Kelly. Kel. Kerry. Chelly. Teacher. Preacher. Performer. Worship leader. Artist. American. White girl. Treasurer. Mazunghu! Construction worker. Babysitter. Doctor. Painter. Therapist. Healer. Gringo. Listener. Dancer. Missionary.
The things I’ve been called are countless. I feel like I’ve been everything to everyone.
The titles I’ve been given are meaningful, meaningless- both at once sometimes.
I’m not sure they do a very good job of explaining what I’ve done; what I’m doing.
And sometimes it seems that more often than not- I’m wondering just that.
What am I doing?
Sometimes half the day is spent waiting, wondering when our ride will arrive. Sometimes the conversations that happen during those waiting hours bring growth. Or revelation. Or just friendship.
I visit ten houses, an entire afternoon that feels “wasted,” and the Lord rewards me by letting my hands perform a miracle at house number eleven. A healing. A baptism. Freedom. A profession of faith. But sometimes, none of those things happen, and I wonder if my time was just wasted after all.
Sometimes a Saturday morning is spent “refereeing” a volleyball tournament for 40 orphans with team names like ‘Snake Eye’ and ‘Bananas Fried.’
Sometimes, I prepare a whole testimony and the pastor only wants a “song item.”
I help the 12th graders with their physics homework, and I’m grateful not only for my memory, but that numbers breach the language barrier. Sometimes, stoichiometry is ministry.
I juggle babies and subsequently fall in love with them. I hold children who can’t understand a word of my language. I have conversations where any understanding is doubtful. I’ve walked three hours to share with a congregation that never showed up, only to walk three hours home. I’ve boldly asked people to share stories and been blatantly, directly shut down. I’ve gotten all the way ready for the day only to realize I’m too sick to go anywhere. Spent way too many hours laying on the floor, entire days spent in hot, musty, sick rooms before coming to the conclusion that my immune system isn’t quite what I thought it was. That I’m not invincible.
I teach a lot. I teach English in and out of classrooms, to 6 year olds and 60 year olds. I teach about best friends and the Super Bowl, about AIDS and healthy eating and the Statue of Liberty. I teach a barren woman about her ovulation cycles, or a lifelong Buddhist about what Jesus sacrificed for her salvation, or a worried mother about why her child could be having seizures and ear infections. Come to think of it, I think I teach the most.
I’ve built walls I know will end up falling with the next rain. I’ve waited at 6 for a bus I know won’t come until 8:30. I’ve prescribed and given lines of Indian children vitamins when I know their parents only brought them to the clinic, “to see the Americans.” I’ve gotten my heart broken. Lots. Desperately, tragically, undeniably torn to shreds.
An entire Wednesday morning is spent playing handclap games with malnourished children. Or scrubbing walls. Or hiking to the waterfall. Making bologna and butter sandwiches. Nearly chopping my fingers off making bricks. Planning VBS. Fasting for a Crusade I’m not sure is actually happening. Running around Bangkok trying to buy same-day bus tickets. Sitting in a coffeeshop, asking hard questions of the Lord and of my teammates.
I’ve spent more hours in church services than I’ve ever wanted to, most of them in languages I can’t understand, clapping along to songs I haven’t a clue what the lyrics are about. I feel the Holy Spirit there sometimes, and sometimes, I feel nothing but my own frustration, sleepiness, or distraction.
I’ve laughed and laughed and laughed. Had days that felt like a vacation, like adventure, and days that felt like a routine that’s gone on too long.
I’ve spent hours learning a dance to a song in Spanish, unsure if I’ll ever actually perform it. We did. Complete with footwork.
I’ve advocated for sick children until my voice is hoarse. I’ve led enough Bible studies for what feels like a lifetime. I’ve hoed about six million rows in the biggest Swaziland garden you’ve ever seen. Kissed more children’s foreheads than names I can remember. Prayed over more struggling bodies than I’ll ever know the fruit of. Practiced more words in broken foreign languages than I’ll ever actually memorize. Put my heart and soul into a community that will unavoidably end. In a month.
I’ve learned to worship with abandon. To pray without ceasing. To rejoice. I’ve healed people, been healed myself. I’ve built things, built relationships too, and had to leave them where they stood. I’ve brought the word, delivered messages that seem to impact people.
I’ve mastered medium-term name learning. I’ve conquered “laugh like you understand.” I’ve stopped clinging to plans. I’ve surrendered control over what seems like everything. I’ve learned that there’s something to learn from everyone.
A few things stay the same. Goodbyes are usually tearful. Exhaustion gets heavy. Most of joy is in engagement. Contentment is sometimes elusive. Confidence wavers. Time is meaningless. “Sweaty,” “uncomfortable,” “ministry,” “hungry,” “tired,” “alone,” “poor,” “capable,” “professional,” …almost everything is relative. Patience can seem fleeting. Peace can seem like the only thing that matters. Worship is fluid. Worship is life, really.
I’m not done. I’ll gain more titles, I’ll do more things. I’ll have more moments where I blink three times and wonder how I got in this place with these strangers. How I grew so much, how I became this person I wouldn’t have recognized a year ago.
I’m not talking about the World Race anymore. I’m talking about my life.
So I’ve taken all these titles, all these names. Wherever you are, you probably have, too. I think gaining titles leaves us with decisions to make. Which will you bring with you? Which will you leave behind? For me, in Africa or in Vietnam, but for you, maybe you’ll leave them at work. In a house. In a person, a relationship, a season.
What will you build on?
What will you strengthen at the cost of weakening other parts of you, of other titles fading?
The answer to ‘What do they call you?’ isn’t nearly as important as the answers you have control of.
Maybe you’re feeling reflective, maybe abstract questions just annoy you. I guess it all leads me to the big questions, the one that got me started on this track in the first place, a year ago, and the one I’ll keep asking myself tomorrow, and the next day, and the next year:
Who do you want to be?
Who were you created to be?
And who are you now?
What’s the difference between these things like? How big is the gap? Mind it. Take care of it. Step into it.
Then make it smaller.
