Limitless

As I was talking to my dad a few weeks ago, we got on the subject of when my parents will be coming to Honduras to visit me. They don’t have any set plans to come, but at this point in our family it’s pretty much assumed that if one of the children moves somewhere, our parents will be visiting them, no matter where on the globe. They’ve gone from Seattle to Austin to Kenya, all just to share in a little part of our lives. And then you know, the whole moving to the Dominican Republic with me for a couple years. What can I say? We are adventurers.

Personally I love this unofficial tradition. I love being able to show my family the work I am a part of. One of my favorite memories in my entire life will always be walking through the Santo Domingo airport with my grandparents who just a year prior didn’t even dream of coming to visit me in the DR. And there they were for two weeks, living life with us and participating in the work we were doing there. For weeks before they came I had announced to my Dominican friends that my grandparents were coming. I think they were probably just as excited as I was when the time actually came for them to arrive. I will always remember when they met all the people I had come to love so dearly. Swelling with pride, I would introduce my friends, and then with an equal amount of pride I would say, “This is my grandma and grandpa.” They colored with my neighbor kids and played cards at our friend’s house. We sat around our plastic table in our plastic chairs and laughed, and they helped us hand out the food from our ministry truck. Watching my grandma interact with Ariel, our ministry driver, was just as entertaining as I knew it would be. I wouldn’t trade those days for anything.

So naturally when I moved to Honduras I was waiting for a day to be set for my parents to come visit. There are so many wonderful people here at El Sembrador that I can’t wait for them to meet. I already know where I’m going to take them in town to eat baleadas and which friend’s house we will visit to drink coffee and play Rummikub. I know the places I want to show them around campus and the stories I will tell about each place. I know exactly which students will come up and want to meet them without acting shy. I know that after I introduce them to everyone my friends will each pull me aside and say that my dad looks very young and that my mom looks just like me.

I’m excited for my parents to come, but I was a little worried about what I would do to entertain them. Don’t get me wrong, I love El Sembrador and I never have a dull day. But I was worried my parents would get bored of my normal, everyday life. When I mentioned all this to my dad, I said we might spend a few days here at the school and then travel a little bit to other places. And then my dad said something that surprised me, and then it surprised me that it surprised me.

“Well, is there a work project or something that we could help out with while we are there?”

Huh.

Why didn’t I think of that?

Why did I automatically assume that my parents wouldn’t want to help out and join the work that I am a part of? Suddenly I realized that while I was worrying and making plans for my parents to enjoy themselves, I was actually limiting them and their experience here. My dad wanted to get involved, and I almost missed the opportunity to let him. And that would have been a shame; a shame for my dad and a shame for El Sembrador.

And then an even bigger thought struck me: how many times in my life have I limited somebody’s chance to get involved in something great or something important just because I thought they wouldn’t be interested? I can think back to the many times I got to be a part of something awesome. What if whoever had gotten me involved had chosen not to include me because they didn’t think I would want to be included? How sad that would have been.

I’ve decided, after this small off-handed comment my dad might not even remember saying, that I’m not going to keep my ministry and my passions to myself anymore. God has put some cool stuff in my hands and I want to share it! Maybe first I will share it with my parents. Then who knows? There’s a lot going on here at El Sembrador, a lot of great things. Do you want in on the action? You’re totally invited. All you have to do is ask, and I will also keep inviting you as things come up. Even if you can’t come for a visit there are other fun things you can do to get connected. And I hope you will do the same for your passions! Keep inviting people to join you (invite me too!), because you truly never know who burns with the same passion and who would love to help you along the way. 

Let’s stop limiting each other! We need to follow God’s example; he is constantly inviting us to join him in whatever he is doing. He always wants to show us around and introduce us to the people he loves. When I think about that it makes me feel limitless. There is so much we can do in this world, and we can do even more when we work together. 

St. George (Jessica) and the Dragon (Cockroach)

Over the past few years several people have told me that I would make a good pastor. While I'm flattered, I really don't think that's the direction God is calling me in. That being said, however, I find myself agreeing with them to an extent. The idea of having a captive audience for an hour every week does sound appealing to me. Plus, I think I have the proper skill and finesse to offer up the prayer for the church potluck after the service. Let's see, what else. Oh-I love the taste of communion bread, and I'm really good at finding the right hymn number quickly as the organist plays the intro to the song. 

But I think what makes me most like a pastor is that I can find a sermon illustration in literally everything. Maybe actual pastors can relate; it's like I really can't help it. A little incident will happen like a butterfly landing on a flower or me tripping over a branch on a sidewalk and suddenly I have enough material in my mind to speak for twenty minutes straight. Once in college I joked about giving a sermon comparing the body of Christ to the piece of chicken I was eating for lunch. Maybe it's a gift, or maybe I think way too much. Either way, it is what it is. 

And that's why two nights ago as I was squirming and shuddering while I swept up the cockroach I had just killed, this post popped into my head. Of all the things, a dead cockroach was able to give me spiritual insight. I think I have a problem. But I might as well share what I learned.

It was the biggest cockroach I had ever seen; I'm talking prehistoric size. It's back was so unbelievably wide I could probably have set a cup and saucer on top of it as it it were a coffee table. Like it was so big I was actually offended as I watched it amble slowly across the curtain rod hanging over my bedroom window. Normally these agents of hell move pretty quickly when a light is turned on suddenly. Not this guy; he knew his girth had rendered me motionless. He had all the time in the world. 

I put down the things I was holding and began live-texting the scene to my best friend so someone would know the battle I was currently engaged in (and just in case it ate me someone would know where to find my body). I think I remember lamenting not having a husband to take care of monsters like this. When I came back into the room after leaving for two seconds the beast was gone, and I learned what real panic feels like. For several seconds I debated leaving the room and pretending I had never seen him, but I knew I would never get to sleep again if I left him to his own devices. Slowly and with calculated movements I picked up a shoe, sent my last text to my friend and then put my phone down so I wouldn't drop it in a moment of terror and have to explain later how a run-in with a bug cost me a brand new cell phone.

Inch by inch I shuffled forward, looking around at all angles to make sure he wasn't planning an aerial assault while my back was turned. After an eternity I found myself right next to the window, studying the curtains blowing lazily in the breeze, as if they weren't concerned at all about the villain that was currently inhabiting their threads. And suddenly-there it was! He appeared unexpectedly from within the billows. Fear gripped me, but I knew if I didn't act now I would lose him. With an embarrassingly girly squeak I slammed my shoe into the curtain and the beast fell, defeated. I couldn't wait to pick up my phone and safely brag to my friend about the kill.

What happened next was so disappointingly anticlimactic. 

The cockroach ended up on his back, as most dead cockroaches do. And you know what I saw beneath his giant covering? I saw the smallest, weakest, puniest cockroach body I have ever condescended to squish. His outside shell was just to throw me off-this cockroach was pathetic, and it was all too easy to destroy him. All of that stress and build up for nothing. 

As I swept him up and deposited him outside I couldn't help thinking of all the other times in my life when I was faced with a problem that seemed too big to deal with, too scary to try and tackle. Most of those occasions I ended up realizing that it wasn't so hard after all, once I took that first initial step. How much stress would I have saved myself if I had just went straight for the shoe to take care of the monster, instead of letting fear paralyze me? Yep, that's a metaphor for real life.

Now, if I were a pastor I would probably take this opportunity to turn us to the Bible, and mention the verse from 2 Timothy 1:7-"For God has not given us a spirit of fear and timidity, but of power, love, and self-discipline." 

Most challenges in life are much less challenging than we initially think. And if we start practicing handling those little problems masquerading as big problems, we will be much better prepared to handle the actual big problems when they come around. 

Don't let fear stop you! You got this, guys. 

Comfortably Uncomfortable

I had some other things on my mind today that I was going to write about, but something came up that I want to share with you instead.

Today was the day that we were supposed to go to a nearby community called La Paz to do Bible School with the local kids. For a long time in La Paz there was a church with no pastor. I don't know the whole story, but for some reason or another nobody has been coming to teach and lead worship, and so the people remained without a congregation (although we just found out today that someone has arrived and feels led to bring the services back, which is a huge answer to prayer!). For at least a year a dear friend of mine would visit La Paz every week with a couple of other ladies to share a Bible story with the kids in the area, so that they could grow up with even a little knowledge of God and his Word. There is a young woman in the community who is in charge and has organized this for the kids. Now that my friend is leaving, the other ladies and I are continuing just like she did every week.

The only difference? None of us know how to drive a stick shift. My friend was the one who would take everyone in her truck. By car it takes less than ten minutes to get there; it takes 45 minutes to an hour to walk.

I took a couple of driving lessons in the DR with my dad and good old Seymour:

but it didn't quite stick (no pun intended-well, maybe a little pun intended).

It had always been my plan to learn how to drive here eventually, but for now we were stuck walking.

We set off for our destination in the distance, and almost immediately the skies opened up and we were caught in the rain, as is customary during the aptly named rainy season. My best jeans and only nice shoes were soon soaked through because I had forgotten to change before we left, and my fancy smartphone was given to my friend to keep dry in her plastic bag. We marched through the rocks and mud as we shared stories and commented on the beautiful corn that is growing in the fields. For the most part I kept quiet, taking in my surroundings and thinking about when Jesus began his ministry and did the same thing then that we were doing now. I wondered how many miles Jesus walked just to share a word from God with the people in different communities. And suddenly I felt incredibly blessed to be able to share this walk with my sisters in Christ.

Nowadays most people aren't accustomed to having to exert themselves so to share God's word with their neighbor or their community. We can sit in our comfortable cars in the AC, closed off in our little world until we arrive at where we are going. We drive instead of walk, take planes instead of boats. The ability to get ourselves farther faster has most definitely helped the Gospel spread to previously unreached places, but I'm afraid we have grown too used to this newfound ease of life and have forgotten the joy of being uncomfortable as we serve God.

What a special time Jesus got to have with his disciples as they traveled from town to town! What great conversations I bet they had since they didn't have the option to pop in some headphones or turn on the radio. Sure, I bet Jesus sometimes wished for some headphones to shut out all of the arguing and complaining the disciples were known for, but overall there is something special about putting yourself in uncomfortable situations in order to share God's love with others. It creates a special bond with your fellow brothers and sisters that are serving alongside you. I got to know my two friends today in a way I haven't been able to so far. We helped each other carry the Bible School supplies and all agreed that the rain was a blessing because it made the air cool.

My friends and family know what an adjustment living in El Sembrador has been for me for the past month. I truly love the work I do and I love the people I work with and the students I work for, but when my biggest struggle of the week was that one of my ceiling fans broke and I had to spend one night without it, I sometimes find myself yearning for the days when I had to use a bucket of water to shower and an oil lamp to see at night. Call me crazy, but there's just something about the discomfort that brings you closer to God and closer to the people around you, who are experiencing the same thing. And the even crazier thing is that when you're serving Christ it doesn't even register as discomfort. You become comfortably uncomfortable. This is kind of hard to explain, but I know there are other people who feel the same way.

These were all of my thoughts even before we arrived at La Paz. After an hour of walking my reward was many little hugs from the kids who were waiting for us to come and spend time with them. If anybody ever wondered why Jesus took the time and effort to travel like he did, I know why. There is no better feeling than coming a long way just to tell someone (and show them) that they are dearly loved. 

As I write this I am sitting on the floor because all my chairs are covered with drying clothes. I had wisely decided that today was a good day to start hanging my clothes to dry, and if you look back up at the beginning of my story you will remember that it's the rainy season. But even now I am filled with the joy that comes with being comfortably uncomfortable. I hope I never get so comfortable that I forget the joy of exerting myself to share God's love with the people around me.

Since I don't have a car I don't leave the El Sembrador campus as much as I normally would, which means I don't often get to experience the quiet relief that you feel when you finally find yourself back home after a long journey. But today as I walked through the gate into the now nearly-empty campus because the boys left for break today, and ambled up my road, taking in the familiar sounds and admiring the buildings and trees I have come to love so, I finally felt the contentment that I hadn't had the privilege of feeling until today.

I am home.

And on a completely unrelated note, please keep me in prayer next week as I begin my first Honduran driving lessons :) 

That One Day on the Bus

There is one day in the Dominican that I will never forget.

My parents and I were taking a bus to the capital to go to a conference. For me, the bus can either be an introvert’s sanctuary or an introvert’s nightmare. Most of the time I would put in my earbuds, turn on the special bus playlist I made just for this occasion, and let the music wash over me as my brain checked out for a few hours. Complete bliss.

But in the DR it’s totally normal to talk to the person sitting next to you on a bus, whether you know them or not (hence the nightmare). To be honest, making small talk with the guy next to me is usually the very last thing I want to be doing. Like getting a tooth pulled seems less painful to me than trying to carry on a conversation with a stranger. I would take awkward silence any day.

My parents sat together while I took the risk and sat in a window seat alone. As soon as I sat down and got my backpack situated on the floor I began the desperate race to put in my earbuds before anybody had the chance to interrupt my long-awaited solitude. I only barely succeeded; just as I was turning on my music a kind-looking middle-aged man asked to take the seat next to mine. I gave him a quick smile and nodded my assent, knowing that would be the last time I would have to engage him during our journey.

The man had a piece of paper in his hand, and I frowned as I saw what it was. There was a person in our city who occasionally handed out a “tract” to the people waiting in line to ride the bus, but it was filled with lies and confusing statements. I didn’t like what the paper had to say and I was sad that this man was now reading it. I was hoping he wouldn’t buy into the lies or have doubts about God and who He is.  For a while I watched the man as he read the tract slowly and carefully.

And then I felt something that made my gut instantly clench up and my heart beat faster.

As clear as day, God spoke to my heart and said, “Ask that man about what he’s reading.”

…......

……..

Anxiety started bubbling to the surface and I sat as still as I could, as if God would stop looking at me and go ask someone else to do something for Him. He didn’t.

The man continued to read as I remained motionless. I watched the trees and concrete buildings race by, and wished I could hurl myself out the window and seek their asylum. Finally I worked up enough nerve to say something, and pretty soon we were engaged in a deep conversation. By the time we had reached his stop to get off, he had accepted Christ into his life and he walked away a changed man.

………

Actually,

Actually.

Actually, that didn’t happen.

Actually, I stayed silent as my heart burned, unable to form a single word to say to the man next to me.

Actually, I fixed my gaze out the window and stared at the world passing by until he finally put the paper in his bag and went to sleep.

Actually, after twenty minutes of excruciating silence God spoke again, with absolutely no condemnation or disappointment in His tone. He was simply stating a fact:

“You disobeyed me.”

And I had three hours on a quiet bus to think about what that meant.

________________

That day, all pretense and good intentions were stripped away, and I was finally shown the glaring truth: after a lifetime of following Christ, three years of attending a Christian university and one year of serving on the mission field, I, Jessica Marie Hogan, was still afraid of sharing my faith with others.

There, I said it.

You can go ahead and stop reading, or feel free to unsubscribe from my blog. I think I have officially earned the title of “Worst Missionary.” The guy was sitting right there, with absolutely no chance to go anywhere, and I couldn’t even say one thing to him about Jesus Christ the savior of my life. In that moment I knew that it was a test, and that I hadn’t succeeded.

Here’s the part where I need to make sure something is clear. Remember that God most definitely does test us, but he never tempts us. God tests, and Satan tempts. By testing us God wants us to see how we can make our faith stronger. By tempting us Satan tries to destroy our faith. Maybe they sound similar on the surface, but the two motives are completely opposite.

What am I so afraid of? I continued to ask myself as I reflected on the bus. Why wasn’t I able to say something? Was it the feeling of inconvenience, of having to pull myself out of my own bubble and engage with someone? Was it a fear of looking foolish? Was it a lack of confidence? I think in a way it was all of those things, and even more things that I will never be able to quite put into words.

I believe there is value in every experience, so I invite you to learn from my failures and shortcomings. Maybe I really was supposed to lead that man to Christ that day. Or maybe the man just had a simple question that I would have been able to answer. Or maybe God wanted me to initiate a conversation that would have ended up being a blessing to me. It doesn’t matter what would have happened. The point is, if God told me to do something, it’s because 1.) He wanted me or someone else to learn something and grow from the experience, and/or 2.) He was going to equip me with the ability to handle it.

I have always considered myself a humble person (wait, does it make me not humble anymore if I admit that?), but as with every other good thing, we humans can easily corrupt humility and turn it into hesitancy, self-doubt, and a feeling of inferiority. Deep down I think I’m waiting to become the “perfect” missionary, and until then I don’t want to get my hands dirty and mess a good thing up, so instead I stand back and wait for someone more capable to take control.

Here’s what my little mind needs to understand though: I am so far from perfection that I will never achieve it in this lifetime. Which means, if I follow my own logic, I will keep myself on the sidelines for the rest of my life and never give God an opportunity to produce anything good in me. Is that what I want? Is that what anyone wants?

God knows me inside and out; He knows what I’m good at and what I’m terrible at. He knows where I shine and where I stumble. And in spite of all that, He will still push me to do things that make me uncomfortable, things that don’t come naturally for me. Even when I keep trying to pull myself out of the game, He will never stop urging me to come back into play. Ok, I think that’s enough of the sports metaphor for today.

If you have ever read any part of the Bible you will quickly see that God specializes in accomplishing things through unlikely, weak, sinful people. Enter Jessica. That is most definitely me. But I don’t have to believe in my own abilities to accomplish what he asks of me; I do have to believe in his ability to work through me. And after a lifetime of following Christ, I have enough examples of that to encourage me forward the next time he gives me a job to do.

I wouldn’t go as far to say that day was a turning point in my life, because in reality I have failed and succeeded since then, just as I had failed and succeeded before I took that bus ride. But for me it’s a reminder to reflect on once in a while, to spur me to keep going and to be obedient when I feel the call. Just last week I was given the opportunity to share my faith with someone here on campus, and I was able to share boldly and without hesitation. Instead of wasting time worrying if I had done well enough or if I had sounded stupid, I spent that time praying that God would use my imperfect words to reach my friend. And you know how I felt after that? I was just as delighted to be given that opportunity to share as God was delighted to give it to me.

Stop second-guessing yourself when God asks you to do something. Stop hesitating, or you will rob yourself of the great privilege it is to be obedient to God.

Let’s live boldly today.

Feeling Needy

Living outside of your own culture obviously causes a lot of lifestyle changes. Being a missionary creates even more changes on top of that, because along with adjusting to a new culture you also have to think about fundraising, reporting back to a ministry in your home country, etc. In a lot of ways you become a clueless child again, depending on others to help you out and show you the ropes.

I. Hate. That.

Alright that’s an exaggeration. Kind of. A little bit. 

For my whole life I’ve been pretty independent, and I liked it that way. I didn’t have to count on other people to get me through. I’ve had a very blessed life, and of course I’ve had hardships and problems to overcome, but for the most part I was content to try and make it on my own as best as I could.

And in the States, that’s fairly easy to do for most people. We all have our own houses that have enough of a yard that we don’t have to communicate with our neighbors every day. We all have our own cars so we can take ourselves wherever we need to go. We have stores that carry everything we need and then some. And most of us have a well-paying job that helps us buy the necessities and some luxuries as well. 

I’m generalizing, but for many of people in the States this is what life looks like. And I like it that way. I like the freedom it gives me to go where I want to go and do what I want to do. But the second I step on foreign soil, that feeling of independence disappears. I don’t know where to go. I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what to buy or what to wear. And I especially don’t know how to go and do and buy. A U.S. missionary leaves the quiet comfort of self-sufficiency and is suddenly thrust into a new world where she is at the mercy of neighbors and friends, at least in the beginning. She has no choice but to lean on them for advice, support, car rides, sometimes even meals. 

Honestly, that part isn’t so bad. Really, it’s not. The beginning time when a missionary first enters the country is a great time to bond with the community, because you have no idea what you’re doing. They will laugh and tease as they teach you to become a community member, and all of your blunders and humble moments will bring you closer with them. I can readily admit that I don’t know how to cook beans or make tortillas, and I’m ready to learn where the best grocery store is and which parts of town are safe to walk around. That’s good, practical stuff.

You know what the hardest part was for me, beginning when I first moved to the DR and all the way through now in Honduras? It was the emotional and mental support I suddenly needed from friends, family, and sometimes even strangers. When I had a problem growing up I would typically keep it to myself and try to deal with it on my own. And most times, I could do that. I hated having to ask for help, or *shudder* having to share my feelings with people. I just wanted everyone to think I was fine, and for the most part I usually was. To this day my friend still chastises me about the way I say “thank-you” to people who help me out. It’s like I can’t say it in a normal voice; it comes out sheepish and timid, as if I don’t deserve their favors or that it’s such a terrible inconvenience to do something for me. I don’t know why I say it like that. I've always loved doing things to be a blessing in other people's lives, but I never let people be a blessing to me.

You can’t be alone on the mission field, or you just won’t make it. I think that can be said for anyone anywhere, but the need for others is magnified when you’re taken out of your known culture and placed somewhere brand new. I remember one time a few months after my parents and I moved to the Dominican. It had been several weeks of things not going the way we had hoped. I was lonely because the friends we thought we had made had suddenly gone away, and I was so stressed out about everything going on that painful blisters broke out on the palms of my hands and covered them for about a week. After a while the blisters disappeared, we made new friends, and things began to get better. My mom sent an update to our friends and made a short mention of my past ailment. One of our friends wrote back and said, “Next time tell us what’s happening so we can pray with you” (emphasis mine). 

His seemingly simple answer stuck with me. Why hadn’t I considered that before? Why didn’t I reach out to my friends for support when I felt so low? Through that whole period of time I was moping around, bemoaning how lonely I felt (I remember sighing a lot), when an entire army of friends, family, and supporters were ready to cover me with prayer and encouragement. Loneliness is a natural feeling when you’re living in a different culture; isolation, on the other hand, is a choice. Especially in this day and age when there are so many different ways to communicate.

You know what started to happen? I started to welcome the encouragement. I finally allowed people to bless me with their time, prayers, or even Honey Nut Cheerios if that’s what the occasion called for. There were some days a kind email or an encouraging word from a friend was all I needed to get through the day. The moments where I let go of my independence and let people into my life became my sweetest memories:

Like the time my uncle built us a storage room in his house so we would have a place to keep our belongings while we were away.

Or like all of the times my friends woke up at 5 in the morning to take me to the bus station on travel days.

Or the time a kind man pulled over to help me change my flat tire when I was visiting the States and didn’t have a cell phone to call for help.

Or the time some wonderful friends gave up an afternoon at the beach so they could come sit in a hot concrete house and be an encouragement to me after I had just moved into Batey 7 and was feeling lost and alone.

Or just today when some friends took me to the dentist to take care of a small problem because they know I don’t have a car.

And every time someone asked if they could send something to me, pray for me, or even take me out for a meal. I remember every gesture, every time someone reached out and lived life with me. It was so humbling sometimes that I could hardly bear it, but now I wouldn’t trade it for the world. I like needing other people in my life. I like having people to lift me up when I’m feeling down. In a way I even like being financially dependent on supporters. When people send support it’s like we form a team, a team where we can pray for each other and work together to do God’s work in this world. It’s scary having to trust other people, but it’s even scarier thinking about walking through life alone. I’m so grateful to have so many people I can count on. I hope you all know you can count on me too.

Let other people be a blessing in your life. We were never meant to do this alone.

On a related side note, I now have a link to my online donation page through World Gospel Mission. Check it out if you’re interested!

(Yawn) (Stretch) Oh, Hello Again!

Is that you, dear reader? Hi there! It's been so long, how have you been? We always say we will keep in touch and next thing you know almost two months have gone by. How are the kids? Is that a new haircut? I really am sorry for the lull in the updates.  I'm sure all four of you readers were at a loss for what to do with those extra five minutes a week when you weren't reading a new post of mine. I hope this one makes up for some lost time and gives you a good introduction to my next exciting job opportunity! Okay, here it goes:

A lot you know that my love of writing goes back all the way to the third grade. However, for most writers a passion for reading is just as strong as their passion for writing, and my love of books goes all the way back to kindergarten when I picked out The Three Little Pigs at the library, the very first book I read all by myself. From that point on I was intoxicated with stories, and the power they held for the reader or listener. The beginnings should be gripping, the endings satisfying. I fell in love with characters as if they were real people (I know many people can relate) and my heart almost physically ached when I came to the bottom of the last page and had to say goodbye to my friends. If the story didn't end to my liking, I would crave a sequel to tie up loose ends or I would feel bothered for days about the insufficient conclusion. It was much easier to say goodbye and move on to the next book when the ending was solid and I felt satisfied with where I left the characters (best example: The Lord of the Rings. One of my favorite endings of all time). 

Reading and writing stories has been such a big part of my life that I tend to process life through the same principles. I absolutely love a satisfying ending to things in my life, and it's hard to say goodbye to people and places if I'm not satisfied with the way things were left. I guess that's true for everyone, but over the years I've noticed that this is especially important to me. 

Why am I telling you all this? Mostly because I'm a writer at heart and can't just spit out the main point I'm trying to say. But it's also because, as you all know, a very important story in my life has recently ended, and it was hard to say goodbye. I didn't want it to end, and I didn't want to move on to another story. If you haven't caught on by now, I'm talking about my ministry in the Dominican Republic, and the move back to the U.S. in December of last year. But I was fortunate; my ending was satisfying, the last few pages with my dear friends and loved ones a beautiful way to conclude my time there. The ending to this story was just what I hoped it could be, and after a time I was able to move on to my next story with the closure I needed. And just to be clear before moving on, I left this beloved story in the DR open for sequels-you never know what's going to happen in the future, right?

So what is my next story? Drum roll, please!

Many of you have already heard, but this story is actually kind of like a sequel itself. Remember way back in the day when I was in college and did a seven-week internship in Honduras with a ministry called Escuela El Sembrador, or School of the Sower? After I moved back from the Dominican and was praying about my options, I was offered a full-time job at that ministry, and I have accepted! To give you a quick background, El Sembrador was founded in 1954 by a missionary couple from the U.S. who felt called to provide better educational opportunities to kids in Honduras. It is associated with World Gospel Mission, a large mission organization that works in many countries doing a variety of different ministries (check them out here!). Over 60 years later, this school has flourished, growing and changing and making a big impact on the students who attend the school and on the country as a whole. The students receive a quality education in a Christian atmosphere and have countless opportunities to grow spiritually and be discipled by the amazing staff on campus. It is such a privilege for me to be joining the El Sembrador team.

My job will be working with the sponsorship program. While the school actually has a farm (with cows, pigs, corn, etc.) that provides for a sizable amount of the school's budget, their main source of funds still comes from supporters in the U.S. who believe in the work El Sembrador is doing and want to participate. Donors can sponsor a particular student to help with tuition, or they can support other areas, such as teachers, educational initiatives, and construction projects going on to expand the campus and improve the quality of education. I will also be helping with mission teams that come down to partner with the school. There have already been several teams down this year and there are six more scheduled over the summer! 

This new position is very different from the work I was doing in the DR, but I am so excited to learn new things and to see God working through this amazing ministry. 

One thing that is different is that I will be paid a small salary for this new position. However, I will also have a missionary account through World Gospel Mission (WGM) that people can donate to in order to help with things like health insurance, visa fees, travel expenses, and other things that my salary may not cover. It would be an honor to have you join me in this ministry with your support, whether financially or prayerfully. To have a group of people in the States praying for me and supporting me and my family while we were in the Dominican was a blessing that I will never be able to truly describe. And now, this new job in Honduras is something that is very new for me. I would really appreciate your prayers over the next few months as I get settled in. 

Oh, I forgot to tell you when I'm leaving! I'm getting rusty at this update thing. May 17th is my official move date! Yeah, that is two weeks from yesterday. Holy crap. My commitment is through December, though I have a feeling I will be renewing for the next year as well, and who knows after that? If anybody in the Marylandish area wants to see me before I go, send me a message! And if anybody would like information about how or where to send donations, let me know! 

It's good to be back with you guys. I promise more updates soon. Remember you can subscribe to get these updates sent to your email! Thanks for reading, friends.

On the Edge

I'm on the edge looking down, into darkness.

Into a place I've never been before. Into the Unknown, the Unseen. A place where anything can happen and where everything is new. It's not safe, but it calls to me.

It's time to go.

Should I jump? Can I try?

I look behind me and see the ones I love. My father is there. When I was little he was there to catch me on the ground when I jumped. He was there to protect me, to show me the way. Now he is behind me, smiling, waiting. Waiting to see where I will go, what I will do, now that I've reached the edge.

It's time to go.

Should I jump? Can I try?

I look for my Father in the darkness at the bottom. I know He is there but I can't see Him. He is behind me, smiling, waiting. To the very edge I have followed Him, and now He wants me to jump. Trust me, He says. It's not safe, I say. Just another step further, He says. I can't see where it ends, I whisper. Just look at me, He answers. The air stills; the world quiets. I linger one moment longer in the uneasy solace of Indecision. The comfort of the Known can still be felt; one step backwards would send me into its reassuring arms. The threat and thrill of the Unknown stare up at me like a gaping mouth,, ready to consume me the instant I move closer.

It's time to go.

Should I jump? Can I try?

All of my experience, everything I have learned has led me to this place, to the very edge of the Familiar. Nothing is like it was, and everything will be new from this point on. I don't feel ready but I can't stay where I am. I don't feel ready but something tells me I can do this. Something tells me that when I step off the edge I won't be alone at the bottom. Something tells me I'm not even really alone now.

I'm on the edge looking down, into darkness.

Into a place I've never been before. Into the Unknown, the Unseen. A place where anything can happen and where everything is new. It's not safe, but it calls to me.

It's time to go.

I jump.

How Do We Know What God Wants Us To Do?

If you're like me, making big life decisions can be very overwhelming. And by big life decisions, I mean stuff like choosing a career path, choosing which school to attend, choosing what to put in my burrito at Chipotle. You know, the serious stuff. I remember standing at the order screen in Sheetz one time (that's a fancy gas station like WaWa or whatever for you non-East Coast people) and I could have stood there for twenty minutes staring at all of the options for my sandwich, the meat, cheese, toppings, bread type. It was honestly ridiculous how many little choices went into this one minuscule decision in my life-the decision to pick up breakfast at the gas station (it's a lot classier than it sounds, I swear).

If I can't even pick out a sandwich without feeling overwhelmed, how in the world will I make decisions that actually matter? I can't tell you the amount of time I have spent stressing over a life choice and wondering if it was really what God wanted me to do.

Over two years ago I wrote a post about this picture:

This is a picture of me on the beach in the Dominican, at the exact moment I felt confirmed once and for all that God was calling me to the DR. I'm still thankful to my friend Ben for documenting this occasion without knowing how significant it was for me. After that time at the ocean I never turned back; I knew this was God's plan.

Isn't that a cute story? Here's the deeper truth behind this split-second snapshot of my life: before I became completely sure, I wrestled with myself and with God for two years about whether this was the right choice. Two. Whole. Years. Sure, I was young and wasn't planning on leaving the country that soon anyway, but two years of praying and debating? Now that I'm older and wiser (kind of), that amount of time seems a bit excessive.

Why was I so hesitant to make a firm decision and stick with it? That's an easy one: it's because I was too afraid of making the wrong choice and screwing up God's plan for my life. Though in my head this seems crazy, in my heart I felt like if I didn't follow the exact blueprint God clearly had written out for me from before the beginning of time, I would ruin things for the rest of my life and always live in some second-best plan B that God filed away in case I messed up. Obviously you can see why I was so stressed. That's a lot of pressure to put on yourself. 

And it's completely unnecessary pressure too. The more I got to know God the more I realized that he isn't some puppet master moving us along these previously marked paths that show us where to go and what to do until the day we die. He has a great overall plan for humanity, one that has nothing to do with which country I live in and everything to do with redeeming us as a society and as individuals. If he had wanted to control our every move he wouldn't have gifted us with the freedom of choice, the freedom to have a will of our own. 

Why in the world did God do that? Why did he allow us to make our own decisions, and with that our own mistakes? 

God loves us. That's all there is to it. He loves us and wanted to live life with us, not by controlling us.

The story of Saul becoming king of Israel in 1 Samuel has changed my life and how I make decisions, and it's one of my favorite stories to talk about. God tells Samuel to anoint Saul as the first king of Israel. After anointing him Samuel at first gives Saul very specific instructions on what to do, like accepting bread from three random strangers, and joining a group of prophets with lyres and tambourines. Apparently the procession of prophets with tambourines was non-negotiable. He tells him that after all these signs the Spirit of the Lord will be upon him. But this is what Samuel tells him next in 1 Samuel 10:7: "...do whatever your hand finds to do, for God is with you."

Do...whatever? That's the first great mandate for the new king of Israel? To do whatever? If I were God and I had just chosen a little human to rule over my people, I would want to control his every move. I would want him to be merely a mouthpiece to keep on doing what I wanted to do. But God doesn't do that. He allows Saul to make his own choices as king. 

Obviously there were times in Saul's life where God did give him specific tasks to do, and I will talk about that in another post. But Saul was wise, and he followed God's commandments (at least in the beginning) and God trusted him to use the gifts he had been given to rule his kingdom well. 

God does the same thing with us. God is with us, and so we should do, well, whatever we find to do, because if we are following God and sharing his love with others, we honestly can't go wrong. As I said before, God is orchestrating a beautiful plan, weaving a single shared story through all of human history. And he's not doing that in spite of our free will choices, but rather through those choices. To think that we humans can somehow mess up or hinder God's plan by making a "wrong" choice is an insult to his omnipotence. God is more than capable of knitting all of our individual decisions together to make one perfect redemption story. So stop stressing! He will use you wherever you choose to go.

I feel I need to say at this point that the decisions I'm talking about do not refer to the decision to sin or not to sin. In those situations there is always a clear right and a clear wrong. The circumstances I mean are choices like which job offer to accept, or which small group to join. If you don't have a very clear direction after praying and seeking God's counsel, then use your best judgment and use the wisdom God has already given you to make a decision. 

Let me give an example. During college I had to do an international internship. The organization I was working through gave me a choice: I could work in Honduras with high-schoolers, or I could work in Kenya at a baby hospital. Two very different countries, two very different ministries. I thought and prayed about both, but didn't feel strongly for one over the other. Both seemed like great opportunities. I am so glad I ended up going where I did, but I also know that God would have used me in either ministry, and I would have learned and grown from either experience. There was no wrong choice in this scenario. I didn't stress out about it, and I had an amazing summer and formed relationships that are still strong today. 

Are you struggling to make an important decision? Do you feel like God's not talking to you or leading you to a specific place or task? Give yourself some credit and exercise that freedom God gave you. He can and will use you wherever you go; the only thing he asks is that you go. Do whatever your hand finds to do, because God really is with you.  

Go get 'em!

Love the Foreigner: A Message From an Outsider

If you came here expecting to see an opinionated article about refugees or immigrants and what we should do with them, then you've clicked on the wrong link. This is not an argument for a certain side, or a social commentary on a hot issue. This is simply my story, and the simple truth I think we can take from it.

After almost two years in the Dominican Republic I feel that I have some experience as a foreigner, a non-native; because of this, I would like to speak on behalf of outsiders in our own country. We all have interacted with people who are not native to the United States. Sometimes those experiences are wonderful, informative, and mutually beneficial. Other times it can seem frustrating and confusing. Maybe it's someone who doesn't know English very well, or someone who doesn't understand how to order a sandwich at Subway. Maybe their customs or lifestyle make us uncomfortable at times. Either way, we've all been there, right?

But we all haven't been in the other person's shoes. Not everyone has experienced the role of the foreigner or has been in a place where things make sense to everybody but themselves. I have. And believe me, it's not easy. Being the outsider in another country has made me extra aware of the foreigners in my own country. Not that I have ever been disrespectful or rude to anyone, but now that I understand more of what they are experiencing I feel more compelled to be helpful to them if they ever need assistance.

I studied Spanish for five years before I even moved to the DR. I have a B.A. in Spanish and Missions, and I made eight short-term trips to my new country before I made the permanent move. I was well-informed and suitably equipped. Do you know how often I needed assistance from locals?

Daily.

No matter how much you think you know, nothing can truly prepare you for total immersion in a new culture. There are nuances and quirks that take a lifetime to master. There are things locals do that they don't consciously think about until they see an outsider acting differently. No matter how integrated into the community I was, I would always, always be different.

Being different is stressful and exhausting. You have to work twice as hard as everyone else just to appear "normal" in that society. Some people are happy to help when you screw up or don't know what to do. Others are not so helpful.

Do you want to know my most stressful experience during my entire time in the DR? It wasn't the first day I moved when we were stuck at the airport overnight and didn't know whether or not anyone was coming to pick us up. It wasn't the first time I crossed the Haitian border and my family and I were the only people that had to exit the bus and go to the immigration office to talk about a problem. It wasn't even when I moved into a batey alone and couldn't sleep my first night because I was so lonely and nervous. No, it was worse than all of those experiences put together.

It was when I had to order checks at the bank.

I know, I know. It sounds ridiculous, and actually it probably is. I had been in the country for about two months; my Spanish was very good, but I still struggled with the Dominican accent at times, especially when I had to hold a conversation over the phone without facial cues.

Ordering checks in the States is easy. All you have to do is go into the bank and ask for checks and they will send them to you. You can even order them online and they are delivered right to your door without ever having to speak to another human! In the Dominican it's different. When we opened up a new account for our ministry, it took a few weeks for our checks to come in, and when they finally did I had to sit in the bank, call a phone number, answer a lot of questions, list off my account number, and then finally be approved. I didn't know any of this until the lady at the bank handed me my checkbook, highlighted my account number, and passed me her phone to complete the process myself. Right there in Banco Popular, in front of dozens of customers and bank employees as my witnesses, I began the most humiliating phone call I've ever made.

The lady on the phone was nice enough, but she was speaking very quickly and asking me questions I couldn't understand and didn't know how to answer properly. The more flustered I became, the less Spanish I could recall in my mind to respond to her. I struggled through a few questions before I finally gave up, thrusting the phone back into the woman's hands and telling her I didn't understand what to do. She listened to the lady on the phone for a few seconds before handing the phone back to me, saying curtly that she couldn't do this for me, that I had to do it myself. Maybe it was in my mind, but her face held an expression of impatience and a little disdain for having to deal with an incompetent person like me. My face was burning with shame and I felt sure that everyone in the vicinity was listening to me, judging me. I gripped the phone hard to quell my shaking hand, gulped back some tears threatening to surface, and slowly began the process again. I'm sure it took much less time than it seemed, and finally we walked out of the bank successfully, checks in hand, while I continued to fight back tears the entire ride home.

Maybe that doesn't seem like a big deal to people, but for me it was embarrassing and stressful. It was a glaring reminder that I didn't belong. If I couldn't even do simple things like complete transactions at the bank, how was I ever supposed to fit in here? I was ashamed of myself for not being better and felt demeaned and condescended by the bank employee who didn't offer me help when I so desperately needed it, choosing instead to glare at me for not knowing better. It took a lot of determination to walk into that bank again with my head held high, ready to try again for a smoother experience.

Because I know what it feels like to be lost in the sea of foreign procedures and customs, I now have even more respect for people who travel to our country to start a new life in a new culture. It's incredibly overwhelming, and it takes a large amount of strength and will.

I have other memories of times in which I've struggled to figure things out, but they are better memories. The task might have been just as daunting as ordering checks, maybe even more daunting, but the experience was positive because of one difference:

People were willing to help me.

People pointed me in the right direction; they patiently explained certain processes and how to go about things; they stayed with me until they knew I was going to be OK. I remember one time in a hardware store-usually where I needed the most help and the most patience from others-I needed to buy some materials for someone but I didn't know what they were called in Spanish or even how to go about ordering them. The hardware store employee could clearly see how lost I was, and he worked with us for fifteen minutes without moving on to another customer (which is rare in the DR). He spoke slow enough for me to understand without belittling me, and he asked simple questions to clarify what I needed. When we had gathered all the supplies he led me to the cashier because he knew I didn't know where it was. After we paid, the employee helped carry the supplies to our truck. I thanked him, he smiled genuinely, and we parted ways.

That man didn't have to be so accommodating. He didn't have to work with me through the entire transaction. He could have passed me along to another employee or left me to fend for myself. But he chose to stay, and I will remember his kindness.

This is not a rare story, by the way. I could tell you of countless experiences where people went out of their way to assist me or make me feel welcome in their community. I could tell you about employees who would point to me and ask for my order because they saw people were cutting in front of me in line. Or I could tell you about a young woman who took the time to tell me the names of all the chicken parts for sale so I would know what to order (I now forget all of them, but it was a nice gesture).

The kids who stopped what they were doing to take me to my destination because I was completely turned around. The friends who held my hand while crossing the road because they were afraid I would walk into traffic. The ladies who cooked meals for me because I didn't know how to make Dominican food. The men who spent their weekends digging holes in a field to put up soccer goals because my team wanted to play and I didn't know how to set up a game. All of those people contributed to making my time as a foreigner so wonderful. I wish I could repay them, but the best thing I can do now is to remember what they did for me and in turn be that welcoming person for someone else.

God spends a fair amount of time in the Bible talking about foreigners and how we should treat them. "He defends the cause of the fatherless and the widow, and loves the alien, giving him food and clothing. And you are to love those who are aliens, for you yourselves were aliens in Egypt." (Deuteronomy 10:18-19) Aliens, or outsiders, immigrants, etc. were consistently mentioned in the Old Testament alongside orphans and widows, who were considered to be the people in society who needed to be helped and looked after the most. God cares for the weary traveler who is lost in a new land. And he wants us to care too.

Let us love those who are aliens. Let us do what we can to make their transition easier. There were people who did the same for me, and they would do they same for you as well. What a great privilege it is to welcome outsiders and help them become our neighbors.

Snow Nice to be Back

Seriously?

This is my triumphant reentry to the States? A big snowstorm. Seriously?

I've traded my shorts for sweatpants, my tank tops for hoodies. There are two pairs of socks on my feet right now. My friend Steph in the DR doesn't even know where her socks are anymore. I had to shovel my car out today in tennis shoes and borrowed gloves. By the time my hermit self crawled back into the outside world to do my duty this morning I was more mentally prepared, but in the previous days as the snow fell and everyone was rushing about to get enough bread to feed their captive families over the weekend, I couldn't help but think, I'm not ready for this. 

I've been saying that about a lot of things lately, as I begin this journey most missionaries call "reentry", or the adjustment period after moving back to my home country. Some people have asked me how that process has been going, and while it's going much better now, the beginning was very hard, even painstaking. Some people wonder why it's so hard to readjust to a country that you have lived in your entire life. Why can't you just pick up where you left off?

The truth is things never stay the same. I am a different person than the one who left the U.S. almost two years ago. And life in America has gone on without me. I once heard that culture changes so quickly that even the people living within that culture can hardly keep up with it. What does that mean for missionaries who leave for long periods of time? It means that, at least for a time, we feel like outsiders in our own country. 

After adapting to the way of life and pace of conversation in the Dominican, I sometimes find it hard to keep up even the simplest small talk. My clothes, worn and faded from overuse and too many washings, are even more out of style than before I left. While Spanish words and Dominican slang swirl through my mind, Americans are using words and phrases I've never heard of (on fleek?  Squad goals?). And while I'm trying to find my bearings and also take time to mourn the friendships I left behind, the world wants me to move on and jump right back into the fast-paced organized chaos that life seems to be. 

Im not ready for this. 

I've talked to a lot of people about reentry, and I don't think it's something anybody can be ready for. Sometimes I wonder if the process ever ends. The DR is a part of me now, and its influence on my thoughts and behaviors will always be here. But it does get easier to deal with the sense of loss, and I don't feel like an alien every moment anymore. That's progress. 

During the hard times I would direct my frustration to God. When the sting of leaving and the shock of reentry felt especially tough, I couldn't help feeling like God had let me down, or broken a dear promise to me. I thought the DR was supposed to be my home. I thought I would be there longer. You promised me, didn't you? Didn't you?

Actually, I would reply to my own question, God has broken no promise. It was I who promised him. I gave him my promise long ago. A promise to go when he called, to lead where he followed. In the good times and in the bad, in the easy times and the hard. To the very end. How could I retract my promise now just because he didn't seem to be leading me where I wanted to go?

But God has made me promises of his own. He has promised to love me (1 John 4:16). He has promised to comfort me when I am hurting (Psalm 147:3). He has promised to provide for me (Philippians 4:19). And he has promised to work everything out for me, even when I don't see the way (Romans 8:28). He has kept his promises and I will keep mine, because I trust him. Today he led me right outside the front door to shovel a driveway with a friend. Tomorrow, who knows? The God who is helping me readjust to life in the United States is the same God who is leading me to my next adventure somewhere. And even though I feel a little lost right now, I think I'll recognize that adventure when I see it. 

And I'll be ready for it.