A Foreigner's Faith

He was a Centurion. He was used to being the big wig, the one whose orders were followed without a second guess or questioning word. He said “go” and that person would go. He would call for a certain person, and that person would drop all that he was doing to meet the demands of this man. Now this Roman wanted Jesus.

He was Roman. Jesus was Jewish. He could have ordered Jesus to come to his office and if Jesus refused, he could have had Jesus punished. Yet even before the cross and its purpose were obtained, the power of a Saviour had reached the heart of a Gentile. Before Paul was ever sent to reach the Gentile world with the amazing salvation of Jesus Christ, this Roman believed in Jesus.

The Centurion sent for Jesus because his beloved slave was dying. With incredible words, the centurion tells Jesus, “if you say the word, whether you are here in this house or in another place, I know that your word will be followed out. Jesus, you do not even have to come all the way to my home, but even if a messenger brings your words to me, whatever they are will be fulfilled. Lord, even if you do not send your words to me but say them right where you are, those words are carried out.” And Jesus stops in his tracks, turns to the chosen people of God and says, “not in all of Israel have I found such faith.” In my inadequate words, the centurion’s faith was this: If Jesus said it, it would be done. No questions, no musings, no discussions, no debates. Jesus’s words would be done.

Once again I find myself at Starbucks, indulging myself in my favorite drink from this place, their Strawberries & Crème frappuccino. My mind is swirling with the events and information of the past two days. Bits of words and conversation from a dear friend keep resounding in my mind as I, through human eyes, view the main event in my life. The decision to go to graduate school.

Although the visit to the school was good and I have a peace about the surroundings, I think that I waiting for this “ah-ha” moment, waiting for the light bulb to turn on to confirm probably what I already know that I am suppose to do. I think I am waiting for this rush of emotions and passion to surge through me to the point where I cannot imagine doing anything else but this one thing. Truthfully that has not happen but the words from a conversation yesterday keep blowing through my mind, the words of a friend when he said, “sounds like you have a passion there.” I have not told my friend that his words stopped my train of thought at the moment he said them nor that they have not left my mind since. But in my mind, those words rest, causing me to revisit the story of the Centurion whose faith in God even astounded Jesus.

Being the detailed-oriented person that I am, I know all the logistics that will go into moving to Pasadena, finding housing, finances, and the schoolwork. It is daunting to say the least. Part of me keeps trying to find another path to it that will not be as trusting as this route but I do not think that will come. This time around I am going to have to take a deep breathe, close my eyes, run, and jump straight into the pool of faith, letting its presence wrapped completely around me, drenching me completely, and believing that I will reach the surface to breathe. That will take the faith of a centurion.

The Visit.

Something as a visiting a school should be a simple feat. For me, it entails an interesting twist of adventure. Being a born and raised Midwest girl and the largest freeway that I have driven the most is the one that wraps around the metro side of Des Moines, the prospect of navigating my way through LA traffic was not a thought I was very excited about. But to pursue the journey that is before me now included such a journey down the cement pathway of opportunity.

I woke up yesterday morning all prepared to gather my things, pack the car, and a file folder full of maps and directions. I walked downstairs to get a drink. A quick glance out the window brought a damper to the excited emotions churning in me for what I saw would be an obstacle; I saw fog. Not just a few clouds here and there or a misty veil that draped itself along the land to provide a translucent view of the world. No this fog is the heavy, cottony blanket that makes the world disappear within a few feet. And yet, with determination and a prayer of protection, I packed my car and ventured out.

The drive down to Los Angeles was not bad considering the fog that hugged the land and blotted out the sun that tried so desperately to light the land. With its steely, gray color, I would have thought I was viewing a Midwestern winter day rather than the sunny day of the land of eternal sunshine.

Navigating myself between various freeways and cars, I finally arrived to my destination. Well, sort of. As I mentioned before, any road trip for me always entails a certain aspect of adventure. (Just ask my friend Marla.) Mainly I get lost. But thanks to the inherited gene of navigation from my father and the ingenious invention called a map, I always seem to find my way back again. Such an adventure happened on this trip as well.

I know that I was watching the exits carefully, looking for the number or street that I was suppose to take, but I swear to you, I never saw it. Following the road to its very end, I turned onto a street that I did not know and continued to follow it, wondering if I would find a street that I should now. Not knowing if I was heading north, south, east or west, I just kept turning around to repeat the path I was traveling. With a bit of navigation and a quick look at a map, I found my way to Fuller Theological Seminary with a half an hour to spare before the night's events.

I found the Guest House where I was staying for the night. My check-in experience was unique. I was given a room which I did not request and was quoted a price much higher than previous stated. After a bit of discussion I was given a new room at a lower cost. So I went to my room, opened the door and went inside to settle in for a few minutes. I went into the bedroom only to discover that someone else was already assigned the room. I spotted handwritten notes for assignments, a pile of books and a closet full of clothes. Luckily no one was in the room at that moment but I hurried out there quickly, just in case the occupant came while I was there. I went back down to the check-in, explained the situation and was given a key to the original room that I was assigned. As I was leaving, the occupant of the room I hastily vacated was behind me because his key would no longer work. (I am not making this up!)But I got all settled into my room, leaving me five minutes to freshen up and get to registration.

The visitation night was good and I got a chance just to be on campus. I did not get to see much of it since night had already fallen but I got a good sense of being there. The city itself is very beautiful and active. I felt quite at home in the area and had a great sense of peace being at the school. Now, I await the final steps of application and the final word of acceptance which will not come for another couple of months. Then a more definite direction can be established.

A difference a degree makes.

For those who are from the state of eternal sunshine, the bleakness of the recent days affects them greatly. The leaden skies hide the normal shine of yellow rays and with that coverage, the warmth that allows the human world here to walk around. With just a few degrees lower and a slight chilly wind, my neighbors feel as if the world has come once again into the ice age.

Yet here I am in, sitting at the local Starbucks, sipping a Strawberries and Crème frappuccino. Granted I am shivering a bit from the iciness sweetness of the strawberries, yet I am not lamenting the fact of the temperature change that has grasped the world in which I now live. My co-workers cringe when I recall my memories of my times in the Midwest, talking of snow covered streets, ice covered trees, and chilly winds. They look in horror at me when I calmly share of my previous winters of life spent locked indoors as the temperatures outside reach to single digits, and many times, a little line appears before those numbers. They shake their heads in wonderment how I could have survived living in such a state of coldness and sing praises that they have not had to live where cold is the norm.

As I listen to the complaints of how cold it is from those who truly do not know what a winter should be, I chuckle softly to myself as memories of snow covered cars, ice covered trees dance in my head. I smile gently to myself as I listen to them adamantly state that they will die if they ever lived in a state where snow is common as the sun, yet memories of snow angels, snow ball fights, and warm nights snuggled indoors watching a new movie slide before my eyes. Just to throw in a few gasps of horror, I will spin a tale of wild blizzards and icy nights, yet deep down inside I know that I do not miss the very things that my co-workers fear. I do not mind the winter I am experiencing at the moment. It is nice yet what I miss is the beauty of the sunlight dancing off the whitened land, sending its glittering beauty to every eye who stops to breathe in the brisk newness of the day. Now that I miss.