August 17, 2009

• sorry about all that gibberish in the beginning of my posts.

  whenever i cut and paste stuff in, it does that. grrr. and i haven´t figured out how to stop it.

  because…internet usage and me have gone wayyyyyy down. so i type things up on my computer and carry around my handy dandy pindrive (or is it pendrive? i have never really been sure) and giggle with glee when a good connection can be found. or sigh with perseverance when it is third-world slow.

  What is this lump in my throat?

  I went to Cajuiro Claro. Tele and Heather asked me to. They talked to me about helping a couple afternoons a week. Because in this little town, there is a little church. And in that little church is a little school. And in that little school they have time for us to come and teach whatever we want. Play games with the kids. Teach them songs. Bible lessons. Cajuiro Claro has 1000 people. This is the only school in the town. And it only goes until 4^th grade. They have to walk two miles to go to any other school. The town is about two miles off the main road. Two miles of wilderness and scraping the bottom of the car to get there. Don’t go just after eating.

   

  And in this town, this church was given to the community churches about five years ago. And they have been having a team go out on Sundays. But…nothing seems to stick. To really do something would require someone moving there. Living there. Day-to-day. That is how it works. They don’t need someone coming on Sunday’s and telling them what God says. They need to see it. When they come and borrow eggs. When you are playing soccer and get cheated on.

   

  And I sat there. I feel broken in so many ways. This is a need staring me in the face. What a calling. Working there. Living there. It is a lot different from living in a town of 30,000, like I am now in Paudalho. Which is different from living in a town of 60,000, which I was, in Carpina. 1,000. Part of me was like—well, I wasn’t called here. I don’t have to take responsibility for it. Why not? I run away when faced with any kind of responsibility. Because if I am going to have it, I am going to do it well. I want to learn what all of it is. I want to be able to control it. I don’t want to have to venture out into the unknown and say yes, I will give myself to this.

   

  The thing is, I heard about this great idea. About an international school that needed teachers. And I knew I could do it. And so I did. And loved it. And now, I am here taking the next step with something else—Paudalho. Living Stones. And I haven’t really had a chance to try it out yet. To taste it. And I am scared to. Because once you do, you never really lose it. Sometimes I wonder that if I pick up so many stones, I won’t be able to stand upright. I’ll be so bent over that eventually I stop walking. And I fall under the weight. And then instead of a help I am a stumbling block.

   

  The thing is, life is hard. There are so many little things to be done. Something is always calling for you to turn and look at it. I am used to being taken care of. I like being taken care of. I like someone doing my laundry and making sure there is food in the fridge. Paying for the lights and the water and buying cups when all of them are broken. I like helping out with a monthly bill and then feeling like “there, one thing I don’t have to worry about anymore.” Like everything else takes care of itself. I am not used to taking initiative to make breakfast for everyone. Myself—sure—leftover beans works for breakfast. But not for everyone else. I am not used to having to be the one to go buy juice or a dishtowel because all ours have holes. I’ve been spoiled by a mother. I been spoiled by living with families with mothers. I’ve even been spoiled by living alone, where I can just live without if I don’t feel like doing it.  

   

  And ministry is so much more. So much more like being a mother. Like being the one who fills in all the cracks that no one notices, without being asked. I like being asked. I like having a job description. I like it when we have those nice meetings where the person in charge delegates. I like being delegated to. I want to know what is expected of me, how to do it, and when it needs to be done by. I like having someone else actually in charge of it. Maybe that is why I like college so much. They give you a nice syllabus. At the beginning of the semester. And then you have summer break. Ministry doesn’t work like that. Loving people doesn’t work like that. No syllabus. No outline. No deadline. And no summer break. It goes on forever. And I have a sinking feeling it requires more than I want to give. More than I feel comfortable giving.

   

  I feel like maybe I have duped some people into giving me money. Supporting me. Thinking I was a missionary. I sure haven’t felt like one yet. I have never lacked anything. I like the differences between here and the US. The mild missing of things like 20 types of Ranch dressing…isn’t a big deal. I come, I teach. Not much difference than any other teacher. I do ministry—not different from any other Christian. I wonder if I will ever feel like I am a “missionary.”

   

  Maybe if I moved to Cajuiro Claro. And then what? Teach in the school in the middle of nowhere in a little town of 1000 people? Spend all day figuring out how to make dinner? How to get water? How to wash clothes (you would NOT believe how much time these basic things take. it is insane. no wonder they say the biggest advancement to womans lib was the invention of the washing machine) There isn’t anyone else. What a place it would be! What an opportunity! But I don’t even know them—why them? Why not? Are people the same everywhere? Do I have to like them before I can minister to them? Is there something magical that makes some people more needy—or more deserving—than others? I want to stand back from a safe distance and try it out. Why? What am I looking for? Nothing more and nothing less than the call of God. That is what it is, really.

   

  Inside me grates. I don’t want it. I want to forget it exists. I want to keep discovering this lovely Paudalho. I like it a lot. I love living here. I like saying I am from Paudalho. I could get used to this. I would have some amazing teachers in Cacau and Patricia. I don’t want to give it up. and maybe that isn´t what this is about. But another part of me is wondering if this opportunity is the call of God. And I cannot be closed to it.

   

  There is nothing magical about this. I sat there in the white lawn chair with four men and we prayed for Cajuiro Claro. For the people. for the children…who don´t know…Jesus–and that He loves them. And I started crying softly. The kind that you can control, but makes a lot of snot. And I didn’t know what to do with it. I kept quietly wiping my nose with my sleeve. That so ruins any moment. I wish it had never come up in conversation. I wish they hadn’t asked me to go. Ignorance is such bliss. But that bliss is shattered now.  

   

  The thing is…there is a need. Yes, there are needs everywhere. But this is where I am at, and this is what I see, and this is what has been put in front of my eyes. And I don’t know what for. And I don’t know what it means. But it scares the crap out of me. And that is what adventure is with God.

   

  And so I whimper a little more—God, please let me try out Paudalho first…and surrender. I am not going to be at Cajuiro Claro just because there is a need. I am not going to be there because it is a beautiful dream that belongs to someone else. I am going to seek the Lord on what He wants me to do there, and in Paudalho…and wherever else. And He asks nothing more of me, and nothing less.

   

   

  • 8:11 pm
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