Two days into ministry, I fell. I’ll have you know it was after an awesome catch (we were playing kickball). There was a runner on first, a fellow squadmate, who was threatening to run to second (I was playing second base). As a softball player in middle and high school, I would have considered her out anyway, she ran out of the baseline in order to progress. Alas, these regulations do not exist when there are only two bases and you’re playing kickball in a dirt field in Nicaragua. As I ran to tag my teammate, I slipped on gravel, and I fell. Hard. I managed some sort of half-split, in which my knee twisted a direction it was never designed to go, and my whole leg popped. For about a minute, I laid on the ground, convinced my leg was broken. My whole leg throbbed. Small, Nicaraguan children and my entire team rushed over to me, asked me several questions, in a style that would put rapid fire to shame, in both Spanish and English, and eventually helped me hobble over to the side of the field. We propped my leg up, and several adults came over to ask me about the pain. One of our ministry contacts, Mario, was called, and I was driven back to the compound. Doctor Michael, who runs a clinic on the compound, came to see me. He speaks English very well, so we were able to have an actual conversation about my leg. He told me that there were three possible scenarios that could have happened, the most severe of which resulted in a broken leg; however, my scenario was the least harmful. He gave me ibuprofen and told me to rest, with my leg propped up, for a week. Not exactly the words I wanted to hear on my second day of ministry.
Two days later, after resting for a while, I walk into the bathroom and gently touch the bathroom sink. It briskly detaches itself from the wall and falls to the ground, and water spews out. I kind of half-yell, half-scream for help, and the girls come rushing into the bathroom. I am helpless. I have absolutely no idea what to do, and I can’t really move fast enough to do anything anyway. As Mario comes in a few minutes later, I just burst into tears. He has been called away from something else, once again, to clean up my mess. My squadmate, Kath, assured me that the sink was already loose, because she had felt it when wringing her clothes out earlier in the day. That didn’t really stop me from feeling at fault.
Fast forward to today: Our group goes to pray for families in a nearby village with a handful of Nicaraguan teenagers. I can finally lift my bum leg into the back of the truck we ride in, so I get to go. It’s the rainy season in Nicaragua, so there’s mud and puddles everywhere. We walk around for about an hour and pray with/for five or six families and finally we make it to the last home. As we go to leave, I slip and fall again in the mud. Not to brag or anything, but it was a pretty graceful fall, and I did not hurt my already aching knee in the least. There is, however, mud everywhere, and I am a mess. At this point, I’m laughing. My dear teammates help me up, and we are ready to go. As I go to take my first step, I fall again, this time resulting in a split and an ample amount of mud all over my legs and up my dress (of course I was wearing a dress). Now I am sufficiently embarrassed, and tears come quickly down my cheeks.
The lady whom we had just prayed with comes out of her home, a very, very humble residence, with a bowl full of clean water to wash off my legs and hands. I cannot describe to you how humbling it is, in that moment, to be served by the person whom you came to serve. I honestly did not believe I possessed a spirit of independence, nor that I was above assistance, until I was placed in a position of being served by someone who had very little and still gave me what she had. The sweet teenagers we’re with grab my hands and walk me all the way back to the truck.
You see, I have been struggling to believe that I am necessary, loved, and needed on my team. The women my team is comprised of are absolutely incredible. They are doers. They are intercessors. They are strong. I desire to look like them. I want to be independent. I keep hearing whispers, over and over again, from the enemy, “You are unnecessary. If anything, you’re a liability. You’re basically a nuisance. Why are you even here if you can’t DO anything? You’ll never do anything right.”
Here’s the thing, though. It’s very obvious that those words are not of God (though knowing that doesn’t make them easier to combat). If God were to define me by my capabilities and accomplishments, I would have absolutely no reason for hope.
When God looks at me, he sees Jesus. Miracle of miracles, he doesn’t count the day I cut ministry short on account of falling or the broken sink, or me falling down in front of a group of teenagers as my identity. He made me. He made this tender heart that bawls at the drop of a hat. He made my accident-prone feet. He made the brain that questions Him repeatedly, begging for answers, relief and sometimes for an end to all of the lies.
He humbled himself and became sin so that I could hang out with him for eternity.
His opinion of me is not dependent upon what I do or don’t do – ever.
Here’s the really, really cool thing. Neither is my team’s. My team leader approached me shortly after fall number 3, and said to me, “You are greatly loved. Whatever lies you are listening to from the enemy, don’t listen. Fight against. God will help you overcome. We love you and are honored to have you on this team.”
This is what Jesus’s love looks like. We come to him, teary-eyed, believing that we are rubbish, and he wipes our tears and tells us to make ourselves at home in his love. What wondrous love is this!
Grace and peace,
Sarah
