Was it worth it?

“Was my time in Spain worth it?” This question has crossed my mind a hundred times since I started winding down my life here. Was all of the time, energy, and finances invested worth the results I see? Or rather, the lack of results? Were they worth the years of being far from the people I love best in the world? Far from my own culture and community?

Lord willing, I plan to move back to the States in just over 2 weeks. My emotions are everywhere, leaking out in goodbye tears with a friend or bouncing in sheer giddiness as I remember that I don’t have to face upcoming life transitions alone anymore.

But was my time worth it?

I came across a quote from Elisabeth Elliott that I had jotted down long ago: “[People] cannot be hustled into the kingdom of God. And it is well to remember Christ’s own descriptions of that kingdom–leaven and seed, things that work slowly and out of sight. We long for visible evidence of our effectiveness and when it is not forthcoming, we are tempted to conclude that our efforts never had anything to do with the kingdom.” (From Made for the Journey by Elisabeth Elliott)

Exactly. I have coached myself not to dwell on the question of whether or not my time in Spain was worthwhile. After all, God works in ways we can’t see and I don’t have to understand the whys of His calling. Like Elisabeth Elliott said, God’s work is often slow and hidden.

When I shared my thoughts with J, he suggested a new perspective, one he had gleaned from an article he had read. In his unimposing way of communicating truth, he suggested that rather than asking myself, “Was the sacrifice worth it?” it’s better to remind myself: “He is worth it.”

My personal fulfillment takes a backseat to God’s glory.

This doesn’t mean I can’t evaluate my work and make adjustments. Neither does it mean I cannot grieve my losses or my lack of perceived success. But staying stuck in my questioning grief reveals a lack of divine perspective because neither sacrifice nor success can define the worth of a kingdom endeavor.

A life spent for God is worth it, no matter what.

J&T: A piece of our story

Besides a detailed account of our few weeks together, I haven’t written much about my relationship with J. It’s not because he has been pushed to the periphery of my life–he has been invading every nook and cranny! But I guess those were the nooks and crannies I once used to write on my blog.

Months ago, a reader asked me to tell our story. So here it is from my perspective…

We met at a wedding, our siblings’ wedding, to be exact. My older brother and J’s younger sister married each other in the summer of 2018.

You’d think that we both would have had romance on the brain in such a setting. Yet, he was based in China and I had just moved to Spain. Our minds were on our respective work, not romance. When I think hard enough, I remember things about him from that weekend–like when I tripped on my too-long skirt and he tried to blame my clumsiness on himself–but I can’t remember what he was wearing the first time I saw him or anything of the sort. He remembers even less than I do.

At the Sunday potluck, we chatted with each other. Our conversation was enthusiastic because, as overseas workers, we could connect in ways that we couldn’t connect with just anybody. He asked to be added to my newsletter mailing list.

I went back to Spain. He finished school and returned to China. I contacted him once about an article I was writing and he sent me some information. That was our only personal contact for five years.

His church became one of my supporting churches for two years. I was delighted because I already knew some of the congregation. I also knew his family. (When our siblings were dating back in 2017, I had made a point to travel to Ohio. Twice. And J was in China both of those times.)

In 2019, he returned to Ohio to finish his Master of Science with the intention of moving back to China. And then the pandemic happened, and he found himself planted Stateside indefinitely. Over the next several years, he made trips to Illinois to visit his sister, my brother, and our mutual nephews. I returned to Illinois as well, for a vacation or a home assignment, but our paths didn’t cross, and neither of us considered that they didn’t.

Then while I was on home assignment summer of 2023, I gave a talk at his church. J and I chatted a little that Wednesday evening, but I did a little chatting with a lot of people and nothing felt unusual. I was at the beginning of a long trip and was dealing with ongoing health symptoms I had become an expert at suppressing. Had I been a little more in tune with my surroundings that evening, perhaps I would have seen that quiet question mark above J’s head. But I continued my trip, clueless.

Still, he said nothing. Not that I was expecting him to have anything to say. In retrospect, it was as if, in my mind, he was married to China and therefore ineligible.

Toward the end of my time in the States that summer, he and his parents came to Illinois to visit his sister… the same day I left for Indiana.

It seemed that God was keeping us apart. And I think, in a sense, He was.

While in Indiana, I found a name for the symptoms I’d had for more than a dozen years, the symptoms that were getting progressively harder to suppress.

I started treatment after returning to Spain. Within a month, I recorded in my journal that I was beginning to feel better. I knew I wasn’t completely healed, but I was on my way. I had lots to be thankful for that Thanksgiving.

Thanksgiving was also the time that J, who had been praying for me in the meantime, sensed that the time was right. He emailed me that weekend.

I woke up at 5 a.m. to take the day’s first dose of treatment. As I crawled back into bed that Sunday morning, I saw I had an email from J. I immediately assumed that he was writing to say he was moving back to China and could I please take him off my newsletter list?

Or.

I didn’t stop to ponder; I just tapped the notification and opened the email that would change my life. Stunned, I lay in bed, lost in thought until my alarm went off.

He didn’t get an answer right away; I had a lot to think through. The truth is, as older singles, we both valued our respective single lives. Could this really be God’s next step for us? I knew I would need to mourn that first layer of loss before I responded to his email. Finally, with both trepidation and excitement, I wrote back, mostly with questions he had given me permission to ask: What about China? How did he feel about singleness?

Our initial emails were full of questions as we tried to sort out if forward were the best direction for us.

Deep down, I had a sense our relationship would work out, which was based on what I knew about him, his family, and his church. At its core, that inner sense was: “Of course. Why didn’t we think of this before?”

We wrote back and forth for a bit and then were ready to make our relationship more official around Christmas. Our families were shocked and excited. Our friends were shocked and excited. At last, these two “permanent singles” were dating!

Starting a relationship while 4,000 miles apart wasn’t for the faint of heart, but I’ll skip over those layers for now. One month after our first official phone date and just when I was admitting to myself how much I liked him, J was nominated to become a pastor in his home church. The next Sunday, one man would be chosen by lot and ordained.

He wrote to me on Monday morning, and all I could do was fall on my knees.

We both had lots of feelings that week. We tried phone calls but found we didn’t have a lot of words. Tears came at unexpected moments. I wasn’t mourning; I was overwhelmed. How could I support him when I was feeling so weak myself? What exactly was the new girlfriend’s role?

The events of that week drew us together in ways neither of us could have anticipated. Our relationship deepened to a level we would have said we weren’t ready for. We learned to trust each other.

I watched the ordination over WhatsApp, tears flowing as J was chosen to serve as a pastor in his home church.

Then we picked up and kept going, in both praise and uncertainty.

He came to visit Spain in May. We had 19 whole days on the same continent. During that time, we finished falling in love and seriously talked about a future together.

Three months later, I spent three weeks Stateside, in my home community and his. Right in the middle of our time together, J asked me to marry him. Even though I had known it was coming soon, he managed to surprise me. (Well, he surprised both of us, but that’s another story. 😉 )

Then came the whirlwind of excited decision-making in the week before I returned to Spain. Spain is where I am now. The whirlwind hasn’t stopped and likely won’t as I close down my life here, move back to the States, and plan a wedding.

But I’m surprised to find how much joy is in the whirlwind too.

This message has been approved by J. 😉

Much blessings

This morning, a friend sent a voice message that ended with “Much blessings!”

Her non-native English made me smile; I love the way she talks. “Many blessings” is grammatically correct–my work email even signs off with that–because blessings are individual and countable. Or are they? We count our blessings, the many ways which we are thankful for what God has given us, but can we really count them all?

I’m pondering this on after saying goodbye to visitors who celebrated life with me. We toured an Arab fortress, a cathedral, and a greenhouse. We strolled the beach, picnicked by mountain springs, housecleaned, marketed, and tasted lots of foods. And my favorite parts were the conversations, prayers, and laughter woven through all of it. My friends brought gifts and letters from home. On the board above my desk, hang two letters from a nephew and a niece who are big enough to write in beautiful cursive and sign their letters, “Yours truly” and “Love.”

And this week, I have another visitor–one I’ve been looking forward to seeing since… well, since a long time.

With all of the extra activity infused with normal life and work, I sometimes struggle to keep up. Yet, I am filled, sandwiched here between the goodness that was and the goodness that is to come.

“Much blessings” describes this perfectly, I think.

And can it be…?

It’s my responsibility to choose the songs for our Sunday sunrise service. The Easter Sunday selection often falls on me, I think, or maybe it’s just a reflection of how many years I’ve been in Spain to have the selection fall on me (or a reflection of my age and coinciding inability to remember).

There is an overwhelming number of songs to choose from. The traditional hymns that make the male voices boom, “Up. From. The grave. He. Arose!” to some of the newer songs that encompass Jesus’ life and passion. I only get to choose a few, but that doesn’t stop me from snooping through other people’s Spotify playlists.

What are some of your favorites? And why?

One of mine (one of many) is “And Can It Be, That I Should Gain?” by Charles Wesley (1738). The lyrics are powerful, the music beautiful (especially with an organ!). The hymn starts with questions, evoking shame and guilt.

And can it be that I should gain
An interest in the Savior's blood?
Died He for me, who caused His pain?
For me, who Him to death pursued?

The hymn goes on to share the mystery and grit of the Savior’s death followed by the hymn writer’s own testimony of freedom and life from the living “Christ my own.” Yet, through the entire song, we are pulled back to the refrain:

Amazing love! how can it be
That Thou, my God, should die for me?

A reminder of our helplessness before God without Jesus’ death and resurrection for “Adam’s helpless race.” A reason to celebrate Resurrection Day with gratitude.

Photo by Henrique Jacob on Unsplash

What am I fit for?!

If you’ve ever given your heart to more than one place in this world, you’ll know what I’m talking about.

I am in a culture that is not my own; yet, in a strange way, I feel like I belong. But I will never fully belong because this is not who I am. Paradoxically, returning to the place I most expect to belong is not as comfortable as it used to be. I’ve changed, adapted, conformed–or whatever you want to call it–to my new culture, and I can’t go back without wearing that change.

One evening not long ago, I was on my way home when suddenly confusion washed over me. Where was I going? “If I were to go to the homiest home I can think of right now, where would I go?” I asked myself. My flat in Spain? My room at my parents’ house? Or any of the other places I’ve lived in my lifetime?

The concept of “home” was foggy, like waking from a dream and expecting to be in one place but being thousands of miles away instead.

When I feel that sense of homelessness, I think of Eliza Doolittle in the musical My Fair Lady. As the result of a wager between two learned men, Eliza has been transformed from a street flower girl into a proper lady. But now the experiment is done, and she is turned loose. But to where? In one world, she can only ever be an imposter; in the other world, she has changed too much to go back and belong. “What am I fit for?!” she cries.

I feel that agony sometimes. I want the luxury of fully belonging to one home and one culture, of not being different or feeling misplaced.

But this strange in-between space is also held in the hand of my loving Father. Today, that is enough. And tomorrow it will be too.

Repetition at the sea

My favorite part of the beach is feeling the immenseness of God while seeing the careful details of His creation–a tiny shell, a delicate strip of seaweed. And all of the while, the waves rhythmically pummel the grainy shore.

In his book Orthodoxy, G. K. Chesterton writes that maybe God is like a child in the way He enjoys the repetition of His creation. It’s not that He is stuck in a rut or that He even has a factory that stamps the same design on daisy after daisy. Instead, He delights in the repetition of His creation like a child, “[exulting] in monotony.” “For we have sinned and grown old,” writes Chesterton, “and our Father is younger than we.”

I think about this as I pick smooth pieces of broken shells out of the sand around my towel. The sea creeps closer. Then the wind picks up and I turn my back to it and watch people walking their dogs along the walking path. On top of the mountains swelling beyond the port, are caps of brilliant snow.

The roar of look-alike waves settles something so deep in me that tears prickle behind my eyes.

Just that week, darkness had threatened with a roar, but the roar of a starving lion rather than a roar of majestic waves. And for a few awful moments I had felt its breath on my neck, breath that smelled of despair.

Will the lion come back? My heart races to even consider it. Please no, God. Not again. But, if I’m honest, there are tired days I want to let myself be consumed, as if stopping the struggle could bring relief.

I pack my things–my damp towel, the handful of broken shells, and my sunglasses. As I walk to the bus stop, the salt from the ocean spray still clings to my lips. I lick them. And then I lick them again. The salt remains. I smile, imagining that I smell like the sea.

My heart has quieted. Perhaps it was in the faithfulness of the Father’s repetitive creation. Or the delightful majesty of ocean and mountains. Perhaps. But even in the bitter wind, His Presence is here.

Here is Joy

Here is Joy.
Look, right here!
See her in the slippery soap suds puddling around the soap dish?
And in the far corner of the deepest cupboard you're cleaning,
Back, back, back until you can just dab the dirt triangle with the corner of your rag?
Do you hear her bursting through the speakers of your car stereo?
Or in the grunt of an awakening work computer?  
She's here on the supermarket shelf, coming along free in the celery stalks just because.
Do you see her? 
In the scuffed magnet that pins a child's artwork to your refrigerator?
And in the orange flame waltzing on the tip of a match as you light a candle and open the front door?
She's whisked into the batter and adds just the right nutty note…or is it woody…or just plain sweet?
She's here. Always here.
Even when your neighbor tells you never ever to add cinnamon and now you've ruined it completely.
Yes, sometimes Joy tastes a little like hot noodle soup during a head cold.
Or enlivens an aroma with a world of redeemed memories.
She's more than a good tiding at Christmas.
She's now. Today.
Riding along on the eternal breeze of faithfulness.  
Look for her.

Notes from Hospitality 101

I had promised I would summarize a few of the things I learned (and am currently learning!) while researching for an essay on hospitality. If you’re interested in reading the entire essay, send me a message. 🙂

We think of hospitality as taking place in our homes. But hospitality is broader than that; we can take hospitality with us wherever we go by honoring those around us.
Hospitality is not about bowing to the expectations of others. It’s not that we ignore expectations, but neither obligation nor martyrdom is true hospitality. Why? Because our work, our hospitality will never validate us; only God can do that.
Christ followers are commanded to show hospitality. (Check out Titus 1:8, 1 Timothy 5:10, Romans 12:13, Hebrews 13:2, and 1 Peter 4:9.) However, the truth is that we love our comforts. And the other truth is that hospitality isn’t always comfortable. So while it would be easier never to invite anyone into our homes and lives, as Christians, we no longer worship the god of comfort.
If you’re an introvert like me, hospitality may feel like it requires more than you can give. But it doesn’t. Everyone needs boundaries and everyone has limits. If you’re introverted, it doesn’t exempt you from hospitality; it just means that you prepare for hospitality differently than those who have different limits.
True hospitality starts with worship. God is the One who empowers hospitality because He shows us both our imago dei and our depravity, reminding us that we are on the same level as everyone who walks through our door.
Hospitality can be grand and life-changing, but day-to-day hospitality is usually quiet, small, and insignificant.
We cannot wait until we know how to do it “right” or have the “right” circumstances before we show hospitality. If so, we will never start. Perfectionism can stand in the way of God working through us. In fact, hospitality goes hand in hand with humility, creating a space for our own vulnerability.
Speaking of creating spaces, hospitality creates a safe space for relationship regardless of life’s circumstances. Not only that, but we need to be fully present, committed to the privilege of walking with someone on their journey, even as they walk with us on ours. In other words, we should be invested for the long haul.
Hospitality is both living and speaking love and truth, all the while acknowledging that our story is only a part of a bigger story, God’s story.
Yes, hospitality requires much but it also blesses much. We connect with people we may have never known otherwise. We learn to enjoy them instead of use them. We are enriched when we enrich the lives of others, sharing our gifts and partaking of their gifts. We also bless God when we live in obedience to His Word.

Photo by Priscilla Du Preez on Unsplash

You killed the Christ

On a recent read through the book of Acts, I was startled by the apostles’ boldness. “You killed the Christ,” they told their audience more than once.

The varying responses to this claim are fascinating.

Peter gave his famous sermon at Pentecost which ended with “…this Jesus whom you crucified” (2:36). The response of his listeners? “Now when they heard this they were cut to the heart, and said to Peter and the rest of the apostles, ‘Brothers, what shall we do?’” (2:37). They were cut to the heart. Convicted. And they wanted to know the steps to restoration.

Later, Peter and John made a similarly blunt claim (4:10). Their boldness astonished the religious leaders, who told them not to talk about Jesus anymore (4:18). Shhh. Now, just run along and don’t disturb the peace.

But the apostles didn’t stop being bold, which landed them in prison. “…you intend to bring this man’s blood upon us,” complained the high priest (5:28). But the apostles answered with yet another claim that the leaders had killed Jesus “by hanging on a tree” (5:30). When the council heard this, they were so angry that they wanted to kill the apostles (5:33).

Then courageous Stephen proclaimed before his accusers, “…the Righteous One, whom you have now betrayed and murdered…” (7:52).

But by now, the religious leaders had had enough. “Now when they heard these things they were enraged, and they ground their teeth at him” (7:54). And then they stoned him to death.

Each time the apostles spoke these words, their hearers had the chance to respond to the burn of the Holy Spirit’s conviction. Some were cut to the heart. Some tried to quench the Spirit’s voice. Some were enraged, gnashed their teeth, and murdered.

What about me? What about you? How do we respond to conviction?

Photo by Henrique Jacob on Unsplash

Loyal or practical?

My roommate and I have the same problem. After more than a year of living in the same area, we find that we are loyal to shop owners. That doesn’t sound so bad, but we both wonder about the practicality of it. We go back to the same shops again and again, even if another place has better merchandise or better prices. This is especially true if new shops are in sight of our normal shop.

For example, my preferred produce vendor is on my way home from school. One day, when I was feeling sick to my stomach, I stopped and asked if he had bananas.

“No, they will come in later today. Maybe an hour or hour and a half.”

“Okay.” And I continued on my way, walking right past a vendor cart of bananas…sold by someone else.

My struggle became evident over Eid Kbir when many of my normal vendors disappeared for the holiday. I found new people to be faithful to…until my usuals returned. So now I have two produce vendors. One is in a busier section of the neighborhood which I usually avoid, but when I do stop there, I take a route home that avoids my usual vendor.

My roommate likes to give business to an elderly man in the old medina who usually has about four things for sale. Sometimes she takes inventory of his stock, decides she needs nothing, and then buys something anyway.

Is this practical? Probably not. At least not at first glance. Then again, by sticking with the chosen few, we are able to build solid professional relationships and perhaps protect ourselves from those less honest.