Posted in True Stories

Migration is within us – will we choose life or death?


I don’t know about you but whenever I get stressed and don’t know what to do… I feel a migration movement coming on.  What I mean is I want to get up from where I am at and move to another place.  You’ve heard the grass is greener on the other side?  I’ve often wondered if this is attached to migration.  In the case of passing from this life to the next.  I do believe the grass is definitely greener on the other side, at least for me.

Whenever the Lord allows me to go back to Kenya my dream is to travel all around the perimeter of Kenya  and to see the great migration that occurs yearly.  It is a natural instinct for literally millions of animals who migrate from Kenya to Tanzania.  About Travel says,

The great annual migration of millions of zebra, wildebeest (gnu) and other antelope in East Africa tops almost every list of safari experiences. When you plan your trip, you’ll need information about the annual migration, the best times to witness this wildlife spectacle, where to stay, and when to see it in Kenya and Tanzania.

The Migration

Each year around 1.5 million wildebeest and 300,000 zebra (along with other antelope) gather up their young and start their long trek from Tanzania’s Serengeti Plains, further north to Kenya’s Masai Mara National Reserve. They go in search of food and water. Their journey runs in a clockwise circle and the animals cover a distance of around 1800 miles. It’s a tough journey, and every year an estimated 250,000 wildebeest don’t make it.

One of the most spectacular sights of the migration is when the herds gather to cross the Grumeti River (Tanzania) and the Mara River (Kenya) from July through September.

Psalm 23 reminds me of this distinct urge and how David must have felt when he was tending his flock and they had this sudden urge to migrate!  When are we comfortable with passing from one dimension into the other.  In David’s case he was hunted, betrayed, and pursued by his enemies in an attempt to keep him from his inheritance.  This was a position and place to which he had not yet arrived, yet I believe deep within him the urge to continue through trauma, stress and trials moved him to not give up and to pursue the unknown.  I wonder if he was choosing life here, and wanting what only death could bring… a migration to the other side where rest, peace and eternity reigns supreme.

Psalm 23

A psalm of David.

The Lord is my shepherd, I lack nothing.
    He makes me lie down in green pastures,
he leads me beside quiet waters,
    he refreshes my soul.
He guides me along the right paths
    for his name’s sake.
Even though I walk
    through the darkest valley,[a]
I will fear no evil,
    for you are with me;
your rod and your staff,
    they comfort me.

You prepare a table before me
    in the presence of my enemies.
You anoint my head with oil;
    my cup overflows.
Surely your goodness and love will follow me
    all the days of my life,
and I will dwell in the house of the Lord

The Brook, Valley and River of Kidron (Cedron)

1 Kings 2:371599 Geneva Bible (GNV)

37 For that day that thou goest out, and passest over the river of Kidron, know assuredly, that thou shalt die the death: thy blood shall be upon thine own head.

Nehemiah 2:151599 Geneva Bible (GNV)

15 Then went I up in the night by the brook, and viewed the wall, and turned back, and coming back, I entered by the gate of the valley, and returned.

Jeremiah 31:401599 Geneva Bible (GNV)

40 And the whole valley of the dead bodies, and of the ashes, and all the fields unto the brook of Kidron, and unto the corner of the horsegate toward the East, shall be holy unto the Lord, neither shall it be plucked up nor destroyed anymore forever.

It is interesting to study about this brook and valley and the filled and unfulfilled prophecies.  You can read about the first and last time this brook and valley are mentioned Click here.

The darkest valley is spoken about in scripture.  Before you come to it you must go over the brook of Kidron.  David walked over it, Nehemiah, Jeremiah….then finally Jesus and his disciples on the way to the garden of Gethsemane on the night he was betrayed. The famous song says, “we all have to walk that lonesome valley by ourselves.”  Migration comes to us all to make that walk from this life to the next.  I have chosen to walk in the way of Jesus.  He went before me, but He is still with me.

If you would like to learn more about the Journey Jesus took over the Brook of Cedron I would be happy to share with you, your small or large group!  Email me at

Posted in True Stories

Holy Experience – When All Hope Feels Like a Drought


When All Hope Feels Like a Drought

Posted: 25 Jul 2012 10:43 AM PDT

Aman can watch the sky like a plea.

“And we didn’t get nothing — not one drop.”

That’s what the farmer’s wife said to me before breakfast.




How she headed home from town in a flat-out gully washer of a rain, thinking this was finally it — the whole dark sky like the ocean coming to find dry land, and she was just certain of it, the rain splatting across her windshield like a certain promise coming right now.

All the corn fields to the north and the south, they’ve been standing twisted right up for weeks.

Leaves curled tight and high in drought. Farmers, we call it pineappling — when corn leaves don’t hang relaxed, quenched and green and soaking in sun — but they writhe up like sharp pineapple spears — taut and parched and desperate to escape anymore heat.

It’s like the whole countryside’s reaching up like a begging.

But she said when she turned the bend, right there at the county line, not a mile and a half from the home farm, all that rain, all that hope, just evaporated into thin, clear air.

How there was nothing.

“When I turned up our lane, there was dust in the rearview mirror and rain coming down hard to the west.”

Hope, it can feel like a balloon string dangling over your head that you just can’t reach.

She shakes her head.

“I don’t think we’re going to make crop.”

That’d be like taking all of last year’s wage and investing it into a project — then putting in 12 hours a day everyday for six months, counting on it, and — and being told that you’ve just lost all of last year’s income — and you won’t be getting paid for this past six months either. That you’ll just have to go home with nothing — to a lot less — because the sky hanging right over your head, sky skirting with abundance just a mile to your north and a half mile to your south — it didn’t open up right overhead and let down your only lifeline.

Farmers in these parts are talking in days. How many days they’ve gone without rain. How many days left until their crop is futile in the field.

“We talked to a farmer who took his thousand acres and cut it down for silage — because when they peeled back the husks? None of the cobs — on a thousand acres — had even a kernel.”

Behind all the husks, there are a thousand ways that a life can feel barren.

Behind all the husks, there are a thousand ways there can seem not to be a kernel of hope at all.

The Farmer had emailed me while I was standing in a lobby in Port Au Prince, Haiti, in between blackouts, in between losing power in a country waiting for a gully-washer of hope. It had blinked up on the screen just before the dark: “We’ve never had a corn crop look so bad.”

And yet — hope is standing in the dark with a lamp lit with prayers.

The lights came back on.

I turn to the Farmer’s wife and I tell her what I had tapped back the Farmer: “So we pray.”

And the Farmer’s wife, she looks over at me and she says it in this sharp desperation of her own —

“You really think it works like that?”


My silence, my interior groping — it must betray my confusion. She says it louder.

“You really think it makes any difference, anything you pray? It’s just going to be what it’s going to be.” She turns away.

“It’s just going to be what it’s going to be.”

She says it like she’s watching hope in the rear view mirror, hope headed away heavy for someone else.


And I know that feeling, that witnessing. When I got home at 2:30 am on Sunday morning from Haiti, when after the sermon, I stood on the lawn with the Farmer, my sister and her husband and all our 11 kids, and we watched the sky grow heavy to the west and I begged “Oh, please, Lord…. please.”

And I’m another’s farmer’s wife too and how can I find it for myself and my prayer sounds more like a panic than a peace and I am the biggest mess of them all.

The Farmer’s got his hands in his jean pockets. He’s standing there where the lawn gives way to the corn field.

“I think we’re just on the south edge of this one. And it’s headed just a bit north of us…” He pulls a big Dutch hand out of his pocket, points towards the elevator bins across the fields. ” — See how it’s raining there on the other side of the highway?”

And I feel wild…

What if we get nothing? What if it is the way it is?

And he turns into all my angst storm and he can read me. He looks me in the eye and says it like a forecast:

When you know your Father’s loving — what can you fear losing?

He’s as calm as a man walking on water.

He hears us. He loves us. He has us. So whatever happens, He’s good and we’re good.

I look at him — He’s like a man completely resting on water. Isn’t that it? We pray to the Lord knowing His answer is Love.

And God is no genie and we don’t pray to God to pry something from God. We pray to God to be prepared by God for a purpose of God.

We don’t pray to get more from God — we pray to become more in Christ.

We pray because entering His presence is the answer to all our prayers.

Somedays just laying our head in His hands is the way we lay the burdens down.

The scars on His hands were made to be the perfect ditches for our tears.

The Farmer pulls me into him and wraps me in more faith and we stand together watching the sky, how the rain goes north.

How it comes down right here like a certain promise:

When your prayers look right into the face of Christ — every hopeless end turns into an endless hope.