Scars and Stories
The wooden floor in our dining room is scratched from years and years of chairs being pulled up to the table. It’s not pretty. The varnish is peeling, and the discolored planks are grooved deep. This floor has stories written across its grain, generations of stories of missionary families from all over the world who have lived here. Bare little feet running in at dinner time, conversations in Japanese and English and Tok Pisin, homework and letters home and family game nights. Every scar in the wood has history. Scars have always intrigued me. They speak of life lived and lessons hard learned. I have a shiny white one on my left foot from when I was eleven and thought mud sliding in the garbage dump sounded like a good idea. (Lessons learned: broken glass is...
Read MoreLullaby
I recently wrote a poem for a dear friend who was returning to the U.K. for a few months to have a baby. As I was writing, though, I realized it was just as much for me… Lullaby The sky lays down its golden head On weary mountain height, And emerald fields in shameless spread Roll intimate and wild. His song pours over, in, and through And pulls us to His side. The Love that calls us all by name Says, “Rest, come rest, my child.” This broken day has broken us And laid us open wide, And here we’re held in Broken Hands With nothing left to hide. The Love that sees us as we are Sings peace into the night And gently lifts our eyes to His. “Come rest, come rest, my child.” “Come rest and lay the struggle down. Don’t...
Read MoreThe Long Promise
Well, friends, this week marks one year since we left the U.S. for PNG. People told us that the first year on the field can be especially hard, and we definitely found that to be true. Months of transition, breath-stealing homesickness, feeling overwhelmed in new ministry roles, culture shock, and other unexpected difficulties came to a head for me in September. I was a mess. For a time, I wasn’t even sure we could continue here. Some parts of our stories aren’t pretty. Yeah, even missionaries. But those parts need to be told, too, because it’s there in the raw mess that the God who makes all things new gently, slowly picks up our scattered pieces and restores us and peels back the healing layers to show His glory… The Long Promise She was old and weary,...
Read MoreYou Can’t Make Me
We spent a lot of time in the car when I was a kid. Hour after hour after day of nothing but road rolling on as we traveled the States, visiting churches and partners who supported my parents’ ministry in the Philippines. We were good little missionary kids. The kind who whined and fought in the sanctuary while our parents set up for their presentation. And when we got back in the car, my mom would put our little brother between me and my sister as an attempt at keeping the peace. So naturally, we would turn our focus on torturing him. First it was tickling. Each of us on one of his sides so he had no direction to lean to escape. And when the laughter became cries for help and our mom turned around and said, “You keep your hands off your brother!”… Then… Then the...
Read MoreWhen the Rain Does Come
It’s a grey and wet day, the fifth day of rain this week. For long, dusty months we’ve been praying and watching the sky as our water tanks empty and the river runs low. So this is welcome. But the mud and fog look different than what we’ve gotten used to. When black clouds roll in pregnant with precious rain, and the cracked ground softens and the dirt roads run like muddy streams, the world changes for a while. No sunshine. No birds singing. All the colors somehow sharper against the dark sky. And when the rain comes especially hard, sometimes the world changes permanently. Landslides happen and bridges are swept away. And we are left feeling disoriented and unsure of how to get where we’d been planning to go. The rain is a gift, but it’s one that changes the...
Read MoreGrowing Pains
The year I was in kindergarten, I grew six inches. I started out as one of the smallest kids in my class and ended up being one of the tallest. (Impressive, especially since now I tower over even the biggest kindergartners at an enormous five feet…) I remember laying in bed awake late into the night with my legs aching, just wanting to turn off the pain and go to sleep. My mom would hear me crying and come tuck hot water bottles around my calves and say, “It’s just growing pains, sweetie. You’re growing, and that’s a good thing.” It didn’t feel like a good thing. I just wanted to stop hurting. We’ve been in Papua New Guinea for almost ten months, and in our new home in the Eastern Highlands for almost seven. We’ve taught through transition stages enough in our...
Read MoreMake it Rain
My jeans are smoked. Not smokin’. Smoked. They hung on the line as ash fell like snow and billows of grey rolled through in post-apocalyptic waves. It’s not from wild fires or a volcano; it’s from people burning their fields. On purpose. Some of the fires are started by mischievous boys, but many of them are set by people who believe that smoke causes rain to come. And we need rain badly. People’s sweet potato crops are starting to fail, and the ground is too hard and dry to plant anything new. Rain tanks are going empty. Even the rivers are running low. And the days roll on, sunny and smoky and snowing ash, and we know there’s nothing to do but wait. I don’t know about you, but waiting is not my favorite, especially when the need feels great and God’s response...
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