OUT AND ABOUT.

As I walked out the door of the homeless day centre last week, I glanced down the alley and saw this first photo. It took me on a journey from the low places to the high above...

SURREALITY ON THE SEA.

Jig
Saw.
Pieces of the puzzle
Scattered about and around and underneath.
Back and forth
forth and back.
Eroded
Chiseled
Soft
White
Pieces
Making sense without sense
Transformed and made new.
Freshness and life

TANGY TEARS IN TRANSIT.

As I knotted myself into a ball, murmurs began to pierce through the air of this stale familiar location. Prayers surrounded me from every direction. Cries. As tears poured from eyes, the sound of wailing resonated up to heaven. And I was thrown back to a day many months ago...

I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to forget that day in early January; and to tell the truth, something inside knows that I never want to. It was a typical British winter day close to the first of the year. The clouds in the dreary gray sky had already given way to a chilled darkness despite the fact that it was only mid-afternoon. And there I found myself, sprawled across the floor of my bedroom, head planted into a dirty faded cushion. Next to me a string of fairy lights slithered by. No power surged through them. No soft glimmer. The candles in front of me stood as strong pillars. Unlit. The room was silent. This was not a time to create a peaceful environment. Not here. Not now. For God had come down to meet with me in the mess of life. There, on that floor, our spirits connected and tears poured from my eyes.

And I wept.

With all truthfulness, I’m not quite sure whether it was me weeping or God himself. It was a moment so dark and so real. A moment I wanted to escape and yet one in which I longed to remain. The Spirit had planted a hunger and craving so deep in my heart that nothing of this world could satisfy. The programs. The schedules. The rhythms. The people. All these ‘good things’ were now barriers that needed destroyed so that the cornerstone could once again be laid upon a sturdy foundation. In that moment, words could not express what I felt.

Discipleship is not an easy thing. So often we want to magically be transformed into holiness without first passing through the fire. We run from the burning and the stretching and the molding. But God waits. And waits. He waits until we ask him to show us that this world was not created for us, but for his glory. It’s a dangerous prayer that passed through my lips just days before that fiasco on the floor.

And, I suppose that this is essentially what Transit is all about. It’s not about the communities that can sometimes seem so unsupportive. It’s not about the leaders that can appear to be sinners more often than saints. It’s not about the egotistical teachers who think that God is speaking the secret of life through them. Instead, it is about an army of pilgrims…of nomads…of imperfect individuals who Christ has called to be disciples in this place, at this time. It is a time of learning, truly learning, that knowing God must be the foundation on which we build our lives. It is a time of seeing that only then, when we see our Father’s heart, will we be able to love and spread his love through all the earth. It is a time of drawing us to the conclusion that “no man liveth unto himself.”

GLOBULUS MAXIMUS.

Hmmm. That's interesting. Me and my brain.

RED WINE, HUGH GRANT & CRUSTY PAINT.

As I stepped into the stale old church, I was unsure of what to make of this whole situation. Another week of prayer. Another week in Scotland.

The first couple days seemed normal. Setting up another prayer room. The same old thing. The room had been nicely sectioned off with various focuses. This was a ‘true’ 24-7prayer room. Sense the sarcasm. What began as a creative prayer movement has seemed to form cookie-cutter prayer rooms. But, enough on that. I had become used to this and wasn’t in the least bit surprised.

By Sunday evening, I had once again been thrown into Scottish culture. Maybe a bit different than hiking through the highlands, nibbling on the endless peanut butter ‘sandwiches’ and microwave meals. This time there was a warm bed and shower alongside an endless supply of wine at every meal. The second afternoon I found myself walking onto the lush grass of what appeared to be a movie set. I waited patiently to see if Hugh Grant would walk out the doors of his mansion and into the garden to greet me. Unfortunately, the only excitement was a double baptism in the poolhouse. That was enough for me.

Back to Sunday evening. The preparations were crammed into the last hours before the launch. As usual. And the room was now ready. In walked a couple middle-aged ladies. Doubts once again overtook my mind. But, before I knew it, the room was filled. With the elderly. With young children. With families. This was going to be a place of meeting with God. Holy encounters. Before I knew it, the silence had been sliced and I saw the hearts of these people. This tiny little town in the hills of Scotland was shouting up to God. And they were excited. It was like Christmas morning. A gift had been given to them. They couldn’t wait for their hour that was penciled in on the timetable outside the entrance.

My eyes were opened. As people flowed into the room throughout the week I was constantly encouraged. Challenged. Individuals came with broken hearts. Broken lives. They came with prayers on their lips and tears in their eyes. And they were drawn to their knees. A first experience for many. A call back to prayer. A call back to God their Father.

Soon, nothing much mattered. The format of the room. The paint-filled brushes that had been left to dry overnight. The sand all over the floor. It didn’t matter. God was meeting with people. As they took time out of their days and nights, their Father cradled them in his arms.

And I was refreshed. Over the last months I’ve been bogged-down by prayer. I’ve taken prayer rooms for granted. I’ve lost the excitement. I must constantly return to that place that I did this week. I must talk with God. I must shout to God from the depths of my heart. I must sing with Him. I must enter into that dance with Him. I must be a child again.

PRAYIN' IN SCOTLAND.