Is It Worth It All?

Many years ago dh* and I mastered a pithy formula for those occasions when someone suddenly says, “Come up and give us a ten-minute summary of your mission work.”  We were always prepared to give a spontaneous presentation broken down into various 2-minute story segments.

 Usually my husband would start by presenting the concise nuts-and-bolts module – who were are and what we do.  Then I would give a thank-you module, followed by a prayer module or a miracle module.  Oh, how people love to hear the amazing way God works on the field! 

Toward the end of our rehearsed/impromptu talk (how's that for an oxymoron?), one of us would give a slightly longer module we call the is-it-worth-it-all module.

In that portion of our presentation, we would talk about some particular challenge we had faced or some enormous trial we had endured, and we'd conclude with a story of what God has done in our hearts and in the lives of the people we serve, causing us to marvel and say, “In spite of everything, it has certainly been worth whatever small sacrifices we have made.”

This past week I’ve been thinking about the “Is it worth it all?” part, and I still come to the indisputable conclusion that, of course, it’s been worth it to live and raise a family on the mission field.  No regrets.  Well, not many.  Okay, I’m not altogether sure, but I think it’s worth it for me, but not so sure if the children would agree.

My one area of insecurity is home schooling.  I know without a doubt that God gave me the grace and desire to teach my kids at home.  In 1990 it was a no-brainer.  I had to teach my own kids because we lived in remote locations without any other educational options. 

In the spring I will boast (by God’s grace) of having five home school graduates.  That leaves just two kids at home.  Thankfully my son is attending high school in the city full-time, leaving me more time and energy to focus on my soon-to-be 14-year-old.  Unfortunately, the MK school does not have the needed support to handle her language disability/ Apraxia.

Without divulging details, let me just acknowledge that I am weary.  It’s one thing to home school by choice, and a whole 'nuther thing to home school by necessity.  I know in my head that “God’s grace is sufficient” for each day and each challenge, but in reality, it sure doesn’t feel like it some days.  Teaching has become a chore, and I don’t feel very creative, loving, or grace-filled like before.

I’m asking myself hard questions like “Is it worth it?” - but I’m not coming up with any automatic response like “Of course it is!”  I’m just not convinced.  Maybe this youngest daughter would have fared better in the U.S. under capable teachers more equipped to instruct her.  I don’t know.   

This seems to be the road God has taken us, but I’m pretty intimidated approaching four years of high school when I don’t think I’m doing such a stellar job any more.  This sounds terrible, but (whispered) I'm secretly ready to move on to ministries outside the home where I don't feel so inadequate all the time.

How about you?  Do you have an instant affirmative answer to the “Is it worth it all” question?  Any areas of insecurity you’d change if you could?  Are you ever ready to jump ahead to the next season of life?  

IRL* Maybe we all need to be infused with power and hope again, especially when the cost seems high, and we're not sure it's worth the struggle.

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Worlds Collide

Have you ever had one of those moments where your worlds collide and no one in the room can relate to you?  Think about high school reunions.  If you’ve never been to one, you might someday.  This summer was my first experience in going back in time, stepping into old roles, meeting old friends, and I’ve got to say, it weirded me out a bit, and not because my friends are old.

Last weekend I had the privilege of singing with my high school choir from the 1970s and seeing photos of us on tour wearing pea green polyester leisure suits back when we lived in the same world.  Most of us come from affluent north Dallas neighborhoods—some much more affluent than my own, which wasn’t too shabby in the least.

What struck me as humorous was how diverse our lives are now.  The only equalizing factors were the choir robes and the songs we sang.  Somehow it tickled me to think that only one or two of my old choir friends have any idea where or how I live now. 

While many of them live in lovely big homes to rival those of their parents, successful by anyone’s standards, here I am, a lowly missionary with (gasp!) seven children, living in an adobe “hut” (compared to their homes, anyway), but still one of the richest people along my unpaved end of my southern Mexico town.

I just kept thinking, If only they knew. At the same time, I had another unexpected thought:  Why don’t they?  How is it that I disappeared from their world?  That seems unfortunate.  There are many reasons my home church never sponsored my ministry, but this weekend, it seemed strange.

After a packed summer of being introduced, honored, and appreciated at churches around the U.S. where people were glad to know me and glad to be part of what God is doing through my life, it was weird to be invisible at the one church I called home for eighteen years.

On the one hand, it was nice to have a weekend of not talking about unreached people groups in Oaxaca and about the need for audio Scriptures for non-literate indigenous people. It was great just singing the old hymns and reminiscing with old friends.  But on the other hand, it felt almost disloyal to put my real life behind me and almost pretend that I was a successful Dallasite (with fewer than three children), working a normal job.

Is this ringing a bell with you? Have your worlds ever collided?  Each week I write these different posts, holding my breath thinking none of you will get it, that perhaps I am the only one who has experienced this.  Then you all chime in with your own experiences, and I see that we are all in this together.  Oh, how I appreciate you ladies and your lives. 

IRL* If you happen to find yourselves in a collision of worlds where no one gets your life, you are not alone!

The In-Between

One of my most memorable prayer letters started out with the shocking announcement that Jim and I were splitting up and leaving the children at the orphanage.  The truth is that while I was going to Canada for a son’s graduation, Jim was making a trip to South America, and a friend in Mexico was keeping the youngest kids for a few nights in the children’s home where she worked.

This summer is sort of like that.  The family is split up and all over the place.  I’m getting a small preview of the empty nest, which has its benefits to be sure, but it feels so unnatural.  The girls have been visiting their niece and older siblings for a few weeks, and Jonny, our youngest son, has been working with an older brother in another state.  We are all over the place geographically.

Meanwhile I am spending four consecutive weekends in four different states during this whirlwind summer tour – slash- “home assignment.”  Jim and I welcome the simplicity of traveling together, just the two of us, but it still just feels odd.  When I think of it, nothing feels right any more.

Next week is our designated time to have all the kids “home” again, although we aren’t really going to be home, but in at our temporary home base in Ohio.  Even having all our adult kids back together isn’t exactly natural.  I trust it will be wonderfully fun, but it’s just not the norm any more.

After that I will be in Dallas for a long weekend visiting with my mom and siblings in the house where we grow up.  We can’t wait to be together again like old times, but nothing about it will seem normal either.

A side of me just wants to fast forward and be home, at my own house in Mexico, looking at photos of the summer, sorting it all out in quiet devotional times.  Right now I am getting weary of too much food, too little exercise, too many thoughts and too little solitude.  Summer trips to the U.S. are like that. 

My heart cries out for normal, but as my international friends keep reminding me, “Normal is just a setting on the dryer, and most of us don’t even have a dryer.”  There is no such thing as normal.  Not until much, much later.

What I am experiencing this summer is sort of the in-between phase between big family and empty nest.  What I am living here on earth is this unnatural in-between thing between earth and heaven.  I feel it strongly.  My heart yearns for a normal that doesn’t exist outside of heaven.  For now I only get glimpses every now and then.

Scripture says that all nations will hear the good news, “… and then finally the end will come.”  I’m clinging to that truth.  That’s what keeps me going when the kids are scattered all over the globe and home doesn’t feel like home any more.  That’s what gives me strength to be so far away from my precious grandbaby and aging mom and dmil.

Like you, I desperately long for the end to come, but at the same time, I want our loved ones overseas to hear the good news before He returns.  Until then, I keep striving ahead, muddling through the unnatural junctures of life, and embracing the reality that I am doing something worthwhile.

One lie saying I keep hearing this summer is “It’s all good.”  It’s not true yet, but it will be someday.  No one can convince me that “it’s all good” to be so far away from so many loved ones.

IRL*My diet this summer is like my life, it’s not all good, and it’s not all normal or natural, but it’s all for a good purpose.

What's Your [Furlough] Blessing?

People genuinely do want to “bless the missionaries” while we are stateside.  Really they do.  Okay, at least some do.  Churches who regularly pray for us are the first to find tangible ways to bless us while we are here.

Hopefully all of us could share a long list of blessings we have received, and maybe we can even rejoice with our colleagues (without jealousy) in the provision of things we have personally never received.  I  once struggled with envy when I heard of other global workers returning home to free dental work, car mechanics, restaurant and gas cards, and trips to amusement parks as a family.

It’s taken 26 years to accumulate quite a list of lovely tokens of love and appreciation from friends and partners in our work.  But let’s face it, what is a tremendous blessing to me might fall short of that objective in your case.

For example, a friend gifted me with kefir grains, fresh raw milk, subsidized nutritional supplements, and even a kombucha starter!  All of my hippy, happy, just-a-bit-out-there friends will say “Cool”!  The rest of you are scratching your heads saying, “Huh”?

With this said, let me share some “blessings” my kids have experienced in real life on summer furloughs.  My oldest daughter remembers being in a supporting church at age six or seven, and being forced to stand up in front of about fifty children she didn’t know and share about life in Oaxaca.  (Don’t your children hate that?)

To make it worse, the teacher then said, “Because you are our special guest we will let you take our offering this morning … but first you can start us off by praying in Spanish!”  Now whoever thought that would be a treat for a shy little visitor?

Another story happened to one of my boys who was too young at the time to remember it.  One of our supporting churches is a lively little church, very different from the denominations we usually attend.  We were sitting on the front row, all however-many-of-us-there-were at the time. 

The pastor had asked people to come up for special prayer. He proceeded to holler at the devil, until one person after another fell at our feet, slain in the spirit.  When the pastor ran out of standing people to pray for, he came over to pray for us. 

My youngest son began crying loudly, “Don’t let him pray for me!  Don’t let him pray for me!” until I shushed him and rushed him out as though he needed a sudden diaper change.

Sometimes blessings fall a bit shy of their goal. 

What amazes me about WOTH is how they truly minister to such a diverse group of women, touching mind, body, and soul.  They “get” our lives in a way few people do.  It was a blessing to be a co-presenter at the Writer’s Workshop last week at the WOTH Furlough Retreat in Denver, and a pleasure to introduce many new readers to this blog! 

Now it’s your turn to share.  Please share with us some of the greatest blessings of your current or past furloughs.  I promise to rejoice without (much) envy, even if your list trumps my kefir, kombucha, and raw milk.  Feel free to add your own stories of things your kids have had to endure on furlough.

No pressure to comment, but I did tell lots of the women at the retreat that the stories in the comments are the best part about this blog, so don’t let me down! 

IRL* Blessed.

That's a Wrap!

In just a few short days I will be back in the land of plenty, where everything is available to those who can afford to buy them.  You can tell I have my usual ambivalent feelings about leaving home to live out of a suitcase for a few months, being tempted on all sides, while trying to raise money, not spend it, and to lose weight, not find it.

Right now I am surrounded by lists – things to do before we leave, people to see while we are stateside, stuff that needs to happen down here even while we are gone, and junk to purchase and cram into suitcases to bring back in August.  Meanwhile I am consumed with tidying up the house and tying up loose ends I don’t care to face three months and thousands of miles down the road.

With WOTH’s blessing, I’ve decided to take off the month of June to help transition into mini-furlough mode, so you won’t hear from me again until I am in Ohio in July. Rather than leave you dangling, I thought I would write one final post to tie up some loose ends with you, too – an update of sorts.  If I’ve left any other question marks in your mind, leave me a comment and I will attempt to answer it.  How’s that?

Plumbing. Would you believe we are just now almost getting the plumbing problems fixed?  Yep, a whole year of stench and inconvenience, and we almost have it resolved.  Almost.

Techy side.  My dream is coming true as I sing and chat with my little 5-month-old granddaughter.  This week I was blessed to share in her bedtime routine via Skype, watching my son read The Poky Little Puppy aloud to her in the nursery.  What a precious gift technology is to me.

Will they ever forgive me?  One estranged friend I have prayed for recently friended me on Facebook, and another is looking forward to seeing me this summer for this first time in more years than I can remember.  A third just chatted with me the other day on Facebook as though nothing stands between us.  God is blessing there, too.  There is hope, my friends!

Speaking of friends,  I am looking forward to a little reunion with some of my dearest high school friends – the first time in way, way too long.

At the end of my Unforgettable Week, yet another coworker passed away, and I blogged about it here.  Later I read a fascinating article about another fallen hero I never met or even heard of until his death – Jim Elliot’s brother, who faithfully served the Lord for over 60 years without any fanfare at all until he reached heaven.

Now that I’ve gotten you up-to-date I really must get busy on all the other items on my to-do list.  Procrastination stops here – right after I reread all your comments and suggestions from this post  and today’s post.

IRL* See you in July!

Missionary: Noun or Verb?

Is "missionary" a noun or a verb?

A friend on furlough in the U.S. told me this true story, which cracked me up. It’s a conversation between two MKs:

The second day we were here, an 8-year-old girl from that family (staying in a mission house right down the street) knocked on our door to introduce herself and see if my kids wanted to play. Her opening line was:

"Hey! My name is ________. We missionary in Armenia. Where do you missionary?"

It’s hilarious in its innocence, and we could have some serious fun using missionary as a verb, couldn’t we?

But it does make you pause and think. Is the term “missionary” who we are (noun) or what we do (verb)?

That’s one question for you.

Another question this raises is whether our children have any idea what a missionary is or does.

Once we were on furlough, and when I went to check on the children in new Sunday School classes with complete strangers, I found my five-year-old in front of the class answering the teacher’s questions about “being a missionary in Guatemala.” Those are the moments when I forget to breathe. (Being the first-born, I’m sure he rose to the occasion and did just fine. I have no memory of his answer.)

Another trip, a nursery worker was trying to figure out where my daughter (a first-time visitor in my home church in Dallas) was from. She had no idea how to answer that. Then they said, “Where do you live?” No answer. “Honey, where do you sleep?” Ah, that one she knew! “In the van,” she responded, thus painting the image of a homeless family under a bridge somewhere.

“What does your father do?” the persistent teacher asked.

“He fixes the van,” she replied.

Obviously it was one of “those” trips when we must have broken down a time or two between Oaxaca and Dallas.

IRL*Where do you missionary?

Furlough Boot Camp: Getting the Lil' Soldiers Ready

Getting ready for a summer furlough is so much easier with only three children who are actually not children, but teens. It's an amazing blessing that they can each pack and carry (!) their own bags, decide what books and music they need for the trip, and even go to the store on their own for whatever snacks they might want for travel days.

In the early days I used to put the little ones through "furlough boot camp." To prepare them for a season of being completely thrown out of their routines, I would make the preschoolers take naps in strange places around the house. No more comfy cribs or familiar beds. I would put a blanket and pillow somewhere on the floor and say, "Nighty-night," and leave them to figure out I meant business. This did help once we were on the road and staying in different people's homes because they were accustomed to going to sleep wherever and whenever I told them.

During boot camp, no matter what food I served them, they were not allowed to comment unless they really liked it. They were never to beg for seconds unless I specifically offered them. They had to say please and thank you with a smile on their faces. I trained them to respond to a discrete snap of my finger, wave of my hand, or lifting of an eyebrow. We'd make a game of "coming quickly when called." We even practiced walking in tight formation so we wouldn't appear to be as big a family as we really were. Each older child had a younger one they were responsible for, and the middle child was responsible for the diaper bag (or dog when we were dumb enough to travel with a pet). By the time we left for furlough, we were looking good!

With this said, I must confess that I took the "training exercises" a bit too far, and pridefully drilled into my children how to be perfect little house guests. After all, we wouldn't want unruly children destroying the houses where we would be staying. Seriously! We do need to train our children, and furlough is a good excuse to go into high gear. On a deeper level, though, God only knows my true motives were nothing short of arrogance. I didn't want to risk anyone seeing what we were really like. Instead I painstakingly taught my children to become little hypocrites, acting the part of loving, well-mannered Christians, when their hearts were not quite there yet. I am sorry for that.

It wasn't until after I read the book Shepherding a Child's Heart (which I HIGHLY recommend, by the way), that I became convicted about only working on the outer appearances rather than focusing on heart issues. From then on I vowed to discipline my children for the purpose of training their hearts to fear God, not merely to make Mom look good in front of her friends. I'll never forget the time we went up with one teen and his big ol' afro, and other teen with his long stringy hair. It was still a struggle to not consider "What will people think?" but I forced myself to look at it from God's standpoint. No sin was being committed. Their hearts were good. Why should I require a haircut just to please our conservative support base?

Ironically, it wasn't until I stopped being so paranoid about our "real selves" being revealed in the presence of our supporters that people began to connect genuinely with me. I once had a woman tell me that she used to berate her children after we passed through as house guests, saying things like, "Why can't you be more like the Loker kids? They never...." Oh, my, what damage was done due to my pretense of having well-behaved children? This same woman was quite relieved on a later trip we made to the States, when she saw my children acting like the kids they really were, and even not acting very "Christian" (read between the lines: they were fighting!). Then she began to talk to me on a deeper level. No pretense. No shame. Just honesty. It was a good thing.

With that said, I have heard some frightening tales of things missionary friends' children have done on furloughs that made me glad I had trained mine to be inhumanly perfect. (Ha! Like that's possible.)

Maybe you can flesh this out with some real life experiences of funny things your children have done on furloughs.

IRL* The flip side is that I have fewer stories to tell.

Fiery Darts

Awareness of sin, repentance, walking with God, smooth sailing, suffering, God’s grace, spiritual growth – and the beat goes on, as they say. Throw in a few fiery darts from the enemy during the suffering chapters, and that about covers it. The story of my life.

When am I going to wake up and smell the coffee Kombucha? It’s the same little pesky attacks that trip me up every time. Why can’t I anticipate them and prepare myself for the battle? Instead I freak out at the slightest hint of discomfort and revert to a whiney baby who begs for someone to deliver me out of my troubles.

It’s the continuing saga of the summer furlough (not a vacation) that launched my latest kerfuffle. I’ve become a melodramatic teenager again – on cloud nine one day and in the depths of despair the next, sighing like one of my daughter’s Facebook statuses “I hate my life!” or “Oh, good – Leap Year – one more day of problems this year.” (Actually I made that one up myself.)

Finally I’ve decided it’s time to grow up and move on.

What happened last week was this: I decided all my fretting and finagling was getting me nowhere, so I repented and put my worries back in God’s hands. Within twenty-four hours, we found affordable airline tickets to the U.S. in June, a car to borrow, and an ideal place to live. All was well on cloud nine.

The very next morning we got an early phone call saying no, actually the rental house is not available after all. We’ll have to keep looking for a place to stay this summer. Are you kidding, Lord? What’s this all about?

Way too immediately I welcomed back my former enemy/companion/burden, and spent the next twenty-four hours worrying again. “Woe is me.” Second verse, same as the first, a little bit louder and a littler bit worse.

Just as quickly I realized that:

1. Life is still really, really good, and
2. God has it all in control, and
3. Occasional suffering is good, forcing me further along the road to spiritual growth, and lastly
4. There is an enemy lurking in my head planting incredibly stupid lies.

When I am down (particularly when I am sick), it happens every time. Suffering leads to immediate attack. When I get too busy fretting to analyze the thoughts that ricochet in my brain, I am in trouble. When I sit still and listen to my Father’s voice, the lies become clear.

“He doesn’t care for you.” That’s the biggest one of all. It’s not true! He does care, and He is providing everything I need. Satan is a liar.

I’m simply going to have to trust Him (at least for today). How about you?

IRL* Summer plans are still a bit hazy, but God has it under control.

Is There Some Hip New Way?

Does anybody really care? Ha! Now I’ve got you oldie fans singing the Chicago song I’ve had stuck in my head all morning. Seriously, though, do you ever wonder if anyone really does care about where you live and what you are doing?

It’s been three years since I’ve been to Ohio, which is where our support base is centered. This June will be my first time to return since I’ve been more connected via Facebook and blogging. I wonder if it will make any difference. Do people know me better? Will that be a help or a hindrance?

For me, I enjoy seeing who’s gotten married, who’s become a grandparent, who’s made fabulous trips I have enjoyed vicariously by seeing online photos. It’s been fun “liking” these events on Facebook and leaving quick comments occasionally. I’ve been in touch when tragedy has hit certain friends, and I’ve been blessed to pray for them during the dark nights of loss.

But how will this affect my re-entry into their real lives?

Before this season of re-acquaintance via the computer, I noticed that friends’ lives are busier each time we visit the States. Even being in the neighborhood for a whole summer, I have little hope of seeing people more than once or twice. That’s just how it is nowadays. I get it—sort of—but it still hurts a little bit.

Don’t you ever long to see your friends and family, and secretly imagine a wonderful happy reunion where everyone embraces you, welcomes you back, and then honestly cares that you are there? I know I sure do. Deep down, though, I realize that friends are overwhelmed enough as it is. Their lives have very little margin to allow for free time to hang out with their missionary friend, even if they wanted to.

The nagging question is “Do they really want to spend time with me anyway?” Maybe they view me as a persistent Amway salesman who only wants to entice them to spend an evening so I can try to gain their support. Maybe deep down I really do wish they would get on board, even if I’m too chicken to ever mention finances.

Anyway, it’s funny that just as I have developed my “voice” in writing, and have met so many new e-maginary friends, all of a sudden I feel insecure with the whole “being in the States for a mini-furlough” business this summer. People know that the main reason we are there is to try to raise more support. Will they just try to avoid us? Will they even care? Will we have anything in common with our former friends and acquaintances?

Have you been there, done this recently? Can you talk me through the process again? What works? It’s not that I have forgotten, but I wonder if what I used to know is even relevant any more. Is there some new hip way to relate to others and still share needs from the mission field?

IRL* Help!

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.

The Amazon Question

“Where do you live?” is my second least favorite question. This summer alone, I can’t count how many times I’ve pulled out a cheat sheet with my temporary address and cell phone number. To get groceries at the lowest prices, you need a special card, but to get the little card you have to give your address and phone number.

Today’s task is memorizing our summer address and teaching it to the children. One trip to the U.S., I failed to do this, resulting in two lost teenagers being hauled into the police station. The line of questioning went like this: Where do you live? We don’t know. (Yeah, right.) Where are you from? Mexico. (Yeah, right.) Where were you born? Guatemala. (Yeah, right.) What is your phone number? We don’t have a phone. (Yeah, right.) And so forth.

Another embarrassing incident happened on a summer mini-furlough while adding 15,000 miles to our family van. We were visiting a nice church, where we already stood out because of the size of our family, plus the fact that my kids were not wearing proper “Sunday shoes.” To make matters worse, the Sunday school teacher thought that we were homeless street people because my toddler didn’t know where we lived. When the teacher tried to rephrase the question “Where do you live?” by asking, “Where do you sleep?” - my little one innocently answered, “In the van!”

Each time a child fills out college applications, we get stumped with the second question: Address? Should we put the Mexico address, thus establishing that our child is a TCK (third culture kid)? No, because then any possible acceptance letter might get lost in the mail. If we use a stateside address, which one would be the most logical one to use? Such a simple question yet it has no obvious answer.

You laugh, but how about you? How many options are currently in your Amazon address book? Unless you regularly tidy up and delete unused addresses, you likely have at least a dozen addresses where you have had things shipped. A mission house here and there, a short-term mission team leader’s house, a supporting church, your home office, your parents’ house, etc.

Am I right?

Lastly, what about going in and out of your host country? The immigration papers require an address where you will be staying. (We never “stay” anywhere!) This recent trip I was corrected for putting my “country of residence” as the USA. I was told I should have put Mexico. In the past it was the reverse. As long as we keep a permanent US address, I was told to put our residence as the US, not Mexico. Whatever.

With all this confusion, I can honestly say I am very glad to know where my true citizenship lies. No question about that. My PERMANENT residence is in the arms of a loving, gracious, and generous Savior. Just like the apartment we left last week, I’m only passing through this old dirty world on my way to someplace much bigger and better. Heaven dominates my thoughts these days.

IRL* Today: No idea where I am. Tomorrow: not a clue. Forever: ;)

P.S. Someday I'll tell you what my least favorite question is.

Roof Over My Head

Have you ever found yourself in a situation where God didn’t seem to “come through” the way you expected Him to? That’s where I’ve been. Coming to California this summer has proven to be a huge leap of faith. Not that I ever want to put the Creator of the universe in a box, but somehow I tend to expect Him to do certain things just because that’s the way I’ve seen Him work in the past.

In the early years on the field, we moved about once every eight months. For seven years. Do the math. It was enough to drive me over the edge. Then we felt called from Guatemala to move to Oaxaca, Mexico. God miraculously provided a house and the funds to purchase it. We’ve lived there for the past 16 years.

Back in 2002 it became apparent that we needed to take a real furlough and seek help for our youngest daughter who still was not speaking at age four. We sent an email prayer update explaining how we needed a place to live, hopefully someplace that would allow not only seven children, but also three dogs. (Don’t even ask.) Within 24 hours, God had amazingly provided the perfect house. The owner gave us a hugely subsidized rent, and it was affordable. Even the location was ideal.

This summer, again, we had to be stateside for the sake of our family. This time we felt compelled to come to California to be with our two college kids. This time, however, we found no affordable housing whatsoever. All we found was a three-bedroom apartment recently vacated by nine college men. It was fully furnished, largely from dumpster “donations” –and, well, not to sound ungrateful, it was three times more than we had ever paid for any other housing situation, and did I mention it needed a serious cleaning?

Anyway, I kept praying and wondering if there wasn’t surely another place out there that we had simply missed. I sent an email to one of the two friends I have made since we arrived here. Right away she wrote back about a possibility. With that one connection, we met a young couple preparing for the mission field who “just happened” to buy a house even though they can’t move in until August 18, coincidentally two days after our return flight to Mexico.

They had prayed about what to do with this house over the summer, joking, “Maybe God will send a missionary family to Simi Valley, who ‘just happen’ to need housing for two months.” They had dedicated their house to God and asked him to use it. Then they got an email from our mutual friend, and found out about us.

This week we moved to a 2-story house where we will pay exactly what we can afford. Bonus blessings include a barbecue grill, a crock-pot, popcorn maker, dishwasher, and anything we could possibly want or need, including a swimming pool and tennis court run by the Home Owners’ Association. The funny thing is I am not surprised. I am, however, thankful for the month in the apartment just so I can fully appreciate this glorious provision.

How about you? How have you seen God’s faithfulness this week? Or His mercy and His love? We’d all love to hear about it.

IRL*In my Father's house...all the time.

What's Your Favorite American Idol?

Let’s talk about idols, shall we? Living in the land of plenty (California), I find myself daily assaulted by my former favorite American idols. It’s true I am not living under the heavy weight of oppression like in Mexico, where the name of our town in Zapotec means “The Place of the Dead.” I’m enjoying a reprieve from that, but the opposite is equally dangerous.

Here in the shadow of Hollywood, the gods of safety, beauty, health, happiness, wealth, convenience and time management taunt me. No wonder people don’t push and shove to be the first to sign up to be foreign missionaries any more. I totally get it. They simply can’t bear the thought of sacrificing their “right” to have the American dream.

A missionary’s version of “American Idol” would look very different from Hollywood’s. Who would you nominate for the final contestants on your “show”? Which were the last ones to die in your own heart? Which ones cause you to struggle and stumble on the field? Which ones do you still think you have a right to keep?

Safety. Oh how I fussed fearfully over having to take my first-born child, a mere 4-month-old infant, on a dilapidated bus in Mexico during our “Jungle Camp” experience – WITHOUT A CARSEAT! That was only the beginning. Finally safety had to be crucified for the sake of the gospel. Now I snicker at America’s attempt at preventing ANY and EVERY possible accident, and suing someone when they fail.

Beauty. I should have saved that one for last, since honestly it’s not dead yet. Living in the state with the most cosmetic surgeries per capita (just a guess), let me say that a tummy tuck has never been so tempting.

Health. Having just come through a bout of lingering un-wellness, I understand people’s reticence to leave the land of minor emergency clinics and 911 to go where hepatitis, whooping cough (even for the vaccinated), typhoid, malaria, and amebic dysentery are realities, and good medical care might be an MAF flight away. I get it.

Happiness, wealth, convenience, time management. We basically want it all. We just want to be in charge. Being a missionary means putting God back on the throne daily. It means trusting him for finances. It means jiggling the pipes and praying the water fills the tanks and hoping for a shower without muddy tap water. It means inconvenience. It means your time is no longer your own. Most people can’t imagine giving up those idols.

Yes I totally get why the message of missions often falls on deaf ears. Way too many idols to tear down before people will commit to go. My prayer is that I will not succumb to worshiping the blessings instead of the Savior who blesses me with every good and perfect gift.

IRL*smashing the sacred stones.
Reading Exodus 34:12-15 in a whole new light: “Be careful not to make a treaty with those who live in the land where you are going, or they will be a snare among you. Break down their altars, smash their sacred stones and cut down their Asherah poles. Do not worship any other god, for the LORD, whose name is Jealous, is a jealous God. Be careful not to make a treaty with those who live in the land; for when they prostitute themselves to their gods and sacrifice to them, they will invite you and you will eat their sacrifices.”

What's In Your Cart?

One of my pet peeves about prayer letters is when people moan and groan about their needs and then fail to mention God’s abundant provision later. Therefore, I think it’s time for an update of sorts about different gripes I have blogged about.

First of all, I am now the proud holder of a California driver’s license. Woo-woo! Yes, I passed the written test on the very first try, and was not required to start over with the learner’s permit and driving exams. Thank you, Lord! Now I am not such a burden on my college kids who were my willing chauffeurs the first few days after my arrival.

Secondly, I think this intestinal infection is finally clearing up. Most of the 40 or so people who were infected seem to be recovering now. That was one crazy powerful bug. I honestly wondered if I would ever feel normal again. Isaiah 41 has come to have new meaning for me: “He gives power to the faint, and to him who has no might he increases strength.” I’m actually out walking again, and not completely exhausted afterward. That’s high on my thankfulness list these days.

With that said, can I admit something (confidentially, between friends, right?) that I seldom mention to our supporters? I miss my affordable household help! Since the three youngest kids were babies, I have had a part-time housekeeper to keep me caught up on chores and meals while I home school. Living in the U.S. always takes a bit of adjustment as I plan, execute, serve, and clean up after every meal, plus do some of the shopping. (Methuselah* does most of it in Mexico since he’s in the city more often than I am.)

One of my other (pardon me for boasting) accomplishments last week was learning how to navigate the self-check-out lanes in the stores. That was thrilling, to be so independent.

Spiritually, it’s just the opposite. It is so nice to feast on live sermons in English and books galore after years of having to hunt for "food" in the self-service aisle. In fact, I am auditing a summer class with my daughter at Eternity Bible College. That’s an amazing provision in itself.

After a season of extreme weariness and pain, I am being rehydrated spiritually, getting some counseling, and gaining eternal perspective on my troubles. And though I am not soaring with the eagles (yet), I am enjoying this time of rest, unhindered by a cloud of oppression. If I had to summarize in one word, I’d say I am coasting. The encouraging part is that I don’t have to do the steering. I like that.

It’s a refreshing change, nourishment I don’t have to shop and prepare for myself.

IRL* Life still isn’t necessarily “fun” but it sure is good.

Let the Games Begin!

When the kids were younger they used to play this goofy game with their friends where they would spin around and around until they got so dizzy they would fall down. The last one standing was the winner. Then they would stand up and do it again, still giggling and spinning in circles. Isn’t that a picture of life sometimes? Why are we playing this silly game anyway? And what’s so funny about it?

Right now in Mexico, folks are playing the “summer exodus” game. Living so close to the U.S., many missionaries opt to go to the States or Canada every couple of summers rather than investing a whole year in taking a traditional “furlough”* (not-a-vacation) like people serving in other hemispheres.

In this game, the contestants pass the contents of refrigerators from missionary to missionary, and the last one “standing” for the summer (in other words, the one who doesn’t leave the country) gets all the ketchup, mustard, and mayonnaise. I would use the more generic term for those items, but that’s another quirk of mine, avoiding words that start with those two syllables. You know what I mean!

Last year one of our neighbors did the unthinkable and left her refrigerator on instead of participating in the food-swap game. Let me tell you, it was not a good idea. Something electrical popped in their system, and the refrigerator went off, never to return to power. By the time I sent a maid to clean up the house for my neighbor’s return, it was nasty! Just imagine fish, meat, and chicken no longer frozen, but dripping down hidden coils in the works of the fridge. You could smell it all the way out on the road. The next time she left Mexico, I was given all the contents of her refrigerator, which I was able to pass along to a new missionary family arriving the same week.

That’s the way the game is supposed to be played.

This summer, however, there are not enough people remaining in town to bear the burden of all the (whispered) “condiments.” I mean, there are only so many bottles of ketchup a door can hold. I decided three months is a short enough trip. Why not live dangerously? I left Mexico for California last week with the refrigerator still plugged in!

A housekeeper friend of mine will go feed our cocker spaniels and check on the house while we are gone; so hopefully, she will discover any malfunction before it becomes a major stench to the neighborhood.

Meanwhile, here I am in southern California, settling in, cleaning an apartment formerly occupied by nine college men. It’s not as bad as rotten fish and meat, but, well, it did need a bit of serious scrubbing. At least they left us some ketchup and mustard on the door of the fridge. Hey, I’m back in the game!

IRL*Sometimes what we leave behind ketchups with us...

Furlough Does Not Equal Vacation

“Welcome home!” and “Enjoy your vacation!” are two of the most predictable statements we hear when we return to our passport country for a furlough. Wouldn’t you agree? Both represent a misunderstanding on the part of the well-intentioned speaker. Those of us with kids cringe when we see their reaction to the first quote in particular. That’s a separate issue in itself, just managing our unruly kids on display for months on end when they just want to go “home!”

At the online home school support forum I frequent, this question recently cropped up: how do you communicate to people that the word furlough is not synonymous with vacation? A lively discussion followed, which I would like to continue here, with Hayes Zookeeper’s permission—since she is both a WOTH reader, an IRL friend who lives down the road from me, and also the one who posed the question on the other board.

One woman suggested not using the term “furlough” at all, which in the military does imply a time of vacation. Another friend suggested calling it a business trip. Then she gave a sample blurb from an imaginary prayer letter:

Imagine going on a business trip to meet with all your most important clients—the ones who pay your daily bills—making progress reports, R&D (research and development) reports, etc, and doing new client development... with the entire family in tow... for 4 months straight... over 4000 miles.... logged in a car, not on upgrade flights.... and your wife is pregnant for the duration.

Mind you, she is referring to the Zookeeper being pregnant, not me. (The last time I had a premenopausal “scare” of that nature, I had to dig out reading glasses to see how many stripes were on the test. I figure at that point, I’m probably too old!)

Anyway, I digress. Back to the question. I figure this worldwide community of Women of the Harvest would have the answer to this dilemma. What do you say? How do you communicate to friends and supporters the grim stress-filled reality of what furloughs actually are?

I’ll look forward to your comments on this one. Extra points will be given for humorous, uplifting wording. Oh, yeah, this isn’t a contest. But…

Maybe WOTH can use some of your responses to encourage folks to sponsor some poor weary soul to attend the Furlough Retreat this summer.

IRL*What IS the answer to the equation: Furlough = __?__