As my vision began to shake and blur, I thought of watered glass, forever unable to reach clarity. I had fallen asleep to rid myself of the pain, only to awaken to a fever so uncomfortable that I thought underneath my skin had to be a layer of blue fire. It was only 11 pm, and I had seven or eight more hours to go before I could get any help. I started to cry, but not voluntarily, it was as though my body were mourning its condition, screaming for help when I could not. My tears burned as they escaped, and I was surprised that I even had any liquid left in me to waste away on a metaphor for pain.
"Daddy, please help me," I managed to utter before plunging into another nightmarish hour of restlessness. I woke up again to an overwhelming nausea and found solace face first inside of a plastic tub. "Daddy, please help me," I said again, this time, barely even able to control my volume. Morning finally came. The girls came in to check on how I was, and after placing her hand on my forehead, Jenn said, "Okay, I'm afraid you're going to have to go to the hospital. I'm sorry if you disagree." I almost laughed, but I didn't have the energy. Poor Jenn, she was being so sweet the entire way to the hospital, but all I could focus on was forcing my gag reflex to calm itself.
Once we got to the hospital, we walked into Ann's room. (For those unaware, she had been in the hospital for 2 days due to amoebas reproducing in her intestines). Marian was with her, and they were both surprised to see us. I had a stool sample taken from me, before collapsing on the sofa. At one point, Jenn was on the bed, bum bared for the world to see, also having her stool sample taken by two nurses, Ann was fulfilling a urine sample request in the bathroom, Marian was sitting on the couch with incapacited me, and doctors were filing in and out, shouting, "I need your urine! Oh, not you -- the other one! And who is Stefanie?" It felt like we were at the butcher, waiting for our little colored paper slips to be called. "Who's got the urine?!" "Who needs their poop tested?!" "Who has the nausea?!"
The color in my face completely drained away. An hour or two passed before any results came. Ann had her IV taken out, and I moved from the sofa to her old bed. Sloppy seconds at its worst, one could say. They wanted to IV me before the results even came because my fever was still raging. I fell asleep and woke to overhearing the doctor announcing my diagnosis: "She has E. coli and parasites." I laughed to myself. There's gotta be some sort of 3 strikes rule, guys. First the bizarre food poisoning/fainting spell/8-hour romp in the hospital in China, Malaria in Mozambique, now this? Of course it's E. coli. Leave it to cosmic irony to grant the only vegetarian in our group of nine, E. coli. After shuffling away my bitter tug of war of resentment and gratitude, I puked again, and the girls prayed over me on that hospital bed, and my fever finally broke that afternoon.
I've been feeling a lot better now that I've gone through three rounds of antibiotics and have gotten a restful night's sleep, although I'm finding it very difficult to receive love and help from anyone. I try to one-handedly cover myself with very heavy blankets, knot the drapery (again with one hand), and wait until the very last drop to ask for more water. I knew that this would be something that Dad was going to present during this season, but I guess I'm a little upset that it had to be this way. I have this issue with feeling as though I'm a burden to those around me, and laying on a hospital bed latched onto a plastic tube hanging on a 50 pound metal stand is not the most glorious display of self-suffiency.
I asked my Dad for help, but my fists were clenched tightly.
All the while He's trying to tell me, "Open your hands, and receive!"
It’s funny how distorted our expectations are in light of His expectations. I’ve come to realize that so often God seems absent in the States because there are so many other man-made safety nets to fall upon. We’ve created replacements for our Creator and lifestyles apart and devoid of Him. . . and what happens when that safety net is torn from under you? You fall. You fall harder and harder and harder until you reach the bottom, and what does that bottom look like? The cushion of His grace and mercy. When you find that you’re completely dependent on Him, and you have nowhere else to go, that survivor instinct you’ve been trained to activate during times of need has no efficacy. My entire life, I was told that my only responsibility was myself. I can do this. If I don’t get this right, I won’t be able to prove myself. The dangerous part of this philosophy is what happens when I can becomes I can’t. When I’m truly honest with myself, I can’t. I’m not giving up, but I really can’t. The simplest lessons in life are the hardest to learn. Perpetually admitting that I can’t is exactly where Dad wants me to be. He doesn’t want me to prove myself. He doesn’t want me to rack up my accomplishments and plan my own life. He wants me to watch closely and wake up every morning saying, “I can’t do this, will You show me how?”
When we arrived at Los Gozosos, another volunteer separate from the World Race had already been here for two or three days. His name was Matt, and he was 17 years old, from Texas. Matt’s term here was set for one month, and his duties around the household were to complement our own: cleaning, sweeping, machete-ing, taking care of the kids, etc. Having been out on the field for so long, I had forgotten what it must have been like for him – plunged into a new culture with communication barriers, homesickness, and loneliness. A day can feel like six years when you first leave the comforts of home. On his eighth day, Matt went to the hospital. The doctors had diagnosed some sort of parasite, dehydration, and multiple infections. He stayed at the hospital for three days, and came back for a night, before leaving for the hospital again. He left on a return flight home this morning. What was supposed to be a month, turned out to be around ten days.
If you remember my last post, I mentioned a boy named Daniel. This is Daniel’s story from the Los Gozosos website:
“His mother is a prostitute from El Salvador. She left him in the care of a woman and her family in 2005 and never came back again. He was very badly treated there. In March 2006 he was turned over to the courts of Jutiapa. They moved him from place to place each month because they could not find a home for normal children willing to take him. Finally they placed him temporarily in a Catholic nutrition center where he was treated for severe malnutrition. The nuns found his mother, when the courts failed. She was working all those years in a bar very close by but never tried to contact her son. When court officials tried to locate her there she had disappeared.”
Daniel has a heart that I have never seen. At age fourteen, he cares for the other children, consoling them in their distress, and holding their hand when they need guiding. Only barely able to walk with much difficulty himself, it melts to heart to see him leading the other girls. After Matt left, Daniel shared his thoughts with me (in very simple Spanish) while we were setting the dinner table last night:
“I am sad.”
“Why are you sad, Daniel?”
“I am sad that Matthew left.”
“I know, I’m sorry.”
“Are you sad that Matthew left?”
“Yes, I am sad, but he had to leave because of his health, you know.”
“We need to pray for him.”
“Yes Daniel, we are going to pray a lot. Don’t worry.”
I am certain that Daniel has never known the “I can” philosophy. Having braved a compassionless childhood of neglect and rejection, how could he? Instead, he admits “I can’t” everyday. Falling face-first into dependence upon his Father. It’s humbling to hear a child with cerebral palsy and hemiplegic say that he is going to pray for another who is in need of healing, and, for ailments, the world would deem, less desperate than his own. He trusts in the goodness and the sovereignty of God, when, by all accounts, it really doesn’t make sense to. It doesn’t make sense at all, and I'm finding that that is exactly what faith is.
My mommy is the most beautiful woman in the world.
Her strength is inspiring, and her courage, unrivaled.
Most of all, when I've needed a perfect example of what a woman of God looks like,
I didn't need to look any further.
I remember when I was little, trying on my mother's clothes,
dreaming of the day that I would be big enough to fit them.
I remember never wanting to let go of her hand.
I remember feeling safe, and secure, hiding behind her.
She was my big, giant, grown-up, who always knew the right thing to do and say.
No one ever dared to argue with mom.
Twenty-three years later, I'm still learning from her.
I'm still trying to follow her giant footsteps.
Mom,
I've seen how far you've come, and it amazes me.
You walk in greater newness, freedom, healing, and redemption everyday.
I love you so much, and can't imagine being the person that I am today without your guidance.
I hate that we live in a world intrinsically pervaded by sickness and death. I hate it. It makes my blood boil and my fists clench. It makes me sick to my stomach. Why? Why are there children born out of prostitution and abandoned out of desperation? Why are there children who never have a chance at innocence? Why are there cycles of abuse and addiction that have consequences lasting generations? Why are there orphanages around the world shutting their doors because the proportion of orphans to homes is higher than ever? Why does the Sun rise and set tirelessly through it all?
These are the realities of the world, and while we would all love to look around and blame someone, we raise our fists at God and scream at Him for answers. “Why, God?” God, You created all of this, didn’t You? Didn’t You create a fallen world? Why do You stand by idly to watch it all unfold? We wring our hands of responsibility, pacifying that nagging feeling of “This can’t be how a perfect God wanted His creation to look like” with empty assurances like, “Everything happens for a reason.”
I’m not sure “for a reason” cuts it anymore. As I sat at the table eating lunch with sweet 11-year-old Helen, afflicted with Down’s Syndrome, her eyes erratically darted back and forth and her words came out as idle babble. “Mama, mama, papa,” she called everyone. She patted ever so gently at the plastic chair next to hers and invited me to sit with her with her other free hand grasping my arm. With a sad smile, I watched her and in that moment I realized, “I’m responsible for this little girl.” God, and she’s so darn smart, I just want to show her off. If you could only see for yourself how good her heart is, then maybe instead of feeling pity, you could see her not defined by her affliction, but you could see her in all her beauty and spirit.
Then I can peek with one eye across to the end of the table at Daniel before every meal as the children say grace, just to watch him pray with his hands clasped so tightly and his brows furrowed, gratitude so thick in his voice that it aches. Daniel, 14 years old, has hemiplegic cerebral palsy, but is always the first to set the table for the other children and smiles while doing it.
At night, as we all ready ourselves for sleep, I can hear sounds like groans and wailings of the kids reverberating through the walls and escaping into the air. I imagine these cries to be to God, in their helplessness. So I pray that He knows what He’s doing before I shut my eyes, because I cannot think of a good reason any longer.
John 11:35 is the shortest and quite possibly the most powerful verse in the Bible. It changes everything.
“Jesus wept.”
This wasn’t just a single tear flowing down one cheek. Jesus wasn’t just glossy-eyed, but he wept. He mourned in a fit of tears, so much that spectators assumed that whatever had caused His tears must have been important, cherished, and of great value. What had moved Jesus to tears? As the Son of God, shouldn’t He be well acquainted with suffering? Shouldn’t He be completely unsurprised by everything under the sun? Was Jesus mourning Lazarus, the individual, or was he overcome by a greater implication? I would venture to say that the answer is in the latter.
Our Creator makes no mistakes. Return to Genesis and read the proof. After every single thing that He created, He “saw that it was good.” Creation was intended to mirror His goodness. Creation was intended for His praise. . . but as we have all seen, something went wrong. Creation fell, and broke. We have strayed far from the goodness that our Creator intended for us.
If we believe that God is wholesomely good, that it is simply not possible for any evil or darkness to touch Him, then we have to believe that suffering and death come not from His hand, but from an external source. Sin (separation from the will of God), death, and suffering was the price paid for His creation’s free will. Jesus walked the Earth healing the sick, the blind, the deaf, and raised the dead. If He is the ultimate Healer, that would mean that there is something to be healed, and Creation is broken, and God wants to fix it. Creation yearns for renewal, restoration, and redemption.
Jesus didn’t weep for one individual, He was weeping for mankind. He wept for Creation. He wept because God weeps when we suffer. He wept because He is the only One who could deliver us from our suffering, and because we place the blame on Him – He who is the author of goodness. We may never find reasons to the painful mess, but I know that He doesn’t see these kids in their affliction, but He sees them in their perfection – the way that He intended for them. This, I hold fast to.
There will be a day with no more fear, no more pain, no more tears.
Here we are. . . Over thirty hours of travel + 16 hours of comatose recuperation, I found myself in Antigua, Guatemala: quite possibly one of the most beautiful little towns I've seen on the Race. I boarded the plane leaving the winter of Eastern Europe behind, and plunged into the heat of summer. It was as though the literal changing of seasons and the figurative changing of seasons in my mind and heart converged together as one. Debrief was a much needed time of rest and a sweet time to be able to spend with the entire squad as a larger familial community.
With this new season, Dad has called me to serve on a different team. I'm so honored and humbled to be able to enter into this new family of devoted disciples, of brothers and sisters. These next three months aren't going to be about coasting through and peacing out, but they're going to be about furthering intimacy, pressing inward, and looking back to say, "It was all worth it."
From Sisterhood to Amaranthine, and now, to Via Gloria, Dad is showing me the vast landscape of His divine appointment. Our name is Latin for, "The Way to Glory." As we pick up our crosses and continue to follow down the path that we so zealously began on, we press onward and sprint toward that glorious horizon of this . . . well, whatever this is.
Un-be-frikkin'-lievable! The countdown begins. Eighty-nine days until it's all over. The finish line looks so close, and so far away at the same time. I have all my things packed (After 8 months of practice, you would think that this would have gotten easier, but it hasn't by that much), and we're leaving tomorrow morning at 7:45 am to board a 14-hr bus straight to Budapest, and after that, boarding a plane to Guatemala around 2 pm the next day, arriving at, God knows what time and how many days later. This month has been an inexplicably difficult month, and while I'm petrified of what the next three months will look like, I trust that His sovereignty covers my fears. Before I left Bulgaria, I thought I would post some photos of memorable ministries and tell a few stories for those of you who have been starved to hear about what I've been doing. I'm assuming that's why you read these entries. But if that's not the reason, uh...oh. Gee, this is awkward.
Wendy, Maria, and I decided that the elderly and babies are the easiest to love, because they love you back so willingly and wholeheartedly. Everyone else inbetween is just selfish. Okay, that last part was my additional pearl of "wisdom," but it's true that the demographic in-between those two extremes are a lot less interesting. Am I saying that if I were a baby or really really old that I would be more interesting? Yes. Which is why The Curious Case of Benjamin Button was such a hit, and I am not... a hit. Anyway, by far my favorite ministry this month was an unexpected visit to a retirement home tucked away in a suburb of Sofia. The building was once used by the Communist regime solely for the close family and friends of the highest officials, but since then has transitioned into a home. I had never been inside of a retirement home, but waves of sadness poured over me as I walked past solitary old women sitting on park benches, staring ahead, passing the day with the same activity. I walked through the cold halls, and smelled death on the walls. People come and go out of this place. This is a place that sums up the human condition -- the race against time, and your numbered days. Rooms full of waiting. Waiting to be emptied and filled again. As we made our way through, I was surprised when we entered a room filled with sunlight.
"Okay, so you girls are going to share something, right?"
"Oh. Uh... we are?"
"Yes, we would like you to."
Unfortunately, this is very common on the Race -- to the point where I'm tempted to say, why bother planning anything, ever? Once I return to the States, I will wing all my presentations, speeches at weddings, any and all exams, and interviews. So I began sifting through my Bible, and I shared about how the Earth is governed by time, and the flesh, by its passage. However, God is not. While we are guaranteed that our fleshly bodies will eventually mingle with dirt, our lives in Christ are written into eternity. "He's not done with you yet. Moses was 80 years old when he was called into Egypt, and Sarah was an old woman when she gave birth to Isaac. She even laughed at God for even suggesting that she could physically give birth at her age." YET. . .while the elderly, to society, seem weak and invisible, they are seen and used by Him. Afterward, we prayed for the women, and they were so excited! It was the sweetest thing to embrace each of the women as though they were my own grandmother. As I held their hands, they spoke to me in Bulgarian as though I understood. (I later discovered that they were praying for a husband for me. Oh dear. With my mother and a bunch of Bulgarian women praying for me, he should be coming around the corner in a couple of days, right?) My favorite woman was the woman in the last photograph. She was abundant in joy and faith though she shared that she was orphaned at the age of 10 -- she was smiling the entire time.
Another unique ministry was having the opportunity to tag along on a photoshoot for the women's magazine at Mission Possible. I obtained most of the "off-camera" shots, because those are more interesting (to me), but the family that they were doing a story on was absolutely beautiful and it was fun to take photographs of them. The little girl in the last two photographs just wandered over to me during off-time. She was playing in the park and we had a little conversation. GAH she was so cute.
At this point, I have no idea what internet accessibility will look like in Central America, but I will say my adieus regardless because if we do have it, it's doubtful that it will be as readily available as it has been in eastern Europe (this might turn out to be a good thing, rather than anything else, but I should hold my tongue, lest I swallow my own words.) Signing off, and counting down.
This is a story about a fool and his prostitute. In this story, I am the prostitute, and so are you. You may have seen where this was going, but yes, it is a love story.
No, I’m not talking about Pretty Woman.
Julia Roberts and her shoulder pads though, whew, she really makes it hard to compete, doesn’t she?
All right, so I’ve always hated romantic comedies – pretty much ever since I realized that they induced mind-numbing idiocy and lingered like cancer for a woman’s heart, which could only be cured through some intense jaded therapy and popping some gel capsules of hatred and cynicism. Plop me in front of a film in which everyone dies tragically (but poetically with an artistic irony) at the very end, and I’m a happy girl. Oh, and some kettle corn would be nice too.
Anyway, back to the topic of prostitution, because I’m sure your brain fell asleep at that mental intersection and never accelerated after I went on the romantic comedy tangent. Why, you might be wondering, would I make such a statement of identity about myself? Or you might even be, (God forbid) nodding your head in enthusiastic agreement. I say that I’m a prostitute because if I’m completely honest with myself, my heart is deceitful, and knows not what it desires or pursues, and so, has sold itself to be left desolate by idolatry, time and time and time and time again.
When I applied for the Race, one of the compulsory factors to candidate consideration was the agreement to withholding from active relationships within the 11-month period. The point of the prerequisite was not to instate some hoity toity conservative Christian legalism, but to guard and protect our hearts and keep it pure for His attention and intimacy. Sounds easy enough. . .
But then I realized that underneath this porous organ stretched over a skeletal framework, contains not only other equally important organs, but millions of chemical messengers inciting hormonal surges. Of course half the squad came to Launch last September with chatter of their new beau or romantic interests on their lips and on their hearts. We were all dying for a distraction.
It’s like the perfect man requesting your company for a candlelit dinner, and while he sits on his side of the table, excitedly (and maybe even obsessively) watching the door to see you walk through, just so he could have the first glimpse of your smiling face. When, you finally do walk through the doors, in tow are all your past loves and even current lovers. The door just keeps opening, as the endless procession of your history reveals itself. You slump down in your chair, perhaps on the lap of a current lover, and ask for more chairs to be pulled up for the others, who indifferently check their mobile phones and pick at the free bread and butter set on the table. The entire time, God, still on the other side of the table, (He is the perfect man in this scenario, by the way) is attentively asking you questions about what you do for a living and genuinely interested in who you are, what you enjoy, and even, what you love. . . He reaches across to hold your hand, but all you can do is smeyes seductively at your first boyfriend and send text messages to your third.
By modern dating standards, God would be the idiot – the pathetic guy waiting by the phone, obsessively checking his Facebook in hopes of hearing from you: the hopeless cause, the one person that insists on rejecting him, but the only person he desires to know, to love, to pursue. Pathetic. Loser. Unwanted. Fool. God, don’t you get it? She’s just not that into you.
Why does He do it? Why does He pursue us so faithfully, knowing that all we’re going to do is rip His heart out with our infidelity? Why would He wait for hours, days, weeks, even years, hoping that someone will come around? Why would One with everything, choose a prostitute – an unworthy lover, to die for?
If you want to comprehend the heart of God, you will most likely find it in the midst of heartbreak and tragedy – for it is there that we realize the wages of our sin: how we ruin Him with heartache, anger, and betrayal. We are called to have an intimate relationship with our Creator, the only One who could ever really understand our hearts, and, the most intimate relationships that we have are the ones that hurt us the most. To be intimate with someone is to trust them. To be intimate with Christ is to trust Him. Intimacy hurts like hell, I think we all can testify to that.
But He made a covenant with us, promising to be with us wherever we go – to the end of the age. (Matthew 28:20) Covenant love is a promise – and not one that can be broken, it is a binding agreement. This is the love in which He pours over and covers us – love that is above sin, above time, above flesh and decay. . .He chose the impure to bring to Himself. He joins Himself to the helpless, the hopeless, the destitute, and the weak.
None of it makes any sense. At the same time, the hardest thing for people to understand is that you cannot, by your purity, earn your way into the heart of God. When you find out that to be human is to sin, and to sin is to fail, then you succumb to your own self-condemnation, wringing your hands in surrender: “Well there goes my shot of being accepted and loved by God – I threw it all away, and that’s that.” Our sinful condition does not push Him away. It does not prevent Him from loving us, because it’s by His grace that we can draw near, not by our own purity.
He pursues you to the bloody and bitter and wretched and disgusting end.
I’ve been thinking about this recently. . . about my deceitful heart, and what intimacy with God really looks and feels like. Like hearing someone smile on the other end of the telephone. Like standing before a piece of stretched and painted canvas and crying silently to yourself. Like hiding underneath the blankets and contorting your body beneath the folds of the sheets, holding your breath just to disappear – completely disappear. Sometimes it really hurts.
I thought I would end this post on a more lighthearted note, Maria and I prepared a little special something. . . and like most songs, I think this song could be nicely applied as though God were singing it to you (or me).
It feels like ten years since we first arrived in Bulgaria. Adjustment has become so much a part of life that I forget there’s an entire population that I’ve lumped into calling “home,” that doesn’t really know what’s happening. I keep forgetting to remember the difference between real life and this life or to acknowledge that maybe the two have melted into one another, finally.
Before I left for the Race I thought that I had a vision for the kind of person I was going to be at the end of it all. I was going to become more compassionate, a heart softened for the nations, channeling Mother Theresa. Love that woman.
I imagined a circle of indispensible friends who would know and understand my every struggle. I imagined a fanfare of loved ones when I returned, ready and eager to hear my stories.
I imagined my glorious, for-God, sacrificial moratorium to enhance my already frikkin’ awesome life. Most of all, I imagined my relationship with Dad to just skyrocket to new heights. He and I would finally see eye-to-eye, and somehow, because I was so obedient and trustworthy and faithful in my journey, He would reward me for my deeds. In a way, I thought this mission trip would solve all my problems.
I wouldn’t have to seek God, because, duh. I’m a missionary, and don’t missionaries get special privileges and, you know, nametags in the heavenly circles? Don’t they get special swag with rhinestone words engraved like “VIP 4 GSUS” on them and an elaborate red carpet premiere at the pearly gates like those saints? (Let’s disregard the whole martyrdom caveat for one second.) God would just ARRIVE daily because being a missionary automatically brings you closer to God.
I wouldn’t have to deal with heartache, because, obviously, my heart is so on fire for God that He’s going to take care of my heart, and I won’t have to deal with temptation or lust because I’m on an all women’s team, and there will be no one around to pull me away.
I wouldn’t have to worry about the future, because I already know what’s coming at least for the next eleven months.
And, of course, because this is life, I woke up everyday this past week in tears because I realized how wrong I was, not about just one thing, but about everything. My life is still the same mess, if not messier than when I left. And, I have nowhere to hide from it. Then of course, in His mercy and compassion, in His gentleness and assurance, He tells me. . .
First of all, it’s not about you. Isn’t that why you gave everything up in the first place? Didn’t you want to make it about Me? Instead, you clouded your mind and your heart with worries and anxieties. I’m not concerned with mere problem solving. Problems will always be around. I’m concerned with your sanctification, for My glory. Because it’s not a matter of if your idols will fail and hurt you, it’s when. I’m concerned not for your happiness, but for your holiness. These past eight months haven’t been for you, they were never meant to be for you. It was never your journey, your team, your squad, your route, your blog, your words, your prayers, but Mine.
And of course, to that, I respond with 2 of Dad’s favorite words to hear, “You’re right.”
I had two Easters this year. It was pretty awesome.
For the first Easter weekend (the American one), I wrestled with God. He tested me and challenged me, and it was not easy. For the second Easter weekend, I experienced resurrection. It’s like He performed heart surgery on me, and created in me a brand new heart, with brand new resolve, and brand new fire.
Newness.
Were it not for the Resurrection, Christianity would be a joke. (It still is to some, but that’s because they don’t believe in the resurrection.) It is all about the Resurrection. If it stopped at the crucifixion and the grave, Jesus would just be another man, just another corpse laying in the ground, but He rose, and because of that, everything changed. Nothing was ever the same.
I’m not trying to write anything even remotely profound enough to be worthy of an Easter post (I feel like that’s a lot of pressure, geez.) I’m just saying that this sad little misinformed missionary realizes that because of her current state, she needs to seek Him MORE, and not less, and that it’s not about her, but it’s about Him.
Oh, and, if you’re curious about what’s been happening in Bulgaria (I always feel like this part of the blog is boring), we’re working with an organization called Mission Possible which helps local churches reach out further to the unreached. My main ministry has been in the kitchen, making dinner for my team, and sometimes it really feels like my task is absolutely pointless, because I could just heat up some ramen and pasta and call it a day, who would know the difference? But I realized the other day that this is what I love to do. It takes me back to days in college where I would skip class just to make sure the bread that I was baking from scratch came out nice and moist. (Yes, I’m serious). Or when I would come back from class completely fatigued and still have the desire to make a four-course meal and text everyone to come over….
Well it’s kind of like that, except, not.
I know, I’m so weird…
Anyway, time to start my paella!
This is the absolute last thing that I thought I would ever write about. Yet, Dad placed it on my heart about a week ago, just as an idea, and it has resurfaced again and again until here I am, furiously typing (the angry furious, not the quick furious) and still contemplating whether or not at the end of these paragraphs, I’ll watch the blinking cursor for days before I click “Post.” I suppose if you’re reading this, you’ll have known the result of my mental turmoil.
Being on the Race has been kind of like living in a Christian sorority, only, a tad less glamorous and with less perks (booty shorts with embroidered Greek letters on both cheeks not included.) I’ve never been in a sorority (and never had the desire), so I don’t know how accurate that comparison applies, but for argument’s sake, let me lay out the stats: out of a squad of 41, only 10 are men. Two are married. 31 female singles, 8 male singles. 2 are betrothed, and I’m not sure how many are currently in a relationship, but I think it’s more than safe to say that the majority of people on our squad are women. To bring my point home, both of our amazing, loving, kind, humble, and compassionate squad leaders are, surprise! Women.
Of course I would like to say that being surrounded by women is new for me, but it’s definitely not. I’m on an all women’s team for crying out loud, and I have been since the beginning. Growing up, and well into adolescence, all of my best friends were women. I studied art and French at my university, so, clearly, 95% of my peers were female. As most of you may know, my relationship with my father is in repair, so a strong, authoritative, male presence in the household was also absent. My mother was everything to me as a child. My caretaker, my discipliner, my educator, and my emotional and physical provider.
This leaves me pondering the resounding question of. . . “Where are all my Christian brothers?”
I read about them. . . Max Lucado, Billy Graham, Mark Driscoll. . .
I listen to them. . . Delirious?, Chris Tomlin, Matt Redman, Phil Wickham. . .
but I look around, and well, I rest my case.
They must be congregating on an island somewhere.
I am proud of my sisters for their steadfast faith, for their obedience, for their constancy. Praise the Lord for how far the church has come in acceptance and acknowledgement of the essentiality of the gifts of women in the Body of Christ. Please do not mistake my intentions in what I’m calling to your attention now.
Ready for some more concrete stats?
According to a nationwide survey in 2000 conducted by Barna Research Group, 60% of Christian believers are women. This next point is shocking, but there are between 11 – 13 million more born again women than men in the U.S. This doesn’t even account for the “Christian” on paper and by title, and the Christian active in their faith.
So what went wrong? What’s the deal?
Don’t get me wrong, I have met and worked with Christian brothers who truly loved the Lord with all of their hearts, all of their minds, and all of their souls. I have seen full-grown men, down on their knees, sobbing before the Lord – reaching for more Kleenex, and face planted on the floor. I have seen deliverance and freedom and earth shattering prayer come from the mouths of my brothers. I am inspired by the few brothers on Z-Squad because they hold a standard, and that bar is celestial. I am encouraged because they are men of truth, of honor, and of love. They walk humbly, serving tirelessly.
Maybe the fault is of the church.
What does the church propagate Christian maturity to look like for a man?
Here are the headlines for being a man of the world:
SEX! ALL THE TIME! ANY TIME YOU WANT! NO STRINGS ATTACHED! SELF SUFFICIENCY! INSTANT GRATIFICATION! I DO WHAT I WANT! NO COMMITMENTS!
Here are the headlines for being a man of God:
RESTRICTION! MARRIAGE! FAMILY! PRESSURE! EXPECTATION! BEING A NICE GUY! JUDGMENT! BEING TOLD WHAT TO DO! BOREDOM!
It makes more sense when put in all caps why the church would be a prison for the modern man – just an institution that churns out “good, nice, guys” whose big boss was another man named Jesus who never had a girlfriend, who is painted as “weak,” because he preached things like “turn the other cheek” and talked a lot about sheep and fish and covenants instead of “stab the guy right back in the eyeball” and “the 10 step process to getting nicely toned abdominal muscles.”
Somehow being a God-fearing man conjures up perverted images of pedophilic priests, the acne-prone nerd who tells bad jokes and nobody likes, or your mean grandfather. What does it mean to be a man of God? What does it look like to follow this man named Jesus? Are you swift like a coursing river? With force like a great typhoon? Or do you have strength like a raging fire?
Well, it’s not an easy road.
He said,
"If anyone would come after me, he must deny himself and take up his cross and follow me.”
His disciples gave up everything. Everything that they had, erasing even everything that they knew. The apostles suffered, were persecuted, tortured, and martyred. St. John the Baptist was decapitated and had his head presented on a platter. Jesus didn’t go around shouting, “Follow me, and you’ll get a promotion, you’ll become 60% more physically attractive, and have a bevy of virgins at your bidding.” The promise of imminent persecution just for knowing Jesus doesn’t sound very appealing. What could possibly be so enticing about this God that mortal men would give up perfectly content lives to follow? Must be pretty great. In John 6, it says that many disciples even deserted Jesus, saying, “This is very hard to understand, how can anyone accept it?” (verse 60)
He says, “I am the resurrection and the life. Anyone who believes in me will live, even after dying. Everyone who lives in me and believes in me will never die.” John 11: 25-26
How is Jesus an example of a real man? Was He like Hercules? Clark Kent? Was he stoic like a Hemingway character? No, He was a man of power and authority. He suffered well. He wept. He was angered at injustice. He fought. He was wise. He had self-control. He loved deeply. He had compassion. He was humble. He was forgiving. He pursued relentlessly. He challenged. He confronted. He healed. He was faithful. He cast out demons. He trusted the Lord. He prayed. He respected women. He adored children. He probably took out the trash and put the toilet seat down.
Looking at this portrait of Jesus doesn’t spell “weakness” or “nice guy” to me at all. It brings me to tears. Jesus is the portrait of a real man. A man who is faithful and never gives up. He is not fluffy, feminine, overemotional, but real, truthful, and good. He beckons us not to be complacent, but to move. I can’t imagine what it must feel like for a man to follow after footsteps as big as His. Yet He knew this, and promises that there is no condemnation in His name. (Romans 8:1)
And I would go further to admit that. . .
Maybe the fault is my own. I’ve walked out of so many painful and disappointing relationships that to nurse my own ego and my own wounds, I’m quick to make generalizations and judgments about all men. I place my expectation and hope on man when really, my eyes should be glued onto the love of God.
Girls, they’re not perfect.
You want them to be, but they’re absolutely not.
They’re human, so they’re fallen, and so are you. So am I. (Definitely not perfect by any means) We women need to pray for our Christian brothers – to rise up and be men, true followers of the living, breathing, active, and passionate God. We need to pray that they will stand in faith as their ancestors before them, that they would take their rightful places in the church, in ministry, and in our hearts.
So here’s my plea,
Brothers, we need you. I need you.
Little boys need mentors and spiritual fathers.
The world needs more men like Jesus.
You, my brothers, bear the name and inheritance of the King of Kings. Rejoice and use that authority.
I believe in you.
How to adjust her pace of walking from “cheetah” to “three-legged donkey” just to make sure I always had a companion.
How to talk to a puppy.
How to capture the moment with her Flip: e.g. “No point intended.”
How to get the best work out (usually involves a wheelbarrow).
How to straighten my cowlicks.
How to speak foreign languages (Mix together all the words that you already know in that language. E.g. HAMBURGER HAMBURGER HELLO!).
What people said or did in their sleep.
How to quote Anchorman.
How to do laundry in the kitchen sink.
How to ride a horse for five hours.
How to kill spiders and cockroaches fearlessly.
Get lost in a Mozambiquan village.
How to save chickens.
How to observe the subtleties of people.
How to be adorably nerdy.
How to tell the best stories.
How to surprise me.
How to maintain situational awareness.
How to teach me (Will have to have another round of swimming lessons though…).
How to explain the inexplicable (random trivia knowledge and beyond).
How to serve selflessly.
What to say.
How to encourage others.
How to fix literally, everything.
How to sit beside me.
How to cry with me.
How to assure me when I was scared.
How to love me.
How to celebrate my victories.
How to motivate me.
How to inspire me.
How to laugh with me.
How to give generously.
How to persevere.
How to mother orphans.
How to look beautiful without trying.
How to trust in Him.
That He makes all things work together for her good.
Megan Lynn Miller left the Race today. Today, she packed up her things and left a legacy, not just of Cheez – its and an entire economy size bag of pistachios from Costco, but a trail of tears and memories that will replay in my mind and on my tongue for years to come. Her announcement to leave came as suddenly as a bad hair day and before I knew it, she was searching for flights, and now, four days later, she’s gone. Her bed is empty in the next room, and I can’t figure out why. I keep thinking that she only left for little while – like to the grocery store to pick up some yogurt or to the bathroom after a bad meal. I keep thinking that any moment now, she’ll walk through the door in her oversized hoodie, find a corner she can snuggle into with her pastel green blanket over her knees (the one with the penguin patch that her best friend Kristine made her), and read one of the many books that she lugs around with her ever since her Kindle passed away in Africa. But it never happens. I miss her.
People who’ve done the Race before always say that month 8 is a defining month – they always say that month 8 is when “breakthrough” happens, whatever that means. I guess they were right. Things certainly have changed. It hasn’t even been a week into this month, and I feel like I’m looking down into this endless spiral. I feel like I’ve given so much. I’m tired, and we still have another continent to reach. If I find the strength to carry on, it has to be from Him. It has to be You, God, because my heart is broken.
