Help my unbelief

Once, a father brought his son to Jesus to be healed.  The son would go into convulsions and foam at the mouth, sometimes in dangerous places like around fire or a well, and had for most of his life.  Jesus' disciples were unable to heal him, so the father brought him directly to Jesus, begging him to help.  Jesus told him that all things are possible for those who believe.
I love the father's response to this:  "I believe!  Help my unbelief!"  (Mark 9)

It seems like a contradictory statement, but oh, how often I have felt like that father.

I believe God provides, so I tithe even in months when money is tight, but I still sometimes worry about making ends meet.  (Help my unbelief.)

I believe God has work for me to do in Kenya, so I'm leaving the life I've built here in Virginia to follow him there, but I still sometimes wonder if I'm doing the right thing.  (Help my unbelief.)

I believe God loves me so much more than I can comprehend, but I still sometimes wonder if the way he directs my path is what's really best for me.  (Help my unbelief.)

I believe God loves my friends and family so much more than I could ever love them, but I sometimes wonder if they'll still feel loved when I'm not around as often to show my love for them.  (Help my unbelief.)

I believe all of these things, but I don't always feel them.  I do not believe as strongly as I wish I did.  But feelings are fleeting and can change based on what I had for dinner or what side of the bed I got out of in the morning, and God does not place too much weight on our feelings.  John tells us that "God is greater than our feelings," which is a great comfort to those of us whose feelings sometimes contradict our beliefs.

God is good, whether I feel like he is or not.  God provides, whether I feel like he is or not.  God loves me, whether I feel like he does or not.  God loves my friends and family more perfectly than I ever could, whether I feel like he does or not.

I believe these things, dear Jesus.  Help my unbelief.

What might have been

I like to blog after God has shown me some amazing truth that I feel like I need to share with others, or when God is moving in my life in a big way.  I like to blog when I feel like God's given me some answers, or at least when I'm excited about the questions that aren't answered yet.  It feels good to share deep revelations and giddy anticipation of revelations yet to come.

Today, I don't feel like I have a lot of answers, and the questions fill me more with regret than anticipation.  And I feel like you should know I have days where I feel like this, too.  So, even though it's a bit of a downer, I'll still share my heart with you today.

Making such a big decision, to move to Kenya, has brought into sharp contrast all of the other paths down which I could have taken my life.  The different people I could know, the different places I could have gone, the different lives I could have lived.  I'm sure most people have thoughts like this at one point or another, but I wasn't prepared to feel this way.

I know how I'm supposed to feel--I should feel at peace, and I should feel secure knowing that I'm following God's path for my life.  God wants what's best for me even more than I do.  So how could I not be happy about following him where he calls me?

Yet I still feel a need to mourn my lives that might have been.  The life I could have had if I'd moved there, or lived a slightly different lifestyle, or stayed with that person, or went to this college.  If I'd done any number of things differently, I would not be where I am now.  And though I know that God's plan is always so much better than mine, a part of me still wonders if I would have been happier had things turned out differently.

So I'm praying now, not just to prepare me for my move to Kenya, but also for the peace that God promised us as I grieve for what never can be.  And I want to be real with you, my friends:  I am so, so excited to be moving to Kenya.  I can't wait to hold my babies over there and spend every day showing them how much God loves them.  But it is hard, too.

I have this hanging on the wall in my bedroom, and I think I'll take with me to Kenya, as I'm sure I'll need the reminder from time to time:

Dreams

Nearly seven years ago, I began my career as an orchestra teacher.  I had plans to continue my education, become well-respected in my career, and be the best teacher I could be.  I would someday get married, have kids, and maybe do the whole white picket fence thing, with a dog and a yard and two cars in the garage.  The American Dream.

Five and a half years ago, a team from my church returned from a trip to Kenya where they worked on details for starting up a non-profit to work with our partner church in Nairobi.  Their pictures and their stories worked their way into my heart, and I just knew I had to visit that country some day.

Four and a half years ago, I stepped off of a plane onto soil 8,000 miles from home, of a country I'd been praying about.  I only spent three weeks there, but the people and the country left a mark on my soul, and I never fully left Kenya again.  A part of my heart was always there.

Three and a half years ago, I returned to the country that had left such a large impression on my soul.  I thought a return trip might satisfy this longing I had to be there, but it only intensified it.  And I knew that this longing was  no ordinary longing, but one that had been placed there by God.  I no longer wanted the American dream--I wanted God's dream.  I was being called to Kenya for more than just 3 weeks.  I had no idea what that looked like, or even if it was really God or just the excitement of Kenya talking, so I went home and prayed for a long time.

Three years ago, God confirmed that he was calling me to Kenya.  I broke up with the man I thought I'd spend the rest of my life with and started doing all I could to pay off my debts so I could get to Kenya as soon as possible.  I was going all in, and couldn't wait to follow this dream that God had placed in my heart.

Two years ago, the pace I had been living at to try to get to Kenya faster caught up with me.  I began treatment for anxiety & depression, I had to scale back on the second job I was working to pay off my debts, and I didn't go to Kenya that year.  I spent many tearful hours in prayer, asking God why he'd placed this longing in my heart, only to let these enormous obstacles get in the way.  I'd completely changed the course of my life the year before to follow this dream, and now it looked like God wasn't letting me follow it.  I feared I would never pay off my debts without working as much at my second job, and I feared I'd never be mentally healthy enough to move to Kenya.  I would never be completely happy if I wasn't in Kenya, but I would never be mentally healthy if I kept up the pace required to get me to Kenya.

Two years ago, my pastor forwarded me an email he'd received from someone who'd visited a school called the Tania Centre, started by a Kenyan man our church used to support.  My pastor thought I'd be interested in finding out more about this school, and I ended up making plans to spend my summer there.  If I wasn't getting to Kenya for a longer period of time anytime soon, I may as well try to spend what time I could there.

A year and a half ago, I stepped onto a plane not knowing much about the place where I was going or even who would be meeting me at the airport.  I trusted that God had a plan for this summer, but questioned why I thought it was a good idea to commit for such a long time (5 weeks) at a place I knew next to nothing about.  And why the people who sent me thought it was a good idea.

A year and a half ago, while the children at the Tania Centre were so completely capturing my heart, I read a book by Mother Teresa with an idea that changed my whole way of thinking:  "I must not attempt to control God's action;  I must not count the stages in the journey He would have me make.  I must not desire a clear perception of my advance upon the road, must not know precisely where I am upon the way of holiness.  I ask Him to make a saint of me, yet I must leave to Him the choice of the saintliness itself and still more the means that lead to it."  God used this book to remind me that this dream was not my own; this dream was his.  This plan was not my own; this plan was his.  No matter how hard I worked myself to get to Kenya, it would never happen if it wasn't on God's timing, in God's way.

One year ago, I opened the hands that had been holding so tightly onto my dreams of Kenya.  I let the dream return to the Dream-Giver and accepted that it might be a long, long time until I get back to Kenya for more than a few weeks at a time.  I accepted that Virginia was where God wanted me right then, and that the dream he'd given me was not mine to force into being, but his to fulfill at the right time.  I began praying to be in Kenya in about 7 or 8 or 10 years instead of the 1 or 2 years that I'd been hoping for.  And I was at peace.

Seven months ago, I returned to the Tania Centre, not with the fear of the unknown that I'd had the previous year, but with joy and excitement to see the children and adults I'd fallen so in love with the year before.  I only had 6 weeks with them, but I would soak up every second and thank God for the time that I had.  I planned to come back as often as possible.

Five months ago, the school doctor said the same words to me that many other people had said to me at one time or another:  "You should come back next year to stay.  Trust God with your debts, and come back to stay."  But this time, I heard more than just the doctor--I heard the Holy Spirit whispering to my heart.  "It's time."  I hardly dared to believe it.  I'd braced myself for a long, lonely path between now and when I finally got to Kenya long-term.  How could the call to return come so suddenly?  I told the Tania Centre that I would pray about it and let them know.  I needed time to be sure it was actually God speaking, and not just the excitement of being in Kenya.

Three months ago, I sat down in a Starbucks with my pastor and let him know that God had confirmed that he was calling me back to the Tania Centre.  I prayed about how long it should be, toyed with anything from 1 to 5 years, and settled at 3 years.  Then I'd see where God wanted me at that point.  My pastor gave me his support and promised to pray for me.  So many others have done the same as I've spread the news to my friends and church.

Today, I find myself preparing for the biggest leap of faith that I've ever taken.  By the end of this year, I'll have purged most of my possessions, packed up what's left, and moved 8,000 miles away from my friends and family.  I'm obviously excited, but I have many fears:  What if I get homesick?  What if I get physically or mentally ill?  How will I adjust to living in a culture so different from my own?  I still have student debt that I need to trust to God, because being a missionary doesn't pay the bills.  I still have credit card debt that I plan to have paid off by the time I leave, but it's taking a lot of hard work, and I'm relying on my God for the strength to do it.  Because I know now that it's not my dream, and it can't be done on my own strength.  No matter how hard I work, I won't get to Kenya if it's not God's doing.  And I wouldn't want to get to Kenya if it's not God's doing.

Stepping out in faith in such a large way has made many parts of my faith much clearer to me.  I used to try to fit the things Jesus said into my life, to figure out what he meant, rather than trying to fit my life into what Jesus said.  I found it hard to find meaning in much of Jesus' words when I was chasing the American dream.  But now, as I prepare to start a new life on the other side of the world, things Jesus said sound much more straightforward:  if I want to find my life, I've got to lose it for Jesus' sake.  (I can already taste the new life waiting for me as I give up my old one.)  If I give up friends and family and home for Jesus, I'll be rewarded with 100 times as many in this life and the next.  (There are already over 100 little people praying for me at the Tania Centre, ready to be my family there once I've left my family here.)  If I stop storing up treasures on earth, and invest more in God's children, I'll have treasure in heaven.  (I've already started purging some of my belongings, and the freeing feeling it gives me is indescribable.)  My heart is following my treasure, and my heart is no longer with these material things.  My heart is with my Father, and with the children he's calling me to love.

While there is much to do to prepare, for now, I simply ask you to pray.  Pray that God would prepare me in every way possible for this big move;  that he would prepare the Tania Centre for this big change for them;  that he would already be working on the hearts of my future supporters;  that he would make the path clear to get me where he wants me to go;  that I would continue to follow his dream with his strength, and not my dream with my own strength.

By the waters of Babylon

In a few short hours, I'll be heading to the airport to begin my 24+ hour journey back to America.  It has been a long, short, amazing, fulfilling 6 weeks, and I can't believe they're over.

I miss my friends and family back home, but Kenya feels like home, too.  Home is Beaver, Pennsylvania, and Fairfax, Virginia, and Kiserian, Kenya.  Home is where my biological family is, and home is where my friends-who've-become-family are.  Home is all of these places, but home is none of these places.  I'll never feel whole because I'll never have all of the pieces of my heart in the same place at once.  At least on this side of eternity.

God promises us that he's preparing a place for us--my passport says my citizenship is in America, but God says my citizenship is in heaven.  I'm a stranger in a strange land no matter where I am on this earth.  In the Old Testament, the Jewish people spent a lot of time in exile from Israel.  They were forced from the Promised Land into Babylon, where they never felt at home, either.  They would write psalms to remember their true home:
"By the rivers of Babylon we sat down and wept
when we remembered Zion...
How can we sing the songs of the Lord while in a foreign land?
If I forget you, O Jerusalem,
may my right hand forget its skill.
May my tongue cling to the roof of my mouth
if I do not remember you,
if I do not consider Jerusalem my highest joy."
-Psalm 137:1, 4-6 (NIV)

Though I long for Kenya while I'm in America, and I long for America while I'm in Kenya, that longing should pale in comparison with the longing I should feel for my true home.  And my true home in heaven is where I'll finally be able to visit with my family from all over the world at the same time in the presence of Jesus, and THEN I'll finally feel whole.  But until then, I'll be spending a lot of time crying in airports, longing to feel whole.

Until I die, I'll sing these songs
On the shores of Babylon
Still looking for a home in a world where I belong
Where the weak are finally strong
Where the righteous right the wrongs
Still looking for a home in a world where I belong
-Switchfoot, "Where I Belong"

Hiding our messes

"Beth!"

I turned and saw little James scooting towards me as quickly as he could across the grass, the biggest of grins across his face.  James, affectionately called Jim-o by everyone here, is a little boy who was born a few years ago to a mentally disabled teenager.  She was rescued from a bad living situation, along with James and his sister Jemimah, and now they live at the Tania Centre.  The mother was in the special needs class last year, and helps in the kitchen this year.  Jemimah is the most cheerful of toddlers, and I've never seen her with anything less than an absolutely beaming smile on her face.  You would never know what situation she came from by looking at her or interacting with her.

James, however, was born with some severe physical disabilities.  He is unable to walk on his own, so he scoots along the ground using his arms and legs.  He can walk for a few yards with assistance, but is incredibly wobbly.  Any physical exertion, even talking for too long, leaves him wheezing and gasping for breath.  A speech impediment makes talking even more difficult on top of the shortness of breath, making communication difficult for him at times.  Anything beyond just sitting requires so much more effort for James than it does for other children.

Some of the children here with disabilities try to hide their disabilities out of embarrassment.  Students with speech issues are quiet, students with unusable hands hide them under the desk during class.  But James doesn't let his disabilities keep him from being himself.  He has learned to propel himself across the ground almost as quickly as I can walk, and his speech impediment doesn't keep him from playing the "Beth!" "Jim-o!" game with me anytime I'm within shouting distance.  (He shouts "Beth!" at me, and I shout "Jim-o!" back at him, eliciting an enormous grin.  We go back and forth for quite some time, usually until I can't stand it anymore.  It's a very popular game here, with variations like the "Beth!" "Kanje!" game, the "Beth!" "Ndulu!" game, and the "Beth!" "Jemimah!" game.) 

James was so excited to see me when I walked past the dorm that he dropped what he was doing so he could scoot over to me just as quickly as he could, shouting as loudly as his breath allowed.  It didn't matter to him that I was already carrying one child and had three others hanging onto my arms, walking and talking with me without effort.  What mattered was that his Beth was here, and even if he had to scoot the entire length of the soccer field, he was going to come spend time with me.  He didn't need to have working legs or enough breath to carry on a conversation, he just needed to get close enough to be noticed.

If only we could come to Jesus with such abandonment of self.  Maybe our spiritual legs aren't working right now, and maybe we've lost the words to say.   Maybe we're embarrassed by how far behind other Christians we think we are, so we sit quietly beside the path as Jesus walks past.  We care more about how we look than about being with the One we love.

But Jesus wants us right now, no matter where we are in life.  When he told the parable of the prodigal son, the father didn't wait for the son to get his life together before welcoming him home.  He ran out to meet his son as soon as he saw him coming, probably still smelling of the pig sty he'd been working at, and embraced him as if no wrong had been done.  He didn't ask the son if he'd had a change of heart or if he was just flat broke (and, if you read the story, it wasn't a change of heart, it WAS that he was flat broke and out of options), and he didn't demand repayment or repentance.  He welcomed his son in that messy, smelly, broken state.

May we all come to fall so in love with Jesus that the need to be near him is so much greater than the need to hide all of our messes.  Even if it means we have to scoot along the ground to him, gasping his name.

Wewe ni wangu

"Betty, she said I'm hers!" Kanje giggled and hid her beaming face in my chest after shouting the news in Swahili to her friend.  I was practicing my Swahili, but meant every word:  "Wewe ni bebe wangu!" ("You are my baby!")  If I could bring this girl home with me next week, I would do it in a heartbeat.

Kanje can be a mystery to me at times.  Some days, I'll walk up to school and immediately hear her shout "Beth!" and come running the instant she sees me; other days, I seek her out and find her in a sullen mood, turning away with a "hmph!" if I try to talk to her.  Some days, she takes a swing at me if I try to hold her hand, and other days, she gets jealous if I let anyone but her sit in my lap.  But there is something about her that grabs my heart and won't let go, no matter where her mood swings take her.

Today was a good mood day, so Kanje sat on my lap, playing with me for a long time this afternoon.  She would hand me imaginary food, saying "Shika! Kula!" ("Take! Eat!").  Other phrases, too, which I've forgotten, meaning "close your eyes," usually followed by tiny fingers tickling my neck, and other things that I didn't understand, but laughed at on cue anyway.  Kanje helps me with my Swahili, I help her with her English, and we both come away feeling a little more loved than we did the day before.

I imagine God sees me in much the same way:  some days, I shout his name and run towards him with all my heart; other days, I feel God tapping on my shoulder, and I turn away.  Some days, I'm angry with God, and other days, I just want to spend the whole day sitting in his lap and talking with him.

But, no  matter where my mood swings take me, God will continue seeking me out.  There is something about me (and about you!) that grabs his heart and won't let go.  And he tells us, "Wewe ni toto wangu--you are my child."

My love is imperfect, but I hope Kanje sees that it is unconditional, and that it will help her to understand what it means when she learns that God's love is unconditional.  No matter how many times she turns from me, I'll still love her, and, no matter how many times she turns from him, God will still love her.  Maybe someday she'll be shouting the news to her friends:  "God said I'm his!"

Mighty to save

“She’s there,” Jennifer told me.  I peeked over her shoulder and saw the little girl I’d known last summer in class 4, sitting outside the shack she called home.  We’d come to her house outside Meru that day to try to rescue her and bring her back to Tania.

This girl’s mother is mentally challenged and unable to properly care for her daughters, which is why this little girl came to the Tania Centre in the first place.  Eventually, she asked to visit home.  It’s only natural for her to want to see her parents, no matter how poorly they had taken care of her.  But, when she went home for the December holidays last year, her parents never sent her back to school.  The Tania Centre has called several times asking when she’d return, always with the same answer: maybe next week.  But next week never came.

Which is how we ended up on the edge of her family’s property that Saturday, hoping to be invited in, hoping to bring her home with us.  There was no gate that we could see, so when the father allowed us to come in, we had to climb between the barbed wire to get in.  The house was a two-room shack, barely the size of my bedroom in my apartment in Virginia.  There was no electricity, no running water, and the latrine out back was built of sticks and plastic bags.  They had maybe half an acre of land, but it looked like little to no attempt had been made at farming it.  Piles of garbage, littered with empty liquor bottles, sat around the front of the house.

The little girl I’d known to be smiley and fiery-tempered last year sat on a log in front of the house, picking at the dirt.  There was no smile on her face, and she barely acknowledged us when we greeted her.  Though she was wearing boots, the feet of her father and little sister were clearly riddled with jiggers, so I could guess that hers were, too.  I saw no fire, so it was likely that they hadn’t eaten that day.  Everything about this place made me want to grab these two little girls and take them away to where they could be properly taken care of.

We stood there for a while, Jennifer and Joseph talking to the father and each taking the girl to the side of the house to talk to her privately.  After what felt like ages, Jennifer told me that, since the mother wasn’t home right now, they couldn’t make any decisions about bringing the girls back to Tania yet.  We walked away empty-handed.

It was hard to walk away that day from those two little girls, not knowing what would become of them.  It’s hard to leave the kids at Tania at the end of the summer, when all I really want to do is keep loving these kids as if they were my own.  I could have the biggest heart in the entire world, but that doesn’t make me capable of saving everyone in the world who needs to be saved.

Thankfully, God doesn’t ask me to save everyone.  He doesn’t even ask me to save anyone.  He just asks me to love who I can, where I am, and he’ll do the saving.  And, since God is everywhere, he’ll take care of the ones I can’t.  He’ll hold those little girls in Meru until they can be held by someone who knows how to care for them.  He’ll hold my little ones at Tania until I can return and hold them again.  And he knows so much better than me how to care for them.