The Man with Two Bananas

This place is my home. The newness is gone. The streets have been walked.

The people are familiar. The sounds resinate within me.

Yet there is a part that goes on unseen. A crowd of people that would barely be noticed.

They are looked at, without being seen. They are heard, without being listened to.

There is a man among them.

His clothes equally tattered and worn. His hands and face equally as dirty.

This man is poor and dirty, but the richest man I know. For he possesses something so many of us lack.

Two men walked by him and chose to see him. They pulled out two bananas and handed them over.

This man. This poor and dirty man, is the richest man I know.

He took one banana, and gave the other to a poor and dirty man.

For this man, as poor and dirty as he may be, is the richest man I know.

This man possesses something many of us lack.

He gave away half of what he had been given. He loved someone more than he loved himself.

He trusted he would eat even without the second banana.

He is the man who had two bananas, but loved enough to only keep one.

Even Them …

Few things touch me quite like hearing languages foreign to these ears.

Sitting in a tiny space with over 20 locals and hearing them joyfully
pouring themselves out in song reminds me, Even Them.

These are His people. The people unknown to the rest of the world, but held closely to His heart. These are the unforgotten. These are the remembered. Even Them.

These are the voices of the nations.

He came for them.

Even Them.

This is one of those moments my heart is not quiet. This is when my heart beats so loudly it almost drowns out their voices.

Yet with every beat of my heart, I hear: “Even Them”

Bodies sway.

Eyes closed.

Hands outstretched.

Tears fall.

Hearts open.

Minds focused.

Even them. “Even Them”, I hear whispered in my untrained ears.

They are His. Even Them.

Never Stop Beating

Recently as I have sat down to put pen to paper or even my fingers to the keyboard, I find it hard to write out exactly what it is I’ve been thinking for the past days, weeks, or even months. The first year living here I found it easy to sit and write out anything humorous or touching. I feel I have run out of the humorous stories that come within the first year. There are many touching stories I want to write out, but for the safety of myself or others I have to refrain. So I write them in a notebook. “Stories that Beg to be Told” is what I call it.

There are people who don’t have voices, but everything within me screams out to give these people a voice. To tell their stories. To let people know they exist and what they go through.

There are times when you beg and will your heart to be quiet. For your heart to be still. That first date, when you can barely hear the words of the other person because your heart beats so fast and so loud. That moment when you sit before the Father and try to focus and drown everything out, but the noise of your heart overwhelms the quietness of the room. That view of the most beautiful thing your eyes have ever seen and you are trying to soak everything in. You want know everything all at once. Who this person is you are with at dinner. What the Father wants to reveal to you. How something could be so beautiful. You beg your heart to never stop beating. To be calm. To be quiet. But to continue to move you forward.

This past week has been one of those where I visited a new place. I sat on the side of a mountain and looked down at a tiny village (of 40,000 people) and was overwhelmed with the loud beating of my heart. The passion it brought about in me. The new feelings that welled up inside. This village is perfectly wedged into a bowl of mountains. Nothing more could fit inside it if it tried.

I wish I could tell you of all the things these eyes have seen. The things these ears have heard. This nose has smelled. Lips have tasted. But I can’t. Words and photos don’t capture the beauty of the moment, the heartbreaking stories. Unique experiences can’t be captured in photos. It can’t be captured in descriptive words. Not fully, anyway.

Walking away from this week, I am filled with passion. A passionate heart that I beg and will to never stop beating. To keep pumping the Life Blood to keep moving me forward. To giving a voice to the voiceless and hope to the hopeless.

Never. Stop. Beating.