525,600 Minutes

It's something I've done pretty much every year since I was a kid, and maybe you do it to? At New Year's Eve I stop and reflect on the past year. I like to sit down and list out in my journal all the major events, or the things that stand out to me.  I think it's exceptionally interesting to look at a year in its entirety, see where it began, and where it ended, and to think of all the life that happened in just 525,600 minutes. Of course the small events of my life seem dwarfed when we look at the scale of world events in 2011:

 Osama bin Laden, Muammar Gaddafi, and Kim Jong Il are all dead. The space shuttle made its final flight. The middle east saw the upheaval of the "Arab Spring" uprisings. The horn of Africa suffered a devastating famine. Japan weathered the sudden tragedy of the major earthquake and tsunami and resulting nuclear disaster. Earthquakes, volcanoes, hurricanes, tornadoes, flooding and forest fires seemed to touch every corner of the globe. Europe faced fiscal crisis while the U.S. struggled through its own economic woes and related protests. The world population surpassed 7 billion. U.S. troops finally left Iraq. Planes crashed, wars were fought, terrorists attacked, people murdered. 

In all, the world continued very much as it has since man first sinned. And those are the events by which the rest of the world will measure 2011. Of course we all have our own methods of weighing and measuring a year. What did I accomplish that I'm proud of? Did I achieve any goals? What were my favorite moments? What was fun? What was crazy and unexpected? What was difficult? Did I end up where I thought I would?

2011 was certainly not a dull year! Lots of change, lots of learning, lots of stretching, and some struggle along the way. I added Costa Rica, Peru, Chile, Argentina, and Venezuela to my "Countries I've Visited" list. Learned a new language, made dozens of new friends who are scattered around the world, developed my abilities as a photographer, tried scuba diving, lazed on a Costa Rican beach, experienced a chilean rodeo, and made a new home in Lima. And we heard, saw, and shared lots of stories about how God is moving in Latin America. Lots of lots of blessings in 2011 for which to praise the Lord! 

Certainly there were sad and difficult parts of the year too, and I think it's important to reflect on those and praise the Lord for them as well. We appreciate the good times more when we have tasted of the bad. But also, looking back at the challenges that 2011 brought reminds me of the faithfulness of my Heavenly Father. He was there just as real and present in the tearful farewells and lonely moments as He was in times of rejoicing and laughing with friends. His faithfulness has never been contingent upon my circumstances. 

Of course, maybe boiling a year down to major events really isn't the best way to evaluate it. As I've been pondering, I'll admit I've had "Seasons of Love" stuck in my head from Rent. It asks a good question, "How do we measure a year?" And even more importantly, "How do we measure a life?"

Seasons of Love-

Five hundred twenty-five thousand Six hundred minutes,

Five hundred twenty-five thousand Moments so dear

Five hundred twenty-five thousand Six hundred minutes

How do you measure, measure a year?

In daylights, in sunsets, in midnights, In cups of coffee

In inches, in miles, in laughter, in strife

In five hundred twenty-five thousand Six hundred minutes

How do you measure a year in the life?

How about love? How about love?How about love? 

Measure in love. Seasons of love.

Five hundred twenty-five thousand Six hundred minutes

Five hundred twenty-five thousand journeys to plan

Five hundred twenty-five thousand Six hundred minutes

How do you measure the life of a woman or a man?

In truths that she learned, Or in times that he cried

In bridges he burned, Or the way that she died

It's time now to sing out, Tho' the story never ends

Let's celebrate Remember a year in the life of friends

Remember the love.

So how do we measure it? 525,600 minutes? That's what we are handed every January 1st. (Of course this year will be fewer since the Mayan's have declared the world is ending, so you better really get busy!) It's a lot of minutes. But in the grand scheme of things, it's less than a breath, and we're not promised a single one of them. The song suggests that we measure it in love. It may be a secular song, but I have to say I don't think they are far off. What matters more than the goals we checked off, or the experiences collected, is how we lived the majority of minutes when nothing exceptional was happening at all. How did we love God, and how did we love others? How did we leverage the 525,600 minutes we were entrusted with to glorify God and share Him with the people around us? 

Ecclesiastes 12:13-14 reminds us that, "Not all has been heard; here is the conclusion of the matter: Fear God and keep his commandments, for this is the whole duty of man. For God will bring every deed into judgment, including every hidden thing, whether it is good or evil." 

How our years, and ultimately our lives, will be measured is by whether we accepted the gift of salvation that is available to all men through Jesus's sacrificial death, and then, what we do with the new life we have in Christ after that. If I died today, how would my life measure up? How would yours?

Of course the really great thing about New Year's is that our time of reflection on the year past is also the time we consider the year to come. We evaluate our lives,  mull over changes to be made, and consider what we want to accomplish. As we go about the process of setting goals and making changes this year, let us be mindful of what really matters. Sure we can try to eat healthy, exercise, floss, drink more water, spend less time on facebook. Those are all good things, and could very well be honoring to God, but no matter what your resolutions are this year, remember to make your personal relationship with Christ your top priority. Unfortunately it's a lesson that I constantly struggle with. As Oswald Chambers writes, "There is only one relationship that matters, and that is your personal relationship to a personal Redeemer and Lord. Let everything else go, but maintain that at all costs, and God will fulfill His purpose through our life. One individual life may be of priceless value to God's purposes, and yours may be that life." 

If you haven't put your trust in Jesus, I can think of no better way to begin a new year than with a new life in Christ. And if you have a personal relationship with Christ, I pray you'll use the new year to share the Good News with those around you and show His love in the way you live. 

May you be blessed abundantly in 2012 and may God be glorified in the year to come!

Happy New Year! 

Laundry Haitian Style

Last week the washing machine flooded the laundry room and kitchen… 

again. 

Yep.

Again. 

So again I found myself standing in the kitchen using old towels to sop up the excess water and ring it out in the sink. I wasn't really upset, just a little annoyed and slightly bemused at the ridiculousness of life at the moment. 

I stood there struggling to ring out the heavy soaked towels. It was taking a long time and I was getting impatient. And then I had a thought: 

Haiti.

I couldn't help but smile.  

Struggling to ring out the towel snapped me back to a blistering hot day in Haiti, bent over a plastic bin, "helping" Ruth with her laundry. 

Ruth is another story of her own. I met her in a tent community a couple of months after the earthquake. A young Haitian woman, 22 back then, who knew the Truth but had been so hardened by life in the "nation of NGOs" that it hadn't penetrated her heart. She was one of the few in that community who spoke very good French, and so we could talk without needing a translator. She was selfish and shockingly bitter and cared only about what I could do for her financially. Ruth had shelter, clothes, and food. It was a meager life, to be sure, but basic needs were met. What she wanted was money. Money to go "follow her dreams" as she put it. "Everyone here is either a child and still young, or an adult and already set in their life. I should be the one who gets to leave. I shouldn't be stuck here. I have to look out for me." I told her I had no money to give her, that we were only here to share the love of Jesus and hopefully meet some basic needs for the community as a whole. She glared at me through squinted eyes, pursed her lips and snapped, 

"Alors, tu ne m'aimes pas!" 

 The one benefit of using translatosr was that beyond translating, they also served as mediators and diplomats. I understood enough Creole to know when they were "rephrasing" something that had been said. It's not that they lied, but they would convey the general sentiment of the statement instead of the exact words. For example: "He is upset." Instead of repeating the string of slurs and hurtful comments. And then they would rebuke their own people for their attitudes and language without ever telling the Americans what had really been said. 

The problem was I didn't need a translator. I understood Ruth fine. I just wished someone could have softened the blow when she said: 

"So, you don't love me!"

Her words wounded me profoundly. I DID love her. But how do you show real love to someone whose idea of "love" has been so warped? That afternoon I felt defeated. And I cried. Cried for the devastation of Haiti, for the loss of life, for the bitterness and entitlement that had gripped so many people, but mostly for Ruth: a sad girl who claimed to know Jesus but was missing out on His love. 

I was burdened that evening and next morning. How could I do it? I didn't have the strength, or the wisdom to know how to reach Ruth. And then God reminded me:


 "MY strength, Lyndsey. MY wisdom, Lyndsey. 

MY love, Lyndsey." 

For someone who really likes to be competent and able to handle anything, it's always humbling when God reminds me that that's not true. There was nothing I could do to change Ruth's heart. It wasn't my responsibility. I was just supposed to love on her and share Jesus. And it was a freeing realization. 
So we went back to the tent community, determined to find a way to show that we were serious about loving them without feeding the serious issue of dependency. It wasn't long before Ruth disappeared for a while. She came back carrying a bucket of clothes. The conversation went something like this:


Me: "Can I help you with your laundry?"
Ruth: "The laundry?"
Me: "Yes."
Ruth: "You want to help with the laundry?"
Me: "Yes, if you don't mind."
Ruth (very confused look on her face): "...Why?"


It was a fair question. I told her I loved her and I wanted to help. She agreed. And so she began the process of doing laundry Haitian style and giving me instructions. We got water from the well, she got her soap, and crouched down around two bins, one for washing one for rinsing. She handed me a shirt, took one herself, and we set to work washing. I dabbed some soap and started scrubbing...for about 10 seconds. Suddenly she stopped, raised one eyebrow and asked me what in the world I was doing. 
"I'm washing this shirt," I said. 
"No, no, no," she said, shaking her head. "That's not right... Like THIS!" She unfolded the shirt she was washing and regripped it so I could see just how she was holding it. I mimicked her motions and started scrubbing again. She watched for a brief moment before shaking her head and grabbing the shirt from my hands. 
"No, no. Not like that, Lyndsey. You're not doing it right." She took my hands and guided them to hold the shirt like she did and told me to try again. Again, my scrubbing was deemed unsatisfactory. But as she corrected me with an  exasperated headshake, I could see her starting to smile.


 We were sitting in a public area by the well, and by this point a small group of women had gathered around to watch the American wash clothes like a Haitian. And apparently, it was quite the show. Every time I set to work, doing what looked to me to be identical to what Ruth did, they would all start giggling. Ruth would stop and show me for the umpteenth time the "right" way to wash the shirt, I would try again, fail, and the group would burst into laughter. I listened to the group of women talking about me amongst themselves. 


"What's going on?"
"The American is washing clothes!"
"Really? Why?"
"I don't know. But she doesn't know what she's doing!"
"What?! She doesn't know how to wash clothes?!"
"NO! She's doing it all wrong. HAHAHA!"
"How can she not know how to wash clothes!?"
"In America they don't wash clothes. They have MACHINES that do it."


The group was steadily growing and my friend Tiffany had joined in for laundry lesson. Bored bystanders were excited to see the white girls fail at a simple task, and all of my actions elicited raucous laughter. The thing was, I was really trying! I did everything just as Ruth demonstrated but I never could perfectly replicate the powerful consistent motions she used to quickly scrub her clothes. One man leaned down and said, "You've never washed clothes by hand before, have you." Somewhat indignant that he thought Americans never got their hands dirty I assured him I had washed clothes by hand many a time. "Well did you actually get them clean?!" I confirmed that I had. "No you didn't! Not if you washed them like that!" he said, chuckling as he wandered off. 


Eventually we were done scrubbing, time to rinse and ring. Simple enough, right? Wrong. There is also a specific "correct" Haitian way to ring water out...and I can't do it. I picked a shirt up to begin ringing it out. I was laboring over it, twisting and squeezing, while Ruth picked up another piece of clothing and had it completely drained of water in two swift moves. She looked at me with pity, both of us laughing with the crowd, took the shirt out of my hands and...put it back in the water. 
"No, no. Here. Watch me. Try again." 
I did. I failed. 
Back into the water she dunked the shirt. 
"No. Like this. It's easy." 
It was not. Her practiced hands could get all the water out of a shirt in a matter of seconds. I rang the same shirt out over and over again as she rewetted it for me to practice. Finally, she took pity on me and told me I had done a good job. We could go hang the clothes in the sun now. 
And that's how I came to do laundry in Haiti. In all honesty, it wasn't what I had expected. I had wanted to be useful and actually help with a chore. Instead I discovered that I couldn't even do that simple task right. I had probably caused Ruth twice as much work with her laundry as she would have had alone. But we had a good time. All of us. I wish I could tell you that I saw a big change in her, that she stopped being bitter and selfish and became a joyful woman, but that wasn't the case. We only worked in that community for the span of one week, and Ruth continued to ask for material goods and special favors just for her. But after allowing myself to look very foolish in front of a whole lot of people just to wash some clothes, Ruth never again told me I didn't love her.


So that's what I was thinking of while I struggled to ring out those towels in the sink last week. I had no clue that a year and a half after that day I'd be living in Peru and requiring those skills. And apparently my Haitian laundry technique still needs a lot of practice. 


I still pray for Ruth whenever I think of her. I pray that she will grow to be a strong woman of God like her namesake in the Bible and let go of the bitterness she carries. And I try to remember that I don't have to do everything well. Sometimes it's the things we have no talent in at all that God uses the most for His glory. And it's okay to allow yourself to look stupid. :-)  

Washing clothes with our audience.

Ruth and me in her tent. 

The Ghost of Birthdays Past

Posting about my most recent birthday sent me down memory lane, thinking about many delightful birthdays past. This post is largely to indulge my memories, so if you don't care about old birthdays (or at least mocking old pictures of me) I won't be upset if you just want to go eat some cookies, or take a nap, or write your own blog about annoying people who post old pictures. 

Unfortunately, since I'm in Peru, I only have access to the few photos on my computer and the other few stored on facebook. So you'll miss out on the photos of the more epic parties of my childhood: the castle maze, the Halloween Olympics, the Pirate Party, the Safari Party. Yep, my mom pulled off some pretty fantastic celebrations! But despite the many missing, here's a few from the last 26 years:

1985

So this wasn't my actual birthday, but close enough!

1986? 1987?

There was a plastic ghost hung in our front yard. I liked to say "Boo!" to it. 

1992

Fractured my wrist rollerskating. I was a wounded black cat that year.
(This is our scarecrow friend that always hangs by the front door.)

1997

12th birthday was spent in Japan

Had a party in Ormond after the fact. 

1998

13th birthday party in the park. I'm wearing overalls and pigtails. Feel free to judge.

Getting balloons at school was the epitome of cool in middle school.

2001

16th birthday party!

2003

18th birthday dinner at Applebee's, the traditional post-football game hang-out in highschool. They didn't give me any free birthday dessert. Some friendly neighborhood grill!

2006

Black widow spider for FCA Halloween party. (This was the day I got my braces on.)

21st birthday party in our townhouse in Gainesville. 

Carving pumpkins!

 2007

Birthday party in my flat in Paris, night before my birthday. 

My friends brought a cake, but we didn't have birthday candles. We used a tea light. Hahah.
The next morning, Andrea and I headed to Italy, so I spent my actual birthday half in Paris and half in Milan.

2009

Alien night costume for Bible study.

Popcorn cake! A birthday tradition

Florida-Georgia at the Seitzes'. No better present than a Gator victory!

Birthday dinner at La Fiesta! Sombrero. 

I think this was after the waiters scared Dianne to death when they slammed the tray on the ground.

2010

Carving pumpkins at Val's

Birthday lunch after Sunday School at the Whites'. 

Birthday dinner at Chipotle after Fall Family Festival.

Flo! 

10 Years

There’s really not much to be said about September 11^th that hasn’t been said before. I was almost 16 years old when our nation was attacked; it is the day that defined my generation. It was the day that redefined our world.

Like everyone I remember where I was 10 years ago. I was sitting next to Della in Mr. Hoag’s 10^th-grade geometry class in a portable at Spruce Creek. I remember the announcement made over the P.A. system that a plane had struck the World Trade Center, inviting teachers to turn on the news. I remember the confusion, wondering why they were telling us about an accident like that. And then the moment, the gut-wrenching moment, when the second tower was struck and the reality of the situation washed over each of us. I remember walking through the rest of the day like a zombie, wanting to cry but not yet able to grieve. The non-stop news coverage with conflicting reports, rumors of other threats, and confused reporters all melded into a constant background noise of tragedy. I had a French test that day, and I was really annoyed that Madame Dorinson still made us take it. It’s hard to think about the conditional verb tense when the world is crashing down around you. We gathered with friends in the cafeteria during lunch to pray, but I didn’t have any words. There were no words. I still don’t know that there are, and that was 10 years ago.

Ten years.

In the grand scheme of things, a decade isn’t much.

But then again, it really is much.

For me it was homework, IB tests, majorette practices, youth group events, senior prom, high school graduation, UF, saying goodbye to my grandfather, moving to Paris, summer internships, football games, FCA, four Gator National Championships, moving to Paris again, graduating from college, moving home, working at First Baptist, going to Haiti, and embarking on this J-man adventure. And those are just some of the big things. That doesn’t include all the real memories from the last 10 years, the everyday moments with friends and family. It glosses over the tears of sorrow and moments of blissful happiness. It doesn’t reflect the relationships forged or the walk with God grown. It skips over most of the things that are the truer measure of a person’s life.  When I start to consider just how full of life those last 10 years have been, it gives me a greater appreciation of how much 10 years really is.

Me and Della 10 years ago- Homecoming 2001

Halftime

My 16th birthday party- October 2001

I had no idea what those 10 years would hold. I certainly never would have imagined that I would be living in Peru on the 10^th anniversary of that tragedy. Hey, I wouldn’t even have believed you if you had told me I would attend UF! This wasn’t how I thought my life would unfold. Yet, while I may be surprised, but God never is. And how awesome to think that we serve a God who is not bound by time. He does not need to mark anniversaries. He WAS, and IS, and WILL BE. And I find that especially comforting when I think about where I might be when the 20^th anniversary of September 11^th rolls around. I don’t have a clue what my life will look like then, or even if I’ll be blessed with that many more years on this earth. But my God does. And while I don’t know life will go in the next year, much less 10, times like these are always good to look down the road and consider what you hope your life will look like, what you hope to have accomplished. Tragedies like September 11^th can make us angry, fearful, and bitter. Or they can remind us of our blessings, help us appreciate the brevity of life and the urgency of the work, and help us put our priorities into perspective.

I consider it a blessing to work for an organization that does not allow danger, fear, or anger to stand in the way of sharing the Gospel. “Eight Southern Baptist workers have died in terror-related attacks since 9/11. They all knew the risks of their work, yet chose to serve anyway. God’s call is unconditional; they answered it unconditionally.” (Quote from this article.) Some have paid a high price, but the need is too great and the time is too short to sit on the sidelines.  Jesus said, “The harvest is great, but the workers are few.” (Luke 10:2) I would hate to find myself at the end of another decade and look back to realize how much time I wasted or how selfishly I lived. I pray I will be a good steward of the time that He gives me. How about you? I know you remember where you were 10 years ago, but where will you be 10 years from now?

(P.S. Check out this website. The stories and prayer guide are excellent: Loving Muslims

And if you only have time to read one story, I just love this one! Especially the ending.) 

Adios and vaya con Dios!

I don’t want to go.

The thought exploded in my mind during an unguarded moment laughing with a friend a couple of weeks before my travel date. I didn’t know where those words came from, but like a blindside corner blitz, suddenly they were there, catching me off-guard and knocking the wind out of me. I had guarded my thoughts for a long time, not letting myself linger on the painful parts of what was coming. But eventually the truth burst out: I didn’t want to go. I surprised even myself, and before the pain from that realization could subside, in swept the guilt.

I’m not supposed to feel like this! I’m a missionary for crying out loud! I’m supposed to be thrilled about having this rarefied privilege to go to far-off lands and tell people about Jesus. It’s not like someone is forcing me, I volunteered for this. I worked hard for this! I danced around in my office like an idiot when I found out I got the job. I’m supposed to be so passionate about sharing the Good News that I count everything else as loss. I’m supposed to want to go!

But the truth was, I didn’t. I didn’t want to go through any of it. I didn’t want to try to shop for everything I might possibly need for two years. I didn’t want to pack my life into two (okay, okay…4) suitcases. I didn’t want to leave behind my wardrobe or…*gasp*…my shoes, my beautiful high-heeled shoes! I didn’t want to pick just a few precious photos and knick-knacks to remind me of home, and trade my stacks of books for a Kindle app. I didn’t want to give up driving and leave Gerald with my mom. I didn’t want to exchange my independence and personal space, my comfy bed and house to go live in a rented room with a Costa Rican family, living by their schedules and customs. I didn’t want the sweet cards and thoughtful gifts from the people who care so much about me. I didn’t want the last meals at my favorite restaurants, or one last plate of mom’s spaghetti. I didn’t want a final Friday Night Bible Study or a “Day o’ Lyndsey” to say goodbye to so many wonderful people. I didn’t want the beautiful prayers of blessing, the accolades and recognition, or people telling me how proud they are of me. I didn’t want to be held up as someone to be admired, after all, if they knew how I felt, they wouldn’t. I didn’t want to leave the beach or drive through the darkened streets of my hometown knowing it won’t be the same when I come back. I didn’t want to cling to the people I love and watch the minutes drain from the clock, knowing what was coming. I didn’t want to hug and kiss my friends and family one last time. I didn’t want to feel my heart breaking or cry with so much anguish I thought I’d never stop. I didn’t want to leave my comfortable home and pleasant life. I didn’t want to say goodbye. I didn’t want to go. Not one little bit.

But I did.

5:00am at DAB with Daddy and Timmy and a farewell Dr. Pepper

And you know what…it hurt! Really, really bad. I wasn’t expecting it to be so painful. I really thought that I could handle it. I’ve left home and moved to foreign cultures for extended periods of time before. Sure it was sad, but I was okay. But I was suddenly very aware that this really is an entirely different bag of cats. Moving to Europe for a school year when all of your friends are still off in college is a different challenge from leaving the USA for 2 years when everyone is in the midst of making critical career and life decisions. And I’m a different person than I was back when I moved to Paris. Maybe I’m getting soft in my old age? ;-) Whatever it is, I’ve cried more in the last 4 weeks than I have in the last 4 years, and I think my sudden sensitivity was even more alarming to myself than to the close friends who had to deal with my atypical meltdowns. For someone who usually has their emotions in check, the amount of tears that I have shed in recent days is disconcerting.

I’d like to tell you that nearly two weeks after the big goodbye I have some amazing story to tell you about how being obedient to Christ has completely erased the pain and filled my heart with gladness and enthusiasm and I’ve already seen fruit. But the truth is, it still hurts and it’s still hard. It took me a week before I made it a single day without tears, and that was less because I didn’t feel like crying, and mostly because I was simply too tired. Life in a foreign culture is exhausting.

Before you start really worrying about me and my emotional stability and go calling Member Care to get me some counseling, let me assure you I am fine. The first morning I woke up here, my immediate thought was, “Hey. I live in Costa Rica.” And that thought strikes me again at random times and makes me smile. I love learning about the culture. The mountains and plant life are beautiful, the people pretty friendly, and the food not half bad. I like the Tico (Costa Rican) family that I live with and have settled into a comfortable routine.  School has started and my Spanish is improving rapidly. Perhaps nicest of all is that we’ve been welcomed into the community of other staff from our organization that either live here permanently or who are in longer-term language study. They have gone out of their way to get us settled and show us around and are quickly becoming our family away from home. We’ve gone to church, had some gringo gatherings, and experienced a Tico birthday party complete with piñata and a cake fight, and we have laughed a LOT. I really can’t complain.

Piñata at a welcome fiesta at school. Who doesn't love a good piñata?! (Except maybe Donkey from Shrek...)

At the good times I’m amused that I live here, I enjoy the challenge of learning a new language, and I appreciate the unique culture of this place. Anytime I want, I can walk out my front door of my upscale home and buy a coconut with a straw from the guy in the truck on the street. No joke, there’s a coconut guy. But there are still times when I am lonely and the pain of missing people is raw, when I don’t want to learn a language I managed to avoid for 9 years in school, when I want to point out that I never signed up for Costa Rica. I hate to say it, but there are times when I simply don’t want to be here. In my younger years I would never had admitted any of this in a blog that everyone and their grandmother can read. I like to be seen as the one who “has it all together,” who’s competent and strong, not phased by anything. Admit my weaknesses? What weaknesses? Let’s just talk about how interesting everything is and tell clever anecdotes about not being able to flush toilet paper (for real, you don’t do that here). But I am slowly learning to let my guard down. So instead, I’d rather be transparent and show you as real a picture of me right now as I dare. It’s what I like to call “ugly honest.” So I hope I haven’t horrified any of you with what I’ve shared so far, and I hope you aren’t too disappointed with me if I admit that this hasn’t been a walk in the park and that sometimes I don’t feel like being where I am or doing what I’m doing.

As I said at the beginning of these ramblings, I didn’t really want to leave or do any of the hard things that got me here. But I did them and I’m here because that’s obedience. We don’t wait to obey until we feel like obeying. “Living by faith mean obeying God’s Word in spite of feelings, circumstances or consequences. It means holding on to God’s truth no matter how heavy the burden or how dark the day, knowing that He is working out His perfect plan.” People love to tell you to “follow your heart,” but I think that’s some of the most dangerous advice out there. If I were following my heart right now I’d be on a plane headed back to the US, because at this moment my heart is still in sunny Daytona Beach.

Can you blame me?

In Jeremiah 17:9 the Bible tells us that “the heart is deceitful above all things.” Sometimes we have to obey even when we don’t want to, but when we do, right feelings eventually follow right actions. So I think it’s okay if we don’t always feel like doing that to which we’re called, so long as we go ahead and do it anyway. And we don’t do it because we’ve been promised blessings on the other side, but because we were simply asked to obey. Like I’ve said, being obedient doesn’t protect us from hurt, sometimes it leads us right to it, but how sweet to know that while we walk that road we never walk alone.

“The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit.” –Psalm 34:18

And so, on the good days I will praise Him for bringing me here, for walking beside me, and for His abundant blessings… and on the bad days I will thank Him for bringing me here, for walking beside me, and for His abundant blessings. And when I am weak and crushed in spirit I can rest in His arms and in the promise of 2 Corinthians 12:9, “My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.” I hope that I can learn to say, as Paul did, “When I am weak, then I am strong.”

Leaving church on our first Sunday in Costa Rica.

*Thank you so much for all the outpourings of support and continued prayer during my last days at home and this transition to Costa Rica. It’s a tremendous comfort and blessing to know so many are interceding on my behalf. I mean it when I say, I couldn’t do it without you! Right now would you specifically pray that we will learn the language rapidly, that we will be good stewards of our brief time here in CR, for divine appointments and opportunities to serve, and for the continued health of team relationships. And please let me know how I can pray for you!*

Bring the Rain

Training ended more than a week ago, and my last days in Virginia were a whirlwind of packing, goodbyes, and last minute details. We still managed to carve out some sweet time with friends in the midst of that. All the young short-termers got together for a farewell celebration one evening, a fun time of snacks, silliness, and mustaches.

Yes, you read that right. Mustaches. 

But when the goofy pictures and joking subsided, we came together for a time of praise. We sang songs and lifted up prayers for the places and peoples around the world where we are going. It would have been a precious time under any circumstances, but it was all the more wonderful to me because it was storming. That may not sound especially remarkable given the bipolar nature of Virginia’s weather, and it’s not, so let me preface it with some background.

I love rain. Simple as that. Always have, always will. It’s a really convenient trait when you live in Florida, because lest you be deceived by our tourist-luring moniker, “The Sunshine State” gets a lot lot lot of rain. I really couldn’t tell you why I like the rain so much, but I love to play in it, listen to it, nap through it. I even have an entire playlist on my iPod of songs about rain. But perhaps the reason I like it so much is because it always reminds me of my heavenly Father, His power, His grace, and His faithfulness. One of my favorite hymns is “My Lord is Near Me All the Time”:

In the lightning flash across the sky, His mighty power I see,

And I know if He can reign on high, His light can shine on me.

I’ve seen it in the lightning, heard it in the thunder, and felt it in the rain;

My Lord is near me all the time, my Lord is near me all the time.

When the thunder shakes the mighty hills, and trembles every tree,

Then I know a God so great and strong, can surely harbor me.

I’ve seen it in the lightning, heard it in the thunder, and felt it in the rain;

My Lord is near me all the time, my Lord is near me all the time.

When refreshing showers cool the earth, and sweep across the sea,

Then His rainbow shines within my heart, His nearness comforts me.

I’ve seen it in the lightning, heard it in the thunder, and felt it in the rain;

My Lord is near me all the time, my Lord is near me all the time.

I could tell countless stories about how storms fill my heart with worship, but that night in Virginia reminded me of one in particular. As we sat there on the floor of the multipurpose room, the rain lashing the windows and providing the percussion to our songs, I closed my eyes and I was back in Haiti sitting on the floor of a house with a group of Americans just outside of Port-au-Prince.  The power and generator were both out and a Haitian storm was blowing down from the mountains with near hurricane ferocity.  We lifted up our voices in the dimness, competing to be heard over the wind and rain, singing song after song as darkness settled and the storm began to abate. We cried out “How Great is our God,” and He answered back with blinding lightning.

“I know that the Lord is great, that our Lord is greater than all gods. The Lord does whatever pleases him, in the heavens and on the earth, in the seas and all their depths. He makes clouds rise from the ends of the earth; he sends lightning with the rain and brings out the wind from his storehouses.” –Psalm 135:5-7

With each thunder roll I felt His perfect peace and contentment; in the midst of the storm I was right where I was supposed to be. I was overwhelmed by His faithfulness that night, and I hadn’t even seen the way God would use that time in Haiti to direct me to this new adventure with Him.

Rain fight in Haiti!

“Remember your covenant with us and do not break it. Do any of the worthless idols of the nations bring rain? Do the skies themselves send down showers? No, it is you, O Lord our God. Therefore our hope is in you, for you are the one who does all this.” – Jeremiah 14:21-22

A year later, sitting in Virginia with the rain pouring down, I was once again overcome by His faithfulness. To go into all the little ways God wove things together to bring me to this specific place would take too long, so perhaps I’ll do another post on that some day. But suffice it to say that when I look back over the last year plus I can’t help but see His fingerprints on so many things. My heart was overflowing with thankfulness.

“For the Lord is good and his love endures forever; his faithfulness continues through all generations.” –Psalm 100:5

It was hard to leave and it is hard to be home. Coming back I am reminded about how much I love my life here. I am surrounded by people who love me and care about me. I have wonderful family and friends. An awesome church. Lazy sundrenched beach days. Barbeque. Chickfila. Friday night Bible study. Life is good. Life is comfortable. Life is easy. And in three weeks that’ll change. The two years that seemed like no big deal are beginning to feel like an eternity. The confidence and resolve that came so easily months ago are beginning to wear thin. Normally unemotional, I now find myself on the verge of tears at least once a day whenever I am reminded that I’m really only here visiting. I want to ask if I’m making the right decision, but I can’t even get the question out. I know I am. And in some ways, knowing that is even harder. I’ve always loved the quote by C.S. Lewis, “We’re not necessarily doubting that God will do the best for us; we are wondering how painful the best will turn out to be.” And there’s the rub. Following God doesn’t keep us from pain, sometimes it leads us straight to it. His faithfulness doesn’t always protect us from hurt, but in our hurt He is always faithful. His unfailing love is our comfort (Psalm 119:76). We have His promise that He will not leave us or forsake us. He will carry us through, and comfort us when we hurt. “I, even I, am he who comforts you.” – Isaiah 51:12

When I am weak, He is faithful.

When I hurt, He is faithful.

When I doubt, He is faithful.

When I cry out, He is faithful.

When I am brokenhearted, He is faithful.

He is faithful. Praise Jesus, He is faithful! 

 And so when my strength is gone and my confidence is weak, I can walk on trusting in the faithfulness of my Lord that pours out like rain. You could blame a low pressure system for the week of rain that followed me down from Virginia and kept me from the beach during my first days home, but I prefer to think of it as God reminding me that He is near, and He is faithful. And maybe, He’s helping me get my fill of percipitation before I move to Lima, a coastal desert where it rarely rains. I’m not excited about living in a place without storms, but although I won’t have my physical reminder of God’s faithfulness, I know His fidelity remains the same.

“Where can I go from your Sprit? Where can I flee from your presence? If I go up to the heavens, you are there; if I make my bed in the depths, you are there. If I rise on the wings of the dawn, if I settle on the far side of the sea, even there your hand will guide me, your right hand will hold me fast.” –Psalm 139:7-10

*Prayer requests*: Thank you for your prayers and encouragement as I wrap up things in the states. Less than three weeks until Costa Rica! Please lift up Steven, Kattie and baby Evelyn who arrived in Lima today. Too many months until I see them again, but can’t wait to hear about their first days in our new home town.

*Check out the song “You Were There” by Avalon, on the music player at the bottom of the page.*