A little more about the trip

Here is a video I made about our recent trip to South Asia. { Please doubleclick it so that you can watch it in widescreen view, otherwise half of the text and video will be cut off }.

It was my very first attempt at video creation (yikes!), and although I'm not sure we will ever be able to adequately express what we experienced, I hope that it reveals just a tiny bit of what God did within us while we were there. (And I hope you enjoy it too!)




-Stephanie Cannon

Feet

My dad had the most masculine features. I bet when he and my mom were expecting their first child they both hoped he would inherit all of my dad’s strong physical traits.

A strong, square jaw, broad angular shoulders. Flat, wide feet. (Okay, maybe they didn’t daydream about his feet-but you get what I am saying.)

And, as they probably wished, their firstborn did inherit all of those manly traits. Ironically, though, their first child was a baby girl. Ah-hum, yours truly to be exact.

And although some may think otherwise, the manly jaw and angular shoulders have never bothered me. I've actually always liked being able to clearly identify traits that I inherited from my parents. With one exception though: The feet. Why, oh why, did I have to get those feet from him?

Don’t get me wrong, all feet are ugly.

But mine are in a class all their own. To start with, they are very veiny. You know how a guys hands look when he pumps a lot of iron? Yeah, that is what my feet look like. Steroidish.

The inherited feet-traits were bad enough on their own, but then I don’t really take care of my feet like I should. When I am outside I prefer to be barefoot which has resulted in some serious rough skin. Skin so thick that when I was in college I used a razor blade to remove old skin. I did it so much in one sitting that I began to bleed profusely (unknowingly). (Apparently American Idol was really good that episode). My skin was so thick that I had no idea that I had hit a main vein.

A gigantic steroidish vein, no doubt.

And when I was in Bangladesh a few weeks ago, my feet went to a whole ‘nother level of ugly. We spent most of the trip in sandals or barefoot. And my feet went places no feet should go.

Where?, you may ask.

My manly feet walked through mud and muck to visit villages that Christians have never been. To spend time with people and share with them that true forgiveness is available for all.

My feet stood in a chicken farm next to a very young girl who has made a decision to follow Christ and whose family has begun to beat her and to try to marry her off.

My feet walked through villages strewn with garbage to pray to God asking for healing for children facing unimaginable illness.

My feet sunk into a massive cow patty that was being dried for fuel.

They also splashed in unidentifiable liquids. (Ewww)

My feet rested on a caked mud floor as we prayed to a God that the homeowners have only recently heard of, yet do not yet know themselves.

We kicked off our sandals to play on play ground equipment: to slide, to swing, to laugh and to love.

My feet walked through the homes of missionaries whose own feet have walked away from the life that they had planned for themselves.

And after giving homeless beggars ladies their first shower in their lives, those same feet went into the grime that covered the shower floor. It was the grime that covers their bodies daily.

And I ashamedly, pulled back in disgust at what my feet had touched.

Repulsed by where my feet were.

And at the very moment . . .

as I cringed at where my feet had been . . .

God’s Spirit spoke so clearly to my heart:

How beautiful. . .
are the feet
of those who
bring good news,
who proclaim peace,
who bring good tidings,
who proclaim salvation,
who say “Our God reigns!"

I started to weep.

Beautiful? Caked with dirt, smelly, tired?

Has He seen these things? Oh yeah, that’s right; He sees all.

And My mom always told me that my feet “stunk to high heaven” so I know He has caught a whiff or two.

Even still, He says they are beautiful.

Those verses have always been humbling to read.

But "humbling" is not even close to being adequate to what I felt that night as I knew that the God of the universe was speaking those words directly to me.

To look down, mid-trip and cringe at my ugly, manly dirty feet and to know God was thinking, "How beautiful."

Most Prudent Investment Thus Far

This is me on the first day of our trip to South Asia:

. . .Wearing the outfit that I bought at a yard sale the week before.

For $1.50.

From Stewart Sink's wife; (the 2009 British Open winner).

These are a few of my co-workers:

. . . Mocking me.

. . . Asking if I was going to the Mission Field or Milan.

This is me on our 14-hour flight from Chicago to Abu Dhabi:

Why do I have such a smirk, you may ask.

In the words of the airline representative, "The lady in the white jacket looks very classy. I would like to upgrade as many people in your group as possible to first class."

This is what knowing that a $1.50 investment turned a $45,000.00 profit. ($9000 per person to upgrade from economy to business x 5 people.)

Just so you know, dearly loved mockers, I laughed about that all the way across the world.

. . . From my comfortable, ridiculously expensive airplane bed.

Enemies of David's Babyface: guns, back-surfers & suburban thugs

I’ve finally come to terms with the fact that David will always have a babyface. He looks so much younger than his 27 years that when he buys me flowers at the grocery store, clerks still ask him if they are “for his mommy”. Once when we were in traffic court, the judge asked him if his parents were with him. And at least once a week, strangers tell him that he looks like “that little kid from Sixth Sense”

It's so angelic, so pristine, it looks as though it has never undergone any type of stress, but the truth is, David's babyface has a few enemies. Three enemies that have undergone aggressive assaults on those baby-bottom-like cheeks of his. And these are those enemies:

*****

Enemy #1: A Gun:

Ah, a few weeks ago my outdoorsy husband decided it was time that an outdoor writer should probably shoot his first deer, so he went hunting for a story for the Athens Banner-Herald and came back with a story alright, but one entirely different than either of us thought.

Here’s the short of it. He shot at a deer, the scope of the gun rammed into his skull, slashing his forehead and resulting in him losing an obscene amount of blood.

Here’s the long of it (on our Cannon Outdoors blog).

He killed the deer, but he actually shed more blood than it did.

As soon as I saw the photos of his exploded face my mind immediately flashed to another occasion when his face looked like it has spontaneously combusted, thus bringing us to . . .

*****

Enemy #2: A Back-Surfer

We were honeymoonin' in Kauai. . .the most idyllic locale imaginable.

We left our two-bedroom home on the south shore, hopped in our Jeep and rode along the only road on the island towards the north shore. The air was saturated with sweetness. It was intoxicating. I know it sounds cliché, but that place literally is paradise.

We pass this beautiful stretch of coastline where local surfers are attempting to conquer some of the largest waves I have ever seen. You know how you see the surfing championships on TV? Yeah, it could have been here. They are incredible, these waves that seem so unruly. It is compelling to see these men not trying to tame God’s creation, but just trying to coexist with it.

We slide the Jeep onto the beach, climb out and begin to hike the side of the jetties. We climb to the highest point overlooking the ocean so that we can get a great view of the surfers.

It is one of those moments that is forever etched in my memory: We were sitting atop a huge outcropping of volcanic glass, 20 feet above the crashing waves, looking out at the sun setting behind endless ocean.

The romantic moment was fleeting, however. As David and I looked at each other lovingly, we only had a few moments of warning. As we gazed into one another’s eyes, I caught a glimpse of something so horrific, so huge that we broke our gaze and simultaneously and methodically turned from facing one another to face the ocean before us. And what we saw when we did would forever shatter that moment (and David’s babyface).

Rapidly approaching us with as much fervor and strength was a 30 foot wall of water. I looked straight up and as high as my eyes could see was water. It was the only time in my life when I have experienced the phenomenon of time standing still. Every one of my senses was amplified. I can remember every thought that ran through my mind: “We can survive this but we need a plan. The water surge is going to be too strong to avoid. There is no time to stand to your feet and run. Flap your arms with as much strength as you can muster. Hold your breath and do not let it pull you over the ledge.”

I had each one of these thoughts but as my head continued to lean back to take in the approaching wave, the only noise that I had time to actually utter was in the same accent the surfers below us would have used, “Whoa”. It was my last word to my brand new husband on the last moments of life. (David still cracks up about that).

Then it hit. It was more powerful than I had even imagined and I was expecting something very strong. I immediately started pumping my arms with all of my weight. Up and down, PUSH, up and down, PUSH. “If I can find the top of the water I will be okay.”

But as soon as I had been torpedoed through the water, I felt myself slam down on top of David. We were still under feet of water as the waves began to recede back towards the place from which it had come. Still sandwiched between a ton of water and my husband, I unknowingly used his back as a surfboard. As much pain as I was in (sandwiched between a ton of water and David), it was nothing compared to what he felt between a ton of water plus his wife AND solid volcanic glass.

Oh, and did I mention that his face was the only thing maintaining contact with the jagged floor?

I could feel us being drug to the edge of the cliff. “You will die if you go over”. I knew that I would. That was not an option. I continued to flap my arms until I finally was able to poke my head above water and brace myself on the stone. With the water finally gone, we realized that we had been drug almost to the very end of the cliff.

We were completely disoriented, but we knew that the murderous wave would eventually return for its revenge, so we clumsily found our legs and wobbled as quickly as we could towards land. As we climbed down the cliff and approached the beach, we looked at each other for the first time.

David was spitting out mouthfuls of blood. I thought he had lost some teeth. His back looked like he had received a lashing.

I looked at him and laughed harder than I had ever laughed before. Maybe it was nervousness, maybe post-traumatic stress, maybe overwhelming joy to be alive…whatever it was, I could not get it together. My husband of about 72 hours looked like he had been in the ring with Mr. T.

After I could get my laughter somewhat under control, I shot photos of him.(Merciful, I know.)

The best part was that for the rest of our honeymoon, David would be trying to be all smooth and romantic when the bandages that were covering his many wounds would come loose and would be flapping as he whispered sweet nothings to me. Probably not how he pictured that going.


Enemy #3: Suburban Thugs

I'll let David tell you this one himself:

I can't believe I'm adding to this tribute of my bloody face, but how can you say 'no' to Steph?

Let me set the scene a little bit. I was younger and dumber than I even am at the present. And up until a few years ago, I had a very short temper and would act on it pretty much any time I felt like it. Make fun of me for being skinny? Guaranteed punch to the face. Make me angry while you're not there? Hole in the wall.

Well, I messed with the wrong guy this particular time. He was three years older than me, which was a pretty significant chunk of life experience and physical maturation at that point. So he makes me angry and, realizing that he was going to be a better fighter, stronger than me, etc., I go ghetto on him, grab him by the shoulders and give him the ol' knee to the groin.

They say that nothing moves faster than the human eye. But let me state this for the record that as I quickly retreated, thinking that my crotch-busting blow would send him to the ground wheezing and coughing, hopefully even puking, I suddenly felt my face explode. I didn't know what happened, but I didn't like it.

As it would turn out, this guy's fist was the one thing in the universe faster than the human eye. And, in fact, one of the things he would connect with (and quite well at that) was a human eye. My human eye. He would also, at the same time, make perfect contact with my nose.

So with one punch, I received a black eye, a horribly bloody nose and a reason to run faster than I had ever ran before.

I had been punched plenty of times before, but in a case where you don't even see the punch that is thrown, I couldn't see any more intelligent option than to run like the wind.

And we do have pictures of me covered in blood somewhere. We have them because, like all dads worth anything, mine told me, "You never start a fight; you end 'em." And since I had broken that set-in-stone man-rule, Old Man Cannon was quick to pull out the camera when I got home. As the Big Hair Lady (aka Mom) was busy being furious at "he who did wallop", Dad was busy laughing and shooting photos.

Just in case we can't find the photos, here's a brief description: ~10-year-old me with blood on my face and all over my favorite sweatshirt. One HUGE nostril from all of the blood that had just exited it and only it. That's good enough, I think.

(Still trying to locate the album that holds the photos to illustrate this one. Ah, the joys of living out of boxes!)