Confessions of a Tire Obsessionist

Posted on by Angela Madaha

Hi everyone, my name is Angela (hi Angela) and I have an obsession with tires. Whenever I see I car, pass a car, or ride in a car, I always default to inspect the tires. Does that look like a slight leak in the front left there? Are the tires even? Tread’s looking a little shabby. Whoa, that back one is way too wobbly for highway safety, you hazard to mankind.

And there it goes. The nature of someone’s tires now becomes a personal reflection on their character.

Michelin= High maintenance.

Spinners= Too cool for school.

Bridgestone= Ooh just like me. Maybe we can be friends.

Monster tires= Sucker for affirmation and/or lack of masculine identity.

Mud on the tires= A little on the wild side. let’s race.

Low air= Irresponsible driver.

Perfectly filled, completely balanced tires= I highly respect you and where is your blog that I might follow.

Before you completely discredit me, take a moment to walk into my life, allow me to explain, and get to the heart of the situation. I believe I can trace this destructive behavior back to the nucleus (that’s right Nacho) of this tire obsession:

  • Jolt 1: When I first bought my 2001 Hyundai Santa Fe 2 years ago, I noticed some odd issues with the tires. Just… weird thumping noises. Instead of taking it to the shop, I thought I’d ignore it and allow it to work itself out. But reality started shouting, and quite frankly the tires were louder than Ryan Stiles’ shoes. It impeded conversation and left my friendships and personal sanctity on the brink of diaster. So to save face and my throbbing head, I took it to the shop. Ah, needed new tires. Let’s do it. So new tires on, peace ensued, and the Angela/tire relationship settled.
  • Jolt 2: Last year I visited a close friend in North Carolina and on my way back, out of NO WHERE, my tire fizzled. on the side of the highway. in the woods. in the dark. Now, I have extensively traveled alone since I was 15. I love to travel and driving is a pleasure. But I have never truly been alone and stranded before in my life, much less on a cold empty forest predator-laden highway at night. I may have whimpered. Yet thanks to the help of my amazing dad’s advice and a policeman’s kindness, I was able to eventually dig myself out of the situation, though not without a slight reprimand to check the air in my tires on a regular basis, you girl you (emphasis mine. words mine).
  • Jolt 3: Recently I noticed that my front right tire was depleting. Filled it up. 1 week later deflated again. Repeat. Repeat again. Finally I took it to the tire shop for the obviously needed repair. Somehow a screw got inside? Weird. But got ‘er patched up and good to go.

Because of these frequent experiences I’ve become a bit of a freakazoid and legalist about not only my tires, but EVERYONE ELSE’S.

How ironic. My whole life I could have cared less about tires, until my own were giving me problems. And as I found solutions, I began to be super introspective, very analytical, and reactionary to the slightest possible issue with my car’s tires.

Is it not the same way with the faults and sins that have surfaced in my own life? It’s not like tires are a new thing. And neither is pride. or arrogance. or gossip. or lust. or selfishness. or lack of self control. or self righteousness. or anger. But when that certain sin is exposed in my life, I recognize it and seek to deal with it, yet all of a sudden, I see it. Everywhere. I see my selfishness, my coworker’s selfishness, my brother’s selfishness, my best friend’s selfishness, my outreach leader’s selfishness. Since God has revealed my sin so clearly, I am now keenly aware of those same shortcomings and failings of everyone around me. That one’s off balance, that one leans to the right, ooh that one to the left, oh my word those morons are driving on flattened almost shredded tires! Can’t they open their eyes and realize the issue?? It’s destructive!

Earlier this summer I took notice of my friend’s car as she was leaving church– all of her tires where basically dragging the ground. I called her and said, “Hey, you reeeeally need some air. Believe me, I’ve been there and you don’t want to go through what I did.” She didn’t know how to put air in her tires, so although I was hungry and it was raining and I really wanted to put it off until later and send her a youtube link, we drove across the street to the gas station. I took a dollar inside to get quarters, filled up all her tires, and then gave her some tips that I had learned about taking care of tires. Afterwards? I was so happy. Something so simple gave me so much joy.

Simple conclusions here. You sin. all the time. period. And your sin is not uncommon. So once you are exposed to the depth and grossness of it, be prepared to see “yourself” in other people and to be blown away by the same amount of sin and blindness in them that you yourself are prone to.

But ok HEY, stop being so distracted! I see a car and all I see are tires. I see relationships and all I see are faults. That’s totally missing the point and this is why grace is so key. Default to grace-eyes and help your brothers and sisters in their weaknesses so that they may not have to fall as hard as you did. Your experience with past sin makes you sensitive so that you can call out and say, “Hey you reeeeally need some help. Believe me, I’ve been there and you don’t want to go through what I did.” Then take your dollars and time and grace and invest it in another life. To live in secret victory over secret sins steals growth from others and joy from you.

Oh, and by the way, I currently have a nail in my front right tire. That’s right. a whole freaking nail. It’s been there, hm, probably 3 weeks. But hey, I’m still driving smooth and the tire doesn’t look too bad. But boy when I saw that other Santa Fe on the highway this afternoon with a wobbly back tire did I get offended.

Maybe I need to take the massive nail out of my own tire before I start pointing out the insignificant air leaks in the other tires around me. Direct quote from Matthew 7 (version mine).

what I look at every day. my obsessionary stumbling block, as it were.

Look at what I’ve accomplished! I’m worth it!

Posted on by Angela Madaha

and then this straight-up slapped me in the face.

I read this specific section about 1-2 weeks ago as I’ve been progressing through Jesus + Nothing = Everything. The book in itself has been rocking my system of thinking and God has used it recently as one of the many means to show me my legalistic thought patterns.

Identity has been a huge struggle for me, specifically during the past 1 1/2 years. Who am I. What is worth. Where is my purpose. What must I do. How much is enough. Where is freedom. Is there hope.

Who will deliver us.

Paul Zahl authors his book with those exact words and Tullian uses this section in his book to knife deep into hearts obsessed with performance:

“If I can do enough of the right things, I will have established my worth.

Identity is the sum of my achievements. Hence, if I can satisfy the boss, meet the needs of my spouse and children, and still do justice to my inner aspirations, then I will have proven my worth. There are infinite ways to prove our worth along these lines.

The basic equation is this: I am what I do. It is a religious position in life because it tries to answer in practical terms the questions, Who am I and what is my niche in the universe? On this reading, my niche is in proportion to my deeds. In Christian theology, such a position is called justification by works. It assumes that my worth is measured by my performance. Conversely, it conceals, thinly, a dark and ghastly fear: If I do not perform, I will be judged unworthy. To myself I will cease to exist.”

Do you see any freedom in that kind of thinking? Nope. nada. zilch.

Honestly, I am still wrapping my mind around this. I haven’t arrived. But I don’t really think that’s the point. We read that and think, “Ok, so I guess I need to work on my identity and find it in Christ alone.”

That’s. Impossible. There is no hope in that thinking and the whole phrase is a ridiculous oxymoron.

But, really, what am I to do? Who will deliver me if I can’t “make” my identity to be only in Christ? God, if you don’t step in and intervene, then I am lost. I cannot be free from performance unless I with broken hands cling to the performance of Another. Teach me what this mindset practically looks like because I cannot go in to work tomorrow with the perspective that I have been believing for so long now.

Somehow, someway, I want my life to stand up and shout, “Look at what Jesus has accomplished! He’s worth it!”

Dear Human, would you please stop trying to become someone else?

Posted on by Angela Madaha

Humans.

Please tell me.

Why are you trying to become someone else?

to fit the mold. to be accepted. to live the dream.

Are you aware of a blatantly obvious alternative?

Ready for this?

Creativity.

Yeah, betcha didn’t see that one coming.

Now don’t toss this out just yet. Bear with me.

What is this creativity you speak of?

Glad you asked.

To create: to cause to exist, to make something new, to see something come alive, to increase worth, to personalize, to mold, to massage, to change, to evolve from one’s own thoughts or imagination.

So you’re telling me to stop trying to be someone else and to instead pursue this creativity? you lost me.

hang on.

Why choose to pursue creativity

Why, as a human, is this essential?

Why, as a Christian, is this so immensely important?

Who God Is

First, back to the basics. God is the source and very essence of creativity. With a stroke of his finger, weather whirls from clear skies to ominous attack. The mere sound of his voice alters the course of history.

History: a story he breathes. Peoples and nations look back and are amazed to see common threads and order and cause and effect. Trends and movements. Ebbs and flows. This universe runs under his majestic control.

Creation: his art canvas. Yet not art as we think of it. When has man-made art ever been alive and self-sustained? Continual growth, then death, then rebirth? Seasons to complement each other and then spread out across diverse fields of the nations of the world? Think about the body of man- the pinnacle of creation. The very image of God himself.

He is creative. Oh, so creative.

Who I Am

Image-bearer of the Most High. There’s something inherent about me that is a reflection of God himself through which I represent in the world everyday simply because of the nature of being a human. If he’s creative, then I must in turn bear resemblance.

my Creative body. my Creative mind. my Creative soul. Different and unique than any other person that has or will live.

my Creative life. No other person on the earth has had the same life, experiences and knowledge as I do. Even if they were inexplicity similar, I have different eyes, different perspecitves, different lenses.

I am unique. I am creative. I am God’s. That’s just simply the way he works.

with everybody. no exceptions.

What this implies

So this personalized and unique “creativity” is a much bigger responsibility than at first glance. Who I am personally and intrinsically is now my responsibility. under my management, under my stewardship.

This realization thus releases the misconception that only certain people in this world are “creative.” Creativity is much bigger than art, design, and writing. It’s at the core of our very being. It’s what makes each of us a unique, individual story before the world, before society, before God.

Once I begin living my life in fear, driven by the expectation of what is normal and what others expect, my life is now in their control; thus who I am as an individual, my creativity, is boxed and shelved.

It is my responsibility to live my life, not someone else’s. I am never held to an expectation that others have over my life. In each situation, I am to toss out the mold of “what do they want?” and “what do they expect”. Always Spirit-led, always personally unique.

Now

So what?

What am I going to do with this?

Here’s what I think. for what it’s worth.

I must pursue my unique drives and passions through my own creative abilities and insight. Live my life in a way no other person can ever this life again. God has me here to do His work through my life. So I can’t live my life as if it were someone else’s, because….it’s not.

So, what’s your story?

What’s unique and creative about yourself, your story, that you have not yet stepped up and taken responsible for?

This is not a “Help!-the-world-desperately-needs-you” speech. but, the world does need Jesus. And he put you on this earth to be himself to the world; he purposely made you and is making you in a creative way to accomplish his work.

Why else would you be here?

 

Real Lives: Rodney, a trail of bitter losses

Posted on by Angela Madaha

Rodney is a slightly older black man. He has tight curly hair that has sprays of white here and there. He’s typically not completely clean shaven and has white, curly hairs randomly sprouting around his chin. His left eye always seems a bit swollen and I can typically only see his right eye. Sometimes it’s a bit bloodshot.

Jaclyn had met him and then introduced us one Thursday when we were doing street outreach. She mentioned she was pretty sure he was unsaved. So for the past month or two I had made an effort to build a relationship with him, even extending the invitation to come to church with us. He’s always promised to come, but at the last moment seems to find a way to back out.

He seemed kind enough to me and was willing to converse. Over the weeks he became more and more open and I knew that some level of trust existed.

Last week he mentioned that he really needs to find another place to live because of the living conditions of the house he’s in at night. I’m not sure if he has a room or what, but I definitely always see him on the street.

So that Tuesday night I asked him about the rooming situation and let him know I was praying.

I’m not exactly sure what happened; I think I was just giving suggestions about ways to find a new place. Talk with friends, make new connections, and then of course you can pray.

He slammed his hands on the table, and slowly stood up while saying, “You know what?”

His tone was drenched with bitterness.

“You know what? I’m sick of this church thing, praying thing. I went to church all growing up. I went with my mother, and even with my grandmother, and I believed it and prayed and everything.

“And then my mother died. And then my grandmother was taken away. And just recently my neice died. All within 4 years. I couldn’t give a rats butt about life because everything I loved was taken away.

“It’s like walking down some steps and each step down you keep losing something you love. I loved them. I don’t know why this had to all happen to me.

“I mean, I believed the Gospel and everything, and always went to church, but then it’s like I lost everything. I had a good life. I had a house, car, motorcycle, a wife, children…and then my wife left me with the kids, and then I just lost everything.

“My life sucks. And you’re trying to tell me that it’s worth living? I’m sorry that I have to be so blunt but…”

“No,” I interjected. “I’m very glad you’re being transparent. I see where you’re coming from…”

“Yeah, you see where I’m coming from but you don’t agree.”

Praying for wisdom in these moments. Not easy to know what to say.

“Have you ever heard of the story of Job?”

Pause

“No, no I don’t recall…”

“It’s quite a story.” I gave a brief outline of Job’s story, and how God’s hand clearly allowed it to happen. “Rodney, God allowed that to happened because He wanted Job to know that having God is enough! He was testing him to prove if Job really did love God more than his possessions. And God restored him! He is good. Really He is.”

Rodney tilted his head. “Well, now that you say that, I think I do remember learning about that story when I was a teenager…”

“Have you heard the story of Joseph?”

Another pause. That was all I needed.

“Joseph was thrown in a pit and betrayed by his own brothers, sold into slavery, treated severely unjustly whenever he did something right, and you know what? God used him to save Egypt! Rodney, what story does God have for you, you particularly, that you are missing because you are rejecting him?”

“I don’t care. I just don’t care anymore.”

“So you don’t want hope or another life?”

“I could care less about this life, it’s just been so rotten, so out of my control…”

He went on and on. Bitter words and bottled-up anger spilling over.

At me. at the world. at God.

Our conversation was coming to an end.

“Rodney,” I pointed at him as he was walking away.” “I’m praying for you that God would show himself to you for who He really is instead of this perception you have of God that is not true.”

He cocked his head and said in sarcasm, tinged with anger, “You are a blessing and have a great night, ma’am. I will see you later.”

It’s very interesting to me that the person that had built a relationship with him through kindness and generosity was now the one that was being attacked. Maybe he felt he could be transparent. Maybe I just happened to be the next person that mentioned “praying.”

It then occurred to me– I have been reading and meditating on Matthew 10:16-24 recently, and today I read that Jesus told his disciples that a disciple is not above his teacher and therefore shouldn’t expect to be treated any differently. If Jesus was maligned and mistreated, both verbally and physically, then why should I expect anything less?

If my goal in life is the be like Jesus, then be like Jesus in all ways will I be.

Though his reaction was rather surprising to me, now that I think about it, I’m joyful. Not about his situation; I’m heartbroken over his hopelessness and very wrong perception of God.

But I’m thankful that in one small way I was able to “share in His sufferings” because that’s simply what happens when one determines to know God above all else. “That I may know him…” — sweet words.

So this story of Rodney is continuing. It’s sad, truly it is. But there is always hope– in the real Gospel. Not in a list of do’s and don’ts. But in grace, and mercy, and forgiveness, and freedom. Rememeber Rodney. Pray for God to charge into his world and turn it upside down.

And remember the real costs and joys of Paul’s words: “I count all things as loss compared to the surpassing worth of knowing Christ.”

And if we aren’t experiencing sufferings and rejections…perhaps we are not as committed to knowing Christ as we should be.

 

25 years.

Posted on by Angela Madaha

25.

It’s a pretty good number. It’s the cost of obtaining a treasure from the gum ball machine. It’s the year your car insurance goes down (supposedly). 1925 was the year Scotch tape was invented!

It’s also a great time for everyone to remind you that you have crossed the quarter-century threshold.

thanks friends.

It’s been a great time to think. remember. I clearly remember the day I turned 24. If my calculations are correct, that would be 1 year ago.

1 year ago. I had just graduated from grad school.

The next day I was leaving for a 2 month missions trip to Spain, England and Italy. My life was very simple. and condensed. like Campbell’s chicken noodle soup. And I had about 5 banana boxes and 3 suitcases to my name packed away in Greenville.

All I knew at that moment was that I was going to Europe to live with broken people and serve where needed.  After that there were no plans, no job, no income, no “direct revelation” about next steps.

I would not in a million years dreamed up what has happened in 1 year. 1 single, solitary year. Can I even begin to describe…? A couple thoughts come to mind about this past year.

Unstable.

The 5 months after graduation were a little out-of-hand, borderline ridiculous: 14 homes, 9 churches, 4 countries, 6 cultures, 15 couches/beds/mattresses, 7 ministry offers, thousands of dollars. And when it was all said and done I was still broke, jobless, homeless, and directionless, without a clue of where in the world I was supposed to be.

Even when I got a job (check that: when God gave me a job) and came back to Greenville, I had a huge struggle with financial instability. I had to wait 3 weeks before getting paid, on top of being unemployed for 5 months. Back to my mathematical insight, when you add $0 + $0, you get a very stressful life transition.

It took a long time to recover from that, longer than I wanted to wait. Through tears and faith-straining, God taught me patience and trust. I was horrible at it, but He was teaching me none-the-less.

He taught me to practically boot strap.

He taught me to not feel guilty about saying “no” to certain activities or opportunities.

He taught me to pray, and to love Him more than money by thinking about Him more than money.

He showed me I’m actually a very fearful, controlling person that is in need of a Savior every single day.

Bi-polar

This descriptive overlaps with the previous one, yet focuses more on my emotions. My emotions were up and down, and tended to stay down for long periods. Then I’d go through deep, soul-stirring moments of Jesus-love and be soaring, and then I’d be discouraged about a difficult situation or sin. I knew that I wanted Jesus more than anything, but this war kept raging in my heart more than I’ve ever noticed before in my life.

Identity Crisis

Actually, it was more of an identity loss. crushed. God piled up everything that I loved and was finding my identity in and called it “Idolatry” and that was really hard for me to take, so I fell flat on my face. He told me to burn my idols and turn from them before they turned on me.

But, everything? Even my mind? My thoughts, my dreams, my passions?

God: “Yes, they have become idols. Your heart is an idol factory. You sacrifice them and I’ll give them back when and where I decide, if I ever do. You say you’re ‘Complete in Thee’, but you’re not. So let go and cling to Christ. Do you love me more than these?”

That was a very dark time for me because I had for the first time truly come face-to-face with my wicked heart of idolatry. And it was not fun. And then I wasn’t sure whether I had ever truly loved Him, or wanted Him for the gifts He gives. Yes, Jesus became more precious to me that anything during that time, but it took months to “recover” and fully understand the hope, promise and victory of the Gospel. It’s still a struggle.

By the way, yesterday (after I wrote the first draft of this post) a friend sent me this sermon from T4G to listen to about God’s plan in disappointments and dashed hopes. HIGHLY recommend it. Disappointments are purposeful!

Faith

Always remember that it’s not about the quality or quantity of faith, but WHO IT’S IN! My faith was often with fear and trepidation and cold sweats, but thank God it never was or is about me! How relieving!

This past year I was more often that not in situations where I had no other alternatives but to pray for God’s protection, guidance, and provision.

Obstacles included traveling alone, finding correct buses and trains in foreign places, language, money for travel, money for bills, money for moving, money for gas, a job, place to live, a table to eat at, a bed to sleep on, a friend to encourage me…the list is endless.

Yet here I am. Still sane. ish. And full of praise to Him because HE DID IT! Don’t forget that. Don’t praise me. Just stop. I mean go. Go praise Him.

Single

Yes, I just said the bad 6-letter S-word. Let’s face it– it often awkward and/or inferior, and not only in our culture, but also in the church. I mean, have you ever seen a movie where this awesome person is going about life, trying to find this missing piece that will make their world complete, looking for that true love and affirmation…and then they find it! They get to be single for the rest of their life!!

Highly unlikely.

Yet– watch this– isn’t it awesome that no one has to “wait” for fulfillment and completeness and purpose?? Please read the Gospel! Jesus fills that empty hole and missing piece in our hearts! every. single. time.

So…. anyway, on this earth, I am experiencing challenges that naturally come as a result of living alone and being single, not married or dating. The main one has been the need and desire to talk about something discouraging or exciting or even mundane, and there’s simply no one around to share that with in the moment. In particular I have had many discouraging times coming home from work, and I often just wished I had someone to talk to. I found myself keeping things to myself and mulling over it in my mind.

But I soon found that to be unhealthy and, actually, ungodly. That’s why the Body of Christ is so important. I now make it a practice to immediately text or call a very close friend if something happens that I need to release and be open about.

It’s also been challenging not having another person closely peering into my life and challenging me. Not many people challenge me, question my intentions, point out inconsistencies, reveal my laziness. I’m always unsure if I have gone as far as I could’ve, because I’m the only standard to my standards.

Again, I’m finding that I shouldn’t just “accept” these things, but need to do the extra leg-work to seek out others in the Body to meet those needs of mine. And it’s ok to admit need, weakness, insecurity. Christ DIED for His Church, so it’s pretty important that I work hard to involve them in my life. And practically, if I practice keeping to myself while I’m single, then that is how I’ll eventually live out marriage.

So that just about sums it up. I’d like to think that this time next year will be full of stability and normality…but, eh, that is pretty unlikely.  Actually this past week right before my birthday God has been specifically guiding my prayers about a next step and/or phase in my life. Scary, exciting, fearful, invigorating, challenging…

I can’t wait to see what next year’s post “26” will be. Praising Him for 25.

The day of my birthday. 25 years ago.

A Bitter (refreshing) Taste of Humility

Posted on by Angela Madaha

The Italy saga continued…

I had made it. I was in one piece, I had all my luggage, and I still had (some) money left.

Like the previous weeks of the trip, I entered into this new county, new culture, and new people with no previous experiences or expectations to guide me. Everything was completely fresh and I was pretty naïve. Such a good place to be. It really makes one be a student of every person, experience, and group I saw. I had learned to be nobody of any importance and to enter into conversations and settings with an open mind, placing my perceptions and opinions lower than those I was coming in contact with. Part of that is well attributed to the language barrier. Even if I disagreed, I usually couldn’t express it in an understanding way; I was forced to constantly listen and observe. Being a foreigner gives one a responsibility to be respectful, not a right to lord one’s personal, cultural opinions over the native people. Americans, and specifically American Christians, are so domineering and harsh about our beliefs. I saw it in myself, and I felt it when I returned to the States. It made me cringe and slightly uncomfortable whenever I sensed it, because quite frankly it is normal and expected. By God’s grace may we become humble people, because in such a state as we are we may never be able to effectively spread the Gospel to His kingdom; our insistence to be “right” may very well paralyze any effort to extend the arms of the Body to place the Truth into the hands of the unreached people groups.

Personal practical lessons and applications of humility:

  • Approach each conversation and interaction with the thought: What can I learn from this person? Can I be the one that has the wrong or weak view/understanding?
  • Become a person of unending questions. Asking questions help reveal why that person believes what they believe. Dozens of factors come into play here: background, culture, family, tragedies, experiences, relationships, etc…
  • NEVER assume. Each person, place and experience must be a blank slate. Assuming can ruin things and you can be looking for something to happen while all the while you are missing the new, unique aspects transpiring right now.
  • Be wise. To balance off the previous point, allow a blank slate to be present, but allow it to add on to and complement your previous knowledge and experience. For instance, I had been living with those that had extreme pasts of drugs and violence. When I entered into a more “normal” life in Italy, I actually got to meet others in the church that had been saved from a similar life style. In wisdom, I could speak and listen knowledgably and walk in love towards that person, knowing past temptations may still be strongly present with them. And then I also had a choice: take over the conversation with “I know what your saying and this is everything I have to say about it!…” or I could store up what I was hearing, ask questions, and be blessed to build on to the mountain of amazing stories of real lives radically altered by the grace of God. More often than not we just need to shut up.
  • Shut up. But seriously, shut up. Quit talking about everything you know, that church planting article you read on twitter, recent revelation, what you read in your Bible, saw in your church, all your blessings, all your sins, awesome Piper book, God’s working in your life, blah blah blah. Sometimes we talk so much about what we “know” about God and all our spiritual stuff and insights that we totally miss out on the real soul in front of us that is dying for lack of real ministry of mercy. If only we would listen. and keep listening. and keep listening. Until we reach the core of the Jesus-need that resides in their pain-seared heart. Oh man I need this lesson—so convicting. Because haven’t I myself been that very person?
  • Do not be afraid to fail. While in Spain, I especially had a major back-lash of culture and language immersion in which I skyrocketed initially, and then fell straight rock-bottom. It was a very humiliating experience because it all was a lot more difficult that I expected. Instead of humbling and rising up, I humbled myself and stayed there, too afraid for a time to venture out in the language because I couldn’t effectively communicate; not trying and withdrawing was a whole lot easier than trying and imminent failure. I regretted that, and if I could go back and change anything, I would persevere in communication and language despite set-backs and humiliation. Some things are just more important that my perception before others. This even wore into my time in Italy; I constantly struggled to express myself and felt a huge disconnect of who I was as a person and how I fit in. I struggled to participate and invest myself while feeling like I was failing at it.

I look back and see a life-lesson: go hard after failure, because you just might happen to succeed. Because even succeeding at failure is still success, right?

A Taste of Italy: Enter the Country

Posted on by Angela Madaha

Exhausted.

That is precisely how I arrived in Venice, Italy on June 24, 2011. The past month had been a whirlwind of language immersion, culture shock, long work days, and a challenged life system as I knew it. Because of some scheduling conflicts, I ended up arriving via train at Stansted Airport in London on Thursday at 11:00am and leaving the next morning at 8:00am. I had never slept in an airport, much less by myself, much less in a foreign country.

Yes, I was obviously well-prepared.

Having just watched The Italian Job a day earlier, my imagination kicked in overtime and everyone was a potential stalker and/or stealer. My sleeping defense strategy was to have a limb protecting each of my possessions: head on my purse, arm draped over my carry-on, leg hugging my 50lb suitcase. At any moment I felt I could explode into a total round-house kick to the face. And you thought I didn’t know a thing or two about security. Thank you TSA and Walker Texas Ranger.

Barely 2 hours of sleep and a massive body cramp later (yet with all my possessions still intact), I finally got to head to my flight. Even after being in some of the darkest, most crime-infested parts of Madrid, this was ironically the scariest moment of the trip. I had to get from Stansted, to Cologne Germany, find my connecting flight to Verona Italy, find a bus to the train, buy a train ticket to Mestre, and somehow get in contact with the Carls to let them know when and where I’d arrive.

No phone connection, no 3G network, no translator, no experience, no friends.

I could’ve been lost. forever.

Thankfully, at that time I didn’t think that far head. I realize now that every part of this experience from beginning to end was moment-by-moment steps, having often to choose to move even when I had no idea how to accomplish the next step. Not that this is the way I think I should approach every life circumstance, but that is how God led me those few months. And boy was it adventurously scary!


The flight from London to Germany to Italy was the most beautiful scenic experience in my life. Crossing the English Channel at sunrise, entering into mainland Europe and France barely minutes later, seeing winding rivers in Cologne, and the ultimate: the Swiss Alps. Any words and pictures cannot do justice. For the first time I saw jagged mountains that towered into the sky, the snow caps shooting through the clouds, and then to watch their steep inclines collide into these tiny green summer villages that were snug between the mountains. It was incredible. A masterpiece. This one huge mountain-side plunged from it’s white-capped summit straight down into a huge lake that we were flying parallel to, and where the water met the beach there was only enough room for a single row of houses that stretched for several miles. I admit—I was gaping. I became aware that my mouth of hanging open, and I was about to adjust myself until I realized that this was indeed a gape-worthy moment. It was my rightful duty to leave my mouth open. Perhaps even my expression of worship.

We passed the mountains and the plane began it’s decent. This was it. The moment I was so excited for and one that many people dreamed of getting to do and I actually had the opportunity… stepping out into Italy.

When I finally did step through the rotating doors to enter the country, I was greeted with a blast of humid air, and there were definitely not any vineyards, fresh bread stands, or olive oil fountains around. My secret stereotype dream was dashed.

But now I had a real problem. I didn’t really know what to do next. Oh yes, get to the train station. Once I got to the train station, I could figure out the next step. One step at a time. Hm, no signs for a train, at least ones I recognized. You’d think with all the centuries of art in Italy that they’d have more visuals for public transportation.

So I tried wandering. You know, the prideful wandering. Pretending like you’re just browsing around when in reality you’re lost as all get-out and am feverishly looking for some sign or help. Thankfully an Italian lady that knew English approached me and asked if I needed help. She showed me where to get a bus that would take me to the train station. Thank God for sweet old ladies.

There was only one other person on the bus and she looked about my age, so I asked if she spoke English. I found out she was German and yet was fluent in English. And amazingly she was heading to Venice in a few days to study Italian for 2 weeks! How providential! She was very kind and we exchanged emails so that we could connect as soon as she arrived in Venice.

The train station. I thought, I can handle this. How hard can a train station be?

Ha.

Basically from here on out everything was this sick form of a guessing game: I wonder if this is the right line to buy a ticket. Is this ticket actually going to take me to Mestre? I need to contact the Carls…That looks like a payphone—I hope these buttons work. Nope. Guess I need to buy a prepaid card. Maybe they sell them here. Ok she doesn’t understand the word “phone” “prepaid card” or “help” for that matter. I hope this 5 Euro card works. Nope. Ate my money. Multiple tries. Sweating in the heat. Forget this. One more try with the credit card– it worked! And Lewis answered the phone! Quickly told Lewis when I’d arrive. Whew.

Where are the platforms? Seems like everybody is going this way. I’ll just go up this way…and that was wrong. Opposite direction. Ok I think this is the right platform. Maybe. But… I can’t tell if my train number is showing up on the arrival list. A moment of hyper-ventilation in the possible event that I miss my train, and would be stuck in Verona forever, living on my short supply of Cadbury chocolate, tea biscuits, and olive oil…

Oh I think this is my train… I hope. On the train, barely juggling my luggage. And…there are no seats left. Not one. Uninhibited, I sank to the floor for the hour trip, desperately needing a nap and/or shoulder massage. But I couldn’t miss my stop. If I did I’d go all the way down the line and the Carls wouldn’t know and would be waiting for me in Mestre and I’d be lost and homeless in the back streets of Venice… Stressed. Breathe in and then out. Be strong and fake it. Oh I think the next stop is mine. Finally to the platform, down the millions of stairs, through the gates, and on to the streets of Mestre.

Now where were the Carls going to be? Hm, I’ll just act American and lost. At this point I could care less about patriotism. Oh there they are, with toddler Amelia in tow. Finally, safety and security. I was not lost forever.

(note: I am not exaggerating any of these details. In fact, I’ve left out several frustrating, scary, intimidating moments. Sometimes I look back and think, “What the fat world was I thinking?? Borderline insanity, sufficiently stupid.”) 

We had our introductions and briefly caught up about my trip as we walked about 15 minutes to their apartment. By this time it was 4:00 on Friday afternoon and I had pretty much been awake since 11:00am the day before. I was looking forward to a cold refreshing shower, finally getting to let go of the 100 pounds of luggage, and then a blissful sleep. About half-way there, as I was dwelling on this plan, Lewis says, “Hey we have our Filipino youth Bible study tonight, and I was wondering if you would share a devotional with them.”

Ironic. There are a couple things that are ironic about this opportunity. First, obviously, I was being asked to give when I wasn’t sure if my thoughts and capabilities were logical or coherent. Yet I knew, as I often experienced in grad school, God always gives grace in order to give when physically I feel like there is nothing left to give. So I knew I could go forward in that strength.

Yet the other ironic part was the fact that spiritually and emotionally I was entering, and somewhat already in, the darkest time period of my life. Dark as in lost. Dark as in purposeless. Empty.  Void. Even now I feel it’s very hard to express, though 6 months later. In the past month, God had turned my world upside down, then took my identity, and crushed it. How am I supposed to “lead” a devotional?

In this present state, I showered, took a power nap, and went to the Bible study where I got to share a lesson that I had heard a week ago from Acts 3. Just like the beggar entreated Peter and John for money to buy to food to survive, we often go to God for things that to us are absolutely necessary and life sustaining, yet He wants us to leave that behind because He has better plans in mind. The beggar asked for money in order to have food to survive; Peter said that he had no money to give, but instead gave the ultimate Treasure and Meal, eternal life in the name of Jesus.

We are so narrow-minded and much too easily satisfied. It was a simple devotional, yet never in my life had I felt so unworthy and unclean, thinking, “I should not be doing this right now. I totally don’t feel complete in Christ. Everything’s a mess inside and I don’t really know why.” I couldn’t really express anything because I didn’t even know yet what exactly was wrong.

Yet again, often He tells us to give when we perceive we have nothing to give,

because once we are useless, maybe that is when he can actually use us.

And this was only Day 1.

Real Lives: The Story of Sherry

Posted on by Angela Madaha

Meet Sherry

From the moment I walked into the Betel women’s home when we arrived in England, I felt warmth and acceptance. And, after spending 2 week of full-immersion in Spain, I was exuberant that I could carry on a conversation with people in my own language! I was never in my life so happy to just simply talk! (*insert knowing look*: this is a Big Deal) Yet I found quickly that I was definitely not the only talker there. The women in the safe home I was living in were just so happy and familial. So open and expressive. Definitely blew my British stereotypical view out of the water. (please, release from your imagination any Pirates of the Caribbean character types. and accents. just let go) They also were very very open about their lives and stories of their past. It was so full of pain and hurt and sin and God and Jesus and victory and purpose. I was overcome with the amount of pain and life-crushing experiences they had gone through and the joy in Christ that they recounted despite the life-numbing circumstances.

One friend in particular stood out to me from the others. My friend Sherry.  Yeah, she was pretty much the life of the party. Funny, always laughing, always joking, very open, full of conversation—you couldn’t help but love her. She was, I’d say, 45-ish years old and had such a strong Birmingham British brogue, more so than most of the girls there. Which to me added to her humor. For a moment it seemed like I had just met My Fair Lady. Her voice was raspy, her skinned stretched and leathery, and she was pretty thin. Personality: the wittiest of them all.

Sherry was such a hard worker and very quick to anticipate a need and meet it. She was one of the few women that had a permit to drive the large vans. I noticed when she picked up donations during the day that she would always put aside a special treat for the guests, or some herbal tea for someone sick, or some flowers for one of the girls’ birthday. She was just a gem.

My 3rd or 4th day there I was assigned to pick up donations with Sherry, so we spent at least 9 hours together that day driving around to the various food stores in Birmingham to pick up mostly food donations. During those hours together, we talked, laughed, learned about each other, encouraged each other.

And Sherry told me her story.

The Prodigal Sinner

I forget what the trigger point in her life was for drugs, but pretty early on she was hooked. Typically it begins with an entry drug like marijuana and then the unquenchable thirst for more—a bigger high, and safer low, resulting in a higher high. Often drug abusers will offset drugs so that some will give them super highs, but the higher the high, the harder to low. And to keep from crashing, they take another drug. So the body is on this extreme rollercoaster.

Sherry quickly got addicted to heroin, probably the worst drug addiction of have. Typically people on heroin do not live long because of the amount you must inject in order to keep getting the next high, and eventually you will overdose. Sherry was addicted for 20 years.

20. Years.

It destroyed her possessions, her career, her family, her sanity, and her life. Even to this day, the doctors cannot get to any veins to take blood except the ones on the bottoms of her feet because she had deflated them all with countless injections. Stealing money and possesstions at every opportunity, she was trusted by no one. Her family disowned her. Society rejected her. She was violent–  very violent, as she told me. No one could be around her and she was often in and out of jail or prison. Her life was in an unstoppable downward spiral.

She told me of the lowest, most despairing moment of her life. She had become so violent, raged and drug-ridden that she was arrested, put in a high-security isolated prison cell, and was wrapped in a straight-jacket that was made of a chain-metal type material. She said she remembered lying there on the cold, hard prison floor, and thinking,

“All I want right now is just something soft to touch. Just something soft.”

Yet nothing was. Not her straightjacket, not her skin, not the floor. It was at this point she prayed to God. She said, “God, please kill me. Please—please kill me.” There was no hope.

To her surprise and chagrin, she didn’t die. It made her angry—“God, why didn’t you kill me?” She did not want to live anymore and this one request He did not grant.

The Prodigal God

Yet, it was at this point that God took the broken, destroyed pieces of her life and started building something new, something beautiful. Impossible? You may think so, but God is so good at what he does.

He led her to a Christian, Gospel rehab where she met Jesus. He brought her out of the miry, muddy disgusting pit and set her feet upon a rock and gave her a new song in our mouth, a song of praise to our God! He freed her from drugs, from violence, from her past, her idolatry. What an awesome God! What victory!

Sherry continued to tell me that she met a great Christian guy at church and they soon got married and had a beautiful ceremony, got a home, and began a family. They soon had a daughter and then a son. They had a nice little house, a good church, and a real family. Life couldn’t get any better.

Slow Fade

Yet, over the course of several years, the slow fade entered. There wasn’t a certain day or time where she remembered setting God aside, but slowing, one choice at a time, her and her husband didn’t hold Christ as closely to themselves as they used to. Church became more of a duty than joy. The marriage began to look more and more selfish. She said she began believing that she could handle everything pretty well on her own, and that’s where the slow fade began.

Over the course of a few years, the beautiful, godly marriage that they once had fell apart and he left her (I believe) for another woman.  It was at this point that she turned to alcohol as a release and it became her idol. The next drug. For the next year or two she wasted her days again and again on alcohol to free and numb herself from pain and reality.

She knew God and the Spirit of God resided in her, yet how could she get freedom when God had already saved her life before? How could God accept her after her obvious and blatant abuse of His love and grace?

Grace Unending

Through a friend she found out about Betel and went there to be free from alcohol abuse and her sinful, independent lifestyle, and God graciously gave her her life back in Him. Over and over she said to me,

“You know, one time is enough for God to forgive me and welcome me home, but even when I turned away a 2nd time, he still took me back! I cannot thank Him enough because I deserve to be on the street right now, yet I am a child of the King! I don’t know when God will allow me to live a ‘normal’ life again and to have my children back, but I have such a greater real sense of my need for him. I can’t make it without him and I think about Him all the time. Even today, he’s just been on the mind the entire day—I can’t get him out of my mind!”

My Story?

This is the point where I basically sat back and said, Wow—oh wow. I’m thinking, what really have I to share about my testimony after that? And yet… my story has just as much God in it. She was saved from her idolatry, I was saved from my idolatry. I struggle every day to love God, and so does she. Different stories, same God, same Cross. It was at this moment that God brought to mind the lessons from Tim Keller’s book Prodigal God, and I shared with her that in that story, she would be considered the worldly son, and I would be considered the Pharisaical elder brother. Both abused the Father’s gifts, one through open rebellion, one by self-righteousness. Yet both are equally sinful and estranged from the Father. And the Father shows grace and forgiveness to both. It’s a story of a prodigal, extravagant God.

When we said goodbye, my heart was so full and so was hers. Amazing how in such a short time God can knit hearts together in the common bond of Christ. Last I heard, Sherry was still living in Betel and her son had come to live with her. I pray that she stays strong in the grace of our Lord Jesus Christ and that He would keep her until the day of His appearing. Can’t wait for the reuniting!

Real Lives: The Story of Carli

Posted on by Angela Madaha

Carli.

loud, exuberant, expressive. What a character! She was so mischievous. You could see it in her eyes constantly.  Very much her own person and quite frankly always laughing and joking. Loved being the center of attention.

That description, seemingly light-hearted and cheerful, was actually just the outside-Carli. Inside she was empty, just nothing but ashes. I could see it. Turmoil like that cannot be hidden. Even in her jovial demeanor there was something fearful, perhaps even bitter hiding behind that mask.

We connected immediately. She liked being loud. I liked being loud. Naturally, we became friends. But I sensed immediately that there was something more underneath that show. As much as I needed to be careful with the questions I asked, especially concerning the sensitive nature of the people we were living with, at the same time I didn’t want to shy away from questions that may lead to God-opportunities that transcend language barriers.

One of the first few evenings in Madrid we were chilling in the living room and talking. I told her about my family, general info about myself and life (“first semester Spanish, come to me!” … by the way, I think when you know a word in another language, when it suddenly comes to mind, you feel you must immediately talk about it or miss a prime opportunity to converse, no matter how random the topic. Problem is, words like gato, pantalones and baño don’t deceptively slip into any natural conversation by a long shot.)

… Anyway. I told her information about my life, and I then asked about her life. I tried to listen carefully as she started telling me her story, eventually sharing how she came to Betel. I saw her painful discomfort yet willingness to open up. She had been sent to prison for a 4 year sentence, yet after being there 2 years, the prison said she could finish up her last 2 years in Betel if she agreed to stay there. It’s very common for one’s drug addiction to become worse once living in prison, and Betel has a wonderful reputation with the prisons. Her boyfriend lives in Madrid, I believe. She has 2 daughters, both of whose names were tattooed on her arm. In sudden excitement, she went and grabbed a picture frame (one of her few possessions) that had the pictures of her boyfriend and 2 daughters. Her eyes were shining at this time. As I came to find out throughout my stay, she is pretty much cut-off from her daughters and the life she truly wanted, yet had thrown away. One choice at a time, she entered a life of whole-hearted idolatry that stole her family, happiness, and true freedom.

Carli liked me and I found she wanted my attention and approval, though I’m not exactly sure why. I normally sat by her for breakfast, across from a Bulgarian woman that had just arrived. I wanted to have a meaningful conversation, but that was pretty much impossible with the language barrier. I learned to pretty much rely on prayer and non-verbals, like smiling and kindness.

Carli got to see her daughters ages 4 and 6 at church that Sunday for the first time in 6 weeks. This was a huge moment for her and you could tell by her jittery actions. It her daughter’s birthday. Betel allowed her to spend the afternoon with her mother and daughters, but had to come back in the evening. When she arrived at the house, she looked so depressed and was moody, not interested in talking. Her outgoing spirit was completely deflated. At these times I felt she avoided me, along with everyone else, and was depressed and pessimistic. Yes, even angry.

Carli needs Jesus. She knows that. She participates in Betel activities and worship yet there is no true relationship and commitment to Christ. It’s been 6 months since I’ve seen her last. I fear that if she does not soon love Jesus more than her idols that she will forever turn away. Pray for her to turn to Jesus. Carli is 21.

Real Lives: The Story of Vina

Posted on by Angela Madaha

I feel compelled. I met so many people, real people, this past summer whose stories blew my mind, rock my system of thinking, and gave me new eyes of understanding of broken, outcast people. So much so, that I honestly couldn’t talk about it much in the following weeks. I felt I really couldn’t communicate the amount of impact their stories had in my heart and life, nor could I fully explain what I saw and heard. There is no box I can place them in, and neither shall I try.

But I must tell their stories. I know that I met them on purpose, for a reason beyond my finite understanding. I have decided to change their names since this in published on the web. I didn’t want to because I felt that their name for me was emotionally and intricately tied to who they are and what they represent, but for sensitive reasons and love, I will adapt.

May these Real Lives open your eyes that there are real people around your real life every day. This is not specific to Betel. When Jesus by example served the broken and outcast of this world, He did so knowing that each one of us will have the opportunity to live as He did. If only we were aware. If only we opened our eyes.

*****

Vina was one of the first people I met upon arrival in Spain. Her appearance: eclectic. worn. haggard.  Her body: abused. tattooed. thin. Her clothing style was, shall we say, gypsy-european. Perhaps a bit Bohemian. She often wore gaucho-type pants, printed shirt, sandals, and always with a pair of flashy sunglasses, usually leopard print or glamorous faux-diamond. Vina did not speak English, yet we had a unique connection. From the beginning, my Spanish was a roller coaster experience and I really struggled with communication. Certain people I could understand more than others. Most people could not understand me at all. Yet Vina always understood me and would clarify my broken Spanish to the other women to help them understand. She was smart and quick witted. Always kind and patient.

She loved Jesus—yes, that was obvious. When I watched her worship in church, she was oblivious to everyone else. It was as if she were pleading with God to come down and fill her. Her spirit was always eager to learn, her actions always filled with love and compassion, her mind always yearning for more knowledge.

I remember just 1-2 days after arriving in Madrid we were sitting outside the house in the garden (comparable to a front yard), and Vina just started telling me about how she came to Betel and how Jesus had changed her heart. I didn’t understand everything, yet… I got it. Her expressions, her emotions, her spirit—it rang true in my heart. She said, He is my Savior and I live for Him. She loved talking about her God, about her new life.

Vina was so beautiful to me. Her scars were simply grace-lines forever imprinted on her skin. Yet, she also seemed somewhat sad. Or perhaps, weighted down. Sometimes I would see her sitting by herself in the living room, and there was just a sad presence about her. No, not despair. Just, constant struggle. Like a heavy burden. I wanted to help, yet in many ways, I couldn’t. The effects of her past had taken their toll on her, and physically and emotionally she constantly struggled. I could see it. I would sometimes ask, Como estas, guapa? How are you, beautiful? She would usually reply in a way that let me know that she was struggling, yet some Truth was always present. Something bigger than her pain that gave her the strength and assurance to press on.

Vina is HIV positive. She also has several forms of Hepatitis, along with a long list of other medical issues. Everyday is a trial for her. What thoughts must go through her mind: How much more can I take of this pain? Will I develop AIDS? How can I afford medical treatment? I am really tired right now; maybe I’m contracting a new virus. Do I need to go to the hospital? How long will I live? God did forgive me, didn’t He? I know my past and its rebellion is nailed to the cross… yet I still feel it in my body, and will feel it for the rest of my life. Can not God heal? Why has He not healed me? He’s good…I don’t understand…but I know He’s good.

Always loving, always giving. I felt shallow when I observed her. What a beautiful woman. I love Vina. She has a special place in my heart—I connected with her in a way I didn’t with anyone else in Madrid. I wish I could’ve told her that.

I don’t know when I’ll see her again. I hope she is well, yet I know…

man, I hate sin. So destructive. damaging.

Oh but what an example of the hope of Christ, in the Gospel! A tyrant living in outright rebellion against the Creator, now worshipping Him with the hands once used to destroy her body. This is what made me awe-struck and I know I’ll never be the same. Do you know a Vina in your life? Go find one. It’ll change your life too.