Our guest author today writes from a far off place and shares some beauty of God’s character with us. She has asked to remain anonymous for safety reasons. May her bravery inspire you as it has us!
“I would like to begin this post by saying that I have requested to write anonymously. If you happen to know my family and recognize our story, I ask that you continue this by not mentioning names through social media. That being said, we live in an area where there are some serious threats to American teachers who reside here. Thank you!”
I was always a strange child. I was the 5 year old who poured over my grandfather’s National Geographic collection. I kept clippings and journals about the Gulf War and studied maps with a freakish obsession. I always knew that I would be an adventurer. Most of all, I knew that I wanted to make a difference in this world. As I matured, so did my lust for life and travel. Some people call it wanderlust.
As a 14-year-old child I traveled to Southern Mexico and spent a summer in the mountains outside Qaxaca. We did home stays and volunteered with kids. We felt very purposeful and I am sure we were. As an adult looking back, I remember more the hospitality and generosity of people who shared their homes and meals with us. They fed us their prized chicken, while their children ate leftover beans. We were there to help and so we built some huts, played with kids and got back on the plane with broken hearts and open eyes. I think many of you can relate to this sort of mission or service trip.
That trip was only the beginning for me. I went on through High School and College, a bit of an odd bird. I worked my tail off, saved every penny and got on a plane whenever the chance arose. You see, not only is travel addicting but so are the people. My heart is filled with images of grubby faced kids, crowded rooms and foreign welcomes in 25 different countries. If you had asked me five years ago if I would have imagined myself living where I do and truly experiencing the blessing of fulfilled dreams, you would have met a very different person.
When I was little, I was a child on a mission. I fell in love with God in my teens and never looked back. To me, the only answer was for Him to marry my wanderlust with His Divine calling to “go to the ends of the earth”. I thought I wanted to be a linguist and work to translate God’s promise. I thought I would open orphanages and campaign the naïve of America to support my cause. So when I graduated from college, married the sweetest man on the planet and settled into the role of suburban pastor’s wife, you can see why I entered a foggy season. A year and a half later, the surprise of our daughter seemed to distance me even farther from my dreams. We were happy, don’t get me wrong. I was living in a dream, it just didn’t feel like my dream. What had happened to that girl who worked in orphanages, spoke up about human rights and rallied for change?
I will never forget a tear filled conversation with a wise friend over the head of my sleeping baby strapped to my chest, arms deep in a sink full of dishes. What happened to those dreams? My passport was empty, along with our bank account. Our time was dedicated to a church and what was I supposed to do about the ache in my soul? My dreams seemed long gone and I could not imagine what God could be doing with all of this. My gypsy heart was grounded and I had forgotten what it was like to wander through distant villages with a parade of dancing children in my wake.
Even deeper still were the painful doubts: Did I believe God cared about who I was? Didn’t He know that my heart was dying a slow death? Even worse still, did my husband know this and was I a fraud? The words uttered that day over dirty dishes and precious babies have become one of the most pivotal conversations in my life.
She took my soapy hands and said, “Sometimes dreams have to die in order to come back to life”.
I knew then that God is not only my ally but the champion of my cause. I may not see the fruit of these dreams for years to come, but buried deep beneath the ice pack, that seed is growing. Often that growth is timed perfectly with our travel companions. For me, that time of hibernation was the time my husband and I both needed to uncover our calling into education.
Five years later we have lived in Hawaii, Egypt and this summer will be moving to another sacred land. Our daughter has explored 8 countries and speaks Arabic with her best friends.
We work hard, dream big and love intentionally. I may not be translating Bibles, running orphanages or campaigning for funding. However, my classroom is filled each day with precious children who in all likelihood will be leading this broken country. So when we wallow in doubt, fear or forget that God is the author of our faith, may we be reminded that He did not promise us a stroll in the park.
He promised that dreams will be broken, forgotten, buried… perfected. Resurrected.
When we rise out of burlap and ashes, may we be the men and women He has called us to be. Through that, the world will see His promise, joy and redemptive power. You see, dreams are not meant to chain us to our regrets. Dreams are the transfusion of God’s will, heart and vision into our lives. We have the honor of following that path, through both mud pits and mountains.
Deep in their roots, all flowers keep the light.