Exhaustion. It brings out the best of emotions, doesn’t it?
This month has been incredible. Incredibly hard, incredibly hilarious, incredibly worthwhile. Yet the night after night of returning “home” (a giant cross shaped building with no AC and fickle fans) to “bed” (a sleeping pad on a concrete floor right next to a bathroom shared with 20+ girls) has finally gotten to me. The bags under my eyes don’t plan on packing up anytime soon, and I’ve come to accept the fact that sleeping straight through the night is a commodity.
The World Race, India edition has revealed many things about myself to myself. Such as: how on earth can I feel 50 emotions at one time?; why am I about to cry when I just laughed my guts out?; and other emotional crises that can only be compared to having PMS for an entire month or a woman experiencing pregnancy brain.
Last month in Nepal, I experienced spiritual warfare very visibly and very tangibly. It frightened me, but it pushed me closer to Jesus. His name had more power to me than ever in my life, and I’ve never been more thankful for light switches. This month, however, the battle’s being fought a bit differently.
It was a slow trickle, a doubt planted in my mind. I stopped fighting little by little and became consumed by lies I believed to be true about myself, about Jesus. Before I knew it, I had completely lost grasp of my identity (or what I believed it to be anyway). I became bitter and angry, shaking my fists at God for not answering the prayers we were daily praying over villagers. Why was no one being healed in front of me? Come on, God, just give this woman her sight back or break this baby’s fever. It ain’t that hard.
In the middle of my temper tantrum, God did show up. Big. One night we prayed over a demon possessed woman, and he was delivered. A few days later, we found out that because she was freed, eight people (including herself and her husband) were saved and land was donated for a new church plant. As if this isn’t great enough news to wake up my soul, they wanted us to baptize them and anoint the land for the new church.
I should’ve danced in the streets. I should’ve picked up my ukulele and belted fifteen worship songs. I should’ve cried at the thoughtfulness of these new believers who, the night before the baptisms, caught five rabbits (a rare treat) to bless us with for lunch.
But I didn’t. I remained angry. I felt distant from God and wanted no part of him or the work he was doing through my team (and apparently my stubborn heart as well). I sat in the staleness of my struggles and merely went through the motions of prayer and preaching village to village. One night, as we were deciding who should speak for church, I said I didn’t want to because “I don’t really like Jesus right now.” The temper tantrum revealed itself.
The devil is sneaky. He creeps in quietly, planting one seed of doubt which, before you realize it, has reconstructed your entire way of thinking. The foundation of truth is lost to the thorny, tangled mess of lies.
This is spiritual warfare. And I gave up the fight. I had so quickly forgotten the deliverance and power of Jesus I had experienced last month. I forgot to put on the armor of God and face the battlefield with complete confidence he would win (cause he already has). I got caught up in my identity, in what people thought of me and my struggles, in wanting God to show up when I said so (and being disappointed when he didn’t).
So I’m a missionary who claims to not like Jesus. I’m halfway across the world in a desert land, parched and paralyzed. I’m exhausted and ten pounds heavier and frustrated about both.
But the good news is there is no ending. The battle rages on, both within myself and within the spiritual realm, yet Jesus reigns. He fights for me when I can’t anymore, he still calls to me even after I’ve put in my earbuds to block him out. He thinks I’m worth it, he still likes me.
So me and Jesus, we’re making it, one sword fight at a time.
