I Love the Church

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-by Elizabeth

It’s popular nowadays to bash church. It seems like everybody’s doing it.

But you won’t find me doing it.

And here is the reason why: I love church.

My love for the church of Jesus Christ isn’t blind. People I love have been hurt by church people.  I’ve been hurt by church people. I’ve been in church long enough to know ALL about church politics . . . and to have been on the receiving end of those politics. I’ve suffocated in spiritually abusive church environments. I’ve been molested by a church leader.

But I still can’t bash church.

Because church is one of God’s greatest inventions.

Church is where I learned God wants to be part of my everyday life, and where I just.keep.on finding Him in worship.

Church is where I discovered that I love young people. And that serving feels good.

Church is where I’ve learned all sorts of valuable things from these wise women we like to call elders’ wives . . . That a good husband doesn’t oppress his wife, but sacrifices for her. That a ministry wife needs to have thick skin. That even elder’s wives struggle with some of the very same sins I have struggled with.

Church was where I first met a real, live person who had battled an eating disorder, and who prayed for me to be healed from mine.

Church is where families adopted me as a college student. They fed me and let me do my laundry. They picked me up from my dorm to go walking, just to talk to a sad, lonely college student.

The church is who took care of me when I was very sick after Faith’s birth.

The church is who took care of me when my husband had viral meningitis.

Church is where I consistently find compassion and strength and friendship when I face discouragement and confusion and anger.

It was in church where I learned that sometimes I am the one who hurts other people.

So it became the place I learned that I needed grace, and where I learned I didn’t understand grace, and where I learned that other people have difficulty understanding God’s grace too.rc1

It’s a place I’m learning to extend grace to other people, and to receive it myself.

Those things didn’t happen at one individual Perfect Church. Instead, they happened at different churches, over many years, and separated by an ocean. God’s people are like that. They love. On all continents. At all times.

I love the way I feel when I’m with other believers. I love the way we love each other. I love the Person who brings us together. And didn’t Jesus think His Church was a pretty good idea too, since he prayed for it just before he died for it?

I better believe in church. I am, after all, a church planting missionary. I dream of seeing lots and lots of churches full of Khmer believers. I dream of seeing lots of lots of churches full of American believers. All thriving.

And I am here today to proclaim that I love the church.

I love the church.

Fusion

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I know this girl who blogs over at Wabota World. I used to teach her; now she teaches me. Her stories as an American living in India are insightful (see here and here and here), often humorous (see here, here, and here), and on occasion, tear-inducing. I bet you can’t tell I like her stuff, can you??

Cross-cultural life is a life of paradox. But isn’t all of life? She recently wrote about this concept in a new way, and I liked it so much I decided to share it (with her permission of course).

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fu·sion

/ˈfyo͞oZHən/

Noun The process or result of joining two or more things together to form a single entity.

In the past, I have been a person of extremes.  Everything was all or nothing.  I told myself that to be one thing was to refrain from being anything else.  I tied myself to definitions that I had superfluously created.

I have noticed that since I have been in India, my definitions have relaxed.  At times I went through miniature identity crises.  Things like “I have become boring,”  “This isn’t me,” and so on have run through my head.  But, I have realized something: I can be more than one thing at a time.  I don’t have to make myself into a certain character that I had always imagined I would be.  In fact by doing so, I stunt the growth that God can bring into my life.

I am slowly discovering the beauty of being in two places at once.

I can act like a teenager, giggle about boys, and jam to fun music.  But I can also run a household, lead a devotional, and travel the world by myself.

I can squeeze through alleyways between small houses filled with sari clad women, pants-less children, and paan chewing men all while listening to jazz or Weird Al on my i-pod.

I can order a coke and chicken sandwich at MacDonald’s while wearing a salwaar khameez.

I can speak in Hinglish.  “Aage se right.”  “Che eggs please.  Kitne hai?”

I can be fearless when it comes time to launch myself into a packed local train or cross a street with seemingly unending traffic.  But, I can also be nervous to go to the shop and ask where their mustard seeds are.

I can love India and miss home.

Fusion is right.

What My Neighbors Taught Me

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Note: This experience happened awhile back, before both the Night of the Epi-Pen and also the possible attempted break-in. But because what happened in this story is significant to my life and ministry in Cambodia, I’m still going to share it, even if it’s a little late.

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I love my neighbors. Yes, the ones that might move. (Insert frowny face here.) I cherish a special affection for two ladies in particular. They always welcome me to sit down and talk with them while they cook. My communication with them is rather stop-and-start, but they never seem impatient with me.

A couple weeks ago, as my kids were playing outside, I walked up to these two ladies and made small talk. Small talk about babies. My friend just had twins; I asked about the word for twin. Small talk about pregnancy. The neighbor is pregnant; I shared stories from my pregnancies. Small talk about cooking. They asked about mine; I told them it’s not great. Small talk about the weather, about wet season and dry season. About how different it is from America, that for six months, it almost never rains, and then during the next six months, barely a day goes by that it doesn’t rain.

I make small talk because studying 2 hours a day for 6 months just cannot produce a fluent speaker.  That amount of study enables me to navigate life in this city . . . and to make small talk.

They offered me vegetable soup; it smelled wonderful. I sat down to eat it with them; it tasted as good as it smelled. While we were eating together, one of the ladies asked me to tell her about myself. Jonathan had told her I was a scientist, and she wanted to know about my education. So I started to tell her.

I told her I liked studying math when I was younger. I liked studying science when I was younger. Then I decided to go to university to study more math and science.

I realized, though, as I was telling my education story, that it’s not just an education story. It’s a testimony. A testimony to the Creator’s work, and to my love for that Creator.

I still remember Mr. Fox’s 9th grade geometry class, where I first learned about right angle trigonometry and was struck with the realization that God invented those mesmerizing SOH CAH TOA relationships. I used to talk about how I really “found God” in Scientific American magazine. The universe God created, from the tiniest quark to the largest galactic supercluster, and every element of my beloved Periodic Table in between, amazes me. God amazes me.

I wanted to tell her that.

But I couldn’t.

The closest I could get was, “The God that is above everything, the God that created everything, I am amazed by the stuff He made. So I like to study it.”

I once heard another missionary mom say she was on the “20 year plan” to learning Khmer. I liked that phrase so much that I’ve incorporated in into my own personal vernacular. Being on the 20-year plan means I plan to study Khmer, summer after homeschool summer, until I’m no longer homeschooling my children. I thought I would just review my first 6 months of study and practice basic conversation this summer. I didn’t think I’d get to spiritual conversations until, oh, about year 8 or so. I certainly didn’t expect it to happen in year 2.

But my neighbors taught me something that night. Something important. They taught me that when people ask me, the foreigner, “What do you do? Why are you here?” I have this amazing opportunity to inject my testimony, my faith in God, into their lives.

Even if I am on the 20 year plan.

So I have a new goal for my summer study: I can learn how to say my testimony. I can memorize my story. And I can plant tiny seeds of faith while answering the most basic of questions: What on earth are you doing in Cambodia?

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The heavens declare the glory of God; the skies proclaim the work of his hands. Day after day they pour forth speech; night after night they reveal knowledge. They have no speech, they use no words; no sound is heard from them. Yet their voice goes out into all the earth, their words to the ends of the world. Psalm 19:1-4

Always be prepared to give an answer to everyone who asks you to give the reason for the hope that you have. 1 Peter 3:15

Twenty Seconds

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One night this week, we awoke to loud, repetitive banging on our outside door. There were three guys — one at the door, and two others in a big van. They eventually left. But I was as shaken as my poor door, and we later learned it may not have been just a few guys at the wrong house. It could have been people trying to break in and steal from us, by tricking us into opening our front door for them. That possibility shook me even more. I found myself in a very familiar state: Much Afraid.

We usually take our kids outside to play in the afternoon, but that day, I didn’t want to go. I forced myself to walk out the front door. I didn’t want to do it, but I knew if I didn’t go then, that the next time would be even harder. So I picked up my chair, walked over to the neighbor, and sat down to talk with her.  We had a lovely time together. We talked about Bible translation, and how long I plan to live in Cambodia. . . We talked about the differences between Khmer and English and French. . . We talked about missing people who are far away from us. . . And we even talked about the night before.

To feel such community with a Cambodian — one of the reasons we came here — was very healing for my heart that night.

So I’m re-posting what I wrote in last May’s newsletter. I apparently still need those 20 seconds of insane courage.

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In the movie We Bought a Zoo, the recently widowed dad tells his adolescent son, “Sometimes all you need is 20 seconds of insane courage.”

As the following story illustrates, I’ve often needed courage in my life. Toward the end of 6th grade, I heard an announcement for students who were interested in intramural volley-ball during the next school year. I was interested in intramural volleyball. I hesitated. I looked at the door. I watched a sports-y blonde girl leave for the meeting. I wanted to go. I don’t know why I wanted to go learn about intramural volleyball – hadn’t I always been afraid of balls hitting me on the head?? I looked at the door longer. I was afraid to get up out of my seat and go. I was afraid people would know I was interested in volleyball. I was afraid to leave in the middle of elective and miss some-thing. I was afraid if I went I would be stuck in intramural volleyball for-ever even if I changed my mind. My fear became glue in my seat. Even after I knew it was too late to attend that meeting, I looked at the door and wished I had gone. And I have always been so embarrassed that I was embarrassed, that I never told anyone that story.

20 seconds of courage?? Is that really all I need? The young woman who lives next door seems very sweet but shy. I have been thinking, praying, about getting to know her. I know enough Khmer to exchange a few short, insignificant sentences.

Last week we were playing outside with our kids one evening. I saw her. I hesitated. Was she staying outside or going back inside? Would she think something was wrong with me if I try to talk to her? I haven’t ever talked to her before. Jonathan knows about my fears and my hopes. He gave me a nod. That nod said, take 20 seconds and go talk to your neighbor!

I took a deep breath. I picked up baby Faith. I walked over to the newly married neighbor lady. I said something. I am not sure, but I think I asked her about her baby. I stayed, and we talked a little in Khmer. She talked with her friends in Khmer, too, and I have no clue what they were talking about. It felt. . . uncomfortable.

But I did it, I walked from my front door to her front door. A distance that is farther than the sum of its steps. A distance that is truly an ocean apart. With 20 seconds of insane courage.

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“I’ll follow wherever You lead. Where You send I will go, I will go. To the ends of the earth, or down the street, Where you send I will go, I will go”

That’s the 3rd verse to a song Jonathan wrote (If you want to listen, you can click here, and then click on “One Thing” to download). Its piercing truth stays with me: now that I’ve gone to the ends of the earth, I must still go down the street.

courage

It’s 1am, and I need an Epi-Pen (Or, How Harm Avoidance Can Disrupt Your Sleep)

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If you are known for your 100% Harm Avoidance, and are awakened from a dead sleep by two insanely itchy mosquito bites, which are swelling your fingers into sausages, and preventing you from closing your fist because your swollen skin is stretched too tight, and your arm is numb and tingly all the way up to your elbow, you may become afraid that if that tingly feeling gets to your heart, you Might Die. (Wait. Is that the risk for snake bites? Or rabies infection? Or blood poisoning?) Then you just might wake your ER nurse husband out of his dead sleep to inform him of your fears.  This is a completely rational train of thought.  After all, he will probably need to administer the epinephrine.

But, if you wake him and say, “I think I’m going into anaphylactic shock,” he may very well respond by singing his “Hypo Hypo Hypo Hypochondriac, I’m married to a Hypo, Hypochondriac” song. Because although it may be the Worst Mosquito Bite of All Time, requiring no less than 3 applications of Benadryl cream to reduce the swelling and the tingling, you are, in fact, Not Dying. Unfortunately your husband will now know just how absurd you can be under the influence of Harm Avoidance. (But you can claim it was the 1am stupor talking.)

Not that I would know anything about that.

epipen