The Bad Breakup

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.]

"I Hope I'll See You In Heaven"

Another day, another El adventure.
I had just left a good friend catch-up, with a belly full of kofta, Lebanese tea, and baklava (my favorite), when the El swished into the station. I sprinted up the stairs, slashed my pass through the reader, and managed to stomp my boots onto the platform just before the mechanical voice intoned "doors are closing" and the doors snapped shut. That meant another ten minutes on the frigid, concrete platform. Ugh.
I waited for the next train.
Somewhere around 13th Street he and his friend slung themselves into a seat and started talking about their music and a trip to the Middle East. My ears perked up when he said, "ya know, it's all for Christ" and started detailing how believers in this country surreptitiously identified themselves to him. Story after story about God working through his performances, people coming up to him in the marketplace and telling him their testimony.
I don't know him, his name or anything about him. But I know that he's my brother.
I caught his eye shortly before my stop and smiled. As the train slowed, I identified him as my brother and asked God to bless him. He smiled back and thanked me, and I slipped out of the train.
Two lines (out of context) of a Larry Norman song kept playing in my head as I shuffled the rest of the way home "...I hope I'll see you again someday. But if I don't, I hope I'll see you in heaven."

How many stories will we hear then? How many amazing stories of God's grace surround us each day, but won't be fully known until we get to heaven!

Holding The Ropes

After hearing an account of the spiritual needs of India, the secretary of the meeting remarked: "There is a gold mine in India, but it seems almost as deep as the center of the earth. Who will venture to explore it?" "I will venture to go down," said William Carey, "but remember that you must hold the ropes."

God help me to hold the ropes with steady hands.

(Quote source here.)

Death: On Time Arrival

Sunday after church I headed to the El to get back home, per the usual. I stepped into the subway car and noticed a disheveled man napping at a strange angle in his seat, but put it out of my mind and settled in the opposite end of the car. I've seen many weird things on SEPTA, so my first instinct is to allow adequate room.
Then a passenger started shouting that the man wasn't breathing. It was as if all the passengers roused themselves at once. Conductors' radios crackled to life and the El, still deep underground at 13th Street, screeched to a halt.
No breathing. No pulse. Totally unresponsive. A few people tried to find a heartbeat, with no success. A conductor ordered us out of the car and onto the platform to catch the next El, and shortly ambulance sirens grew louder overhead as they edged closer to whisk the man away.
I noted fear in some of the passengers' faces. How uncertain life is, that you can board at 69th Street Terminal (this was the rumor about the so-called napping man) and be staring eternity in the face by 15th Street!
I didn't get to confirm that the man passed away, but nevertheless, we have no guarantees in this life. Aside from the usual existential thoughts that tumble around my brain, this past week I've kept being bombarded by Matthew 6:33-34. It's the Kingdom that matters. And someday, despite my worrying and stressing about this side of life, it'll be finished. Lord willing, I just hope they won't have to cart my corpse off the El!

The Re-Unreached and Staying/Going

"I'm a Christian because missionary deaconesses left Germany to evangelize German immigrants (most of whom were already nominally Christian — including my grandparents) in the 'reached' city of Philadelphia in the 1930s."

The text from my friend punctuated a few weeks of mental gnawing about calling. I had been feeling a twinge of guilt that I was called to Spain, a so-called "reached" country. What about the unreached people groups? Does anyone care about them?

God does, of course. And I keep having to remind myself that he will call people to go to those unreached.
As for Spain, the same friend from the text previously told me, "don't feel guilty about being called to a reached country. Anywhere where there are people who haven't heard is unreached." Word. And in any case, Spain is becoming increasingly re-unreached, like most of Europe.

It's disheartening for me when people classify missionaries as "those [weird] people" who go overseas. If you truly believe the gospel, you can't help but share it very naturally through your life. "Leaking Jesus" was what my former campus minister called it. In many cases now, mere geography is the dividing line between missionary (if they're even permitted to be identified as such in their country) and regular old Christian.
What I'm not saying is that everyone should move across the world. Staying, praying, supporting, and reaching out in your own neighborhood is equally critical as moving overseas. The church needs both. But let's make sure we have both.

The Waiting Is The Hardest Part

I'll borrow this post's title from my favorite philosopher, Tom Petty.
I'm deep in year six of figuring out my path to Spain and paying off school debt. My perspective has changed a lot in that time, but the conviction hasn't. I can't explain the gut-twisting rush that I get when I'm faced with Spain. I've mentioned feeling like my heart's being pulled out. Some might describe it as a similar sensation to falling in love. But with that love comes anxiety about the future. How long of a stint should I do? What should it look like? Should I stay in the United States a bit longer to tie up some loose ends? I don't know. I have some time to figure that out.
Task lists and pros/cons charts pile up. Various dreams die hard. Sometimes they don't need to, and their mortification occurs because I've jumped too far ahead in my mind. I'm impatient and yet still nervous.
This past week, I had just nearly gotten over a cold when I got sidelined by the flu. I've been (mostly) resting at home for five days. By day two I wanted to return to work, even though I couldn't sit up. By day three, I was furious. Why couldn't I breathe?! I had so much I wanted to accomplish! Simply waiting for the virus to run its course has showed me how willful I am. Not in a good way.

So I keep being pulled back to today. I'm not good at this. Even when multiple people in a week tell me that I'm in the exact right place for this time.
But I'm learning slowly. This time is just as important. And in that realization there is joy.

Hang Gliding with Jesus

(Note: Artist friends, someone please draw Hang Gliding with Jesus. I would be forever grateful.)

I have a horrid fear of heights. I must constantly challenge it (hello, trying to walk the Ben Franklin Bridge footpath), but still it hangs on. So the idea of hang gliding is about as palatable as being locked in a roller disco with Barry Manilow and being forced to to sing "Copacabana" until I lose consciousness. No, just no.

Enter: the Christian life. The longer I'm in it, the more I desperately grab onto Jesus. Life is nuts. Dreams, work, relationships, calling, dying to self, plans for the future, Spain, logistics...I start to think too hard on any one sector and I get the sensation of falling. But I'm held fast. Jesus is not going to drop me — or you, if you're his. So I grab onto the bar and hold on. It's a scary, thrilling, awesome ride. He will complete his work in us.
So pray as I go on this adventure with God. Let's fly!