When Our Worlds Collide -- At Home.

It takes 20-something hours to fly halfway around the world.  20-something hours with your knees stuck in your chin due to the majesty of coach seating.  And it stinks.  Stinks like the airplane food you have to eat for those 20-something hours.

It is possible you will also have to spend the night in an airport during those 20-something hours, and almost inevitable that one or more pieces of your luggage will be lost.

But, nevertheless, after the 20-something hours, you will arrive halfway around the world.  And if you are really lucky, you then will be able to board some type of odd public transportation to get you even deeper into the bowels of halfway around the world. 

And then you can say that you have arrived.  Arrived at "the mission field."  The people will touch your skin and point at your blue eyes, and they will stare.  You will buy clothes that look like the "natives," and you will feel very missiony.  You will do your best to muddle through the language, and you will end up asking for "a cat's banana television" instead of the bathroom.  You will learn to drive on the other side of the road, and you will convince your taste buds that weird food is good...even if it might be considered domesticated animal in the States.

It's what the mission field is all about.  Taking Jesus to people that don't speak like you.  Or look like you.  Or live near you.  It's what we give our Christmas offerings for. 

Or is it?

What if the mission field was right down the street from you?  What if you could drive your minivan emblazoned with your children's sports stickers to the mission field?  What if you could do it while eating a quarter pounder with cheese and drinking a chocolate shake?  What if you could wear your Old Navy bermudas and a camp tee-shirt? 

Impossible.  That's not real missions.

Real missions is trading your satellite and DVR for a grass hut.  Exchanging your air conditioning for mosquito nets and malaria shots.  Switching out pepperoni pizza for curries made from Fido and Flicka.  Everyone knows that.

That's real missions.  No question.

Or not.

Missions is loving on people.  No matter if they are right next door or a 20-something hour plane ride away.  Missions is meeting people where God would have us meet them.  No matter if it is in a dirt road village in the jungle or in a suburb full of million dollar homes.  God's children wear rags.  And they wear Gucci.  They go hungry at night, and they gorge themselves on caviar and expensive champagne. 

And it's just as much missions to go downtown as it is to go to China.

Have you ever seen anything so precious? I'm not sure that I have.  Because when I see this picture all I see is God's goodness and grace.  I see His mercies just a'pourin'.

That's missions, friends.  And it isn't happenin' in an African village.

It's happenin' in the Georgian suburbs.

And Jesus is pleased as punch about it!

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My bestest friendy, Tiffani, has experienced the wonder that is "Home Missions."  She's been lavished upon by the Father and been handed moments of ministry that are doable.  And close.  And so riveting.

Isn't she gorgeous in that picture?  Can't you just see Jesus radiating?

Please please please go HERE and read her story.  You won't be the same afterwards. 

And then get up, ask the Lord for opportunities, and go out in your own communities and serve. 

You'll never be the same. 

I promise.

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Your communities are bursting with opportunities for you to get involved.  Your local church will have unlimited paths for you to journey down.  If you would like to get more information about the North American Mission Board and its work thorughout the United States, you may visit here.

Jim-Dad Is On His Way

If you've hung around these parts for anytime at all, then you are familiar with this fella.

JIM-DAD

Well, Dear Ole Jim-Dad jetted off on an adventure yesterday.  He packed up his newly purchased cargo pants (because someone told him that that's what true "adventurers" do); laced up his brand spankin' new walking shoes; loaded up his fanny-pack (yes...a fanny pack) with enough batteries for his camera to rival Chernobyl; and boarded a plane.

A plane that is taking him somewhere he's never been before.

A plane that will place my daddy, in his shiny new cargo pants and New Balance tennis shoes, right on the soil where his precious Savior walked a couple of thousand years ago.

Jim-Dad will be walking by the Sea of Galilee touching the same sand that nurtured Jesus' rugged sandals.

He'll meander through the Garden of Gethsemane placing his fingers on the same rocks that supported Jesus' elbows as He prayed.

He'll walk the roads.  Smell the smells.  Taste the tastes.  And breathe the air.

And I know he'll never be the same.

And I'm so completely and ecstatically happy for him.

And just a'might green with envy.

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If you think to do so, please lift a prayer or two up for not only the safety of Jim-Dad and the group he's traveling with, but also for the hearts of the people that they will come in contact with during the weeks they are there.

I covet your prayers for him.  And I know he would, too.

When Our Worlds Collide -- Fancy Needs Jesus Too

My sister graduated from high school while we were living overseas.  She holds a diploma from an International School, and I've always been a bit jealous of that.  My high school diploma is from a Midwest town where the mascot was a Mule.  Yes.  A mule. 

Moving on.

The summer after my sister's graduation, as our family was preparing to bring her back to the States to start college, my parents presented her with a gift of a Senior Trip.  Michele was enamored with all things European, and my parents were able to work out a 10 Day Family Vacation through 10 countries in Europe on our way home to Arkansas. 

That 10 days was amazing.  I was in Jr. High and thought I was too cool for the world, but looking back, I realize how special of a trip it was.  My sister was in heaven, and our family saw and tasted and smelled and experienced things that we had never seen, tasted, smelled, or experienced before.

In addition to doing all the normal touristy things, we had the opportunity to meet up with several missionary families that were stationed in some of those European countries.  Some we spent the night with, others we just shared a meal with. 

And as my parents were busy swapping stories, I remember thinking, "How did they get so lucky to get this gig?"

I mean...if the Mission Board is sending folks to hang out around the Eiffel Tower or spend their missionary careers in a cottage in the Swiss Alps, why in the world would someone ever choose a third world country for their assignment?

It didn't make any sense to my 12 year old head.

And I actually remember thinking that my parents were downright crazy.  And I was a bit bitter.  Because instead of jungle life, I could've been spending my mornings frolicking through Dutch tulips or perfecting the wearing of the beret.

I have a couple of friends now who have answered the call of foreign missions and have been given these seemingly glamorous assignments.  I mean....suffering for Jesus in the heart of Italy can't be too shabby, huh?  Or bringing the Word to folks on the ski slopes of Austria?

But this week, as I've been glued to the Olympic coverage, my heart is heavy.  Because though I love the healthy spirit of competition and the brotherly feely-good bonds of nations coming together for the sake of sport, the truth of the matter is that most of those countries that those athletes represent are lost.

It doesn't matter if a country has spectacular landmarks or serves phenomenal food or has all the modern conveniences a person could hope for.....if they don't know Jesus, they're lost.  Plain and simple.  Lost.

I'm actually almost convinced that it probably is harder to share the Gospel in such a place.  Because the attitudes that come with having "everything" are usually harder to penetrate than those of a people who know beyond a shadow of a doubt that they are needy.

I'm trying to check my own presumptions at the door.  Realizing that accepting the Call to go to a nation that is rich and glamorous doesn't make it easier.  That cakewalks aren't handed out when it comes to missionary callings.  That straws aren't drawn for assignments and the couple that gets Tuscany cackles mockingly at the couple that drew Botswana.

There are people in the world that are lost.  Deeply and dreadfully lost.

And it doesn't make them any more lost if they live here...

....than if they live here.

Please take the time to pray for all of our missionary families that are actively serving our Lord.  And please pray for the people that they are trying to reach -- that hearts will be opened to the Word, and that lives will be changed.

When Our Worlds Collide -- Taking the Time

Last week I made the commitment to dedicate a portion of my blog to missions awareness.  Some of you may have read that particular blog post and probably sensed my aching heart coming through the words.  The Lord had provided me with a heaping dose of conviction, and I was struggling to find my way under all the pressure of that burden.  I knew that I was being called to do something, but was positively unsure as to what the something was.

In keeping it real, I still have zero idea. 

I just know that I'm supposed to be doing SOMETHING.

I have been praying about what to write here today.  About what to say.  Perhaps there was a specific need I was to mention.  A specific missionary that was in need of prayer.  A country maybe.  A inner city ministry right here in the States. 

But nothing was standing out as THE something.

I clicked through different organizations' pages and links, searching for something that the Lord would stop my heart for.  Letting me know that I had found it.

Still nothing.

Don't get me wrong.  I'm incredibly moved and called to pray for each and every story and prayer request that I ran across, but I wasn't feeling like it was the SOMETHING that Jesus was calling me to share here.

And then I saw it.

It wasn't anything but a picture.

But it spoke volumes to me.

The woman is Haitian.  But she could be from anywhere.  Her dark skin could be fair.  Or she could be Asian.  Or Hispanic.  Her clothes don't match, but they could...and it wouldn't matter.  She's pregnant.  But she wouldn't have to be. 

None of that matters.

What matters is what she's doing.  She's taking time out of a crazy absurd horrific situation and looking to the One who brings Peace.  She recognizes that the Giver of All Good Things didn't mean that the good things were always tangible.  And she's going to the only Source of Help that she can fully and 100% rely on.

Look at her.

And be amazed. 

Photo from IMB

When Our Worlds Collide

What happened in Haiti this past week was devastating.  The news coverage showed faces of the hurting.  And the dying.  And the lost.   It is heartbreaking to see the impoverished become even more so.  To know that within seconds a natural disaster can wipe out mass amounts of people.  People who seemingly didn't have a chance anyway.

The same thing happened in 2004 with the horrid Indian Ocean tsunami.

And the AIDS crisis in Africa in the 90s.

The wars.  The famine.  The floods.  The cyclones. 

The tragedies that strike third world countries bring us to our knees.  In the same breath that we are begging God for mercy on the people who are affected, we are praising Him for our own comforts and conveniences.  We make donations to relief efforts.  We pack up extra shirts from the backs of our pregnant closets and drop them off at donation sites from the backs of our oversized mini-vans and SUVs.  We sponsor children and tack their wallet sized pictures on our refrigerators.  We weep at commercials on our big screen televisions that tell us that it only takes pennies a day to send a child in another country to school with shoes on her feet.  And we beg our children to finish up their Happy Meals and chocolate milkshakes lest they forget that there are starving children around the world.

I stand ashamed and guilty at the foot of the Cross.

Not that any of those things are bad.  But my complacency is appalling.

I weep the same tears over pitiful looking children on my television screen that I weep over my laundry room when I am feeling entirely overwhelmed by the daunting task that lies ahead of me.  I breathe a sigh of relief as those boxes and bags of clothes that are dropped off at the donation site because not only does it make ME feel good to be doing something proactive, it is freeing up some room for a little stop by Old Navy.  My speeches to my children about "starving children" aren't always about the desire to instill awareness in my kids, but more times than not it is about trying to manipulate their attitudes into being easier for me to handle.

If you don't know what I'm talking about and are appalled that I would even brave the keys to type such words, then I'm fine with your judgement.  But, my inclination is that the majority of you know exactly what I'm talking about.  Our hearts start out in the right places, desiring to develop true hearts of compassion and generosity, but we drift towards angles of self-centeredness.

It's ugly.  But unfortunately it's true.

And you know what stinks?

I know better.

I was young when I was an MK on the mission field.  And though I have distinct memories of the poverty and neediness of the Gospel, I will not sit here and tell you that my entire life has been devoted to the plight of the needy.  Because of my age, my experiences were just part of the norm for me.  I didn't make special efforts to note the significant.  Or record the prolific.  I was just a kid.  All that stuff I saw was as normal for me as Spongebob is for my boys.

But, at the same time, I DO know what I saw.

And maybe more than seeing the actual people who were living the lives of such devastation, were the missionaries.  The men and women of God that were willing to put their very safety and the safety of their families on the line for the sake of those people that had nothing to give in return.  I could talk about my mom and dad and their remarkable faith journeys.  But I could also tell you about a hundred more men and women just like them.

Please hear me.  Giving to organizations and being charitable and allowing our hearts to be stirred by crisis is the amazing work of the Father in us.  I believe that with all my heart.  I know that not everyone is called to full-time ministry as is obvious by my husband's secular job and my choice to be in my comfortable Bible Belt home raising my family.

What my hearts aches for is that I forget too easily.  It is easier for me to concentrate on MY own set of issues and MY own set of problems and play in MY own little world where everything fits MY way of doing things.  I'd rather focus on MY wants.  MY needs.  What would make this life easier for ME.

Disasters, like the one in Haiti, bring us (and I mean, ME.  I'm talking to myself.) back to reality that the rest of the world is out there.  That they need Jesus.  That they need what we as abundant Americans can offer.  But, as is usually the case, media coverage will begin to die down, our minds will begin to shift gears, and our blessed lives will begin their routines again.  Until something else happens to bring us to our knees.

I don't have the answers.  Not even close.  Because I'm still dealing with my own heart that is heavy with conviction, and I am praying that God will teach me how to throw off the chains of complacency and take up the yoke of urgency. 

Urgent to pray.  Urgent to give.  Urgent to be aware.  Urgent to become like Jesus.

Urgent.

Lord, make me urgent.

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My apologies for this "thinky" post.  Many of you don't visit here to hear me preach a sermon or ramble about convictions.  And I don't blame you.  I wouldn't want to listen to me either. Light-hearted stories and the antics of my family are usually what abound here.  But in the spirit of authenticity, I must tell you that the Lord is currently walking me through a valley of self-examination and self-dissection.  These travels with the Lord are not fun for me.  They hurt.  And the road is hard and long.  And He and I discuss often as to the necessity of these valley trudges.  One area in particular that He continually brings to my mind is missions.  I openly confess that I have not acted upon the tremendous legacy that I have been left, and I am choosing daily (though sometimes it is an all out battle) to surrender to the work that God the Father has chosen for me to do. 

I will tell you that I am not feeling convicted to sell all of my possessions and pack up my family for the jungle.  And although I have the desire to travel and be in the bowels of these countries, I don't know that it is a true calling for ministry. 

What I am feeling convicted about is raising awareness.  Raising awareness of the world's people who are in desperate need of not only clean drinking water and food on a daily basis, but of Eternal Water and Food.  And raising awareness for the tremendous need of prayer for the missionary warriors that brave those front-lines.

I can't do much.

But I can do that.

I will soon begin dedicating a portion of my blog to mission's awareness, and I am excited to see where the Lord takes us on this journey.  If one person is stirred to pray.  Or to give.  Or to go.  Then His work is being done. 

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The mission organization that my family chooses to sponsor is the International Mission Board (part of the Southern Baptist Convention) which is funded by gifts through the Cooperative Program and the Lottie Moon Christmas Offering.  But there are other well-established and reputable organizations that hold the Lord's vision for missions dear and sacred.