In light of the fact that I’m only 2 months away from my return to Colorado, I felt compelled to share some recent entries in my journal with you. To preface this, I’ll say that it’s now been a full 7 months of constant ministry and continual transition, and burnout is such a reality at the moment. The closer we get to the end of this year, the easier it is for me to just want to be finished already. And so my hope in sharing this is to provide an honest look at where I am right now, so you’re able to pray for me, and to encourage and build your faith if you find yourself in a similar season. This is an intimate look into my process and my relationship with the Lord, and I hope it’s encouraging for you.
April 1st, 2018.
In yet another Indian church service, and I find my thoughts wandering again to this summer. It’s such a delicate balance, planning for what’s coming, missing where you’ve already been, all the while thinking, “Don’t you miss a moment of this, before it slips away.” When will I ever celebrate Easter in some town in India nobody’s ever heard of again? Don’t you miss it for a moment, Joel; today is an incredible gift.
How easy it is to lose sight of that. My life truly is such a gift, and I’ll never relive this year. It’s not what I expected in any way, but it is good, and this time will be gone before I know it. As much as I’m wanting to be back in Colorado, I know it’ll only be a week or two at home before I’m missing what I’ve lost here, what I maybe never saw I had. Holy Spirit, just give me the gift of presence.
In just 2 months I’ll have all the things I’m missing—I’ll have my parents, a car, books, my piano, records, WiFi, comfort, a bed, friends, coffeeshop dates, and I’ll have most of this for the rest of my life. But I only have 2 more months of the world race. 2 months living out of a single backpack, 2 months walking to church in my Chacos. 2 months being the minority, only being able to communicate with smiles, “Hello!” and hand gestures. 2 months eating who even knows what, pooping in a squatty potty and being able to tell your friends how it went at the dinner table. 2 months sleeping on the floor, doing the most unusual things for work, and only having to say “Q-Zone” for others to know you’re having a hard day. 2 months living with a team, 2 more months receiving random prophetic notes, 2 months receiving “feedback.” 2 more months intentionally serving Jesus around the world and living in community.
And after that, a lifetime.
Don’t let me miss a thing, Holy Spirit. Don’t let me miss the smiles that say what our words literally can’t, the power of shaking another’s hand, the flavor of their food, the culture I’ve so easily come to take for granted. I’ll have everything else for the rest of my life, but this is only here and now, and before I know it, it’ll be gone.
April 5th, 2018
I grow ever more eager to discover what it means to live with real contentment. You have stripped away all distraction, torn me open, and I am raw, bloody, and bruised, left with nothing between me and this screaming desire to get home again. It’s like a gaping hole in my chest—always, this is the thing I come back to as soon as I’m alone. My desire to not be on the world race. It’s always there, in one form or another, always where I end up.
And you are the one who’s brought me here. Of course, I know why. I’ve walked with you long enough to understand that pain is the only pathway to transformation. “Now, if necessary, you have been grieved by various trials, so that the tested genuineness of your faith—more precious than gold that perished though it is tested by fire—may be found to result in praise and glory and honor at the revelation of Jesus Christ” (1 Peter 1:6-7). That’s a lesson you taught me on my trip to Oregon, 3 of the hardest weeks of my life. And I’ve seen the fruit of what you did; I’ve seen the endurance you built in me, the trust forged in that time. And so I see why I’m here, see the value of this pain.
Yet I’m still aching for contentment where I am. I don’t want to live these next 2 months constantly wishing I were somewhere else. I want to be content with the fact that this is where I am, this is where you’ve brought me.
This discomfort is precisely why you brought me here. You desire that I should be torn to shreds, that I may not place my hope in what this world has to offer. That’s why I sent home my books and kindle, my source of rest, as well as why you called me to live out of a daypack these last three months, abandoning my comfort. You are showing me what it is to have nothing—nothing to distract me when I’m aching for home, and nothing to comfort me through the pain. You are teaching me to say, “I have learned in every situation to be content. I know what it is to be brought low, and I know how to abound. In any and every circumstance, I have learned the secret of facing plenty and hunger, abundance, and need. I can do all things thorough him who strengthens me” (Philippians 4:11-13).
As painful as it is, this is what I asked for. I asked for it when I said yes to Jesus. I asked for it when I applied for the world race. I asked for it when I tattooed the words “empty my hands” into my arm. I asked for it when I said I didn’t want the second half of the race to be as small as the first, when I said I was tired of working out of my own strength and then saying it was the Lord’s. It seems that, after ages of being where I wanted to be, I’m finally where you always intended me to end up. And for that, I’m grateful. I trust you, Jesus.
As always, thank you for reading, praying, and supporting me! Don’t forget to leave a comment!
~Joel
