Karis Waters's Blog, page 7

When Life’s Up in the Air

Have you ever just felt like your life’s completely up in the air?

This decision depends on this outcome which is dependent on this other unknown factor. So many uncertainties and unknowns and factors far outside of your control that you feel like you’re treading air and getting nowhere and yet falling at a tremendous rate.

It’s a scary and disconcerting feeling. If that’s you, then we’re free-falling together.

But, could it be…could it just be that when it feels like life’s up in the air it actually means we’re flying? When it feels like we are sitting still or flailing and falling through space, we’re actually hurtling forward to the exciting destination that awaits?

I am what might be called a veteran flyer. I work for the media ministry of a global missions organization, which means that at least once a month or more for the last three years I’ve been on a plane flying across the world to film on location. In 2015 alone I flew on over 35 planes (that’s about three a month, if you’re mathematically challenged like me).

I know how to fly.

I know how to get through security as quickly as possible. I know how to fold my little self into an incredibly small space for hours and hours at a time. I know how to haul suitcases of expensive equipment that weighs twice as much as I do all around airports in Third World countries. I know that I need to bring an extra water bottle and fill it in the airport so I don’t dehydrate on long-haul flights. I know which airlines have interesting in-flight magazines and which airlines have up-to-date in-flight entertainment.

You’d think that after flying so much I’d be completely unfazed by any aspect of flying. Not true. Not long ago my sister asked me when the last time was I thought I was going to die (no doubt expecting me to relate some story about facing off with a lion in Africa -which did happen, by the way). Without hesitating, I said, “On the flight back to the U.S. for Christmas.”

Really?

Here’s the thing. I hate turbulence. It scares me to death. Every. Single. Time. It doesn’t help to tell myself that the odds of the plane falling out of the sky are extremely slim. It doesn’t help to remind myself that I fly all the time and a plane has yet to crash from turbulence. It’s not even that I really seriously think that the plane is going to crash.

It’s that I suddenly realize what I conveniently forgot – that I’m hurtling through thin air at ridiculous speeds miles and miles above the earth. I’m literally standing (well, usually sitting) on thin air. 

I’m, quite literally, up in the air.

It is, truthfully, a very disconcerting feeling. I don’t like it one bit. So why, you might ask, do I continually put myself in that situation? Simple. Because I know that the destination will be worth the journey.

I know that if I don’t face my life being up in the air for a little while, I won’t see lions face to face in Africa. I won’t sit and talk about Jesus with an ex-Buddhist monk in Myanmar (Burma). I won’t get the chance to ride a tuktuk in Bangkok or walk through the front door of my parent’s cute little house on Floral Street and surprise my sweet mama.

I know that to go somewhere really amazing, to see incredible sights and have mind-blowing experiences you have to be willing to let your life be up in the air sometimes. 

When talking to people about my rather strange nomadic life and my various adventures invariably someone will say, “Oh, I wish I could do that. It sounds so incredible. But I could never do that.”

And I always find it somewhat humorous, because the truth is, they really could. They could eat pineapple in Thailand and hug orphans in Guatemala and sit out on the African plain and listen to zebras call in the night. It’s usually not that they can’t. They just won’t. 

Yes. That is a styrofoam airplane hanging from the ceiling of my church’s auditorium. I love my church.

My pastor has been preaching a series recently called “Take Off” about how applying the principles in Scripture can allow us to soar over obstacles in life.

It’s not a new concept. For centuries people have tried to invent flying machines, written songs about flying, as a child loved fairytales about flying, and generally have been obsessed with the idea of flying.

So why don’t more people fly? (I’m speaking both literally and metaphorically here).

I believe some people never fly because they want the benefits of flying with the security of having both feet firmly planted on the ground. 

They don’t like the vulnerable feeling of floating in thin air, of being powerless and having no control over your fate. (No judging here. I’m right there beside you with my death grip on my airplane seat.)

But the reality is that unless you’re willing to release control and let your feet leave the ground, let your life be up in the air for awhile, you will never experience the sheer joy of that moment when the plane lifts off the ground and goes airborne. And you’ll never experience the incredible things God has for you on the other side.

So if you’re feeling a little helpless right now, if you feel like you’re flailing and treading air and free-falling today, may I just suggest that you may be exactly where you need to be?

Could it be that if your life feels up in the air at the moment, you’re just on your way to someplace amazing? 

The Truth about Coming Home

They call it re-entry. Reverse culture shock.

I’d say it’s more like “reverse life change shock.” The combined effect of packing up a life into four shockingly small suitcases, moving the fragments of my life from one house to the next for over a month, then landing, breathlessly, in familiar surroundings that are yet unfamiliar.

I was warned of the mysterious effects of this arduous journey. In my sleepy hometown, small things have changed–a new flower garden there, births and deaths, and a new paint job.

But, mostly, I have changed.

The journey changed me. In many ways, I left behind the cheerfully naive young woman I used to be and returned a braver, wiser version of myself.

I sometimes feel like I no longer fit in a quieter, more pastoral life. Yet I also have a new appreciation for simple pleasures and peaceful old age, having seen so many go without and have the privilege of old age taken from them early.

After the frenetic pace of the last three years, a new country and usually language each month, trotting all over the globe to return to a house that still did not feel quite like home, I appreciate a simple life.

Joyful homecomings. Christmas around the tree with my family. A bright blue sky and Kansas sunset dying orange. Staying in one country for the longest amount of time (one month) since I moved to England.

There is a strange sense of losing yourself, though. Losing that fearless person who chatted with Buddhist monks in Myanmar and rode tuktuks through insane traffic in Bangkok and came face-to-face with wild lions in Africa.

I am that person, too.

I’ve been here before, feeling like I’ve lost myself and knowing that someday, if I keep stepping forward, I’ll stumble over myself again, though I won’t look quite the same as I once did.

In a way, I will always be both people. Many different people in many different places. I will never forget that person I used to be, the adventures she had, the blood and sweat and tears and triumphs.

But, it does not do to dwell on memories and forget to live.

I will never forget the dusty red dirt of Africa, the smiling faces of children on almost every continent, the sounds and smells and tastes of Rome in the heat of summer. Yet I cannot live as a person torn in two, walking forward and looking back at the same time.

It’s just asking to fall on my face.

Wisdom I learned the hard way when struggling with homesickness and Myanmar heat and strange food I can’t begin to pronounce serves me well now.

Wherever you are, be all there. Live present with the I AM in the right now. Live your story, and live fully in this moment, because the person you are right now, in this time and place, you will never be again. There is no going back.

Forward? Only way to go.

When your story hurts

On Friday morning, four days ago,  my beloved aunt tried to take her own life. She shot herself in the stomach after a months-long struggle with anxiety and depression.

At 11:00 a.m. my phone rang and Lauren, at 22 the oldest of their seven children and more my little sister than cousin, came on the line. She told me what happened and asked me to pray, bravely fighting back sobs.

“I have to go,” she said. “The police are here.”

They flew my aunt to the hospital. On a road somewhere in western Kansas a husband drove to meet the paramedics fighting for his bride’s life, and my friend Amy Williams and I threw our backpacks in the car and hit the road driving the other way to go hug on the kids who saved their mother’s life.

There are just some twists in your story you never see coming. Some scenarios you never expect to face.

I couldn’t help but think of my conversation the previous afternoon, walking with another friend in the midst of her own storm.

“This isn’t the end of the story,” I told her, and believed every word.

“I know,” she said, her fingers gripping mine as we walked. “But this is the part of the story I don’t like.”

And we all come to that junction some days. The days when life hurts. Relationships get messy. The unthinkable happens.

The days and seasons when everything changes or nothing changes and real hope seems as hard to grasp as mist over the lake on a frosty morning.

What do you do when your story hurts? You trust God and turn the page. 

You hold tight to those you love, broken souls pressing against broken souls, and let them hold tight to you. You take their hand and don’t let go and anchor them in the truth that you both know–Jesus saves and He doesn’t let go either.

You curl up on the couch and watch Firefly and cry into your boyfriend’s shoulder and celebrate a tough love kind of Valentine’s Day, the kind that sails right past sentimental cards and paper hearts and goes straight to the heart of the kind of love that walks with you on the dark days when you’re in the part of your story that hurts.

Every story has a part that hurts. Every. Single. One. 

You don’t get a choice. You will face many such days in your own story. A friend betrays you. Money and time runs out. A relationship falls apart. A pink slip takes away your dream job in an instant.

You can make the right choice every single time and that day will still come. You don’t get to decide every twist and turn in your story.

But you do get to decide how to respond. Every day, especially when your story hurts, you have the power to say, “This is not how my story is going to end.”

You don’t get to determine every twist and turn of your story. But you can decide to turn the page.  

Where are you at in your story? How have you gotten through difficult days or seasons? Let me know in the comments below. 

The Inconvenience of Opportunity

We left the massive ship sleeping along the quayside in Sri Lanka at 11 p.m., driving 45 minutes through Southeast Asian traffic to get to the Colombo airport for our 3 a.m. flight.

It took a four to five hour eternity to fly from Colombo to Dubai in the United Arab Emirates. An hour and a half to hurry through congested security lines and nauseating perfume shops to arrive at our gate as our flight was boarding.

Finally, I thought, visions of seven hours of sleep and uninterrupted reading and movie watching dancing in my head–a blissful prospect for an introvert after spending the last 10 days working in a floating metal box with 400 other people.

I settled into my middle seat, reaching for my headphones, precious introvert time within my grasp–and a voice comes from the man beside me.

“Hello, there. Coming back from vacation?”

My stomach sank and I resigned myself to a few minutes of requisite small talk with the man next to me. No, I wasn’t on vacation. I was filming interviews for a video I’m making for my non-profit. Oh, you’ve done some video work too?

“Yes,” he said, “I did some stunt work for several movies, most recently Brad Pitt’s movie War Machine. He’s a really nice guy, his wife too.”

I processed this tidbit of information, trying to come up with the proper response to someone speaking so casually of having dinner with Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie, but fortunately a response wasn’t required. He was off.

Oh, no. I mentally groaned. He was, as my mama would put it, “a talker.” We had officially bypassed the small talk stage to the “I’m committed now” stage.

He did, at least, have an interesting life story. We talked (well, mostly he talked, punctuated by frequent swearing for added color, and I nodded) about his military career. About the differences in British and American culture. About how he almost got arrested multiple times. About religion and politics and how Christianity is dead in England because people no longer care (my version, not his).

Dinner arrived, and hope flickered, but no such luck. I escaped to the toilet, but upon my return–the fount continued. I cast a longing glance at my colleague, blissfully absorbed in a movie with his earbuds firmly in place.

Four hours into the flight, my talkative seatmate finally ran out of words. We lapsed into blissful silence.

Now, you have to understand about my deal with God. I’ve been on over 32 flights so far this year. My general rule is that I don’t initiate conversations with my seatmates, but if they initiate conversation I assume God wants me to share my faith with them, and direct the conversation accordingly.

As in previous encounters, I did have the opportunity to share my faith with this man and explain the difference between religion and a relationship with God. I shocked him with my devotion to His principles, especially when it comes to my boyfriend.

I’d like to say that I was overjoyed at the opportunity to share about Christ and was delighted to converse with this man and hear his life story.

I wasn’t. It was inconvenient at best, irritating definitely. I was generally unimpressed with God and His plan for my flight, which was unquestionably very different from mine.

But I’ve found that opportunity often comes garbed in some pretty strange clothes or some pretty rough language. It usually looks inconvenient. It looks uncomfortable. It looks messy. It looks like work. 

While this is often true of opportunities in our life, it’s especially true of opportunities God puts in our path. For the Good Samaritan, helping the beaten-up man was expensive, inconvenient, awkward and messy.

Sometimes people’s wounds aren’t obvious. As I listened to this man’s story, I felt God’s heart of compassion nudging my reluctant soul. Urging me to see through the witty comments and tough words to his lonely, hurting, wandering heart underneath.

He only made a brief appearance in the on-going story of my life. I only was a blip in his story. But you never know how God will use you, however grudgingly. Maybe God will use our conversation to spark a change that completely redirects the course of his story.

You never know how your story can change someone else’s story if you let inconvenience stand in the way of opportunity. 

Life on the Wild Side

I sit curled on a rock at the dimly-lit watering hole, the thick blackness of the African night settling over me. It’s silent except for the far-off cough of zebras and the quiet lapping of a pair of hyenas come for an evening drink.

They pad away as silently as they appeared. A shadow flits, then another. A pack of black-backed jackals, their tan coats disappearing into the dusty plain the moment they stop moving.

Bare bushes rattle like ribs and I catch my breath. A rare black rhino edges toward the waterhole, the little shadow of her baby hovering by her leathery sides.

As mama drinks, the baby steps out, inspecting the wary jackals curiously, tiny round ears swiveling. I smile.

There are some moments in life that fly by, rushing through the sieve of my busyness. Some moments still and stretch, seeping into your memory.

My visit to Etosha National Park in northern Namibia on a recent filming trip was of the latter variety. Even for someone accustomed to unexpected, surreal and surprisingly delightful moments, Etosha was a very special experience for me.

As a child fascinated by animals of all kinds, I spent hours watching David Attenborough’s “Trials of Life” nature videos, “Lions of the African Night” and, more recently, the “Planet Earth” videos.

Nothing could have prepared me for seeing magnificent African animals up close in the wild.

Elephants approached our vans, playing and eating grass before crossing the road in front of me. They stood at least 1/3 again taller than my van, yet moved in near silence on padded feet the size of dinner platters.

Long-limbed giraffes stride through stands of trees, extending black tongues to grasp leaves in the treetops and sprawling to drink from pools, an impossible blend of awkward grace.

This is where I see God—in the male lion getting up from his nap beneath a tree to stalk regally across the desert; in the herd of countless grazing zebra spread across the plain; in ostriches sitting on their eggs and warthogs snuffling beside the road.

They say the red dirt of Africa gets in your blood. 

Now I know why. There’s a mysterious, timeless quality to this place, to these moments. Unfamiliar constellations spread across the velvety dark sky and an overwhelming sense of my own insignificance presses into my chest.

Dust swirls across the dry, cracked ground waiting for the rains–waiting for the flood season that brings new life–and isn’t that all we are? Dust blowing in the wind?

It’s this fear of the vastness, the awareness of unchanging rhythms of life, myself only a brief spectator, that creates this soul-deep wonder.

At the night-shrouded waterhole the mama rhino snuffles in the water, blowing gently through her nostrils. With a nudge to her baby, they disappear into the night as quietly as they’d appeared.

And so will I. Today, tomorrow, someday my story on this earth will end and I’ll join a much greater story for the rest of eternity. But for now, I have these few, precious moments to live my story well.

Katie Morford is a founder and editor at Crosshair Press and author of travel adventure novel, “Kenan,” under pen name Karis Waters.

In her spare time she travels the globe as a photographer and writer, producing documentary videos for a Christian non-profit. She lives in cold, rainy England despite disliking both rain and milk in her tea.  

Story and photography by Katie Morford. All rights reserved. 

When in the course of human events…

“Doesn’t matter what the press says. Doesn’t matter what the politicians or the mobs say. Doesn’t matter if the whole country decides that something wrong is something right.

This nation was founded on one principle above all else: the requirement that we stand up for what we believe, no matter the odds or the consequences.

When the mob and the press and the whole world tell you to move, your job is to plant yourself like a tree beside the river of truth, and tell the whole world — “No, you move.” – Capt. America

July 4, 1776. A small group of brave, determined men put quill pen to paper and wrote a few heartfelt words that would spark a revolution and change the face of the world.

Dec. 7, 1941. Across the ocean a madman in a uniform slaughtered thousands. On a quiet morning in Pearl Harbor a surprise attack on the U.S. Navy plunged America into World War II.

Sept. 11, 2001. Islamic terrorists took control of four passenger planes, crashing three into the World Trade Center twin towers and the Pentagon. Passengers in the fourth plane overpowered the terrorists and redirected the plane from its original target, crashing into a field in Pennsylvania.

I was 13 when I watched on television repeat as smoke poured from the twin towers – too young to understand the significance of the buildings, but old enough to know our world would never be the same.

Fourteen years later, I watch as nine justices on the Supreme Court toss a match on a keg of latent gunpowder and gunmen massacre innocents and people riot on the streets and churches go up in flames. I feel like that 13-year-old girl staring as my country goes up in smoke.

I watch and my heart hurts and grieves for who we once were, who we’ve become, and who we should be walking into the future. My countrymen are tearing each other apart from the inside, while across the tossing ocean once again madmen slaughter thousands.

My fellow Americans, we live once more in dark and desperate times. Our courage cannot fail us. Our integrity cannot be compromised. Our conviction cannot waver.

We cannot forget the vision of those few brave men who dared to put pen to paper, sign it with their blood, draw a line in the sand and say, “No more.” We cannot be lesser people than the hundreds of thousands who gave their lives to protect their families on the home front and stop the deadly march of Axis powers.

Courage isn’t always running into a bullet. Sometimes it’s planting yourself on a rickety bus seat and refusing to move. It’s looking your friend or brother in the eye, and saying with love, “I cannot agree.”

Now, like many times before in America’s proud and ugly and tumultuous and noble history, we must come together and stand on the Biblical principles that founded this great nation. We must remember who we are and let our convictions give us courage and, no matter what anyone else says or does, choose the right thing.

I still believe in the dream of the United States of America. I still believe in one nation, under God, indivisible, with liberty and justice for all. And because I still believe, this I know to be true:

There will never come a time when we don’t need one man or one woman, or a small group of courageous souls, who are willing to stand up for truth and do the right thing, no matter the consequences.

“We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness…

When a long train of abuses and usurpations, pursuing invariably the same Object evinces a design to reduce them under absolute Despotism, it is their right, it is their duty, to throw off such Government, and to provide new Guards for their future security…

For the support of this Declaration, with a firm reliance on the protection of Divine Providence, we mutually pledge to each other our Lives, our Fortunes, and our sacred Honor.”

Excerpts from the Unanimous Declaration of the 13 United States of America. July 4, 1776.

Tricycle Taxis and the Land of Pagodas

The heat could have peeled paint off a house. Fried a quail egg on a rubbish-covered sidewalk. Boiled whole chicken feet in a pot of oil.

Sweat snakes down the curve of my back and dampens my palms as I switch a tripod case as tall as I am to my other shoulder. The clamor of car horns, vendors hawking wares, barking dogs, passing motorbikes and yelling people is a constant roar.

Add to the mix the pervading smell of the sewers they’re cleaning out, fish in the market going bad in the tropical sun, and the exhaust fumes of cars and buses belching black smoke, and it’s a sensory potpourri unique to southeast Asia.

I sidestep a pile of refuse, tripping on the hem of the wrap-around skirt I’m wearing to be sensitive to local customs, and laugh to myself.

Glamorous. Right.

Exotic, definitely. Glamorous, not so much.

But, thankfully, I’m not here to be glamorous in my 50 cent sunglasses bought in Bangkok, mismatched clothing that scream practicality over fashion, and sweat dripping off of me.

I’m here in Yangon, Myanmar (Burma), as part of a non-profit film crew documenting the stories of what God is doing in this fascinating country.

A Buddhist “lady monk” collects alms in a poor community.

Myanmar is a primarily Buddhist nation falling headfirst into the modern world after decades of being a closed country controlled by a military government.

Tensions between ethnic groups and young people frustrated by slow progress toward democracy result in, at times, violent clashes.

In the midst of this uncertain environment, local and foreign missionaries work tirelessly to bring hope to many people living on the sharp edge of poverty. One such ministry is three kindergartens for children from the poorest areas, teaching them good behavior and hygiene, and giving them a leg-up into the education that will give them a chance at a better life.

Top: OMNIvision videographer Ant Webb filming at one of the kindergartens in Dhala. Bottom: A young girl who will now have a better chance at life thanks to a quality education.

It’s definitely not glamorous work. It’s a lot of corralling loud children and cooking what could be the only meal the children get that day. It’s serving and living in a rough, basic community with electricity cuts and poor sanitation.

But sometimes serving God is in the messy. Like Frodo and Sam and company in Tolkien’s epic Lord of the Rings trilogy, sometimes the journey takes you through the marshes.

Sometimes you’re knee-deep in mud and a mosquito just bit your eyeball and it feels like any progress is slow and bought with blood, sweat, tears and a ridiculous amount of effort.

God isn’t glamorous. So why should we expect the adventure we’re on with him to always be exotic and clean and glamorous? He was the one who came to a backwater fishing village that probably stunk worse than a Myanmar fish market.

Sometimes my job just gets messy. It gets tiring. It can feel small and unimportant in the grand scheme of things. After all, what am I doing except carrying lots of heavy equipment around third-world countries and asking people lots of questions?

Some people go to Greece to see ancient ruins. I go and visit homeless shelters and food pantries. Others go to Thailand to ride elephants and relax at resorts. I go and spend a week in a hotel ballroom stage managing for a global missions leaders’ conference.

That’s not to say I don’t get to see amazing sights. Meet amazing people. Experience cultures many people will never experience. I do, and it is truly amazing and so humbling. On this trip alone, I had the privilege of interviewing three former Buddhists, including a monk who is now a pastor, who have decided to follow Jesus and are now leading other people into a relationship with Christ.

What’s my point? Often the place where you find the most life is right in the middle of the mess. 

As our visit to Dhala kindergarten concludes, myself and my two co-workers grab our bags of gear and cross over a ditch of stagnant water to reach the road. We pile onto three-wheeled “tricycle taxis” (my name for them, since I can’t pronounce Burmese) and wave goodbye to the teachers in the doorway.

As we trundle off down the road, past shacks and scrawny dogs and more mosquito breeding grounds, the happy laughter of children follows us. And I smile, because I know the secret.

The big is in the small. And God is in the messy. So even if the ride is a bit bumpy at times, it’s always worth the trip. 

How have you seen God work in the messy for you this week? 

A Wintry Walk in Carlisle

One of the benefits of life being a bit slower in winter is the opportunity to have a bit of a wander around Carlisle and discover its hidden jewels, including many hole-in-the wall local restaurants and cafes.

This particular morning I woke up to snow blanketing the ground and turning Carlisle into a fairy-tale village. I quickly grabbed my camera for a walk through Bitts Park, which borders the walls of Carlisle Castle (see snow-covered ramparts in photo below). 

 

A closer look reveals signs of life under the silent blanket of snow. A sprig of fresh-scented evergreen here, a clinging mushroom there and frosted daffodils peeking bravely up.

But in my mind the best photos always show people interacting with the world in which they live. I love this one of an old man in a classic long English wool coat out walking his dog as the melting snow drip, dripped on him.

Kayaking in the Desert

There are just some things in life that make no sense.

Tuna in Mac ‘N Cheese. Ski slopes in the middle of a mall in Dubai. Kayaking in the Arabian desert.

I live in that zone where I think my life has gotten as crazy as it can get, and then God racks up the crazy to a whole new level. And, as little hobbit Bilbo famously said, sometimes those adventures make me uncomfortable and yes, occasionally, a little late for dinner.

But you know, that’s okay. What’s life without a little adventure, right? If I’m trying to live the best story I can, that sort of comes with the territory. 

Riding a camel in the Arabian desert. Not the most comfortable creatures. Bucket list: Check.

It’s that willingness to step into the new, slightly scary, or uncomfortable that opens the door to new adventures and great stories.

Take my recent trip to the Middle East to visit family and attend my cousin’s wedding. Now, I’ve traveled a lot with my (other) job. Often by myself. But, I’d never traveled to this part of the world before. It was a completely new cultural experience for me.

Early in my visit to Doha, Qatar, I was introduced to the Middle Eastern version of a drive-through. The procedure goes something like this.

A car stops in the middle of the road and honks. Soon a little Indian or Pakistani man runs out of the coffeeshop and takes their drink order. A short wait ensues, during which time frustrated drivers behind the stopped car honk angrily and drive around them on the sidewalk to continue their journey. If the coffee doesn’t come out in an expedient fashion, a few extra honks from the stopped car may be necessary to speed up the process.

That was only the beginning of my adventures in a fascinating and perplexing part of the world. I soon realized that there were more valuable cultural experiences running under the surface than there was oil.

First, the food. You can’t talk about the Middle East without talking about food. Eating is basically the regional pastime, closely related to a very strong tradition of hospitality.

A traditional Arab meal might seem a bit strange to some Western sensibilities (Warning: You’re supposed to eat with your fingers).

Everyone sits on a circle of cushions on the floor, scooping fragrant, seasoned chicken and fish, natural yogurt, and  flavorful biryani rice out of large communal platters in the middle. Flatbread with fresh hummus and olive oil is a staple and I consumed ridiculously large quantities at every meal.

Another cultural element deeply rooted in this land is the practice of Islam. Unlike many Western religions or spiritual beliefs, the practical out-workings of Islam permeate this cultural climate, from the haunting call to prayer rousing the city at 6 a.m. every morning and the mosques on every corner, to conservative black abayas and hijabs and separate taxis and lines at the airports.

While visiting Abu Dhabi, in the United Arab Emirates, I had the privilege of seeing the Grand Mosque. This magnificent structure is a beautiful marvel of architecture and a testimony to what unlimited funds and time can build. It also reinforces the underlying mindset that to be Arab is to be Muslim.

However misguided their belief system may be, I cannot help but appreciate the results of its presence, including a beautifully-preserved cultural and artistic heritage.

On the surface, nations like the United Arab Emirates are rapidly becoming modernized, boasting American chain restaurants and a forest of glass and steel high-rises.

Yet there’s a magical cultural fragrance that serves as a reminder that even now, in the hustle and bustle of our 21st Century world, Bedouins still live in tents out on the shifting desert sands, tending their sheep and camels like something right out of a Bible story.

Camel market in Doha, Qatar.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

In the souks (traditionally a market or bazaar) I literally followed my nose to merchants selling pyramids of colorful spices and incense, coming home with small packets of frankincense and myrrh.

As I remember the story of those long-ago “wise men from the East,” I wonder if they had any idea of the epic part they were playing in a much greater and longer-lasting story. Or were they simple people like you and me – like the dignified Emirati men in white robes and headscarves driving Lamborghinis – simply searching for personal peace and answers to their questions.

The Middle East may only have a brief, yet impactful, role in my personal story. Yet, I believe one day the sun of Islam will set and a new star will appear to guide the beautiful people of this region to the One who came to bring them hope and purpose too.

Their most influential chapter in the greater story may still be yet to come. 

The sun sets over the Arabian desert near Abu Dhabi, UAE.

This post originally appeared on the Crosshair Press blog and has been used with permission. Photos and story by Katie Morford, except where the author appears in photos. 

Streams in the Desert

“See, I am doing a new thing! Now it springs up; do you not perceive it? I am making a way in the wilderness and streams in the desert.”  I saiah 43:19

I fell to my knees, legs and lungs burning from slogging uphill through sliding sand. Looking up, I realized I wasn’t even half-way up the massive sand dune and the sun was quickly sinking.

I’m never gonna make it, I thought. I began to doubt if the view at the top would really be worth the effort.

I have to admit, at times these last few months have felt a lot like climbing that huge sand dune.

The challenges  seemed so much bigger than me. For every step forward, I seemed to slide a half-step back. The sand would slide out from under me and I’d end up on my knees, the clock ticking down, wondering why I ever thought the result would be worth the struggle.

Thankfully, in the case mentioned above I wasn’t alone in my dune-climbing efforts.  My dear half-marathon-running sister realized I hadn’t managed to keep up, and came back for me.

With many words of encouragement,  she took my hand, hauled me up out of the sand, and pulled me bodily up the side of the sand dune so I could see a stunning sunset over the Arabian desert.

And I have to say, the view was indeed worth the climb.

After a season of feeling very much like I’ve been wandering in the “wasteland,” I find it rather ironic that my trip to the literal desert to attend my cousin’s wedding ended up being a time of great refreshment and encouragement, as God reminded me I don’t have to make the climb alone.