Missing Out

There are two ways I tend to wage inner war on myself: intellectually (read "emotionally") and spiritually.  One particular area in which both ways of battle have been most constant and consistent for as long as I can remember is in the idea of "missing out." I don't need to fit in, I don't mind being strange, but heaven forbid I lose out on something radical.  I am, in so very many ways, a middle child to the Nth degree.  Whole stages of my life were set and experienced purely due to my belief that other people were experiencing something without me.  Eventually, that idea gave birth to my current, ridiculous habit of people pleasing.  If people like you and you tend to make them happy, you stand a better chance at inclusion, you feel me?  But there is also a growing spiritual component that is totally cool with not even knowing what everyone else is doing.  Her eyes are set on the prize of eternity with her Savior, end story.  After all, what can be gained on Earth that won't be a thousand times better in Heaven? She's focused on two things: bringing God glory and building eternal relationships. That doesn't leave much room for feeling left out.

Anyway, this ill-begotten habit is obviously the root of most of my double sided battlefields.  Mind v. Spirit.  "I don't mind" v. "Do You want this for my life, God?"

Everything, from the most recent family event I missed, to the prospect of missing out on the future of the mission to this indigenous people group that I am with now, gives rise to the two camps within me.  It isn't a new struggle.  You know what they say, though, "Old habits die the hardest."  So if the struggle is so familiar to me, why am I only just writing about it today?  Let me sum it up.

Around 4 a.m. my phone lit up with messages. It usually refuses to send or receive MMS, but Bruce had accepted a video message from my mom.  She spent this last weekend with my Dad and some of my younger siblings at our Hansen family reunion.  The video in question was a beautiful version of "Blessed Assurance" sung a cappela with the entire family.  Once the song ended, I had a choice.  Emotionally, I could wallow in self pity due to a purely incidental exclusion because I'm half way across the planet (BY CHOICE, mind you).  Spiritually, I could praise God for the gift of song and go into the day with joy in my heart.  

The choice is ridiculously obvious.  It isn't really a choice at all.  But I still have to make the conscious decision to praise and be filled with joy, because this middle child is prone to wallow. I know it. God knows it. Mom knows it. And there's really nothing for it.

Another Walk

(S insisted on walking with water in her boots, even though it kept sloshing her dress, which she didn't want.  Sometimes you just have to smile and say "okay, sure.")

(A pomelo tree! I love this citrus fruit, especially when grapefruit is impossible to get.)

(To quote J: "Miss Vivian! What are you doing!")

A Lot of Little Lessons

I'm at the part of this particular season in which everyone starts asking, "How has your time here been?" "What has been the most memorable part?" "Do you feel different?" "Are you ready to go home?" And each of those questions has a multifaceted answer that boils down to a combination of yes and no and something in between. Every day seems told hold a lesson these days. There is so much discovery happening, a small epiphany here and the glimmer of understanding there. God has been and continues to be faithful and loving in teaching me about perspective, persistence, patience, purpose, prayer...the list goes on.

Tomorrow is the first day of school of our last ten weeks together.  Ten weeks and this incredible journey transitions to the next step. It really is a bittersweet time stamp.  Sweet because I have loved ones waiting to embrace me, stories to hear and share, new prospects to pursue.  But it is also bitter because I have to leave the Philippines in the middle of the work being done here.  It's bitter because I am afraid of facing first world "reality", reverse culture shock, and the commonplace distractions that are absent in my current daily life.  

Before my time here, I would have said there isn't a place for a single woman on the mission field.  While I remain convicted of specified roles in congregational worship and teaching according to gender, there are so many different pieces and roles that form an effective mission that can be and are filled by single women.  All my excuses for ignoring long term mission work have dissipated, leaving behind a burning desire to live out the great commission.

I'm afraid of American culture quenching that desire.  Without God's constant sustenance, I'm not strong enough to stick to my guns. Which segues nicely into my prayer for this mission as I prepare to leave: it has been a privilege to experience the varied personalities on this particular mission field.  Each member of each team brings something essentially unique to the table of service.  Their different specialties and quirks and methods provide the necessary avenues to connect with people groups and subcultures to perform God's work.  And yet, these differences can also trip each other up without that focus on God's divine plan.  My heart is filled with a prayer for unity, just as it is filled with a celebration of God's unique gifting of His servants.

All that being said, we aren't finished yet.  Ten weeks is still a ways to go.  I'm willing, if not ready, so Lord, let me finish strong.

Photographic Memories 3

 

(Lunch in a flower garden!)

 

 

Photographic Memories 2

 

(The boat ride across the lake to Taal)

 

(The view partway up.)

 

(At the top!)

 

(Looking back down part of the trail.)

Humble Pie

Sometimes I surpass levels of awkwardness that surprise even me.

When we're in the village, I wake up early and putz around my room until a godly hour to be awake.  Once we're in town, though, I've been getting up when I wake up and I eat my breakfast over FaceTime with my mom.  That usually takes place around 5 AM.  Now, I thought it was fine because I took my call outside.   A week later, I just found out that everyone inside has been able to hear every word of my morning calls. 

My first reaction was, "Oh my word, I'm so sorry for being rude." Second reaction? "Oh shizzle wizzle, I hope I haven't said anything to my mom that I wouldn't want anyone else hearing."  The reality is, I'm just embarrassed and I can either handle it with grace and humor, or I can crumble.

Truthfully, I'm praying the Lord would give me grace, because this homeskillet wants to crumble like a stale cookie.

Jesus, help.

Photographic Memories 1

 

(Workers in the rice fields)

 

(Some of the cows that like to chill in the road)

 

(Always room for one more)

 

(When I die, bury me under a cement birthday cake.)