So you spend three years raising your full missionary support,
sell most of your possessions—except what fits into 20 Rubber-maid totes, and
leave the country to serve God. Upon arriving
on the field, of course you think, “This is it.
I’ve finally arrived at the end of my journey. I can begin to invest again.”
Well, a wise man once told me, “What you see as the end of
the road, from God’s perspective is really just a curve.”
We’ve hit our curve.
We arrived in Paraguay seven months ago after a five month stint of language
study in Texas.
Our plan upon arrival:
stay here for several years, planting a
church, sharing the gospel, being awesome missionaries.
But then the curve came into view.
As the months passed we began to see the damaging
long-term effects of stress in our kids (9,11,& 13) and ourselves.
They tried to cope with the numerous changes and
constant uncertainty, but the stress leaked out in outbursts of anger, apathy,
and bitterness.
For my husband and I the
stress was slowly pulling us into a pit of despair.
We couldn’t seem to get our traction; we
couldn’t seem to get in front of the chaos to make life manageable.
It felt like grasping water in our hands.
The changes, the stress, the adjustments
continued to suck our resources until one day, we realized we were empty, and
we needed help.
Oh the guilt of that realization. After only seven months on the field, and we
needed to return to the States. We weren’t
the missionaries we thought we’d be, and we wouldn’t be able to do the things
we thought we would do. After working so
hard to get to Paraguay, we were leaving after only seven months.
As I pack our bags, I realize that there is a blessing in
the curve. At just the right moment as
the car turns, you can look back and see where you’ve been. We are not the same family that left the
States. We are different. I can see it in the shades my daughter
chooses when she colors. Here in PY,
bright pink, red, and blue houses dot the countryside, and now those shades
brighten my daughter’s coloring book. I
can see it in the stories my youngest writes as she includes the sounds of the
Guarani language in her character’s words.
I can see it in my oldest when he plays with our friends’ babies and
tries to make them smile. I can see it
in myself when I walk into a store and greet the cash register attendant. And I can see it in my husband when he cruises
down the bumpy, dirt roads leaving swirling dust in his tracks, with his lips curling
slightly at the fun.
We are different and that is good. We will
all look upon a foreigner with compassion, because we know what it is like to
be confused by the language and customs of a different culture. We will all understand what it means to not
have enough water, to sit in the muggy, humid heat while the electricity takes
a break, and to eat bug-filled popcorn because we really want a taste of home.
You see, I’ve realized that a curve in the road isn’t
bad. It just means, we’re still Not Yet
Home.
