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“I’m havin’ a private party, learnin’ how to love me…celebrate the woman I’ve become. Happy Birthday to me. Happy Birthday….” India Arie
Today is my birthday and I am just so thrilled to be 38 years old. Don’t get me wrong, there are some things about nearing the 40 mark that really stink. My metabolism is not what it used to be. I have to work out harder and eat cleaner just to maintain. I told a friend recently that I “fell off the wagon” and ate 6 chocolate chip cookies in one sitting. A couple of days later, I weighed 3 lbs more.
“How does that even work?” I asked her. “How is it possible for 6 cookies to transform into 3 lbs? They don’t weigh that much when you eat them. It really isn’t fair….”
She stared at me for a moment and then shook her head and chuckled. “That girl is just not right,” her expression seemed to say.
And then there is the whole list of things I did when I was younger that have caught me such as wrinkles (sunbathing in baby oil and iodine for hours on end as a teenager) and loss of hearing (too much loud rock music in the ’80’s) and…..degenerative arthritis in my neck (headbanging to the ’80’s rock).
Of course, the worst part of nearing 40 is…..GRAVITY.
Still, turning 38 is exciting because I have the wondrous experience of seeing the promises of scripture come to life in me.
”Therefore we do not lose heart. Though outwardly we are wasting away, yet inwardly we are being renewed day by day. For our light and momentary troubles are achieving for us an eternal glory that far outweighs them all. So we fix our eyes not on what is seen, but on what is unseen. For what is seen is temporary, but what is unseen is eternal.” 2 Corinthians 4:16-18
The outside of Sherri Gragg is fading but the inside is brighter, better, richer, deeper and more beautiful by the day. The Great Artist is faithful to continue His work in me and because of that…I am filled with hope and hope gives birth to JOY.
Sometimes, it even shows up on the outside. The wilderness of our two year adoption journey was horrific but God did not waste a moment of it. He turned the very thing the Evil One meant for my destruction into the tools He used to bring deep freedom and abundant transcendence in my life. Somewhere along the way, it showed up in my appearance as I began to feel completely at peace to simply be myself. One change was that I cut my hair. Before, my hair was shoulder length and unremarkable really. Now it is short and spiky. Women (and some guys, actually) regularly approach me and want to know where I get it cut. Recently, I was sitting in my hairstylist’s chair and we were talking about it.
“Well, it is good advertisement for you.” I told him.
He stopped cutting and said, “It all depends on how you look at it.”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
Somewhat exasperated he said, “They come in here and they don’t just want a haircut. They want me to turn them into you. I want to tell them, ‘It’s a pair of scissors honey, not a magic wand!”
We had a good laugh and then I said, “You know what I think they want, Mark? I think they want to be free.”
Yes. I am free, blessed and loved by the God of the Universe. 38 is looking pretty good.
Excuse me now, it is time for to have my private party and celebrate the woman I’ve become. Happy birthday to me….
Night was falling and one by one, my five children had quieted. Our home, which was normally full of activity, was still. I settled into the rocking chair in my darkening bedroom with my three year old daughter in lap. As soon as I sat down, we snuggled into our comfortable, familiar positions. She faced me and molded her little body to my chest. I began to rock, and lifted the back of her shirt to place my hand on her back. She reached around me and slid her hands up under my shirt and wrapped her arms around me. The faint strains of a lullaby drifted from a CD player in my daughters’ room across the hall. The only other sounds were Roseline’s deep rhythmic breathing and the creaking of the rocking chair. Read the rest of this entry »
Kimberly Smith, Executive Director of Make Way Partners, and Larry Warren, Director of African Leadership were unlikely tourists. They were touring The Sudan. Their purpose however, was not sightseeing. They were ready to make a difference for the suffering people there and they were on the look out for indigenous Christian leadership whom they could support. Ultimately, their tour led them to the border between the Muslim North and the Christian South where they came to a village named Nyamlell.
And there in Nyamlell they came across the most astonishing sight: A young man teaching 150 orphans under the trees and telling them about God’s love with only one school book and a chalk board. He had no food for the children and no shelter to protect them from the blistering Sahara sun. No one assisted him in his attempts to care for these small, vulnerable ones the rest of the world had forgotten but he served faithfully nonetheless.
James had been struggling under the load but he never abandoned his post nor his calling. He just kept teaching and preaching and all the while he was praying and praying that God would send help.
Kimberly and Larry did not know it but they were the answer to those prayers.
James turned his back on Kenya and the promise of opportunity, security and relative comfort in the United States to return home to the suffering of Sudan. He went without companionship or support. His pocket held only the $300.00 George William had given him so that he might have a means of survival.
At last, the day came when his long and difficult journey north was over. When the villagers’ eyes rose to observe 
the young man as he approached on the hot, dusty road to Nyamlell, it was as if a ghost had appeared from the past. The young boy who had disappeared in the chaos and bloodshed wrought that day by the Janjuweed so many years before had come home. Yet, no one ran to greet him. There were no songs of celebration sung in the streets.
James found a spot of shade beneath the sparse trees growing there on the edge of the Sahara and like John The Baptist, the voice crying in the wilderness long ago, began to offer his people the only gift he had in his possession to give them: hope. Read the rest of this entry »
Kenya is largely responsible for tracking Sudanese refugees and helping them apply to either the United States of America, Great Britain or Australia for refugee asylum. During the period of time that James was attending school, the Kenyan government was helping him attain refugee status. After it was secured for both he and his fiancee, the government then assisted them in applying for visas to all three countries available to them.
The process however, was a long one and in the meantime James finished his education at Open Door’s Bible School. Once he had completed his schooling and still received no word concerning a visa, he found himself increasingly drawn to his homeland and those still suffering there. He felt an immense responsibility to use the blessings of his education and contacts with the West to help his people. He was compelled to return to minister to them both physically and spiritually. Many years had passed while the young boy who had fled Nyamlell grew into the man he had become and as far as he knew, none of his family had survived the Janjuweed’s murderous rampage through his village. Regardless, he set his heart towards the North and began to prepare for his return.
Over the years, James’ character and courage had been tested in countless ways and he had proven himself over and over again. He must have thought back over all of these things as he looked towards home and the unknown of his future. What he did not know however, was that another test awaited him and it was nearer than he could have imagined.
James would be forced to choose between his two greatest loves. Read the rest of this entry »
Although James and George William did not know it, their chance meeting on the streets of Kenya was no random occurrence. It was an appointment Divinely scheduled.
Time and experience had taught George to be a careful steward of God’s resources so he proposed a first cautious test to James to see if he was serious in his desire to help his people and whether or not he would be faithful to the task. He told James to come back in a specified time with a proposal.
Quite frankly, when I learned this part of James’ story I understood the wisdom of George’s conscientious approach but I was also a bit flabbergasted. I could not imagine how a teenage boy who was living on the streets would conceivably have the wherewithal and responsibility to do what was asked of him.
James however, was no ordinary boy. He was a boy of conviction and courage but what truly set him apart was the fact that he was also a boy with God’s call on his life. Read the rest of this entry »
“It seems, then,” said Tirian, smiling to himself, “That the stable seen from within and the stable seen from without are two different places.”
“Yes,” said Lord Digory. “Its inside is bigger than the outside.”
“Yes,” said Queen Lucy. “In our world too, a stable once had something inside it that was bigger than our whole world.” ~ C.S. Lewis The Last Battle
My oldest son will be 12 years old this Friday, approximately the same age James was when he was abducted into the Sudanese People’s Liberation Army and no matter how hard I try, I cannot imagine him thrust into battle with a gun in his hand. Without a doubt, thousands of boys did not survive this baptism into manhood by blood and terror.
Miraculously, after his first battle when the smoke cleared to reveal the carnage around him and the sound of gunshots were replaced by mortally wounded boys drawing their last, rattling breaths, James was still alive. The miracle of his survival in battle was repeated many times in the days, weeks, months and years that followed. Then, one day several years after he had been abducted and forced to become a child solider, he found himself in a horrific battle. The loss of life was monumental.
Afterwards General Garang, the topmost officer in the SPLA, came to visit the battle site. To his horror, spread before him were the bodies of thousands of boys. Some of them were as young as nine years of age. He was enraged. Until that moment, he had not been aware that his subordinate officers were filling the ranks of the army by abducting young boys and forcing them to become soldiers. Immediately, he commanded that every single child be released.
But released to whom? Released to where?
James was approximately 15 years old by the time he was freed but he had no family, no shelter, no means of securing food or providing for himself in any way. Like a seed borne on the wind, he drifted from place to place, searching for a safe spot to land and perhaps even grow. His childhood had been stripped away but he was not yet a man.
Eventually, he made his way to Kenya and settled in Nairobi, a bustling, modern city of almost 3 million people. There, he became a street boy living in doorways and alleys, scraping together his survival any way he could. It must have seemed to him that the dark despair of his circumstances were impossibly set with no way out.
Then, the day came when the tiniest of sparks pierced the night of his existence. He met an American Missionary by the name of George William. When George found James, he gave him just a few dollars to buy some food. It was a small gift, but The Great Redeemer has a way of taking the small gifts given in His name and using them in mighty ways.
James looked down at the bills in his hand and they were transformed into more than the means to buy a loaf of bread to keep him alive for a few more days. That small amount of money was more than the gift of a bit of food.
It was the gift of hope.
James looked up from the money in his hand and into the eyes of George William and told him he wanted to be educated so that he might help his people.
So, now we know what James was thinking about all of those lonely nights when he was forced to be a solider. When he closed his eyes and the visions of the slaughter of the children of his people refused to give way to sleep, he must have been thinking about the future and what difference he could make. Then, during those nights in Kenya as he huddled in a city doorway attempting to find his night’s rest, he must have determined in his heart that someday, someday, he would overcome his situation and when he did, he would make sure he prevented some child from finding his same fate.
When George William found him and placed those few dollars in his hand, James’ vision was already in place.
All he needed, was a little hope.
And for someone to give him a chance.
* Please come back for the next chapter in the true story of the life of James Lual Atak.
* All Darfur photography is courtesy of Darlene Dyson.
I once met a young man who was a new immigrant to the United States of America. The impoverished conditions of the homeland he loved had driven him to seek provision for his family in a land completely foreign to him. He arrived in one of the wealthiest counties, in the wealthiest country in the world with little more than the clothes on his back. As I began to become acquainted with him I asked him his age. He stared at me blankly for a moment and then said,
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know how old you are?” I asked.
“No,” he replied. “I don’t know.”
I know now that it is not uncommon for someone from a survivalist culture to have no idea how old he is or when he was born. The ceremonial celebration of such life milestones is simply lost in the pursuit of the next morsel of food or the next sip of water. In short, it is far more important to invest energy in living another day than celebrating the ones already past.
And so it was with another boy, James, one of the “Lost Boys” of the Sudan. James Lual Atak is not sure how old he was the day the world as he knew it was shattered, never to be restored. He cannot mark the moment he was ruthlessly thrust from boyhood into the world of men. His best guess is that he was around 11 years old the day the Janjuweed rode into his village raping, burning, enslaving, and slaughtering.
He was with some friends the moment the nightmare on horseback crashed into the only place he had ever known as “home” in broad daylight. In the midst of the murderous chaos he did the only thing he knew to do; He ran.
With the screams of their families echoing in their ears, he and the other boys ran and ran and ran.
Sometime in the night, the boys met up with a group of men who were fleeing as well and among them was his uncle. The man took James into his care and began to teach him some basic survival skills as they ran from their former village, Nyamlell, in northern Sudan. Scattered like seeds borne by the wind, they continued on day after day, month after month, searching for a safe place to land. All the while, battles raged around this group of men and boys who were bound by one common goal – survival.
They set their course for the border of Uganda where they hoped to find refuge, but half way there, they and thousands of
other refugees were caught in the middle of a ferocious battle. In the mayhem, and surrounded by the dead and the dying, James was separated from his uncle. As far as he knew, his uncle was his last living relative, the only adult he knew he could trust and he was gone. James was certain he had perished in the fighting.
And so, young James, just a boy, was lost and utterly alone.
He joined with another group of boys and together they continued to make their way south in hope of reaching Uganda. At last, by some miracle, they made it across the border and into a refugee camp.
He must have searched the sea of faces day after day in hope that he would discover his mother, father or siblings among the masses. I can imagine him going person to person asking if anyone had seen his parents or someone from his village only to be waved away by others consumed by their own desperation and struggle to survive.
Sleep must have come slowly for him that first night as he wondered what the future would hold. How could one so young survive all alone in a land torn by war, poverty and hate? As he lay surrounded by countless people and stared at a sky blanketed with a million stars, he must have felt completely alone.
The next morning came however, and many more mornings after that as he settled into his new life inside the refugee camp. Then the day came when the winds of war swept the seed of his life away once again. The refugee camp was raided by armed men but this time it was not the Janjuweed but men from among his own people. It was the army from southern Sudan, the Sudanese Peoples Leberation Army (SPLA). He was only a boy, but a gun was placed into his hands and he was forced to become a solider.
*James’ story continues in my next post.
* All Darfur photography is courtesy of Darlene Dyson.
I just returned from my local garden center. I loaded my newly purchased perennials and potting soil into the back of my minivan and lowered the windows so the warm Spring breeze could wash all around me on the drive home. My indulgence for the season, a large Star Jasmine, filled my van with a fragrance that must have originated in Heaven itself and as I steered my beat-up suburban carriage down road I felt like royalty.
I could not help but think back to the Spring and Summer before my girls came home when the gardener in me seemed to have died in the wilderness of wait. My garden which normally burst forth with vegetables and flowers lay dormant, except for the weeds which flourished unchecked by my hoe and trowel. I was mourning for my daughters and my garden reflected the barren wilderness of my grief.
The following Winter, my girls came home at last and when Spring arrived I found my newly mended heart was filled with thankfulness. So, I went out into my garden, my children with me. A kind friend had given my new daughters child sized garden tools as a welcome home gift. Together, we began to clear the weeds that had taken over during the past season of neglect. Side by side, we cleared away the fruit of sorrow so that we could plant a reflection of our joy in its place.
What a delight it was to introduce my daughters to concepts completely new to them. Roseline had spent virtually her entire life in within the walls of the orphanage. Claudine had spent the years from age 3 – 5 there and could remember little else. With wonder they gazed at the tiny seeds I placed in their hands as I explained that the small seemingly dead kernel would be buried and then bring forth new life. They gasped in amazement at the thought.
“Anything must be possible in this place,” their faces seemed to say.
Day after day, they pleaded to go outside and water their seeds as they waited, full of hope and wonder, for the first small green sprouts to appear. Then one day, I took them to see the first tender life bursting forth from rich, damp soil and they jumped, clapped and cheered with delight.
Death to life, sustained by the hope of what would be.
It was a picture of my dream of becoming their mother and it was a picture of so much more. Whenever I plant a seed, which by all appearances is completely dead and I think about the life it will produce, I am reminded of a Seed buried once so long ago which burst forth with abundant life for all:
“Jesus replied, “The hour has come for the Son of Man to be glorified. I tell you the truth, unless a kernel of wheat falls to the ground and dies, it remains only a single seed. But if it dies, it produces many seeds. The man who loves his life will lose it, while the man who hates his life in this world will keep it for eternal life. Whoever serves me must follow me; and where I am, my servant also will be. My Father will honor the one who serves me.
”Now my heart is troubled, and what shall I say? ‘Father, save me from this hour’? No, it was for this very reason I came to this hour. Father, glorify your name!” John 12:23-28
He was willing to lay down his life so that he might bring forth life in us.
And He calls those of us who have been redeemed by him to live our lives in the same way.
Over the next few days, I am going to take you on a journey. Pack your bags and prepare your hearts because we are going to visit a man who took this commandment of Christ seriously. He stood at the crossroads of his life and faced a decision: Would he save himself or lay down his life for others?
Come with me to Darfur. Come with me to meet a Lost Boy who was found. Come meet a man who planted the seed of his life in the Sahara.
Stay tuned for upcoming stories of Everyday Miracles in Darfur.
It was May of 1995, and I was….well, GINORMOUS. After two years of attempting to have a baby and not succeeding, I found an endocrinologist who diagnosed my problem. Then, much to our surprise my husband and I conceived our first child. I remember so well calling Michael at work to tell him, “Guess what? You are going to be a Daddy!” I can still remember the card he brought me when he came home from work with a picture of a sweet newborn swaddled on the front. Inside he had written simply, “We did it! I love you, Michael.” Then, we went out to dinner to celebrate.
The next day I began having problems and wound up on bed rest. My doctor later told me he was astounded that I had avoided a miscarriage because from his experience he found that most women with my condition who conceive for the first time lose that first precious little one.
But…we made it and in May of 1995 I was beginning to wonder if it would ever, ever end.
I was overdue, huge and miserable. I began to joke that I was the Elephant Woman. I envisioned the tabloids running the story: “Elephant Woman Pregnant for 22 months!!!”
And as I mentioned before, I was as big as an elephant.
Finally, one morning I awakened to find that I had gone through yet another night without going into labor and decided I would not sit around any longer waiting on that baby. I was going shopping and I was going to a movie. I waddled out to the car and stretcccchhhhhhed the seat-belt over my abdomen and headed for some fun. When I arrived at my first destination, a furniture store, I looked up to notice the sky darkening overhead. I gust of wind hit me as I shut the car door behind me.
“Hmmmm,” I thought. “I’d better hurry. Looks like it is going to storm.”
I finished my errand there and left for the movie theatre. As I began walking from the car and into the theatre, large drops of rain began to fall. I walked as fast as a woman in the last stage of pregnancy can walk and entered the building just as the rain began to pour. I paid for my ticket and bought a Sprite and package of Sno Caps at the concession stand.
Then, the power went out.
Everyone turned to watch huge sheets of rain being driven past the large glass windows in sheets. We all stood there for a moment watching and then the lights returned and everyone drifted off to their respective theatres.
I settled in my seat to wait for the movie to begin and my cell phone rang. These were the early days of cell phones and the one I retrieved from my purse was the size of a brick. Ever so chic, I pushed the answer button and lifted the brick to my ear. It was my husband.
“Sherri, where are you?” he asked
“I am in the theatre. I decided to go to a movie,” I said.
“The movie theatre in Madison?” he asked.
“Yeah,” I said. “Why?”
“Sherri, I am watching the news and they said a tornado has been spotted in the area,” he said.
“Well, there are no windows in here so I guess I am as safe here as anywhere. I will just stay put.”
Strangely enough, the movie played as planned. I watched it and ate my Sno Caps. When it was over, I began the drive home but something was strange. Traffic light after traffic light was blinking and all of the stores seemed to be closed. When I arrived at home I found there was a huge number of frantic messages on my answering machine, even from family members who were out of state.
“I heard there was a tornado, are you okay?”
“Sherri, I am worried….call me….”
“I saw on the news that a tornado did a lot of damage near your home. Where are you….”
It turned out there had been a tornado and it had caused a tremendous amount of damage. What is more, it pretty much went directly behind the theatre where I was watching a movie and eating Sno Caps.
I called everyone to let them know I was alive and well then went upstairs to watch the news. When Michael came home and a few minutes later, I heard and felt a little “pop”. My water broke.
“Michael! My water broke! What should I do?” I panicked.
At this point, he panicked too. “Go to the bathroom!” he said.
“That’s not going to help!” I exclaimed.
Immediately, my contractions were five minutes apart. We rushed to the hospital amidst blustery wind, rain and continuing tornado watches. Five hours of hard, natural childbirth later, my first son came screaming, fighting, and kicking his way into the world.
“Whoa!” the doctors and nurses said in unison as he burst forth.
My tornado baby.
My tornado baby is now a “tornado pre-teen” he turns 12 years old next week. It is funny, before I became a parent I had such grand ideas about how I would rear my son, about the things I would teach him. I had no idea that God would use him to teach me.
He uses my parenting to teach me still. He teaches me about patience, forgiveness, courage, prayer, faith and most of all….where to find hope when none is readily evident.
And I guess that is how life works. Just when we think we have it all together, we find God has so much more to say.
“My God,
Grant me the humility today to hear your voice that it might not only sustain me, but that I might also pass it on to my kids. Grant me courage, faith, and… a smile for the journey.
And God….bless my tornado baby. ~ Amen”
