“Tell me your stories.”
When I think about going home, this may be the one thing that scares me the most. The race has been a roller coaster, fast parts and slow parts, uphills and sprints. Sometimes you’re right in the middle and you can’t tell which way is up.
I’ve been crazy blessed on this journey, and part of the responsibility of blessings is that they must be shared. I can’t wait to tell the people I love, friends, acquaintances, strangers even, about the things I’ve seen and experienced on the field.
But then again, I can. I’m scared. The root of the fear is inadequacy, not measuring up. How will I do my stories justice? What if I tell it wrong? Will God be glorified if I leave something out, if my words aren’t exact, if details are forgotten?
I saw demons cast out in Mozambique, where I slept on a concrete floor in a room buzzing with mosquitoes and ate rice for every meal. I built a house out of mud for a sick widow and held a 13-year old boy’s hand as he was told he’s HIV positive. And then I left, along on my merry way to 8 more countries. But he stayed. And he’s there. Still sleeping on the concrete floor, still HIV positive. He’s more than a story to me.
In India, I prayed healing over a woman’s blindness and witnessed her sight returned to her. She cried; I was skeptical.
The same day, I explained the gospel to a lifelong Hindu woman. The Lord worked in her heart as I spoke and she wanted to accept Jesus, but she told me she couldn’t because her husband would leave her. I told her God is bigger than her marriage, that if it was right she could pray for her husband and he may work in his heart as well. She was so reluctant. I probably talked to her, answering her questions through a translator, for an hour before she finally decided she wanted to accept Jesus. I prayed through the prayer of salvation with her. As we both opened our eyes, her husband was standing over her shoulder, excited but nervous to tell her he had just accepted Jesus into his life as well. In the same room with my teammate, unbeknownst to my formerly Hindu woman and I. They rejoiced together- what a sweet, sweet moment.
In Nepal, we had the chance to visit a refugee house. We spent the day with about 12 refugees from various countries where being a Christian warrants death. Where they had risked their lives and literally been persecuted for the gospel. Just like Paul. The room was enveloped in the Holy Spirit. They told us stories of escape, of bravery, of standing up for their faith, of gratefulness to their Savior. My Savior. Blessed are those who are persecuted. I was honored to be among them. Humbled and honored. They made us tea and played “Your Body Is A Wonderland” on the guitar. We all sang along, of course.
In Cambodia, I saw fear shrink. Tangibly. I felt freedom in an entire family accepting Christ in one day. Tearing down their Buddhist idol before my eyes, because Jesus would protect them. Later, I found out their 16-year-old daughter had been a Christian for a while, had been fasting and praying for them for months. Months.
In Thailand, I saw the good in just “good.” I struggled with how good can be good without Jesus. I realized that Buddhism has some things right too-peace and kindness and selflessness. I cried for them. I can’t understand. I taught high schoolers about the Super Bowl and I shocked them with the truth that my blonde hair is natural- earth shattering. Then I told them the story of my Lord and Savior. They listened. That’s all.
In Guatemala, I found myself in the middle of intense spiritual warfare. I felt oppressed. I saw God and I saw the hands of Satan at work, far too close to those I love. And I understood that our God is a jealous God. I felt it with him.
In Honduras, I got welcomed into a family. Three different times. The lord taught me about healing, about family. He taught me about intimacy. He taught me about sickness and health, and he dizzily, literally brought me to my knees. Then used a lovely five-year-old to rip my heart straight out of my chest.
These are stories. They hold impact. For me, and maybe for you, too. But what about the story of the woman who shut the door in our face when we asked if we could pray for her? I’ll never know her story. What about the story the frail man tried to tell us, but we had no translator? The desperation in his eyes- what was his story? What about feeling known? What about the story about how Jesus taught me about his love for me through a group of fifty 24-year olds. Through laughter and sleepless nights. Through misunderstandings and tears and the craziest dreams.
What about your story? You’ve lived a whole year, too. Without me.
The people who need to hear my stories are important. They seem like the most important. But who needs to hear your stories? That’s important, too. And sometimes, they won’t ask. There won’t be a, “tell me your stories,” or even an open end to share.
Maybe you’ll tell them anyways.
They’re powerful. You’re powerful, too.
