Confessions

When I read books, I rarely finish one. I’m known for gleaning what’s good in a book and leaving the rest for those with more time or fewer children. I’m rarely a cover to cover girl.

One book broke the streak this past year, however. Though I now sit January shivering, the summer sun and a beach chair helped me consume Donald Miller’s Blue Like Jazz last June. It still calls my name and may even be one I read…I can’t believe I’m saying this…twice.

Honestly, Blue isn’t the ticket if you’re looking for plot twists or hair-raising suspense. A non-fiction, stream-of-consciousness collection of Non-Religious Thoughts on Christian Spirituality as its subtitle proclaims, the book simply intrigued me.

One particular chapter, Confessions, was brilliant. In short, Miller attends an intensely liberal college, smartly challenging the concept that Christians and progressives shouldn’t mix. In a stroke of genius, Miller’s buddies decide to plant a confession booth in the midst of a blush-worthy, druggy campus festival of sorts.

“Here’s the catch…We’re not actually going to accept confessions,” says Tony, the group’s self-appointed leader. “We are going to confess to them. We are going to confess that, as followers of Jesus, we have not been very loving; we have been bitter, and for that we are sorry. We will apologize for televangelists, we will apologize for neglecting the poor and the lonely, we will ask them to forgive us, and we will tell them that in our selfishness, we have misrepresented Jesus on this campus.”

Miller’s words capture the moment that follows, “We all thought it was a great idea…It would feel so good to apologize, to apologize for the Crusades, for Columbus and the genocide he committed in the Bahamas in the name of God, apologize for the missionaries who landed in Mexico and came up through the West slaughtering Indians in the name of Christ. I wanted so desperately to say that none of this was Jesus, and I wanted so desperately to apologize for the many ways I had (also) misrepresented the Lord.”

In short, the stunt was a gutsy success on campus, and the small Christian group, representing humility and truth, not smoke and mirrors, soon grew.

For six months, I’ve wanted to write this blog entry. Emerging 14 years ago from a non-Christian background, I’ve seen why and how a church can repel. Sadly, many of the reasons are true. Hypocrisy is at the top of the list. Intolerance is a close second. Miller and his friends were right. Jesus was neither intolerant nor a hypocrite. Since reading Blue Like Jazz, I’ve also wanted to experience the freedom to say to the world, “I’m sorry, too!”

So, here goes…

I’m sorry for my friend who left church as a teenager after being ridiculed, her values questioned, for wearing…dress pants.

I’m so sorry for a man I talked with recently who has just returned to church after a bitter, angry 50 years! His reason for leaving? His mother was kicked out of church for not tithing.

I’m sorry to my brother-in-law’s friend, who upon finding out I am deeply religious, assumed I would treat him differently for living with his girlfriend.

I’m sorry to others who may have been told, as I was, “Honey, you just need to pray more. Christians don’t get depressed.”

My apologies to my parents who, as I recall the stories, were strategically placed on front pews as children and screamed at with threats of damnation at the slightest misstep. (I never questioned why they didn’t take us to church.)

I’m sorry for a woman I know who was shown a horrible film as a child with her youth group, a film depicting the consequences of sin…a corpse with worms crawling from it.

I’m sorry for the recipients of those fear-based tracts…the ones strategically placed in bathrooms and at the top of staircases. I picked one up once as a college student looking for some truth. What I found instead was a dark cartoon that gave me nightmares instead of drawing me closer to God. I can still see the image of Satan laughing, throwing my “soul” over his shoulder while descending into hell.

My apologies to the other children in my vacation Bible school class I ventured to on a summer trip to grandma’s house. It took me years to get over the teacher’s statement that if we even uttered the words, “I hate” and “God” in the same sentence, we would never be forgiven. Little did he know, my eight-year-old mind would spend hours repeating, “I hate the Devil, I love God,” a million times obsessively. Guess what? When one repeats such a phrase over and over, he/she is bound to screw it up…at least once. I did- more than once, sending me into an electric panic.

I’m sorry to those who have witnessed Christians praying one moment and spewing filth, engaging in questionable business practices, cheating, or running down others in the next.

We should be absolutely ashamed! We have a lot of mending to do, and it feels great to begin here, now. My personal prayer is that in the end, the line of people who have been helped by my words or actions is longer than the trail of carnage any ignorant talk, haughty judgment, or weak example I may have left behind. None of that is who Jesus really is.

I wish others could take a second look at Jesus, as I did. I wish others could hear the real truth about Christianity instead of lumping us all together with breathy televangelists, screaming preachers, or snobby hypocrites. I wish others could find a truth-bearing church, as I have, who spews grace instead of intolerance from the pulpit. One that contributes at least double the expected funds to the needy. One that reaches out (and physically walks out) into the community and the world by the hundreds. One that employs a full counseling department, investing in and welcoming those with troubles as Jesus did. One that reveals the absolute relevance of the Bible. One that has its share of hypocrites (notice I didn’t say, “sinners”- that’s all of us) in the rows on Saturday and Sunday and loves them anyway. One that asks people to stretch themselves for others instead of hoarding their -monetary OR situational- good fortune. What good is having true, deeply satisfying peace if you can't share it?

While today I wanted to take the rare opportunity to beg forgiveness for and from others, as Miller and his courageous friends did in Blue Like Jazz, I am simultaneously praising God. I could (and sometimes do) jump up and down in gratitude that those He placed before me who mirrored His true, merciful image finally outnumbered those reflecting falsehood.

It would be a privilege to be the same humble example for others. Will you pray that I will?

Faithful, Fruitful and Fulfilled

The three F's are something my church (Covenant United Methodist Church) stresses and values for its people...living a life faithful, fruitful and fulfilled. This weekend, our pastor's sermon, the fifth in a six-week series entitled, "The Church God Wants Us to Be" (notice it doesn't say, "The Church WE Want to Be") was focused on living a life of faith and dedication, on bearing fruit through our labor and use of God-given gifts, and on finding our place of fulfillment in life through Christ. It is fitting, then, that this weekend was an answer to a dream, a calling, a hope, a pleasure. My first book, The Proper Use of One's Shell, (illustrated by Marley Ungaro) debuted this weekend. For once, I am speechless, humbled by how amazing God is...how complicated His plan is...and how everything I let Him take control of turns out better than I ever dreamed. Much love to all who have supported me in this. May you all find the proper use for your shell.

Jennifer
"He has made everything beautiful in its time." Ecclesiastes 3:11

For information on the book, check out ProperUseProject.com.

Proper Use Project

Hello, all! I obviously haven't published anything here in awhile, but there's an exciting reason why. For now until its completion, check out the following blog for my latest writing project.

http://www.properuseproject.com/

"He has made everything beautiful in its time..." Ecclesiastes 3:11

Fish Tale

I know you won’t believe me. It’s one of those things you have to see with your own eyes, witness for yourself. Even then, while it’s in plain view, you’ll likely shake your head or pinch your skin to verify sanity. Once you’ve experienced it, however, you’ll never, ever forget.

Every warm season since the death of Mr. Steve’s wife, Joan, a snowy egret returns to his house in coastal North Carolina. My aunt and uncle live just across the canal from his single-dwelling cottage. I admit, I’d heard the tales, too, and probably dismissed them as exaggeration…that is, until the irrefutable scene unfolded in front of me. Twice daily during nesting season, the white-plumed bird follows a canal to its end and swoops down on Mr. Steve’s back yard. The way the bird transitions from aerodynamic flight to full upright stance, using his great wingspan to gracefully stick the landing…Well, that, in itself, is- stunning.

What happens next, however, is enough to make one question the basic laws of nature.

Standing the full height of a small man, the animal walks gracefully across the knotty crabgrass and lowers his bright yellow beak. Then, the snowy egret, quite simply…knocks. He persistently pecks the glass of Mr. Steve’s back storm door, awaiting a response from within. (Mr. Steve even swears that if he doesn’t answer quickly enough, the egret will continue on to the front door, knocking feverishly.)

Eventually, Mr. Steve emerges, bucket in hand, lips moving in casual conversation. As comfortable as old friends, the two play a game of fetch. Mr. Steve pulls minnows from his bucket, while the hungry bird eagerly awaits his prize. The game continues until thirty or so minnows are safely stored in the egret’s long neck and he can return to the nest, retrieve the small fish and help feed his babies.

Observing through Aunt Faye’s kitchen window, I am always mesmerized. I never tire of watching Mr. Steve feed his egret. Witnessing the mutual exchange occur- fish for friendship- is nothing short of magical, hopeful and real.

Try conveying such a mystical moment to friend or perfect stranger, however. It’s near impossible. I can identify with the frustration Aunt Faye feels when telling the egret’s tale to the ladies at the local grocery store, whose response is usually a roll of the eyes or a suspicious cock of the eyebrow. Unless you’re in the presence of another first-hand witness, it’s just another fish tale.

I recently realized that telling a stranger the story of Mr. Steve and his egret is markedly similar to sharing with others why I am a follower of Jesus.

I must admit, the cards are already stacked against me regarding this. The proper term, “evangelism,” has earned a negative connotation, conjuring images of screaming tele-preachers or tract-bearing strangers. Eye rolling, suspicious glances and voiced disbelief are regular occurrences at the mention of the name Jesus. “Just another fish tale,” some eyes seem to say. Others question motives or become defensive, as if an unspoken boundary has been crossed.

Neither aggression nor agitation is ever my intention. When speaking of Jesus, I am simply spilling over, excited to share a genuine relationship that has brought order, humility and peace to my life. Besides, who would believe that a real God can speak to me audibly through songs…or to my friend, Debby, in butterflies?

Right or wrong, I have always shied away from evangelism for evangelism’s sake. Before becoming a Christian, I detested those who looked at me (as one of the unchurched) with pity, and I abhorred those who tried to sell me salvation as if it were simply fire insurance. If anything, these tactics were perfect God-repellants for my soul.

In the end, Jesus spoke to me for Himself. He knocked, and I answered. Then, He made His presence undeniably clear. He emerged…and I believed.

Such is Jesus’ modus operandi. He doesn’t do anything less for any one of us. That certainly eases my anxiety about being an aggressive evangel. Sometimes, the best thing I can do is get out of His way.

If you’re a non-believer, or a seasoned Christian who has simply lost the “magic,” don’t worry. Today I will not prick you with guilt or prod you with scripture. Like I said, the hand of Jesus is one of those things you have to see with your own eyes, witness for yourself. Even then, while He’s in plain view, you’ll likely shake your head or pinch your skin to verify sanity. Once you’ve experienced Him, however, you’ll never, ever forget.

He is always knocking, my friends, and I pray that you answer. May you witness your own fish tale today.

Lessons From a Spelling Bee

“Your word is: ate,” directed the head judge at the regional spelling bee. “We ate the delicious birthday cake.”

A pig-tailed first-grader rose to spell her word, smoothing out her fancy Sunday dress as she stood. After sailing through the practice rounds, she stood eager to spell her first word in Round One.

“Ate. E-A-T, ate,” she said, confidently.

“I’m sorry,” replied the judge, “but that is incorrect. The word is ate, not eat.”

Stunned, she remained standing, even as the next contestant rose to spell his word.

“Excuse me,” the girl interrupted. “I’ve never heard that word before,” she oddly protested.

“I beg your pardon?” said the judge, confused.

“It’s just that I’ve never heard it used that way,” said the girl.

As the recording judge, I exchanged quick glances with the others at the head table, all of us pondering how we would save the pig-tailed girl from embarrassment.

“I’m sorry.” The head judge spoke up. “Your turn is over, sweetheart. You just didn’t spell the word correctly, OK? Now, you must sit down in your seat. It’s somebody else’s turn.”

Red-cheeked, the first-grader simply stared at us, blinking. Finally, she plopped back in her chair without a word, her crinoline crunching beneath her. The first “casualty” of the spelling bee, horror plagued the little girl’s face.

“OK. Where were we?” said the judge. “Next student? Yes. You, there. Your word is: tense. The student felt tense before his math quiz.”

“Tense. T-E-N-S-E, tense,” a tall, lanky boy answered.

“That is correct, sir. You may remain standing,” commended the head judge.

The exchange of words and letters continued for three more rounds as some first-graders continued to stand while others took their seats.

“Excuse me,” the pig-tailed girl interrupted again, her small hand raised.

“Yes?” asked the judge. “Do you need to go to the bathroom, honey?”

“No, ma’am,” she said politely. “I just want to make sure you have the right spelling list. Are you sure that’s the first grade word list?”

“Yes, it sure is,” said the judge impatiently. “Now, it’s time for the next round.”

“But, ma’am. I studied all of the words. We all did,” she said, gesturing to her classmates from The Village School, renowned for winning spelling bees. “And, I just don’t remember that one being on the list.”

Eyebrows raised at our judges’ table. Kids stopped twisting their hair and poking their buddies to stare at the red-faced girl. I squirmed. Her lack of acceptance of a simple mistake made for an awkward moment.

“I must remind you that you are already out, young lady,” directed the head judge firmly. “Now, there are always more spelling bees,” she said, deciding to extend grace once more. “I’m sure you’ll do just fine next time. Please be seated until the bee is over.”

The spelling bee ended as predicted, with The Village School taking three of the top four places in the first-grade division. Finally, it was time for all of the contestants to join their parents at the Awards Ceremony. Curious, I kept tabs on the little girl in the pretty dress. I watched her burst into tears when she joined her parents, explaining her dilemma. Then, I spotted her sitting, arms crossed, during the ceremony, her first grade classmates receiving medals while she sat stunned, deflated and confused.

Witnessing that little girl learn perhaps her first hard lesson in defeat struck an all-to-familiar chord in me. Her situation wasn’t uncommon, yet I couldn’t help but draw a parallel to the hard lessons that many of us as adults are still learning. Think about it. When is the last time you came away from a situation in utter disbelief at its outcome?

Just like the pig-tailed first-grader, if we are not careful, we find ourselves living by a number of false beliefs that seem to give a sense of security but miserably fail us in times of distress. Unfortunately, these beliefs are eventually uncovered, usually through painful circumstances such as accidents, divorce, sickness, death, layoffs, betrayal…the list is hauntingly long.

False Belief #1- If I do everything right, I cannot fail.

The practice of controlling every element of our lives is probably the most common, and likely the most dangerous. While living by a proper moral code and practicing intelligent life skills absolutely aid a person in skirting danger and devastation, they in no way render someone immune from it. But, subconsciously we often think it does! Just as the little girl believed that if she memorized the entire first-grade spelling list, she couldn’t possibly make a mistake, many adults never even consider failure as a possibility. It is those who say, “I will be the perfect parent,” or “Divorce could never happen to me,” or “Other people get sick, but I won’t,” who find themselves the most devastated when these situations actually occur, especially when every preventative effort has been made to thwart them. Through control, we can find a deceptive sense of comfort.

False Belief #2- If I belong to a certain group, I am immune from disappointment and heartache.

Similarly, the belief that exemption from harm is automatic when one resides within a “safety net” is also destructive. While it was likely that the little girl would achieve success at the spelling bee BECAUSE she belonged to a successful school with ample resources, rich tradition and high expectations, had she never been told that success isn’t EVER guaranteed? She reminded me so much of those who believe that social or economic status equates a life full of ease and ultimate happiness. Others even use spirituality as a false sense of safety. Many believe that simply becoming and living as a Christian means that bad things will never happen to them. However, security is fleeting, and comfort isn’t God’s purpose!

False Belief #3- If I believe in #1 or #2 and I fail anyway, it must be someone else’s fault.

Finally, when the unexpected occurs, there are those who are quick to point a finger outward- at others. “Are you sure you have the first grade list?” the little girl boldly asked the spelling bee judges, still very sure that the simple mistake she had made couldn’t possibly have been a fluke, and was definitely NOT her fault. Blame is a common defense ultimately rooted in denial. For many, blame turns to anger and even vengeance. Not only do people point fingers outward, but they are sometimes pointed upward, at God. “Why did You let this happen?” we ask, or “I didn’t DESERVE this, God!” we shout. Sadly, it isn’t uncommon for hurting people to abandon their beliefs instead of seeking God’s wisdom for comfort and understanding.

As much as we hate to admit it, things happen, LIFE happens, mistakes happen. Yet, how do we resolve this and feel any sense of peace?

I believe the key lies first in the premise of humility. God’s Word says, “For everyone who exalts himself will be humbled, and he who humbles himself will be exalted.” (Luke 14:11) Sure, we understand this on an intellectual level, and most of us don’t intentionally flaunt extensive preparation, economic status or spiritual stance as an indestructible shield. Yet, our hearts are often counting on these things to keep us from experiencing hurt. So, we must check ourselves constantly. Are we depending on God for our ultimate comfort or something else? Do we believe we are more immune from disaster than others because of who we are or what we have accomplished? Are we exalting our control, our resources or our spiritual status as absolutes or as guarantees instead of as the simple tools they are intended to be? If we are, we should expect to be humbled!

Does that mean that God punishes us for a lack of humility? Actually, because we depend on other things for a false sense of security, God doesn’t have to do that. We, in fact, punish ourselves when our securities fail us because we have used them in a way God never intended.

Beyond humility, grace in all situations is also key. What about those tragedies or misfortunes, you may say, that are simply out of our control? How do we avoid them? We simply can’t. They are what they are…we are neither able to predict them nor direct their outcome, so we waste precious time in unnecessary worry. Instead, Philippians 4:6-7 suggests, “Do not be anxious about anything, but in everything, by prayer and petition, with thanksgiving, present your requests to God. And the peace of God, which transcends all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus.” God wants us to replace anxiety, worry and self-pressure for prayer, for giving thanks, for relinquishing control to Him. When this happens, the peace of God transcends all of our own self-made securities. Finally, instead of promising ultimate protection from harm, He promises to guide us and to guard our hearts and our minds. God doesn’t abandon us in our struggles! Instead, He offers a truer sense of security and protection through His presence and guidance. Then, if we let Him, He will renew us because of our misfortunes, not in spite of them!

My friends, if you find yourself asking, “Are you sure you have the right list up there, God? Are you sure I am supposed to be the one living out this life?” Be certain that the answer is a resounding, “YES!” Instead of pointing a finger outward or upward when life goes awry, pry open that hand and try presenting an open palm instead. Let go of those artificial securities and give Him thanks for His provisions, present Him your most precious requests, and trust that He will guard your heart in all circumstances. There, may you find freedom, where the peace of God transcends all understanding.

Plans vs. Purpose

Last Friday, I experienced one of those moments...those heart-pounding, knee-weakening, God-cheering parental moments. Moments when all the stars have seemingly aligned and instead of, "I'm hungry," "Make her stop looking at me!" or, "Why do I have to do THAT?," flowing from the mouths of babes, a child speaks profound wisdom, and our jaws fall agape. For those of you who are parents currently up to your elbows in bottles, braces or college tuition bills, here is an uplifting story:

A week-long Easter vacation provided my husband and I much-needed time to soak in all the wonders (and funny quirks) of our children without the world breathing down on us, sucking away our patience. With a nine-year-old son and seven-year-old daughter, I would describe us oftentimes as deer-in-the-headlights parents. I imagine we aren't the only ones who have had the idealistic bubble of parenthood burst at the first sign of a wailing baby or a sink full of dirty bottles. After nine years, we have certainly and willingly adapted, but there are times when we still feel like an inexperienced soccer goalie, desperately defending our territory instead of the confident coach on the sidelines calling the shots. This is especially true with our son, Ricky. Sure, Lily has her share of estrogen-induced melodrama. Still vivid is the time she refused to even consider our wishes for her to join the local Brownie troop. "MOM!" she reasoned. "I hate brown, and you know I don't wear vests!" Score: Lily 1, Parents 0.

With Ricky, however, we truly never know what player will hit the field each day. He has struggled with social and academic issues for years, yet his emotional awareness about life is stunning at times. Our vacation week provided a unique opportunity to sit back, observe and reflect on the recent culmination of a six-month process of psychological, physical and intelligence testing in which Ricky was involved, at our request.

"Sometimes, it's tough being bright," commented the school psychologist at the final meeting, just days before we left for vacation. She pointed out what we already knew: Ricky is not a middle-of-the-road kid. He is a boy of extremes. Superior language development battles against excruciatingly slow math comprehension skills. Highly developed intuition clashes with frustrating sensory processing and attention deficit issues. Extreme sensitivity for animals and the environment competes with Ricky's desire to be a rough and tumble boy like his buddies. Basically, our nine-year-old is busy battling the heartbreak of, "I'm different," at a time when he so desperately wants to be the same. An out-of-town vacation was exactly what we needed to regroup and reunify the "home team."

A new player was introduced over vacation in the form of a massage therapist my mother-in-law recommended for Ricky, citing the benefits of gentle-touch therapy for kids with sensory and attention deficit disorders. Every day of vacation, Ricky lay on the warm, padded table wrapped in flannel sheets while Marty worked her magic, gaining quite a rapport with our socially awkward son. While the physical benefits were probable, Ricky's positive interaction with Marty was more intriguing. The impact of those daily "huddles" wasn't fully realized, however, until my Mommy radar picked up faint whimpers coming from the back seat as we traveled home from the final appointment. Ricky was crying.

"What is it, buddy?" I asked, sensing the answer.

"Will I see Marty tomorrow?" he weakly managed.

"No, sweetheart, that was the last appointment." His whimpers intensified, and he hid is face from all of us.

"Maybe you can write her a note," I offered, sliding in the seat next to him. "You know, honey, all of those "testing" people kept saying how good you are with language. Why don't you write down what you're going to miss about Marty, and we'll go back to say goodbye one more time, okay?"

I wasn't sure whether he was motivated by writing down his thoughts or by the prospect of seeing Marty again, but Ricky went to work, filling up the inside of a blank thank-you card.

Though he wouldn't let any of us see it beforehand, Marty tearfully shared the note's contents:

Things I like about Marty:

1. She is very relaxing.

2. She is easy to talk to.

3. She is the only one outside of my family that cares about me so much.

4. I am not afraid to be myself with her.

Thank you for all that you have done for me this week.

Love, Ricky

That precious note spoke volumes about my son and taught us more about raising him that any other experience could have.

My son is an amazing gift entrusted to me by my heavenly Father, just as He has entrusted you with your own children, grandchildren, cousins, neices or nephews. Though many moments have been filled with the frustration of trying to guide my son through the awkwardness of growing up, I am thankful to God for the glimpse He gave me last Friday into Ricky's potential. Ricky genuinely loves people, and best of all, he is gifted at expressing it. At nine years old, he has surpassed most 39-year-olds in the area of emotional attachment and genuine expression.

I believe God granted this moment for my husband and I to take action, the subtle action of folding up our outstretched arms of defense and removing ourselves as Ricky's overprotective goalies. We must reclaim our proper place as coaches on the sidelines of his life, trusting the guidance from above. Doing so is excruciatingly difficult, but I know it is best. Marty's note was God's way of giving us a view of the big picture of His plans for Ricky's entire life, not just the awkward school years.

As parents, aunts, uncles or grandparents, we draw up amazing game plans for our little ones. However, while molding them into what we think is best while protecting them from what we believe is the worst, we can lose vision, experience frustration and even become overzealous controllers of the game. The task is magnified when children are born with physical, intellectual or emotional challenges.

Raising Ricky and Lily has humbled us in so many ways. Their defeats as well as their victories continue to bring us to tears. Our peace in this process comes from God's little reminders (like Ricky's incredible "moment" last week) and His angels in the form of supportive friends, teachers and family members. The ultimate reminders about navigating our relationships with loved ones can always be found in His word, as we are reminded, "Many are the plans in a man's heart, but it is the LORD's purpose that prevails." Proverbs 21:19

Friends, may you be blessed with God's sweet moments, and may we all find the proper balance between our plans and His ultimate purpose.

Santiago

He was going to be a tailor. It was decided. Santiago’s first fifteen years included a three-hour shoeless walk to school alongside six sisters and four brothers. He was born into a humble Christian family, but with a chronic empty stomach, Santiago found little solace in God. Now, at twenty-three, he found himself alone in a rented room above the shop. Yes. Becoming a tailor was the answer. He’d worked in the tailor’s shop miles from his poor barrio two years now, sweeping scraps and running errands for the old man. After sending money home, he earned enough for the room and a bed, plus a few meals a week. One more year and the boss promised to teach him the trade, maybe let him take over the shop eventually. All it’d take is a little more hard work and loyalty…a dream for a young Dominican boy like Santiago.

Sleep should’ve come easily, then, but he found himself annoyed by the quiet. Santiago slept folded up on the edge of the bed, barely disturbing the covers. He still couldn’t get used to having a bed to himself and fell asleep thinking about his siblings back home.

A hellacious banging soon rocketed the thin man to the floor. “Who’s there?” Santiago shouted hoarsely in the direction of his door, catching a glimpse of the moonlit clock on the wall. Three AM. “What do you want?” Santiago sang out again, fear beginning to well up in him. The door swung open, sending Santiago scrambling out of the way of a monster. The large, sweaty man loomed over Santiago, yielding shiny silver scissors above his head. Santiago froze.

“Our Father, which art in Heaven,” was all the young man’s lips could manage. “Hallowed be Thy name…” The Lord’s Prayer spilled slowly at first, gaining speed as Santiago’s fear turned to hopeless resolve. “Thy Kingdom come…” He was no match for this man. “Thy will be done…” Santiago closed his eyes and awaited the piercing blows.

“…Deliver us from evil,” he continued, unnerved again at an eerie silence. “For thine is the Kingdom, and the power,” Was the man still there? “and the glory, forever and ever.” With a weak, “Amen,” Santiago willed his eyes open again. Blinking, he faced not a drunken murderer, but the most astounding of beings. Before him stood Jesus.

Silver coins replaced the scissors in His left hand, and he held them before Santiago, “Is it going to be what YOU want, Santiago?” With His right hand, He motioned to the heavens. “Or is it going to be what I want?”

“Oh, Jesus, I want what YOU want!” Santiago desperately replied.

Jesus gently lifted the young tailor from the floor, inviting him to stand beside him. The vision of a pulpit emerged. Jesus motioned Santiago to read from the Holy scriptures upon it. In obedience, Santiago began reading from Ezekiel, The Valley of the Dry Bones...

"The hand of the Lord was upon me, and He brought me out by the Spirit of the Lord and set me in the middle of a valley; it was full of bones. He led me back and forth among them, and I saw a great many bones on the floor of the valley, bones that were very dry. He asked me, ‘Son of man, can these bones live?’

I said, ‘O Sovereign LORD, you alone know.’

Then He said to me, 'Prophesy to these bones and say to them, Dry bones, hear the word of the LORD! This is what the Sovereign LORD says to these bones: I will make breath enter you, and you will come to life. I will attach tendons to you and make flesh come upon you and cover you with skin; I will put breath in you, and you will come to life. Then you will know that I am the LORD.'

So I prophesied as I was commanded. And as I was prophesying, there was a noise, a rattling sound, and the bones came together, bone to bone. I looked, and tendons and flesh appeared on them and skin covered them, but there was no breath in them.

Then He said to me, ‘Prophesy to the breath; prophesy, Son of man, and say to it, This is what the Sovereign LORD says: Come from the four winds, O breath, and breathe into these slain, that they may live.’ So I prophesied as He commanded me, and breath entered them; they came to life and stood up on their feet—a vast army…” Ezekiel 37

“But, Jesus, what does it mean?” asked Santiago sheepishly turning to Jesus.

“Tell My church to prepare, Santiago. For, I will return,” whispered Jesus as He faded from sight.

Santiago fell to his knees, crying out, repeating, “Yes, Jesus, I want what You want…I want what You want…”

Today, Pastor Santiago Ramón of La Romana, Dominican Republic, is a veritable dynamo, indeed preparing a vast army for Christ. Leading a large congregation with a focus on street evangelism, “Santiago’s” visions for Christ’s lost people have been continually fulfilled. His feats include several contemporary Christian music CDs produced in the Dominican Republic in which he innovatively combines emotion, a Latin beat, and genuine Christ-praise in songs like La Gloria de Dios (The Glory of God), and not ironically, Preparate, Cristo Viene (Prepare! Christ Comes). Currently, Santiago’s vision has gone global as American mission work teams join him several times a year in La Romana in order to help build a hospital, a school and a seminary on forty acres that once lay fallow, a trash dump for the poor barrios that surround it.

As a short-term missioner, it was there on the forty acres where I met Santiago for the first time. His successes were not what imprinted his image into my brain, compelling me to sit at his feet listening, to buy his CDs or to return again to mix concreta with other Americans and Dominicans in the sweltering heat. No, Santiago’s true gift to others lay in his presence, in his resolve, in his passion for his Jesus.

I asked Santiago once what kept that fire inside of him going. He proceeded to tell me the story of a young man who once wished to be a tailor. And with every moment of the story, Santiago breathed life into my dry bones.