For the last few weeks, my team and I have been working with a local church as they hold “success camps” for the students of some of the area’s high schools. Legally unable to share the Gospel with intent to convert, our hosts develop relationships and build trust in the predominantly devout Muslim community by planning these camps. The curriculum taught includes topics like goal-setting, time management, and self-identity. And if the two camps we’ve already hosted are any indication, they have a lot of success in building relationships with these students.
Everyone wants to be friends with the Americans — we are the first white people many of them have ever seen in person. And now that I’m the only bearded man on my team, everyone wants to practice their English and get as many selfies as they can.
So why can’t I find my place?
I have nothing to add to these topics. I’m just not a fit for it. And all the material is in Kyrgyz.
That’s fine, I’ll suck it up and do my best.
Oh. Wait. No. I still suck at this.
I’m not one who takes too kindly to not being good at things. I just can’t accept it. If I’m not naturally good at it, I get good at it. Probably some personal things to work through there, but we’re not going there right now and you can’t make me.
When my team met to plan the lessons, no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t contribute. Goals and success and thinking big and self-discovery. These are not my realm. I felt useless.
So I took the job of photographer for our second camp.
Me. The guy whose mom has gotten mad at him for not taking pictures on any trip ever since second grade summer camp. The guy who sent his camera home in China because it took up too much space in his bag.
But being the photographer helped me feel useful. I was able to bounce around to all of the classes and groups to take pictures, and this allowed me to connect with more of the kids and be a part of every class. But we were out of town for this camp, meaning our hosts didn’t bring the projector or printer that were used to print pictures and play a slideshow for the party on the last day of our first camp.
My pictures were useless.
Today was our last day of camp. We finished around 2:00pm and made the one hour trip back to our guest house. Self-esteem at an all time low and feelings of inadequacy at an all time high, I set out on a run with hopes of clearing my head.
Half an hour later, exhausted and no closer to feeling any better about myself, I turn the corner to our guest house and see three tiny yet pristine FC Barcelona jerseys kicking a deflated volleyball up and down the gravel road between me and my nap.
I tried to sneak by, but somehow they noticed me. I look just like any other white guy with tattoos, a beard, and a ponytail. Are you telling me I don’t blend in?
I stopped, and after about thirty seconds, there was a group of about ten Kyrgyz kids, ranging from about five to ten years old and introducing an equally mint-condition Madrid jersey, kicking the ball around. I tried to get their names, but all I could get out of them was Messi, Neymar, Ronaldo, and Torres.
They let me be Suárez. Which was actually pretty cool.
(For the record, I wanted to be Dempsey. #USA #ibelievethatwewillwin)
But I still had every intention of kicking around for a minute and then saying adiós until Torres asked, “football play yes?”
I didn’t even have to think about it.
Um, duh football play yes.
We divided into teams. Torres and I played for Chelsea against the three perfect Messi jerseys, and after forty-five minutes, about a million uncalled offsides infractions, and too many moments of accidentally speaking Spanish to little brown faces out of habit, the score had to be something like 3,208 to 3,212.
—
I had a blast. But more than that, they had a blast. I was overwhelmed with our Lord’s heart for children as pure joy spread across their faces. When they scored, when the other team scored, when I celebrated excessively, and when it was time to go home, they just kept on smiling and laughing.
As we gained an audience, some parents came out to watch. Skeptical at first of the tattooed American in the streets playing with their kids (understandable), they quickly joined their children in laughing and applauding as the game went on. Afterwards, I was able to form relationships with these neighbors, as some of them spoke English. Each of these families practice Islam, and they actually started asking me about my faith.
They noticed something different about me, and it wasn’t that I was white. They didn’t know it was the light and love and truth of my Father pouring out of me as I simply did what He made me for, but they knew I was different.
That’s ministry.
—
I often wish I was more naturally gifted in areas that I’m not. Whether that be raw evangelism, being relational, teaching a class on time management, photography, or basketball.
But then, in the middle of performing my function as the part of the Body that He has created me to be, that’s when I feel most alive.
It’s then too that I realize that I’m wasting my time wishing I was a better hand or eye when He’s made me to be a foot. How much greater would my time be spent being the best flippin’ foot I can be?
I found my place.
And sometimes, all that looks like is saying “football play yes.”
—
If the foot should say, “Because I am not a hand, I do not belong to the body,” that would not make it any less a part of the body. And if the ear should say, “Because I am not an eye, I do not belong to the body,” that would not make it any less a part of the body. If the whole body were an eye, where would be the sense of hearing? If the whole body were an ear, where would be the sense of smell? But as it is, God arranged the members in the body, each one of them, as he chose. – 1 Corinthians 12:17-18
