esperar

I'm a logophile, a.k.a. lover of words, though some might argue that "lover of talking" is closer to the truth.

Even before I could talk, I had a lot to say. Mostly unintelligible, toddler talk. By the time I was 5, not much had changed. I still had the lung power, will power, and trouble pronouncing my R's. One day, my mom set me up with with a tape recorder and let me loose. The result, a 30-minute soundtrack recorded for "Gwandmontha" and "Gwandy." Definitely a keepsake. (Listen to the highlights)

With the exception of middle school (severe shyness=mute), the trend has continued as I've gotten older. I find myself often warning others that, "I tend to ramble." Sometimes I have trouble answering a question before the asker loses interest (beware of the wandering gaze). And when it comes to telling stories, well, I figured out long ago I better give an abridged version for my male listeners (whom I may have lost already...hang in there...esperélo)

I love talking so much that one language isn't enough. Poor Spanish speakers. Around them, my desire to converse quadruples. My vocabulary, not so much. Sometimes, believe it or not, I run out of words.

Or worse, things get lost in translation, i.e., I have yet to find the Spanish equivalent for the adjective, sketch. Example: This place is pretty sketch (a good description for any metro station across Europe including the entire city of Pisa, Italy). Much to my disappointment, saying es-ketch, does not resonate.

And then there's the "Aloha complex" (I made this up)-- when several different words in English translate to the exact same word in Spanish.

Verb, case and point: esperar

Means: To wait. To hope. To expect.

At first, I felt cheated. How can the same word be used to express, "Wait a minute," and "I hope you feel better." (Esperé un momento; Espero que te sientas mejor)

Expect too? The same word? Really?

What if I want to say, "I hope you don't expect me to wait much longer!" (Espero que no me esperes esperar mucho mas....?) Yuck.

Then, I started thinking about the last few months of my life. In many ways, a waiting period. Waiting to hear back from people, waiting to raise enough money to serve with MTW in Chile, waiting to see how God's going to provide.

But it didn't start out as waiting. Hope started it. The hope I have in Christ risen. The desire to be a vessel of that hope to people in Chile. A hope against hope that all this was possible.

I never would have had the courage to live in that hope had I not expected God to come through. Had I not banked on his perfect will and guidance.

It's all over scripture.

"Now  hope that is seen is not hope. For who hopes for what he sees? But if we hope for what we do not see, we wait for it with patience." Romans 8:24-25

Esperar.

"He (God) delivered us from such a deadly peril, and  he will deliver us. On him we have set our hope, that he will deliver us again." 2 Corinthians 1:10

Esperar.

"Yes, and I will rejoice, for I know that through your prayers and the help of the Spirit of Jesus Christ this will turn out for my deliverance, as it is my eager expectation and hope that I will not be at all ashamed, but that with full courage now as always Christ will be honored in my body, whether by life or by death. For to me to live is Christ, and to die is gain." Philippians 1:19-21

The last few months, I've felt joy and fear, peace that surpasses understanding and discouragement that weasels it's way into my life. I fight it. I set my sights on Christ (though sometimes it feels like I have a lazy eye).

I hope. I wait. I expect.

They are a package deal.

One word says it all:

Esperar.

"Commit your way to the Lord; trust him and he will act...Be still before the Lord and wait patiently for him." Psalm 37:5,7

take heart

Leave it to me to go to the wrong hospital when my Dad is getting heart surgery.

Mom: Are you looking at the emergency room?

Me: Yes.
Mom: Go left and you’ll see a tower that says, “The Heart Center,” in large red letters. It’s at the North end of the building.
Me: Umm.. Okay…
Mom: I don’t see you.
Me: Hmm. I’m at the south end of the building now.
Mom: Why did you go there? I said it’s at the north end.
Me: You said to go left.
Mom: I know
Me: Left is south
Mom: No, left is north.

A few more miscommunications and one front desk later, we concluded that both of us were right (or, if you share my mom’s point of view, I was utterly wrong). Needless to say, I missed the surgery.

My dad was in and out in about an hour, though it would be another 37 hours before they actually let him leave- just long enough to spend Thanksgiving in a hospital gown feasting on a cafeteria turkey sandwich and a plastic dish of pumpkin pie.

Not ideal timing.

Or perhaps, it was just perfect.

Had my dad not been scheduled for his quarterly stress test this past Monday, who knows when (or how) he would have discovered the blocked arteries. My dad certainly hadn’t noticed. He went on a 35-mile bike ride the Saturday before and felt great, albeit winded. He just has a “bad” heart, though he doesn’t always feel it and he definitely doesn’t live like it.

Oddly enough, I’m reading a book right now that suggests Christians act the opposite. According to author John Eldredge, president of Ransomed Heart ministries, Christians are hypochondriacs of the heart--we’re constantly crying out for a spiritual bypass, when really, we’re quite heart healthy.

In his book, Waking the Dead, Eldredge suggests that Christians often mistake the daily battle against the sin of our flesh as an inward struggle for the heart. The whole: We do not do what we ought to do or want to do in fact many times we catch ourselves doing the very opposite thing we should do and before you know it we feel a lot like Paul exclaiming, “For I know that nothing good dwells in me!” and we go ahead and suffer a heart attack before we even let Paul finish his sentence.

Well, hear Paul out.

“For I know that nothing good dwells in me, that is, in my flesh.” (Romans 7:18)

Flesh. Not heart. Sure, we’re at war against daily temptations, the lure of popularity or lust or selfish ambition or business or complacency or just downright laziness—but it’s not our heart that’s at stake. That battle is won.

“I will give you a new heart, and a new spirit I will put within you. And I will remove the heart of stone from you flesh and give you a heart of flesh. And I will put my Spirit within you, and cause you to walk in my statutes and be careful to obey my rules.” (Ezekial 36:26)

“Therefore, if anyone is in Christ, he is a new creation. The old has passed away; behold the new has come.” (2 Corinthians 5:17)

Now. Not later. Christ endured the wrath of God for the sins of the world and rose again to conquer death once and for all, to give us a chance at really living, at knowing God. Our hearts are good. They’d have to be—He makes our hearts his home. (Ephesians 3:17)

We ought to live in light of that.

For many of us, myself the foremost, that means we need to stop living in condemnation and calling it humility.

Starts out innocent enough:

“Lord, teach me to be a servant.”
“Lord, I kind of got busy and forgot. Help me.”
“Lord, I was selfish today. Sorry”
“I should have unloaded the dishwasher without having to be asked.”
“I can’t even go to the right hospital when my Dad is in surgery.”

Conclusion: I’m an idiot. (maybe true, but that’s not the right attitude!)

The difference between shame and humility? Eldredge says, "Shame says, 'I am nothing to look at. I'm not capable of goodness.' Humility says, "I bear a glory for sure, but it is a reflected glory. a grace given to me.'"

So let's beam with the confidence of a people who are greatly loved though greatly flawed. Let's boast in Christ and leave the pity party for another day.

Sure, we don't have it all together, but in Christ, our hearts are in the right place. We are not without hope.

"In this world you will have trouble, but take heart! I have overcome the world." (John 16:33)

support so far

As many of you know, right now I’m raising support to serve in Chile for 11 months with Mission to the World (MTW), the worldwide missions agency of the Presbyterian Church of America. I’m about 2 months into the process, 25% of the way to my support goal, and excited to see how God provides the rest.

One thing’s for sure—I’m not the same person I was when I started support raising in August. For me raising support has been a bit like climbing a mountain. This image comes to mind for obvious reasons: little five-foot-four me, gigantic seemingly insurmountable goal of raising support.

Also, I feel a little bit like Jonathon when he and his armor-bearer took on twenty Philistine men waiting for them at the top of a cliff (1 Samuel 14:6-14). Jonathan knew that God had given them into his hands, all he had to do was get there...by scaling that cliff.

So here I climb. Sure of God’s leading in my life, and even more sure that I can’t get there without Him. Some days the hand holds are easy, and I move steadily closer to my goal- to bring Him glory. I’m energized by the sheer beauty of my view—of Christ risen, of saving grace, of disciples in all nations, of a love that drives out fear. Then, other days, I realize how high up I am, how much control God really asks us to give, and I get scared. Stuck. My arms shake. Trembling, I fall.

Lucky for me (and to stretch this metaphor somewhat absurdly) Jesus is my belayer. Falling only brings me closer to him. Closer to Truth. Closer to living the kind of life that points toward God instead of myself.

Don’t get me wrong, I still kick and scream on the way down. Hence, this group. I need prayer. In my daily life, I’m all-too-aware of the absolute necessity of spending time in prayer and reflection of God’s word. Having others praying for me as well is like a much-needed power bar. It gives me strength. And God listens. He answers. Mountains move (Matthew 17:20).

Join my Facebook group to partner with me in prayer, not only for these next few months of support raising, but also for Chileans in Viña del Mar. That God would be drawing them near, that doors would be opened for the gospel, and that by His grace I could be an instrument to share His love with Chileans.

I am so grateful for your prayers and would love to return the favor. This may be my mountain, but I’m sure you have your own. Won’t there always be a mountain? Isn’t that growth? Are you climbing, or clinging on for dear life? Scared to start? I’ve been all of these. Let me know how I can pray for you.

“For God did not give us a spirit of timidity, but a spirit of power, or love and of self-discipline. So do not be ashamed to testify about our Lord, or ashamed of me his prisoner. But join with me in suffering for the gospel, by the power of God, who has saved us and called us to a holy life—not because of anything we have done, but because of his own purpose and grace.” (2 Timothy 1:7)

conquer fears

My little sister is, well, little. Five-one. The size zero you hate.

That is, until you mention blood work and needles.

Upon hearing those words, she might as well be Tim Tebow running a football; the door, her end zone. She will get there, and if she has to plow through you in the process, bonus.

The last time she got a shot was more than five years ago. It took six nurses and my mom to hold her down.

Needless to say, last week when I went with my sister to the doctor’s office, my ears stung as I heard those dreaded words—“Blood work.” I felt my sister freeze beside me. Seconds before she had been laughing, perfectly at ease despite some back pain. Within 20 seconds of the B-phrase, tears spilled onto her face. Her cheeks burned red, and her body began twitching.

Things were going bad fast.

The nurses seemed oblivious. They cheerfully chattered about the procedure and allowed her to use the bathroom.

Were there windows in the bathroom? I wondered.

After a little too long, my sister rounded the corner again and I knew instantly—Tebow.

Without a word, she blew past me, snatched up her purse, pivoted and began to push her way around me.

“Are you Megan?” one of the nurses asked.

“No” she snapped without a moment hesitation.

I tapped into my inner linebacker for a few seconds before letting her go (She looked ready to foul).

Outside, she waited for me stoically—face set, determined. I tried to reason with her. Told her it would be
OK. She would barely feel the needle. We could get ice cream after.

Not interested.

So, out of options, I did something very out of character. I got mean.

I don’t remember (or care to) exactly what I said, but the words ridiculous and tough love come to mind (I know, soooo mean). Whatever I said, my mad tone was enough to surprise the football player right out of her. Her expression went from set to shock. Silence.

“Will you hold my hand?” she said in a small voice.

I fought the urge to laugh or even smile. Mean, Jessie. Grr.

“Of course,” I huffed.

We marched back in, only to realize we now had a 30-minute wait. Crap. I wasn’t sure if I could keep up the tough act that long.

Half an hour later, after discussing our biggest fears over Lays and soda at Subway, my sister walked into that doctor’s office a new person.

“I’m ready for my blood work now,” she declared.

We strode into an examining room, she took a seat, took my hand, and I waited for the tears.

None came. The needle was in (and maybe not out as quickly as I had promised), the tube filled with blood, and though my sister breathed like she might be having a baby instead of giving blood, she didn’t shed a tear.

Megan looked at me and beamed. She had done it. She had conquered her fear.

Tough Jessie crumbled. Get her some orange juice! Would she like a cookie? Would she like cake? Maybe a party? I walked her around to the other nurses and pointed to the purple band around her arm like a proud mom.

We left that doctor’s office (3 hours after we came) victorious, elated, full.

I’ve thought about that visit a lot this past week, but one conversation in specific.

While we were waiting Subway, my sister asked me what I was afraid of. What was it that could take me from calm to crying in a matter of seconds?

Sea-Doos, I replied, which is fairly true (I’ve sworn never to ride one again…long story). Nothing else.

I possibly lied.

Over the past week, my first week at home, the better question seems to be, what aren’t I afraid of? The list is long.

Failure. Missed opportunities. Looking like a fool. Unemployment. Disappointing people I care about. Never making it to Chile. Making it there but not making an impact.

At one point or another this week, each one of these things has caused me to tremble, pushed me to tears even.

But just like my sister and her phobia of needles, I know these fears are lies.

It might hurt. I might not be successful in the way I once dreamed. I might disappoint some people. I might look like a crazy person. But Christ said we have to lose our lives to find them (Matt. 16:25). That the road to personal glory is a dead-end (Matt. 6). That we can’t serve him and seek the approval of men (Gal 1:10) And being out of your mind for the sake of Christ isn’t necessarily a bad thing (2 Cor. 5:13).

I may not have a mean big sister to tell it to me straight, but Paul is a pretty good stand-in.

“You were running the good race. Who cut in on you and kept you from obeying the truth. That kind of persuasion does not come from the one who calls you.” (Gal. 5:7-8)

Jesus didn’t come to conquer death so that we would live in fear. No, he left us his Holy Spirit— not of fear, “but a spirit of power, of love and of self-control,” (2 Tim. 1:7). He didn’t save us from gnashing teeth just to feed us to the wolves. No, “in all things, God works for the good of those who love him,” (Rom. 8:28).

So I’ll keep running, but I won’t run away. I will stand firm and watch my fears flee. (James 4:7)

My sister conquered her fear, and so will I. With His help.

move back home

Home again, home again.

Emphasis on the again.

Four years ago this time, I was packing up my extra-long twin sheets, storage bins and shower shoes and making my way up to the University of Florida. Now, one dorm room, a basement apartment, un apartamento en España and two houses later, my old room and I are reunited.

Not much has changed.

An oddly contorted sculpture of a running angel still sits proudly on my bookshelf (advanced ceramics senior year). An oriental puppet from a floating market in Thailand hangs above my bedpost where it’s been since tenth grade. And then there’s my autographed 8x11 photo of Robert Redford, gazing at me with that steely stare that I just can’t escape (no really, I’ve tried, and it doesn’t matter where I sit).

Of course, the suitcases and boxes cluttering my floor are a recent addition, and for some reason there is a bar of men’s soap on my bathroom counter—MKMen, face bar (much manlier than facial soap). Then there’s me.

Twenty-two, graduated, and unemployed. Not exactly what my 18-year-old self had in mind.

But that’s OK. God had other plans.

Right now, that’s Melbourne and raising support to work with a ministry in Chile, and I’m ready cannon ball into the deep end.

Sure they call it Melboring, sure the streets are deserted by 9, but I’ve already eaten one home-cooked meal, I’m long over-do to spend some time with the padres, and I get to sleep in my very own, very comfy bed. Again.

Goodnight Robert.