Returning to...normalcy?

Dear Me,

It’s hard.  You knew it was going to be hard, so don’t wimp out now and whine that you didn’t know it was going to be this hard, because you did know.  And it almost stopped you from making a decision that needed to be made, to make a move that needed to happen.  Because yes, change is hard.  Remember the year of dreaming?  And the year after that, of fund-raising? And the year after that, when you actually went overseas and met incredible, life-changing people?  And how you missed out on deaths and babies and family, because you were following what God told you to do?  IT WAS WORTH IT.  It was hard, but it was worth it.

I’ll say it once more, in case you try to “But—”:  IT WAS WORTH IT.  Even if it was only for three years, even if you’re tired, and lost, and wondering what was the point of it all if it was only going to be such a short time, and how can you possibly go on when your family—not your blood family, but your faith family—is half a world away and going on with their lives without you, and you CHOSE to leave that behind, thinking you were simply obeying the voice of God—honey, it was WORTH IT.  And you are WORTH IT.  You may never know this side of eternity whether or not you had an impact on any of the people you encountered, but you know for sure they had an impact on you.  Because you no longer fit into the hole you left behind.  The you that left is not the you that came back.  You are a better you, and it will take time before you figure out what your new role will be, whether here or gone again, and you need that time to rest and recover and remember all the amazing things God has done for you, and to mourn the loss of friends that yes, you may never see again on this earth, but they are forever friends, regardless, and the loss of a country that was beautiful and loving even while it was crazy and inefficient and honestly, you didn’t expect to miss dust and pollution and traffic jams, or visa struggles or stomach bugs—okay, so you don’t really miss all of those, but they were part of the package of place and purpose, and now they’re gone and you don’t know what you’re going to do without them.

Breathe.  In, out.  Again.  Take a moment, and remember who God is.  He is the God who provided over and above when you asked for finances.  He is the God who gave you relationships and friendships deeper than any you’d experienced before.  He is the God that took you halfway around the world, and then took care of you, protected you, and blessed you for three years. He will not stop, now that you’ve obeyed him once more.

So hold on.  Yes, it hurts; yes, it’s hard; and yes, it feels like there could never be anything like it again—but your purpose has not changed.  And while those changes the last three years have wrought in you are for your good, you yourself are still what you were before: a child of the everlasting God.  And God has not changed.  Even if you can’t see the path beneath your feet, even if you are walking blindly down the road of life, God—the God who preserved you over and over again, will not abandon you now.  Hold on, child of God.  Hold on.

With love,

Me

Thoughts on finding your passion, monsoon, and spiritual drought.

I've spent my Saturday evening poring over some new math files some wonderful people sent me, and started getting excited about using them in class.  One of my struggles these past four months has been the lack of structured curriculum.  We're starting from scratch, in so many ways, and one of the ways that manifests itself is in the lack of resources available for use in the classroom.  I've found ways to work around this in English (even though it's not easy, at least I have an English degree and a lifetime of bibliophilia to fall back on!).  But math has been a struggle.  The available math books are sub-par, frequently using in one chapter skills that won't be introduced until much later in the course, and skimming over in insufficient detail necessary skills.  I'm not a math teacher.  I passed Calculus 2 in college by the skin of my teeth and with a lot of help, but I never would have said math is my passion.  My college roommate majored in math, and frankly, classes like Non-Euclidean Geometry made my eyes cross and my knees go weak.  However, I've always enjoyed the 'lesser maths' like algebra and normal geometry.  And I was good at them.  So I assumed I'd have very little trouble teaching them.

WRONG.

It's been a struggle.  Between the language barrier, the crummy books, and my lack of background in math, I've been working hard to keep my head above water.  But I'm loving it.  And tonight, looking through these new resources that could change my classroom, I got really excited.  And wanted to share it with someone.  And then a little voice in my head said (in a voice dripping sarcasm), "Nerd alert! Someone's getting a little too excited about school stuff!"  Then another quiet voice spoke up and said, "What's wrong with that?"  

I stopped, and decided both voices needed addressing.  I was getting excited about school stuff.  I did give up part of my weekend to go over these new resources and think about using them in my class, but what was wrong with that?  The first voice responded, "It's the weekend!  Go turn on another episode of a TV show and just relax!  Teaching is just a job you do Monday through Friday.  It's your day off!" This voice, I am convinced, was from the enemy.  Since the time I got my first job, I've worked twelve different places (not counting the current one:).  At all of those jobs, I looked forward with a great deal of longing to quitting time and days off.  I spent most of my time at those jobs wishing I was at home, and frequently went home exhausted and dreading the next day.  Since I've started teaching, I still look forward to quitting time, and I really love my weekends, but I also--and this is new--sincerely love my job.  Getting through the day is not merely a matter of survival (though occasionally I have those, too--I am a teacher!), but satisfying, fulfilling work.  I go home at the end of the day exhausted but at peace with who I am and what I'm doing.  Confucius said, "Choose a job you love, and you'll never have to work a day in your life."  I'd always wondered about that, and decided the job he was referring to was being the wife of a multimillionaire.  Now that I have a job I love, I realize that Confucius was only half right.  Even if you're lucky enough to find a job doing what you love, you may end up working harder than you ever have in your life--but you'll enjoy it!  And that makes all the difference.

So, to that first voice, I simply said, "Shut up!"  I do love my job, and I'm ashamed that I was ashamed to admit it.  I fell into the trap of thinking like many people do, that a job is just a way to earn money, and has little to do with the rest of my life.  But I am a teacher, and God knew it, and he also knows how long I fought it, but until I finally said YES to his plan, I couldn't imagine the peace that comes from finding what you're meant to do, and doing it.

Does this mean that life is hunky dory, and I'm free from worries and stress?  Far from it!  I have more reasons for fear and uncertainty now than I have ever had in my life, but I am also learning to trust God through it.  Many years ago, a preacher spoke on Peter and how Jesus called him to come out on the water where he was waiting.  The gist of the sermon was, "If you want to walk on water, first you have to leave the boat."  Well, I'll admit that sometimes rather than sinking like Peter in his moment of doubt, I'm still back on the boat clinging to the railing with my eyes shut.  I pray for the faith that would allow me to step boldly out upon the waters, regardless of the weather or the height of the waves.

Sometimes, my spiritual walk is like monsoon.  Every day brings showers of blessings and reminders that I am a child of God, and he loves me.  Others, I struggle to see past the fog of my troubles and doubts, and wonder, is he really there?  Did I imagine his love?  Am I really walking the path he wants me on, or am I pleasing myself?  Take a moment to scroll back up to that first picture.  Some days, life is like this.  Clouds obscure the horizon, obliterating everything but the nearest landmarks.  Shadowy hills may be visible, but the indescribable glory of God that you thought you had glimpsed is hidden, out of sight, and you start to wonder if it was ever really there.

But then, some days, life is more like this:

And suddenly, you remember your certainty.  The mountains didn't cease to exist just because they were hidden in the clouds.  God is there, whether we can see his hand at work or not.  The trick is to remember that, and to have faith that he will fulfill what he has promised.  Philippians 1:6 says, "And I am certain that God, who began the good work within you, will continue his work until it is finally finished on the day when Christ Jesus returns."  So, even in times of spiritual drought, have faith!  He who started something good in you is still working--and he is not dismayed by the struggles we face.  "In this world you will have trouble," Jesus said.  And oh, do we have troubles!  But then he adds, "But take heart!  I have overcome the world."  Whom, then, shall I fear?  For if Christ has overcome the world, what can man do to me?

Lies the Liar tells us

When confronted with our own shortcomings, it is easy to slip into a mode of thinking that is not only harmful, but flat out wrong.  Convalescence from my accident has been slow--at least, slower than I think it should be, and thus far incomplete.  I thought I was doing much better, and then attempted a hike that proved very thoroughly that it was healing as well as strength that was lacking.  By the grace of God, I made it back to civilization and safety, but my pride had taken a serious beating in the process.  After wallowing in my injured pride for a while, I was suddenly brought up short.  It wasn't a voice from the heavens or a lightning bolt to the brain; something in me just suddenly spoke up very clearly and said, "That's wrong.  That's a lie."

And that stopped me cold.  I'd been feeling sorry for myself, feeling weak and abandoned and generally unloved, but that was all lies.  Well, I thought to myself, the best cure for a lie is the truth, so I sat down and wrote out a list of all the lies I was in danger of believing.  Here are some of them:

1. You are weak.
2. You are alone.
3. You are unloved.
4. You are unlovable.
5. You are broken.
6. You are a coward.
7. Nothing you do matters.

That's a rather daunting list, but what does God say about them?

1. God's strength is made perfect in weakness.
2. God said, "I will never leave you nor forsake you."
3. "I have loved you with an everlasting love."
4. I am fearfully and wonderfully made.
5. I have been bought with a price, and reconciled to God.
6. "Fear not, for I am with you--Be not dismayed, for I am your God.  I will strengthen you; yes, I will help you.  I will uphold you with my mighty right hand."
7. "For I know the plans I have for you--plans to prosper you and not to harm you; plans to give you hope and a future."

And then I felt a bit foolish, but much better about life in general.  So when the Liar starts in on you, remember the truth--God promised it would set us free.

What-if monsters

What-ifs are usually dangerous. They can paralyze you with indecision, and keep you shut up in your house in fear. What if I make the wrong choice? What if I say the wrong thing? What if nobody likes me? What if I'm alone forever? What if, what if, what if?

Occasionally, though, the what-ifs can make you stop and take stock of what you have. I was in a motorcycle accident recently, and playing the what-if game helped me realize how incredibly fortunate I was (for which I give all the glory to God--I wouldn't be here today if it weren't for his protection and mercy!).

Basically, this is what happened:  I was driving home from my language lesson, and it started to rain. I'd just bought a rain suit two days earlier, and was wearing the jacket instead of the poncho--maybe you've seen the ponchos; they have two slits for the bike's mirrors, and a hole for the driver's head. A bicycle was driving down the middle of the narrow, curvy road that swings around the edge of the temple, and I swerved to go past him. Unfortunately, he was blocking my view of an oncoming motorcycle, and in my panic, I lost control of the bike and laid it down (don't ask me what I did; I have no memory of the actual accident. I probably squeezed the front brake which made my back end skid). As I was laying there, staring up the sky and realizing I'd just been in an accident, my first thought was, "Oh, crap!" My second thought was merely an overwhelming sense of thankfulness that I was still alive to have such thoughts, and that nothing major was broken.  I could feel how badly my feet and legs hurt, which meant my back was fine, and I hadn't lost consciousness, so my head seemed to be okay, too.

So, what if? What if I had been going faster than 25 mi/hr? What if I'd been wearing my poncho that effectively ties me to the bike? What if I'd hit a truck rather than another motorcycle? What if I'd been on a busier road and another vehicle had struck me before I could get out of the way? There's a sharp drop-off on most of that road; what if I'd dropped off the 30-foot ledge? I could go on and on. The effect of all these what-ifs serve to make me thankful. Usually when something like this happens, people start to look for reasons why, or at least what lessons can be learned. For me, I think it was a reminder that I am not in control. I have no memory of the events immediately leading up to the accident, so there's nothing I can point to and say, "Next time, try this. Next time, don't do that." I don't know what went wrong, so I don't know how to avoid it again. Maybe I did everything right, but the wet road simply made staying in control impossible. I don't know. So what I take away from this is that, no, I'm not in control (much as I think I'd like to be); God is. And he's pretty good at it.

Counting Blessings

It's very easy to think about the things we don't have in life, or would like to have.  (Try it--I bet you can come up with a long list without thinking hard at all!)  I'd like to win the lottery.  I'd like to visit New Zealand.  I'd like a cool car.

Living overseas in a developing country, my list has altered a little bit.  I'd like to see my family.  I wish I had my old car. (Seriously, a single trip across town on a bike in a rainstorm will bring this one up instantly!)  I wish I had the recliner I gave away.  I wish there was a shoe store that sold shoes my size. I wish I had air conditioning, and electricity 24 hours a day.  Hot running water would be nice, too.

If you let it, this focus on things you don't have can be all-consuming, and can quickly lead to discontent.  Yesterday I was invited to the house of a local woman.  I'd been to a Nepali's house before, and expected it to be at least one level below how the expats live.  It wasn't.  This sweet Christian woman lives with her husband and three children in a room about the size of my bedroom.  A double bed and a bunk bed dominated the space, with a large wardrobe standing between.  The other wall contained a kitchen area with a gas stovetop, an old tube-style tv, and some shelves for storage.  There was no running water, and no bathroom.  They were fortunate enough to have an inverter, which meant a single bulb lit the space when the electricity was off.  Their dishes get washed in a cracked plastic tub filled with water brought in from the common tap down the street.  And they are happy.  I was humbled, and when I returned home last night, a little embarrassed at the amount of space I have.  By US standards, I'm living quite modestly.  By Nepali standards, I'm ridiculously wealthy.  No wonder the shopkeepers jack up their prices whenever we come around!  

So this month I'm counting my blessings.  Here are a few:

• a spacious apartment
• access to a scooter 
• indoor plumbing that works 95% of the time
• internet access that lets me stay in touch with my family
• enough clothes that I could wear a different outfit everyday for about two weeks if I wanted
• more than one pair of shoes that fit
• electricity and an inverter for when there isn't
• Christian neighbors
• a strong, dedicated community that goes out of its way to encourage each other
• a circle of supporters that prays for me daily and gives me the financial support I need to stay here
• the opportunity to live overseas as a missionary

I have been so blessed, and have so much to be thankful for.  Praise the Lord!

Life without safety nets

In the states, we're surrounded by safety nets, both visible and invisible.  Traffic cops patrol for the streets watching for speeding, rolling stops, and ignored traffic lights.  Any place with public access has layers upon layers of safety, in the literal sense of handrails and ramps, and the figurative sense of threatened lawsuits.  If you do get hurt, a quick call to 911 will get you police, EMTs, and firefighters in fairly short order.  Imagine if all that disappeared.

Here, there are no handrails.  There are no guardrails on the mountain roads, and no traffic lights on the corners.  Traffic laws are more guidelines than actual rules, and if you're in an accident, you can call for help but who knows when (if!) it will get there, or what quality of medical attention you'll receive. Traffic does not grant ambulances the right of way, either.  If you run into trouble, the police may help you, or they may not.

The other night I was driving home on my scooter.  The weather had been iffy all day, and about halfway across town (normally a 30-minute drive) the heavens opened.  There are no street lights.  The stars here are amazing because there is no light pollution to get in their way, but it also makes for very dark drives once the sun goes down.  So.  The skies unleash their fury, and I am soaked through almost instantly.  Visibility decreases to about four feet, and I can't see the road because my headlight is reflecting off the sheeting rain.  The road I take curves around the side of a hill, with a deep gutter on once side and a sheer drop of anything from 3 to 30 feet on the other, and I can't really see far enough to tell where I am in the road.  I slow to about 3 mi/hr, just enough to keep the scooter upright, and every once in a while the jittering of my headlamp reflects off the side of the hill, letting me know I haven't strayed too far one way or the other.  My glasses are rain-spattered and fogging from my breath, and when I try to wipe them clean, they simply smear.  It is with intense relief that I greet the lights and noise of the intersection that marks the beginning of a safer road.  Finally, as I turn up the final path to my home, the rain stops and the skies clear.

As I squelched up the stairs in my water-filled Converse, streaming water from head to toe and wondering if this was what hypothermia felt like, I had to marvel at my experience.  It took me over an hour to travel the five miles across town.  I was sopping wet, and fairly certain I'd never been so scared in my entire life.  And yet, that little trip across town was a reminder for me that even in this midst of this place so completely devoid of safety nets, I can still count on the ultimate safety net:  God is the one who brought me here, and he is able to protect me.  Driving down that road in the dry daytime I still marvel that I survived.  There is no reason I should have.  I just kept moving forward, trusting that the road would still be under my tires, and trusting that the God of the universe was able to keep me on a road I couldn't see.

Now, as I continue to move forward, I hold to that same faith.  I can't see very far down this road God has put me on.  I don't know what my life will look like in two, five, or ten years.  For that matter, I don't even know what my life will look like six months from now!  But I trust that the same God who kept that road under my tires one very wet March night will continue to be faithful and fulfill his purpose for me.

It's not about me

I just hit the one-month mark for living overseas, which seems at times both amazingly surreal and completely normal--often at the same time.  There is something about air travel that is a little disconcerting.  If one were to take a train or a boat (or some combination thereof) from, let's say, the middle of the USA to the middle of Africa, there would be a very real feel to the distance.  You would watch as the scenery changed outside your window from grasslands to hills to mountains to swamps, then endless days of unchanging ocean before again the change from jungle to plains to desert, etc.  You would, in a very real sense, have felt the physical sensation of traveling that entire distance.  Not so with airplanes.  You board a plane in Podunkville, USA, sit in a room for a while, then wander around a warehouse-like terminal (occasionally with shops selling things no normal person wants or needs) before sitting in another room for a while, and repeating the experience.  The only things that change are the languages spoken around you, and the people who push past you, intent on getting to the next stop.  You step into a box in New York, and you step out of the same box into Germany or Japan or Australia.  You wake up in your own bed in the morning, and by that evening (sometimes at the end of a 35-hour day), you climb into a new bed on the other side of the world.  All with no physical sense of the distance you've traveled. It's no wonder your body takes as much as two weeks to recover!

The point of all that was that sometimes I don't feel the distance between here and home at all, and others it's like being torn in two.  It's (to use a Star Trek metaphor) as if I stepped onto a transporter pad and was zapped (slowly and painfully, as anyone who's flown coach internationally can attest to) onto another planet that nonetheless looks and feels a good deal like earth. (Though not, for once, looking like Paramount Studio 32--or southern California!)  Home is just a phone call away, but at the same time insurmountably out of reach.  The world around me is totally alien, and yet totally familiar.  I go to the store and buy bread and pasta and Fanta (avoid Marinda, it's nowhere near as good!), and on the way home have to stop for monkeys running across the road or small children demanding donations for a god I've never heard of.  Completely different, yet same-old, same-old.  It is overwhelming, and completely normal.  And sometimes it sends me running home where I can shut the door and stick my fingers in my ears and pretend I'm somewhere else.

What's the answer?  How do I go on when life is turned on its head and I feel like I'm strolling through a Dali print? The answer:  It's not about me.  In the midst of all this craziness, it's not about me.  Isaiah 40 is famous for its last two verses (you might know them): "Even youths will become weak and tired, and young men will fall in exhaustion.  But those who trust in the Lord will find new strength.  They will soar high on wings like eagles.  They will run and not grow weary.  They will walk and not faint."  Lovely verses.  But back up to the beginning of the chapter.  I don't think I'd ever read it before.  "Comfort, comfort my people," says the Lord in verse one.  It's closely followed by the more famous line  "Prepare a way in the wilderness" (quoted in 3 of the gospels), but look down at verse six onward:

A voice said, "Shout!"
I asked, "What should I shout?"
"Shout that people are like the grass.
Their beauty fades as quickly as the flowers in a field.
The grass withers and the flowers fade
beneath the breath of the LORD.
And so it is with people.

(People are like grass...here today, gone tomorrow, as easily as God breathing on us...We're like dandelion fluff--transient, and quick to die.)

The grass withers and the flowers fade,
but the word of our God stands forever."

(The contrast, then, is between us--grass, and God--our total opposite.  He merely has to open his mouth, and it lasts forever.)

O Zion, messenger of good news,
shout from the mountaintops!
Shout it louder, O Jerusalem.
Shout, and do not be afraid.
Tell the towns of Judah,
"Your God is coming!"

(To my mind, considering the previous section, this could be a pretty scary thing.  You, human, are mere grass to wither at a breath from an eternal God.  And he's on his way!  But notice that this is good news, and Zion is told to not be afraid.)

Yes, the Sovereign LORD is coming in power.
He will rule with a powerful arm.
See, he brings his reward with him as he comes.

(Adonai YHWH...Lord and Master of all, coming in power.  This and the previous still put me in mind of somewhat fearful anticipation.  The Almighty God is coming in power!  But look at the next verses:)

He will feed his flock like a shepherd.
He will carry the lambs in his arms,
holding them close to his heart.
He will gently lead the mother sheep with their young.

(Wait, what?  In the midst of all this BEHOLD, PUNY MORTAL we suddenly get an image of God as a shepherd, tenderly holding the lambs and looking after the flock.  It's a reminder that God, despite his infinite power, tenderly loves us and cares for us.  The next verses heighten the contrast.)

Who else has held the oceans in his hand? (A rhetorical question, I'm pretty sure...)
Who has measured off the heavens with his fingers? (Despite whether we're talking earth's atmosphere or the entirety of the universe, it's still a remarkable accomplishment.  Check out this picture if you'd like to be amazed...)
Who else knows the weight of the earth
or has weighed the mountains and hills on a scale?
Who is able to advise the Spirit of the LORD?
Who knows enough to give him advice or teach him?

(More rhetorical questions, the point being, no one is like our God...)

Has the LORD ever needed anyone's advice?
Does he need instruction about what is good?
Did someone teach him what is right or show him the path of justice?

(God is, by his very nature, good, right, and just.  In a world gone so horribly wrong, this is comforting.  As is this:)

No, for all the nations of the world
are but a drop in the bucket.
They are nothing more than dust on the scales.
He picks up the whole earth as though it were a grain of sand.
All the wood in Lebanon's forests
and all Lebanon's animals would not be enough
to make a burnt offering worthy of our God.
The nations of the world are worth nothing to him.
In his eyes they count for less than nothing--mere emptiness and froth.

(There is an awful lot of rotten stuff going on in our world at present--human rights injustices happen in pretty much every nation of the world [USA included!] on a daily basis.  Yet in the midst of all that, God is still God, and he is coming in power--and what a wonderful day that will be!)

To whom can you compare God?
What image can you find to resemble him?
Can he be compared to an idol formed in a mold,
overlaid with gold, and decorated with silver chains?
Or if people are too poor for that,
they might at least choose wood that won't decay
and a skilled craftsman to carve an image that won't fall down!
Haven't you heard? Don't you understand?
Are you deaf to the words of God--the words he gave before the world began?
Are you so ignorant?

(Thank you, Isaiah, for your snark.  It makes me happy.)

God sits above the circle of the earth.
The people below seem like grasshoppers to him!
He spreads out the heavens like a curtain and makes his tent from them.
He judges the great people of the world and brings them all to nothing.
They hardly get started, barely taking root,
when he blows on them and they wither.
The wind carries them off like chaff.
"To whom will you compare me?
Who is my equal?" asks the Holy One.
Look up into the heavens.
Who created all the stars?
He brings them out like an army, one after another, calling each by its name.
Because of his great power and incomparable strength,
not a single one is missing.

(This, especially after looking at that picture [linked above], is amazing.  There are more stars in this universe than I can begin to comprehend, yet God knows each one and calls them each by name! Mind blown.)

O Jacob, how can you say the LORD does not see your troubles?
O Israel, how can you say God ignores your rights?
Have you never heard? Have you never understood?

(After reading the rest of the chapter, this section is especially poignant.  I imagine Isaiah, much as Paul in his letters, nearly heartbroken in compassion.  Oh, Israel, don't you see?  God--the God of this enormous universe that has only to blow on people to wither them like grass--cares about you!)

The LORD is the everlasting God, the Creator of all the earth.
He never grows weak or weary.
No one can measure the depths of his understanding.

(God is big enough for your problems--no matter what they are!  And now, with all that buildup, these verses become so much more powerful:)

He gives power to the weak and strength to the powerless.
Even youths will become weak and tired, and young men will fall in exhaustion.
But those who trust in the LORD will find new strength.
They will soar high on wings like eagles.
They will run and not grow weary.
They will walk and not faint.

(NLT, from blueletterbible.org.  Annotations all mine.)

Wow.  I read that a few nights ago, and just stopped, and stared, and was amazed.  "Comfort, comfort," God says.  God is unfathomably big and unfathomably powerful.  He holds the nations of the world in his hands and can wither or prosper them with a breath.  His fingers measure off galaxies (galaxies! We could never hope to cross our own Milky Way!) yet he cares for us, leading us like the wayward sheep we are and gathering the lambs to his heart.  What an amazing God!

This, then, is how I go on in the craziness that has suddenly become my life.  It's not about me.  I'm scarcely a blade of grass in the grand scheme of things.  But I am a part of the grand scheme, and I will offer my life, such as it is, to this amazing, wonderful God who has never needed me, but wants me--and loves me, more deeply than anyone on earth is even capable of.  I say sincerely, Thank God!