It was sneaky how the idea of traveling the world surfaced again. But, unlike other major decisions, this one was made with more hesitancy—like the way that oil and water slowly decide they should in fact drift apart. I think I know the cost of this undertaking—of spending 5 more months in third-world countries.
Honestly, I’m not a great missionary. Mother Teresa can have her Calcutta. I’ll stay home and share the gospel here. With my clean water and Pringles.
But, for the past 5 weeks, I’ve had this tiny feeling simmering in my soul, ever so gentle and quiet, but bubbling nonetheless. I’ve come to realize that this tiny feeling is hope—a feeling that is as overlooked in my life as crumbs underneath a breakfast table.
This past season has been one of tumultuous change—that kind of change that leaves you with the same feeling as those first few hours after taking down Christmas: a barrenness and a faint melody of a song no longer appropriate. This has been a season where my words have felt bare, unable to twist and wrap around what I feel. It’s been a season of guessing more than faith-living. It’s been a season of fewer meeting of souls.
Instead, it’s been a very quiet season filled with candles, paintbrushes and hard truths. It’s been a season of demolition—of tearing down structure upon structure and removing the remains of the past. I don’t know if there was a lot of building up of new buildings in this season, but there is ground to build upon that was never open before.
Sometimes I think that’s all we need going into a new season, really: a little bit of hope that things will be different. We don’t need things fancy or sparkly, the way we all though college would be. We need different—a hope that the battles won will count toward our next season.
I don’t regret the depth of the struggles of the past season; they’ve spoken too much over who I am. I’m not a big fan of challenging and desperate times. But, they are much more valuable to me than the lovely soft places I’ve happened upon.
I think that’s what I’m banking on as I head back out onto the field in September: hope that the pain of this past season will be redeemed by the challenges of this new season. I am hoping that all those quiet moments will count.
So, my friends, here’s to hope!
Here’s to the moments not enjoyed, the songs still unsung!
Here’s to the long bus rides, and to not being home!
Here’s to Jesus, my love, and all that I know!
Here’s to hope, my friends. Here’s to hope!
Mueller, not Bueller 