FELIZ NATAL! MERRY CHRISTMAS!

 

As I sat quietly in the nursery at lunch time yesterday, I marvelled that six babies would all fall asleep at the same time, lying in cribs pushed right up against each other in this small room. There were shuffles and snuffles and the occasional whimper from Xadreque, the youngest and newest nursery resident.

Just two months ago, Xadreque [below] was brought to the Centre desperately malnourished, literally starving to death. At 7 months of age and just under 6kg, he was fighting for his life and now we were fighting with him. Within days and under the ever-watchful eye of our medical team, he began putting on weight and, after a week, he was giggling and happy, his skin beginning to glow again and his hair to grow. He has big black eyes that sparkle all the time and notice everything, especially now he has gained enough strength to sit up and turn his head toward every noise he hears. He misses nothing. Silvia [below], 13 months old and the natural leader of the five toddlers who are now all either walking or crawling, has lately taken to touching Xadreque’s cheek gently and making kissing sounds with her lips. She’s learned this from observing the many times a day Xadreque is kissed and cuddled by the tias, missionaries and visitors who cannot resist him.

To play a part in loving a child back to life is the greatest privilege I can imagine and, as I watched Xadreque sleeping (his name comes from Shadrach in the Bible), I marvelled once more that I am a part of such a miraculous place, where the hopelessness of poverty is defeated by the powerful and practical hope of love. Here, we have the immense honour of loving the dying back to life and watching them grow into the healthy, strong adults they were always destined to be.

I will celebrate Christmas this year with my Zimpeto family: 260 children, 150 workers and 30 missionaries. I will miss another Walker family Christmas and the laughter, the pressies, the giant turkey on the barbeque and the noise of my nieces and nephews swimming in the pool in the late afternoon. I’ll think of them tomorrow and be sad for just a moment or two, wishing I were there. It won’t last long - I will have noise and activity and laughter enough here.

Tomorrow will be all about our Zimpeto kids and I wouldn’t have it any other way. Presents and prayers, singing and dancing in the summer heat and humidity, a church decorated with streamers and balloons and, hopefully, cooled by a breeze flowing through the open eaves, a feast of chicken, chips, rice and fizzy drinks, and the celebration of the birth of the perfect Saviour who makes all of this possible.

The celebrations begin tonight with a Candle Service (yes, candles for all our kids, oh my!) and nativity play, then supper at the home of our Base Directors. In the morning, I will be woken by the noise of excited children before dawn – some things are the same the world over. There will be presentations of gifts in every dorm and, of course, the nursery. Then church, a lunch feast, more presentations and, in the evening, a Christmas dinner with all the missionaries. At some point in the evening’s proceedings there will be a wild, undignified and hilarious Secret Santa game.

Thanks and blessings to all who have prayed for me and for the ministry this year, and to those who have given financially. Thank you for your sensitivity and generosity: I look for what may be credited to your account (Phil. 4:17). Thank you for remembering the poor.

To all my friends and family, I wish you the hope and joy that come from knowing that, because of the birth-day of Jesus, all things are possible. Celebrate the arrival of Jesus two thousand years ago and His presence with us today and enjoy the festivities... I know I will!

Feliz Natal to all!

 

 

GOD SETS THE LONELY IN FAMILIES

Enjoy this slideshow of a year in the life of Zimpeto Children's Centre.  Every time I watch it I am reminded of how very rich I am and how good God is. He sets the lonely in families, His heart is towards the orphans and the widows as He calls ours to be also, and, in Him, there is always a way!

ONE LIFE TO LIVE

  Three weeks old. Underweight. Hungry. Wrapped in an old capulana, tied snugly to the front of his vovo (grandma) with great-auntie walking beside them. Somehow they found their way to us at Zimpeto Children’s Centre. They were here for an hour and this one hour I spent on a busy, hot, dusty “ordinary” day, shook me to the core, reminding me once again why I am here, doing what I do. The baby’s mother left him a few days ago, disappearing into the night, and these two older ladies now have a newborn to feed and no money with which to buy baby formula. The father was not mentioned and the baby has no name. As this tiny, tiny bundle wrapped his minute fingers around mine and gurgled weakly, the significance of this moment captured me and will not let go its grip even a day later. This one hour and this tiny babe crashed through the ordinariness of a day that has become just one of many routine days for me. I email with potential visitors. I administrate our newly-established sponsorship programme. I pray. I play with children.  Then I pray some more, never feeling I can pray as much as the needs here warrant. I try to write about it all but, even in this, I have become complacent. Surely the stories have all been told and there’s nothing more to say about “the poor”.
How can one become complacent about poverty and its consequences? I see first-hand, every day, the devastation that poverty wreaks on its victims yet, still, I have allowed my heart to shut down to the suffering of those around me. My compassion has become stale and inaccessible, even in moments when I hear of the afflictions of Mozambican friends and colleagues. I have heard in the past few months of the deaths of four people who were close to us here at the Centre. Two of our precious girls; the man who ran the shop at the Centre gate from whom we bought cool drinks for the kids as a treat; a young man who used to live here and left to be with his extended family. This tally does not count the many deaths of people I have not known personally: a mother in childbirth, the brother of a worker... there are more but my complacency has enabled me to forget the details. When did I become so complacent about poverty? How could I grow to be so unmoved by death? In the world from which I have come, such happenings would make the news every night for a week and cause uproar in the media, and in political and social welfare circles. Here, it is just another day. Yesterday, a brief meeting with a hungry babe in his grandma’s arms shook the complacency that has gradually established itself in my heart in the 3 ½ years I have been here. For this, I am grateful. Mozambique is the 5^th poorest nation in the world. Most of the babies we receive into our care are malnourished, many close to the point of starvation when they arrive. I am privileged to spend time each week with our six now-healthy, well-fed, rapidly growing babies in the nursery who are all under one. They came to us sick and struggling and now are round-cheeked , rosy-skinned and delightfully happy. Silvia has rolls of baby fat on her thighs. Sheila is sitting up on her own. Vitoria giggles just at the sight of my wriggling fingers coming close to tickle her chubby tummy. Even in Portuguese, it seems the first “words” from a baby’s mouth are “mum-um-um-um-um...” . This morning Casilda sat in the sand with a bucket over her head, quite content to listen to the echoing noises from under her colourful hat. Gloria cried when she got sand in her mouth. Silvia practised walking in the sand, enjoying the soft landing each time she fell over. Jeremias chewed on his shoe, Vitoria tried to make a fast getaway on her knees, chuckling as I swung her onto my shoulder and carried her back to the mat. Sheila sat and watched quietly, enjoying her more adventurous friends providing entertainment. The nursery is well-stocked with baby formula and bottles and clothes for tiny babies such as yesterday’s visitor, ready for any eventuality. We gave the grandma a baby bottle and some formula to last through to next week when we hope they will come back again if they need more help. We may, though, never see them again and I am okay with that. We prayed for him and his two vovos and, in those moments, I sensed a destiny for this babe that God was sealing. All it took was a can of yellow powder and a plastic bottle to save his life. I can imagine no more powerful gift to give than life and, for a moment God arrested my attention by allowing me to play just a small part in this interplay that has changed a life – make that two lives – forever. Photos: 1. Wendy with Vitoria who lives in the nursery, with her two brothers who also live here at the Centre. 2. Sina when she arrived at Zimpeto.  She is now five years old, healthy and full of life and spunk! 3. Casilda and her favourite sand toy 4. Tia Madelena feeding Jeremias, Vitoria, Silvia and Sheila in the nursery.

WHAT’S IN A DREAM?

Facebook status update 9 Nov 2010:

“Traffic jam in Maputo at 6am, emergency toilet stops for passengers with the dreaded lurgy, then remarkably fast border crossing. By sundown, I am settled in Nelspruit SA in a gorgeous flat on a farm surrounded by fertile fields and green rolling hills. Hunkered down on the couch, new novel open, glass of cab sav in hand. Sunset. Silence. Sublime. I may not budge from this spot for 10 days.”

This year I am required by the conditions of my visa to leave Mozambique every three months. Last year it was every 30 days. “Going out” would normally imply going down the road to the store or out for dinner or a movie. At Zimpeto it is missionary lingo for leaving the country.

“When do you have to be out?”

“I’m going out next week.”

“I’m going out next week too. We can go out together...”

The price of overstaying one’s visa is about $100 US a day. One of our missionaries misread her visa and overstayed by a month. Ouch.

Occasionally we will do a border run, a half-day’s trip to the border and back. Every now and then I’ll catch a ride all the way to Nelspruit with a friend then spend a week or so in South Africa, which is where I am at the moment. I haven’t been out for a break for about six months and I forget how very much I need it until I am settled here at Mercy Air in one of the flats offered very cheaply to missionaries in southern Africa who are in need of a rest.

Every time I “go out”, I feel the weight of work and busyness begin to lift as I drive through the Zimpeto gates. At the first toll booth, I breathe more deeply. Through Matola, sigh. Second toll booth, the heaviness is falling away. Cross the border and suddenly the land is green, the air is clear and I can see for miles, physically and metaphysically. The tiredness of months of hard work and spiritual battles slips away and I head into the tranquillity of some down-time.

Today I am sitting at a picnic table under a stand of lush pecan trees. I sip coffee as a mongoose ambles by. The frogs revel noisily in the puddles left by the thunderstorms that rumbled across the African skies for most of last night. Vervet monkeys frolic in the trees about 30 metres away and occasionally a couple of the babies venture close but then are hurried away by panicked parents.

Now this is what I call down-time.

I do so love my life in Mozambique but, even when we live lives that we love and to which we are totally committed, we need to step away occasionally and experience something other than the everyday. Yes, at some point, living in Mozambique stopped being a novelty for me and became my everyday reality and so I need to take time out to rest, to pray and to keep dreaming.

There are missionaries at Zimpeto who have been dreaming of Africa for a lifetime. I am not one of them. I never dreamed of Africa or of Mozambique: I dreamed of being in the centre of God’s perfect will, wherever that may be in the world. Some friends 0f mine moved to Mozambique in 2000 and encouraged me to visit. Finally, after years of pondering, I booked my plane ticket for a three week trip in 2006 and knew that I had just signed off on a collision course with destiny.

For me it is not about Africa or about Mozambique but about obedience to going where I am led, when I am led there. It is about the whatever and the however of following, just one step at a time. People often assume that I am in Mozambique because I love the country but I hardly knew it until I lived here. I had to step off the map of all that was familiar to me and move to a place I did not know to then fall in love. It is like an arranged marriage of God’s perfect design. The dream truly was exceedingly, abundantly more than I could ask or imagine.

Then at some point after colliding with destiny and a year or two of living the dream, it became day-to-day. It lost its shine, its excitement. It began to feel less like an adventure and more like a settled ordinary life. There is nothing wrong with this – it is a sign that the dream has become reality. Glory to God!

When the dream becomes reality and the cycle of life continues day-by-day, we then start to dream again, until the next collision with destiny takes us off the map of the last dream we journeyed. This time, we gaze higher and dream bigger because, last time, God proved Himself so infinitely faithful and able. It may not mean a physical move but a mental one, or spiritual or emotional. Or it may mean moving to the other side of the world. There are a thousand ways to dream and a million different expressions of those dreams.

I will return to Mozambique in a few days with a bag of ripe pecans just off the tree, a rested body, a rejuvenated soul, and my dreams of God’s possibilities refired as I reach to grasp those dreams and draw them to me, one day at a time.

“Now to Him who by the action of His power that is at work within us is able to carry out His purpose and do superabundantly, far over and above all that we dare ask or think - infinitely beyond our highest prayers, desires, thoughts, hopes or dreams – to Him be glory...”!

Eph 3: 20,21 [Ampl.]

THE STREETS ARE ON FIRE

I woke early on Wednesday to the sounds of sirens and chanting crowds. The usual morning noises were absent. There were no children’s voices still thick with sleep playing under my window. There was no scraping of sand being raked into neat rows. No birds twittering as they caught insects for breakfast under the eaves. No trucks in the distance zooming past on the highway north with their heavy loads in tow. The peaceful sounds of a regular Zimpeto morning had been replaced by panicked yelling as loud and repeated “pop pop popping” cut through the air and smoke wafted in the window.

As my mind struggled to make sense of these foreign sounds, I trawled quickly through my memory banks until I retrieved a memory from two and a half years ago... Where have I hear d these sounds before? I can “feel” the memory, I can smell it and taste it... but what is it? There’s a sense of panic attached to it, a bad taste in my mouth... Is that noise possibly gunfire? And then I remembered.

I jumped out of bed, went into the next room and pulled back the curtain. I looked past the school building and soccer field to the highway and it all came flooding back to me. The streets were on fire once more.

The cost of bread has risen 25%. The government has just raised the price of water and electricity. Shapas (public transport somewhere between a mini-bus, a taxi and an accident waiting to happen) cost 30% more than last week, now priced out of reach of many people who cannot get to work or take their produce to market to be sold. Such price rises led to a day of rioting in 2008 and it seemed now that history was repeating itself.

The average monthly income here is $37. Almost 60% of the population is unemployed. More than 70% of Mozambicans live below the poverty line. When I say "below", I mean no electricity or running water, living in a reed hut with holes in the roof, chronic illnesses untreated though manageable, struggling daily with the thought, "Where will our next meal come from?"

A city-wide strike was called to protest against the price rises with text messages the main form of rallying. Many Mozambicans have a cell phone even if they do not have running water – a typical paradox in developing African nations. Mozambique is a country struggling to grow beyond its “developing nation” status and those on the streets are led by a generation who feel they have never had a voice or the power to change their circumstances.

I have never had to go hungry. I have never been forced to live without running water or electricity. The greatest sacrifice I make in a financially tight week is to do without coffee or cheese or meat. I have never missed a meal because of a lack of money. Even here, living on a very limited income by western standards, I am rich compared to my Mozambican brothers and sisters.

Many, many Mozambicans have been hungry for a lifetime with nobody hearing their cries. I cannot condone rioting and violence but I daily come face-to-face with the pain and frustration of a people desperate to be heard. Such frustration will inevitably spill onto the streets during times of pressure if this is the only outlet the people feel they have.

Throughout the day, the rioting continued across Maputo. A militant and determined band surged destructively back and forth along the potholed two-lane highway outside the Centre’s long yellow wall. The crowd worked in rhythmic unison to overturn a bus, setting it on fire and blocking the only road north out of the city. The army advanced, using one of their own vehicles to push it off the road, metal grinding fiercely on metal as the bus easily gave way to the force of the armoured personnel carrier full of soldiers with rifles cocked at their shoulders.

The army moved back, then a car was overturned and destroyed and a pile of tyres set on fire, creating a thick black cloud rising above the chaos. This time it was the police who moved in, firing round after round of teargas and rubber bullets. The crowd again retreated and the vehicle was removed from the road, smouldering through the day outside our gates.

Most of our 300 kids stayed inside, apart from some youth who sat around on the soccer field, keeping enough distance to be safe but close enough to see the action. Occasionally a semi-trailer would roar past at speed and twenty teenage boys would jump up and cheer, high-fiving wildly as the semi ran the gauntlet of the rioters. Even here, even now, boys will be boys.

A group of high school students who ventured outside sat 15 metres in front of me as they watched the action. Suddenly they moved as one, screaming hysterically, and ran back towards the school buildings as they pulled their shirts over their faces. I glanced quickly around to see what had spooked them so abruptly... Suddenly, my eyes began to sting and my throat tightened as an invisible cloud of teargas reached me. Who knew I could move so fast!

I raced into the house, only 50 metres away. As I stumbled through the door, I was unable to open my eyes and felt like I was choking on the acrid, painful gas. My eyes felt like pins were being stuck into them and my throat burned but soothing cool water soon eased the pain. I received just a breathful – our guards at the front gate were in the midst of the worst of all the gas and smoke and I cannot imagine how awful that must have been for them throughout the day.

As the afternoon progressed, the rioting crowds flowed forward like waves surging into shore as they moved towards the police to taunt them by throwing rocks. Then they would stream back from where they came, retreating as the police began to fire from their armoured vehicles. This pattern of attack/withdraw/attack continued throughout the first day.

At the Centre, we went about our days as normally as we could. Most of our workers could not get here although a few managed to make it, walking for hours through the tumultuous streets. Now that’s commitment. School was cancelled for the week. Food was rationed as time went on. Nobody could leave the Centre... nobody wanted to. The younger children remained in their dormitories. The youths grew tired after a few hours of watching the action and withdrew to the playground and dorms. We closed our windows against the teargas as it wafted through the Centre for much of the day.

At one point I felt anger rise within me as some of our youngest kids, seemingly safe in the Baby House, were affected by the gas. Up until this point, I was willing to see both sides: a people who have suffered more than anyone should have to in a lifetime versus a government trying to draw a nation gradually out of poverty and underdevelopment. There are no easy answers and no quick fixes in a country like this. But when the babies are caught in the middle, there is no excuse.

The action moved from outside the Centre on the third day but continued in pockets in the city, and then began in other towns north of Maputo. Looting has continued for a third night in the city but all is quiet here on the northern outskirts today. I hear occasional gunfire and police sirens in the distance this morning but all is calm here.

Ten people have been reported dead and almost 500 injured.

There have been calls for more strike action on Monday.

Here at Zimpeto, there is a definite sense of a clear boundary of safety drawn around our land and a peace that surpasses understanding that envelops us. Psalm 91 (quoted from The Message) has never been more real to me:

“ ‘God you’re my refuge and I’m safe!’ That’s right, He rescues you from hidden traps and shields you from deadly hazards. His huge outstretched arms protect you – under them you’re perfectly safe; His arms fend off all harm...

“You’ll stand untouched, watch it all from a distance... because God’s your refuge, the High God your very own home. Evil can’t get close to you, harm can’t get through the door.”

We could not have been closer to the violence of the past days and yet Zimpeto Children’s Centre and all its residents remain untouched and blissfully restful despite all that is happening on our doorstep. It is in times such as these that the Bible becomes so real to me, speaking directly into my circumstances with promises I need to get me through.

All that the Bible promises to me, I pray also for this city ripped violently apart in past days and for this nation trying to stand under the weight of a tragic past that still holds it down from becoming all it is destined to be.

Please pray with me, friends! Let us believe for better for a people who have never experienced “better” so find it difficult to imagine all God’s possibilities for themselves.

To whom much is given, much is required. We have received so much and now we have an opportunity to give into the future of this nation. You can pray. You can give to support the work here. You can go, either to work or to visit and see for yourselves all that God is doing. You can speak up and be a voice for those who have no voice. Please consider how you can be involved.

If you have always wanted to “make a difference” in the world, now is your chance.

Pray. Give. Go. Speak.

Get involved and see what God can do through you!

WHAT DO I KNOW?

While I was browsing the web this morning, I read something that resonated deeply within me. David Carson wrote, “When I get serious with God, I retreat into a quiet room with no distractions, an open bible, a new notepad and a comfortable pen. Then I cry out to God for wisdom, for God has called me to be a voice, not an echo...”

I have neither a pristine new pad nor a comfortable pen but I do have my bible, trusty laptop and currently reliable though slow, slow, slow internet access. A “quiet room” is something of an oxymoron here at Zimpeto but I am becoming adept at shutting out the noise of 700 school students having recess 50 feet from my house. Earphones in, ipod on, music up, mentally switch off the noise of the world trying to distract my soul.

With a day off work, I even turn off my phone and feel wonderfully irresponsible... then I change my mind and switch it back on again. The irresponsibility is a little too much for me to rise above.

I get quiet and I listen. And I hear, “What do you know? What do you know... today?”

Today I know that God is good. I know that He is kind. He is faithful. Today I know that, even in the midst of difficult situations and questions that have no easy answers, He is mine and I am His. Today I know that, in an imperfect world filled with imperfect people, I have access to the perfection of the One who created me and knows me to the core of who I am. Today I know that I am frustrated by my own imperfection but He is not.

What a relief it is to be sure, today, that I am fully known – and accepted.

Today I know that life is a gift and so are the people around me... even the grace-growers. Ah yes, especially the grace-growers, the ones who challenge my patience and my self-control again and again, allowing grace to grow in me if I choose my responses well. How would I learn to live patiently without having my “patience button” pressed occasionally to keep it in good working order?

Today I know that, cliché though it is, pain moulds me into something better than I am, if I can receive the pressing lessons it holds. Today I know that faith is being sure of what I do not yet see and, though I cannot yet see the shape into which He is moulding me, the result will be good because He is good. And He turns all things to good for those who believe.

Today I know that I believe.

Today I know that there are babies waiting for some love. I know I will come home covered with sand and dirt and sweat and probably the leakage from a few nappies needing changing. Tomorrow I know I will be doing some laundry.

Today I know the visitors I serve here will have a dozen questions for me as soon as I walk into the visitors’ compound. Some of the answers I give will not be satisfactory and others will bring joyful, gracious thanks bubbling up and overflowing into my day. Today I know that this job is a path of privilege to be walked with care.

Today I know that the weather report has predicted the coldest night of the year and, thanks to my family, I have two new hot water bottles to curl up with. I know it will be a two-bottle night.

Today the wind is wildly whipping up the sand and I know that everything in the house will be covered with a layer of grit within the hour. I also know that tomorrow Maria – God bless Maria! – will be here to help me clean the dirt away while laughing at my jokes even though we speak different languages. Today I know that laughter is a language all of its own.

Today I know that one breath at a time is as fast as I am required to walk through this day and that, if anyone demands that I walk faster, it is ok to say no. In fact, it is necessary.

Today I know that I am where I want to be. I cannot say that any day living here is easy. If it were easy, there would not be the satisfaction of knowing, at the end of each day, that He led and I followed and that His grace was sufficient for the day.

Today I know that, for everything He calls me to, He fills the deficit between what I can do and what He calls me to. He fills the deficit between me and Perfection. I want to live today and every day knowing that Perfection leads me and all I am asked to do is follow, trusting.

Today I know that He is good and that He is making me into His likeness, just one day at a time.

PS 118: 24 “This is the day that the Lord has made. Let us rejoice and be glad in it.”

[David Carson quote from http://www.christianity.ca/NETCOMMUNITY/Page.aspx? pid=4849]

WHAT IN THE WORLD IS A MISSIONARY?

The mission field. Now there’s a broad term. Where is it, this “mission field” we refer to so loosely in the church today?

How does one define “the mission field”? Is it a place that is on another continent? Is it somewhere that I am not used to being? Does it have to be a foreign land? Must it be a nation where the lifestyle is very different from my own, where the language and food and culture are unfamiliar to me? Does “the mission field” have to be poor? Or hot? Or a long way from home?

For my grandparents, missionaries sent to the fields of India and China, the term was quite specific – the mission field was a foreign land unreached by the Gospel, and one from which you may never return. My father, seen here on his 80th birthday, was born in India, raised in China, then interned as a POW by the Japanese when war broke out. I will never understand, no matter how I try, the cost that he, his parents and sister counted to be on the mission field all those years ago. He has kept a sweet spirit and a gentle, forgiving nature despite all that he went through. Now there’s a big clue to the thesis that follows…

I am a product of a Christian family and I have sensed that “missionary calling” – whatever it may be - pulsing in my veins for most of my life. Now I live in Mozambique and the longer I live here, the broader my definition becomes.

I have worked in a variety of jobs over the years – teaching, church administration, retail, nannying, waitressing... My very first job as a teenager? “Hello, this is St Ives Sports and Toys. Can I help you?” said of course in the most grown-up tone a fifteen-year-old can muster.

As I mentally retrace the timeline of my life, I can detect few patterns, many unexpected detours, loads of unfulfilled dreams and much boredom interspersed with very occasional bouts of excitement and fulfilment. It was during those rare seasons of delight that I received a tiny taste of all that I was hoping for and felt the heightened tension between the now and the not-yet. I knew that I knew that something bigger and better and more wonderful was just around the corner. But what was it and how would I get there? Was it... wait for it... drum roll please... “the mission field”?

I am a dreamer. I always have been. I have longed and hoped and dreamed big all my life. When people tell me to dream bigger, I laugh because I cannot imagine what bigger is. Perhaps that is what God means when he talks about the “exceeding abundantly more than all we can ask or imagine...” But bigger than MY dreams? Is that really possible?

Then it dawns on me. Of course it is not possible. If it were possible, I would have been there a long time ago. It also dawns on me that, if I had been able to find my own way there, in my own timing, I would not have coped with what I found when I arrived. I would have enjoyed the view for just a moment then choked to death on all the circumstances I was not yet equipped to deal with.

I look back now and the pattern finally becomes clear, the common denominator in all my jobs and relationships and trials and joys and sorrows – everything has been a preparation for now. And now is a preparation for what comes next. So even here, living in Mozambique, the quintessential “mission field” for the hard-core “missionary”, I still feel that tension between the now and the not-yet.

You see, all these years were not a preparation for the mission field. They were preparation for discovering greater depths of the heart of Jesus. Plumbing those depths will never, ever end because the heart of Jesus is bottomless and the goodness of His will for the earth unending.

I do not belong on the mission field. I belong in the perfect will of God.

If I am in the perfect will of God, doing all that He asks me to do, then I have found my mission field, no matter where in the world I am. I happen to live in Mozambique because, for now, this is where God needs me to be - for what I can give and also for what He wants me to receive.

Somehow, in God’s economy, giving and growing go hand-in-hand. The more I give, the more I grow. He has placed me, in every season of my life, in exactly the spot He has wanted me to be. Now, here in this nation so rich with possibilities and so desperate for breakthroughs, I receive so much more than I can give no matter how fast I try to pour myself out on the needs around me. This is the perfect economy of God.

I love that God has brought me here and that I am in His perfect will. I love the mission field in which He has planted me for now. Not because it is easy (it is not). Not because it is fulfilling (it is occasionally). Not because I get to pour out all that I am (some days yes, some days all I want to do is hide away and pretend I am somewhere else).

I still dream. I still search for ways in every day to express my passions. I still sense that heightened tension between the now and the not-yet. The difference now is that, instead of stepping out on my own to fight my way into the future, I am trusting God to lead me there one day at a time, via the mission fields of His choosing, where I am needed and where I need to be.

He is teaching me to squeeze all the possibilities out of each of the days between the now and the not-yet.

So, what does your mission field look like? Where is it? And when, oh when, will you get there?

If you are able to say that you are following God the best way you know how, obeying His voice one whisper at a time, and that tomorrow you plan to do the same, then look around you and take a deep breath.

You’re standing in it.

You can call me a missionary if you like, but only if you are willing to use the term for yourself as well. I am a simple Christian woman doing my best to live God’s way, one day at a time. I am no more nor less valuable to the Kingdom than anyone else. Today I will give of myself, as you will. And today I will pray that I grow a little more in grace and patience and wisdom, as I pray for you also.

Yes, I live in a nation full of needs. So do you. Together, let us walk through another day serving God the best way we know how, encouraging one another in the work of the mission field in which each of us is planted for now.

The harvest is plentiful in your field and in mine, so let’s get to work.