The year was educational.  I've learned a father's love, the reality of suffering, that the world is immense and miniature at the same time, and one stubborn, undeniable truth: the years are starting to catch up with God.  Google image 'God'.  Find pictures of wrinkled white men and thick, gray beards and men that look powerful and wise but were once powerful and wise and young.  There's something to that.  His love hasn't faded, of course, and he's still my father.  But, he has lost a step or two.

Pain patiently awaited prayer to begin.  The guys on the squad were spending the month together, twelve of us, and on this particular night in the Western Thai Mountains we were celebrating Jeff's birthday.  Songs were sung and cake was eaten and other activities that take place on birthdays had taken place so we finished by praying over him.  Slowly and deliberately, discomfort leaned into the inside of my right knee.  

I ignored it quite easily at first and with some difficulty soon after, so I quietly slipped out of the room to find some Tylenol.  It was late and unless you're lucky to have the moon full on a cloudless night then feeling and stumbling your way through dark shadows to our tents is the best option.  But I felt my knee grow in size as I walked while pain overwhelmed me and even that option wasn't available.  I called for help and two of the guys carried me to the table where we have dinner.  

There's a slight shame that accompanies how blessed I feel to have never been really injured.  No serious broken bones or limbs removed, and where knees are concerned, scrapes are the greatest wounds I recall.  I found the surprise from the sudden emergence of pain nearly greater than the pain itself and though my knee was elevated so was my confusion.

By week two of the World Race we were already mad at God for his old age.  Or maybe we built on sand.  We prayed for healing over children that hurt or felt nothing or there was a specific 12-year-old girl whose body was paralyzed from the stress of her parent's separation.  They hurt and we prayed.  Then nothing happened while we prayed and while they still hurt we began to in our hearts as well.  But we were stubborn.  We prayed more and claimed healing in the name of the same God that parted the Red Sea, our God.  I guess the reality is, though, that he isn't the same God as he was then.  He said, 'I am who I am'.  Just, older.

My knee grew as pain grew and lying on the table I knew then that real pain doesn't laugh.  In month four I had ran down an active volcano and though I wish I could say it was because lava chased me, the truth was I had stepped on the nest of some-unidentifiable-latin-volcano-creature.  I stopped when I reached Chris and stings that began on my legs and arms danced through my entire body.  It hurt and all I could do was laugh.  Then, I thought that's when you know something hurts, when all there is left to do is laugh.  But that night my knee passed laughing early and water gathered in my eyes like a bow taking on seawater, then I approached yelling.  

They prayed while the pain increased and kept praying while the pain kept increasing and in the mountains of Western Thailand it was about hospital time.  'Maybe something practical, like the Tylenol I never found,' I thought.  On the way to his tent to go to bed, Joel (He's going on a journey after the Race, check out his page on Facebook) came over to see what was going on.  He saw my knee, and clearly thinking out loud, mentioned something about God telling him early in the Race that someday God would use him to heal knees.  'Then why are you standing there?' I impatiently asked. 

It's not that God doesn't desire to be as great and powerful as he was when he turned water to blood.  I think he does, kind of like that time my dad went out with plans to re-live his high school football glory days during the annual Thanksgiving Day touch-football game, when he hurt his shoulder really bad trying to tackle my sister before the game started (Sorry, dad. You still out-bench me by 200 lbs.).  The effort may still be there, he may still want to - to multiply the loaves, heal the sick, walk on the water, bring down the wall and bring back the dead - but the strength has left him, like it does to every man, and God.  Or, maybe not.  Maybe he just doesn't want to.

Like a throb so constant that by definition it's not longer 'throb', the pain increased until it couldn't anymore, then it increased.  The night was sticky from afternoon showers and a few men prayed and Joel laid his hand on my knee.  Pain increased.  He paused to ask if it felt any better and it didn't.  But before I could lose sight of hope in a vast collage of confusion, suffering, and swear words they prayed again with a likeness of soldiers in inevitable victory battling an inferior adversary.  Their words offered a renewed vigor. 

Pain increased, and then as quietly as it came, it didn't.  Rising to my feet I limped as prayer continued and pain lessened and I knew there would be no hospital or Tylenol necessary tonight.  I eventually walked to my tent with a slight limp, but slept peacefully that night.  I generally ask questions to a fault and that night I didn't know why the pain had to come just so healing could follow, but I didn't need too.

I really don't blame him, though.  There was hope back then.  Moses, David, Sampson, Paul.  These guys were worth fighting for.  Now, it's a broken world.  Yea, it's been 'broken' since Adam, but now it's really broken, with glue-kids, pedophiles, comfortable Jesus-followers and sex-slaves.  Each day is worse than the last and entire nations that prophets once declared would someday worship instead turn their backs and the sons and daughters created to bring a Kingdom whimper to call it being a nice person and love is weak.  I wouldn't want to pour my heart out to these people any more, either, and I'd be tired of working miracles to a forgetful world.  The God that brought dry bones to life may be tired of displaying his wonder.  I don't blame him.

In between mountains is a tin building crazy people visit on Sundays.  They're part of a movement that represents less than 1% of Thailand and they love and crazy things are more likely to happen in a building where crazy people are present.  They sang worship songs to Jesus, I didn't understand but I'm pretty sure he speaks Thai, and they danced with the wildness of African churches but remained distinctly Asian.  They smile and laugh a lot when they worship, more than most Christians, and I think it's because the lack of normalcy, the 1%, remember.  

Worship ended and they invited their pale-skinned guests to give testimonies, tell a story, preach, whatever, the floor was ours.   A couple guys talked, I didn't have much to say nor did I want too so I didn't.  But then it got awkward and quiet and God got loud.  "But. I. Don't. Wanna."  So eventually I told the story of last night.  The congregation was small and the story was condensed, unlike it is here.  There were chairs up front, near where I spoke, and when I handed the microphone away I walked to my seat without a limp.  Without words, the chairs in front began to fill up and they looked at me and Joel and the other guys.  "They want the healing, too," said the translator.

I remember the first time I heard that God's still healing people or raising people from the dead.  A man from Africa told the tale, with the setting for it in Africa, of course.  That's usually how it works.  Hearing a story that happens over there and never seeing a story that happens right here.  Not sure I'm buying it.  And wouldn't I have heard about a guy getting up after being pronounced dead?  Like on CNN or something?  They would make a big deal of it - after all, the God that created man from dust is semi-retired and not doing these things anymore. 

The following two hours resembled a page taken out of the Old Testament.  Or a not-yet-written page in the New Testament.  A man's joints ached and we prayed healing over his joints and his joints no longer ached, a woman's back was sore and we prayed and soreness left her back, an old woman had neck-pain and we laid our hands on her neck and she was healed.  Muscles.  Bones.  

The guys that weren't praying worshipped.  The church members that weren't in line for healing joined in dancing and singing.  But as more people received healing, more people believed for healing, so more people came up to receive healing.  Backs.  Shoulders.  Knees.  Old women laughed and rejoiced in their pain-free bodies.  There was one more that needed healing.  

She was the smallest person in the church and the first I had noticed and taken a liking too.  During worship she grew two feet taller and her smile was unmistakable passion.   She was not especially old but far from young.  She sat down gingerly and told us that years ago a truck hit her while she crossed the street.  Her knee never healed and pain had followed her for years.  We prayed.  She stood up and spoke the translator and we waited.  The translator smiled.  "She says, while you prayed God gave her a vision.  She was back on the road where she was hit by the truck, and the truck was there.  But this time, the truck drove right by her.  Her pain is gone." 

The events of that day spread amongst our squad and I received an e-mail later from a close friend on another team.  She reminded me of month one in the Dominican, when I needed a miracle.  Or just needed to see a miracle.  And the next month, when I still needed to see a miracle in Ecuador.  God was old and my faith was low.  And the next month in Peru I needed to see a miracle.  And the next one.  "Do you remember what you said?" she asked, "About needing to see a miracle?  I heard what happened, and the one thing you wanted so badly to see this year, this one thing you thought would finally make your faith real... it happened!"  I thought about that, and those first few months, and my old God who either can't or doesn't want to anymore.  For so long, I needed to see something great happen.  It finally did, something truly miraculous, in month ten of an eleven month trip when I no longer needed it.  A miracle - no, several miracles - happened that day, and I didn't think too much about it.  It was a great day for sure, but had little to do with my faith.

He said you can do anything if you have faith, but I think it's more than that.  I think you have to have the kind of faith that doesn't have to have the kind of faith that has to have miracles, but more than that.  I think you have to have the kind of faith that doesn't give a damn whether it's the kind of faith that's going to have miracles because you've fallen so deep into his love that the miracles are a mere afterthought to what He's truly about and one day you're in love in between mountains and before you crazy people dance because you serve a lover that fight's in strength and passion.  That's my God, and He conquers the world, especially then.  Especially today.

"I tell you the truth, anyone who has faith in me will do what I have been doing. He will do even greater things than these, because I am going to the Father."

What is this thing called love?

This funny thing called love?

Just who can solve its mystery?

Why should it make a fool of me?

I saw you there one wonderful day

You took my heart and threw my heart away

That's why I ask the Lord up in Heaven above

What is this thing called love?

- Frank Sinatra

-----

In Uganda I walked down African streets and dust powdered my worn Rainbow flip-flops.  My dear teammate Lacey walked with me, as did our translator.  "I am de evangelist for de church," he told me in broken English days earlier.  It was morning and mornings are meant for local ministry.  That's a nice way to say 'door to door evangelism', but that phrase carries disdain and most avoid saying it when possible. 

We walked by a young girl and Lacey struck up a conversation with her.  They talked about school and what she does for fun and what she wants to be someday.  Or something.  I wasn't really listening because my nose was overriding all other senses and a delicious smell led me behind a house.   It was the girl's mother, she was cooking.  I walked over to tell her how amazing her food smelled and our translator walked quickly to catch up.  "She is Muslim," he told me.  I kept walking.  I told her that her cooking smelled delicious, but she didn't speak English.  

My translator said a few words to her in the local language and she said something back.  He responded again and she did the same.  With each new exchange brought a new and more hostile tone.  She was angry and he was insulted.  Or, maybe the other way around.  I couldn't understand them but I didn't need too.  They were arguing about religion.  I walked back to Lacey and the daughter, still enjoying their conversation.

A bus rattled out of the Peruvian Desert into a quiet beach town with coffee shops and a thirty-year-old ice cream stand and Pacific waves.  For at least fifteen minutes, I sat on that bus quietly facing the front.  But I couldn't help it.  "How long have you been growing your hair?" I turned and asked the guy behind me.  

His dreadlocks were put up in a hat, but let down they easily reached his lower back.  "Oh, he doesn't speak a lot of English," said the girl in an odd accent sitting with him.  "But about 10 years."  The bus rattled and drove parallel to a rocky coast in search of sand and we talked.  "We're from the Earth," she replied.  I've never been to Portland and I've never been to Asheville, but I've seen my fair share of hippies and they were right up there with the best of 'em.  We briefly talked about what we're doing and who we are.  Somewhere in their journey across South America, they met and now traveled together, selling bead necklaces and weed to finance their trip. 

In our talk, the word love was mentioned.  "I believe in real love," she said.  "But the world no longer knows what that means.  It's the most overused word there is.  With boyfriends, girlfriends, friends, neighbors, strangers, in movies and music, about places and people and stuff.  Love.  It's not real anymore.  Its... weak."  I didn't have many words in response, just thoughts, most of them revolving around her seemingly accurate observations.  "Anyway," she said as we stepped off the bus.  "Wanna buy a spliff?"

-----

The New York Times hasn't been delivered to my front tent-flap too often this year.  But, sometimes when I find the internet, I take a peak at the news.  I recently found this story

24 Dead in Worst Cairo Riots since Mubarak Disaster - Oct. 20, 2011

Egypt's official news agency says dozens of 'instigators of chaos' have been arrested after deadly clashes between angry Christians, Muslims and security forces that left 24 dead and at least 200 wounded ... After midnight, mobs roamed downtown streets, attacking cars they suspected had Christians passengers.  In many areas, there was no visible police presence to confront or stop them...

Anger set a perimeter around my heart in attack formation.  Judgment drew their arrows.  I kept reading.

In the past weeks, riots have broken out at two churches in Southern Egypt, prompted by Muslim crowds angry over church construction.  One riot broke out near the city of Aswan, even after church officials agreed to a demand by local Muslims that a cross and bells be removed from the building.

I read the paragraph again then I read it again.  With each read, it altered slightly.  And, with each read anger took a few more steps back until it was gone.  Judgment followed anger in retreat, but my heart still broke.  I read it again.

In the past weeks, riots have broken out at two mosques, prompted by Christian crowds angry over mosque construction.  One riot broke out, even after church officials agreed to a demand by local Christians that the crescent moon and star be removed from the building.

Cambodian children that are loved are loved well.  They sit on daddy's lap and cruise through Phnom Penh on scooters, hands resting on the steering bar and hair blowing and eyes connecting with strangers that walk down streets.  Or they play in the giant play ground near their house as mom watches and laughs and sometimes joins in their fun.  Sometimes they hold hands eating ice cream cones, the girls with pretty silk dresses and oversized bows, the boys with the newest hair styles and blue jeans.  

Some Cambodian children aren't loved well.  Maybe there's a middle ground here between children loved well and children loved unwell.  I haven't seen it.  Then again, I've only been here a couple weeks.  Near the giant play pens, they sell a CD or a flower and if those don't profit, their irresistible face with well-practiced puppy-eyes.  They're mostly boys.  All the time, the owners of CDs and flowers and children stand around the corner, impatiently expecting their return on investment.  Or, they sit on crowded, comfortable couches.  They're mostly girls.  They wait as a man chooses which one he wants for the night.  Or which two.  Just a few extra dollars gets two for the night.  The owner of a brothel can buy a child for as little as $20, though virgins bring in more.  UNICEF's 2009 State of the World's Children report estimated that 45% of Cambodian children are working.  

I preached at a beautiful church Sunday.  The building was fine but the church was beautiful.  Children and teenagers worshipped their dad, the same kids that would have been tortured and murdered thirty years ago, and it was beautiful.  I talked to them about a lot and I told them about loving their brother and sister and neighbor and blah blah.  "And the man that owns those boys at the play ground," I said, "or the man that just can't decide how many 13-year-old girls to rape that night.  Love him well, too."

-----

We went to eat at a nice Italian restaurant in Bangkok after a month of rice and noodles.  There were five of us and menu prices lingered over each bite of Carbonara with extra bacon we ate.  I don't remember how we started talking to them.  They sat two tables down.  One was from Dubai and the other from Iran and both were business men, both were wearing diamond-studded watches.  

We talked for a while, but only with Farook, the man from Dubai.  The Iranian man did not speak English.  Instead, he sat there, and when we smiled, he smiled, as he pretended to enjoy a conversation he couldn't understand.  Farook worked for Shell and made money doing it and was quite interested in our year.  We continued talking for about an hour.  The whole time, the Iranian man sat patiently - no, joyfully.  The conversation came to a close when the waitress came over with our check, but Farook handed her his credit card and told us the meal was on him.  For a moment or maybe longer five men grasped how blessed they were. 

Yet thinking back to that day, it's not the expensive bill I first recall.  The waitress left and the Iranian man walked over to me.  He reached into his pocket, pulled out a pack of gum and held it in my direction.  No words but a smile that spoke.  "I can't talk to you.  I want to bless you.  Your meals already paid for, but I do have some gum."  He did the same for the other guys at the table.  That day I walked Bangkok without garlic breath.

This year, stories have molded my understanding of love, formed my lack of love for other things, and shaped my understanding of hate for other things, like religion.  Even a good one.  And I kind of feel like I get it.  I understand contempt or doubt or fear or resentment or ignorance or anger toward my big brother Jesus and the thing he started a while ago.  Christianity.  Yea I'm a Christian, but I get why they don't want to join me.  Intolerance and judgment and superiority and control and looking down.  And I have a lot of questions and I get why they have them too.  Questions that lead to a thousand handfuls of sects and denominations and doctrines and doubts.  Who is he and why did he do this and not do it like this and I would have done it like this?  Which covenant?  Tongues?  Which commandment?  Prophecy? Which people?  

I prefer Buddhism.  Be peaceful and meditate and throw on an orange robe and obey the Golden Rule or come back as a toad.  Or something.  I've spent 3 months in Buddhist nations and still don't know too much about it, but I know I can follow those guidelines.  He may not be alive inside that golden toy they worship, but in this life I can sacrifice what's real for what's simple.  There are just too many stories and I don't know which rule to follow anymore.  That's why, as I sit on a roof of a tall building and write and the Phnom Penh wind blows louder than the city itself and the end of my World Race begins, I've decided to leave my religion.  

I've decided to go with simple.  I'm taking an alternative to Buddha, though, and I'm opting for love.  That's all that makes sense to me anymore, the only real direction these stories guide me too and I'm tired.  I've been going for a year, the questions have worn me down.  But while love is weak and not real anymore people are hurting every day.  I need my brother's love; he said it conquers the world.  So I'm done with my religion and yours, if you need me I'll be finding stories and making stories that point like a compass and fighting with what was once a question but now a weapon.

The following day in Uganda I walked down African streets light enough that dust didn't react to steps from my worn Rainbows.  I decided before breakfast that I was finished being a missionary with a mission.  Too heavy.  So I threw kids in the air and tickled them until they laughed so hard they cried.  I bought an African-pancake-thing and a Coca-Cola.  I sat down next to a man.  Nobody told me he was Muslim and I didn't care.  We talked about nothing or something that some may consider something but I don't remember either way.  He finally asked why I was here.  I told him I travel the world loving people because it's what a guy that I know personally liked to do.  "I would like to know more about this man," he said.  "Could you tell me about him?"

(This is a long post. It's a post that has taken me many months and countries to write, not because of its length, but its difficulty. I've enjoyed writing an occasional blog this year, but not this one. This story describes, I think, the longest day of my life, though the total hours of the day equal much more than 24. It's my perspective and my heart on what happened, and the truth the best I can remember it. So if you're able to find the time to read this, I really appreciate it, and thank you so much for your prayers and support this year.)

For part 3, click Here (part 1 and 2 aren't necessary for the story)

And he said, "Jesus, remember me when you come into your kingdom." And Jesus said to him, "Truly, I say to you, today you will be with me in Paradise."

-          Luke 23:43

There's a sound I hear in my thoughts every now and then. It's not a yell; it's more than that. It's not a scream, either; it's less alarming than that.  Maybe a moan joined with a cry, maybe a wail.  It's desperate. Anthony. Anthony. Anthony. Whatever the sound may be labeled, it's always accompanied with a picture of three boys throwing themselves on the roof of a casket.

Wednesday Morning

My eyes open. I'm not surprised, as they had opened about a dozen times in the last 5 hours. But this is different. The sky is a shade lighter than the last time I saw it. The sun will be up soon - time to get on the water. 

The night before, I imagined a beach under the stars. I imagined the chaos of the day making an easy transition to peaceful rest with ocean waves in my background. I imagined laying on sand to be like laying on a sleep number mattress already numbered to my liking. Sometimes my imagination doesn't disappoint. I sit up, and my sore back assures me this is not one of those times. Even with the long day before, I only manage a couple hours of sleep on the hard sand. 

Five local men from the church meet us at the beach, and we take a short drive to where we'll cast off. I recognize the boat immediately. I've seen it a million times, though I never thought of it as a boat that actually goes on the water. Just a worn, wooden beach prop in the foreground of a Florida postcard. It's ancient. I can still make out the slight shade of blue-green paint, though it had long ago given way to a deep -gray, and the only vibrant color remaining was the bright rust on the nails. I imagine a weary, wrinkled Spanish man from a Hemingway novel applying the last brush stroke to the wood of his brand new boat 100 years ago. The single-engine roars. The day's too real to escape for more than a few seconds. 

Freighters cast shadows as we sputter away from the coast. We're too small for them to notice. We pass a small island with a wall all the way around. Diego tells me it's the Alcatraz of Nicaragua, then points at a lump in the ocean. It's far away, but I'm sure. We found him. I thought it would be more difficult - we weren't on the water for more than hour - there he is, though, facedown and long hair swirling with the waves. My heart goes missing for a moment, but I quickly find it in my throat. Though our mission is to find him, though we need to find him, a part of me begs my eyes to be wrong. 

Everyone stands and the boat rocks. We float closer. Anthony's body turns into a log, his hair into seaweed. It's hard to distinguish between the sighs of relief and disappointment. The owner of the boat looks for the next current, and we move along without a beat. The second hour passes, and eyes remain glued for any change from rolling waves. There is none, and another hour passes. And another. 

We ride from one side of the coast to the other, and then again and again. A man in the back of the boat falls asleep as others drift in and out of consciousness with the waves. An hour passes. The heaviness, alertness, and excited-nervousness I had subside to regrets of no sunscreen, breakfast or sleep. It's not that we want to give up; it's that we know we're searching for a needle in an ocean. In a wet, hot desert. Misty saltwater settles into my eyes, and I can no longer tell if the endless blue I see comes from an ocean or a sky. An hour passes.

The sun begins its slow decline towards the West when a boat driven by soldiers slowly floats next to us. They exchange words in Spanish, and quickly drive off. "It's the Nicaraguan Marines," says Diego. "They're looking for Anthony." We make one more trip down the coast and realize the boats the Marines are in are really fast. Or maybe our boat is really slow. Either way, it's time to go home. 

"The burden of the desert of the sea. As whirlwinds in the south pass through; so it comes from the desert, from a terrible land."

-          Isaiah 21:1

Wednesday Afternoon

I take a bus back to New Song, it's about an hour ride. I walk in the door thinking of food and bed. My upset teammates greet me with hugs and questions. I notice the number of hugs exceed the number of teammates, because my friends Vanessa, Erin and Denise had come over, as there ministry for the month is only a few minutes away. "Can we talk for a minute," asks Vanessa.

We walk to the kitchen. "You're team is staying here another month, while the rest of the teams go to El Salvador," she says.

Even before Tuesday, we had been requesting to stay at New Song for one more month. I'm too tired to be happy about the news. She continues.

"What if I told you I wanted you to take Erin, Denise and I back to the beach this afternoon?"

"Why?" I ask in a comical tone.

"Because I think we're supposed to go look for Anthony, and I think the Lord wants you to take us," she says.

"It's 4 o'clock," I reply. "I haven't eaten today and slept for maybe two hours last night."

"I know," she says.

"It takes an hour to get to the beach. It will be dark soon. It's too late to get a boat. The tide is out, so nothing will be washing up on the beach. The Marines are looking for him now. I looked for nearly 10 hours today and found nothing. It's the day before Easter - the last day of Holy Week - people will be on the beach drunk and partying. He's been out there for over 30 hours now. I'm tired." My reasons are as exhaustive as my tone in giving them. 

"I know," she says. "I know it's crazy and I know it's stupid. It makes no sense. I don't know why we're supposed to go, I just know we're supposed to go."

I tell her to check and see if Chris will go. "He can't. You're supposed to lead us there," she says. We pause for a moment.

"Alright," I reply, "Give me five minutes."

We pay a little extra for a taxi to the beach. Sand, familiar from the night before, kicks up with each step from my flip-flops. The sun will be setting soon. It's too late to get a boat. The tide is out. The Marines are still on the water. On the beach, drunken adults mix with playing children. Everything is just as I said it would be. 

We stand there for a few minutes, unsure of what to do next. "I don't think we're going to find him tonight," says Vanessa. I can't tell if there is disappointment in her voice. "Let's walk down the beach and just pray over it," I suggest. The crowd dwindles the further we walk. Eventually, it's just the four of us and the ocean. We spend a few minutes alone, praying.

It's difficult to express my thoughts and feelings during those few minutes alone. I had spent so many hours searching. As I look out onto the water, at that moment the ocean was not the ocean. It was not the desert, either, as it had been earlier. It was just infinite space, a vastness to great to understand. My hope was as lost as Anthony. 

Still, though.  What if? The question lingers in the back of my mind, against hopelessness' every effort. What if a rebellious tide rages against the moon? What if his body washes up in front of our eyes? What if he is... alive? What if God is a God of miracles?

Vanessa and Erin walk over to me. The sun has almost disappeared, and I notice the partiers are gone; there are only three men left down the beach. We should be leaving soon. Vanessa asks me to pray once more before we find a taxi. A pointless trip. 

I look at the sunset, now a thousand shades of pink and orange, and close my eyes. I mutter a few defeated words of prayer but stop. I open my eyes and the three men down the beach are now standing between me and the sunset. My thoughts immediately run to drunk, Nicaraguan men that spotted some young, gringo women. One of them says something in Spanish, and reaches his hand out to me. I turn to Vanessa, the only Spanish speaker among us. 

 "Meet Anthony's father," she says with a grin.

Wednesday Night

He saw Anthony now and then, and had always paid for his school. He was short and stocky, and spoke softly. Under a thick Nicaraguan mustache was a sad, kind smile. I had heard about him. 

He lived in Leon, about an hour outside of Chichigalpa. He had a family, a new family, that he started years ago after divorcing Anthony's mother. New wife, new children, new home, and a new city. But that was yesterday.

Tonight, Boanerges Jose is a father to a young boy that needs the help of a father, perhaps one last time. And so, all day he walked down the beach, eyes to the sea. Once he reached the end, he turned around. And he would walk up the beach. Then, he would do it again - a father trying desperately to make up for years of absence on a crowded beach the day before Easter. Perhaps if he could find Anthony, he would forgive himself. I've often wondered, had he not recognized me from the night before at the beach, if he would have walked with eyes on the dark ocean all night long, or longer. I was supposed to come tonight, after all.

My hand meets his and we go through introductions. Boanerges is with Anthony's uncle, and a friend from Leon that came with him to help. We talk about how it happened, my time on the water today and the Marines. We talk about the ocean tide and national news reporters that found out what happened. Then we talk about Anthony.

"How was he doing?" he asks.

 "Has he learned English? I remember he really wanted to learn English."

"What has he been up too?"

He has no answers to the simple questions about his 16-year-old boy. 

"He's been doing so well," I reply while Vanessa translates. "He's so smart, he pretty much knows English, though sometimes he's too shy to speak it around us. He's been playing a lot of sports. We were playing baseball a few days ago, and he was showing off to the girls a little bit. But, most of all, he loves American football. My friend Chris has been playing a lot with him, teaching him how to throw a spiral, and catch the ball, too. He loves it!"

Then, God spoke. It's important to understand, as I previously said, that Anthony wasn't especially athletic to begin with, but Diego had brought a football to New Song only a few weeks before. It was the first time any of them had ever actually held a football. The first day I met all the boys at New Song, I most remember Anthony's comical lack of ability to throw or catch the ball. Even still, he loved watching it on television, and with a football, he loved playing it. 

His face transforms when I tell him Anthony loved football. Though it's an expression I'll never forget, it's one that is difficult to describe. It's the face of a proud - no, the proudest - father. The face of a man whose past can't effect the way he sees his boy. The way he loves his boy. Even through pain and absence, his thoughts of Anthony couldn't change, because he was a father.

"Yea, that makes sense," he boasts in Spanish. "That makes sense that Anthony would love football. Anthony always was strong and athletic. I could see him being a great football player someday."

My mind flashes back to the boys and Anthony, trying to complete passes. 

"That's good. I'm glad he was playing American football," he says with a confirming nod.

The perfect image of God the father. Shortcomings, failures, runaway attempts, disobedience, selfishness and rebellion towards our father. And, still, He refuses to see us as anything but righteous, beloved, holy, blameless, perfect. Strong and athletic.

We turn our backs, fail, choose to not love him, and still, God says with a confirming nod, "That's my boy - this is my son - he always was strong and athletic. And with him I am well pleased."

 On a dark beach with a son lost at sea, healing is taking place in the heart of a father. We can't go home yet. There's a small pizza stand still open on the beach, and we ask them if we can buy them dinner. The next couple hours are spent laughing and talking about Jesus and Anthony. There are hugs and thank yous. It wasn't until later that I realize I had seen a miracle.

Vanessa, Erin and Denise, along with squad mates Jeremiah and Tiffany, agree with Boanerges to search for Anthony in the morning. After dropping them off at their house, I walk in the door of New Song to weeping teenagers. My teammates hold kids in their arms, soaking shirts with tears. They pray for each other and we pray for them. We all pray for Anthony. Lisa writes a blog that night called 'Drowning.' It's about her own drowning.

Thursday Morning

My eyes open. Diego gives the door a single knock and walks in. "They found him. We're heading over to the beach." He leaves the room, and that's it. The search is over.

Fifty teenagers, parents, pastors and World Racers cram into the back of Ol' Reliable. Standing room only. Diego tells us that Anthony's body washed up this morning. His father found him. The ride to the beach is solemn, a muffled cry is heard on occasion. It's a short boat ride down a river to the beach, and the women stay at the truck. I never see Anthony, as the casket arrives minutes before I do. 

The river is too low, and we have to wait a couple hours to return to the truck with the coffin. On the beach, I meet my five squad mates, covered in sand. Boanerges had found Anthony with the sunrise, after less than an hour of searching. When the Racers caught up with him, they spent the next couple hours praying for him and over Anthony's body. 

"We were full of faith," Vanessa later blogged, "believing with everything we were that God's will was for Anthony to live on this earth again."

But it just didn't happen. He never woke up and eventually the coffin came. I don't know why he didn't wake up. But I think back to the vision from Tuesday, when a King took Anthony into his arms. Into his love. That sounds like a better place to be than here. The river rises and we move his coffin into the boat. 

"For I know that the Lord is great and that our Lord is above all gods.  Whatever the Lord pleases, He does, in heaven and in earth, in the seas and in all deeps." 

-          Psalm 135:5-6

One Week Earlier

Teenagers are teenagers no matter the location or culture. When we asked the boys who had been friends the longest, the response was, well, that of a teenage boy. "We're not really friends," replied Gato. "We just hang out a lot." 

"Yea, we go to the same church and see each other all the time," echoed Abel.

It made complete sense and was very confusing at the same time.

Thursday Afternoon

Americans always do it right. "Let us show you how to do it correctly," we say. The coffin is carried to the truck and we go straight to the cemetery.  Shirtless men dig a hole with shovels. There is no mortician, no suit and no arrangement. It's odd at first, and even slightly disturbing for some of the Americans there. But then it starts to make sense to me. 

Back home, we live in denial about death as a reality. Like if we did die someday, it would be so long from now it's not worth thinking about. So when there actually is a death, it's so unlikely that it's deserving of a ceremony. And so we dress the dead body in black, then we dress in black. And we make the body look good for an open casket. And we go about like maybe in that dead body, somewhere, is still a living person. 

But in nations where people will die someday, funerals are less masquerade, more burial. Death is treated as more than just a possibility that the person is no longer on Earth. It's treated like what it is, a dead corpse. There's a real kind of faith involved. It's another hot day and men continue to dig.

Under a pavilion, about 10 feet away from the hole, sits Anthony's casket. The community slowly enters the pavilion; the kids are already there. Quiet sobs echo off the metal ceiling. Emerson, Anthony's best friend, held onto his hair as the waves crashed and death loomed. He reaches out to Anthony once again. "Anthony!" he yells. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry."

Real love can transcend any relationship, any wrong, at any age, even a teenager. Abel and Gato, two of Anthony's closest friends, join Emerson at the front. Though the three of them are just guys that hang out together, they put their arms around each other, and cry as one on the roof of the casket. In their brokenness and heartache, they loved, and Jesus wept. 

"Anthony," Abel wails. "Anthony, Anthony, Anthony."

Worship music begins to play softly and the cries continue loudly. Only, it's different. Hands raise in submission.

"Jesus, Jesus, oh Jesus," the youth cry with hands raised. 

Training camp in Gainesville, Ga.  My church in Murfreesboro. On a lake in Phuket, Thailand. Youth events. I had been part of so many powerful times of worship. In a hot cemetery on the longest day of my life in Chichigalpa, Nicaragua, I saw the most heart-felt, life-giving worship I had ever seen. But the hole was finished.

They carry the casket and lower it in the ground. After a prayer, Abel, Gato, Emerson and a couple of the other boys from the church pick up the shovels. With tears left back at the pavilion, they bury their friend. If finding Anthony on the beach was closure, burying him was the opening for a life without Anthony. And for some, for the first time, a life with Jesus.

Everybody goes home soon after. We watch a silly 90s movie - Hook or Home Alone - and the day is over.

We know that in all things God works for the good of those that love him. I visited Haiti a few months after one of the most devastating natural disasters in history and saw lives redeemed. There were millions of others I didn't see. Without the earthquake, it may have never happened.  Sometimes we don't see the mysterious ways God works when bad things happen. This time, though, we did.

I often think of the things I learned during that long Nicaraguan day in April. It's difficult to answer, though. The easy answer is: something changed in me. And on this trip, when something changes in me, it's not really because I learned something. Learning something can only change your mind. It takes more than that to change. 

In Ephesians, Paul writes, "I pray also that the eyes of your heart may be enlightened in order that you may know the hope to which he has called you, the riches of the glorious inheritance in the saints." To change, it takes a Father that would wander endlessly on a beach for his son.

My eyes opened.

"Seeing death as the end of life is like seeing the horizon as the end of the ocean."

Q: Which story is real?

1. The first story
2. The second story
3. The third story
4. None of the above
5. All of the above

Characters: man, witches, loving woman, children, young boy, neighbor, villagers, police

Setting:  Small African village with several mud huts and dirt roads. Many children playing and women outside washing clothes. The sun is out and the mood is joyful.

Act I

Narrator - Once there was a man that lived a few hours south from where I lived in Seta, Uganda. 

(Enter man)

Narrator - He lived in a small village, with lots of children that played. Many of these kids visited the house of a loving woman. 

(Enter loving woman and children)

Narrator - They visited because she gave them something to eat. But the man walked around town talking to himself, and many villagers thought he was crazy. He began to spend time with witches that lived around town. The witches told him a sacrifice should be made. 

(Audience laugh track)

Narrator - He walked to the women's house. Nobody was home but one 12-year-old boy. 

(Enter 12-year-old African child)

Narrator - The man cut the boys head off with the machete he had brought. The witches needed the head. He put it in a paper bag. A neighbor saw him in the house and the bag in his arms. 

(Enter neighbor)

Narrator - The neighbor thought the man was stealing. He tried to grab the bag. The 12-year-old boys head rolled out. 

Neighbor - Murderer, Murderer!

Narrator - The man ran out of the house. He went to the police station and confessed. He knew the police were his only chance to save him from the village. 

(Enter police)

Narrator - The village came to the police station at night. 

(Enter village people)

Narrator - They wanted the man. The police shot their guns in the air to scare the village away. They accidently shot and killed two villagers. 

Village people - Murderer, Murderer!

Narrator - The police ran away from the station. The village pulled the man out of the jail and brought him outside. 

(Cue audience laugh track, Exit police)

Narrator - The man begged for his life on his knees. But a man from the village hit him on the top of his head with an ax. 

(Audience applause)

(Credits)

Characters: men and women that live, eat, breathe and work garbage, dead babies, two sisters

Setting: Peruvian mountains of trash that go on forever, the constant flow of dump trucks that are never empty, and a thick cloud of toxic smoke pollutes the air

Act II

Narrator - Recently, they stopped letting children work here. The dump trucks pull in and competition ensues. Peruvians wielding long, wooden sticks with hooks search for treasure. They don't get paid for the dead babies or body parts they find on occasion. They don't get paid for the glass cuts in their skin, either. 

(Enter Sister #1 and Sister #2)

Sister #1 - Just the electronics and plastics. 

Narrator - They search for 12 hours, but usually more. They have to; they're paid on commission. There are children to feed back home. 

Sister #2 - I have a two-year-old girl. We live right over there.

(Sister #2 points to the outskirts of the dump)

Narrator - Sometimes, back home doesn't exist.  The burning never stops. A constant scent of burning garbage and feces. A backup reminder of where you spend life, in case your eyes would ever fail you. Standing on trash, digging through trash, waiting for more trash. Such is life. The sisters live it. They wear trash- covered rags, and still, there's a beauty to them. But, with the exception of dump truck drivers, no one will ever see them. There's disease. There's a cemetery on the outskirts of the garbage. Born in a garbage dump, live in a garbage dump, buried in a garbage dump. Such is death. This world is in Ecuador, too. And Africa. And other places, where they haven't stopped letting children work there.   

(Audience applause)

(Credits)

Characters: tourists, bartenders, corrupt cops, young girls, lady-boys, child, missionary

Setting: a mile long road in Southern Thailand, lit so bright there is no room for shadows; cars are replaced with poor, young Thai girls and wealthy, old Western men

Act III

Narrator - God used the rib of Adam to form woman and a filthy alleyway used the lights of Times Square to form Bangla Road. Eyes open just a little wider the first time they see it, and rainbows are put to shame against infinite neon of every shade. It casts a glow to the street and a promise of something very different. Yea, there's something in those lights. 

(Enter tourists)

(Audience applauds)

Tourist #1 - It's the best place in the world for one reason and one reason only: It's a man's playground. 

Tourist #2 - It's part of their life. It's the way their culture is. It's not a big deal.

(Enter Thai girls)

Narrator - They're renowned for their smiles.  One smile from a young Thai girl can make a man feel preferred, handsome and appreciated. Beautiful smiles from every direction welcome you into Bangla Road. Girls that look like they've never been happier reach for your arm and stroke your back as you walk by them.  

Tourist #3 - I'll tell you one thing for sure, working here is a helluva lot better than working in the rice fields.

Narrator - They come from Northern Thailand, or Burma, or somewhere else where money is scarce. Girls, sometimes not old enough to be out of high school, come to find jobs in hotels or restaurants, unaware that English is mandatory for a job in Phuket. Stuck without a job or money, girls are funneled down into Bangla Road. Some begin in the bars, where they're required to go home with men at the bar. Others work in the closed door bars, dancing or performing 'shows' for men sometimes old enough to be their grandfather. Others skip past the facade - the bartending and the dancing - and stay outside the bars, on the streets. There's no need for fake smiles or small talk with this job. She's a product, and there are thousands of shoppers every night. She's raped by the highest bidder. 

(Enter Missionary)

Missionary - Do you want to know what they tell me? I met a girl on the street the other night, and I asked her if she was afraid to be working here because two girls on the street were killed by their clients in the last two months. She said, 'I wanna die. If I die and I go to hell it would be better than this.'

(Enter lady-boys and the children)

Narrator - There are special bars designated for the lady-boys. These are Gender-confused boys that dance like female strippers every night. It's controversial and it draws a crowd and it makes money. When they make enough money, they pay for a sex-change operation. The lady-boy bar is one of the most crowded on Bangla Road. Tourists laugh at the lady boys. Most, if not all, of the boys' confusion comes from sexual abuse at a young age.

(Audience laugh track)

Tourist #4 - A lot of it is illusion, what you see on the streets here. It's all about the visual smorgasbord. Behind the polished facade here is a very sad, empty, empty place.

(Enter child)

Narrator - Dim the neon lights. Look behind the beautiful smile. Mute the laughter from the lady-boys. That's the only way to see a child sold to an adult. A boy or a girl, maybe 12, maybe younger. 

(Audience applause)

(Credits)

Answer: D. None of the above

I've seen these stories unfold, but they couldn't be true. They couldn't. When my thoughts go to what I saw, they leave confused once more. 

The battle between light and dark, white and black is no longer in question. A battle "against evil rulers and authorities of the unseen world, against mighty powers in this dark world, and against evil spirits in the heavenly places" can no longer be argued against. 

Murder and witches and garbage and babies and little girls and slavery. These are just three stories of this world. There are millions more. I've still never seen the genocide in Sudan, the child soldiers in Burma, or the terrorism in Afghanistan.  There is an evil in this world, and it fights against love. Dark and light.

But the confusion doesn't come from the reality of this war. It comes from the reality of the slightly shaded area of gray in between. Those called to spend a life in love but spend a life on the fence instead. My confusion comes from the Border States named American Christians. I've seen the story of Good vs. Evil this year. But there's another story. An act IV.

There are two settings in this story. One is an educated, comfortable religion that lives in its self-proclaimed nickname the First World. The other is a suffering, lonely, sick, struggling, helpless place called Most of the World. 

The supporting characters are women living in garbage and dead babies and men living through the NFL and child soldiers and the dying and sex slaves and women needing new cars and glue-kids and starving girls and homeless boys. But the main character is a king with only two commands, who loved, fought, died, conquered, fulfilled and set free ferociously. Only two commands.

Jesus - A new command I gave you: Love one another.  As I have loved you, so you must love another.  By this everyone will know that you are my disciples, if you love one another.

That 'love one another' thing - that 'love your neighbor' thing - isn't so bad.  Jesus, thanks for saving me and loving me and forgiving me.  In return, i can try to love my neighbor... no problem.  But then, it got confusing.  When He said, 'I am the neighbor,' it got serious.

"Lord, when did we see you hungry and feed you, or thirsty and give you drink?  And when did we see you a stranger and welcome you, or naked and clothe you?  And when did we see you sick or in prison and visit you?'  And the King will answer them, 'Truly, I say to you, as you did it to one of the least of these my brothers, you did it to me."

One more time: Murder and witches and garbage and babies and little girls and slavery and genocide and child soldiers and terrorism. One day, He will say to some, "depart from me."

Jesus - For I was hungry and you gave me no food, I was thirsty and you gave me no drink, I was a stranger and you did not welcome me, naked and you did not clothe me, sick and in prison and you did not visit me.'

(Audience applause)

(Credits)

Answer: E. These stories are real.  The war is real.  Just because you haven't seen them, ignore them, or are too busy for them doesn't make them disappear.  There are people a short walk, or drive, or a short flight away that suffer daily. Their name is Jesus.

This isn't for me to judge the Christians back home just because I'm on a 'mission trip'.  I'm talking to myself, too.  I'll be home in 3 months.  The only difference is that now I've seen it.

The stories are real, and there is no slightly shaded area of gray in this battle. There's dark, there's light. Jesus said not only can you make a difference, you better make a difference. Bring Kingdom to Earth. I've heard Christians talk about love and caring like it's a gift. Like it's an option. There are those that choose love and those that choose to ignore it. There are those that hear Jesus, and those that hear Jesus and obey. The only thing not real is that gray area.

I guess the reason I'm confused is because although we know the story closes with 'And the poor and needy lived happily ever after. The End,' we act like the credits won't roll.