Graduation: Mastering the finish line

I finally crossed the finish line.  After four years of studying, I have graduated the Master of Religion in Middle Eastern and North African Studies from the Arab Baptist Theological Seminary.  It was a great experience, and I value the experiences, knowledge and wisdom I gained from the program.  I was honored to share a few words during the graduation ceremony.  Hopefully it expresses the appreciation I feel for this learning opportunity and all the people that made it possible.

On behalf of the students of the Master of Religion program, it is my honor to greet you all, to congratulate our fellow graduates and to congratulate the community of the Arab Baptist Theological Seminary as it marks a milestone accomplishment this evening of awarding the very first degrees for the Master of Religion in Middle Eastern and North African Studies.  What was once a vision has become a reality, and we four graduates are proud to be small parts in a big achievement for this institution. 

The MRel is unlike any other seminary program as it explores the Middle East and North African region from within the region in a way that combines interdisciplinary academics and personal engagements to create a transformative learning experience.   We graduates have journeyed together with a diverse group of students and faculty on a journey of discovery, discovery of a region, of faiths, of cultures, of people, of our own selves, and, most profoundly, a discovery of God’s Kingdom. 

Much can be said of this program and each student will walk away with his or her own testimony of personal and academic growth.   As I reflect on the “big idea” that marks my experience in the MRel, my mind goes back to a comment made by a classmate during an on-site residency, a comment that captures what has proven to me to be the underlying theme of this program.  We were in our Cultures course, and as we completed two weeks of intensive theory and practice my classmate shared the following statement, “I realize that everything we have learned is so we can better love people.”  What was true for the course has proven true for the program,  because if the MRel has been about anything it has been about loving people and being built up in faith in Christ, a faith working through love.

On behalf of the first graduating class of the MRel I extend a heartfelt thank you.  Thank you to President Elie Haddad for your leadership and the staff of ABTS for your services and support.  Thank you to the many who have prayed and given generously to this program.  Thank you to the teaching faculty members who have shared with us knowledge, wisdom, time and patience.  And finally, thank you to the Institute of Middle East Studies.  To Dr. Martin Accad, Dr. Arthur Brown, Jesse Wheeler and to all who have played a role in establishing and running the MRel. A special thank you to Dr. Rupen Das as well, who was unfortunately not able to be with us today, but was key to bringing this program to life and leading it to a fully accredited degree over its first two years. Your hard work has turned a mere idea into an actualized program full of impact and meaning, and I have been blessed to be a beneficiary of your faithfulness and your commitment to serving God.

So may God bless this year’s graduates and direct their paths.

May He keep the ministry of ABTS and strengthen its mission.

And may God be with each one of us for His glory and His great purposes.

Thank you

With fellow MRel graduate Amir from Egypt

Yasmine was quite excited.  So was I!

Two boys, two emotions, and one Hope

We're at the end of another DEA school year (my ninth). While it's been a good year, it's also been a year in which the weight of what we deal with has taken on new heaviness. This feeling goes back to September, the very start of it all.  Boys were returning to the residential home after the summer to begin a new year and new boys were arriving for the first time. One of my co-workers talked about what a joyful day it was to see old and new faces arriving to DEA. It was indeed on many levels a joyful day, but I was feeling sad.  

That day I took two boys away from their families. I watched them say goodbye to their teary-eyed mothers, I put them in my jeep, and I carried them out of the valley and over the mountains to a strange place that they were told would become a home. I knew it was for their good; they are Syrian refugees and they have spent most of their young lives in war and displacement. Their families live in substandard tent communities waiting to get through their nightmare until they can return to their country and homes. Years of precious education have been lost and they risked becoming two more Syrian refugee children that will grow up not knowing how to read or write. 

They were in a bad situation, and a life at DEA provided many things no one else could provide.  Getting in my jeep and being taken away was for their best. Their mothers knew it, their families knew it, they knew it and I knew it.  But knowing something still doesn't make it easy; taking a child away from all that he's ever known and loved is not a cause for joy.  I was sad that a broken, painful road had led them to this point.

The sadness continued after the boys moved in.  They put on strong faces in those early days (as strong as you can expect from 6 and 7 year olds), but it was easy to see their rawness in separation from mom and familiarity.  There was plenty of running, playing and trying new things, but there were also teary moments of asking me, "When will I go to mom?" Even when they tried to hide it, the pain was evident. Coming to terms with any new situation is oftentimes painful.

As the year went on I witnessed the situation change. I watched the boys settle into their new "home" and embrace the new "family," experiences and opportunities around them.  I saw their personalities develop and their sad eyes begin to radiate with happiness (and varying degrees of mischievousness). I heard them read two languages when they had previously been able to read none.  

I was with them on their first trip to the nearby supermarket.  They filled every aisle with childhood innocence as they scaled escalators and pushed their carts around the store. Three dollars had never made a child so rich. I was also with them on their first trip to the dentist.  They found more enjoyment out of dental work than most children find at a carnival.  

Their lives seemed to fill with sunshine.  They became happy to jump into my jeep and return to DEA after a visit home, and their families were pleased with the changes they observed in their young lives. More than anything, I listened to them share things they learned about God, how He loves us and sent Jesus to a cross so that we can get through this troubled world and live in heaven forever.  I saw so many good things happen to these boys this year, yet I remained sad.

These boys are special to me because they are my cousins.  I held them as babies and watched them grow little by little with each visit to our village in Syria.  I walked their orchards, sat in their homes and shared in their little world. Those days didn't last.  First, war started in the village.  Then their father (my uncle) was detained.   Before long they were driven from their homes.  It's been four years and we still have no word on the status of their father.  Hope of his wellbeing is fading.  And after three years of displacement, hope of returning is thin.

The road that led these two boys to DEA is a road that no child should have to journey. No child should go through the death, the bombs, the fleeing from home, the perilous journey into displacement and all the other horrors that are unfortunately commonplace in the Syrian refugee narrative. They shouldn't have had to go through all this; the fact that they are at DEA means that things have gone very, very wrong. This makes me sad.

DEA is a sweet place but children arrive here in bitter ways, and many times it feels like it is a place where bitterness and sweetness mingle. This shouldn't be a surprise; we are a hospital for the sick not a country club for the well.  But expecting it doesn't mean it's easy to accept.  The pain that brings the children to our care exposes the pain that we too carry.  So it is with me and my cousins.

While my challenges are very far removed from the daily struggles of the refugee, I too have lost something in the Syrian War. A place that I loved, a land drenched in story and memories, is now in ruins.  I had dreams of a future that will never come true (at least not in the way I had dreamed them).  More than anything I have lost people.  My uncle, my cousin and others are gone; casualties of a war that seems to treat death casually.  My two cousins have been daily reminders that I've lost something, and this makes me sad.

Joy and sadness do not exist at odds with one another (just review Inside Out for a good portrayal of this). Like sweetness and bitterness, they mingle and provide an experience of life that is authentic.  We seek joy and we deal with sadness, and in it all we see the goodness and sovereignty of God working for glory.  

My cousins have made me sad, and they have, also given me joy. I expect it will be this way as long as we are together at DEA. But I will always carry hope for them, for my relatives, for Syria, for the children at DEA and for all journeying roads of pain.  Because above all things is Christ, and this is Hope.

Graduating and Continuing

Six years ago a group of Gypsy and Bedouin children started in our literacy program at the New Horizons Center. These children face many social and personal challenges; unfortunately many did not continue to completion, but some did!  Last week we celebrated with a group five special students that started with us and have now "graduated." Over the years they gained the valuable gift of literacy, becoming the first generation of their families to read and write. This was reason for celebration.

Our teachers planned an overnight getaway for the children to the Bekaa Valley filled with activities and special experiences.  We visited a monastery that operates a dairy farm and nature reserve. Each one enjoyed riding around the grounds on bicycles, especially the two that learned how to ride that day.   We then drove to the city if Zahle for ice cream, bumper cars and an air hockey tournament. Our accommodation was at a great little eco lodge where we spent time playing, sharing stories, eating and interacting with other guests.  It was a special time. "This is the best say of my life," one said. They deserved it.

As important as literacy is (and we do believe it's very important, it can change their entire futures), we celebrate the faith, character and spirit these young people have developed over the years. Their life situations are heartbreaking; they endure marginalization and abuses that no child should have to endure.  But they have zest for life, and they've added something special to mine.  It was inspiring to see how much the teachers care for each of these children and how they went the extra mile in lavishing good things and speaking loving words of truth.  It was a getaway that did me well. 

We're not done with these kids. They may have come to the end of one road, but we plan to keep them within the center ministry in the year ahead. There is great potential in each one and we desire to see it tapped more and more.

Getting ready for excursion!

Some need to start on three wheels before becoming comfortable with two.

She beat everyone she faced....except me.

We felt very 'at home' at our hotel. 

Fellow guests provided entertainment!

What does a literacy program give as a graduation gift: storybooks!

The DEA Rite: our Annual Fundraiser Banquet

Last night Dar El Awlad hosted its annual Fundraiser Banquet.  This year was a special occasion as Kids Alive International celebrates 100 years of service.  A great deal of work goes into the planning and execution of the event, but significantly more encouragement comes out of it.  Every year our children and staff are blessed by the large show of support from individuals, churches and groups from the local community.  It’s never the fanciest affair in but it certainly has a lot of heart (and I must admit that we do play dress-up pretty well).

Everyone involved in the banquet looks at some part of it above the others, whether that’s the decorations, the sound and lighting, the taste of the food or the interactions with guests.  For me, I look at one thing: getting things on and off the tables.  For the past nine years I have overseen our Dar El Awlad’s team of servers.  The boys look forward each year to the opportunity to become waiters for a table (or two) during the dinner; it has become a rite of passage.   Each year I thoroughly explain all the procedures very carefully of serving a four-course meal (don’t run, speak politely to guests, remove plates but not the forks, DO NOT ENTER THE KITCHEN!, etc….) but always the energy that comes with welcoming over 200 guests send the boys into a bit of a whirl.  Following procedure often gives way to following impulse.  Yet without fail, commotion manages flow together and the end result is satisfied guests with filled stomachs and uplifted hearts.  Thanks to all who helped make this year’s banquet another great memory in the long history of Dar El Awlad.  Visit our Facebook page to see more pictures.

Preparing tables

Our servers in action

The Stairs!!!!  Our greatest hazard between the kitchen and banquet hall.

One of a dozen dishes we served

One of our oldest residents shared about his story and his dreams

A full house of support and encouragement

Not all the children could be servers, but their day will come.

Youth Race: Mission (mostly) Accomplished

Last week the Beirut Marathon Association organized a youth race in which thousands of children and youth participated.  A number of our boys were kindly invited by SKILD, a local learning center, to participate. I supervised the outing and had a very straightforward mission: Get 19 boys to the race through a 5K course and backsafely to Dar El Awlad.  Technically I failed the mission.  Halfway through I received a call informing me that a one of my boys was being taken to lost-and-found.  He registered a DNF (Did Not Finish).  It wasn’t a surprise; before I even arrived at the starting line I had received a call requesting me to retrieve the same child after he reported himself lost to event staff.  I did get him, but obviously couldn’t keep him.

I may have failed the mission, but the experience was by no means a failure.  Lebanon is going through difficult times and events like this are powerful demonstrations of symbolic and practical encouragement for positive movements.   The race was intended to generate support and awareness for special needs kids, and for our special children it was a great day to be in Beirut.  Whether they ran, walked, or were escorted to the lost and found, they all had a wonderful time participating in a meaningful initiative. And all returned home safely!

This is definitely the pack I want to run with.

An official photo featured in a national newspaper.  You can spot two of my boyse in the bottom-right corner

You'll never walk alone

We took our time, but we made it to the finish line

There were only 15 boys waiting for me at the Reunion Point (aka lost and found).  

The triumphant post-race pic.  Can you guess which boy registered the DNF?

Seeking Simple Solutions, Wishing for Lasting Results

It has been meaningful these past three years to be part of the  New Horizons Center, a partnership in the South of Lebanon serving Bedouin and Gypsy communities.  Kids Alive runs a small literacy program that is helping children become the first literate individuals in their families’ histories.  It’s a great opportunity but with it are many challenges.

One major challenge this year has been the lack of commitment in attendance.  The communities we serve are rather transient; education is under-prioritized and the children do not often receive adequate encouragement to faithfully attend class.  The high rate of absenteeism was a frustration to us serving and a hindrance to individual learning progress.  It is indeed a big problem, but we are discovering that addressing it has called for a simple action.

A few months ago we started rewarding students by each month taking all the children with perfect monthly attendance to a lunch treat.  This simple incentive of sitting down at a restaurant for a sandwich or hamburger has helped jump-start a greater care for coming consistently to the program.  School absences have decreased, and when they do happen the student knows that he or she is missing out on the opportunity for something special.  The children are now building a habit of attending school faithfully; the thrill of eating-out is becoming less and the normalcy of regularly attending school is becoming more.  We hope that a commitment to learning and education is being instilled in these young lives and will be passed down to a future generation.   

Taking Refuge with Refugees

One tradition of mine these past eight years has been celebrating New Year’s Eve with relatives in the Bekaa Valley.  Ruth prefers to celebrate with her family and church so we've reached a mutual understanding that we’ll conclude and start each year apart (but try to avoid separation in the 363 days in between).  New Year’s among the Bedouin is a humble affair but one full of personal meaning, especially in recent years as Syrian family have "settled" in the community as refugees.  We welcome each new year with hopes the it will be the year of return to homelands.  Displacement threatens to extend its misery with each turning of the calendar, but hope for home remains.

This year's celebration was much like the previous until a winter storm (named, rather fittingly, Vladimir) began dumping snow across Lebanon. We awoke from our slumber on New Year's Day to find the surroundings covered in a blanket of white with snow continuing to fall.  My Russian-made Lada Niva and I made a valiant (reckless)attempt to pass over the mountains and return to Beirut, but all roads were closed and I was forced to extend my stay with relatives another night. 

 

                       

The next day was filled with sunshine as the snow around us began to melt, but cold temperatures in the mountains left roads dangerously icy.  A second attempt to escape the valley was thwarted. Once again I was forced to return to my family and wait for another day and another chance to get home to my family. There I found myself in a familiar place but an unfamiliar situation.

For years I have been regularly visiting my relatives on my own terms, always arriving and departing when I want.  My visits are often influenced by different forces (such cultural demands, familial duties or relational obligations) but my presence has always been ruled by my will to be present. This time, however, I was there not because I wanted to be but because I had no other choice but to be.  I yearned to be home with my wife and baby and responsibilities and "stuff", but it was simply not possible.  I was forced to "settle" somewhere secure and wait for the opportunity to return home.  I had to take refuge with refugees.

The frustration must have been apparent.  Family members noted that I was physically there but mentally someplace else.  It was true; my thoughts were with my family and home. I had prepared myself to miss them for two days but was not ready for the four days of separation.  Despite being in a place of welcoming community where all my basic needs were met, it was not home and it was not where I wanted to be.  It is a feeling my family members understand very well for I was sharing in the absolute slightest way a form of the displacement they have been enduring for years.  Our situations differed greatly (they are cut off from their homeland by terrifying violence, I was delayed in returning to my home due to some sub-freezing temperatures and precipitation) but we shared in those unplanned moments together the longing to be someplace else, to be place we can call home.  

As I went to sleep in my uncle's tent wondering if the next day will be the day I return home, I thought about the refugees, my family, sleeping around me who are wondering if this year will be the year they return to the homes, lands and lives they once knew. I have now thankfully returned to the place that I truly want to be, and I pray that the countless displaced will likewise soon arrive to a home in this world. But even if this wish continues to elude, I have firm faith of Christ’s promise for an eternal home and belonging in the world to come.  May this be an enduring hope to the many lives enduring displacement and longing at the start of this new year