I am standing on the shores of the raging sea, watching a
title wave rising in the distance. Its gaining speed and force. Rising in size
and power. I stand trembling on its shores and instead of running to my safe
cave to the left I dive in and swim right into it. I boldly advance towards the
mighty wave. I go not on a suicide mission, but I go because between me and
this wave lies a rock. A solitary rock that stands above the water, beckoning
me out. It calls out “I never said I’m safe, but I am good. And I am faithful.
And I am your only chance at surviving this thing.”
So I swim. I swim like hell to the rock that’s calling out my
name, begging me to trust. I swim into the frightening storm and straight into
my Saviors arms.
This incubator, this lifestyle, has become safe. Somehow,
while I wasn’t looking, it became my safe harbor. Somewhere along the way it
turned into my normal and I forgot that at one point the prospect of a trip
like this was my storm. I can remember standing on the shores of this year,
looking out into the unknown and shaking in fear. I knew it was going to
transform me and my reality, although in my naivety I underestimated the
gravity of transformation that comes with encounters of the Almighty. I feared
the responsibility that came with seeing a dying world. I feared the
insufficiency on my behalf to do anything about it. I didn’t trust Him then and
Im struggling to trust Him now.
Its time for a new storm.
I sat sobbing tonight as I watched the wave of transition
rising in the distance. In 10 short days I will hit U.S. soil and life will
drastically change, yet again.
Over the last year life has been a bittersweet privilege. I
have been honored to watch God’s people shine across the earth. Every day I
think “How is this my life? Why did God bless
me with this crazy pilgrimage? How did I get so lucky??” I have witnessed great
victory and immense tragedy. I have slept in over 50 locations, moving on
average every 6 days between 14 countries, across 3 continents. I have lived
amongst the poor and hurting nations, loved them the best I knew how, and sat
broken at the alter with them as we surrendered our lives and mess up to our
healer and provider. I came to serve them and was humbled time and again as
they served us.
We sang and danced in the dirt of Africa, laughed with
children of every color, and I took notes as we watched Mama’s fight for their
nation to raise up out of despair and hopelessness. Women in Serbia taught me 
what
it was to be a wife and mother. Ive floated in the dead sea and walked where
Jesus walked. I peed on my feet more times than I could count, not thinking
anything of it. I basked in the exhilaration of bucket showers after
painstakingly hot days in the jungles of Cambodia.
I have held a man after watching his wife die of aids, I have
counseled a woman who was beat the morning before church by her husband for
being a Christian, but she came anyways. I was baptized in a muslim nation on a
day of thanksgiving. I conquered fears and chose adventure. I hung out with
prostitutes in Thailand. I watched a mother in Uganda bury her baby that died
of Malaria- the same disease that I, along with half our squad, contracted at
some point in Africa. I prayed with a 13 year old gypsy girl as she encountered the Holy Spirit for
the first time on a moonlit hill in Romania.
But I did none of this. The Lord did it all. I had nothing to
give, no good of my own accord or strength could have accomplished any of it.
Tonight a friend reminded me of God’s promise in Phillipians- “He will finish
the good work He began in you Dre. He began it before this race, and it will
continue beyond this year.” He began a work, long ago, in my friends around the
world too, and is continuing it after I have left. I just got the joy of being
a very small part of Gods story in them. What a blissful and trying joy it has
been.
So it continues. The story goes on. I will swim out to the
rock and listen for His gentle whisper through the raging waters of emotion and
confusion. I will trust that He is good and faithful, just like the sunrise I
watched this morning from my treehouse.
He never said He was safe, but He is good.
