"What are Your Plans When You Graduate?"

Today I sat down with my Bible and my journal to talk to God.  But instead, I found myself reading back over old prayers that I've scribbled over countless pages in the past two years.  As I read over what is essentially a record of my relationship with Jesus, I could not help but see His faithfulness to me.  I saw His provision in the face of uncertainty.  I saw His forgiveness in the face of my sin.  I saw His call and His vision for me in the face of my typical 20-something crisis of WHAT DO I DO WITH MY LIFE!?! 

After all that nice reflecting, I tried to continue with my quiet time, because, let’s be serious, I have OTHER things I need to do today.  Nope.  Not happening.  My heart started to get that uncomfortable itchy feeling most commonly known as conviction, and I could feel myself starting to squirm.  It suddenly occurred to me the extent to which I have kept this journey with Jesus to myself.  I mean, I’ve talked to anyone who would listen to me about my struggles, my fears, my insecurities, my personal and family hardships…..But have I really told people, Christian or otherwise, what God has been up to in me?  Honestly?  Not really.  I’ve hedged.  I’ve stuttered.  I’ve whispered and mumbled, all while doing my very best to please the people around me and to appear as normal and acceptable as possible.  As my graduation from college draws near, exactly two months from today, I am realizing that this is no longer acceptable.  That’s why I couldn’t have a quiet time today.  The time for being quiet, the time for keeping things just between me and God, has passed.  At some point I’m going to have to own Christ and own the vision He has given me, in spite of the fact that I fear what people will think of me. Um. So yeah.  I guess….here we go. 

On December 18, 2014 I will graduate from North Carolina State University with a Masters in Teaching Social Studies to complement my Bachelors in History.  Many of you have asked, and will continue to ask, what I am doing after that.  My answer to you has varied.  Usually, I vaguely mention something about teaching overseas, “maybe”, “If God works it out” but “I might stay here if I get a job right away”, “You know, we’ll just see what God does….”  If people push, I might mention a school in Spain where I have some “connections”.  In these conversations I have done my best to remain non-committal, and frankly rather wishy-washy.  In reality, I’m not at all unsure about what this all looks like, I’m just nervous to REALLY tell you about it.  So let me give you the real answer to the question, “What are your plans for after you graduate?”

I’m going to be a missionary.  I have already gone through an extensive application process with a missions organization called One Mission Society (OMS).  I have flown to their headquarters, I have been interviewed, I have been accepted, and even gone through some preliminary training.  I have told many of you about some school in Spain where I am interested in teaching.  Let me explain what that actually means.  Just outside of Madrid, in a small village called Camarma de Esteruelas, there is a school called Evangelical Christian Academy, or ECA for short.  It is a school that primarily educates the children of missionaries, and I have officially accepted a position with them as a high school history teacher, where I will most likely be teaching World History and Psychology. 

Spain is a country of atheists and Muslims, and the Lord has been calling Missionaries from all over the world to go and spread His Gospel there.  Having traveled to Spain about a year and a half ago, I have spent time with these missionaries and seen up close what their lives are like on a day to day basis.  I have watched as they walked up and down the back streets of Madrid offering water, sandwiches, and prayer to the thousands of prostitutes and homeless that populate the city.  I have listened to them boldly preaching the Gospel in Spanish and English to both the local and the tourist as they pass by the city square.  I have sat with them in house churches as they teach Spaniards what it means that God knows and loves them.  But I saw more than just their ministry; I saw their worries, and their burdens.  Spain’s economy has never recovered from the most recent recession.  Jobs are scarce, and the education system is in shambles.  Spaniards often treat foreigners with racism and open contempt for fear that they have come to steal the few positions available.  As these missionaries pour out their lives in service of the Lord, they pray, “Lord what about my children?  How do I educate my children in this place?”  Christian missionary teachers are the answer to those prayers. 

ECA functions as a ministry to missionaries and as such, it cannot pay its teachers, primarily because missionaries cannot afford to pay tuition for their children to attend there. We, the current and future teachers at ECA, must be sent, supported and prayed for, because we too are missionaries.  Missionaries and their children are our primary ministry.  As soon as I graduate, I will start support raising, and my goal is to be in Spain ready to teach by August of 2015.  I can no longer act as if this is a might or a maybe or some far off pipe dream.  It is a vision for ministry and it is my true passion- God forgive me for all the times I have tried to squelch this into something impossible because it seemed too big, too hard, and too far away, for someone like me.  God is faithful, and even though this overwhelms me at times, I am confident, that “He who began a good work in me will carry it on to completion” 

Thank you all so much for taking the time to read this!  Please keep me in your prayers as I continue to take the necessary steps forward.  You will be receiving more information and updates from me in the future, but in the meantime, below are some links and videos that will tell you more about ECA and it's ministry as well as my missions agency OMS!  

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ee_5gJfw5dM 

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OChFoZSTwmU

http://ecaspain.com/home/

https://www.onemissionsociety.org/ 

The Perfume (Short Story)

I guess all of us have the same preconceived notions about what a visit to a shrink will be like.  Even though it sounds silly, I think I really was anticipating being asked to lay down on a long couch while some man older than God peered at me over spectacles and asked personal questions about my childhood.  Needless to say, none of that happened.  I slid into the appointment five minutes late.  Partially because I’m generally late to everything, and partially because, up until the last minute, I was trying to decide if this was worth it.  “I really don’t NEED to talk to anyone about this,” I said to my rear view mirror while sitting in the parking lot.  “I’m perfectly capable of working this out myself.”  I swing between self-sufficiency and the underlying whisper that tells me I need some help here. 

It’s a she, not a he, and she is neither ancient nor intimidating.  She’s, well, she’s very normal seeming. This room we are in is bright yellow.  She has pictures on her desk of two little boys giggling at something.  There is no couch for me to lay on, just two chairs for us to sit.  I sink into mine, hoping that it will absorb some of my nervous energy.  I am expecting pleasantries and small talk.  I hate small talk when I’m fully at ease and comfortable, but at this moment in time, I suddenly have the feeling that if she starts benignly asking me about what I do for a living and what my dog’s name is, I might jump out of her smudge-free window.  Before the poor woman can get a word out, I rapidly launch into a monologue that lacks introductions. “I need to talk about my husband.  Things are not going well, and if something doesn't change I’m afraid that we are going to lose our marriage.”  There.  Cat out of the bag.    

This woman, my counselor, she does not seem thrown by this outburst in the slightest.  She smiles at me- and I can tell that with that smile she is seeking to be both comforting and reassuring.  Against my better judgment, I feel myself relax a little bit.  She does not reach for a note pad, and she does not begin a lecture.  She just says, “I’m glad you’re here.  Won’t you tell me about your husband?” 

My husband.  I begin to nervously twist the wedding ring on my finger, that band that I love with all of my heart, but sometimes resent, if I am honest.  I begin.  “My husband is….wonderful.  He’s wonderful in every way.  He loves me so well.  He cannot wait to come home to me every day.  He encourages my passions, and… He’s so proud of me.  And…and I love him very much….”  I sound rehearsed.  Everything I just said is true.  I know it to be true.  Do I believe it to be true?   

The woman across from me, nods encouragingly after a beat of silence, and says, “He sounds like a very good man.”  My response bursts forth quickly, louder than I meant, “Oh He is!  He is the best man I have ever known!”  With that statement comes what I have been dreading.  Guilt, settled in my stomach, begins curling up into the back of my throat and closing my mouth with tears.  I’ve only been here for five minutes.  It’s too early to start crying. 

Again the nod of encouragement.  Again, a soft question, “Hmm.  Tell me what the trouble is then.”

Breathe.  In.  Out.  You can talk about this.  You can. That is why you are here.  “He just.  He just expects too much of me.  I can’t do it.  I’m always….upsetting him.  It’s so stupid too because I feel like he gets hurt by the tiniest little things.  And I don’t really understand why they are such a big deal.  It’s not like I’m doing anything that catastrophically horrible you know?  I’m not off sleeping with other men, I’m not lying to him, or sneaking off spending all of his money on shoes and purses (I know wives that do that- I’m not that kind of wife).  I just wish he wasn’t so sensitive!”  The guilt and the tears that had hovered on my voice a moment ago have been vaporized by a rush of indignation, and perhaps even anger.  This is really why I’m here isn’t it?  To have someone affirm how I feel? 

“Is there one specific thing that is upsetting him do you think?”  She’s leaning in now, with her chin in her hand, a contemplative look on her face.  Did she have to practice that listening look when she was studying to be a counselor?  I bet she did. 

“There are a few things, but they are always so small and insignificant.  Like, for example, I won’t wear the perfume he bought me.”  Her eyebrows raise quizzically in surprise.  “Yeah right?  It’s completely ridiculous!  He gave it to me when we got married.  And it’s not that it doesn't smell pretty because it does.  It’s, well it’s exquisite, and it was very expensive.  I don’t think I've ever owned anything so expensive.  And it sits on my dresser in this huge gorgeous glass bottle.  I think I could spray it on every day of my life and never run out of it.  I’ve worn it a few times, but it just is not a scent I’m used to.  It’s too nice for me.  And the few times I’ve worn it around my friends, they make comments about it.  Some of them don’t even like it, but all of them say things like, ‘Wow- that’s really different.’“ I’m feeling much better now.  She just looks so sympathetic.  My vindication seems forthcoming.    

“Different from what exactly?”  She asks. 

“Oh, just really different from the scent I used to wear every day.  It’s just SO up-scale.  Almost pretentious.” 

“What scent did you used to wear?”

“You know, something a bit more normal, not as nice.  I forget the name of it honestly.”  I am being evasive.  I know I’m being evasive.  Surely she’ll move on, right?  Wrong.

“Well do you still have it? You’re old perfume I mean?”

Dang it. “Um. Well yeah I do.”

“And do you still wear it?  Since you don’t like the perfume that your husband bought you?” 

In my head I know that these innocuous questions should not bother me, but I can feel myself getting defensive.  “I never said that I didn’t like the perfume that my husband got me.  It’s not that I don’t like it, I just…it’s just….not me.  And yeah, I do still wear the old perfume sometimes, it’s not like I flaunt it or anything.  I just like to wear it occasionally because it’s more comfortable for me.  And I don’t understand why that should be such a big deal.” 

Wouldn’t you know, this woman has another damn question, “How do you know that your husband is upset when you wear your old perfume?  Does he yell at you?  Storm out?  Threaten to leave you?” 

“Um.  Well no.  Nothing like that.  He just….He just gets really sad.  And quiet.  He doesn’t really want to be around me when I wear it.  I always know to, he comes in the house, and he’s happy and he’s himself and he can’t wait to see me and then he hugs me and when I look at him there is this hurt in his eyes, and it’s awful.  Like I’ve wounded him terribly.  And I try to talk to him about it and I try to reason with him.  I’ve calmly and kindly explained that he really needs to get over it.  This kind of thing would never bother any of my friend’s husbands.  It’s just this small thing that makes me feel better after a long day, because it’s familiar.  Then he makes me feel guilty that I’ve hurt him.  But I should not have to feel guilty about this!”  

The ache that the anger numbed temporarily has returned full force.  This is what I cannot face.  This is what I cannot swallow.  Admitting to myself that I have hurt the man who loves me, the man I claim I love. 

There’s another stretching pause.  She is letting my last speech just kind of hang in the air between us for a while.  Dangling.  Now I wish she would ask another question.  I wish she would stop letting me listen to my own words like that. 

“But is this such a small, insignificant, issue if you are ready to leave him over it?” 

“HE is the one who is making it such a colossal problem!” And now even I can hear that I am lashing out, though to be honest I don’t know if I’m lashing out at me, or her, or him.  “I don’t want to leave him.  And we can still be friends, I’m just not sure I can be his wife anymore.  He wants me to forget who I was before we got married.  He wants me to just accept his love and be this secure and joyful person, and maybe he can forget who I was when we first met, but I can’t.  And I think maybe we would all be better off I just went back to the way things were before.”  

“Before?  Were you happy and secure before?” 

Memories wash over me, flooding me, overwhelming me, irritating wounds that have not quite yet faded to scars.  It occurs to me now why I have never tried this counseling thing up till now.

“No,” I finally manage.  Words seem inadequate at this point.  I do not elaborate.    

“And how does your husband feel about the time before you were married?  Does he blame you?  Shame you?  Does he bring up things from the past?” 

The past.  My shadow.  Always gripping and biting at my heels wherever I find myself.  “He never talks about my past.  It’s like in his mind it never happened.  Sometimes I genuinely think that he has amnesia.  To him I have never been anyone other than the wife that he loves.”  Without meaning to, my voice has gone soft and quavering.  And in this moment I see what the woman across from me must think is hugely obvious.  My husband does not dredge up my past with its explicit content.  He does not splash my failures on the canvas of our life together.  I do that. 

I cut off her next question.

“So you see that’s why I just don’t see how things are going to work out for us.  He wants me to trust him, he wants me to see myself the way he sees me, but I’m terrified that I will never be able to.  I just, I just can’t wear his perfume, ok?  I just can’t.  I've tried and I can’t.  His expectations are entirely unrealistic.”  I've rubbed my ring finger raw from tugging at my wedding band.

She is strangely calm in the face of my ranting.  I keep waiting for something profound, full of psychological wisdom.  Maybe some advice about divorce proceedings?  But I don’t get it.

“Zoe,” She says.  (And I’m startled because she hasn’t used my name until now)  “Who gave you the perfume that you wear every day?” 

I close my eyes involuntarily.  I shut out the woman and the office and the photograph with the smiling children.  But his face is there, painted on the back of my eyelids.  I cannot see him without seeing myself.  How I used to live and breathe both in need and in fear of him.  My heart shakes and quivers, reliving the words that once sliced my organs to ribbons, recalling losing all that I was to his all-consuming appetites.  Do we have to talk about him?  I hate him.  Don’t I?    

“Oh,” I shrug, a little too flippantly to be convincing, “Just an ex-boyfriend of mine.”

“And did he love you, this old boyfriend of yours?” 

I shrug again.  “He called it love I guess.”  I am done.  This has not gone as planned.  I have another appointment.  I really do have to go.  These words are on my tongue.  I am standing up to leave.  She is still sitting.  She seems unperturbed.  She has just one final question.

“So.  Will you turn your back on your marriage because the memory of an ex-lover is more comfortable than the unconditional love of your husband?” 

I am standing at the door of her office with the yellow walls, my ring clinking against the knob as I grip it with all the strength I have.  Which isn't much.

Will I indeed?  

For your Maker is your husband- The Lord Almighty is His name- The Holy One of Israel is your Redeemer; he is called the God of all the earth.  The Lord will call you back as if you were a wife deserted and distressed in spirit,  a wife who married young and was rejected.

Isaiah 54:5

Cling to the Crucified

[Jesus traveled about from one town and village to another, proclaiming the good news of the kingdom of God.  The Twelve were with Him, and also some women who had been cured of evil spirits and diseases: Mary (called Magdalene) from whom seven demons had come out] Luke 8:2

[Then the disciples went back to their homes, but Mary stood outside the tomb crying.  As she wept, she bent over to look into the tomb and saw two angels in white, seated where Jesus' body had been, one at the head and the other at the foot.
     They asked her, "Woman, why are you crying?"
     "They have taken my LORD away," she said, "and I don't know where they have put Him."
At this, she turned around and saw Jesus standing there, but she did not realize that it was Jesus.
     "Woman," he said, "why are you crying?  Who is it you are looking for?"
Thinking he was the gardener, she said, "Sir, if you have carried Him away, tell me where you have put Him, and I will get Him."
    Jesus said to her, "Mary."
    She turned toward Him and cried out in Aramaic, "Rabboni!" (Which means Teacher).
Jesus said, "Do not hold on to me, for I have not yet returned to the the Father.  Go instead to my brothers and tell them, 'I am returning to my Father and your Father, to my God and your God.'"
Mary Magdalene went to the disciples with the news: "I have seen the Lord!" And she told them that He had said these things to her.] John 20:10-18

What would it be like to be possessed by seven demons?  I wonder what Mary's life was like before she met Jesus.  Scripture does not tell us.  But I think my imagination can fill in the gaps.  A life consumed by lust, anxiety, and self-loathing.  Despair.  A life without hope and without a future.  She would have been an outcast, considered unclean and outside the reach of God, deserving only of His wrath and condemnation.  How did Mary spend her days before Jesus?  Was she constantly running from the voices in her head?  Did she try to do little acts of kindness, little good deeds, to try in desperation to even out the scale a bit in the face of the crushing weight of her own failures?  Did she wake up some mornings next to a stranger that she did not remember from the night before?  Did she try to buy her way into the temple in a frenzied attempt to make some kind of atonement for herself?  Had the devils that haunted her shredded her soul to the point where death seemed a blessed relief?  When I think of her wandering through the unsavory back streets of Jerusalem, I see a woman hovering between death and life, a woman plagued by Satan to the point of insanity.  I pity this fallen possessed woman, this Mary Magdalene.  This woman with whom I have nothing in common.

Jesus saw Mary.  He saw her.  When everyone else saw her sin and her bizarre behavior and the fact that she was unclean, Jesus saw HER.  He looked upon her ravaged heart and chose to heal and restore her.  She could do nothing to commend herself to Him.  She would never have come to Him on her own.  She had only received condemnation and hatred from the religious leaders and teachers in the past, why should this Rabbi from Nazareth be any different?  And yet, this Jesus.  This man.  This God.  This Savior.  He whose presence made the demons in her head shudder fear and respond in obedience.  What did she feel that first moment when she discovered silence?  The voices had ceased to rage, and, perhaps for the first time in her life, Mary knew Peace.  And He had a name.  Jesus.  The Christ.  He would be her Messiah from that day forward.  In the presence of the God-man the demons had fled, and as long as she followed after Him, the Joy that He offered her kept the lust and fear and the bitterness at bay.  He was her Freedom.  He was her Hope.  On second thought, maybe Mary and I have more in common than I want to admit.

Mary Magdalene was the first person to see the Risen Christ.  She was at the tomb first thing on Sunday morning.  I can only imagine her anguish.  Hope had died.  How could the Sun have risen that morning?  How could light be shining?  The Creator had bled and breathed His last, how dare the birds sing?  How dare the dew glisten on every blade of grass?  I picture her indignation and her blazing anger at the sight of the empty tomb.  How dare they touch the body of her Lord!  How dare they desecrate He whom they had already scourged beyond recognition!  This was to be her last moment with Him, her last chance to honor in death the One who had given her life.  No doubt she turned on the gardener in blinding pain and righteous anger.  But then.  Then He said her name.

This is the moment that I return to over and over and over again.  I think it is my favorite moment in the entire Easter story.  This picture of a woman whose name and identity had once been synonymous with sin and rejection clinging to the One who had given her worth and made her name precious.  Because of the holes in His hands and His feet, because of the stripes across His body, Mary Magdalene was now whole, her past sponged away in the memory of the Almighty forever.  He could have appeared to so many people after conquering death, but He chose to appear to the broken woman who knew that she was nothing without Him.  I cannot pity Mary Magdalene.  I envy her.  I envy her dependence on the Christ.  I envy her closeness to the Lord.  She who was the very first to cling to He who was crucified for her.

And then I remember.  My God is not dead.  He is surely alive.  The right that Mary Magdalene had to worship at the feet of the Risen Savior on that Easter Morning is my right as well, both this morning and every morning.

My sins have been washed away.  I will cling to the Hope I profess.  His name is Jesus.  And He is Alive!