Real Beauty

Beauty, REAL beauty!
like the spotless work of God in the life of a young woman.
Beauty that can make the eyes well up and the spirit sing.
Perfectly un-marketable, as if at the hint of salary, it flees,
like a rain or breeze insulted by Glade or the thought of time.
The beauty that clings to righteousness and collects in waiting.
It grows by faith that the ache of the incomplete, is not all there is.
It happens freely when redemption is lived freely;
it happens when we participate in the divine nature.
It is the combat of corruption.

Josephina:
Preciosa en los ojos de Dios.
She sees only shadows.
¨Yo tengo ochenticuatro años.¨
Her family can´t care for her.
¨Estoy mal en las piernas.¨
Old ladies are cute.
¨Señor, ayudame con un pancito.¨
I didn´t understand all that she said.
¨Con gusto Señora.¨
But I gave her the coins in my pocket.
¨Gracias Señor, bendiciones de nuestro Padre.¨
I walked a few steps, hesitated, and turned around.
¨Tenga Señora, es diez.¨
I lent against the church wall and asked her her name.
¨Josephina...¨
I tried to carry a God-glorifying conversation.
¨Eres preciosa en los ojos de Dios...¨
Until we were interupted
¨Disculpame Señor, No soy de aqui, prestame 25c por el bus¨
We politely wound down our conversation.
¨Mucho gusto, y Dios te bendiga.¨
But she asked me for more.
¨Pero, Señora, ya te regalo diez.¨
I gave her one dollar more, she asked for two.
¨Adios Señora.¨
I walked a block and stopped.
¨Eres preciosa en los ojos de Dios.¨
Why shouldn´t I give her all of it?
¨Eres preciosa en los ojos de Dios.¨
I walked back as I stuggled with the numbers.
¨Sea generoso en todos los ocaciones.¨
When I arrived back at the church steps she wasn´t there.
Josephina es preciosa en los ojos de Dios.

Bogota

Bogota


City of souls


7 , 0 0 0 , 0 0 0


Indigenous, European


struggling, and hoarding.


Drug barrons and bakers


somehow doing life together.


Cocaine used to hold sway,


war and terror used to hold to people,


until God heard the crys of his people.


The fear of God is replacing the fear of man.


Just men and women have taken power.


Years of entrenched unshakable problems are falling away.


The oppressors are loosing their grip on the hearts of the captives.


Why?


Because the Church is being Church, and letting God do His thing.

Well I guess I don´t have ¨The Moses Anointing;¨




















my ¨sandals¨are worn-out,and that big old piece of water (the Caribbean Sea), that´s keeping me from my destination still won´t get up out of my way.

But ja know what? Manna does fall, water does spring up and infirmities are overcome.


Part of me doesn´t want to recieve help, I want to work for what I get, I don´t want charity and I definitly don´t want to take from people who have less (which has often been the case on this trip). Is it a desire for uprightness or is it just pride? ¨We Cripps´don´t take welfare¨.


I have a great deal of respect now for my brother, he is a worker. When we were young he had a paper route and in highschool he worked for a freinds fathers renovation company. He worked and saved, setting his mind on the next goal- something worth while that he wanted to buy. I can remember just about every one of his purchases; a bike (that I actually ride today), roller blades, Star Trek merchandise. And he took such good care of his things; his bike always clean, his cards stacked and ordered, he would notice if I moved his firgures in the slightest way. Wow... I have a lot of respect for him.


I remember the day when I was given a compound bow with six graphite arrows. We had always been interested in that kind of stuff; Alex had made some decent bows, I have a lot of good memories of shooting arrows around in the back yard with him. I teased him about my new bow, along the lines of ¨Ha ha I gots one and you don´t.¨ The sharpest part of my taunt; ¨I never have to pay for anything.¨Did he ever get mad! What a jerk I was, but it was true. How true.

My life is all about grace. I was given everything. My dad has worked in a dark smoky factory since he was 19 so I could live the high life and have whatever future I desired. I never had to do a thing (I helped becuase it was fun). I was born privilidged. Why?


Now I come to the Third World on a trip which the people here could never dream of taking themselves, and again I recieve from them. This shouldn´t be comfortable, I shouldn´t be in the position of reciever here. I should be giving at least until we are on the same level. More.
People who eat rice and beans three times a day, every day, take me into their houses and treat me like a king. It´s not fair.


Without the God factor, it´s not fair.


The only difference is where I was born. My family and my country have nothing to do with my merit or worth. My life is all about grace, somehow I have to accept that. Soteriological lesson? I think so.

Part of me wants to work for everything I recieve. A big part, a good part. But if that´s the part I rely on, I am already decieved; can´t do it, it won´t cut it and I´ve already blown it.


Recently two different people whom I trust hear God have told me that I need to get ready to recieve wealth. !Ahhhh! Why? I´ve already got a ton, and honestly I don´t use it very well. I´m a little bit grudging. But my freinds were right on the mark when they heard that I wasn´t prepared to recieve wealth. I didn´t want it or expect it. Honestly, my heart is closer now to my teenage dream of living ascetically than it was before I knew Christ.


Recieving is tough. Asking is brutal. I have always been the kind of guy who would rather fumble in the dark or drive in circles for hours, than ask for help. Is that just pride? I want to say no. I just don´t want to burden anyone, ever. But, that being said, once I reach Peru, I´ll be running on fumes. That being said, I´ll be looking for grace.

I wonder how many people have mused, written or sung about home.
I would imagine everyone who has ever left.

The only word I know in Gaelic is hireath, it means ¨home-yearning.¨
It´s a powerful emotion.

For all the beauty and grandure that I´ve seen in my life, I still pin for the banks of the Grand.

These words that I have,
that have been floating around in my head for weeks;
They actually work!

They gain me passage into a foreign land,
they give dignity with charity,
they make the the girl at the cash register giggle
and they help me find my way.

They get me a room at a reduced rate,
They keep the deisel out of my tank
and get the right octane in.

The Spirit also speaks,
as some now know,
in broken Spanish.

Awkward as I am,
my halting use of what is theirs
puts me in my place,
even if they don´t deserve theirs.