Two years ago today, I returned from a six-month trip through Southern Africa. While the trip was fruitful and goals were accomplished, Africa caught me by surprise.

Many of us [most of us, I assume] have had glimmers of fantasy concerning Africa. We imagine ourselves holding orphaned black children, dancing to beating drums around fires, and preaching to the masses. In such fantasies, we look rugged. Men, we have beards and dirt on our faces. Women, you have your hair pulled back and a long skirt on. Such reveries are common.

When we see Angelina Jolie and Brad Pitt, Oprah, Madonna, and Bono performing their various humanitarian exploits in such an iconic fashion, it’s only natural to desire to do the same. We can’t help it. [Messiah Complex is contagious].

The reality I returned with on February 15, 2008 was completely different than the fantasy I developed when purchasing airfare, reading travel guides, and packing bags. Although I had once before visited Africa, it was only for two weeks. A measly two weeks, I now concur.

While still at the airport, with friends and family wishing “safe travels” and “bon voyage,” my excitement was difficult to contain. I was absorbed in romanticism. Six months, I thought, would be far too short–– only a whetting of my appetite for the continent. Little did I know, however, that those six months would be some of the most wearisome (emotionally, physically, and spiritually) months of my life.

My friend Cam and I travelled to many corners of Southern Africa–– through Malawi, Mozambique, Zambia, and Zimbabwe. Our trip was filled with adventure, joy, and ministerial success.

And mundaneness.

And loneliness.

And feebleness.

And disappointment.

Being the dangerously optimistic person that I am, many of my expectations were unmet at the consummation of our trip. The satisfaction I had hoped for (through opportunities at heroism, benevolence, and conditional contentment) was hardly obtained… When I returned home, there was still a void inside.

I’ve concluded that I was jaded by the common romanticized portrayal of Africa. I had unrealistic expectations of the continent. I thought I’d live happily ever after on red soil in the company of smily black people, enjoying beautiful sunsets, exotic wildlife, soccer, and mangoes. (Naïvety at its finest). The same emptiness that I sought to fill during my African expedition haunted me on February 15, 2008.

The weeks and months that followed my return to the States were crucial. It was up to me to work up another hankering to fill that lingering void. It was my job to grapple with expectations unmet and dreams unfulfilled. In that season, I found a Man who could help me with this. He affirmed me, mending my broken places. He gave to my heart a certain balm, anointing, to help it recover. He plundered my negative thoughts and feelings of disappointment. And I rallied to victory, gaining fresh perspective.

So, this is my counsel to any and all who dream of third-world long-term ministry: look to Jesus to fulfill your dreams. Don’t allow Africa (nor Asia, Europe, Oceania, South America, urban America) obliterate your expectations, because it (they) will. To all who are allured by understaffed orphanages and remote villages: be wooed by God, not the transformation nor revolutionization of those places. To all who dream of happiness amidst poverty and shoddy conditions: fantasize of happiness with Jesus, regardless of setting. Conditions, cultures, heroism, charity, travel, and people in and of themselves will never (ever) satisfy you.

[If I'm coming across as burnt out/ regretful/ let down, I'm getting my point across].

That’s what I learned on my trip to Africa.

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Before we get started here, let me ask: How is the ‘Nine Extraordinary Moments of 2009′ series working for all of you? Let me know. I need love feedback.

7. September; Denver, Colorado.

In early September, Bethany and I drove to Colorado for a wedding. One of Bethany’s friends was getting married and the drive was only eight hours, so we figured it would be worthwhile.

We spent the entire weekend in Colorado. We made a spontaneous decision to attend a Colorado Rockies game the night we arrived. We visited Rocky Mountain National Park and Estes Park–– the quaint town right outside the park. We stayed with some close family friends of mine and enjoyed Dim Sum with them the next morning. We saw Red Rocks–– one of the most famous amphitheaters in the world. And then the weekend climaxed with the wedding, which was more than enjoyable.

On Monday–– Labor Day–– we set out on our journey home. Before we had driven 10 miles, car problems ensued. When I accelerated to what should have been 40 mph, the car’s engine would rev out of control to almost double the revolutions necessary. So, I exited the highway to get the problem under control.

After a telephone scramble, I found that not a single auto shop was open on Labor Day (Coloradans take the holiday seriously). So, mildly frustrated, we checked into the nearest hotel that didn’t look like a castle–– the Fairfield Inn. In the morning, we’d get the car fixed and get home that evening. (We thought).

At 3 pm the next day, the problem had finally been diagnosed. My output speed sensor–– an intricate, electronic part which senses the speed with which a car’s operator is trying to drive the car–– was faulty. Thus, when I wanted to go 60 mph, my output speed sensor told my car to go 100 mph, which revved my engine out of control. At times, I thought my engine would explode. They told me it would be a day before they’d get the part in. (Liars).

With responsibilities looming, Bethany flew back to Kansas City the following day (Wednesday). I kicked it at the Fairfield (the trendiest of Thornton kick it there too, so, needless to say, I fit in quite well). Antsy and bored, I decided to venture out later that afternoon.

And, thanks to the almighty Google (and sites like WhereTheLocalsEat, LonelyPlanet, and Yelp!), I made out pretty well…

A few of my jaunts included:

-the 1.25-mile long 16th Street Mall
-the Market–– a sweet coffee shop/ bistro/ grocery store hybrid
-St. Mark’s coffeehouse–– a grungy, gargoyle-filled coffee shop that didn’t have the best lattes. Nor atmosphere. Nor service (they had trouble getting out of the Labor Day spirit). But it had a chair with a 10-foot back. Literally.
-a second Rockies game (an enjoyable afternoon game vs. the Diamondbacks. I sat in the outfield for $5).
-The Gap (by this time, I needed some new underwear… and, truthfully, have you ever had too much underwear?)

Also, I spent significant amounts of time at a nearby Starbucks.

By Thursday, I was beginning to lose heart with the situation. I questioned if I’d ever have a working car. I was wrong. I got my fixed car back. At 6 pm. And I arrived in Kansas City at 3:30 am. But I arrived nonetheless.

If you weren’t entertained by this [extra]ordinary moment, perhaps yesterday’s post will whet your appetite for entertainment.

Two moments left. Coming soon.

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(To those of you who stopped by yesterday and found a faulty site: my apologies. I made a blunder).

6. August; Oakland, California.

(Precursor: none of the below details are embellished in the least).

One beautiful Sunday afternoon in Oakland, I was driving to John Madden’s house (actually, I was driving to his next door neighbor’s house but, for all intensive purposes…). I was driving my future mother-in-law’s car, enjoying a few moments to myself toward the end of a ministry trip I was helping to lead.

The highway was mostly vacant of cars and everything seemed to be moving at a pleasant pace. Then, the water bottle between my legs overextended its welcome. And things went downhill from there.

I chose to relocate the bottle to a more fitting place–– the vehicle’s drink holder. However, the space was taken… by a paper Dixie cup which was filled to only one-fifth of its capacity. Though the cup only held water, I couldn’t discard the substance onto the floor of the vehicle–– it was my future mother-in-law’s. So, in an innocent act of riddance, I tossed the water–– not the cup–– out the window.

Approximately 60 seconds later, as I went to exit I-580, I glanced left to see a swerving red Ford Explorer. The operator of the vehicle was as red as the vehicle he was operating. Veins popping, spit flying–– the man was filled with rage. Though he appeared to be screaming at the top of his lungs, I was unable to hear what he was saying. All I could extract from his furious monologue was by means of lipreading. And none of my extractions are appropriate for your eyes to read.

Confused and alarmed, I began to cycle through my last few moments on the road. Did I cut him off? Perhaps I failed to use my blinker? Or he hated Arizona and was upset at me for driving a car with Arizona plates?

None of the above. Still raging 20 seconds later, the man picked up a water bottle which was identical to mine and began to point at it aggressively. Suddenly, after 20 seconds of utter confusion, the lights went on. My few ounces of water hit the red Explorer. So, just to put him at rest, I picked up my water bottle, pointed at it, nodded my head, and said, “Yes, it was water.” However, this brought an opposite effect than what I had anticipated.

Now, with freshly-stimulated anger, the man–– who, at this point, I realized was a soldier–– continued to yell, shaking his head, fists, and water bottle erratically. He lifted his sunglasses to look me in the eye and pointed his finger at me, dispensing expletives from his mouth liberally.

By now, I had become nervous. But the exit ramp just ahead seemed to be my tangible hope in the moment. So, on I drove, employing a certain kind of tunnel vision.

Now on the exit ramp, I sighed with relief and reached for the odious water bottle which again sat between my legs–– my hands shaking with nerves. I relaxed too soon, however. Just feet behind the silver Toyota Corolla I drove was a red Ford Explorer with a military man at the wheel. I nearly went into cardiac arrest.

For a moment, being the extreme optimist that I am, I thought that I was being followed, perhaps, by coincidence. (Perhaps the soldier was paying a visit to John Madden).

I watched the man like a hawk as I drove toward my destination. He made each turn I made, still following closely behind. Extremely closely.

When I came to a halt at the neighborhood’s entry, the red Explorer stopped just behind me. I turned to the neighborhood’s gate attendant and said, shakily, “Klosterman. And the man behind me is crazy. Please don’t let him in. I think I cut him off and he’s been tailgating me for miles and––”

I was cut off. “WHAT THE *#$@?!?!” The raging soldier now stood at my door, between me and the gate attendant.

He continued, “WHAT THE *#$@ WAS THAT ABOUT?”

Appearing to be composed, I responded, “Sir, it was water. I tossed water out the window.”

“Oh yeah? And HOW THE *#$@ DO I KNOW THAT?!?! Huh?!?!” The soldier now stood with his arms crossed and foot tapping.

“Sir, I took water from this cup and threw it out the window so I could use my drink holder.”

“BULL $#*@! That looked an awful lot like hydrochloric acid, son! How do I know that wasn’t acid?”

I exhaled deeply and responded, “Because, sir, I don’t drive down the road and throw hydrochloric acid out the window. I just––”

“Let me see that cup. Give me that cup!” he interjected.

Graciously, I handed him the cup.

He held it up to his nose, inhaled, and grunted.

“Are you familiar with California driving laws, young man?”

“No, I––”

“California driving law number 109 states that ANYTHING which is ejected from a vehicle is considered a projectile. Ok?”

“I–– I’m sorry. I just wanted to use the drink holder. I–– I’m really sorry. It was just water.”

“This is the sort of thing that starts a fight, young man,” he said, in a very matter of fact manner. “If I weren’t under oath,” he continued, raising his voice, “we would be in a fight right now. In a bloody fight!”

“_______,” I responded.

“You’re lucky, young man. If this happened to anyone else, you could very well have been beaten up by now.”

“Okay,” I said, with as much defiance as I could muster up.

“How old are you?”

“21. I’m 21.”

“21? You’ve got a lot to learn, young man.”

Mouth open, I let out a faint sigh.

Soldier Koo (his name was displayed on his uniform) then turned to the gate attendant and said, “Sir, thank you for standing by for all of this,” and marched off. The gate attendant, in shock, looked at me, raised his eyebrows, and opened the gate.

For over an hour, I couldn’t believe the situation that just took place.

And, after processing it all, I had one regret: I wish I would have plowed through the gate and into John Madden’s driveway for the confrontation, only to hear his color commentary on the action.

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4. March; Grant Ward’s Car (Atlanta, Georgia to Kansas City, Missouri)

That’s right, March’s extraordinary moment (a long, humorous one) took place in an automobile.

The cast: my good friend Grant Ward, myself, and Abi, a young native of Mumbai, India who appeared to be in his mid-forties.

Explaining the background of the story would be too thorough for a blog post. (Too thorough for me? Imagine!). So, in short, Abi was a 19-year-old young man who quit a program he had enrolled in in Atlanta. He was headed  to rural Colorado to work at a Christian retreat center and he found cheaper flights from Kansas City than he could find from Atlanta. How Grant got connected with him is another story. You can ask him if you’d really like to know.

Before we even pulled out of my driveway, I had come to the realization that Grant and I were in for an awkward drive with Abi. I’m not sure if you’ve ever seen a Jay and Silent Bob film, but Abi is an Indian type of Silent Bob–– carrying the same awkward muteness. Receiving a formless grunt, regardless of its connotation, was a generous response from Abi.

At first, I thought Abi was the type of shy guy who would open up with time. In my mind, he was the type who’d put on a tough external coat initially, only to crack and open up after a while. (Think the Beast from Beauty and the Beast or William Forrester [Sean Connery] from Finding Forrester).

This understood, my sole tactic for diffusing Abi’s unbearable awkwardness was to talk until he cracked. I wasn’t particularly interested in conversing with Abi, if I were to be honest. Instead, I was mostly interested in clearing the air.

I used this tactic for four days. And I utterly failed. My conversational aptitude (and resolve) was no match for Abi’s silent aura.

Abi Highlights

1. (Nashville) At Baja Burrito, Abi wolfed down his meal and asked us if he could go outside. Although we knew the Indian-blooded Abi would be uncomfortable in the 30-degree temperatures, we allowed him to exit. The next time we saw Abi, he was casually strolling through the Baja parking lot. He would periodically stop to look inside cars that were intriguing him. As a dark, bearded figure Abi looked extremely sketchy. Secretly, I wouldn’t have minded if Abi stole a car and disappeared forever–– just to have another story in my arsenal (along with freedom from his awkwardness).  And, as a matter of fact, Abi did disappear. However, it was only for a few minutes. He had visited a nearby gas station. We’re not sure why. (I know what you’re thinking and you need to stop. Don’t stereotype. No, Abi was not visiting his cousins at the gas station. At least, I don’t think he was).

2. (Nashville) At Crema, Abi quickly grew uncomfortable with our table (consisting of Grant, Annie, Jason, and myself) and, again, asked to leave to go sit in Grant’s car. He would sit there for hours, reclined in the front seat, mysterious to all who came near. We’ll never know if Abi took Grant’s car on a joyride or not. He certainly could have.

3. (St. Louis) Abi perked up to inquire about the St. Louis arch. I was shocked to hear him speak with no preceding provocation.

4. (Nearing Kansas City) Slap-happy from 12 hours on the road, I was beginning to act out in utter silliness. This provoked two or three minutes of unstopped giggles from Abi. I still don’t understand how this happened.

5. (Kansas City) At our apartment, Abi refused to drink out of a glass. Instead, he’d use our purified water pitcher as a cup, pouring the water from inches above his head into his mouth. One night, I was describing his quirk to friends when, all of the sudden, Abi came out of his bedroom. He walked to the kitchen and began to drink water. Though we couldn’t see Abi, we could see his silhouette on the wall, which excited immediate laughter from my friends. Clueless, Abi walked back through the living room to his bedroom with no acknowledgement of anyone in the room.

6. (Kansas City) At least once a day during his three-day stay, Abi would take over the bathroom for an hour or more. He refused to shower regularly and instead used a cup for his bathing. At first it was funny to listen to such activity in the bathroom. Eventually, however, it was annoying. Especially when you had to go number one (this is a trustworthy link).

7. (Kansas City International Airport) Abi departed.

The reference to Jamal in the title is alluding to my New Year’s post.

April’s extraordinary moment will come ASAP.

Enjoy your weekends.

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Being the storyteller that I am, lately I’ve been noticing my frequent references to events that happened in 2009. Some were outrageous. Some were chaotic. Some were incredible. Some were unfortunate.

So, without further ado, here are my two January moments from my list of nine extra-ordinary moments of 2009:

1. January; Duluth, Georgia.

I spent the first twenty days of last year assisting my family in their various recoveries. My mom had major surgery in December which required significant amounts of rest. This made it difficult for her to care for my younger sister, who had an appendicitis just two weeks later. With these situations lingering, I resided in Georgia for the month of January.

Just as the health chaos was appearing to expire, something bizarre–– yea, spectacular–– occurred. [Precursor: the following text isn’t meant to provide entertainment through misusing an unfortunate situation. Instead, I’m looking at the bright, humorous side of a bizarre situation].

On January 20, my grandfather, a widowed 82-year-old resident of western North Carolina, left his rural home for the nearest Sam’s Club. In the passenger seat rode my 54-year-old mentally-handicapped aunt. Their destination was located an hour and a half away in northeastern Georgia. Due to a change of location, my grandfather accidentally drove an hour past the Sam’s Club all the way into the mayhem of Atlanta roadways. Overwhelmed with eight lanes of highway pavement–– all occupied by vehicles which were being operated by some of the most erratic drivers in the country–– he pulled off I-85 and into the nearest gas station. [If you’re unfamiliar with Atlanta driving, just check any tourist guide for information about navigating the chaos. And we’ve long been infamous for our bad driving pandemic. In 1949, Gone With the Wind author Margaret Mitchell was killed in an Atlanta traffic accident].

At the gas station, Grandpa exited his car to go ask the gas station attendant for directions. However, when he stepped out of the car, he tripped on the curb and fell to the ground, breaking his hip. The news got to us a couple of hours later, after my grandpa had been admitted to Gwinnett Medical. And our response to the news was one of shock. [Who expects their out-of-state grandfather to break his hip at an Atlanta gas station?]

The ten days that followed included many trips to and from my grandfather’s hospital, five long nights spent in a hospital recliner, lots of reading (from the Bible, The Story of a Soul, and Dubay’s The Evidential Power of Beauty), a dozen hospital cafeteria meals, constant fidgeting on my iPhone, acting as a liaison for my drugged, hurting (and, at times, unreasonable) grandfather and the nurses he was frustrating, experiences with someone else’s loose bowels, and a few early morning Chick-Fil-A breakfasts following nights of interrupted, uncomfortable, limited sleep.

It’s been almost a year since this incident and my grandpa is still recovering. The moment was extraordinary indeed.

2. January; Mt. Vernon, Illinois.

Following my grandfather’s unfortunate trip to Sam’s Club, and the events that followed, I was finally headed back to Kansas City on January 31. I would be moving into a new apartment and I was hauling furniture from Georgia to furnish it. So, in one of the peak moments of my adulthood, I set out for a solo drive from Atlanta to Kansas City in a fully-packed ten-foot U-Haul which had nothing but an AM/FM radio for entertainment.

Thanks to a refreshing stop in Nashville, where I hung out with the legendary Annie Downs and Jason Stoltzfus, I was cruising right along, anticipating a 2 AM arrival in Kansas City. Yet, as I drove through the whitewashed middle-of-nowhere, Illinois (a.k.a. Mt. Vernon), I heard commotion behind me. At first, I assumed it to be a piece of furniture falling. Seconds later, though, the truth was revealed: I had blown my rear driver-side tire. I pulled over and laughed in disbelief. I then dialed up the U-Haul emergency line. This is when the moment became extra-ordinary.

Immediately, the female voice on the other line assured me that someone would be there to replace the blown tire within an hour. I was relieved, as I was beginning to run out of gas–– which I needed to heat the vehicle against the frigid temperatures outside.

Three and a half hours later, I saw the bright lights of the tow truck directly behind my ten-foot U-Haul. I greeted the expletive-dispensing truck driver with a handshake; his wife and toddler daughter with a wave. We [he] then loaded the U-Haul onto the truck, using the ‘f-bomb’ as much as the tow pulley.

In the truck cab, I told the young family a little about myself. The conversation went something like this:

“I’m from Atlanta,” I said, “And I’m headed back to Kansas City, where I’m a part of a large missions organization.”

“Atlanta…” the man responded, “There’s a big college or something there, right?”

“Uh, yeah. One or two. It’s a cool city.”

“It’s f****** cold here, too. Look at this s***** weather. I can’t f****** believe it.”

“Yeah.” [Silence and blushing].

The towers then dropped me [and my ten-foot U-Haul] off at a Holiday Inn Express where I’d [we’d] stay the night.

U-Haul paid for my stay and I was back on the road to Kansas City the next morning. Thankfully, no further complication ensued. It’s nice when fiascos are redeemed as stories.

February’s extraordinary moment will follow tomorrow.

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