Mistaking a Mercedes for a Toyota

In the midst of a crazy week, humor reappeared unexpectedly, providing a few laughs for unsuspecting bystanders. Last Monday while running errands in the city, I almost ran off with the wrong husband. The sidewalk was extremely narrow, and when a car pulled up close beside me, somehow I got it in my scattered brain that my dh* [see "Jamie Jo Speak" in sidebar] had arrived to pick me up.

It's a good thing the door was locked. A man in another car further up the road, who turned out to be dh, was honking to divert my attention just as I was leaning down to see why on earth my husband-who-wasn't-my-husband was refusing to unlock the passenger door. A handsome middle-aged man shrugged and smiled apologetically, instantly shaking me from my daze.

On Thursday, dh and I were telling a friend about my many episodes of not being very observant when it comes to cars, how in high school I offended a rich boy by mistaking his Mercedes for a Toyota, and how not so many years ago I drove my mom's new car to the grocery store without noticing the color or make of the car in the dark garage before leaving, only to panic in the parking lot after shopping when I realized I no clue which car was "mine."

The very next day after recounting these embarrassing stories, Friday night, I was helping the same friend with a Mother's Day outreach to pregnant moms at a Christian birth center. She lent me keys so I could get supplies from her car. Going to the street, I went straight to the car with the Texas license plate (something I do notice!), and was frustrated that the key did not fit in the lock. Figuring I only had the ignition key, I squinted (minus reading glasses) to locate the unlock icon on the key ring (a handy trick I learned when I lost my mom's car). Even that didn't work.

As I stood there obviously perplexed, an amused spectator kindly pointed out that each time I pressed the unlock button, another car—a red car nothing remotely like the one I was attempting to open—would flash its headlights. Oops. What are the odds of having two cars parked on the same street in Oaxaca with Texas plates? The man, however, looked at me like I was nuts. Who in the world doesn't notice the difference between a red and a.... I still couldn't tell you the color of the first car. It was some strikingly non-red color like blue or silver or gray.

A while back we were discussing the question "How do you keep from losing you?" We were referring to the person we used to be before going to the field. Incidents like these prove that maybe I haven't lost "me" as much as I thought. I've grown and changed through the trials and challenges life has supplied, and hopefully the essence of who I am is more Christ-like than before, but deep down I am still the same space cadet* I was as a teen. Like certain pesky sins, some traits plague us throughout our life, no matter where we live.

IRL* Then again, maybe it's a wonder I haven't lost myself; I lose enough other things!
*What we used to call scatterbrains before they invented ADD.

Paranoids are People, Too

Exactly one day after sitting serenely in cap and gown with thousands of other identical Baylor graduates, I traveled to Thailand, thus beginning a career of being “different.” From the early days as a single teacher in an Asian culture where my height, skin, hair, and eye color were a novelty—to later years in Guatemala as a mother with a string of blonde children attached to me, I was destined to stand out in any crowd.

For two or more years at a time, I used to long for a brief respite in my home country of Texas where I could finally become invisible again, blending effortlessly with the culture. At one point, I confessed to a friend that I was becoming paranoid. Even in America, people seemed to be staring at me as some kind of oddity. My friend tried to conceal her amusement as she gently suggested that maybe the stares might have something to do with the now-seven children tagging along wherever we traveled, when 2.3 was the average number in a “normal” family.

By the time the kids had finally grown responsible enough to occasionally stay home and babysit the younger siblings so that I could freely roam public places, I still was not inauspicious, even in the U.S. Rather than keeping a low profile, as I had always dreamed, I was recognized as “that missionary with the big family” who had spoken here or there, particularly in Northern Ohio.

I’ll never forget one incident at a thrift store in Cleveland. After an episode of hollering at the younger ones to stay corralled in a general location and then arguing with an older child about a heavily worn item that was not a good value, a woman approached me with wonder in her eyes, exclaiming, “Why, you were the speaker at our Ladies’ Tea back when…!” I have no idea how much of my tirade she had witnessed, but I was mortified. That was just one of many times God did not vaporize me on the spot as I had wished.

During one of our summer mini-furloughs, I was tired of being recognized wherever I went and a bit weary of people in general. One of our last stops was Orlando, where our home office is located. Back then I only knew a handful of people outside of Missionary Ventures in that part of Florida. Jim graciously agreed to stay at the mission house and watch the children so I could go to the mall and “be invisible” for the evening. Coming out of a lingerie store, I heard my name being called. I couldn’t believe it! Of the six or eight people I knew in the city, one was there at the Orlando Mall, and it was none other than Steve Beam, the founder of our mission.

My lot in life is to stand out and be different. Like it or not, I must guard my words, actions, and attitudes because others are noticing. Maybe it’s just as well. Whether I am a “farang” (foreigner) in Thailand, a “gringa” in Guatemala, or now a “güera” in Oaxaca (pronounced “weda in wah-HAH-kah”), I am bound to be watched by those who know I am attempting to follow in Jesus’ footsteps.

IRL* Aiming to be a good ambassador for Christ whether I’m invisible or infamous.

Jamie Hush

During my week in Colorado, I had the privilege of representing you, the readers of WOTH online publications, by saying a few words at the Women of the Harvest Celebration Brunch. It was great to meet with donors who help fund these publications and the Retreats. I trust I expressed appreciation on behalf of all who enjoy the WOTH onlineMagazine, the WOTH Writer’s blog, Coffeegirl, the Weekly Word, and even this IRL blog.

The theme of the celebration was “Value Her Voice.” Check out the video in the side bar with a gripping story that was shared at the brunch. (Feel free to share it with friends who might be interested in sponsoring someone to attend the Retreat in India next month.)

It was a bit daunting to have to stand up and speak after this heart-felt testimony from our sister in India. Secretly, though, as I was watching her interview and listening to another woman who was speaking via Skype, I was thankful to be there in person so my face wouldn't be plastered across a BIG ol’ projection screen. Then as I was introduced, my new friend and visionary for this blog, our dear editor, Cindy, began a series of Photoshopped images of me that she created to liven up my sometimes otherwise “blah” posts. So much for not having my big face up on the screen my face on the big screen!

Well, I recovered my questionable poise and started my talk with a story of my own journey to having my voice valued. The audience laughed when I shared the family joke that until the age of six I honestly believed my name was “Jamie Hush!”

Later on I admitted to Cindy the less funny reality behind that joke, how we have a true enemy who wants nothing more than to shut us up. He knows that he is defeated by the blood of the Lamb and by the word of our testimony. Somewhere along the way, we all get discouraged trying to share a story that no one seems to want to hear.

Granted, when I was younger I gabbed non-discriminately, and I needed to learn to listen. But then somehow I took people’s admonishment to be quiet as a personal wound to my heart. John Eldredge and other authors have noted that Satan can do nothing to stamp out the glory of God, so instead he attacks us in the unique ways that we reflect God’s glory.

For me it is the gift of story telling and communication, which even as I admit this, triggers an irrational dose of shame. That’s my lifelong battle.

Can you think of areas like that in your own life, where you especially shine with God’s glory, only to have it squelched? I’d love to hear your stories about that.
IRL* Thankful for my new friends at WOTH who really do value my voice (our collective voice!) and help me (us) to shine shamelessly.

Dignity Lost

This photo sums up my experience in the past week. First of all, I was recruited to be in a skit at the ladies’ retreat, which involved being transformed into a "princess"—complete with new teeth, nose, glasses, make-up, wig, tiara, fan, and scepter. It was pretty, all right. Pretty awful! Rather humiliating, but funny for the onlookers.

On Friday I suffered another loss of my misplaced dignity when high blood pressure led me to the ER with two tampons shoved up my nostrils. It was not a glamorous sight.

Note to self: next time cut the strings off before rushing to hospital.
The doctors did manage to get my blood pressure down, which possibly explains why I was having trouble sleeping the week before. I think this has been brewing for a while now, and finally came to a crisis. I am truly thankful that the outcome was not worse than it was. I am grateful to be alive!

Now I am pondering the ridiculous reality of my embarrassment to be seen entering a hospital in such a sorry state. Whenever I think I have the old “what will people think” mindset conquered, somehow it sneaks back up. Deep down I had been patting myself on the back for my behavior at the ladies’ retreat— allowing myself to get thrown into the pool fully clothed, being seen in a bathing suit orchestrating synchronized swimming, becoming hideous (see photo, again) in the Princess skit. I’m not sure which was worse, but I know none was particularly attractive. I totally swallowed my pride, all for a few laughs.

Yet in spite of it all, I’d rather look good than bad, not necessarily for God’s glory, but for my own. That’s what stinks. You’d think fifty years would be enough to overcome such silliness. I hereby confess this, and pray that I need no further lessons in humiliation to conquer my pride.

Oh, did I mention that almost all of the retreat attendees and speakers have come down with a bad dose of E. coli infection? Now there’s an unladylike illness if ever there was one. ‘Nuff said. (Intestines gurgling.)

IRL*still struggling to die to self!