Leave your native country, your relatives, and your father’s family, and go to the land that I will show you…I will bless you… and you will be a blessing to others.
I got a text today from a dear friend with these words. She didn’t know that just five minutes before I had send up a little prayer, a scream for help, not knowing what do or whether I had the power and knowledge and wisdom to do the right thing.
Just now I opened a page in the book I reread this weekend. My eye catches the following sentence:
Radical love isn’t as much about where you move to as letting Jesus move you wherever you are – to see Him where He is waiting for you to break the gate and let Him in. He may move you to Africa – or across the street – or He may move you to get a glass of water. But if the love of Christ moves you, it will move you out into the world to break down a thousand common gates. He means for you to live the shalom of communion. Living the broken way, it isn’t about where you live; it’s about how you love. It’s who we love.
Ann Voskamp – The Broken Way
It’s one of those days. When puzzle pieces fall together. I don’t know exactly how or why, but the songs I hear, what everyone says to me, what happens through phone calls, emails, prayer. I don’t really understand. I can only say that God is working His way through my unknowing, my presence in a faraway part of the world.
It’s Him telling me again: “See, you only have to ask and admit you can’t fix the whole world yourself. And you don’t have to. Because I already have. Simply learn to trust me. And that I will use you in the world. Live the broken life. Live it fully. Live it abundantly. And you will learn how and who to love. With a power and strength that goes beyond your understanding.”
A week ago I left Kampala. Burrying myself in work. Escaping from a big ball of sadnesss stuck in my throat. A week later I sit under the Amudat sky, watching the lightening. Grateful. At peace again with God. Receiving my brokenness and seeing how God is using it in mysterious ways.
And really, it was in all the little moments. That’s where the love happened. It was present in the tears stream down my face. Battling with the mosquitos. The girl on the bus. The beers under the starts and whisky in town. The rice and beans and mangos and soup and homecooked meals.The books and the yogamat. The movie and the rain. The long working days and the wonderful Sunday nap.
I didn’t know how to live it. How to love it. A week ago I told God: “I don’t really want to go, but I feel I should. Teach me how to love it again, God. Because I can’t do it myself. I don’t know how to love.”
And then it happened. Through it all. I found my place in the world again.
Somewhere in the endless debates and comfortable silence.
“Did you at one moment regret coming to this place?”
“No. Did you?”
“No, me neither.”