The Teacups Part Two: YET

The spinning may never stop. The nausea may never abate. Living life on the teacups may cause me to walk through this life failing at the simplest tasks merely because I can’t get my bearings. I may feel ill-equipped, I may feel lost and forsaken, I may want to constantly return to steady ground. I may cry out in anguish repeatedly. Living in spite of the spinning has been the hardest thing I have ever done, and I question daily whether or not I can continue. My struggles are countless, my body is tired, and I long for a reprieve.

Yet once in a while, the teacups slow down, and the blur subsides. Those times are when I get a small glimpse of the world around me. Often it is for merely a brief moment, YET what I see is the beautiful hand of God.

“Sing to Him, sing praises to Him;
tell of all His wondrous works!”
Psalm 105:2

I have watched an entire family come to the baptismal font to receive a new birth, been present at the confirmation of a new church member, greeted parents attending service for the first time with their children, watched a church being built from the ground up, and witnessed the ordination of a pastor. All of these sights are beautiful in every culture, at any time, but when the church in a country is in its infancy, when it is only the third church building to be built, the second pastor to be ordained, the first confirmation of a congregation, the beauty of these moments takes my breath away.

The spinning is constant, YET these are our “why” moments: WHY we sold all our belongings, why we said goodbyes to our family, why we gave up our normal life, and why we chose to step on the teacups in the first place. We have been given the gift of salvation. By the grace of God we have been redeemed, and we have an eternal hope in Christ Jesus. This is what we want to share with others, what the Lord has done for us and for them. This good news of salvation is not ours to hoard to ourselves. It is to be shouted from the rooftops, to be shared with our neighbors, and proclaimed to all nations.

“To them God chose to make known how great among the Gentiles are the riches of the glory of this mystery, which is Christ in you, the hope of glory. Him we proclaim, warning everyone and teaching everyone with all wisdom, that we may present everyone mature in Christ. For this I toil, struggling with all his energy that he powerfully works within me.”
Colossians 1:27-29

I grew up in a church that was well-established with hundreds of members. The comings and goings of God’s people were all I really knew. Yes, in Sunday School I heard of missionaries and countries that still needed to be told of God’s love. I knew it was needed and important, but it wasn’t relevant in my life – until now. Now I SEE beyond the bubble I used to live in. I am outside in this great big world that needs to hear of God’s perfect love. I have had the opportunity to see the kingdom of God grow. When the church is only a handful of members and not hundreds, watching one member added is more impactful than anything I have witnessed before.

“But you will receive power when the Holy Spirit has come upon you, and you will be my witnesses in Jerusalem and in all Judea and Samaria, and to the end of the earth.”
Acts 1:8

In the middle of the swirling ride of the teacups, these moments have left me awestruck. Me. God chose me. Me, who after five years is still nauseous on this spinning ride. Me, who still can’t tell my right from my left when trying to walk this journey. Me, who feels absolutely ill-equipped for every single part of this life I am living. God chose me to witness these spectacular moments of grace upon grace being bestowed upon His children.

We often draw a number of parallels from sowing seeds when we live out our days in the mission field. We toil at a ground that is not ripe for planting. The soil is hard and unforgiving. The sun is hot. The days are long. The labor is intense, and our bodies are weary. Sowing seeds is a business for the future. The field does not produce crops overnight. The hard work put into the field is an investment, and in the mission field, it is often an investment into a future most missionaries will never see.

In mission work, it is rare to see the fruits of the labor. The seeds planted are often harvested long after missionaries have come and gone. The fruits I witness in my time are due to the labor of many different missionaries and servants over the years. Many fields take a lifetime or longer to see a harvest. So I do not take the times I have seen them for granted. I understand the magnitude of glory they hold. Standing in His presence as He redeems His children is an experience that words cannot describe. Watching the kingdom of God grow by baptism, new church plants, and local pastors being raised up is witnessing His marvelous fruit bloom.

A missionary does not enter the field expecting to see the fruits of his labor, but there are times when God giftwraps a fruit for His beloved. Maybe it is a thank you from Him, maybe it is a small taste of heaven, or maybe this once-in-a-million moment is a reminder that He is faithful.

“And I am sure of this, that He who began a good work in you will bring it to completion at the day of Jesus Christ.”
Philippians 1:6

We had dear friends visiting us in May of 2019. These are not ordinary friends. These are those extra special-type of friends that will last a lifetime. These friends have a lot to do with why our family entered this mission field journey. These friends served as missionaries in Venezuela for over twenty years. These friends are loved by and love our children dearly. These are the friends we look up to and want to be like. And they are also the friends we want to hang out with on a Friday night.

They came to support us in a very dark time. We were in a season of deep struggle–in our family, our marriage, our work, and our purpose. Our home congregation had sent them to us to simply be with us, not to check up on our work, or to do work themselves. They came to be a friend, a pastor, and a hug from home. They came to sit and listen to the good and the hard of our daily lives. They cleaned our home, they read to our children, they took us to the beach to give us a few days away. They came solely to be there for us. It was the most impactful way our home church could have given us support.

They came during a very busy time for the mission. We were in the middle of many exciting events. One of those events was our Venezuela Foro (Foro is Spanish for Forum, and the term our mission team uses for times of planning and focusing on the needs and future of a country’s church body). The country of Venezuela has had its struggles over the past few years. We have team members and dear friends from Venezuela so I’ve heard of the heartbreak firsthand, and I long to wrap my arms around the people of Venezuela. Because it isn’t feasible for our team to travel to Venezuela, the mission brought the Venezuelan pastors up to the Dominican Republic. This gave them a chance to sit down face to face and discuss the status of the Venezuelan church and develop plans for the upcoming year.

The Venezuelan pastors have always been a joy to be around, and I am always thankful for time spent with them, but I was extra excited this year knowing our dear friends have an unbreakable bond with the people of Venezuela and would know some of the pastors attending the Foro.

We met them at the mall one evening where the pastors were doing some shopping and having dinner at a food court. They happened to be in a Payless shoe store when we met up with them. It had been twenty years since our friends had seen many of these humble servants that they call close friends. The reunion was filled with hugs, tears, joy, and laughter. They swapped stories, shared pictures of children, and praised God for this time together.

That reunion was filled with joy that I was anticipating, the beauty of laughter between friends meeting after many years in circumstances only God could arrange. The embrace between a pastor and his mentor who taught him about Jesus, laborers who toiled a ground together so long ago, hugs, jokes, memories–can you see it? Can you feel the merriness and jubilee shared amidst the boxes of shoes? The night was remarkable and filled with gladness. That evening was followed by a few more days of study and lunch breaks of catching up, all of it special and good.

All of that would have been more than enough to treasure and hold close when the ride of the teacups would become overwhelming in the months to come. But God took a beautifully orchestrated reunion and heaped on the goodness. Right in the middle of all the hugs and tears, one of the younger pastors came up to my friend and introduced himself. I watched as I saw her mentally flipping back through the years trying to place the name he gave her. He continued to reference people and places and memories until finally she placed her hand on his arm and exclaimed, “Oh!” I could see through her instantaneous tears and smile, she had remembered as she wrapped her arms around him. He thanked her and asked to take a picture with both her and her husband.

It was a special evening, but it wasn’t until later that weekend when the four of us were sitting around the fire after a day of rest and fun that I truly understood the significance of that moment in the shoe store.

We were in the middle of soaking up the wisdom and grace that our good friends were dishing out, when we asked them their favorite moment of their trip. She told us the story of Omar. When they had left Venezuela, he was still young. He would sometimes accompany his mother and sister to church but never seemed to pay attention and wanted to be anywhere but in that pew. I could picture the scene she was describing. I knew that boy.

I knew him from the years teaching preschool in the States. I knew him in the different church plants in the Dominican. He was the boy with the dirty hands. The one with the lollipop in his mouth as he ran around the playground. He was the boy who would give his poor mother a run for her money. The boy who would sneak out of the back and goof off in the bathroom. The boy I was sure just didn’t want to be there. The boy I tried so hard to share the love with Jesus with, but it felt like day after day the story of God’s grace fell on deaf ears.

I think most of us, who have ever sat in a back pew and watched a mother bring her uninterested son to church, know THAT boy.

My friend had left Venezuela when Omar was still that boy. He was possibly the last face she thought she would ever see in a Dominican Payless shoe store twenty years later. The story she told us around the fire explained the immense mix of shock and joy on her face when she had finally realized who was standing right in front of her. That boy. The one who constantly tested his mother’s patience, the one she figured would stop attending church as soon as he was old enough to stay home alone, the one she was sure never paid attention. He was standing in front of her in a shoe store, a grown man of God, a pastor, a shepherd to the people of a land she loved dearly. He was excited to see her again. He wanted to thank her for everything she had done for him so many years ago in a land that was not her own. He wanted her to know what God had done in his life since she had left Venezuela.

And in the middle of a Dominican Payless shoe store, my dear friend got to see the fruit—the fruit from the seed that was planted while she lived in a land so far from her home. God is faithful. He completes a good work, and even a year later, this memory still brings tears to my eyes.

We won’t all get to see the fruits of our labor. We won’t all get to see what the Holy Spirit does with the seeds sown during our time in the mission field. But some of us will, and some of us get to witness others seeing the fruit. Because even if it wasn’t the fruit of our labor, seeing the fruit or even hearing of it is still so overwhelmingly magnificent because that is our “why”. On the darkest of days, these moments give us hope, hope that God continues to work this unforgiving soil even when we can’t see any hope for the harvest. It is a reminder that we did not move across the world for nothing. The fruit produced by the Holy Spirit, a soul saved by grace, is why we are here. This is why missionaries share stories with each other and with those back home. We want to share the beauty of hope we see firsthand. These moments lift us up. They sustain us, and they refresh our weary souls.

These gifts remind us that we are in God’s mission field. The work does not belong to us and neither do the fruits. The work and the glory are His. We are merely a chosen few, chosen to witness the marvelous moments of His love, His mercy, His goodness, and His grace.

In those times, the glory of God encompasses every part of me, and I stand in awe at His Majesty. There is nothing else, no spinning of teacups, no nausea, no whirring of the world around me. I am simply in that extraordinary moment, witnessing the Almighty Maker.

“And amazement seized them all, and they glorified God and were filled with awe, saying, ‘We have seen extraordinary things today.’”
Luke 5:26

When I look back over the last five years, there have been many times of frustration and anguish and only a few times that the teacups have slowed for me to see the glory of God in the world around me. When the days of frustration pile on, I have wanted to cry out just as David does in Psalm twenty-two.

“My God, my God, why have You forsaken me?
Why are You so far from saving me, from the words of my groaning?
O my God, I cry by day, but You do not answer,
and by night, but I find no rest.
YET You are holy,”
Psalm 22:1-3

But just like there is a YET in verse three for David’s cries, there is a YET for my cries as well. Because what is true for David is true for me: the YET is more important than anything before it.

Life is hard, YET…

The world is whirling around me, YET…

I can’t stand up, YET…

God is Holy.

God is faithful.

He is good.

His works are marvelous.

And I stand in awe at the wonder of it all.

The Teacups Part One: Grace

7 / 30 / 207 / 30 / 20

Five years ago I moved to the Dominican Republic. This was never something I imagined myself doing at any point in my life. I never had goals to live abroad or even travel the world. I am a person who loves to sit inside my comfort zone. Even still, God brought my family over the ocean and onto this island. After several years of living through cultural adaptation, here are my reflections:

Cultural adaptation is a ride on the teacups. Life becomes a series of spinning days, a constant motion with new sights at every turn. Moments blur together, and the humming of new sounds and experiences creates a persistent lack of silence in the everyday.

Some people love the teacups. From the moment they step off solid ground, they enjoy the thrill of the exhilaration. They thrive in the fast-paced newness of a different culture. They delight in the unfamiliar and in the differences they encounter around every corner.

Others need to focus on what is directly in front of them because the world outside is spinning too fast. After a while, these individuals become acclimated, their surroundings come into focus, and they can begin to enjoy the ride.

“Let your eyes look directly forward, and your gaze be straight before you.”
Proverbs 4:25

Then there are the people in this world who, like me, hate the teacups. From the moment I stepped onto this brightly colored ride, I have felt sick to my stomach. The world is constantly spinning, and I just can’t keep up. I can never take my eyes off of what is directly in front of me. So much of my daily energy goes towards not becoming sick from the ride. Does the spinning ever stop? Will I ever adjust? Will I ever have a feeling besides the continual “I just need a break from the ride to catch my breath?”

I don’t know.

I would have thought that after five years, I could at least tolerate the teacups. It hasn’t happened yet, and my hopes aren’t very high that I will get to that place. I still battle the nausea from the constant spinning of the ride.

I have watched a number of missionaries come and go from our field over the last five years. We keep a map of the world on our wall. We put each missionary family on there when they deploy to their country of service. When they return home, we place them at the bottom of the map. Those missionaries now stretch halfway across the world.

I watched those missionaries step onto the teacups when they arrived for orientation. I watched their faces light up with the thrill of the newness. I watched them clutch the edge of the teacups with white knuckles. And I watched them adjust, bloom, and grow in the culture where they were sent to serve. I thought many of the missionaries at the bottom of my map would be serving in their fields for years and years. Surely those who love the ride would last longer than I. But for one reason or another, God had other plans.

I’ve often asked God why He didn’t equip me to love or even tolerate the teacups. Sometimes this one-sided conversation is out of curiosity, and sometimes it releases tears and frustrations. I don’t think it comes as a surprise to anyone at this point that I am still struggling here, but in case anyone is just now joining me on this journey, I will give you a brief recap:

“The Lord will watch over your coming and going both now and forevermore.”
Psalm 121:8

We moved to the Dominican Republic in the summer of 2015. Our first six months went well. We were in language classes. Abby went to a local international school. We learned how to cook, where to shop, words to say, and places to go. We were adapting. All things considered, we were doing well. In December, we were surprised to find out we were expecting another baby.

In February we were sent back to the States because of the concern surrounding the Zika virus. And in May our third daughter was stillborn. That is when my world collapsed. I could not carry the weight of grief and cultural adaptation at the same time. I fell apart. My brain struggled to compute anything and everything. Learning another language or how to live in a new world felt impossible.

We returned to the Dominican Republic in July, 2016. The following six months are very much a blur of pain and failure. I leaned heavily into Jesus, wept into His Word, and let the Healer work on my heart. I would like to say I am stronger because of those months of deep grieving and growing. But so much of what I learned was how broken I truly am. In many ways that is growth, and I am stronger. But on the other hand, I lost so much of the progress I had made during the first six months, and I still have not been able to regain all of it.

“The Lord is my strength and my shield;
    in Him my heart trusts, and I am helped;
my heart exults,
    and with my song I give thanks to Him.” 
Psalm 28:7

In August of 2017, I began to reclaim my footing. I was able to go out of the house alone. I learned how to live with my anxiety. I was homeschooling both girls. We were at the point where I could see progress in our future, and then we found out we were expecting another baby. Pregnancy after loss is its own unique emotional roller coaster. It took every ounce of my being to put my trust in Him and to prepare to praise Him in all circumstances.

In January of 2018, I was sent back to the states with a compromised cervix and admitted the next day to the hospital. There I stayed for six weeks on hospital bedrest. For a second time my family was unexpectedly uprooted and displaced from our routine and stuck stateside for an unforeseeable future. By the grace and mercy of God, in May we had a beautiful and healthy baby girl. And while the joy she has brought our entire family is immense and immeasurable, I cannot discount the toll that time back in the states, the stress of high-risk pregnancy, and a medical evacuation took on my entire family.

At this point, I felt like the itsy-bitsy spider trying to climb up the waterspout. The rain kept washing me away, and I just wanted to whisper to my weary self, “Just stay on the ground. Why do you keep climbing back up the waterspout?”

^“Be strong and courageous. Do not fear or be in dread of them, for it is the Lord your God who goes with you. He will not leave you or forsake you.”
Deuteronomy 31:6

It took all the might I could muster to gather my two girls and my tiny baby and fly them over the ocean to set foot on the teacups once again. Did I think it would be different? Did I think I could adjust this time? Did I think I wouldn’t be sick to my stomach from the spinning?

Sadly, no.

I knew by then what I was walking into. And to be perfectly honest, I didn’t want to get back on the ride. I did it because, right or wrong, we had made a commitment. Originally when we went to the Dominican Republic, we said we would go for five years and then reevaluate. Even though we were able to leave at any time and the five-year commitment was really more of a goal than a locked-in time frame, we felt that we should stay if we were able. And even though I often feel I teeter on the line between able and not able, I still managed to get back on the teacups.

The last two years have had a few joys and many hardships. Homeschool is still going strong, and I enjoy watching my girls learn and uncover new passions. We have watched a seminary open and have its first graduating class. We have each had personal triumphs and struggles. Almost every month, I was sure we wouldn’t make it a few more weeks, let alone five years.

But here we are.

The Warren family celebrating five years in the Dominican Republic by dancing in the rain during a tropical storm.

It has been five years, to the day, that we first set foot in the Dominican Republic. Our family has gained two more people, an abundance of friends, a little bit of tenacity and hardiness, a new perspective on life, and an appreciation for simple joys.

If you would have lined up all the missionaries deploying to the field in the last five years and asked who would make it five years under the circumstances that each would endure, I wouldn’t have bet on us. I wouldn’t have picked me.

“For by grace you have been saved through faith. And this is not your own doing; it is the gift of God, not a result of works, so that no one may boast.”
Ephesians 2:8-9

And standing here, in the Dominican Republic today, is not a testament to who I am. Making it five years has nothing at all to do with my abilities, my strengths, my perseverance, or my grit. It has EVERYTHING to do with what an amazing God we have and the steadfastness of His love. It is solely by His GRACE that a person with weaknesses can still be on the teacups after five years. And it is because of His GRACE that my brokenness is covered, and I have the strength to press on.

“Brothers, I do not consider that I have made it my own. But one thing I do: forgetting what lies behind and straining forward to what lies ahead, I press on toward the goal for the prize of the upward call of God in Christ Jesus.”
Philippians 3:13-14

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.

______

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.

Four Years

7 / 30 / 197 / 31 / 19

It has been four years since we stepped onto Dominican soil as missionaries. Some days it has felt like time was flying, and other days seemed like the hours would never end. We have seen, done, experienced, and felt SO MUCH. Four years is a significant amount of time, and then again, it is just a blink. This house is now the house that Blake and I have lived in the longest since we have been married. When we look back on our four years, we see an incredible journey.

We had two babies.

We said goodbye to the first, who waits for us in heaven.

The second one we get to hold in our arms.

We voted in one U.S. presidential election online.

We streamed two LCMS conventions.

We celebrated the second Dominican pastor being installed.

We have rid our house of three rats.

We have had one car accident, two medical evacuations back to the U.S., one Emergency Room visit, and one broken arm.

We have helped build one church, move a second, and open a third.

We have welcomed twenty-five new missionary family units who have joined our region.

We have watched twenty leave.

Blake has traveled to eleven countries.

I started a blog and an etsy store.

Abby began piano lessons.

Rachel has now lived more than half her life here.

We prepared for three hurricanes.

We have felt four earthquakes.

We saw the opening of the seminary and mercy center in the DR, and this past May, we attended its first graduation.

We’ve missed weddings, funerals, holidays, and births.

We’ve witnessed new church member confirmations, baptisms, and ordinations.

We’ve had challenges and successes, ups and downs, good times and bad. We are different people than those four who stepped off that flight in 2015. We have lost innocence and gained insight. We have learned so much, come so far, and yet the farther we come, the more we feel ill-equipped for this life, the more we realize how much we still have to learn. This life is hard, harder than we ever imagined or we could ever honestly tell you. We have failed, and we have succeeded. Life has not gone as we expected or planned, but after four years, we are still here. That is an accomplishment.

So after four years of living in a different country, serving the Lord as missionaries, here are my thoughts on this journey:

Language

We have made great strides in our last four years. Our language, although not where we thought it would be, is still better than it was when we first arrived. That is true of all four of us. It is hard to come to grips with unmet expectations that we set upon ourselves. We didn’t understand learning Spanish would be as difficult as it has been. So in many ways we feel behind with our language learning—and we are, each of us for different reasons. But even though it is easy for us to get discouraged, it is important that we keep pushing forward. We have made progress, and we will continue to make progress.

Food

Our tastes have changed. We have adapted to the different foods offered in the Dominican. Rice, beans, and chicken are staples in our diet. We have learned about new foods and recipes. We love some of the different fruits and veggies that grow on our island, and there are others that are not our favorites. We also miss foods that we aren’t able to find in the DR. Mexican food, berries, and salads are all foods we can’t wait to eat whenever we visit the U.S. I cook more now than I ever have. My culinary expertise has been stretched. I now have signature dishes I bring to large gathering events (thank you, Mom, for your mashed potato recipe). I am comfortable hosting dinner, and I have learned how to get by with a lot less.

Friends

We have had many individuals sit down at our dining room table for dinner. This is one of my favorite parts of mission life—getting to know the different people that God has brought into our lives. We have hosted guests for overnight stays and prepared dinners for groups as large as sixteen. We have made friends from all over the world. Our community has grown exponentially. It has been wonderful to get to know so many members of the body of Christ and hear their stories. One of my biggest regrets is not having a guest book to record all the souls that God has brought through our front door.

Crosses

We began a cross wall when we first moved into our new house with a cross that was donated to a group of missionaries. I can’t remember if after that it was our goal to start a collection, or it just happened. But once our cross wall began, it has been an exciting family activity to watch it grow. Each cross has a story behind it. They have either been gifted to us or Blake has picked them up on one of his trips. It is a beautiful assortment of the diverse styles of culture and art that we have encountered on this journey.

Adventures

We have seen so many sights, set foot in so many new places, and been on so many adventures that we would not have had the privilege of doing if we were not missionaries. The island we live on is a beautiful great backyard to explore. Beach days are our favorite for fun and relaxation. They are even better with friends. We also love day or weekend trips to the mountains. We have swum with dolphins, gone whale watching, taken a cable car to the highest point in the Caribbean, and hiked to waterfalls. I had the joy of accompanying Blake on one of his trips to Spain, and then we took a few days to also explore Portugal. We still have the dream of all taking a trip as a family to another country with Blake to see the work God is doing in other places in Latin America.

Esta Es Mi Iglesia

This is my church! We have three church plants in our city that we have attended over the years. While we sometimes long to hear hymns sung in our own language, we have grown to love the liturgy in Spanish. The Kyrie has never sounded more beautiful and was one of the first songs the girls picked up after we first arrived. Rachel attends Sunday School, and Abby attends confirmation class. Abby also plays piano for part of the service on occasional Sundays. Our church has celebrated new members, baptisms, and weddings. We will often have potluck lunches after church where the adults will chat and the children will play. The body of Christ in some ways looks different in other parts of the world, but in so many more ways, it looks very much the same. What a sweet comfort it is to know that we are still part of the same body no matter how far we are from the familiarity of the church pew we grew up in. This is my church, and it brings me great joy!

Holidays

Holidays have a different feel in a different country. This is partly because the weather is different than what we associate with the holiday and partly because traditions are different. We focus on the traditions of the culture we grew up with that we want to pass down to our children and embrace new traditions that we want to remember for years to come. Holidays can bring feelings of homesickness on more intense levels. Celebrating holidays in a different country has made us really evaluate what each holiday is truly about. And even though we greatly miss some of the fun and sentiment, it isn’t about the gifts, the parties, the food, or the plastic eggs. This journey has re-centered our focus on Jesus. His birth, His death, the life we have because of Him are the reasons we celebrate.

School

I never imagined myself as a homeschool mom. It is not even what we set out to do on this journey, but it became the best option for our family. I couldn’t love it more. I love planning the different subjects we will cover and learn together. I love watching both my girls grasp and master new concepts, ideas, and skills. I love having them with me all day. This also gives our family more flexibility to participate in projects and events that come up in our mission work. My favorite part of homeschool is that is focuses on the family unit over the individual child. We all work together to accomplish our work, and that is true of schoolwork, mission work, and housework. If one child has a project that needs extra time, others pick up household chores. If someone needs more of my time to understand a new subject, the other sister will work independently or watch the little one. If we have guests coming over for dinner, we break from school and prepare food and the home. We work together, and everyone gets their needs fulfilled and their tasks accomplished. Our day is never “me” focused but rather us focused.

Home

We are still living in the same bright yellow house we moved into on day one. The house has been good to us, and we have come to live with or embrace all of its quirks. We know that when we have heavy rains, the windows will leak, and we have towels always on hand to place in the appropriate places. We have flashlights ready for power outages. We have learned where water shut-off switches are located. We have filled gas tanks. We have fixed faucets. We have replaced the battery backup. The house has been good to us but at the same time we have come to understand one very important rule: something will always be broken. And once you fix that broken thing (whatever it may be), something new will break. So often if it is something you can live with like a faucet that drips or a doorbell that only rings half the time, you leave it alone because the next thing that breaks could be much worse.

Changes

We have seen many changes in the Dominican Republic over the last four years. We have seen a new president take office and put a lot of money and resources into education, highways, and disaster preparedness. We have seen a new mayor of Santiago step in and focus on cleaning up our city. We have new parks, new cultural attractions, and walking trails. We now have ambulances and a 9-1-1 system. There are now lines drawn on the roads to create lanes and seatbelt laws. Roads have been paved and our commute to many of our mission sites has been cut in half. It has been exciting to watch and be a part of the changes happening around us.

Cultural Insights

We have all had a different journey as we have experienced cultural adaptation. We will never be done learning or adapting to a new culture. We will also always be outsiders. It has been a valuable experience to live as a minority in a culture. We have taken a hard look at a lot of our beliefs and prejudices that we didn’t even realize we had. We know what it is like to be the only white people in the room. It is uncomfortable and often puts us on edge, but we are fortunate that we moved to a country that respects Americans and American culture. This is not the case in many parts of the world.

Expectations

One of the biggest challenges we have faced (and I believe this to be true for all missionaries) is coming to grips with unmet expectations. Missionaries have expectations of this new life, of fellow missionaries, and of themselves. Most unmet expectations are because there is no way for anyone to truly understand the life of a missionary before deploying. Expectations were unrealistic—and that is often a difficult realization to accept. Church workers are human, are often trying to do the work of many, and will fall short. We’ve been disheartened, we’ve disappointed others, and we’ve let ourselves down. We expected more of ourselves. We had hoped to learn the language faster, we wanted to adapt better, and we didn’t expect it to take so long to become effective in our work. On top of our unmet expectations, life has been rough, and it is often easy to believe this just isn’t working. Often we fight hard against this feeling.

Accomplishments

We have each made strides and overcome challenges while living in a foreign country. Sometimes these accomplishments seem small and insignificant. A simple conversation in Spanish, calling the colmado (local market) and ordering water, attending classes in Spanish and (actually!) understanding what is being taught—all small victories are worth noting and celebrating. But even more important and exciting are the accomplishments we have witnessed and played a small part in across the mission field while we have been here. The most notable is the opening of the seminary in the Dominican Republic and the first graduation of eight men from four different countries. We can’t take credit for these accomplishments. They are all the work of the Holy Spirit, but it is a joy and blessing to be able to witness His magnificent work, whether it be the opening of a new church building or the confirmation of a new member.

So what is next for our family?

We will continue to serve the Lord in the Dominican Republic until He calls us elsewhere. Sometimes we wish that day would come tomorrow, and sometimes we have dreams and glimpses of what life may be like if we were to continue here for many years. Only He knows how and when this chapter will end. In the meantime, Blake will continue his work as the regional business manager. We will continue to learn both inside our home and outside in our culture. We will continue to have failures and successes. We will continue to walk, crawl, or sometimes lie exhausted on the road while someone else drags us along on this journey. No matter how painful or discouraging the bumps and bruises may be, we take comfort in knowing that we are always safe in His hands and covered by His grace.

Thank you always for your support and love along the way.

my alabaster flask

a missionary mom with a blog

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