I’m over at Velvet Ashes this week, talking about the pain of re-entry and how it affected my relationship with God.
My re-entry story began with an unplanned return in the midst of COVID-19. I wasn’t the only one—it turned out to be such a common experience. But at the time it seemed like just about the worst thing that could happen to me.
I loved my life overseas. I felt called to it. I found God there, amongst the power cuts, heat waves, dirty streets, and endless needs. Amongst the palm trees, rain clouds, frangipani, and deep sense of purpose.
We had scheduled a regular furlough that year but ended up leaving early, convinced we would be able to fly back to our Cambodian home in a few short months. Paperwork and the pandemic had other plans. And when our overseas life fell apart, I did too.
Pain permeated everything. It was in my heart as I bid farewell to a country and a beloved community without actually saying goodbye, without hugging people and crying in person. But it was in the hearts of others, too, as their lives were similarly uprooted, whether by relocations, pandemic restrictions, or tragic deaths. Why was an all-powerful God allowing such pain?
This God seemed responsible for the anguish and upheaval in my life. I was angry with Him, and in my anger, I refused to speak to Him. At different points during the next couple years, I even considered the idea of not believing in God anymore. If I no longer believed in the Person who caused my pain, the pain would go away, right?
Though I, like Paul, feel like the least deserving of all God’s people, the worst of sinners— and though I, like Paul, lament my thorn in the flesh and must resign myself that You are not removing it— help me, like Paul, to trust in your grace for me and my many weaknesses and to boast only in the power of Christ.
Help me, like Paul, to press on toward the goal and not get trapped in ruminations over the past or over my inherent inadequacies, but to set my sights on things above, where Christ is seated on the throne. And help me, like Paul, to learn contentment in all situations— even the situation of being me.
For I am who you made me to be. You knit me together in my mother’s womb and saw all my days. You knew I would struggle. You knew I would be incapable in so many ways. And yet You still made me. You still gave me life, still gave me Christ.
You made me complex even as I wish for simple. Still, Your thoughts about me are precious. Help me to trust in your unfailing love, for You are always with me. And You are always good.
Though my sins are many and my regrets are great, You take them far away. You remember that I am dust and fill my life with tender mercies, renewing my strength day by day, hour by hour.
In a world that tells us we don’t need You, I confess that I have always needed You. All I have been given comes from you. All I have been able to achieve comes from You. Even my desire for You comes from You.
Lord, you are Father to your children, and Your love remains with us forever. Let everything within me return Your love. Let everything inside me rely upon Your strength. Let everything that I am praise You all my days.
My mom was an Army wife. She told me that things always go wrong when a dad is out of town — whether deployed or out for field exercises or summer training. All the Army wives knew it was true.
A kid would get seriously sick, or the car would break down, or something would go wrong with the house when a dad was gone. It was a fact of life they had no choice but to accept. One time a toddler ended up in the hospital while my dad was gone. Another time Mom had a baby. (Thank God for supportive church people, right?!)
But this truism ended up applying to more than military life. Ministry life felt much the same.
I remember being six months pregnant with my fourth child when Kansas City received torrential downpours. Jonathan was at Bible camp with the youth group, and the parsonage basement flooded over fifteen inches. It short-circuited both the air conditioning system and the (newly replaced) hot water heater, which now both needed replacing, and ruined most of what we’d stored down there — books and family photo albums in cardboard boxes which we had carefully placed on top of stone blocks.
But the water level rose above those stones, and capillary action on the cardboard ensured total damage. I needed an entire team of people to help empty the basement of its boxes and furniture, now ruined, try to salvage anything we could, and toss the rest. Later that week a nearby water main broke, and we didn’t have water at all for a while, which was even worse than trying to shower in cold water a few days before.
After that, we stored our belongings in plastic boxes on even higher blocks.
I remember another time when we lived in Cambodia and Jonathan was on an international trip and I got sick. He wasn’t planning to come straight home though. He was going to meet me and the kids in Thailand, where we were scheduled to be the keynote speakers at a home education conference.
I had to figure out how to get better and still make it to the conference with four kids in tow. Asian airlines and airports have been checking for fevers long before COVID-19 hit the world, so I didn’t actually know if I would make it to the conference. That week involved a lot of praying, phone calling, and Tylenol swallowing.
Something similar happened again recently. Jonathan was just about to leave for an international ministry trip when I became seriously ill. I couldn’t concentrate, I was in constant pain, and I could barely get out of bed, but I somehow dragged myself to the doctor for testing. What I was diagnosed with (thyroiditis) was going to require a long recovery, but there were some medications that could help manage symptoms in the meantime.
Then it was time to decide whether he should leave on the ministry trip or not. I was in bad shape, and he offered to stay home and care for me. But I really felt he still needed to go. People were depending on him — some people were attending the event specifically to meet with him. Plus, I had all these older teen and adult children who could help, in addition to an amazing local church family. One thing I know for sure: the prayers of the saints have held me these past couple weeks.
This illness isn’t fun. I actually got worse for a little while after he left. But the experience reminded me of my mama’s wisdom. Things always seem to go wrong just when the person who is supposed to help you navigate the trials of life is also gone. Is it chance, happenstance, spiritual warfare? I don’t know. I do know that my husband and I have often fought just before a big ministry event — so much so that he began to expect it.
This time around we didn’t fight. I got sick instead.
I’ve never been one to accuse the devil of much. I’ve seen the practice misused. But sometimes it’s hard not to draw spiritual conclusions. This illness was so unexpected. I’ve never had thyroid problems, and they don’t run in my family. I’m generally healthy. Yet right before Jonathan was supposed to leave for an eleven-day trip to do some really important ministry, I was diagnosed with a temporarily debilitating illness.
The truth is, maybe we’ll never know the reasons these things happen. But as every military, ministry, and missionary wife knows, they do tend to happen. The question then becomes: What are we going to do when they happen?
Long before a certain first lady popularized the phrase, the Church has known “it takes a village” to raise a child, to make a disciple. Whether we are parents hoping to shape the soul of a child or adults seemingly in charge of our own spiritual formation, discipleship is not an individual sport. We simply cannot do it on our own. We need help.
Yesterday morning our church held a baby dedication. What a gift to be part of a body whose love for children overflows into the need for once-yearly baby dedications. I’ve seen it before — anyone fellowshipping with Red Bridge Church of Christ in the 1990s witnessed it too — but it doesn’t happen just anywhere.
Watching those parents walk on stage with their little ones, I remembered my own baby dedications. The fresh hope of new parenthood. The weary fog of sleepless nights and never-ending laundry. The overwhelming determination to be a better follower for your son or daughter. And of course those sweet baby kisses.
At the time I didn’t realize that baby dedications are about so much more than committing to raise your kids in church. They’re also about leaning on the wisdom and guidance of others as you muddle through family life. About knowing you have people in your corner, people who believe in what you’re doing and are willing to help you when times get hard.
Now that our kids are older, I find myself able to be that village for younger moms, even as older moms offer the same for me. Just yesterday, in fact, someone ahead of me on the journey checked in on me and encouraged me. I, in turn, did the same for a younger mom — as though our auditorium interactions were illustrating the point of that onstage baby dedication.
During the service, the pastor first asked the parents for their commitment to raising their children in the faith. Then he asked the church to commit to supporting these parents in both spiritual and practical ways. One of the commitments particularly moved me:
“Do you commit, as brothers and sisters in Christ, to continually and lovingly welcome these children into the family of God and affirm their participation in the Kingdom of God, so that they never doubt their belonging amongst His people?”
My eyes welled with tears. Only in the church is this kind of intrinsic, never-fading belonging possible. To be sure, the church gets it wrong sometimes. We have hurt people terribly. I have been hurt. You have been hurt. But when it’s working as God intended, the church is a place for deep, unquestioned belonging. No manmade organization can rival it.
Anna Danforth, Lauren Wells, and the rest of the team over at TCK Training call this “multi-generational belonging.” Kids who receive it feel more grounded and secure, and it helps to offset the difficult things that inevitably happen in life. And it’s something the church has been doing for thousands of years, long before the modern research on Positive Childhood Experiences.
But it’s also something we must commit to in every season, in every generation. For every new baby that’s born, for every new beginning. This kind of belonging doesn’t happen automatically. It happens when we take Christ at His word and welcome a child into our life. It happens when we commit to supporting young moms and dads and when we ask older believers to help illuminate the path for us.
Intergenerational faithfulness is about more than just a baby dedication. It’s about the church being the church for every member, from newborn babe to great-grandmother and everyone in between. Because you belong here — but only if we live like we believe it.
Several women have told me they’re planning to use my book, The Hats We Wear: Reflections on Life as a Woman of Faith, for their summer book clubs, and I wanted to develop a discussion guide for them. But you could also use it as a set of journaling prompts if you’re reading through the book on your own.
The book is divided into six sections/hats (Practical Theologian, Emotional Human, Embodied Woman, Wife, Mom, Homeschool Teacher), so I’ve structured the guide around a six-week schedule — although you could split sections into two and take longer if you wanted.
The questions are designed to get readers thinking deeply about their own lives, so a single book club meeting might not be able to cover all of the questions in each section — leaders will probably need to decide which questions to prioritize based on their particular groups. But the discussion guide can at least be a jumping off point for you!
And I’d love to hear about how your book club conversations go or see any photos you might want to share, so feel free to contact me privately with any questions or comments!
Jonathan & Elizabeth Trotter 