Five Things Missionary Kids Need to Know About Their Feet
Let’s face it, MK friends. Most of you have feet that wouldn’t win you any foot modeling jobs. (How do people get into that line of work anyway?) But your feet are my favorite kind in the world. And here is why… 1. They are dirty. Gloriously gross in the most grimy-toed, stained-soled, freedom-proclaiming way. Your bare feet are unafraid of mud and rocks and rain and dust, and you just GO, feeling the warmth and texture in every step. 2. They are knowledgeable. Your feet navigate airport security lines and busy city streets as easily as they carve a path between market stalls and run up the road to a friend’s house. They know the world really is a small place, because they’ve stood toe-to-toe with precious people from all over, people you couldn’t imagine your...
Read MoreHere and There
There’s something about the way this afternoon is spread out all grey and misty over the valley that makes me homesick. Maybe it’s the mountains sitting silent behind the fog, so different than the rolling plains of the central Carolinas. Or maybe it’s just that we’ve been in Papua New Guinea for four months now, the longest I’ve been outside the States since I was fourteen. Whatever the reason, I’ve felt all day like I can’t take a full breath past the lump in my throat. And it’s not a day I could hide away from people. First a worship service, then a birthday party for a good friend’s son. Smile. Small talk. Try to will the eyes to stay dry. And then the moment when someone asks if I’m glad to be here. Yes, friend, yes I am. There’s not a shred of me that...
Read MoreOf Blue Tongues and Blending In
“What did you eat for breakfast?” My friend Gina looked quizzically at my mouth. We had arrived at church a little early, a rare occurrence, clean and combed and dressed in our best for our first Ukarumpa Sunday service. The day before I had bought a bag of mints in town, which was my first mistake. It should have been a clue that the ingredients were listed in Indonesian, and two of the few English words on the package were “Cool Blue”. Not wanting coffee breath to be my first impression on all our new neighbors and coworkers, I had popped one in my mouth as we left the house. The results were not very cool, but very definitely blue. Very, very blue. My tongue was a brilliant shade of turquoise. This, of course, was the Sunday they ask all the recent...
Read MoreHe Leads
He had a bush knife in one hand and a soda bottle full of water in the other. His flip flop clad, calloused brown feet never slipped once on the steep jungle path as he ambled along waiting for us to catch up. And there we were, a sunscreen-drenched, sweaty mess of a clumsy line, trudging along behind with our backpacks and hats and hiking shoes. We felt pretty good about ourselves, like a victorious herd of turtles, when we arrived weary and breathless back at our dorm. The reality is that our guide was easy on us. He grew up on the trails around here, and without him we would have been hopelessly lost. Jungle trails were part of my childhood, too, but my 38-year-old body has grown accustomed to cars and sofas and television. That hike was hard. And it was the...
Read MoreEmmanuel, the Unafraid God
They prayed for us at church this morning. We stood there under the spotlight and in front of the eyes, the missionary family ready to move to Papua New Guinea in just two weeks. And afterwards, as I hugged a good friend one last time and my throat burned thick with choked-back tears, a few kind people waited to tell us that we are brave, that they admire us. Maybe they hadn’t seen our youngest trying kick her sister while a church elder was praying blessing over us. Over our mess. Over our obedience. Because obedience is really what it is. Not special bravery. There’s nothing innately in us that qualifies us to be missionaries. The only difference between our story and theirs is that God has asked us to obey Him on the other side of the world. Life, just life in...
Read MoreWhen It’s Better to Receive Than to Give
“Are you afraid of losing your identity?” My counselor asked me this the other day. (I’ve been in counseling for the last few months. Shadows from the past and other nasty things have a way of surfacing during transition…) I didn’t quite know what she meant, so I sat quiet for a minute and turned her question over in my mind. “You’ve been in the role of caregiver for a long time. Maybe it’s time for you to be the receiver. Does that bother you?” Ouch. This woman is perceptive. She’s right. For the past fourteen and a half years, I’ve been the wife of a youth pastor, a mom, a Bible study teacher, a speaker, a safe place for hurting women and girls. And now I’m about to add overseas missionary to that list. No pressure there. I love what I’ve been doing. People...
Read MoreRight Now
Breakfast had to wait. She wore a tutu, and the song was perfect, she said. Her little legs stretched and stooped as she twirled wide, palms flung high. She knew this moment was one that needed to be celebrated, felt strong. My little one lives unafraid. I have a friend who lives this way, too. She feels things big and loves even bigger, and she never stops to think just how rare that is. It’s a beautiful thing to watch, and being on the receiving end of her 100 percent kind of love has changed me. This thing we’re doing, moving to the other side of the world in a month? It’s big. Huge. And the feelings that come with it stretch me until I feel like an over-filled balloon. Honestly, these emotions and their bigness scare me. It can be awfully tempting to...
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