Curves in the Road

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.