I can actually feel the difference that being in India this summer has made in my heart.
It's really easy to think you are one way if you know stuff, but kind of different figuring out that you are really not so much that way as you maybe thought you were, once you try living out that stuff in a different way.
I'm just going to copy one of my journal entries from last week in here since I didn't blog then anyways and all.
July 12th, 2011
I've been reading the book "Blue Like Jazz" and even though I didn't really want to like it so much because EVERYONE likes it, I love it. Not only because it makes me laugh-out-loud by the absurd but accurate way Donald Miller describes things, but also because of why He believes in God. It's not because of an emotional experience or even intellectual understanding. His faith he describes almost like instinct, and he's okay with that. Jesus is the risen son of God, and he knows it. So why do anything in life apart from Him?
But the reason why I bring this book up is because Don says that we all want to be fancy.
I've been thinking about that a lot because I think it is true of me. I even have daydreams of myself sometimes being in nice places, looking all dressed up and put-together and doing classy things all prestigious-like.
But it's a stupid fantasy because these probably wouldn't even be fun scenarios for me to be stuck in in real life considering all the best times I remember having are when I'm dancing around the kitchen with my sisters in our pajamas, spending all night talking with best friends under the stars--waking up soggy with dew, or when I'm laughing about how funny farts are. I'm not even a fancy person. But sometimes for some reason I think I want to be.
So why do I have this desire to be fancy? Thinking about it gets me thinking about how much I have romanticized the whole third-world missions thing. It's so great and easy to talk all Shane Claiborne and Mother Theresa-like when you're in a dorm-room, classroom, or air-conditioned coffee shop. It's so easy to care deeply for the poor and under-class when they are this idea that you can't feel the dirt on, smell the rotting feet of, or worry about catching lice from. You can't catch lice from an idea. And it's great to be upset and raving about the injustice of the world and claim to be like Ghandi was about war, but we don't come even close to living like he did, and our attitudes still suck.
What made me think I could love the beaten child here when I can't even put forth the effort it takes to continually love the the friendless at home? If I am too selfish to even try to love the stuck up-project member, the difficult professor, the annoying sibling, the clingy freshman, the grumpy janitor, or the friend I disagree with, how on earth did I expect to just travel to the other side of the world and be able to sacrifice my selfishness on a day-to-day basis with people here?
Though I am certain my motives to apply for this trip were not for selfish ambition, it does not matter how unselfish my initial intentions were if I spend every day thinking about only me.
"How is this story going to make me look good when I tell people at home?"
"What can I do to feel less tired, less hungry, more happy?"
"Will this be enough to validate me to those who supported my trip?"
But in reality and in all of life, nothing will ever validate me except that I am loved by God, and His love is the biggest miracle because it doesn't even make sense. And I don't understand it, but I know it, and I can't do anything to make Him love me. He loves me not because of what I do, but in spite of what I do.
People tell you to give of yourself to share the gospel to the nations and to those who don't know Christ. They tell you to love the unloved. They tell the awesome stories of victories over Satan. They don't tell you how hard it is to sleep at night or wake up in the morning. They fail to mention how many more times you fail than succeed. They don't warn you that being amongst it doesn't make the pain you experience when you hear the stories of those suffering lesson when you encounter them yourself. It only increases. Or maybe they did say these things and I somehow didn't hear those parts or got it all wrong in my head somehow.
It would suck to be like Mother Theresa. I adore her because I could never do what she did.
I've been frustrated a lot while being here. I take it out on the leaders or the other team-members or on the fact that "this is not what I signed up for" crap. The real reason behind my frustration, I think, is that I still want to be fancy- a fancy humanitarian. I have to face up to the fact that it is the idea of compassion that I love, but I would rather write a story about it that moves people to tears than go out and be what people need even if it means I get stepped on and trampled down all along the way.
I hate what I am finding- that I am more about figuring out what I did that made a difference than I am about the actual difference it makes.
God was wise to put me here. If I couldn't learn to love difficult preschoolers, what was I thinking? How on earth could I care for people who have been damaged and disturbed to the degree that girls taken out of the brothels have experienced?
I can just feel God asking, " Do you have any idea what it is like to love disturbed people? I do."
And then I get real humble and a whole new sort of appreciation of Jesus coming to earth and dying for sinners, but living for us too--touching us with His own hands. I'm in so much awe of who He is and His love for us because my own love falls so short.
~~~~~~~~~~
I know that was long, but it makes up for no blog last week, and really gives a good insight into some things I've been figuring out.
But let me tell you also that God has dug up a love in me that I didn't even know was possible. I hate the fact that I am leaving in a week, because I have come to love these people-the preschoolers and the women living in the villages and slums and on the beach-SO much. I got to share the gospel with 20 women yesterday and tell them about a hope so strong that it makes the bad things in this life not even that important anymore. I didn't want to just pray for them and watch them go. I want to sit down and have conversations with them and find out more who they are and where they are at and who they think God is and what their heart wants to believe. I want to continue doing life with them--eating at their tables, teaching them to read, listening to their stories, showing them by who I am what love was meant to mean. I care about them, more every day. I want them to grow in their understanding of the Bible and God's plan for the world and His promises. I don't care at all if I never feel fancy again.
And I love Jesus. I love who He is. He is the meaning of compassion.
It's really easy to think you are one way if you know stuff, but kind of different figuring out that you are really not so much that way as you maybe thought you were, once you try living out that stuff in a different way.
I'm just going to copy one of my journal entries from last week in here since I didn't blog then anyways and all.
July 12th, 2011
I've been reading the book "Blue Like Jazz" and even though I didn't really want to like it so much because EVERYONE likes it, I love it. Not only because it makes me laugh-out-loud by the absurd but accurate way Donald Miller describes things, but also because of why He believes in God. It's not because of an emotional experience or even intellectual understanding. His faith he describes almost like instinct, and he's okay with that. Jesus is the risen son of God, and he knows it. So why do anything in life apart from Him?
But the reason why I bring this book up is because Don says that we all want to be fancy.
I've been thinking about that a lot because I think it is true of me. I even have daydreams of myself sometimes being in nice places, looking all dressed up and put-together and doing classy things all prestigious-like.
But it's a stupid fantasy because these probably wouldn't even be fun scenarios for me to be stuck in in real life considering all the best times I remember having are when I'm dancing around the kitchen with my sisters in our pajamas, spending all night talking with best friends under the stars--waking up soggy with dew, or when I'm laughing about how funny farts are. I'm not even a fancy person. But sometimes for some reason I think I want to be.
So why do I have this desire to be fancy? Thinking about it gets me thinking about how much I have romanticized the whole third-world missions thing. It's so great and easy to talk all Shane Claiborne and Mother Theresa-like when you're in a dorm-room, classroom, or air-conditioned coffee shop. It's so easy to care deeply for the poor and under-class when they are this idea that you can't feel the dirt on, smell the rotting feet of, or worry about catching lice from. You can't catch lice from an idea. And it's great to be upset and raving about the injustice of the world and claim to be like Ghandi was about war, but we don't come even close to living like he did, and our attitudes still suck.
What made me think I could love the beaten child here when I can't even put forth the effort it takes to continually love the the friendless at home? If I am too selfish to even try to love the stuck up-project member, the difficult professor, the annoying sibling, the clingy freshman, the grumpy janitor, or the friend I disagree with, how on earth did I expect to just travel to the other side of the world and be able to sacrifice my selfishness on a day-to-day basis with people here?
Though I am certain my motives to apply for this trip were not for selfish ambition, it does not matter how unselfish my initial intentions were if I spend every day thinking about only me.
"How is this story going to make me look good when I tell people at home?"
"What can I do to feel less tired, less hungry, more happy?"
"Will this be enough to validate me to those who supported my trip?"
But in reality and in all of life, nothing will ever validate me except that I am loved by God, and His love is the biggest miracle because it doesn't even make sense. And I don't understand it, but I know it, and I can't do anything to make Him love me. He loves me not because of what I do, but in spite of what I do.
People tell you to give of yourself to share the gospel to the nations and to those who don't know Christ. They tell you to love the unloved. They tell the awesome stories of victories over Satan. They don't tell you how hard it is to sleep at night or wake up in the morning. They fail to mention how many more times you fail than succeed. They don't warn you that being amongst it doesn't make the pain you experience when you hear the stories of those suffering lesson when you encounter them yourself. It only increases. Or maybe they did say these things and I somehow didn't hear those parts or got it all wrong in my head somehow.
It would suck to be like Mother Theresa. I adore her because I could never do what she did.
I've been frustrated a lot while being here. I take it out on the leaders or the other team-members or on the fact that "this is not what I signed up for" crap. The real reason behind my frustration, I think, is that I still want to be fancy- a fancy humanitarian. I have to face up to the fact that it is the idea of compassion that I love, but I would rather write a story about it that moves people to tears than go out and be what people need even if it means I get stepped on and trampled down all along the way.
I hate what I am finding- that I am more about figuring out what I did that made a difference than I am about the actual difference it makes.
God was wise to put me here. If I couldn't learn to love difficult preschoolers, what was I thinking? How on earth could I care for people who have been damaged and disturbed to the degree that girls taken out of the brothels have experienced?
I can just feel God asking, " Do you have any idea what it is like to love disturbed people? I do."
And then I get real humble and a whole new sort of appreciation of Jesus coming to earth and dying for sinners, but living for us too--touching us with His own hands. I'm in so much awe of who He is and His love for us because my own love falls so short.
~~~~~~~~~~
I know that was long, but it makes up for no blog last week, and really gives a good insight into some things I've been figuring out.
But let me tell you also that God has dug up a love in me that I didn't even know was possible. I hate the fact that I am leaving in a week, because I have come to love these people-the preschoolers and the women living in the villages and slums and on the beach-SO much. I got to share the gospel with 20 women yesterday and tell them about a hope so strong that it makes the bad things in this life not even that important anymore. I didn't want to just pray for them and watch them go. I want to sit down and have conversations with them and find out more who they are and where they are at and who they think God is and what their heart wants to believe. I want to continue doing life with them--eating at their tables, teaching them to read, listening to their stories, showing them by who I am what love was meant to mean. I care about them, more every day. I want them to grow in their understanding of the Bible and God's plan for the world and His promises. I don't care at all if I never feel fancy again.
And I love Jesus. I love who He is. He is the meaning of compassion.
