Two missionaries sit in a room. One crossed an ocean, the other crossed the threshold of her front door. Both said “yes” to the call…
“Saludo!” Our translator yelled from the gate of the little blue house. A tall, skinny woman with her hair wrapped in a black scarf approached the door. Our translator, Tony, explained that we were a team of missionaries from the United States, here to pray with her and talk to her about Jesus. A little boy stood by the door with a small plastic basketball and smiled sheepishly as we entered her living room. She welcomed us as she gathered stools and chairs, making sure all of us had a seat. It was the last house visit of the day, and we were all tired. After hours of seemingly redundant conversations with strangers, none of my team was expecting the following encounter to take place.
Somehow, inexplicably, it was as if the translation wasn’t even necessary- we all seemed to understand one another perfectly through aspanglish conversation. As we got to know her, we discovered that she grew up in the Catholic Church until about 5 years ago. I asked her “what changed 5years ago?” She replied “the best thing happened. I was born again.” Her smile couldn’t be tamed as she shared how Jesus had saved her from a life of anger and insecurity. She was basking in the joy of being radically forgiven, and as I observed her, I realized I had forgotten what that felt like. She then explained how she felt the pressure to be “put together” before she could go out and be an example to others. “But! That won’t stop me from striving to be the best example of Christ I can be!” There I sat, dumbfounded at how deeply I identified with this woman.
My eyes warmed with tears as she spoke to us. Eventually she noticed that I was emotional, so she asked our translator “Why is she crying?” Itold Tony to tell her that I was crying because God allowed me to meet her at the perfect moment, and that talking to her comforted my anxiousheart. That her life impacted me more in 20 minutes than any of my years in theology classes and Christian conferences. She began to cry as Tony translated what I was saying to her, and it was in that moment that I realized just how special this encounter was.
For some reason, God took me across an ocean to sit me down in a tiny living room and show me that I’m not alone in my struggles. Carolinda did nothing but operate out of her God-given identity as His daughter.That was enough to make me realize just how much authority I throw away when I allow my insecurity to sit on God’s throne. When I operate out of insecurity, I don’t speak up as much and I don’t stand up in boldness. All because I don’t think I’m good enough. Jesus has a message to share through my breath that I let my insecurity hush for fear that my vulnerability will be judged…my insecurities chain me to a wall of lies and I can’t do what I was created to do. As I write this I see how deceived I have been.
I’m invited to eat with my Dad and recline into His chest but instead I choose to work hard collecting the crumbs that fall off the table. My knees ache and my stomach growls for more than the scraps that I gather. My Dad calls out again and again for me to come sit with Him yet I insist that this is the station where I belong. That picture just doesn’t make sense.
We were encouraged to reflect on what we can “leave behind” each month as we progress through the race. This month, I’m done eating bread crumbs. I’m leaving behind my pocket full of scraps and I’m taking my seat next to my Dad at His table of abundance.
