I started a blog before The Race (when I was a young warthog) and I never got around to finishing it until my good ‘ol brain brought it back up this morning. Or maybe God did. So here goes…
There’s a story in the Bible that everyone knows. It’s where Jesus turns the water to wine. My pastor preached on what Jesus was doing and drunk wedding-goers (Jews know how to party), but I got distracted by the author of John and offended for Mary.
In John 2:1 it says “Jesus’ mother was there,…” And it goes on and it always says “Jesus’ mother”. It never says her name. And as I sat there in the back row I tried to figure out who wrote John (some people speculate John, but no one knows for sure) and why wouldn’t they know Mary’s name? Because all the disciples had to know her name and why wouldn’t they just call her Mary? It’s kind of rude to just say, “Yeah Jesus’ mom whatever her name is…”
And that’s when it happened. Mary in all of her virgin, ethereal beauty with her wise eyes that saw her son crucified too soon after the lesser agony of bringing him into the world, came and sat by me on the pew. She leaned over and whispered in my ear (so as not to interrupt the service), “It doesn’t matter what my name is. What matters is who I am to Jesus.”
All of sudden Mary was wrinkled yet still ethereally beautiful and disappearing and I was five and alone and about to leave on a plane for 11 months. I felt very small. I felt like I didn’t hold the cup with both hands and now I had spilled my juice. That kind of young, stupid feeling. God, I love to hate that feeling but that feeling is so good for growth.
Fast forward to this morning. Fast forward to me wondering if I will raise enough money to lead this trip. My fear isn’t missing out on the trip. I know Swazi has so much to give me, my co-leader and the women who chose to give up their summer. I know He will show up in all of us and in the people we meet. But I know He will do this even if I don’t go. No, my fear is missing out on the story of the trip. Because I traveled for 11 months of last year and I’m afraid I will never leave the country again. I’ll just be kind of a one-hit-wonder in the missions and travel world.
That’s selfishness. That’s conceit. And then a really deep, dark question comes out of the mouth of a very small voice I keep caged in the back of my head.
“Did you go on The Race for God or for yourself?”
“This is why we can’t have nice things! Get back in your cage!”
To be completely honest, I don’t know the answer to that question. It’s out in the grey somewhere. The greys I love dealing in so much. The greys that are much more complicated but allow more space for those who are dark and those who are light. Some of the most beautiful pictures can be captured at dawn and dusk and yet that lighting is the most difficult to drive in due to the lack of visibility.
What I do know is that Hannah Stewart the traveler, the missionary, the writer, the leader, she doesn’t matter. Much like Mary’s name didn’t matter. I hope someday no one remembers my name or my face. Instead I hope they know me and say, “Jesus spoke to me through some lady,” “Jesus’ follower was there,” “Jesus’ lover was there.” Because it’s about God, His glory, and His name.
