Saturday, November 2, 2013

Frightened Tears.

I sit quietly in my cozy garden apartment, snuggled up on the red couch with my computer. Hiding away from the cold rain on this the last day of October, the day I commemorate the beginning of my faith, I put the finishing touches on my newsletter. A harsh voice breaks my peaceful work - SHUT UP!

Harsh voices were rarely used in my childhood, except for the most dire circumstances. GET OUT OF THE STREET! DON'T TOUCH THE STOVE! And probably something like WHAT HAPPENED??? when we broke the glass light cover and sliced open my 3 year old sister's knee. Even under those circumstances, the motive behind the raised voice was not anger. I've always been sensitive to even a firm tone, yelling especially frightens me.

SHUT UP!!

A little flame of fear instantly flickers into being in my chest at the tone. A little girl is crying, probably three or four years old. The irate mother's anger aggravates rather than softens her sobs.

SHUT THE **** UP!

More crying, frightened tears.

A fourth outburst with more swearing causes the child to try to contain herself, but with little success. My heart breaks for this little girl. And just as anger starts to rise against the mother, my heart breaks for her as well. This woman who is broken and bruised and doesn't know how to not take out her pain on her child. This woman who is enmeshed in her sin, who has nurtured her anger, who doesn't know the healing love and forgiveness of Christ. It frightens me to think of many out there are just like her - hurting and afraid, angry and violent, desperately wicked and desperately in need of the love of the Savior.

When I look around this city I see so many full of anger, quietly cold, simmering, boiling over.  What have you gotten me into, God? Anger frightens me, but the people you have called me to are steeped in it. Passing down through generations, across to their peers, it spreads like poison.

To quote a wise sage, "Fear leads to anger, anger leads to hate, hate leads to [darkness]." Sometimes it seems like darkness is swallowing this city. But perfect love casts out fear. Over and over again, hundreds of times, God tells his people not to fear. Do not be afraid.

The voices of the woman and her child fade from earshot, passing by the wrought iron gate and continuing north. The cozy, peaceful feeling of just seconds before has fled. I am left with the growing burden, now more urgent, to bring the Good News to the streets of Chicago.

Friday, September 20, 2013

The one on giving.

Some people should not be giving. They just really can't afford it. They shouldn't worry about helping others when they are looking after themselves. 
This is a secular, faithless thought that enters my head. What?? John Smith gave? But... I remember he said such and such. Why is he giving? 
Often we think, "The people who have a lot of money, they should give. Once I have more, I'll give too." 
There are finance classes circulating several churches, helping people to develop financial peace. This is admirable, as many are in debt and want the skills to be more responsible. But many of these classes also say, "Don't give until you are stable, firmly situated with a nice cushion, just in case." 
This makes sense, right?
Does it?
It depends what kind of sense you want to make. 

Couple things I've learned in life: (in the vast 23 years of it!)
- Living by faith and not by sight is hard. Whether it's Abraham leaving home for the unknown and waiting for a promised but absent son, John Smith waiting for the next paycheck, Jane Doe giving away something she actually really needs, or Missionary Bob trusting God will provide, faith is hard.
- Safety nets are wonderful. I'm not sure I would have made a good disciple. When Jesus sent the 12 out to preach, he told them not to bring any food, extra clothes, or other supplies. I like being prepared - making do without or depending on others is hard.
- Giving is often rewarded. Not only can it bring us closer to God as an act of worship, there is also joy in giving and helping others. And (not always, but sometimes) what we give may be replaced or even increased. 

Couple things I've learned through God's Word:
-Without faith, it is impossible to please God. Seeking out a life that makes me OK without God is like saying - "Thanks, but I got this. If I need you, I'll give you a ring." Check out the parable of the man who was blessed with a lot and built a second barn to store it all in. (side note: I'm not saying being financially stable is a bad or godless thing, just that seeking it above all else isn't exactly biblical. The stable, wealthy women who supported Jesus and his ministry are spoken of highly).
- Generous, cheerful, often sacrificial giving is strongly encouraged and praised. Living with an open palm was the norm for the early church. 


I am guilty of clinging to financial security. A friend recently reminded me to not stress so much about my savings account. But I am learning, and trying to grow. Can I "afford" to support a missionary? No, not really. But I do. I make other things work around it. And there are a few other missionaries I wish I could support (and hopefully will once my paycheck isn't being swallowed whole by bills). If we are to seek first God's kingdom and his righteousness, should we not give to it first as well? 

So when that passing thought sneaks into my head, "Why and how is John Smith giving?" Or worse, "I certainly can't give," I will smack it right back out. Why?
Because giving is not about the amount or the apparent ability.

Giving is about the heart. It is about an attitude of selflessness and caring for others and obedience to God. 

I am blown away by so many who practice this. There are many John Smiths in my life who give out of love and obedience who want to be part of God's work and get in on the action. I'm excited they get to share in the blessing. I am amazed by all those who give, from $5 to $150 a month, because they give joyfully what God has enabled them to give.  And I overflow with thanks and praise to God.

 "Remember this: Whoever sows sparingly will also reap sparingly, and whoever sows generously will also reap generously. Each man should give what he has decided in his heart to give, not reluctantly or under compulsion, for God loves a cheerful giver. And God is able to make all grace abound to you, so that in all things at all times, having all that you need, you will abound in every good work... Now he who supplies seed to the sower and bread for food will also supply and increase your store of seed and will enlarge the harvest of your righteousness. You will be made rich in every way so that you can be generous on every occasion, and through us your generosity will result in thanksgiving to God. This service that you perform is not only supplying the needs of God's people but is also overflowing in many expressions of thanks to God. Because of the service by which you have proved yourselves, men will praise God for the obedience that accompanies your confession of the gospel of Christ, and for your generosity in sharing with them and with everyone." 2 Corinthians 9:6-14

Sunday, August 4, 2013

The line on the yellow folder.

"I want to be on Jesus' side."

The yellow folder lay on the table between us, a line drawn down the middle, one side labeled "Jesus," across the line, "Other."
Just before, she had asked, "Isn't everyone Jesus' friend?" I wanted to say yes. I wished I could say yes. But the hard truth, the truth no one really likes hearing or saying, must be spoken. And so the quickly sketched line and scrawled words on the yellow folder demonstrated that there is no neutral ground.

"I want to be on Jesus' side." Her finger indicated which side she meant.

"Based on what we've talked about this week and on the verses we've been studying, what do you have to do to be on His side?"

She shrugged. "Follow God."

The other kids piped in - the kids I was growing to love. The pastor's daughter, Emma. The missionary's son, Thomas. The ever-confident Ellie. These piped in - "And you have to repent." "And accept Jesus as your savior." "And believe that he died for your sins." I only met these kids three days ago. But I am oh, so proud of them.

I wanted to push her, to coax her to pray and believe right at that moment. But too often have I seen children raise a hand or pray a prayer just because they are asked - true belief goes deeper than that. True belief doesn't need to be coaxed.

More than a prayer, I wanted her to count the costs. To truly follow Christ. To accept that He is the only way, not just a good way. For she still believed it was Jesus and being good.

She opted to wait a little bit, maybe tomorrow.

But tomorrow came, and she seemed distant and disconnected. During song time, she sat with her face scrunched into a frown.

"Is there something wrong?" She shook her head no, not looking at me. "What's wrong?"

Face unscrunched a little, she looked away. "I'm just bored."

"You lie like a rug," I thought. But I didn't push it.

Previously so close to accepting Christ's sacrifice for her, she continued the day detached whenever spiritual things were brought up. When asked why she didn't want to bring a bible or her verse crafts home, she sighed heavily and evasively replied, "It's a long story."

Suddenly it dawned on me: her parents must have corrected her when she went home with tales of the gospel.

The week of VBS is now over. I wanted it to go on and on, week after week, that I might continue learning to teach better and getting to know these kids. I may never see Charlotte again, we met at a different church than I go to, in a different suburb than I live in. I wonder, if I had pushed harder, made a clearer invitation to receive Christ, taken her aside, done anything differently - would she then have become a Christian? But no, it is not a prayer or a profession of faith that saves, but faith itself. I don't want to talk her into stepping across the line on the yellow folder. She must choose it herself.

She now knows the truth. It is up to God to help her believe it.



Sunday, July 14, 2013

When I Am Like Peter.

I suddenly felt like Peter. 

I had asked the Lord to tell me to step out, and he called me out upon the water. I felt the thrill of the miraculous - but then I glanced away. My steps faltered, froze, then my feet started thrashing as suddenly I plunged into the water and waves crashed over me. I coughed and sputtered, my eyes stung. The wind howled and swept away the shouts of my friends in the boat,  moments ago mere steps away, now unreachable. As I struggled to keep my head above the water, I turned back to them for help - surely they would toss a rope or row over to me. But to my surprise, they were preoccupied with keeping the boat afloat, saving their own lives - though some seemed to be shouting to the man behind me. 
I, of all people, ought to be able to survive this. I who have been a fisherman my whole life, who swam nearly as soon as I could walk. I, who love the water and the wind and the rain, who survived storm after storm. I should be able to handle this.

But I couldn't. And just as desperation seized me, and I cried out "Lord! Save me!" a hand grasped firmly mine, and he who had called me out pulled me up. "O you of little faith, why do you doubt?"

Was that a spark of amusement in his eyes? Sorrow coating his voice? Perhaps a mixture of both. For to him, it is such a small matter, and he knows all will be fine. Not mockery in his smile, but wistfulness and love. "Oh little child, if only you knew." I know he wants me to believe and trust, and my fear and doubt and subsequent pain saddens him. 

When my nephew was only a few months old, he would cry and cry and cry. I would sing, trying to soothe and distract him, the words slightly different each time.
"Baby Patrick, Baby Patrick, I know your tummy hurts, that's so sad. 
 Baby Patrick, Baby Patrick, I hate to see you mad.
 Baby Patrick, Baby Patrick, you wouldn't be so blue,
 Baby Patrick, Baby Patrick, if you knew how I loved you."

If only he could understand how very loved he was, his fears and pain might dissipate. If only we could understand the magnitude of God's love, we might be more willing to trust.

No matter how skilled I am at "swimming," no matter the experience I have cultivated through my past in missions, I must rely on faith moment by moment. Faith is the assurance of things hoped for and the certainty of things unseen. I must seek the assurance and certainty that Christ is who he says he is and will accomplish what he said he will, that which he called me to. If he says to come walk on the water, he will enable me to do so - not by my power or skill, but by his. 

After all, his power is made perfect in my weakness.

Thursday, July 11, 2013

Prayers of Gratitude.

Her face alight with interest, she nods in agreement at something I say, takes a sip of her coffee. People mill around us but they are out of focus, muted. Some remote part of me knows my eyes are shining with excitement, every part of me tingling and alive. Recounting what God has done, painting pictures of the girls and boys I worked with at ICI, tracing the paths God took me down to get to this point - it's thrilling. I silently shoot up a prayer of gratitude for this person God has brought into my life, someone also passionate about reaching Chicago for Christ. 

Thank you, Lord, for the opportunity to speak for missions, to help others find joy in serving you, to share what you have called me to do.  


I review my excel sheet, inputting numbers, scrolling up and down, back and forth, clicking from one screen to another. And blink tears from my eyes. God's faithfulness, the faithfulness of you who  take part in my work with ICI - it blows me away. I see how you have given month after month. I see you who have recently joined my team, joined with me in reaching these inner city kids. There are 40 of you who give repeatedly, almost 20 more who give special gifts. And more than 80 additional, you pray. "The prayer of a righteous man is powerful and effective."

Thank you, Lord, for the multitude you have called to come alongside me, to encourage and uplift me, to love your gospel and the kids in Chicago. 


In discussing the process of support raising recently, I reflect on how it is preparing me. The endurance and perseverance I am learning test my commitment - hands-on ministry will require these. Reliance on God, financially, emotionally, relationally - this also will be further needed once I start. The furthering of practical skills such as initiating relationships and intentional conversation is essential to developing disciples. And I learn again and again to increase my faith in God's faithfulness.

Thank you, Lord, for teaching me through support raising. For the preparation you do in my life now for the future. For using this time to further mold me into your likeness. 

Tuesday, July 9, 2013

Red Thermometer.

There is a red thermometer sketched on the white board on the fridge in my and Karin's house. It tells me daily, sometimes rejoicing, sometimes mocking: 43%43%. 
It has been at that level for a while. I hit 40% at the beginning of May - it is now July. I have met with several people, increased 3%. I have 57% left to go - in just under 2 months. If I continue at this rate, by my projected "start date" I won't even be at 50%. 

I often get distracted and discouraged. One day I spent nearly the whole day reading. Reading. A fantasy novel. About zombies, of all things. (Not really a fan of zombies. At all. It tricked me.)

I easily get swallowed up in my failings and kick myself for not being more diligent, more responsible, for not presenting the ministry well or not specifically inviting people to join my team. If I just worked harder, if I just stayed focused, if I were better I could reach my goal, be a "good missionary." Or at least support raiser.

It's time to forget what is behind and strain for what is ahead. To press on toward the goal to win the prize.
But that's taking that out of context. That's not at all what the verse is talking about. It's not about attaining whatever your goal is, but attaining Christ

"I want to know Christ, and the power of his resurrection, and the fellowship of sharing in his sufferings, becoming like him in his death, and so, somehow, to attain to the resurrection from the dead. Not that I have already attained all this, or have already been made perfect, but I press on to take hold of that for which Christ Jesus took hold of me. Brothers, I do not consider myself yet to have taken hold of it. But one thing I do: Forgetting what is behind and straining towards what is ahead, I press on toward the goal to win the prize for which God has called me heavenward in Christ Jesus." - Philippians 3:10-14

Seek first, then all else will be added. According to God's timing, will, and discretion. My striving attains nothing, but in seeking Him I have all I need.

Monday, June 10, 2013

Due credit.

Recently I received an anonymous gift. It left me speechless and touched. And very much out of control. As far as I know, it was from nothing that I did, I cannot trace any of my own efforts that resulted in the gift. There's nothing I can do after receiving it. I don't know who to thank, I can't give credit where it's due.

 And yet I can, for in giving - and receiving - the greatest credit goes to God. My support level so far is due to God's work, not my own. Those who give do God's work as surely as the work I will be doing is His work. 


By nature, I want to give credit to someone - someone must be praised. Yet I am forced to give all praise to God. 

And this is how it should be.

Tuesday, June 4, 2013

High Schools and Lilacs

"Just Dance"  at youth event

I haven't had much chance to interact with youth lately. I look back on all I've done with ICI, and I look forward to being with them again, but currently my focus is all on support raising so I can get there quickly. My small group at church hosted a youth outreach - a video game tournament with guest artists, testimonies, and a presentation of the gospel. I'm not a huge video game person, but it turned out pretty fun! I went to the high school a couple times in the past week to hand out fliers and invite students. And boy, did it feel right! 

Being at the high school as throngs of teens surged around me made me so excited. I wished I was doing this for an ICI event, that I could actually get to know many of these kids long term. I could follow up and hang out and see them frequently. 
As I passed out fliers, I found myself seeking eye contact and interaction more with the demographic that I'll be working with in Logan Square and Humboldt Park. My gaze slipped over the primly dressed blond kid to catch the eye of a young latino or a lanky black teen. No, wait, offer fliers to the white kids too. I guess I have a bias!  
It made me so excited for when I'll be at Inner City Impact and get to do this every day. Interact with students. Bright, young, fresh, hurting, angry, excited, timid, insecure, cocky, imaginative, creative, lonely, lost students.  September, here I come!

But in order to get to ICI, I need to have 100% of my support raised. In order for that to happen, I need to share the ministry and invite people to join my team. To do that i have to get appointments to talk with them. To do that I have to make phone calls. *sigh* Therefore - make those phone calls! Tonight I get to talk with two different people about ICI. I'm excited!

In other news, my birthday was in May. The celebration of it stretched from the 21st to the 31st as I celebrated early with family who were going to be out of town (Edwardo's and Olive Garden), on time with a couple friends (brunch, late night swimming, and a conference call with my whole family!), and late for a weekend celebration with others (tacos at my place, cake made by my housemate Karin, topped off by the hat game). I am so blessed to be loved by all these people! And I am excited for another year of life. This past year was so eventful and life changing. I can trace God working and guiding me throughout the year as well as through years before that.
Also exciting: Lilacs are blooming! I brought some inside, and will probably go get more before they fade away. Lilacs are close to being my favorite flower, they smell so rich and sweet. If the whole world smelled like lilacs, violence would go down 85%. Let's get planting!
(The other thing we should plant is seeds of the gospel. That actually has a higher probability of decreasing violence).

Thursday, May 9, 2013

Prayer.


I'm blown away by how much prayer makes a difference. By how spending time on my knees before Him - listening, praising, requesting - fills me with confidence and peace. By how miserable I sometimes am if I don't take time to pray. And by how I can see God clearly and specifically answering prayer.

I often look at the list of people who may be interested in the opportunity to be involved in my work with ICI and make excuses for them. They're probably too busy to meet, they probably can't give, they probably only care about overseas missions. I shouldn't even bother them. Recently I've considered removing a few from that list. I tried unsuccessfully to contact some, and am pretty sure others just won't be interested. A few days ago I sat down, looked at those names, and prayed. Should I continue to pursue them, or just highlight and tap "delete"? I decided to wait and see if God might give me some insight. "Lord, open doors, give me clarity of thought and speech, help me to know if I should contact them or just give up."

That very day one of those people contacted me.

The next another approached me after church, overheard my conversation with a ministry partner and wanted to know more. 

Immediate, direct answer to prayer. 

Why do I doubt?

God doesn't always answer the way I want him to. Some of the people I've asked Him to bring on my team He already has involved in other ministries. "No, Cristina, these aren't the ones. I have different plans for them. And others I want you to know." 

He doesn't always answer that clearly or quickly. I've spent long hours crying out to Him on behalf of family or friends, asking why He delays. I've asked for clear direction for a decision in my life only to realize I have to make it on my own using the wisdom and reasoning He's already given me. I can't always see the results of my praying.

But His clear involvement in all that I'm doing now gives assurance that I am doing the right thing. That my progress in support raising is definitely not by my own doing. And I know it is not just my prayer, but all of your prayers He is answering. Thank you!
Side note: My neighbor's tree is blooming. I love spring!

Thursday, May 2, 2013

Just one of those days.


I sit reclining in the driver's seat of my car (which I am still amazed that I even have), feet propped in the corner of the open window. Cool spring breezes alternate with the heat of the engine blowing through the vents. I stare at the trees swaying in the wind, listen to the rustling, whispering of the branches. The leaves are still young, having only appeared a day or two ago. The trees are black silhouettes against a cloudy sky, city lights casting a pink-tinged glow. Something that had been uptight slowly starts to unwind in my chest. The rumbling idle surrounding me like a breathing giant, the distant sound of cars, and the wind talking with the trees are soothing.

Sitting in a car at night makes me feel safe. It reminds me of the countless times my family traveled. As we neared home I would gradually wake up from dozing but keep my eyes closed. My parents' murmured conversation from the front reminding me that all was right in the world. My now feigned sleep kept the spell hovering in the air, knit together by hushed words, dark night, and the constant gentle shake of the engine. As we turned into the driveway, Dad would shift into park and just wait. There would be a few seconds before Mom said "We're... Home!" As the car idled, I wanted that moment to last forever.

Now nearing my 23rd birthday, having taken on many of the responsibilities of an adult and watching several more loom on the horizon, I feel so old and yet so very young and inexperienced. I just want to be that little girl again, cherished and protected by her parents. All is right in that world, packed into a car with my two siblings sleeping beside me, my family all together, so close and quietly content.

The moment the key is turned and the engine dies down is a sharp reminder of reality. We have to go inside to squint at bright lights and brush our teeth, awakening lulled senses, trade warm clothes for more comfortable pajamas, crawl between cold sheets and wish that the bed had an engine that could sooth us back into oblivion.

Maybe that's why I'm still sitting outside in my car more than an hour after getting home. I want to delay reality, to be safe and loved - ironically alone in my car filled with nostalgia. I'm overwhelmed by the irrational desire to move back home with my parents, where responsibilities are measurable and acceptance and understanding are a constant.

Now, we all have our off-days, when it seems we got out on the wrong side of the bed (though the other side is against the wall, so I'm not sure how that works). But here's the thing: I've spent a good part of the evening trying to find something to make me feel better - food, chocolate, friends, TV, a trip to the store, sitting in the car. I've been trying to fix myself with all the things I know that help. But I've neglected what can help most.

He'll quiet me with His love, rejoice over me with His song.
He'll hide me in the shadow of His wings.
He restores my soul.
He cries with us, rejoices with us. And provides things like the wind to remind us of His goodness.
I am reminded to seek Him.

Yet I think its OK once in a while to allow the gentle vibrating hum of the car to lull me into contentment, to find solace in the physical that brings forth the memories of a treasured past. It makes me want to cry from relief. Or maybe I want to cry because its just been one of those days, where tears are inexplicable and a good long, solid mom-hug (or dad-hug!) is the only thing that can right a skewed world. 

To be honest, this - writing this - is also a way to quiet whatever is irrationally, inexplicably wrong tonight. Writing, guitar, piano, crafting - creative expressions make the world better.
And I think that is a gift. Something God gives us to deal with the stresses of life, something tangible. For others it may be running, or gardening, or sports, or - well, you know what helps you. If we have the right intentions, these can be an act of worship, of gratitude, of trust, using the gifts he has given us to handle life. 

So maybe it's a good thing I took time to simply sit in the car, watch the trees dance and let the words flow.

And maybe now I should let my poor engine rest and go inside.

Wednesday, April 24, 2013

Widow's Mites.


I held the cash loosely in my hand, touched by the man's generosity. Tall, well-built, clean cut, he offered only a first name, saying he was part of a ministry down the street. Delighted to meet a fellow minister in the service of Christ, I tried to remember if I had heard of it before. I was mildly confused as he explained the gift he had just slipped into my hand came from a small weekly stipend - his only source of income. Most ministries are able to compensate their leaders appropriately if they ask for full commitment. 
  
The lobby of the church cleared out as people hurried home to cook dinner or find a table at their favorite restaurant. My stomach growled, reminding me of the time. I was privileged to talk about my ministry with ICI during the morning service and had been meeting people afterwards. One of the things I learned growing up: the missionary nearly always leaves last. In a way, I felt I was carrying on a family legacy. I packed up my brochures and prayer cards as I waited for the family who had invited me to lunch.

I opened my hand discreetly and unfolded the gift. Two dollar bills sat in my palm. My curious thoughts suddenly stilled and tears welled in my eyes. What he had told me and snippets of conversation from those around me connected as it dawned on me. This man was not a leader in the ministry. He was part of the ministry, a transition ministry that helps people get back on their feet from the living on the streets or in prison. He was only given a few dollars a week, yet he gave to me, to God's work through ICI. The widow and her two mites rose in my mind and I heard Christ's words of approval, "this poor widow has put in more than all the others." 

I am so humbled. 

Do two dollars even make a difference? Yes. They make all the difference in the world. 

Friday, April 12, 2013

Glimpse into a Support Raising Day.

I pick up the phone. Put it down again. Open Facebook, start scrolling - No. The little red 'x' flashes briefly as I shut the window. Make the phone call. I pick up the phone, open 'Contacts,' stare at the name.  My stomach clenches to contain the butterflies, fear prickling at the nape of my neck. Breathe. Deep breaths. Dear God... Prayer momentarily emboldens me and I press 'Call.' It rings once, I hold my breath. Twice. I berate myself for my fear, slipping into Spanish to shake the tension and refocus. Three times. Please go to voice mail. Please. Please. 


The outcome after this varies. If the call goes to voice mail, I breathe a sigh of relief, leave a brief message and wonder how many days I should wait before calling back. If the phone is answered, I try to sound confident and not fumble over my words as I ask if I could share with them the ministry I will be doing with Inner City Impact. The moment I end the call I dance around and praise God. I did it. I did my part, opened the door. The rest is easy: I love telling stories of my time with ICI and how I see God at work. After that it's all up to God, there's no need for me to be anxious about the result. I sit down again and look at my list. Do I have to make another phone call? Maybe I could eat lunch. They're probably busy anyway. But you don't know if you don't ask, don't make up excuses for them. I pick up the phone.


"What's the worst that can happen? They say 'No?'" Intellectually, I know that what happens doesn't matter, it shouldn't affect me. And honestly I really am fine when someone can't support me financially. I know God will provide in another way. And I totally understand if they are already committed to others and can't join my prayer team. 

So what do I fear? 

People's opinion. 

I desperately want to be of good repute. To be known as a responsible, mature woman in Christ who cares deeply about others. I fear the false assumption that I only care about the money, that I look at people as a commodity that will enable me to not work. "Don't you understand these are unstable times? How do you have the gall to ask me to support you, why don't you just get a job and do ministry on the side? What about unreached people groups and orphaned children in Africa, why are you working in the States?" These are the words I fear. I constantly remind myself I am inviting others to join in the ministry God clearly led me to, not burdening them. 

Paul boldly asked varying churches to send him and frequently commended those who had. The churches of Macedonia "gave beyond their means, begging us earnestly for the favor of taking part in the relief of the saints... As you [church of Corinth] excel in everything... see that you excel in this act of grace also." - 2 Corinthians 8. 

So do not fear, for I am with you; do not be dismayed, for I am your God. I will strengthen you and help you, I will uphold you with my righteous right hand. 

These words spoken through the prophet Isaiah whisper through my soul. I dismiss the lies of discouragement, whether they come from me or the enemy. And I continue in the path laid out before me, inviting others to be God's instruments in Chicago. 

Sunday, April 7, 2013

I am compelled.



For Christ's love  compels us, because we are convinced that one died for all... that those who live should no longer live for themselves but for him who died for them and was raised again... God reconciled us to himself through Christ and gave us the ministry of reconciliation: that God was reconciling the world to himself in Christ, not counting men's sins against them. And he has committed to us the message of reconciliation. 2 Cor 5: 14-15,18-19.

These verses  aptly describe my own feelings.  I am compelled, something is driving me forward and I can do nothing less. If I have knowledge of the fear of the LORD, how can I not share it with others? 
The idea of reconciliation is exciting and awe-filled to me. Christ did not come just to help us escape judgment (just though judgment would be), upon receiving salvation we are not placed in a state of neutrality, but are brought into right relationship with God. What was irreparably broken has been overwhelmed by the blood of Christ. And, clothed in Christ Jesus, we stand before God - reconciled and confident (Heb. 10:19).
I look out into the world and see myriad broken relationships. Between friends, lovers, families. Between governments and their people, from nation to nation. All of these reflect the state of man's severed relationship with his God. This is so prevalent in Chicago. The murder count in January was 42. In a single month, a span of 31 days. This year I have felt overwhelmed by death, and long more deeply than ever for the return of my Lord. Come soon, Lord Jesus! I just want to go Home. But until that day, people still cry out, lash out, work out their wickedness and live out their broken relationship without God. I see young people, so many young people, angry, bitter, frightened, hurt, lonely. Trying to fix it, fill it, or make things right only makes things worse - drugs, violence, gangs, sex.  The hope, assurance and joy I have through Christ in a right standing with God - this must be shared. 
Death is a separation. And so, when we are spiritually dead, it is separation from God, a gap that we cannot even desire to cross without His leading. But He has given me life - union with Christ, reconciling me to himself. Those of us who live must no longer live for ourselves, but for him. And He has given us the ministry of reconciliation. I am compelled, controlled by Christ - I can do nothing less. I follow willingly, gladly, sometimes achingly. 
 I have so great a ministry, so great a message before me - God has directed me to share it alongside Inner City Impact with these broken urban youth. With so great a task before me, I can't be afraid to share it with other believers. Many are not able or led to devote the resources of time and presence, as He has called me to, but have other resources available to use in the ministry of reconciliation amidst the Chicago youth.  I can't be afraid to present this opportunity to others.
Can I?
Christ's love compels me.
This is why I go. Will you send me?

Friday, February 22, 2013

From MK to Missionary.


 I've always been a missionary. Or at least a missionary kid. When my parents stepped into missions, it became a family endeavor. We kids willingly took part, it was who we were. I space out my life by the two sides of missions - the "field" and "furlough." As a little girl  we visited many States-side churches. My sister and I were often models demonstrating Quichua dress, or helping volunteers dress up. I spoke a few Quichua greetings, recited John 3:16 in Spanish, and knew my parents' presentation by heart. People asked, "What's it like? Do they eat Mexican food? Say something in Spanish!" On the field, I patiently (most of the time) let dark, work-roughened hands stroke my hair and marvel at the long, fine, blond strands that were foreign to them. I picked up words here and there of the conversation, my limited Spanish and their blending of Spanish and Quichua inhibiting full comprehension. But with warm smiles and friendly hand shakes, clear understanding wasn't always important. For a shy girl, spending time with them was enough.
Kids from the prison ministry
As I grew older, I became more involved. No longer just the daughter who sat quietly in the background, participating when asked, I began to take part and help as I could. In Jr. High and High school I was involved in ministry in several different ways.
Translating at a church in AnguiƱay
I know what it is to be the missionary. It means reaching out to people and loving them. It involves standing out and often alone. (But not completely alone, because family was always there). It involves telling people what God has done and pointing to Scripture and to Christ. It necessitates stepping up to lead when the ball is dropped, or reaching out to the quiet person in the corner, even though I want to be the quiet girl in the corner. I know how to be a missionary. Or at least, how to be part of a missionary family.

Family is a huge deal in Ecuadorian culture. Family is a huge deal in the life of an MK, as it is one of the few stable things in a transient world. So you can imagine how an MK who grew up in Ecuador feels as she steps out by herself into the life of missions work, into support raising. Alone. And as much as my friends, family, and those around me love, support, and encourage me, I enter into this venture alone. I ride the bus alone. I gather my courage to call someone alone. I meet with people alone, write thank yous alone. And I look into the next week, not knowing what I'm going to do, but knowing it will be alone.

Some girls from ICI
My inherent shyness, once thought conquered, comes rushing back. Last Sunday after church I stood fidgeting in the back, berating myself, "Go talk to someone. Anyone. Stop standing by yourself. A good missionary talks to people. Go talk to people." And I wonder, If I can't even initiate conversation and relationships in this setting, how do I think I'm going to do it with the girls at ICI? And yet somehow that seems much less daunting - I've always been better on the field in ministry than at "home."

Throughout my life, God has stripped away the things in which I placed my identity. At least five major changes in life left me groping for something secure. I now stand, stripped of my country, my family, and my school - alone. But not alone. Because each time something is stripped away, it causes me to lean more on God. And though it is painful, and sometimes I feel like Eustace as Aslan tore away the dragon scales and skin in C.S. Lewis' The Voyage of the Dawn Treader, as each layer is stripped away I know I become more of who He is shaping me to be. Each time, my flailing hand is grasped firmly by my faithful God. 


And so I have embarked on this journey out into the vast sea that is support raising. It's been four months. When I was stopping by familiar ports, staying near land, it was an adventure. But now that it is time to enter uncharted waters, the route is no longer clear. The ocean is boundless and structure-less, lacking landmarks to guide me. The Psalmist says, "I lift my eyes up to the mountains, where does my help come from?" In this mountain-less place, my eyes lift to the stars. As they do, I see that "The heavens declare the glory of God," and I remember where I am going. 

  You see, it was in the quiet of remembering to worship God for who His is that I was assured of going to Inner City Impact. It is in the quiet of sitting before God that I no longer fear. And it is in the quiet of gazing at God that I remember I am not alone.


Remember the raindrops? 

Monday, February 11, 2013

Grocery bag stockings.

The thick scent of the unwashed swept over me as she walked down the aisle saying, "Change to help with hygiene, so I can get a job?" She repeated this various times in a scratchy old voice, rustling a plastic bag to receive alms as her thin frame swayed to the rhythm of the train. The tan trench coat she wore was ripped all the way down the right side, her bare arm just moments before exposed to the fringed winter air. The dark skin was weathered and worn, like that the the Quichua women I had seen so often working in Andean fields, chapped by exposure to incessant, harsh winds. A fleece blanket, safety-pinned at the shoulder, attempted to give another layer of warmth, but failed to give proper coverage. Plastic bags peeped out of the worn black Crocs on her feet.
My heart wrenched within me as those on the train ignored her. I was guiltily warm in my heavy parka, tall fur-lined boots, fleece gloves and alpaca scarf. Should I give her my coat? Could I take her to a meal? Bring her home for a hot shower and warm bed? Did I have cash I could give her? Or was this all a ruse, did she really have more clothes to wear bundled in the old grocery bags that filled her folding cart? Maybe she dressed poorly on purpose to "sell" the homelessness. I had heard of people doing so. I averted my eyes as she walked by, tiredly pleading for others to care. Looking up after she passed, I briefly met the eyes of a smiling honey-blond man near my age, wrapped snugly in scarf and coat. Did his heart lurch at the sight of her, wishing to do something? Or did he look down on her, a dirty, smelly distraction on a cheerful Sunday morning outing? Why did no one else reach out to help her?
A small relief, the "Thank you" of her scratchy voice as someone behind me dropped spare change into her bag. "Dempster," rang out the automated voice as the train slowed to a stop. I stood and hurried to the door, wondering how I could be so cold-hearted. But what would my mother say if I gave away the coat she gave me? I couldn't exactly afford to buy another one. The scarf crocheted by my sister couldn't just be given away. Gloves I could easily replace - but by then I was  out on the platform heading to the stars, surrounded by chatting, laughing young people. Didn't I have a ten in my pocket? Why hadn't I given her that? How could I go about my day, sitting piously in church, when the woman on the train couldn't even stay warm?

I am already serving, already pouring out my life for others. Is that not enough? I grew up on the mission field; now, less than 6 months after graduating from Bible school I am raising support to work with inner city kids here in Chicago. How much more can I do? Do I pour out my every second, every breath into helping others? This is what my heart calls for, but I know from experience it leads to burn out. And I have seen the "help" that people give to those in need be detrimental in the long run. But couldn't I have done something? Should I volunteer somewhere? Carry around winter attire to give away? As a student, I walked by the YMCA and the gathering of the homeless on the railing more times than I can count. Sometimes I would smile and reply to their friendly comments, but often I would look straight ahead and rush by. Even now I often simply pass by the shaking cup or cardboard sign, the pleading mother or tired old man. I am ashamed.

So what can we, as followers of Christ called to care for those in need, do?

We can acknowledge them as people. Made in the image of God, precious in His sight. Look them in the eye and give them the dignity of recognition as such.
Remember that we can't help everyone. But be sensitive to the Spirit's leading, and be prepared to follow it. One blustery day in downtown Cincinnati I felt the persistent nudge to buy a cup of coffee for a man outside on the street bench. As he warmed his hands around the steaming Starbucks cup, I felt the pleasure of my Lord. We can't always do something, but we can be ready and willing. We can try to carry change, or a granola bar, or an apple to give away. Be willing to buy a meal occasionally. We needn't feel guilty for what God has given us, but we should never become callous to the needs of others. 

"Give me your eyes for just one second, give me your eyes so I can see everything that I keep missing. Give me your love for humanity. Give me your arms for the broken-hearted, the ones that are far beyond my reach." - Brandon Heath.

Tuesday, January 8, 2013

You Mustn't be Afraid to Dream a Little Bigger, Darling.



[a friend suggested writing about a quote, these words caught my attention:]

You mustn't be afraid to dream a little bigger, darling.

Dream a little bigger... this is something I indeed fear to do.
I have always been on the cautious side. As a little girl, I was afraid to go down big slides, and nearly refused to sled down a steep hill, not even enticed by a reward. It is much better to be safe. Instead of making friends with the neighborhood kids, I stayed inside and read. I hate going super fast on a bike, and am not a particular fan of roller coasters. I am cautious in friendships and relationships, especially after having been hurt.
Now, you have to understand, I never needed to thirst for adventure - there was plenty of it all around me. Growing up in South America and traveling constantly while visiting the States has given me plenty of variety and on-the-edge experiences. I have been eye level with a tarantula in my bedroom, felt the smooth cool touch of boa constrictors gliding around me, been in an earthquake, visited remote villages, been thrown from a horse, climbed a few mountains, driven on cliff-edge mountain roads - my life has not been boring. I yearn not for adventure, but for safety and security.
My aspirations for myself have not been big and grand. I don't need to be the next Deborah or Queen Esther. I don't need to march for women's rights and don't want to be at the forefront of a new movement. Yet I have always felt God had something in store for me, something He wanted me to do. I guess I figured it would be something small, something appropriately me-sized.


You mustn't be afraid to dream a little bigger, darling.

My sister has always been the dreamer. She dreams up plot lines and stories. She worried as she imagined horrible things that could happen while my parents were out. She dreams of being an accomplished author. She dreams of making a difference for foster kids and orphans. She dreams big.
The problem of dreaming big, is that as you fly sky high, soaring with your brilliant ideas, you risk falling and watching them all crumble.
Hence, I don't dream big. The risk is too real.


You mustn't be afraid to dream a little bigger, darling.

So for what do I aspire? Something simple. For most of my life, I believed it would be serving God in a setting I was comfortable in, preferably Ecuador.

And yet, I find myself preparing to work in an inner city ministry in Chicago.

A couple years ago as I sat in women's chapel at Moody listening to our speaker, something stirred inside me. I would love to make a difference, to share my passion, as she does. To help others catch a vision. To teach. Even hundreds of women. Wait - hold it. Slow down. Since when have I ever wanted to do something big? Since when have I ever wanted to be in front of people? Since when have I ever watched a speaker and thought "that could be me someday"? It's strange how God takes us as we are, and then molds and shapes us into who He wants us to be. I didn't want to go to Moody, but I went. I didn't want to be a Youth Ministry major, but I was. I didn't want to work in the inner city, but I did. And now I talk to people as I raise support for this ministry. Lots of people. Pretty soon, it will be lots of people I don't even know. At each step, God creates a love for what He has placed before me.
Is this shy, little Cristina, who hid in a corner with her nose in a book?

You mustn't be afraid to dream a little bigger, darling.

Sometimes, God gives people big dreams. Though He walks with them through bitter disappoints, He often helps fulfill them.
Other times, God has to lead people kicking and screaming to big dreams because they are too afraid to look that high. He has to shape them slowly and prepare them carefully, and lead them step by step. That's me. Are you sure, God? You want me to do what, God? You do know me, don't you?
I am slowly learning that the risks are often worth it. It is worth loving someone even though it hurts. It is worth trying to climb the mountain, even if I fail. It is worth trying to speak to people, even if I stammer. It is worth serving my God with my whole heart, even if the future is uncertain. His words echo through my mind: "Set your thoughts on things above..."


You mustn't be afraid to dream a little bigger, darling.

The person I used to be.

“We all change, when you think about it. We’re all different people all through our lives. And that’s OK, that’s good, you gotta keep movin...