Hidden Cost of Missionary Work

I am re-posting this very popular piece.  Not because I'm planning to go overseas anytime soon, but because it is now a sample of what you will find when the Moscow book is finally in print.  I am hopeful that will be soon. 

Also it's a reminder to those who go and those who stay that there are hidden costs and blatant blessings waiting for you. 

God is good.  

Are you planning to go somewhere this year?  Tell me about it!  Let me join your prayer team.

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There is a hidden cost of missions work that is overlooked.

Yes, it’s expensive to buy plane tickets, food and daily supplies, lodging, transportation.  Those are all budget items that are fairly easy to plan for.  We take our savings or retirement or offerings and sparingly apply them to stretch across the months, or years, we are abroad.  Those are expected expenses and we do our best to be wise.

There is the obvious emotional expense of unfilled heart time.  You know, the deposits made into our lives by those we love while we do everyday life with them.  When you’re abroad, you are not holding your grandchildren when they scrape their knee.  You’re not kissing away the sad days when a dog is lost or a friend moves away.  You’re not listening to the saxophone rehearsal, the reading practice, the math drills.  They can video you in, but it isn’t the same.  Your arms are empty and your heart is drained.  You are glad they are happy and healthy and living well without you, but your arms ache for them. 

Your peers, friends and family, don’t always quite understand why you’re gone, and that’s an emotional drain.  Some of them resent that you aren’t there to help with the life chores.  Someone else has to take mom to the doctor and call you with results.  You can’t be available to babysit or rideshare or decorate.

You pray they have found a new mother figure, a new best friend, a new co-problem solver so they are not facing the problems of life alone. 

You call to catch up and realize you have no idea who is married to whom and when the baby shower will be or what the garden looks like this year.  You realize that moments are slipping away in your time clock which can’t be re-stocked.

It’s hard to communicate what you are seeing and hearing every day.  The market buzz, the language difficulties, the smells of every day life.  You talk about baking banana bread and hoping that you have figured out what the notches on your oven mean.  They smile but can’t understand. 

If you’re really blessed you find a community that becomes a family to you on the field.  You commiserate with them in the morning after the long walk to work.  You hold their babies and plan their birthday parties.  You laugh with them about the awkward language exchanges in a grocery store or metro.  You find familiarity in struggles.  They may be from completely different parts of the world.  Their language base will not be yours, their history will be unknown to you. Yet, you find yourself walking beside them as if you are intrinsically connected.

They are living the same sensations and challenges.  They “get it” without explanation.

All of that is difficult, but not the hardest thing.  The hardest thing is after you’re home.  You return!  Yay!  Everyone rejoices!  There are greeting hugs and special dinners and welcomes of all kinds.  Then day turns to week to month to year.  You realize that your heart is in two places. 

You wonder how your friends over there are managing life. Are they still continuing the things you tried to teach them?  Did they pray today?  Are they reading their Bible?  Is anyone confusing them with a different message of God’s love?  Are they studying?  Are they working together to be better?

The handprints of the expat family members are deep within your memory.  You are glad to be with your family and friends, again, but you miss the others constantly.  You wonder how they are re-settling in their new life.  You pray they have found a new mother figure, a new best friend, a new co-problem solver so they are not facing the strangeness alone. 

You feel guilty for wanting to be back on the field after having missed so many moments with everyone.  You try to swoop back into the common paths, pick up where you left off. 

But you’re different.  You say weird things like, “pass the smetana” and then realize that no one at the table knows what that is.  You stand in a grocery aisle ten times the size of the one you had become comfortable with and feel overwhelmed.  You tear up when someone says the Pledge of Allegiance to the flag while everyone else repeats with boredom.  You watch the news with new insight and have new opinions that no one cares about. 

You try to share it.  That’s not always wise.  “In Russia we….,”  “When I was there …,” You see the glazed eyes of the listener and then the kids tell you it sounds like you’re bragging.  You realize they were busy living a different life which filled your spot in their path.  Meanwhile, your experiences pushed them out and they resent it. 

There is the real cost.  The shaping and pruning which happened while you were being stretched into a useful vessel for the work of God has made you different.  Your family and friends don’t want a new you – they liked the old one well enough. 

Why would someone pay all of those expenses?  Why would someone give up life-moments to go somewhere far away and face untold challenges?  Why would someone cash out retirement and savings to live like a pauper during – and after – a missions trip?  Is it worth it?

Each individual has their own answer to those questions.  For me, I see my life as a gift from God.  I know the failures I have amassed, the foolishness that I walked into full of purpose only to find my life at risk, my money gone, my need for a grace-full Savior to get me out of a mess.  My every day is a present.  I don’t deserve it.  I look at the full, good life of my family.  They live surrounded by goodness and hardly notice.  They are healthy, strong, creative Christians.  I know those are gifts from God and I owe God in return.  Not only my family, but also my abilities.  If I am able to teach and love, it’s only because God has shown me how.  Statistically, that’s not how I should have turned out. 

But God… in His goodness has made me who I am.

When He opened the opportunity, I was compelled to go.  I could not say no.  Not to Moscow, not to Milwaukee, not to wherever He sends me next. 

Is it worth it?  It is.  When I look back at all of the details of my life, when I consider the experiences and the sharing and the praying and the blessings … in spite of the cost … I would do it again.  I am richer for it.  I have learned to hold my memories in boxes.  There is an American box full of fireworks and coffee sipping.  There is a Russian box full of walking and laughter.   There are boxes full of brilliant, rich friendships. 

Life is full of complications wherever you are.  You may as well go where God sends you.  Live fully.  Don’t be afraid to do what is at the end of your hands to do.  Don’t be disappointed when a door closes.  Trust the Author and Finisher of your faith to know what is best. 

In the end, you will find a blessed life with full pages. 

Dancing with Spring

Sometimes words follow me around.  I can’t seem to get away from them.  They crawl out of my heart before my hands are ready. 

I’m walking around or working or hanging out with a friend and the words start to push out.  “HEY!  Stop a minute and get a pen!  You can’t even believe what we just saw!  Didn’t you see that?  Didn’t you hear it?  The smell of those colors!!  Write this down quick before the words run away.”

Sometimes they do, run away, that is.  Like a rainbow dancing on a rain puddle, they dry up, float away, and are gone in the mist of the morning. 

Sometimes they don’t. They stay.  They walk along my veins waiting for me to sit still long enough to let them fall onto the paper. 

I see words everywhere and hear them calling to me.

I see them on the branches of a spring birch dappled with sunlight and raindrops. 

“Isn’t that beautiful?” she said.

“What?”  he answered.

“The tree.  The light.  The branches.  The Springiness of it.  All the new hope and promise of Spring is dancing in that tree.”

“Yeah.  Sure.” 

I know that my eyes are different, but I didn’t make them that way.  I know that my ideas are odd.  But life just grabs me.  I see the moment in a snatch of time and I do my best to live it.  Sometimes the moments are golden and take my breath away.  Sometimes they are deeply sad and I have to fight the tears to just carry on. 

The words of these experiences pile up in my veins until I let them breathe.  I’m not sure why I was made this way, but I was.  I can’t anymore stop the words from living than I can stop myself from breathing.  It’s how I see things.  How I feel.

If there is ever someone who will understand the words and be drawn to my side, he will understand. 

Until then, I will do my best to help others to stop, smell the roses, and see Spring dancing in the trees. 

Watching Russian Sunsets

I enjoyed a slice of time in St. Petersburg, Russia over the New Year holidays.  On the train home, I was caught in the middle of others’ journeys.  Here is what I saw.

There were three particular Russian couples around me.  All three silver-haired men with much younger looking wives.  Not trophy wives, but younger.

One couple was actively engaged in each other.  Talking.  Smiling.  She was watching everything out the window like she had never been on a train before.  He was talking softly with her.  Precious sunset love.

Another seated in front of me did not even look at each other more than once except when she got up to use the restroom.  And then only because she had to get past him.  Otherwise she slept or looked out the window.  She simply dismissed him out of her path.  The end of the day brought a welcome dark for them.

The final couple shared movies together for the entire four hours.  He was in charge of the sound and the iPad, but they are clearly sharing.  Every once in awhile one or the other would forget their earbuds and comment very loudly about what they are watching.  They would say a few words or laugh together.  Co-conspirators oblivious to the sun or season.

The differences and similarities were interesting to me.  Each gentleman was wearing a suit coat and trousers.  No casual jeans or golf shirts for them.  All three women were wearing nice outfits.  Traveling clothes, my Grandma would call them.  “If you’re traveling, you should look like you’re going somewhere.” These people clearly followed that adage. 

I know this sense of style and carriage is very Russian, especially for the older generation.  Still, it catches me by surprise all of the time.  It takes me back to a more formal day when relationships seemed to carry more weight.  I want to respect the longevity of their love based on their appearance, but history is exposed in their movements.

I would guess the women to be in their 50s or 60s, maybe.  It’s hard to tell with the dyed hair, but their skin and style make me guess older than younger.  The men all look to be 70 something, again judging by hair and style.  I could be wrong, but that is my guess.

Their body language and physical connections tell the story of their relationships.  Regardless of life season, their love, or lack of, is evident.

The happiest man was probably the oldest.  He was the one sitting across the aisle from me.  He was clearly the kindest, the most engaged in the world around him.  I’m not saying this because he went out of his way to help me when no one else would at the start of our trip, but because of something I saw in his eyes.  It was a sense of wonder, of reaching out, of living that emanated from him.  His face was kind, his eyes smiled, he owned a gentle voice.  The woman with him was similar.  The sense of wonder in her constant tourist picture taking.  The pleasant tap of her fingers along his arm.  Peacefully the sun is setting on their journey together. 

I see the three relationships as three potential outcomes, three degrees of potential.  Those who invested in each other, those who shared laughter and those who lived separate lives beside each other.  I want to make some grand comparison between Russia and America here.  I would like to share some deep Bible revelation from this epiphany moment.  Rather, I’ll let you do that on your own. 

As for me, I’m just watching from the outside through a writer’s eyes.

No Strangers

I had a quick writer moment recently at a coffee shop.  They strike me at the oddest times: these words that grow from sentence to paragraph to story.

My colleague and I had ducked in for a quick purchase when we ran into mutual friends.  A very pleasant exchange set a friendly mood which carried over to the coffee order.  The clerk picked up on it, and our English language, and cordially joined the chatter.  In the minute it took to order, I learned he had just been promoted to Manager of the store. 

To me, the conversation was normal.  People sharing the path of life for a short moment.

To my young colleague, however, it was something new.  People divulging personal information in an odd setting.  She assumed for the clerk to tell me his news we must be familiar.

“I see they know you here, as well.”   

“No, not at all.”  I answered.

The phrase turned in my mind the rest of the day.  “I see they know you here.” 

It’s not the first time I have heard something similar, especially here in Moscow.  To me it’s natural to make a friend wherever I go.  If not a friend, at least an accomplice in hilarity or a co-conspirator in joy or, sometimes, just a fellow traveler to share the weariness of the path. 

These bridges are constructed in the simplest of forms.  A smile, a hand gesture, a soft word, a reaching across from my side of the human experience into theirs. 

I didn’t know everyone didn’t do this and I don’t know where I learned it.  I think it was my dad, actually, and my Grandma.  Yes, definitely those two.

My dad wasn’t always a nice man and not often a good man, actually.  But he had friends wherever he went.  Every financial transaction he made began as business and ended with friendship. 

I can hear his voice at the corner store.  “Can I get a pack of Big Red gum, too?” 

A tired clerk would reach for it, throw it on the counter, say the amount, wait for cash.

My dad would respond with, “Need to make sure I’m ready in case I meet a beautiful blonde.” 

The clerk (male or female) would smile in complicity.  A friend was made.

My Grandma had a different approach.  “Just bring them with you.”  She was often heard saying.   And if they would come (whoever they were), she would set out the best of the day for them.  It wasn’t always society’s best, but it was her best of whatever with a main ingredient of love. 

“Do you want some soup?  I made it today.  Oh, it’s so good!  Here let me get you some.  And here’s coffee, too.  Did you want some coffee?  Sit down.  Here.  I’m glad you’re here.  Now.  Tell me about you.”

She would sit in her corner rocking chair and listen.  Sometimes throwing out a word or a question, but always listening. 

And the people came from everywhere to talk to her.  I watched it my whole life. 

Every day it seemed someone’s cousin or uncle or co-worker would have been at the table while I was at school.  If I was out and my friends stopped by, they would leave before I got home because they hadn’t come to see me, but to see her!  Tough teen-age, knife carrying punks would stop in for coffee and soup and to talk. 

It wasn’t only for a day, sometimes also for a night.  More than once concerned parents were on the phone or at our door and I would hear Grandma say, “Come in.  Yes, he was here.  I made sure he was safe last night and I gave him a good breakfast before school, but then I don’t know where he went.” 

Then a counseling session would begin with Grandma trying to help another frustrated parent figure out how to parent a strong-willed child. 

So to me, it’s natural to make family-friends and casual-friends and clerk-friends and to not meet a stranger.  I guess it’s my super power.

My siblings are the same.  It’s most fun when we are together meeting strangers. 

One of my favorite memories is of walking in New York City with my sister.  It was autumn and the world was aglow with yellow and orange leaves.  We had spent the day roaming Manhattan and were almost finished with that chapter when we came upon street vendors selling hats, sweatshirts and trinkets.  I knew I wanted a sweat shirt for my son and she knew she wanted a hat so we kind of took over the two tables before us. 

The vendors tried to begin with their usual sales pitch, but quickly realized it wasn’t necessary.  We didn’t need to be convinced.   Banter replaced pitch and before they knew it they were giving us discounts and free items.   We left laughter and genuine memories behind as we bustled to the ferry.

Later that day we shared our news with a native New Yorker friend.

“I bought these two sweatshirts for $20.  I made such a mess of his table searching for this XXL.  Poor guy.  I was trying to fix things as I found them and he gave me a free key chain.  Can you believe it?  Wasn’t that nice?’ I said.

Tina added, “My guy was hilarious!  You should have heard me when he asked if I wanted a princess hat!  Princess?  Oh my word!  I think this hat was $15, but I think I paid $10.  I’m not even sure.  He said I got the blonde discount!  Isn’t that hilarious?” 

My New Yorker friend just shook his head.  “I don’t know what it is about you two, but that doesn’t happen in New York.  If anyone else told me that story, I wouldn’t believe them.  Prices get raised for tourists, not lowered.  But you?  I don’t doubt it at all.

It happens to me all the time.  I think it’s not me that feels familiar.  It’s the presence of God in my life.  Me, I’m so far from good enough.  But with Him working in my life, there is an extra ingredient that makes people comfortable, casual, friendly.

I’m glad for it.  It means that God is answering my prayers.

I pray for an open home and an open heart.  I pray that God will take away the caustic, jagged side of my words and attitude daily.  I pray for eyes to see the world like He does.  I pray for hands to reach with gentleness and grace.  

“May all who enter as guests leave as friends” is the motto for my home and my heart.

“I see they know You here, as well.”  It’s a compliment. 

Stairing

A long time after I have taken pictures I like to look through them to see if I can find a theme.  Inevitably one item or another will appear again and again.  For example, several years ago when I was going through a period of major changes, I found bridges in my pictures.  The bridge pictures turned into a series of blog posts and then a book.  It seemed I wasn’t the only one having to make changes and my experiences helped others.

It’s not a surprise to find a new series growing in my pictures.  Although I don’t understand the full scope of the metaphor yet, I do see the small picture growing.

The stair photos begin in Minneapolis, appropriately.  In fact, one staircase in particular is connected to a very pertinent bridge, but that story has already been told. 

Those stairs are blue and reach to the sky, daunting, taunting, pulling my bravery from the deeps in my heart until I conquered them.  I found them to be freeing, actually, once I looked from the top to the bottom.  I scanned a cityscape on one side and an art collection on the other. 

Creativity overload almost shorted my circuits!

Another set of blue stairs beckoned me to another art collection.  But this staircase had a blue glass runner down the middle.  Funny, but I hardly noticed the height of the stairs or what lay beneath them.  My eyes were set on the Kandinsky only attained by climbing. 

For many years a Kandinsky print has graced one wall or another in one home or another of mine.  A gift given with a challenge to one day see the original for myself.  “You would love The Hermitage!  So many beautiful pieces of art from so many amazing artists!  I know you’ll go one day.  This is to remind you.” 

And, one day, I did go.  A sense of accomplishment flowed in my veins as I stood there and considered all that had transpired from the time of the gift to that time.  “Thanks, God,” I whispered.

My current situation in Moscow lends itself to constant stair climbing.  I live on the fourth floor and find it is often easier, and faster, to take the stairs then to wait for the elevator.  Four floors of 8 steps plus two to cross a landing, every day up and down I go.  The first climb?  I could hardly get to the second floor.  Out of breath, legs shaking, I thought I would never get to the top!

Now?  I do have to hesitate at the last flight up, but only because of asthma, not because it’s impossible.  I like to walk the stairs now, actually.  It feels good, healthy, productive.

I have met some of my neighbors because of the stair climbing.  They smile, I smile.  I say hello in Russian.  They respond in English.  Small connection reaching across a globe of political uneasiness.

When given my druthers, the Metro stairs I don’t climb.  I don’t even walk down them.  I allow myself the privilege of the escalator.  There are enough staircases to climb to get in and out and around the Metro to spoil myself on the occasional ride. 

Besides, it’s so much easier to people watch when you’re not walking.

 

So many amazing, interesting, curious stories to wonder at in the Metro.  Odd couples, strange juxtapositions, fashion and political statements abound! 

The stairs one must traverse in the Metro are stories of their own.  Marble dipped by the steps of generations of travelers.  I wonder, sometimes, who has been there before me?  What did they think of the Soviet era?  What was their life like?  And Perestroika.  Did it benefit them or only their children?  What did they day dream about as they trudged home each day?

There is a castle wall remnant in Tallin, Estonia with a staircase I managed, also.  Tricky, scary, steep and with one unmarked, uneven step.  Not my cup of tea!

 “Come on!  You can’t stay down there!  This is awesome!  Come on up!”  I drew courage enough from my young friend’s bravado to climb and it was well worth the effort.

Looking over the red roofs of Tallin, I could see forever!  So beautiful and interesting!  I kept watching for Errol Flyn sword in hand to come rushing down the walk or flying in through the window.  Again, I wondered who had touched that stone wall before me.  Whose handprints were joined with mine?

Pushkin’s gallery, also, but the carpet is hardly seen for the grandeur of the white marble.  Picasso, Degas, Renoir and others await your gaze, but only if you care to climb.

It seems to me the climbing is the lesson.  And climbing must be done one step at a time.  Not jumping, lest you fall and have to begin again.  Rather, one step after the other.  Repeating the climb again and again makes you stronger, more capable.  What at first seemed unreasonable, becomes common place. 

Now after the writing, I think I am beginning to see the metaphor unwrap.  I am making progress, slow, but sure progress.  Thirty years ago my life was a completely different story and then Jesus began a good work in me which He continues to this day.  Ten years ago He began another chapter which is still being written.  I see the progress of this new chapter, but it’s so painstakingly slow!  I want to know what this is all about already!  Get to the top!  Avoid the uneven places.  I want to see the sights and revel in my accomplishment! 

But life doesn’t work that way.  Personal growth and spiritual growth cannot be rushed.  Step, step, step… up, up, up.  Miss a step and slide back a couple.  Sigh.  Try again.  Step, step, step.  Reaching new heights.  Going new places.  Becoming the best possible version of myself for His glory.

Yes, I think I see the metaphor now. 

The Right Season

I’m not one of those “everything pumpkin is a special blessing from God” people.  And I wouldn’t say autumn is my favorite time of year for many reasons, but after all the complaining is set aside, I do rather like autumn.

I like the brightness of the skies lit by a harvest moon.  I like the sunshine playing with yellow leaves hanging like golden drops of promise flying from summer’s hold.  Even the chilly rains of October are easier to endure when the walk is carpeted with orange.

The color of it all paints the world cheerfully.  I like that.

Inside, though, autumn is a sad time for me. 

My Grandma’s birthday was in autumn and I am not done missing her yet.  30 years isn’t long enough for me to stop talking about her.  “My Grandma made the best banana bread.”  “If my Grandma were here she would say she loves that!” 

It was autumn when she became sick for the first time.  Autumn when I walked to the hospital to see her after school.  Autumn when I realized I would lose her eventually.  Autumn signifies the end of my childhood. 

And so I don’t like autumn.

I know God understands this as He often places extra blessings in autumn for me so I can think on good things.  New school years start in autumn and I love that.  The leaves, as I said before, decorate the world in paintbrush fashion and I enjoy that.  After summer’s thick, musty air I breathe better in autumn.  And breathing, of course, is a good thing.

And it was autumn when He spoke to me first about going to Russia. 

I will spare you the details, but suffice to say it was on an autumn drive that I was discussing my future with God (some might say praying), when I felt absolutely certain that I was about to get direction.  I waited in anticipation.  Would my writing be picked up by a Christian publishing company and millions would be saved?  Would I somehow skip college and be a teacher who would influence poor, urban children causing them to realize their wildest dreams?  Maybe I would be a missionary to some romantic place like an island?  Oh the possibilities were endless!

I can see a much younger version of myself sitting in the Sunday School classroom.  I hear my friend’s voice repeating words that God and I had spoken of the day before.  I knew it wasn’t coincidence.  The anticipated direction was close at hand….. “Maybe God wants you to go to Russia.  Why not?”

My very spiritual, Christ-like, example-to-others reaction was to look out the window, into the sky and say, “Russia?  You’ve got to be kidding, right?” 

Now here I am 20 some years later enjoying my coffee and looking into my Moscow neighborhood.  Although I’ve not quite been here a year, this feels like home. 

Many autumns were lived between that conversation with God and today.  I find myself measuring my young woman’s expectations against my current reality.  The delay between the call and the answer is entwined in its own story of many chapters.  I often questioned.  I frequently doubted.  Toward the end of the delay I, Peter-like, denied the call when someone reminded me.  “Oh, no, I’m sure that won’t ever happen now.  That was for a different time in my life.  Not now.” 

But you know God is never late.  To Him there was no delay, no hesitation, no change of mind.  It was all right on schedule.  Looking back I can see Him training me, changing me, leading me, preparing me for this very autumn.  I wouldn’t have chosen the path which brought me here, but I’m glad for the knowledge it gave me.  There were some chapters God saw me through that I know were not His preference.   The choices and actions of others may have dragged out the plan, but the Planner didn’t change His plan for me. 

I am so glad that when I was presented with the question again, I had the right answer.  “Yes, I would be interested in teaching in Moscow.”

It’s not without personal cost to me.  I have left the young woman full of energy behind along the way.  I am a grandmother now with enough minor health problems to annoy me. Moscow exaggerates my weaknesses.  My children are grown now, which is good.  It would have been very difficult to raise children here.  But now I want to help raise my grandchildren which is impossible from this side planet.   We freeze joy in quick snapshots in an attempt to share life, but my arms are empty.  They live their daily joys and sadness without me and I miss every moment.

It’s not without cost, it’s true.  But it’s also not without extreme blessings.  Time for teaching and time for writing has opened new doors of ministry for me.  I am confident that the scriptures taught beside addition will make lasting impressions upon my students’ lives.  The older me appreciates this much more than my younger version would have. 

Yesterday I walked along an autumn lane with three of my younger colleagues.  We were given tickets to a ballet at The Bolshoi.  I love ballet!  The grace, the beauty, the strength, the romance, the story of it all!  All of my writer senses come alive in its presence. 

Grandma made sure I took ballet lessons as a child.  It’s an old friend full of lovely memories for me.  I feel the music and the little girl inside wants to twirl, leap, stretch!  For my colleagues, however, experiencing a ballet was something new. 

I watched their reactions with great interest reminded of my younger self.  I was full of words to describe the day, they were speechless.  I re-read previous chapters in my heart’s memories of other ballets.  They were making new notes on fresh pages.  It was nice to share it with them, to see it through fresh eyes again. 

Strolling with them I saw something that reminded me of my Grandma, but the melancholy was held in check by the blessing.  I find I can enjoy this autumn.  This is the day the Lord has made.  I can rejoice and be glad in it.

Partnering Post

I am currently luxuriating in home.  Hugging a lot.  Smiling a lot.  Sleeping a lot.  Eating a lot.  Reveling in Americanisms.  It's wonderful.  But I can feel myself getting quickly saturated and know it won't be long before I am full enough and rested enough and ready enough to begin the work of Moscow again.

It's hard to have my heart in two places.  I am thoroughly enjoying my time at home. But I miss my Moscow life - my students, colleagues, church friends.  I know I'm not quite done there.

Some people have asked how they can partner with me financially in Moscow.  As an Associate in Missions with the United Pentecostal Church International, donation receipts can be provided for tax purposes.  I have added a page to my website with links to my home church in Thorp, Wisconsin where partners can send donations.  I also included a link to the United Pentecostal Church website where donations can be made online.

Equally important to finances, I need prayer cover.  Each day there is a new challenge with new opportunities to share Christ in so many ways.  Pray that I see the open doors and seize the moments I'm given.  Pray for the church to continue to grow in faith.  Pray for the International School of Tomorrow to be a place where grace and truth flourish.  Pray for peace in the Ukraine.

If you want to be included on the email list, please stop by the website and let me know.  I will gladly add you.  We are, after all, in this together.

Here's the link to the Moscow Ministry Partner page:  MOSCOW MINISTRY

I will also be speaking at two churches on August 3rd
   Calvary UPC in Bloomington, Minnesota at 10:30 a.m.
   Pentecostal Assembly in Eau Claire, Wisconsin at 6:30 p.m.

Hope to see you here, there or in the air!

Shifting Success

Success.  The result of goals?  The result of calculated risks?  The result of God?

I have been giving a lot of thought to success lately. 

For one thing I am constantly harping about it to my students. “If you want to succeed in reaching Honor Roll, you must complete each day’s goals.  If you continually meet or exceed your goals, you will have success.”  That’s a goal thing.

Success hovers above me as I live this Moscow life, too.  Having found my way around the Metro was a particular kind of success.  Grocery shopping, ordering food at a restaurant in a foreign language, making friends – all successes checked off my invisible list.  That’s a calculated risk thing.

I am told I have been successful at raising my children and am asked for advice.  “How did you raise your sons so successfully?”  A question for which I have no response.  I honestly don’t know.  I ponder it often and shake my head in amazement at their successes, at their achievements, at their character.  Where did they come from?  How did my mistakes, miscalculations, misunderstandings allow them to become men of honor?  That’s a God thing.

I understand success in the business world.  After three, six, 12 months of employ, my work product and conduct has been evaluated and re-evaluated.  “You are too loud.  You are too assertive.  You do not speak up enough about problems.  You are not confident enough.”  My favorite?  “You work really hard and you do an excellent job, but you make too many mistakes.  You need to slow down.”  I cannot tell you how many times my lack of success has been connected to moving too fast and worrying too much about what should be done in a day.  I thrived on rising to the task, deflating the stress and being successful!

I have long held to the idea that if I could make my boss look better, then I had done my job well.  The best teams I have been on have allowed me latitude to be creative in insuring their success.  And I did make them look better.   I comprehend the importance of those business goals and agree with them.  I work hard to apply them to my personal business as I see their value. 

But now I’m engaged in another kind of business with a different set of parameters.  The business of education is much like an art project whose final pattern is not known for many years.  I have had passed to me certain impressionable minds and hearts.  I have the ability to break their creativity, to shatter their confidence, to frighten them away from dreaming big.  Equally, I have the opportunity to unlock their creative genius, to build their confidence, to strengthen their desire to dream impossible dreams.   Each day is another chance to fail or succeed.

The importance of this window of time is magnified in an international school such as this.  These lives are those of future leaders.  These children already speak two or three languages.  The likelihood that they will go through the next five years of education together is remote.  Rather, we will soon be only memories of one another scattered to the four corners. 

How do I measure the success of my work as an educator?  With more questions, of course.

Do they read better now than they did in October?  Can they work sums more quickly?  Do they know how to tell time?  Have they mastered a broader vocabulary?  Do they enjoy the art of learning?  Are their friendships stronger?  Is there a sense of community which builds them up?  Are they thriving?  Is there any tool lacking in their toolbox?

There is another layer.  I am also an Associate in Missions.  My purpose here is to share the goodness of Jesus Christ with Moscow.  People have invested in me financially and prayerfully to share in this project. 

I know how Americans generally gauge success of a church.  “How many in Sunday School?”  “How many baptized?”  “How many have received the Holy Ghost?”  How many?  Not many here.  It seems I am not much help at all to the missionaries I have been assigned to assist.  I must remember that that measure of success as an AIMer cannot be quantified by numbers. 

I need to change my perspective.  Shift my paradigms.  Rearrange my view.

I read in Luke 7 the other day how John the Baptist had sent followers to ask Jesus if He was the One sent from God.  You would think John wouldn’t have to ask considering all that he had seen and heard of Jesus, but still he worried whether he had done his job.  Had he pointed to the right guy that day on the beach?  What if he missed it? 

Jesus seems to ignore John’s question all together with his response.  “Then Jesus answering said unto them, Go your way, and tell John what things ye have seen and heard; how that the blind see, the lame walk, the lepers are cleansed, the deaf hear, the dead are raised, to the poor the gospel is preached.”  John 7:22. 

It seems to me He was saying, if you do whatever your hand finds to do – be quick to help someone see more clearly, help someone in their walk, reach out to everyone with grace – even the destitute despised by society – speak the truth, show someone how to be raised from their sins, share the good news…. Then you are successful.

My job isn’t to have results.  My job is to sow seeds.   With my students, with my colleagues, with every single person who crosses my path.  My success can only be measured by the One for Whom I work.  

Yes, I do have personal goals to achieve while I’m alive.  Yes, I do have a plan to reach those goals.  Yes, I will do my best to be the best possible Follower of Christ I can.  Yes, I will continue to engage myself in stretching further to serve Him better.

It’s true.  There are many ways to gauge success.  Based on that, I think this year has been successful so far.  It’s a good investment of my time and of your prayers and finances.  I can’t imagine what the final harvest will look like, but I am excited to see what God has in mind.  Thankful He trusts me to plant the seeds and represent Him.   

According to these paradigms, am I successful? 

Well, I have seen many opportunities to share joy with others.  I have watched children read the Bible with excitement who had never seen a Bible before.  I have held the hand of someone who asked for prayer and felt the sweet presence of God bring peace to them.   I have broken the Bread of Life with several discussing the ins and outs of how to walk with Jesus.  And more.

Not only me, of course, but my colleagues and friends who share this adventure with me.  And you, my readers, my supporters, you are a part of this success, too.  Your encouragement and finances provides me with opportunity I wouldn’t have otherwise.  I am only the mouthpiece emboldened by your confidence.

So, now, let me rephrase the question.  Have we been successful so far?  

Yep.  I think we're doing okay.  So far so good.

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