What Do You Have For Me, God?

That's the question several friends have encouraged me to pray, and so I've tried. This past weekend I had the sweet gift of a cross-Colorado drive. The real reason for the trip was visiting with a dear friend, but Brett also encouraged me to think of it as major processing time -- perhaps the only time I'd get before I depart on October 7. (He's so wise, my husband. So glad he's willing to send me away to ensure my heart is where it should be before this trip. Love him.)

Anyway, I literally drove into the fiery sunset... and then on into the night, on an unfamiliar road with many hairpin turns. I was crawling up Independence Pass, singing and praying through the blind curves until I crested and began the descent.

Okay, this is sounding corny, but it all felt so apropos. Starting out with hints of beauty, finding myself in unfamiliar territory, plunged into a deeper darkness than I expected -- I felt like I was driving through the last 10 years of my life.

It had been far too long since I had such extended time to converse with God -- something I have avoided by choice, admittedly. It was precious and I knew it, so my main focus was on that big question, "What do you have for me, God?"

Because I turned 30 last year, I had already been asking that question. I haven't received any tangible answers, but Kenya is a new context and I'm trying to go expectantly. These past few weeks in particular have been filled with more frustration than peace -- why am I here, what do you want me to do, God? Will my purpose and calling be revealed on this trip?

That's what I'm really praying for, I guess. To explore this niggling idea -- that my giftings could be in answer to the challenge of opening people's eyes to how God wants us to work in His world. I remember having that initial thought in high school, when I was discovering the power of my own voice. I could be a writer, I thought. But I knew then that it would be scary and hard and personal, and so I pushed it away.

Then in my last semester of college I read an article about the Rwandan genocide for a political science class. I'm still haunted by the power of the story the author chose to tell, the way she framed the larger issue (how could this happen?) with the stories of the people on the ground. And a small voice inside of me said, I want to do that. I want to write in this way, to open people's eyes. There are stories that need to be told. 

I heard that voice again five years ago when I read a book by Tracy Kidder, a journalist whose brilliant long-form storytelling style easily transported me to central Haiti, where Dr. Paul Farmer set up a clinic to combat drug-resistant tuberculosis. Along the way, he learned that misunderstanding the culture and tradition of others is a more of a threat than the communicable disease. I finished the book (called Mountains Beyond Mountains, check it out) and immediately reread it, savoring the way the words leapt at me, standing out like beads of sweat in the humid Haitian air. And that little voice whispered again, you can do this too, you know.

This is already a terribly long post, but I'm processing through it all. I think with my job at Mission of Mercy, I've heard that voice over and over again. And as hopeful as I am that I could be used in such a way, I'm also terrified. I can't ignore the pull in my soul, but can I really do it?

Right now, Sara Groves' song "Add to the Beauty" is my theme song, one I sang at full tilt on that drive through the turning aspen last weekend. I guess it's more of a prayer than a theme song, because this is what I want so desperately to do.

We come with beautiful secrets
We come with purposes written on our hearts, written on our souls
We come to every new morning
With possibilities only we can hold, that only we can hold

Redemption comes in strange place, small spaces
Calling out the best of who we are

And I want to add to the beauty
To tell a better story
I want to shine with the light
That's burning up inside

It comes in small inspirations
It brings redemption to life and work
To our lives and our work

It comes in loving community
It comes in helping a soul find it's worth
Redemption comes in strange places, small spaces
Calling out the best of who we are

And I want to add to the beauty
To tell a better story
I want to shine with the light
That's burning up inside

This is grace, an invitation to be beautiful
This is grace, an invitation

Redemption comes in strange places, small spaces
Calling out our best

And I want to add to the beauty
To tell a better story
I want to shine with the light
That's burning up inside