But take heart, because I have overcome the world.

Elizabeth grew up in a Christian home in southern Asia, graduated from school, and wanted to earn money for her family before continuing her education. Tricked by her aunt, she was sold into a brothel and starved for three months in a cell before she gave into her owner's demands. She began to pray on her knees for God to rescue her, and the other girls laughed. "God can't hear you in a place like this," they said. When International Justice Mission rescued Elizabeth and 21 other girls from the brothel and brought their perpetrators to justice, they found this writing on Elizabeth's cell wall:

"Psalm 27:1-3. The Lord is my light and my salvation--whom shall I fear? The Lord is the stronghold of my life; of whom shall I be afraid? When evil men advance against me to devour my flesh, when my enemies and my foes attack me, they will stumble and fall. Though an army besiege me, my heart will not fear; though war break out against me, even then I will be confident."

I've been researching human trafficking for a few months, but each time I hear the facts, I'm surprised. Tonight I heard Jim Martin from IJM speak at Kuyper College's Global Issues Summit.

Here were the facts, again, which surprised me, again:

- Human trafficking is the third most lucrative trafficking industry (following drugs and arms), and the fastest growing criminal industry.

- Human Trafficking is a $32 Billion industry.

- There are 27 million slaves in the world today, which means that slavery is a greater issue today than it ever has been in the past.

Some common misunderstandings:

- "Human trafficking only happens far away." (In fact, it's happening in rural America and in our cities.)

- "The problem is too overwhelming--we can't do anything about it." (In fact, people are rescuing victims and bringing criminals to justice.)

- "As sad as these statistics are, this cause can only distract the church from it's true mission, which is saving souls." (Among many others, Jeremiah 22:16: "He defended the cause of the poor and needy, and so all went well. "Is that not what it means to know me?" declares the Lord.)

Some complicating factors:

- There is a lack of social demand. We take every opportunity to look away and remain ignorant, or we deny what we see.

- This issue is different than poverty, AIDS or natural disaster relief in that there are people committed to fighting back against our advances.

- The church in large branches has abdicated its responsibility.

At the beginning of Jim's lecture he presented a short documentary film, and after it ended, he asked us for one-word responses that described what we were feeling.

Anger
Hopelessness
Confusion
Despair

Members of the crowd named about 10 more, and then I shared mine:

Fear

When confronted with injustice and evil, timidity has always been my response. My tears of compassion have always been mixed with tears of fear; a heartbeat of excitement over serving in missions has always been followed with a beat of anxiety. And I felt fearful again as I watched the film and heard the stories of young girls who were forced to have sex with 30 men a day, or children whose hands were beaten if they didn't meet their quota at the end of a 13 hour work day. But after I listened to Elizabeth's story, after Jim walked us through scripture that covered each of our one-word responses, after I got in my car and asked the Lord to speak to my heart, I realized that my fear was gone.

My fear was gone, and in its place I felt commissioned, empowered, and like nothing will ever satisfy me unless I get to deliver good news to the poor. I felt bravery, compassion and love, and at the same moment that I felt each of those things, I realized that they were indistinguishable from one another, because perfect love casts out all fear. I felt Jesus asking me to stop holding back with my questions, and to stop joining David Bazaon as he "ponders the weight of the apple/compared to the trouble we're in." I've pondered the weight and the trouble and I haven't discovered any satisfactory answers, but God is restoring his creation and Jesus is building his kingdom, and I'd really just rather be doing that stuff.

Psalm 27:1-3 has long been a favorite passage, but I used to read it like this, "The Lord is my light and my salvation--whom shall I fear? (The murderers, the rapists, the persecutors, and the drunk drivers.)" The Lord is my Light has long been a favorite worship song, but I had only heard it sung at youth rallies with a couple thousand American teenagers raising their hands under strobe lights. Seeing a photograph of Psalm 27 written in a foreign language on Elizabeth's cell changed the entire passage for me. The Lord is my light and my salvation--whom shall I fear? The Lord is the stronghold of my life; of whom shall I be afraid? When evil men advance against me to devour my flesh, when my enemies and my foes attack me, they will stumble and fall. Though an army besiege me, my heart will not fear; though war break out against me, even then I will be confident.

fall is here, hear the yell

My first conversation with Dugan was in September of 2003 around a campfire in Green Lake, Wisconsin. I passed the guitar to someone else, and suddenly he was sitting on the bench next to me. He said, "I was in that tree over there, watching you sing. You're good." I tilted my head to the side, raised one eyebrow, and turned to face him.

"I mean," he continued, "I wasn't WATCHING you from a tree. I was just in a tree. Watching... You." He lurched into an imitation of a creep who sits in trees and watches girls, which was intended to assure me that he himself was not a creep who sits in trees and watches girls. It worked.

"Hi, I'm Dugan," he said.

"I know," I said. "We've met before. On my birthday, actually."

"Really? I have no memory of that."

"That's okay. You wished me a happy birthday at the time."

"Good," he said. "I'm glad to hear it."

"Why were you in a tree?" I asked.

The next evening, in the middle of a small field surrounded by tents and campers, I had my second conversation with Dugan Sherbondy. I had mentioned at the campfire that I had never seen a shooting star, so we were staking out the sky until I spotted one. We talked for hours about everything. I guessed his middle name on the first try, with only the letter "E" as a clue: Earl. (He's still impressed, six years later, or at least pretends to be when I ask, "Hey, remember how I guessed your middle name on the first try?")

That night I returned to my cabin convinced that Dugan and I would simply nod to each other across the church auditorium, or else fall in love and spend the rest of our lives together. So when he called me two days after the retreat, I assumed it was the latter.

After about a week of phone calls, coffee shops and movies, I felt a pang of confusion. I was was crazy about him, sure. But instead of the fun tension that usually accompanies that era of a relationship, there was just... fun. One evening I started what was doomed to be the first of many mental debates with myself over what he was thinking and feeling, when--out of nowhere--he interrupted my thoughts to tell me what he was thinking and feeling. I was totally off-guard.

"Listen, I've been thinking," he said, putting the car into park. "I'm really enjoying hanging out with you, and I want to keep hanging out with you, but I'm not interested in dating you. How, uh... how do you feel about that? Where are you at? What do you think?"

Still surprised, I started to nod. "I... think... that's great. Really. Thanks for telling me. I think we're on the same page."

"Okay, good. I hope I didn't make things uncomfortable? I just prefer to over-communicate whenever possible."

"Really, I appreciate it," I said. "I'm not used to it, but it's good."

And it was good. I had never had any guy address our friendship so straight-forwardly. I continued to fall head-over-platonic-heels for Dugan, and a while later I reconnected with someone else who had a flair for open communication: Pete Neal. He asked if he could walk me to my car and then said, "I like you, and I'd like to spend time with you. What do you think? How do you feel about me?" Having had my eye on him for years, I responded with a demure translation of, "Hell yeah." Two weeks later we were dating--fun tension and all--and two Septembers later we were married. Dugan emceed our reception and introduced us as Pete and Joy Neal, and this past October I stood for Dugan as he married Lindsay.

Mystery in a new relationship is fun, but mystery shouldn't be confused with confusion, clever deceit, or misunderstandings, all of which are the key ingredients in the romantic comedy plot line. Nearly every romantic comedy would be rolling credits within 20 minutes if the main characters had a real conversation at the right time, but we'd ask for a refund on our way out of the theater. ("Everyone stated their feelings clearly, no one sobbed to her best friend, no one made a fool of herself--preferably on stage or at a crucial moment in her career--roughly 15 minutes before the explosive yet finally honest conversation that solved everything. What kind of crap entertainment was that?")

Dating and marriage is hard work sometimes, and meaningful friendships with the opposite sex usually require "over-communicating whenever possible." But when I meet someone who I know I want to ally myself with for the rest of my life, (whether it's someone who came down from a tree to talk with me, or someone I want to sit in a tree with while k-i-s-s-i-n-g), it's worth the effort and the honesty it requires.

Dugan picking me up at my house.
2004, maybe?
An improvement, definitely.
This was the first time I met Lindsay, and within half an hour I had sent Dugan a text message from across the room: Marry her. I once told Lindsay that I had kept Dugan around in hopes of meeting her; which, now that I know her, would have been a totally decent ulterior motive.
= 1,000 words.
Pete and Dugan reindeer humping.

One of D & L's visits to Grand Rapids

My Morning of Zen

Tuesday morning I participated in my first ever yoga class. Apparently I was obvious about it. I set my mat down twice before settling on a spot near the door, and I peeled off my socks while inspecting the foux wood floor for visible signs of wart fungi. It was then that Kathy, the instructor, asked, "Is there anyone here who has never taken a yoga class before?" Everyone in the class seemed to know each other, so they all turned to me.

"This is my first class," I said, "unless you count the DVD Yoga for Dummies." The class responded with a chattering of amusement that blended with the sushi restaurant music playing in the background. Then we began.

As I crossed my ankles and rested the back of my hands on my knees, Kathy reminded us of the intentions of Yoga, and encouraged us to determine our own intentions that morning. "When you are holding a pose and finding difficulty in balance, what do you want to call to yourself? Later in your day, you might need that very same thing, and this is your preparation." I decided to call "grace" unto myself, thinking it a very multi-purpose word since it is used in both ballet and theology. I questioned whether it was too Judeo-Christian for 6:00 am yoga, but since we weren't sharing our words out loud, and since I was in the East Studio at the YMCA, I stuck to it.

I thought I was doing really well, but then the warm-up stretches concluded and I immediately screwed up the first pose: Downward Facing Dog. Kathy quickly came to my rescue. "Move your hands out further. Further. Further. Your legs are quite long. Further. Beautiful." I pictured a Pekingese forming a triangle with its hip alignment, balancing on all four paws. Then I called grace unto myself.

My mornings have always been a battle, and typically I emerge barely on-time, barely ready, never triumphant. I just haven't figured out how to successfully wake up. Occasionally I determine to read my Bible and pray first thing in the morning, but I'm so incoherent that I once opened my Bible only to realize that I was studying Merriam-Webster's dictionary. I can't read. I can't remember whether I've already shampooed my hair. But apparently I CAN imitate a disjointed Pekingese. And after pressing my ankle on its opposite knee and gradually bending that knee to a ninety degree angle, I could even pray. The last time Jesus and I had a good conversation in the morning was after I fell asleep at the wheel and woke up very grateful to be alive.

"Think about the things you are grateful for," Kathy said as we lay flat on our backs. Suddenly she was unfolding a blanket and stretching it over me. "You look cool," she said, and even though I didn't feel cool, the blanket felt nice. Under the blanket, with my palms turned up and my toes extended, I realized that I had just replaced my snooze-alarm routine with yoga. I had found my morning stride. I had found grace for the morning.

That is, I had found grace for Tuesday and Thursday mornings from 6:00 - 7:00. As far as the rest of the week is concerned, I suppose I could try dunking my head in cold water or popping in Yoga for Dummies.

Even though we ain't got money...

Six months ago Pete and I would often say to ourselves, "We may have a tight budget, but at least we're not in debt!" It was a mantra, and like most mantras, it helped.

Then we borrowed money from parents to buy a car. I took a closer look at the loan that I had taken out for one semester of school. Pete had dental surgery sans dental insurance. Then he fell over playing frisbee, and after receiving the hospital bill, doctor's bill and radiologist's bill, we took a gander at our deductible. High.

Yesterday Pete found out that it's going to cost over four hundred dollars to register our car in Michigan. He came home and said, "I need you to say something nice. I'm discouraged about money." I thought about it a moment and then said, "At least only half of our debt is stuff that we're paying interest on." This mantra didn't end with an exclamation point like our last one did, so I don't think we'll be repeating it frequently or with the same level of snobbery.

I tried again. "Hey, listen. Either we'll pay off our debts, or we'll die first and it won't matter." I felt immediately depressed by this, but Pete seemed oddly consoled. "I never thought about it that way," he said.

"OR!" I said, "How about this: we don't have money, but I love you."

He smiled. "How about we just stop worrying about money and become hobos."

"How do you become a hobo?"

"Well," he sid, "You put some of your things in a sack, tie it to a stick, and then walk around."

"That sounds easy enough," I said. "Can we have a baby and strap it to our backs?"

"No, just us."

"Okay. Just us."

So Deep I Love You

Two minutes out of getting out of bed this morning, I clicked through my facebook notifications and saw a video from my brother's trip to Madagascar. So Deep I Love You is a terrific title to a video, so I clicked play and watched about twenty African teenagers swaying back and forth, singing and harmonizing to my brother's group.

So deep I love you
So deep I do
Because Jesus died and
He loves me and loves you
So deep I love you
So deep I do
Because you are so precious
In the eyes of the Lord

No matter what weakness has led you astray
No matter what sins you have made on the way
Jesus Christ the Lord
Died for the whole world
And rose again to give you the power to win

You are a winner!

Just like this: click, I'm watching my brothers and sisters in Africa singing songs of love to family from another continent. Even though I haven't met them, so deep I love them this morning. And even though they can be tools for lesser purposes, so much I appreciate airplanes and video cameras and internet this morning.

I cried instantaneously after starting this video; I slept so little last night that I had probably been doomed to cry over my cereal bowl. I'm grateful that I got to cry over this instead:

No matter what weakness has led you astray, no matter what sins you have made on the way... Jesus Christ the Lord died for the whole world, and rose again to give you the power to win. You are a winner!

Locked Out

If my month were a book and last week was a chapter, I would title it Locked Out.

It all started when my dear friend and boss stuffed my keys into her purse before heading to the U.P. for the weekend. I discovered their absence at 11:00 p.m. After a call to my husband (who had gone to bed 3 hours prior) and a call to the cab company, my evening ended at 12:15 when a friend picked me up from work.

The following day I lost the key to the house where I was staying for the week.

The next day I went to see a few apartments and three of the landlords had key problems. One had to call the previous tenant to ask them to come with their key; one broke into the top apartment to unlock the main floor. The third landlord said, "Huh. My key isn't working." I said, "I could have told you that hours ago."

That same day I called Matt to tell him that the church office key wasn't in it's usual spot. He said, "Yes it is, I saw it last night." I said, "I took everything out, and it's really really not." He said, "Well it's in there! Okay! Bye!" and hung up. (But he was the friend that picked me up from work at midnight, so we're not even a little irritated with him.)

I waited on my car for my friend to get home with the car opener (since I lost her only house key).

I waited on my car for my husband's boss to arrive with my house key (since mine was in my friend's purse).

I waited, I waited, I waited.

In frustrating moments like these, I like to comfort myself by weaving meaning into what seems pointless. I'm usually pretty good at it, too, so I was surprised to come up nearly blank. Oh, I dug up a few little analogies about doors and keys and knocking and opening and master keys and loose keys, etc., though nothing worth mentioning. Then I thought to myself,

"Self? Dearest. Perhaps you need to spend a little less time weaving meaning into your daily life, and a little more brain power remembering to put your KEYS in your PURSE when you get to work, rather than leaving them strewn about the office." Which turned out to be the mundane moral to last week's story.

If You are Bored

My mother is a woman of signs and labels. My childhood was mostly coordinated by postings throughout our house: labels on the foods we were allowed to eat, charts of our rotating chores and responsibilities, directions on how to sort laundry loads on the washing machine, sign-up sheets for household projects, and so on.

This week I was happy to see a new sign on the Towers refrigerator.



The goal of a Christian is not to be entertained, but to be busy at work for the Lord. Because God has blessed me with time this summer, here is a list of things I am going to do:

1. Read a list of books recommended by friends
2. Keep a journal
3. Plan a late fall vacation
4. Go camping with Pete
5. Get a head start on my fall classes by reading recommended books
6. Study the Word
7. Cook
8. Go berry picking; can preserves
9. Spend time developing friendships
10. Play guitar
11. Finish my little book about my first year of marriage
12. Memorize my list of Bible verses for the family competition

And perhaps:

13. Learn Hebrew, a la Rosetta Stone. I haven't committed to it yet, but I'm almost there.