That old, black Citizen clock hadn’t been cleaned for a very long time. It’s covered with dust and had been lying on our shelves for as long as I can remember. Its sides are marked with smudges of dirt, evidence of all the places it had been and all the shelves upon which it had once sat. It now resides in an isolated corner among toiletries, flushing toilets, and the sweet essence of Tahitian vanilla candles, ticking and tocking away—its time still true . . . its clicks still clear. I grew up hearing the sounds of clocks ticking. We were a family always aware of time—always seemingly prepared for the future. My schedule was planned out on an hourly basis; I was used to hearing the ringing of alarms and the yelling of my mom to go take an hour nap or practice my violin. Clocks were instruments to keep our life in order. But somehow we veered off schedule, turning and twisting until nothing made sense—not even the plans we made or the hourly schedule we maintained. We ended up in America, a foreign country with no occupations, no family, and no solace offered. All of this was according to the Lord’s timing—to His clock. This specific clock traveled by boat, across the rocky Pacific to get here. It belonged to my father, who used to carry the clock wherever he went—Italy, trainings, conferences. It was his timekeeper, an inexpensive piece of plastic with a rich history, one I only recall through stories from my parents. It once sat on the counter of a small Taiwanese studio apartment. It once lay gripped between the teeth of a one year old baby, drool dripping down its side as he tossed it around like a ball. In those videos, the little boy laughed and smiled, his face shining with joy as he abused its black, plastic shell. And then it ended up in America—a time machine among his collection of Spiderman and Batman action figures; every tick would allow his toys to travel through time, fight the bad guys, and return home safely. ![]() With the advent of cell phones, the clock slowly lost its importance. It now remains on the shelf acting as a relic of the past, reminding us of its rich history—a history it is still creating. As I sat on the airplane, I scanned my eyes across the aisles. Everybody was asleep, tired from the intensive two weeks of traveling in Taiwan. The air was eerily silent; I could only make out the sound of whistling air from the fans above us. The illuminated lights on the floors shined faintly, breaking the darkness of the cabin. I thought about that clock, the timekeeper passed down from my father. I thought about its story—its ticking that lulled me to sleep when I was a child. It reminded me again about the deep roots of our heritage, the fine lineage of Jesus described in the book of Matthew. It reminded me of the apostles and the many people who carried out the Lord’s testimony, forming small smudges, big dents, or invisible marks. It reminded me where I came from, where my parents came from, and why I was again finding myself on a plane back to America. The clock still ticks and tocks. Its function and purpose have never changed throughout all these years; it simply tells time. The Lord’s calling passes from generation to generation. He is seeking true believers who will stand firmly for His testimony on earth; His function and purpose never changes. Sitting there in those uncomfortable airplane seats, I knew our journey was to reconnect us back to the people who raised us, the individuals who fought for the Lord’s testimony and who stood firmly for His ground. We owe our lives to the Lord’s recovery, not as a celebration of a “movement,” but rather as a recognition of the importance brother Nee and Lee played in keeping the Lord’s fine lineage alive and vital. We owe just as much to brother T. Austin Sparks, sister M. E. Barber, the Moravian Brethren, Martin Luther, Paul, Ruth, Tamar, Rahab, David, and all those who stood for this ground, however small or large they may seem to be in history. But just like my clock, the Lord moves on. He moves from place to place, from heart to heart, from people to people, and from society to society. It is so easy to be stagnant and complacent, thinking we have something or we are something. When this happens, time will fly past us and we will be forgotten. It is our choice to stay on the shoreline or cross this Jordan into the unknown, trusting Him at every moment. History shows a lot. The Lord will move on and His calling will be given to those who really want Him. As I looked out the window, I could see the polychromatic smile of the Lord shining on my face, reminding me of His promise to His people. This rainbow shined as the promise for His continuation, His line of life, and His moving forward. The Lord was moving and we didn’t want to be left behind; this time, the river was just a tad bigger. No matter a dent or a drool mark, we desire to strive for the vision the Lord gave to His people, to be written alongside the names of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, to be remembered as the ones who continued the lineage of the Lord and as those who kept His clock ticking. The ticking of that black Citizen clock has never sounded so different. -Samuel C
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![]() I may just be the stereotypical American girl: blue eyes, dirty-blonde hair, and a few freckles on pale white skin. I, however, had never really noticed this much until I landed in country where it was these exact characteristics that made me, well . . . noticeable. Our last day in Taiwan, we were residing in Yonghe in New Taipei. For the Lord's Day Table Meeting, the saints from Toledo were scattered into different meetings. I and three other younger saints attended the youth meetings, all four of us in different rooms that corresponded to different districts. Many of the saints in the room had attended the Saturday evening gospel meeting in which we had spoken concerning the youth, and they commented on how touched they were by the speaking. This gave me room to speak further with them. I spoke more about being empty—how, as youth, we are often ambitious. We are ambitious because there's something missing in us. They had been discussing the history of “The Lord's Recovery” and had spoken of countless people involved in the Lord's moving. Learning history is good, sure. But what's the point of learning history if we don't see the burden behind it? I asked the young saints, “What is it that even made these people willing and able to be vessels for the Lord's moving?” I don't care what their names were or what year they did what; I care that they were able to move for the Lord's moving. They were able not because they themselves were able, but because they realized they were empty; they needed to be filled to be useful. In the same way, we can only be useful vessels to the Lord if we allow Him to fill each crevice and corner, each nook and cranny. Our crevices, corners, nooks and crannies may be studying, our family, our friends, our social life, or anything. We have nothing—but how wonderful! After the meeting, I was excited—excited to fellowship more with the young saints, excited to hear what they enjoyed, excited to share more. I sat with about five or six teenage girls, and the first question asked of me was “How do you study with the Lord?” Encouraged by the earnestness and simplicity of the question, I spent much time answering carefully, and, basically, I spoke about not really “doing” anything to study with the Lord, but rather, being in a condition of knowing why I am studying. The Lord gave me school to deepen me, to bring me closer to Him and force me to face my life. I know my studying is for Him. I couldn't help thinking, “Wow. I am so joyful that these young people are really touched by our speaking and are yearning for more of Him.” The next question: “Were you born with eyes that color?” I froze for a second. What? What happened to our real fellowship? It wasn't the question that bothered me (I answered “yes,” of course), but rather the turn in condition our conversation was taking. Our time was short and precious! The countless times that I had been asked to take pictures with random people flew back into my mind. Am I really just a face? After our conversation, I went to the Lord. Lord, how can I be a proper testimony to people? I know they want something real, but for some reason, I'm distracting them! He brought me back to my own speaking from that morning: Who are we but empty vessels? If we are not filled with the Lord, we are nothing but an empty shell—a void. If I am filled with Him, then my outward characteristics don't matter; I will shine only because the Lord is in me. Our condition speaks for itself; if I am truly in the Lord, then every word, every gesture, and my very countenance will show it. I treasure that conversation I had with those girls. Even the silly questions don't bother me; I simply steer back to what the Lord is really saying. Our time is precious, and maybe I was born with eyes this color, but more importantly, I was reborn into a new being, reborn into the life of Christ, and I'm reborn every day to shed my outer man and turn to the life inside of me, which is the same in all of us. It's not blue, brown, or green, nor is it light, dark, black, yellow, or white. This life is the only life and it is the only thing we can ever truly share. -Logan S
![]() The Lord is funny sometimes. He provides the right experiences at the right time in order to show us something we previously could not see. On the outside, the church in Kaohsiung had a wonderful meeting hall with a wonderfully equipped book store, glass-enclosed and all. In the middle of this scenic hall was a garden and a pond, full of life in the midst of the bustling sounds of the second largest city in Taiwan. As I walked across the garden, the fish drew near, expecting me to feed them, hungry for food, hungry for more. It was indeed a place of solace—a well-built, well-designed piece of architecture. But was that all? When religion and man's work creep in, our lives are ruined. Religion kills without us even realizing its damages. The morning presentation was so starved of life, even the fish seemed hungrier. Numbers, numbers, and more numbers: Slide after slide, the brothers presented the "number of people" in attendance at each meeting, each gathering, each district, each small group, each gospel fellowship, etc. Then, they proceeded to present a formulaic method in gaining more young people—as if life had a formula. It is true, on the surface, that nothing is wrong with talking about the numbers or presenting the formula in gaining young seekers. After all, isn't this part of God's plan? But then we all have to ask ourselves: are we just numbers? I do not need to count my children and then present them to one of my children in order to prove to them that they have brothers and sisters. I do not need to report to my husband or wife that we have "x" amount of sons and daughters. Our lives and our churchlife are not dictated by numbers, but rather, by the living life inside of each and every one of us. I am saddened when people, vital beings, are reduced to mere numbers for calculations and analyses. When this happens, we know that we are drifting far away from the Lord's calling. So, it wasn't a surprise that in the middle of this "fellowship" many saints decided a bathroom break or even a leisurely stroll in the garden was necessary—some even took this opportunity for a photo-shoot. While I am sure no saint meant any disrespect, we all recognized the stagnant air wafting through the glass windows of the meeting hall. We walked back in, clear and refreshed, and shared our burdens to the leading brothers there. "Oh the joy of having nothing, being nothing, seeing nothing, but a living Christ in glory." We have to live this reality. The Lord needs to be alive in us or He becomes a religion, a work, a stairway to fame. We are too easily blinded and are then unable to distinguish the difference between our work and His work. And then we really can't live a reality of "having nothing, being nothing, and seeing nothing" because we think we have something, are something, and see something greater. Worst of all, "living Christ" becomes a slogan, a formula, and a work to us . . . not a present reality, our daily salvation, and a life-long process. We learn. Praise the Lord we can learn from each other. While the brothers there are very much engrossed in their work, we have to admire their determination and guts—they lay their whole lives down for this work for the Lord. Can we be that gutsy? Before we criticize, let's first live a vital life, be a pattern and a proper testimony to those that the Lord has placed in our hands. Before we teach, before we raise, before we do anything, we need to live a life before the Lord, fully consecrating ourselves to Him. "Gaining people" isn't everything. Counting numbers isn't all there is to life. Let's first "gain" ourselves before we even try raising more children. -Samuel C ![]() It had never rained this hard before. I looked out of my window as students rushed back into their dorms using books as umbrellas, their shoes now heavy anchors as they made their way to their "docks." I loved the sound of rain. I used to cuddle in my bed, watching the night sky as the thunder roared and the lightning flashed. I would stare off into the brightly lit night until I drifted off to sleep. But rain is a curious thing. It can change suddenly, unpredictably—it can fall from the left or from the right, come with light or darkness, roar or whisper gently into my ears. Somehow, it decided to do something more violent that night, shaking me up from the comforts of my life, rattling me until I awoke from my deep slumber of death. I was blinded momentarily, confused and dazed, my heart pumping hard as I retreated to the corner of my bed. I was scared. I’ve never been scared of the rain. I was, after all, strong, confident, and comfortable with my life—immovable and unchangeable. It only took a few droplets of rain, the Lord’s merciful tears, to rip all of my pride and arrogance away. Our lives constantly change. Our environments constantly shape us. Our circumstances and situations are different and unique. We are like the rain, blown left and right, sometimes accompanied by large bouts of thunder and lightning. Other times, we’re flying effortlessly in the clouds—lifted high up into the heavenlies, waiting patiently for others to join us, waiting patiently for the Lord to drop us again on fertile ground. We think we’re strong—that we can go against nature, conquer the world with our own mind, strength, and will. We think we are the mighty man, the most powerful and intelligent being on earth. We construct our own stone walls and our own brick towers, thinking that no one in this world could ever tear them apart, break them down until the grains of our life escape from the grasp of our fingers. The walls were ugly and dull, blocking the view of the ocean; I was on the observation deck wondering what we were actually looking for. I stared down at the dusty roads—the humid wind blew across my face, bringing small droplets of water into my brows. I headed down the steps, one, two, three, probably another couple hundred until I reached my destination: the hard, very warm welcome of a stone-tiled sidewalk resembling those Taiwanese beds I slept on the night before. And for some reason, I laid there, on the ground, thinking. Above me I spotted the green laced trim of my umbrella, shielding me from the tiny droplets of rain starting to fall from the gloomy sky. My eyes brought me into my dorm room again. It was quiet. The room was silent. Huddled there in the corner, I began seeing the faces of the people I loved peering down at me, the saints filling my heart and bringing joy back into my being. I could not live life alone. I needed to take down those gray and ugly walls, even my green-laced umbrella shielding my eyes, for I want to gaze forever into the Lord’s eyes, wipe away His tears, observe His moving lips as they form a smile—as they speak, shout and cry. And I was not doing this alone. I peered up to find my sister and my father not at all amused that I just got my clothes damp on the wet cement. Some saints ran to the bathroom; some were still stranded on the observation deck. Others laughed and smiled as I clumsily lifted myself off the ground with just enough time for me to snap a couple photographs of the scene. I was no longer hiding under my own umbrella or behind my own stone fortress. I was sharing a big tent—a double-decker bus, constantly moving from place to place through rain, thunder, and lightning, through hills and valleys, through mountains and above waters, from left to right, and from day to night. We were driving through a violent storm—a storm forcing us to drown our own concepts, opinions, pride, strength, and comfort. And through these waters, we’re able to rise up, breathe anew, and experience life again. Even though it was a simple lesson, one that started with a few drops of rain and a looming brick wall obstructing my view, I know now that I will never ride alone again. -Samuel C ![]() “I feel like I got hit by a bus.” Ruth immediately sat up in the bed, alert and scared. “Eric got hit by a bus?!” “NO! No one got hit by a bus.” Maybe I shouldn't exaggerate so much. But in all honesty, that morning, after staying above a meeting hall in Taipei East District with my sister Ruth, it sure felt like I had been run over by something. I woke up with a heavy head, a sore throat, a number of other maladies that probably seemed much worse than they actually were, and most memorable of all, a racking cough. It's always the coughs that really get to me. I spent the rest of the day denying the fact that my body was failing me; a severe illness four years ago had left my lungs weak and prone to further illness, so for me, even a simple cough that was going around the saints one by one hit me harder than most. That evening, while beginning our journey of spending one night as a “full-timer” staying in the training center, a sister, Terri, pulled me aside. “Logan, you need to take this seriously. You need to take care of yourself. If you need anything, come to my room tonight. I don't care if it's the middle of the night—you come to my room.” ![]() “I will be okay. This happens a lot.” Her husband, Eric, chimed in: “Do you really think you're okay?” He gave me a skeptical look. I said, “No.” I thought, “Yes.” Little did Terri know that I would soon take her up on her offer. I went to sleep at about 11:30 after encouraging Ruth to move to a different room—we had turned the A/C off in hopes of subduing my lungs and I knew my coughing would only keep her up. At 12:30, I panicked. I woke up and couldn't take a breath. I was coughing and coughing, and all of the drainage had gone straight to my throat. I coughed it out, scared, but knew I would be okay. I went back to sleep. An half-hour later, I woke up again. The same thing happened, this time more severe. Once I realized I couldn't breathe, I began to try to hyperventilate, only causing the muscles around my throat to panic as well, inhibiting my breathing capabilities further. I got up, leaned on the bed, coughed, coughed, coughed, cried, coughed, then took a deep breath. I walked around in my room, trying to catch my breath and my sanity. What do I do? How could I wake a saint up at nearly 2 am, especially if I'm starting to feel better? I kept coughing. I panicked again. Lord, what is going on? I walked around. I stared at the small, empty training room and the white walls and barren feeling reminded me of my room in the ICU four years ago. Not again. I lingered outside my door, then went to Terri's floor. I knocked on the door. No response. I wanted to go back to my room. I knocked again. I had to. All I was thinking was, “Not again.” “Who is it?” I couldn't really talk, but I managed to feebly speak my own name in one breath. Although I spoke my own name, all I heard in my head was another cry: “Lord, Lord, Lord . . . Who am I? Who am I to be so careless? Lord . . . save me again.” I could imagine the horrid fluid that once filled my lungs slowly dripping back, rendering my own capabilities useless, my breath literally taken away. “Lord . . . I'm sorry.” Terri stayed up with me all night. I told her I didn't want to sleep; I was too afraid. She sat on my bed all night just so I could sleep on her shoulder. Every time I woke with a particularly scary cough, she gripped my shoulders, my hands, reminded me why I am here. I would go in and out of sleep, hearing her softly sing: His Name is Wonderful; His Name is Counselor; His Name The Mighty God, Jesus my Lord. A Child and Son is He; Eternal Father He; The Prince of Peace to me, Jesus my Lord. Praise the Creator, Jesus our Savior, Life-giving Spirit now. In spirit worship Him, Love and adore Him; His Name is Wonderful, Jesus my Lord. ![]() The next morning I didn't have any words for my sister; We didn't need any. Every time I saw her, I remembered her hands on my shoulders, on my hands—the Body enveloping me in a warm enclosure. When I saw her falling asleep at each chance and struggling to stay awake when she couldn't, I remembered her soft voice singing: “Jesus my Lord.” I went to see a doctor immediately the next day and received medicine and an inhaler to keep my airways open, and I slowly recovered. The rest of the trip, I couldn't quite shake the cough. That was the Lord's mercy. Each time I coughed, I remembered my sister, I remembered the Body, and I remembered the Lord. The Lord gave me my very breath. He can take it away. How can I not be grateful each moment for His dear breath of life, that I can enjoy Him as my full and complete nourishment? Lord, have mercy on me. I don't deserve this life. That night, I relived my life-changing experience four years ago; this time, I couldn't rely on my natural strength. The Lord allowed me to redeem that experience in this one; Now I see. I turned that night because the Body held me. “Logan, do you really think you're okay?” No. I'm not. I am so far from okay. Thank the Lord the Body allows me to see this every day. Thank the Lord that He “is the life-giving Spirit now!” Now! Lord! You mend me each moment. I have no other way. So maybe I didn't get hit by a bus (and neither did Eric), but I sure did get hit by something. The Lord couldn't have been more obvious. My life is in His hands, His breath is my breath, and the Body is the only way I can continue to hide in Him, to breath Him in each moment. I no longer struggle to breathe. I know that if I'm struggling to breathe, a deep, fresh, and real breath is only a turn away. -Logan S I remember the days when my sister and I would cram into a half-broken swivel chair, eyes glued to the computer screen as I attempted to battle my way toward being a Pokemon master. We used to beat up ourselves when we forgot to save the game, trained the wrong Pokemon, or had to run to the bathroom for a game break. Those days were full of silly games and adventures, simple memories that shaped us as we matured. We played when our mom told us we could, ate when food was ready, slept when 9:00 rolled around, showered when our parents forced us. In all of this, we didn't complain, not a word. We just listened, hand in hand. That's how I grew up with my sister. Life was simple then—but as much as we try to keep this simplicity, our lives always end up getting more and more complicated. And that was the start of the Nintendo 64, the X-Box, the internet, Facebook. Things begin piling up in our hard drive until we have no more storage capacity. ![]() As I stared out at the bustling streets of Taiwan's capitol, I could not help but sense the complication that our lives have accumulated—the dirty grime of the streets that now resides within us. We lose all sense of who we once were and what we once enjoyed. And just like that, the things of this world begin to occupy room in our hearts. If our computer hard drive is full of all the games of this world, how can we expect to fill it with something else? It was the first time I was alone at a saint's home for the night and the host wanted to introduce me to her son, a high school senior who did not believe in the Lord, and her daughter, who was in junior high school. She asked me to speak some words of wisdom, some encouragement, and—I knew this one was coming—something about the Lord to him. I calmly sat down with him on their hard wooden sofas, looked him in the eyes, and asked him a simple, straightforward question: "What do you enjoy about your life?" "Well, I like to play video games . . ." We spent two some hours sitting on those hard benches. Those were probably the only words he said to me during that time. He had no more room for me . . . maybe just a couple megabytes. And interestingly enough, I didn't say anything about the Lord. Not a single word. Sorry, Mom. I could only encourage him to pursue something higher, to be the best that he can be, and most important of all, to keep on searching—searching for the meaning of his existence, the purpose of his life. Our lives were never meant to carry our X-Box hard drive around. We were made to be simple and pure—children who faithfully place our lives in our Father's hands. The last thing I said to him was to continue being a good son and brother: to love your mom is to find out who she loves, what she enjoys, and why she believes in the Lord. We all need to gain the purity of a having that real child-and-parent relationship back. ![]() Being simple is being real. When I spoke of their relationship, of true love and care, the mother cried. Her tears softened even the hard-feeling benches underneath me; I'm sure of it. Our vessels were made to only contain one thing, one Person. When we deviate from our original design, we become complicated and dirty. I reminisce about those moments of simplicity, those moments I sat beside my sister playing Pokemon on the computer. May we never lose sight of this purity. May we play when we're told and fill up our hard drive with the right megabytes. -Samuel C So it was this lake: the lake that took the life of my aunt who I only saw in those old and dusty photographs. In those pictures, she looked so alive, full of personality, young and energetic. But the Lord has His plan and His own timing that, at that moment in time, seemed to go against all our human logic and thinking—all of our self-planning and self-desires. To live is a privilege, one that we should treasure every moment of our lives. Every step of our walk, we should tread with careful feet, watchful for the Lord's fingerprints around us. The day was dreary as if the Lord wanted me to recall this moment of my family's history in a sober condition. The rain fell on us as we waited on the docks—the pitter-patter of the rain seemed insignificant until it started falling from my eyes. I could not help but recall the fragility of our human lives—the uselessness of man in the face of God. As some saints gathered and fellowshipped under the cover of brightly patterned umbrellas, the others retreated to the overpriced coffee shop to purchase some well-needed refreshments for their upcoming voyage, as if preparing themselves for the coming storm, which eventually took its shape at the meeting and fellowship with the church in Taichung, lack of air-conditioning and all. I glanced over at my mother as she waited silently under an umbrella. I could tell she was deep in thought, praying to the Lord that the church may have a safe journey as we rode above the death waters of Sun Moon Lake. Life is short. The rocky boat with "no federal regulations for safety," as Jeff would and did say after refusing to enter the ark (which he was then forced onto by the hands and voices of many brothers), was equipped with 32 life jackets, fully-sealed and wrapped within their original casings. How comforting. As we sailed on, the rain fell harder and the fog swallowed up our forward path. We were physically blinded and limited, free from our own self-calculations, forced to fully entrust ourselves into the Lord's hand. As I gazed into the enveloping clouds covering our vision, I felt helpless, fearful, and yet captivated in the Lord's quiet speaking through His old creation. I was safe inside His ark and with me were the people I loved and held dear to me, the called ones to stand for His testimony, the ones floating safely above the death waters, the faithful followers of the Lord. If I was to die, I would gladly die with my brothers and sisters beside me. Indeed, the heavens have truly drawn near. As we landed on the other side of the lake, the rain stopped—an act of grace from the Lord to show us that He was with us. Even on ground, our steps weren't so solid. Our view was shrouded by the fog, distracted by the other tourists who looked at us in confusion. The path branched into three and we were forced to decide in the spur of the moment which way to go. Phil wanted to go racing up the thousand wet steps in front of us—an accident waiting to happened. Others wanted to go left. But the Lord went right and so we followed. And there we tasted some of Taiwan's most famous tea eggs, the first of many tastings to come. At that moment, I simply let go of my own concerns and worries and trusted that the Lord would provide. And just like that, the Lord started reigning—again. The Lord stopped all of our plans again and we rushed back to the boat, His ark for our journey home. "Praise You Lord, we’re safe in You!" In retrospect, it seems weird that all I ended up "doing" at Sun Moon Lake was eating a hard-boiled egg soaked and boiled in soy sauce. Some things we just can't control in life. The Lord wants us to place our lives in His hands and trust in His plan. Our human lives are so fragile and weak, out of our own control.Tomorrow can be much different from today. There is no guarantee what will happen in our lives. It is in these times I can come back into the ark—the church—return to the Lord's hands, abide in Him, and trust what He has planned for me. It is also in these times that His resurrection life can be a reality to us. May we journey on with You, Lord! In the church! "Thank you, Lord, In Your eyes we find grace, And with open hearts we come to You. Regardless what our friends might say to us or do, O Lord Jesus, We love You!" -Samuel C *On August 25, 1990, my aunt died in a shipwreck on Sun Moon Lake while leading a tour for Shell oil company. ![]() We are a truly mobile churchlife--wherever the saints are, home is. Thus, leaving Toledo wasn't really leaving home, but rather taking home with us. We gathered at Brothers' House at 10:30am, waiting outside with luggage, passports, and excitement in tow. The heat was intense (little did we know "intense" would take on a whole new meaning in Taiwan), the space limited, and the air thick, but each saint's face showed nothing but joy and excitement. Not one saint was late or cranky--a real feat for nearly 40 people. As we awaited the bus that would take us to Detroit Airport, our everyday churchlife did not cease its activity. Saints fellowshipped, took pictures of each smiling face, and cared for every member. Last minute reminders and forgotten items were quickly taken care of. As the bus finally pulled up (on time, nonetheless), we quickly realized that if the churchlife was real, it had to be real now. Saying goodbye to our four dear moms and children was perhaps one of the hardest moments of our journey. We said many times it was not really "goodbye"--the churchlife really is where the saints are--but leaving these beloved saints in Toledo for two weeks was easier said than done. We boarded the bus after each departing saint individually hugged each child and each mom, but as soon as we boarded we couldn't help but keep our eyes glued to the window--the children were ecstatically waving, blowing kisses, and shaping hearts with their hands. Shortly after, they all invaded the bus to go down the rows hugging all the saints just one more time . . . What a sight. Although emotionally it was hard to leave, our spirits were strong. When the Lord is moving, we have no choice but to follow. The saints, including the ones staying in Toledo, were very clear: the churchlife is real, whether we are in Toledo, in the air, or halfway across the world. The ones in Toledo promised us they would stand firm for the testimony in Toledo as the rest of us went to bring that same testimony to Taiwan. The bus ride was a mere hour long, but the spirit of the saints could have filled several. Joyous songs and prayers filled every ear: Lord, thank You for this journey! We give each moment to You. Where You move, we follow. We are overwhelmed with gratitude to be a part of Your moving, and we only ask that on this journey we gain You and gain more reality, depth, and vision. Keep our condition to be one of life so that we may impart life to anyone we touch! We arrived on time to the airport, made a few stops for restroom or coffee before our flight left at 3:34pm, and waited next to a fountain flowing clear water in synchronized streams. Behind the fountain, through a window, planes were taking off. Our thoughts were only: Lord, can we be that simple and pure! What a privilege to drink of Your sweet streams and be in the flow of life. We then began to leave to our gate to board, and I think it was then that we realized that boarding our plane was only the beginning of a long journey with our 32 saints--and that in Toledo, in the airport, on the plane, or in Taiwan, the saints are truly our home. -Logan S |
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