A really good God story with a hefty bit of TMI

I'll warn you now- this post may be a bit TMI for you. I am so in awe of how good God is and that's what this story is primarily about. But it's also about lady bits. So, read on at your own risk.

My TMI story happened yesterday. It was a normal day. I'd started my period a couple days before (see, told you. It's a story about lady bits) it was totally normal. And just like every other morning, I got ready to run after dropping Isaiah off at school.

The run was great. I'd had a lot on my mind and after 30 minutes of easy jogging, felt a big mental relief. "Wow, I'm so sweaty!" I thought as I finished up, but I wasn't sure why. It was hot, but not overly hot.

By the time I got home I felt even sweatier and after trying to cool off a bit decided to have a shower. Undressing in the bathroom I realized it wasn't sweat, it was blood. In the shower there was a whooshing feeling and I thought a tap must have turned on in my body. The bleeding didn't stop and it didn't slow. I was scared.

I sent my doctor friend a message letting her know what was happening and that, "I'm not sure if it's ok or not." She called me back an hour later she said, "It's not ok. You should have called me. I'm coming now."

Waiting at home, I felt alone and very scared. Ben was out flying and we have a deal - I will not contact him when he is flying. A worried and distracted pilot is a dangerous pilot. Any news can wait until he has arrived back in Wamena.

I started google earth to track his flight and saw the helicopter on the ground in Senggi. He was nowhere near Wamena. Would he make it home today or have to overnight in a village? I sat down and sobbed. I felt so weak and tired. What if the bleeding didn't stop? How could I take care of Isaiah? How could I take care of myself?

15 minutes later my friend was at my home with medicine to stop the bleeding and an ultrasound machine to make sure nothing more serious was going on. "Take two of these." she said handing me the pills and a cup of water. She did an ultra sound check, detecting nothing out of the ordinary. "Sometimes this just happens." she explained. And seeing how tired and emotional I was followed up with, "I don't want to leave you just yet. Let's have a cup of tea."

The medicine began to take effect and I slowly started to feel a little better. By the bottom of my cup of tea, I'd even managed to laugh a bit.

Having a medical emergency here is one of my greatest fears. Yesterday it happened. And you know what? God knew. My friend had only received the medicine I would need the day before. Yes: ONE DAY BEFORE.

The medicine was there and ready just at exactly the right time.

And my doctor friend could come right away to help.

And she didn't leave me, but stayed to make sure I would be ok.

And another friend picked Isaiah up from school and looked after him until dinner time.

And Ben made it back.


I can't tell you what this does to my heart. It's humbling and encouraging and overwhelming to think about. I was scared, but I was also cared for.

I am ok. Absolutely ok. And absolutely in awe of God's provision and tenderness towards me. 

No Safe Places

About this time last year, we fired one of our guards. The relationship quickly deteriorated and after weeks of threats to our family, we ended up paying him a large sum of money on the condition he sign a letter stating he would stop harassing us and the others who work for us. It was all a big mess, extremely hurtful, and a hugely stressful.

Coming back from furlough, I hoped I wouldn’t see him. Maybe he would think we’d left for good and would stop coming by our house? Maybe we could live peacefully this next term? But Wamena is a small town. I was sure at some point word would get out that we were back, or perhaps I’d run into him in town somewhere. I prepared for both scenarios.

Here in Wamena I don’t feel safe a lot of the time. It’s not that we’re under some kind of immediate threat, it’s just that over last term we had so many things happen that I tend to stay constantly on alert. I never know when something bad will happen again.

But there is one place in town were we could go and always feel safe. Nothing bad seemed to ever happen there. I enjoyed the reprieve and could let down my guard. 

 

One morning last week I went to visit my safe place. As I came around the corner on my bike, there was our old guard! My heart beat wildly – what was he doing here? How could this happen? This is my safe place!!!

Earlier that morning I’d read and highlighted a section in my Experiencing God devotional book, “Your opponent’s hostility is your invitation to become involved in God’s redemptive work to free him or her from spiritual bondage. Be alert to the spiritual warfare around you. It is real and potentially destructive to you and those you care about. Knowing your real foe will protect you from bitterness and unforgiveness. Your hope lies in the reality that “the One who is in you is greater than the one who is in the world” (1 John 4.4) Do not place your hope in humanity, but steadfastly trust in the One who has already defeated your enemy.” 

While the panic rose in my chest, the morning’s devotional came flooding back. He is not the real enemy. Fight the real enemy.

I came home and cried. This is so hard, Lord! It’s not fair that he’s in my one safe place! I have no more safe places! This is so hard and so unfair!

Honestly, it sucks. The whole entire things sucks a lot. I’ve seen him again several times and while our exchanges have been cordial, I wonder just how long it will take him to turn on us. 

Sometimes it is so very difficult to see the real enemy. 

This morning I read in 2 Corinthians 2 were Paul urges the believers to forgive someone who deeply hurt them. He urges the believers to forgive “so that we would not be outwitted by Satan; for we are not ignorant to his designs.”

So I fight to forgive. It’s not easy. I’d rather bury the past and all the hurt. I’d rather not risk seeing someone who could hurt us again. I’d rather have my safe place back.

But then God’s like, “This was never your safe place anyway. It’s always been me.”

Back in Wamena: Live the Life

Last term, one of my main struggles was comparison. It is so tempting to look around at all the other women here and think, “They do this life better than me!” And once you start on that downward spiral, defeat, discouragement, and depression are not far behind.  Comparing yourself to everyone around you makes this life though.

When we left the field 7 months ago, I was hurting too deeply to even begin sorting through these wrong feelings and searching for truth. Thank God for furlough! It’s amazing what debriefing, rest, and a determination to sort through lies and replace them with the truth will do for you.

This morning, on day 3 back in Wamena, I opened my bible and read in 1 Cor 7:17, “Only let each person lead the life the Lord has assigned to him, to which God has called him. This is my rule in all the churches.”

There it was, right at the beginning of this next term on the field, the reminder to simply live the life I have.

What does this life look like?

It looks like compassionate parenting.

It looks like a healthy marriage.

It looks like writing.

It looks like loving my neighbors.

It looks like wrapping my heart’s deepest affections around Jesus.

That’s a life I love. That’s a life I can live with joy.

Remember to Drink

“Remember to drink.” Dad said, “If you’re thirsty, it’s too late. Your body is already dehydrated.”

I was almost 12 years old. Dad, my 10 year old brother, and I were training for the MS 150, a two day/180 mile charity bike race from Houston to Austin. As the Texas heat bore down that training day, Dad reminded us to take in a constant flow of water. If we neglected a steady intake we wouldn’t make the 40 mile ride, we’d wear-out. Or worse, heat stroke may set it.

23 years later, I moved to Indonesia for a first term of service with our aviation ministry. I was excited! After almost a decade of my husband training and building experience, we finally arrived. I so badly wanted to do this whole missions thing right. I’d certainly made up my mind about the kind of missionary I didn’t want to be.

I didn’t want to live in a missionary/expat relationship bubble. I wanted real and meaningful relationships with the people we came to serve as the bulk of my friendships. After all, I thought, we moved overseas for them, not for other missionaries.

The missionary community in language school town is quite large. Early on we attended a Friday night social at the international school and were overwhelmed by the number of missionary families. There must have been 200 people. I felt like bolting from my seat and determined never to go back.

Language school began and I made many friends, none of them other missionaries. My local friends were wonderful. Through elaborate hand gestures and minimal language abilities, they included me in everything. I made it through language school mostly due to their love, encouragement, and friendship.

I was happily turning into the missionary I wanted to be – immersed in local culture and friendships. Besides, I thought, I have Jesus. I don’t need other missionaries. 

Then I got sick. Really sick. I needed someone I could clearly explain my symptoms to in my own language. I needed the missionary doctor in town. I needed the missionary clinic at the international school. 

Then I made a huge cultural blunder. I needed long term missionaries who understood more of the culture than I did. I needed people who could help me navigate through the mess because they also understood my cultural lens.

Then the strain of cultural adjustment began to tear at the seams of my marriage. I needed someone who understood culture shock. I needed someone I could confide in.

By the time we completed language school and moved to our assigned town, I was physically and emotionally exhausted. I needed relationships with people who understood what I was going through and I needed them immediately.

Shortly after we arrived in our new town the missionary community experienced a crisis and turned inward. Deeply wounded, no one had the emotional capacity to begin a new friendship - especially not one with someone also hurting and worn-out.

I was desperately thirsty. My body, mind, and emotions already parched, I needed relationships now. I'd been peddling flat out, but not drinking. I’d left it too late.

Fast forward another year. Our community is healing and so am I. A steady commitment to relationships with other missionaries is an important part of my life. I understand now that these relationships don’t hinder my service – they enable me to keep on serving.

"Remember to drink." Dad said. "If you’re thirsty, it’s already too late."

My thirsty soul needs a steady, daily, deep drink-in of Jesus. That’s for sure - a total given. But I also need a steady intake of community. 

After all, Jesus himself didn’t go it alone. He had team. Imperfect as it was, Jesus chose community. 

Like a healthy intake of water, a healthy balance of relationships won’t slow us down. It keeps us in the race.

Friends, it’s a hot day and we’ve got a long ride ahead. Remember to drink. 

***

This post is a link-up with Velvet Ashes.
Read more thoughts on this week's writing prompt "Thirsty" here.

Sometimes Ministry Sucks: Theology For Wounded Hearts

I can count exactly four lightning bolt moments in my life and this is one of them. The kind of moment when all the theology running circles around your head finally collides and truth explodes in your heart. A sudden paradigm shift presenting a simple choice, continue to live and minister the way you always have or step out into a whole new reality.

The leader divided up teenagers into groups. I, a brand new camp helper, had arrived high on expectations. “You three go with Miss Anisha” the leader called out and I smiled across the room at my little group.

At once, all three girls threw back their heads and with pouty scrunched up faces and stomping feet protested, “No! We don’t want to go with her! Don’t make us! It’s not fair! We don’t like her!”

Heat rose quickly on my insides. What?! They don’t like me? This is crazy! What little brats! They haven’t even met me yet! I’ve given up my time to be here and help these teens and this is the greeting I get! The nerve!

Then I heard it. Cutting straight through the girls’ outward protests and my inward rant came these calm, steady words, “I didn’t ask you to love them because they would like you. I asked you to love them because I love them.”

That instant everything about the way I approached ministry changed.

In a poorly lit church hall, I saw with new eyes. I have a divine invitation to love not because I will be loved in return, but because God, who is the embodiment of love itself, has fully loved me and is looking for people to love the world through.

The implications of this truth are huge.

Because God loves, I can…

Respond with grace and reason when treated harshly.

Continue to pursue relationships with those who are not easily likeable.

Let go of my expectations of how ministry should be done.

Submit to decisions by leadership that I don’t like, see a reason for, or agree with.

Speak up truthfully and graciously.

Work through disagreements with kindness and respect.

Honour my side of a commitment even if the other side doesn’t honour theirs.

Refuse to take up offence.

Live in community.

Serve without fear.

Don’t hear me wrong, I don’t like to be mistreated. I certainly do not purposefully seek out harmful relationships. I’m also not saying that in the name of love we live passive lives towards those that hurt us.

I am saying this: Ministry is filled with painful relationships and situations but these need not derail, discourage, or destroy us because the reality, not just theology, of who we are is rooted in Christ’s love. It is precisely this love that leads us to actively and effectively engage in life and ministry.  

Remember when Jesus told the parable about the vine and branches[1]? He said, “You are already clean because of the word which I have spoken to you. Abide in Me, and I in you. As the branch cannot bear fruit of itself, unless it abides in the vine, so neither can you, unless you abide in Me.”

To put it another way Jesus is like, Hey look, let’s think of life this way. Imagine I am a vine and you are the vine tendrels. If you didn’t belong on the vine the Gardner, God, would have already pruned you away. The fact is you do belong, I’ve already cleaned you up with my words. Now bear fruit, live in a way that the world knows you are connected to the vine. You can’t do it on your own, it’s impossible. So remember who you are connected to. Remember your source. 

Consider the Apostle Paul who penned these heart-breaking words to the church in Corinth, “If I love you the more, am I to be loved the less?”[2] Paul poured out his life and heart in ministry for this church only to later have to defend his integrity to them. This in addition to all the persecution he endured. Talk about hurtful. Paul’s explanation of how he can continue to live, suffer, and minister comes together in one simple phrase, “For the love of Christ controls us”[3].

Recently I was let down by someone who I had been loving and mentoring over the last 8 months. It hurt and I’m sad about it, but this truth of being loved by God and from there reaching out to love others propels me forward.  

I have the ability to walk in love, real tangible practical love, not because it’s the natural thing to do or because I will be loved in return, but because Jesus loves and my life is wrapped up by His.

“Eyes on Christ.” a friend and church elder would say every time we met. Really, no matter what life and ministry may bring, that’s the point of it all, isn’t it?

***

 

“By this the love of God was manifested in us, that God sent His only begotten Son into the world so that we might live through Him.” 1 John 4:9

---

[1] John 15:1-11

[2] 2 Cor 12:15

[3] 2 Cor 5:14

Love Thy Neighbour (Unless They're Obnoxious)

You know the good neighbour story Jesus tells about the guy robbed, beaten and left half dead on the side of the road? All these religious types walk on by and he’s eventually helped by an unlikely traveller.

Me? Oh you bet I’d stop. It’s like those YouTube videos that pop up in my newsfeed every so often. Some vagrant looking woman sitting alone and crying on a park bench. All these people just pass by and I’m watching like, What’s the matter with you people? She needs help! And finally some guy comes along and asks what’s wrong. I’d be that guy. I’d help.

But I’ve never passed a woman crying on a park bench, or an injured man on the side of the road.

Reality goes like this…

A few years back we had upstairs neighbours who used to throw things at each other. We’d hear them stomping around and pushing over furniture all in a rage. They did everything exceptionally loud – watched tv, got drunk, had sex. I was all Halleluiah!s the day they had a fight on the lawn and she was hauled off to jail.

Another neighbour with a brain injury told me her husband only kept her around for the disability payments. She’d do her best to stop me and deliver the same 20 minute monologue every single day: You know I’ve only got two thirds of my brain, stop me if I’ve told this story before, but I never much liked religious people. Bunch of hypocritical... I’d peek out the front door to make sure the coast was clear before darting to the community mailboxes.

A notoriously tetchy neighbour gave me the finger and yelled, “Get the %&$# out the way!” when she had to slow her car to pass me around a tight corner. I shot back in the exaggerated bible belt voice I save for occasions like these, “Always nice to see you! God bless!” Surely I could kill her with passive aggressive kindness.

Here recently, I watched as my hot tempered neighbours silently wheeled stolen motorcycles through their gate and hid them in the back. With the system here, there was nothing I could do about it. I somehow managed to change my squinty eyes death stare to a tight lipped smile the next time I saw them. 

Then there’s the older kids at the end of our street. They made my son cry. I roared like mad woman and sent them scattering. Mess with my child and things will get fierce. 

Jesus: “You shall love your neighbour as yourself.” 

Oh, I do love my neighbours. Lots of neighbours. Just not these. But since these are only a few compared to the lots of neighbours I love, I figure it balances out.  

Heck, I’m good at loving neighbours. I taught years of Sunday school, was a middle school youth group leader, and co-led a bible studies for teen girls. None of that is for the faint of heart.

Before I moved, I spent time with teenagers every week at a therapeutic group home. Most of them are not that lovable. Three summers in a row I spent a week at a camp for refugee kids. A bunch of them aren’t that lovable either. 

Love my neighbours? I moved to the literal other side of the world to support my husband as he flies out to remote villages. He picks up sick people that would otherwise die and transports missionaries who would have to hike for days through dangerous jungle terrain. 

I’d say I’m actually pretty darn good at loving my neighbours, thank you very much.

Jesus: “This is what God does. He gives his best –the sun to warm and the rain to nourish– to everyone, regardless: good and bad, the nice and nasty. If all you do is love the lovable, do you expect a bonus? Anybody can do that.”

Yeah but that’s God, so of course he has enough love for everyone. It comes with the territory. I’ve got love for most everyone, a few obnoxious cases aside.

Jesus: “In a word, what I’m saying is, Grow up. You’re kingdom subjects. Now live like it. Live out your God-created identity. Live generously and graciously toward others, the way God lives toward you.”

///Awkward silence///

The way God lives towards me? So it’s not just about an old bible story, set up YouTube videos, and the do good projects I pick? 

Oh man. That changes things.

Moving in! A new start in a new land.
Yeah...we had (or were?) obnoxious neighbours.

 

****

{The good neighbour (good Samaritan) story is found in Luke 10:30-37. The Jesus quotes are taken from Matthew 5 & 22, The Message and the New American Standard}

  

Living the Dream

By all accounts, we’ve made it. Our decade long dreams are today’s reality. My husband’s dream of flying helicopters in mission aviation is his actual job. My dream of stay at home mommying and a writing biographies is my everyday life. Our together dream of living in a foreign country found us setting up home in Indonesia.  

We’re living the dream!

I’m not trying to be a downer, but let me just put this out there - If you’re working and planning and dreaming towards some lifelong goal, putting everything you’ve got into that future pot. Well, it might not be all it’s cracked up to be.

Maybe you want to be married. Or have children. Or just go on a date for crying out loud. Maybe you want that promotion, that other job, that scholarship. So you, like us, scrimp and save and work your tail off. You make a five year plan, a ten year plan, whatever it takes. You tell yourself all the sacrifice now will be worth it in the end. You’ll get your dream and you’ll be happy. You’ll finally be fulfilled.

But what if you’re not? I mean, I’m not.

Oh you might have a really good honeymoon phase once you get that dream. That marriage, it’ll be so romantic in the beginning. You’ll be with the love of your life and feel like you can take on the world together. Then you’ll get in a stupid fight over scrambled verses sunny side up eggs for breakfast.

That beautiful child you bring home, the one you look at and think God how can he be so perfect! Will turn four and speak to you with more sass and rolled eyes than your 15 year old hormonal self ever did. 

That other job will feel so good, you’ve finally got the title you’ve been working towards. Except there’s now that one super annoying co-worker and a heck of a lot more responsibility. Maybe the money is better, but you’re working harder and later. 

Don’t get me wrong. This isn’t a forget about your dreams message. It’s more of a Hey, your dreams are cool but they’ll split you sideways. 

I am living my dream, but my left eye has been twitching for a week from stress. I’m so thankful to be stay at home mommying, but this morning all my son did was fight. I can’t believe how privileged I am to record Papuan life stories for a biography project, but my brain literally aches from thinking so much in Indonesian. I’m enormously proud of my husband’s flying, but he comes home exhausted. I love living in another country, but miss the anonymity of just blending in.

Sometimes, it all just kind of sucks.

Bottom line - If you’re assuming that dream is going to usher in some new joyous existence, that your self-esteem will flourish, you’ll finally feel fulfilled, you’ll wake up each morning knowing beyond a shadow of a doubt this is what you were born to do, well…

That’s not exactly what happens, or at least it isn’t what happened for me.

It’s more like Wow, this is a lot more than I thought it would be. I’d better get to work.

 

 ***

“Sail away from safe harbor. Catch the tradewinds in your sails. Explore. Dream. Discover." 

- Mark Twain

"Also, throw up." 

- Kay Bruner

Dream: Flying out to a jungle village! Reality: Air sick and vomiting the whole way.

Mother's Day: Beauty of Adoption

Every night Isaiah prays the same thing, "Thank you Jesus, Mommy and Papi love me and I love them, and thank you the whole world will love each other."

This kid. After so much heartache and longing for children in years past, this is the little soul we get to raise. Such a gift to be his parents.

If Mother's Day sucks for you, I'm sad with you. If Mother's Day is wonderful for you, I'm happy with you.

For me, Mother's Day is such a mix of emotions. This gift of a boy I didn't birth. Four years tall and filled to the brim with endless energy and a remarkably quick whit.

I see the little fold in his left ear, his soft blond curls, engaging smile, and sturdy feet. None of it mine.

I've heard that Mothers have a hard time releasing their children, afraid to trust God's plans for them.
Perhaps that's part of the beauty of adoption. I can't claim ownership of any part of my precious son. He is God's child through and through.

And I am overwhelmed with gratitude for these years we are given for the stitching of our hearts together. Praying thankful prayers for the love we have and holding out hope that the whole world will know Love.

Please Tell My Son "No!"

Om works at our house today, which means Isaiah and he will play football together for about 30 minutes while I get Om’s 10:00am break time snack ready. Today I fried up some bananas while keeping a watchful eye out the back window.

Om picked up my four year old’s shoes from by the door and told him to put them on so they could play. Instead, my darling son slapped the shoes out of Om’s hands and laughed in his face. I immediately turned the heat off the stove and went outside to have a talk with him.

We all know kids push boundaries. No, you may not climb the walls. Use gentle hands with the dog. Where is your inside voice? Yes, you have to brush your teeth. Yes, you have to sing twinkle twinkle little star while you wash your hands, make them really bubbly. Say please. Say thank you. Look at my eyes and listen. It seems to never end, but eventually it does sink in and my kiddo realises the boundary line isn’t going to budge. No matter how many times you ask, Mom will not buy all the snacks at the checkout counter. It’s just not going to happen. 

Or at least it shouldn’t happen. 

What if the shop owner sees you begging and that mom isn't buying so reaches in the candy pot and hands you treats? What if after you slap the shoes out of Om’s hands he doesn’t say anything? What if you throw a public temper tantrum and while your mom is trying her hardest to ignore you, a stranger comes up making pity noises and hands you juice box? What if you order grownups around and they do what you say?

A friend once told me the story of her toddler daughter crying loudly because she didn’t want to take a nap. A neighbour actually came to the gate and told her the child is crying and she should tend to her. My quick witted friend replied with a smile, “Oh no. It’s healthy for her to cry. It’ll make her lungs strong.” 

“How do you handle it?” I ask expat friends, and their responses are just as diverse as our children are. 

So I give the candy back to the shop owner. I have a stern talk with my son in front of Om about how he is expected to behave. I tell the juice box stranger that my son is angry, not sad, and that he needs to listen to his mom. I try to stop worrying that somehow I am offending people here by how I discipline and what I expect of my son.

Often people back home remark how living overseas is such a great opportunity for a child. I totally agree, but on the really rough days I think, Oh boy, I’d better watch out. This living overseas thing is a great opportunity to turn my sweet, smart boy into a spoiled, bossy brat.

 

Then I repeat the most prayed mom prayer ever - Lord help me! 

Brave jungle explorer

One Year In: A Letter to Myself

Dear Fresh-off-the-plane-self,

It’s hard to believe a year has past since you first caught sight of these jungle thick mountains. In some ways it feels like you just arrived yesterday, and in others like you’ve lived here a lifetime.

So much has happened and I don’t mean to freak you out, but you’ll get your ass kicked this year. You'll have the good old honeymoon phase to cushion the blows, but it still cuts.  

This year, you’ll get super sick. You’ll get amoebic dysentery, worms, giardia, and typhoid (twice), not to mention the common cold. You are so afraid of tropical diseases right now, but you’ll soon find out that even if you are tremendously sick in your body, you are alive and well in your spirit. Your husband will get sick too, but don’t worry, your three year old will stay healthy through it all.

You are going to write a blog post about how you are losing your mind and the response will overwhelm you. I know you will push that publish button through tears and fear that you are revealing too much and the “What will people say?” echoing in your mind is deafening. Here’s the thing, you’ll press that button and that one post will open up a whole world to you. You’ll receive message after message from people who will pour out their hearts to you because they can relate in some way. From that moment on you’ll find tremendous freedom in writing and stop caring about what others think. 

But soon, someone you love and respect is going to tell you that you share too much and make people uncomfortable. It’ll rattle you, but you’ll hold firm. You’ll find that honesty creates family and you’ll be better loved and supported than you can even dream is possible now.

You are going to make a huge cultural blunder and very nearly ruin a relationship. Good news though, you’ll get help. People will literally fly in to help clean up your mess. You learn so much, repent so much, and are forgiven so much. It’ll be ok.

You are going to screw up your marriage this year. That one hurts a lot. You’ll blindly charge ahead, dragging your husband behind you. Yeah, it’s as bad as that. Eight months later you’ll see the emotional chasm between you and realise those little cracks shouldn’t have been ignored. You’ll repent and your husband will forgive you. You’ll both become aware of each other’s vulnerabilities and be more careful to tend them. After all is said and done, you’ll never be more happy to have the husband you do. You guys rock together.

Your son is going to be just fine. He won’t get malaria or typhoid or anything. He’s going to be healthy and happy and make friends. You are worried now that you won’t be able to home school him, but the truth is he’ll beg you everyday and even on weekends to do school together. 

He’s going to be so interested in ministry too. You’ll pour over maps together and talk about people groups all over the world. You’ll stand back in wide eyed amazement as your three year old says, “Mommy, see those people over there? Let’s go tell them about Jesus.” He’ll do it too and you’ll translate for him. 

This year is going to be a roller coaster, but you’ll make it. I'm here a year later and guess what? Today, you'll be looking forward to the future and wouldn’t trade this last year for the world.

So relax! I'll see you in a year.

***

Culture Shock Phase 2: Cue the helplessness

I knew it would happen eventually, the next stage in the whole culture shock process. The part when you progress enough with the language so you hear and see, but don’t yet truly understand. About two months ago Culture Shock Phase 2 arrived in full force.

Author Lisa-Jo Baker said, "Ask any of us who write, it’s usually because we need to read to understand our stories." Yet here, in this stage, the words are a mess in my head. I can't make sense of my own story. There are no neat and tidy bows of lessons learned to wrap up all my sentences. They just hang wide open, gaping.

My house helper had her scooter impounded yesterday. She texted me to tell me she couldn't come over. She was at the police station. I freaked a little. She's here now, but still doesn't have her scooter. The police want 500ribu, about $50, for it. That's 20hours worth of cleaning at my house. She told me she has a friend who knows a police officer and maybe she can get it for 100ribu. Driving home yesterday she hadn't realised the road was closed. She was stopped and her scooter taken.

Another expat told me a story that when the ban on selling anything on Sundays first took effect, some ladies came from a village with their greens. They sat out on the sidewalk as usual. Guess they hadn't heard the new rule. Their veg was confiscated.

I have a million thoughts all zooming around my head. I'm dying to write about them, to draw conclusions, to make sense of my emotions, but I’d probably be wrong. I still have so much to learn. I see, but I don't understand. It'll be years, probably a lifetime, if I ever really do.

If my helper can't get her scooter back for 100ribu I think I'll just give her the 500. Or let her borrow it, or work extra for it. I don't know. What's the culturally appropriate thing to do? What would grace do?

A couple weeks ago I woke up early, heard loud voices, and so went to look out the window. A few days before that my neighbour had come home drunk and shouting. I assumed it was the same thing, but still got up to check. There was a young guy standing outside my neighbour's gate. When my neighbour came I heard the guy say, "We stole a motorcycle. Open the gate fast!" So my neighbour opens the gate and they quietly roll in the stolen motorcycle.

I didn't know what to do. What can you do? I was ready to report it, but was told that's absolutely a bad idea. The neighbours will learn where the info came from and we'll be known as informants. The neighbours might retaliate. I'm to pretend I don't know anything. A friend of a friend will tell a police officer friend. I keep waiting for something to happen, but nothing has so I guess nothing will. To be honest, I don't want the thieves to go to jail. Jail here would be horrible, but I would like the motorbikes returned.

Turn the other way. Pretend you didn't see. Your neighbour abuses his wife and her screams haunt you. Pretend you didn't hear. I ache inside.

I know I'm not supposed to be surprised when “sinners act like sinners”, or whatever the adage is. That's just it, I'm not surprised by the horrible things people do. I'm surprised by my complete inability to do anything about it.

So I go about my business. I cook and clean and shop at the market and do preschool with my son. I go to church, women's bible study, and team meetings. I host visitors and greet my neighbours.

Oh God do I pray. 

the road home

Purpose

For lunch today I made sup bayam and ayam semur. Baby spinach soup and chocolatey brown chicken in a sweet and tangy sauce over steamy white rice felt just right. I sliced up papaya for a little dessert afterwards.

I can’t remember the last time I had a sandwich. A proper sandwich, the kind with thin sliced ham, crunchy iceberg lettuce, tomato, sharp cheddar cheese, mayo and mustard. I’d stuff cool ranch Doritos inside just before the first bite.

Lunch has a whole new meaning in Papua. Life feels like it has a whole new meaning in Papua, only trouble is I don’t really know what it is.

Of course I know why we came. The why hasn’t changed and last week, as my husband flew his first flight to an isolated village way up in the jungle covered mountains, the why felt so big and all consuming.

I’m pretty sure my neighbors on one side don’t like me. I don’t really know the family on the other side. At the end of my road there is a really nice young couple with a little boy about Isaiah’s age that are always friendly when we pass by or stop to talk. They sell fried food from a cart on the main road a few yards from their front door. Today we bought fried tofu and bananas.

A couple weeks ago, coming back from a ladies’ bible study with some girlfriends, we had to stop the car in the middle of the road. A crowd approached and as they did I hurried to cover my son’s eyes. A man was being beaten in the street. I locked my door and prayed. Guilt and helplessness pierced me through. We heard the next day that the man died. We had witnessed a murder.  

There’s a girl at the market who sells mustard greens and always smiles. I don’t know her name, but she’s possibly the funniest person I’ve ever met. A little down the road from her there’s a mama selling pumpkin who is always kind to me. 

As I look to a new year what I really want to know, the thing I want to look back at the end of 2015 and see and understand, is what my part is. To know my purpose. To know where I fit in the great big why of our life here.

I’ve never been big on New Year resolutions and finding my purpose in Papua probably wouldn't make a good one anyway. Instead, I step into 2015 with eyes open in anticipation and good hope stretched out before me. 

Neighbors, merchants, farmers, street children, drunks, all right outside my door.  The needs are great, so much bigger than I am. 

Before we arrived in Papua, I felt my kitchen table would be my place of ministry. A place to provide hospitality and encouragement, friendship and the gospel, starting first with my own little family and extending to whoever might find a seat there. 

I don’t know what 2015 will bring. I don’t know my purpose in the grand scheme of our life here, but that’s ok. In the meantime, my heart and kitchen table are open.

*******

This post is a linkup to www.velvetashes.com where others are discussing their 'one word' to focus on for 2015.

For Stress and Beauty

I'd been taking aspirin for a week. The headache never leaving, only waxing between mild and intense flashes of pain. By the Saturday morning I couldn't keep my eyes open.

"I think I need a blood test." I told Ben. A persistent and increasing headache is one of the first signs of Malaria.

The three of us loaded onto the scooter and headed to the pharmacy. Thirty minutes later I held a negative blood test in my hands. Not malaria, thank God. A second test showed high white blood cells indicating some kind of infection. "Show it to your doctor." The nurse told me.

As we loaded back onto the scooter, my headache easing again, we spotted her. She stopped us in our tracks, this black and white beauty. More the size of a small bird than a butterfly, her delicate velvet wings beating to her own rhythm. 

On the way home we stopped to pick up our new motorcycle from a friend's shop. Feeling quite a bit better, I drove the scooter and Isaiah the familiar short distance home while Ben took the motorcycle. My son's small arms wrapped around my sides, we headed off.

The bumpy road home is all gravel and red dirt. I drive slow, putting my feet down at the slippery parts. I know this road, where the smoothest parts are, where the gravel is loose and the back tire slips.

Rounding the familiar bend the scooter starts to speed up. I pull hard on the front and back breaks, but can't stop. On the slippery gravel I start to loose control and unable to slow the scooter down we hit a large rock. The scooter falls to the right and we fall with it.

Our friend had been driving behind us and saw everything. He jumped out of his truck and lifted the scooter off of my leg. Isaiah stood behind me crying, but unhurt. A small patch of grass on the side of the road had cushioned his fall.

Isaiah rode home in the truck and I drove the scooter. I hadn't noticed my bloody knee until I stopped the scooter in front of Ben and said with shaking voice, "We fell off. I couldn't stop. The accelerator is sticking. Isaiah is ok. He's in the truck."

At home Ben poured me a glass of Sprite and ordered, "You need to sit down and drink." He checked Isaiah over and hugged him, listening and answering questions of what happened. I cleaned and covered my scraped up knee. The cuts were long, but not too deep. Still shaking and sipping my drink, I closed my eyes and whispered a prayer of thanks. We were ok.

A few hours later our long time friend arrives to stay for the week. We haven't seen him in twelve years, but he still wears the same infectious smile. We will finish language school and move home in just 10 days. Our friend arrives in the midst of chaos, but with him peace and laughter arrive too.

And that's just it. The velvet black and white beauty soothing my persistent headache. Grass grown long before on the side of the road in just the right place to catch and cushion my son's fall. Friendship that brings joy even after a decade apart.

This is nothing new. Life here, life back in our old home. Stress is real and intense, but so is beauty and God's goodness. Not as small pinpricks of light shining through darkness, but as the brightest light of hope forcefully pushing back the dark and filling and freeing our hearts and minds.

  "And that’s not all: We throw open our doors to God and discover at the same moment that he has already thrown open his door to us. We find ourselves standing where we always hoped we might stand—out in the wide open spaces of God’s grace and glory, standing tall and shouting our praise."   

Romans 5:2 The Message

  

Pushing back the dark

 ******

This post is a link up to Velvet Ashes where others are discussing beauty this week.

 

The Anchor and The Hurricane

I'm a dreamer. I know it's not really possible for me to save the world, but I still dream about it all the time. I'm a great starter. Full of passion and 'can do' spirit, I dive right in. Don't try to warn or reason with me, the risks don't really mean much.

Ben's a thinker. He sees a suffering world and carefully considers where and how he can make a difference. He starts slowly, thoughtfully, because there's no real rush when you're in it for the long haul. The risks are carefully considered and prepared for.

Our Florida pastor likes to ask the question of married couples, "Are you the hurricane or the anchor?"

When a hurricane and an anchor move overseas adversity doesn't miss an opportunity.

True to myself, I dove right in. My new culture and language right outside my front door I walked the neighborhood streets in the hot afternoon sun for hours each day. It didn't matter that I didn't actually have any words or phrases other than "Good morning", "My name is Anisha" and "What's that?" It didn't matter that my feet couldn't touch the bottom. I figured I'd just tread water while I searched for a ledge to grab on to.

Unfortunately for anchors, hurricanes tend to whip up everything in their path and carry them along, willingly or not.

The anchor would have preferred to learn more words first. To have a base to build meaningful friendships on rather than a bunch of friendly but rather shallow smiles. The anchor would have sought out relationships with expats who have been here for years instead of focusing exclusively on local relationships. He would listen for directions and coached by the experiences of those who already know where the ledge is would swim confidently in the right direction.

It's hard for hurricanes to slow down, but the anchor you love can only be tossed and carried along for so long.

Of all the lessons learned over the last months, this one is the hardest: In all my passion and enthusiasm I fail my anchor. And in that moment, in ignoring the needs and God given qualities of the one I pledged my life and love to, the Adversary wastes no time.

"Your marriage will be under attack." So many warned us. "You have to stay in tune with each other. Nothing else matters." I can still see the sincerity in their eyes.

I didn't see the breach in the wall. I didn't see the Adversary forming ranks around us until the first flaming arrows hit.

We fight back standing strong with feet planted deeply in peace. God's words as a sword gripped tightly in our hands. Faith a shield around us. Our Saviour on our minds and the deep knowing of His truth felt right through to our guts. There is no fear. We know that this is not a war against flesh and blood. Neither does victory come by our own power.

The dreamer and the thinker, hurricane and anchor, joined together for one mighty purpose. Not to save the world or even to figure out how to change a little part of it. Those reasons are much too small.

No matter where we are, no matter where we make our home, no matter what we make our profession, this union is not about our physical world. It's really about a transcending Love.

Watch what God does, and then you do it, like children who learn proper behavior from their parents. Mostly what God does is love you. Keep company with him and learn a life of love. Observe how Christ loved us. His love was not cautious but extravagant. He didn’t love in order to get something from us but to give everything of himself to us. Love like that. (Eph 5:1-2 The Message)

        

The Anchor and The Hurricane

Mercy Floats: A Free E-Book

What 18 year old knows the answer to the question, "What should I do with my life?"

I surely didn't. I only knew my restless soul and quitting college to move into an apartment with my best friend sounded like the fastest way to freedom.

My father saw straight to my heart and asked a new question, "What about missions?" Sitting together one evening in our family's basement office he opened www.mercyships.org

The faces caught me first. Before and after pictures of men, women, and children. Cleft lip and palate, goiters, cataracts, club feet, the joy of restored lives practically jumping through the screen.

"Why don't you do something like this?" Dad asked.

And I did. For two remarkable years I lived and worked on-board the Mercy Ship M/V Anastasis and sailed the western coast of Africa.

Wounded men, women, and children received back their dignity. The lame walked, the blind received sight, a future of promise and possibilities returned for the hopeless.

Mercy Floats is a collection of letters and stories sent home during the ship's outreach in Benin, West Africa.

The opportunity to live and work on the M/V Anastasis was a life changing gift for me. This book is my gift to you. It is my hope that the stories within these pages spark the same intense passion for a healed world in your heart as living them did in mine. They are a testimony of God's grace, love, and mercy for all the world.

To download the book click the book cover. This book is given freely, please feel free to share it as well. May it be an encouragement to you and all who read it. 
 

The Raging Sea

With the end of summer my inbox fills with stories and newsletters from friends having gone for a week or months as volunteer in some capacity. Some stay close to home, some go abroad. No matter where they've gone or for what length of time, my heart is on fire as I read their stories. 

My heart is on fire because that's how it began for me also. Raking leaves for the elderly in Chicago. Cleaning up school yards and helping with a kids program in Mexico. Playing with Hopi Indian children in Arizona. Building a medical clinic and loving on orphans in Benin. Holding hands and praying for the sick in The Gambia. Painting a school building in Sierra Leone. Working alongside church leadership in Guatemala. Hanging out with teens at the group home.

Those trips sparked a profound change in my heart. The deep desire to see the world healed and realising that I had a part, no matter how small it may be, took root and forever pulled my eyes up off myself.

Today it's six months in to this new life in Papua and I feel the change. It is deeper, more cutting this time. There is no relief after a week, month, or even year. I'm still here, still will be here, for years to come. And change keeps pounding at my heart door demanding to renovate the whole place.

Do you remember the story when Jesus fed thousands from five loaves and two fish? "You give them supper" he'd told his disciples. And despite their hard, unbelieving hearts Jesus worked his miracle and the disciples then gave out the food watching as each man, woman, and child had their fill.

Can you imagine it? You know there is no way this is possible, but somehow with all your doubts and limits it's still your hands that are handing out the miracle. You aren't just standing by witnessing the miraculous you, even in spite of yourself, are actively part of it. 

As soon as the meal was finished Jesus insists his disciples get in the boat and go on ahead of him to the other side. He's going up the mountain to pray and will meet them later. They get in an go. I can only imagine the conversations they must have been having by the end of that day.

Late that night a storm rises and the disciples struggling at the oars are badly battered by wind and waves. Fear overtakes them at the sight of Jesus walking across the raging sea. They were scared out of their wits."A ghost!" they said, crying out in terror.

But Jesus was quick to comfort them, "Courage, it's me. Don't be afraid." and Peter boldly asks to walk out on the waves. "Come ahead." Jesus responds, and Peter steps out of the boat.

Looking down Peter sees the waves and as fear overtakes he begins to sink. He cried, "Master, save me!" Jesus did not hesitate. He reached down and grabbed his hand. Then he said, "Faint-heart, what got into you?"

And that's where I find myself.

I've been part of the miracle. In all those weeks and months in other places it was my hands that carried and gave away grace and love both tangible and intangible.

Eyes still wide remembering miracles of how the smallest offering could multiply beyond our wildest dreams we got in the boat and headed to the other side.

These last few weeks a storm rages. The compounding loneliness of being away from family and friends, the continual stress of immersion into a new language and culture, the to-the-bone tired and brain ache that we just can't shake, the anticipation and sadness of soon leaving a town and friends we've come to love to start all over in a new town, waves and wind batter and we struggle at the oars.

Desperate for Jesus I jump out of the boat and as I sink in fear Jesus grabs my hand and I hear him say, "Faint-heart, what got into you?"

As the two of us climb back in the boat the wind and waves die down. How could I forget? All those miracles. My own hands a part of them.

"Faint-heart, what got into you?"  

I was afraid, Lord. I took my eyes off of you.

I'm sorry. I know better. Thank you for always rescuing me.

*********

Italicised scripture quoted from Matthew 14: 13-31, The Message

Rich Missionary

"Beef is expensive." She didn't even look up as she said it. Was she just stating facts? Or did she not approve of my meal choice?

The social chasm between us suddenly grew wide. Or perhaps I only just noticed it for the first time. There we stood, me firmly planted on the 'rich' side and her on the 'poor' side. The width and depth of the chasm made crystal clear by the price I was willing to pay for red meat.

We live well here in Papua. Our home is small, but modern. We have a western style toilet rather than a squatty potty. We have a shower rather than a tiled tub of water and a ladle. We have a full size frigde/freezer and a stove with an oven. We have a washing machine and a covered place to hang clothes to dry protected from the elements. We have air-conditioning in the bedrooms. Our home and furnishings are provided by our agency and they took pride in helping us feel comfortable without being too extravagant. We are well cared for.

There are a lot of much nicer, bigger, elaborately furnished homes around than ours, but there are volumes more simpler homes. To afford a place like ours you need to be educated and have a good job. These homes are out of reach for the majority in our community.

I bought the beef anyway. A couple days later my living room filled with children who enthusiastically gobbled down their very first mouthfuls of sloppy joe. Moms and Dads joined us and took home extra sandwhichs in ziplock bags.

At last, when everyone had returned home with full tummies and my living room was back in semi-order, I sat down and breathed out a prayer of gratitude for the day, for my home, and for beef.

I thought about Jesus's story of the rich man preparing a great banquet (Luke 14:16-24). The man invited all the well-to-do's of the community who all made excuses as to why they couldn't come. So the rich man sends his servant out to the streets to invite the poor and the crippled. 'Go out to the roads and country lanes and compel them to come in, so that my house will be full'.

As I sit thinking about the rich man in Jesus's story I see that he wasn't afraid to open his very nice, big, modern, well furnished, expensive food on the table home to the poor. The rich man wasn't concerned about protecting all the nice stuff he owned, he  filled his home with beggars and cripples.

If this story is a picture of love and grace extended, of open places at God's table for those marginalised and dismissed by society, then you'd better believe it also has huge implications for how I go about life today.

The children and families that came to my home are far from being beggars. They live in the middle income bracket here and some even live in houses much fancier than ours. We have enjoyed the hospitality of their homes and I hope they in turn enjoyed the hospitality of ours. Never the less, I am seen as rich if for no other reason than my skin color and country of birth.

I have much to learn about living well as a rich person, and specifically about how to do that in my new culture. I know that I mess it up.

"Don't worry about the beef." a friend said. "Pork is expensive too and people buy that. Just make enough for everyone to take home leftovers." And another, "And keep your front door open. It means your heart is open too."

You're Doing It Wrong

Dear Missionary,

It's pretty clear you're doing this all wrong. 

You missionaries living in guarded compounds, you're obviously not really invested in your community. You alienate your neighbors with barbwire topped fences.

You missionaries living in houses and apartments in local neighborhoods, you are risking the safety and well being of your family. Thank God for those missionaries in that guarded compound nearby that welcome you with open arms and shelter you in times of trouble.

You who buy imported western food, don't you know how important food is to a culture and that by avoiding it you are avoiding connecting with your adopted home?

You who buy food from the local market and street vendors, don't complain when you get typhoid or amoebic dysentery. It's your own fault. You know how unsanitary all that is.

You who use cars and drive everywhere you go, how will you ever become part of your community if your neighbors only see you coming and going through tinted windows?

You who walk or bicycle everywhere, your community is embarrassed to have the only missionary without a car. If you had a vehicle you could use it to better help the community.

To the missionary full on embracing your new culture and abandoning your own, you're "going tribal" and that's a pretty foolish thing to do. You're headed towards a cultural identity crisis.

To the missionary clinging tightly to your home culture, opening up those clenched fists won't make you unAmerican or whatever. You're alienating yourself by not loosening up.

You who go on furlough every summer are basically telling the people you serve that your vacation is more important than pastoring that young congregation, translating scripture, or helping the suffering community through that health crisis. Your actions don't match your message.

You who wait years and years before taking a few months away are going to have a nervous breakdown. Missionary burnout is well documented and you jeopardize the long term work.

To the missionaries who own modern appliances, what a frivolous waste of donations. You should be living at the same standard as the people you serve.

To the missionaries without modern appliances, you are frivolously wasting time doing things the hard way when you could be spending that time ministering instead.

You who attend language school, you are probably substituting a classroom for relationships within your community.

You who learn language on your neighborhood streets, your approach takes forever and if you just went to a school it would be a much more efficient use of time. You could get to actually ministry sooner.

You who attend the expat church on Sundays, think about the message you are sending to the local Christians. It might not be with words, but with your actions you're saying there's something wrong with their churches. 

You who attend the local church are neglecting worshiping in your own language and culture. You hypocritically insist the local Christians should worship authentically in their own cultural way, but you don't do it yourself.

To the missionaries who send their teenagers off to boarding school, you are risking the emotional health of your kids when they are already at their most vulnerable ages.

To the missionaries who home school their teenagers, you alienate them from all their friends who have gone off to boarding school and risk their emotional and academic development.

You who pastor and translate and evangelize but don't include seeking justice and meeting physical needs because that's just not your ministry, aren't ushering in God's Kingdom here on earth.

You who spend all your time doctoring and building clinics and teaching new farming methods are forsaking the gospel and might as well just be humanitarian workers. There are more important and eternal things at stake.

You who hire house helpers, gardeners, and cooks should be ashamed of your colonial attitude.

You who do it all yourself without house helpers, gardeners, and cooks, are pretty selfish and stingy for not providing employment when as a westerner you clearly have the funds to do so.

To the missionary already decades in the field, your methods and mindset are outdated.

To the brand new missionary, you haven't been here long enough to understand the complex layers of this culture and in your zeal you're making some really stupid and damaging mistakes.

Hope this helps and you feel suitably convicted.

Thanks,

Judgmental, but totally righteous, Missionary Me

******

Alright, alright, please forgive the ridiculousness above. What I really want to say is: 

I'm so thankful you're here. 

It can feel like we all have differing views of how best to serve and what foreign ministry actually means and that can get pretty critical and messy. Truth is I need you. I even need your differing views. 

Thanks for not letting me settle.

Here's to lovingly and humbly encouraging each other to seek God's face in every aspect of our lives and service. 

Your sister and fellow sojourner,

Anisha

*************

Over at Velvet Ashes this week the discussion centers around the word humility. Hop on over and check out what others have to say.

Over The Brick Wall

"You're right on track. It's around month four and five that you generally hit a brick wall."

Sitting across from our base leaders on their recent trip to our town, we recounted the events of the last few weeks. Lots of head nodding sympathy returning to us. They were right, we hit the brick wall full on and it hurt.

Our terrible, horrible, no good, very bad days were compounding. My repeated illnesses draining what little energy we had left. I'd stopped worshiping and writing, the very two things that call me back and recenter my heart. I started having dreams about quitting language school and would wake up happy, only to emotionally crash at the realization I hadn't and wouldn't quit. The fact was that life would remain hard for some time to come and we were plum worn out.

"Why don't you take a month off, Anisha? Let your body heal completely and maybe cook some American food? You are doing well with your language. Later if you want to study more you can do another unit, or could even get a tutor in Wamena."

Sometimes you are running so fast that the wall just comes out of no where. Sometimes you need someone from the outside to see clearly for you.

As we recover from the dizziness of a full on collision, the truth comes back into view.

Expectations of what I think I should be capable of are deceiving. There is no shame in resting.

In the wake of abandoning full time classes, my body is finally beginning to feel whole.

I find myself enjoying my family more. My son's day to day behavior has even improved.

Relationships with local friends are more fulfilling. I no longer try to sneak past the open door hoping not to be seen because my brain is too tired to struggle through another conversation.

After five months of being unable to cope with the stress of cooking in a new country, I made pizza from scratch and was able to improvise on the ingredients we can't find locally. The idea of preparing a meal no longer induces panic.

I'm writing again.

I'm worshiping again.

I am enjoying language learning again.

Next week I'll start back with relaxed tutoring sessions on Tuesday and Friday mornings. Without a defined curriculum and the freedom to direct my own learning the tight ball of anxiety in my chest is disappearing.

My wise Mama recently wrote, "You are in Papua for more than this." Yes. We did not come to only burn out emotionally and physically. We are meant for more and sometimes we just need to take a step back and remember the bigger picture.

There is no shame in resting. We'll make it over this wall.

The Flame Beneath

This frog nearly burned.

The water was cold when I jumped in. Anyone who's ever swum in a mountain river or cold spring knows the fastest way to comfort isn't tiptoeing in from the water's edge. It's eyes squeezed shut, knees tucked tight, head down cannonballing the deep end.

I cannonballed into my new culture and although the cold water sent shock waves through my body I came up strong and full of fight and excitement. Caught up in my new surroundings and the dream come true of finally being allowed to swim in this pool, if I even saw the match strike I certainly didn't give it any attention.

I didn't see the wood beneath me start to burn or feel the water heating.

Sudden and increasing sickness scooped me up and although I wanted to swim was forced out of the water. If I hadn't gotten sick I would have stayed. I would have burned.

When you are swimming well and discovering new things everyday, it's hard to recognise the changing water. It's hard to see the flame beneath you growing.

When did I stop worshipping? When did I start to make cultural sensitivity and the desire to be accepted the first place in my life? When did I abandon the most important for the sake of the second?

Jesus said, "'Love the Lord your God with all your passion and prayer and intelligence.'  This is the most important, the first on any list. But there is a second to set alongside it: 'Love others as well as you love yourself.' These two commands are pegs; everything in God's Law and the Prophets hangs from them."

(Matthew 22:37-40 The Message)

 
"When are you going to write again?" Ben asked. "When I can write about all of this well." I responded. When I can see clearly and admit that what kept me in the water was pride and fear.

Pride that getting out would mean admitting I am weak. Fear that by admitting I am weak I will disappoint you.

Pride and fear are liars.

Scooped up onto the water's edge, body recovering from illness, I see with new eyes.

I didn't burn. It was gift.

**********

Culture Shock can take us under, heck LIFE can take us under. The stress of adjustment and challenging of expectations can burn us up.

Today, over at Velvet Ashes others are sharing their stories and perspectives on Culture Shock as well. Check it out.