Christine
CBF Field Personnel in Africa/Middle East
It has become my practice to sit out at this table (pictured below) each evening. After my last lesson for the day, like a five-year-old learning to write for the first time, I practice writing my letters. Tracing the lines laid out on the page before me over and over as I learn to write these new letters, learning to turn these unfamiliar patterns into words and sentences and so on. As I write, it is the practice of repetition, the same 28 letters, over and over, one after another.
And as I work, I watch the sun set over the city. My view from the table, situated high along the mountainside offers just a glimpse of the expansive seaside city below peeking through the trees. As I sit, I’ve found myself praying for the city and the country it represents and for its people. For this new place I’m calling home. I think about all that this city has been through. You can feel the heartache rising from below. There is anger and suffering; fear and hopelessness. Despair about what comes next and about how to make things better for the next generation.
This city, one of the oldest in the world, has a history that is rich with culture and character. For generations, literally thousands of years, it has offered its wealth and energy, its creative and hospitable spirit, its tenacity and its vibrant colors to the world.
I find myself praying for peace, within and without; for clarity and wise leadership; for justice and freedom from corruption; for reconciliation across nationalities and religious divisions; for clean water and food to eat; for opportunities to work and be treated with dignity. I am praying for God’s presence to be felt in real and tangible ways. I pray for a hopeful encounter with God who whispers over and over to each of us: I will always love you and I will never leave you.
PRAY . . . GIVE . . . GO . . .