Author: danefowlkes

Technically, it wasn’t eavesdropping, but I felt like I had invaded sacred space when I opened the spiral notebook next to the bear and fish lamp on the bedside table. We had just arrived after dark at one of our favorite getaway locations in the Arbuckle Mountains of Oklahoma, where a serpentine assortment of small wooden structures dot a ridge just of north of Honey Creek. Our preferred dot is officially designated Cabin #4; it is the second cabin you come to when slowly ascending the narrow gravel path. The structure itself is less than awe inspiring, but the cantilevered wooden deck overlooking Honey Creek and small but persistent water fall of several feet down below has climbed near the top of our list of favored short term retreats. My wife and I have our own accepted duties when settling in to overnight lodging away from home. I unload the vehicle of essential cargo while she arranges sleeping quarters and then tends to kitchen accoutrements. Having completed a couple of trips between Jeep and cabin and properly stowing our limited gear for the weekend, I turned my attention to inside the cabin. I like this place with its mock log interior and exterior, moose and bear pillows, and pictures ruggedly framed and strategically arranged to engender the tenor of a remote bungalow aloft the high lonesome in some wilderness location. Nice try– this is Oklahoma, but I give an ‘A’ for effort and appreciate the rugged, if not slightly stereotyped, decor.

Beside the queen sized bed near center stage is a small pine nightstand adorned with only two items. The first is a black metal lamp consisting of a bear holding a fish in its mouth at the base, and a lampshade adorned on four sides by hoof prints that I assume are supposed to be those of a moose. The other object is a zebra print spiral notebook on which someone has written in ink, Cabin #4. It contains personal messages recorded by previous guests, sentiments intended to express appreciation to the owners for pleasant surroundings. I opened the notebook and skimmed through the entries until I came to one dated 4-19-15. It read:

“I’m not sure who is reading this, but these are my last days. I wanted to be free, hear water, feel air for the last time. Who knows how long we have, but at this very moment I’m gonna live to the fullest and this place feels healing and free. Thank you. Brittany”

A lump formed involuntarily in my throat as it dawned on me that I was reading what well may have been someone’s final confession. I turned the page to see if anything followed and found one other paragraph from Brittany:

“4-20-2015
Truly, I am still here. Beautiful. Love it. Better than a hospital today. Felt good. I got all the way in the water…. Anyway. I live!!! As long an full as u can. This may be the last getaway I get until the ultimate getaway. Up. Heaven doesn’t sound too bad. I love God. I need help, but he will be there. He’s here now. Thank you, Brittany”

She had recorded these thoughts six months before, and only God knew if she still lived or if, in her own words, she had made the “ultimate getaway.” Either way, her words struck a resilient chord. She had found a way to yell at the top of her pen that she was here; life matters, and she was part of everything that made sense in the world even when it stopped making sense to her. I closed the notebook, returned it to its familiar place, and sat on the love seat against the wall. Without intending to do so I said aloud “Goodbye”; in retrospect it was more prayer than parting resignation. “It was a long while ago that the words God be with you disappeared into the word goodbye, but every now and again some trace of them still glimmers through” (Buechner, Whistling in the Dark). I shut my eyes, prayed for a woman I’ll never meet, and asked the Father to enable me to fully live and do so with influence until my own goodbye. 

 

She wouldn’t describe it as immediate attraction, but love at first sight isn’t all it’s cracked up to be anyway. A quick survey of biblical couples is enough to caution against placing too much stock in hasty physical attraction. “The more impetuous a relationship’s beginning, the more difficult it may be to stabilize it later” (Yitzchak Ginsberg). King David was not emotionally prepared for either of his encounters with love at first sight. David was smitten when he first laid eyes on Abigail, but being a “woman of intelligence” (1 Samuel 25:3) she convinced him to wait until he cooled down from his fever pitch. Her wisdom was vindicated by his later impetuousness with Bathsheba. Though described as a “man after God’s own heart,” David’s rash response to physical and emotional urges landed him in hot water more often than not. Blessed is the man who meets a woman that both ignites a spark under him, and coaxes it into a slow burning flame that grows over time. I am that man. 

I met the best part of my life at a predetermined place and time. We planned to meet outside the Navarro County courthouse in Corsicana, having mutually agreed to eating lunch together at a neutral site so that either or both of us could make a graceful exit should the experience prove uncomfortable or unbearable. I arrived first, and sat in my pickup nervously waiting for her to pull up. When she did, even from a distance I could see that she was attractive, and her arrival in a sporty Acura RSX made me feel all the more awkward and out of place. I sat frozen to the stained bench seat of my old Ford while she waited for me to exit my truck and walk over to greet her. After what seemed an eternity to us both, I garnered enough courage to make my way to her open window. We exchanged greetings and I invited her to join me for lunch a few blocks away at Roy’s Cafe on Beaton Street. The date was off to a sluggish start, largely because I proved adept at all the wrong things. She chose healthy salad-something while I doused my chicken fried steak in ketchup, but for reasons known only to her she agreed to extend our date by walking together down Beaton and stepping into antique shoppes. To my surprise and utter delight, we kept finding reasons to prolong the experience, extending the date a full eight hours. What was even more unexpected was her willingness to see me again. We married six months later, and today we celebrate our wedding anniversary. The attraction is stronger now than ever because it has deepened into appreciation. I recognize the value of my wife and can honestly say that I see God’s grace in her eyes every morning; I married way out of my league. To say that I wish her a happy anniversary would be trite and hackneyed, as well as woefully inadequate. What I want to do is acknowledge her immeasurable worth by being the man I could never be without her. This is not love defined by attraction; it is far more meaningful than that. It is appreciation, satisfaction, adoration, respect, friendship, astonishment and passion enough for a lifetime. Thank God I got out of the truck and said ‘hello.’

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)