Things are happening fast in the realm of Kat-land.
One day I was on a flight from Paris to Stavanger, as a design student returning home for the summer to hold a lazy summerjob as a receptionist at Øglænd. The next day I am about to prepare for another flight, from Stavanger to Paris, only this time as a future communications student who just finished her incredubly busy job in sales support export in the same abovementioned company, before spending ten days in Paris, a month in Australia and then flying back to Oslo to start a new and unfamiliar life there.
I don't know what happen, but somehow, in the middle of all this mess and confusion and joys, God did.
I've been trying to explain what has happened in my life the past four-five weeks, but somehow I'm always short of words. People think I'm crazy, turning my life upside down, and sometimes I think I'm crazy too.
But most of the time, I just feel so incredibly relieved that I had the guts to follow God's voice when he called me, to choose the path he wanted me to choose. I was completely on my own in the decision-making, and I felt absolutely blind as I closed my eyes and followed my heart. Doing that was so so scary, but realising that I've made the right decision, is so so beautiful.
Six weeks of fun is ahead of me, experiences that will probably change me in many ways. And after that, who knows? I think of God's promise of how He can do far more than the biggest thing we could ever ask for, and I have a huge smile on my face.
He is putting desires in my heart, and when I have the guts to follow them, He meets my expectations exceedingly, abundantly, above anything I could ever imagine in my wildest dreams.....
Friday, July 27, 2007
Sunday, June 17, 2007
Africa in my Heart
I want to go to Africa.
More specifically, I want to go to Uganda and Rwanda. Rwanda to visit my sponsorchild Uwimana and Uganda to do volunteer work. My heart is longing to help, to be part of something bigger than myself, to use my position and my talents for the benefits of those less fortunate, those in need, the hurting.
I've heard Marilyn Skinner share about what's going on in Uganda now and how things have been the past two decades. About the situation and the desperate needs of so many children orphaned due to AIDS, children without homes or protection or stability. I met the Watoto children's choir last year and their absolute joyfulness moved my heart, how easily they connected with people around them and how they were loving life despite coming from tragic backgrounds.
Then I saw the movie Invisible Children two months ago and it just broke my heart. Something in my heart shifted, a change of priorities, a different outlook on life and the road I'd started to lay out before me. So many of those things I counted as important didn't matter anymore. I understood what it meant that "faith without deeds is dead." I remembered the happy faces of the Watoto children and the memories of my own childhood and they painted a striking contrast to what I saw on screen, the fate of the children in Gulu, Uganda.
My heart is longing for Africa, it has always been. The letters a-f-r-i-c-a on any kind of sign or magazine cover or in article would always catch my attention. I would hear African rhytms and my heart would feel lighter, without really understanding why. I've never been there.
Now I understand why and I also understand just how immense God's plan for my life is. Or any other person's life, for that matter. God can do infinately more in my life than I could ever ask or dream or imagine. And he will give me according to the desires of my heart.
I know that the desire of Africa in my heart is from God, it's just been laying at rest for a long time because my heart needed to mature.
I really believe that I was made for a time like this. Revolutionary times.
It's so powerful, and it is so true. I don't want to be part of a generation that is remembered by lack of responsibility and iniative, by iPods and myspace and facebook and pirate DVD's. I want to be part of a generation that decides to make a difference, that says enough with the talk already, elegant words and men in suit in some far flung country won't do anymore. I want to be part of a revolution that is based on love - as in the love of God, and the love for each other. Not the hippie, I'll-sleep-with-whoever-I-want-and-we-are-all-children-under-the-same-sun kind of love. The love based on responsibility, excellence, and faith.
Africa in my heart. Hearing the stories of the children and seeing the footage make me cry, my heart is longing so much it hurts. I will not sit back and say:"oh my gosh, that is horrible," and then go about with my everyday life. I want to do something. Sometimes I feel frustrated because it is so overwhelming, it's difficult to know where to start. But I know that a journey of a thousand miles start with one little step.
Maybe me writing this is that first step. Or maybe the journey has already begun, amongst the group of people in my church who decided to join me in raising the money. We are raising money to build a house in Gulu, Uganda for eight children and a 'mother', a widow. It's a substantial amount, one that is going to take time and effort to raise. So it feels a little bit overwhelming, but also so, so good. To start somewhere. And the good thing is, the more our hearts are desiring the things of God, the more God will make us prosper and succeed. And only He knows the master plan, the end of the story, the results of our efforts, the solution to the problems. Luckily it is not for us to sort everything out. All we need to do, is to be responsible with where we are now, and what we have in our hands.
I look at my hands and I ask myself: what do I have?
I have a church family full of people wanting to make a difference, wanting to see results. I have a healthy body and a mind that's alert. I have God. I have education. I am from a rich, western country. I speak three languages. Without even talking about money or connections or time, already I have a lot.
Africa. It feels so far away and yet it is in my heart, in my mind, in my diary, on my wall. How God put everything together is a mystery to me, but somehow I see a map unfolding in front of me. The map has been made based on decisions I've made regarding the future. It is fascinating to see how, when you put your faith in God and obey and do according to his will, what was a distant dream becomes an exciting reality, and the impossible suddenly seems possible.
Africa. I see children being abducted by the LRA, I see the drawings they make and the terror they experience, and it fills me with anger, with frustration, with emotions and love. I hear them talk about their dreams for the future, and I feel a desire to help, to change things around.
Africa has been doomed as a country in chaos, with no hope or future or a will of its own. It's true, Africa is like a man with broken feet and no crutches. Or maybe the western world have become the crutches and the continent can't stay up without their help. Africa is a victim of ignorant emperors and selfish leaders. There may be analfabetism and HIV and war and nature disasters and early age death rate and sickness and poverty, but there is a generation growing up that can still change things around. It's an orphaned generation, but a generation of hope. Ask the children what they want for the future, and they will say: I want to be a lawyer. I want to be a doctor. I want to be the next president. I want peace. I want peace. I want peace.
Africa. It's weird how my heart longs for a place I've never been. Heaps of people have been there, done that. Heaps of people will say: Wait until you get there. Until you go there and see for yourself, you don't know what you are talking about.
And they are right. I want to go there and see for myself. But I wanna do more than just see. I wanna do.
More specifically, I want to go to Uganda and Rwanda. Rwanda to visit my sponsorchild Uwimana and Uganda to do volunteer work. My heart is longing to help, to be part of something bigger than myself, to use my position and my talents for the benefits of those less fortunate, those in need, the hurting.
I've heard Marilyn Skinner share about what's going on in Uganda now and how things have been the past two decades. About the situation and the desperate needs of so many children orphaned due to AIDS, children without homes or protection or stability. I met the Watoto children's choir last year and their absolute joyfulness moved my heart, how easily they connected with people around them and how they were loving life despite coming from tragic backgrounds.
Then I saw the movie Invisible Children two months ago and it just broke my heart. Something in my heart shifted, a change of priorities, a different outlook on life and the road I'd started to lay out before me. So many of those things I counted as important didn't matter anymore. I understood what it meant that "faith without deeds is dead." I remembered the happy faces of the Watoto children and the memories of my own childhood and they painted a striking contrast to what I saw on screen, the fate of the children in Gulu, Uganda.
My heart is longing for Africa, it has always been. The letters a-f-r-i-c-a on any kind of sign or magazine cover or in article would always catch my attention. I would hear African rhytms and my heart would feel lighter, without really understanding why. I've never been there.
Now I understand why and I also understand just how immense God's plan for my life is. Or any other person's life, for that matter. God can do infinately more in my life than I could ever ask or dream or imagine. And he will give me according to the desires of my heart.
I know that the desire of Africa in my heart is from God, it's just been laying at rest for a long time because my heart needed to mature.
I really believe that I was made for a time like this. Revolutionary times.
It's so powerful, and it is so true. I don't want to be part of a generation that is remembered by lack of responsibility and iniative, by iPods and myspace and facebook and pirate DVD's. I want to be part of a generation that decides to make a difference, that says enough with the talk already, elegant words and men in suit in some far flung country won't do anymore. I want to be part of a revolution that is based on love - as in the love of God, and the love for each other. Not the hippie, I'll-sleep-with-whoever-I-want-and-we-are-all-children-under-the-same-sun kind of love. The love based on responsibility, excellence, and faith.
Africa in my heart. Hearing the stories of the children and seeing the footage make me cry, my heart is longing so much it hurts. I will not sit back and say:"oh my gosh, that is horrible," and then go about with my everyday life. I want to do something. Sometimes I feel frustrated because it is so overwhelming, it's difficult to know where to start. But I know that a journey of a thousand miles start with one little step.
Maybe me writing this is that first step. Or maybe the journey has already begun, amongst the group of people in my church who decided to join me in raising the money. We are raising money to build a house in Gulu, Uganda for eight children and a 'mother', a widow. It's a substantial amount, one that is going to take time and effort to raise. So it feels a little bit overwhelming, but also so, so good. To start somewhere. And the good thing is, the more our hearts are desiring the things of God, the more God will make us prosper and succeed. And only He knows the master plan, the end of the story, the results of our efforts, the solution to the problems. Luckily it is not for us to sort everything out. All we need to do, is to be responsible with where we are now, and what we have in our hands.
I look at my hands and I ask myself: what do I have?
I have a church family full of people wanting to make a difference, wanting to see results. I have a healthy body and a mind that's alert. I have God. I have education. I am from a rich, western country. I speak three languages. Without even talking about money or connections or time, already I have a lot.
Africa. It feels so far away and yet it is in my heart, in my mind, in my diary, on my wall. How God put everything together is a mystery to me, but somehow I see a map unfolding in front of me. The map has been made based on decisions I've made regarding the future. It is fascinating to see how, when you put your faith in God and obey and do according to his will, what was a distant dream becomes an exciting reality, and the impossible suddenly seems possible.
Africa. I see children being abducted by the LRA, I see the drawings they make and the terror they experience, and it fills me with anger, with frustration, with emotions and love. I hear them talk about their dreams for the future, and I feel a desire to help, to change things around.
Africa has been doomed as a country in chaos, with no hope or future or a will of its own. It's true, Africa is like a man with broken feet and no crutches. Or maybe the western world have become the crutches and the continent can't stay up without their help. Africa is a victim of ignorant emperors and selfish leaders. There may be analfabetism and HIV and war and nature disasters and early age death rate and sickness and poverty, but there is a generation growing up that can still change things around. It's an orphaned generation, but a generation of hope. Ask the children what they want for the future, and they will say: I want to be a lawyer. I want to be a doctor. I want to be the next president. I want peace. I want peace. I want peace.
Africa. It's weird how my heart longs for a place I've never been. Heaps of people have been there, done that. Heaps of people will say: Wait until you get there. Until you go there and see for yourself, you don't know what you are talking about.
And they are right. I want to go there and see for myself. But I wanna do more than just see. I wanna do.
Friday, June 15, 2007
A Stranger on the Metro
I was sitting on the metro line 1 on my way from Vincennes to Rivoli to meet a friend at a café near the Louvre. It was early afternoon and still off peak hour. As I had forgotten my usual paperback/magazine/iPod, I killed time watching the people around me. You see, people-watching in Paris is a very fascinating experience, as the city is inhabited by heaps of weird and unusual-looking people. I've seen women wearing the strangest costumes, men with lipstick, and dogs and dog owners with matching clothes.
I've seen the typical cliché; man in his fifties with a black French béret on his head and a baguette under his arm, reading Le Monde, I've seen women with 15 cm stiletto heels, and men with shoes so pointy you can't help but wonder if they have flip flops ready under their desk as soon as they arrive at work.
And then you have all the seemingly normal people who stare blankly out in the air one minute and then procede to sing "Sound of Music" very off key the next, or simply having long passionate conversations with themselves. Chic women with perfect make-up and stunning Chanel suit picking their nose. Drunk homeless people complaining about the ridiculous French gouvernement, suburb teens wearing bling-bling from head to toe, beggars, musicians, businessmen, foreigners, wannabes, and on and on.
On this particular day I encountered a stranger who changed my way of thinking about people in Paris, but also about Paris in general. It is so easy to categorise people, judging by the way the look, the way they talk and what they wear. Sometimes I find myself judging people more than I should or have the right to. In fact, I shouldn't judge at all. (I know...). It's not so much about looking down on people, it's more the habit of putting them into categories.
I was sitting on one of the single chairs close to the doors. A man was standing in front of the door, with a big rottweiler who was wearing a mask around its snout. At the man's feet were two bags, both of them worn and old, one of them even had plastic straps around to keep it from falling apart. I looked up and met his eyes for a brief second. His skin had a deep dark tan, the kind of dirty tan you get when you spend all your days out in the sun. I immediately took him for a homeless person. I looked away, feeling that staring at him showed a lack of respect. I am very aware of the number of beggars and homeless people in this city and even though I rarely give money, I always try to be polite, as if they were any kind of random person in the street. Plus, often I find that a smile and a hello means a lot more to them than just passing by tossing coins in their cup.
Having labeled him as homeless (I am ashamed to admit), I turned to look out the window, letting my mind wander. Suddenly the man started speaking loudly, asking the people around me about where to get off to change for Gare de l'Est. His accent was very strange, but I assumed he was French.
"Excusez-moi, can anyone tell me where I should go to get to Gare de l'Est?"
"Get off at Chatelet and take line four," a woman replied, from the seat behind me. The man nodded and thanked her, glancing up at the line map on the ceiling.
"Actually, it's easier to get off at Bastille and take line five," another man said, leaning forward and pointing on the map. Grateful for the help, the homeless man smiled and nodded, thanking him. And prompted by the other man's politeness in helping, he continued:
"Merci Monsieur, merci, it's not easy for me to find my way around here. It's the first time I've ever taken the metro and it's a bit confusing. I'm from the countryside."
I looked up at him again, and it dawned on me that he wasn't a homeless person at all, and upon noticing how proper and seemingly new his clothes were, how polite he was, how kind and bright his eyes were, I realised how wrong I'd been, how I'd judged him without even giving it a second thought. It was as if I saw a completely different person now. The dark tan wasn't due do being dirty and sleeping on the streets, it was due to working outside all day. His worn bags was a striking contrast to his nice clothes, and coming from a family of farmers, I know that you always dress up when you go in to the city, simply because you don't care about style when you're working at a farm (obviously..).
I felt bad for having judged him so quickly, and even more when I realised just how narrow my perspective of French people were. I mean, I knew about French people, being around them all day long, but my idea of the typical French is not French at all, it's Parisian. There's a whole country out there, full of different variations of the French culture, with dialects, traditions, customs, lives, habits. I now found the man completely fascinating, as he for that brief moment to me represented the rural France, all the small towns and villages truly French, with a whole other way of living than you find in Paris.
They say you haven't seen France unless you've been in the providence, and though I've only been to Fountainebleu (which is more like an extended suburb of Paris anyway), I believe it to be true. I really haven't seen much of France, I realised, slightly sheepish. I've been living here for two years. My idea of France is Paris, and France and Paris are two very different things. Paris is full of foreigners and a fascinating mix of cultures, and though the majority remain French, there's a metropolitain way of life that has nothing to do with France.
Note to self: Move my bum out of the capital and explore what this country has to offer, in hopes of widening my ridiculous perspective a bit.
I've seen the typical cliché; man in his fifties with a black French béret on his head and a baguette under his arm, reading Le Monde, I've seen women with 15 cm stiletto heels, and men with shoes so pointy you can't help but wonder if they have flip flops ready under their desk as soon as they arrive at work.
And then you have all the seemingly normal people who stare blankly out in the air one minute and then procede to sing "Sound of Music" very off key the next, or simply having long passionate conversations with themselves. Chic women with perfect make-up and stunning Chanel suit picking their nose. Drunk homeless people complaining about the ridiculous French gouvernement, suburb teens wearing bling-bling from head to toe, beggars, musicians, businessmen, foreigners, wannabes, and on and on.
On this particular day I encountered a stranger who changed my way of thinking about people in Paris, but also about Paris in general. It is so easy to categorise people, judging by the way the look, the way they talk and what they wear. Sometimes I find myself judging people more than I should or have the right to. In fact, I shouldn't judge at all. (I know...). It's not so much about looking down on people, it's more the habit of putting them into categories.
I was sitting on one of the single chairs close to the doors. A man was standing in front of the door, with a big rottweiler who was wearing a mask around its snout. At the man's feet were two bags, both of them worn and old, one of them even had plastic straps around to keep it from falling apart. I looked up and met his eyes for a brief second. His skin had a deep dark tan, the kind of dirty tan you get when you spend all your days out in the sun. I immediately took him for a homeless person. I looked away, feeling that staring at him showed a lack of respect. I am very aware of the number of beggars and homeless people in this city and even though I rarely give money, I always try to be polite, as if they were any kind of random person in the street. Plus, often I find that a smile and a hello means a lot more to them than just passing by tossing coins in their cup.
Having labeled him as homeless (I am ashamed to admit), I turned to look out the window, letting my mind wander. Suddenly the man started speaking loudly, asking the people around me about where to get off to change for Gare de l'Est. His accent was very strange, but I assumed he was French.
"Excusez-moi, can anyone tell me where I should go to get to Gare de l'Est?"
"Get off at Chatelet and take line four," a woman replied, from the seat behind me. The man nodded and thanked her, glancing up at the line map on the ceiling.
"Actually, it's easier to get off at Bastille and take line five," another man said, leaning forward and pointing on the map. Grateful for the help, the homeless man smiled and nodded, thanking him. And prompted by the other man's politeness in helping, he continued:
"Merci Monsieur, merci, it's not easy for me to find my way around here. It's the first time I've ever taken the metro and it's a bit confusing. I'm from the countryside."
I looked up at him again, and it dawned on me that he wasn't a homeless person at all, and upon noticing how proper and seemingly new his clothes were, how polite he was, how kind and bright his eyes were, I realised how wrong I'd been, how I'd judged him without even giving it a second thought. It was as if I saw a completely different person now. The dark tan wasn't due do being dirty and sleeping on the streets, it was due to working outside all day. His worn bags was a striking contrast to his nice clothes, and coming from a family of farmers, I know that you always dress up when you go in to the city, simply because you don't care about style when you're working at a farm (obviously..).
I felt bad for having judged him so quickly, and even more when I realised just how narrow my perspective of French people were. I mean, I knew about French people, being around them all day long, but my idea of the typical French is not French at all, it's Parisian. There's a whole country out there, full of different variations of the French culture, with dialects, traditions, customs, lives, habits. I now found the man completely fascinating, as he for that brief moment to me represented the rural France, all the small towns and villages truly French, with a whole other way of living than you find in Paris.
They say you haven't seen France unless you've been in the providence, and though I've only been to Fountainebleu (which is more like an extended suburb of Paris anyway), I believe it to be true. I really haven't seen much of France, I realised, slightly sheepish. I've been living here for two years. My idea of France is Paris, and France and Paris are two very different things. Paris is full of foreigners and a fascinating mix of cultures, and though the majority remain French, there's a metropolitain way of life that has nothing to do with France.
Note to self: Move my bum out of the capital and explore what this country has to offer, in hopes of widening my ridiculous perspective a bit.
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