I don’t know if I’ll survive this month with my heart in one piece.
Actually, I'm positive that I won't.
Drastic sounding, to be sure. But the reality is that I know, without a shadow of a doubt, that part of my heart is going to be left here in Saigon. The even bigger problem is that my heart won’t even stay here, because neither will the people who have the pieces of it.
We’ve only been in the country for a week and I have already had my heart broken more than it has been in other complete months.
Broken in a good way, that is.
You would think I’d be used to this by now. It’s month ten of an eleven-month mission/volunteer trip around the world. You would think that I have seen enough by now to deal with this.
Jesus, I can’t deal with this. I don’t even know how to begin to deal with it.
A few nights ago, in the tourist district of Saigon, I briefly found myself alone, sitting at a table outside, a block from my hotel. After ordering a coffee at 2:00 am and dumping excessive amounts of sugar and milk in it, I just sat there, blankly staring down the road. Though mostly quiet, there were some tourists still wandering the streets, probably trying to decide whether or not to call it a night and head to bed. I could hear the music from the club upstairs make its way to my ears.
Street in Saigon, Vietnam
I was frozen in place, silent, overwhelmed. I removed my glasses to wipe away the tears that were pooling in my eyes and I simply sat there.
Jesus, I don’t have the strength or the love to do this on my own.
Jesus, this is miserable.
Honestly, I don’t know how to communicate this feeling.
This heart-wrenching pain.
This deep sorrow that gnaws at my spirit.
I just sit there. My coffee is gone and there are tears now freely streaming down my face, no doubt ruining my mascara. I’m without my constant companions of pen and paper for the first time in memory because bike-by thefts are common here and I didn’t bring a purse. I know that if I open my mouth to speak or pray I’ll start sobbing. Someone comes downstairs to see how I am and I slightly shake my head, unable to do much else. I just need to be alone.
Ironic that I left America only to find my heart completely wrecked by the love God has for Westerners. Unbelievable that I have gone ten months, I have learned and seen much, and now, as the end nears, finally find what my heart aches for more than anything else.
Five days in Saigon have made me
desperate for the Lord’s love.
Jesus, I can truly say that I love these people. But how do I tell them that? In a culture that doesn’t understand agape or philia love, when I can use “love” to describe my feelings for both fire-hot cheetos and my sister, how do I communicate my meaning?
These are my people. Adventurous, outgoing, ridiculous, fun-loving, extroverted, fearless wanderers who make up a huge part of my generation.
My team in Sihanoukville, Cambodia
They’re from all over – Germany, Holland, France, Canada, New Zealand, Australia, Ireland, America, England. They have different accents and different jobs and different stories.
I could spend countless hours with them and
love every single minute of it.
These travelers and me? We’re the same, except for this whole I’m-in-love-with-Jesus thing.
Same same, but different.
These are the people who understand my stories of 20+ hour bus rides across countries.
These are the people that chuckle with understanding at stories of disgusting bathrooms and crazy wild animals.
These are the people that fly by the seat of their pants, have no concrete plans, and want to see what the world has to offer.
Train ride from Chisinau to Ocnita, Moldova
Being with them? It’s as easy as breathing, and honestly, strangers are simply friends that I haven’t met yet. I’m fascinated by people, their stories, their lives. No doubt, I can sit with them for hours over small talk and a cold beer or cup of coffee.
I sit and enjoy their company, no agenda, no thoughts of attempting to convert them.
Just talking, one young traveling person to another.
Deep in my core, though, it hurts. I desperately long to tell them that Jesus is what they’re looking for. That no matter how much fun they have traveling, it won’t change things when they go home. That the things of this world are fleeting and won’t satisfy them but for a moment.
The Western world has been deeply wounded by religion and often, people don’t want to hear me talk about how much I love Jesus or how much Jesus loves them. And you know what? That’s completely okay, because the last thing that I want to do is continue the stereotype that all Christians are bible-bashers who tell non-Christians they’re going to hell. That’s not a good representation of the Jesus I know.
The Jesus I know loves.
Deeply, truly loves.
He meets people where they are, arms wide open, no judgment.
Here in Saigon, Jesus has invited me to join him. He has asked me to love my generation. To not judge them, not push them, not tell them they’re wrong, but to simply be there.
A friend & I making a hand heart in Italy
I find myself here, my heart shattering every day and being put back together by the love of Christ. I barely know these people, but I love them desperately because Jesus does.
I hope they see it in my eyes, hear it in my voice and recognize it in my manner. At the end of the day I hope they see themselves in the same way I do – good people, worthy of love, adored by God, and capable of changing the world. They're nothing short of amazing and I wouldn't trade my time with them for anything.
