culture stress (or i don’t want to be a missionary anymore)

Lest you believe I’m some sort of missionary superhero (not that there’s really any danger of this), I’d like to share with you confess to you that I have my bad days.  Days when I don’t want to be a missionary anymore. Days when I want to fly back to the United States, enjoy air conditioning, wait at traffic lights, and eat at McDonald’s.  Days like Friday.

I was just sitting down to the computer when the electricity went out.*  I started the generator for the first time since Sunday — the most recent of its breakdowns (I’d only got it running again Thursday) — and returned to the computer.  15 minutes later the generator was wheezing and coughing.  Another couple of minutes passed, and she quit.  And she wasn’t planning to start again.

That’s when, like a no-name Chinese generator, I broke down. Not in tears, mind you.  But still, I was broken down.  Angry, frustrated, and tired — and I wanted to shut my eyes and wake up in Dothan, Alabama… at the National Peanut Festival.  [There's no place like home.  (Repeat x 3)]

Great!  Just what I needed… my generator to break.  Again.  One more thing to go on my list. [If you don't like to hear venting, complaining, and whining, you probably should skip to the bottom; I feel that I rarely complain, but today there will be whining.]

• We haven’t had water from the city since July. For a week’s worth of water, I have to borrow Carson’s truck and tank, fill the tank in town, and pump the water up to our holding tank… twice (about 4ish hours of work, depending on the line at the well and whether there’s electricity or not).  Or I can pay 20 times what we’ve got in our budget for water and have it delivered by a truck from town.
• The water we do have is frustratingly difficult to use because our taps and faucets are full of red dirt and sand and don’t allow water to pass.  Seriously, we have three sinks in our house in which we can’t wash our hands.  I can fix them, but haven’t gotten around to it yet.  There are also leaks in the pipes in two of our walls.  Concrete walls.  Behind tiles.
• Our electric oven doesn’t work. Not because it’s broken but because there’s something wrong with the wiring that causes the breaker to trip every time we turn it on.
• We’re $20,800 in debt and struggling to pay for our furlough plane tickets. This isn’t quite as bad as it sounds in that $17,500  of this money came in the form of a bridge loan.  A very kind and anonymous donor loaned us the cash so we could buy a new truck.  We’re to return the money when we sell our old truck, which hasn’t happened yet and is proving somewhat difficult because of the rising dollar (or the falling shilling).  The other $3,300 is extra port fees charged us by the government of Tanzania.  If you’re thinking this means the government makes us pay for “storing” our truck in their port while we waited for them to allow us to have it, you’re right.  The slower they do their jobs, the more cash they get. We paid $3000 already, but were informed of this other $3,300 the day we picked the truck up.
• Speaking of the truck, our brand new Toyota LandCruiser doesn’t have 4WD high. This is because the 4WD toggle switch was stolen at Toyota of Tanzania before I’d ever even seen the car.  Those buttons resale at well over $100 USD, but I can’t find one anywhere — and Toyota won’t take responsibility for what one of their employees did.  When I picked the truck up from them, they told me the empty space was there for a placeholder button, and that it did nothing.  My 4WD low works fine, but it’s not suitable for getting to some of the villages we visit.  So we haven’t been to a single village since we got the new truck.
• We’ve been in Tanzania two years now — and we’re technically on-schedule.  But I can’t help but feel like we never get any work done, because we’re always fetching water, repairing plumbing, sitting in the dark, or just trying to live.  It just takes so much time to live here.
• I didn’t tell you what happened just before the electricity went out on Friday.  Christie called from outside, and I opened the backdoor to find the puppies playing tug-of-war with our bed sheets, which they’d pulled from the clothesline. Our high-thread-count, nicer-than-we-can-afford, we-received-them-as-a-wedding-gift and only-have-two-sets bed sheets.  My wife was slightly troubled.  [It didn't help that when the generator quit working an hour later, all the clothes in the washing machine were trapped inside, obviously wet.  Aah... the joys of an electric washing machine in a land of electricity rationing.]

When the generator quit — and I wanted to lie face down in the red dirt (where we’ve not yet planted grass) and beat my feet and fists in the mud while sobbing something about “my mommy”….  When the generator quit, these were all the things going through my mind.  I didn’t understand my feelings; I wasn’t sure if I was angry or sad, frustrated or afraid.

I called Carson and asked if I could charge my computer on his battery back-up system so I could do a little work.  Mostly I wanted to be able to say I accomplished at least one thing on Friday.  I packed the computer up and started walking to Carson’s house.  On the way I passed a young boy who asked if I would give him a ball.  I wanted to scream, “Does it look like I have a ball, you begging idiot?!”

Instead I told him politely that I didn’t have a ball.  He then pointed at the bottle of Coke Light in my bag and countered, “Well, then can I have a soda?  I see you have one of those.”

I told him I only had the one — and that it was for me to drink while I did some work on my computer.

As I walked away I realized it.  That I was experiencing culture stress.**  Under other circumstances I would have taken the bottle out of my bag, opened it for the boy, and given it to him.  But I was angry; the last thing I wanted was for one more person to ask me for a soccer ball or a soda, or for money or a job.  I wanted to leave Geita. Or at least lock myself in the (dark) house and refuse to answer the gate.

But I didn’t leave Geita.  And I didn’t lock myself in the house.  I went on to Carson’s house and told him I was having my first (and only, that I remember) culture stress event since moving to Tanzania.  Then I sat down at my computer (plugged in and charging) and got some work done.  I prayed while I worked, naming each and every one of these stresses and handing them over to God.***

After only a couple of hours, I felt fine.  And you’ll be happy to know I went on to accomplish as much on Friday afternoon as on any of my most productive days in Geita.

* Common occurrence as of late.  Electricity is being rationed.  For a couple of months it was as bad as 72 hours of electricity a week.  But lately it’s been much better — we’ve probably had closer to 100 hours per week, maybe more.  [To keep you from having to do the math yourself, there are 168 hours in a week.]

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** Lots of people and books speak of culture shock — with no mention of culture stress.  I’m firmly in the camp, though, that we ought to see the pressures of living in another culture (and the effects of those pressures), as being on a continuum.  And so, we all experience culture stress.  But we reserve the term ‘culture shock’ for more extreme cases, and not these singular and shorter-term bouts with second cultures.

I suppose I am blessed to not have too many of these culture stress days.  In fact I don’t remember feeling quite like this any other time in my life except the one day in China when I punched a bus that had brushed my shoulder in an attempt to convince me to cross the street faster.  The echo of my fist against the hollow metal of the bus was deafening.  And it caused a horrible scene, as the bus driver stopped in the middle of a very busy road and got off the bus in order to yell at me for hitting his bus with my hand.  I was the only white person around, two heads taller than anyone else.  And they were all staring at me.  I swore I’d never act out in anger at a cultural situation again.

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*** In light of recent discussions on prayer, I’ll be posting a very useful and practical prayer exercise a little later in the week.  For those of you who carry a great deal of stress with you, I think it will prove very helpful.

confession and healing

image courtesy of elephantjournal.com

 

In a culture where admission of wrong is rare and feeling remorse is old-fashioned, there’s bound to be great conflict with these words from James:

“So confess your sins to each other and pray for each other so that you will be healed. The prayer of a righteous man is powerful and effective.”  – 5:16

We all know and believe that, if we confess our sins to God, he is faithful to forgive us.  And I’m not suggesting we’re experts at acknowledging our sins before God; I’m sure we attempt to explain away our shortcomings to him just as we do to our fellow Christians.

But this verse stands out to me.  It stands out because, while God is faithful to forgive us when we confess our sins to him, we only find healing after confessing our sins to one another. How many times have we disclosed our sins to God, but still shouldered the burden of those sins and the guilt associated with them?  In those cases, I’d argue, we’ve received forgiveness but not healing.

[Warning:  I'm about to speculate and hypothesize concerning ideas about which I can't be certain.  I am not speaking for God, but for myself -- out of my own thoughts and experiences.  And before I go there, I should explain something.  Clearly the context of this James passage demonstrates that prayer to God is powerful.  And when we confess our sins to one another and pray for one another, these prayers are answered and we find healing.  This passage is first and foremost about the power of intercessory prayer.  I do not want to diminish that.]

Here are my thoughts:

I believe there’s something special about Christians offering one another God-like forgiveness, caring, and concern.  And I believe this something special is important in the healing process.  We can know in our heads that God has forgiven us, but we don’t feel that forgiveness in our hearts.  That’s where other Christians come in.  The church extends to us in tangible human form the forgiveness God has already granted.  And we heal.

I believe much of the purpose of the church is to make tangible to humanity the love of God. And one way in which we demonstrate this love is to show our brothers and sisters the same forgiveness God offers.  In doing so the forgiver speaks and acts on behalf of God, the sinner finds healing, and the church more clearly represents Christ to the world.  A cycle is begun.  Others will confess and be prayed for, receiving both forgiveness and healing from their church family.  And that church family becomes a beautiful picture of God in a terribly ugly world.

Sadly, though, the converse is also true — and entirely too commonplace. When Christians fail (or refuse) to display God’s forgiveness to another, he finds no healing and the church looks less and less like Christ.  Soon no one will confess his sins for fear of being judged harshly and viewed as a criminal.  And so, another cycle is begun.  No one confesses, no one prays for him, no one demonstrates God’s forgiveness, no one finds healing, and no one represents Christ to the ugly world in which we live.  One more beautiful picture of God is lost.

And when some brave individual attempts to break that mold by walking forward after a sermon to confess his recent sins, he’s beaten down by the whispering in the pews and the Sunday lunch gossip.  And what everyone knew is confirmed yet again – there is no healing in confession, and the Spirit of God is not present in this church.

 

recognizing grace

image courtesy of photobucket.com

It’s critical that Christians have grace for others. We’ve got to be people who are merciful and kind, offering the same forgiveness we’ve received from our Father.  We need to trust one another’s intentions, look for and assume the best in others, and be patient with those around us.  I wrote as much in a recent post, and ended that post by asking in what areas each of us requires grace from others.  I also asked how we can exercise our own grace-giving abilities, making the ideas practical in our own lives.

I did so purposefully.  Because these two ideas are wholly intertwined and entirely inseparable. It’s not possible to be gracious to others until we first recognize the grace that has been shown, and is being shown, to us. This passage from Colossians 3 paints a beautiful picture of what it means to have grace for one another.  Notice, too, there has been an example set for us by our Father:

Therefore, as God’s chosen people, holy and dearly loved, clothe yourselves with compassion, kindness, humility, gentleness and patience.  Bear with each other and forgive whatever grievances you may have against one another.  Forgive as the Lord forgave you.  And over all these virtues put on love, which binds them all together in perfect unity.

If you find it difficult to have grace for others in their inadequacies — or you have trouble separating individuals from their mistakes, annoying tendencies, and sinful acts — I suggest you start the journey towards being a gracious person by listing just a few of the areas in which you seek mercy, forgiveness, and grace from those around you.  Some of us did this the other day; I’d encourage you to do it today, though I’m not asking you to do so in the comments section.

There are numerous areas in which this fallen author requires grace from others.  Following are just a few of the ways in which I need it most:

• I have a history of sin.  I’ve done some very bad and foolish things in my life.  And I have indeed been shown grace by God, my wife, my family, my teammates, my friends, my church, and countless others.  These people have been Christ in my life, accepting and forgiving me, all the while loving me too much to allow me to remain unchanged.  My brothers and sisters have offered me their compassion, forgiveness, accountability, and most importantly their prayers.  And God has himself transformed my mind, my desires, and my life.
• I’m fairly opinionated on a lot of issues and usually believe my way is the right way.  This is fairly normal, for why would someone choose a way of doing something they don’t think is the best way?*  But I go overboard, not seeing the value in others’ opinions or the logic in their ideas.  At times I have definitely, in this area, over-tested the grace-giving abilities of those who are close to me.
• This one I hesitate to type — afraid it will come across as arrogant and superior.  But I honestly believe I am given a great deal of grace in this way.  I am a natural leader.  [I’m not sure what combination of character traits makes me so, though I think in general we call it charisma.]  There is a natural tendency for people to follow me (I think whether I am right or wrong).  And, for this reason, even when I have no desire to usurp a decision or take possession of a conversation, it often happens.  I find myself constantly prefacing my comments with, “now this is just my opinion” or “it really doesn’t matter a great deal to me” or “if it were just me.”  I’m not sure if my friends exhibit more grace by understanding that others, regardless of my intentions, are likely to follow me — or by putting up with my constant attempts at downgrading my opinions.  I’m sure both are extremely annoying.

In summary: The beginning point for me giving Carson grace for his using a loofah and drinking coffee like a little girl is in recognizing that I’m asking Carson to give me grace for always talking about football and shaving my legs.

May God make us a gracious people.  May he bless us to view others as he views us.  And may we represent him well in our world by loving and caring for others despite their faults.

* One of my biggest pet peeves is when one individual in a debate accuses the other of arguing his side just because he thinks it’s right.  Or they say, “Well, that’s your opinion.”  I always want to ask them if they don’t also believe what they’re arguing is correct.  Or if perhaps they are arguing someone else’s opinion on their behalf.  Obviously I think I’m right, or I would think something else.  Why would anyone think something they believe is wrong?  That really annoys me.  I need grace for those people.

confessions of a future author

Alright, it’s time for me to come clean.  I’ve got some things to confess:

• I bite my fingernails — but not when I’m nervous or bored… just when they get too long.
• I wore Original Jams for at least two full years longer than anyone else I know.  I found out a few years later that everyone in 6th grade made fun of me behind my back.  But that’s alright; I’m my own man.  And I’d wear them still today if I had a pair that fit.
• My first kiss was a girl named Dixie, and I’m from south Alabama.  [I had to say "a girl named" or you would have thought Dixie was my pet -- I don't roll like that.]  And yes, she did kiss me despite the fact that I only stopped wearing Jams the year before.
• I used to hate Philemon in the New Testament, because I learned in a song that he bruised James.  Which is my first name.  Which brings us to…
• I can barely sign my name in cursive, and that’s the extent of my cursive abilities.  My name is Brett Harrison on my checking account, because I can’t do the cursive ‘J’ in James.  It’s pretty much the same as a lower case ‘f,’ and I get confused.
• My first cassette tape ever was Janet Jackson’s Control.  ”What kind of parents let their 9-year old son have a tape from which the biggest single was titled ‘Nasty?’” you ask.  ”My kind” is the answer to that question.
• My second tape was Billy Joel’s An Innocent Man.  Maybe a bewildered parent’s attempt to make up for wrongs done…?
• As soon as I finish this blog post I’m driving straight to Wal-Mart to buy my 6-month old daughter a T.I. album.
• In sixth grade I knew for sure the coolest clothes a guy could ever sport were grey sweat pants and Eastlands, complete with the Eastland Knot.  No socks.
• I desperately wanted to be named Tanner when I was a kid.  My reasoning: Brett was not an adult name.
• I will eat almost anything before I’ll let a baked potato touch these lips.
• I sometimes check behind the shower curtain when I’m at home alone.  That or I just hold it until Christie gets back (not the shower curtain).
• I once lit a neighbor’s yard on fire, so I could report it and become a hero.  When my mom came out to see the huge fire, there wasn’t one.  There was, however, a 2-foot square of charred grass… and in its very center rested a book of matches from my dad’s company.  I didn’t get a medal OR my name in the paper.
• I secretly want to become a professional writer, and so, am subscribed to the blog of one Rachelle Gardner, Literary Agent.

Rachelle writes some good stuff.  And right now on her blog you can enter a contest to win prizes.  I’m not sure what the prizes are because I’m not that interested in them.  [I know they have something to do with stuff that helps writers be gooder.]  But what I am interested in is the contest itself.  All you have to do is enter a one-sentence book summary — I suppose it can be real or imaginary.  Mine… imaginary.

Rachelle even explains how to write a one-sentence summary, though most of that part seems pretty common sense to me.  I mean if you’ve written a book and are trying to push it on agents and publishers, shouldn’t the one-sentence summary bit come naturally?  I figure Rachelle could save herself a lot of time by not teaching these aspiring young authors the secret formula of a one-sentence synopsis.  That way she could automatically throw out any author whose summary consists of randomly strung together words and punctuation not remotely resembling the abbreviated version of a story.  But, hey, she’s the literary agent.

My submission follows.  And I’m thinking about actually writing the book:

Colonel Bradford’s Crush by James Brett

A decorated World War II veteran falls madly in love with Cheetos
– I mean madly in love.

The contest deadline is this Saturday, June 5th, 11:59pm ET.  Make sure you get your entry in.

And if you don’t mind, leave an extra copy of your entry in my comments section.  I’m not giving away anything to help you make it as a professional writer (except practice), but it’ll be fun to see what everybody comes up with.  And maybe someone will see your awesome one-sentence summary and offer you a huge book contract.  Or I guess, more likely, they might see your summary and click the link to visit your blog.  Hey, a prize is a prize.  Beggars can’t be choosers.

Or if you’d rather not post a one-sentence summary, you can confess to something in the comments section.  Though I hesitate to make that invitation.  And mom, don’t worry.  I don’t have the Janet Jackson tape anymore.  I already gave it to Baylor.

a goal properly set…

I typically am not one who makes resolutions with the passing of each year.  I am, however, one who sets goals — lots of them.  Too many.  I have been known to set, and work seriously toward, some pretty silly goals:

• how many times I can make a restaurant coaster flip in the air before catching it (6)
• never being the person in a car that asks to stop and use the restroom        (not once from 1993-2009)
• how long I can hold my breath (2:30+)
• finishing my plate, no matter how full I am   (I’ve thrown up at least twice as a result)
• growing my hair and beard for the entirety of my wife’s pregnancy

I also have to confess there have been times in my life in which I worshipped my own accomplishments.  I have gained my worth from running longer, faster, more difficult races, or from climbing taller, snowier, more challenging mountains.  Conquest has been my god.  But not any longer.  A lot has changed over the last several years.  I am happy to say now that my worth comes from God — and there is nothing I could ever accomplish to make him love me any more than he already does.  Coming to understand this has prompted a pivotal and decisive shift in who I am and why I do the things I do.  I am no longer performing in order to gain God’s love (or my own, or anyone else’s).  Rather, I am operating out of the love that God so richly lavishes on me.

Lately I’ve been singing to my daughter a lot — or singing to God with her in my arms (some of you will be horrified to know that we dance).  Two lines that have stood out above the thousands of others I’ve been singing are these:

Jesus loves me when I’m good, when I do the things I should.
Jesus love me when I’m bad, though it makes him very sad.

That’s good theology.

is halfway reached.”

–Abraham Lincoln

As I said before, I’m not typically a new year’s resolution-maker.  But this year I am setting some new goals (and renewing some old ones) that happen to correspond with the changing of the calendars.  Over the next few days, I’ll be listing the areas in which I’m setting goals this year, and some of the goals themselves.  I am doing so because I want these goals to be spoken, printed, and made public.  I want my friends and family to understand better where I am in my life right now.  And I want these same people to hold me accountable to the goals I’m setting.  I’ve also been blessed this year to sit at the feet of some very wise brothers and sisters — they’ve helped me to understand a lot about myself, a lot about who God wants me to be, and what I can do to be open to his working.  I honestly feel if I share some of my goals for the year and the reasoning behind them, that you may be encouraged or motivated to sit down and do the same.

But I would be remiss if I hadn’t begun my blog’s goal-setting festivities by confessing that it’s been a trend of mine to bow down to my goals.  I will not do so any longer, and actually haven’t for some time now.  Goals are made for mankind — not mankind for goals.  I’ve got a new motto of sorts when it comes to goal-setting:

Balance in all areas.
Discipline in all areas.
Stiff-necked and unbending rigidity in none.

Next post: In what areas should I be setting goals?