They are worth it, and I am able because He is faithful

5 years ago, I anticipated, that by this point in our lives we'd be on the brink of returning from a 4 year term in Kenya. Our lives would be revolving around taking the gospel to the nations, building relationships with nationals, living among the people and serving them with open arms and glad hearts so that they experience Jesus in me.

Back then, I would have never imagined our life would look like it does today. After all, we were chasing hard after God, He was guiding us to this foreign land. It was bound to transpire just as my perfect, little brain could propose it to be.

And then, loss.

Grief.

Disappointments.

Financial setbacks.

Broken family relationships.

Pain.

Wrestling.

I have doubted my God on every level. I've begged to walk away, tried even. I've searched the scriptures for evidence that this God I devoted myself to is on a power trip and decided to wreck my life just for fun.

I've watched my children grow, as a shell of their mother attempts to shepherd them toward a God that she's uncertain of herself. I've cussed Him out, shut Him out, turned and refused to talk or listen. I've been at a place where I wondered if I was seriously delusional and if I dreamed up this whole missions thing because it was trendy, sounded fun and looked like it made us a better version of ourselves.

In every aspect of our lives over the last 3 years we've been broken. I've spilled tears over the simplest of things and shook my fist at God from the darkest parts of my heart. I've turned bitter, angry and spiteful.

Who needs God anyway? I mean, really. What kind of a God loads your whole family onto a rug called obedience then jerks the damn thing right out from under you? Not any God I want to follow, that's for sure.

The arrogance in my heart and the trust I had in my "strong faith" disappeared. In an instant, the person I thought I was and the things I thought I believed seem to lay before me on the ground like the contents of a beautifully potted orchid that had been thrown from the 10th floor window.

I couldn't read blogs, attend missions events, listen to songs or fake my way through a missions Sunday at church. I would get up and leave, telling God to screw himself as I walked out the door and down the hall.

Was this some kind of a sick joke? Who does that?

I've asked, desperately, what we should do now and the only thing I have gotten in return is silence. No whispers of His voice, no profound truths from scripture, no words from the teaching of the men and women that had so clearly been instruments of His words anymore.

The anger continued to well and finally pour out. I've been angry at everyone and everything for a very long time.

Anger does crazy things to you. It makes you blind, deaf and cold. I would interact with my children and I could see myself, almost in the 3rd person, reacting in ways that I would not typically react. It was surreal and almost as if I was living a life that I was simply watching, not a participant.

Finally, after a long silence with the Lord, I begged Him to reveal to me why we are in this place when it's not at all where my heart desires. I got no profound answers. I didn't see a hand writing on the wall or hear the voice of God audibly.

Instead, a dirty faced, chubby cheeked almost 15 month old toddler came toward me with her half drunk saunter. She grinned and juicy animal crackers dripped from her chin as she struggled her way into my lap and wrapped her arms around my neck.

A clingy 3 year old rounded the corner and squealed with the delight at the sight of me. I delight her every time I she sees me.

A fresh, new 5 year old crawls into bed with me on the morning of her birthday. Soft, blond, wild curls cover my face as she nuzzles her head under my chin. "You smell nice Momma. I think my nose is better when I'm five," she giggles.

Two six year olds sit poised with pencils in hand and scribble out shaky letters. One of them reads every word his eyes see and he beams with joy, the other beams with pride over words of praise and affirmation.

An eight year old boy finds a love for baseball. He carries his glove with him everywhere he goes and he wears his Daddy's number from college on his back. He's the scrawniest player on the team but he hustles and works hard and he's determined to prove himself.

Eight and ten year old sisters find a love for horses and cultivate a friendship unlike anything I've ever seen. They giggle and talk about horses and boys and how to decorate their room until long past their bed time.

When the anger subsides, this is what I see. I see the nations. I see my life revolving around these people who desperately need the gospel. I see me serving them with open arms and a glad heart so that they experience Jesus in me.

I see the one job my arrogant self assumed was not good enough now being the most important, the most challenging, the most necessary.

I see the nations before me. I see them in dirty socks left on the kitchen counter, unending loads of laundry and middle of the night nursing sessions. I see them in gentle corrections, hugs after a hard consequence and love despite their flaws. I see them in endless snacks and cup refills, in spills and messes, in cherrios crushed under my shoe.

I see the stage being set for world changers who grew up sitting right around my very own dinner table.

I see that in order for me to live within the full glory of God's desire for my life, and in turn to create these people who will no doubt love others beyond themselves, it begins by serving my children joyfully and with a heart devoted only to their very best.

I have spent much time wondering why the pain of the last few years has been heaped upon our family. I've wondered why the anger and resentment has been rooted deep inside my heart, seemingly planted there by the One who is suppose to take away doubt, fear, shame and bitterness. I wondered why He set us up for failure, for grief, for brokenness.

And then I looked up and I was overcome by exactly what I was suppose to see all along. They are it. We were not set up for brokenness. We were set up for this. This perfectly chaotic, unkept, totally filled-to-the-brim life. The scales tip whichever way I give them weight. I can choose anger and grief or joy and grace.

As the anger is slowly being washed away, joy is filtering through. Joy in the lives of these 8 people that are forever connected to me so deeply that there is no grief, no disappointment, no financial loss, no brokenness nor pain that could ever sever me from them.

They are my mission. And finally I can say with fullness that if they are my sole purpose in this life, it is enough. They are enough. Just as they are, just as I am, just as He has always been, I will fully pour myself into them, not reserving even one drop for what could have been or what I could hope will one day be.

I will share with them the good news of a Savior who never quits on them, even when they try with their whole self to give up on Him.

With love, I will serve them with joy and gladness, just as I would have the most honored guest at our Kenyan dinner table. Because they are worth it, and I am able because He is faithful, forever.

Through smoke

She had tied the drawstring of her robe tight around her waist. Her linen pants hung loosely around her legs and were stuffed into the tops of her laced up boots of peace. Her cloak hung heavily on her shoulders, which was ironic since the armor that protected her vital organs felt remarkably light.

Picture her with me.

Truth sat low on her hips while righteousness covered her chest. Protected by her faithful shield, salvation upon her head, on the defensive with the glimmer of her sword, spirit. She was ready. She had trained, prepared and knew the battle would be intense. In fact, there had been many small battles leading up to this day.

She looked to her left and he stood there with her. Adorned with a matching uniform, he stood just a pace in front of her, prepared to take the worst of the blows, knowing that it was not only his calling but his duty as her protector, provider, prophet and priest. Yes, they would fight together but he was set over her. Not because she was inferior but because the goodness of the One who prepared this battle knew what He was doing.

A smile crept across her lips as she looked back out onto the hills in front of them. Battle is never easy, but after you've prepared for weeks and months and years when it's time to go, you can't help but be a bit eager.

Together, nearly in unison, they step into the war zone, knowing that it could last longer than they both have the energy or resolve to endure. However, they aren't relying on their own strength alone and they know this full and well. Emerging from the sky are cherubim, clothed in no armor at all but brandishing weapons that annihilate the enemy in one, swift stroke.

Rushing forward, metal clinks, blows are landed and they find little successes. Suddenly, the ground shakes, the sky grows dark. Smoke engulfs the battlefield. Disoriented and confused, they become separated in sight. She can hear him but the smoke burns her eyes with such pain that she must choose to close them for fear of losing her sight forever more.

She hears wailing and crying and listens intently to try to discern from which direction it coming, only to realize that it is from her own lips. Her heart is afraid and her voice betrays her by telling every enemy within earshot.

Trembling, she sinks to her knees and opens her eyes, desperately scanning the horizon. The smoke is so thick she cannot possibly see beyond her own arm,  much less into the distance. The stench of burning trash and excrement lingers in her nostrils.

"Help! Where are you? Help me, please."

The roar of battle has ceased but the smoke remains. She can no longer hear him or the One who gives the orders.

"This is it?" she thinks. "This is not the battle for which I trained. No! This wasn't in the plan at all. How did this happen? No! This cannot be it." Her heart pounds in her chest and fear overwhelms her.

The silence is now deafening.

She crawls across the field on her hands and knees hoping to find someone, anyone, who might give a clue as to what has happened. There are no signs of battle, no wayward shields or swords. No members of the enemy camp laying slain on the ground. Nothing but the smoke even suggests there's been a battle.

This. This ground shaking madness, this was not what she had prepared for at all. She hopes staying close to the ground will provide reprieve from the smoke but it is as thick and pungent down low as it is up high.

She crawls across rocks and sticks and through mud but no where does she find remnant or clues to anyone else on this field with her. Finally, FINALLY, she finds a small wall of stone. She believes she remembers this one. It's old, and frail, but she's seen it before. The familiarity of it relieves her, though she knows it will be of little use since once before it was crumbled. Resting her back upon it, she tries to find her bearings.

The enemy. He must be responsible for this. He has to be. He is sneaky and vicious and cares not who he kills. Surely he is on the other side of this short wall, prowling, waiting for her to expose herself so he can finish her off.

Then she realizes that she's not safe. No where is safe. Though the smoke is thick still in most places, it's beginning to rise. He will see her, someone will see her vulnerable, and finish what the enemy has started. With fervor and with trembling hands she grabs the stones around her and begins rebuilding the wall. Higher, higher, stronger, taller it grows. It curves around beside her and yet she continues. Creating her own little provision, she gathers the uneven, worn, battered stones that had previously been ripped down and she rebuilds what was once deemed unnecessary.

Once she has it far reaching enough around her she stops and tucks herself into its sanctuary. Now, behind the wall she built from the ruins, she is safe.  The enemy can't find her and once the smoke clears she can emerge on her own terms, sword drawn, and fight her way back to where she once was.

She waits. It is taking a long time for the smoke to rise. Shouldn't it have risen by now? Where did it come from anyway? This is not what she had trained for. She waits, she thinks, she tries to pray, but in vain.

And then it washes over her. He knew. The One, he knew. He knew this would be the battle all along. "How could you know and not prepare me?!," she cries. He knew and yet he did nothing to stop it, nothing to help her to know what to do in this scenario. She'd rehearsed and prepared for just about anything else but this. What is she to do now?

The One she trusted to train her, the One she trusted her life to, he knew. And somehow, somewhere amid all the preparations, he failed to train her for this. He knew, and he failed. Therefore she would fail, too. And he knew she would fail.

Her jaw set with anger and determination, she looks down at the armor upon her body. It is beaten and broken and flawed now. How is that possible? What battle has she fought? She doesn't remember any enemy blows because before she could really fight, her world was rocked. How can she be so heavily beaten up, for she was merely trying to survive.