When God Says Wait

Spoiler Alert: My new book, Holy Doubt: Finding Hope When Faith is a Struggle is available now on Amazon. If you or someone you know is struggling with God, this book will be a huge help along the sometimes dark and painful path through doubt. The digital version is only $0.99 until May 11th (find out more and snag a copy here).

Many of you started following this blog almost three years ago when I first began writing about some of my experiences with doubt and what I experienced as a missionary in India. I shared personal stories about the way God was working in my heart as I tried to process what I saw, felt, and heard during our four years in missions, and many of you shared your stories with me as well. I counted it an extreme privilege that my story connected with you in some small way, and I started to wonder if maybe God could use my story in other ways too.

So I kept blogging and started writing Holy Doubt with the intention of helping people like me who were struggling with doubt and shattered faith.

But the book was terrible.

There was a lot of “then this happened, and then this…,” and the manuscript turned into one long list of events. Ugh! Essentially, it was a poorly written memoir instead of the helpful guide for the dark journey through doubt and questions that I hoped it would be. It was about as interesting and useful as reading my grocery list. Not. Helpful.

So I rewrote it.

After that second rewrite, I submitted it to a national contest and Holy Doubtt was among the top 10 considered for a publishing deal with Tyndale Momentum. That time I thought, “This is it! This story is finally going to make its way out into the world.” But as the date for them to choose a winner got closer and closer, I didn’t feel excited. Instead, I hoped they wouldn’t pick me! Feeling terrified and overwhelmed by the thought of sharing the story with the world and the many ways I would feel exposed and vulnerable, I wished I’d never submitted it to the contest. I finally felt more confident in the manuscript, but I wasn’t ready to be an author.

As it turns out, I wasn’t ready and neither was the book!

So I rewrote it again.

I didn’t realize it at the time, but that rejection was God’s way of saying “Wait!”

Somewhere in the middle of the third rewrite I realized God had replaced some of my pain with purpose, exchanged my mourning for joy, and hidden hope for me to find in the dark places. That’s when Holy Doubt finally became a story worth telling.

With each rewrite the meaning behind what I experienced sharpened and became clearer, until finally it became what I had hoped for all along—an easy-to-read guide for hurting people stumbling through the soul-crushing agony of doubt.

I don’t know what you’re facing right now. Maybe God is saying, “Wait!” and you just want to charge ahead, bulldozing every roadblock in your way. I know exactly how that feels.

But God has a beautiful story to tell with your life. It might not feel like it right now. But as someone who has sat where you are (and will likely be there again in the future), can I urge you to trust God’s timing? It made no sense to me back when I didn’t get that publishing deal, why God would ask me to wait, but years down the road, it makes perfect sense.

What is God wanting to rewrite in your life? Where is he wanting to replace sorrow with joy, despair for hope? While you contemplate your story, make sure to check out Holy Doubt on Amazon. I’m praying it will help you see the beauty in the story God is writing with your life.

Lies I Tell Myself

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I’ve been thinking a lot about a little word called justification lately. And not the good kind of justification where Jesus takes away our sins and makes us right in his eyes. The kind that whispers, “Well, it’s not so bad if I tell a little white lie. It’s harmless. I’m not really hurting anybody.” I’m talking about the excuses I make that let me take the easy way out and ignore the hard things that demand a higher standard in my life. That’s what my justifications are, excuses designed to allow me to do whatever I want to do which is usually completely out of line with what I know God wants from me.

What got me thinking about this, you might ask? I was recently confronted with the knowledge of something that caused my heart to grieve and I kept wondering, completely puzzled, “How could this person even think that what they’re doing is okay?” I just couldn’t wrap my head or my heart around it. I thought, surely they know better! And then I felt the Holy Spirit drop this word–the subject of this blog– justification into my heart. See, we can almost always come up with ways to justify our actions, even truly ugly ones, and the Holy Spirit reminded me that I do it all the time. Um, ouch!

When we were living in India as missionaries one of the things I justified, big-time, was my lack of compassion for people on the street. Whenever I felt a tiny nudge to reach out to a beggar I usually reasoned, “Well, I can’t make any sort of real difference. Since I can’t change everything, I should probably do nothing. This problem is just way too big for me. I don’t have the resources or the time to do anything significant.” Or at least that’s what I convinced myself was true. What I was really saying is, “I don’t want to do anything, stopping to help this person would be too inconvenient for me.” I’m ashamed to admit that the more I told myself those lies the more I believed them, until one day I found I could walk by people, dirty, destitute and broken, and not bat an eye.

1 John 3:16-17 (The Message) says: “This is how we’ve come to understand and experience love: Christ sacrificed his life for us. This is why  we ought to live sacrificially for our fellow believers, and not just be out for ourselves. If you see some brother or sister in need and have the means to do something about it but turn a cold shoulder and do nothing, what happens to God’s love? It disappears. And you made it disappear.“

Justification allowed me to read that verse and say, “The number of people in need that I see on a daily basis is staggering, surely God doesn’t really mean this! I would drive myself crazy trying to live this out on the streets of India!” And just like that I could conveniently ignore it and dismiss it as too extreme and definitely too hard. I just want to say that is a scary place to live, picking and choosing the commands you want to follow, a place I no longer want to live in, and I’m sorry that I lived in it as long as I did. Truly sorry. I weep over the opportunities I missed, the people I could have helped, over the times that I made God’s love disappear in a place that desperately needed it to be tangible and visible. I truly hope you don’t relate to my story, but if you do, it’s not too late to change! Are you making excuses to justify disobedience? Ask God to help you change; he will!

Let me know what you think! Drop me a comment. I’d love to hear your thoughts!

Tears That Will Change the World

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Recently, midway through the ten hour drive home from our annual summer pilgrimage to Memphis, buns numb and legs aching to be anything but bent, I was devouring Shauna Niequist’s book Bread & Wine (if you’re not a fan of Shauna already I highly recommend her lovely, honest writing) when I stumbled on a phrase that got me thinking. On page 74 she says these words, “…tears are a guide…when something makes you cry, it means something. If we pay attention to our tears, they’ll show us something about ourselves.”

I don’t know if you’re like me (probably not, I’m pretty weird), but I don’t really enjoy crying. And I definitely don’t like for other people to see me cry. I know, I know, sometimes it’s therapeutic and you just need a good cry. But generally speaking, I just don’t like it. So I’ve spent years ignoring my tears, and I’ve certainly never allowed them to be a guide–using them to help me find my passion and calling. So this was a revolutionary concept indeed. But the more I thought about it, the more I thought, Um, yes! How could I have been so dense all these years?

Back in 2009, when we were missionaries to India, a group of young adults came over on a short-term trip to work with us. While there, they visited a school that was located in a heart-rending slum and for many of the children the only food they received for the day was what they got at school. When the team arrived the well the school had been using had run dry and the children were going hungry because the staff couldn’t prepare their meals. Instantly, the team got together, each person gave, and they raised the money to dig a new well. That act of generosity still brings tears to my eyes.

I don’t like to think about children going hungry or a mother having to bury her child because she doesn’t have access to clean water. That makes me cry and it makes me angry.

A few days earlier on our trip my husband, Jonathan, and I had sat down with our two kids to present an opportunity. He had earned some money mowing lawns with his brother and we wanted to instill some principles of giving and generosity in the hearts of our kids. Eyes wide, they yelped when he said he wanted to give them each one hundred dollars. Their smiles flickered a little when he said, “But…this money is for you to give away, and we want you to pray about what God wants you to do with it.”

The next morning they came to us, wearing smiles as wide as stretched taffy, and said they wanted to start a family savings account to raise enough money to dig a well in Africa. That, my friends, brought tears to my eyes. 

What makes you cry? Have you thought about your tears being a guide before? Could they be leading you towards what God has uniquely gifted you to do? Leave a comment and let me know what you think.

Unexplained

underground cisterns beneath the incredible city of Istanbul

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For those of you who have been following the “beauty in the brokenness” thread and have been left hanging all summer…sorry!!  I’m back now and the saga continues 🙂

If you can’t remember where we left off start here…

Upon arrival in Turkey I was overwhelmed by how Western it felt.  To my surprise, they even drove on the same side of the road!  I’m not sure what I was expecting, but it shattered all of my expectations, and was a much welcomed respite from our life in India.  It was gorgeous!  And the history!  And did I mention, it was gorgeous?  Oh, but I digress.  In case you can’t tell it’s one of my favorite places.

Almost from the moment we arrived, my children no longer had diarrhea and my daughter didn’t have any more of the frightening spells that terrified me beyond words.  After six long months of constantly battling mystery illnesses that no doctor could explain or treat all traces of their sicknesses ceased.  Seemingly overnight.  No explanation except the hand and goodness of God.  All I felt was an overwhelming sense of relief.  But little did we know we were about to be introduced to a new reality upon our return to India…

Living in Community

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Community. It’s a word that’s tossed around a lot in the church and something, I believe, that each of us longs for. A place where we’re known and we belong. One of the things I loved and missed desperately about living in India was the community that surrounded us. Our family built relationships there that will last a lifetime. And while I was thrilled when we moved back home to the States, part of me was really missing our India friends and the level of relationship that we shared. We stayed in each other’s homes, shared meals, and were “aunts” and “uncles” to each other’s children. Life moved at a different pace, and no one was ever too busy to make time for some face-to-face interaction.

But that level of community didn’t just happen. Obviously, Jesus was at the center of all of those relationships, but thinking about it, two other ingredients were vital to creating that perfect blend of friendship and love that accepted each other’s flaws and lifted one another up when we were weak and tired: vulnerability and time.

The level of trust/vulnerability that I had with my friends in India was immeasurable. Our shared experiences created an instant bond between us that was difficult to put into words. But when our family came back home to the States I didn’t have that community anymore. Honestly, much of the reason why I didn’t experience that deep community (except with a few close friends) when we came back was because I wasn’t ready–and I was scared. Vulnerability can be scary (but also very rewarding). There was so much that had happened, and I had changed in ways that I couldn’t easily explain, that I was afraid of how people would respond, or if they would even understand. And I was still working through some things with Jesus, and I just wasn’t up to the commitment on a large scale. Because living in community definitely takes commitment. Which leads me to the next ingredient…time.

I could bemoan the fact that, in America, we’re too busy and life moves at a breakneck speed–but I’m not going to do that. Because, while that can be true, I know that we have the capacity to forge those same relationships even in the midst of busyness if we’re willing to make the effort. Our culture shock coming home involved realizing that everyone, ourselves included, had to schedule “hang-out” time, sometimes months in advance. There was very little room in anyone’s schedule for spontaneous get-togethers, but those were the times when we really got to know each other. Our family is moving into a new season of ministry where we will be diving in with our whole hearts and, hopefully :), living in strong community with some new friends. We are so excited just thinking about it!  My prayer for you is that you have that same experience wherever you live. It’s worth all of the time and vulnerability that’s required!

I’ve Never Seen That Before

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I wouldn’t say I ever got used to being gawked at like an animal at the zoo while we were living in India, but it happened far less when we moved to Delhi.  Outside of the village, in a city that’s home to thousands of expats, we were no longer a novelty that could potentially cause a ten rickshaw pile-up!

With that said, I had one of my funniest encounters with an ogler while we were living in the city.  On MG Road in Gurgaon there are several metal fabricators advertising their services from roadside stalls with simple white signs.  We had hired one of them to make three metal bed frames for us.  (Getting slightly off topic, the beds were lovely.  They looked just like some pictures that I had brought from an Ethan Allan catalog for FAR less money! *Sigh*)  Anyway, when the beds were finished they delivered them to our apartment.  That’s where things got interesting.

Jonathan, my husband, was not at home that particular day.  When the crew arrived, they scurried from room to room carrying metal pieces to each prospective bedroom and assembling them. Everything proceeded in a very professional manner until it was time for them to leave.  As I handed each worker a tip, one of the guys was clearly gobsmacked.  He walked backwards, a goofy grin on his lips, staring at me with each step, across my living room.  In fact, he was so oblivious to everything else that he didn’t even realize when he reached the front door, which had been left ajar by his exiting friends.  Somewhere near the entry, he finally spun his body towards the door but kept his face turned towards me.  The next thing I knew he walked straight into the side of the door that had been left open!  I’m pretty sure it left a mark–on his face, and his pride!  I had never seen anyone do that before in real life, and as I closed the door behind him I burst out laughing.  Pure entertainment!

Helpless

Beautiful Turkey!

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The testing on our daughter’s ears didn’t reveal any problems.  So we steadily moved through a battery of testing, each test designed to eliminate yet another possibility.  Each more terrifying than the next, as all of the simple things were being eliminated.  We had x-rays, EEG’s (that’s what the picture from the last Missions post was), and at the end of it all we still had no answers.  While it was a relief that the tests didn’t reveal anything serious, it was unspeakably frustrating to experience these spells and wonder what could possibly be going on…

When we moved to the Delhi area I thought I was going to be able to breathe–catch my breath.  Wrong!  Almost from the first day in our new apartment both of our kids started having diarrhea from the wee morning hours until they went to bed at night.  This went on for six months.  Never. Missing. A. Day.  Between our daughter’s symptoms and both of the kids’ diarrhea it felt like we lived at the hospital or in the bathroom.  And we could never pinpoint the source of the diarrhea either.  Clearly, we were under attack, and my weapons were prayer and ampules of electrolytes!

As a parent, nothing gets to you like something happening to your child.  So to say I was stressed didn’t really scratch the surface.  My children were suffering and I couldn’t help them.  I was helpless, and it was not a good feeling.  A few days after our daughter’s EEG test we were scheduled to fly to Turkey for a conference.  With leaden hearts, and our eyes on the nearest bathrooms, we boarded the plane…

 

Finding Hope

Our daughter having tests run

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Our daughter’s stroke-like episodes continued intermittently for several months. Every time they would come on suddenly–and then disappear–and she would seem just fine a few hours later. It frustrated and scared me not knowing what could be happening in her little body. And, after our first encounter with the doctors in India, I wasn’t feeling very confident about finding the answers we so desperately wanted.

We talked with several trusted friends from the States who are wonderful doctors, and they shared our concern over her symptoms, but without seeing her, they were at a loss to help us.

As a last ditch effort, we took her to Max Super Specialty Hospital in Saket. Over the course of the preceding months, with each unsuccessful and bewildering doctor’s appointment, we could feel our hope draining out like air from a tiny pinprick in a balloon. But walking into the cavernous glass lobby, I had just enough hope (and mostly desperation) to propel me to the pediatric wing.

We, once again, took our seats in waiting room chairs and waited to see the doctor. When we finally found ourselves face to face with him he began to ask us questions. Questions about our daughter’s symptoms. Behind his glasses, I could see his concern and his mind working out the possibilities.

He said, “I think we will begin with an examination of her ears. Often, the source of balance issues can be found there.”

With that one statement, I could have reached over the desk and kissed him! Finally, a doctor who was employing logic and making sense!!  Relief (from a tension that had been mounting for months) washed over me, and the feeling that, if there were answers to be found, this doctor would find them. So the testing began…

 

The Search for Significance

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Living cross-culturally is a challenge (and all of you who have done (or are doing) it are laughing at that gross understatement!). Equally challenging is living cross-culturally with two small children. We had finally settled the problems that we faced living in the mountain village and moved to the Delhi area where I was finally able to devote some of my energy to something other than mere survival.

However, as I began to get healthier I started to feel like my ministry role was very insignificant, even non-existent, and a deep dislike for my “gifts” was beginning to bloom in my heart. Jonathan was thriving, learning language and participating in countless ministry opportunities, while I stayed home with the kids. Now, don’t get me wrong, I strongly believe in ministering to my family. I know that’s hugely important, but I had come from a place where I had been able to do both, and I was feeling frustrated. Many of the places Jonathan would go were just too difficult to take a two and four-year-old along, and while I knew that I was part of everything that he did by making it possible for him to go, part of me longed to be an active participant in a much more tangible way.

During this time, our house turned into a bigger hub than Chicago O’Hare. Being in the Delhi metro meant that people were constantly coming in and out and needing a place to stay (nice hotels were/are ridiculously expensive). Our house was that place. The entire time we lived there very few nights didn’t include guests. And I loved it, but I didn’t feel any sense of significance by providing a place of rest and rejuvenation for weary travelers.

Delhi was also the entry point for many missionary families coming to minister in Northern India. One of the things I loved to do (and still love to do!) was shop. I knew where to find just about anything–at the best price. A giant Pottery Barn rug for $25, I had you covered. Gap kids clothes for super cheap, I knew exactly where to go. So one of my ministries was to help women find things to help them feel more at home in India. But who really considers shopping a ministry? I sure didn’t.

Having the benefit of hindsight, I can now see that much of my frustration was just the season of life I found myself in. Being a full-time mom to toddlers is hard work.  Sometimes certain things go on the back burner, even good things, so that we can take care of our families. And God honors that. While I didn’t feel like either of my gifts were significant, they were significant to the people who were blessed by them. It wasn’t necessarily what I wanted to do (or at least all I wanted to do), but it was what God gave me at the time…

 

Language Barriers

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When the white-coated doctor emerged and called our names my heart lurched.  I scooped my daughter up and hurried into the glass-walled office.

In a thick accent, he asked, “What seems to be the trouble today?”  Describing as best I could everything that had happened over the past hour, I waited as he performed a perfunctory exam.  After this short once-over we went back out into the lobby where he wanted to “observe” her symptoms.  We stood, watching, as she stumbled and weaved around the lobby like a wounded bird.

My anxiety was mounting with each passing moment, not knowing what could possibly be causing such a strange and sudden illness.  Finally, the doctor turned to me, like he’d just discovered penicillin and said, “Maybe she was not walking so well before today?  Maybe this is how she walks?  She’s not been walking long, no?”  I wanted to scream!  I thought Are you kidding me?  She’s been walking for over a year–and just fine–before today.  My confidence was waning as I realized that he should’ve been aware of the normal age for children to start walking.  But clearly he wasn’t.

There’s nothing more frustrating than a language barrier when the welfare of your kids is at stake.  While this doctor and I were technically speaking the same language–we were definitely not communicating effectively.  After several unsuccessful attempts at convincing him that her behavior was abnormal, he finally said, “Watch her today, and if she gets no better, bring her back tomorrow.”  At that point, there was nothing else to do, so we loaded up and headed home…and a few hours later her symptoms disappeared.  She showed absolutely no signs of anything having ever been wrong.  But a nagging feeling deep inside my heart told me that this was not the end of it…

 

This is War

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So often in India it felt like we’d take one step forward only to be knocked back ten.  It was spiritual warfare on a level I had never experienced before.  And one of the battlegrounds, that was particularly distressing to me, was our children’s health.  Our kids were two and four-years-old by the time we finally found a home in the Delhi area, and as we settled in, things took a sharp turn, seemingly overnight.

One of our first Sundays in our new home city Jonathan was out of town in a remote village with our friend *Mark, so *Melissa and I took the four kids to church.  We were out in the lobby/restaurant area of the guest house where the church met watching the children weave in and out of the empty tables and chairs playing a game of tag.  They were laughing and having a great time.  However, as I watched my two-year-old daughter, I noticed that she was walking strange, dragging one leg, and bumping into the tables.  I grabbed my friend, Melissa, confused and nervous, we both watched her stumble around.  She looked like she’d had a stroke!  She finally couldn’t keep herself upright anymore and sat with a thump on the floor.  I flew over and scooped her up.  My mind started racing, filling with terrible thoughts.  One thing kept echoing over and over: something’s wrong with my little girl!  But how could this be?  She was completely fine just five minutes earlier!  I couldn’t wrap my brain around what I was seeing.  All I knew was my husband was far away, barely accessible by phone, and I was terrified.

We gathered up the other children, loaded into the car, and headed straight to the hospital.  We were fortunate to have one nearby, but what they would tell us would not be welcome at all…

*not their real names

 

 

Scarves

My daily wardrobe in India consisted of jeans and a long kurta (tunic-style shirt).  And I loved it.  It was the epitome of ease and comfort.  On the somewhat rarer occasion that I had to wear a full suit, also known as a salwar kameez (think kurta and churidars–leggings), I relished that as well.  They were fun to wear–and did I mention how comfortable?

Well, if you’ve been reading my blog for any amount of time you already know where this is headed. 🙂  That’s right–a cultural blunder!  Scarves, or dupattas as they’re known in India, how I love scarves.  I assumed that in India, like the States, scarves were a fashion statement, a nice piece of added stylistic flair, but not a necessity.  I was wrong.  I quickly learned that wearing a salwar kameez  without the dupatta was culturally akin to walking around topless.  Who knows how many places I went “topless” before someone was kind enough to fill me in on my faux pas!  🙂  Hope this made you laugh today, and if you’re in India, or some other South Asian country–don’t forget your scarf!

Coping with Mommy Overload

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Living in the Delhi metro area was a Godsend for me. Some people enjoy the quiet village life, but it was not for me. Especially with two small children. I needed to get out–to have somewhere to go! That was one of the things that my counselor stressed–I needed to find a way to recreate some of my coping-with-life-with-two-toddlers strategies from the States.

One of my rituals in the States, when I was on mommy overload, was to strap both of my kids into their car seats and drive (oh, how I would drive!) to the Starbucks that was 30 minutes away from my house. Was there one closer? Sure. But then I wouldn’t have had an hour (just one sweet hour, that’s all I needed) of the sheer bliss that is two small children confined to one spot with no possible way of escape. They could cry, but they were safe with minimal supervision, and I was sane with my foot on the gas pedal and a chai in my hand.

When we moved to India all of that freedom, and that method of coping with stress, evaporated. I couldn’t drive anywhere. (I do not have the stress threshold required to deal with driving in Indian traffic!) Living in the mountain village there was nowhere to go that didn’t require even more vigilance than just staying home (which equaled zero mommy breaks and near insanity), but when we moved to the Delhi area my husband hired a driver and a whole new world opened up. Life suddenly became a little brighter with the return of some freedom and mobility…

 

Eating Off the Street

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One of the things we learned a lot about before going to India as missionaries was food safety.  How to prepare food and what to avoid so that, hopefully, you could keep from spending all of your time in the bathroom!

Well, shortly after our arrival in India, some friends were telling us about their upcoming trip to Thailand.  Tilly* was gushing, “It’s so clean there that you can eat food off the street!”  That stopped me cold.  I had visions of my two small children eating an egg off of the sidewalk.  I thought Why in the world would I want to eat my food off the street?  I don’t care how clean it is!

I was too embarrassed to ask her what she meant.  It was only later that I realized she was referring to eating food from street vendors!  It still makes me laugh thinking about it!

*Name has been changed

You’re So Vain

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It was another hot, sticky day in Northern India, and we were on our way to a small village about two hours from our home where Jonathan was to preach that morning.  After lurching through one last pothole, we finally arrived in the village and were ushered inside the small one-room structure where the church met.

The pastor and the people were very welcoming and had prepared lovely marigold garlands which they placed around our necks.  However, I noticed that when Jonathan was introduced and went up to preach he left the garland behind.  It was forming an orange coil on the seat next to me.  I thought it might be because he’s allergic to flowers.  Regardless, I thought it was strange (and a little rude!) that he would remove their gift…

Jonathan preached the entire message and I noticed some furtive glances cast in my direction periodically.  After he was finished, Jonathan took my elbow and said, “You’re supposed to take the garland off.  If you don’t it means you’re really vain.”  I thought, Now you tell me!  Now that I’ve been wearing it for the past hour.  That’s me, the vain American. 🙂

Ah, the joy of cultural ignorance!

Bucking Bulls and Ambiguity

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One of the things that threw me faster than a bucking bull knocking a cornflake off his back was the ambiguity of life in missions. It is what you make it to be. Before we became missionaries we had been happily working as youth/worship pastors at a church in Des Moines. Our roles, and the expectations, were clearly defined. I knew where I fit into the big picture of our ministry and what that looked like on a day-to-day basis.

Insert India into my life and everything changed. India has a way of doing that! I no longer had a defined role or set of expectations. Outside of learning the language, our options were limitless–and overwhelming. I was being given an opportunity to basically reinvent myself and the way ministry looked for me, and I was paralyzed.

My husband is an amazing man and an incredible minister, and for most of our married life, and certainly in ministry, I had been hiding behind him. Mostly out of fear. Fear that I wasn’t good enough, that people wouldn’t like me, or that I would say or do the wrong thing (all things I still deal with!). I didn’t realize it at the time, but God was inviting me to step out of hiding and begin to walk out the individual call that he had just for me. Of course, Jonathan and I still have a call to do ministry together as well–and I love that!–but God had something for which he had uniquely equipped me. Unfortunately, it took me a long time to figure that out–and I’ve only recently started doing it! It’s been a long road of God whittling away my excuses!

Many of us, especially us women, will have the opportunity to reinvent ourselves and the roles we play over and over again in our lifetimes. In our families, our careers, and in serving Jesus. Very few, if any, of us will occupy a static role for our entire lives. From someone who’s finally(!) being obedient to God’s direction in her own life, I want to encourage you to listen to the voice of God and don’t be afraid to celebrate the new seasons and step out of hiding. Someone’s waiting for you to be obedient to whatever God is calling you to do.

Has God been speaking to you about something that you are uniquely gifted to do?

What’s keeping you from doing it? Education? Opportunity?

What can you do to remove the obstacles?

 

On Cramped Quarters and Wonderful Friends

When we finally moved to the Delhi area we still had no home.  But we did have friends, and one of those friends was willing to take our family of four into their home for five weeks!  You might expect that two families of four sharing a small three bedroom apartment would be disastrous, but it turned out to be exactly what we needed.  (Just a side note, you know someone is a true friend when, after living with each other for five weeks, you still enjoy one another’s company!)

Our friends Michael and Melissa* (once again not their real names) graciously invited us into their home and their lives.  We shared meals in the evenings, and Melissa and I talked for hours during the day while our kids (who were the same ages) played together.  It was during this time that I was finally able to take a breath, to stop and reflect on everything that had taken place over the past six months.

We began to build a routine and start moving the pieces around to start life and ministry in the Delhi area (not a fast process, by the way).  One of the things that began to emerge as an area of ministry that I could be involved in with two small children was hospitality.  I could bless people through opening up my home.  Delhi is a huge hub; people from our organization were constantly coming and going while traveling either in and out of the country or within India’s borders.  Experiencing the restorative power of a quiet, clean place, first in Thailand, at my counselor’s guest house, and then at our friends’ in Delhi, I knew I wanted to create a welcoming and peaceful environment for guests.

It seemed like everything was coming together nicely…

 

Ruffled and Shuffled

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We wrapped up our time and counseling in Thailand and proceeded straight to limbo.  Over the past seven months we had gone from living with family (before we went to India), to my own piece of purgatory on the mountainside, and then various guest houses, hotels, and friends’ houses.  I was starting to feel more shuffled than a deck of cards at a Vegas casino.

Ultimately, our hope was to land in the Delhi area, but some things needed to take place before that could happen.  So, we went to Bangalore.  Temporarily.  I questioned that move over and over in my mind; why we had to live in a continuous state of rootlessness.  No matter which angle I viewed it from I couldn’t see the point.  My kids were two and four and, like most children, they craved stability and routine–I couldn’t give them either of those.  Everything around us felt temporary and hard to connect with until we met Dev* (not his real name–sorry about all the “not their real names” disclaimers, some of these people still live in sensitive areas and I don’t want to cause any problems for them).

From the beginning of our marriage, Jonathan and I have always lived apart from family.  But somehow, in each place that we’ve lived God has given us people that felt like family, and who’ve adopted us in to their hearts.  Dev was one of these gifts.  Jonathan called him his “brother from another mother.”  Looking back I can see that living in Bangalore was worth it, if for no other reason than the relationship that was built with Dev.  A realization was starting to dawn on me that maybe I just needed to relax and start trusting that God was working behind the scenes on my behalf.  But this trust thing was not going to come easy…

 

Confessions of an Imperfect Christian

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My plan is for the Confessions… series to become a regular part of the blog, but we’ll see just how much confessing I can stand!

Confession #1:

I’m a sinner.  Shocking, I know.  But seriously, what is shocking is that I lived my life, up until a few years ago, as if that wasn’t the case.  Sure, I knew that I was a sinner, I had read it repeatedly in the Bible and memorized verses that spelled it out in black and white, but I never really knew it.  In fact, I never would have admitted this out loud, of course, but I felt like I pretty much had the whole Christian living thing down.  Asked Jesus into my heart? (Um, when I was 5-years-old)  Check.  Didn’t cuss?  Check.  Youth pastor’s wife?  Check.  I was mentally checking off the boxes on my “good Christian” checklist without ever recognizing that, deep down, I was a Pharisee.  If you’ve read anything about them in the Bible you know that they were known for all the things they were against, and Jesus repeatedly rebuked them for getting between him and people who really needed him with all of their religious rules.  But when we moved to India in 2007, I was finally confronted with how much I had in common with those reviled religious leaders of old.

Spiritually speaking, living in India was like walking into a cage full of brown bears with a salmon strapped to my chest.  It was a daily assault, and in the midst of the pressure cooker of Third World living my religious facade began to crack, and I began to see the true condition of my heart in a way that I never had before.  What I saw wasn’t pretty.  But everything changed the day I stood, shaking with a rage (about something stupid, loud Divali music) like I had never felt before, and I realized that, in that moment, I was capable of a level of violence that I never imagined possible (I didn’t act on it, in case any of you are worried) but that’s when it finally hit me.  I was (am) a wreck without Jesus.  I am a sinner, and I needed someone to rescue me from myself.  In that moment I realized that my sins weren’t any smaller or bigger than the brothel madam or the murderer in prison–in the eyes of Jesus they were the same–we were the same.  Up until that point I had found it very easy to look down my nose (or turn it up in disgust) at all of the other “sinners” that I encountered, until I realized that I was just like them.  The only difference was Jesus, and his grace and forgiveness.

The book of Luke recounts a story that Jesus told to Simon, a Pharisee, in response to his disgust that Jesus would allow a prostitute to wash his feet with her tears and hair.  Jesus said, “‘Two men were in debt to a banker.  One owed five hundred silver pieces, the other fifty.  Neither of them could pay up, and so the banker canceled both debts.  Which of the two would be more grateful?’

Simon answered, ‘I suppose the one who was forgiven the most.’

‘That’s right,’ said Jesus…(speaking of the prostitute, he said) ””  (Luke 7:41-47  The Message)

Reading that passage, I weep for all of the years that my gratitude was so minimal because I believed I needed so little forgiveness.  Now I know better, and I am so very, very grateful for God’s love and grace, and the opportunity to share it with others!

Have you ever been guilty of knowing something about God but not really knowing it in your heart? 

How has that affected your relationship with people around you? 

It’s Not Safe

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When we began traveling around the country raising support to go on the mission field, we were asked several variations of what would you do if something bad happens to your children while you’re in India?  I think I cheerfully responded, “There’s no safer place to be than in the center of God’s will.”  I retract that statement.  It betrayed my naive worldview which was being rocked to its very core, because in the middle of my storm of anxiety and depression I was anything but safe–emotionally or spiritually.

Ultimately (meaning heaven) there is no safer place to be, but in this life, even when we’re doing exactly what God has asked us to, He doesn’t promise us safety.  If that were true there would have never been, and will never be any more, martyrs.  But he does promise us his presence when we walk through hard times, and often it’s in those hard times that we experience a fullness and sweetness in our relationship with Jesus that defies description.  I wasn’t there yet, but God hadn’t given up on me either.  And in just a few days I was going to meet “Jane” (not her real name), my wonderful counselor, whom God would use to speak to me in a profound way.

 

The Flying Squirrel

Every missionary, or anyone who’s traveled overseas, knows that jet lag is a curious beast.  You struggle through the first few days, slugging down coffee or propping your eyes open with toothpicks, and then it boomerangs back around a few weeks later, just when you think you’ve got it licked!

Needless to say, jet lag–and thirteen continuous hours cooped up in a plane with a two-year-old and three-year-old on our very first trip to India–was a huge concern for me.  Fortunately, our flight flew out of Newark well past my kids’ bedtimes so they were zonked almost the entire trip.  As we began to make our descent into Delhi, a sense of dread spread over me.  Outside my window, staring down at the place that would become my new home, thousands of lights spread across the city like an incandescent blanket, and I wanted to smack my forehead with the palm of my hand.  Why didn’t I realize this before?  It’s nighttime here.  My kids had been sleeping for the past thirteen hours!

I think it was the first (and only) time that I ever hoped getting through customs and out of the airport would be a long and exhausting process!  When we finally arrived at our friends’ house, where we would be spending the next couple of days, my husband and I made our way into the room in which our family would be sleeping.  Our friends had a pull-out bed for us, and on either side of the bed was a pallet made up for each of the kids.  After visiting for just a little bit, we said goodnight, tucked the kids into their pallets, and my husband and I fell into bed, exhausted.

Somewhere around three in the morning I woke up to a small rustling sound.  And then I saw a small, dark shadow leaping from the arm of the hide-a-bed.  I reached out my hands, but I was too late!  The next thing I heard was a small, triumphant voice saying, “Body slam!” and the startled crying of my son–who had just been rudely awakened by his little sister’s wrestling moves.  Oh jet lag, how I love thee!

The “Hound of Heaven” nips

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Francis Thompson described God, in his relentless pursuit of us, as the “hound of heaven.”  Little did I know, as I was busy doubting everything I had ever believed about God, that he was hot on my heels…

My husband knew I was struggling, I think that much was pretty obvious, but he had no idea that I was contemplating suicide.  I’ll never forget the look on his face, or the way his eyes filled with tears, when I told him.  Swallowing our pride, we made a phone call to our Area Director to tell him that we (or more specifically, I) were falling apart.  Having no idea what to expect, or how our boss would respond, we dialed his number because, at that point, we didn’t have anything left to lose.  I don’t think either of us were prepared for his reaction; overwhelming care and concern was all that our Area Director communicated to us.  He began to weep over the phone, and, together, we formulated a plan for me to get some help.  I think somewhere deep down my husband and I both expected to be berated for not being able to keep it together.  In that moment, when we made that call, we felt like failures, but our boss didn’t treat us like failures at all.  It was one of the first times in our lives where we felt valued for who we were, instead of for what we did or how we performed.

The first step that we came up with was to remove ourselves from the environment that had sent me on this downward spiral.  So we began the long descent from our mountaintop home down to Delhi, where we would take a plane to Thailand to rest and figure out what came next.  That Sunday, while we were in Delhi awaiting our flight, we went to the international church.  I don’t think I heard anything the pastor said that day.  I was sitting in the metal folding chair stewing in my anger, hurt, and frustration.  When he called everyone forward for communion I stayed in my seat.  I wasn’t interested in fellowshipping in the Lord’s suffering, because all I could think about was my own.  At the end of the service the pastor announced that he had seven copies of Disappointment with God, by Philip Yancey, to give away.  He said he would leave them on the step and anyone who wanted one could come take it.  I didn’t take one–but my husband did.  I didn’t know it at the time, but God was going to use that book to break through the hard shell I was crafting around my heart…

(to be continued)

“I’ll Leave Tomorrow”

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I had spent the past few weeks huddled under my blankets after my very first anxiety attack.  My kids had been working on a puzzle and wanted my help, and as I sat at our worn wooden table staring at the mixed up faces of Aladdin and Jasmine my heart started to race and my skin got clammy.  I stumbled from the table, suddenly terrified.  What’s wrong with me?  I thought.  Why can’t I even do a simple puzzle with my kids?  I was alone in our house with my two small children and I didn’t understand what was going on with me.

Shortly after we arrived in country I was talking with another missionary who shared a story about how one of her friends dealt with the challenges of life in a third world country.  She said, “my friend told me, ‘I just take one day at a time.  I keep my bags packed, and I keep telling myself I’ll leave tomorrow.'”  That’s one piece of advice I’ve never been able to apply to my own life–living day by day.  I’ve always been a dreamer, and I love to think about the future, but for the first time in my life all my thoughts about the future were frightening and bleak.  I imagined all of my days stretching out before me as I languished in this black hole of depression and anxiety, and I was scared.

On one of our first few nights in India we had checked into a guest house in Gurgaon.  Surveying the room I looked at the bed and, turning to my husband, said, “Does it look like the covers are moving?”  Looking closer we realized that hundreds of ants were residing on the sheets and dozens of dead ones had been caught in the pillowcases.  That night I didn’t sleep and I put “Worth it All” by Rita Springer on a continuous loop on my ipod and prayed.  I prayed for God to use us in a country with needs so vast that it was completely overwhelming, and now, just a few months later, I found myself overwhelmed by the thought of even getting out of bed….

Holy Doubt

 

I’ve started a new blog at www.droppingtheact.com. Check it out for the latest content.

Note:  Before I begin, I want to say that I know that everyone’s experiences are different and I’m not speaking for every missionary–I’m just sharing my story in the hopes that it helps someone else.  I write this to remember all that the Lord has done, and is doing, for me.  I don’t ever want to forget.  The Missions/India portion of the blog will be posted in a serial format, come back to read more.  Trust me, you would be completely overwhelmed if I tried to post it all at once!

With that out of the way…

Holy doubt–I know this is probably a controversial title, but it aptly encapsulates the way that I feel about the subject.  I don’t feel that doubt itself is holy, nor does the Bible support that theology, but when God works through something as painful as doubt and uses it to create something beautiful in my heart I have a tendency to view it as holy.

So, I would like to bring you along on the journey and share how God took me from doubt to holy doubt, and India (and a little bit of Thailand, but we’ll get to that) is the scene where it all played out.  Without India I would have had a much cheaper experience with God, and I am forever grateful to have had the opportunity to learn the wonderful, painful, life-changing things that God taught me there.

We arrived in India in late July, along with the monsoon rains, and by the end of October I was unraveling.  In the short span of three months, the small thread of sanity that had been relentlessly pulled at by a constant barrage of spiders, snakes, sleeplessness, monkeys, lack of running water, and the final straw–rats, was slowly being yanked from my hands and I didn’t know how to get it back.  Before sending us overseas, our missions organization had put us through a battery of tests that would put the FBI to shame, all designed to certify that we were mentally and physically fit to be on the field (we always joked that they were checking to make sure we were crazy).  But by the end of our first three months in country, I was sure they had made a mistake when they approved me.

A few days before my son’s fourth birthday I found myself wandering along a deserted mountaintop road, the damp air clinging to me like an unwelcome spirit.  Staring down the steep cliffs, punctuated by towering, ancient evergreens, I wondered if anyone would ever find my body if I decided to jump, and questioning if, maybe, my family would be better off if I did.  At that point I had ceased to be the independent, fully-functioning woman that I had been accustomed to being, and that was where I found my value as a wife and mother….(more to come tomorrow–to follow this thread go to the “Holy Doubt” tab and scroll to the bottom and work your way up)

 

 

 

 

 

Grace Outside the Box

My family and I had the honor of living and working among the people of India as missionaries for several years.  Every day our car was bombarded with dusty hands desperately pressing and tapping against the glass.  Women, with naked children on their hips, begged for money and food as we passed their makeshift homes on the medians of the busy Delhi streets.  Car exhaust and incessant honking were their constant companions through each harried day and night.

One day, as I was entering our car, a woman gripped my elbow.  As I turned around, I was confronted with one of the most pitiful sights I’ve ever witnessed.  In her arms she held a small child whose mangled hand had been carelessly wrapped in dirty, bloody gauze.  The exposed flesh of his wound was yellow, oozing with infection, and his face was scrunched up, crying.  My heart broke with compassion while, simultaneously, my blood boiled with rage as I saw her hand out expectantly.  I thought, What type of perverse person would exploit this tragedy for their own personal gain?  I didn’t know if the child belonged to her or if he had been “borrowed” to drive up profits for the day.  I had no way of knowing if it was her idea to capitalize on his injury, or if someone else was pulling the strings behind the scenes to line his or her own pocket with rupees, and I didn’t really care.  I was disgusted and outraged at such shameful abuse and neglect.

Unfortunately, this type of thing happens daily on the streets of India.  After my anger had dialed down a bit, I felt the familiar voice of the Holy Spirit whispering to my heart.  Is that woman beyond my grace and forgiveness?  Would you share my love with her? he urged.  I squirmed.  Instinctively, I responded, No!  I absolutely do not want to share your love with her!  She doesn’t deserve it!  At this, the Holy Spirit lovingly rebuked me, Neither do you.

 Humbled and chastised, I was knocked to my knees in repentance.  I knew it was true.  How many times do we, as human beings, decide who deserves the opportunity to hear the good news that Jesus died for our sins?  If I’m honest, I don’t want Jesus to forgive people who hurt children and use them for selfish gain.  And yet, in 2 Peter 3:9, the Bible says “[God] does not want anyone to be destroyed, but wants everyone to repent”  (NLT emphasis added).  Imagine how the streets of India, or your own neighborhood, might be revolutionized by the transforming power of God’s love at work in a sinner’s heart, if only we are willing to share it with everyone.

I’ve started a new blog at www.droppingtheact.com. Check it out for the latest content.

Questions for Reflection:
1.  Does God’s grace have limits?  We say it is boundless, but do we live as though we believe it?
2.  Do we cheapen God’s grace when we only offer it to those we deem worthy?
3.  How might the story of the early church have been different if God had not pursued Paul with his grace and forgiveness?