In light of our new addition, Amy and I have been working to book more regional events and shows.**  I was in Oakland this past weekend, speaking at a church I’ve had great history with for over a decade.  Speaking or singing with folks I am familiar with is often very freeing; That I get to be part of that peoples’ larger story.  As a storyteller, that’s pure gold.

My time with Re:Generation church on Sunday was such a time.  I was there to share a few songs and tell some stories about the work Compassion is doing in the lives of children living in poverty.  But in all honesty the best stories told on Sunday night in Oakland were not stories I told. They were stories folks shared with me or stories I was witness to that evening; stories that are part of that peoples’ larger story.

Here are 2 of them.

The first is was from a family whom I will refer to as the “Jetsons” in order to preserve their anonymity.  As their three children were growing up, the Jetsons sponsored three children through Compassion; one for each one of their children.  Among the three was a beautiful young girl from The Philippines with whom they really connected.  We will call her Judy Jetson. Judy wrote well in English which allowed the Jetson kids to really know her.  When she turned 18 years old, Judy graduated and moved on from the Compassion program.  The Jetsons hoped, as do all sponsors whose kids graduate, that her path would be made straight into a healthy and fruitful adulthood.

Years later… this year in fact,.. the youngest Jetson boy received a message over Facebook from Judy. She’s living in New Jersey and doing extremely well.  She had been searching for her Compassion family since arriving in the US and, thanks to Facebook, finally found them. She expressed her deep thanks for the years of faithfulness and wanted the Jetsons to know that her path was in fact made straight in great part because of their love and faithfullness.

The Jetsons sponsored another young girl from The Philippines Sunday night.

The second story  is about a young girl who grew up right there in Oakland.  A dancer and an athlete, this young lady (whom we will call Shakira) was struck by encephalitis just about a year and a half ago.  The past 18 months have been an emotional and physical challenge like none other for both her and for her family; grand mal seizures, loss of memory and on and on..

Sunday night was Shakira’s first evening out in a long while, since most of her seizures happen at night.  She stood at the table for a while and finally turned to her parents with a packet for a younger girl in hand, saying “I want to sponsor her.”

“You’ll have to use your allowance money” her mother warned, kindly.

“I know” Shakira said “but I’d just be spending that money on myself.”

Shakira receives $40 each month as an allowance.  Sunday night, on one of her her first nights out after months of suffering, she chose to invest $38 in the the Kingdom of God, supporting, encouraging and loving another young girl in her time of need.

These are the kinds of stories that sustain me.  Sure, I am moved by the fact that over 1 million kids have been rescued from poverty by the love and faithfulness of Compassion sponsors. But more and more, it is the new life I see in those sponsors themselves that inspires me.

If you would like to sponsor a child with Compassion International, the process is very easy, the organization is trustworthy and the sacrifice you make sincerely changes the life of a child as well as your own.  Click here to sponsor a child.

** (If you live near the SF Bay area or on the West Coast anywhere feel free to contact us here to book a show or speaking engagement.)

One year ago today I was on my way, along with my wife and several other Compassion International peeps, to Kenya and Uganda.

Once we did land in Kenya, I found that my little joke about Nashville being hotter than Africa was, in fact, accurate.  Weather in Nairobi, Kenya was hovering between the 70s and 80’s; it was quite refreshing.  In fact, my whole experience of Kenya was refreshing in every way.  Amy and I met Zablon; a young man we’ve been sponsoring for over a decade now.  We’d exchanged letters for years and had become family.  The pictures had led us to believe that he was going to be much taller than he was.  I must honestly confess that I was pleased to learn that this was not the case..

That’s right, I TOWER over my sponsored child.  Woot.

With about twenty other Compassion advocates, we journeyed to Uganda to visit several of the projects in that devastated nation.  Time and time again, I saw faces like these:

(Amy had the time of her life dancing and singing with this choir of young ladies.)

…and it was only a few days after I returned home that it struck me.. why these images and these smiles were so powerful; so life-altering.  The devastation of Uganda after years of war, oppression and political corruption was not present in these faces; what we saw in them was the confidence of hopeful and loved children whose future had been re-written; this is what the Resurrection looks like in everyday life.  This is why I love Compassion as both a sponsor and an advocate.

Consider sponsoring a child with Compassion International here.

I’ve faithfully flown Southwest Airlines since the beginning of my career.  Among the initial set of reasons for choosing SWA was that they were the only airline who allowed me to walk on with my guitar.  I mean, God love the folks on the ground who schlep luggage for hours everyday but… Well,.. Let’s just leave it at “God love ‘em.”  Add to that the bestest rewards program in the business and what else could I do but fall in ‘LUV’ with SWA.

“All that is great” the detractors would say.. “but you don’t get a meal.. just peanuts.  Other airlines provide a meal on flights.”   Which is something akin to saying  “Your dog is nice and all but mine came with all these fleas for just $150 more.” I’ll take the peanuts, thanks.

“Funny comparison there, Frodo.” the detractors might say, referencing my height as they always do.. “but you still don’t get an assigned seat.”

This is true.  With SWA, each person is left to choose a seat for his or her own self.  Now, I’m  far more interested in a system that celebrates the freedom of each person to choose their own seat than one in which the Man chooses a seat for me.  I mean, if you want to go the way of the Soviets, you can but I choose Freedom; I fly SWA.  Not to mention the joyous adventure of sitting next to you-don’t-know-who for a few hours.  Just this past year, I sat next to David Spade on a flight.  We had a very nice conversation that went something like this:

Me:  Hey, man…
Spade: …hey…

It was great.

A far better encounter with a fellow SWA passenger took place on a flight home from Chicago.  I was returning after a good-but-tiring run of shows in the Midwest (located a few clicks north of Texas) and was looking forward to shutting down for a bit.   You see, even though I’m a “people person” I have found that I do eventually hit a ceiling, at which point I look to hide for a while.   In this case, the ‘hiding’ started once I got on board that flight for home.  Having been among the first few to board, I chose a window seat on the right side of the plane, put my headphones in my ears, cranked up the “Album Leaf” and leaned against the window to at least pretend that I was asleep.

That’s when Joe sat next to me.  Now, I don’t make a practice out of knowing the names of people who sit next to me ( or at least, I did not before this ).  So, how did I know that this young man’s name was “Joe?” It was because he told me.  You see, only a few short moments after Joe took the middle seat next to me, he broke one of the unspoken rules of commuter travel:

“Thou shalt not strike up conversation until decent”

The beauty of this rule is that it ensures that any conversation you strike up is sure to end in about 20 minutes when the plane lands; protecting both parties from having to pretend for any serious period of time to be interested in one-another’s lives.  Perhaps Joe had not traveled much, but for whatever reason, he was entirely unfamiliar and un-committed to the keeping of this rule.  In fact, Joe was not simply talking to me, he was leaning across both his seat and mine and from a firing range of only a few inches, riddling me with a barrage of words that shook me from the meditative state my music had lulled me to…

“Excuse me, excuse me, excuse me, sorry, pardon me, hey there, excuse me, sir, um, hi, sorry, excuse me, buddy, pardon me, excuse me, excuse me, sorry, pardon me, um, hey there, excuse me, sir, um, hi, sorry, excuse me, pardon me, excuse me, excuse me, sorry, pardon me, hey there, excuse me, sir, um, hi, sorry, excuse me, pardon me, um.. Hi.”

I stirred, pulled by headphones out of my ears and mashed-up a few words to greet him with the now irreplaceable man-speak ‘heymanwassup?”  Joe smiled and perked up as if he had suspected I was dead at first.  “What’s your name?” he asked.

“My name is Justin” I replied
“Hi, Justin. My name is Joe.  Can you help me with my seatbelt?”

Just as he said it I was noting that he held both ends of his seat-belt in his hands and was stretching them as far as they would go towards me.  He had been sitting in that seat for probably 3 minutes wrestling with the belt and clip.  As it turns out (in conversation with Joe and his parents who were sitting elsewhere on the plane) Joe is autistic.  Because he’d never used this kind of belt before, he was confused as to where to begin.  I showed him how to clip the belt and tighten it.  At which, he undid the belt and repeated the steps I’d shown him several times, each with increasing interest and a larger smile.

Just as I began to lean back against the window (having done my christian duty for the day), Joe energetically turned to me and asked…

“Who’s your favorite baseball team?”
“Um.. Well, I’m an Oakland A’s fan.” I told him.

He booed.

And not just that comical “just kidding” boo.  It was the kind of boo that says “your team has traded away more good talent in the last seven years than it could wisely afford to lose, has blown 2-game playoff leads to both the Red Sox and Yankees in recent years and will probably never get out of the first round of the playoffs.”  er… maybe that’s just the way I heard it.

“I take it you don’t like the A’s, huh?” I asked him
“No, I like the Cubs.”  (we can all appreciate the irony of Cubs fans booing anyone.. I mean, really?)

We went on talking for most of the flight about baseball, comics and a smattering of other topics.  At one point the SWA flight attendant handed out those beloved peanuts.  I tore a pair of bags open with my patented McRoberts Double-Peanut-Bag Tearing Method.  Joe, on the other hand couldn’t quite get the bag open.  Without asking, he handed both bags of peanuts to me and waited for me to open them.  Now, in many instances this might be considered inappropriate or even rude.  But Joe doesn’t see the world the way most folks do.  In fact, Joe sees the world a bit more clearly than most folks do.

To Joe, our proximity comes along with responsibility/opportunity.  In fact, that proximity (the simple fact that I was sitting next him) meant to Joe that when he ran into trouble of any kind (seatbelt use, snack access etc..) I was responsible for providing him help.  To Joe, we weren’t just in the same city together (Chicago), we were at the same airport (Chicago-Midway), in the same terminal (B) at the same gate (14) and on the same plane headed to the same destination (Oakland)… In Joe’s mind, these things don’t just happen.  These things are not just chance.  In Joe’s mind, these things at least add up to responsibility if not opportunity.

Now, you may not buy this whole “we’re all connected” stuff; but then again, you may not buy soap.  In my own journey, the more I learn about the “root causes” of tragedies like extreme poverty, human trafficking or the abortion epidemic the more I see that these things are not so much the product of evil deeds by evil men as they are products of the absence of action/love.  Certainly, there are bad people doing bad things in dark corners of the world, but they don’t actively keep clean water out of the reach of the 1 billion who live without access to it.

As evidenced by my self-characterization in this story, I generally live under the impression that I can ‘do good’ when I choose to (and likewise, evil) but until that point I’m just living.  I’m beginning to learn that’s not the case.  What I do and what I don’t do have repercussions far beyond my control and intention.  What is more… the folks I cross paths with as I go about my life are not just scenery.. they’re not just ‘there’; often they are the woman who can’t stop bleeding and needs the healing of intentional proximity; often they are in possession of the healing I need myself and just as likely both things are true at the same time.

I am honored to have guest blogged at “Inspired to Action.”  The piece is up now.  Among the many other things that make the I2A blog super-dopetastic (I’m told this is how the kids say “neat” or “good” these days), is their support of Compassion International.  Huzzah!  The blog is entitled “Tough Times and the Resurrection…. Read the blog here.  Also here…You can link to the blog here.  Or click here to read the blog.

Also here.

At one point I remember reading something Thomas Merton wrote about the self being ones most potent adversary. Well..

..tonight in Warsaw, Indiana, I face myself.

I pulled into town about 8pm and headed straight to my hotel; a hotel chain I’ve had “encounters” with in the past… You might say that it is “not my favorite” hotel or that I “don’t like it” or even that it has often given me “the creeps.”  In an effort to stay above the board and avoid trash-talk, I will not reveal the name of this chain, but will heretofore refer to it as the “Hotel Wha?”

This particular “Hotel Wha?”, much like others in its national chain, lacks an exercise facility (running/working out is part of my regular routine and helps keep me focused etc..)  It also has a rather questionable breakfast set-up and is overall kinda old. Many of the rooms, including the one I am in currently, were previously smoking rooms and now have that smell that says “I’m not a smoking room.. (cough, cough… hack) what are you talking about? (cough, hack.. *awkward smile*)”.

Well..

..tonight in Warsaw, Indiana, I face myself.

In the morning, I will stand before the students at Grace College in the neighboring town of Winona to speak on behalf of the poorest of the poor; a populace who saw 14,000 children orphaned by HIV/AIDS just today; a populace for whom the “Hotel Wha?” would be a palace. In the morning, it will be March 11, a day Compassion International has set aside for the awareness of the Global Food Crisis, I which 1billion people are going without proper daily nutrition. Finally, and more immediately, it’s pouring outside, which I can see from my window and I cannot help but be reminded of pictures a friend of mine took in Haiti on a recent trip with Compassion; pictures in which entire villages were flooded from the downpour (an annual occurrence during the rainy season).

So I am faced with myself and have to look myself up and down wondering which person am I?  Am I someone who is sincerely perturbed by the stickiness of the carpet in my room?  Do I mean what I will say tomorrow? Or better yet, Do I have any right to say these things, challenging college kids to sacrifice and live more simply so that the least can simply live?  The strange answer to these questions is neither no or yes.  I am learning that the hallmark of Kingdom work is the way it transforms those who do it and that I am one such man whose life is being transformed.  So…

..tomorrow in Warsaw, Indiana I will face myself..

..and I will know that I am not fully who I will become; that I am telling the stories of the least of these because they need our help but also because I need to hear and tell these stories; I need to know these truths. So that, as I grow older I will grow more into a man who more fully reflects the things he knows and believes.  For now, and tonight in Warsaw, Indiana, I am simply thankful for “How great the poor are that, in their poverty, they would allow us the blessed opportunity to serve them.” -Mother Theresa

Marty Caldwell works for Young Life International.  He is the Senior Vice President of Young Life International South Division, which includes Africa, South-America, Mars and Pluto (even though it is no longer recognized as a planet).  This is his story and I’ve asked permission to recreate it.  I’ve not received that permission but expect it any day now. So,.. here’s the story:

A few years ago Marty received a phone call from a young man in Monrovia, Liberia named James.  James had read about Young Life and had a strong impression that God intended to use him to start a chapter of Young Life in war-torn Liberia.  This phone call was placed during the last phases of a 14-year long civil war which had rendered many if not most of the living in their nation homeless and destitute.  On the phone, Marty shared with James about some of the complications of starting Young Life and the often lengthy process it can be.  James was determined and asked Marty to come visit Liberia to meet some of the people interested in getting YL off the ground.

During the course of the conversation, Marty periodically heard what sounded like gunfire on the other end of the line.  “Are you alright?” Mary would ask “that sounds like gunfire on your end.”  “Yes, I am fine” James replied, “I am under the table. Now, tell me more about what we need to do to bring Young Life to Liberia…”  Marty came to know later that James had intentionally traveled into an area of Monrovia where there were regular street battles (featuring rifles and grenades, that is… ) because he knew there was a phone there he could use.  This was an urgent phone call for James.  His sense was that God had spoken and that meant he was to act NOW.  He would not be denied.  His courage and confident faith moved Marty so that, not no long after that call, Caldwell found himself in Liberia talking with the community elders of about next steps in the direction of “Young Life Liberia.”

At one point near the end of Caldwell’s visit, he was gathered by a group of these men in order to pray together.  Among them was a man named Marvelous.  Yes.. his name is Marvelous.

(side note: Can you imagine meeting a guy named Marvelous at a party?

YOU: “Hello, my name is Bob.”
HIM: “Well, hey there Bob, my name is Marvelous.  This is my wife Fantastic, my son Amazing and our daughter Muchsmarterthanyou.”)

Hand in hand with the rest of these men, Marvelous bowed his head to pray.  Now I’ve thought often about what kind of prayer I might have offered up if I had found myself one of a handful of men who believed he had been called to begin the restoration of my nation after watching it turned inside out for a decade and a half.  All the strategic and tactical obstacles.. Fund-raising, training, developing basic infrastructure… Where would I even begin such a prayer, with so much work ahead of me, and all of it daunting.  Maybe I would pray something profound such as “ummm..” or “uuuh” to start with.   I’d throw in a couple “OLordJesus” and “DearFatherGod” in there between the umms and uhhs.  Later on I would mix that up with a “LordFatherJesusOGod” or even a “GodFatherLordGod.”  Then I’d likely move on to powerful movements of prayer like silently blinking or looking around for someone else to pray instead of me.

Needless to say, Marvelous went a different route.  His head bowed, he prayed…

“Jesus, thank you for my shoes.
Jesus, thank you for my pants.
Jesus, thank you for food to eat today.
Jesus, thank you for a warm place to sleep tonight.”

This is the prayer of a man who knows who his Source is.  Seeing that way allows him to hope for and even expect great and miraculous works in a way that those of us who take our shoes for granted struggle to.  Having my eyes set more regularly on what I perceive as lack in my life, I lose sight of my own provision as evidence of God’s goodness and blessing.  In other words, when I consider that 1/6 of the human family lives on about a dollar a day, the fact that I have shoes on my feet at all seems a bit less humdrum.  In fact, knowing that this has always been the case with me and that I have usually had a choice of which shoes to wear on a given day begins to seem less like “what simply is” and more like and extravagant blessing.

Last christmas, my wife and I sent a small financial gift to one of the boys we sponsor.  Compassion International staff in Otovalo, Ecuador took him out to purchase soccer cleats with that gift and mailed us a picture of Roberto (our boy) holding his new shoes.  It was a great pic; Roberto holding up bright green shoes, wearing a pair of hand-made sandals he had worn through months before and smiling as if he had just graduated from Harvard. His obvious joy was more than quaint and cute; It was profound, humanizing and grounding for both Amy and I.

Perhaps there is something more than just the beauty of a simple and thankful heart in those words “.. Jesus thank you for my shoes…”? Perhaps those words reflect the kind of seeing that makes every great work (such as the restoration of a nation) even possible at all.  The words of Marvelous’ prayer, like the smile on Roberto’s face, are the fruit of a vine whose seed was buried and broken by its circumstances.  But this is a vine that, because of the goodness of the soil in which it took root, could not be undone by hardship, be it hunger or war or abandonment.  This is a vine which was born of the seeds of the kingdom of God…

-And the Kingdom of God is like a Liberian man who drove into the midst of terrible violence because he believed that hope for his country could be found on a telephone there.

-The Kingdom of God is like a Young Life Staffer who took that phone call from a man he did not know and responded to a request his organization was not prepared for.

-The Kingdom of God is like 200 Liberian teenagers showing up at the first ever Young Life camp in their country to hear, believe and respond to the message that that God had not forgotten them despite overwhelming evidence to the contrary.

-The Kingdom of God is like scores of other Liberian kids walking for 2 full days in order to get to this same camp because there had not been room enough for them on the bus.

And the birth of this same Kingdom here in America begins in the very same way as it begins in Liberia or Kenya or Mumbai or Manilla.  Which is to say that somewhere between (and in the meeting of) the numbing abundance of America and the hopelessness of the destitute poor is a place where we all bow our heads, see the shoes on our feet and for very different reasons find a thankfulness in our hearts so complete that it redefines our entire being..

…because..

-The Kingdom of God is like an American man who, upon hearing this story for the first time fell to his knees in front of his closet whispering “Jesus, thank you for my shoes… ” who raised his eyes the roof of the home he lived in, thinking of the friends and family he had, kneeling in the pants he chose from among others to wear that day and wept “Jesus, thank you for everything.”