published- 3rd time.

This marks the 3rd time I've been published (besides in the school newspaper and high school yearbook). First time, I was 17 and it was this youth testimony book called "Case Files." 2nd time was for Currents, CNU's Literary Magazine (I had two entries in there...and I don't mean to brag but my short story won first place).

And now here's the third time- Dr. Lee, my journalism prof from CNU has an online creative non-fiction magazine, and he liked a story I wrote for his class last year on the legitimacy of short term missions work.

So here's the newest edition of The Lookout.

I would love to hear your thoughts on the topic, so please post them on here!

mmmmmmusic

I am re-discovering my love for song lyrics. However, whenever I post them on my facebook status I get asked about them as if they apply directly to my life. Which in a slanted, symbolic way they are related. But when I posted "I was asleep and he woke me again" (a Sufjan stevens song about God calling Samuel) I got asked by my dad and brothers about which guy they should look out for who keeps waking me up at night. People get so literal. They should know I am hardly ever completely literal.

Music lyrics remind me of my first love- writing. This I have been ignoring, lately. I thought about that today- why am I ignoring my number one gift and possibly my life's calling? What excuse do I have? I talked to another writer recently (one who is actually writing) and she reminded me that writing is a muscle you need to keep exercising to grow stronger. Perhaps thats why I've been completely uninspired- I simply have not been working the muscle.

It's like going to the gym after ignoring it for awhile. I really really don't want to work out at those points- it's hard to work that energy back up. But once you do, you get motivated again and that energy starts coming.

So if I start writing, something will come. Maybe I should keep reading song lyrics and get back to the short stories of my muse, Flannery O'Connor. I don't have a lot of time to committ to reading novels... but there is nothing I enjoy more than a well-crafted short story.

slums

I cried the first 30 minutes of Slumdog Millionaire. I did not cry during any part of the movie that was more intense and hence would've been more appropriate to cry...no, I cried at the beginning.

I was practically sobbing in the theater, hoping that the 4 other people, who were there in the middle of a Thursday afternoon, wouldn't notice.

The scene I watched was of a group of boys playing where they're not supposed to...some police guards catch them and the camera closes in on 2 little boys trying to outrun these guards...sprinting into their slum community and trying to lose them.

The director did a beautiful job catching the slum they were in, and portraying the living conditions to the audience. It was the perfect introductory scene to show what conditions the protagonist came from.

I spent three weeks working in a slum in Nairobi called Kibera. Coming home from Kenya, I never really liked to talk about. I'd write about it sometimes. But I got very weird about talking about my missions experience. Nothing totally life scarring happened there. I did not witness some outrageously cruel events. But I did see cruelty: it was my own.

I asked God over and over again when I was in Kibera to pierce my heart for the slum. Why? When I walked through it, I did not feel any feeling I would have expected. I was absolutely numb. I wanted to feel love, but that numbness turned to almost apathy.

I had a few short interactions with people in the slums that didn't pierce my heart, but absolutely broke it. One situation can be portrayed by a scene in a short story I wrote a while back:

The girls nearly ran down the dirt roads to get to the Otiende compound where the sisters were waiting. They started down the trail, through a garland of flowers where men without jobs were hired to tend. The sisters greeted the men with a cheerful “habari zenu,” to which they replied, “mzuri sana!” The girls emulated the sisters in sing song vocals. Sr. Marie Rose engaged the men in dialogue neither of the girls’ Kiswahili was proficient enough to understand. However, one man was friendly enough to soon break out in English:

“Why are you Americans here?” His stern eyes looked Hannah in the face. “You so rich, you just touring through! This is where we live.” With a fearful zealousness, Hannah reached in her bag for a track, but Tamera interrupted before she could grab one.

“We’re here because we do care.” Tamera quipped. He turned towards the plainer girl.
“Ah, but you don’t care,” his chalky teeth spat. “You pass through and go on home.” The activist cast her eyes down to the dirt with nothing to say. Hannah looked at the man and noticed that his face was nothing but honest. “Jina nani?” she inquired, with the best smile she could force.
“My name is Peter!” the man exclaimed, surprised at Hannah’s attempt. “Na wewe?”
“Jina langu ni Hannah and this is Tamera.” The girls smiled angelically.
“We are not like all Americans,” the activist started again, enunciating her words articulately, so he could understand. “We want to help Kenyans like you and that is why we are here!”
“You want to help? Me?” His mustache curled up with his yellow teeth.
“Sure we do! That’s why we’re here!” Tamera said, starting to sound enthusiastic as Hannah, who nudged her, silently trying to communicate.
“I better get your contact info!” Before the girls had time to say anything, Peter dropped his tools and ran quickly to his tin house, searching for a scrap of paper. His house was swamped by sewage. He wondered what it’d be like if he ever made it to America.

Hannah looked at Tamera as if to say “Look what you did.” They were told many times not to give their contacts random Kenyans they met. Tamera looked back as the sisters and the girls started moving down the path. Peter sprinted to catch up. His hands flung excitedly in the breeze, gripping a dirty piece of paper. “Do you have a pen? Do you have a pen?” he cried. America was no longer so far away.

Tamera looked at him anxiously, not knowing how to respond. “No, I do not have a pen on me,” she lied. She carried one in her small journal and pen in her dress pocket.

There's very little question that Tamera, the "activist", was me. I walked into these situations like I was an American Hero, when really, there's very little I could ever do to actually help.

I guess, when you're overseas, your sins become a little bit more apparent. It's because of this that I almost have completely blocked my experiences in the slums out of my mind.

I can't watch movies like Slumdog Millionaire without feeling this pain that's associated with my guilt. 'Cause really this guilt never really left. People kept telling me that I should not feel guilt, so instead of dealing with it, I became apathetic to it. I left it all behind in Kenya. One movie I never finished watching was The Constant Gardener which was literally set in Kibera. I could never make it beyond the scene where the kids swarm the wife, chanting "how are YOU! how are YOU!"

I really need to embrace this pain, but it's still hard for me to reflect back on Kenya. But through much needed prayer, I know this guilt will be overcome with God's loving grace.

Above are just a few pictures I collected of Kibera.

between what i know i need to do and what i do

I have to let go of my distractions. Primarily of this year's big letdowns.

In the Bible, there are two kinds of fears (maybe there's more, but these are the two I'm concerned with). There is one which means dread (hebrew word for that isn't important to me, because I'd rather that concept. This reminds me of all my anxieties, heartaches and terrors.The other fear is the fear of the Lord, which people wrongly misinterpret, thinking we should be afraid of God. I mean, he is a powerful God so perhaps we be a little afraid. But the Hebrew word for this fear is yira. This is one of the most beautiful words to me, and one I hold dearly to my heart (I even have a necklace my best friend got made for me which says "Yira YHWH" in front of a tree.)

This word represents a holy fear, but it's closer to meaning reverence or awe.When I think about Yira YHWH, I think about my Father positionally. I hold him above all my anxieties and dreaded fears. I hold him up in reverence because he is my King, Lord of my life, and Creator of all things. He is the restorer and redeemer of life. He is way beyond the little things of my life. His love is greater than all the pains and trials I could endure in my lifetime.

I wear Yira YHWH around my neck to remember. I can get very anxious. One of my problems doesn't have to be as big a deal as I make it, but I blow it out of proportion and take it personally. One of my biggest fears gets whispered to me as a lie- "You are alone in this world, Janelle. Completely alone. No one knows you and no one loves you." I know this dread is a trumphed up lie.What do I do? I need to fix my eyes upon Jesus. Fear him. Or yira him if you still don't like that word. If my heart is attentive towards him, these lies dissipate. Jesus has already taken victory over these lies. He won my life on the cross. On the cross he overcomes our biggest fears.

There you go. I know what I need to do. But does that mean I'll do it?