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I walk along this morning grey
My Father hand in hand
I walk along this morning grey
Beside my Savior I will stand
I walk along this morning grey
Talking with my Lord
I walk along this morning grey
And His grace to me is poured
The joy to walk with my God
On this morning grey
And why I walk may seem odd
I walk alone to pray
I walk along this morning grey
And all my soul I give
To the exalted Maker of this day
And the reason that I live
anthony forrest
It is my personal belief that every person in the world should hitchhike at least once in their life. I also believe each person should pick up a hitchhiker at least once in their life.
Americans used to hitch a ride all the time. I have spoken with many people who thumbed it back in the sixties and seventies. If they did not own a car, hitchhiking was a simple and easy solution to getting from place to place. But someplace in the late seventies and eighties, the attitude toward the free ride changed drastically. Was it due to a rash of hitchhiking murders? Perhaps the cinema cashed in on the fear and made hitchhiking horror movies. Did newspapers tout the antics of serial killers out on the road? Soon every hitchhiker looked like a villain. Was any of this true? Who knows? I wasn’t around and can’t verify any of this.
But I will say that in most parts of South America, hitchhiking is not only common, but a legitimate option for getting around. I met a young man in Bolivia one time, who, between busses and hitchhiking, traveled from Montana to Bolivia over the course of a few months. (He apparently ran into a little trouble with the military police in Panama, at one point though.)
Could hitchhiking be dangerous? Sure, but everything is dangerous. I think it really depends on how bad you need a ride. In America, the people hitchhiking are far more likely to be desperate.
I was desperate in Texas.
The greyhound bus that started in Dallas could only take me as far as the small town of Clyde. I was still a lot of miles short of Abilene—which isn’t a luxurious of fun location to begin with. (On a side note, the Greyhound Bus station in Dallas has the worst public bathroom I’ve ever seen in the US, but I digress.)
So, I stuck out my thumb and began to walk. If you are in need of some humility, I would suggest this course of action. There is nothing more humbling than trying to get a ride on a busy freeway. Car after car passed me. Two hours later, a car pulled over.
A Honda Civic full of college students from Zimbabwe kicked open the door, and I stuffed my backpack into the back with two other guys. We laughed and talked for the remainder of my ride.
And guess what?
I didn’t die.
In fact, I am still Facebook friends with those boys that gave me a ride all those years ago.
anthony forrest
What place is this,
so familiar to me;
with gentle blue lakeshores
and White Pine trees?
What place is this in
which, during Spring,
warm daylights fade away,
into cool nights serene?
What place is this,
and with whom share I
these nights
by firelights?
She sits nearby.
What place is this,
which became home,
after childhood years
of simply unknown?
What place is this
(when the days turn cold),
where I wish the snow and ice
were silver sheets and chunks of gold?
What place is this;
Oh, strange land of lakes?
I hear your Loons.
I see the waves break.
What place is this?
I shall not ask again.
For these words answer easily
of this Land who is also friend.
anthony forrest
I’ve heard travelers and friends call Penang the Pearl of the Orient. And it certainly is a pearl. It sits brightly on the west side of Malaysia, just south of Thailand. Between a large population of Chinese, Indian, and Indonesian peoples, Malaysia also has massive colonial influences. Penang seems to be the center of it all. And when all these people came to Malaysia, they brought their food.
When it comes to excellent food, if you want it, Penang’s got it.
We step out of the cab onto the busy street, ducking into a side-alley. Although only mid-morning, the heat already grew oppressive—but it’s almost always like this, so close to the equator. We had been promised excellent noodles. I found this to be a bold promise. Everywhere I turned in Malaysia, there seemed to be excellent noodles.
I sit down in a plastic chair under a tin-roof awning. A busy Chinese woman greets us in passing. It hardly matters where you find yourself in the world, you can always find the equivalent of a rushed diner waitress, pen behind ear, placing short orders. Since I know neither her name nor how it would be pronounced, let’s call her Ethel.
She questions us.
I say, “good morning.” It’s the only thing I know how to say in this language. It’s a hobby, I’m a short-term collector of “good mornings.”
My friend knows all the right words. He orders for us. And he knows exactly what I want first.
Coffee.
Ethel scoops coffee grounds into a metal pitcher and pours in boiling water. She then slings it back and forth, pouring the slurry into kind of fabric bag, allowing the coffee to sieve through into a cup. She does this a dozen or more times, back and forth.
While I’m mesmerized by this very foreign coffee-production process, my friend spots somebody eating a variety of steamed buns at another table.
We definitely need some of those. He slips away to find the vendor.
But just now, Ethel shows up with the coffee. Street coffee in Malaysia comes in a plethora of forms. I couldn’t even begin to broach the topic of coffee varieties in this part of the world. But this coffee, like many here, is sweetened with condensed milk. I stir it with a Chinese soup spoon and take a sip. It’s not translucent, mildly viscous, and definitely strong. Just what the doctor ordered.
And when I set my cup down, I see my friend has returned with a couple of large steamed buns—one with meat and one with some kind of sweet substance. We tuck into our coffee and buns.
Presently, Ethel places two heaping bowls of noodle soup in front of us. It’s a beautiful broth with several types of noodles and meats. I see pork, chicken, and what is probably a type of blood pudding. It’s spicy and probably the best soup I’ve had.
Food in this part of the world is dangerous. It gets in your blood like an infection. There is no cure, only disease management. Frequent transfusions of coffee and noodle soups is the only way to manage symptoms.
The first time I ever ate really good food in Asia, I felt like had been living in a the dark up until that point. Sure, I had a flashlight, but as soon as the first sip of broth hit my lips, and I plucked up that first dumpling, my eyes were opened. I could see in the dark.
Yes, I know I’ve mixed a couple of metaphors here. Call it night vision, call it a disease, call it anything you’d like—food here changes you.
Food in southeast Asia, shared with a friend, makes for a fine memory. And what are memories but stories of our life?
Recently, I heard British chef Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall say that, “the best food is food with a good story.”
anthony forrest
What is richness or to be rich,
and where does it begin?
Are riches gotten as drinks are poured
like wine filled to the brim?
Can a man say he is rich
after working one day or twenty?
Or are riches from within, intrinsic in their worth,
knowing life itself is plenty?
Could one be rich in passion,
steeped in strength and care?
Could one be rich when one is loved,
embraced by friends,
followed by heirs?
yet
The Father’s riches shine truly rich,
like fiery silver melting icy hearts.
so deeply rich and richly deep,
mined from the purest source.
Indeed the Maker did make all riches made,
and all good gifts come from his hands.
Yet riches made and riches gave,
against truest riches, cannot stand.
For the Lord of all is rich to all
who choose to call on him;
and find a treasure in God alone,
not in people, possessions, or within.
He desires the call
—that saving cry—
of a soul from dead to living.
Yet our Maker wants our every days
to be filled with calls and pleading.
What is richness or to be rich,
and where does it begin?
It is a loving God whose richness is poured
like wine filled to the brim.
anthony forrest
Another rough night in the airport. I balanced my toothbrush on the counter ledge while I splashed my face with water. I know I shouldn’t complain about travel. God has blessed my wife and I with the ability and opportunity to see, learn, share, and discover unmeasured blessings during our travels. But each time I sleep on an airport floor, I get a little broken—little more bent over, like an old man having lived an old life. But fresh clothes, toothbrush, and face-splash of motion activated sink water were slowly injecting life back into my soul.
Glasses back on, I look up to survey the damage.
Not too bad.
I turned to walk out of the bathroom and spotted something out of the corner of my eye. Etched into the mirror were these words,
“forgive yourself.”
I’ve seen these words before. They’re all over social media, self-help books and blogs, and on the lips of many popular Christian speakers.
Standing there, I wonder what this person has done. He has gotten himself into trouble, and now he’s looking for answers. He wants to be forgiven. But he looks to himself for answers. He seeks in vain. How can any of us expect to save ourselves from ourselves?
There is but One who has promised forgiveness. God grants it—freely. Though our sins are like scarlet, He makes us whiter than snow. He pardons with a smile. So look not into the mirror seeking answers within yourself.
Stand and peer
Into mirror
To seek to
Know your soul
Turn and look
Read like a book
The narrative
Of your heart
Tune your ears
And listen with tears
To a song
You do not know
Rest in peace
For His love will not cease
God’s knowledge of you
Is enough
anthony forrest
They spread across time
Ever slowly they found a home
Digging deep into the forest floor
They nestled into the pine-needle loam
Then the growing halted
there in the woods
for here lay a stony foe
and how to find a way through this rock?
These roots did not know
But time passes on and growth will never stop
So, with eager embrace
of this hardened fiend
The roots grew atop the rock
anthony forrest
Though the point of this story is not to decry Islam and uplift Christianity, I will say that my experiences around Islam have only helped set my heart concretely on Christ. I offer now a picture of my visit to a Mosque.
We rounded the corner and the tower came into view. It climbed high into the sunny Malaysian sky and peered down with it’s white gaze. I had heard the call to prayer several times a day in the week I had been in the country. If there is something so drastically apposed to American culture, it is a call to prayer over enormous loud speakers. The aspects of this new and oh-so foreign culture had been building in my head all week. Each call to prayer added, little by little, to my limited views of Islam. As a devout Christian, this had been something quite new to me. But now that I stood before a Mosque, my mind went from a clinical intake of information to a surreal moment.
“This is really happening. I am standing at a Mosque in Malaysia.”
These thoughts bounced around in my mind. My friend and I went to the entrance labeled for men only. We took off our sandals and walked light-footedly on the sun-seared stone walkway. Perfect white stones lined the walls. Everything was either marble or stone.
An ornate walkway opened up to what seemed like acres of bright red and decorated carpet. The short tufts felt like walking on a giant toothbrush. Several pillars ran up and down the large auditorium. A small stage sat at the end. But I could tell easily that this room was meant for bowing.
And indeed, there were several men bowing. In another room, similar to this one, and not so adjacent, there was undoubtedly women bowing on a similar carpet floor. But men and women are segregated here. Some men lay on their faces, some kneel on both knees and bow to their noses. Most recite and chant unknown recitations. Silence abounded.
We walked out a side door to behold a large fountain gurgling quietly. Here men ritually cleanse their feet and hands. This is not the first time I had experienced this. Several religious cultures practice washing. In Japan, travelers will find people washing their hands at a Shinto Shrine. In fact, some Christian traditions practice washing each other’s feet.
Ornate structures and severely old books sat about the Mosque. So many aspects of the experience were so foreign to me. Despite my Christian beliefs, I believe it to be an important decision to visit another’s religious site, be it Mosque, Temple, or Cathedral.
anthony forrest
King reigned upon throne
Of change
Upon throne of truth raging
Hands-in-the-sky praying
Asking God for grace to rain down
Soak America and drown
All evil hate
The Good Doctor prescribed
The Word of life
To a Nation deprived
Of the love of Christ
From a throne of change
He spoke of the One True King
Giver of life
Ender of strife
Maker of all things
In the eyes of Whom all men are equal
anthony forrest
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