Yesterday, I was miserable. I was tired of staying home. I was resentful that I had to. I was angry that an invisible pathogen had disrupted my comfortable existence, and I wanted it to quit, right now. It's been two and a half weeks, and people are still getting sick and people are still dying, and the curve's not flattened yet and it's certainly not going down, and how long is it going to be, anyway? Weeks more? Months? Am I going to have to spend the whole beautiful summer stuck at home? It all just sucks.
Yes, I was miserable. I was grumpy and ungrateful and fed up.
The problem is, that I'm stuck at home. I can't get away when I'm feeling rumpled in my spirit. I can't distract me. And my poor housemate is locked up with me for who knows how much longer, and none of this is her fault, and if I don't deal with my stinky attitude, I make her lock-down more miserable, too. So I need to deal with my attitude.
I should pray. Problem is, I didn't feel like praying. What difference does it make, anyway? I've been praying and praying and praying, what feels like an endless wordless groan -- name after name after name of people I care about, and what difference is it making? This plague is going to last as long as it's going to last. The people who are going to get sick and die are going to get sick and die. I can beg and plead and look to the sky, but what difference does it make? God is going to do what God is going to do whether I pray or not.
I'm telling you, I was miserable, and grumpy, and fed up.
I'm not even going to get to see my family at Easter. I'm not going to get to go to church on Easter. And all I could think about was that I should have laid in a stock of mini-eggs.
Really, Marianne? Really?
Really?
Are you really going to go there? Fussing and fuming because you don't have mini-eggs when people are dying? I mean, how much shallower can you get?
Sometimes it takes truly outrageous thoughts to enter my head to bring me up short.
And it did bring me up short. Actually, it brings me to my knees. I read an article about how this season of lock-down is happening in the middle of Lent. N. T. Wright is right; fussing over chocolate mini-eggs is downright petty and silly now, when I think about the many things so many of us have had to give up -- jobs, socialising, church services, neat, safe routines, going to the gym, seeing loved ones, hugs from dear friends ... health ... safety ... life.
But it makes me realise how, still, I grasp for control. My world has shrunk considerably since March 12. But, still, I am holding tightly to the world that remains. I have not truly surrendered. I have reluctantly relinquished control of things beyond the border of my property lines, but I am hanging on with white knuckles to the things that lie within. I am trying with everything in me to live my life as much like I did Before. Before coronavirus. Before social distancing. Before everything collapsed and friends lost work and loved ones had to go out there every day and risk their lives because they have to go out there and I don't, before people I know started getting sick and maybe even dying. I fixate on the mini-eggs, not because I really want mini-eggs, but because in the old days, I'd have gone out and gotten mini-eggs if I'd wanted them that badly, but now the mini-eggs aren't worth risking my life for, and Out There -- where I have no control -- intrudes on In Here where I think I do. It's not really mini-eggs I want. It's control. And if not actual control, then at least the illusion of it.
It makes me realise how, even in this season where my world has shrunk to the property line and not having mini-eggs is silly in light of how much we have all had to give up, even in this season of dearth, compared to so many in the world, there is no lack at all. "Christ, who being in very nature God, did not consider equality with God something to be grasped, but emptied himself." How have I emptied myself? Yes, I have lost convenience and comfort and the freedom to go wherever I want whenever I want to. I have lost the sense of safety I had. I have lost the ability to gather with others. These are not insignificant losses, and I know that a good part of my angst is grief. But still, I have so much. I have a home, a roof over my head. I am able to socially distance because I have a home with walls and a roof and doors that I can close to the outside world. I have food in plenty on the table, even in the middle of a pandemic, and when I can't go out to get groceries, I can place an order for someone to bring them to me. I have clean running water, the ability to wash my hands dozens of times a day, to take hot showers and do laundry, and I even have hand lotion to soothe hands that are dry from being washed dozens of times a day. I can text and call and video chat with loved ones. I have clothes on my back and a car, filled with cheap gas, sitting in the driveway. I have a yard and a garden and I can sit on the back deck in the sunshine and do my grading because I even still have a job. Even in the middle of a pandemic, I am rich beyond most of the world's wildest dreams, and while people are squashed cheek-to-jowl in refugee camps in Syria and Jordan, and in dumps in Mexico and India, and in tiny apartments in all the urban centres around the world, I am complaining because I can't go out and buy mini-eggs, grumbling because my comfortable routine has been rumpled, and because the biggest thing I am grieving is the loss of my illusion of control.
Such a shabby spirituality. I know it won't do.
I'm not in control, not out there, and not in here, either. And it's only a matter of time before the realities of "out there" are felt "in here", in ways that are far more significant than mini-eggs. I don't know how that will happen. I know for many, it is happening already. Jobs lost. Rent due. Loved ones sick. Loved ones dying. Loved ones dead. I'm afraid of it, afraid of the pain that will come. I'm afraid that if I admit I have no control, I will be consumed by fear. But that is a lack of trust in a Sovereign God, a God who I am learning to lean into when I think about "out there" and "tomorrow" but who I am still holding at arms' length when I think about "here" and "today".
So here I am, on my knees, again. Praying. Not so much because praying changes things out there (although I fully believe it does), but because I so much need him to change things in me. I need to shed the shabby spirituality and be clothed in ferocious faith. If I am to be locked up for days, weeks, months, I do not want to emerge from my solitary confinement the same as I went in. I want him to change me. I want him -- frightening thought -- to empty me.
And then to fill me with himself, the one who holds all my yesterdays, every part of my today, and all my tomorrows in his hands, out there, and in here.
Even in the midst of COVID-19.
Thursday, 2 April 2020
Sunday, 29 March 2020
Through It All, It Is Well
On March 12, my life changed. I imagine that yours did too, around that time, if not on that exact day.
I left my office for the last time in I don't know how long. I took my laptop, but I left my plants. I took my books, but left my shoes. I took my coffee but left my coffee cream in the fridge. I thought I might be coming back. I was taking my things in a superfluity of caution.
And now, like everyone else in the world, I am at home. Learning new words, words I never wanted to learn: COVID-19, pandemic, social isolation, quarantine, social distancing. Feeling feelings I really don't enjoy: fear, anxiety, stress, concern, confusion, uncertainty about the future, loneliness, longing to see loved ones, longing for a hug. I am learning, whether I want to or not, how to stay connected with students scattered across the province. I have been plunged into the world of Microsoft Teams, Zoom meetings, recording lectures (and discovering some of my idiosyncrasies as I do so -- who knew my voice sounded like that?), and rearranging assignments and schedules to accommodate social distancing.
It feels surreal. I look out the window, and the sun is pouring down and the breezes are soft and little green shoots are pushing up from the ground. The birds are singing. The spring peepers are calling in the woods. My horse is shedding gobs of hair. The whole world pulses with the joyous anticipation of spring. Yet, in jarring contrast that my mind can't quite comprehend, pestilence stalks. I am uncomfortably conscious of touching anything that is not in my house. I find myself withdrawing from people I love to maintain that supposedly-safe six-foot circle. I am hyper-aware of every twinge in my body -- that tickle in my throat -- is it allergies, or the plague? The two realities are so diametrically opposed to each other, I have a hard time reconciling them.
And yet, both are true.
I was walking in my backyard the other day, thankful I at least have a yard in which to walk, thankful I am not stuck in an apartment in China or Italy or Toronto. Last fall, I planted approximately 150 bulbs in the lawn in an effort to naturalise the yard. Those bulbs lay in the soil all winter. To be honest, I had forgotten about them. And the yard is pretty wet around this time of year. Ok, that might be an understatement. The lawn is ragged and muddy and mostly underwater. It looks bad. It looks hopeless. Every spring, I nearly despair that it will ever look like anything other than a mud-hole.
But as I sloshed through the puddles in my rubber boots, I spotted something.
Tiny little spots of colour were pushing their way up through the mud. They were tiny, for sure. Impossible even to see from the deck. Definitely not 150 spots of colour. Maybe more like 20 of them.
Nevertheless they were there.
They were there, and they brightened my day. They were not less beautiful for their lack of size. In fact, perhaps they were more beautiful for their delicacy, for my having to stoop down and study them. They were more beautiful because these tiny slips of colour were defying the mud and the wet and were pushing up into the sunshine and the warmth. And they delighted my heart.
They are metaphorical, these little spring flowers. In some way, they epitomise everything about this strange new world we're living in.
When I look at the news, I could despair. All appears to be bleakness and fear. It is like looking at my backyard from the deck, full of flood and mud. Hope drowns if I study the obvious. Fear rises if I spend too much time reading the countless alarmist posts on my social media feeds. My heart get sucked down into the mud of anxiety if I think about what might happen tomorrow, next week, next month, whenever.
But this is the world in which I find myself. This is the life I have been given for this season. I can fuss and fume because it is not yet sandal weather and I can't go barefoot across the lawn and the yard does not look the way I want it to at this moment, or I can pull on my rubber boots and do what God has called me to do this day.
So I'm donning my rubber boots. I'm washing my hands. I'm keeping my distance. I'm avoiding my family and friends. I'm staying home. I'm keeping up-to-date, but not too up-to-date; there is nothing I can do about the numbers, anyway. It changes nothing for me. I'm avoiding social media and its alarmism. I'm doing the tasks God gives me to do today, and I'm doing my best to live one day at a time and not to think too far ahead. I'm playing music that reminds me of the sovereignty of God.
And don't I find tiny spots of colour pushing up through the mud. Another day of health. Neighbours staying safely six feet away but wanting to know how everyone is doing, offering to care for each other, assuring each other that we're there to help. Brothers and sisters in Christ reaching out across distances -- checking in. I discover a new hunger in my heart for Jesus. I look forward to my Bible reading with a fresh awareness of how much I need the Lord. I dread the news, but I am excited to open my Bible. I pray more. I pray constantly. Most precious of all, perhaps, is that I am learning to trust. I am learning that if I turn my eyes off the news and onto Jesus, he holds my heart steady. I'm learning that life out of my control but in his control is ok. No, not just ok. It is good. Through it all, it is well.
Spots of colour pushing up through the mud.
And maybe that is the way of this world. The sunshine and springtime live side-by-side with the pestilence. The pestilence makes the sunshine and springtime more precious. The sunshine and springtime make the pestilence more bearable. They remind me that, as dark as this day may be, God is there, bringing hope and joy, steadying my feet and soothing my soul. The world is groaning in travail and my heart groans with it. The world is glowing with the hope of spring and my heart soars with it.
God is on his throne and it is well with my soul.
Here are some of the songs I'm playing on repeat. You may recognise some lines from them in my blog.
Robin Mark -- All Is Well
Bethel -- Through It All
I left my office for the last time in I don't know how long. I took my laptop, but I left my plants. I took my books, but left my shoes. I took my coffee but left my coffee cream in the fridge. I thought I might be coming back. I was taking my things in a superfluity of caution.
And now, like everyone else in the world, I am at home. Learning new words, words I never wanted to learn: COVID-19, pandemic, social isolation, quarantine, social distancing. Feeling feelings I really don't enjoy: fear, anxiety, stress, concern, confusion, uncertainty about the future, loneliness, longing to see loved ones, longing for a hug. I am learning, whether I want to or not, how to stay connected with students scattered across the province. I have been plunged into the world of Microsoft Teams, Zoom meetings, recording lectures (and discovering some of my idiosyncrasies as I do so -- who knew my voice sounded like that?), and rearranging assignments and schedules to accommodate social distancing.
It feels surreal. I look out the window, and the sun is pouring down and the breezes are soft and little green shoots are pushing up from the ground. The birds are singing. The spring peepers are calling in the woods. My horse is shedding gobs of hair. The whole world pulses with the joyous anticipation of spring. Yet, in jarring contrast that my mind can't quite comprehend, pestilence stalks. I am uncomfortably conscious of touching anything that is not in my house. I find myself withdrawing from people I love to maintain that supposedly-safe six-foot circle. I am hyper-aware of every twinge in my body -- that tickle in my throat -- is it allergies, or the plague? The two realities are so diametrically opposed to each other, I have a hard time reconciling them.
And yet, both are true.
I was walking in my backyard the other day, thankful I at least have a yard in which to walk, thankful I am not stuck in an apartment in China or Italy or Toronto. Last fall, I planted approximately 150 bulbs in the lawn in an effort to naturalise the yard. Those bulbs lay in the soil all winter. To be honest, I had forgotten about them. And the yard is pretty wet around this time of year. Ok, that might be an understatement. The lawn is ragged and muddy and mostly underwater. It looks bad. It looks hopeless. Every spring, I nearly despair that it will ever look like anything other than a mud-hole.
But as I sloshed through the puddles in my rubber boots, I spotted something.
Tiny little spots of colour were pushing their way up through the mud. They were tiny, for sure. Impossible even to see from the deck. Definitely not 150 spots of colour. Maybe more like 20 of them.Nevertheless they were there.
They were there, and they brightened my day. They were not less beautiful for their lack of size. In fact, perhaps they were more beautiful for their delicacy, for my having to stoop down and study them. They were more beautiful because these tiny slips of colour were defying the mud and the wet and were pushing up into the sunshine and the warmth. And they delighted my heart.They are metaphorical, these little spring flowers. In some way, they epitomise everything about this strange new world we're living in.
When I look at the news, I could despair. All appears to be bleakness and fear. It is like looking at my backyard from the deck, full of flood and mud. Hope drowns if I study the obvious. Fear rises if I spend too much time reading the countless alarmist posts on my social media feeds. My heart get sucked down into the mud of anxiety if I think about what might happen tomorrow, next week, next month, whenever.
But this is the world in which I find myself. This is the life I have been given for this season. I can fuss and fume because it is not yet sandal weather and I can't go barefoot across the lawn and the yard does not look the way I want it to at this moment, or I can pull on my rubber boots and do what God has called me to do this day.
So I'm donning my rubber boots. I'm washing my hands. I'm keeping my distance. I'm avoiding my family and friends. I'm staying home. I'm keeping up-to-date, but not too up-to-date; there is nothing I can do about the numbers, anyway. It changes nothing for me. I'm avoiding social media and its alarmism. I'm doing the tasks God gives me to do today, and I'm doing my best to live one day at a time and not to think too far ahead. I'm playing music that reminds me of the sovereignty of God.
And don't I find tiny spots of colour pushing up through the mud. Another day of health. Neighbours staying safely six feet away but wanting to know how everyone is doing, offering to care for each other, assuring each other that we're there to help. Brothers and sisters in Christ reaching out across distances -- checking in. I discover a new hunger in my heart for Jesus. I look forward to my Bible reading with a fresh awareness of how much I need the Lord. I dread the news, but I am excited to open my Bible. I pray more. I pray constantly. Most precious of all, perhaps, is that I am learning to trust. I am learning that if I turn my eyes off the news and onto Jesus, he holds my heart steady. I'm learning that life out of my control but in his control is ok. No, not just ok. It is good. Through it all, it is well.
Spots of colour pushing up through the mud.
And maybe that is the way of this world. The sunshine and springtime live side-by-side with the pestilence. The pestilence makes the sunshine and springtime more precious. The sunshine and springtime make the pestilence more bearable. They remind me that, as dark as this day may be, God is there, bringing hope and joy, steadying my feet and soothing my soul. The world is groaning in travail and my heart groans with it. The world is glowing with the hope of spring and my heart soars with it.
God is on his throne and it is well with my soul.
******
Here are some of the songs I'm playing on repeat. You may recognise some lines from them in my blog.
Robin Mark -- All Is Well
Bethel -- Through It All
Wednesday, 5 February 2020
Sugar On The Outhouse
It was 2001. Maybe early 2002. I can’t quite remember. I was in Papua, Indonesia. It’s the west side of the island just north of Australia, the east side of which is Papua New Guinea. I was there as a school teacher, teaching six kids whose fathers were pilots with Mission Aviation Fellowship.
It was a strange situation. I had no plans to be a missionary. I had no plans to be overseas. And yet, God called me, and here I was, in this hot, jungly, third-world place that was literally trying to kill me at every step. Germs. Malarial mosquitos. Deathly poisonous snakes. Wild dogs, cats, and rats. Water not safe to drink. Humidity high enough to melt photographs. It didn’t feel like missionary work at all. It felt like what I had been doing for years: teaching children and living life — but in a much more difficult situation. I wasn’t doing missionary work. I wasn’t winning souls for Christ. I was teaching small children how to read and write, just as I had done in Canada.
I was there for a year. I knew from the outset that it wasn’t going to be forever. I knew there was stuff I had to face back home. Staying would have meant running away from the things I had to face. In some ways it would have been easier to hide in the jungle. But I went home. I faced the stuff I had to face. And I never went back to Papua. I was not meant to go back. It was a season. Instead, I went back to school and became a prof at a fantastic Bible college. Today, I am doing what I have always been meant to do: to teach.
But I have always wondered what it was and still is all about. Yes, I learned a lot that year overseas. God used that year in Papua to transform my life. And I’m good at what I do today (I think). I love my job. But what difference does it all make? I wrestle with it often. Maybe I’m taking the easy way out. Maybe I’m hiding in the Christian bubble. Maybe I’m failing at this "being a follower of Jesus" thing. And then I think, But I truly believe I’m doing what God called me to do. I think I am making an eternal difference. I examine my heart and believe it and rest in that for a little while, until the next wave of doubt crashes in. Really? You’re a cop-out, Marianne. You’re a wimp and a sorry excuse. Even in Papua, when you were supposedly a “missionary”, you just did what you always do.
The year was 2001. Or maybe 2002. I don’t exactly remember. One of the pilots whose kids I taught came to me. There was a group of missionaries in the jungle, in a village with no air strip. They were serviced by helicopter, but the helicopter was broken down and they had run out of supplies and their generator was not working. They were starving. So MAF was going to attempt an airdrop of supplies. Did I want to go? Are you kidding? Of course I wanted to go! So we went. The pilot took the bay door off the plane. We (pilot, crew, and I) flew out, circled the site, tried to figure out the best way to do this thing, and started chucking stuff out of the plane. It’s hard work circling a site just so and chucking the stuff out so that it lands in a spot where it can be retrieved. Several drops ended up in the tops of trees. Several packages ended up lost in the jungle. A bag of sugar landed on the outhouse and destroyed it. But most of the stuff ended up safe and sound in the possession of these brave missionaries who were isolated from the outside world for the sake of the gospel of Jesus Christ. It was a cool experience for this school teacher in a foreign land.
The year is 2020. I am sitting in chapel at Mission Conference at the Bible college where I teach. The speaker is talking about how he and his wife and another couple went into the village of an unreached tribe in Papua. They jumped out of a helicopter into the midst of a tribe of people who had never had any contact with the outside world. They built homes there and for four and a half years learned the language so they could preach the gospel. And many in the tribe came to faith. In fact they are now sending out missionaries to other people groups. They were rescued from the kingdom of darkness and brought into the kingdom of light. It was an amazing story, the story of real missionaries who do hard and courageous things and see dramatic results. Certainly not my story.
But as I sat there listening to this amazing story, feeling guilty once again for my comfortable Canadian existence, a thought dawned on me. These guys entered a village in the jungles of Papua in 1998. Could it be? I started doing the math. Four and a half years after 1998 is 2002-2003. It seemed far-fetched. Impossible. But I asked. In 2001-2002, I was in Papua, and we did an airdrop to a bunch of missionaries in the jungle. Was that you guys?
It was.
I was in the airplane that chucked the sugar that took out their outhouse. I was in the airplane that dropped the supplies that saved their lives.
I take no credit for any of this. If I had been responsible for that airdrop, the missionary I heard speaking this week would have died on the spot. I would have hit him, not just the outhouse, with the sugar. I was just there. But I was there. I was doing what God called me to do that year. I was teaching. Teaching kids whose parents were pilots. Pilots who served missionaries in the jungles of Papua. I was there. In being faithful to do what God called me to do that year, I was a small part of the eternal saga that was unfolding in that jungle village, and I had no idea.
And here we are, nearly 20 years later, I a Bible college prof, he a speaker at our Missions Conference, laughing about the sugar that took out the outhouse. And I know that I know that I know that I am exactly where I am supposed to be, doing exactly what I am supposed to be doing. Just because I do not see the eternal saga doesn't mean I'm not doing what God has called me to do. I did not see the eternal saga in Papua when I was there, either, but it was unfolding. I am not a cop-out or a wimp or a sorry excuse. I am following Jesus, doing what he has called me to do, and as I faithfully follow him, he is using me in the eternal story in ways I cannot begin to see. I had no idea that I was part of a story that would result in the salvation of members of the Moi in the jungles of Papua, but I was. I have no idea what parts of what stories I am involved in now, today, right here, but I see now that I am.
It is not often that the tapestry is revealed and that I get to see just a glimpse of the glorious plan that God is unfolding in this world, but how grateful I am that he gave me that little glimpse this week. He is working in his world and the gospel is going forward and I, even I, am playing a part in that. I'm not on the sidelines. I'm not a cheerleader. I'm on the field, and I'm playing to the very best of my ability.
One of my specialties is chucking sugar on the outhouse.
It was a strange situation. I had no plans to be a missionary. I had no plans to be overseas. And yet, God called me, and here I was, in this hot, jungly, third-world place that was literally trying to kill me at every step. Germs. Malarial mosquitos. Deathly poisonous snakes. Wild dogs, cats, and rats. Water not safe to drink. Humidity high enough to melt photographs. It didn’t feel like missionary work at all. It felt like what I had been doing for years: teaching children and living life — but in a much more difficult situation. I wasn’t doing missionary work. I wasn’t winning souls for Christ. I was teaching small children how to read and write, just as I had done in Canada.
I was there for a year. I knew from the outset that it wasn’t going to be forever. I knew there was stuff I had to face back home. Staying would have meant running away from the things I had to face. In some ways it would have been easier to hide in the jungle. But I went home. I faced the stuff I had to face. And I never went back to Papua. I was not meant to go back. It was a season. Instead, I went back to school and became a prof at a fantastic Bible college. Today, I am doing what I have always been meant to do: to teach.
But I have always wondered what it was and still is all about. Yes, I learned a lot that year overseas. God used that year in Papua to transform my life. And I’m good at what I do today (I think). I love my job. But what difference does it all make? I wrestle with it often. Maybe I’m taking the easy way out. Maybe I’m hiding in the Christian bubble. Maybe I’m failing at this "being a follower of Jesus" thing. And then I think, But I truly believe I’m doing what God called me to do. I think I am making an eternal difference. I examine my heart and believe it and rest in that for a little while, until the next wave of doubt crashes in. Really? You’re a cop-out, Marianne. You’re a wimp and a sorry excuse. Even in Papua, when you were supposedly a “missionary”, you just did what you always do.
The year was 2001. Or maybe 2002. I don’t exactly remember. One of the pilots whose kids I taught came to me. There was a group of missionaries in the jungle, in a village with no air strip. They were serviced by helicopter, but the helicopter was broken down and they had run out of supplies and their generator was not working. They were starving. So MAF was going to attempt an airdrop of supplies. Did I want to go? Are you kidding? Of course I wanted to go! So we went. The pilot took the bay door off the plane. We (pilot, crew, and I) flew out, circled the site, tried to figure out the best way to do this thing, and started chucking stuff out of the plane. It’s hard work circling a site just so and chucking the stuff out so that it lands in a spot where it can be retrieved. Several drops ended up in the tops of trees. Several packages ended up lost in the jungle. A bag of sugar landed on the outhouse and destroyed it. But most of the stuff ended up safe and sound in the possession of these brave missionaries who were isolated from the outside world for the sake of the gospel of Jesus Christ. It was a cool experience for this school teacher in a foreign land.
The year is 2020. I am sitting in chapel at Mission Conference at the Bible college where I teach. The speaker is talking about how he and his wife and another couple went into the village of an unreached tribe in Papua. They jumped out of a helicopter into the midst of a tribe of people who had never had any contact with the outside world. They built homes there and for four and a half years learned the language so they could preach the gospel. And many in the tribe came to faith. In fact they are now sending out missionaries to other people groups. They were rescued from the kingdom of darkness and brought into the kingdom of light. It was an amazing story, the story of real missionaries who do hard and courageous things and see dramatic results. Certainly not my story.
But as I sat there listening to this amazing story, feeling guilty once again for my comfortable Canadian existence, a thought dawned on me. These guys entered a village in the jungles of Papua in 1998. Could it be? I started doing the math. Four and a half years after 1998 is 2002-2003. It seemed far-fetched. Impossible. But I asked. In 2001-2002, I was in Papua, and we did an airdrop to a bunch of missionaries in the jungle. Was that you guys?
It was.
I was in the airplane that chucked the sugar that took out their outhouse. I was in the airplane that dropped the supplies that saved their lives.
I take no credit for any of this. If I had been responsible for that airdrop, the missionary I heard speaking this week would have died on the spot. I would have hit him, not just the outhouse, with the sugar. I was just there. But I was there. I was doing what God called me to do that year. I was teaching. Teaching kids whose parents were pilots. Pilots who served missionaries in the jungles of Papua. I was there. In being faithful to do what God called me to do that year, I was a small part of the eternal saga that was unfolding in that jungle village, and I had no idea.
And here we are, nearly 20 years later, I a Bible college prof, he a speaker at our Missions Conference, laughing about the sugar that took out the outhouse. And I know that I know that I know that I am exactly where I am supposed to be, doing exactly what I am supposed to be doing. Just because I do not see the eternal saga doesn't mean I'm not doing what God has called me to do. I did not see the eternal saga in Papua when I was there, either, but it was unfolding. I am not a cop-out or a wimp or a sorry excuse. I am following Jesus, doing what he has called me to do, and as I faithfully follow him, he is using me in the eternal story in ways I cannot begin to see. I had no idea that I was part of a story that would result in the salvation of members of the Moi in the jungles of Papua, but I was. I have no idea what parts of what stories I am involved in now, today, right here, but I see now that I am.
It is not often that the tapestry is revealed and that I get to see just a glimpse of the glorious plan that God is unfolding in this world, but how grateful I am that he gave me that little glimpse this week. He is working in his world and the gospel is going forward and I, even I, am playing a part in that. I'm not on the sidelines. I'm not a cheerleader. I'm on the field, and I'm playing to the very best of my ability.
One of my specialties is chucking sugar on the outhouse.
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