In Missing Them

I miss them today. My family.

The other five people in this world who make up the Scott family.

I was just standing in the kitchen this morning, getting my breakfast ready, and this song popped into my head.

And I sang it, and the catches in my voice came. The tears started to pool. I simply miss them.

Then, just moments ago, I reread the post that I wrote before going to college, right *here*. Not only can I never read that without crying, period, but reading it now with an even bigger separation, the gasping cry comes.

I was so scared that I wouldn't be able to cry when they left. Scared that I would try to hold it together so much that I shut out my feelings and simply became numb.

And numbness came to some extent, but I cried. As much as I ever cry.

My father held me, the one who has guided me through all aspects of growing up. The one who helped me apply for my credit card and practice my driving and  bequeathed the family cellphone to me and explained the plan and everything. And I basked in his warmth, in his strength, in his smell, in his solidity, the one who's been my guide and shelter, providing an ever present picture of my heavenly Father. The one who sits out in the living room in the morning doing his devos, whom I know prays for me, whom I respect more than anyone else I know. The tears trickled down my cheeks and melted into his shirt, and he hugged tighter.

My mother who has guided me through the craggy ups and downs of everyday life. Who keeps me updated on families back here in Thrills, who has shown me that friendship with your children is not only possible, but is the best way to live. Who has been my confidante and friend. Who is the first one I call with exciting news. And her eyes grew red and they started me crying, because whenever I see her cry, I have to cry. It's just how it works. Then, later M gave me an envelope that she had given him to give to me after they had left. And even before I opened it, the tears started to roll, as I looked at her scripted Christabelle on the front. Her words were such a comfort, even as the inspired more tears.

My sister who wanted to stay up late and talk about everything running through her mind. The one with whom I shared a bed for the last few nights. One who I am so incredibly proud of because of what she's doing. If you think I'm courageous for staying behind, look at her. She's going out there with them, to a place she hasn't been for five years, and going apart from my parents to teach some children and garner experiences for which there will never be a replacement. She is a constant example and challenge to me.

My brother who is now allowed to be taller than me, since he's on a different continent. The one who's now learning how to wield a machete and is getting a world-class education on multiculturalism and hands-on experiences. I'm personally crossing my fingers that he'll come back a soccer super-star... Siblings can hope, can't they?? Not only that, but I hope that he will be growing closer to the One I know he has an incredible heart for.

My littlest sister who sent me a package of nerds and peanuts while I was at Millar, telling me that I was a nerd as well as a nut. Who just moments ago, through my mother chatting with me on Facebook, called me a nut once again. It's a little game we play, you see. She starts with peanut, I say some other nut, normally walnut, she says peanut, I say pecan, she says... and it goes on until I inevitably beat her with my superior knowledge of nuts. My little cuddle-bunch and monkey whom I held at the airport, with her legs wrapped around my waist.

The best part is I know that they're where they're supposed to be. I feel no regret in staying behind, which has been an incredible blessing from the One who knows best. And even as I grieve, it's not because of pain or hurt, but rather just plain missingness... and He knows. He holds.

But it's just one of those face-watering days.

In The Past

To Cece (my younger self):

I met you this evening, while sorting through the remnants of my past. Fingering through papers you wrote on with all the heart a little girl could muster.

I opened the stickers you so lovingly placed on little notes that you passed to your sister when she was having a bad day. Notes that make me chuckle. You are so dear to me, your heart shining through in every word, with her foremost on your heart. Have I unknowingly closed that shutter to an open heart? Every one of those notes, signed as Cece. I haven't been called that in years.

I read those journal entries from the days before your baptism and your passion and excitement for God's Word make me stand in amazement before a God who chose you at such a young age to be taught so much about what He was and how to know Him.

I flipped through the sketch book you coloured in, pictures of wedding dresses and animals and everything and anything else that filled your mind.

I found the Scripture copy book your grandmother sent you, with the spine cracked and falling apart, the first few pages filled with words that you put inside your heart.

I discovered notes from a little girl that I had forgotten you had such a close relationship with. Someone so much younger than you, yet you reached out and she wrote "I love you" in her scrawls.

I fingered the poems and hymns you copied out and hung around your room, a sign of the incredibly deep understanding that God somehow placed in your heart of who He was. It was nothing you did, and it never could have been, it was all what He chose to do.

I found the keys to your little locked diary and tried to decipher the faded coloured ink from one of your earliest journaling exploits. I read of your loneliness as you couldn't fit in because of your age.

And I see you and I smile and I wonder at how far God has brought me so that I am in the place that I am in right now. I so easily forget about you, I'm sorry to say. That young innocent one, whom God chose to break in so many ways and has brought through the fires hopefully molded more firmly into the image of His Son.

And it brings me back to the days of the jungles, of dancing in the warm rain, of snow chains on tires going through mud, of cocoa breaking, of climbing trees, of swimming in streams, of going to church, of everything that is my past. And it makes me so excited for my future. It makes me excited to meet you again when I return to those places, as I hear your laughter and see things from your eyes again when I go to each of those places that memory now renders hallowed.

It makes me excited about what He has done... and excited for what He will do.

And I find myself so thankful. So utterly and basely grateful for all that He has done. For how He made you, little Cece, and how He continues to grow me.

He didn't have to.... but He did.

Your older (and utterly grateful) self,
Christy

Redefining

Returning home has brought a lot of change. Change, neither good or bad, rather a morphing of previous views. There are so many things in my life that I have stuck into boxes, letting my life be defined by them, rather than allowing them to define my life. A few of these are definitions... Definitions such as family or home. And both of these definitions have changed.

I left Camp, surrounded by people I had come to know closely over the last five weeks. My own family came to see me and I felt a disconnect, because there were two different parts of me in one place. Two different families. And for so long, my immediate family has been my only family because of the uprooting that has happened multiple times in my life. They were the only ones that knew me well.

But I returned from a Camp full of people who I now call my family, to a town full of people that have also become my family. Part of working with my Monkey entails going to different businesses in town to get her hand stamped or other such things (at the grocery store, she gets a free cookie). Today when we went into the bakery section of the grocery store, I met up with one of my fellow graduates who is also going to same college as me. The ease with which we picked up conversation and made plans to get together and go out for coffee later on was amazing. Just to see the light in her eyes and to hear her ask how my summer went... it was amazing. Then, Monkey and I returned home from my home and after she was given her dinner, her mom and I sat down to chat. And we talked for about half an hour about how my summer had gone and what her summer had looked like. Monkey's house is like my second home, because I've had to prepare meals there, put her to bed, get her up in the morning, the whole bit. I know where everything is, and I know all the rules and in a way, her family has become my family. And I can't wait to go to church this upcoming Sunday because I know that I will experience family like nothing else there. They'll be glad to see me, they'll ask me how my summer went, they'll give me hugs, they'll care.

Also, this afternoon, I received these:

Held in the hands of a little boy wearing blue overalls. He explained that they were as a thanks for when I babysat him and his brother occasionally this past year, and that they were from his mom's garden. The gift of blue flowers. It's so simple... and yet it meant so much.

And this town as a whole has redefined another word. I don't know if I've ever really realized how truly blessed I am to call this place home. Not only do they welcome me in... they welcome my Monkey in, too. And as we pedal around town on that big red bike and the sun is shining and trees are whispering and the the grass grows green and people walk and greet and smile and say goodbye and move along... I am blessed to have this place as my home.

Then comes the time when I'm watching the Olympics and I'm cheering for the Canadian contender to win, and I stop. Since when did this country become my home? I remember when Canada was as foreign to me as Cameroon is as foreign to most of you. Where it felt like we were delving into the deep unknown (at least to me) and who knew what we were going to encounter? Cannibals? Not likely, they told me. Although, I found that the cold was just as formidable.

All joking aside, it's crazy amazing to look back and see all that God has brought me through, to this place. A place where I have multiple families and homes. A place where I feel like the future is bright, where I am finding out more and more who I am and what He has made me to be. A place where {dare I say it?} I am so thankful for the pain that has happened in the past to bring about today:

His blessings have been so good, so great, so beyond anything that I could've planned. And who I am is being daily broken, shaped, and put back together. Today, He showed me a glimpse of all that He's doing. He's been refining my heart all along the way... and redefining me.

In the Meantime

Okay, so why is it that in this cram time of packing, I find more time/things to blog about than for weeks before? Anywho... on the theme of looking back and being so thankful for all that He's done, I have something for you to do while I'm absent.

Read my mom's blog from the beginning. There are only 51 posts, and many are only a paragraph or two long, and you don't necessarily need to read it in one sitting, although I think that it's pretty hard not to. I don't want you to do this to see what an amazing life that I've had, or be jealous of my mom holding a baby chimp, etc.

No.

 It's just merely to give you a little background into my life, as well as a portal into the everyday of modern missions. The biggest reason, however, is to be thankful. Thankful to an amazing God who has brought my family, and J in particular, through so much and continues to show Himself faithful.

Find it *here*. Have fun! :)

In A Second Family

It seems right to be writing my 100th post about something that means so much to me.

The people whom I drove away from just a few hours ago, a Camp that I know so well, and an experience that I wouldn't replace for anything.

I remember in Grade 6, when I first discovered what Bible Quizzing really was, and the way that it created new bonds between me and others, within my own team and at every tournament.

It was this year that was kind of my first year of "normal" life. The last time I had been on Canadian (okay, North American) soil had been four years before, for one year of home-assignment during my Grade 2 year.

I was awkward, I was socially inept, I felt lonely, I was only here for a year and didn't want to form bonds that would rip away a part of my heart when I left... and I found an answer to my longing to belong in Quizzing.

It didn't really matter how well I did, although doing well did give me a sense of accomplishment, competitive as I am. It was more the fact that no matter what, those people in my Quizzing group, and the people I interacted with at tournaments cared about me for me.

It was as if I saw the body of Christ come alive in a true way through the way that I felt safe and comforted when surrounded by others who gave such importance to memorizing and prioritizing God's Word in their lives.

And after that year, I left.

I returned to the jungles of Africa, was homeschooled, did lots of crazy amazing things that I would never trade for more years in Bible Quizzing... but two years later, things changed.

Most of you (addressing the quizzers who will read this post) don't really know my past. But the synopsis goes something like this:

Two years after we had returned to the missions field, my sister started exhibiting strange symptoms that we couldn't account for. At first, they were only minor, irritating things that we thought were just stubborn habits that could be fixed. But as time progressed, things got steadily and steadily worse. Eventually, it got the the point where something had to be done about it. We quickly packed things for a short journey, headed to one of the big cities and consulted some doctors. Their reply? Fly back to Canada quickly!
So we did. And once again, I was thrown into the rollercoaster of we-need-to-figure-this-thing-out-but-normal-life-goes-on. We arrived back in time for my Grade 9 year, and I was once again in a position of uncertainty, loneliness, and trying to figure out what normal life looked like, not only for a Canadian, but also for my family, while trying to visit doctors, get a diagnosis, and get my sister healed.

And it was during this time, that I joined Quizzing again. Immediately, that sense of belonging, of comfort, of everything being alright, of having security when my life was anything but, all came back again.

It's been a splendid five years. Five years of wonderful friendships, of growing in my relationship with Him and understanding what it means to hide His word in my heart, of feeling more confident in speaking publicly, of how to win and lose gracefully, of being surrounded by those who know what the terms bookie and clicky-seat mean.

But most of all, it's been about surrounded by family. And my sister is healed now. In fact, she's been quizzing for the last two years, and this year, on my team. Many of you know her personally, and many more could probably recognize her face.

Nothing ever goes like we plan it out. Especially when He's at the helm, following His plans which are far wiser, better, all-knowing, and good for us than anything we could concoct.

When I came back here four years ago because of a medical emergency, I didn't understand.

I still don't understand fully. But I want all of you to know (even those of you who aren't quizzers) that by knowing you, I have understood in part what He was doing.

If I left overseas if only to come back and quiz, that would be enough (although I suspect He's got multiple things up His sleeves yet to be seen).

You guys have become a second family to me, and it's crazy to think that, in most likelihood, I will not see you all together for at least two years.

I'll miss you.

In the Past (Oldie Goldie's Post)

As I reflect over the past year (which includes all of my blog!), there are so many thoughts running through my head, but the one that remains is:

He is good.

He truly does work together for the good of those who love Him.

And since there's not much else to say, I thought I'd do an oldie goldie's post.

So here ya go, the silly, the cute, the funny, the sweet, the mischievious, the very Christy-ish.... little me:

 

Thanks for all of you who have contributed to make me who I am today!

In the Deja Vu

As I'm packing up, stuffing things into nooks and crannies and checking my list twice, the sense of deja vu hits hard.

The very last time I was on an airplane was arriving in Calgary after flying home from Cameroon because of a medical emergency.

And it feels so wrong to be packing up and getting ready to board a flight headed somewhere other than Cameroon.

It took me awhile to get over my feelings of doubt.

Doubt that this trip will impact me in a huge way because of my past.

Doubt that I would be shocked by children scavenging in the gutters and people scraping a living off of the streets.

Doubts that I would learn to love another third world country.

Doubts that He's shown me are so unfounded and ridiculous when compared to the hugeness and awesomeness of who He is.

And I am still scared that going through this process will bring up that longing. Longing to go to my other home, to be surrounded by all the things that I hold dear.

I don't want to re-say everything I said back then... so just read it.

But He's greater than any longings or any doubts.

And I know that He will also implant in me a longing to make Colombia my home, to be able to stay and love these people with the fullest extent of my love.

And through all of this, I'm learning that my longing should be for Him, above all.

But also, for wherever place that He has called me to share His love.

And even though I have memories, I'm heading out the door to create new ones.

Please pray... and get ready for some blog posts once I get back! :)

Through a Blessing

I opened up my e-mail this morning and found it sitting there.

A small note from my earthly father who is in Europe right now.

And as only one who has been with me from my very beginnings can write, he wrote:

To my own Christa-belle,


Just wanted to bless you with this blessing as you head out to Colombia tomorrow!


May God's love shine brightly through you
 may you take risks
  may you be pushed out of your comfort zone to find your strength in Him and not in the amazing talents you already possess
    and may your choose love over safety, service over comfort, and
      may your heart be broken by the things that break His heart.


I love you very much!


Dad

And these words speak to my heart, so much so that I find tears welling up in my eyes.

Because that's what I've been afraid of these past few days with the time ticking and my heart feeling so unprepared.

I've been scared that I would not let myself be hurt, because of how my heart still hurts for another country that is dear to my heart.

I've been scared that I wouldn't knowlingly let my heart get attached because of the ripping-away that comes later.

But as I read those words, I recognize that it isn't about me in the least.

It's about Him.

It's about how He can take this crumbling mess of doubts and confusions and transform it into a creation that glorifies Him in every action every day.

It's about how He works through  my weaknesses to showcase His strength.

And since it's all about Him, I have nothing to fear.

Absolutely nothing.

Because He will not change, and He will not fail.

And it's all about Him.

In Failure

I sat on those springy chairs covered with rough blue cloth, surrounded by walls painted dark blue and scattered with stars.

Sitting on the stage was my father and in other seats were college students.

And he started speaking about failure. About failure in missions and as a missionary himself.

He spoke of the time that he laid on that concrete floor with a gun pressed to his back, while my mother and J and I huddled in the bed as men took the things that we had just had shipped to us.

Car, computers, watches, money, anything valuable.... my mother's wedding ring.

And I remembered my bleary-eyed fear. Fear that something was so wrong that my own Daddy was afraid. Fear for him.

He spoke of his loss of security for years after that, jumping awake at any sound in the night because he never knew what it might be.

He spoke about the lessons taught of God's sovereignty and power. Of protection and of a mission so strong that God would keep us there, and bring us to a place beyond fear.

He spoke of J's sickness. Of leaving when translation was at its peak. Villagers were getting excited about the Word in their own language, and everything was moving along so well.

Of thinking that the success was turning into a failure. Of how it's all about Him and never about us.

It's never about our success stories. But it's also never about our failures.

But it's all about how He works through us for His good and glory.

And if what it takes is for me to fail, to fall, to be disgraced, to suffer, to be beaten, to be filled with shame.... that's when He gets all the glory.

As I read the Word for this morning, it was there, waiting:

"Then he said to the crowd, 'If any of you wants to be my followers, you must turn from your selfish ways, take up your cross dialy, and follow me. If you try to hang on to your life, you will lose it. But if you give up your life for my sake, you will save it.' " Luke 9:23-24 (NLT)

Do I shoulder my cross daily?

Not always.

But He works wonderous things through failures, if only given to Him.

Unchanging

From way back in the corner of my closet, I unearthed it yesterday. I had been cleaning, sorting out the things that I use and the things that I don't, to get ready for this upcoming new year.

It's shabby looking and the title page is torn off of this notebook that has travelled the continents.

My Grandmother first gave it to my Dad, many years ago when he was young.

It encompasses three generations of handwriting:

My Grandmother's handwriting

My Dad's handwriting

And then it merges, between my Dad and I:

I was given it mere months before I turned twelve, and not very long after my baptism. As I flipped through the study of Romans that I had completed from where my Dad had left off, it was amazing to see myself as a little child again, writing these thoughts down that are foundational to who I am today.

But the most precious part came when I flipped towards the back.

There, I had started a spiritual journal, and it was amazing to see what He was already doing through such a small child as I was.

And as I read of hours spent digging in His Word, of meetings between my Dad and I to study it together, of church groups joined, of convictions to witness to my African friends, of moments when I felt like everything was good, and moments when I was numb, I was amazed. Simply amazed at how He had started working in me at the age of 12.

But age is no limit. He worked great things when I was small, and He works them still. I wonder at the childlike faith that I did not realize at the time was so precious and foundational.

As I flip to the end, my eyes catch words, and they bring back memories long hidden.

Memories of my naivety regarding the seriousness of my sister's illness. Of hastily said good-byes on the very little chance that we would have to leave. Of days spent in limbo until my future was flipped.

It only took two days.

It brings back the bewilderment and the utter displacement that I felt.

And as I sat there, looking at those words, and reading on to see what else I had written, it struck me.

He's never changed.

Not once.

He was good before, and He was good after...

But it has taken me so very long to see that He was good at that moment, when my future was changed.

He truly does *work* for the good of those who love him.... even when we can't see it at the time.

And His purpose never wavers.

He Is Good.

And as I face an uncertain year, filled with diplomas, decisions about summer and college, figuring out finances, leaving a family, and everything else that graduating entails, this promise remains true.

He is unchanging... and HE IS GOOD.

Until It Hurts

Growing up overseas, many things in life were seen with a different view than they are here. Say, food, for an example. You were not safe eating anything unless there was some plantains, or another kind of starch sitting nearby, in order to cool your tongue once you figured out just how many pepe peppers they had put in this time. Another thing: the host always takes the first bite. Not for politeness' sake, but instead to prove to you that they haven't poisoned anything. Such was the reality I grew up with.

As I look back now, these lessons, which taught me to take a different view of life than most, are so important and influence so much more of my actions than I thought that they did. The biggest one is money.

I never thought that we were poor. In fact, to everyone around us, we were the "rich white people." I was fed, clothed, got some gifts for Christmas and birthdays, and was loved. What else did I need?

Nothing... but that's not what culture over here tells me now. It says: "Store up, you never know when you might need it!" or "Splurge... you're worth it!" And with these voices inside of my head, I find it harder to adhere to the things that I learned about money while growing up, which were: always save, always tithe, always give away freely.

Often, people would come to the door, wanting some cash to supposedly take someone to the hospital, or buy some important medicine, or the taxi cab fare in town to see some relatives. And my parents gave. Not all the time, especially when someone was a notorious drunk,etc., but even when there was some doubt about the legitimacy of the cause, they gave. And they weren't always paid back (although, there were often repayments in fruit or chickens, etc.). The thing is... they knew that when they gave the money.

I think the biggest thing that has changed between Cameroonian culture and the North American culture is the importance that is placed on money. Because money really only holds the importance that you give it. Overseas, money is often seen as a means to an end, such as feeding the family, expanding the farm, paying for an education. But here? Too often, money is an end in and of itself.

And how that has affected me comes to show now... when I have money.

I am so thankful for my job... for how much it's not a job. And as I receive a pay cheque, I'm so glad that I can easily tithe. But give away? No.... what about college? I mean... debt is a no-no, so I've got to save. But there again... the means to an end. When I'm saving money to feel secure, money becomes my security, the end, instead of the means. But when I give away? It goes freely, to accomplish whatever can be bought or given with it.

And it leaves me struggling with how to give and how to save.

 But I am reminded about the *widow's mite*.

Might the secret be not to give as much as I can, but instead, to give until it's not the extra, but the necessary? To give until it hurts? To have a pinch because of generosity? Because that's when money has no importance, no hold on me, except the ability to help others in whatever way that it can.

This Christmas, can you give until it hurts?

Magical

Rewind six years. Picture a little ten-year old Christy running around, twirling in the front yard under the sprinkling snow. It had been four years since I had last seen this white, chilling stuff known as snow flakes. Mysterious little flakes that landed and then disappeared, but at other times piled up to become huge snow banks.

Christmas in Cameroon is so different than here. I grew up singing Jingle Bells in 30 degree weather, for goodness sake. It's still celebrated, but in a completely different fashion. The missionary families were the only ones with Christmas trees up and gifts under them.

Shopping for those gifts was half the excitement of the season. Piling into the Land Cruiser, we would travel to the nearest town (about 40-ish minutes away in dry season) and arrive at the outdoor market. As soon as you arrive, your ears are full of vendors' cries, the smell of frying food, the bright colors of plastics and people moving everywhere.

You squeeze among the congested pathways inbetween vendors selling everything from underwear to luggage. The tricky thing is to switch off parents at the right time, so nobody completely knows what you're buying. Plus, then you don't get ripped off because you're white.

But my best memories of Christmas was dancing madly to the Nutcracker and making up my own ballerina moves. I thought that I was so unbelievably cool.

Now, zoom back to present. I've lived here three years. If I was interview myself for each of those three years:

First year: "Magical! I mean, snow... what a concept! It really isn't coconut shavings after all!"

Second year: "Sweet... I get to wear a coat to school and walk/beg a ride (please read the sarcasm into this). It'll only last a whole six months of the year. Maybe I'll get to do a Winter Olympics Theme for my birthday (which is in March), like I did in Grade six!"

Third/this year: "Are you SERIOUS!?! Okay, snowflakes are cool and all... but really??? Flip-flops, runners, you are now condemned into the shed. Fuzzy sweaters and boots, your time has come..."

Once again, the old adage "Familiarity breeds contempt" comes into play. Even though I've only lived here for three years, the snow is starting to grate on my nerves.

I'm learning to take a step back and to realize how amazing it really is. I mean, seriously? Snow! What a cool concept, God!

This Christmas, I want my amazement and credulity to be not only at the snow and the changes in nature all around, but also to what the season focuses on.... Him. Now, that is truly magical.

Safe

I sat there... thinking so many different thoughts. Curled up and held. A ball of warmth surrounded by arms that are strong and able. I fit so well.

He rubbed my back, saying nothing. It's what I love most, actually. The silent communication that we have. That he understands me... my need for silence and safety.

He was gone for a few weeks. And I didn't really miss him, sad to say. It was only when he came back that I realized how much of who I am, past, present, and future is wrapped up inside of him being around.

He's my strong and silent warrior.

We are so much alike. In face and feature, but also in personality and quirks. I'm most unashamedly my father's daughter and very much a daddy's girl.

We had just been scrolling through pictures of Cameroon... people that I knew, people that I had once loved. Still love. But from very far away.

Curled up... thinking. Thinking about how when he was young, he also was torn away from a country that he loved very much... a scenario very much like mine. The only difference: he never got to go back.

And I will.

I felt like crying but didn't want to. It's one the very rare moments in my life when that has happened.

But now I cry.

I have such a deep respect for you, Daddy. One that goes beyond the mere amazing way that you provide for your family in every situation, unprecedented or not. One that has everything to do with how real you are with me and with everyone around you.

The morning you got home, I went into the bathroom, opened up the closet and was never so incredibly happy to see shaving cream in my life.

When you came in and hugged me, I was so full of joy, and a piece of satisfaction that had been jarred by your leaving was somehow put back into place.

Mornings with you are my favourite parts of the day. To see you sitting in your chair... that chair... praying, makes me know that all is right in the world. That my father is in charge, that He is in charge of you and nothing can go wrong.

You care. You love. And you speak my love language. I have never doubted that you love me from the very deepest core of yourself. You show it in everything that you do.

You take time. You ask questions. You honestly care about my day.

You answer questions, go into detail, keep a conversation going, know my thoughts sometimes before I speak them.

I say it every year, I know, but I say it here as well. I am so very, very, VERY thankful that I have a father that allows me to see a glimpse of my true Father. So many girls (nay, children) are deprived of that.

I love you!

From your Christi-Belle

P.S. No, Mom, I didn't forget about you! ;)

Promise

I closed my eyes and breathed deeply, calming myself as her eyes strayed to the house. The house... the one that has instigated so very many battles between me and her. All because of her longing for "kisses", little pen marks on her hands given by those she loves. Now, the very first time she approached this house, I had no clue was what going on. She wandered purposefully up the porch and knocked in her own way on the front door. After awhile, she started pulling at the screen door and started entering. Now, even I, who knew nothing about her connection to this house, knew that that was not appropriate. I gently nudged her back outside as her eyes wandered, searching for something.

And that something came. In the shape of an elderly man, one who actually goes to my church. He spoke easily with her and had already brought a pen, showing just how well he knew her. She got her mark, gave a few hugs, and several minutes later, we were back walking down the sidewalk. The one aspect of this job that has really challenged me has been the open in-your-face attitude that I have to either explain/condone or attempt to get her to cease... neither of which necessarily always works.

So as her eyes wandered and she started making her sign for wanting more "kisses" or "stamps", I was already gearing up for battle. We had gone through it a few days before. I had followed her, always staying on the side of her that was closest to the house so as to create a physical barrier. Yes, it was partly selfish, and yet it was not. I didn't want the trouble of having to facilitate another meeting and dragging her away at the end, but I also didn't want to presume upon that sweet old man. But really, the defining thought in my mind was that she had to obey me as her authority and now was just as good a time to stress that as any other. So we fought... fought for what must've been almost half an hour or more.

She moved closer, I followed her, blocking her way, all the while talking and trying to dissuade her. Of course, all she could think about was getting that stamp and meeting someone she knew very well. So she constantly made the sign and then iced the performance off with a series of pleases, also signed. I was thankful that she was being polite and I acknowledged that, letting her know that I understood, but my answer was still no and it wasn't about to change. She sat down, pouting... then got back up and tried again. She walked down the sidewalk and then tried to deviate to get back again.

But at the end... I won. She was sullen, but eventually I lured her away with words of other people to be met on Main Street, or activities to be pursued in her own home. Is that fair? Yes, I know that she has a lower intelligence, is easily swayed, has to constantly reminded and thinks through things in a young and childish way. But, just like a child has to learn how to obey and also to understand why they don't get what they want, she had to understand, in whatever limited capacity, that not getting her way is sometimes for the greater good.

All of that leads to today. Wow.. I am long winded! Anyway... we had just exited the place of her employment, and her house was in sight down the sidewalk. But in between was the house and I dreaded another fight. Because I can be strong... but I don't want to be. I didn't want to injure the relationship for the rest of the day and do things that I would regret later on. So I spoke to her slowly and softly: "I know that you want to go get a stamp, but how about not today? Let's let him rest and come back some other time. What if  he's having a nap? Right now we're headed to your house to get you some nice snack. Then we can decide what to do then..." This lured her, but not quite enough... and then it led me into saying something... a promise. "Not today... but the next day that I come over, then we can go over to his house, okay? Next time.. not today, I promise that we will go over and get a stamp."

This seemed to satiate her and we headed to her house. Later on during the few hours I was with her, she tried to get us out of the house just so that she could go get that one stamp. Every time, I asked her,"Did you forget the promise I made? Do you remember?" It would take her awhile, but then her eyes would light up with understanding and she would sign an emphatic "yes" back to me, and continue on with whatever activity she was doing. I'm so glad that she is growing to trust me. And I hope that as I fulfill this promise, her trust will grow even greater.

As I sat there, reminding her constantly, another picture arose.... one of myself. Me.... and the Father. The one that I am to obey, even when I long for something that may be good, but just isn't on His agenda for me.I turn my eyes to this thing that seems overwhelmingly enticing, and as I walk toward it, He places a physical barrier that tells me "no." But I only try harder... I try and explain my way around it... I ask for it in the nicest way possible... I say, "Oh, but then I will do this and this and this for You..." But He doesn't buy it. He knows so much better and I am only a child.

Finally, I rest. I continue on in His plan, but then when I am in valleys, in rough spots, or filled with temptation... that thing comes back to me and I immediately start planning how to pursue it. It's then that He turns in His voice to me and says, "Are you forgetting My promise? Don't you remember?" It takes me awhile, but then I do remember. And when I do, I understand and go back to obeying.

It's been this way with multiple things in my life, but the biggest would probably be returning to Cameroon. My dad is there right now, and I honestly wish that I could've gone with him. Yes, I have a life here... but that place has the other half of my heart beating it there... calling me. And it's not a bad thing. Yet... at this time, it's not good... not yet, anyways. So I must wait, even when I am so thirsty for the sight of that place... wait until His promise comes. Because it will. For He is trustworthy... and in waiting for His promise, my trust grows even greater.