I started with tears, not because I am sad or because of the frequency of them in my life... but because this window is the most relevant at the moment. It provides a glimpse of why I am still sitting in a coffee shop in Ibiza instead of sitting at home in my apartment in Washington, D.C.

"Whenever you find tears in your eyes, especially unexpected tears, it is well to pay the closest attention. They are not only telling you something about the secret of who you are, but more often than not God is speaking to you through them of the mystery of where you have come from and is summoning you where, if your soul is to be saved, you should go next"- Fredruck Buechner as quoted in Windows to the Soul by Ken Gire (191).

My departure was scheduled for July 23rd, 11:25 p.m. In the week leading up to my flight, I kept discovering droplets of water falling from my face. Tears- a little uncommon, a little unexpected.

Flashback: leaving Ibiza last year. As my plane ascended, the water droplets started pouring from my eyes. Several hours of dripping facets under the eyelids. No real distress or sadness, just a feeling that I needed to return. And, so I did.

Several days ago, I sat on my balcony. Staring at the clouds, speaking to God through flows of spoken word and prayer, marveling at the tears falling down my cheek. It didn't want to think about leaving this place; it seemed like my pending departure was too soon and the unexpected tears- a week early, and a few too many- agreed with my sentiments. "Lord, why am I crying? I have a week left- that's a lot of time. Why am I crying already?? "

As I watched the cloud pass quickly overhead, I heard a voice in my head say this "like that cloud you will pass through quickly, but your presence still has an impact while you here and eventually you will return and pass through again." Fair enough, but why am I crying? What does that even mean?

Searching for answers, I looked toward the sky. The cloud seemed to slow. It lingered. And, suddenly I realized that my tears were indicative of a longing for a little more time, I wanted to linger here a little longer too.  But, was God leading me to stay a little longer? Were the tears and the imagery and the prayers really from Him? Or was it just wishful thinking? I asked God to have someone invite me to stay if He wanted me to stay.

The next day, I was invited to stay longer if I wanted to do so. My flights were able to be changed, the space for me here was confirmed, and God clearly made a way for me to linger here for just a little longer: three weeks longer.  Because I paid attention to my tears and asked for God to reveal their meaning, I have a little more time and a lot more joy and excitement in knowing that God has purpose for the next three weeks.

Those tears were not the only ones I have shed since being here. I have cried for lives that seem engulfed by hopelessness, for the abuse of alcohol and drugs, for the vulnerable who have been deserted by their friends, for the loss of innocence, for those imprisoned by injustice, for the deceptive sting of insecurity, for my brothers and sisters who have yet to find their way home to the Father... I've shed many tears for many people here in Ibiza and I find that each one is an indication of something deeper.

"So much is distilled in our tears, not the least of which is wisdom in living life. From my own tears I have learned that if you follow your tears, you will find your heart. If you find your heart, you will find what is dear to God. And if you find what is dear to God, you will find the answer to how you should live your life"- Windows to the Soul, Ken Gire- 195.

" Don’t worry about anything; instead, pray about everything. Tell God what you need, and thank him for all he has done." Phil 4:6 (NLT)

"Our Christian habit is to bewail the world's deteriorating standards with an air of rather self-righteous dismay... "The world is going down the drain." we say with a shrug. But whose fault is it? Who is to blame? Let me put it like this. If the house is dark when night falls, there is no sense in blaming the house; that is what happens when the sun goes down. The question to ask is, "Where is the light?". Similarly, if the meat goes bad and becomes inedible, there is no sense in blaming the meat... the question to ask is, "Where is the salt?" Just so, if society deteriorates and its standards decline... there is no sense in blaming society; that is what happens when fallen men and women are left to themselves... the question to ask is "where is the church? Why are the salt and light of Jesus Christ not permeating and changing our society?" - John Stott, Issues Facing Christians Today, page 85.

Party- "a social gathering of invited guests, typically involving eating, drinking, and entertainment"- Oxford dictionary

One last post concerning Ibiza.... for now at least. For anyone who has talked with me in the last four months, you know that I had a tremendous amount of difficulty deciding whether or not to go on this trip.  I am in the middle of support raising for my internship, out of contacts and ideas, and about $1000 a month short of my goal... and I hopped on a plane and fled the country. It was irrational and not great timing... yet I still felt like I should go.

With my eyes fixed on my tattoo -Kairos, timing, opportunity, my monument to what God has done in my life... and my ear turned to Heaven hoping that I heard Him correctly... I charged the plane tickets on my credit card and decided to seize the opportunity. I did  so fully knowing that the consequences could be irreversible. But, I believed I heard God say "go", so I went.

In retrospect, it was absolutely God and regardless of the consequences, I will never regret boarding that plane. My time in Ibiza was two of the best weeks of my life, and may actually greatly impact my future as I have reconfirmed some things that He has been revealing about my life. And, He reconfirmed that I know how to hear His voice.

Before Ibiza, when I glanced down at the tattoo... I was reminded of all the Kairos moments I seemingly missed. The moments were I interpreted God's leading incorrectly, when I hesitated too long to see God move, and when I flat out disobeyed God intentionally by ignoring Him.

Now when I look down at the tattoo, I am reminded of what happens when I obey God's voice... incredible, life changing experiences.. specific directions to streets and corners where opportunities to help people and amazing conversations occur...specific questions and words for  people... specific insights to things going on in the spiritual realm... specific scriptures, pictures and words to pray through. When glance down at my wrist, I remember that I hear God's voice and I know how to respond to the way He speaks to me. I recall this with a humble submission knowing that it is all God and all for His glory...  and a holy confidence knowing that with Him all things are possible.

The night rounds start around midnight and go until four or five in the morning. We go out in twos, armed with a bag full of bibles, first aid and vomit cleaning supplies, water, lighters, and prayer cards. Some shifts out involve walking a drunk person home, some are messy, some involve rides in the vomit wagon, but others just involve conversations and prayer with people. Generally long conversations happen on slower nights. Wednesday is normally a busier messier night, but last Wednesday, my second to last night on the island...I had both a busy night and a good long conversation.

His friend stopped us to inform us that we would need the wheel chair later that night to take his buddy home. His mate was celebrating his last night on the island, and seemed smart enough to not drink himself into a stupor. After sharing that I was also leaving soon, we began discussing why I came to Ibiza. Which led to how I decided to enter into ministry and why I became a Christian. Then the conversation shifted to how we can help people in the areas we live in and then back to how to find authentic Christians. Then he confessed to me that he once believed and could no longer... that he felt like God had abandoned him.. that he had no purpose in his life because he had missed his opportunity already. The questions that followed included: "Why doesn't God answer my prayers? How can I hope for a purpose when I already messed that up? Does God even know me? Is it possible that He forgot to give me a purpose, that some people are useless? Why do bad things happen if God cares? How can He forgive us for those bad things that we do, for the missed opportunities?".  Question by question, I tried to my best to relay what I know to be true.. in summary: "Jesus loves you mate. He knows you. He has a purpose for you. I don't know why you feel like He is far off. I understand it though, I've been there and felt that...but I challenge you to give God a chance again. With a sincere heart ask Him to reveal Himself and He will. Matthew 7:7, a life verse for me. Can I pray with you, that it would be your life verse too. That you will continue to seek God and find Him?" 

Our willingness to stop allowed God to use me to speak some words of truth and encouragement into the life of a prodigal son and to share my testimony with him. Awesome, and I know his name and bits and pieces of his story.... which means I can continue praying for him. Here is to being willing to slow down, even on the busy nights, and take the time to listen to and talk with others.

As the plane descended into the airport, my first thought about Ibiza involved climbing the mountains and jumping into the sea. Ascending into the sky two weeks later, I was wondering if my return trip would involve some outdoor antics. Love the idea of rock climbing, but my upper body strength isn't as great as it used to be.. and I just may be too insecure to even attempt it. Even if I can find the footholds and hand grips, I don't know if I can pull myself up the rock face. The imagery of the side of the cliff stuck in my mind throughout the duration of my twenty something hours in transit.

Footholds? Reminds me of the lovely phrase: "don't give the devil a foothold". I've wrote about this before, and I will probably write about it again... I think I have some footholds and hand grips exposed in my life that need to be dealt with in the upcoming year. My time in Ibiza confirmed that, but also affirmed the fact that the devil is too weak to pull himself up the rock face.

Let me explain in a different way.... on the flight back, I was trying to watch some mindless movies to deter my thoughts. My choice: She's Outta My League. Funny, the film takes place near my home turf in Pittsburgh mainly at the airport. One sentence plot summary: an average guy starts dating an successful, attractive woman who he perceives to be out of his league and his insecurity about the incompatibility leads him to almost ruin the relationship. Like the guy in the film, I am extremely insecure and often worry more about the disparities in life than the possibilities. For me, I often feel like the tasks God calls me to are outta of my league.

In a previous entry, I mentioned three foothold areas that God and I am working on... artsy creativity, physical fitness, and self expression via personal appearance. If you want a healthy dose of exposure therapy for those three things, I would suggest clubbing. When they informed me that we were going clubbing at the world's most respectable nightclub, my initial thought was "*gulp* I can't do this. Love house music, love to dance, love people... but I can't do this, I am not good enough to be a clubbing person, life in Ibiza is outta my league. So, how do I get out of this? Or rather, how do I push through?"

That small foothold of insecurity could have led me to not go out with the team. It could have led me to going out and being miserable. It could have led me to missing an awesome opportunity to worship God in the midst of a sea of people worshiping music, alcohol, drugs and sex. Instead, I pushed through and LOVED every moment of it. Why? I loved  the experience because God created me with a love of music, dance and worship, but the footholds of my personal insecurity are generally just enough room for the devil to get a grip on my life and cripple me with fear.... preventing me from fully being the person God created me to be.

Upon my return stateside, I am already eagerly awaiting another opportunity to climb some personal mountains... I am also aware of that I need to destroy some exposed footholds and hand grips in my own life. Here is to ten months in DC, the place where I am most insecure, to continue to prove to myself that this calling on my life is not outta my league with God's help and guidance. After those ten months, we'll see where He leads me... I can only hope that it's to a place way outta my league so that I know that I am clinging to Him, being the person He created me to be.

Being the American that I am, I smirked every time one of the UK peeps asked "What's your favorite bit?"... such a funny phrase that reminds me of puppy chow, but nevertheless an adequate question. Bit is defined as a small fraction of the whole and anything I could write about the last two weeks would be just that: a small piece of a massive life changing experience. Since I know that even my master oration skills can not do my time in Ibiza justice, here is the first of a few bits and pieces of my time in Ibiza. 

Night 2: PR worker directs us to a passed out man sleeping under the serving window of a bar. Abby and I sat him up and attempt to wake him up. After several minutes of poking pressure points and some water on the back of the neck, he opens his eyes... looks at Abby and throws up all over her, and then rolls back over. I kneel down next to him and prop him up against my knees. He is still not responding, there is bloody vomit everywhere, and his breathing is slowing. His eyes are rolling and we do not know his name or anything about him. The Spanish police stop to ask us if we need help. Through broken Spanglish, we relay the message that our newly acquired friend needs medical attention. They phone the local ambulance (not the expensive private clinic like most authorities phone). A bar owner comes out and berates us for slowing his business because of the drunk in the street. The police ask him to leave and decide to stay with us to help ward off the crowd of scoffers. A drunken group of guys walk by, identify the kid, but refuse to help us get him home or to a medical center. They run off cursing the spectacle, abandoning their friend. Abby and I carry him a block to the main street with our police escort friends. On the ground, in the recovery position, his head in my arms we waited for the ambulance to take our new friend away. He'll never remember our names, but he may remember that someone helped him when everyone else left him unconscious in the streets, and I will never forget him or the police who waited with us.

Later that night, with sick still soaking the bottom of my jeans and the smell of vomit spritzed through my hair... worship continued as we celebrated in the club until sunrise. When I remembered that I was wearing a bit of our dear friend's rough night, I couldn't help but smile because I  know Jesus was smiling too.  This is His kind of community... one that selflessly serves the masses, faithfully ministers to the few, and jubilantly celebrates the One true God.

As my facebook status currently indicates, I walked out of church this morning. Standing there, I tried to worship God, but it felt so contrived-  like I was faking it. The music was familar and well played, but my heart was not in it. Too much head noise, too many distractions. The lights flickering from the stage, my annoyance at the group of girls commenting on how I was wearing jeans and a tshirt, the prayers intertwined with the song that sounded like they were straight from a Christianese Hallmark card, singing songs about fire falling down and being the hands and feet of the Gospel knowing that the words are seemingly empty... I could not focus. Nothing in worship changed from the last time I was there, none of these criticisms are new, but for some reason this morning I could not get through the emerging church "Sunday's coming" model  that every church has seeming adopted (catch the funny video reference on vimeo). I dropped to my knees hoping to tune out the distractions and hear God's voice...

"Why are you here? This isn't you. You want to love and serve me with all you have, all I have given you and this isn't the place for you. Here, you are caged. So why are you trying soo hard to fit here? Just leave. Get up, walk to your car, leave. We can talk on your way back. We'll start with your family. Love and serve there. If they see you like this, so passionate and wrecked and excited, they will understand. Go tell them what you have seen, how you have changed, what you desire... let's start there. Get up and worship me...."

So I got up, and as soon as I had the opportunity to sneak out without being distracting, I walked out mid-worship and got in my car. 4.5 hours later....after hours of worship through prayer, spoken word, spontaneous song, and a bit of dancing behind the wheel...

Through a stream of tears, I began telling my brother what God is doing in my life, what God is doing in Ibiza, what I hope God will continue doing in the people I met these last few weeks.  From the perspective of my brother who has known me my entire life and has not necessarily been affirming of what I have been doing recently, "Yeah, that all sounds cool. Sounds like something you'd do. Sounds more like you than what you are doing now. You're going back, right? For a few months, maybe a year or something? I can't see you there forever, well I can't actually see you anywhere forever, but I can see you living in Spain for a bit.  Just be sure to get some international calling on that phone."
 
Survey says: I have a strong feeling I'll be back in Ibiza next summer. The question is just a matter of the length and context of my stay on the island.

Words penned into my journal while watching the sun disappear over the horizon...
 

Last night, the smell of alcohol still on my hands, my jeans damped from sick... I turn to the Word... share a bit of truth, prophesied to the dry bones, trusting in their liberation... my words are His weapons... arrows targeting deception... my hands are His tools, lifting the downtrodden, comforting the shoulders of the brokenhearted... my feet, His vehicle... unveiling His glory and Good News to the nations in the streets... paving the way for the King. His bass fills my ears, my heart invaded by the rhythm of His grace... and this is Home... where earthly destruction meets heavenly beauty, where overindulgence meets selfless worship... here my heart finds its unexpected home... in the proximity or the place? perhaps a little of both... either way, as the sun sets, the lights rise again. as the sky darkens, their dawn breaks... and they'll emerge into the streets... and we'll welcome them home... into Your arms.

It began with dreams of sharing the Gospel in the streets. As the trees were shedding their leaves, my nights were filled with the ghosts of the alleyways. I saw myself standing on the corner chatting with a group of people about Jesus, laying hands on darkened buildings, and treading through the rain drenched European cobblestone.

Before the snow fell, I already knew.The front page of a new Moleskin, in ink... I penned: "Ibiza." As that last dot hit the page, visions of many years past invaded my mind. My secret European dreams.

Oh, I am living the dream. It may only be for two weeks, but this is Heaven on Earth. The mountains, the sea, the hand of God at work, moving with the rhythm of prayer and Spirit, praising Him through song and dance... this is it.

And, the more I am here, the more my heart knows I will return. To the cobblestone, to the pub, to the other side of the world. I cannot explain the allure or the burden, but I feel like I belong here. At the vortex of Spain and the UK, a crazy American is feeling at home.

For the first time in a long time, I feel complete.