20. Million. Can you even begin to wrap your mind around that? When I first read these words on International Justice Mission’s Website, I couldn’t grasp the numbers.

To be honest, I live in Letter Land, that happy place where writers live in oblivion to things like numbers. Slapping a number in front of the word million doesn’t phase me.

20 million what? Dollars? Writers never make that much, so that’s out. Words? That’s a Dostoevsky novel. Perhaps too many words.

20 million people? What does that even look like, that mass of humanity, nameless and faceless?

To make up for my numerical deficiency, I have taken to creating word pictures to make more sense of numbers beyond the reach of my imagination. It’s a journalist’s trick my former editor taught me. We are in the age where information often gets thrown at us with little or no explanation, so we have to grapple with the meaning of the numbers.

So, 20 million. Let’s put that into a frame we can understand:

First, Fly to New York City. Check out the Empire State Building. Cruise Broadway. Then enslave the entire city — everyone from Mayor Bloomberg and the Rockettes, down to the last struggling mother in Harlem.

Don’t stop there. Next, travel to Los Angeles, and make slaves of the entire population of metro LA, celebrities included. If you’ve ever driven through LA County traffic during rush hour, you can imagine what a difficult job it would be.

But that only puts you at 12 million. To get to 20 million people, you need to conquer Chicago, Houston and Phoenix as well.

Oh yeah, I almost forgot – these numbers are from 1999. The numbers have now leaped to an estimated 27 million. And numbers from closed countries are hardly accurate. So you can easily throw in Philadelphia, San Antonio, Dallas, San Diego, San Jose, Detroit and San Francisco into the mix as well.

I am not an alarmist. I tend to walk pretty calmly through life. I’m not easily rattled, even when others around me are whipped into a frenzy, squawking about global warming. Or food chemicals. Or the inherent evil of (insert cause here.)

But when I started looking at these slavery numbers and figuring out what they might look like in real life, I was ready to throw a full-on, loud-mouthed, squawking activist fit.

Once I calmed down a bit, I started asking questions. Who are these people? What does slavery look like?

Take a look at the tag on your shirt. Look at your shoes. Many of the items we wear, particularly cheaply made clothes, are made in factories where people are bought as slaves and forced to work long hours in horrible conditions.

You know that sketchy massage parlor in town, the one people talk about as being “that kind of place?” Women are often trafficked in from other countries and forced to work as prostitutes.

In some foreign countries, slave laborers make bricks and toil in the hot sun next to their master’s palatial homes. Sound familiar from history class?

According to Paul E. Lovejoy, in his book Transformations in Slavery, from 1650 when the slave trade began, until it ended in 1900, 10.2 million people were transported. While slavery is tragic no matter what era, double that number were reported in one year just 10 years ago, and it is on its way to treble that.

In various countries, from North America to Asia, in small pockets of tens and hundreds and thousands, there are 27 million people with no option where they work, where they live, how they move about.

It’s enough to make a journalist squawk. So let’s do something about it.

Sure, you say. It’s easy for me, sitting behind my computer, making weird noises, to talk about doing something to impact a global pandemic. It’s overwhelming.

I know. Even I am sometimes overwhelmed with the facts, but if we are all concerned, and we move in one thing to stop slavery, imagine the difference it could make.

We all have a voice, which might seem insignificant. But add it to another voice, and another, and the sound grows to a roar.

What will you do with your one voice?

My challenge is this: Educate yourself. Visit International Justice Mission, Not For Sale and Because Justice Matters. Read about slavery, and be informed. Let the information soak into your soul, let the numbers go past your head and into your heart. See where it leads you. It just might change the world.

And that’s something to squawk about.

Lauren Nelson is the editor and chief troublemaker for Hope Ink Magazine. She is currently fascinated with 19th century English fiction, tea, and print making. You can e-mail her at hopeinkmagazine@gmail.com.

My friends and I had been overseas for a month and a half. As the oldest person on the trip, I found myself responding differently to the same situations — differently from my friends, but also differently than I would have responded even three years earlier. My life — once marked by the virtues of impulse and originality — now had a different rhythm. This reality was exposed through my interactions with a new culture, and after seven weeks, I put my pen to paper to sort out what was stirring within.

There are things that my friend reminds me of which make me sad. I used to tell stories and put flowers behind my ear and run out in the rain. I still could do those things, there is nothing stopping me, but it would feel insincere, like I am drinking from a well not my own. The things that stir within me move slower, more deliberately. I cannot and will not pretend to be 20, but I need to know, I want to believe that the things I have to offer have value, deep intrinsic value, to the Kingdom of God and to my team.

We all walk different roads.

Last night we were discussing…well they were proclaiming the wonder that every day with God is better than the last. That is a lovely thought, and I’m sure very nice until you find the desert that never ends, until you begin to learn the lessons of suffering and the dark night of the soul.

I began, or tried, to offer to them from the lessons of my own suffering, but it was not received well. Their attitude actually reminded me of my own from years past. It is so strange to hear your own words and attitudes come out of other people’s mouths. There was a time I so desperately wanted respect and recognition that I failed to see the wisdom that was being offered to me.

As I realized the error of my attitude I began to see the folds of depth in other people’s eyes, and I began to long to know what they know. The insatiable desire to be known remained in me, but alongside it came the stillness of listening to other people’s silence. Their silences will tell you much, and still I longed to know what they knew. So I asked God to teach me.
You do not get to choose your own story. If I could, I would have learned these lessons a different way. I do not feel this is wrong or disrespectful to the God who made me. Jesus asked in the garden if there is any better way, any other way. I, too, would have liked a better road, but where I stand today I wouldn’t give up.

Every door we choose, every decision we make, leads us to a new place. Pleasant or not, God walks beside us.

“If I could trade in my yesterdays I wouldn’t trade them for beauty only”*…which means I would not and will not disrespect the road I have walked or the things I have learned from this road, because they brought me here.

Most of these things are difficult to express, or I would have read them in a book or heard them in a seminar. Most of these things are difficult to perceive until you begin to recognize them. That is why they require stillness and silence even to hear in other’s stories. Once you have begun to live them, you begin to recognize them, and you learn to hush your clamoring, you begin to know when you are on Holy Ground.

There are, however, a few things that can be put into words. Not every day is better than the last. Sometimes life sucks; sometimes you suck; sometimes God seems so far away. There are more questions than answers, and there aren’t always flowers in the desert.

It is possible to suffer without learning the lessons of suffering. Sometimes, in fact, things get worse before they get better. God restores what is lost, but what is lost is still lost. It is good that there are more questions than answers. Hiding from the pain only makes it worse. Denial is, usually, stupid.

Most people need to be heard, not comforted or argued with. Comparing one story to another is pointless and can be harmful. Some have more, some have less, we are all, all of us other. ”…at two you’re an abstraction.”** God is enough. Even when you are alone and all other lights have gone out, He Himself is enough. We must learn to honor the mystery in one another. Blame is pointless. Even the best of virtues is harmful in exclusion of the others, or if they are worshipped.
There are other things you learn as you grow older. Like sometimes it is good to conform for the sake of communication and order. Order is good and disorder is very difficult for some people. Playing in the rain is good, being wet all day is not always good, so sometimes it is better to listen to the rain.

It sucks to always be the one who goes against the flow, but it is worse to watch things fall apart when you saw it coming and kept your mouth shut. It is very tiring to be the oldest. It is much better to be the youngest, especially once you have learned about stillness and mystery.

Age is not the only thing which inspires sanctified impatience, and I revisit these words as I face similar challenges in a regional culture that believes maturity and effectiveness is equivalent to living by your day-planner, a church culture which embraces the same value, and where contending is considered so high a virtue, and waiting is so seldom seen, that the two are often confused. Even I am flurry of activity as God gently and firmly repeats in my heart, “Be still. Be still. Be still.” For me, all of the coming and going, even the thinking and processing, and going going going is an elaborate ruse to keep me from a deeper pain, so I need these words again, to remind me of the power of stillness, silence, and the lessons of suffering.

*from the song “Sunrise” by Nichole Nordeman
**Thank you Sara Groves for this confusing song lyric. “Who can know the pain, the joy, the regret, the satisfaction, at two you’re an abstraction.” Which means each life is so hard to know, each person so individual, once you begin to talk about to people or more even with the same or similar experiences, you must abstract their story…they become something not quite a person anymore…they become an abstraction.

I had no idea how long I would be there, so I just trusted God from day to day. I had no idea what Haiti would be like, but I knew God called me there, so I was going to be obedient and just trust him. The first week I was there, I had a divine appointment with a local Haitian named Wesner. He wanted to show me around town and take me to the local market, so I went with him.

As it turned out, he knew everyone. His friendship opened a door for me to minister to everyone in the town. I started playing basketball on a local team with Wesner, and every single day I went to practice, God brought people to me to talk about my faith in Christ. I got to share with lost people and other local Christians in Montrouis about having a relationship with Jesus and how God looks at our hearts.

It was a God thing for sure, and I know the Holy Spirit was just giving me words to say to each person that I talked with. After basketball practice we would go and hang out in downtown Montrouis, and Wesner would introduce me to people. I got to share the love, grace, and forgiveness of Christ with them. I built real relationships — hanging out with them, laughing, dancing  — whatever I could do to tell them about Jesus. It was definitely out of my comfort zone, but I knew I had to be obedient to what God was telling me to do.

I lived about 40 miles from Port-au-Prince. We were shaken, but not stirred by the earthquake. I was actually playing basketball up the street with some locals when it happened, and it was the scariest thing I’ve ever experienced. By God’s grace, no one here was hurt. We had no cell service, though, so we couldn’t call to let everyone know we were okay. There was extensive damage in Port-au-Prince and other areas.

In Port-au-Prince, and other areas, the destruction was massive. Buildings collapsed and killed many, and many more were missing. Some people that work on our campus in Montrouis lived in Port-au-Prince in the area that was hit the hardest. Without cell phone communication after the earthquake, they were not able to get through to their families and only could listen to local radio talk about the thousands of homes that had collapsed. We spent the night in prayer and prepared to take them to search for their families first thing the morning after.

As we made our way to Port-au-Prince, it was clear that we were in for a tough day. We were able to pick our way through streets strewn with debris and power lines. Every hospital had closed gates and thousands of wounded and dying lay on the sidewalk outside. We stopped at one hospital to search for our friend’s wife and while we were there, we started treating people with non-life threatening wounds.

Digging chunks of cement out of gaping wounds, cleaning head wounds — the work was gruesome. One of our friends, Dr. Kerry Reeves, had a mother beg him to go and check on her little girl. When he got there, she was completely covered with a sheet. Upon pulling back the sheet, he was pretty sure she was dead — covered in flies with a gaping head wound and disfigured face. Kerry was able to find a weak pulse and get her to respond. He got the girl some water and tried to see if there was anything he could do. Unfortunately, he was only tell the family how to care for her as she waited to see if the hospital would open. Kerry prayed for her and her family and left broken-hearted.

We picked up a 12-year-old boy whose parents and friends some were carrying him down the road using a door as a stretcher. They needed a ride to the hospital. While in the back of the truck, we tried to help him but he had a major head injury and a crushed shoulder. I wept over the little guy, so broken that we couldn’t help him. I felt so burdened that we had to talk to him about his faith before he died. We got down on our knees as he looked at us through swollen eyes. He gave a testimony of loving Jesus and believing that God was waiting for him if he was to die. We prayed and wept with him. We dropped him off at the hospital and left not knowing his fate.

On the way back home, all I could do is cry. Seeing all of those dead bodies tore me up inside. All I could think was, ‘I hope they know Jesus.’ When we got home, I praised God for everything – for saving me from the earthquake, for the people we were able to help even a little. I fell asleep for about 20 minutes and got woken up by another aftershock.

We could not count the dead bodies in the streets and on the sidewalks in Port-au-Prince. Everyone was afraid to go back into the buildings, so they built sheet tents in the streets and all over parks. Many of them are still living in these conditions. One of our good friends that barely escaped before his house fell spent the night standing in a parking lot with over 2,000 other people, praying God would let them see one more day.

After the earthquake, we were doing a lot of going back and forth into Port-au-Prince with different groups from the Montrouis area, distributing food, water, clothing and toys. It was great working with everyone, being used by God, sharing his love and being the hands and feet of Jesus. We were so busy, working long days. It was so hard going back and forth, still seeing all of the people living in tents.

Haiti is in a desperate place as a nation. While aid groups provide physical help, the people of Haiti needs God’s help. They will not ever recover solely from humanistic aid. They need the transforming power that God brings. We need intercessors to come and prophetically declare God’s truth over the nation, to come and usher in His presence into the refugee tents and the rubble-covered streets.

The Red Cross is not full of the Holy Spirit. Haiti’s Civil Protection is not full of the Holy Spirit. The UN is not full of the Holy Spirit. They bring help, but not the Kingdom. Haiti will be changed as people begin welcoming in the One who can make beauty from ashes.

Philip Causey was a Discipleship Training School student at YWAM Pismo Beach in 2009. He served for several months in Haiti before and after the earthquake, and will be joining staff with YWAM Pismo in May 2010.

Interested in going to Haiti? Project Sixty One, a ministry of YWAM Pismo Beach in Central Coast, is leading teams overseas to bring aid. For more information, visit their Website. You can also follow them as a friend on Facebook and Twitter.

Growing up, I held to a pro-life ideology. I was well versed, even as a young girl, in the damning effects of abortion to a baby and moral implications associated with the choice. I was extremely judgmental in my views and couldn’t understand how someone could kill their child.

In my junior year of high school, my life quickly unraveled as I struggled with the reality of years of abuse in my life and to those I loved. I was angry at God and decided I would take control. I began to make unwise choices and in a matter of a year or so I found myself pregnant and wondering what I would do. Going contrary to the beliefs of my childhood, I chose abortion.

It was a choice that didn’t make sense when compared to my viewpoints and desires for my life. It was choice that I soon came to regret. I was enveloped in a depression and instantly affected by the debate. College classroom debates on abortion were damning for me. I found I was being silently stoned by the words of people who felt the same way I had felt just a short time earlier. Their judgmental comments were hard rocks hitting my soft flesh.

Over a period of three years, I found healing through a post-abortion support group. It was just the beginning for me, but the whole experience helped me to see the people in the midst of the issue. God was transforming my heart, not only by healing my own wounds, but empowering me to properly mix truth and grace to be effective in helping others find healing. Through it all, my own post-abortion ministry was started both personally and professionally through The IRMA Network.

Through ministry, I know abortion not only kills babies, but it wounds the souls of men and women and leads them to make other devastating choices. I’ve learned that those of us that call ourselves followers of Christ should always stand for truth, but need to learn to communicate it through the words of grace instead of condemnation. When we state our lack of understanding of “how someone could ever do such a thing” puts us above others, when in truth, we all lay out equally at the foot of the cross, each with our different areas of struggle.

You can hear more of Carrie’s Story either at her blog or www.prolifepodcast.net. For more information on how to help those considering abortion, check out Carrie’s 9 Tips for Talking to Someone Considering An Abortion.

Cindy Robert thinks that if people like quizzes so much they should go to school.

Cindy Robert wishes she wasn’t in class right now.

I know I’m not alone. When did this happen? When did I start thinking that the best way to express my inner stew was through a delicately assembled one-liner? I realized how out of control my new trend had become as I sat in church listening to a message about our need for one another.

Cindy Robert loves living life on life on life…

Really, isn’t it a bit ironic to be sharing my love for human interconnectedness and community on a vastly impersonal social networking site? Why am I, why are we, so committed to spilling our hearts onto a computer screen?

Perhaps this is the question that led Jonathan Harris, an artist and computer scientist, to track the online world of human emotions. His program combs the World Wide Web in search of how people are feeling. He’s found a virtual galaxy, as he sees it, of love, sadness, fear, hope, and every other nuance of emotion found within humanity. Intrigued by Harris’s insights and questioning my own infatuation with statuses I set out to do a little exploration of my own.

Enter Twitter. The Holy Grail for status junkies. A virtual cesspool of unspoken, yet published, human turmoil and elation.

“I have everythang dat I want but a girlfriend…so sad.”

“I am elated by the fact that true romance does actually exist.”

Jonathan Harris' We Feel Fine project harvests emotions from the Internet as displays them as tiny dots in a black field. Each dot represents on a different feeling you can click to read.

One quick foray into the spelling mistake ridden world of Twitter reveals a culture obsessed with online emotional exhibitionism.

Some people may argue that there’s nothing wrong with the new online culture we’ve created. I’m tempted to agree, but the sterile one-sided relationship I share with my computer leaves me doubting. Can our obsession with sharing our truest selves online be the greatest proof of our generation’s need for one another? I’m convinced it is.

Behind my status-compiling mind and the millions of Twitter and Facebook status updates written each day is a generation that has forgotten that spending time sharing one’s inner joys or struggles with another human being is the most life-affirming activity we can do. The genuine sense of interconnectedness experienced between two people cannot be recreated online. It is during those human-to-human, friend-to-friend, life-on-life moments where we can truly learn to love others and receive love.

Below, Jonathan Harris explains some of his projects in more detail. You can also see the projects up close at www.number27.org.

Cindy Robert will share her status with a friend today instead of writing it on her Facebook. Cindy lives in the Great White North — more specifically — Alberta, Canada, and makes a habit of helping others live a more intentional life whether she means to or not. If she had one wish, it would be to live in a warmer climate. Kidding. It would probably be something completely unselfish, because that’s how she rolls. Cindy Robert did not write this bio.

“Call to me, and I will answer you and show you great and mighty things, which you know not.”
Jeremiah 33:3

Dennis, the white-haired coach driver, called out in his deep American accent: “Grover Beach, this is Grover Beach.” I instantly woke up from a sound sleep.

I jumped to my aching feet and after several seconds of shaking my sleep-loving travel companion, he also got up. We disembarked the 9:20 Amtrak coach that has chauffeured us from Santa Barbara, and as we donned our extraordinarily heavy backpacks, I asked myself whether a two piece suit and hair straightners were absolute travel essentials.

While walking for what seemed miles, we discussed all of the things we wanted to achieve from the trip, most of which seemed to involve some kind of self-indulgent and self destructive activity.

I digress. You must forgive my uncontrollable ramblings. After all, I am British. I’m a young man — argh who am I kidding — I’m a 29-year-old chef from a small market town called Darlington, which sits just between County Durham and North Yorkshire. After becoming tired of the ‘small town’ mentality, terrible weather and predictable social life, I booked a flight to the United States for a change of scene. British Airways Flight 502 would transport me and Sleepy from hum drum town life to the sun fun state of California.

So back to Grover Beach…

Our walk took us to a friendly looking venue brimming with Frisbee-throwing families enjoying tri-tip from the barbecue. We thought we were in luck, only to have our balloon of hope popped when we were told that we couldn’t camp because ‘we did not arrive by car.’

Bemused, we turned our weary bodies around and again hit the road. The pavement that would lead us to the next campsite seemed to last forever, only to be told that we were not permitted this time because we did not arrive in an SUV towing what would be classed as a medium-sized family home. I apologised for our lack of Co2 ommittance and headed to the exit.

After throwing the bags to the ground, we lay on the grass staring at the California sky, me wishing I had planned this slightly better (un-organisation being one of many of my bad habits). As I lay beside The Sleepy One, a cheery chap threw us some bottled water stating ‘that we needed it more than he did.’

“How jolly well nice,” I commented (obliviously un-aware of the hospitality that awaited us.) Once again, we begrudgingly headed back along the road we had just trekked — to quote the great Wilfred Owen — “bent double like old beggars under sacks.”

Whilst walking I wondered what reason we would be given as to why we were not permitted to pitch our tent at the next site. We eventually limped into the Coastal Dunes campsite, only to be heartbroken by a Closed sign. I again flopped to the ground — this time seriously contemplating giving up and swimming for home. I was stirred from this ludicrous vision a voice coming from yet another ranger. I hardly dared to ask if we could camp, but forced out the now-dreaded question.

“Hmmmmmm,” he muttered whilst rubbing his chin. I froze, fearing yet another ludicrous anti-camping rejection, only to be told that there was no problem and to grab our bags.
I jumped to my feet with a newfound energy and followed the ranger, who en route to our new home, commented on our choice of footwear. After explaining that the original pairs had buckled under the weight of the over-leavened luggage, we walked past the RV’s and campfires wearing pink and white plimsoles. (I must add that The Semi-Narcoleptic was sporting the pink pair.)

After pitching our tent, we wandered to the beach, happy that we would not be sleeping rough, not knowing that this strange string of events would lead me to a place that would literally change everything.

We settled into the life quite nicely, but nice was not what I had come for; I wanted to find ‘me,’ whoever that may be. I wanted a new career, more money, a huge house, maybe even a holiday getaway somewhere warm, and so on and so on, you get the picture.

Then while attempting to add colour to our pasty English skin by the pool, I was again awoken by an American voice. I looked up from my reclined position seeing the speaker in an inverted state. I righted myself and the mystery man introduced himself as Kyle, the son of Lorrie (one of the rangers we had met whilst paying for our pitch.) We chatted and again replayed our story so far. Kyle showed a genuine interest in our little trip. After telling the tale so far, he asked whether we would be interested in joining him at church that evening.

I pondered for a while, not remembering the last time I had gone to church, but accepted his offer with open arms when he added that there would be food. (Our staple diet to that point consisted of chili and a strange tinned concoction called ‘pork and beans.’ Although I must admit, I’ve seen more meat on a butcher’s pencil!)

As we headed to church, I couldn’t help but feel a little uneasy. I was a Christian, but in the sense that I was christened as a child and went to church for the usual births, marriages, deaths and midnight mass on Dec. 24, singing ‘Morning Has Broken’ badly, and thinking I was doing my bit.

I was shocked when we arrived, pizza in hand for the pot luck, at a beautiful family home. I was now thoroughly confused. This bore no resemblance to the archaic churches of home –not a pew or stained glass window in sight. As we entered I was introduced to Pastor Mark Perry. Again I was taken aback by his appearance, as far from a man of the cloth as you could imagine in — fact bordering on being cool.

Mark proceeded to explain that this was a Microchurch and part of Everyday Church, of which he is at the helm. It was strange. I had been there all of twenty minutes, but already felt accepted by this close-knit group of friends. I was intrigued and had an overwhelming thirst to know more.

After his prayers and words, we talked some more. Anyone who has met Mark will know he puts you at ease and I soon forgot that we had only met an hour ago. We chatted about various aspects of life, but the thing that stuck with me was his explanation that going to church once a week — although perfectly acceptable — would not bring me closer to God. I was very confused, but he went on to explain that I have to build a relationship with God. I liked it. I could always do with a helping hand and frankly could not see the downside.

The evening culminated with a prayer for me and The Tired One. I was so honoured. Here I was, 5430 miles from home, with relative strangers, yet they prayed that we would have safe passage on our trip and that we would continue to discover ourselves along the way. I think it was then that I realised I didn’t need the money and material items that I had so hankered for. What everyone at the church had could not be bought, yet made them the wealthiest people alive. Maybe I was going to discover “me”on this voyage after all.
We were due to leave the following day but I couldn’t there was much more I wanted to see, so we decided to stay.
In the coming weeks we met many more people from the church and in turn their friends and family. In particular, Kyle’s family reached out to us, and what a family they are. Just how a family should be. We were taken in like two lost puppies. No longer would we eat “pork & beans.” Kyle’s dad Tom added hugely to my newfound openness with unobtrusive guidance, for which I will always be grateful. I think he knew before I did where this would lead.

Eventually our voyage had to continue and we headed north. We hiked, biked and hitched our way to San Francisco, visiting many beautiful places along the way, all the time thinking of the events that unfolded in the Central Coast. Could that have all been a coincidence? I started to question it, so we made a detour back through Grover Beach, this time not as tired and with a need for more knowledge.

We reclaimed pitch 22 and settled back into our old routine. We continued to meet more of the church regulars — a DVD alphabetising addict, a man more at home up a cliff than on terra firma, a girl with a hat-styled bicycle helmet and the nicest killer of animals you could ever meet.

We took a full-fledged Sunday visit to Everyday Church and yet again my preconceptions were smashed. Music filled my ears — not the regular “How Great Thou Art,” but a band that blasted out worship songs with passion and vigour. The church patrons stood with hands aloft, voices echoing joyful praise around the room. The hairs on my neck stood up and for the first time in long time, I felt good about myself.

The next time we went to church, I filled me in for the absent drummer. I tapped, banged and crashed my way through the set for which I apologise profusely. Pastor Mark then posed a question to which I answered “yes yes yes” — for I did need saving and I was ready to move on. I spoke to Rich (a stand up Londoner) who listened to my story and extinguished any doubts that may have remained. I felt safe and in the company of friends.

The next thing I remember is being immersed in water. I felt closeted and warm, a million thoughts passed through my mind, memories and feelings combined both good and bad collided. I emerged born, new, a relinquished soul. A huge burden lifted, akin to removing the heavy backpack from my weary shoulders. My friends Peter, Nathan and Kyle, walked with me out of the water along the glorious sand of Pismo Beach, to the cheers and applause of my new family.

I found “ME” and it didn’t cost a dime. I also built friendships that will last forever. After returning to the UK, I have managed to stay in touch with my newfound family and with their support continue to search for myself, but no longer alone. For now I have a relationship with God, one without limits, a relationship that allows me to achieve things I previously thought incomprehensible

Where will this go next? I do not know, but I now have faith and that teamed with like-minded friends gives me the confidence to allow my life’s decisions to be made by someone else, someone who cares and loves me for “me.” He forgives my shortcomings and encourages me to be the person I know I can be.

At the conference we had really great speakers, amazing times of worship and corporate intercession. I was getting so energized and equipped for the upcoming season. My husband and I were going to lead our first Discipleship Training School and we were so excited about the call God had on our lives to be full-time missionaries. The responsibility he was giving us to disciple young people and to continue to build our young YWAM base was great – and we were honored to be able to work with the Lord in this way.

During the worship times in Chico, there was a call to lay down our lives for the Lord. This happens often in our mission. When you are a disciple of Christ, laying down your life and rights should be an every day act of the heart. We often have corporate times of laying down everything before the Cross and saying once again, “Here I am Lord, send me.” I have had several key moments in my life that stand out to me from these times.

Once God had me lay down my right to a home. I had to give up my “right” to have a home that I could arrange the way I wanted, decorate the way I wanted, live in the way I wanted. At the time we were living in community with two other staff and it was a big deal to me to give up those things and learn to live in community. It is a lesson that has carried over into many parts of my life today.

Another instance was after I had Elijah. My husband was to go on a pastoral visit to our DTS team in Rwanda, Africa. Africa is my heartland. I love it and want to return so badly, so it was difficult for me to lay down my right to go with Will. We were concerned about malaria with our 5 month old, so we opted that I needed to stay home with him for the 10 days Will would be gone. That was heartbreaking for me to do! But I did it, and God blessed me with an amazing time with my son and the strength and grace to manage our home while Will was gone.

This time in Chico was different, though. They were calling us to lay down our lives – our LIVES – meaning, being willing to die for the Kingdom of God, and for the first time, I had to pause. I had another little person in my life to think about. This wasn’t just me anymore – if I died, it would affect my son. More than that, laying down my life also meant laying down the lives of my family. My husband and I knew we held each other with open hands, that if God took either of us away, we would eventually be OK with that. But what if God took my child away? We had previously miscarried one pregnancy very early on, and that was difficult, but what would it be like to lose a child you have already held, that you have watched grow, that you have loved and seen personality in? I couldn’t do it.

I think it took me over an hour of wrestling with God before I could lay down the life of my son to Him. It was a gut-wrenching hour of pleading with God – please don’t take him away, how would I survive that? – please don’t ask me to do this – please God – I can’t do this – please. I imagined the loss and grief I would experience, I imagined every worst-case scenario of what the death of a child could do to me, to my marriage. And I imagined what it would to do me if I held bitterness and resentment towards God in my heart because of that loss. I saw the deterioration of my life, my soul, the hopelessness I would live in. I saw the effect that not only the death of my son would have on my marriage, but essentially the death of myself as well as I let the pain and suffering eat at me from the inside.

And then God spoke to me. He reminded me that He will never give us more than we can handle. He reminded me that He will never leave me or forsake me, that He is a giver of good gifts, that He is my Rock and my Shelter – in Him I can put my trust. He showed me that He has good plans for my life, for the lives of my children and my children’s children. He reminded me that my children are above all, His children. He showed me that He is enough – even if I am to lose a child – His grace is enough for me. He showered me with His grace, His mercy, His love – and I let go.

There was a rush of relief and freedom when I was finally able to lay down my life and my family to the Lord. Relief that I wouldn’t have to do this alone, that God will always be with me no matter what. That He will be with me as I raise my children, and He will be with me in times of loss and grief. Freedom in that I wasn’t solely responsible for the safety of my children. How can I be? There will always be things that I can not protect them from, thankfully I can trust my Heavenly Father to watch out for all His children – including mine! It was an amazing moment of revelation and joy when I was finally able to let go and give it all to Him.

Today I have two boys- Eli will be 3 this week, and Liam is just over 1 year old. I still have to give them to Jesus everyday. I still choke back sobs when I think of losing them. I still get tears in my eyes when I think of that day in Chico four years ago, but I know that deep down, somewhere in my heart of hearts I know – God has my boys in His hands, and there is no place I would rather them be.

(Author’s note: I don’t believe that God viciously takes people away from us. I do believe we all have numbered days, but I also think that Satan steals from those days at times – and this God allows. So while God wouldn’t actually be taking my son or husband away – I believe He would allow that to happen even if it wasn’t His best plan for our lives. He is a redeeming God and would make good even from a horrible event like that.)

Take a deep breath. Sniff down deep under the layers of Febreeze, and day-old potato chips and you can smell it.
OK, if we had really had scratch and sniff going on, it would actually smell like unwashed bodies and possibly five-day-old alcohol breath.

But to me, and those I work with, it smells like joy.

Yes, I run this little corner of the universe called Hope Ink, but I do it in association with Youth With A Mission Pismo Beach. We’re a little conclave of a much larger international group of Christian missionaries whose sole joy is sharing the love of Christ with those we meet. In addition to my editor duties here at Hope Ink, I spend a lot of quality time loving on people.

One group we particularly reach is the homeless community. You would think that in an idyllic setting like the Central Coast, you wouldn’t see people with such hardships, but homelessness is quite prevalent here. Take a walk in downtown San Luis Obispo, or cruise Highway 1 through Oceano, and there they are. Lounging on the grass, pedaling single-speed bikes laden with cans, playing guitar barefoot.

You would think they are so visible they would be unavoidable, but after three years here, I’m pretty sure that Mary Poppins was right: Some people cannot see anything past the end of their own nose.

Sadly, when I first moved to California, I was one of these people. I had not really had any interaction with the homeless, and it made me uncomfortable to be around people who came from such a different background. Then one day my friend Cody brought some home so he could feed them some lunch.

My mind revolted. Clean, good-smelling couch + dirty, smelly homeless person = dirty, smelly couch. This did not sit well with me, but the polite Southerner in me could not deny anyone hospitality.

That first day, I kept busy, trying to avoid contact as much as possible. I kept busy to avoid the smell and the ugly looks I would undoubtedly give them as I watched them turn my clean couch to a dirty one.

But one day, I started talking to one of the women who came to our house weekly for dinner and conversation.
Patta was the most belligerently drunk person I had ever come in contact with. She made no effort to hide her drunkenness. The years of alcohol abuse had whittled her 60-something-year-old brain down to the most basic of child-like needs.

Of course, there was pity there, but Patta was also full of spit-fire. She had a grip that belied her frail frame, and she could hug with the best of them.

Beneath the drunken exterior beat a heart of gold, and my heart reached out to this ragged, flawed, but infinitely precious woman.

For two years, I saw Patta through dark as well as light times. Times where she would beg me to take her money so she wouldn’t spend it on alcohol, only to come back a week later to ask for it back.

Times of repentance, where she would go into a safe house away from the streets, and moments of frustration when we would find her back on the street.

Patta once told me that she loved all of us, and we were her friends, because we took the time to listen to her. Not that we fed her, or gave her clothes, although we did those things too. We didn’t do much, perhaps, in the eyes of the world, but we filled one of the needs she most lacked: a sense of dignity.

Instead of just another ragged face on the street, she became a friend, reconnected to a society that had left her out.
Patta is now off the street, living with a Christian woman in Oceano, hopefully for good. It is her image that I keep in my mind with every person I help.

Now when a street kid comes in and has a seat on my couch, I think of all that simple act of bestowing dignity can mean.

And I think of the joy that they will leave there when they are gone.

My favorite salad growing up: ambrosia with coconut flakes. After playing in the sun all day, I go for my cocoa butter, lotion of choice. I recently needed some hair oil product, and bought the coconut kind. One Halloween, I dressed in Hawaiian garb, complete with a coconut bra (actually my mother dressed me, but she understood my affinity for these tropical treats even as a toddler.)

So it only seems logical that when choosing where to go in my life post- (formal) education, I would go to Thailand, the land where coconuts abound, with curries made from coconut milk, coconut trees growing wild (as opposed to our landscaped ones here in SoCal) and fresh coconuts cracked open with a straw at open air markets and sidewalk vendors.

Mmmm...coconuts.

If you like, or even love, something enough, you will first find that thing and then follow it back to wherever it grows most pure and wild—or at least that is what you do if you want to remain passionate and alive throughout your life.

So that is what I did, and for the next seven months, I will follow what I love to this country of palms bursting with the fruit of my heart.

Oh, that, and God walked me here.

OK, so coconuts really have been just an ironic twist in the grand symphony of my life thus far. In fact, they have nothing to do with it. Actually, God had everything to do with it.

I didn’t even think I wanted to go to Thailand. I wanted to travel in Australia. And then Africa. And then Europe, where I would meet someone and continue on with him through life. Maybe we would re-visit Asia after cinching lucrative careers with loads of vacation time and I could write some novel while hobnobbing with the natives.

Upon evaluation, God replied, ’Sweetheart, those are nice ideas, but your heart is meant for another path, little Christian’ (loosely paraphrased). And this is how He made my way…

My friend Lauren wanted to start an online magazine (this one, actually,) and she compiled a seminal team of two for her first journalism trip to Thailand, scheduled for just the same time I was to be in Australia. Having previously resolved to ‘write more’ in my graduated life, this trip aligned too well with my pursuits to go unnoticed. He stirred an uneasiness within me, and when finances made it too difficult to make for a meaningful time down under, I quickly switched plans and proceeded to Thailand for a month in February.

Kay Fox, Betsi Clark and their friend Claire

In May, my travel mate Sarah and I fulfilled our promise to pay our friends a sleepover visit. On the drive over to Visalia, I thought, God, if Kay invites me to go back with her and Don (her husband) to Thailand, I don’t think I could say no.

Why, you ask? Because this woman exuded love, and living alongside her for any amount of time surely has to contain transformational properties. We did not even get to dinner before our conversation turned to Sarah’s and my directionless lives in search of ourselves — and our displaced passion to love others in need. So Kay inquired of my talents, and amidst my feelings of uselessness she found that I can sew a bit and am willing to teach/speak English. Therefore she extended a volunteer position at Handclasp, the center where she and Don work (I say ‘therefore’ only because in God’s logic it makes absolute sense — why wouldn’t she ask me to come just at the peak of my existential funk — but to me it came as a quite pleasant surprise).

Karen children in northern Thailand

On our way home, I stopped by my coffee shop job and gave my two weeks notice. A week later, I emailed Kay to say ‘Yes, I will go.’ Ever since, a peace passing all understanding has kept me committed to this quest, and I still cannot wait to go.

I am really nervous. I do not like running errands by myself, let alone living in a village somewhere north of Chiang Mai with a barely familiar couple in their sixties, teaching a language I still struggle grasping most days. But somehow this makes it just ridiculous enough to be perfect, wild and pure.

Did I mention that the Karen people group compose the majority of those living in Museekee (the village)? Insignificant to the untrained eye, but this group relocated years ago from their native Burma due to ongoing persecution, and has quite a story to tell. I first read about them in Don Richardson’s book, Eternity In Their Hearts, and frankly it remains the only excerpt (amidst tons of miraculous accounts of redemption) that stuck with me after setting the paperback down. Something about the Karen really captivated my heart and cultivated a distant affection for them.

When I read this book a year ago, I resolved to learn more about the Karen. I didn’t, so they loitered in my memory bank, and somewhere in the left ventricle of my heart.

God brought them back to the surface upon our visit to their refugee camp — the very spot I first met Kay.

I do believe in irony, but not the naturalistic, unfeeling sort. No, I am into the kind that serves as a tool for Jesus to construct a life story glorifying the Godhead and the kind that made Sara laugh out a baby well into her nineties. The type that moves a girl to Thailand by way of foxes, restlessness, refugee camps and theology/missions authors, sprouting a growing speck of faith that continues to discover His love step-by-step.

I will spare you the rest of the pages detailing the majorly minor details of this year’s falling ever-the-more in love with my God, but do know that this is just the head of a very dark and tasty pitcher of beer poured straight from the tap Himself: the Holy Spirit.

It gives me a good buzz to think of just how fast He makes my heart pump.

Coconuts have many uses.

Plus coconuts, when clomped together, sound like hoof beats…

Betsi Clark is serving as a missionary in northern Thailand for the next six months. You can keep with her adventures on her blog Going Somewhere.

While God will never do anything against his Word and we must always test that which comes before us through the Bible’s truths, God is not confined to do things based on our expectations. So the Catholic and the Charismatic can both serve the same God as long as the theology is in line with scripture, regardless of the method with which they seek God.

The truth that God is not confined to our expectations is visible in our daily lives, in our church practices, and out on the mission field. When we choose to break out of the box, God meets us and shows us new aspects of His character, as I have discovered over the years.

God has on the occasion spoken to me through a line in a movie. Just a few weeks ago, a friend of mine had this same experience while we were watching, “What Happens In Vegas.” God spoke truth to her through a comedy! She is now preparing to go on the mission field for a few months. Even the routine act of watching a movie can have life-impacting results with God in control.

I attended a church service while living in Colorado with a few guest worship bands, with a techno group. It was the last section of the night, and as the music began, the audience emptied. I stood there bewildered, because God has created all music and was in fact a part of this man’s act of worship. ‘Can’t we worship God through all forms of music?’ I thought. I stayed, and met God in the techno music, having a wonderful, unique encounter with my Creator.

I had the pleasure of meeting missionaries just this last month heading into a mission field outside the box. Jeremy and Kendra Stephenson have been missionaries in Tanzania for years. The mission field is not a foreign concept as both of them were raised by missionary families on the mission field. Being a missionary is what they know, but God is calling them out of the typical mission experience into one that is nothing short of divine.

God has gifted Jeremy with amazing photography abilities. Growing up, he saw this gift as a hobby sidelined by a passion to pursue Christ and spread the gospel. It wasn’t until marrying Kendra that God began to speak to his heart and call him to use his gift in a unique way. God asked Jeremy and Kendra to change their spiritual target from the natives of their region to the foreigners coming for safari vacations. Now Jeremy will be taking pictures for the tourists on their adventure and allowing God to facilitate relationships that offer a different adventure than the one the tourists flew to Africa to pursue.

Each of these experiences are of God and wouldn’t be considered “normal” interactions, but are in fact movements of the Spirit. Who knows what will come of the direction God has led these missionaries? Who knows what will come of the outside the box experience He has in store for you? The question that needs to be answered is –- Are you ready to allow God outside the box?