Jesus in Disguise

God loved His way around the world and across time,
enjoying shared secrets, simple disguises, and latent surprises.
He is finishing His work in us, through us, as us.

Speaking in Chinese.

Paying in lira.

Running in moccasins.

Swimming in the Amazon.

Eating plantains.

Forgiving trespassers.

Calming.

Dissolving stereotypes.

Healing.

Befriending the smelly.

Telling a joke.

Solving an equation.

Grinding maize.

Making sandwiches.

Riding a donkey.

Laughing.

Collecting seeds.

Touching a shoulder.

Fixing cars.

Catching planes.

Learning to cook.

Changing a tire.

Savoring creation.

Brushing hair. 

Baking bread.

Writing an essay.

Paying taxes.

Crying.

Ladling soup.

Planting rice.

Performing surgery.

Driving a cab.

Providing for a debt.

Believing.

Reminding.

Staying.

Enjoying just being...

"He completes Me."

"She completes Me."

We are complete in Jesus, and as His Holy Spirit headquarters Himself in us, we go out to be about the Father's business, wherever we are, whoever we are. We go and do and say and be as His Spirit leads, and we are Jesus with all kinds of different skin on in this world.  Jesus is present to someone as a 55 year-old half-Asian woman.  A thirteen year-old Kenyan brother.  A Korean businessman in New York.  A Hewa mother in Papua, New Guinea.  Jesus is all over the place!

Sometimes my own world feels pretty small, but as a thread in His design, it is the absolute right world. Every act and word done in and by Him will remain and have some measure of eternal notice and significance.

The Normal Extraordinary

I turned down the handle on the hydrant, satisfied enough with the water level for now.

The soft click made me know it was shut off all the way.

I walked partway to the house on grass. What do you call the sound my footfalls make?

Partway on gravel. It was kind of a muffled crunch. Like trying to eat potato chips in the library.

I looked to the last orange cotton ball cloud in the western sky and smiled at the Artist.

I tugged off one glove and stuffed it into my pocket.

I fed the cats, emptying what was left in the five-gallon bucket.

I fed Guido and made a mental note to put dog food on my grocery list.

I turned off the garage light and stepped into the wash room.

I firmly pulled the door shut behind me and peeled off my jacket.

I hung it on the nail that was like all the other nails all down the row, each hidden by a coat.

I laid Guido’s dinner bowl on the towel that covers his part-time bed.

I took in the quiet. Not even the furnace was on.

I was alone.

I was not alone.

All these things are so extremely banal.

They are each extraordinary when examining one single element at a time.

They are my normal vanilla day.

They are five hundred gifts that bundle to make a Present.

Everyday is like a birthday.

Or a rebirthday.