that mud is not mud . . .

The pathways all through town have been flooded since, well, since we've been home. Before that, really; however, we've only been here to enjoy the flooded, muddy development for 3 days. Unfortunately, when it's monsoon season in a country with open sewage, you know that what is squishing between your toes when you walk isn't just mud. It's something more. I'll leave the rest to your imagination. Praise God for rainboots. I went out earlier in crocs and had mud squishing between every hole it could come through. Switching to my blue and white multi-striped boots allows me to fearlessly and happily traipse through (or just plain unexpectedly discover) potholes full of muddy water, squishy mud, and just about anything.

love marriage?

It eludes me how a taxi driver who speaks little to no English knows the words "love" and "marriage" and can put them together in a Nepali sentence to ask whether I'm married, and if so, how it came about. Absolutely bewildering.

"We want freedom! We want freedom!"

I forgot to mention to my roommate as she walked out the door tonight that there's a protest going on at the center of our little town. I only heard them as I walked home in the dark; the dozen eggs in my hand and blender in a sack slung over my arm prevented me from investigating further. I know they're from my people group, and anyone who has been watching the news about this part of the world can guess which nation they're protesting against. I wish and pray and hope that someday soon these precious protestors will know true freedom: life hidden with Christ in God. Life that has been bought with a price, that spurs us to glorify God with our bodies and our lives. Life that never ends.

Pray with me toward that end, will you?