Trusting God With the Whole Timeline

We are taught to trust God.

We are taught to be patient.

This means not freaking

out, trying to do everything on our own, etc.

On Wednesday, Sadrac and I showed up

for a Bible study that

went over James 5:7-12:

“Be patient, therefore, brothers, until the coming

of the Lord. See how the farmer

waits for the precious fruit of the earth, being patient about it,

until it receives the early and the late rains.

You also, be patient” (V7-8).

Today it struck me:

Patience and trust mean

fully giving myself to the plans of the Lord.

We are in the midst of a visa battle.

I call it a battle because it is a long,

drawn-out saga that includes $100’s of dollars,

paperwork, as well as falsified documents given by the government, etc.

We have battled the government for papers,

and the Embassy for answers.

We thought we’d be spending our 9^th day in the States today,

instead we are barely further now than where we were in January.

We both finished our jobs by the start of June—

planning on moving countries less than two weeks later.

Lately I’ve been rehearsing stages of our process in my brain,

and when I do it’s overwhelming.

But I just realized that maybe trusting in God and having patience

in His plan means

NOT doing this—

not replaying how things could’ve gone differently,

what we could’ve changed,

so that we’d be further along now.

Maybe letting those things go

is part of that magnificent and

beautiful struggle of placing

everything back into God’s hands—

for real.

For weeks now, I’ve been able to express

my heartfelt conviction that

God knows what we need and He hasn’t forgotten us,

and that we just need to trust him.

But last week I went into past-exploration mode,

where I mentally listed all the things

that relied on us: turning in this paper,

translating that paper, etc.

I searched the nooks and crannies of all the things

we did in between turning papers in to the Embassy,

and I interrogated myself:

What if we’d turned in that paper sooner?

What if I’d taken off an extra day of work to do that?

What if we’d thought to ask this question?

It was exhausting and horrifying.

I was smothering myself in my own self-reliance.

You see, I’m an expert at control,

aka thinking I have control.

Reality check: I have no control over what already passed

yesterday, last week, last month, last year.

We did what we felt we needed to do at the time,

then we put things in God’s hands.

Yet the temptation to flirt with what me, myself, & I,

could’ve done better, faster is strong.

If I can accuse myself, or someone else

(yeah, what about that guy who gave us fraudulent

papers in the name of the government,

or the mean people I’ve talked to on the phone,

or the Embassy who is short-staffed in the department

we’ve applied to),

of why things aren’t where we hoped they would be,

then at least I have a victim to blame.

Maybe this is also a substitute

for the blame I really place on…God?

I’m not sure,

but today I saw for the first time

that living in those moments

reflects my distrust

in the One who I long to trust.

What I need now is

to simply wait—

in the present moment.

I stressed this past week because I applied

for a bunch of online jobs and didn’t hear

back. I spent hours applying and

updating my profile.

Maybe trusting God is doing what I’ve done

and then just waiting.

Hounding the site, obsessing over checking for responses,

is this another form of my

distrust and impatience

in His perfect timing?

I’m putting this in writing,

and I’m making it public now,

because I tend to neglect

finishing my writing until the

situation has been resolved.

This, right now, is a practice of my faith,

during the waiting,

proclaiming that I trust in the Lord’s timing,

and I desire to desire to wait patiently as He does His thing.

Loss...

(Written across the time span of 12/10/17-2/5/18)

I was on edge at church today,

The first Sunday after finding out a man,

who used to sit in these pews, was a long-term

child molesting, Mennonite missionary,

who came to this country, grooming young boys

for later sexual exploits.

My eyes kept shifting through the pews;

my peripheral didn’t stop performing.

You know they always say child molesters

don’t always look like glassy eyed old men who give you

the creeps; you can’t dismiss warnings

because “She doesn’t look like a child abuser” or

“He doesn’t look like…”

Monday’s news of the foreign missionary’s

exploits, was a sucker-punch because

“He always looked like such a kind, gentle, reserved guy,”

says my conscience. “How?!”

I couldn’t feel at home in church today,

and I didn’t feel safe at church today.

A row of probably orphans sit behind us in the pews.

Three white people are interspersed among them.

One is a young teenage girl,

whose behavior seems surprisingly strict,

whose touch (although culturally appropriate)

seems too familiar on the backs and arms of

the children next to her.

My potential accusations sound deplorable and offensive—

even to me,

so, I’ll let them rest there.

But I’m sitting in my place of worship,

surrounded by unfamiliar white faces

who inevitably visit with a flock of young orphans.

And my husband came home from work just last Monday

sharing the despicable news with me.

I couldn’t believe what I heard, the picture identifying the accused,

as my husband relayed the story in a distraught and heartbroken tone.

What level hurts the most? I’m trying to identify it.

Was it that one of the children targeted was a five-year-old

pastor’s son?

Was it that there were over 20 young boys targeted—

forever scarred, damaged irrevocably

in their naivest hours, in their childhood innocence?

Is it that this happens every day, in every city, in every

part of the world?

Is it because the accused “didn’t look evil”?

Is it that the perpetrator was a do-gooder missionary—

financed by well-meaning, oblivious Christians?

Is it that he is Mennonite, and I have such high hopes

(both in my lineage and experience) for this sect?

Is it because he is a foreigner to this country,

an American “god” who betrayed those who took him in?

Is it because I am an American foreigner,

and I can’t imagine how he felt the right to

cause such destruction in a home that he was a guest in?

I am left with the agitations of my

heart, mind, soul,

and I feel anger…disgust…fury.

I am stirred up and unsettled.

And something must be done.

To mar a child in this unforgiveable way

is to mock that which is right and pure in this

temporary realm.

It is ill-gotten, loathsome, sick

perversion,

in which a twisted fulfillment is found.

It is to gain pleasure through

a young child’s corruption.

It cannot be undone.

The consequences and justice are heavy—the

penalty clear to all God-fearing ones.

The Pure One who is Righteousness, Love,

Justice, Mercy, Grace, Holiness, Peace embodied,

declared, in human form:

“And whosoever shall offend one of these little ones

that believe in me, it is better for him

that a millstone were hanged about his neck,

and he were cast into the sea.”

(Mark 9:42, KJV)

Although I am hung up on these words,

and tempted to march all over

perpetrators with them,

Holding onto unforgiveness,

I can’t deny the conviction the same

Leader proclaimed to me, an imperfect

one, just like the rest:

“Let him who is without sin among you

be the first to throw a stone at her.” (John 8:7 ESV)

And my heart churns inside at the tension this

uncovers:

that justice is due, 
yet judgment is not mine to give. 

Our Summer Story

The Proposal

It was a Tuesday. I was on the back of the tandem bike while Sadrac was driving. He released the news that he’d had a good talk with my dad. Boo is often unable to contain his excitement or news, so he proceeded to tell me that he had asked my dad for permission to marry me. We pedaled onward. It was July 26^th.

On July 27^th, which was Matt’s 24^th birthday, we went out to the infamous Shady Maple Smorgasbord for a big breakfast [ http://www.shady-maple.com/smorgasbord]; we stopped by to see Mel & Nate’s twins; and then we got invited into a spontaneous talk with Mom and Dad in the family room. It felt like a “fake” spontaneity to me because my parents are typically very intentional with deep conversations.

They prompted Sadrac and me to join them in the family room to talk about how the past week had been. Mom and Dad perched themselves across the family room from us, as we sat on the couch. Then they got up and moved in closer, saying that they didn’t like feeling so far away. As we sat near, I felt enveloped, as in a warm hug, as some of those I love the most sat touching me on both sides. Dad began to ask reflective and evaluative questions about how the four previous days had been and how they had matched up with expectations…

…The night before I left PAP for the summer: And conversations about the future

The evening of June 6^th, Sadrac and I went out to dinner at our favorite Mexican restaurant in Port-au-Prince (PAP), Haiti—Aztec.  [ https://www.facebook.com/aztecayiti/ ] We aimed to make the most of my last night in PAP before I would fly out for two months to be with my family during summer break at the school where I teach.

As Sadrac bid adieu that night, we ended with sharing predictions for our future together. The question, “What is the soonest we would get married?” brought a series of responses. The first major hurdle was Sadrac meeting my parents in person—it was something that I wanted to have happen before we would move into an engagement level commitment with each other. So, with no guarantees on that timeline, but with hope and desire for ideal circumstances, Sadrac verbalized that the earliest we would be engaged would be this summer (after he would meet my parents). Marriage could come as soon as December 2016. We discussed staying in school housing (via my work at QCS) [http://www.quisqueyahaiti.org/] for the remainder of the school year; and then the possibility of Sadrac beginning to study business in the States as early as next school year (2017-2018).

This timeline was exciting. It delivered the kind of joy you get when you dream up something special—usually something that feels mostly controlled by fantasy and with no promise for fulfillment.

The Visa Mountain

Uncontrollable circumstances filled our brains. Tales of applying for a Visa to travel the U.S. that had left many in disappointment or discouragement bombarded my ears. It seemed there were 10 depressing testimonies for every positive one—if that many. The tower, called a U.S. Visitor’s Visa, seemed insurmountable. It was certain that only a miracle, a work of the Lord, would place a Visa in Sadrac’s hands.

After a frustrating application process online, 3 trips to Western Union to fulfill the money order for the application, Sadrac and I sat down to sign-up for an interview date. The date spun far into the summer—July 7^th!! It would not be until July 7^th that Sadrac would go for an interview. At that point, neither of us knew for sure how long Sadrac would have to wait to hear if he’d been approved or denied—which says nothing of the additional wait-time for receiving the Visa in-hand.

I would be in the States roughly from June 7^th-July 31^st (I hadn’t purchased my return flight yet because I was holding out hope that Sadrac might fly in).

3 Weeks of Silence (June 25-July 16)

I was living it up in Ephrata, PA with Bethany, Andrew, & Matt and our parents. FaceTime and iMessage kept Sadrac and I in touch, plus I had left letters and notes for him for each of the days I’d be gone over the summer. I was hoping these would keep us close even though water and land separated us.

Several weeks into the summer, I had what I have now coined, my “sensitive Friday.” I woke up in a funk. Half of what I was feeling was working through some things personally. The other half was feeling like God was trying to speak something tender to me. I wanted to receive it and put it into action. It felt like the Lord was saying, “Return to your First Love.” I’d been in the Book of Revelation the week before and read of the call to the church to do just this. Also, I discovered the song “Hidden” by United Pursuit this day. [https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cqa8O1ktxk8]  

After listening to “Hidden” on repeat eight or nine times, I was a crying mess. My parents, who’d been out, arrived back home. I shared the song with them and had a conversation with my dad about what I was experiencing inside. He challenged me to take the invitation the Lord was extending—and “return to my First Love.” He suggested I take three to four weeks without speaking to Sadrac. (He had experienced a six-week separation from my mom leading up to their marriage.)

My initial response was anger. I had been separated by land and water and now I was being counseled to completely cut off my communication with my Baby. However, there was something deep inside that knew this was the right thing.

I knew my Father in Heaven was calling me to surrender. He was asking me to surrender this relationship I held so dear.

Sadrac is the first and only boyfriend I’ve ever had. I’d allowed myself to become close to him, to lower my defenses, to withdraw my walls. How could my loving Father in Heaven give me such a good gift and then take it away? The Lord seemed to be saying that I needed to surrender Sadrac. He wasn’t saying that He would take Sadrac away, but he wasn’t guaranteeing that Sadrac would be in my future. He was asking me to be willing to get to a place where I could truly say I was surrendered.

I chose to commit to a 3-week period because this was symbolic of a yearly Daniel Fast that I’ve done for the past several years.

God spoke to me a lot during this time of separation and helped me to develop a deeper trust in Him. I journaled daily.

Father-Son

My dad and Sadrac had already begun a series of phone conversations to get to know each other. My dad is an intentional and thoughtful man, so he had prayed through and planned out the direction and questions that would go along with each meeting. The comfort of knowing that my father was getting to know and approving my Boo was more beautiful than I could have imagined.

During the three weeks of silence, these two men got to know each other and in the words of my mom, Dad was “falling in love with Sadrac.”

Visa Approved!

On the morning of July 7^th, I was Skyping my good friend, Rachel Quinter, when I received a call from my father. “Sadrac got approved!” After making him repeat the news, I screamed!

My parents were at the Giant Store in Ephrata, PA when they got the news. According to my dad, they did a happy dance in one of the aisles near the pharmacy. My dad, being who he is, went up to the pharmacy counter later and explained why he was so excited.

We would later go into the same Giant Store in Ephrata, PA—the four of us: Dad, Mom, Sadrac, and me. This time Sadrac pushed Dad’s wheelchair up to the pharmacy counter to introduce Sadrac to the pharmacist who had seen the notorious happy dance. 

U.S.A.

Sadrac picked up his Visa 6 days after his interview at the Embassy. He flew to South Carolina three days later where he stayed with childhood friends.

The day he flew out of Haiti was the first day after our 3-weeks of silence had ended. Timing, huh?

A week after he arrived in PA where I kept telling myself it was absolutely unreal to expect that he would walk down the escalator in the Philadelphia International Airport to be received by three Messersmiths. Sure enough. He stepped off the escalator in a maroon V-neck, with a camouflage backpack. I played the reunion in my head over and over again—before it took place. In my imagination I would run towards Sadrac and jump into his arms. In reality I was too nervous. I timidly walked towards him—afraid that the moment was not real.

It was too good to be true.

It is still too good to be true.

Over the next week Sadrac spent ridiculous amounts of time soaking up the presence of my brothers, parents, and I. We celebrated Andy and Matt’s birthdays; spent time with Grandma; visited my friends; perused thrift stores; stopped in at the public library; went to the House of Prayer; rode on my parent’s tandem bike; counted squirrels; walked up to the store for donuts with Matt.

Oh, and we got engaged.  Yes, the love of my life asked my dad for my hand in marriage. And then he asked me.

Of course, I said “yes!”

During our week in PA together, we shared in the generosity of many. The experience of having Sadrac in my hometown and spending time with people there who I love dearly, was surreal. I still have trouble believing it all actually came to pass.

Now…

Everything has come together better than could be expected. Sadrac and I are constantly reminded of this as we prepare for our future together. The Visa, plane ticket, visit to my parent’s home, engagement, wedding plans, etc.

Just two weeks ago we finalized where we will be living when are married. This is exciting and another piece of our puzzle that we now have clarity on.

All of these things speak to a continuous testimony of our Father in Heaven’s graciousness and faithfulness. Sure, there were moments of uncertainty but through it all God has given us gifts more abundant than I could have even imagined. The sheer timing of how things unfolded is a testimony in-and-of-itself—perhaps that will be a future post. 

We are planning for a wedding celebration on December 23^rd in Port-au-Prince, Haiti, followed by a ceremony in Ephrata, PA on December 27^th. We would love to see you there at both or either!

Please send me an email at messingwithyourmind@gmail.com if you would like to be included in the details for these events! 

Is It Too Good To Be True?

Sometimes things are not too good to be true;

Sometimes in the midst of tensions

And heartache and change,

My Dad reaches into the “mess”

And does something unexpected

And sweet.

I guess the way I’ve always seen things,

Or at least the mindset I’m tempted to adopt,

Is that things should be good and happy

And that if they start to go badly

Then maybe my Dad isn’t so good.

But that’s exactly the opposite of how

It is.

I could quote James 1 & 2

Or I could refer to Romans,

In order to remind myself

Of this truth.

And I have been doing that

(not consistently like I need to be doing,

But it happens).

Instead, right now I want to

Just say “thank You.”

Thank You for the gift of joy

And goodness that You’ve given to me

As so much is whirling on around me.

Precious moments with precious people,

Loving words from Your heart,

Move my being towards the light

And renew my spirit.

Dissatisfied

Displaced in the middle.

There is an unrest,

An uneasiness,

A pull towards pressing in more closely,

Not living in my heart so remotely.

Every synapse in my brain

Must be rewired into the

Thoughts of my Father.

I’m dissatisfied.

There is a restlessness growing,

And a not-okay-with-where-I’m-at

Attitude that is reaching out like

A hand towards the light.

The reality is that I am free.

The “veil has been torn,”

And my life has been forever changed,

But I find myself getting tangled

In lesser-than things,

And distractions,

And temptations,

And I’m not interested in living my life like that.

I don’t want to live in compromise.

My desire is to be all-in,

Heart, body, mind, and soul.

I don’t want to tell myself one thing

And live out another,

Or tell You one thing

And do something different,

I don’t want things that really mean nothing,

To be the things I am drawn to most.

May the dissatisfaction of how things are,

The frustration of feeling distracted

By meaningless things,

Be a catalyst to draw me closer

To the One I love,

And deeper into the heart and mission

Of who He is. 

Grandma’s Touch

(Excerpt from this year's NANOWRIMO, inspired by Bethany)

Grandma always had a way with her hands. She touched everything. Her hands were always sensitive to textures, patterns, variations.

When Matt was younger and kept his hair close-cut, she would run her fingers against the grain of his hair to feel the tension of hair strands going counterculture. This caused her to giggle.

“Going on a treasure hunt, x marks the spot. Three lines down and a question mark. A pinch, a squeeze, a tropical breeze. An egg that spills and gives you the chills.” This childhood ditty was followed by fingers drawn on the back to mark the treasure hunt, an “x” drawn to mark the spot where some treasure was inevitably hiding. I never figured out what that prize was all about, but I typically imagined some pirate’s bounty. The three lines drew straight down one’s back and the pinch was a slight irritation, the squeeze, a firm grip on a chunk of flesh. The tropical breeze was a puff of breath into one’s ear. The egg started with a cracking of a shell on top of one’s head and then fingers cascading down one’s head and shoulders and back to create a spilling of the yoke effect. It was sure to bring chills and shivers down even the most determined straight-faced bloke. We loved it.

Grandma taught us the bad habit of molding our fingers in the wax from melting candles. While they were lit, she plunged her hand into melted and softened wax pools, cradling the flame, and squeezed them into shapes and patterns.

She also dared to discover to us the “soft blanket” feeling of running your finger through a candle flame. She would gently swing her finger back and forth through a burning flame as we gathered around the table on a holiday meal. She claimed it felt soft, like a blanket. We cautiously and incompletely believed her and began our own test of this to prove or disprove her credibility. She was right. There was some sort of softness to the burning orange flame. Mom wasn’t crazy about this discovery and our infatuation with it. 

All I Want to Do Is Go to the Bathroom (from the head of a teacher)

All I want to do is go to the bathroom.

Chapel just ended and I am flung

Between throngs of 9^th, 10^th, 11^th, and 12^th graders,

And I wind around the snack shop, past the soccer field,

Past the old tree,

And up the high school stairs to deposit

My trusty Bible, attendance sheet, and

Contigo travel mug before

Whisking into the bathroom

For a quick pee,

So that I’m not distracted by a full bladder

When my discipleship girls show up.

As I turn the corner to enter the second stall,

I see the glow of a screen lighting up a

10^th grader’s face as she quickly turns so

As not to be seen by her teacher.

All I want to do is go to the bathroom.

In a moment of tension,

I actually have to force myself to turn around

To approach her about the phone,

Confiscate it,

Walk back to my classroom to place it on my desk,

And then return on my mission to finish the task,

Because all I want to do is go to the bathroom,

But I am interrupted by my on-call duties as a teacher.