Our tuk-tuk rumbled down the dirt path kicking up trails of garbage behind us. As far as the eye could see, there was trash in every direction. But although the landfill looked hopeless, I felt a profound sense of peace that I couldn’t explain. We rolled to a stop and climbed out of our vehicles with bags of fresh bread …
This was not at all what we expected. We were supposed to be ministering at an orphanage. But when those plans fell through, we found ourselves on the streets of Morelia, inviting the homeless to join us for hot chocolate, bread, and our street performance. Rachel and I walked up to an older lady. Our simple “hola” seemed to open …
Did you know that we live in a world of 7,111 different languages, 1,879 of which do not have any written texts from the Bible. And these 1,879 languages represent 1.5 billion people who have no portion of the Bible in their language. That’s roughly the population of the entire continent of Africa!
Can you imagine if every missionary had a Bible in their hands that was translated into the language of the unreached people group they are called to? Can you imagine if missionaries like us were able to invest in training, encouraging, sending, promoting, supporting and loving young people who could take their inheritance in the advance of the Kingdom of God, by taking part in translation projects around the world into these last chapters of history?
The physical passion of Christ began in Gethsemane. Of the many aspects of His initial suffering, the one which is of particular physiological interest is the bloody sweat. Interestingly enough, the physician, St. Luke, is the only evangelist to mention this occurrence. He says, “And being in an agony, he prayed the longer. And his sweat became as drops of blood, trickling down upon the ground” (Luke 22:44 KJV).
“I sat on my bed reliving the moment I had spent 10 years trying to forget. Tears streamed down my face. I knew the only way to break free from the prison this memory held me in was to finally tell someone. I couldn’t hold it in any longer. There never was a “right” moment to tell a story like this, but I knew I could never get closer to God if I didn’t put a voice to it, if I didn’t get it outside of me. Would I even be able to get the words out? But somewhere deep inside, I knew it didn’t matter how much I could say, I simply had to try.” [Lo, DTS alum, California]
Like Lo, you too may have painful memories you wish you could forget. But the path to healing isn’t always easy. True healing only comes as we excavate the dark depths of the wound and release forgiveness. We hope you will find these 11 steps as helpful in your process as they were in Lo’s.
Miriam Adeney once said “You will never be completely at home again, because part of your heart will always be elsewhere. That is the price you pay for the richness of loving and knowing people in more than one place.” This statement rings truer than true for me in the season I am in. In fact, it is an ongoing …
With stacks of blue New Testaments in hand we followed three Thai men across the asphalt parking lot. They wore button down shirts and modern day apostles. They lived life with few hesitations. They prayed for almost everyone they met, shared Christ freely, and gave generously. But at that moment I didn’t know any of this about them yet. I just knew we were handing out Bibles.
Airports stir something deep within my heart.
There’s a longing present. A. Deep. Longing. As I’ve contemplated while sitting in lounge chairs, standing in lines, observing people going to and fro, it finally hit me as to why.
Airports draw in people from all nations, all peoples, all faiths, and all languages with the common purpose of going somewhere. And, we are all going somewhere. We’ve been invited to dine with our Papa God.
As I walked down the dusty streets my mind raced. I wove my way through vendors hawking paintings of elephants, colorful bracelets, silk scarves, and carved soap. A sungtow rumbled past us, seeking someone to chauffeur to unknown destinations. We turned down an alley filled with loud shouting and the deafening thump of dance music. The colors faded from the soft glow of streetlights to bright neon strobe lights and discos. And vendors were no longer selling bracelets and soap. They were selling women.
My gaze traveled across the weathered faces of the villagers. For a moment, my eyes connected with Pastor Nathan’s. All week, he had taken us from village to village across his home country of Papua New Guinea. He’d helped us spread this message of forgiveness. I wondered if he was weary of hearing it by now. “If you have someone …