If I Stay Inside My Apartment

Today, is the first day back from Southeast Asia. It is cloudy, overcast and gray. If I stay inside my apartment, I won't have to face the world. I can sleep for hours and not worry about getting over jet lag quickly, and my laundry won't have to be ready so soon. Perhaps I won't have to go back to school or assume my day to day responsibilities. If I stay inside my apartment I can pretend that the world isn't as bad as it really is, that Obama didn't win the election while I was gone and that people are all faithful believers. If I sit here and stay inside I don't have to share the stories from this week and then there will be no agony, no pain, no burdens. If I stay inside my own little world, then no one will know what He has done...

After 12 days of travel, sharing, attempting to translate and guide, I am exhausted. It took us a bit over 50 hours on the front end to get to our destination. Delayed flights only to be told they were canceled, an unexpected night in Chicago, unexplained canceled tickets (by the airline for no reason at all), mad dashes through border patrol and customs and finally, finally we arrived. And now back at home (the trip back was thankful less eventful), the jet lag is already kicking my tail and I'm stuck somewhere between two worlds I love. America; my family and friends, my comfortable home, my cinnamon flavored coffee and biscuits for breakfast, my freedom, my cute clothes and shoes, people I can understand, and rest that comes easy. But I also have another home, China; more friends some of which feel like family, my beautiful brothers and sisters in Christ, my uncomfortable surroundings that force me to be more dependent on God, noodles and baozi for breakfast, dirty streets, inexpressible anguish and heavy burdens that I am forced to lay at God's feet everyday, and beautiful faces I can not forget.

For every story that comes from a trip like this one, there are 50 more stories one will never get to share. Some the best story teller couldn't efficiently communicate. Some are so bizarre that you can only trust that God has orchestrated them by His hand, because you can not even fathom how they fit into the plan. Stories from days spent backpacking for hours and praying over and over for a town or village with no physical fruit. Sore backs, rashes, sunburns, blistered feet, sleepless nights, upset stomachs, minds so tired you don't think they will function another minute and yet, His grace is sufficient. Harvests not yet reaped, but ground tilled and seeds planted. Stories that will last a life time.

After 50 plus hours of travel we were ready to hit the ground running. Our teams split up into two groups and parted ways. We arrived in our town after a short bus ride and began to try and feel our way around the town. It was Sunday. We prayed and talked and tried to look for people of peace. We walked down by the river and took pictures, prayed some more and kept walking. As we passed a large gated building, I explained to the group that it was a school. It was Sunday. Many of the kids, ranging from all ages were at the school hanging out in their dormitories, but no teachers. As the kids laughed and pointed, and laughed some more, they motioned for these four weird looking foreigners to come inside. There was no guard at the gate to ask us questions, no teachers to herd the kids back to class. As our group entered and began to chat with these students it began to rain and our group of 3 children began to grow. The rain started falling harder so the our team was led to a concrete gazebo area as more and more children arrived. The rain kept falling. There were lots of pictures and laughter, questions, and tons of curiosity.

I hadn't brought a rain jacket with me that day and I don't think the rest of our group had either so we stayed and talked some more. I knew the consequences for telling the story or sharing Jesus in this culture, I also knew that to share with children came with a greater risk. They think we are a cult, imperialist, trying to sabotage their children. We would be angry too if we thought outsiders were attempting to "brainwash," our children. The difference is we know that the Story is true.  So I knew I couldn't leave their without planting seeds. These children need love, they needed to know. Sunday, Rain, Noah. I began by Father's grace and knowledge and only His, to tell the story of Noah. A story of a man who had never seen rain, a man others thought was crazy, a man who listened to the one true most high God. For years, Noah built the giant boat, and listened and obeyed and one day, the rains came. I told of how because now listened and obeyed God he and his whole family were saved from the great flood. And then, and then came the rainbow (I had to look up that word) and the promise. Unknowingly to my team, I had never told the story of Noah in that language...I will probably never be able to tell it again like that day.

But it isn't my language or lack of language skills that makes this story special. It isn't so much the rain or the forgetfulness of bringing rain jackets. So there was a school on a Sunday with no teachers or guards. Even above all that, the story is special because of one little girl. She was probably around eight years old, wearing a dirty bright pink hoodie. The one that never took her eyes from mine. That little girl so enthralled by the foreigners story. And there were other children that listened intently to the story of a God who saves those who listen and obey His word.

The word for rainbow I have already forgotten. I can't even tell you how many children were there. But the divine appointment with a small girl with brown eyes in a bright pink hoodie....that, I will never forget.

Beautiful Feet