Life a Weblog for Young Adults

Recently, I received an e-mail from a friend who works in Africa. He posed an interesting thought to me. “Next time we’re together you’ll have to tell me what about Operation Christmas Child keeps you hooked.” I was traveling at the time in Central Asia, and somehow, this stuck with me—lingering in my mind as I went about the work of recruiting and selecting National Leadership Teams, encouraging strategic planning and listening to the stories of both the children and the volunteers in a number of Muslim majority countries in Central Asia, where the ministry of Operation Christmas Child through shoebox gifts is making a huge difference.

I am beginning to believe the real beauty of prayer is not just in the request but in the repetition. Something wondrous happens when we respond to the admonition of Paul to pray without ceasing. Something enchanting happens when we ask God for something more than once, as if with each refrain, our heart aligns itself a shade closer to God’s heart. It’s almost as if something sacred happens in the echo of our prayers.

Although I’ve never experienced racism like my mom did, I have experienced some of the effects of this kind of hatred. As a young child, I couldn’t help but notice that my skin wasn’t like everyone else’s. It was an unavoidable reality growing up in the suburbs of predominantly white middle class America. In my mind I would change my black skin into white skin. Truth be told, I thought white skin was better than black skin. The sad thing is I didn’t come up with that idea on my own.

I know that if I am going to get serious about making an impact in my world, following the international gold medal count won’t get me anywhere. My local candidates may seem like the least important people in this election cycle, but they are my most direct connections to the government. They are the officials I can actually talk to when I want to solicit support for a cause. They determine the zoning ordinances that decide what I can do to my house, business, and church. And, they could become the people on the presidential ticket.

For most of my life as a Christian, I have quietly believed the tenets of consumerism. “I work hard for what I get. I deserve to reap the benefits, don’t I?” I would ask myself. But consumerism is a deceptive weed. Its hidden roots dig far deeper into most of us than harmless self-indulgence.