Those Special Forces

                                                                                          

Twenty years ago, I listened to a lot of passionate preaching about unreached people groups and our responsibility to go into all the world. “Millions waiting for the gospel” was likened to a field of corn waiting to be harvested, the ripe ears waiting to be plucked. I played and replayed Denny Kenaston’s series on World Christians. I spent hours studying through Perspectives, watched youth teams prepare for six weeks of ministry in Ghana, and wondered how it would feel to be one of them.  When it was my turn to go, I sat transfixed while our team leader led us through the Bible, showing us the brilliant missional thread through the whole of history.  It opened my eyes to the purpose of our existence—to know and worship God and to help others to do the same.

 We crammed into Land Rovers, drove down dusty roads, and sang our hearts out. We ate rat meat and got diarrhea, laughing when there was no bathroom except behind the bushes. We slept in tents and scrubbed laundry by hand. We visited schools and shared with hundreds of students. The dreams for my life which had smoldered before now roared into flame, consuming my thoughts and prayers. 

 It was settled. Someday I would marry and live in a mud hut, and we would live in Africa for the rest of our lives. Invincible, sold-out, and strong, we would change at least one small corner of the world, maybe more. In the heat of every mission sermon, we clearly got the message—it was more noble to go than it was to stay.  ‘Missionary’—someone who was especially devoted to taking the gospel to remote places– was the new buzzword. They were the ones who chose to deny the pleasures of the world and went to the “front lines.” They were the ones who nearly died from malaria, saw miracles, and learned strange languages. They were the special forces.

A few years later, we did live in a mud hut, in a village with many lost and hurting people. When I was down by the river washing my hair and scrubbing diapers, the romance was there.  The colorful array of buckets, the chattering women and splashing children, my baby sleeping on the cloth beside me, the setting sun in my face, it all felt perfect.  But we never found a tribe of people who were waiting for the gospel, like the heart-gripping messages I had listened to.  The people were there, but no one was waiting for anything except the next barrel of pombe (local brew) and any monetary gain they could squeeze out of the mzungu (white man). Suspicion toward our purpose in living there would eventually chase us out of that village. They didn’t need us at all.

On November 4, 2008, I wrote in my journal. “…my days are full of little boys and sometimes I struggle to feel like I’m succeeding in being a missionary at all. Our old neighbor lays on his mat and will likely die in a few days. What does it mean to “reach a tribe for Christ” if we can’t even reach one neighbor man?  All this time we’re busy trying to learn this complicated language and getting our house built and with tears we realize we don’t have the answers. Our youthful vision of doing this looked so easy compared to what we’re experiencing. Our people don’t have the Bible in their own language, so we resort to translating Good and Evil, which the people seem to think is a good idea, but they still insist we’re here for some benefit of our own. They think we will take their language to America and sell it and laugh in Tim’s face if he tries to convince them otherwise. Because of this presumption they insist on being paid for helping us with language learning or translation. Money is all they really want, and after many requests, they finally resorted to writing our mission board. Of course, Tim has repeated his vision till he’s nearly out of breath. “We are here for you and for your good,” but so far it falls on deaf ears. When meetings are spent discussing the money issue instead of a hunger for the Word of God, we could easily become disillusioned and wonder if this is really where we’re supposed to be.”

 I wondered if one culture winning another culture to Jesus is just a fanciful dream. People came daily with needs, expecting us to give them what they needed. We administered eye drops, bandaged sores, and protected women beaten by their husbands.  They came with questions, sometimes about birth control and fidelity in marriage or childbirth.  Sometimes it meant praying—and nearly fainting—for a young student who got knifed in the chest during a fight. Or sitting with the neighbor lady while her demented daughter thrashed and slammed her head into the dust. I no longer felt invincible. Rather, I now had no idea what to do in these situations nor how to do them well.  It didn’t feel like holy work.

My goal-oriented self had little of which to feel accomplished. We were here to learn language and plant churches, and I wished to conquer it like a chore list: work hard, then mark it off with a sense of accomplishment. Alas, working with human souls gifted with a free will and a vastly different worldview cannot be compared to a chore list. It is not up to my hard work and performance. I wrote in my journal, “God is impressing on both of our hearts that we’ve been focusing too much on strategy and language fluency for our effectiveness. God is telling us to focus on prayer. Our success cannot be measured by our human way of measuring, so why be discouraged?”

The dreams that pulsed through our veins in those youthful days were hard to find while plodding down this path of reality. The flippant determination to learn the language first –because that is what good missionaries do– gave us sore callouses from sitting for days on end, studying. It was a slow dawning in the brain, learning one morpheme at a time. Language learning and church planting, we learned, will not happen in a day, or even a year or two or three.  

Elisabeth Elliot said, “It is not the level of our spirituality that we can depend on. It is God and nothing less than God, for the work is God’s and the call is God’s and everything is summoned by Him and for His purposes, our bravery and our cowardice, our love and our selfishness, our strengths and our weaknesses. We are a conglomeration of sinners who sometimes look like heroes and sometimes like villains, for we are no better than pots of earthenware.”1

I had a strong sense of loyalty to the cause but had a small perspective of what “the cause” really is.  The cause is, like St. John of the Cross said, “God’s mission is to put love where love is not.”2   Earth has no spot where love is not needed. Love and discipleship can grow wherever there are people, so that means a mother, a dishwasher, a fireman, a pastor, a teacher, or a funeral director can all equally glorify God. We are all God’s special forces because God needs love to be poured into all the cracks of weeping humanity.

Amy Peterson says, “The word missionary has become more problematic than helpful. Instead of describing reality, it blurs our vision and limits our imaginations. It has outlived its usefulness and I vote we give it a proper burial. We need new ways of talking about God’s work in the world. It’s true that God is “on mission” to reveal his glory and love to all the nations by spreading his kingdom on earth, and that we are to join that mission, all of us. But God’s mission has never been about counting the number of spiritual conversions you’ve had in a week or valuing street evangelism over changing diapers and formatting spreadsheets. God’s mission has never been about seeing yourself as a superhero in an action story.”3

God doesn’t need us to save the world, and yet He chooses to use us. He alone does the saving by using His Spirit in us. We are cracked vessels at our best, breathing for a short time and then gone.  The important word is not missionary but surrender. It is not about goal-oriented accomplishment, it is about walking with God and living the fruits of the Spirit. It is not about one type of work, place, or country, it is about worship, following in obedience, and finding our place in the grand scheme of things. It is not what we do that defines it as holy or ordinary, it is Who we do it for.

I have no doubt that the call I felt was real. Perhaps without all that passion and energy, we wouldn’t have made it past the first year. But years have passed and I see now that God did more changing in me than in a certain tribe in Africa. Instead of carrying the responsibility for an entire tribe, I am content to focus on one. When my courage and energy fail, I am satisfied to simply say, yes, one more time to moving across the ocean. Instead of carrying my own set of goals and expectations, I recognize God’s ownership of His kingdom and His work and I can rest, with walking in obedience to His spirit. And now, it really makes no difference which continent I am on.

1.            Becoming Elisabeth Elliot, Ellen Vaughn, page 261

2.            St. John of the Cross

3.            Dangerous Territory: My Misguided Quest to Save the World, Amy Peterson

Home – Where His Kingdom Comes

At the beginning of my career as a housewife, mother, and missionary, I would quickly do my duties so I could go on to “more important things.” Washing the dishes and cooking were necessary evils, keeping me from “the things which would make me a good missionary.” As the babies came and schoolbooks became a part of our days, a vague sense of failure plagued me. A restless fear of not being enough niggled inside of my soul.

Without realizing it, I had divided life into two categories—spiritual and earthly.

I wish I would have seen Jesus for who He really was.

He left the glory of heaven and came down to earth, intentionally becoming a man. He touched the lame hands and unclean lepers. He used spittle and mud to heal the blind. He started fires and baked bread and fish for his disciples. He was exhausted and needed rest. He set aside time to commune with His heavenly Father because He, too, needed strength outside of Himself. His life was one of sweat, weariness, and even tears. In the final moments of the most agonizing betrayal and death, he drank vinegar for the pain. His pure, heavenly God-ness was caught in the bleeding, sweating, betrayed form of a man.

The Jews waited for a Deliverer. One who would come with power, sitting on the throne and delivering them from the tyranny of the Romans. Jesus knew their expectations. But they never saw Him on stage or with the popular rulers. He didn’t fight any famous battles.

 Instead, He walked the dusty roads. He took rope in his hands and formed a small whip, chasing out the law breakers. He sat and allowed a prostitute’s tears to soak his feet. He touched the dead, the ill, and the crippled. He multiplied simple barley bread and small fishes to feed a hungry crowd. When His disciples got grouchy with all the people, Jesus sat and held the babies. He made this ill and creaking world His home.

Only with the eyes of glory will anyone notice this kingdom. In this kingdom a bruised reed is valued, and the least is considered greater. In this kingdom, its subjects handle small things as if they are treasures—cups of cold water, smoldering wicks, and bread. The little ones are treated as kings, and orphans and widows are cared for.

 Perhaps this is where faith is seen and propagated: in places where hands get dirty and backs are bent over pots of food.

Jesus said, “Blessed are the poor in spirit.” Oswald Chambers describes this as “Literally, blessed are the paupers, an exceeding commonplace thing. We tend to emphasize strength of will, beauty of character—the things that are easily noticed. At the basis of Jesus’ teaching is the unaffected loveliness of the commonplace.”¹

How egocentric I had been. I had my heart set on numbers, and dramatic conversions, and the sugary taste of success. I would bring my “sheaves” to God, like trophies. See how hard I have worked for you, God? How pleased He would be.

I thought my strength would match the challenge, not realizing that my health would miserably fail, the years of trying too hard having eaten up my soul.

There is nothing left. No strength to do what I wanted to do. I’m sorry, God.

Slowly my focus changes. My strength is like the barley loaves and fishes, small and insufficient, but I am at peace about that. I believe the words, “But we have this treasure (of His kingdom) in jars of clay, to show that the surpassing power belongs to God and not to us.”² I am only a container, and containers always need to be filled by some outside power if they are to be useful. Sometimes my container is cracked, and the fullness leaks out. I will never be a perfect glowing vessel displayed as a trophy, just as Jesus didn’t come as an enthroned king.

 I pick up a loaf of bread, tears of loss and renewal dripping down. I pick up a knife and slice it—a simple, homely act. But it is now an act of worship. I am no longer frustrated with the smallness of living.

I have found a secret hidden in this loaf of bread.

Jesus turns ordinary things into inspiration. Hungry mouths are fed and souls are grown simultaneously. Is this why His kingdom is called The Upside-Down Kingdom? It is everything we don’t expect it to be.

Your kingdom come, on earth as it is in heaven, I pray. I have learned this kingdom is not in a strong, invincible body, able to do the brave exploits I have dreamed of. It is not in having accomplishments to attach to my name.

But how does it come?

I am here in a small city house, hemmed in by brick walls and fallen humanity. Inside, the stack of school books is as tall as the ceiling, and the laundry piles taller. My boy talks incessantly of rocket science and other things my brain cannot understand. I want to tell him to be quiet, but I try to listen. The neighbors come for Bible study and my house reeks of cigarette smoke. The large, dysfunctional nine-year-old comes and eats the chicken I made for my family.

“Why can’t they just leave?” someone asks. “We were going to have a quiet evening.”

Because God’s kingdom has come, I whisper. Here, right here. In our home.

1. Oswald Chambers, My Utmost for His Highest (Barbour and Company) Page 171
2. 2 Corinthians 4:7, English Standard Version

*this article was first published in Commonplace, volume 1

Of not Blooming

Many wordless moons have passed.

We are alive and well, but this past year has been a year of moving one foot in front of the other. Of silence. Another move into a Spanish community in Lebanon city, a tragic death in my extended family, and a family crisis, all happened in the beginning months of 2022. It has taken all our energy to regain equilibrium and find words again.

It seems we don’t understand the resurrection or redemption very well without tasting of the death and pain that must come first. “Hope” has been my chosen word for 2023. “Hope thou in God, for I will yet praise Him.”

I fought against the desperately cold winter.  I was like the bare, brittle branches on the trees outside.  Anxiety and grief took great sobbing bites from my soul. I was lonely and afraid, not knowing how to be needy and inactive. The dreams I had lay dying.

I had forgotten that even the trees are bare and empty during the winter season and no amount of positive thinking or wishing will make flowers appear.  I needed to wait patiently through these trials and wait for the next season. Spring always comes.

I love how God takes the broken things of this world, the results of people’s wrong choices, and somehow turns them into growth and blessing for us. He doesn’t waste any chance to guide our focus heavenward. I love Him for that, because I know without it I would be an arrogant soul, trying to do life on my own and feeling good about accomplishing things.

God isn’t so interested in all that.  

Sorrow and circumstances out of our control force our roots down where sustenance is constant and utterly dependable. Sometimes that means the plant is becoming stronger, but it is not a time for blooms and fruit.

 For the first time in my life, I couldn’t just go on and force out the blooms. I was wilted and desperately needy. I learned it is a beautiful place to be…supported by stronger ones around us, we learned the amazing strength of community.

Stephie at www.thingswedidntknow.com says it like this, “Plants aren’t out there blooming always and forever. We aren’t promised, nor are we expected to bloom all the time. We are, however, promised the Living Water. Jesus, our living water, nourishes us through all seasons. He will produce fruit (eventually), sustaining us in the drought. We don’t have to force the bloom if we are in a season of pruning. Sometimes our Lord sees fit to take us through such heavy trials, that the last thing we are thinking about is blooming. We are surviving by his endless and sustaining grace, but we are being pruned and it hurts. ‘Blooming’ gives the idea that we have to be okay all the time. You are an uprooted and slightly broken plant—even a seedling, of sorts. It’s humbling and painful. Forcing yourself to even pretend to bloom is missing what God is teaching you…”

A plant wilts when transplanted or when battered by a storm. So do we. There is no fast way of recovering.

Stephie says, “There are no real shortcuts in life. There are only painfully slow steps of learning, humbling ourselves, sometimes making fools of ourselves, and feeling way more “monstery” than “bloomy.” We must trust in those times of being uprooted that God is doing His work and doesn’t need you to look like a blooming rose to get His will accomplished. Relax, hang tight, and be the seedling.”¹

We don’t always know what God is after in the seasons of bare branches. We don’t see the things happening inside. We don’t need to. It’s enough to know He is in charge and He will never forsake us in any season.

If you’re a wilted, transplanted, or battered friend, hang on. Spring does come and soon we will be experiencing the complete redemption of every broken thing.

“How precious is your steadfast love, O God. The children of mankind take refuge in the shadow of Thy wings..for with you is the fountain of life, in Your light do we see light.”  Ps. 36: 7-9

1. ^{www.thingswedidntknow.com, Bloom Where You are Planted…or Don’t}

Amy Carmichael’s thoughts…

…on a time of sorrow.

On this mountain Yahweh Almighty will prepare a feast of rich food for all peoples,

a banquet of aged wine–

the best of meats and the finest of wines.

on this mountain he will destroy

the shroud that enfolds all peoples,

the sheet that covers all nations.

He will swallow up death forever.

The Sovereign Lord will wipe away tears from all faces.

He will remove his people’s disgracefrom.all the earth.

Yahweh has spoken.

In that day they shall say, “Surely this is our God, we trusted in Him and He saved us.”

This is Yahweh and we trusted in Him.

Let us rejoice and be glad in His salvation.

Isaiah 25:6-9 NIV

A recent photo of Lake Yojoa in Honduras. Photo credits: Zack Lapp

This week marked seven years since our dear brother Peter passed into glory on that beautiful lake.

Another more fresh and poignant sorrow presses on our hearts. Tears, so many tears have been shed this week.

Amy Carmichael writes, “sorrow is one of the things that are lent, not given. A thing that is lent may be taken away, a thing that is given will not be taken away. Joy is given, sorrow is lent. We are not our own and we are bought with a price and ‘our sorrow is not our own’ (Samuel Rutherford said this a long time ago) it is lent to us for just a little while so we may use it for eternal purposes. Then it will be taken away and everlasting joy will be our Father’s gift to us and the Lord God will wipe all tears from all faces.

So let us use this ‘lent’ thing to draw us nearer to the heart of Him who was once a Man of Sorrows (He is not that now, but he does not forget the feeling of sorrow). Let us use to make us more tender of others, as He was while on earth, and is still, for He is touched with the feeling of our infirmities.”

-Amy Carmichael, Edges of His ways, 193

“And He shall wipe all tears from our eyes.” That’s all the words I have today.

Settling in…?

The other day Tim asked me if I’m ever afraid of settling in too much on this side of the ocean. Enjoying a sense of normalcy and all the delights a bit too much, maybe?

No, simply because I haven’t felt normal yet. If I do have that sense anytime in the next year, cheers! We also bought a house and the sense of settling in won’t come till we can move. While driving by one day, Jeshua exclaimed, “Oh, look at that gross mustard house! That is the most awful-looking house I’ve ever seen!” We laughed so hard when it was actually the one Tim wanted to look at that day. And we liked the layout and the fact that it was a stand-alone house and the price….so we decided this was our house.

Someday we will paint it, but for now we have a Mustard House. (the car is the neighbor’s)

I’m waiting to share pictures of the inside till I have “after” pictures to balance out the rather awful “before” pictures. Yes, it was rather dreadful and I felt sorry for the people who were living in that filth. But weeks of painting, pulling out old carpet, and tearing out kitchen cabinets is slowly being rewarded with beautiful new cabinets, fresh walls in peaceful colors, and new flooring. We are blessed and thankful. I am not as young and adventurous as I used to be. I am tired, so I will be looking for that (illusion) of being settled one of these days.

In between painting, we’ve been enjoying Fall. The children were fascinated with the falling leaves, the first frost, and then the first flakes of snow, especially Kasia, who had never seen anything like it before.

The Fall sunsets were so beautiful.

And the frost…exquisite. Photography causes me to lean in close to the small forgotten things. It’s a beautiful world.

“The Lord your God is in your midst, a Mighty One who will save, He will rejoice over you with gladness, He will quiet you with His love. He will exult over you with loud singing.” (Zephaniah 3:17)

Isn’t that beautiful? Often my mind is full of all the heavy things: should we get The Vaccine or should we not? Grim predictions about the economy, the pandemic, and everyone’s varied opinions feel like sludge in my brain.

But today our God is here. He will save. He is singing and rejoicing over us with gladness. He will quiet us with His love.

“For His dominion is an everlasting dominion.. the inhabitants of the earth (and all the opinions) are accounted as nothing.” (Daniel 4: 34b-35a)

His kingdom is a forever kingdom. The only solid one there is.

And perhaps… we shouldn’t expect to feel settled till we’re There. With Him. Forever.

Settled for millions of years and then even more millions.

Things I am Learning

I am learning that through a season of transition, it is wise to be quiet. I am relearning a culture and good learners are quiet while others teach them. It is a place of peace.

I am learning that the decisions I make today are part of the woman I will be in 30 years. Peevish or loving, sullen or joyful, I am building that woman I will see in the mirror. I want to see a sweet one.

I am learning my heart can hold both joy and sorrow. If I try to carry all the sadness first in one arm, I stagger and lose my balance. A full bucket of joy on the other side balances it out nicely and makes the weight of life easier to manage. I used to think I had to get rid of the sorrow bucket before picking up the joy bucket and now I am comforted to know that life is healthier with a bucket full of each.

I am learning that walking with God doesn’t mean carrying the world’s problems on my shoulders. I am not necessarily responsible. I am learning to relax as a child in my Father’s arms. Where I need nothing (no work, no identity) but Him and the love between us. He is not looking for my A+ effort before holding me as His daughter.

I am learning that I was addicted to action. Life wasn’t fulfilling unless it was full of what I deemed as “fulfilling”. I am learning that God is often not in the fire or the earthquake or the whirlwind, but He is in the quiet. His voice is a whisper and if I want to hear it, I must quiet down too. And oh….the riches there.

I am learning that home can truly be in two places. The ache and missing are still there. I can hear the doors open there and feel my sister’s dark cheek against mine. But I also have a home here, and the light glows warm. What used to feel like a painful war in my heart is now a privilege. My heart speaks the language of two homes. And ultimately the language of only One.

I am learning to be patient. Life is a long, slow process. Instead of perpetually wishing myself to be in the next stage I can squeeze the sweetness out of this stage. There’s a miracle happening in the yeast rising slowly and the seed germinating underground. But it happens so slowly that nature itself doesn’t have the patience to sit there and watch it happen. The slowness doesn’t mean there’s no miracle.

I am learning to notice this steady, slow, but powerful force at work in my own life. And I don’t want to miss it by looking for identity in all the wrong places.

I am learning to see profound beauty in this Pennsylvania landscape and culture. The corn is a green sea, then brown and heavy with ears. In one roaring afternoon, the fields are empty. The next week the rows of dry stubble are covered up with the fresh green of new growth. Who are these farmers and how do they learn to partner with God and nature like this?

I see a beaming grandma (the one I want to be like in 30 years) standing beside the road, with her strong, tall son. In his arms is a small son– three generations– and they are all laughing and happy. A picture of the strength of family…all living together and passing down their values generation after generation. Tears rush to my eyes. Is it true that things I hardly noticed or dubbed ‘unspiritual’ are actually vital parts of God’s value system?

I am learning….

“But we all, with open face beholding as in a glass the glory of the Lord, are changed into the same image from glory to glory, even as by the Spirit of the Lord.” 2 Cor. 3:18

the chaotic quiet

A few weeks ago we had a family debriefing session with a couple who specializes in helping families successfully reorient themselves after a major change. I think that is a long way of saying “families in transition” but I’m tired of that word. Transition. They drew a picture of a bridge; on one side we were settled and on the other side we were settled again. In the middle was a chaotic muddle. I thought we would be considered settled, we’ve been here over two months, after all. But they seemed to know that we are still in the middle–in the chaos. I think they were right.

I like to be in control of my world. To unpack as quickly as possible and make the first scary trip to the grocery store. The empty totes are stacked, the cupboards scrubbed, and a place found for all the shoes. So…we’re settled, right? I’m learning that is not the case. It is like being 40 years old with five children starting from scratch. We hunker down in a small rental waiting till house prices drop. But they don’t drop. The bank account creaks as we buy vehicles and school books and everything in between.

I have not yet found my writing equilibrium in the chaos. I wonder if I lost it altogether somewhere over the Atlantic ocean. I am still dizzy, trying to reclaim a sense of belonging and purpose. Before moving those ten-thousand miles, I read, “You should never compare the beginning of a new thing to the end of the last thing. It took time in the first place. You had to figure it out, you had to meet the people…you had to set things in motion and find the rhythm. None of that is in motion when you move into a new thing.” -Jerry Jones

Yes, he is right.

“Transition changes personality. It attacks normalcy. It assaults identity.”

Yes.

I complain about the too-small house and about the musty basement and the sagging clothesline. The weather is blistering hot. This transition feels every bit as hard as the initial one into a village in Tanzania. It’s not really about the actual circumstances, because we all know life in East Africa can be tough, too, but it’s all about CHANGE. My whole person doesn’t like change. I can live in a mud hut just fine…as long as I’ve been there for a few months. I think I can also live in PA. (after the first few months are past)

I miss the busy Isyesye compound with its people and personality. The roads teeming with people and voices. There I stayed at home and homeschooled my children, but there were endless people to greet, to talk with, to reach out to. Here I stay at home and homeschool my children, but I see no one. I think America’s people must be hiding. There’s lots of people at the grocery store, but everyone silently passes each other, each in their own world. I don’t know what is rude and what isn’t rude in this culture, so I’m quiet too. I peer into cars as they pass mine, hoping to see people. (Am I complaining?)

Instead of finding a practical solution, I grieve the loss of compound life and the daily interactions. I cry a lot and feel altogether dysfunctional. I can tomatoes, and peaches, and green beans. ( because there’s an unbelievable amount of food around). I get a ridiculous amount of joy out of my five children and their school books and I pray a lot that God would help me find one needy soul here in this Garden of Eden. Statistics tell me they are around, but I can’t seem to find them. I just see perfection…perfectly manicured gardens and well-oiled communities of smiling people. I know this is just the bubble that I see, but I don’t know how to break out of or into the bubble.

Maybe my friend is right. She just looked at me and said, “Sheryl, you’re way too intense! Just relax for awhile.” I haven’t figured out if that was helpful advice or not.

Then I hear stories about women in danger, terrified of the control of evil men. They are leaving their homes, their jobs, giving away their babies, facing brutal abuse and atrocities. Some are dying or watching their loved ones die. This is not just a far away story that we can safely tuck away and forget about. This is actually happening to real women who are every bit as human as I. They love their husbands and children as much as I. They are screaming in terror, enduring things I cannot imagine.

According to statistics there are 12,000-15,000 children in foster care in the state of Pennsylvania. That’s a lot of grieving parents and an unfathomable amount of disoriented children. There’s a constant need for people willing to invest in these children.

These are only two places is a groaning world. And my heart kinda breaks.

But I am like the widow with her two mites or the young lad with his small basket of food. My energy and resources are limited.

Perhaps I need to wait till this chaos season is past and we’ve stepped gratefully off the bridge into settledness. More likely, I have lessons to learn about worship in the quiet, people-less places. Where the being is more than the doing and awe is more than work. Where contentment in the ‘here’ is more than enough.

“Yes, we must not fret about not doing God those supposed services which He in fact does not allow us to do. Very often I expect the service He really demands is that of not being used, or not in the way we expected, or not in a way we can perceive.” C. S. Lewis

How have your exercised awe in your quiet chaotic places?

A Slice of Michigan

I knew Michigan was beautiful. Even the license plates declare it as “pure Michigan”. But I had never come from a dry season in Africa and gone to a Michigan summer. It felt like a piece of heaven itself. These two weeks were a cushion, softening the harshness of adjustments and homesickness.

The sweetest of mothers and I. When we’re together I can’t fathom how I survived years without seeing her.

Or how the children grew without grandparents. What a gift they are….

Kasia getting to know her Babu for the first time.

Northern Michigan’s roads are in square mile blocks….straight and wide. With very few cars. We took walks, sniffed the pine laden air and rediscovered wild sweet peas and queen anne’s lace. And squirrels and deer.

And ate overloaded ice cream cones.

And smiled at the fondness that just is… in this thing called family.

Now we are back in Myerstown. Tim and Judson are roofing through some blistering hot weather (or so it feels to us southern highlanders). They come home exhausted and drenched in sweat, but happy because men are made for hard work. The children run next door to grandma’s house and help her in the garden or splash in the creek. It’s a gift to be so close to one set of grandparents. I finally feel like this little house is home since we moved things around and arranged and cleaned.

I light candles and nibble on chocolate covered coffee beans. I place my favorite books in a basket (there’s such comfort in books) and bake sour dough bread. I run in the rain till cool drops fall off my eyelashes. Slowly I feel like myself again. Which is a mercy as intense homesickness becomes quite debilitating after a while.

I also learn about homeschooling in Pennsylvania and do all the required things. I learn how to do grocery shopping and how to spend dollars, many more of them then shillings. I’m grateful for organic limes and anything healthy that manages to survive beside the aisle after aisle of junk food. I am intensely intimidated by doors. Every place we go has a door or many doors, most of them automatic, and oh, the panic of figuring out which one is in and which one is out, or if I have to wait, or push, or pull. Do people just memorize every door in every store? Doors are important, I remind myself. Winter is coming. Outdoor markets and small shops with doors flung wide open in welcome wouldn’t do here.

I drive in the long Amish lane for fresh jersey milk and find a new friend in the energetic little woman who fills my jugs. We eat green beans, sweet corn, peaches, blueberries, nectarines and apricots are in abundance. I tell Kasia she will get a tummy ache from eating nectarines, but she just grins. We see friends and family till we feel like social gluttens and yet feel lonely in our house, because there’s no hodis (the swahili knock) at the door. We blink back tears, the ones that come suddenly in the middle of prayer meeting, and wonder how to live with two worlds so alive inside. Maybe we will learn eventually.

And we say, God is good, all the time. Because He really is.

The children think sweet corn is the most amazing thing about America

Scattered thoughts on Reentry

“He inhabits the praise of His people.” This verse was my verse as we winged our way across the ocean. The only home we truly have is HIM and He lives in our praise. This stabilized my soul.

“Expect delays. Expect challenges. Expect frustration. Expect hiccups and speed bumps and problems along the way to a fully functional thriving life where you are not only enjoying life, but also pouring out on the people around you…. Plant the seed, set the right environment. Put the right things in and keep the wrong things out. Start with some tiny roots, then give yourself space and time and grace to emerge in due time. You’ll get there–even if you haven’t yet.”

“Transition (and reentry) challenges personality. It attacks normalcy. It assaults identity. But when you know who you are in your core (and who you belong to) you can go anywhere with confidence. When you don’t you will be stuck in the anxiety of a missing identity because you’re relying on the outside stuff to define you.” -Jerry Jones

Goodbye Mbeya

We said goodbye to Tanzania to the ring of pastor Korosso’s words, “Taabu yetu haitakuwa bure.” (your work and challenge will not be in vain). His eyes were full of tears and he kept making the small exclamations and sighs that Tanzanians do so well when emotion overwhelms them. Trying their very best to hide it all. Mama Korosso refused to “sindizia” us but hid away in her room as we left. Kim and I procrastinated for as long as we could, stared at each other not believing that we had to say goodbye…then sobbed our hearts out. We haven’t recovered yet and don’t dare make any phone calls yet due to overmuch emotion.

The last of a string of goodbyes. And my heart felt ragged and raw and ached so intensely it took my breath away.

There’s nothing like the dazed body and emotions of traveling 10,000 miles in 24 hours. The children fell into a deep slumber the whole three hours from the airport and they slept all night through all week long. So no jet lag, which was a first for us. We arrived at the familiar little house on Williams Road and set to work settling in. Kasia soberly sat on the top of the basement stairs that first morning, staring down into the basement. “Mom, a SHOP in the HOUSE. That is gross.” She had never seen a basement before. She still doesn’t “take baths” but rather “goes swimming” as the bathtub is so huge and wonderfully fun. The first week she had no tolerance for people and almost stopped eating. When we asked her what she wants to eat, “just rice and beans, and maybe some porridge.” She lost weight, but thankfully since has learned how to enjoy a bigger variety of food.

In ‘our’ house and in our storage, we found bits and pieces of ourselves. Memories and reminders that this, too, is our life and a place we have belonged. And will belong again. We unpacked and shopped…and are still in the process of making it home. But it will come.

Hello Myerstown

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When Jesus sent out the 72 disciples to heal the sick and declare the kingdom of God, they returned amazed at their exploits. But Jesus immediately silenced them by saying, “I have given you authority to trample on snakes and scorpions and to overcome all the power of the enemy and nothing will harm you. However do not rejoice that the spirits submit to you, but rejoice that your names are written in heaven.” (Luke 10:17-20)

Perhaps Jesus discerned that these zealous disciples were focusing on the wrong thing. The work they did. Perhaps they were attaching their identity and worth to their success and the thrill of seeing God at work. And Jesus was jealous of their focus. He simply said, “rejoice that your names are written in heaven.

In the ache of letting go, the shock of change, the groping for identity, I am comforted and chastened by a whisper from God. “Rejoice that your name is written in heaven. That is enough.”

According to a survey done with various pastors, (Reentry by Peter Jordan) cross cultural workers often return to their passport country with a tinge of restless criticism. The materialism and problems in the church are like burrs under their collar and many set out to change things. Hmmm. Many of the pastors surveyed said “returned missionaries” are hard to work with. They become learners in another culture, go through agonizing months of language learning, and often a host of disappointments and set-backs. They grow a lot of spiritual muscle. But then seem clueless on how to gracefully become a part of their own culture again. The better-than-thou spirit and criticism only further alienate them from their church, often making the reentry stage harder then any of the cultural learning they waded through in their host culture. Reading this book helped me identity problem points in my own heart. I learned a foreign language and culture, often working through misunderstandings and frustrations because that is what I was supposed to do in order to thrive there. Perhaps taking on the same learner mindset in the church and culture stateside would aid in the adjustment between two worlds and help me thrive here as well. That is really exciting to me. I don’t need to compare cultures, love one and react to the other. In each there’s beautiful expressions of God’s church and His people. In each place there’s beautiful people doing his work. To be a part of two diverse cultures, two places where God is at work, is a gift. And I am so thankful for both of our worlds.

“The universe is Thine. I am at home… to Thee this land is well-loved and known.” -Marilyn F. Martin

Notes on Transition…

“Transition: Movement from one highly functional place to another with a completely dysfunctional dip in the middle.” -Jerry Jones

I smiled when I read this. It feels all too true. We are in that “dip in the middle” when the goodbyes and losses echo in our hearts like the empty hollow rooms of our house. One child sobs into his pillow as his loyal heart tries to let go. The tiniest person in the house needs to be rocked more than usual and wails in distress over empty clothing drawers and bookshelves.

But I’m remembering something this morning as I sit with suitcases all around me and my pantry shelves empty. I’m remembering that we deliberately chose this life. We could have chosen to stay in Pennsylvania forever and be surrounded by all things comfortable and dependable. But we didn’t. Our dreams were undoubtedly rose-tinted, but we are living the life we chose. So no complaining, I remind myself.

We chose, but our children didn’t. They were born into this kaleidoscope of culture and language. Compared to my small world as a child, they have had an enviable and colorful childhood. But they also have a lot of challenges to work through that I never had to.

During the inevitable transitions of this life overseas, there are also inevitable losses. Especially for our children. All quotations in the following paragraphs are from TCK-Growing up Among Worlds. (I do not usually call my children kids, but TCK is the commonly used expression for third culture kids)

“Loss of their world. With one plane a TCK’s whole world can die. Every place that is important. Every tree they’ve climbed, every pet they’ve had, and virtually every close friend they’ve made are gone with the quiet closing of the airplane door. TCK’s don’t lose one thing at a time, they lose everything, and there’s no funeral. In fact, there’s no time or space to grieve, because tomorrow they’ll be in ——-to see the sights, then fly to other exciting places before getting to Grandma’s house to see the relatives who are eagerly awaiting their return. And everyone says, “Welcome Home!” Not realizing that the United States is not home anymore for these children.”

“With that one plane ride also comes a loss of status. Many TCKs have settled in enough to establish a place of belonging for themselves. They know where they belong in the current scene and are recognized for who they are and what they can contribute. All at once, not only their world but their place in it is gone.”

“Loss of lifestyle. All the patterns of daily living are gone with it the sense of security and competency that are so vital to us all.” (No more running next door for sugar, salt, or candy. No more going to “Mama Maziwas” for milk with the plastic jug. No more bike rides up and down the dirt roads and trails outside our house. No more lugging a large basket of produce from the produce market down the road. No more…..a lot of things.)

“Loss of possessions. Because of weight limits on airplanes, favorite toys are sold. Treehouses remain nestled in the foliage. If a move is made within-country everything is loaded up and taken along. But TCKs say goodbye to bikes, dogs, familiar and loved bedding, dishes that hold a host of family memories and history, and all the furniture. There is very little sense of connectedness to the past as they resettle.” (this is why there are ratty teddy bears and an antiquated quilt in our luggage)

“And the most unsettling thing of all is that reentry back to their passport country is usually the hardest of all transitions. TCKs expect to be like their peers at ‘home’ and finally fit in. After all, this is their home country. If they were true immigrants no one would be surprised at the teen’s ignorance of common practices, but because they look like everyone else, they are expected to think like everyone else. And they don’t. They are hidden immigrants. “

“Instead of assuming it’s everyone’s task to understand them, TCKs need to make an effort to understand the world view of their home peers. Thoughtful questions and listening more actively (instead of only talking about their life) helps them to understand that the TCK story is simply one of many.”

All these things apply to adults too, but these issues are most intense in children and teens as they struggle to have the maturity to handle the difficulties well.

And now as I sit at my kitchen table, aching for my children, I also thank the Lord for the difficulty of transition. Because it is showing me how small I am in God’s whole scheme of things. Seeing God at work in two culturally diverse places is a gift. It is showing me how little worth these earthly things really have. Our true home is coming. And that entry will have no culture shock–our hearts will be at home.

It is all good because He IS.