Learning Hospitality from the World’s Worst Housewife

Hospitality is a word that has confused me most of my life. Growing up in the church, I remember hearing some adults being referred to as having “the gift of hospitality.” So with that very little context, I assumed that hospitality was either something you were good at or something you just weren’t. And I quickly concluded early into my adult life that hospitality was NOT a gift I possessed.

There were certain household tasks I was not particularly good at (really I’m still not good at them even though I am trying to improve.) If I invited anyone over to my house, it would take me a good several hours to pick it up and clean it first. The art of keeping a house clean on a regular basis mystifies me.

I can also tell you that it has taken me a long time to feel comfortable around my kitchen. I do not have any meals that I cook particularly well. I do not enjoy cooking, and preparing dinner for other people actually causes me stress a good amount of the time. When we lived in Vegas, our church community used to have a meal train sign up for people who needed a little extra help after a surgery, move, new baby, or other circumstance. I NEVER signed up. Wait. I take that back. I think I signed up once and picked up a pizza for the family. And I just chalked all this up to not having the gift of hospitality.

Well truth be told, I believed I did not have the gift of hospitality because I was raised by the world’s worst housewife.

In all honesty, she is NOT the world’s worst housewife. (I have seen episodes of Hoarders – she isn’t even close). But keeping a house clean was not her specialty. Our family was really good at the last-minute company clean marathon. For a few hours before any houseguests arrived, we ran around the house like maniacs shoving everything from counter A into Box B and everything from counter C into desk drawer D. You know, we had a system, so when our guests departed, Mom could find that permission slip she was supposed to sign because she knew just where she put it on counter A. I am not sure we really fooled anyone because by the time anyone arrived at our house, we all looked like we had stuck our fingers in light sockets with a mix of panic and exhaustion on our faces.

That is how I grew up taking care of our house. Everyone pitched in, but it was never a regularly clean place. It was lived in – well lived in.

And it was this way because my mom believed there were more important things than cleaning a house. She was busy reading stories to us, playing games, making cookies for a friend in need, creating, laughing, and being a great mom. In fact she was such a great mom that most of my friends would come to hang out with her even when I was not there. She is beloved by many, and no one ever seemed to mind the untidiness of our home.

This is how I grew up, and today this is still grounded into my beliefs. My house is well-lived in. I would love for it to be clean all the time, but that isn’t where my priorities lie. Because like my mom, I am busy reading stories, creating art, making muffins, and playing games. When it needs to be cleaned, everyone pitches in. But my house also has that well-lived-in feel when you walk through the doors.

It wasn’t until I set foot in the Dominican Republic in my mid-thirties that I began to understand hospitality in a whole new light. Living in a missionary culture that was greatly influenced by the Dominican culture helped me understand Biblical hospitality. Yes, the Dominicans do a great job of cleaning their house, their tile-yard, and even the street in front of their house, but hospitality runs far deeper than the status of their home.

If you were welcomed into a home, you were offered a beverage and something to eat. It did not matter how little they had. You were their guest, and they were showing you honor and neighborly love by feeding you. Some of my girls’ favorite memories include when they would go over to the casa de nos vecinos (neighbor’s house), and she would give them a little cup of Fruit Loops. But more important than feeding your body, you also had their undivided attention. They wanted to sit and talk with you. It wasn’t a quick “how are you doing?” with the expected answer of “fine.” It was a real and honest talk about life’s ups and downs.

The visit was also not on a scheduled time limit. You had as much time with your host as you wanted. It would not matter if they had somewhere to go. It was ok; they could be late. In fact, this has a lot to do with why many Latin American cultures often do not run on the same time-based schedule as we are used to in the United States. Time and schedule are not the priority.

Shortly after we moved into our house in the Dominican Republic, I realized how often I would be having people into my home. Often, they were other missionaries and sometimes they were travelers. I quickly had to adapt either my housekeeping skills or my standards of clean-enough-for-company. With the mix of dust in the air and living in an extremely warm and humid climate (that makes household cleaning tasks that much more exhausting), I can assure you that my housekeeping skills did not improve. (Well, I would like to think that over six years they did improve some but not well enough or fast enough to make a difference those first months).

So I adapted my expectations of myself and my home. If you set foot in my Dominican casa, you could attest that my floors were rarely sparkling, my counters had clutter, my walls had children’s art, schedules, and random words taped up on them. There were probably toys you would have to step over and perhaps a stack of homeschool papers you would have to push aside to sit at our table when you would come by for a visit.

The house may not have been up to Martha-Stewart standards, but at our home you were always welcome, you could stay as long as you wanted, and there was always something for you to eat (even if all I had at the time was goldfish crackers).

Do you know what surprised me? People still came over. It didn’t seem to matter much that my floors hadn’t recently been mopped or there was a pile of dishes in my sink. People came over, sat at my table among the watercolor paints, drank some coffee, and stayed awhile. They came over without notice. They came over at all different times. Sometimes they would stay for a few minutes to discuss some sort of finances with my husband, and sometimes I could convince them to stay for dinner.

You see, I learned something those first few months when we were in the Dominican Republic. When we would go to other’s houses, whether it was planned or we happened to be walking by and invited in, we were shown hospitality. We were given a place to rest, a place to sit down, or often a bed to sleep in if we were tired. It did not matter if we were spending the night. If we needed a nap, there was a place to nap. We were given something to eat and drink, water, coffee, freshly baked chocolate chip cookies, cheese, and crackers. There was always a plate of something on the table and drink in my hand. I learned quickly how much a snack can gently lift the spirits of a wearied traveler.

But more than taking care of our bodies, it was the check in on our mental and emotional well-being that really made the difference. When we had sat down, eaten a bite, taken a breath, and relaxed, then someone would ask, “How are you doing?” “Really?” That is hospitality. It is caring for the whole of a person who enters your home, caring for them both physically and emotionally. It is loving one another as Christ has loved us.

“Above all, love each other deeply, because love covers over a multitude of sins. Offer hospitality to one another without grumbling. Each of you should use whatever gift you have received to serve others, as faithful stewards of God’s grace in its various forms.If anyone speaks, they should do so as one who speaks the very words of God. If anyone serves, they should do so with the strength God provides, so that in all things God may be praised through Jesus Christ. To Him be the glory and the power forever and ever. Amen.”
1 Peter 4:8-11

Once I figured out that hospitality had nothing to do with the cleanliness of my house or the quality of my home-made meals, I realized that God had given me the best example of hospitality growing up.

Our house was seldom clean if you dropped by unannounced during my childhood, but that never stopped many people from dropping by on their way to and from church or school without any warning. Our pastors would frequently come by after church if they had a voter’s meeting Sunday afternoon just to grab some food and kill some time. It didn’t matter if there was a prepared meal. It was common for anyone to walk in the kitchen, get a plate from the cupboard, and serve themselves something they found in our fridge. In fact, my mom always said, “You are a guest only once in this house. After that you are family, and you can help yourself.”

My seventh-grade teacher would stop by after school on Back-to-School nights and take naps on our couch before she would have to return to school for the evenings. We would often have different friends drop by during dinner, and someone would just set them another place and pull up a chair. Our house was always a revolving door of different people coming by because they had free time, or they just wanted to catch up on life. And as far as I could tell, no one seemed to care that the house was a mess. They still came over. My mom made sure everyone was always welcome. And without me ever realizing it, she was overflowing with the gift of hospitality.

Whether or not I have inherited her gift of hospitality, I understand the importance of caring for one another in the body of Christ just as we are called to do in 1 Peter.

We are no longer in the Dominican Republic, but I will always remember what it was like to be a sojourner, to travel from place to place, to be welcomed into someone’s home, and to be cared for, valued, and loved.

If you let me know you are coming over and plan to stay awhile, my family will run around like maniacs cleaning up all the odds and ends, scrubbing the sinks, sweeping the floors, and shoving counter A into box B to prepare for your visit. You will have clean sheets on the bed and fresh towels in the bathroom. We will prepare a meal or nice snack for you and sit with you, pretending that our house usually looks like this.

But if you happen to be in my neighborhood and just drop by, you will be welcome to sit at our table. And just go ahead and push aside that pile of math papers and chalk drawings. We will offer you a drink and some form of nourishment for your body. It may be a wonderfully grilled steak (if you happen to come on the right evening) or a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. If you are tired, you may take a nap in our bed (coming from the mission field, it is not weird to offer someone a nap in your bed). If you need to wash your clothes, you may use our washer and dryer. If you come in the afternoon, you will be welcome to stay for dinner.

After you have sat, eaten, and rested a bit, we will ask how you are doing, really doing. Because, dear friend, you are cared for, you are loved, you are a child of God, and you are important to us.

The Teacups Part Three: Hope

8 / 1 / 208 / 1 / 20

I am a different person than the one who stepped onto the teacups five years ago. I have been stretched, I have been challenged, I have been changed. I have faced adversity, pain, and heartbreak. I have failed, and I have triumphed.

I have explained my analogy of the teacups and told you of the amazing work God is doing here in the Dominican Republic and in our Latin America Region, but I couldn’t complete this story without telling you what God has done for me.

I live out my missionary life in the beautiful country of the Dominican Republic, and although I struggle to function in my everyday life, a great love for this country has grown and taken deep root in my heart. The people of the Dominican Republic radiate compassion and positivity. They have a zest for life no matter the circumstances they find themselves in, whether they wear riches or rags. They are grateful, they are happy, and they are kind. I have fond memories of mountain hikes, whale watching, sunrise beach walks, garden strolls, pig roasting, and late-night baseball games. The Dominican culture is infectious.

I do have my gripes with the dust and the bugs and having to throw my toilet paper in the garbage can, but this country has been nothing but warm and gracious. I have witnessed great examples of hospitality, gratitude, and a loving-your-neighbor lifestyle. I have learned the importance of my vocations as a mother, wife, and missionary spouse. These are vocations I love, but they are difficult to live out gracefully while I am on this ride.

Being a wife in the mission field has been a complicated road to walk. There has not always been a clear-cut place to serve. The home, especially with children, needs a lot of attention. The cooking of food, washing of clothes, and the planning of the details of life all take so much more time than any of it used to when I lived in the States.

Two years ago several missionary women began meeting together online for Bible study. We began with a study on purpose. Sharing God’s Word with one another while we discussed our challenges and triumphs has been the lifeline I have needed during the hardest days. I am not alone in many of my struggles. I am also not alone in the way God is using me. Missionary women, most of them wives, who have moved to another country as an accompanying spouse—we all have stories of the ways God has changed each of us. He is present in our lives.

God is present in my life. This is something I can see more clearly now than I ever could before. Once the “fluff” of the unnecessary was stripped away, there wasn’t much left to distract from Him. Now it is much more clear how big God is. It has been like draining the ocean around the iceberg. How could I see the depth of Him in my life when I kept filling the ocean with other things I thought were important? He has always been this big, this important, and this powerful in my life – it was just harder to see before.

This is the first part of me that is different since living on the teacups, and it is the most important. I have a deeper understanding of who God is, the depth of His love, and the awesomeness of His power. He is my rock, my deliverer; He is my stronghold, my shield; He is my shepherd and my healer. The Lord of all creation holds me in His right hand. It is amazingly beautiful to be His beloved.

But my understanding of our Lord and Savior is just one part of me that has changed since climbing aboard the teacups. I have changed and not just in the gray hairs or wrinkles that have graced my appearance. This journey has included a series of gifts along the way. In times where I have been at my lowest, God has unveiled great beauty in my life. He has taught me valuable lessons that I pray I will hold fast to forever. It is not just getting to see the beautiful work He is doing around me, but the work He has done in my life as well.

The Almighty has placed me on this island where He knew I would struggle. And while I do not feel equipped to be here, He has sustained me. He has carried me thus far. He has done this partly with the people He placed here on the ride with me. I would not have made it five years if it weren’t for the friendships I have needed to lean upon. I can see His hand in those He brought to walk alongside me during the different seasons of this journey. Beautiful sisters in Christ who have held my hand when I was most vulnerable, men of God who continuously pointed me to Scripture, friends near and far who encouraged me, all of them saints woven by God into this tapestry of my life to continue me on this ride. The friendships I have been given are among my most favorite treasures from our time in the mission field.

God not only gave me new friendships to support me during this time, but He also gave me new passions. I never expected to uncover a talent or skill after I turned thirty. (I also didn’t expect to make a career change and uproot our family to another country at that point either–so really nothing should surprise me at this point.) But a few months into this ride, I picked up a pencil and a sharpie and began writing His Word down in pretty letters. It began as a small side hobby–a way to pass the time while I stole a few moments here and there to just sit in the air-conditioning and take a break from the heat. I never anticipated it to grow into anything more than a few pages I hung up on my own wall, but again God had different plans for me. His plans always surpass my wildest imagination.

“and provide for those who grieve in Zion—
to bestow on them a crown of beauty
    instead of ashes,
the oil of joy
    instead of mourning,
and a garment of praise
    instead of a spirit of despair.
They will be called oaks of righteousness,
    a planting of the Lord
    for the display of his splendor.”
Isaiah 61:3

From a season of deep heart-wrenching grief grew a new talent, skill, and passion. When I was at my darkest moments, sprawled out before my Bible, God gently showed me how He could turn the ashes of my pain to beauty in my art. Lettering not only became a skill but was an avenue to process my heartache and brokenness. God gave me a beautiful gift in my season of grieving. He has helped me grow this passion into a small side business. He has helped me reach out to friends and family far away. He has given me a way to share His Word with others in my life. My art has become a way I can give back to the church and the mission. He has placed supportive friends in my life who have rallied around me, have lifted me up, and have even used my art to help share God’s love in their communities. I have been able to lead lettering classes, create art for others to share, and reach out across the borders with His Word when my words have been insufficient. My heart beams when I see others light up with joy when they create beauty with His words.

Out of my pain and grief has also come my writing. It is where the journey of this blog was born. Writing has been another way for me to process my heartache and all the other complicated emotions I have felt on the teacups. I have been able to express myself better on the pages of my computer screen than I ever could while speaking words.

I have not only been able to process emotions with writing, but I have been able to make connections. I have found others who can relate to my pain or struggle with similar questions. Connecting with you has been a gift. When I write out my thoughts and they resonate with you, I don’t feel so far away. This journey has given me a story to tell and a reason to write. If my life was easy and not filled with complicated emotions, what would I write to you? I have found my voice while navigating this life that is the teacups. And while I struggle through the day to day, I am thankful that I have found my way to you through these pages.

The day-to-day struggle has taught me how to cherish the simple joys of life. When we first moved here five years ago, I began a journal. For the first six months I wrote in it faithfully, and I always included one part of that day that brought me gratitude. I shut that journal when my life began to unravel and never opened it again until today. Today I chose to look back at those very first moments of my ride on the teacups, and I wanted to share some of them with you.

July 31, 2015 
Today I woke up in our new house in Santiago.  The previous 48 hours are a blur.  Today we begin our new life as missionaries.  It is crazy.  It’s scary. It’s exciting.  I am thankful that God wants us to serve here. I am thankful for the friends He has given us to get us here and the friends who will move us forward.

August 13, 2015
These days I feel like I live in a careful balance of chaos and the unknown.  Like I don’t have time to stop and think.  I just have to keep moving forward.  Today Blake and I took our first taxi to IKEA.  We then took another taxi-truck home with all our furniture.  We made it.  I had reservations, but we made it.  We also had dinner at an Italian restaurant with other missionaries.  The food was great, and the company was even better.  I’m thankful for good food.

September 23, 2015
We went to the church service in Palmar tonight.  It was my first time being back there since we moved.  It felt so wonderful to be back.  We were welcomed with open arms.  I loved watching Abby and Rachel meeting new friends.  It was great to feel among friends.  I am thankful that I have friends here.

October 20, 2015
Rachel is feeling better today.  I am still not feeling great.  My throat really hurts.  
I started lettering.
It calms me.
I am thankful for a new hobby.

October 28, 2015
Took a Spanish test today – that didn’t go so great.  
Rachel snuck candy at dinner.  Being a mom is hard sometimes.  
Totally freaked out in bed when a moth landed on my face.
I’m thankful Blake helped me get the moth so it wouldn’t attack my face all night.

November 15, 2015
I am nervous to be in this house and this country without Blake. These are the times that I abandon my fears and cling to trust. These are the times when I understand what trust means. It is much harder to trust the Lord amidst our own securities.
When we no longer have what makes us feel safe, that is when we only have HIM. That is the trust He wants us to put in Him. Thank You, Lord, for being my stronghold.

December 12, 2015
We were able to have date night.  We went out to a nice restaurant.  It was in a gas station.  It makes me laugh but it was great.  The food was wonderful and so was the company.  Sometimes I forget I am living life in a foreign country and I can just be in the moment.  Tonight was like that.  I am thankful for nights out with my husband.

I have learned to cling tightly to life’s simple joys. A cool breeze, a freshly baked croissant, a vibrant sunset, a walk on the beach, a family game night, a ripe mango, conversations with friends, the blooms of the flamboyant tree, a simple moment when my heart smiles–I hold onto each one. And I capture as much of that moment as I can in my mind, taking a mental snapshot. I do this because these simple joys help me get through the moments that are frustrating, difficult, and burdensome. When I take extra effort to acknowledge the good moments, the others do not hold as much importance. The simple joys are not as few and far between as I once thought them to be. When I began to intentionally seek them out and hold them fast, I realized they occur more frequently than I once believed.

I wanted to share these simple joys with you along with the other treasures that have come from my ride on the teacups because riding the teacups has been difficult—unbelievably difficult. I am nothing short of amazed that we are still here after five years.

I have not adapted to life on the teacups. I still greatly struggle with this life, partly because our road has been bumpy but partly because that is just who I am. Does that mean I never will adapt?

I don’t know.

I would have thought I would be closer than I am right now. But if there is anything I have learned, it is that we have a Mighty God who can do absolutely anything. Nothing is impossible with Him. Could I at some point love the teacups?

Yes.

Because with Him anything is possible. This doesn’t mean that I will eventually love the teacups, but it is possible.

“But Jesus looked at them and said, ‘With man this is impossible, but with God all things are possible.’”
Matthew 19:26

God has done great things, and I will sing of His great works. He is mighty. He is my strength and my shield.* He will rejoice over me with gladness.* Nothing is too hard for Him which includes helping me on the teacups* because He is wise in heart and mighty in strength.* He loves me with an everlasting love.* His burden is light* and His grace is sufficient for me. That is why I boast. Because His power is made perfect in MY WEAKNESS.* My weaknesses on the teacups point to the power of Christ. I am here, still on this ride, with my two feet still in the Dominican Republic because He is mighty. He is powerful. He is loving, and He is good. And with HIM all things are possible.

Although I dislike the teacups, I still have hope—hope that I will survive and that maybe one day I might even love this ride of cultural adaptation. And even though it feels impossible on my darkest days when I cry out in anguish, I still have hope. Because all things are possible with Him who loves me.

*Psalm 28:7

*Zephaniah 3:17

*Jeremiah 32:17

*Job 9:4

*Jeremiah 31:3

*Matthew 11:30

*2 Corinthians 12:9

A Time to Embrace

3 / 15 / 203 / 15 / 20

The irony of the chapter we were studying from Heidi Goehmann’s devotion Casting Stones was not lost on the six of us as we sat down at our computers, each in our own corner of the world. Not only were we not able to embrace our fellow missionary wife when she was in the thick of unforeseen circumstances and struggles, but we also met on a day when the world was shutting down due to a pandemic sweeping across the globe.

This is not a time to embrace. This is a time of cancellations and closures. This is a time when people in different countries are being forced to stay indoors and required to self-quarantine. Sporting events, concerts, and schools are all being cancelled. Basic necessities like soap and toilet paper are nowhere to be found. This is a time like many of us have never seen before.

A time not to shake hands, not hug, not get within six feet of one another. But as we dug into Heidi’s study and God’s Word – YES, if ever there was a time to embrace, it is now.

When fear and anxieties run high,

When isolation is necessary,

When our neighbor is ill,

When our friend is without work,

When the children of our community do not have lunch,

When the sojourner is unable to return home,

When the foreigner is shunned,

When every corner of the earth seems vulnerable to disease,

When the unknown is overwhelming,

the world needs an embrace.

Our neighbor needs to know we are still here. Those isolated need to know they are loved, and the anxious need to know that God is the Almighty.

In our study, we went over 2 Kings 8:4-37. When Elisha visited the Shunammite woman. He promised her she would embrace a son. She protested, “Do not lie to your servant.”

She was scared. Scared to admit what her heart desired. Scared to get her hopes up.

I, too, have been scared to admit what my heart desired. Wanting a baby after experiencing a loss is a fragile hope that is faintly whispered because the chance of another heart-shattering loss would be too much. A pregnancy after a stillbirth was a constant battle on my knees not to let fear overtake me. “Dear Lord, do not lie to me.” “Do not let me get my hopes up if I will not embrace a baby after birth.” “I am fragile, Lord.” I saw myself in the verse of the Shunammite woman.

Her son was born, he grew, and he died – in her arms. And, oh, the emotion the Shunammite woman must have felt. But when reading this passage, what jumped out at me was her response. She told her husband she was going to the man of God. When asked why, she replied, “All is well.” “All is well” translates to “shalom” or “peace.” She was saying it’s fine, or do not worry about it.

Her dismissive response caught me by surprise and drew me in. It is what I can intimately relate to so well. It is fine. I am fine.

I often hold my emotions close. Understanding when to be vulnerable and honest in this world has been tricky for me. Especially with the hustle and bustle of busy lives. When are my emotions an inconvenience to those around me? Who has time to help me grieve? Who can sit with me in the darkness? So to protect myself before really even evaluating my own emotions, I often respond, “I am fine.”

The Shunammite woman did this twice. First with her husband and then with Elisha’s servant, she uttered, “All is well.” It wasn’t until she saw Elisha that she “caught hold of his feet.” She held it together until she felt safe to fall into him, to collapse from the weight of the grief. Elisha tells us she was in “bitter distress.” She was confused and angry. She told him not to get her hopes up, and she reminded him of that.

I’ve been in need of an embrace of that magnitude. I walked around dismissing concerns until I felt safe enough to collapse into an embrace. This is the embrace our world will need. This is the embrace our neighbor will need. This is the embrace we, the church, can offer. When the restrictions lift, when it is safe to be together again, when we walk outside our homes and assess the damage around us, we must keep our eyes open. Who will need us to be their neighbor?

Some of our neighbors will be in desperate need of an embrace and will need to collapse into the arms of someone who cares. Be ready to embrace those who have gone without pay and do not know how they will continue to make ends meet. Some of our neighbors will have lost loved ones and may not have had the chance to say goodbye. Some of our neighbors will be physically and mentally exhausted from attending to and caring for the sick. Some of our neighbors will be in need of human contact, a friend, someone to talk to after weeks spent in isolation. Some of our neighbors will be facing burdens and holding pain they won’t be able to verbally express. Embrace your neighbor. Let them collapse into your arms. Remind them that they are not alone. Remind them that they are loved. Embrace them.

And until then…

Care for one another the best you can under these unprecedented circumstances. Reach out with phone calls, letters, and emails.

In the last twenty-four hours, I have seen friends and family across Facebook in many different corners of the world offer to buy meals for children who will no longer receive a school lunch, offer to pick up groceries for those who are the most vulnerable and do not feel comfortable to leave their house, provide resources to those stuck with little ones inside for days on end, and so many more beautiful acts of kindness.

This is a time to love your neighbor. Love as Christ has loved us. We may not be physically able to embrace during this time of distance, but know that you are loved. You are not alone during this time of uncertainty. Your anxieties and fears are not silly, and I pray for you the “peace that surpasses all understanding” (Philippians 4:7). Take heart, dearest friend, our Lord has “overcome the world” (John 16:33). He has us in the palm of His hand. He is our comfort. He is our shield. He is our healer. You are precious to Him.

You are loved.

“I have said **the**se things to you, that in me you may have peace. In **the** **world** you will have tribulation. But take heart; I have **overcome** **the** **world**.” John 16:33

The Makers

2 / 1 / 202 / 1 / 20

My lettering journey began shortly after we moved to the Dominican Republic. I was looking for a new way to share Bible verses in our newsletters that we send out to our supporters. This new hobby soon was an appreciated escape from the burdens and woes of culture shock, homesickness, and all the other hurdles I faced as I learned how to live in another country. But my lettering journey really began that first Mother’s Day after we lost our third baby, Gabriella Faith.

Four days after we had to say bitter goodbyes, my sweet husband handed me a new iPad pro and Apple pencil on that very painful Sunday. It was then that I dove headfirst into the world of lettering. Deep in the folds of grief, while the world continued to swirl around me, I found peace and comfort in creating. I didn’t understand the why behind it, and at the time it didn’t matter, I just knew that lettering was a balm to my aching soul.

Later that fall I opened my Etsy shop and sold my first piece. Since then I have improved my lettering skills, made almost 300 sales, and have taught lettering classes. But even four and a half years into this lettering journey, I am still caught off guard when someone refers to me as an artist. It makes me laugh because I have never identified myself as an artist.

For me, lettering has never been about the finished piece of art. I am truly humbled that there are people out there who find my art, relate to it, and want to hang it on their walls. I am grateful that my lettering pieces bring joy and smiles to those who receive them. But for me it was never about the final product. It has always been about the process.

When song lyrics, a Bible verse, or a prayer hold onto my heart in a way that words cannot describe, that is when I create. I narrow down the exact words I want in my piece, I play with different layouts and style options. I sketch out a rough draft, and then, slowly, piece by piece, I put it all together. It is in the creating that brings peace to my troubled heart. It is in watching a design come to life on a page that brings joy to my spirit.

After I joined this unofficial small business community, I learned of so many mothers just like myself who began creating and opened a shop after experiencing deep loss and heartache. And I began to ponder why. Why does creating bring comfort? Are we trying to fill our empty time with purpose? Are we trying to give the hands that were preparing to hold a baby something to do? Are we finding a calm in the creating? Whatever the reason behind it, I firmly believe that the art of creating brings healing to weary souls.

Yes, I am a creator. I am an artist. I am a maker.

But, I would argue, so are you. We were all created in the image of our Heavenly Father, in the image of the Ultimate Creator. We are makers because He is a maker. Not only did He intricately create each one of us, He created the stars, the mountains, drops of dew on the petals of the daisy, and each grain of sand the ocean touches. He continues to create new life, sunsets, rainbows, and blooming flowers daily. Our Heavenly Father is a maker and created us makers in His image.

When I see someone who has perfectly folded clothes in a drawer, a color-coded schedule, delicious cookies fresh from the oven, an intricate excel spreadsheet, a thought-out strategic plan, or someone who has designed a well-running machine, I see an artist. I see a maker, and I see a child of God made in the image of the Almighty Maker. Our God created the world in seven days, He created the central nervous system, time, lifecycles, thunderstorms, and the rainforest. He created order; He created schedule; He created working parts that fit beautifully together. We are all creators just like Him.

I suppose that is why it is so healing to take time to create when our hearts are heavy laden. We were created to create. We are makers, however that might look according to the talents He has given each of us. Creating heals gaping wounds. That is true whether we use a paint brush, an oven, a piano, or a computer.

I found solace in lettering. I found comfort in watercolors. I found peace in the paintbrush. After I lost my baby and I felt as if my world was falling apart, art was my stillness. My lettering was part of the beauty from ashes that God gifted in a time of grief.

This past November I traveled to Puerto Rico to work with one of our fellow missionaries serving in the city of Ponce. Christel and I have been friends since I first visited the Dominican Republic the year before we moved. She has also been supportive of my lettering journey and Etsy shop every step of the way. She asked if I would be able to visit Puerto Rico and teach lettering classes to different members of the community.

Puerto Rico was hit by Hurricane Maria in September of 2017. The damage was devastating and extensive. Even after two years, people and communities are still trying to rebuild and heal. Christel works alongside fellow missionaries in Ponce and a nearby city of Mayaguez to bring comfort and God’s Word to a hurting community. Bringing me to the island was part of Christel’s ongoing plan to help those who are suffering process their pain through art and God’s Word.

While there I led four different workshops. I met new friends and shared my love of lettering. I thoroughly enjoyed every minute of it. We may not have spoken the same language. We may have been raised in different cultures, and our scars may have come from different types of trauma, but what binds us together far exceeds all of our differences. We are makers. We were created in the image of our Father in heaven. Together we created. That room held wounded and weary souls, but in that room there was art, there was the Word of the Lord, and there was joy.

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I had every intention of sharing this beautiful story of my lettering journey and trip to Puerto Rico with you, my friend, and ending it in that room where we created pieces of art, but then January seventh happened, and Puerto Rico experienced an earthquake with a magnitude of 6.4. In fact, Puerto Rico continues to experience earthquakes, and no one can say when the earthquakes will cease. A community still trying to rebuild and heal from the hurricane has been shaken. Buildings have been destroyed, and hope seems lost.

My heart is broken for this incredible country and these beautiful souls. My days are constantly filled with prayers for the people who have been without a safe shelter since the earthquakes first began, for those filled with anxiety when the ground begins to shake again, and for our missionaries, like Christel, who are tirelessly sharing the love of Jesus and the hope given through Him when the world around is falling apart. All I can do is pray. So I pray, and I create. I create when I don’t know what else to do with the heaviness I feel.

I have been in contact with Christel these past weeks and sent a few pieces to her that she requested to use with those who have been displaced from their homes and are currently living in tent cities. Coffee, art, and Bible study are what people in shelters are asking for from our missionaries. Coffee and art are bringing them to the table. While they sit and create together, they also get to hear they are loved by God Almighty and of the eternal hope in Jesus Christ.

The residents from this facility where we held our lettering and paint afternoon have been evacuated and their building is condemned.

Other church groups have reached out, and I helped Christel come up with art projects. Groups are purchasing supplies and prepping materials to create bags that will be ready for Christel to lead projects with those who need to create with their hands to heal their heart. Our missionaries from across our region have gone to Puerto Rico in the weeks following the first large earthquake. They have assessed damage, created plans, comforted hurting hearts, and shared the love of Jesus to those whose burden is heavy. (Matthew 11:30)

If I have learned anything about the road of grief and healing, it is that it is long and winding. The future in Puerto Rico feels overwhelming and uncertain. The recovery efforts have just begun to unfold, and no one can say quite where the future is headed right now.

William and Gustavo checking on a neighborhood after the earthquakes.

The truth is, we already knew that in this world we will have trouble. Our souls will always be weary while on this earth because we are sojourners. Our home, our hope, our firm foundation is secured in heaven. We can hold onto this truth because we know we are loved and forgiven by a Savior, because we were created by a merciful God who delights in us. And until we find rest in His eternal presence, we will continue to hurt, we will continue to be shaken, we will continue to face storm after storm, and we will continue to create. Because we are the makers, just like our Father in heaven.

The Missionary Left Behind

9 / 13 / 199 / 14 / 19

This missionary world is made up of very different, usually odd (I can say that because I am one of them), individuals and families who have been brought together by the Lord to serve His people in different parts of the world. These brothers and sisters aren’t always the friends I would have chosen for myself, and sometimes personality conflicts exist. But nevertheless we are all thrown together, and we call it family. We become a family because this group of people we serve with understands our life in a way that no friend or family member back home ever could. They are family because they have been through the similar struggles and triumphs of leaving loved ones, adjusting to culture, and experiencing trauma we can’t always write home about. So this group of odd individuals–odd because normal people don’t give up everything and live outside their comfort zone to tell the world about Jesus–is now our family, our missionary family.

This new family we have acquired is like every other family. Some members struggle to get along. Others love to be together. Some cause drama, and some keep to themselves. It is a large, messy family. Some of our family live close by and will be there when we need them to bring meals, take us to the doctor, babysit, and help in times of crisis. Some family members live half a world away, and we see them once or maybe twice a year. We love catching up with them, and our time together always goes too fast. Phone calls, messages, and video chats hold us over until the next time we get to be together. This is a family. This is our missionary family.

But this missionary family is not like every other family. It is fluid. It existed before us, and it will exist after us. We are everything to these brothers and sisters–until we are not. There will come a day when our favorite sister or brother will leave the field. They will not be missionaries forever, and in reality, neither will we. We may be a part of this family for a year, three years, ten years, or more than twenty. We have seen family members come and go. And during the time they are our family, we will drop everything to help them out, to support them, to love them, and to care for them. They need us to survive, and we need them just as much. And then they will be gone. And our family dynamics will change once again.

We live in this fluid family as our greatest weaknesses are exposed through culture shock and language learning. This family sees us at our very worst. They care for us when we are too sick to get out of bed. They sit by our hospital bed and help us translate devastating test results. They see us at our lowest moments and love us all the same. And yet, we don’t always let them in.

It is hard to build trust and transparency in this family. We are all well aware that this family isn’t forever, and our hearts are already fractured from saying so many goodbyes in our home country. Is it possible to get close to new family members if we know more goodbyes are coming? So we do what we can to protect ourselves. We don’t always let them in and probably not when we really should. We don’t let them in because we know the day is coming when another missionary will announce the decision to return home.

It only took about six months after we entered this family to come to this realization. The culture shock was wearing off, and we had said our first goodbye to a missionary family member. We felt the thoughts of sadness but noticed other missionaries experiencing emotions far more complicated and laced with anger. How could they be angry? If God has called every missionary to the mission field, then by that same reasoning, can’t He call them away? Shouldn’t we rejoice equally with each call from our Father?

Years later, we get it. We are now the missionaries with the complicated emotions laced with anger. The mission field has bruised us. We have been beaten down. Our hands and our hearts have callouses from the work we have been sent to do. The labor is tough. We have had more failures than triumphs, and we are tired. Oh, how we are tired! We know it’s coming. It happens about every six months. We don’t look forward to it. But we know it is coming because that has been the pattern since we entered this family: another goodbye is just around the corner.

We spend all year working, toiling a ground that is hard and unforgiving. We go through challenges that are unimaginable and feel insurmountable. Our family loves us and cares for us the best they can, but it often feels as if it isn’t enough. And just the same, we love and care for our mission family that is made up of so many different people, each struggling with enormous challenges, each being spiritually attacked in different ways, each facing their own fears and weaknesses, each being beaten down by the logistical challenges of living in a foreign country, each dealing with health concerns big or small. We care for them as best we can, but we know it is often not enough. The mission family has a lot of members to care for each other but at the same time a lot of members need care. The scale is often tipped too far in the unfavorable direction.

So we get it. We understand when it comes. We are no longer naïve and wearing rose-colored glasses in this missionary life. Our hearts grieve, and our feelings aren’t always supportive. But they are real, and they are honest. We aren’t always as supportive as we should be because it hurts to lose a family member. We go through this process each time. Sometimes some stages are stronger than others. But we still feel them.

Here is what I have come to know as the ten stages of grief when losing a missionary:

1. Sadness – I like this family member. We had great times together. We were there for each other through struggles and hard times. We laughed together. We cried together. We made memories. Missionary life will be different without them.

2. Happiness – I know this is something they want. Life has been hard and unfair. They have been beaten down. They haven’t had the help and care they needed. They could use rest. They need to feel safe again. They need to be closer to their family. They have been presented with an opportunity that will give them all these things, and I want them to be happy.

3. Jealousy – It’s not us, and we are tired, too. I, too, want rest and recovery and to feel safe. I am struggling. My family is struggling. Our struggles seem just as big if not bigger. Why hasn’t God brought us a new path? Why can’t we live closer to our family and friends? I want help. I want to live closer to the things that are familiar. I want to be able to breathe again.

4. Guilt – for the jealousy. I shouldn’t feel jealous. I should trust God’s plan for us. I should trust His timing for our family. I should know that He has a reason for keeping us where we are right now.

5. Pride – It wasn’t me. It wasn’t my family. We are still here. We weren’t the next ones to leave. Oh, how there were days when I thought it would be us. I haven’t given up yet. I didn’t throw in the towel. We survived another six months, and we weren’t the next one to say goodbye to the family. We didn’t call it quits. Way to go us! (Guilt with this one too – because I shouldn’t rejoice or pat ourselves on the back when someone else leaves.)

6. Frustration – The needs of these missionaries didn’t get met. They were struggling. Life was hard. Couldn’t there have been something done to give them more help and support? Couldn’t there have been something done to keep them on the field longer?

7. Judgment — Why couldn’t they have tried harder to stick it out? Don’t they know how much work there is left to do? Couldn’t they have made it longer? Don’t they know how others have survived in worse conditions? (I can’t believe how ugly my thoughts can be at times!)

8. Anger – There is still work to do. The work left undone, and the extra work that is involved in helping move a family home will be placed on the already heavy loads of the remaining missionaries. They can’t take on more work. They are already buckling under the loads they are currently carrying. We all are.

9. Defeat – It will take about two years to replace them–at least! I will have to get to know new family members. Maybe I won’t get along with them. The work will not continue, or others will carry the workload for two years until replacements can be found. Will they be able to do that? Will it be too much for them?

10. Hopelessness – The system is broken, and the cycle doesn’t seem to end. It takes two years to bring a missionary to the field, two years for a missionary to learn language, culture, and become effective, and on average, a missionary leaves one year after that. There has to be a better way. There must be something that can be done. The problem is so far beyond one person. So far beyond us. It all feels hopeless.

What was it? What was the real reason they left? Would they ever be able to tell anyone? What could have been done to keep them longer? This has been a question I have wondered since we got here. I have tried so hard to search for this answer. I want so badly to fix this cycle because it will be us someday. I am often surprised it hasn’t been us yet. I don’t want to leave before God is done using us here. If God calls missionaries to the field, doesn’t He also call them back home when He is ready? Why am I so quick to assume that those who have left are leaving early or before God is calling them home? Is it because the harvest is plentiful and the workers are few? And no one feels that more than the missionary left behind, living half a world away from their comfort zone.

I don’t know the reason. But I imagine it is always very complicated. I imagine each missionary may even have trouble putting into words what could have made them stay longer. It may be vastly different for each missionary. So how do we, the church, keep missionaries on the field longer? Should we no longer expect missionaries to stay on the field as long as they did in previous generations? Do we embrace this as the new normal for a missionary term of service? And if that is true, then how do we replace missionaries faster?

I don’t know what it is like to leave the mission field. I don’t know if we will be consumed with feelings of guilt and shame or feelings of relief and thankfulness. I don’t know if it feels like completing a job well done or feels like I just couldn’t take another step. I don’t know what it is like to leave the mission field, but one day I will. One day it will be us. We will be the ones leaving the family, the family that we love and care for so deeply, and they will be the ones left feeling abandoned, empathetic, devastated, and overwhelmed. I hope we leave because God has set a new path before our family that He wants us to take and not because life became too hard and we could no longer continue.

I don’t know what it is like to leave the field. But someday I will. It may be in a week, a year, or maybe ten years.

I imagine leaving the mission field will be like crawling into my own bed after a long tiring day–exhausted, bruised, beaten down, in need of rest and recovery. It will be like crawling into a space that is safe and familiar, but then at the same time, we will be different. We will be changed. And our bed probably won’t fit quite as we remember.

There are no profound conclusions here. Just questions, thoughts, and jumbled emotions. Mission work is messy. There are more problems than answers and more challenges than triumphs.

This work and this life belong to God and are in His mighty and capable hands. My prayer is that the Lord will continue to be with those He has called to the mission field and that He will give them the grit to survive the impossible trials, surmount the insurmountable circumstances, and conquer the unconquerable challenges. I pray that our family members find a friend on the days where isolation grips their soul, they find comfort when their heart has been devastated, they find strength when their cup has been emptied, and they find hope when there doesn’t seem to be a way to journey onward. And, I plead with God to give our brothers and sisters all laboring in foreign countries the stamina that they will need to get up day after day, to continue on despite criticism from others, to fight the good fight, to run the race even while feeling weary and heavy-laden.

My prayer is that missionaries do not give up but only leave when God has truly called them home to do His work elsewhere. And that the rest of us left behind would rejoice with them as they continue on their new journey.

my alabaster flask

a missionary mom with a blog

Category Archives: mission life