The road goes ever on..

Well, Beloved. And what can I say to all of you regarding Missions? That it is a bumpy road; a long road; a dusty road; a hard road. This was true for me. I found it difficult to make the initial decision to go on a mission trip. I began the process at least three times only to drop out beforehand. Not secure enough; not brave enough; not strong enough.

One day something changed. Not in me, but in spite of me. I committed. I started. I took baby steps. I translated. I planned. I gathered together and prepared and suddenly one day I was packing.

It was difficult because I had to exxteeeennnddd myself; reach beyond what I thought I was capable of, and trust God, the team leaders and my own abilities. It was also much easier than I thought.

Not knowing what to expect, I found poverty, hardship, despair, quiet desperation. I cried and wondereed why I was exempt.

Then I looked deeper, saw more clearly, became enamored of the community and saw with clear sight.

This is what I saw.

Joy. Unadulterated, untainted, unmarred. There is no shadow but what is found in the human heart. But in the faces of children, there is some reflection of the joy of the Lord.

On mission I travelled down that long, bumpy, dusty road. And somewhere on that road, somewhere in the middle of getting there and you've arrived, I found "missions". Or rather it found me. I found joy, or rather Joy found me. The joy of the Lord. The joy of a job well done. The joy of being perfectly fine and in the center of God's will.

The road goes ever on. Joy will find you as you journey. God bless.

JOY is a four letter word

Got an email the other day. Seems last year's team members meet to discuss future mission trips and how to continue our ongoing presentations to the congregation. I am informed they want me to prayerfully consider giving the testimony for the new year in January.

Uh, huh. And how do I do this exactly???? When I can barely figure out my thoughts/feelings regarding the last few months/weeks. I am a (barely) functioning wreck.

At the moment, I don't even know why I went to Guatemala, much less if it was worthwhile or beneficial. (I know what others will say--I'm talking about what it meant to ME: the for real, in the dark; deep down in my soul me...).

I mean, did I go to Guate to get away from the family crisis parked in my living room at the time?? (The suicide, Nena Death, motherinlaw living with me, cancer diagnosis crisis), or did I go for the "right" reasons whatever those are.

I don't think I can "prayerfully" get in front of a congregation and give any kind of testimony. At least not the kind they want. I might get on the mike and say, "Don't go. It's hard, nasty, dirty, hot, expensive and embarassing. It's difficult and dangerous, and you probably won't see any tangible results from your effort."

That'll get their attention. I'll have them hanging on every word. But it won't be productive or useful to mission work.

I don't "prayerfully" think I can "prayerfully" do a "prayerful" testimony.

How come they asked me?? Do they think Bert's heart attack (coupled with the rest of the 2010 Mess) makes me stronger??? That I will be distilled/refined/sharpened into a missionminded tool for God??? Give me a break. I just want to cry all day; crawl in a hole and wail at God for giving me this cup, and then ask Him in His infinite mercy to please don't give me any more, right now, 'kay?

Into the hands of the Lord

Sometimes in the morning when I wake, my hands are tightly clenched.

Two years ago this month my father passed away. He'd had a severe stroke and his prognosis was bleak: a few days; a week at most. He lived for another two and half years. During those two years I watched him decline--slowly at first and then faster as his last day drew near.

What I remember most about this time was how he retreated into himself. As his mind closed down, so did his body. Nothing was more evident of this to me than his hands. In health he had big, robust hands. A little too large for his frame; somewhat meaty. The hands of a hard worker. But as the illness swallowed him up, his hands became useless.

I would tell him, "Papi, open your hands" and pry them open. I would give him objects to grasp, a kitten to pet, a grandchild to hold. Nothing worked for very long. His closely clasped hands were the outward evidence of his inward malaise.

Now I'm preparing to undertake a mission trip. And I know my hands should be open. In supplication. In service. In humble offering of myself. I've read a lot of 'hand' references. The bible is full of them. I know my anxieties should be laid at the foot of the cross; I should be holding everything loosely, as nothing belongs to me; my hands should be clasped in prayer; lifted in worship.

But in the morning I wake up with indentations on my palms where my fingernails have dug in during the night.

"I am in deep distress. Let us fall into the hands of the LORD, for his mercy is great; but do not let me fall into the hands of men." 2 Samuel 24:14

I have a prayer request. I want hands that cling only to His promises. I want hands that serve. And I want to wake up with open hands.

the first

This is the place to write our thoughts and connect with others. Well, I have few thoughts about this trip, but quite a few concerns. I've heard the testimony of others who have gone on this trip in the past, and though I'm grateful for their insights, I'm aware that nothing will assuage my fears (that might be too strong a word--anxieties, maybe?) except the experience itself. At the end of the day it will be my perceptions and knowledge that shape and inform my experience in El Tamarindo. And I'm just thinking--I may not be up to the challenge.

As per the instructions received in one of the training videos provided by FFH, I am trying to expand my horizons concerning the upcoming mission trip (currently listening to a taped sermon on poverty). Here's what I've learned: I know nothing. This is an area totally outside my reality.

At the moment I am praying that God equips me to be a positive influence. Not for Riverside, or So. Baptists, or Americans (not even a real Gringa). Just for His Kingdom. What do I bring to this endeavor? Nothing. I've got nothing. :)

Nothing in my hand I bring,
Simply to the cross I cling;
Naked, come to thee for dress;
Helpless, look to Thee for grace;


I am praying for God's grace.

"Saving is all his idea, and all his work. All we do is trust him enough to let him do it. It's God's gift from start to finish! We don't play the major role. If we did, we'd probably go around bragging that we'd done the whole thing!"
-- Ephesians 2:8-9 (The Message paraphrase)

Peace.