Yesterday Kelsey and I were walking to town, she in comfortable “off day” clothes, me still in my skirt from ministry.
“Look at you, you’re such a good missionary” she joked as I lifted my skirt from its dirt ground length to make the trek down the hill. I laughed as I told her, “it’s more like I’m just too lazy to change.”
You see, I’m a bad missionary. I think more about what I hope to find while shopping in town than I do about the porridge that got spilled at school earlier in the morning and how that could’ve been the only meal that child was getting today. I get up early to read the Bible but am really more intrigued by the cup of coffee I’m downing than by the word of God.
The word of God. Words he’s spoken throughout the ages, to generations before me and to me even now in the modern day.
And I struggle to keep my eyes open when reading his love letters to me or my ears aware when listening to his servants proclaim truth over me.
I’m skipping ministry today, I guess you could say to focus on myself. Jesus rattled my brain this morning and threw a couple solid punches my way, so it’s probably best that I take time to recover. Solid punches in a good way, mind you. Like, “hey, you’ve been fighting me this entire month, and asking me to show up and speak to you, but really, I have been this whole time and you just can’t hear me unless I meet your fists with mine.”
I wonder how Jacob felt when he fought with the angel of the Lord in the Old Testament. The Old Testament as if it were just a story stuck in the early pages of a book. That fight was real. The punches thrown, the bulging veins and sweaty brows—real. Jacob probably got thrown down on his back, finally giving way to the strength of the Lord. I wonder if he felt humbled. I wonder if he appreciated the pain and the grueling process it took him to finally succumb to the way of God. I wonder if he felt like a loser, or if he was more relieved that God took the fight for him and letting go wasn’t about losing but about trusting.
I’ve been getting a lot of words this month. I love words, albeit I use them wrong on the daily (how’d I do with that one, albeit?). There seems to be a theme in the words and messages I have been receiving, either through other people or straight from God Himself.
The day we left Cambodia to travel to Africa, God spoke to me and said: “Dig. Dig deeper; don’t accept yourself as a problem, but question why you feel those things.”
Week one of Swazi, a friend (Candace) told me she saw me in a big open field, with my arms outstretched. I was laughing. I was free. And the words “Let go” were all over that image, she said.
Yesterday, my team prayed over me. More words, more images. Alyssa saw me swimming, trying to push to the surface, but being stuck underwater. The more I struggled to swim upward, the harder it got. She said I’m in an in-between of sorts, needing to make a choice to either let myself drown or push through and breathe that first sweet gasp for air. “Breathe the air,” she said. “It’s good for you.”
The second image was me in a tug of war. I was holding on, pulling with everything I had. I was giving my all, but I was losing. And I was scared to let go. But letting go is what I need to do in order to fall back into the Father’s arms. I’m frustrated and fatigued both from tugging and from feeling bottled up. But at the same time, I’m scared to let go, scared to leave the bottle because it’s safe, in a way. It’s all I’ve known. Why am I scared to let go?
Let go. Again. And again. It popped up last month from a previous teammate and it’s appearing again from completely different sources. Except not different sources, because the message—loud and clear—is coming straight from God.
So needless to say, I’ve heard a lot of words this month, yet haven’t taken the time to really listen to them. I wrote them down, but left them hidden in my journal. I moved on in the name of ministry and community and everything else that pulls at me on this Race. And then I complained when I sensed a disconnect with God and had empty quiet times.
I’m sitting outside a little coffee shop, poring over my journal and my Bible. Thirsty again. Tell me more, I plead to him. He does. He took my hand and led me through his Words, bringing to surface thoughts I had forgotten or verses I memorized way back in first grade. “Steadfastness” he whispered to me. A word that’s been in nearly every quiet time of Bible reading this month but I haven’t taken the time to dig deeper into (there it is—dig). So today I brought my shovel and dug.
I’m not quite sure where this is going , both this explosion of typed words and this road with Jesus. I just looked up and my eyes landed on the flowers in the trees across the street. The colors of purple and red are beautifully contrasted by the grey overcast sky behind them. They pop. Their boldness and life are hard to look away from. It’s as if they’re screaming, “I dare you took look longer. I dare you to try to explain my beauty, but more so, I dare you to bask in it.”
I think that’s it. That’s it. He’s daring me to bask in his beauty. He’s daring me to stare longer than is comfortable for my imperfect retinas. He’s little by little, pulling me away from the tug of rope, pushing me closer to the surface. I can see the light above the surface, I can almost breathe that sweet air.
And I can smell the flowers.
**Thank you so so much to everyone who has supported me on this journey so far. Your finances, prayer, and even (or especially) comments on my blog and random messages of encouragement mean so much to me. You keep me going. I currently need to raise $3,500 by January 1st in order to stay on the Race. Please prayerfully consider helping me reach my final deadline so I can go to Botswana in January and Eastern Europe after that! Blessings and love from South Africa. You guys are beautiful.**
