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.

The Discomfort of Comfort

Much as I like to think of myself as a woman who enjoys pleasure in moderation, a glance at my blog clearly exposes a woman of extremes. I love, love, love what I love, and I abhor, detest, hate what I don’t love. The pathetic reality is that 25 years of living without most American-style creature comforts has not cured me of my wimpy ways.

People back home have it all wrong if they think I am some rough and ready jungle woman. One phrase that makes me cringe is, “Oh, I could never do what you do….” As if I just love being uncomfortable.

Who actually enjoys discomfort?

Only by the grace of God do I occasionally do without my creature comforts. It’s one thing to serve with all my heart, but when it involves an aching back, somehow I find myself recoiling.

One quick trip to an Indian village last week and my flesh cried out like the spoiled baby apparently I am. I am addicted to being pleasantly comfortable. I am ashamed of myself. After all this time, I still want what I want, when I want it, and with a La-Z-boy recliner while you’re at it, please.

Our little adventure was an assault on my senses. About an hour into the journey, strong gas fumes started filling the inside of the Suburban, with or without open windows. That was not fun. During the showing of the Jesus film, I was thoroughly distracted by the smell of smoky clothing from cooking fires, body odors, and cloth diapers that needed to be changed. Again, the curse of an astute sniffer.

My taste buds, on the other hand, had no complaints. The children might beg to differ, but I thought even the eggs scrambled with onion and green beans were delicious. Add salsa and fresh corn tortillas—and anything is fabulous. However, my ears grumbled inwardly after hours and hours of listening to ranchero-style music on the bus for many hours on the way home. It was all I could do to not scream out “STOP! Enough already!” (How long could you handle listening to this?)

The worst assault was on my physical body. Sleeping on a hard floor, reading, trying to relax, having devotions on a wooden pew bench, and waiting on a concrete slab for the car’s problem to be diagnosed—well, let’s just say that I was not overindulged in the comfort department. It wasn’t overly comfy being banged around on the bus either, having one fellow passenger poke me with her elbow, and another stab my foot with her umbrella as we were thrashed with the twists and turns of the road.

I used to laugh at the stories short-term teams relate when they come down, but on some unconscious level I think I felt I had already paid my dues, that I was somehow entitled to take it easy from here on out. Not so.

Maybe I get some credit for not complaining (I know my three children sure won some points with me for their flexibility without grumbling!), but I know I didn’t earn high marks overall. I pity my dh, who will have to go back with a mechanic to fix and retrieve our Suburban.

From the (ridiculous) comfort of my cushy couch, I have pondered my dubious “suffering. “ Truly it was no sacrifice at all. In contrast, anyone in the village we visited who comes to Christ must pay a fine to the town, an amount equivalent to a full year’s salary. They sacrifice one year of labor (in a rather uncomfortable place, imho*) – just for choosing to follow Christ. Can you imagine?

IRL*Forsaking all to follow Jesus is more than words to an upbeat song.

[*see Jamie-Jo Speak in sidebar]

Women Who Defy...

Jamie Jo is on her way back to Mexico this week. In order to give her a break, this week's content is provided by the sole respondent (thanks, Karin!) to her request last week to submit their nomination for a woman working cross-culturally that defied the missionary stereotype. Thank you, Diane, for nominating Lil in the comment section of last week's blog--she sounded like an amazing woman!

Here's Karin's nominee:

"Dear Lady"

Our years living in the village in Central Asia were not a beautifying experience for me physically. The water was scarce and hard, the weather had no grace. Summers were baking hot and winters freezing cold with very little heating. Life was primitive with not many body products for sale to smooth rough skin and quench dry brittle hair. If you were willing to haul some beauty products in your suitcase from abroad it could come...if you had the weight allowance.
I still smile at my interesting observation. When we ladies living and working there would come back from our trips from our home countries we would have the newest haircuts, cute clothes and shoes. We even put make-up on daily. Then as time passed, our beauty routines would slowly fade. The hairstyles would become a daily ponytail, the make-up lessened and the clothes would fade. It was the more natural look—at times even leaning towards looking somewhat neglected.

One day a dear lady came to our town. She gathered the women together for a time of visiting and sharing. I vividly remember us sitting in a circle around the typical low table with flat mattresses on the floor with green tea being served in round Chinese printed cups on a brightly printed plastic tablecloth.

She shared from her heart about her personal experiences and difficulties. Then she hit our hearts full on with these words; "In twenty years time you ladies are not going to be the beauties in the world. Your skin is going to be telling a story of many hot summers and cold winters. You would have probably suffered diseases and hardships. Life would have taken its toll on your age." We did not need to hear much more than this. I felt the tears welling up in my eyes. The lump in my throat testified to the truth of what she was saying, as I looked across the table, I did not see one person whose eyes were not full of tears. Life felt harsh, I did feel run down and the mirror did not lie. Yes, when last did I have a good haircut?

She continued: ”But God says you are going to be beautiful to Him in your hearts and souls. You would have walked a life of suffering and faith. You would have endured much. You would be strong in Him. You would be the spiritual giants of this world.” Some of us were wailing now. We were touched to the core. What a beautiful opportunity we had to share our hearts and longings that day to understand one another's needs. We prayed together and were comforted by the beautiful truth of this message.

She then played this song by a group called Delirious:

"FIND ME IN THE RIVER...find me in the river find me on my knees. I've walked against the water now I'm waiting if you please. We've long to see the roses but never felt the thorns and bought our pretty crowns but never paid the price.

Find me in the river; find me on my knees with my soul laid bare. Even though you are gone and I'm cracked and dry...

Find me in the river...I'm waiting here.

We didn't count on suffering we didn't count on pain but if the blessing is in the valley then in the river I will wait."

...see sidebar to click on the YouTube screen to hear it.

Looking back, now almost twelve years ago, I fondly but thoughtfully carry this message in my heart. I do think the weather and difficulties of life have taken its toll on my age and physique. But I do hope that one day I can look into the mirror of my heart and see myself as He sees me. It is true: physical beauty fades with time. But I do believe what lasts are those beauties in our hearts: the choice we make to forgive, to turn the other cheek, to walk the extra mile, to do without some things so someone else can have, giving to others from ourselves more than what we hoped or planned.

These things then would be the true jewels in our hearts.

Bittersweet Bundt

Your heart-felt stories about the “WORST” things in missionary life leave me humbled. Each one is an illustration of our common bond in suffering for the sake of the gospel. Thank you for sharing your comments.

At times I hesitate to share from my heart, knowing how trite and silly it might sound to those who are in a truly dark valley battling for your very life and soul. However, in the spirit of “keeping it real,” I want to add a word about my current struggle.

This week finds me in Wisconsin celebrating the marriage of my firstborn, Chris (the cute one in the tub at Jungle Camp), and his bride. This is my second time as MOG* (Mother of the Groom), first in Canada, and now in the U.S. Since none of the same people will be attending, I have recycled (shortened) the same dress I wore the first time. Maybe my third son will choose a Mexican wedding, allowing me to wear the same dress yet again.

Weddings for me are bittersweet. I remember attending the wedding of a pastor’s daughter in Ohio, and being impressed that most everyone there knew the bride so well. Several stood at the podium and gave quick testimonies of how they had watched her grow into such a lovely young woman.

For Chris, it will be a different story. Only his immediate family and a very select few friends will be able to attend. It was the same when my son Tim got married. I find this to be a tragic side effect of living overseas. It’s not THE worst, but it’s on my list. There are no Sunday school teachers, Boy Scout leaders, or youth pastors who have known and loved my children. Those who share memories of Christopher’s childhood are nowhere close to Wisconsin.

In addition to this, I grieve over the fact that I haven’t been able to share special occasions with my nieces and nephews. I have missed every single graduation and wedding so far. They don’t know me very well, and I don’t know them as well as I’d like either.

My younger children cannot even name all their first cousins, some of whom they have never met. I find this to be tragic, too. After growing up with two parents who were only children (thus not a single cousin, aunt, or uncle), I always thought it would be cool to have a big extended family close by like “My Big Fat Greek Wedding.” Instead I feel like the MOG in that movie, an obvious outsider, contributing a bundt cake, trying to fit in and enjoy my son’s new family.

Once again, in light of eternity, this is a small sacrifice. At least all seven of my children will be together this week, and one of my sisters will be there with her husband. For that, I am grateful. It will be good.

IRL* Viva La Familia~I'm celebrating my son's wedding!