Masquerade

Do you ever just want to get a few people together in the same room, and have everyone be totally honest and humble about something that has been going on for months or years? To let your walls down and have everyone else let theirs down too? To say what has been too long unsaid? To cry together? And to leave the room better for it?

You want to. You say you do, anyway!

But you don't.

You don't let your own walls down because you're afraid the others won't let theirs budge.

You don't say the unsaid because you're afraid you'll be the only one.

The risk of being misunderstood keeps you from trying to understand.

And you try to hold back the tears, at least in public, because you're too proud to admit things matter so much to you.

Why are we like this? Why do we keep guessing what the others feel without asking? What if we all misjudged each other? What if our fear and pride are keeping us from experiencing true community and sincerity?

What if silence isn't keeping others from being hurt, but actually hurting them?

What if our good intentions of not hurting others are just fear and avoidance all dressed up?

Where do you draw the line between self control and healthy expression of your emotions and opinions?

The heart is deceitful above all things and desperately wicked, who can know it? --Jeremiah 17:9

Search me, O God, and know my heart;
Try me, and know my anxieties;
And see if there is any wicked way in me,
And lead me in the way everlasting.
--Psalm 139:23-24

there isn't time

Yaneilis has a beautiful smile and sweet spirit. Her gentleness could melt ice cold hearts. She is a teacher by nature, and loves to laugh—which is fortunate, because she has a high-stress job.

I worked at a desk caddy-cornered to Yaneilis 4 days a week, from January to May.  She is the administrator of the branch office in northern Santo Domingo. She is always answering calls, typing up contracts, or welcoming guests. She works under tight schedules, and she rarely leaves the office before 7PM. But she doesn’t complain. Instead, she serves with a love, joy, and peace that could only come from the Holy Spirit.

At 7:30AM on Tuesday, March 12, at 7:30AM, I was still in my apartment way on the other side of the city. I had just grabbed my lunch and put it in my backpack. I was all set. Then, my phone rang.

“Si?”

It was Ramona, one of the loan officers at the branch office.

“Abby, did you hear?”

“Hear what? I’m on my way,” I said.

“No,” Ramona answered. “Don’t come. No one is in the office. You haven’t heard, have you?”

“Heard what???” Her voice sounded heavy.

“Yaneilis’ brother was shot and killed last night. No one knows who did it, or why.”

“Was he a believer?”

“No, we don't think so. He hadn’t been walking with God for a long time.”

I walked about in a daze at the central office that morning. I called my family. I called my brother David, even though he was at work and it went to his voicemail. Then, I took a motorcycle down to the metro station. 

In the metro station, a metalwork sculpture hung on both sides of the tracks. On one side, blue and silver shapes seemed to depict a paradise in the clouds. On the other side, flames licked towards the ceiling, several stories high. I stared at the bright shards hanging on the station walls as I waited for the train. 

Armando 

Over the course of the next few days, I found out that Armando was a bus driver who would leave for work at 5AM every day. Everyone knew him as a hard worker, and a loving father to his two little girls, ages 3 years and 3 months old. On Monday, March 11, at 8PM, he was headed to the Syndicate of Transportation to turn in a portion of the fares he had earned throughout the day. The only other person in the bus was the cobrador, or the kid who calls out the route, and collects fares from the passengers. But he left the scene running after someone else jumped on the bus, fired 8 shots at Armando, and fled on foot—leaving Armando’s bleeding body and all his money in the bus.

As I stood on the platform waiting for the metro car, all I remember thinking was that the split second between a finger pulling a trigger and a bullet entering someone’s chest is not too short a time to cry for mercy. But who knew if he had cried out in that moment, like the thief on the cross? 

Who knew if he had called on Jesus, as my very own blood brother, David, cried out after he was hit by a car and suffered severe head injuries? In that moment, David screamed, “Jesus, help me! Jesus, help me! Jesus, help me!”

Jesus did help my brother, David—both then, and again when he threatened suicide. Because I had suffered the pain and fear of the possibility of someone so close to me nearly dying so suddenly, and without the assurance of their acceptance of Jesus’ forgiveness of sins—because of that, my heart had already imagined the pain Yaneilis was actually facing right now.

As I rode the metro car, my heart ached. I cried, for the first time in too long, for those beyond the hope of Christ. My soul echoed Paul’s words of desperation: “I could wish I were lost, that they might be found in Him.”

When I arrived at Yaneilis’ house, there were a couple hundred people sitting in plastic chairs on the street, under a makeshift tent which consisted of a big tarp stretched from rooftop to rooftop. Neighbors, the church family, my coworkers, and friends had all gathered to be with the family. Many had stayed awake all night in a tradition called the vigilia, and would keep staying with the family until after the body was embalmed and brought to the house for one night.  

I edged my way through the crowd, into the house. I saw a couple of women who looked almost identical to Yaneilis, so I guessed they were her sisters.

I made it into Yaneilis’ bedroom. There were my coworkers, sitting on the bed.

I approached cautiously, wanting to show love but knowing I couldn’t fix anything. I will never forget the words Yaneilis said to me as we hugged for longer than 5 minutes.

“Yo no voy a volver a sonreir. I will never smile again, Abby. How can I ever smile again?”

Yaneilis’ smile was famous in the office. It lit up her whole face with a tranquil joy and mature peace, imparting a soft beauty to her features. I couldn’t bear the thought that the pain would erase that smile. 

But as I saw Yaneilis’  mother engulfed in sobs, my heart ached. It isn’t fair. It isn’t right. Why should someone’s whole life be at the mercy of irrational, angry hands holding a gun?

All I knew to do was pray for strength. As we drove to the funeral the next day, no one in Yaneilis’  family had eaten or slept for more than 60 hours. Her mom was struggling with high blood pressure, and Armando’s girlfriend’s sobs ripped through the air:  

“Por qué lo mataron? Why did they kill him? Por qué lo mataron?”

In the midst of the wild grief of those around her, Yaneilis had a strange peace. She was the one who was strengthening her two sisters and her mom. It was exactly what we had prayed for her, but it had seemed improbable that God would grant her this peace that passes all understanding, even now.

The next days and weeks at work were difficult for Yaneilis. Her eyes were often wet with tears, and shone with a determination to go forward with life, however changed it might be. She was more serious, more quiet. We all knew she was suffering. But she did volver a sonreir.  Her smile lit up the office again. We know that she has hope that her brother believed in God for mercy and salvation, in spite of the problems he had in his marriage and how he left church. She has hope that he cried out and God heard his cry. And beyond that, she has hope that there is eternal life, and no matter what we lose here on this earth, even in our own family, we ourselves have still gained Christ. It brings immeasurable pain to lose a family member, but knowing Christ really does bring immeasurable joy. And it´s a joy only people like Yaneilis might ever experience so deeply on this earth.

In the week after Armando’s death,  two people told me they would get right with God another day—that they are young, and they have time. I wanted to scream at them: ¨You don´t have time! You don´t have time! Don´t you get it, you don´t have time!¨

My heart had awakened again to the necessity of making Christ known. Of living each moment to make Him known. Of redeeming my time. Of preaching the true Gospel, the very Words of God that truly cut to through hard hearts and change lives—before it’s too late.

Every moment lost is somebody’s too late. Somebody’s daughter, husband, sister, lover.

How is the way I am living today serving to know Christ and make Him known, while there is still time?

the kindness of our God

We always talk about God's grace, His mercy, love, truth, and justice. But for some reason, I don't often hear the word kind spoken to describe God.

That's a mistake. The Bible uses this word for God, and so should we: "For His merciful kindness is great toward us" (Psalm 117:2a). "For He is gracious and merciful, Slow to anger, and of great kindness;" (Joel 2:13b).

What do you think of when you hear the word kindness?

I think of unexpected, undeserved goodness.

I think of a microloan associate who invites you to sit down on a chair, even if they have to remain standing--and offers you a glass of water and a snack. I think of the random person on the street in Santo Domingo who warned my roommate to let the stranger who was following pass on ahead, because he was probably a thief. I think of the girl at the retreat last weekend in Sosua, who found me sitting alone and introduced me to all of her friends, thus guaranteeing that I would have a wonderful time. I think of a coworker sharing their lunch with another loan officer who is short on money.

The women in these experiences in the Dominican Republic showed unexpected, undeserved goodness to a stranger. In a way, it came out of nowhere--but in another way, it came out of hearts willing to sacrifice to serve others.

If you think about it, we were all strangers to God: "that at that time you were without Christ, being aliens from the commonwealth of Israel and strangers from the covenants of promise, having no hope and without God in the world" (Ephesians 2:13)

But the next verse tells how God showed His goodness to perfect strangers: "But now in Christ Jesus you who once were far off have been brought near by the blood of Christ" (Ephesians 2:14).

But now in Christ Jesus the verse says. God's kindness is first and foremost shown in sending Jesus to save us from our wretched lives of sin. Jesus is the ultimate expression of God's kindness to humankind.

Ephesians 2:4-7 "But God, who is rich in mercy, because of His great love with which He loved us, even when we were dead in trespasses, made us alive together with Christ (by grace you have been saved), and raised us up together, and made us sit together in the heavenly places in Christ Jesus, that in the ages to come He might show the exceeding riches of His grace in His kindness toward us in Christ Jesus."

The word "kindness" makes me think of a smiling father, looking down on His children. The greatest kindness God has shown His children, is not any material gift. It's Jesus Christ--because it's through Jesus Christ that we are His children, and He Himself is our greatest treasure. Enjoying a Father like YHWH is what Jesus died for us to be able to do.We are His precious children, and there's nothing more comforting. If you don't know quite what I'm talking about, close your eyes and listen to this song.

I'll close with one of my favorite passages, Isaiah 54:6-10:

For the Lord has called you
Like a woman forsaken and grieved in spirit,
Like a youthful wife when you were refused,”
Says your God.
“For a mere moment I have forsaken you,
But with great mercies I will gather you.
With a little wrath I hid My face from you for a moment;
But with everlasting kindness I will have mercy on you,”
Says the Lord, your Redeemer.
“For this is like the waters of Noah to Me;
For as I have sworn
That the waters of Noah would no longer cover the earth,
So have I sworn
That I would not be angry with you, nor rebuke you.
For the mountains shall depart
And the hills be removed,
But My kindness shall not depart from you,
Nor shall My covenant of peace be removed,”
Says the Lord, who has mercy on you.

falling: what really happened

After work on July 2,  in Santiago, Dominican Republic, I went on a run. It was getting dark, and I was worrying about being out alone in a neighborhood that was still new to me, even though my host family's house was right in front of the park. I was looking at the street, not at the path in front of me. All of a sudden, I slipped on gravel and ended up on the ground.

Like every good runner, I know you can't stop in the middle--it's bad for your heart rate! There was only a little blood, on my right knee and hand. So, I got up and kept going. I would be okay.

After another kilometer, I skipped a step so I could catch a glimpse of my knee. There was blood running halfway down my leg. I wiped it with my hand and kept going.

I haven't skinned my knee like that in at least 8 years. Over the next 10 days, I would walk out onto the roof of the house I am staying in, and cut off an aloe stalk to "anoint" my knee and my hand twice a day. That stuff really smells, but it works! And hey, 23-year-old skin doesn't heal as fast as 15-year-old skin!

I resisted the urge to cover up my battle scars, preferring to wear skirts to stay cool--even if it did mean telling the story to everyone I saw.

On July 12, just 10 days later, I was running in the same park. But now, I had already run there several times, so even though it was getting dark again, I felt more comfortable. I distracted myself with thoughts about the past few days, and the meaning of the song I was listening to.

Suddenly, skiiiiiiiidddd bam! I was on the ground again--in the exact same spot. This time, I landed halfway on my right side, so I had a lighter scrape on the side of my right knee, and the wound on my hand had reopened.

Well, I know what to do, I told myself. Keep running. After a bit I checked for blood, and there was none, on my leg at least. But my hand was throbbing with pain for the rest of the run.

After 3 and a half kilometers, I stretched and went inside to wash my cuts. At first, I didn't tell anyone. How stupid! I thought. It wasn't so much that I had fallen. What got me the most was that I fell in the exact same spot as before, at the same time of the evening. I should have known.

That night, as I climbed into bed, I carefully positioned my hand palm-up so I could sleep comfortably--but to no avail. I woke up 3 times before the sun came up, each time with a throbbing pain in my hand.

The next day, we went to a clinic to get it checked and cleaned out. It hurt a lot, but I think they got some gravel out of there.

I felt stupid, again, this time because I was in the hospital for something so small.

But, God works all things out for the good. I really, truly believe that. I see it all the time.

 In this story, I saw it in two ways--one tangible, and one intangible.

The tangible: In the clinic, my host brother and co-worker made 2 contacts with potential volunteer doctors for development work here. And, the receptionist decided not to charge me a single dime, even though he had said it would be $25 (which my insurance would have paid anyway.... but that's still nice).

The intangible: As I climbed up the stairs to the house after that second fall, I couldn't help but think I was being warned, in the most loving but obvious way possible.

I fell at first because I was afraid, and fear kept me from looking at the path I was on and focusing on the race I was running.

I fell the second time because I was distracted. I wasn't afraid, and I didn't need to be. But I should have been alert. I had fallen before, in that same spot, at that same time of night. I should have been watching.

In my life, too, I fall because I am afraid and distracted. In spite of the pain, with God's help, I get up and keep running, in reckless determination to lay hold of the One who laid hold of me. I also go to see the Great Physician who heals the sick and binds up my wounds. He has some kind of crazy spiritual aloe (aka the blood of the Lamb, Jesus) which He covers our wounds with. It brings deep, lasting healing.

The fall happens in the blink of an eye. But deep, true healing takes time.

Sometimes, even before the healing is complete, I forget what I just learned. I disregard the grace of God, and I let distractions take my eyes off of Christ and the race He has called me to run. And I fall hard--in the exact same sin as before. I'm not always alert as I should be, because my adversary, the devil is roaming about like a roaring lion, seeking whom he may devour. I let my eyes slip off of the goal again, and the exact same stones cause me to stumble, once again.

Just like the cuts on my hand, my emotional and spiritual wounds hurt, but re-opened wounds hurt like heck! And the healing process of digging all of that junk out of my life can hurt like heck, too. But that momentary pain in the clinic of YHWH Yireh, the God who restores, is worth it to relieve the pain that would result from trying to keep that junk inside the wound. The work He's doing in me can hurt like heck, but the healing He brings is more than worth it. As the wounds heal, if I don't try to hide them, I have plenty of chances to share how I messed up, but God corrected me and is healing me.

As I look at my hand now--another 10 days later--soft, pink skin has appeared where there used to be cuts so ugly no one wanted to shake my hand or give me a high-five. And no one has asked me about my knee in at least a week.

The healing is almost done, and if the skin that comes in it's place isn't exactly 100% as good as new, it will be a reminder of God's faithfulness to me in spite of my unfaithfulness.

I smile when I think of how God used such a situation to correct me in the face of very real struggles. He never ceases to amaze me with His gentle, creative, loving, and merciful correction!




Jeremiah 3:22
Return, you backsliding children, And I will heal your backslidings.

1 Corinthians 10:12-13
Therefore let him who thinks he stands take heed lest he fall. No temptation has overtaken you except such as is common to man; but God is faithful, who will not allow you to be tempted beyond what you are able, but with the temptation will also make the way of escape, that you may be able to bear it.

Jude 1:24-25
Now to Him who is able to keep you from stumbling,
And to present you faultless
Before the presence of His glory with exceeding joy,
To God our Savior,
Who alone is wise,
Be glory and majesty,
Dominion and power,
Both now and forever.
Amen.

Red Lights

From a journal entry written on January 25^th, 2013

Tonight, on the way back from a walk around the Colonial Zone with Omar and Rachel, Rachel asked Omar about all the white men with Dominican women.

“They’re paying for them,” he said.

“Well, some of them could be actual couples, right?” Rachel asked.

“80 to 90 percent are paying for it.”

“That’s sad.”

Just ahead of us, a tall, skinny hipster guy in his twenties, wearing a v-neck, salmon-colored shorts and Keds shoes, stopped in front of a pasta shop. He exchanged some brief parting words with a dark-skinned, curvy Dominican woman in bleached jeggings and a bright yellow shirt. Then, he turned left to continue his consumption—this time with pizza instead of human flesh.

The woman continued straight, her pace quickening with each step. I saw the light of a cigarette hit the ground in a sudden, angry movement. She was clutching her purse.

Rachel was asking Omar about Duarte and Trujillo, the forefathers of the Dominican Republic. But my own eyes followed the figure in yellow until she left the pedestrian street of the colonial zone, and turned right.

“Cruzamos.” Omar signaled for us to cross the street to the Parque de Independencia.

On the other side, we paused in front of the historical exhibitions for another Dominican history lesson. But my eyes wandered across the street, and settled on a public car driver, supporting himself with one foot against a wall. A woman wrapped her arms around his neck, and his hands rested on her backside. It was the same yellow shirt. She pulled away, dragging him by his hand for a few feet.

I looked back at the park and the exhibitions, but my mind couldn’t settle on old time heroes. I glanced across the street again. The driver had returned to his post next to his car, and the woman had resumed her brisk walk.

No deal.

Disappearing into La Mella (the poor neighborhood up the hill), she left me with a heavy heart.

“People, Help the People” is one of the songs I had on repeat that night in my apartment, just a few blocks away.

God knows what is hiding in those weak and sunken eyes

fiery throngs of muted angels

giving love but getting nothing back

People, help the people!

And if you’re homesick, give me your hand and I’ll hold it. . .

God knows what is hiding, in that world of little consequence
Behind the tears, inside the lies
A thousand slowly dying sunsets
God knows what is hiding in those weak and drunken hearts
I guess the loneliness came knocking
No one needs to be alone, oh save me

I asked God that night to never let my heart be indifferent to the suffering around me. The worst possible thing is that I can see the sex trade happening in front of my eyes, and look the other way.

Years ago, God opened my heart to the tragedy of human trafficking. It’s the most nefarious, grimy, terrible corruption known to humans. And it happens in your cities and states, wherever you live. There are 27 million modern day slaves in the world. The National Human Trafficking Resource Center estimates it's a $32 billion industry, with half coming from industrialized countries.

God answered my prayer within a week with an email from Exodus Cry, a Christian organization dedicated to the abolition of slavery through prevention, restoration, awareness, and prayer. As I read their monthly prayer update, one thing stuck out to me:

What you pray for on a regular basis, you will not stop caring about.

I am in traffic in Santo Domingo every single day, on the way to my mission work with HOPE International. And although red lights are frequently not observed here, there is plenty of commuter time to pray for this city, and the world.

This is my prayer for women and children trapped in the sex trade:

When I think of all this, I fall to my knees and pray to the Father, the Creator of everything in heaven and on earth. I pray that from his glorious, unlimited resources he will empower you with inner strength through his Spirit. Then Christ will make his home in your hearts as you trust in him. Your roots will grow down into God’s love and keep you strong. And may you have the power to understand, as all God’s people should, how wide, how long, how high, and how deep his love is. --Ephesians 3:14-18, NLT

God gave me my dream job!

Dear Friends,

I am so thankful for all of you! I love you all and I love seeing God work in us! 

 3 ½ years ago, I boarded a plane for the Dominican Republic. During that trip, we mixed concrete to lay floors for two women who had successfully paid off microloans to start their businesses and provide food, clothing, and education for their children. One of the clients we mixed for, Damaris, (center-right), travels to the capital to buy clothes, and then sells them to her neighbors. This was her first concrete floor, laid over bare earth and within aluminum walls. Microfinance has changed Damaris’ life and given her dignity! The clients we met had a very real sense of gratitude to God for the work He is doing through His servants. In the loan meetings, they often read Scriptures, sing praises, and share the Gospel! 

Since that trip, God has been so faithful to me! He has miraculously provided for summers spent sharing the Gospel in inner city Dayton and Indianapolis; a year off of college working in the country of Panama working as an accounting intern for a Christian organization; a semester studying abroad in Spain; and a degree in International Business at Cedarville University. He never ceases to amaze me! 

Now, God has been preparing me to leave for the mission field again—on January 4^th! Through a period of only part-time employment, I had more time than ever to seek His face, and I had to trust Him when doors closed. But I didn’t realize I would be going back to HOPE in the Dominican Republic, as an Operations Fellow! 

The fellowship is a 1-2 year position where I will be providing financial analysis, planning, and other business support in the central office in Santo Domingo, as well as traveling throughout the country to visit microloan clients and analyze their businesses. My dream is to one day use my business skills and experience in missions to teach women rescued from sex trafficking how to start and operate their own small businesses—so this is an incredible opportunity for me!

Please pray for me! Pray that God would prepare the hearts of those who will hear the Gospel and receive loans. Pray for an astounding harvest and revival in the local churches! Pray that God would unify the team. Pray that He would direct me to a church where I can grow and contribute. Pray that He would give me boldness to speak the Gospel clearly! Pray that my heart would be hidden in God!

HOPE will provide my housing expenses while I am there, but I will need about $540/month to cover food, necessities, insurance, work-related travel within the country, and airfare. I will be living as simply as possible. God told me to give away my 1999 Corolla (Acts 2) instead of sell it to help with the expenses, so I did, with a mustard seed of faith! I know that my God will supply all of my needs according to His riches in glory in Christ Jesus! Please consider partnering with HOPE’s work by making a tax-deductible gift. Any amount helps, however small! To give monthly or just one time, go to www.hopeinternational.org, click DONATE on the upper right, enter the amount, designate it for “General – Other (please specify below)”, and type in my name (Abigail Eustace) on the line below. 

You will all be in my prayers as well, and I will do my best to stay in contact with you! If you want to receive email updates from me, just send me an email at abigaileustace90@gmail.com.

Thank you so much for your prayers and support, and for your friendship! May God bless us all this Christmas, and show us how to live like the One whose birth we celebrate.

                                For His Glory,

                                          Abigail 

Submission, Part I

Submission.

“I don’t even know what that is,” I confessed to God. Not really, truly, and deeply. 

I had just spent four months in a city with no curfew, free to come and go and immerse myself in Andalusian culture at all hours of the day and night, anywhere my feet or bicycle could take me. With my nostrils still full of the aroma of orange blossoms, my eyes still wet from tearful farewells, and my tongue still finding my way around the English language all over again, I prayed,

“God, teach me submission.”

I unpacked my bags just long enough to empty the souvenirs, and pack them again for 10 weeks of inner city ministry in Indianapolis.

That first weekend in Indiana we spent at a beautiful campsite with all the interns and staff. Everything started with a prayer walk—and one of the “stops” was to pick up and read a letter written to us by our mentors. The “mentor” I had chosen was a woman from my church I loved dearly, yet barely knew.

“God is going to prune you,” she wrote. It was a long letter. He does this because He loves me, so I can bear more fruit. And when the pain seems too much to bear, wrap your face in His robes and cry, there at His feet. He will heal you in those moments, she said. Everyone had finished the prayer walk, but I was re-reading the pages of my letter, my eyes brimming with tears. My spirit bore witness with her spirit that this prophecy would come true. It moved me to think of God’s love for me as His precious daughter.

Soon, the summer had taken off and we were sweating hours in the sun, leading eager 12 year-olds in demolishing old houses down to the frames, to rebuild them as dwelling places for the poor. I was also teaching English to immigrants and interpreting at a women’s center. I was always busy, but as a friend warned—being busy is not what really matters. What matters is that we sit at the feet of Jesus, and learn from Him. We learn wait for Him, to rejoice in His presence, to drink from the cup in His hand.

I wanted that. God wanted that for me, He INVITED me. But I was so busy. Busy looking back: back to Spain, back to the college I would leave for a year, back to Dayton where my family was. Facebook "helped" me do all this looking, instead of looking to God, and delighting myself in His abundance (Isaiah 55:2).

The ache in my heart for Seville, mi querida ciudad, grew with each day. Suddenly, my upcoming trip to Panama seemed a horrible idea. How could I keep going like this, leaving behind my family and my church people I love to make new friends in a new culture and a new host family, and then leave them behind, too?

“God, I’m not made for this. I’m not strong enough. It hurts too much, God!” I cried.

God just listened, and waited. “Therefore YHWH will wait, that He may be gracious to you” (Isaiah 30:18a). 

One day after interpreting at the women’s center for an abortion-minded client from Guatemala, my heart ached with a mix of compassion, inadequacy, and discouragement. I had never felt what this women felt, who had her first child at age 14. Now she was 21, but hadn’t seem her son since age 17. Now she was in a new land, alone and pregnant. Imagínate. Just imagine.

“No, I can’t imagine,” I said. In my heart I knew God had called me to minister to women rescued from sex trafficking, and this was just a step in that direction, but in my fear I heard and accepted the lie that I was unworthy and uncapable of doing what God had called me to.

“I can’t do this. I don’t know how that feels. I can repeat what the interpreter says but I can never do this myself--training or no training. I don’t have the words to say, not for that. If I do business as mission, I can teach the business. Someone else can sort through all the heartache--someone with a counseling degree."

That weekend, I went to Richmond, Indiana for a youth worship service. My brother David came from Dayton, and Richmond was the halfway point. It was also the location of the boarding school where God transformed David, and took him from a life of addiction and desperate, unfulfilled pursuit—to a vibrant, free life in the Holy Spirit.

As I worshiped, I was surrounded by strange and beautiful expressions of praise, but these were intermingled with manifestations of other spirits. Girls whipped around wildly or yelled haphazardly.  There was a battle between truth and lies, light and darkness, right in that moment.  I knew we were worshiping God, but I could smell the battle. It was a familiar scent, of a battle I did not want to—and even said I could not—fight.

Inadequacy swept over me again.

“God, show me a sign for good. If You’re here in this place, if You care—really care—about me! Little old me! Then I will be selfish enough to ask You to show up here. Because I need You. I need to know we are somehow reaching a feeling, caring, live, listening, seeing, breathing God with our praises, and that You overcome evil. I need to see it.”

I began to weep. “God, You only know how much I need you. I am dry, weary, alone, and sad. Unequipped and inadequate. How can anyone see Jesus in me? How can I do the work You called me to do?”

I stopped. I waited. 

“You are called to minister to the nations!”

I looked up. The director of the girls’ dorm was praying for me. I recognized her, but we had never spoken.

“The same God who called you is willing and able to take you through it. Do not doubt His calling on your life! He will do what He has promised!"

Tears gathered beneath my closed lids. 

She continued: “You are NOT destined to make the same mistakes your mother has made, or other people in your family! The buck stops here! You will walk in God’s steps! You will be a woman who nurtures the heart of her husband and lovingly cares for her children!”

I wept.

If a perfect stranger can be so connected to the Holy Spirit that their words go directly to my heart without having ever spoken a word, exactly after I had desperately pleaded for God’s help—why couldn’t I do the same?

I could! I can! I do! The same Spirit lives in me!

I am not a counselor, I am not a nurse, I am not an expert. But I have the Holy Spirit. “My grace is sufficient for you. .  . My power is made perfect in weakness.”

The summer passed quickly, but not without moments of testing. I had to humble myself, ask for forgiveness, and keep going.

Soon, it was time for Panama. I bought the ticket at last because God said,

“Tarshish, the belly of the fish, or the dry tree of complaining? Which one do you want? Or will you just take My way? The way that goes straight to Panama, your Ninevah filled with blessings—because it is the way I have chosen for you.”

I couldn’t really argue with that, so I decided not to. I was Abigail, a wise a pure woman, a Father's pure joy--not Jonah. I wouldn't be Jonah, I said. But in my heart, I still doubted God’s goodness in leading me there, away from everyone I loved, all over again. 

That's why our hearts are called "deceitful above all things, and desperately wicked". He knew what He was doing. It all went back to that one word, that solitary request for submission which I had nearly forgotten. . . .