Transistor Radio

When was the last time you played with a transistor radio? God, to me, has been like an old school FM radio recently. I continually turn the knobs and dials, getting sporadic reception, while trying to find that station.

When you really want to hear the music, your hand works with the precision of a safe cracker during a heist. You listen to every click, white noise, there are even signals that cheat their way into the receiver until you zero it in perfectly. And when you finally do, music.

Listening to God has been very similar to this recently. God has given me so many different avenues in which to explore that lead to me glorifying Him. Some stations seem more clear than others. Others are not playing the kind of music I feel like listening to. Some stations are just full of ads and commercials, and they seem like a waste of time for me to dwell on, but they still find a way to cut through the frequencies.

There have been different times here in Haiti, where God has called on me to explore my gifts to be used in ministry. God has given me countless opportunities to explore what servanthood entails.

I can easily default to music. He has used my voice, my strings, and an hour block to create a space, not just for the people in our organization to worship, but for other missionaries in the area as well, to have that community, that one voice that sings to the God that we love. I never knew that a 16-year old metalhead would grow up to lead the chorus, “It is well, with my soul”, that cuts through the mix of the Haitian night.

What about English? I always prided myself in my ability to be eloquent, articulate in a language I learned halfway through my current existence. I recently taught a 44-year old man named Djeuslan the A-B-C’s. The English alphabet, straight up from the beginning. And while they do say the word “teacher” to call my attention, I hear the words “second chance”. It’s a pretty satisfying sight to see a gathering of grown men and third-world thugs sing “Head, Shoulders, Knees & Toes”.

Speaking of which, they are dubbed “the Untouchables”. They are the demographic that’s largely ignored. No one pays attention to, or wants to kick it with them. And vice-versa, they can smell your fear, and they don’t want anyone less than their standards. Sorry Mr. or Madam missionary, but if you flinch even a little bit, you were never getting through to them. They come with this stigma of being unwelcomed. They’re the ones that are ready to start a riot, throw rocks at gates and/or vehicles. My kind of people. Look ma’, I knew my tattoos were a great idea. God gave me a window to work with. And I like being around these guys. I want to live the life that Christ set, and I must imagine this was his crowd.

There’s plenty more instances to this. I guess this was writing to quell my soul, put into words how I’m feeling, possibly to seek out prayer, not in the way of quiet desperation, but more to be in touch with God. He has given me a wide future ahead. He put me in a position to have a great problem. How does he want me to serve him best?

Much love,

Isken