This past Sunday--the last day before I moved to my new post--I had the privilege of not only preaching at the morning traditional service, but the evening contemporary service as well.
God sustained my voice. After the first chapel, having preached and led the singing, my throat felt scratchy and strained. (I also do everything without a mic.) Even though I practically threw my voice out again singing contemporary (if already dated) praise songs in the evening, God enabled me to throw the remainder of my voice into the evening preaching.
It turns out that it wasn't just the preaching and wild-man singing. By the time we began our movement to the new post on Monday, my scratchy throat descended deeper than my vocal chords, and it hurt on occasion to speak. On Tuesday, it grew into fatigue and a runny nose. By the time I jumped on a chopper to visit some of our soldiers in the boonies yesterday, the solidity of my face descended into pressurized gas within my face and a liquid river with several spouts on the outside. On my chopper ride back today, the congestion ascended into the top of my head so that I was partially deaf and disoriented when we landed. After working in the office for a few hours, I decided to call it quits a bit early. It seems that this dust-infused cold strikes everyone at some point while they're out here. Right now, it seems to be striking every room. I feel like I should put blood on the doorposts. Well, maybe that's a bit dramatic. :)
Over the past couple of days, I have read through some of my old pieces of fiction writing. I cannot help but notice that God has grown me (though I still have a long way to go!). I wrote a 220 page novel on Malawi in 2007, mostly while in the country. While I think the focus and issues dealt with in the piece would make for a good story, the writing is pretty mediocre and the theology is shallow, confusing, and cliched. In 2008, I wrote a 120 page novel on a family processing the grief of losing a son/brother in Iraq. The writing still leaves something to be desired, and the implicit theology is still a bit confusing, but I will probably send it to my (five foot tall) editor for an initial read-through at some point soon. I wrote a short story through the eyes of a young woman in her final hours of battling cancer a few years ago, and that was just sent off to the little Mrs. The writing and thinking are both more coherent.
I note these improvements with appreciation and humility, as many of my weaknesses (arrogance, foolishness, etc.) are painfully exposed in my writing. But God--through His Word and Spirit first and foremost, my call to and practice of the ministry, my marriage and growing family, additional trips to Malawi, countless trying experiences in the Army, and bits of everyday pain and suffering--has grown me. I can't see it in myself. I am constant condemning or acquitting myself in my sin apart from Christ. But God has worked in me to will and work according to His good pleasure. My writing bears testimony to His faithfulness to me.
Tomorrow, I begin a new daily routine with my chaplain assistant--morning prayer and time in the Word. May God bless this time, even as I "sniff, sniff, sniff" throughout.
