Sunday, December 8, 2013


As much as I want to believe in a God who would only give me extraordinary flawless health and overflowing comforts, I don’t know He exists. Before you think I have abandoned my faith, hear me out. The God who only desires His people to be wealthy and healthy is a God of one’s na├»ve blinded imagination. Does God desire good things for those who follow Him? Absolutely, He is the giver of all good things, but at times I believe God knows we must go through suffering and hardships in order to walk in His will. In His infinite wisdom, through His ways which our not our ways, He knows we must endure to know Him.  He desires His glory to be known and the best for those who love Him. But the best He has for us and His greatest glory does not always appear as a white picket fence, early retirement, or perfect health. It could for some, but often times it does not. Sometimes His plan isn’t as we first imagined it. We pray for certain things such as “God, grow my faith,” “Lord, give me patience,” “Father, make me strong,” but we don’t expect to go through anything which would produce those requests. We want to be like a pitcher of water into which God pours more patience. Instead of painful circumstances producing strength, a law the athlete knows well, we wish for supernatural granted strength for which we traded nothing. I see Him looking at us in confusion saying, “Don’t know you know you are walking through this trial for the purpose of me answering your very prayers.” For me, when I realize He is answering my prayers through trial and actually growing my faith, I think, this isn’t really what I had in mind.

I know Jesus suffered. I know Jesus suffered. He had to. He chose to. But do you ever wonder was the only price paid by the God of the universe a few hours on a cross? Was it all over then? Was it just a series of physically painful events that sealed my life for eternity? All my sins gone because a man allowed himself to be bloodied on a cross? How does that work? With great reverence I gaze at the cross eternally thankful, but my heart yearns there must be more. More to this sacrifice. Jesus didn’t only go through physical trials in order to pay my price. My debt was high, unforgiven by merely the physical. Since many men have been crucified, it wasn’t just the style of execution that counted me righteous, was it? Do we realize the sacrifice our Savior went through? We cannot fathom all that took place. The sacrifice was much more significant than our minds can conceive. Do we understand that Son had to bear the wrath of the Father of which we deserved? But isn’t He one with the Father? Was there complete separation in the only holy perfect person in relationship, the Trinity? I can’t emphasize enough that our minds can’t wrap around this, but the following excerpt from a book brings me a little closer to understanding the magnitude of sacrifice it took to pay my price. It also helps me trust a God who sometimes calls me to suffer for the greater good.

He had created humans to mirror him, not be miniatures of Lucifer. Something was needed to cut through the stench and salvage of this pathetic race. Some medicine more potent than anyone knew of. Some procedure. Some life-giving surgery.
The king became the Great Physician. Summoning his compassion and his plumbless wisdom he conceived of a surgery. How to save the patients without trivializing their guilt? (They had knowingly spread the fatal sickness among them.) How to cure them without letting the horror of the disease ever be forgotten? How to mingle mercy with justice? How to slice the cancer from their souls and leave no scar?
            He prepared for the procedure by donning not gloves and a lab coat but a mortal body. Did it feel a few sizes too small? He stretched himself upon the operating table.
            His hand reaching for a saw…

Now, the Son of God dropped to the dirt in an olive grove and vomited in his soul at the prospect before him. Eleven men who would later change world history – some, accustomed to working all night in their fishing boats – could not keep awake for the scene. Yet sixty feet away their eternal destinies were being fought over. Except for the heaving of those shoulders who bore the weight of the world, nothing could be seen in the shadowy spot where the Son of God groaned. But the bleachers of heaven filled to capacity that night – all hell strained its neck to see how the spectacle in that lonely acre would end. The Father gazed down and gave his sober nod. The Son stared back, and bowed his acceptance. A line of men and torches snaked down from the city, through the blackness, towards the garden. God in the flesh saw them coming through tear-blurred eyes that refused to blink.
            “It’s time to get up,” he quietly told the eleven.
            The torches arrived. The sheep fled. The shepherd stood. The hurricane struck…

--- Read these next lines slow. Understand every word---

The Savior was now thrown to men quite different from the eleven. The face that Moses had begged to see – was forbidden to see – was slapped bloody. The thorns that God had sent to curse the earth’s rebellion now twisted around his own brow. His back, buttocks, and the rear of his legs felt the whip – soon they looked like plowed Judean fields outside the city. “On with the blindfold!” someone shouts. “That’s it – now spin him. Who hit you?” By the time the spitting is through, more saliva is on him than in him. No longer can he be recognized. “Cut him down from the post! Send him toting his crossbar to the playground.” Up Skull Hill to the welcome of the other poorly paid legionaries enjoying themselves.
            “On your back with you!” One raises a mallet to sink in the spike. But the soldier’s heart must continue pumping as he readies the prisoner’s wrist. Someone must sustain the soldier’s life minute by minute, for no man has this power on his own. Who supplies the breath to his lungs? Who gives energy to his cells? Who holds his molecules together? Only by the Son do “all things hold together” (Colossians 1:17). The victim wills that the soldier live on – he grants the warrior’s continued existence. The man swings.
            As the man swings, the Son recalls how he and the Father first designed the medial nerve of the human forearm – the sensations it would be capable of. The design proves flawless – the nerve performs exquisitely. “Up you go!” They lift the cross. God is on display and can scarcely breathe.
            But these pains are a mere warm-up to his other and growing dread. He begins to feel a foreign sensation. Somewhere during this day an unearthly foul odor began to waft, not around his nose, but his heart. He feels dirty. Human wickedness starts to crawl upon his spotless being – the living excrement from our souls. The apple of his Father’s eye turns brown with rot.
            His Father! He must face His Father like this!
            From heave the Father now rouses himself like a lion disturbed, shakes his main, and roars against the shriveling remnant of a man hanging on a cross. Never has the Son seen the Father look at him so, never felt even the least of his hot breath. But the roar shakes the unseen world and darkens the visible sky. The Son does not recognize these eyes.
            “Son of Man! Why have you behaved so? You have cheated, lusted, stolen, gossiped – murdered, envied, hated, lied. You have cursed, robbed, overspent, overeaten – fornicated, disobeyed, embezzled, and blasphemed. Oh, the duties you have shirked, the children you have abandoned! Who has ever ignored the poor, so played the coward, so belittled my name? Have you ever held your razor tongue? What a self-righteous, pitiful drunk – you, who molest you boys, peddle killer drugs, travel in cliques, and mock your parents. Who gave you the boldness to rig elections, foment revolutions, torture animals, and worship demons? Does the list never end! Splitting families, raping virgins, acting smugly, buying politicians, practicing extortion, filming pornography, accepting bribes. You have burned down buildings, perfected terrorist tactics, founded false religions, traded in slaves – relishing each morsel and bragging about it all. I hate, I loathe these things in you! Disgust for everything about you consumes me! Can you not feel my wrath?”
            Of course the Son is innocent. He is blamelessness itself. The Father knows this. But the divine pair have an agreement, and the unthinkable must now take place. Jesus will be treated as if personally responsible for every sin ever committed.
            The Father watches as his heart’s treasure, the mirror-image of himself, sinks drowning into raw, liquid sin. Jehovah’s stored rage against humankind from every century explodes in a single direction.
            “Father! Father! Why have you forsaken me!?”
            But heaven stops its ears. The Son stares up at the One who cannot, who will not, reach down or reply.
            The Trinity had planned it. The Son had endured it. The Spirit enabled him. The Father rejected the Son who he loved. Jesus, the God-man from Nazareth, perished. The Father accepted his sacrifice for sin and was satisfied. The Rescue was accomplished.
            God set down his saw.
            This is who asks us to trust him when he calls on us to suffer.[1]

After retyping those words from this book… I don’t even want to continue. Who am I to claim I have suffered? I don’t know the meaning of the word! Suffering for me is having someone dislike me, not crucify me!

I hesitate to claim suffering, but suffering is how the last season has felt. The word “cancer” placed a weight on me that Jesus alone could lift. It has impacted my thoughts and relationships, attacking them both. Two weeks out from surgery, I am regaining my strength and beginning to see the other side, but even through surgery my suffering was miniscule next to what those around me have experienced. It is certainly trivial next to the cross where my sin was paid. But, I am seeing purpose in it. Glimpses at first, then brighter lights, but I know they are only foreshadowing what is to come. The doctor said that my cancer was young, caught early, and extracted quickly. It was slow to grow and yet to invade my body. It was a snake killed young, before it was able to harm. The surgeon’s trained hands prayerfully removed it all. Tomorrow I have a body scan to confirm the hopes. Prayers have flooded heaven on my behalf and I have never felt so loved. I don’t know future surfacing outcomes, but I am seeing glimpses of God’s love through those around me. Compassionate, loyal, patient, and gentle. Those closest to me would sweat blood in prayer on my behalf. I see Jesus in them praying, kneeling in the garden, petitioning for my health. Every prayer is finished with the same I am learning to pray, “Let you will, not my own, be done.”
I praise God, literally praise God, that cancer has not damaged me as I have seen it do to loved ones around me. My life is spared and the disease is fleeting. My battle was hard, but short. What about the others? What about the lives it claims? Was God less faithful to them? By no means! One truth I learned through a pastor I trust, the term “cancer survivor” has little to do with life and death, but more the overcoming of trial through trust in Jesus. The greatest warriors, who lost battles to cancer, survived valiantly as they clinged to Jesus. Their lives shined spotlights on His faithfulness. I may be exhausted, but I only know a teardrop of suffering in an ocean of pain. Just as Job’s life is recounted timelessly, those who suffer greatly will more know the Savior who suffered ultimately on their behalf.

Our God is a God who does want the best for His children. He also desires to use us for His glory. We are His instruments with a purpose. We exist to make Him known! At times, in order for both of those to happen, we must suffer. When I use the word suffer in the sense of a believer suffering, it is hard for me to get out of my head the gruesome persecution global Christians endure daily. I don’t know the taste of the word suffer. Nonetheless, we suffer in different forms. It can come to us in a job loss, broken relationship, crushed hope, dangerous disease, or the constant feeling of failure. It may not be lashes in our back, but the produced emotion can ring similar. It is suffering. I had a good friend recently tell me, through suffering we can better identify with Christ on the cross.

Paul writes, “Indeed, I count everything as loss because of the surpassing worth of knowing Christ Jesus my Lord. For his sake I have suffered the loss of all things and count them as rubbish, in order that I may gain Christ and be found in him, not having a righteousness of my own that comes from the law, but that which comes through faith in Christ, the righteousness from God that depends on faith— that I may know him and the power of his resurrection, and may share his sufferings, becoming like him in his death, that by any means possible I may attain the resurrection from the dead.”

Regardless of what lies ahead, I am learning. Slowly and painfully at times, the God who weaved together every tendon in my body is teaching me what it means to know Him and trust Him. Although my suffering is small and short, it is real, and as I learn more of the truth of Jesus on the cross, my sufferings make more sense. Just as Jesus' suffering saved a perishing race, I pray in some small way mine are His same light into a dark world. Jesus alone, who gives rest to the weary and comfort to the suffering, can make that true. There is purpose in the pain. 

[1] Eareckson Tada, Joni; When God Weeps, pg. 52-54

Sunday, December 1, 2013

Simply Writing

Yes, write.
“But, I don’t even know what to write about.”
You don’t have to know, just write.
“Who would read it Lord?”
Don’t write for the reader, just write.

This was a little how my conversation with God went about three months ago when I sat in a hospital room. Time in the hospital really gives you opportunities to think. I have learned I think too much. For some reason, I feel like I am supposed to start writing again. It used to be a passion of mine which I let fall dormant, but God keeps nudging me, write, write, write. My problem has proven persistent since over the past three months these are the first words I have written. I have been searching for a topic to write, but I’m beginning to think it is simply a justified procrastination. It’s as if I am looking for a solution before walking through a problem. I am trying to see the final picture before I will paint the first stroke. Promised words are pretty worthless without followed action.

But for whom should I write? Me. I write countless emails and letters, isn’t that enough? Do I have to write for people to read? No. Do I have to write for someone? No. Then for what? Because I asked you to write, write anything.

I have realized that using gifts and passions God has given you isn’t about the audience to whom they are directed. It isn’t only for the end of who is served. Serving isn’t always solely about the orphan. You don’t serve for only the orphan’s sake. Giving isn’t simply for the sake of the poor or the generosity of the giver. Building isn’t just for the beauty of structure built or the family sheltered. It is about the God who gave the resources, hearts, and talents to those who build. You teach because God has gifted you to teach. If God gives you a voice, you sing, and if He gives you a pen, you write. I don’t profess to be a writer, but if God has asked me to write and given me a desire to write, then my writing should be for God alone. I so often want to make it for the purpose of a reputation or the benefit of another’s mind, but what if it isn’t about either? It is simply being a good steward of an implanted desire.

So, I am writing. The only why I have answered is that it is for God alone, regardless if this page is ever read by another. For the sake of my pride, it may be better if eyes never skim this page.

Either I am a slow learner or Jesus wants to teach me decades worth of teachings in minutes worth of time, but the past month’s trials have seemed eternal. When the storms stops for a moment of calm, I can’t stop bracing myself expectant for the next gust to knock me down. Every chance I get I seem to be scrambling to pick up the pieces in order to remain who I was. The edges of life seem to be unraveling. I certainly know this picture is shot from a mindset extremely narrow, not yet seeing the end of the process. I relate with the frantic disciples on the boat in the storm. Panicked facing death and disaster they yell to their friend they are still trying to figure out, "Jesus, don't you see we are all dying here!?" He sits up, wipes the sleep from his eye, and calms the storm. Calmly but firmly He said, "How much longer must I be with you before you believe?" He controls the storm. Keep reading. The boat reaches the other side. 

I never thought my name would be used in the same sentence as “cancer.” When the doctor began to solemnly speak, my mind numbed. Was he serious? I thought to myself, I just finished healing from knee surgery in September, there is no way I would be having health issues again. His words became clouded murmurs as my mind raced into the uncertainties the next days would hold. What if this… what if that… Long story short, he was serious.

Why would a good God allow His children to suffer? What a popular question. C.S. Lewis once wrote, “Pain insists upon being attended to. God whispers to us in our pleasures, speaks in our conscience, but shouts in our pains: it is His megaphone to rouse a deaf world.” Pain in suffering, whether physical, mental, or a twisted combination of each, can be used as an instrument of God. I have realized God does not delight in drawing His children through pain, but at times pain is all that will bring us into His will. Some would never know Jesus if it were not for a situation that required them to cling to His side.

It has been over a week now since the surgery to remove the cancer. A promised report is most likely sitting on a desk collecting dust as I await the results. I thought I would be more anxious, but I’ve never felt prayers in my life like I do today. I can literally sense them. I have peace that Paul describes as “beyond understanding.” I don’t profess to have this all figured out or fearless in the least, but I have been given courage, which is strength amidst a fearful situation.

These few paragraphs are more ramble than purposeful, but as rambled they may be at least I am writing. But this time it is for the Reader who knew the words before I wrote them.

Monday, August 6, 2012


This is an amazing video that highlights the Sozo Children internship this summer. It only hits on pieces of it, and there are many more stories to tell, but here is a glimpse into the life of those that were connected with Sozo Children this summer.

one from Sozo Children on Vimeo.

Sunday, August 5, 2012


FRUIT |fro͞ot| (noun) -
1) the sweet and fleshy product of a tree or other plant that contains seed and can be eaten as food.
2) the result or reward of work or activity (or faith…)

Fruit. My mouth begins to water as I think of the succulent fruit in Uganda. Pineapples growing on the hills look eager to be sliced and enjoyed. Did you know pineapples grow in small bushes that just produce one pineapple at a time? It is quite amazing, and caught me a little off guard the first time I saw it. I am not sure what I expected, but I know it was not what lay before me. Avocados grow to a monstrous size compared to what we are accustomed to in the States. Equipped with a spoon and after adding a little salt, they make the best snack. The infamous Ugandan Jackfuit hangs high in trees looking similar to a spiny tumor with no definite shape. It is an orb of juicy sticky fruit. Even though it tastes great going down, stomach problems can soon follow. All of these fruits are the best I have ever had, but none of them rival the mango. I have written before about mangos and how they grow, but the taste of a mango picked straight from the tree is heavenly.

            The story below is from one year ago almost to the day. It was one I always wanted to write about but never had a chance. One year ago we witnessed God’s work produce great fruit. Many have heard this story, but I have never written it and I thought it was time.

            The days preceding July 17th all of the children began to get excited knowing they were going to Jinja to see the Nile River. Before we got the kids from the corrupt orphanage, they remained inside the gates for years never seeing past their dirt road and chain link fence. Trips like this would be thrilling to any child… or even me… but to these children, the excitement is on another level that most of us don’t understand. There had been decisions from many of the older children to trust Jesus as Lord and Savior in their lives earlier in the summer. During one night in devotional we decided to ask the older children what they knew about baptism. They knew… and eagerly decided it was what they wanted to do when we went to Jinja. My excitement rose even more. So on July 17th, we crammed in 42 people into a 32 passenger van/bus, and headed to Jinja. We had the Birmingham team in town that week and were so tightly packed in the bus every adult had a child in their lap. After the long drive, we first unloaded at the bungee jump over the Nile River. The most entertaining was one of the Ugandan workers, Mato, bungeed and screamed the whole way down. Soon after, we saw a 5 foot monitor lizard swimming in the river just below the bungee tower. Some decided it wasn’t for them.
After, we drove to Bujagali falls. It is one of the most beautiful places in the world. At this point, the Nile picks up tremendous speed crashing over rocks painting a breathtaking picture. Just downriver of the view that people travel to see, is a still quiet lagoon area where the water is shallow and safe. All of the team and children gathered together. Jon prayed for us and told everyone the meaning and importance of baptism. We eased into the chilly water. Deborah, Vanitah, Esau, Ronald, Ivan, Sharon, Waiswa, and Eddy all got baptized that day. To make it even more special to me personally, I got re-baptized as well. Davis and Emily also were re-baptized that day. I thought the day had peaked on the joy scale, but I never would have expected what was to come…

We took the children and team to a quaint restaurant in town to celebrate the day. We arrived to a large plate of chicken and chips for the children while adults began to place orders. Our plates of food arrived and it was a sight to see. We were outside underneath a long awning with over 40 people eating all around two long tables. Half way through the meal… our hearts were shattered. From the other side of the fence, the eyes of a young boy peered at me through the bushes. My curiosity studied him closely. My calloused heart and cynicism first wandered if he just wanted money to take back to someone that put him here. Maybe to buy someone alcohol or make money for his abusive father. He was maybe 9 years old. His shoes were torn and his ragged clothes hung on his protruding bones. It was easy to tell that this child was a street kid that rarely saw a meal. The restaurant managers would chase him off to guard the comfort of the guests. My comfort was being invaded. His suffering yet hopeful eyes pierced me. “Aggie… who is that boy?” one of us asked. Now the attention of a few of us was hooked on this child who hid behind the vines. It became obvious he hoped to fill his hungry stomach. “He is a homeless street child,” she said as she began to fight tears. All of us had nearly finished our food except some leftovers of some chicken and a few fries. Suzanne said, “Aggie, tell him to come here.” So she called out to him “jongu.” Our hearts broke even more when we saw his face light up realizing she was talking to him. He sat down with us at the table and began to devour the leftovers on the plate. He didn’t speak, just ate. He cleaned every bone. We didn’t speak. The silence was deafening. We gazed intently with a whirlwind of questions. A knot in my throat would not go away. A few had to leave out of fighting tears and not wanting the boy to see them cry over his pitiful situation. Two more boys with the same horrible malnourished look walked up seeing the food. Jon started buying plates of food. “Come... eat.” They ate as three more boys approached the tables. We gave them our seats and put more food in front of them. It was an afternoon lunch for us… but a feast for them. Then two of the Sozo boys, Hakim and Esau, came to the table. They are two of the oldest Sozo boys, around 12 and 14. Conversation struck up between them as the boys were finishing their food. I could see life being put back into these children with every bite. Esau and Hakim starting talking in Luganda to them. We watched and I desperately wanted to know what they were saying. I gave Aggie and look and she knew what I wanted. She began to translate. “Esau’s telling them to protect each other on the street. Don’t steal. Don’t fight.” I was overwhelmed watching fruit of God’s work being produced in front of my eyes. “He is telling the boys about his faith and what it means…” Humbled that I rarely share my faith with boldness, I felt the heart of a proud father watching one that I consider a son flourish in God’s design.

            This memory sticks with me because it shows fruit. Seeing Esau and Hakim be baptized and then turn around and share their faith with words of wisdom to these boys impressed me so much. Seeds were planted in these boy’s lives starting a few years ago and now their fruit is teaching us!
This is why Sozo exists. This is the reason I believe God placed us in Uganda to share life with Esau and his brothers and sisters. He wanted His children to have a chance. Not for just their sake, but for the sake of others, and for the sake of the name of Jesus. The fruit of this long-term ministry project seems slow to produce, and sometimes it is difficult, but it is obvious God is at work. This was evidence of it. Being raised by their culture, in their culture, these boys are pouring back into their culture. They are developing into leaders. They can talk to these street kids because they were once in the same situation. Hope can be communicated. Advice can be given. Love can be shared between them that we would never be able to do like they did.
The summer is coming to a close. I wish I would have blogged more, but the days are so constantly on go, I rarely have time to sit down and blog. When I find time for stillness, my mind is either fried, or I want to sleep, or be in God’s Word. God is doing great work here. I have so many more stories to tell. Over the month of August, I am going to try to tell them on this page. Keep updated.

Fruit is continuing to be produced. Sometimes in the places I expect the least. That is often how God works

Wednesday, July 11, 2012

Consuming Air

As I lay here on the verge of sleep I can hear the edge of Kampala begin to wake up. Dogs muffled barks are in the distance as African crickets begin to fill the night with music. The night here contains some peace that I know nowhere else, besides possibly Smith Lake. But for some reason there is stillness to the night. Time slows down.

Anyways, the past few weeks have had a strange element of time attached to them. One moment the days seem to creep by, and then the next they have flown so fast I am losing track of the weeks.

Just last week Sozo got a little younger. Vanessa is the newest member to the Sozo family and she just turned four years old. She is Vivian and Victoria’s little sister (who are in house 1) and a few of us drove out deep in the village to get her. Daudi knew the situation was bad. Not long ago, their mother had another baby who was two months old. The baby girl was left outside and was later found dead covered with thousands of ants. I know that is a disturbing image, but it is the truth that I can’t tear my mind away from. The grandmother begged us to take Vanessa because she knew that Vanessa’s mother could not care for her. Now we have Vanessa, who is extremely sweet. The maternal side of all the girls is emerging as they care for her. Night number one her sister Victoria read her stories as she fell asleep in her new home.

Childlike faith is something I pray for often and feel like I seldom grasp. Even though I rarely see it in myself, this week I have seen it. He would probably hate me sharing this story but since I am pretty sure he won’t be accessing my blog anytime soon AND it brings glory to God, I am going to share it;

The other night Esau, the oldest Sozo boy in house 1, came to me as I was spooning rice and beans onto my dinner plate and he invited me to eat with him and a few of the boys. Greatly accepting the invitation, I walked outside and sat on the concrete with my back against the outdoor kitchen. We ate in silence. Next to me was a boiling pot of an unknown concoction. The smell was truly one of the worst. In Uganda you don’t just find dog food at the convenience store… instead they put all the leftover food and spare bones, add some dead minnows, and boil it to feed the dogs. I could barely eat my rice and beans because every bite I took somehow tasted like the boiling bones and fish. Esau noticed my face and moved it. Good man. Anyways, we began to talk a little about our favorite things in life and they began to quote their favorite Bible verses. The other boys walked off to do the dishes and Esau and I sat with each other just us two for the first time in a while. He looked at me with genuine eyes and began to speak words that simultaneously broke my heart and filled it with joy.
            In his broken Ugandan English he said, “Every time… I remember the days we were at Mercy Home… I know how great God is.” His unprovoked words struck me in a way I didn’t expect. Instead of digging for more I remained silent and let him say words it sounded like he had held in for a long time. “When I was there my mind didn’t work properly… but now I am in Sozo my mind works properly and now… I know God.” I can’t describe what I felt but I could tell his heart was pouring through his words. He continued, ”I know others that don’t know Him… and I promise… I will tell them.”
            I have never had children, but for that moment I could understand a father’s proud moment of a child that finally understands who God is.

Did you know that in the entire gospel of John, John’s name is never mentioned? Whenever a story arises that involves John he does not refer to himself as himself, he merely states a fact he knows, “the one Jesus loves.” That strikes some as arrogant, but it strikes me as great humility. I don’t believe John is trying to elevate himself over the other disciples by saying he is loved most, but I think he is attempting to practice Jesus’ display of humility by writing for the sake of Jesus and not the name of John. I pray for that purity in heart mixed with Esau’s childlike faith.

I hold a firm belief that as soon as I fully truly surrender to Christ, God has been penning the pages of my life scripting an incredibly divine story of many miracles pointing to His greatness. I know He knows that His amount of writing sometimes overwhelms me. Usually, when a new chapter opens the preceding one closes. Somehow that doesn’t seem to be happening. Open doors after open doors grow the plate of excitement and responsibility. It seems as if God is writing a dialogue of many separate stories that will one day come into beautiful harmony. I see the pieces slowly coming together. Many individuals, visions, a school, land, and story after story with miraculous twists and turns. Only God could orchestrate this all. The symphony is building and every small piece has to play a part. I often try to figure it out and end up with a headache no further down the road than where I started. I’m again humbled at how small I am and how little I understand. I guess that is where trust comes in that this Book keeps talking about.

Today is the two-year mark from the bombing we experienced in Kampala that claimed many lives. I remember back and am thankful for the night that God spared my life. For what reason… I still don’t know, but what I do know is that my work is not yet finished. The last pages in my life are still unwritten, and every breath I take is for a reason. Due to that traumatic experience, I have seen the fragility of life and I will now live every breath as if it truly has purpose, not merely consuming air. 

To read the blog post I wrote two years ago, click here - July 11 Kampala Bombing

Tuesday, June 5, 2012


Alright…. I’m trying to come back. I haven’t blogged in a long time and I don’t know if anyone has noticed, but truthfully, I miss writing. So, I am going to write. Writing is a loose term since really this is just pressing play on my stream of consciousness. Literature scholars would either be bored or offended, but this isn’t for them.

Since I haven't written in such a long time, I wanted to post this last letter I sent out. Forgive me if it didn't arrive in your mailbox if you wanted it to, but sometimes I hesitate to send out mailers because I am afraid it comes across as me pleading for another check. Even though I always need support, that is not the case. I also want to keep updated and need desperately need the prayer support from a thick web around me and the others that I work along side. Below is the letter that gives a general update of what has been going on in my life over the past year since I have started seminary and updates of what is going on in Sozo Children. 

This is the largest I could get this file on this page, but if you can't read it and want to, please email me at and I can email a file that is easier to read. Thanks! 

In January, I went to Uganda with a small team and we found a great piece of land. We now don't think it is the exact property God has for us, but the pursuit is in full force. Next step is obtaining land and beginning building projects. In the meantime, there is no telling how many children God will put in our care. We are willing vessels simply desiring to be used for His glory. 

In March, My mother, sister, and two aunts came to experience what God is doing as well. They came to pour their lives into these children, and when they least expected it, God poured His heart even more into them. That is the beautiful design of how God works. When we spend our lives on behalf of others, he fills our lives more than we ever spent. Not that we would do it for that reason, but when our motives are pure, God is able to do extraordinary things, blessing ALL his children.

I know this is not much of a blog, but I thought a slow start back in would be best.