I signed up for one of those Myspace accounts, mainly because I just wanted to be able to view my friends' accounts. Creating the illusion of an interesting Myspace life, though, so far has been extremely arduous.

Trying to figure out how to add my "profile song," for example, had me stumped for hours. Am I alone here? :)

Suffer the little children...

One morning a few weeks ago, as I got ready to cross one of the busier Sarajevan intersections, I saw out of the corner of my eye three Roma gypsy boys waiting to cross from the other side. The oldest of the three boys couldn't have been more than eight years old, the youngest, no older than four. No adult was to be seen watching out for them, and it was such a strange sight. In America where child safety is such a priority, you'd never see a four year old anywhere near such an intersection.

When the coast became clear I watched the kids begin to trot across the street. All of the sudden a taxicab shot around the corner, turning right into the path of the kids. Fortunately the kids all made it onto the median before the cab came ripping by. But the littlest boy's foot caught on the pavement as he tried to jump up onto the median, and he went tumbling violently forward, landing hard on his hands and knees. For a moment he lay stunned where he'd fallen, then he began to cry out of shock and pain.

The taxicab screeched to a halt, the driver mashed his gear into reverse and zigzagged backward, slamming to a stop next to the boy. By this time huge tears had started gushing down the boy's dirty face, his eyes searching for help. It seemed that the driver intended to rush out of the car to help the boy, but instead he rolled down his window and began to scream at the boy in anger. The boy began to cry harder and louder, struggling to his feet in fear and surprise, blood trickling from his skinned knees and hands. The driver, still cursing and yelling, his fist pounding emphatically on the side of the cab door, finally sped away as traffic began piling up behind him.

The boy continued to wail as he tried through a blur of tears to locate the two older boys, but they'd gone on without him and were now completely out of sight. His arms reached out, but no one was there--no one seemed concerned about a dirty little Roma who probably got what he deserved anyway for begging. I wanted to run to him and scoop him up, but there was no way I could safely get past the sea of cars whizzing by in both directions. I looked around once more to see if there was anyone to whom the boy belonged, and seeing no one, I turned to look back, but the boy was gone. He probably darted in between moving cars and ran off in search of the others.

Witnessing this scene caused me to remember all the love and attention I was given by my parents. My heart broke for this child, who perhaps won't ever understand that feeling. I'm reminded of Mark 10:14, "...[Jesus said] Suffer the little children to come unto Me, and forbid them not: for of such is the kingdom of God." It's such a comfort that this boy can find love and comfort in Jesus, even if no one else in the world cares if he lives or dies.

Jaja

I'm amazed by the deep, rich orange color of egg yolks here (Bosnian word for eggs: Jaja--pron. ya-ya). They just look (and taste) so much better. Yep, dad, even more so than Eggland's Best. Makes me wonder what Chernobyl-like effects past eggs I've eaten may have had on me.

Completely off the subject and relating to nothing in particular

Animal Planet, one of the few channels I get in English, and one to which I've become relatively addicted, has an afternoon show about wildlife rescue. In the episode today, a kangaroo was being rescued from a mud pit. To my amazement, I found out that these bouncy animals are called macropods, and there are like a zillion types: kangaroos (3 types), wallaroo (3 types), tree kangaroo (8 types), wallaby (26 types), monjon (1 type), dorcopsis (6 types), pademelon (4 types), bettong (5 types), potoroo (3 types), rat kangaroo (1 type).

Whoa!

Amazing Grace

Davor is from Sarajevo. He attends the church where I go, and is quickly becoming a good friend of mine. Until his dramatic conversion to Christianity five years ago, Davor lived a hellish lifestyle of heroin addiction.

Davor was in his most insecure and sensitive preteen years at the onset of the war in 1992. He is now 25 years old. Most Bosnians in their mid-twenties to early thirties suffered unbelievable emotional trauma, as many of them lost one or both parents, were raped, and had friends on the enemy side that turned against them during the war.

As many also did, Davor turned to heroin for his temporary escape from the misery of day to day life during the war years. Throughout his teens and early twenties, he was criminally convicted multiple times of robbing cars and supermarkets to support his habit. During that time he was in prison more often than not. His twenty-eight year old brother, Alexander, who also developed a drug habit, is still serving a prison term for drug use, trafficking, and theft.

Five years ago, Davor decided that enough was enough: it was time to get clean. He checked himself in to a rehabilitation clinic, one that happened to be run by Christians. There he got clean, and he got saved. He has been clean since, but because of the drug use, he contracted Hepatitis C and is going through rounds of brutal, chemotherapy-like treatment cycles to kill the virus. Because of the treatments, he constantly feels sick and nervous, and there are periods when he is not able to sleep for weeks. The treatments will last for two more years. He also has two years left on probation for his criminal activity and history of drug abuse. But Davor is a changed man.

Now he is preaching and teaching in the churches here. His radical faith and love for Christ is amazing to see. What amazes me most, though, is that despite all that he suffers physically, Davor lights up every room he enters. His joy is infectious--I've only met a few people I can so easily laugh with. He is a tremendous encouragement to me and to everyone here, when in the natural one might think it should be the other way around.

Davor's life tells of the mighty way that the Lord raises us up out of the miry place and sets our feet upon a rock. I don’t think Davor realizes, or perhaps he does, what a powerful testimony he is of God's amazing grace.

A few Dubrovnik photos

Dubrovnik, Croatia: April 14-16

A twelve hour music rehearsal today for the citywide church service Sunday morning. At 2, worship team was fortified with the most delicious Sarajevan burgers yet; caffeine at 5.

One of the guitarists, Ivan (Ee-vahn) drove me home tonight, and as we drove, I stared as he began to give me the "you know what's wrong with America and President Bush?" bit. I smiled and kept the immature "Who's country was and whose wasn't covered with land mines in 1992?" retort to myself. Soon I will, but I still haven't repented for thinking it.

It was nice coming home to Grbavicka 62 tonight. The noises are becoming my noises, the garbage truck guys are becoming my garbage truck guys, friends are coming and going from here, adding memory and warmth to the place. It's starting to feel right.

Loku noc (goodnight)!

Morning!

Easter in Dubrovnik

Didn't spend Easter in the 85% non-Easter-celebrating Sarajevo. Instead, I was in a 95% Easter-celebrating city, the very catholic Dubrovnik. Sunday morning the bells rang at 8, 9, 10, 11, and 12. Mass was packed. 'Adio' (go with God), people said to each other as they streamed out...curiously Spanish-sounding Croatian farewell.

Later I was given an elaborately decorated Easter egg by the Croatian grandma in whose house I was a guest. It's tradition for the women of the house to decorate large basketfuls of hardboiled eggs and pass them out to everyone who stops in or passes by. So refreshing that this ritual is not associated with a bohemoth rabbit and special sales on pork loin and leg of lamb at Shopper's Food Warehouse.

I sorely missed not hearing the proclamation/response phrase I've come to know so well: "He is risen;" "He is risen indeed!"

Kicking It Romania Style

Came across a website with pictures from a mission trip I took 3 years ago to Oradea, Romania. Lord willing I plan to visit Oradea again this summer via Sarajevo. The Ciuciui family are a dynamic power team, winning souls for the kingdom left and right in their community and nation!

Ciuciui kids: Dani, Ligia, Calin, Ted

View from my flat when I woke up last Friday morning--last year it snowed in June in Sarajevo!

I have been living in Bosnia for nearly three weeks now. It's been eye opening, exciting, sad, surprising, beautiful--some of the mountainous skylines take my breath away...But there's an emptiness that dims the beauty here.

The blood of the land cries out for redemption; it has never been blessed. Good things have never been spoken over it, only curses. The young people seek to escape in droves to the west where things are "good"--or so they want to believe. They've completely lost faith in their land--they never had a love for it.

I don't know what to do with this--I come from a nation rich with blessing, one that loves and takes pride in itself. I can't understand the despise of one's own country, the lack of hope for any future good. It affects me deeply; it angers me, it frustrates me, it makes me forever thankful for the blessing of a nation I've taken for granted, and it gives me a heart to pray for mercy and salvation to come here and redeem this people and this land.

I'm convinced that the tenants in the flat above mine have had a new bowling alley installed in their living room.

Can A Nation Be Changed?

Can a nation be changed?
Can a nation be saved?
Can a nation be turned back to You?

We're on our knees
We're on our knees again

Let this nation be changed
Let this nation be saved
Let this nation be turned back to You

Matt Redman
© 1996
Kingsway's Thankyou Music
CCLI# 1589763

Coffee and Cigarettes

Probably the most common sight in Sarajevo, day or night.

Arnel

One of Bosnia's little hopes for the future

Grbavica

My flat is located in the district of Grbavica (Gerr-buh-veets-uh), on the third floor of a tall building just off a busy intersection. Grbavica is the district that the Serbs completely overtook, forcing residents out (and killing many) and using the windows and balconies as launch pads for sniping the streets below.

*The above is not a photo of my actual apartment building, but is similar to how my building would have looked after the 3 1/2 year siege.