There is something inherent about victory that makes us feel alive.
Have you ever accomplished something you thought, in the deepest crevice of your core, you couldn’t? Gone farther than your doubts said you could? Known the odds weren’t in your favor, but still found success?
The same is true in God’s kingdom. Whether a personal triumph, a new trail emblazoned, or the power of the cross, victory has always been complimented by this undeniable reminder that knocks breath back into our very lungs. It says, “you were meant to feel and grow and know what it means to be living and breathing and moving.”
If you’re lost, I’m talking about the last month of my life. It was the month of the squatty potty (that is, a hole in the ground), the month of every single one of us being pushed down with some kind of sickness, the month of never knowing the plan. It was community intensified, ministry expanded, and faith tested in the new normalcy of daily chaos.
It was a mental picture of myself on an uphill climb, packed down with burdens, no relief in sight. I started the journey crying out to God because it was too much to bear on my own.
We’re never really alone, I knew in my head. It was my heart that was disconnected.
It surely didn’t taste like victory to cry pathetically in our one hut where the “toilet” and the “shower” are one in the same. It didn’t look like triumph to stumble through the culture shock of living in a tribal West African village for the first time with not even WiFi to escape my discomfort. I wouldn’t have called it a win to be told over and over and over how thankful the community is to receive white people in their midst.
I wondered if God was even hearing our petitions for healing the sick or if our preaching was even heard over the loud awe at our white skin. I wondered if the barriers were too strong, too engrained for this to be all about Jesus and not about us.
I could have screamed. The pile on my back felt heavy and I was sinking fast.
I wanted to crumble right there on our little hut floor.
How could I possibly find the always-promised victory Jesus gave me when he died and rose?
Yet now I’m saying goodbye to what has been home for the last 25 days. Hindsight says victory is among us by the multitudes.
I learned what it truly means to live in and love the community around me. I’ve practiced patience when 10 children are grouped around for the first minutes of my day. I’ve chosen to say yes to everything God has put in front of me, while somehow maintaining sanity. I’ve learned much about a new culture, one that I love and appreciate more than words could say. I’ve found enough humility to ask for help. I’ve witnessed what it means to actually lean on God’s strength.
This month has been hard. There’s no point in denying that.
Yet now I see it through a different lens, a God-lens. I see the love we shared among our new Ivorian family, and isn’t Love what conquers all? Love conquered death on a cross. Love is victorious.
Now I have tears in my eyes again, but for something quite different than drowning in a sea of challenges. I have tears in my eyes because I’m so thankful for what God showed me this month. I have tears in my eyes because I now carry a new understanding of the power of Love in the war of this life.
That Love? It’s screaming in celebration for the victory over doubt, over fear, over self-pity.
I started this month feeling a bit like a victim. I felt helpless and unsure of myself in this place. Now I’m closing this chapter as a victor. With God’s help, I chose Love. That’s made all the difference.
Love and blessings,
McKenzie
p.s. Merry Christmas! Happy New Year! Things look different this year, but I wouldn’t change a thing.
