Un Sueño de la Noche

Vi  a Jesús en un sueño de la noche.  Tenía las manos puesto junto a su corazón, cuidando algo especial.

¿Señor, qué llevas allá junto a tu corazón?  Lo cuidas como tu tesoro más amado.  Déjame ver que es.

Jesús se paró y me sonrió.  Mira pues, mi hija.  Te quiero compartir. 

Él abrió sus manos heridas y me mostró el tesoro más precioso del mundo, la niña de sus ojos:  fue la gente desconocida.  La gente que no han escuchado las buenas noticias.   Jesús me miró y vi en sus ojos los profundos de su corazón.  Mi hija, dijiste que querías conocer mi corazón.  Si quieres escuchar el latir de mi corazón, vas a escuchar el clamor de mi pueblo, porque lo llevo siempre en mi corazón.  He estado pensando en ellos desde la creación del mundo  ¿lo puedes llevar a este pueblo?  ¿Sabes cuantas lágrimas he derramado por ellos?  ¿Sabes tanto me duele?  ¿Cómo me pueden conocer, si nadie los lleva en el oración?  Estoy luchando alcanzarlos porque ellos también son hijos perdidos en la oscuridad.  Hoy te doy el regalo sentir lo que siento por este pueblo.

Cuando vi el amor, el anhelo de su corazón, tomé un paso para atrás.  No, Señor, no puedo.  No merezco eso.  Te voy a fallar.

Mi hija, siempre fue mi anhelo compartir con mis hijos todo que yo haga.  Te los doy hoy.  Llévalos al trono de Dios, pelea en oración por ellos, y pide el padre que los obreros vayan al campo.  Y deja que fuye mi amor a ellos por medio de ti.

Se fue el Señor de mi visto.  Y me dejo con la cara ese pueblo guardado en mi corazon  ¡Señor!  ¡Escuche mi clamor!  Rompe las cadenas que están sobre sus corazones.  Oh, tanto les amas!  Puedo sentir tu amor para este pueblo y se está quebrantando mi corazón…

Llegaron mis amigos y me rodearon.  ¿Que llevas, amiga?  ¿Por qué lloras?

Les mostré el tesoro que yo llevaba junto a mi corazón, pero se rieron.  ¿Por qué te importa ese pequeño pueblo?  ¡Están lejos, amiga!  Deja esas locuras.  Ven con nosotros.  Ríete, sonríe y olvida ese pueblito desconocido.

Pero cerré mis ojos y otra vez vi la cara de mi Salvador, con los ojos llenos del amor que le llevó a la cruz.  Señor.  Los guardo en mi corazón.  Quiero sentir tu corazón por las almas perdidos.  Los pueblos del mundo no están lejos de ti, pues tú los llevas junto a tu corazón.

Mi Todo

Aqui esta una copia del poema "My Everything" en Español para los que lo quieren ver.

Como te puedo merecer, mi Rey?

Tu, mi Dios, mi todo

Me dicen "No fuiste tan mala

Tal vez mentiste, tal vez enganiaste

Un poco aqui, un poco alla

Por que vale?  Por que te importa?

No mataste a nadie, nunca fuiste rebelde

Solo, como todos cayiste

Pero tu mi Dios, me entiendes

Veias mi vida desde el primer hilo

(o mas bien principio? es dificil traducir "starting strand")

Veias el vacio que me pusó en sombra

Y la oscuridad que en mi luchó

Un rayo de luz, rompiste mi mundo

Tu mano alcanzó a esta niña

Esperanza tan brillante, tu esperanza tan verdadera

Esperanza que me llamó "Quiero a TI"

No eres demasiado joven, ni tonta, ni loca

Eres mia, te compre, Eres MI hija"

Tu veias mis lagrimas cuando estaba sola

Me llamaste "Ven!"

Con tu alegria tan grande me llenaste

Tu amor rebosa de mi copa

Amor que crezca, se rie, y se extende

Mi pregunta, O Dios, esta no mas

Como yo podia viver antes?

Como odia pensaar que eso fue vida?

Cuando nada valia y todo lucho

Pero me haces completo en cada esquina

En ti, encuentro alegria cuando te sirvo

No puedo merecerte, mi Rey

Tu, mi Dios, Tu eres mi todo

My Everything

How could I deserve You, my King?

You, my God, my everything

So I wasn't so bad that's what they say

Maybe you lied, cheated some days

A little here, a little there

What does it matter? Why do you care?

You didn't kill anyone. You weren't a rebel

Just, like everyone you fell

But You, my God, You understand

You've seen my life from the starting strand

You saw the emptiness that overshadowed

And the darkness that I embattled

A shaft of light, You broke my world

Your hand reaching to this one girl

Hope so bright, You hope so true

Hope that called, "I want YOU.

"Your not too young, nor too stupid or wild

Your mine, I bought you, Your MY child."

You saw my tears when I was alone

You beckoned me to you to come

With your huge joy you filled me up

Your love runs from my cup

Love that swells and laughs and grows

Love that reaches out and flows

My question, Oh God, this one no more

How in the world did I live before?

How could I have that that was life?

When there was nothing worth the strife

But You fulfill in me every crevice

In You, I find my joy in Your service

I could never deserve You, my King.

You, my God, Yourself my everything.

Ulma-aeyo

“Ulma-aeyo? (How much is this?)” I ask, holding up a carrot.

“Ee Chun.” The old woman answers.

That is more expensive than the other venders’ prices, so I lay it back down and straighten up. This is Garak Market: a vast sprawling open air food market with vender after vender selling everything from apples to squid to barley to spinach. Each seller sits with their wares spread on the ground before them and hawks them loudly as trucks rumble by and the buyers straggle from one awning to the next. I take in the scene for an instant, but in my mind’s eye I am no longer in Seoul. The buildings grow poorer, the street turns to dirt, the chatter around me blurs into Spanish. In front of me I see a ragged boy with tousled, dark hair looking longingly at the fruit spread out on the sidewalk. “¿Tienes hambre? (Are you hungry?)” I ask him.

“Sí, Señorita.” He answers.

In my imagination, I turn to the vender and buy him something to eat. He smiles and thanks me for his new wealth. “Odiae-gayo?” The venders around me call the greeting in Korean, trying to get my attention. Once again the street is paved and the venders are oriental. The child has vanished.

“Martha, come on, let’s go.” Mommy tugs on my sleeve and we move on. “What were you thinking about?” She asks as we make our way past the grain section to the green veggies.

What was I thinking about? How can I explain that? “Nothing.” I answer.

I’ve always had a vivid imagination, maybe too vivid. I can really create a scene so real that I almost live in a different world sometimes. I feel as if I’ve really walked the streets of Chicago, wandered in the slums of India, lived in Morocco, visited Brazil, and (most recently) been to Colombia when in reality, I’ve only imagined it. Why these certain places? Street children. Los niños de las calles. Since I was a little girl of five or six I’ve dreamed of working with street kids. The country I’m thinking of has changed, the age of the children has shifted over the years, but the focus remains the same. For years I’ve imagined the city streets, thought up plans for starting farms for them to live on, organized feeding programs in my mind, and talked to imaginary children. “I’m going to start an orphanage” I remember telling people when I was five. “It’ll be nice orphanage with lots of games. I’ll teach them to read and all about the Bible.”

Now that I am almost ready to go out on my own, the dream has grown stronger than ever. The children of the street are calling to me. But here I am in Korea. Do I wish Korea had street kids? No of course not. But I know that somewhere there are orphans running the streets and they need someone to come and help them. How I wish I were there! Now, I bide my time and create dream scenes as I walk the streets of Seoul, but someday the dreams will be real. Someday I’ll get my hands into the work that God has raised me up for and called me to.

John Mark

An old man and a young man sat facing each other in the lamplight of a dinner table. “Always up for a story, huh Mark?” the older man said, the many lines around his eyes melted as he smiled.

The younger man leaned across the low table, the flickering light playing across his face. “You are surprised at that, teacher?”

The older man shook his head, “Brother, not teacher.”

The other man tipped his head to the side in impatient assent. “Alright, Brother Peter. But please, tell me more. The people followed you around the lake without food and --?” Mark settled back onto the reclining pillows, knowing the story would come.

A mischievous look twinkled in Peter’s eyes, “And we fed them of course.”

Mark started up again, “With what, Tea – I mean, Brother Peter – with what?”

“With food.” Peter took a bit of bread and scooped up some lentils, a smile playing under his beard.

The younger man gave an exasperated sigh, “But with WHAT food? You said yourself that the disciples hardly brought food for themselves, much less for five thousand others.”

“Five thousand other men, you’re forgetting the women and children. There were at least ten thousand in all, I’d say.” A faraway look came into his eyes and he leaned back. “We came up to Jesus and said ‘Hey, there’s no one around here to get food from.’”

Mark listened closely, hardly breathing as he drank in every word. His dark eyes sparkled with intense interest, following every expression on the old man’s face.

“He just looked at us, shrugged, and said, ‘Well, you feed them.’ I was always quick to open my mouth, so I said, ‘It would take two hundred denarii at least! Where do we get that kind of money?’” Peter paused, thinking.

“What then?” Mark asked breathlessly.

“Well, my brother Andrew was asking around and found a little boy who had a little basket of food. He brought boy up to Jesus and we unpacked the basket. There wasn’t much, just five small pitas and two fish. A snack. But Jesus just smiled and told us to get the people to sit down. That was quite a job I can tell you, but after a while we got it done. We had them sat down in groups of hundreds and fifties. Then Jesus picked up that lonely pile of food, raised his eyes to heaven and blessed it.” Peter started to cough.

“What happened?”

“Give me a moment to breathe, child.” Peter smiled, “He started to hand the bread to us. He just kept handing and handing and handing. We kept passing out bread and fish to the people. There was no end to the food! EVERYONE ate until they were full! Then we started gathering up scraps and gathered twelve basketfuls of scraps. We sent that little boy home with more than enough for his lunch the next day.” Peter laughed, “You should have seen his face. Most the crowd didn’t realize what had happened, but the boy knew. He saw it all.”

Mark laughed with him. “Ah, you should write this all down, Brother Peter. Think how much you have seen!”

“No, no.” Peter answered, stretching and getting up. “I have too much to do. I’ll leave the writing to you.” He grabbed his cane and walked slowly from the room.

Mark sat up all the way and started to clear the table, “Write it myself? Well, maybe.” He paused and stared into space for a moment, then suddenly jumped up and left the room. A moment later he returned with quill, ink, and parchment. Carefully, he spread the parchment out and moved one of the oil lamps closer. He wrote late into the night, recording the story Peter had just told.

The next day, Peter was scheduled to speak to a small group of slaves that met in the house of a potter one of the poor areas. Mark took his place among those listening as Peter began. “When I was following Jesus, we were going to the Caesarea Philippi area –”

Mark jumped and looked around desperately; he needed something to take notes. Quickly, he snatched up a handful of a potter’s clay and scratched some notes into it with a stick from the floor. “Jesus asked us,” Peter continued, “’Who do people say that I am?’ John shrugged and said, ‘Some say John the Baptist, some Elijah or one of the prophets.’” Peter looked around with a smile, “None of the people really knew what to think of Jesus. Jesus looked at us and asked, ‘Who do you say that I am?’ All at once, I felt the power of the Spirit on me and I said, ‘You are the Christ.’ It was only by the power of the Spirit that I could have said that.”

At home, Mark looked at his notes. They were messy, but mostly readable. He’d have to be more careful next time to have something ready to write with. He leaned over his desk and began to carefully, transfer the writing to the parchment. One part of his clay tablet had got mashed and was unreadable. Getting up, he walked into the next room where Peter was talking with a couple Christians from the far side of the city. Mark waited patiently until they were done, then asked, “Brother Peter, where were you going when Jesus asked who people thought he was?”

Peter looked a little startled, “Caesarea Philippi.”

“Thanks.” Mark headed back to the room.

“What are you up to, son?” Peter called after him.

“Just following orders.” Mark tossed over his shoulder with a smile, “I’m writing your memories of Jesus.” He walked back into his room, then stuck head back out. “Oh, and was it five fish and two loaves?”

Peter shook his head, “Five loaves and two fish.”

A memory and some thoughts...

My first bad bike wreck was when I was six years old. Not many people have the ability to hot-dog a bike at that age, but I did. The mountains of Japan afford many places to careen down crazily steep and windy roads – and that was what I was doing. I was having fun weaving back and forth as I flew down a narrow, mountain path between rice fields. Before I knew what had happened, I had lost control, flipped over the handlebars, and smashed by face into the road. A bike wreck can be traumatizing when you’re not old enough to really think it through rationally. In my mind, I had been doing just fine when suddenly the bicycle bucked me off. What was to prevent it happening again? For months I crept along the streets, refusing to go faster than a crawl and getting off to walk my bike at every hill.
My sister, Esther, who is six years older than me, liked taking me with her when she rode her bike to the store, but my fear of hills was rather cumbersome after a while. “Mommy, can I put Martha on my rack to go to the store next time? It would make it go a lot faster.” She said one evening.
Mommy looked at me, “Well, I don’t know. I don’t want her getting her feet caught in the spokes.”
Daddy glanced up from the helping my brother Peter with his math school work. “We could get her some boots to protect her feet. Maybe riding around with Esther will help Martha’s fear of hills.”
I wasn’t so sure. Riding on the back of Esther’s bike? Was it really safe? What if I fell off? Mommy went to the store and bought me a pair of black boots that zipped up the side to make sure my shoe laces wouldn’t get tangled in the gears. I put them on and with some qualms settled myself on the bicycle rack behind my sister. Esther pushed off and began peddling down the street. I discovered I loved it! Those became some of my favorite memories: Feeling the warm breeze in my hair while holding onto my older sister’s solid back and watching the neighborhood slide by. There is safety in not being the one in control – in just being along for the ride. I felt completely at ease. Esther wouldn’t wreck and I could hold onto her for protection.
I was reminded of this recently when I was worrying about my plans for the future. Which school should I go to? When should I go? But this picture of riding behind Esther rose in my mind – my safety is in letting God ride the bike. I’m just holding on to him and enjoying the scenery.