A Backwards Tale

It’s become an iconic caricature. Men and women who argued with God: “Don’t send me to the mission field! Please! There’s got to be someone else. Look at how much good I could do here. God, you don’t want me—You really don’t. You have to see that.”

Soon fingers start counting—all the reasons why one should be an elementary school teacher in Brooklyn and not Iraq; why one should pastor in the states and not teach at a seminary in Zambia; why learning another language is a ridiculous idea; why one’s personality simply not fitted for living in a jungle tribe and eating grubs and spiders off the uncivilized jungle trees.

I, on the other hand, somewhat sheepishly find myself on the other end of the spectrum. I find myself in the rather unusual position of one who always saw herself going to the reaches of the earth and learning another language and culture—forming a life for a family in a remote, even dangerous place. It has taken time to accept that perhaps this is not the plan for my life.

Perhaps I should back up a few years.

Some scenes in people’s lives remain indelibly impressed forever. Like the night when my eight-year-old self stayed up late in our living room armchair reading Hudson Taylor's Spiritual Secret. I remember the fire that entered my heart that night as I read of how God worked and moved and changed hearts and lives through one man’s ministry. I decided right then that wherever I ended up, whatever I was doing, I wanted to be in a place where God was at work. I knew then that I could not bear to stagnate, I could not bear to live normal American life and miss the ways the Spirit took ahold of men and women and opened their eyes to the glory of the gospel.

In the years since then I grew in frustration at the lackadaisical Christian living I saw around me. I lived through two church splits in congregations where my father was an elder. I experienced the breaking apart of relationships and families. I witnessed the effects of prosperity and excess in the hearts and appetites of believers. All this contrasted with what I read day in and day out: pictures painted in those pages were a far cry from what I saw around me. I read of men who sang hymns before they were hanged in the town square; of women who cradled the heads of their murdered husbands while dragoons mocked them; of children who saw their parents imprisoned for going to church; of leaders who risked their lives to get just one Bible and memorized whole books before passing it on to the next person; of men who sat for years in prison cells and conducted entire astronomy conferences in front of the wall to keep themselves mentally sane.

The list goes on and on. I supposed one could say I was a young person with a rather intense view of life. Early on steel entered into my soul, and more and more I felt that I could not bear to live out my days in middle class America, that I wanted to be among those who had nothing, but boasted great faith, among those who daily faced the possibility of imprisonment yet gathered for worship.

It wasn’t just printed pages that flowed into my heart. I met men and women who had been on the front lines of persecution. I sat with them and my family around the dinner table and heard their stories, asked them questions, saw their pictures, the light in their eyes, watched the animation that entered their faces as they told of the ways God had broken down strongholds of the enemy and opened eyes to see the truth of the gospel. I went to bed countless nights and laid awake hoping that would be me telling those stories one day, writing those books, living those encounters. When the earthquake happened in Haiti I was ten, and everything but my body was there with the believers at the orphanage in Maison de Lumiere. If I’d been as old as I am now, I would have gone, no question about it.

When I graduated from high school, part of me simply wanted to hit the mission field, yet I knew preparation was necessary. I don’t believe I was naïve. I’d talked to enough real live missionaries and heard the struggles and failures and challenges which accompanied life overseas. Well I headed off to Bible school not entirely sure what my life would look like afterwards. Then, as I considered post-student life, I looked for a ministry internship that would provide exposure to another culture and an opportunity to serve with my skills and interests. A door to Brazil opened, and here I am, learning Portuguese, writing, taking pictures, and living out of a suitcase for months on end.

But the picture has changed in ways I could never have imagined. During my two years at school I saw the body of Christ at work in ways I did not think possible in America. There it is—I said it. I saw brothers and sisters who took the Word seriously  and laid themselves open to be changed and convicted and humbled by its truths. I became friends with people far different than I who were headed for all sorts of vocations, and I watched the way they cared for one another, I received their love, and slowly He grew a knowledge in me that He was no less at work in America than He was in Cambodia or Peru or Indonesia. It’s not like I didn’t know, but all of a sudden, I saw myself as a part of something living and breathing, serving among those who took my Lord at His Word and lived with a purpose and a goal to see His glory manifest in this world.

Then a man came along. He was not called to the mission field, but more and more we came to realize that we were called to come into one another’s lives and challenge and sharpen and encourage each other on this pilgrimage to the celestial city. And for the first time in my life, the possibility of life in the States loomed in front of me. I’d be lying if I didn’t confess that the prospect was unnerving—though I’m sure that sounds odd.

Caleb had simple, single-hearted ambitions in life. He was not going to start the next orphanage in Sri Lanka, but rarely had I seen a stronger desire in someone to raise children of his own in the knowledge and fear of the Lord. He was not going to span a dozen countries in a year, but he had ambitions of settling down and serving in his local church. He didn’t want to stand up in front of hundreds and speak at international conferences, but he led devotionals during sports on Saturday and taught J.C. Ryle to middle and high schoolers on Sunday morning. What’s more they loved him, they trusted him—they wanted him in their lives.

I began to see, slowly, that it was no small thing to be used by God in the lives of a dozen young people to bring alive for them the reward of following Christ and the emptiness of the world all around them. I began to recognize that the church all around the world grew in ways no different than the stateside church—through the Word faithfully preached, the sacraments administered, believers meeting together. I began to see that to be used in the lives of others, one primarily needs to be present and available and joy-filled with Christ.

What’s more, in a way I had never known before, this man brought alive in me the desire to raise up disciples for the King in a home of my own. His desire for a family, and his delight in the commission of Someone who designed the family to be the first and primary battlefield of the soul taught my heart that these things, too, were good. One can miss a creational mandate in the midst of the warfare which has resulted from the twisting of what was first declared good.

The six months of relationship with this man has been a time of great soul-searching; a time of self-examination, of searching through files of memories and desires and hopes and dreams; a time of praying and asking and agonizing. Was this my own idea? Was this some hankering after adventure? I wouldn’t put it past myself. Two summers ago I read John Piper’s little book Risk is Right, and almost every sentence hit home for me—both the convicting and the inspiring parts. Yes, I could discern a desire for heroism hidden deep within all the aspirations. But at the same time I saw a true faith in the One who was worth all sacrifice and all risk-taking, and a desire to see His name glorified in the midst of hardship and danger and trial.

A quote by Samuel Rutherford has stayed by my side for many years now. Often I turn it over in my mind: “I will charge my soul to believe on and wait for Him; to not go before nor stay behind His will.” What this actually means has turned out to be more difficult and complicated than I ever could have thought. Its playing out could be far more everyday and safe than I ever expected.

So I suppose in many ways this could be termed a backwards tale—the story of how I came to see myself likely living in the States for the rest of my life when that’s the last thing I’d wanted. The term “missional motherhood” could very much apply to me several years from now. If I’m honest, I’m still very much coming to grips with this about-face in the course of my life. I’m looking back on thirteen steady years of planning and preparing and reaching forward toward a future that doesn’t seem to have been in His plan for me after all.

In the midst of it all, two cardinal truths have emerged. Somewhere here I believe is the answer to the riddle of my passionate eight-year-old self reading about India: He does not waste anything in the lives of His children. And He guides by open doors and opportunities He gives, not by distant abstract dreams run after by sheer willpower. It appeared rather ridiculous to declare to the Lord that I would go wherever He sent me, even to war-torn Iraq, but under no circumstances would I live in Florida and meet an Indian student for coffee or teach a Chinese mother how to make cookies. How small our vision can be sometimes, even if the ends of the earth are the limit.

I’m sure there’s a woman out there who never in a million years saw herself braiding grass mats alongside native women or living in a closed country with her husband and family. She probably hadn’t seen it coming, hadn’t prepared, didn’t really even know how she got there. And here I’ll be, it seems, wondering how I ever ended up going to a regular ol’ grocery store with a couple toddlers learning to use sippy cups and making dinner for a husband who comes home at six every night.

No, overseas is not the only mission field. Today, American shores contain more of a mission field than ever—both those lost inside the church, questioners outside the church, and students and refugees who have poured in from other countries. Then too, there’s this article by David Mathis that explains how four walls and the dinner table can be the most powerful tool for evangelism. These six months as a foreigner have given me a perspective on the art of the open door, and the massive opportunity for Christians to show tangible love to those outside their own homes and comfort zones. It’s all so very common, so very concrete, so very wrapped up in the small details of daily living.

I’m okay with some mystery in my life, okay with not  really knowing why much about my life seems so backwards and confusing right now. Tonight I ran across an article by Tim Challies titled "When Jesus Says Stay" and it hit home.

He wanted to follow Jesus. He wanted to be close to Jesus. He wanted to live a life of radical obedience. But Jesus told him to stay, not to go. Do not follow me.

Christian, God has appointed you to be his missionary right where you are. There is no one better suited to the task. “Go home to your friends, your family, your neighbors, your colleagues, and tell them how much the Lord has done for you, and how he has had mercy on you.”

He has indeed shown me great mercy. Who am I to dictate who I’ll tell, who I’ll live out the gospel alongside, what my family will look like, or what nationality my neighbors will be? The most I can do today is live dependent on the One who lived and died for me and will call me to Himself one day. "The best thing you have to give people is yourself,” as one of my professors said. “And as you depend on Christ and serve them, that speaks volumes; then they can go and do that to. Do you give them yourself dependent on Christ? . . . The thing future people need most from me is faithfulness today.”

SLS,

October 23, 2016