Christianity Today recently posted a groundbreaking article by Amy Peterson called Farewell to the Missionary Hero, and there are a few reasons why I feel it is extremely timely and essential to the movement I’m trying to build around a new missions paradigm. I’ve been noticing a trend lately in modern missions that excites me, a trend rising up out of the desire for the authentic, un-romanticized accounts of missionary life. This trend is a gathering hunger for a shift in the way we think of and do missions. This new missions paradigm is a hunger for a breakdown of the harmful stereotypes
So the rain pours sweet and cold. Washes away the dusty road grime. Cleans us. Fresh, like His love. I’m driving home after a long, sweaty day. I hold the tears back. 7 hours at the hospital. No food. No water. Only to find out another one. Another one has HIV. And she’s pregnant. Alone in this world. And I think of Mama Heidi’s words, “What does love look like?” So we stay and wait in the long lines. We hold hands through the ugly words. We pray. And we help her get medicine to keep this monster at bay.
I awake to a bright dawn in Mbale (ok maybe not as early as dawn) and then I spend a few lovely hours being with God reading and journaling. I am incredibly spoiled. I am loving this brief time of rest after the intensity of Mozambique and before the craziness of Gulu. I wonder how often we allow ourselves the pleasure of being a minister to God versus a minister to the world or how often we just settle into a feeling of complete acceptance without having to DO anything. “A friend of God enjoys the favor and acceptance
It is raining here in Uganda. I did not know how much I missed that fresh summer storm smell dripping from the banana leaves, bringing with it the promise of new life. I did not know that is, until I smelled it again, or smelled the chapatti Harriet was making in the kitchen. And I realized how much I belong to this place and how until I saw Lake Victoria’s mist rising up from the African dust, that the joy of all I am and all I long to be, rose up in me. I actually felt something shift in
“Who is this coming up from the desert leaning on her lover?” Song of Songs 8:5 I had an image. An image of a woman naked in the desert, bruised and bleeding. Like Elisa, whose body had been used, who had been chained in a chicken coop, like her, this woman was hardened and ashamed. But desperate. And I saw Jesus come and take her in His arms and wrap a white blanket around her that billowed in the wind. I saw Him draw her to the warmth of a fire and cook dinner for her underneath the moon’s light.
I only have a week left in Mozambique before I go back to Uganda and I am still trying to process through if I’ve changed, if so how much, what God is doing in me, what God has taught me and what impact that has on the rest of my life…so you know, small things. I was all prepared to write this blog about the amazing things I saw happen the last few days I was in the bush again camping in the dirt and ministering to a small village outside Pemba. I still want to write that blog. Because
I woke up with that verse in my heart “Mourning lasts for the night, but joy, joy comes in the morning.” And I truly felt it in my bones. And then the boy died. Hit and killed by a speeding truck. They say it happens. They say it is normal. Saw his little crumpled body strewn on the pavement and the blood congealed thick and red, redder, than I’ve ever seen, redder than my blood or an African sunset. They took the pulse even though they said his brains were out, spilled out like a piece of split fruit. Hit
“For the Lord has chosen ZION for he has desired it for his dwelling. This is my resting place for ever, here I will sit enthroned for I have desired it.” Ps 132:13 I feel like I’m on a roll-a-coaster and I’d like to scream for someone to let me off but it just keeps going—-ups, downs, and twisting sideways. They talk here about people having break-downs—just going off the reservation. Some days I can see why. It’s intense here at IRIS. We’ve got witchdoctors spouting off their jabba jabba curses on us, and half the base falling sick with
So I just got back from the BUSH BUSH, and by that I mean the kind of place where kids run up to you and then run away once they realize you are a WHITIE (“Acuna”—which is akin to Mzungu here) and they think you are going to eat them for lunch or something. But man, I think I would have just stayed out there forever if they had let me. The stars were enough to make me want to live out there in a cave somewhere. We drove about 6 hours on a bumpy bus ride out to an
(me with Medina after she came back to visit…feeling much better:) “I will repay you for the years the locusts have eaten…You will have plenty to eat, until you are full and you will praise the name of the Lord.” Joel 2:25-26 Another exciting day in Pemba. Was on the back of a truck heading into town and we got rear ended, so just another day in the life. 😉 No one was hurt though. I feel like its pretty normal practice here. The other day I got to ride on a motorcycle, (ok moped) reminded me so much of
Writer. Missionary Coach. Recovering perfectionist. I want you to know that you are loved and already good enough. I am about helping people move from brokenness into wholeness. Together, we'll make a more beautiful world.
Subscribe to Get your Free eBook: A Self-Care Plan for Global Workers