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.

Deeper sorrow, deeper joy

I know how to hide my feelings from myself. I’ve had practice telling those miniature white lies about how I don’t mind or that I’m unconditionally happy and galloping through life without unwanted feelings lassoing me.

My body gives me a jolt now and then: a wrinkled forehead glimpsed in the mirror, indigestion, weight loss, fatigue. But look on the bright side, I think. I don’t really feel that stressed, weary, cranky, or conflicted. I am living the ideal life. Who in their right mind wouldn’t want to be me right now?

What I don’t remember is that shutting down my “negative” feelings also shuts down my capacity to deeply feel joy.

Earlier this month, I realized that wedding planning all day on my day of rest was not a sustainable pattern. So on my next day off, I forced myself to rest, really rest. I wrote “read” on my to-do list and that was all. As evening came, I transitioned into watching Call the Midwife. Two episodes later, I shut down my computer and cried. It was as if feeling vicariously for almost 2 hours helped to release my store of pent-up feelings.

This is where I want to be: feeling. Even if sometimes it means feeling an aching loneliness or feeling downright scared at what looms ahead. When I open my heart to feel, I experience the richness of the ups and downs of a life fully-lived. Because joy is right there too, every bit as deep… deeper even, but I can’t notice it when I’m only skimming along the top of life.

This season of life is filled with lasts and goodbyes as I prepare to leave Spain in 3 1/2 weeks. “Another last,” said my teammate when we dropped off my final guests. My guests and I had had a marvelous time, exploring and talking, processing and laughing. Their leaving set me into motion, clearing out my house and closing up my life here. It aches, but not all aches are bad.

I’m also filled with energy as I think about trading this life for several months with family and friends in my home community. And then there’s the dizzying delight of marrying J in three short months.

God meant the sorrows and joys of this season to be felt rather than ignored. So today, I choose to stay in this vibrant sense of being alive.

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. 😉

I’m doing terrible, terrible

“Estoy fatal, fatal…” I’m doing terrible, terrible. That’s how an elderly neighbor typically greets me.

Maybe I’ve lent an ear too many times. Or, for all I know, she dumps her health issues on everyone she comes in contact with.

Being on the receiving end of her complaints isn’t much fun. It’s hard to listen to how the doctors can’t give her any answers, about her latest trip to the pharmacy, or how her legs refuse to work (although they mysteriously carried her several blocks from home).

She never asks how I am or what I’m doing. I doubt she even knows my name.

I help roll her walker down the ramp from the elevator, open the door, and stop for a “Oh, uh-huh, oh that’s too bad” chat on the street. I even take her cinnamon rolls at Christmas because I know she likes them. Still, I inwardly groan every time our paths cross.

“Estoy fatal, fatal…”

As much as I hate to admit this, I know that sometimes I sound just like my neighbor: “Why me? Why do I have to be the one to deal with this bumpy relationship/chronic illness/broken heart/smashed dream? I’m doing terrible, terrible…”

When life doesn’t feel fair, it can be an easy slide from lament to griping, from heartache to bitterness. Even with the Spirit of God dwelling in me.

So it’s a good thing God sends my neighbor into my life every now and then to give a face to my inward grumblings and remind me to trust that God knows what He is doing. Then, as Jen Pollock Michel writes in her book In Good Time, I can receive life with gratitude and say, “Whatever you choose to give, Lord, I embrace” (p.99).

Pollock Michel, Jen. In Good Time: 8 Habits for Reimagining Productivity, Resisting Hurry, and Practicing Peace. Kindle ed., Baker Books, 2022.

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

Utilizing distractions

The last few weeks have both drained and filled me in ways I’m not even sure I can explain. Oddly enough, one of the things that helped me cope with overwhelming emotions was reading a chapter book to my oldest nieces and nephews, sending a chapter or two each day via voice message. My family is full of avid readers and listeners, which makes the escape of a good story enjoyable for all of us.

Did I just use the word “escape”?

I used to think distractions were an emotionally weak way to deal with an issue. I still think that they can be just that. But they can also give time to let emotions settle. A well-timed distraction can keep us from panicking, growing numb, or tuning out. A distraction contains the issue–good or bad–for a time until we’ve worked up the strength to deal with it.

Even when I manage to relinquish my preoccupation to the Lord, I still find it helpful to distract myself so I don’t snatch it back from His capable hands. You might find me organizing my pantry while listening to an audio book or praying aloud. Or deciding an across-town shopping trip must be done today, on foot, at tip-top speed. Or making a detailed and utterly useless list.

At some point, the issue must be addressed–the change faced, the sorrow grieved–and distractions must come to an end. We cannot heap distraction upon distraction and expect positive results.

Today as I was leafing through an old Bible study book, I saw that I had written an “escape plan,” practical steps to exchange my burdens for the yoke of Christ. “Stop. Praise. Pray. Distract. Share.” My goal had been to post these steps somewhere, but the idea got lost in the shuffle of life. Until today.

I guess I needed the reminder that distractions, useful as they are, are a means to an end and not the end themselves.

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.

Behold your God!

I shiver as I write this. The cold is gliding down from the wind sills, nestling in my lap and curling around my ankles like an unwelcome cat. Still, I love this time of year. Christmas music never fails to remind me that, after all, it is “the most wonderful time of the year.” And who doesn’t want to walk down the street to Andrea Bocelli singing “Jingle Bells” over the street speakers?

My head is full of more than dancing sugar plums today. No, it’s full of Christmas plans–that last minute gift, Christmas cooking and baking, a neglected newsletter, and a shopping list that’s growing by the minute. But beneath all of this, anticipation swells.

As I make my Christmas plans, I see this framed print on my shelf: Jesus washing Peter’s feet. Jesus–Wonderful Counselor, Mighty God, Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace–washing the feet of a created one only hours before His crucifixion. Behold your God!

It’s no wonder Peter cries: “You shall never wash my feet.”

But Jesus replies: “If I do not wash you, you have no share with me.” (Jn. 13:8)

This is what Christmas is about, isn’t it? God in flesh bent over our filth, gently washing us clean. He says:

“The Spirit of the Lord is upon me, 
    because he has anointed me 
    to proclaim good news to the poor. 
He has sent me to proclaim liberty to the captives 
    and recovering of sight to the blind, 
    to set at liberty those who are oppressed, 
to proclaim the year of the Lord's favor.” (Lk. 4:18-19)

This is Christmas.

Have a joy-filled-to-the-brim Christmas, everyone! ❤️

Art in the photo above available here.

Thanksgiving

Here we are again. Thanksgiving time. Black Friday on its heels during which we promptly forget all of the blessings we just named with family and friends and storm stores to get deals on stuff we don’t need.

Thanksgiving isn’t a thing here in Spain; however, Black Friday is. So we don’t even need the pretense of thankfulness before we dash out for bargains. 😉

This year, my team plans to celebrate thankfulness on Saturday instead of the traditional Thursday. (That comes with living in a country that doesn’t celebrate Thanksgiving. No days off here!) Despite the delay, I’m going to jot down a few things I’m thankful for this year. Join me in the comments below.

That my times are in His hands (Ps. 31:14)
Crisp fall days
Being loved
An uninterrupted morning routine
The apartment building’s cleaning lady who mops the neighbor’s cigarette ash off my doorstep
A vivid imagination
Friends and family who enjoy facing life with me
Health
Audiobooks
Cards and letters from the States
Good memories–old, new, and ones still being made
The Holy Spirit, bringing both comfort and conviction
Books lent–shared enjoyment
Yesterday’s leftovers (although, perhaps not last week’s)

I will leave you with that. Happy Thanksgiving!