Risk and Cost
Risking it all for Jesus… I’ve heard this phrase tossed around in Christian circles. It sounds exciting. Bold. Holy. The problem is that it’s simply not true. I would even say it might be dangerous. “Risking it all” makes it sound like some of us are the spiritual high rollers, while everybody else is playing it safe in Heaven’s casino. You know, we give up our comforts and possessions to serve Jesus and someday earn a great big eternal crown. Some of us even leave our homes and everything we know to move to the other side of the world in a grand leap of faith. And people admire us, and our pictures hang on their church bulletin boards, and we sometimes make it into their pastors’ sermons. But eventually all of that praise falls flat. It doesn’t feel so...
Read MoreAn Open Letter to the Almost-There Missionary
Dear friend, You sat on my couch the other day and said it’s too much. You said it with red eyes and deep breaths, and the others of us in the room breathed deep and teared up, too. Because we know. You and I, my friend, we’re in the same boat. We’re living in the in-between, not quite sure where we fit. Not completely here, but not all there yet. We’ve cut loose the moorings, and we’re on open ocean, going, going, but the going isn’t easy. The waves aren’t gentle, and they don’t seem to notice how much we’ve left behind. I want to tell you that it’s going to be ok, that if you give yourself enough time, your heart will feel whole again. But I can’t, and it won’t – at least not on this side of eternity, I think. When home is on both sides of the world, when you...
Read MoreNeither Can I
You said it with sincerity and even a touch of awe. “I could never do what you do.” The thing is, my friend, neither can I. I’m just me. A woman a couple of years from forty, doing my best to love my husband and raise our girls. I didn’t plan to be a missionary. I didn’t even want to be. It’s just something I grew into, or maybe it grew into me. But it’s certainly not a path I’ve chosen because I feel like I can handle it. Late the other night, I stood in a good friend’s kitchen, and she held me steady while I cried hot and ragged. “I can’t,” I told her. The weight of all the responsibilities, all the goodbyes, all the unknowns spilled out into the safety of that moment, and I knew it. I knew it deep. I can’t. It’s true. I’m not able to do what I have to do...
Read MoreThe Bigger Story
I’m tired today. It’s the kind of exhaustion that makes the mind numb and the bones ache. We’re on the road, seeing friends and family one last time, and some of the goodbyes we’re saying feel like funerals. It’s too much. Too much. I’m weak, weary, and completely overwhelmed. If it were just me, I might be tempted to just leave all this missions stuff behind. It’s hard, hard, hard, and we haven’t even left the country yet. But it’s not just me, or even just my family. This is bigger. Way bigger. It’s 120 teens in the highlands of Papua New Guinea. It’s missionary families needing pastoral care. It’s men, women, and children waiting for the Word of God in their own languages. It’s precious people saying, “We can’t go ourselves, but we can give.” It’s the...
Read MoreGrowing Smaller
“I realized I probably could have been famous.” My friend Julie sits across from me at a coffee house table. There isn’t a hint of bitterness, pride, or irony in her gentle voice. She’s right. She really could have been. I’ve known this woman for more than ten years, and every time I’ve seen her on stage, I have been mesmerized. Her voice is one of the most beautiful I’ve heard, and her stage presence is as graceful as it is vibrant. She is gorgeous, well-spoken, and about as talented as they come. The total package. Yes, she could have been widely known and celebrated, but she’s not. She doesn’t want to be. Because she has found her true calling – teaching preschool. Julie talks about music, and she smiles. Then she talks about the kids at work, and the smile...
Read MoreThe Lasts
I have a lump in my throat. A big ol’ fat lump. The kind that makes it hard to breathe, makes it hard to say what I need to say. Because what I need to say is the beginnings of goodbye. We still have seven months before our travel weary bodies land on the other side of the Pacific, but now, over the next couple of months, this is the season of lasts. The last graduation parties for students we’ve known since they were little kids. The last cook out with the high school leaders we’ve invested so much in, and who have invested so much in us. The last baccalaureate service, where Mike will speak and I will cry. The last crop of new sixth graders. Only we won’t be here to watch them bloom. It all sits like a beautiful, burning weight on my chest. A few...
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