Awake

Hello, friends

Is it January or what?

A downpour of good intentions, goals, and resolutions flood my mind. And then there's the rain. Lots of it. Downpouring, sprinkling, misting, showering, whatever, it's always raining. Yesterday, there was an afternoon sunbreak. I threw open the blinds and basked in the sunlight. We watched trees and other debris drift down the brown waters of the Willamette. If rain is cleansing, we won't see the shine until Spring.

I am haunted by a thought that has recently risked surfacing amidst a life, full and busy and distracted. Let me share it with you in hopes that one of you may help me find my way.

I've told you, I think, about Famo. Famo is a young 12 year old girl who is here on refugee status. She is Bantu Somali. I know her because every Thursday I come to her house to tutor her older sister in English. Famo often joins in the lesson. Famo has not been going to school for the past 5 months. Why? Because she does not have the use of her legs. She cannot walk and she has nothing and no one to assist her.

Her lameness has perplexed me these many months. She has regular doctor's appointments but all I see as a result of them are prescription bottles of ibuprofen. First with 200 mg, then 400, now 600 mg tablets. Why isn't she coming home with an appointment for surgery? Or a wheelchair. Or even crutches? Where are the X-Rays? Mere pain medication? I don't understand it. As a refugee, she is entitled to free medical of any scale or magnitude, including surgery, for up to 5 years. I cannot ascertain why she has not been healed by medical professionals nor why she has not received assistive devices to enable mobility out of her apartment. Perhaps she has not learned to ask properly. Perhaps I live in a world of entitlement and cannot comprehend this situation. Or, perhaps God is waiting for me to act.

Meanwhile, I have been faithfully listening to Bible verses of some half-dozen 4th grade girls every Wednesday. One by one, they come to me and recite Matthew 11:4-5:

Jesus replied, "Go back and report to John what you hear and see: The blind receive sight, the lame walk, those who have leprosy are cured, the deaf hear, the dead are raised, and the good news is preached to the poor.

This verse haunts me. It chews and nags and eats away at my calm. I am reminded of how the good news is preached in rural areas of the world. Through prayer and healing. Through prayer and healing. I am reminded of how the world is shrinking. Rapidly. And how the rural villagers of the world are now my neighbors. And I visit them every week. And I have something they do not. I have the power of Jesus Christ. Yet I am reluctant.

I am reluctant. I remember my schooling. Learn the language first. Learn the culture first. You can't communicate with someone until you understand their cultural values. And words define worlds. I don't know Mai Mai. I got "Cs" in linguistics and never took language learning. I have a hobbyist's interest at best in linguistics and language. And I am not the only one with the gospel who has access to these people from Somalia now living within a 5 mile radius of not only my house but my church's building. But I don't know if anyone else knows what to do either. Certainly I have no idea what to do except teach them English phonemes and give rides to the local Goodwill or Fred Meyer. (And procure mattresses, fill in checks, read mail, and donate shoes.) But I don't know how to heal Famo. Or do I?

I am haunted by the way my ministry has become increasingly disconnected from the Spirit. I am disturbed by my own willful powerlessness and lameness. I know she could be healed. I know that Kathleen and Shawn and I could go over there and pray for her and she would walk. I know she would. Or at least I strongly suspect. But I resist. There are powers and spirits holding power over that family and that group and we would be mounting a war against them—a war that would take time, effort, and discipline to fight. And faith. I am haunted because it seems like my life has little room for the miraculous working of Jesus. And no one seems to care or take notice that I am not the only one in the Church whose life has come to this.

I go over to Famo's house this evening. What will I do? Will I act? Will I pray for her? And what will happen if I do? I have no answers to these questions nor any expectation that I will do anything worth mentioning. Perhaps these things take time. But shouldn't healing be an urgent matter? Where is my sense of urgency? I know the hot embers of my faith lie in wait for a wind to come and ignite a sleeping Amber into flame and fire. But when will that be? How long will Famo have to wait before I regain my courage?

Or will I ever?