The full weight of the realization hit me with all the force of an antique crystal punchbowl shattering on concrete (an actual event, but that's for another time).
Over the last year I've kept being convicted that I need to let Spain go. To not seek career appointment or any other at this point. To give up an identity. For nearly seven years I've been That Spain Girl. I haven't seen life outside of this. In fact, I had made the [dangerous] assertion that if I wasn't called to Spain, I couldn't serve anywhere else. I held this calling in a closed fist. It was mine. Not God's. Mine.
I told a trusted coworker about this bit of clarity, and her response was, "do you feel freed or have you lost an identity?" I replied, "It feels like a really bad breakup."
Until fairly recently, one of my points of pride was my ability to carefully arrange my thoughts and emotions like church potluck leftovers. Nice tupperware containers. Clean and precise. To keep with the analogy, I've dispensed with some containers, and the ones I do have don't have matching lids. I'll let God sort it out.
I don't know what's next. I want to feel the freedom my coworker was talking about, but for now I'm sad, sick, embarrassed, disappointed, relieved; a whole mix of things. I might change my blog name, I might not.
This spring, I will be spending my birthday in Madrid. Why, after all this? Because I love this country more than a lot of things, and I think I always will. And I'm not ruling out serving in Spain entirely. Or any other place. But I want to serve with open hands, not a clenched fist.
[Postscript: For the friends who knew this was coming, thank you for the countless missiology/existential talks, identity discussions over sushi, crying fits, late-night WhatsApp messaging, couch hangouts, and prayer times. Thank you for being Christ to me.]
Over the last year I've kept being convicted that I need to let Spain go. To not seek career appointment or any other at this point. To give up an identity. For nearly seven years I've been That Spain Girl. I haven't seen life outside of this. In fact, I had made the [dangerous] assertion that if I wasn't called to Spain, I couldn't serve anywhere else. I held this calling in a closed fist. It was mine. Not God's. Mine.
I told a trusted coworker about this bit of clarity, and her response was, "do you feel freed or have you lost an identity?" I replied, "It feels like a really bad breakup."
Until fairly recently, one of my points of pride was my ability to carefully arrange my thoughts and emotions like church potluck leftovers. Nice tupperware containers. Clean and precise. To keep with the analogy, I've dispensed with some containers, and the ones I do have don't have matching lids. I'll let God sort it out.
I don't know what's next. I want to feel the freedom my coworker was talking about, but for now I'm sad, sick, embarrassed, disappointed, relieved; a whole mix of things. I might change my blog name, I might not.
This spring, I will be spending my birthday in Madrid. Why, after all this? Because I love this country more than a lot of things, and I think I always will. And I'm not ruling out serving in Spain entirely. Or any other place. But I want to serve with open hands, not a clenched fist.
[Postscript: For the friends who knew this was coming, thank you for the countless missiology/existential talks, identity discussions over sushi, crying fits, late-night WhatsApp messaging, couch hangouts, and prayer times. Thank you for being Christ to me.]
