I am not normal. By Michael Lusk

Evenin'/Mornin Bloggeroonies.  Today's entry is provided by my anything-but-normal husband.  I hope you enjoy it as much as I do.

Hi. This is Michael Lusk. I’m not normal.

In fact, I am not even trying to be. My wife, as you can see, is pretty out there, too.  As you might guess, our kids are following in suite.

I suppose we just decided that our standard for life is not based on what everyone considers to be “normal”.  Sure, maybe our extreme, missionary lifestyle isn’t palatable for some, but we decided a long time ago that we are going to live “sold out” to the One who died to save us – to live like we really believe that what we say about Him is true.  That’s what has lead us into our greatest adventures and joys as a family.

Like when…

We lived in a cute little guest house with giant spiders.

We ventured out of our safe home in Michigan with our suitcases and a six-month-old baby.

Or the time we had about twenty grand in small bills on our person walking the streets of South America.

How bout the time we had to fight off the street dogs just to get groceries.

I could go on…

There are challenges when you decide to follow Him, no question.  But nothing compared to what’s it’s like blazing your own trail and calling your own shots.  Frank Sinatra said, “I did it my way.”  Well, look where that got him – dead. (OK, so everyone dies – my point still stands.) Sorry, Frankie, but your life mantra is psychotic.  No, sir.  I put my hand to the plow.  I’m never looking back.

This picture was taken in Gancedo, Chaco. (Argentina) That big rock is earth's second largest meteorite.  We stopped en-route to an open air crusade where we witnessed miracle after miracle.  Jesus is alive!

Unsolved Mysteries...

       Ever feel deep and thinky enough that reaching for a pipe while donning a dorky polka dot bow-tie and listening to the "music" my husband buys wouldn't seem unnatural?  Tonight I am entirely consumed by a single permeating thought.  It surfaces from time to time, like that peculiar reoccurring dream we all tend to have, or our shared desire to haphazardly run down the neat row of orange construction pylons who stare at us mockingly as if they know all too well, traffic tickets and heated lectures from our spouses would never permit us to act on such a whim.  
  

 I'm sure you've wondered it too.

"Why me?"

Of all the persons on this planet, most of whom live in poverty and are plagued with innumerable fears,  Why was I born, not one of them, but here, on the soil of the United States of America?

It seems to me that God could've ordained that I'd be a little girl in Africa, a precious child conceived in the womb a woman who's blood test would read positive for HIV.  Could I not have, just as easily, been that infant, the dear orphan baby who knows nothing of birthdays, who most likely won't see her second?

"Am I any more deserving than she is?" Surely not.

"Is it by chance, that as I breathed my first I was greeted by a silver spoon?"

I seek.  I knock.  I ask.

I listen.

"Why me?"

I search without understanding of something too great for my comprehension.  It matters not how hard or how long I ponder.  I shall never, as long as I remain on this earth, know the reason; for The Answer withholds such an answer from me.

So, for now, I embrace with all thanksgiving, the lavish wealth with which I have been so graciously endued, the family I do not deserve, and the saving knowledge of the Lord Jesus Christ which is the root of my beautiful country, my sparkling silver spoon.

Oh that I may take that precious knowledge to the lost and dying people of the world.  Oh that my words may give them life and hope.  May the Gospel of Jesus Christ delivered by my tongue and my pen, be the nation-changing power unto them that will someday cause their descendants to search into the depths of the universe for the ever unanswered question.

"Why me?"