Prayer / General Update

For those of you keeping up with the, ahem, "prayer concerns" of my life, I have an update.

5-year-old I has been diagnosed with Acute Lymphoblastic Leukemia. Her prognosis is upwards of 90%. She begins chemo tomorrow, and will continue treatment for the next 3 years. Thus, our pastor's family will be leaving Nigeria to be together in South Africa for the first part of her treatment. I'm so glad they'll be united as a family, but selfishly, I'm sad to see them leave Abuja Ark. There are many questions (When? How? Who?) that will be resolved in the next few weeks. Pray for I's parents to have divine wisdom, for their 6-year-old twin girls to have understanding beyond their years, and above all else, for healing for little I.

Secondly, please pray for my flatmate Jan. She was widowed a year and a half ago, and she's still walking through the grieving process. She's been particularly down the past few weeks, and I suspect the upcoming holiday season isn't going to help things. Pray specifically that she is able to spend Christmas with her son. (While I'm gone, she'll be alone.) I'm very unsure of what role I'm supposed to take to support her--all I'm doing now is listening and trying to understand, which feels very futile--so prayer for me to know how to comfort her is also welcome.

Lastly, the next two weeks are going to either fly by or creep very slowly. Whichever the case may be, I need grace to make it to December 12th. This Friday is the Christmas program at school, for which I am the emcee (M.C.?). I'm pretty nervous about appearing in front of everyone, just because I am the new kid on the block...I feel like this is my opportunity to prove to the parents that I deserve to be here educating their kids. Not to put too fine a point on it. :) Somewhere in following week, I have to gather all the information for my visa, pack up my stuff, teach a full week of lessons while maintaining patience and sanity, and try to squeeze out 2 more sets of curriculum so that I don't have to bring work home with me. Then I have to jam 30 hours of travel into a 24-hour day, hopping through 6 cities. Weather permitting. (Speaking of which, I have a 7-hour layover at Heathrow...do I have any readers in London who want to help me pass the time?)

I am so thankful for this chance to be reunited with my WHOLE family (both sides of extended family, too!), get my fill of friends, watch movies with my brother, and generally stock up on some American love for the next 6-month push. I also can't wait to know what it feels like to miss Nigeria. In August, I felt a pull towards this mysterious place, and now that I know all the life that it entails, I can't wait to feel a pull towards familiarity.

Thanks in advance for your prayers. Can't wait to see you!

Thanksgiving in Nigeria

Thanks to a moon that appeared at just the right time, the Muslim community declared Thursday a public holiday here in Nigeria. Translation: I got to celebrate Thanksgiving ON Thanksgiving.

Jan (my technically Canadian-married-a-British-man-but-lived-in-Nigeria-for-30-years flatmate) and I decided to really go all out. Some friends at the American embassy arranged for us to buy an imported turkey ($58 USD for a 12lb bird)! We hunted for/splurged on apple pie filling, Betty Crocker pie crust mix, corn, real butter, dinner rolls, wine and sparkling grape juice. We invited Mrs. O and her daughter M, Rachel (from upstairs), Jan's son T and his fiance for a quiet dinner at 6pm.

But then my clash with Nigeria/Nigerian culture started. It was epic.

It started with the pie. I mean, let's get real: it was my first pie, and it was out of a box and a can. It shouldn't have bested me the way it did. But we kept the box in the freezer to keep it free of bugs and when I finally took it out, it solidified into a frozen brick. I had to microwave it to break it down, knowing full well the recipe calls for COLD water to create dough that is easy to roll out.
Betty Crocker: 1, Maggie: 0.
So then I had two portions of warm pie crust dough, flour used for making Indian flatbread, and a "rolling pin" (actually an old gin bottle filled with peanuts). My "floured surface" was our granite countertop sprinkled with grainy whole wheat flour and let me tell you, I REALLY struggled to get the darn thing rolled out. It kept sticking to the bottle (even though I floured it!) and much to my baking chagrin, I had to roll it back into a ball and try again, fearing the flour-y, gritty crust I knew would result.
Betty Crocker: 2, Maggie: 0.
Jan walked into the kitchen at this point and asked how me how I was getting on. I was covered in flour, caked in sticky dough, seething with rage at Betty Crocker, and generally feeling sorry for myself that I struggled with a stinking boxed mix. I looked at Jan and told her I was really pissed off. She quietly excused herself and went to visit our neighbors for a while. Smart choice.
Betty Crocker: 3, Maggie: 0.
I finally got both crusts mostly rolled out (after freezing them for a few minutes to get them to cooperate), even though neither circle was big enough for the pie tin and looked really pathetic. I covered some of the "bald spots" on the top of the pie with pieces of dough that fell off when I lifted it off the counter. I sprinkled the top with sugar and hoped for the best.
Betty Crocker: 3, Maggie: 1.

Next it was the turkey. It came packaged in plastic and included one of those handy red pop-up timers, but there was no indication of its weight at all whatsoever. I had to stand on our scale with a bird in my arms to get even an estimation of poundage (kilo-age?). That lack of information paired nicely with our oven's convenient lack of listed temperatures. The dial is printed only with a continuum: the word OVEN at one end and a tiny flame symbol at the other. I guessed.

My clash with Nigerian culture came to a head because of the guests. Jan's son and his fiance were driving in from Kaduna and had trouble getting transport arranged. So we pushed dinner back until 7pm. Then Mrs. O wanted her husband to come, so we borrowed an extra chair & place setting. Then T called again and said they wouldn't make it until 8 and would be really hurt if we started without them. So dinner was pushed back again til 8. Actually, Jan and I got in an argument about that last one. She thought it was funny. I thought it was rude.

Meanwhile, my turkey finished at 5:30...right on time for the 6pm meal I had planned. I called Mom all the way from Africa to ask how to keep a turkey warm for 2.5 hours until guests could arrive. Jan was standing in the kitchen when I was talking to Mom and I had to try really really hard to veil my extreme frustration.

The kicker is that they actually arrived at 7. Which means that I was still cooking the potatoes when they showed up. Awesome. Mr. O never came at all.

In America, when someone invites you to an event that is not an open house, you show up. On time. In Nigeria, people run on their own schedules, coming and going as they please. I know I'm in Nigeria, and I know I should be used to this by now, but I'm an American. This was American Thanksgiving. Show up when you're invited.

Dinner was strange. The food was good except the turkey had dried out in some places (go figure). Our conversation was really spastic and besides the prayer, we didn't once mention what we were thankful for. Also it was 10:30pm by the time we finished the meal. (In case you were wondering, the pie turned out all right - everyone liked it. Maggie: 10, Betty Crocker: 3. I win.)

I don't want to hear about how I'm a biblical Martha or how I failed at accepting the host culture. I just want to acknowledge that the food was the only thing to make this Thanksgiving feel like a Thanksgiving and that makes me really sad. Especially because I have so very much to be thankful for this year.

I think I've hit the wall. I just want to come home now, please. 14 more days.

Delay does not mean Denial

It appears that Mrs. O and I received incorrect advice for the proper way to go about becoming a legal foreign teacher in Nigeria, and as a result, I have been refused the Temporary Work Permit I've applied for.

The Nigerian government has asked me to return home at Christmas and to reapply (from scratch) for an STR visa: Subject-to-Regularization. Once I have this type of visa in my possession, it will be possible to convert that to a Temporary Work Permit during spring of 2010.

In that moment, though, when Mrs. O told me there had been complications with the visa application, I was overwhelmed with fear--not that I would be unable to go home for Christmas--but that I would be unable to return to Nigeria in January. Nothing like the threat of not being able to return to make me realize how much I really want to be here.

To make a much longer and detailed story short, I will be getting an extension on my tourist visa, which will allow me to leave as scheduled on December 12th. Then the school will pay to rush my application for a new visa in order for me to return as scheduled on January 1st.

Prayer Request

This one is urgent and hits close to home for me:

Iona, the 5-year-old daughter of my pastor here in Nigeria, is being medivac'd out of Nigeria tonight; they suspect a serious blood condition. Please pray for her quick and comprehensive healing, for wisdom for the medical team caring for her on the way out of Africa, and that her mother Annabel will get a seat on the same flight. Her father, Ulric, will be staying behind in Nigeria with the twins, Caitlin and Meriel, who are 6.

Yes, Iona is the same little girl I profiled in my previous post about hiking in the bush.

This family has become quite precious to me in the 3 months I've been here. Their hospitality literally welcomed me into the fold at Abuja Ark Church, and their selfless leadership has caused me to conceptualize "church" in a new way. Please join with me in prayer for Iona's complete recovery.

Shock and Awe minus the Awe

If last week's post on Nigerian attitudes towards sex was "adults-only," this one is even moreso. Parents, moderate your children's internet usage....starting now.

Obviously I wasn't in the States last night to enjoy the AMAs (American Music Awards), but I checked out pictures and news reports today...and I am pretty shocked, to say the least.

For those of you who missed it, Adam Lambert (American Idol Season 9 runnerup) gave ABC a run for it's edit-this-quick-before-it-goes-live-on-the-West-Coast money.

I didn't watch the video, but the pictures and news reports suggest that Lambert channeled some S&M in his black leather costume, simulated oral sex with a dancer wearing a harness, grabbed his own crotch several times, flipped off the audience, and, in a burst of what can only be interpreted as rating-mongering, forcefully kissed the male keyboardist in the middle of the song.

And it happened on prime time television.

His response? "It's all for a laugh...it's really not that big of a deal."

Um, I'll respectfully disagree. It is most certainly a big deal.

I am pretty disgusted with the on-screen behavior, and, news flash: it's not because he's gay. All homosexual overtones aside, what Adam Lambert does in the privacy of Adam Lambert's home is none of my business because I'm not Adam Lambert.
But, Adam, my dear, you just MADE it my business because you did it on prime time television for millions (hundreds of thousands?) of people to see, including children. It's the not-having-a-choice-in-the-matter that disturbs me.

My second point of contention with Mr. Lambert is his claim of a double standard in the industry:

"Female pop artists have been doing things provocative like that for years, and the fact that I'm a male, and I'll be edited and discriminated against could be a problem."

Um, I'll disagree again.

Which came first: Janet Jackson's wardrobe malfunction, or Britney Spears' and Madonna's kiss? (Oh how far we've come from the chicken and the egg...) Chronology doesn't matter; I was just as repulsed by these provocative actions from women in the industry. Again, it was the unedited, shock value, let's-boost-the-ratings attitude behind each event that unnerved me.

In a moment of confession, I really like Lambert as a musical entity. I find him a very captivating entertainer. I liked watching him on American Idol, and I was proud of his Broadway roots in the Wicked cast. I'm even fascinated by the guyliner and faux-hawk.

But really...thrusting into some guy's face? Nobody wants to see that at the AMAs. Stick to music, please.



I apologize that this update has absolutely nothing to do with Nigeria. Sometimes news from the States is more interesting than my life in West Africa.

Crazy Hazy Days

The weather is definitely changing in Abuja. Firstly, the rains have stopped. As a result, things are dusty and dry. Secondly, I can't see the rocks anymore. Every morning on my way to work, we cross a bridge and looking east, I can see Aso Rock in the distance. The view is magnificent, and really starts my day off on the right foot. Lately, though, I haven't been able to see it at all because the mists hang so heavy in the air. "Mist" is just a euphemism for dust, but it does remind me of fog.

My weekend has been full of school, as usual. As you all know from my previous complaints, Friday was a working holiday at ICS. The kids didn't come in, but we had a day-long meeting and got home only slightly earlier than usual. Then this afternoon, the PTA put on a Family Day Out at the local Palmetium (park/plant nursery). They sold food and had a jumpy castle (I don't know what else to call it!) for the kids. It was even nice to see my students outside the classroom in a more relaxed setting.

On that note, it's still strange to me to be on the flip side of the teacher-student relationship. When I was a student (pre-college), I rarely saw my teachers outside of school. The proverbial "seeing your teacher in the grocery store" scenario never happened to me, but I think it would have been weird. I try to keep that in mind as I interact with my students...how many of them were weirded out by seeing me in jeans today?

This upcoming week is another Muslim holiday, so we won't have school on Thursday or Friday. I'm giving 5 tests on Monday, too, so I really only have to plan lessons for 2 days this week. It might not seem like a big deal, but trust me, these are the simple joys in my life these days.

I'm keenly aware that Thursday is also a holiday back home, albeit for different reasons. If memory serves me, this will be the very first Thanksgiving holiday I have spent without my family, and I'll be missing the fellowship of Mom's kitchen on that day. I'm going to make the best of it, however: Jan and I have decided to host our own Thanksgiving dinner at our flat and invite some of our neighbors.

Planning a holiday meal in a country which does not recognize said holiday poses some challenges, but we're making do. Turkey is almost impossible to come by, but some church friends have access to the U.S. Embassy's recent shipment of holiday turkeys (yep, all the way from the USA!), and we should be getting ours tomorrow. I don't know how big it is, but we're paying $56 USD for it, so I hope it's a good size bird!
Our menu so far includes: mashed potatoes, corn (out of a can; the Minnesotan girl in me just died a little), vegetables, dinner rolls, Jan's homemade stuffing, and an apple pie (we couldn't find pumpkin, but there's nothing as American as...). Mrs. O volunteered to bring Nigerian cranberries and ice cream to go with our pie. If I can track down a can of cream of mushroom soup, I might try a green bean casserole, too. We're also going to pay through the nose for real butter, but I'll be darned if I'm going to make mashed potatoes with anhydrous milk fat and emulsifier!

It may very well feel like going through the motions, because what is Thanksgiving without my family and American football?, but it is still a good practice; I have much to be thankful for this year. God has blessed me with comfortable surroundings, a solid job, Christian community, and the ability to communicate with people back home. Nigeria is definitely at the top of my list. Not getting malaria is a close second, however.

Prayer Request: My work permit/re-entry visa has not arrived yet. I've been told I'm at the whim of the Nigerian government, which doesn't make me very comfortable. Please pray that I will hear back from the consulate this week in regards to my visa. I really would like to go home for Christmas.



3 weeks from right now, I'll be on a plane. But who's counting?

Staff Training Day

Did you ever wonder what happened on those "Staff Training Days" in high school or the "Faculty Development Days" in college? I'm on the inside now, so let me fill you in:

Meetings.

It's really boring. I mean, I'm wearing jeans and there aren't any students here, so it can't be all that bad. But it's in Nigeria, which means that time is irrelevant. Which means that I arrived at school ON TIME at 7:30 for what I was told was an 8am meeting only to find out that it was, indeed, a 9am training meeting.

Silver lining? I'm blogging while I wait for the show to start.

Update (2:21pm local time): Okay, so the meeting wasn't that boring. Especially because I received some good tips for lesson planning, ate Chicken Republic, and hung out with my friends. Yep, just like going back to school.

Dead Poet's Society

Today I walked into my 7th grade Literature class as Emily Dickinson.

What a riot.

I don't have access to any outrageous 19th-century costumes, but I wore all white and took off all my jewelry. I even swept up my hair in a classic cover-the-ears bun (what my dad would call the "schoolmarm look").

I did not answer any of their greetings--a risky move considering the nature of this culture--and instead wrote "My name is Emily Dickinson" on the board and sat down in the front of the classroom. Just like that, nervous laughter started bubbling up from my students.

We've been studying a poem of Dickinson's for the past week, and yesterday I asked them to come up with questions to ask her if she were to suddenly appear in the classroom. When I gave them the assignment, I didn't even know I was going to dress up and pretend to be her. It just sort of happened. But in my limited teaching experience, it's the changes you make to the lesson plans you already prepared that get the best reactions.

So there I was, trying hard not laugh, feigning a weird accent so they would hear the difference between my own speech and this character's. I began to take questions from them, introducing myself to each student as if I'd never met them before.

It was really cool for about 30 minutes. Then one student started talking nonstop, and another complained that he was bored now. But for the most part, once they got over their initial disbelief ("Miss Thomas, you're really freaking me out, o!") they asked me all their questions and I had a grand time pretending to be my favorite poet.

When I exhausted their questions, I excused myself, went to the library, put on a scarf and all my jewelry, and returned to the classroom, where I pretended like I knew nothing of Emily's visit. I ignored all of their comments: "But it was you! You had the same clothes!"

I love days like today, when I can look into my students' eyes and see curiosity, discovery, and an interest in poetry. These days are rare, but when they happen, it reminds me that I do, in fact, love teaching Literature.

The Birds and the Bees

Heads up! Today's update is a frank look at Nigeria's cultural attitudes towards sex. Younger readers, redirect your browsers now. :)

I unwittingly entered into a discussion about sex today with a fellow teacher. It was one of those kinds of conversations that completely broadsides you and makes you say How did we get here?--one that I consequently couldn't escape. So, since I couldn't back out, I stepped up. And I learned a lot about Nigeria's general attitude towards sex. Some of it was shocking, and most of it was saddening.

Mr. L works in the science lab at school. He's 25, and the coworker closest in age to mine. We've become friends, but in that culture-clash way where I still occasionally leave our conversations confused about what just happened. Please factor that element into today's story. This bature still doesn't understand Nigerian humor. Or their idea of water-cooler conversation.

He told me the story of last weekend, in which he traveled to visit a relative, which happens all the time for Nigerians with family outside of Abuja. When he arrived, he found a woman staying in his uncle's house (again, not out of the ordinary, since most Nigerians are very generous). His uncle also decided to travel, leaving Mr. L alone in the house with the woman.

One can piece the story together from there, but the crucial detail is that Mr. L denied any fault. He says she made herself available to him and his actual words were: "Well, you know, I'm a man and I can't help myself."

Oh, how grieved I was to hear this. Unfortunately, it's not the first time, either. It seems that in Nigerian culture--and even in the Church--sons are raised believing that "boys will be boys" and are therefore not held accountable for their sexual actions. I have heard many stories of Nigerian men being unfaithful to their wives, and I don't know what makes me sadder: that men think this is normal behavior, or that their wives think this is normal behavior.

Back to the story, though...

Mr. L then asked me what I thought about his story. Baffled, I asked him if he felt any regret over his actions. He said he did indeed feel guilty. I advised him to never let something like this happen again, and to definitely not return to his uncle's while the woman was there. He agreed that that was good advice.

I asked if he had a girlfriend (he alluded to one in a conversation last week), but he said no. I bridged the cultural gap by explaining to him that where I come from, we would call that cheating, and it would be grounds for the woman to leave the man. Mr. L actually laughed at the thought. In Nigeria, it all depends on the woman, he told me. As long as the man still makes time for the girlfriend, most women (in his estimation) don't care who their men are sleeping with.

But really, what does one say to that?

In a society so touched by Islam--a religion which allows a man to take 4 wives "as long as he loves them equally," and to divorce them by saying the words "I divorce you" on 3 separate occasions--I find Mr. L's story a drop in the bucket. This is the one point of cultural diversity I have tried to "appreciate" but cannot. I draw the line at a cultural practice which encourages men to dishonor their women by breaking the marriage covenant and which teaches women that their right to be cherished by one man is subservient to his sexual impluses. If for no other reason, the fact that this principle is so culturally ingrained in Nigerian men will be the reason I would not marry a Nigerian man (and oh, how it has been overtly suggested to me).

On a religious note, the standard is supposed to be different amongst Nigerian Christians. It's supposed to be, but often isn't. I heard recently the story of a woman who discovered that her husband, a pastor, just fathered a child by another woman. What do you with a situation like that?

Don't even get me started on the double standard between male infidelity and female infidelity. I'll give you a hint: in one scenario, no action is required, and in the other, public shaming and scornful divorce is the consequence.

My life be like...

Not every day is adventure-filled. Not every day is boring.
Here are some highlights from recent days.

1. Remembering that my monthly internet subscription runs out at midnight tonight. If I switch ISPs now, I just might be able to use Skype Video. Hmm...to switch or not to switch?

2. Science experiments in 8th grade. They've been reading a short story by Jack London, in which the main character dies of frostbite. Since most of my kids have never seen snow, they had a really difficult time imagining what bitter cold is. Converting Fahrenheit temperatures to Celsius wasn't enough for them; they still didn't understand how fingers can burn from being so cold.
Being a good Minnesotan, however, I decided to give them a taste of winter. I spent my weekend stockpiling ice in my freezer, and then transported it to the freezer in the science lab at school. When class time came around, I appeared with bowl full of ice and nearly-frozen water, and the kids couldn't wait to play my game.
"Stick your hands in," I told the first brave student, "Just take them out when they feel cold." After only a few seconds, he looked up at me with wide eyes. "I can't feel my hands!" When he finally pulled them out, I told him to tie up his shoelaces--he couldn't. One by one, they took turns freezing their fingers and trying to write their names or tie their shoes, or having competitions to see who could last longest in the subzero water.
Point made.

3. Discussing the Civil War with a Nigerian chemistry teacher. He asked me who fought in the war. "Americans," I replied.
"But they weren't originally from America," he countered. "Where did they come from?"
"Europe, mostly. The first ones came from England," I told him.
"Ah-ah, so the soldiers were British!" he concluded.
"No, they were all Americans, just from the North or the South."
"But who was more American, the British in the North or the British in the South?"
"No, Mr. Joseph, no British. All Americans. From America, both the North and the South."
"But I thought they came from England!"
I'm telling you, I was fighting a losing battle.
It's actually not the first time that's happened. Nigerians I've talked to don't seem to get the "melting pot" concept, like they have trouble differentiating between ethnicity and nationality.
Earlier this week, one of the ladies in Accounts saw my ring (a traditional Irish symbol I purchased in Ireland 4 years ago), recognized the origin, and exclaimed, "Oh! You're Irish!" When I responded in the affirmative (it was easier than answering "1/4 Scot-Irish, actually"), she said, "Okay, so which one of your parents is American?" She had trouble understanding how I was Irish in ancestry, but American in nationality.
Sometimes, a smile and a nod is easier than trying to explain.

4. Going to a Nigerian club. The boys upstairs took me to a local hangout for a drink last weekend. (She drinks alcohol? Yes, I do.) I had to explain to the bartender to how to make a rum and Coke (the finished product was definitely more Coke than rum) and nobody was carded. Not once. Toto, we are for sure not in Kansas anymore.

5. Meeting new people. Today at school, a parent I had never met before asked me if I was "the new one Mrs. O brought over from America." Why, yes, I am the nation's newest import. Good to know I already have a rep at this school. Just wait until the Christmas program comes around and I'm the Master (Mistress?) of Ceremonies. Putting the white girl on stage, indeed.

I love my life. It's crazy and full and sometimes a bit illogical, but I love living it. It makes me feel so alive.

Daily Grind

Yesterday, my parents asked me what's new in my life. It's a harmless question, especially considering that I now live on a different continent, but I honestly couldn't think of an answer.

See? It happens, even in Nigeria. Life settles into a daily grind, and monotony creeps in.

Instead of choosing to be bored, though, I'm going to be thankful. I think I prefer routine to the other more dangerous ways life in Nigeria can be "interesting."

So I'm going to keep planning lessons, as I am wont to do every Sunday afternoon. And tomorrow, like every weekday morning, I'm going to get up at 5:45 a.m. and take my vitamins and eat my oatmeal and go be Miss Thomas, the baddest Lit teacher there ever was.

It's a routine, but it's my life. I am so lucky to be living it.

Green Oranges and Other Confessions

I have a couple confessions to make:

1. I didn't write this update over the weekend because I procrastinated too long on my lesson plans and correcting. That's my excuse and I'm sticking to it.

2. My oranges here are green. No, for real. That's not an oversized lime, that's an orange, and it legitimately disturbs me. Oranges are called oranges because they're orange. Come on Nigeria; get with the program.

3. Sometimes I strip God of His omnipotence. Hello, subject change. Yesterday in church, we talked about Psalm 30. The psalmist praises God for delivering him from trouble. The credit for the deliverance is given to God. God is given praise for being, well, God.

And yet, how many times do I say or do things that strip God of the praise He deserves?

Exhibit A: I mentioned that I had a conversation last week with a new neighbor. Part of our exchange went like this:
L: I feel so bad that you have to live with old ladies and go to church all the time.
Me: I don't mind. Really, I don't.
L: Well, do you drink?
Me: Occasionally. Why?
L: Oh, good. Just making sure you're not one of those people who lived in the substance-free dorm at your college.
[Pause here to appreciate the irony.]
Me: Actually, my whole college was substance-free. It's a Christian school.
L: Oh. I knew some crazy girls like that. They were all anti-drinking and 'saving themselves for marriage' or something like that.
[Spoiler Alert: I'm about to deny God.]
Me: Oh. Well, I'm not crazy. I do drink and stuff. It's hard to associate yourself with a particular group of people like evangelical Christians because I'm not, like, extreme like everyone else.

WHAT?! DID YOU JUST HEAR ME?!

Why didn't I take the opportunity to tell him about the incredible, life-changing redemption I have received from Jehovah Mephalti, the Lord my Deliverer? (yep, I Googled it.) Why did I show no hesitation in severing myself from the community of saints I would otherwise call the Body of Christ, the Church? Why did I back down?

My rationale at the time was, Oh I don't want to scare him off. This could turn into a great example of "Relational Christianity."

Ooh, that R. C. gets me every time. I can justify just about any action (or inaction) with Relational Christianity (i.e. I don't want to ram my religion down people's throats; I want to develop a relationship with them so they can see there's something different about me.).
It's a benign concept enough, but I struggle with elevating it above Jesus in importance. Legitimately. Sometimes I take my eyes off Jesus and focus on being relevant and culturally palatable and relational instead of on the one I call Savior.

But that's not the kind of life Jesus called me to live. He's called me to live a life apart: a crazy, radical, that's-not-how-the-rest-of-the-world-works kind of life that points people to Jesus.

And honestly, you guys, it's a struggle for me to keep my finger off Backspace right now, because I'm human, I mess up, I make a mockery of that purpose, and I don't live like I believe any of that stuff I just typed. If you've known me for more than 5 minutes, you know that when I screw up, I go all out. And the last thing Christianity needs is another hypocrite. For all my failings, though, I am never outside the grace of God, and neither are you.

So for all the times I've missed the opportunity, for all the "L conversations" I've had, let me just say this:

I believe it. It's some pretty messed up stuff like human sacrifice and eternity and a God I can't even see, but I believe it. All of it. I believe that if I was the only human left on earth, God still would have loved me enough to send His Son to be the redemption for all my mistakes. I believe that this truth should permeate every level of my existence and that it should grieve me when it does not. I believe that there is a world beyond this one, and when I come to the end of my life, I will be spared an eternity apart from God because of a sacrifice that has already been made, a debt that has already been paid. (Hey, that rhymed.) (English teacher, remember?)

And frankly, my friends, that is why I'm in Nigeria. Because I also believe that God created me, is mindful of me, and cares about what I do with my life. I believe that my purpose is to bring God glory in everything I say and do. Being here is an act of obedience to a God who is bigger than I can imagine and who loves ME, even when I strip him of all his omnipotence.

So actually, yes, I am crazy.

P.S. I tried really hard to leave all the "Christianese" out of this post, but it's hard to undo 22 years of a specific learned vocabulary. If words like sacrifice, debt, deliverance, eternity and omnipotence are confusing to you, give me a chance to tell you what I mean.