The hope of a day to sit in a closed room with my Bible and a blank document at my fingertips faded away with each loping step that caught my momentum as we trudged down the rollercoaster grade hill to start our ministry. Our not-quite-on-time translator with a dead cell phone gabbed ahead of us as the clouds grew darker above and the slightly less white watch on my left wrist reminded me that we only had one hour of ministry. I threw up my hands in surrender to Jesus and prayed that He would take my day and show me what a living sacrifice meant. I asked for my steps to be directed even if it meant that I would eventually have to walk back up this ridiculous hill.
We crossed the valley and entered the next community, passing houses that a few of my teammates had already brought Jesus into. But we kept walking. I could feel the aggravation rising up, the flesh of my human body waging war against the spiritual task at hand. My annoyance grew as we stopped at our first house. A man speaking very rapid French with a bottle in his hands sat with a man and his twin daughters, the wife eyeing us interestingly with ears open as she continued her work around the house. Amidst the rough translation, it was hard to say whether our translator wanted to stop here, if the people before us even wanted to hear about this man named Jesus who had changed our lives, regardless of whether or not the enthusiastic thin man could comprehend what we were saying in between offering us drinks. Believing that Papa softens hearts, we sat down on the ground and I began to share my story, trying to speak truth in a loving way as frustrated emotions sat at the back of my voice.
So Jesus filled me with love.
As I spoke, not really knowing whether or not I was being understood, I watched as the French man would wave his arms and add to the story, seeming to be engrossed in his own tale rather than mine. But when he would stop and listen, you could see his dark eyes fill with emotion as memories seemed to fill his mind with sadness, becoming darker and yet brighter at the same time. He seemed lost in his thoughts but wasn’t ignoring my words. Love overcame me as I realized my purpose in fighting for him, fighting for him to be free, to delight in a Lord who sees him as he is, not as he was, who has a purpose and a reason for him to be alive, who doesn’t care if you don’t think you’re good enough because He declared that you were and sent His Son to save you. The most beautiful fact I have ever come to believe.
We prayed over this family, the three adults all accepting Jesus into their lives as their Lord and their Savior. My thin friend had turned around on the bench, facing us better with his drink behind him, a symbolic act I’m not sure he grasped the concept of and as he struggled to repeat the prayer, I had to believe that God knew his heart and He would fight for this man.
As we continued on our way I was reminded of two brothers I had met a few days before. In their mid and late 70s they had an appreciation of life that inspired me deeply. Their eyes would light up with a smile and the joy and peace that radiated from them was beautiful. Their somewhat thin and tall stature hinted at the strapping young men they once were. They told stories of the Lord’s protection and I was filled with memories of sitting at the feet of Bessy Lynn during training camp, acting as a granddaughter to a woman who never had company. They had a gentle humbleness about them and carried the presence of people you would want to spend all day with.
I saw the contrast and the similarities between these men, seperated by a long walk down and up hills yet joined together in my mind through the power of Jesus. I saw the dire want of peace in their lives, the knowledge that they could still have a full life regardless of age. I saw it in joyful eyes and behind the mask of temporary happiness covering a sad soul.
As we trudged back up that ridiculous hill, my feet trying to match the pump of my arms I thought about the passion for sharing the gospel that was new in my life. I thought about how easy it is to get tired of doing the same thing day in and day out around here and the pain washed over me when I realized that so often we get tired of sharing the gospel. Not out of a lack of love for seeing people come to Jesus, because it’s the most beautiful thing ever, but because all too often we are trapped in these human bodies.
But Papa knows me. Papa knows our hearts. Papa knew what I needed.
“Let us not become weary in doing good, for at the proper time we will reap a harvest if we do not give up.”
-Galations 6:9
So just wait for the next story….
