Author: danefowlkes

A grandson announced that he was running away from home; he was done with domestic rules and responsibilities and was heading out for greener pastures. The incident that launched his tirade and subsequent decision to bolt was his father requiring him to dismantle the dome tent that he and his cousin had erected on Sunday afternoon in our backyard. I like camping as much as the next guy, but a tent is not our idea of yard art; so, I called and requested the construction foreman to return as demolition expert. That initiated a meltdown; our own Chernobyl, right next door.

Our daughter called to enlist her mother’s help. I was oblivious to the developing crisis until I saw my wife returning home down the caliche road with grandson at hand and a garbage bag in tow. I quickly learned that she had entered his bedroom and told him to place essentials in the plastic bag, excluding toys–there would be no children’s games where he was going. She faced me while rolling her eyes in his direction, and recounted his decision to leave home. I suffered a flashback to my own prodigal experience that lasted one city block, then responded by saying in my sternest tone that I would take him downtown and drop him off at My Brother’s Keeper, the homeless shelter operated by a local mission organization. My wife was worried that our hard headed grandson would make good on his threat, and that so would I. What she didn’t know was that I was already thinking through Plan B. Fortunately for all of us, our six-year-old rebel had a change of heart. Through crocodile tears he sputtered that he didn’t want to go after all; a homeless shelter wasn’t what he had in mind when conjuring up images of striking off on his own and leaving rules behind. Call it homesickness or sudden insight, but the shock of consequence made everything about home look much better in relief. The thought of a world without love is scary indeed.

Most of us leave home and spend the rest of our lives trying to find our way back. We may not physically abandon all that’s familiar, but an urge arises within each of us that insists ours is the right way; we convince ourselves we can make it better on our own. That “bent” we call independence; the Holy Bible calls it sin. In the end, the best that can happen within each of us is a lingering homesickness that finally convinces us to return home. Father really does know best, and fortunately for each of us, grace burns all bridges and enables us to see that the Father’s house is where we belong all along.

Our decisions define, and at times, redefine us. I learned this at the lowest juncture in my life from an unlikely source. For as long as I could remember my only ambition had been to serve the Lord Jesus Christ as my life’s calling. That passion carried me into several pastorates, propelled me through nearly a decade of missionary service, and, ultimately, fueled a great deal of internal conflict when faced with a decision that threatened to strip it all away. The shoe dropped when I determined that the future well being of my children carried more weight than preserving my vocation; Baptists are adept at discarding divorced ministers, with little regard for the truth. I crossed the line of demarcation for all the right reasons, but lines crossed leave scars that resist healing. “Scars tell stories. Scars mean survival. Scars mean you showed up for the fight rather than running from it.” What Genevieve Smythe writes may be true, but scars are not calluses–thickened layers of nerveless skin; they commonly mark the spot of internal damage that stubbornly refuses to heal, like the greater threat lurking underneath an iridescent iceberg.  

Fortunately for me, grace brushed across my life when I was most vulnerable, the point at which shame threatened to lead down innumerable deadly trails. Grace always has a face, and the one I encountered in my despair was the unshaven one of an aging prison psychologist. He and his wife were members of my church, and in between raising Boer goats outside of town, he volunteered his time to teach and counsel prison inmates. I never saw him without his signature rainbow colored suspenders, and though I thought him quirky at first, I soon learned that he was a bonafide genius, and genius is often obscured by an odd exterior. Discerning my fragile frame of mind, he offered to talk as friends, were I so inclined. I resisted at first and then agreed to meet, assuming that he would likely take pity and extend emotional support to my plummeting self-confidence. We met in a quiet place and I waited for words of commiseration; instead, he said what shook me to my core: “Get over yourself. You cannot change anyone but yourself.” I fought the angry urge to bolt and run, and what transpired over the course of subsequent conversations saved my life, or at the very least, my sanity. I stopped viewing myself as a victim, and learned that grace never intends to leave me as it finds me; grace flourishes in courageous action. Culture conspires to convince us we are powerless against the current of circumstance and the undertow of guilt. Refuse the lie; get over yourself and get on with life.

“I will arise and go to my father…” Luke 15:18

Who knows what a day will hold? Mine began early with a three hour drive that morphed into a four and a half hour marathon thanks to road construction and self-absorbed drivers. Upon arriving downtown, I parked on the top floor of a high rise parking garage and walked briskly through the underground tunnel to the ground floor of the main building, took the elevator to the tenth floor, announced myself to the receptionist, and was buzzed through to the elevators leading to the eighteenth floor and offices of a powerful corporate executive. He welcomed me, and motioned to a chair across from him at a round walnut table near massive picture windows opening out to a panorama of skyscrapers, matchbox automobiles, and ant trails of humans hurrying to make it to wherever it was they were late. He leaned back in his chair, loosened his tie and began to tell his story. His priorities were obvious only minutes into the conversation, as he grinned and told me about his granddaughter’s 4.0 average in a prestigious university, mentioned how well another grandson is doing with his musical career, then leaned forward and narrated the addition of a great-grandchild into the mix. Our words could have just as easily been exchanged in a backyard on a warm summer evening. I asked if I might pray for him before exiting, and we both bowed our heads, closed our eyes, and turned our hearts towards home. 

I exchanged the congestion of downtown for the crowded shopping area nearby where I went to wait for a luncheon appointment with a couple that are close friends of mine, but whom I’ve not seen for several years. Not long into my vigil I received a phone call from one of the friends saying that they would not make it for lunch because she was being detained at the hospital for more tests. It was then that I learned of her serious health issues surrounding a damaged heart, and we agreed to try again to see one another sooner than later. She admonished me not to forget to pray for them, and I assured her that I would remember. The call ended and I gathered my thoughts and emotions and proceeded to the medical clinic of a young physician friend where I planned to leave some information with his receptionist. She asked me to wait a moment and the doctor came to the door and gestured for me to follow him. We entered his office, exchanged greetings, and he embarked on an incredible narrative about his large family growing larger still by adopting two children from China. That was surprising on its own merits, but then he described the six year old girl as having Down’s Syndrome, and how that led to adopting her best friend, a little boy who is himself visually impaired. I suddenly felt very small in the presence of such love and commitment. Not knowing what else to say, I asked if I could pray right then and we embraced while speaking to the Father about a mother and father’s great compassion and kingdom hearts.

My ‘to do’ list complete, I left the clinic, took the on ramp onto a crowded highway, and began the three hour journey back home. I enjoy driving alone at times just such as that one because it allows for reflection and prayer without anyone tracing my ebb and flow of faith and doubt. My cell phone intruded on my thoughts, the caller ID identifying a phone call from a close friend in a distant country. I answered and small talk gave way quickly to a tale of heartbreak and request for me to pray for a son that was in trouble. My own heart broke for my friend and his family. I lamely asked what I might do for him, and he responded resolutely “Pray for us.” I assured him that I would, and remained true to my word as soon as the conversation ended. Once again I felt small, with the added sensation of being on one end of a long dark tunnel with my friend at the other and no way to get to him so that I might lend a hand. But still, I prayed.

I regularly underestimate the importance and opportunity of prayer. Intercession is much more than flailing desperate cries toward an elusive target; prayer is God’s provision for earth brushing heaven. Whatever the day holds, we make our finest contribution in it through prayer. “And you are helping us by praying for us. Then many people will give thanks because God has graciously answered so many prayers for our safety” 2 Corinthians 1:11, NLT).

This morning I crossed Lake Pontchartrain Causeway from North Shore to the New Orleans side of the lake on my way to Louis Armstrong International Airport. The Causeway spans 24 miles and is the longest bridge over water in the world. Bridges make me nervous (gross understatement–just ask my wife) because they typically rise high above the water’s surface to allow ships to pass beneath, but I actually relished this level journey with expansive water views in all directions. A squadron of Pelicans bobbed in syncopation atop the choppy surface to my right while terns took turns (pun intended) plunge-diving the surface in search of breakfast. Shimmering on the gossamer horizon to the south was the stair stepped skyline of the city. All of it was, in a word, beautiful. Perhaps due to being back in the city of my birth and subsequent adoption, or possibly the result of observing the rebuilding still underway a decade following Katrina’s rage in the Crescent City, but for reasons I cannot fully explain, this morning, on this bridge, over this lake, sang a melody of mercy. Thank God I didn’t miss the moment or the message. 

I’ve not always excelled at recognizing or reveling in grace. I endured a span of time in my forties in which, although I still struggled to walk with the Lord, I interpreted grace as a figment of ancient writers’ imaginations, a cruel joke played on the unsuspecting and naive. Promises violated by those I previously trusted and dismembered dreams derailed my confidence in God and myself, handing down a harsh reminder that there is no plot without conflict and that stories do not always enjoy happy endings. During those dark days God more resembled Judge than Father. I prayed out of ingrained duty, and these meager offerings recoiled across the emptiness of my own heart. Fortunately for all of us, brokenness lays the brickwork for awakening. Revival emerges from the wake of great loss, and grace is most clearly detected in the dark. Father reached deep down and pulled me surface-ward so that I could breath again. It was then that I heard again the strain of mercy that hurt had muffled and all but extinguished. Grace is always present-tense, which means God is author of infinite second chances; the challenge is to see it for yourself and courageously follow mercy back to the heart of a loving Father. We cannot hold moments forever; they touch us as they pass and draw our heart to the One who lives above and beneath them. “Weeping may stay for the night, but rejoicing comes in the morning” (Psalm 30:5).

I’m back on a plane today, although this trek will take me to New Orleans rather than to the other side of the world like I experienced last week. Only God knows what I’ll learn and who I might influence this time around, but I can say that God reminded me last week in Cambodia that you can change the world–one prayer at a time. It wasn’t as much sudden insight as a slow dawning that rose through every conversation I enjoyed with Christian leaders from across South and Southeast Asia and the Pacific. We shared meals and conversation, but mostly we prayed. Years ago Andrew Murray wrote, “With Christ in the School of Prayer,” but in Siem Reap I received an education on how to pray from individuals from India, Nepal, Malaysia, Papua New Guinea, and Indonesia. When these women and men of God address the Father, they clearly expect him to hear and respond. My own faith frequently falls short, but their confidence in God bolsters my own. The common thread running through all our conversations with one another and with the Father was that God’s activity flows in sync with our praying. 

In my final time of small group prayer before leaving Siem Reap, I had the enormous privilege of being paired with Jeffrey from Papua New Guinea. I will never forget what Jeffrey requested for he and I. He prayed, “God make us arrows of revival. Fashion us as arrows of destiny.” The written word cannot convey the power of that moment, as a simple man caught the hem of Christ’s garment and refused to let go until he was confident to receive what was requested. I find myself in quiet moments now uttering that same prayer, “God make me an arrow of revival, an arrow of destiny.” We can change the world–one arrow at a time. 

The supernatural oneness believers share in Christ makes disharmony in the church all the more unthinkable. I spent yesterday in the Kingdom of Cambodia immersed in sweet fellowship among unbelievable diversity in God’s Kingdom, igniting a growing hunger for deeper Christ-intimacy as well as greater unity among Christ-followers in the place I call home. 

The day began around the breakfast table with four Christian leaders from the Philippines, all of whom volunteer enormous amounts of time to organize and facilitate distribution of Operation Christmas Child shoeboxes and discipleship among the poorest of the poor in their homeland. It was not long before tears formed and food was forgotten as they shared story after story of what God is doing in their communities, churches, and families. During lunch, I sat with a sister from southern India on the one hand and a brother from northern India on the other, while listening to accounts of God’s activity in southeast Asia. For two hours in the afternoon I sat mesmerized as Pradeep and Kumar told how God is revitalizing a stagnant church and birthing others throughout the chain of three hundred islands that constitute Fiji. I shared a late evening meal with three precious leaders from Malaysia, whose stories both broke my heart and instilled confidence in what our God is accomplishing in some of the harshest places in the world. Finally, I raised hands and voice as part of a heavenly choir, as we powerfully proclaimed in many languages “How Great is Our God!” May God reunite His Church as He grants revival to His people and combustible passion for unreached peoples to hear the Gospel message. 

“Among the gods there is none like you, Lord; no deeds can compare with yours. All the nations you have made will come and worship before you, Lord; they will bring glory to your name. For you are great and do marvelous deeds; you alone are God” (Psalm 86:8-10).

   
 

The rainy season has arrived in Banteay Meanchay Province of northern Cambodia, making travel interesting to say the least. Tuesday began with worship at the Samaritan’s Purse offices in Sisophon followed by a muddy trek out to see a primary school completed July of 2014 by Samaritan’s Purse. The before and after images are staggering. Up through half of last year, the children of Srah Trach suffered through inferior training in deplorable surroundings. It is hard to imagine how anyone could learn while worrying about being stung or bitten by something, or during the frequent rains that soaked them while seated in their classroom. The children are flourishing in a well constructed facility that keeps the children and teachers dry, and allows for secure intellectual exploration. Teachers are inspired to learn themselves, while students use iPads to accelerate acquisition of reading skills. Only God knows the full present and future impact of this simple yet profound investment in a generation of Cambodian children whose grandparents were slaughtered by the Khmer Rouge a mere forty years ago.

I am challenged by the major impact of seemingly minor advancements I’ve observed during my limited time in this ancient land. We left Srah Trach and slid down the path another ten kilometers until we arrived at still another school. Here, we saw and heard the story of the clean water filtration system implemented by Samaritan’s Purse just this year. I stood close enough to hear the gurgling of the gravity feed bio filter at work, and listened to the testimonies of drastically improved health and altered lifestyles through such a simple thing as having clean water for children to use when washing hands and safe water for drinking without needing to boil first or purchase a bottle of filtered water with money that’s as hard to come by as clean water in this village. Instead of feeling guilt over what I have that these villagers do not, I am encouraged to see how generosity and ingenuity work together to transform lives when acted upon in Jesus’ name. The world comes into focus when I look beyond myself.

“And whatever you do, whether in word or deed, do it all in the name of the Lord Jesus, giving thanks to God the Father through him” (Colossians 3:17, NIV).

(Sisophon, Cambodia)   
   

I am in a land full of wonderful people who, for the most part, are born into an odd mixture of hopeless worship, superstition, and poverty. On Sunday I visited Angkor Wat, one of the seven wonders of the world built in the 12th Century and still a sacred shrine for Buddhists. Visitors from all around the world rub the stone knees of Buddha, more for good luck than out of reverence. The Buddha remains motionless and expressionless, never responding to the needs of the people because he is only a crude statue; and yet, they continue to burn incense and offer bananas in hope that one day he will hear and help. Fat chance.

By way of contrast, today was spent outside of PoiPet witnessing changes brought about by Christ and Christian compassion through Samaritan’s Purse. I met Mutkay who was trained and assisted in a mushroom growing project. As a result, a daughter that would have inevitably ended up exploited in Thailand searching for money to support the family, will not need to go. I also encountered enterprising Priavani who took an initial investment of eleven chickens and in six months doubled her previous year’s annual income. She smiles because she has seen how genuine believers put faith into action. Finally, I heard from a cinder block room full of ordinary villagers who had been encouraged and helped in establishing a savings club. Their initial investment of fifteen members in 2014 totaled $7, but this year they have grown to $1490 in assets among 48 members. That may not sound like much, but it means that members may gain low interest loans without mortgaging their futures, and their men are not forced to illegally migrate into Thailand in search of work.

Hope emerges when genuine need encounters a living faith. Never underestimate the potential of a single life when that life is surrendered to a Savior who cares and empowers to rise above present circumstances. 

“I will destroy your idols and your sacred stones from among you; you will no longer bow down to the work of your hands” (Micah 5:13, NIV).

   
 (Written from PoiPet, Cambodia)

Dawn eases out across the slumbering city of Siem Reap, my first morning to witness in this land known as Cambodia. The nation’s most commonly used name comes from the French cambodge, but some maps refer to it as Kampuchea, which is closer to its Khmer name. In fact, Cambodia has been renamed six times since gaining independence from France in 1953, a reflection on the diminutive nation’s turbulent past. In the 1960’s, war clouds gathered across its border in Vietnam, and conflict inevitably spilled across into the former French colony. Things worsened when the country fell to the Khmer Rouge communists in 1975. The Khmer Rouge under Pol Pot devastated the country’s infrastructure and economy, destroyed its agriculture, and murdered millions of its citizens. Though Pol Pot died in 1998, aspects of his tyranny remain harder to remove than the man himself.

Cambodia is working hard to get over itself, but change comes as slowly here as the dawning of this new day. After touring Angkor Wat, monument to Kampuchea’s golden age in the 9th to the 13th centuries, my companions and I will leave Siem Reap and head to Poipet and Sisophon, where we will encounter up close and personal the harsh realities that brought Samaritan’s Purse to this region in the first place. Samaritan’s Purse is an international Christian relief and evangelism organization that helps people in crisis situations with the goal of sharing the love of Jesus Christ. Life is more than difficult for the vast majority of Cambodians, reflected by SP’s efforts here: Human trafficking awareness and prevention, Improving household nutrition and economic stability, Restoring and strengthening family values and parenting knowledge, Providing access to clean water in primary schools, and Reducing the number of deaths during childbirth.

I count multiple Buddhist structures as I scan the horizon from my hotel room. Strikingly absent from the panoramic view is any evidence of Christ’s presence, yet I know He is here and that He is drawing the wonderful people of this land to Himself. Join me in praying that the influence of the Gospel will spread as evenly and thoroughly in Cambodia as the morning light in Siem Reap. 

“All the nations you have made shall come and bow down before you, O Lord, and shall glorify your name. For you are great and do wondrous things; you alone are God” (Psalm 86:9-10, NRSV).
(Written from Siem Reap, Cambodia)

  

It feels providential that my first journey abroad for Samaritan’s Purse is taking me through South Korea. I say that because my journey in missions began here thirty six years ago. I arrived in 1979 for my second trip to Korea, that time to preach for the Jeil Baptist Church in Kwang Ju. I was nineteen years old and had sensed divine direction to preach from the time I was sixteen. I had gone to Korea two years earlier with a group from my church, but this time I was on my own, save for an aged chaperon affectionately known as Momma Tipps. She was a legendary missionary figure in our circles, having traveled innumerable times to San Andres Island in the Caribbean to share the gospel, almost singlehandedly reorienting Trinity Baptist Church towards the world. Momma Tipps and I traveled through Los Angeles, toured Hollywood, made the walk of stars in front of Grauman’s Chinese Theatre, and then landed in Kwang Ju, South Korea. We spent nearly two weeks together. I’m not sure what she thought about me, but my awe of her grew exponentially. 

Our last Sunday afternoon in Kwang Ju, we were invited to join missionaries from various Christian denominations for the missionary worship service held in Bell Chapel on the mountainside in rural Kwang Ju. In certain respects this was just one more worship gathering; in other ways it was extraordinary. God spoke, at least I understood him say that this was his calling for me. The “this” meaning cross cultural ministry. I returned to the U.S. determined to serve Christ as a foreign missionary. My path since then has taken me through a decade of service in Africa and India, dissolution of marriage, losing everything only to gain far more in return, and now this new opportunity to fulfill God’s call to missions. That looks differently today than it did all those years ago, but it is no less fulfilling. I am grateful that God never forgets his call, even when we lose sight of it or make choices that obscure it. Grace is more than a means to salvation; grace is a way of life.