take my life, Lord

"Our significance is measured by the size of the cause that we live for and the price we are willing to pay to accomplish it." - John York

Two years ago I felt a little nudge. Not just me, but my husband, Joel, as well. It was subtle at first - like someone tapping on my shoulder, lightly. As the tapping progressed, it became more and more challenging to ignore it. It reminded me of the countless times one of our children has tried to (not-so-discreetly) get our attention in a crowd, and the longer they have to wait, the more urgent the tapping becomes. Eventually, the light tapping on my shoulder gave way to an undeniable nudge that something, or someone, was trying to get my attention.

Joel and I began praying. Before we tried to fix the internal discomfort we were feeling, we knew we needed to take all of these emotions and questions and bring them to God. And so we did.

We prayed for a year, and then we knew. We knew God had released us from our current church. We didn't know what that meant immediately or long term, but we knew that God was beginning to shift the direction of our future.

And so, we began to pray some more. This time for direction, clarity and wisdom.

During much of this time of prayer and seeking, there was one "knock on our door" that our hearts continued to return to: Malawi, Africa. It seemed preposterous. So completely out of the realm of reality. And yet, there it was. And there it continued to be. Five months of focussed prayer, fasting and waiting went by. And then we knew, again. God was not just releasing us from our current church, but he was getting ready to sweep us off of our feet and carry us into an entirely new season of ministry.

Missions.

So many emotions surface when you realize that God's redirection is far from anything you could have ever conceived on your own. It took me a few months to wrap my mind around this shift in paradigm. Ministry was always where my heart was, and for most of my 20's I thought I would be a missionary, but then life happened. Our roots began to settle in Stateside ministry. Twenty more years went by. Missions was a lifetime ago. I couldn't conceive that the call to missions was now.

Oftentimes we lift up prayers or sing beautiful songs that declare our heart's dedication to following Jesus. We are willing to surrender all in moments of emotion or when we come to the end our ourselves. Through this journey that Joel and I have been on for almost two years, I have felt the gentle hands of God chipping away at my expectations, my plans, my agendas and my dreams. The hardcore and real surrendering has been a process. The heart dedication to following Jesus has been refining.

I have watched as opportunities and ministries that I knew I was made for pass right over me, and I have wondered out loud to God, "Why?"

I have felt rejection and uninvited and cried like a teenage girl, "What are you doing, God?"

And in response I have heard a faint whisper deep in my heart, "Am I enough for you?"

Last spring, during a particularly painful part of this journey for me, I recalled the old hymn, Take My Life and Let It Be. The words of this song stuck in my head. And for months afterwards I could hear the melody, and I would find myself singing along.

Take my life and let it be consecrated, Lord, to Thee

Take my moments and my days, let them flow in endless praise

Take my hands and let them move at the impulse of Thy love

Take my feet and let them be swift and beautiful for Thee

Take my voice and let me sing, always, only for my King

Take my lips and let them be filled with messages from Thee

Take my silver and my gold, not a mite would I withhold

Take my intellect and use every power as Thou shalt choose

Take my will and make it Thine, it shall be no longer mine

Take my heart it is Thine own, it shall be Thy royal throne

Take my love, my Lord, I pour at Thy feet its treasure store

Take myself and I will be ever, only, all for Thee

- Frances Ridley Havergal -

When Joel and I obeyed the leading of God to join His work on the mission field, our hearts began to beat a little bit faster. When we had come to the consensus that obeying God, surrendering our preconceived ideas of ministry and our future to Him, suddenly the most overwhelming sense of God's peace invaded our hearts. It truly is peace that passes understanding. There are so many parts of this call to missions that don't add up or make sense in our very calculated and structured lives.

But God's peace.

His assurance that he is with us reminds us that no matter how challenging the road before us, Jesus will be right there with us.

His promise to supply all of our needs keeps our heads in check when things don't add up on paper.

His light before us, shining just bright enough for the next step ahead, keeps us dependent and builds an unshakable faith.

And so, Joel, myself, and our four children - Sydney, Brooklyn, Jackson and Jasper - are embarking on a new quest. A new chapter. A new season of life, calling, ministry. There is no turning back.

And we say, "Take our lives, Lord, and let them be...".

stuck in the mud

Growing up in Africa, Sundays meant long, bumpy trips off the beaten path to get to church.  During the rainy season, heaps of red clay and dirt roads would turn into miles of thick, muddy paths.  On one particular Sunday, our car got stuck in the mud.  We were out in the middle of nowhere, and our car would not budge.  We began to pray.  My dad tried to push it out all by himself, but the mud was so thick, and our car was so deep, that it was no use.  Suddenly, children started running toward our car.  We had no idea where they came from, but they kept coming.  Dozens of them.  With gigantic grins and bare, dirty feet, they gathered around us and started to help push.   Little by little, the car slowly inched its way out of the mud until we were free and clear.

There are a couple of things I have learned from this experience that have helped me navigate through those times when I feel stuck in the "mud of life":

1. Pray. Getting "unstuck" should always begin with prayer.  I realize my better judgement can be skewed by my emotions, so rather than try to figure it all out or sit and stress over the situation, I have learned to go to God in prayer first.

"Hezekiah received the letter from the messengers and read it.  Then he went up to the temple of the Lord and spread it out before the Lord.  And Hezekiah prayed..." 2 Kings 19:14,15

2. Get out of the car and change perspective. When I am stuck in the mud, all I can see, feel, hear, and touch is my stuckness.  Getting out of the car allows me to pull away and look at the mud from a different perspective.  A new vantage point can also help me see some practical changes that I may need to make that will help pull me out of the mud.

"'For my thoughts are not your thoughts, neither are your ways my ways,' declares the Lord." Isaiah 55:8

3. Seek support from trusted friends. There is nothing worse than pushing out of the mud alone.  In fact, you probably won't get very far with that method.  Seek out loyal friends, invite them into your life, and allow them to help you through the process.  Working your way out of the mud will be far more successful with the support, encouragement, and strength from a true friend.

"Two are better than one, because they have a good return for their work.  If one falls down, his friend can help him up.  But pity the man who falls and has no one to help him up!  Also, if two lie down together, they will keep warm.  But how can one keep warm alone?  Though one may be overpowered, two can defend themselves.  A cord of three strands is not quickly broken." Ecclesiastes 4:9-12

The mud you're in doesn't own your life.  If you're stuck because of poor choices, stop agonizing over it, repent, and then move on.  If you're stuck simply because of the circumstances in your life right now, don't fret.  God is in complete control.  Rainy seasons don't last forever, and God never intends to keep us stuck when we are willing to follow him.

Keep pushing on.

Four Things I Learned Last Weekend

A week ago I was flying across the country to meet up with three of my high school BFF's.  We had been planning this reunion for months, and the excitement of seeing these sweet friends had me up all through the night.  I knew it was going to be a wonderful weekend, but I had no idea just how wonderful it would turn out to be. There was laughter.  So much so that we discovered new muscles in our cheeks that we never knew existed.  There were, of course, tears, stories and endless conversation.  It never stopped.  For 48 hours straight.  As I have been reflecting upon our time together there are some things that I will be processing for days and weeks to come.  However, I have come up with four simple take-aways that I learned from spending time with some of the most amazing women on the planet.  Here they are:

• I'm not crazy.  Life as a third culture kid can sometimes leave one to feel like a lunatic.  Even at 37 years of age.  Being with my girlfriends this weekend, who have shared similar experiences and challenges, reminded me that I am not a lunatic.  What a relief!
• "Double Switch" is still the best made-for-t.v. movie ever to hit the small screen.  Just sayin'.
• I'm a great mom.  Yes.  That's right.  Can you believe I would have the audacity to proclaim my unparalleled mothering skills?  We talked a lot about "mom guilt".  If you have never felt the searing pain of "mom guilt" then I want to know who you are and I want to shake your hand, or give you a hug.   I try so hard at motherhood, and oftentimes feel like a failure.  Balancing discipline, love, spiritual growth, and relationship building is a full-time job, and then some.  I don't want to be a good mom, I want to be a great one.  And what perpetuates the guilt and feelings of failure is every time I look around and compare myself with other moms.  We talked about this stuff - our stuff.  Finally, we realized that no matter how hard we try to make sure we don't fail at this thing called motherhood, our kids will still have issues.  They may not be our issues, but they will have issues just the same.  But they will also turn out okay.  Ultimately, they rest in God's hands.  We simply do the best we can.  I concluded that I am a great mom.  A super, fabulous, top-notch, creative, compassionate, super-woman mom.  If you can relate, then go ahead and give yourself a little pat on the back.  Believe me, I have. :)
• Spiritual growth is a slow process, sometimes unrecognizable from the outside.  I don't know about you, but there are many times I feel like I'm running a winless race.  In fact, I feel like I'm running myself into the ground trying to prove to myself and others that I am a spiritually mature Christian.  Somehow it has become more about me than about Him.  However, I realized, as I processed some of life's challenges and hurts with my friends, that in the moments when I feel like nothing worth a hill of beans is happening in my life are the very moments when God is doing extraordinary things in me.  There is no rush in spiritual growth.  It is a one-small-step-at-a-time walk.  This is not a competition.  It is a personal journey.

As I boarded the plane home, wiping tears from my eyes, I heard Michael W. Smith's song, "Friends are Friends Forever" ringing in my head.  How right he was.  BFF's forever.

Royalty

The feeling of anticipation was palpable.  Prince Charles was coming to Kenya.  I was barely a teenager then, but I remember it well: the buzz, the excitement, the "I wonder if I'll catch a brief glimpse of royalty?" type feelings.  So it was not surprising when my dad came home for dinner with a royal story that still brings a smile to my face. Errands needed to be run.  On a day when the long-awaited Prince Charles was scheduled to arrive, running errands in Nairobi - which in and of itself is a daunting task - proved to be torturous.  As my dad, and fellow missionary, made their way to the final stretch home, crowds of students, mothers, fathers, business men and curious bystanders began to fill the small marketplace and spill into the street.  There was no penetrating this human wall waiting for the Prince.  And then my dad had a brilliant idea.  He told his friend to crawl into the back seat of his Peugeot, crack the window and start waving when when he began to toot his horn.  With darkened windows, and a freshly washed car, they hoped to convince the crowd that somebody special was driving through.  As my dad turned the corner and began blasting his horn, the missionary in the back seat started waving in very royal-like fashion.  The crowd parted like the Red Sea.  An eruption of praise and excitement rippled through the street - people jumping, singing and rejoicing - as two missionaries drove down Mumias Road.

I have been sitting in my living room watching the footage of the royal nuptials of Prince William and Kate Middleton this morning.  I have gasped with awe, smiled in romantic approval and shed a slight tear at the regality of it all.  What an incredible moment as a young woman - a simple commoner - becomes a Princess - becomes royalty.

When I was a very young girl I sat on my mom's lap and asked Jesus to come into my life and be my Savior.  In that moment, years ago, I went from being a simple commoner to significant royalty.

In my ugly blue robe and mess of bed-head, I am a princess.  My title is not an earthly one, but an eternal one.

I am royalty.  And so are you!  Smile like you know it, walk like you mean it.  Toot your horn and wave like crazy.  You are no longer a commoner.  You belong to the King!

Strike A Pose

Once upon a time I was a model.  Try as you might to find a picture of me hidden in the pages of an outdated fashion magazine or in a pile of resume head-shots, you will only end up disappointed (perhaps) and confused.  Stating, “I was a model” is using the term “model” very loosely.  In fact, the two words “I” and “model” don’t even belong in the same sentence together.  Let me try and say this again:  (A-hem) Once upon a time I wanted to be a model.  

The time I’m referring to was my ninth grade year of high school.  My sister and I got our hands on a copy of Seventeen Magazine – this, in and of itself is incredible for two reasons:  First, we lived in Kenya, and Seventeen Magazine just didn’t float around our neck of the woods.  And second, even if Seventeen Magazine was available at the local grocery store check out lane, our parents would never buy it for us.  I’m still scratching my head as to how we managed to commandeer such a publication, but we did, and boy, were we inspired.  We studied each page with awe and intrigue.  I think what made the greatest impression on my teenage self-image was how the sixteen-year-old girls posing and articulating to the mag their “I-was-sitting-in-an-airport-terminal-and-this-modeling-agent-came-over-to-me-and-handed-me-their-card-and-the-rest-is-history” type stories, looked nothing of sixteen years but more like twenty-five.  Leaving an insecure, mascara challenged, fifteen-year-old feeling really discouraged and downright ugly.  Their lives were storybook as were their peaches and cream complexions and long tousled locks.  Every page held the unattainable dream of teenage beauty.  (No wonder my parents didn’t want those magazines in our home!)

So what did my sister and I decide to do?  We came up with the genius idea of taking our own modeling shots and perhaps shipping them to Seventeen Magazine, or any agency with the mailing address: New York, New York.  Oh yes…inspired we were (and not too bright either).

We spent days on our little project:  Choosing our outfits, preparing backdrops and themes that would coordinate with our various clothing ensembles, planning our make-up and hairstyles for each shot, and all while listening to cassette tapes of our favorite bands.  We gleaned much inspiration from songs like Chicago’s “Hard Habit To Break” and “You’re The Inspiration”. 

It was truly a magical and sisterly bonding time.  Yet, once the pictures were taken, developed, and scrutinized, we came to the sobering conclusion that our modeling dreams would never be realized.  First, our complexions were far from peaches and cream.  Our hair was way too damaged from perms and overexposure to the sun.  Our figures, while thin, weren’t nearly womanly enough to catch the eye of the adolescent boys at school, let alone a modeling agent.  Even though we never verbalized our insecurities over the many flaws and imperfections we beheld in those rudimentary pictures, there was a mutual agreement that the likes of Seventeen Magazine and New York, New York would never be receiving our package in the mail.

Instead, the photos were sealed in an envelope marked “Please Do Not Open – EVER”, placed in a storage box and forgotten.  That is, until about two years ago.  I was rummaging through a bunch of my old high school paraphernalia and couldn’t believe my eyes when I discovered the old “modeling portfolios” of Amy and Jennifer.  I disregarded the strict instructions “Please Do Not Open – EVER” and tore open the envelope as quickly as my fingers could move.  As I flipped through the photographs recalling, to the detail, every memory of our modeling venture, I picked up the phone and called my sister on the other side of the country.  We laughed.  We cried.  We laughed again, and cried some more.  Once again bonding and wishing desperately we could share this moment in the same room rather than via phone call. 

 

After hanging up and wiping the tears from my eyes and nose, I looked through the pile of pictures one last time.  Smiling, an uncontrollable reflex when looking at snaps like these, I thought about the fifteen-year-old girl staring back at me in the shot.  Wow.  She was actually kind of cute – dorky and without an ounce of “cool” in her DNA – but cute just the same.  For a moment I felt sad that the girl I was twenty years ago couldn’t see what I saw as a grown woman and mother of two girls of my own.  I longed to tell her that Seventeen Magazine and all those abnormally beautiful faces weren’t the scale by which she should measure her own beauty.  The beauty that God was cultivating in her far surpassed flawless skin and shiny smooth hair.  The beauty she should be chasing after wouldn’t be found in magazines and make-up.  Eventually, I think it finally hit home with her, and her passion for modeling was traded in for a passion of a different kind.  I hope I’m the woman I aspired to become when I was fifteen years old – a model of a woman with a heart after God.

I’m still in progress – working on a different modeling portfolio these days.  As my youth slips away little by little with each year that creeps by, I pray I grow more and more beautiful on the inside.  Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, and I believe that goes for both physical and internal.  My husband thinks I’m hot when I’m dressed up, hair done just right and make-up meticulously applied, and equally, when I roll out of bed first thing in the morning.  (Others may not be as forgiving when my hair is a mess and my breath is not so lovely.)  In the same way, when God beholds me in our secret times and not-so-secret-times, I want Him to find me beautiful.  I want my life to reflect Him and bring glory to Him whether I’m sitting in my big red overstuffed chair at five-thirty in the morning, or hanging out with a bunch of girlfriends.  It is far greater a challenge to achieve a beautiful spirit these days than it is a beautiful face.  However, the beauty that comes from within is a beauty that lasts forever – a beauty that lives eternal.

Proverbs 31:30

Charm is deceptive, and beauty is fleeting;  But a woman who fears the Lord is to be praised.

 By the way, when my girls saw these pictures they asked me what was wrong with me and why I was "acting" so weird.  I couldn't even convince a six-year-old and a four-year-old that I was a model!  Go figure.

Africa, Bats and "Goat City" Smells (Part Two)

Africa. Experiences.

Even thinking about it now takes me back to the smell of chai and mandazis. I can almost taste the rich aromas of the coffee and tea plantations we drove by daily to get to school and church. Or the not-so-pleasant stench of “goat city” that, we too, had to drive through to get to school and church. I can see my white Keds turned red Keds from the red clay dirt that seemed to find it’s way into just about every nook and cranny of our lives. I can hear the sound of silence – sweet, calm and serene – on a typical night, where you can still see every star immeasurably scattered across the vast and boundless Kenyan sky. Coastal vacations on the white sands of Mombasa – the succulent salt air wafting through our hotel room beckoning us to put our toes in the sand and walk for miles. Reaching Mount Longanot’s highest peak - laden with camera, food and pretty much everything my mom thought we might need for a fun, “little hike” – as a family.

There are subtle, and then many not-so-subtle, moments when I look at my own children and it hits me that they are so “American”. I scratch my head and fret that because my adult life has led me to settle in the United States, my children may never have the opportunities like I had growing up. I stress about it…a lot. I hear “Americana” dribble from Sydney’s six-year-old mouth and I just want to cry. Will she ever realize that the world is much, much bigger and holds infinitely more, than her collection of Sleeping Beauty paraphernalia and stash of “golden” rocks hiding in her jewelry box? I know…she’s only six, but I desperately want her to know what I only wish I could have grasped as a little girl: that those experiences that take us outside and beyond the ordinariness of life, are the very things that open our hearts, minds and souls to a measureless world called “life”. I want my kids to actually have something to write about someday. I want them to be able to remember “the time we…”. I want them to breathe air that doesn’t smell sweet, or lose their shoes in something really disgusting, catch a parasite or two, sit in a room with five different languages carrying on conversations, set up a picnic five feet away from a python. I want them to know that there is ministry far more dangerous than an internship in Detroit; an adventure far more exciting than a vacation to Disney World; and a cultural experience far more unique than Canada.

My brain is a never-ending tirade of an unsatisfied wish list. I thought I was weird growing up because my experiences were so out-of-the-ordinary. Yet, here I am - the grown-up me - realizing just how extra-ordinary those adventures actually were. Even as I write this, I find myself challenged to take all of those encounters and incidents, collect them warmly in my heart, and allow God to use them through me. They are a part of my life story. They have shaped me and made me the woman I am today. While my children may not grow up overseas and share the same stories I write about, their's too will be great. They have me for their mom, and through the telling of my own experiences, their minds will be opened to endless possibilities of the places they can go and the things they can do! Maybe they won’t grow up in Africa, but I am certain they will have a desperate longing to go there someday, taste the nyama choma, smell the maize crackling on a make-shift grill along the street, and hold the tiny, orphaned, diaper-less babies.

Experiences. My experiences. They may not grace the pages of a book or magazine, or be the topic of conversation at the next social gathering, but my experiences will hopefully inspire and encourage my own children to reach for the stars and seek wild, insane adventures of their own.

Africa, Bats and "Goat City" Smells (Part One)

Experiences.  

I wish I could say that I have always appreciated the life story God chose for me. Take my childhood in Africa, for example. God in His infinite wisdom called my parents/family to Kenya. I have spent a lot of time wondering of what use my experiences could be: a good party story or outrageous testimonial? How does one make sense of so many random situations and off kilter scenarios? Life in Africa, life in America after Africa - each holding bizarre and embarrassing moments that still remain a mystery to me.

For instance, the time my sister, mom and I were sitting in the Dairy Queen drive-thru placing our orders for three Snickers Blizzards. In Africa we were accustomed to enunciating our words thoroughly so that we could be understood. My sister and I, 11 and 13 years of age, sat mortified in the back seat of the car as we observed the skinny, pot holed faced teen-age kid in the drive-thru window making fun of our mom who was clearly articulating our order for “threeeee Ssss-nick-errrs Bliiiiizzzz-are-dssss.” We wanted to die. And what made it all the more horrifying is that EVERYWHERE we went, my parents had to announce to everyone – the check out girl at JC Penney, the waiter at Denny’s, every employee at the mall, for that matter – that we live in Africa. As if, by simply looking at us they couldn’t already tell that we were not “from these parts”!

Adjusting to America was painful. As I sat in my math class at Jackson Middle School in South Bend, Indiana the only voice ringing in my head - as the boys ruthlessly made fun of my wild, multi-colored floral Palmetto jeans - was my mom’s, emphatically drilling the words, “Nine, Ninety-nine!” into the heads of my sister and me as we were shopping at the outlet mall for school clothes. We were on a tight budget and the maximum amount of money we were allotted to spend on anything was, “Nine, Ninety-nine!” To this day, when I am out shopping, I still hear my mom chanting, “Nine-Ninety-nine!” It’s insane.

Kids would talk about T.V. shows or some pop culture trivia that I was completely clueless about, and I would just sit silently. Nobody wants to hear about the Kikuyu woman who died during one of our church services, and after a bunch of people ran over and laid hands on her during worship, she came back to life and started pounding on a drum and jumping up and down. Stories like that just weren’t “cool”. Or the time we were driving out to another Kikuyu church and had to stop our car so that a herd of elephant could cross the street (elephants have the right of way!). And the countless stories of the obnoxious hawks (kites) that would swoop down during lunch time at school and snatch the food right out of our hands…well, who really cares about that?

Nobody wanted to hear the story about the time a bat flew up and hit me on my bare rear end while on a school camping trip. Or about the camel safari that left me constipated for a week. Or the time I got malaria. Or when my foot was only a few inches away from stepping on a coiling cobra. Or when my sister and I were on a safari in Swaziland and were chased by a herd of elephant…on foot (we forgot to give them the right of way)! Oh no…the American kids wanted to hear stories from the guy who spent a few weeks of his summer working in Detroit. Detroit! Are you kidding me? But alas, perhaps it was God’s gentle way of keeping me humble so that all my “experiences” wouldn’t go to my head.

Of course, the time I actually did open my mouth to say something it turned me into a “freak”. I asked the girl occupying the desk beside me if I could borrow a “rubber” – which, by the way, in Africa a “rubber” is an “eraser”…just clarifying. Of course, you can only imagine the uproar of laughter that sprung up in the classroom – filled with twenty junior high boys! All I could think was, “what did I say?”

I was “That Girl From Africa”. Not Meryl Streep from “Out Of Africa” – I could only wish – but “That Girl…” That shy little girl, who so desperately wanted to belong and be just like everybody else, but whose parents had to follow the call of God so that I could grow up in an exotic, life-transforming place called...Africa.

(End Part One.)