Last night I had my parents, a friend, and my 13-yr-old brother sit down to watch “Beyond Borders” with me, and realized something about my movie-watching habits. Since I have returned to the States I have this handful of movies that I want everyone I know to watch with me – why? They are good movies, but not all excellent films….maybe it would help if I told you the titles: “Yesterday”, “Tsotsi”, and “Beyond Borders” are the main ones so far.

In last night’s film there is a scene near the beginning when “Sarah” stops the caravan to pick up a child who is scarcely recognizable as that, and being eyed by a vulture. My friend said, “Oh come on, there can’t be children like that”, as he turned toward me all I could do was nod. And it clicked all of a sudden why I show the same movies to everyone – because a handufl of scenes in them show the things that I can’t say. I can’t explain what it’s like to hold a child dying of starvation or how hard it is to tell a woman she is HIV+ or what it’s like to live in a place where one block is mansions and a mile down the road is corrugated shanties. Each of these films expresses a scene, a story, or a context that I know but cannot share.

to…errr…..for…..ummm….with Saints? Without being Roman.

The question that must be addressed first, it seems, is who is part of the Church. There have typically been two parts of the Church of Christ: the visible and the invisible, comprised of “faithful men” who have preached the Word purely and administered the Sacraments according to Christ’s ordinances (BCP, Article XIX). The writer of Hebrews tells us that we are surrounded by a great cloud of witnesses (12:1) directly after having written about the faith of our ancestors and fathers from the Old Testament. Here, as well as in other places, we are told that we live our lives before those that have gone before [not to mention the angels] and their faith should inspire us. My point here is that they are still involved in the life of the Church, in our lives. We also call them the Church victorious, those who have fought the good fight and been called faithful servants due to their adoption in Christ as sons and their participation in the Body of Christ (both at the right hand of the Father and the Bride of Christ on earth). So, they are still part of the Church Body, they are our brothers and sisters forever and ever.

Secondly, it is a very clear principle throughout the New Testament that we should be offering up prayers on behalf of the Body. Christ prays for those that would believe (Jn. 17:9; :20), Paul records what he is praying for the different churches (Col. 1:9; II Thes 1:11), and he asks for prayers on behalf of himself and other churches (I Thes 5:25; Heb. 13:18). I don’t think even this much is necessary to prove, but the point is that we are supposed to be praying for one another, and for the churches around the world that we don’t even personally know.

Thirdly, in Rev. 8:3 the angel gathers all the prayers of the saints together with incense and these surround the Throne. I don’t believe I overstep the texts cited by thinking that the victorious saints as our witnesses are raising their prayers with ours for those things that St. Paul tells the Church to pray for (e.g. holiness, purity, perserverance, etc…). And if you grant me that, then I don’t see any problem with asking St. Therese of Liseaux (patron saint of tuberculosis, which claimed her life at 24 years) to pray for my brother T____________who has tuberculosis. She knows better than I how to pray for him in his specific illness and she is our sister in the victorious battle of faith.

A couple more thoughts.
1) I don’t know if I have enough of a basis to say that St. Therese will pray for T_________ in the same way my mother will if I ask her (i.e. I don’t have the verbal assurance).
2) Even if you think that there is not enough of a foundation to propose this, I don’t see how we can say that it is wrong or evil to ask the saints to pray for ourselves or the brethren.

That’s all for now. Please give me your thoughts.

ICONS. I recently had a discussion about them with my dad, who grew up in the Roman Catholic Church during a period of time that most seem to want to forget. He, like many during the 50’s-60’s, left the Church with a rotten taste in his mouth. While we were talking about icons, I brought up the point that protestant evangelicals don’t seem to have any problem with putting a fridge magnet of George Bush up or a calendar of the most influential people in American history, or the like. I hope they don’t worship them, and doubt they do, so why do they have them? To emulate, be inspired, reminded of sacrifice or leadership, to pray for those in similar sitations, etc… No wrong there. But, put a halo above their heads and usually the stones are picked up, the torches lit.
In my conversation I was pleasantly surprised, though, that there was some reception to the idea of putting Holy Christian men and women on our walls. Perhaps the reaction period is starting to dwindle, or we are trying to get back some of the baby we threw out with the bathwater – I don’t know, but I’m excited.
Why do I have a picture of Mother Teresa’s hands? Her hands represent the call of her soul, the charity of her heart, and the joy of her countenance. She was called to the poor and needy, a call that I share in. Looking at her hands reminds me to live out that calling, to make ready my hands to do the work of the Lord at all times. There are many other saints of old time that have taught my mind, soul, and body – and I find it very helpful to be reminded of those lessons, of their lives, of their sacrifices.
So how about it?

Not my poem, but a very humorous poem by G.K. Chesterton, who alone could blame Noah for the teetotallers.

Old Noah he had an ostrich farm and fowls on the largest scale,
He ate his egg with a ladle in a egg-cup big as a pail,
And the soup he took was Elephant Soup and fish he took was Whale,
But they all were small to the cellar he took when he set out to sail,
And Noah he often said to his wife when he sat down to dine,
“I don’t care where the water goes if it doesn’t get into the wine.”
The cataract of the cliff of heaven fell blinding off the brink
As if it would wash the stars away as suds go down a sink,
The seven heavens came roaring down for the throats of hell to drink,
And Noah he cocked his eye and said, “It looks like rain, I think,
The water has drowned the Matterhorn as deep as a Mendip mine,
But I don’t care where the water goes if it doesn’t get into the wine.”
But Noah he sinned, and we have sinned; on tipsy feet we trod,
Till a great big black teetotaller was sent to us for a rod,
And you can’t get wine at a P.S.A., or chapel, or Eisteddfod,
For the Curse of Water has come again because of the wrath of God, And water is on the Bishop’s board and the Higher Thinker’s shrine,
But I don’t care where the water goes if it doesn’t get into the wine.

I was just reading some of my very good friends’ blogs and wondering why I seem to have blogger’s block. I write all the time, I love to write short essays and poems and little tidbits about the world that I find amusing or intriguing. But putting on the internet seems a strange thing still. Maybe I have not moved into the next generation yet, maybe I still like pen and paper, maybe I like to keep my writings to myself so that noone can shatter the world of Nicole’s mind. I don’t know really, but I thought today that I could probably benefit from having people read and comment on my writing and maybe (just maybe) someone else would benefit from reading my writings.

This being said, I am not promising words that plunge the depths or even touch the white-capped waves, but maybe a grain of sand or salt here or there. And I profer an invitation for all of you to correct me, mock me, laugh at me, challenge me, or just ignore me.

I hope that the silence broken by the rapid-fire posts will bring a smile to one of you…

Over three months ago I received a phone call while I was in South Africa, it was the Headmaster of the Academy I had graduated. He asked if I would consider coming back to teach for the school this next year, something I had never planned nor expected on doing – in fact, I laughed while I was on the phone. First of all, it was in the area I grew up in, the area that has three thousand inhabitants on a good day. Second, I thought that surely I would have better things to do than teach five-year-olds Latin and Greek. Thirdly, I was going to attend Nursing School. Obviously, it wasn’t going to be an option, but I agreed to consider and pray about it. I had no idea that my laugh would be a far-off echo of Sarah’s, the common voice being that both of us would see our surety crumble into foolishness.

In the blur of Africa and Europe and returning to the States, the Lord (and believe me, it could only have been His working…) began to incline my heart towards staying near my family, the Academy, and my Church. However, I applied to Nursing Schools and talked to counselor’s and tried to get everything together to get into a program. The same response came from each – Nursing Program closed for enrollment until Spring Semester. And then I looked at the pre-req’s. I am short a couple classes, one of which is a year-long course. To cut my story short, I will be doing the pre-req’s as well as all the Non-Core classes that go along side the Nursing program. This I will do at a local college (don’t worry, the next town has nearly 14,000 people – a thriving metropolis), be available to teach part-time at the Academy, and most importantly, influence and watch my three younger siblings grow (13, 10, & 8 yrs) – something I’ve missed for quite a few years now.

That’s the Path of Tomorrow as I can tell so far. I know that I can see so little of all the landmarks, faces, challenges, and joys that it will hold – but my Master has directed, and I can do none but follow.

I have been silent for a while now, and I apologize for those of you who faithfully check for any news.
In the way of the Christian life, it seems the more you trust in our Christ, the less you “know” about the next steps in your life. Perhaps it is the overwhelming assurance that you don’t have to, an assurance that conquers human fears and stumbling steps (or worse, blind ones). Or maybe it is just me that needs to be schooled in trusting and following my Lord and Husband, and being such, He gently conceals what is to come while at the same time implanting a godly desire to follow in a certain way. It has been in the past year particularly that I have rested in this, rested in His peace, rested in His guidance, rested in Wisdom itself. And how beautiful it is to follow the One Who has always seen.

Long ago, in the mists of time,
He fashioned you and formed you and proclaimed,
“You are mine!”
And His word proclaimed is His word fulfilled,
so it was as your Father said.

I came across you there, and I knew. The promise was mine to give.
Not an obligation, not a need, not a duty or a task I had been given –
but a desire born of love…
That great and enduring blessing, which He gave to me to give to you.

As I sat and watched you breathing, and ran my hand across your soft, dark curls,
I considered the promise.
Not to be given lightly, such a promise.
A promise, not for a day, or a week, or a year… but always.
A promise, not only for the smiles and the roses and the sunny days,
but also for the tears, and the thorns and the thunderstorms.

Through the bottles and baths, the health and the sickness,
the new lives and the fresh graves I knew our Father’s voice:
“I will share in every trouble,
I will give you each joy doubled”
In that moment your gaze fell on me, and I saw your Father reflected in your smile.
And I knew that you were mine… For as long as the journey lasts.

For as long as the journey lasts… and yet I do not know the destination.
I will carry you with me, down this path, and we will listen for His voice.
Maybe tomorrow you’ll be going away, maybe today.
It may be a good while yet… so stay.

And as He charges me, so I pledge to you:
To love in patience, knowing that this world is new to you.
To love you kindly, knowing that you have been ripped from the warmth of a womb.
To love you with joy, knowing that your face may shortly be covered with dark earth.
To love you gently, knowing that you need my mother’s touch.
To love you through prayer, knowing that in them we will be always together.
I will bear with you, believe in your purpose, and endure all things with you.
I will love you always.

Beyond this hour, beyond this day, beyond the parting of our ways.
Because you were mine… and I chose to promise… For all time.

“…He calls his own sheep by name and leads them out. And when He brings out his own sheep, he goes before them; and the sheep follow Him for they know His voice.” John 10:3

God has been so gracious to provide a bit of time in the UK to meet with other missionaries, old friends, new contacts, and to sit back, meditate, read and just “be”. I spent the past year almost always around people, and as every mother knows, children don’t seem to understand it when you try to be alone for a while. Thus, even after I would go to my room and be in bed, there would often be a quiet knocking and someone would need a cuddle, or a tucking in, or wanted a nighttime prayer. And then, all of a sudden, there were no children, no babies, no little footsteps at my door, but, God had graciously so orchestrated that the first place I stopped in England was with a family which has been involved in orphanage work for the past couple years. This allowed me to be open about my ministry, and more importantly, they understood completely the context I was talking about, and how it was to leave the children. It was wonderful, and the next ten days were filled with people who were very encouraging and I was surrounded by the lush green landscape and beautiful sights that I had not seen in a long time. God also opened up opportunities to speak with the students at a Bible School in York as well as several missionaries, which were unexpected blessings.

Though I was a bit worn out after traveling around the UK, it was a refreshed tiredness. And I flew into Budapest on the 19th, where I met with five other missionaries and continued with them through Eastern Europe. One of them I was in Kosovo with last year, Robbie Mezger, and this time his sister and brother-in-law are also with him. It has been a wonderful time of working with them, as they are considering moving to this area as full-time missionaries. It was amazing driving down from Budapest, through Hungary, Croatia, Bosnia, and Serbia and see the contrasts between countries lately ridden with war. We went to a petrol station in Serbia where we didn’t speak English and then crossed the border of Kosovo and were loved because we spoke American.

We started out from Budapest and headed South, through Serbian borders, and then stopped over at a Seminary in Usjeck, Croatia. This part of Croatia very much still holds the scars of war upon nearly every wall. Some places here look and feel ominous and ghostly, a strange an unnatural silence prevailing, in the midst of which can be heard the hardened cries of unvoiced anger, hurt, and depression. And then we entered into the land of America-lovers: Kosovo. In this beautiful land we stayed with the same missionary that hosted us last year, and were involved with many of the same people there. It was very meaningful to return to the same city, Mitrovice, because I enjoyed the culture so much last year, and began some relationships that God has allowed me to continue through this year. These are a people that have done a commendable job rebuilding their shelled out homes but have yet to look towards the Master Builder to restore the life within them.

After our time in Kosovo we had a long drive to Dubrovnik, Croatia. The journey was glorious. Montenegro was mountainous with these jagged rock snow-covered mountains behind the green ones. And as it was a sunny day, the splendor of the Lord lit upon the peaks, saturated the sparse villages that precariously hung off the mountainsides, and reached down to the ravine that lay beneath us. What a site it was! In addition to the beauty we saw, we happened to be in Montenegro about ten hours after they declared independence from Serbia. We had been assured that it would be safe enough to be in the country on the day, and it was such a laugh to come to the border where all the guards could hardly stand because they were still half-drunk from the night before. We were gladly waved through

We headed out again and went to Bosnia. Even worse than Croatia were the buildings of Mostar and Sarajevo. We stopped in Mostar and walked around skeletons of buildings and into the downtown, which would appear in any other setting a nearly-normal downtown with sellers and ice cream shops. But scattered throughout, in corners or against walls, were signs that simply said, “Don’t Forget”. It has been 13 years since the year of death in Mostar, but with the constant daily reminders of shell-holed buildings and bomb-potted streets it would seem impossible to forget. As we moved through the country to Sarajevo, the story was the same. Here there has been more rebuilding and repair work, but there are still many, many reminders of the war. One of which would be the city graveyard filling the rolling hills with white monuments, all with the numbers 1995. I wonder if those hills mind that they have been so aerated by these steeples of white, or if they have calmly continued to push up the grass and daisies all the same. Whichever way, the sight is tragically luminous, like an host of candles on top a chocolate cake, whose flames will never again be lit. That being said, we were able to meet and get to know missionaries there who dream for a greater Light to stand upon that hill and cover the hurts of war and suffering. And they are vigorously praying and doing in order to see that happen.

We carried on to Vukovar, Croatia where we stayed with the pastor of one of the local churches that Robbie knew. Out of everywhere we went, this city grabbed my heart. The silence of the streets and the people was uncharacteristic; the cloud of depression was heavy upon the town and its inhabitants. It seemed that even the Communist buildings had begun to feel the weight of their gray and crumbling perfectly-placed stones. In this city God established a relationship between a woman in her late twenties and me. She did me the honour of sharing her difficult story with me and asking for advice. She has been given cause to doubt everything and everyone in the world, including herself and God, but now she is at an end, a place where she will either cling to Christ, or struggle against drowning in the dark sea which surrounds her. My prayers are that she will look to Christ, and I would ask all of you to join me in praying for someone to come alongside her to encourage her and to show her the Love which is immutable.

Another move to Zagreb to meet with a missionary family there for a few days, and then off we went to Budapest to debrief with one another. Altogether we had a wonderful trip and were able to bring hope and encouragement to both the missionaries and churches in these areas, which is always such an honour and testimony to the Head of this Family which spans the nations.

Some more news is that I will be returning stateside in June. It will be wonderful to meet again with my family, Churches, and friends in the late June/July months. The thing I look forward to most is rejoining a local flock, to be in the midst of fellow sheep both to encourage and be encouraged.

Until we meet again in the flesh. In the Eternal Presence, Nicole de Martimprey