibly level head when it comes to the whole matter, and graciously accept any and all races into their home (obviously, they had 7 pasty whites living with them for a month!). But there are still South Africans who battle with racism everyday, on all sides. White people are discriminated for looking too white, coloreds are discriminated by the blacks for being the "lesser" of their appropriate race, and blacks are judged for taking over the workplace and monopolizing jobs. It's just interesting to me. This isn't meant to be a political piece; I'm just left scratching my head at what Nelson Mandela spent all of those years in prison if South Africans whites, coloreds, and blacks are still going to live separate lives?

Brining the glory back to God, however, the church Ma and Pa attend is a perfect picture of redemption. It is led by a white South African pastor who was raised in a colored community and speaks slang Afrikaans. He laughs and jokes about the different colors of our skin, and pointedly brings to light the silliness of it all. Aren't we all a member of the same body, the same family? His biggest joke all month was that a bunch of white people (us) rode in the back of an open pick-up truck driven by coloreds (our contacts). The whole church thought that that was the funniest thing considering it has always been the other way around.

Pastor 'G' as we called him, made these remarks to bring it back to a deeper issue; that we are to look at the heart of people above anything else. ::Sign:: Cheesy, I know, but it was such an interesting month to see people stress over something they can't change. And why would you want to? It's God's beautiful and perfect creation. Can't we just trust that God knew what He was doing and love our neighbors, no matter what the color, race, or favorite Mexican dish? In the end we're all going to be a part of one big Heavenly enchilada, so we might as well enjoy the party and bring on the guac!