Missionary Rehab

I sat alone in our new-to-us car and I banged my hands on the steering wheel and yelled at God that I was angry that this was happening. That I didn’t want this car or these plans or these good-byes.  I let Him know straight up that it was unfair because we had planned our life there in the Amazon. We sold all of our stuff four years ago, REMEMBER?! That was because the jungle was supposed to be our new forever home. Tears flowed to the point that my heart physically ached in my chest and my breath caught in my throat.

It was an ugly cry, y’all. I’m glad no one else was there because you can’t unsee that.

And I want to tell you that after that I was better. I really want to say that one good cry and BAM! the Holy Spirit washed me with a renewed confidence in His goodness and sovereignty and that I was suddenly a well-adapted protégé of our missionary forefathers, full of faith and trust in an all knowing, all sufficient God. {Insert Sunday morning fake smile here.}

Instead I’m in counseling because some days I. just. can’t.

It’s missionary rehab, if you will.

I sat in the parking lot before my first session and almost had a straight up panic attack. I was sniffing essential oils like an addict and texting Richard so that I didn’t talk myself out of it. “What kind of missionary needs counseling?” Right?

My first session was an hour and a half long. About an hour in, I paused after spilling the overview of our life for the last four years all over her in addition to filling a few tissues with snot and tears. I just sort of stared at her.

She calmly listened, handing me a new kleenex as needed. Bless her soul. She’s a good one.

Her words: “I think if I got down one of my books on traumatic life events from my shelf, you would be able to check nearly all of them off the list and then some. It’s a miracle of God that you and your family survived many of those situations independently, much less all of them. Rest in that truth that it’s ok to be in this place of fear, anxiety, and confusion. It’s not the end.”

My instinct was, “Don’t patronize me. You don’t know my life.”

Defensive.

But then I realized she wasn’t. (And I had in fact just shared with her much of my life... soooo she kinda did know my life...) The reason I was sitting in her office was because we’d gone through some legitimately traumatizing things and that was ok. There was healing and hope still.  Breath of fresh air.

I went back the following week and then the following three weeks and it’s been both painful and healing. Because something happens when we are honest about our pain and we talk through the trauma in light of Hope.

After the difficulties of our adoption and the isolation we experienced those first two years among other things, I developed an anxiety disorder that’s only increased in intensity since being Stateside. After all, you don’t get to leave the country for four years and maintain relationships the way they used to be, especially in a region with internet access comprable to that of 1999. Even more so relationships that were severed due to others’ lack of understanding of life there and differences in preference. Now I find myself in the city where I was born and raised with no close friendships.

It’s a very strange place to be.

The abrupt (to us) ending of our time overseas makes me feel much like Moses on the mountain staring at the Promised Land but not actually getting to enter it. We walked some deep, dark valleys and only in the last six months of our time there did we finally begin to see buds of fruit. A community of Believers uniting for the cause of Christ. Incredible, unexplicable things happening. Beautiful.

And then God said, “Move. You can’t stay here.”

And my heart feels the heaviness of leaving all that we have known and loved and pursued and sacrificed for, only to return to a wilderness of reverse culture shock and loneliness and not knowing even where to begin to share the incredible things that God has done and is doing there.

I went a solid two months without makeup because why? Tears are no respecters of mascara.

But there in that small room with the counselor who is an MK (missionary kid) herself, I can work through these emotions and she gives me perspective and hope.

My day to day is still very much a roller coaster of fear and anxiety. A simple decision at the grocery store can send me straight to the Cliff of Internal Meltdown (WHY ARE THERE SO MANY OPTIONS OF KETCHUP?!). Running into someone I knew in what feels like a previous life can make my heart pound so loud I can hear it louder than our conversation (WHAT AM I SUPPOSED TO TALK ABOUT?!).

This is all new to me. But turns out that actually, it’s pretty standard if we read—truly read—through Scripture and even biographies of modern missions. Life is a series of planning our ways in faith and then holding them loosely. It’s a story of being human with all its inconsistencies and fears and doubts and short-sightedness and yet still trusting through it. And slowly but surely through each season that ultimately leads to surrender to Him in His perfect ways, we find ourselves more and more in His image. Our faith grows. Our trust in Him grows. We lose more of ourselves.

Elisabeth Elliot put it this way:

“There is no ongoing spiritual life without this process of letting go. At the precise point where we refuse, growth stops. If we hold tightly to anything given to us, unwilling to let it go when the time comes to let it go or unwilling to allow it to be used as the Giver means it to be used, we stunt the growth of the soul. It is easy to make a mistake here, “If God gave it to me,” we say, “its mine. I can do what I want with it.” No. The truth is that it is ours to thank Him for and ours to offer back to Him, ours to relinquish, ours to lose, ours to let go of – if we want to find our true selves, if we want real life, if our hearts are set on glory.”

So I figure if Elisabeth Elliot can say that, and she walked through some high flames, I can buckle down and trust that He really is that good and He is sovereign and I can throw to the wind like chaff from the wheat what others think and what fears may linger in my heart and I can lean hard into Him and trust that He’s never let us down and He sure isn’t going to start now. That His ways are truly higher than ours and I can not only rest in that but rejoice in that wholeheartedly as I look over the last four years and how it’s been proven true time and time again.

This process of letting go is so hard, but it’s also so. incredibly. beautiful.

When You Know You Aren't Called

I watched him as he focused so intently on those little circles on the page. His little hand moving slowly but surely.

It felt surreal. This is the same boy who I had little hope for. The one I wrote about just last year and the emptiness in his eyes. And yet here he was, in his little red “House Grace” shirt with a pencil in hand and dedication in his mind.

“How can this be?” I thought to myself. “How is it that God would allow us to do this thing? How is it that He would let us be a part of loving the least of these in this way?”

I remember vividly the conversation that I had with Richard when we began seeing so many needs for these littles running barefoot and wild in the streets every day. Back when they filled our living room every morning and we filled their bellies with eggs and bread and hugged them tight. Richard and I sat together and life was lonely and heavy and doors had already started closing to our aviation dreams and we were wondering what our role was here in the place after all. And I told him that these kids needed a safe place.

“We weren’t called to start a children’s home,” he said. And I knew that was true. After all, {confession} I mostly didn’t even like being around kids that weren’t my own.

And yet, there was still something. The weeks passed and still this lingering thing that there was something brewing in our hearts for these kids and while we weren’t called to run a children’s home, maybe we were in fact called to build one. To facilitate. To empower.

My mind wandered even further back. Back before we moved on the street that changed our lives. Before we saw these sweet faces and met Rosa and our life was forever altered. I was sitting in the kitchen of another missionary. We had only lived in Benjamin Constant for maybe two weeks and we had yet to look for a house. They had taken us in for the time being and were orienting us on the small town we now unexpectedly called home.

“There are a lot of abandoned kids here,” he told me. “Parents abuse or neglect their kids, but there is no where for them to go. No safe house or orphanage. If fact, there is a surprising high number considering it’s such a small town.”

“Listen up,” I remember distinctly hearing the Holy Spirit whisper to my heart.

It was almost audible. I think I may have even had a look of confusion on my face when I thought, “How in the WORLD does this apply to ME?”

He went on about this need and I listened. And something was nagging at my heart, telling me to remember this conversation.

And now, over three years later, I sit with a little boy as he practices writing letters for the first time. A boy who refuses to go to school and his mom doesn’t care if he eats or has clothes or studies. But here he is. At Grace House under Rosa’s daily care being loved and told that Jesus loves him. That He died for him. That there is hope for him.

I glanced up when I heard a boy call out, “Chico!” Chico looked up and three boys walked by laughing at him.

Chico hung his head and stopped writing.

“Hey, you’re doing great! I’m so proud of you. Look at this “o”! You’re really learning a lot,” I spoke truth over him.  I smiled at him. “You’ve got this.”

He sat up, just a little, and started writing again. He finished moments later and looked up at me with the sweetest grin to show me his work.

“Incredible.”

He scurried off to play and my heart swelled. There is Hope in this place. Hope for Chico and his big sister whose story would break your heart to pieces. There is Hope for every one of the forty plus kids that come through these doors every day. Jesus loves these kids and He has plans for their futures and we get to play a small part.

I know what that feels like, that moment when your peers laugh. They see what you’re doing and they scoff, “They don’t know what their doing! This thing can’t make it. They’re unqualified. They don’t know what they want. They need {insert whatever here that they seem to know that we don’t}.”

Sometimes it makes me want to do just like Chico, hang my head and stop for a while. Maybe they’re right. Maybe this whole thing will crumble apart. Can we really impact an entire town by reaching a few kids? Can we really overcome evil with good?

But the Holy Spirit whispers, “Hey, you’re doing great! I’m with you! This is My work. You get to be a part. Believe Me. You’ve got this because I’ve got you. You were called to this.”

So we put our hands back to the plow and we trust that He who is in us is greater than He who is in the world. And I see Richard, now so passionate about something we were "not called to do". And we know that He did call us to this, even if it was never in our pretty, laid-out plans. His ways are so much higher than our own. He has a purpose and even if we only reach one, that’s enough.

Join us. Join us as we love the least of these. Pray for their souls to know Christ. Pray for Rosa to have strength to endure the trials and faith to carry on, despite opposition. Pray for these volunteers that sacrifice their time and resources every week to love these kids and show them there is Hope and His name is Jesus. Pray for the kids’ lives to be impacted. Pray for the parents’ lives to be impacted. Pray for funds to come in. Pray for the Spirit to open hearts and eyes to the needs here so that they sacrifice and give.

Pray. Give. Believe with us that this little home can make a huge difference for His Kingdom, right here.

Honestly...

Honestly, sometimes I would rather read a book about God than actually read God's book.

I struggle with this a lot. I know it's a heart issue and it doesn't make sense in the big picture. But right now it's true and it's what I must confess and intentionally allow the Holy Spirit to change in me.

I look back at times in my life when the Bible was my source of life and strength. I longed to read it and soaked it in like a sponge. But not right now.

God, help me.

Confessions of a Missionary Part Dos: I have a [real] tattoo.

Whew! I've wanted to say that for a long time.

To some of you, this is a shock. Maybe I even just dropped a few notches in your book.
To some of you, you wonder what the big deal is. You have twelve tattoos and you're getting another one tomorrow.
And some of you just don't care. This is petty to you. [If this is you, don't feel obligated to keep reading.]

Regardless, this is a relief for me to say. Why?
Because it's on my ankle and I've been trying to hide it for 2.5 years, that's why. That's not an easy task for goodness sake. Imagine: summertime = shorts + trying to hide a very obvious tattoo that is clearly [and permanently] etched into your ankle = very difficult

Why have I tried to hide it? After all, I was the one who consciously got the thing! It's a long story. So, if you're up for it, take a few minutes to read a little bit of my story...

I come from a very conservative background and I'm--wait for it-- a missionary. If you can relate to either of those, you understand the taboo-ness of tattoos in this realm. They are right up there with going to movies and reading from modern translations of the Bible. Unacceptable! Sinful even.

If you don't, however, come from a conservative background and/or you're not a missionary then you have no clue what I'm talking about. As a matter of fact, you may have several tats that are clearly visible and you proudly display them. Maybe you and your Pastor have matching tattoos. I don't know. But regardless, you don't see what the big deal is.

Allow me to explain.

When I was about 11 years old I developed a religious form of Obsessive Compulsive Disorder (OCD). (Google it. It's not uncommon.) I had been taught, whether purposefully or not, a checklist Christianity.

Read your Bible. Check.
Pray. Check.
Tell people about Jesus. Check.
Don't cuss. Check.
Don't drink. Check.
Don't smoke. Check.
Don't get tattoos. Check.
And Jesus will be happy with you. Check... right? Or did I miss something? I don't want Jesus mad at me. Let me try this again..... Read your Bible. Check. Pray. Check.........and so commences the OCD.

[I'm being transparent here. I hope it doesn't make you too uncomfortable... or maybe it should.]

I was obsessed, but not with Jesus Himself. Not with knowing God. Not with loving Him and humbly serving Him. I was obsessed with the motions. I wanted to "do the right things" so I could somehow be in favor with God. I wanted to be a "good person", not one of those "bad people" who did do all these things that I didn't do. Sinners.

I distinctly remember some of my thought processes. I would pray using the "right words" (Heavenly Father, Lord, in Jesus name, Amen, etc.), on my knees, hands folded. At one point I remember being afraid that I wasn't saying "Amen" correctly. I had heard it pronounced "Ah-men" and I had heard it pronounced "A-men". Which was right? Which did God want to hear? I'd use both, just in case.

I would carry tracts around with me and place them in random places. I would become anxious as I tried to decide if I should leave it under the windshield wiper or in the door handle. What would Jesus do? Should I leave two tracts? Maybe three?

I would read my Bible but I found myself reading the same verses over and over. What if I was missing what God was saying to me? I would read the genealogies word for word. Gotta read every jot and tittle. Right? Don't want to displease God.

I had to be at church every time the doors were opened. Every. Time. That meant every youth activity, every Old-Fashioned Revival, every prayer meeting, e-v-e-r-y-t-i-m-e. And I was sure to wear a dress or a skirt. That's what Christian girls do.

I had the t-shirts. I had the devotional books. I did my "Quiet Time" and had the points to show for it every Wednesday night at small group check[list]-in. I brought my KJV Bible. I took notes.  I had preachers sign my Bible. I brought my Bible with me to my public school. I went to See You At The Pole. I even did a report once on Billy Graham (again at my public school). I wore panty hose in the winter.

I was doing all the right things. I was a "good Christian girl". I was a "good spiritual example". I was pleasing God.

Right?? I was pleasing Him, wasn't I?

Wait, did I pray the "salvation prayer right"? Did I mean it with all my heart? What if I only meant it with some of my heart? Did I know "beyond a shadow of a doubt" that I would go to Heaven? How much doubt is that, exactly?

This went on for years.
On the outside, I was a "good Christian girl".  

On the inside, I was empty and stifled. 
I was suffocating in well-intended Religion.

I had crammed myself into the "Christian mold". I did all the right things. I followed the checklist obsessively because I was taught to do all of the things to be a "good Christian". That was what Christ looks for: obedience to these rules. You know you love God when you do these things.

I never stopped to question it. That would be wrong. Oh, so very wrong.

Fast-forward a bit. It was 2008 and I was 22 years old. I had finished Bible school (check), married to my high school sweetheart, working at a ministry (check) and was just accepted as a missionary to begin raising support to go to the foreign field full time (check)... and I was so cramped inside the Christian mold after 11 years of living by the checklist, I was ready to throw all of Christianity away.

If this was what it was all about, no thank you.

And I was frustrated. Maybe even angry. I had done ALL the right things. I went to church. I stayed pure for marriage. I went to Bible school. I did all these things. I couldn't be holier if I had been born on a church pew.

But I was empty. I was walking this walk that I was told was in the right direction but I felt so out of place.

Somewhere along the way, while checking off my list, I had overlooked the fact that God looks on the heart. All my efforts? Useless. All my attempts to please God? Worthless. Why? Because they weren't from the heart. They were in an effort to make myself somehow worthy of God's love.

So there I was in the midst of a spiritual identity crisis. I believed that Christ as the only way to Heaven.  I genuinely wanted to serve Him. But I was disconnected. I didn't "feel it".

And I was determined. I was determined to break out of this Christian mold once and for all. I was tired of being seen as a "good Christian girl" on the outside and wanted to prove that you could indeed love Jesus and not obey all of these man-made rules of modern Christianity.

What better way than a tattoo? It was edgy. It was unexpected. And it was permanent.

So that's what I did. I got a tattoo (see pic below). But what's funny, looking back, is I was in some way still enslaved to the checklist good-girl mentality because I got a tattoo of the Hebrew word "to have faith". At least it was a "good tattoo".

"So there!" I thought, "Maybe I'm not such a good girl after all. Boo-ya!"

Um. So. Now what? I found myself even more conflicted after this. Now I had this permanent fixture on my ankle and I still felt trapped.
There was still an emptiness in my heart.

And I suddenly felt the need to hide it. What would everyone think?? Ashley got a tattoo! She's gone off the deep end. She's rebellious. She'll never be a good missionary now. How can she lead another culture to Christ with a tattoo? Oh, not Ashley!

So I hid it. For 2.5 years I've hidden it.

But then through a series of events, I began a journey about a year and a half ago that has transformed me. I began studying for myself. I began being myself. I began to feel alive. And it has absolutely positively nothing to do with reading my Bible. It doesn't even have to do with praying or being good or moral. I didn't even have to get a tattoo to figure it out.

It's like God took a razor blade to that box I was in and revealed to me that He doesn't fit in there after all.

My life was transformed when I realized that it's just not all about me after all. It's not about what I do. It's not about what I say. It's not about who I appeal to.

It's all about Christ. It's all about Him. He died so I could be free. He died so I didn't have to have religion. He died so I could love Him. He died so I could love my brothers and sisters. He died so I could LIVE.

And the ironic thing about it all? Now I want to know Him. I want to read His Word. I want to pray and talk to Him. I want to share Him with others because He is just so good.

And I don't have to do anything at all but love Him. The rest just starts to come naturally.

So I threw my checklist away so to speak. And I'm free. I'm free to tell you unashamedly that I have a tattoo. And Christ doesn't love me any less for it. It's part of my story and who I am.

[Before you go all Leviticus 19:28 on me, stop for a minute. Go back a couple of verses to Leviticus 19:19 and make sure you aren't wearing clothing made of mixed materials. Yeah. Exactly.]


So take a minute and ask yourself:

Have you been living a checklist Christianity?
Have you been believing things because it's what you've always believed?
Have you been holding standards for other people that aren't even in the Bible?

Are you in love with Christ or your checklist?

Are you serving the true Christ or a Christ that's been manufactured by modern Christianity?

Confessions of a Not-So-Super-Mom: Part Dos

Kind person: Here you go, Ashley. Elliott's paci fell on the floor.
Me: Oh, thank you. *takes paci, checks for hair and/or visible dirt, shrugs, gives it to Elliott* It'll build his immune system.
Kind person: *look of shock*

That's a good way to summarize my first year of parenting. 

As I reflect over the past year I'm reminded of something: I'm not a super mom.

You know what I'm talking about. Those moms who have it all together with their paci-wipes and phenomenal diaper changing skills [cloth only please] that put the seasoned daycare worker to shame and schedules that are precise down to the minute. The ones who breastfeed for at least the first year if not the second [more power to them, by the way!] and know all the dos and don'ts of parenting because they read every book and article they could find before baby arrived [and they'll be happy to share some advice if you want... or even if you don't]. They read at least five books a night to their child and know exactly which toys are appropriate for their age to stimulate their ever-growing brain. They don't miss a routine visit to the pediatrician and could recite the vaccine schedule to you if you'd like to jot it down. 

I'm not that mom.

I'm the one who can't for the life of me remember to pack everything I need. More than once [ok, MANY times] I've had to stop at the closest Wal-Mart or CVS to get the most basic of supplies that my diaper bag has lacked. Bottles, diapers, wipes... you know name it, I've forgotten it. So you can bet there wasn't a paci wipe within reach.

I looked like [and felt like] a deer in the headlights at least the first three months as I fumbled about changing diapers, sometimes 3 or 4 within a 5 minute span, getting sprayed in the face and mixing bottles [yes, formula] and trying to remember if I had scheduled that appointment....

I work full time so after six weeks of trying to figure out what in the world I was supposed to do with this crying, pooping, sleep-all-day-up-all-night little bundle of goodness, I was back at the workplace trying to now figure out how to function on no sleep and be decent employee and maintain my wife and motherly duties.

The items on my plate had multiplied but for some reason the plate itself was the same size.

I could have probably filled a small swimming pool with the tears that I cried those first few months. I just knew that this kid was going to be warped for life. How could he not be? After all, some nights I was so exhausted I didn't give him a bath or *gasp* read one book, much less five. I quit breastfeeding after one month and had to experiment to get the right formula for his little tummy.

To top it all off, fast forward to 5.5 months and we're traveling internationally with him to the Jung|e. Before he reached one he had been to four countries outside the US, all of which were third world. He's been passed around Indian villages and ridden backseat in our laps in a taxi more times than I can count. He's played in mud and eaten leaves and torn butterflies in half. He's a very ambitious boy and has the bumps and bruises to prove it.

*sigh*

I think I'm the most unconventional mom I know. The first kid is just trial and error anyway, right??

I used to feel guilty that I didn't follow the rules. Should I really let him cry it out? Is it too early to discipline? I don't think they're supposed to be exposed to sweets until they're at least one....  Is it ok for him to be in this walker? Is it safe to travel overseas? What about vaccinations? Is soy or milk based formula better? Is this toy too advanced or not advanced enough? Am I stimulating his mind enough? I don't think he can watch TV yet... Is it time to take the paci away? Will his teeth be ruined because we gave him a paci in the first place??

The choices are endless when it comes to how to parent your child and EVERYONE has an opinion [and their's is the right one of course]. Fortunately, the Bible has more than a little to say about it and one verse that I've claimed more than anything in this past year is James 1.5:

If any of you lacks wisdom, let him ask God, who gives generously to all without reproach, and it will be given him.

I've found myself everyday saying, "Hey, God. This is me coming to you lacking a lot of wisdom. Can I make a withdrawal from your wisdom bank, please?"

And the best part is, every time I've asked, He's come through.

He's good like that.

So, while I may not be a super mom and may not do things like they're "supposed to be done" all the time, I have a resource that far exceeds today's parenting gurus. I have a God that has given me wisdom and a healthy baby boy to prove that no matter what the "professionals" may say, my God knows best.

My plan for parenting? I'll continue teaching him, loving him, picking him up when he [once again] loses his battle with gravity, and most of all raise him to know a personal God who loves Him so much He gave His only Son.

Seems to be working so far....

Elliott with the locals at 5.5 months.

Elliott playing in the Jung|e mud at 9 months.

 My happy, healthy boy at almost one year! Praise God!

From the Archives: Confessions of a Not-So-Super-Mom: Part Uno

This was written last year shortly after Elliott was born. I'll be posting Part Dos soon so wanted to re-post this one as a refresher before you hear more details of my awesomeness as a mom over the last year :)

I would say that I threw away all my parenting books, but the fact is I never bought them to begin with.

I didn't even crack the pages of What to Expect When You're Expecting and not once did I step foot into a Lamaze class. My only experience with children was the few times I'd held my out-of-town cousins when they were babies and I had been quick to pass them off at the slightest grunt or stinky diaper discovery.

I was destined to be a bad mom.

I got off on the wrong foot from the beginning when I gained ** lbs (yea, you wish you knew ;) during the pregnancy because I gave into my cravings for sugar and Taco Bell bean burritos and found it difficult to exercise with a growing waistline and waining energy level. I didn't take my multi-vitamins religiously and I was known to drink some coffee on more than one occasion.

Never once did I read to my child en utero and didn't bother to put headphones over my belly to fill his ears with Beethoven's 9th.

Surely my child was doomed.

I ate lunch meat without heating it and I'm certain I consumed some Crystal Light at some point during that 9 month stretch. I travelled out of the country twice and even did a 2,000 mile road trip at eight and a half months.

Someone should have called Child Protective Services and had them standing by.

As the delivery date approached, I was suddenly confronted with the controversy of hospital deliveries vs. birthing centers and didn't even know there was a dispute over epidurals.

Immediately I began filling my mind with all the things I had to do in order to be a "good mom" and ensure my child didn't become scarred for life in the first few moments after his delivery when he was surrounded by beeping machines and didn't make immediate contact with his mother's skin. I was convinced my child would arrive with only 7 fingers and possibly no toes at all given my lack of attention to what made for a "healthy" pregnancy.

Stories of superwomen who endured the hard labor pains like champs and didn't think twice--make that once--about anything to ease the pain consumed me as I convinced myself if I didn't do it that way, I was an indisputable failure as a woman. After all, we were "made to do this"!

You can then imagine my dilemma when my doctor suggested I be induced because my hips hadn't shifted. "Induction" is almost a curse word these days. The controversy is merciless. I nearly gave myself an ulcer before deciding to heed my doctors advice. After scheduling my induction I beat myself up wondering if I had done the right thing. My reasoning seemed to fall on skeptical ears when I would suggest that God had given doctors wisdom and my doctor had certainly gained more experience in this than I had.

This poor child.

So, I had made my decision but thought I would suffice those critics by going "all natural". Bring it on labor pain! After all, women had done it for hundreds of years and that pain was nothing for my steel resolve!

Until I hit 6cm, the contractions where a minute long every two minutes and I was told it'd likely be another 5-6 hours followed by 2 hours of pushing. At that point, I was on the verge of cussing if they didn't do something quick!

So an epidural it was and to make matters worse, I didn't feel a twinge of guilt as I lay there within moments of getting my "happy juice" free of the torment that I had endured only moments before.

What was wrong with me? I should have been guilt-ridden!

To top it all off, my son was stubborn as a horse and refused to drop. After 13 hours of labor came the dreaded words. The words that everyone had said would happened if I weas induced. The words that would "deprive me of my birthing experience". The words that would no doubt make my son a rebellious, D-student one day because his mother had failed to do what women were made to do.

I would have a cesarean section.

So they wheeled me to the OR, prepped me for surgery, and asked if I was ready. "Ready as I'll ever be," I thought to myself. Just minutes later I was staring at my little boy for the first time as the doctor held him in front of me. But within seconds he was taken to a little table to be examined, poked, and prodded. This child would no doubt be scarred. After all, he wasn't held by his mother for at least the first 45 minutes and who knows what was going through his mind. He probably thought he wasn't loved and immediately got a complex that was irreversible and.........................

Those were my thoughts.

But the moment I held that boy in my arms, those thoughts were out the window. Every one of them. He was perfect. Ten fingers, ten toes. His heart was good. His lungs were strong. He had survived and arrived a healthy baby despite my lack of following "the rules". Despite my lack of reading and class taking. Despite my worries and doubts. He had made it.

That's when it hit me. It wasn't me who was making this baby. It wasn't me who was calling the shots and forming his little body. It wasn't up to me how he arrived. There was a much Higher Power at work and no book reading or rule following could alter that.

I didn't go wrong with not following the modern day idea of the ideal pregnancy. Women had healthy babies long before these ideas and rules surfaced and the human race is proof of that. But where I went wrong was not having faith in the hands of the Almighty God. I doubted HIS ability to give us a healthy baby boy when I doubted my ability to carry him.

Sure there are important precautions that we should take. God did give us brains. But I learned a lot about pregnancy and being a mom and it didn't come from the experts. It came from holding that boy in my arms and realizing he was God's.

I just get the privilege of loving him as his Mama. And no expert mom or book can change that.

Confessions of a Missionary

The CallingThis is what I hear all the time: "Surrendering to the call to missions is the hardest part."

My response? "Wrong."

The hardest part is no doubt: The WaitingWe had no problem surrendering to go to a foreign country somewhere to spend the rest of our lives, however long that may be, serving God and reaching the unreached. The hardest part has been the waiting period that we're in, anticipating the foreign field.
Most people don't understand missions. That's a fact. It's foreign to them and is generally thought of in the form of slide shows of poverty stricken Africans shown once a year during "Mission Week" at their church. For that reason, I've encountered several facts on our journey to the field that have taught me lessons and challenged me.

Here they are:
1. Most people don't care.This is a lesson you learn very quickly as a missionary... and it's a pretty painful one at first. Imagine pouring out your heart, having a passion for the calling that God has given you: a passion to reach the lost and dying. The ones that you have seen with your own eyes. You know the need, you know the faces, you know their destination if they don't hear of Christ... and you get 3 minutes to share it. You do the best you can to convey the message and desperate need in that unreasonably short time.

You set up a booth with pictures and facts and artifacts. Few people stop by and even fewer ask questions. Most people don't care.
2. Most people don't respond.One of the things they teach you before you start ministry is to keep people informed about your ministry. So, we send out e-mails, update our blog, send letters and cards all in an effort to remind people regularly of what God is doing in the Amazon and the great need that there is in the area.

It's rare to get a reply. I've often wondered to myself, "Are these e-mails going to a junk folder?" Most people don't respond.

3. Most churches are too consumed with themselves.
When we first got started on our journey to the field, we sent out over 100 packets to churches in the area and called and/or e-mailed each missions pastor. We got three replies. Three. And those were all, "We will hold your folder for future reference." That's church language for, "No thanks."
Obviously we don't expect to have every church let us share our vision. But to send packets to over 100 churches and not to have a single opportunity to share the need of thousands of unreached people who are dying and going to hell... hm. Without getting on too much of a rant, it's hard to be told that a church can't afford to take on more missionaries when they just built a multi-million dollar building with toilets that automatically flush. Just sayin'.

I've often thought of writing these churches and saying, "In the future, please just slap me in the face instead of telling me that you can't afford missions. That will be less painful. Thank you!"
4. A lot of people don't do what they say they will do.
If every person and church who has told us that they would support us actually supported us, we would be at about 75% of our support (we are at 50% right now).

We've had pastors tell us to our face that they will give us the opportunity to share with their church if we just tell them the date. Fast forward one week later when we try to tell them the date that works for us: no replies to our e-mails and no call backs to our messages. Hm.

The same could be said for individuals. "Life just gets in the way." A lot of people don't do what they say they will do.
Now, before you think I'm being judgmental. Let me tell you the lesson these four points have taught me.

1. Most of the time, I don't care.
How many times in my life has God tried to tell me something. He's given me His Word and the beautiful world around me. He's blessed me beyond all reason and poured His Son's blood out for me. He loves me desperately and wants me to know Him and talk to Him, to ask Him questions and hear from Him.

Sometimes I'll read His Word and pray. Most of the time, I don't care.

2. Most of the time, I don't respond.
I have probably four Bibles, not including the two on my ipod. Four Bibles. Four. There are places in the world where people cling to one PAGE of the Bible. There are other places where people rely on what they have memorized of the Scriptures. If that were the case for me, I'd be in big trouble. God speaks through His Word, but most of the time, I don't respond. I give Him a few minutes a day and ask Him to bless me for it. Most of the time, I don't respond.
3. Most of the time, I'm too consumed with myself.
I try to think back on my life and all the times that I've been too busy for God... then I get overwhelmed because there have been so many times! I tell God I can't do more for Him because I don't have the time or the resources. But yesterday, I made sure I got on Facebook and I bought a $4 drink from Starbucks.

I wonder if God would rather me slap Him in the face than tell Him I can't do more for Him...

Most of the time, I'm too consumed with myself.
4. A lot of times I don't do what I say I'm going to do.
I'm glad that God is faithful to forgive us when we ask because there have been countless times that I have not done what I told God I would do. If I did all the things that God has told me to do, I can only imagine what He could have done through me and who He could have reached if I had kept my promise.

"Life just gets in the way." A lot of times, I don't do what I say I'm going to do.

What's the lesson I've learned from this journey (or at least one of them)? I'm just like everyone else. And I'm really, really thankful that God is merciful and gracious to me.

So, anytime I get overwhelmed or frustrated with people and how they let me down, I just remind myself how often I let God down and yet somehow He forgives me and loves me just the same. That cures my ill-will pretty quickly.
"Why do you see the speck that is in your brother's eye, but do not notice the log that is in your own eye? Or how can you say to your brother, 'Let me take the speck out of your eye,' when there is a log in your own eye? You hypocrite, first take the log out of your own eye, and then you will see clearly to take the speck out of your brother's eye."- Jesus Christ