As I sat on my unmade bed, journal and Bible open, I poured out my heart to the Lord. I was not respectful. I was not humble. I was not reverent as I entered His presence that morning. I more or less burst into the throne room, stood before Him in utter frustration and spewed forth the uttermost thought in my mind. “Why?! Why in the world am I here?! What are you doing?!” I cannot say for sure now, but I think I cried these words allowed as I sat on my bed. I may have even been yelling loud enough for the neighbors to hear. They weren’t far off, of course. There is little private space in Mexico.
I’d been in Guadalajara, Mexico for seven weeks by that time. I was more than half way through my thirteen week term. Thirteen weeks, 91 days … I counted every one of them. I knew the minute I landed in that place that I was not going to be a good missionary, but I truly was giving it my best. Unfortunately, my best wasn’t much at that time. I signed up for this trip with a lot of unmerited confidence. I’d just finished a four year degree in Spanish. I’d been leading college Bible studies for two years. Of course I knew what I was doing. Of course Mexico needed me. I landed in Guadalajara the evening of September 10, 2001. I didn’t count on leaving my heart back in Texas. I didn’t realize how much I would miss my friends, how I would long to be with the college students in weekly Bible study, how I would feel so cut off from my country in a time of great disaster. But, I’m not sure any of those things was the reason I wept so bitterly that particular morning. It’s much more likely that I wept that morning in sheer selfishness. I had a picture in my head of what this time was supposed to look like, all of the Mexican students I would be leading to the Lord and how popular I would be with the mission board back home. Now, a little over halfway through my term, and I had to send my partner on to the campus by herself because I couldn’t pull myself together and stop crying long enough to get dressed and be presentable. Then, as I sat in the quiet and pulled out my Bible and my journal, seeking solace, I read the verse. “The fields are white unto harvest. Pray to the Lord of the Harvest that He might send workers.” I am not sure there are words for the frustration I felt in that moment, the confusion that brought me bursting into the throne room of the Almighty in a near state of rage. “I’m here!” I yelled. “I’m ready to work the harvest!” I announced. “Why won’t you use me?” I collapsed at His feet in supplication. I needed an answer. And, as I wept bitterly, it came. Softly, in a whisper so loud it was unmistakable. The Almighty was more concerned with my holiness than with any statistic I could post back to the folks at home. He wanted me, my attention, my utter devotion, and if He had to remove me from anything familiar and plant me in a small, unairconditioned bedroom on the roof of a Mexican family’s home, then He would go that far. He had things to say to me, and He wanted to be sure I was listening. You see, back home, I was too busy to listen. I was too important, to confident, too arrogant to recognize how crucial it was that I prioritize His will above my own. I was busy with good things, but they were not the best things. I had charted the best course of my own understanding. But that was precisely what He’d told me not to do. Proverbs 3:5-6, “Trust in the Lord with all your heart. Lean NOT on your own understanding …” A light bulb came on for me that morning, sitting in the midst of my unmade bed, staring at an open Bible and journal. A weight was lifted from me as I realized that God was responsible for the success or failure of my journey. I was responsible to obey. I confessed. I spoke aloud what God already knew, my arrogance, my misguided attempts at doing His job for Him, my selfish pursuit of my own fame. Even as I sit her, five years removed from that place, I can hardly put words to all that I understood in that moment of clarity. Most profoundly, I understood a very simple truth, God loves me. Serving Him and obeying Him is for my best. He does not ask those things of me to punish me, to make me miserable, to break me so that He can boost His own ego. He takes me through valleys and into dark places only to show me more of Himself and remind me that He truly does care for me. His faithfulness is beyond measure. This week, our Sunday School class was discussing 1 Peter 5, “Cast your cares upon Him for He cares for you.” As we discussed our tendencies toward worry and fear, it occurred to me that I am most tempted to be anxious when I forget this simple truth. He cares for me. I laugh at myself, at how quickly I forget. He cares for me, and He wants to be known by me. He took me to a roof in Mexico just to show me how much.
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