Author: Amy Medina Page 18 of 231

Back When I Took Scissors on a Plane

20 years ago this month, Gil and I were boarding our first flight to Tanzania.

As we went through security, my carry-on bag got pulled aside. I watched patiently as the agent unzipped my black roller bag, poked around, and pulled out a full-sized pair of Fiskars scissors.

I was mortified. “I’m so sorry,” I fumbled. “I was using those for cutting tape for boxes and I meant to take them out before we left for the airport. You can confiscate them.”

He shrugged, put the scissors back into my bag, and waved me through. 

I was taken aback. I recall telling Gil, “Fiskars scissors are really sharp. I’m surprised they are allowing me to take them on the plane.”

I don’t remember anything else about that journey. But that memory stayed with me because it was just a few weeks later when 19 terrorists with knives about as big as my scissors forever changed air travel, America, and the world. 

Hope For Those in a New Place: The Power of Muscle Memory

I wrote this for the missionary audience over at A Life Overseas, so you might appreciate how this story helps you empathize with missionary friends. And really, it applies to anyone in a new place.

I recently moved to a new country. New house, new city, new grocery store, new car, new neighborhood. Just about every single thing in my life was new.

Entering a grocery store almost brought about a panic attack. I started at the jars of mayonnaise, paralyzed by indecision. Which one tastes best? Which one is healthiest or cheapest? What if I make the wrong choice? And then repeat that by 25 as I walked down the aisles, my head spinning, my list clutched in my sweaty hand. I didn’t know where the olives were. I didn’t recognize much of what was on the shelves. I stressed over how much chicken was supposed to cost. Once I was ready to check-out, another wave of tension flooded me as I had to remind myself of the procedure for buying my groceries. 

Then there was driving. My new country drives on the opposite side of the road as my previous country. That meant that every time I got to the car, I had to focus on which side of the car I needed to enter. If I happened to be absent-minded, I would get in, close the door, and attempt to put my key into the glove compartment. Once I did manage to successfully turn on the car, it took all my concentration to make sure I was driving on the correct side of the road. I repeatedly reminded myself of the traffic laws of my new country, knowing that my instincts would be to follow the rules of the former.

Pulling Weeds While People Are Dying: How Do I Respond to the World’s Suffering?

I pull out the weeds in my lawn and think about how absurd it is that I am pulling weeds while under the same sky, a young man tries to escape his country by hanging onto the wing of a plane.

I put Cheerios into my shopping cart, and jingling monotonously over the loudspeakers is Dance until the morning light/Forget about the worries on your mind/We can leave them all behind. Half a world away, a mother tries to thrust her baby to strangers and safety on the other side of barbed wire.

My daughter and her friend chatter in the backseat about a missed pass in volleyball and how Honors English is so much work. The same moment in time, a 15-year-old daughter of a pastor is pulled from her bed and forced into a marriage of terror, her father watching broken and helpless.

I read about the mountainous landfill in Ghana, filled with cast-off American clothing. Even the poor of Africa are overwhelmed by the influx of our discarded shirts and dresses. I contemplate the statement: “We’re buying 60 percent more clothes now than we did 15 years ago. But we’re keeping them for half as long.” Meanwhile, a few countries over, a doctor dashes around her city, foraging for any bit of cash she can coax from empty ATM machines. 

My house now has two refrigerators in it. Two. Because heaven forbid I go to the grocery store (which is five minutes away) more than once a week. But I justified this because practically everyone in America has more than one fridge and I bought the cheaper one and I buy used clothes and I pull my own weeds instead of paying someone. There’s a whine in my voice and a defensiveness on my face because I don’t want to admit how spoiled I am, despite what meager sacrifices I am making.

Four Walls Replace Patched Tents: Is There Hope for the Homeless?

Tents multiply 
like mushrooms
after a spring rain.

The poor
addicted 
broken
tucked into dark corners
under bridges
stayed away from us.

And we forgot they were there.

But today
their destitution
creeps into our cul de sac
cannot escape our vision.

Tens of thousands image-bearers 
fall asleep in filth
captive to fear
imprisoned in despondency.

Every night.

And we forget their tents
until their proximity invades our denial.

Could their nearness be their
Maker’s plea from His heart
to His hands and His feet
to run
to touch
to restore?

Sunday at 10am,
the hands and feet gaze through stained-glass windows
at vacant land
resting idle.

Consider Jesus 
who left behind glory
to sit in the dirt 
to touch the leper
to be sleepless
friendless
possessionless
homeless 
to feel our sorrow.

That we may transform
desolate fields
into villages of relief
restoration
redemption.

Nestled next to the house of God,
those shooed off sidewalks
shoved off benches
snubbed from parks
find home.

Four walls replace patched tents
gardens reclaim garbage
jobs redeem shame
communities relieve contention.

The formerly hopeless 
flourishing next door
to the place 
where they found
eternal hope.

Because God so loved the world . . .

That His churches would choose
to race to the rescue
to fight for the chance
to be hands of mercy
feet of love
to be first in line 
to welcome the least of these.

*Inspired by Goodness Village, Compassion Village, and other churches building mini-villages for the homeless and vulnerable on their property. Thank you to Luke Grover for telling me about this innovative idea.

*Also, thank you to Alyssa Dunker. This topic materialized in my head in verse form, but when I started writing it, I realized I’m really not a good poet. Alyssa pushed and prodded it out of me and did a lot of editing. If you like it, she gets the credit too.

*Photos from Pixabay

My Authentic Self Does Not Like Ticks

Last week I told my cousin about our year in Tanzania infamously called the War of the Ticks. It was so nightmarish that every day I pulled 25 of them off my tiny dog and I stopped even trying with our big dog and they had infested my kitchen and we rarely let the dogs in the house anymore but the ticks kept crawling in under the door anyway. 

We paid the children money for the number of ticks they killed and so there were always cups of water sitting around with dead ticks drowned in them by my children. Drowning did not always work though, because ticks would go through the washing machine cycle and come out alive. I became an expert at beheading them with a fingernail. Sometimes the engorged ones would fall off the dogs and burst open which meant the live ticks would crawl through the dog blood and leave their tiny tracks on the floor.

When I found ticks in my daughter’s bed, we contemplated putting the dogs down. We had tried every tick prevention we could find, and until a friend of a friend sent us magical tick pills which killed them all in 24 hours, that year felt like some sort of creepy tick hell. 

Page 18 of 231

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