Angie Washington – Page 2 – A Life Overseas |

31 Flavors of Foreigners

What’s your favorite ice-cream? Baskin Robbins’ 31 flavors of ice-cream are fairly well known in the States. They’ve added some more flavors, but they founded their fame on the great number 31. My 1st choice is Rainbow Sherbet. So yum!

This is a get-to-know-you post! Let’s take it a little deeper than ice-cream preference, though, okay? Dessert information is mighty vital in any acquaintance; but we shall go to another classification of flavors.

What flavor of foreigner are you?

Charts make me happy. I put together a fun chart to help you answer that question. I call it “The Foreigner Classification Chart”. Start on the left and follow the flow to find out what flavor you are. Then leave your answers in the comments section.

The Foreigner Classification Chart:

(You might try clicking the above image to enlarge it if the text is hard to read)

novtrip 196 — DaRonn and Angie Washington

Neat, right? Connection empowers us. True story: most Bolivians assume at first glance that I am German and they think my husband is Brazilian, even though we are both from the U.S. Many presuppositions placed on foreigners about origin and occupation might give us advantages, and they might hinder us. Our minds classify people, whether we like it or not. Expanding our classification system helps us to interact with a broader spectrum of people.

Questions to answer in the comments section:

1. What’s your favorite ice-cream?

2. What flavor of foreigner are you?

You might want to check back and scan the comments periodically to see if any other readers here at ‘A Life Overseas‘ happen to be the same kind of foreigner you are.

For further reflection you can think, and comment if you like, on this bonus question:

BONUS: What’s the general opinion of the people native to your region regarding your flavor of foreigner?

Whatever flavor you are, it makes us super pleased to know YOU are a part of the conversation here and we hope that you find the content on this site helpful and thought provoking.

– Angie Washington, co-editor of A Life Overseas, missionary living in Bolivia, South America

blog: angiewashington.com twitter: @atangie work blog: House of Dreams Orphanage

Sink and a Dolphin Will Catch You

Though pixilated, I can see she is attentive. Her words come through clearly, even if the imaged is delayed. Our weekly Skype sessions have been a lifesaver during a very desperate time in my life. If you would have told me a year ago I would be seeing a counselor I would have rebuked you with all the masked insecurity and spiritualized pride I could muster. Oh, things have changed.

A few months ago I wrote a graphic letter to some friends, pleading for prayer. I told them, “I feel like I am trapped in a drowning car and I can’t get out.” They prayed. The events that led me to agree to weekly counseling happened so quick that I didn’t have a chance to protest. I am now very much pro-counseling.

During our most recent session I shared with my counselor about that plea. That as I have been meeting with her I feel like I am out of the car, but I am still weary, exhausted even, as I am treading water. I explained that some recent occurrences have felt like someone deliberately pushing my head under water for too long. I am gasping, sputtering, and disoriented. But now I have my head above water again, barely, as I have been facing the emotional, practical, and relational realities associated with each difficulty.

I thought she would be in awe of my superb analogy.

Not fazed she said, “You know, sometimes I tell people they need to stop treading water.”

I balked, “Just quit? And drown?”

She said, “Not necessarily quit. But surrender… to God.”

There was silence as she let that sink in. Sink in – get it? Ha. Seriously though…

She then continued, “There is a difference between quitting and surrendering. Quitting is saying you are through and it is not worth the effort. Surrender is a willful placement of your whole trust in God.”

That felt like the sweetest rebuff I had ever received. If the Christian faith is anything it is trust in God. That is so basic! But it is a truth I need to come back to right now in my life: surrender.

I bit my tongue and didn’t blurt out my cheeky retort, “Why can’t I just walk on the water?”

Our session ended and I was encouraged to do some journaling as a follow up. As I wrote, my thoughts went back to the sarcastic remark I withheld.

Who knows? Maybe that is the solution God has for me. But I can’t know that until I stop treading water and surrender to Him.

Then an image popped into my mind of friends who told me about swimming with the dolphins on their honeymoon. I pictured myself surrendering and my body starting to sink when along came a dolphin to catch me and take me along to safety.

I smiled. Then the floodgates opened! Floodgates – get it? Ha. Seriously though…

At first the ideas trickled in, I was amused.

Walk on water
Dolphin
Helicopter

Then the flow of possibilities rushed over me and I couldn’t write fast enough to keep up!

Deep sea driver
Submarine
Swallowed by a big fish
Big wave pushes me to shore
Life preserver ring
Scuba gear appears
People in a boat rescue me
The sea splits in two and I walk out on dry land
The water is turned to wine and a an army of giants drinks the sea dry
He is floating beside me and waiting for me to stop flailing my arms so He can grab me
He is the water, like the Dead Sea, and I would float in Him if I would stop trying so hard

My listy brain would like to present these allegorical options to God as ways He can rescue me when I surrender. That is a superficial relationship of dictatorship, which I want no part of. So the final item on the list expresses my heart to God in this process of surrender.

NONE OF THE ABOVE … and that’s okay.

God is so much more creative and resourceful than my measly list of ideas. The main idea is: hope. This is a list of hope. As I surrender I have hope in the grace and goodness of God.

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Are you trapped in a drowning car? Are you tired of treading water? Might you need to surrender to God, once again? What would that look like in your life?

Final thought: If you feel you need counseling, even if you think you “should” have it all together, I highly recommend you prayerfully engage in seeking help. Peace.

– Angie Washington, missionary living in Bolivia, South America

blog: angiewashington.com twitter: @atangie facebook: atangie

Airplanes are Time Machines

We joke that airplanes are time machines. When we come back to South America from North America it feels as though we step back in time. The clinics feel outdated. The cows on cobblestone streets look like the pioneer days in the movies. The open fires in homes and restaurants tended by women in skirts with babies slung on their backs set a scene of a bygone era.

I suppose we could also launch a mind bending conversation about the relativity of time. Like how you “skip” a day when flying from L.A. to Sydney. Or how you can “go back” to yesterday by flying from Tokyo to Honolulu. Such a thrilling life for international travelers! We’ll save all that for the science forums.

I’d rather touch on something even non-nerds can converse about: the cultural concept of time.

Yang Liu created a collection of captivating infogrpahics and put them in a book. After spending significant time in Germany and China she compares: standing in line, dealing with problems, social dynamics at parties, etc. You can see a larger sampling on Brain Pickings. For the purpose of this post I want us to consider just this one:

On the left, in the blue box, we see the Germanic concept of punctuality. On the right, in the red box, we see the Chinese concept of punctuality. What would the image portray as an infographic on punctuality for the region where you reside?

The Bolivian rhythm is quite different than the Nebraska rhythm I was raised on. Adjusting my definition of “late” has relieved some tension. Others have tried to sanctify punctuality, as if it was included in the beatitudes. That is a mite too exhausting for me. I choose rather to ascribe to a different addendum to the Sermon on the Mount: Blessed are the flexible for they shall not be bent out of shape.

Culture shock still creeps up on me every once in a while, though. It usually hits me when I think I have something all figured out. I thought for sure I had the slower place down pat. Then some challenges arose in a particular relationship with a Bolivian.

Consistently, my expectations were not met. I hoped for growth. I taught for growth. We went round and round the issues, and still I didn’t see what I wanted to see in the life of this other person.

When I was venting my frustrations to a very wise lady she helped me see this situation in a new light. She asked if I loved the other person. What good Christian would say no? Of course I love this person. She then said that it was time to lift the timeline. Oftentimes when dealing with relational issues we cannot put a timeline of expectation on the other person. When we are committed to the relationship we will trust that God is helping the other person to grow and change in His timing.

Since that moment, when I see myself become impatient with another person, especially this person, I remember that I let the timeline go. What a great freedom!

The Message bible says in Matthew 11:

“Are you tired? Worn out? Burned out on religion? Come to me. Get away with me and you’ll recover your life. I’ll show you how to take a real rest. Walk with me and work with me—watch how I do it.

Learn the unforced rhythms of grace.

I won’t lay anything heavy or ill-fitting on you. Keep company with me and you’ll learn to live freely and lightly.”

The unforced rhythms of grace for others.

The unforced rhythms of grace for myself.

The unforced rhythms of grace to live in company with God.

What is time like in your region of the world?

Are there some areas in your life where lifting the timeline expectation might relieve some pressure?

– Angie Washington, missionary living in Bolivia, South America

blog: angiewashington.com twitter: @atangie facebook: atangie

To My 25-year-old Self…

Hey there, you. Yes, you with the big dreams and full schedule. Yes, you getting ready to embark on the greatest mission of your life. Can I have a minute? I know you have laundry to do, support letters to mail, and noses to wipe, but if I may?

First of all, let me assure you – you make it! Yep, you are a missionary. And have been for over a decade. So you can relax – everything does really come together and you really do get on the plane with your newborn, your two-year-old son, and your three-year-old daughter. Though, you must know, that ‘crazy’ label must be stuck with crazy glue because you will forever have someone somewhere thinking it. But you had that hunch, right?

So before you duct tape all your worldly possessions in plastic bins, and before go through all the security check points in a trans-continental journey that will leave you hoarse and would have cost you your sanity had you not already given that up months ago, let me just talk to you and tell you a few things. About yourself. About your life.

You are enough. You will feel like you don’t measure up and that all your efforts are in vain. You will feel the stares of people assessing every detail of your life. You will hear the hurtful comments and feel the sting of rejection, no matter how strong you think you are. You’ve got to grab that bottle of crazy glue and stick this truth to your heart of hearts: you are enough.

See beauty. Look at the leathery skin and see God’s goodness. Look at the aged eyes in young children and see God’s hope. Look at the families who hold so tight to each other and see God’s unconditional love. Don’t turn your eyes from the hurting, keep looking until you see God in them.

Change is the chain around your neck. The more you fight it the bigger it grows until you feel as though you are choking. Submit to change and that chain will shrink until it is as a fine, glistening, gold necklace reminding you of your confidence in the One leading you through these hills and valleys, calm pastures and angry rivers.

You will never regret the hundreds of hours and dollars invested in acquiring language fluency and cultural assimilation.

You will never regret learning to love the land your children know as their first home.

You will never regret the efforts to stay tight with your husband. Go on those dates. Take the trips. Celebrate. Be his biggest fan. Love big, often, and wholly.

Your greatest regrets will come from times when you backed away from human connection, when you prioritized doing over being, and when you forgot that the world is not black and white.

You know that 50 year plan you and your dear man worked out? Hang on to it. It will bring you many fun chuckles after about 3 years into this life that looks like trying to make it out alive while you teeter along on a broken sidewalk, in a never ending earthquake, during a hurricane, next to an active volcano, while being chased by a pack of R.O.U.S..

I give you permission to laugh at that corny Princess Bride reference. In fact, I give you permission to find the humor in tough moments and choose to laugh – rather than growl. Especially when you are on the side of a mountain, in a crowded bus, and the driver tells everyone to get over on the side away from the drop as he shoves another handful of coca leaves in his mouth to stay awake and… oh wait, I don’t want to give away the ending! It’s to die for! [another joke – laugh.]

Okay, you can get back to your scurrying around. Your enthusiasm is contagious! Infect as many as you can! Oh, and when they offer you that first plate of chuño? Be sure to have a napkin close by for quick, yet discreet, expulsion from your mouth. Yuck! Trust me.

Best wishes,

Yourself… with grey hairs, creaking joints, and tons of fond memories from life on the mission field

– Angie Washington, missionary living in Bolivia, South America

blog: angiewashington.com twitter: @atangie facebook: atangie

How about you? What would you say to your former self, knowing what you do now?

Ice-Cream Theology

Statistics show that the majority of people die. This is an undisputed fact. Yet fear of death is one of the top phobias of the human race. According to Jerry Seinfeld it ranks right after fear of public speaking. Consult with wikipedia and you will find fear of death a bit farther down on the list after: flying, heights, clowns, and intimacy.

Have you ever been afraid of death? I have.

For the first few years in Bolivia a reoccurring fear gripped me. I was afraid my husband would die. And beyond that I was afraid of what I would do if he did die. No matter how irrational that fear was, it ate away at me as I fixated on it.

Two veteran missionaries came to visit us. They were our teachers in mission school. Now they had come to speak at a conference and see how we were doing. One afternoon we went out for ice-cream. My fingers tapped and I wiggled in my seat waiting for the right moment to ask their advice.

“I am worried about if my husband dies what will happen to us,” I blurted.

Everyone stopped clinking their cute little spoons on the glass ice-cream cups. The background noises of the open air restaurant spun around my ears in increasing volume. The awkward, loud silence made my heart beat faster.

One of the seasoned men had the guts to speak first. I think he asked some clarifying questions. I didn’t cry. Although my worrisome tone made him speak in a calm low voice. The others just sat stunned. I can’t remember any specific advice. I remember faces of confusion and pity.

The sole brave speaker told a story, “My grandpa used to listen to gospel hymns about heaven, and he died an early death.” How disconcerting, and odd. So much for that session of ice-cream theology. As far as I was concerned their advice had the consistency of the puddle of pink goo that had accumulated in my dish. Weak. Milky. Useless.

Fears and anxiety marked a struggle with deathly imaginations that lasted more than five years.

Sure, I prayed. I begged God to take away the terrors. I wanted the answer fast. I wanted him to bleach my soul. This was not His plan. The answer came slow. The trying of faith and the formation of long suffering were His chosen path for me.

Not long ago my husband and I sat across a tiny table and chatted during our weekly tradition of ice-cream on Tuesdays. He scooped up a big mound of Snickers Twisters and I slurped a Choco Frio. That frightful conversation of despair at an ice-cream shoppe years ago flashed through my mind.

An awareness filled my soul. I no longer feared the death of my husband. What I had hoped would happen as suddenly as a brain freeze had come upon me slowly like the creeping up freeze of the winter months after a sticky summer and a cool fall.

My answer came. Thank you God!

No mater how irrational, fears can feel all consuming. Maybe you don’t fear your husband’s death. Maybe you do. Maybe you are struggling with other kinds of fears. First, don’t stop praying. Second, talk with trusted people – even if they don’t have any good advice for you, it is good to shine light on the darkness.

What have you found helpful in your life for confronting fear?

– Angie Washington, missionary living in Bolivia, South America

blog: angiewashington.com twitter: @atangie facebook: atangie

Banished from Bolivia

We messed up. Most times I want to end that sentence with a question mark. We messed up? Truth is, we all mess up, sooner or later.

Thomas Edison – scores of failures before the light bulb
Abraham Lincoln – lost dozens of elections
Albert Einstein – expelled from school because he was a dunce who asked too many questions

Blah, blah, blah, yada, yada, yada. The quantity of motivational pep talks in no way compares to the quantity of embarrassment one feels after a failure. Call it what you will — mess ups, screw ups, failures, errors in judgment, inexperience, sin — it still hurts.

We came to Bolivia after my husband got his Business Administration degree and after we attended one year of mission school. With a ten week old baby strapped to my chest and my hands clasping the toddler fingers of our two-year-old and our three-year-old we stepped onto Bolivian soil with high hopes for our internship. The mission school program required two years: one year of classes, three months in Mexico with an affiliated missionary, and then back to the States to finish the year with classes. We did the first year of classes. We knew we wanted to serve in Bolivia. We knew that a missionary couple affiliated with the school had been in Bolivia for seven years. We asked for a modification to the program. Considering the ages of our kids and the fact that we knew we wanted to serve in Bolivia we asked about a year long internship serving at this ministry as the second year of the program. They approved our request.

We stayed the year in Santa Cruz, Bolivia (11-01 to 12-02). Then we went back to the States for a few weeks to visit family and supporters. Before that first trip back we decided we wanted to do one more year with this ministry. They agreed to that. We came back and worked even harder.

During those two years we: started 64 bible schools, oversaw an outreach program that facilitated the bible school students teaching moral formation to 50,000 public school students, taught two classes each at the local bible school, ran the children’s ministry at the church, participated in the G-12 discipleship system of the church, and traveled extensively throughout Bolivia doing conferences for pastors and church leaders. We were also intensively learning Spanish. Did I mention we had three small children as well?

In our non-denominational, independent circles people applauded our fervor and passion. Our time commitment was coming to a close and we began to discuss what came next. Tensions had been building and we felt like some things would need to change if we were going to continue with this ministry.

The discussions became muddled and personal. Many hurtful things were said. They told us they would like us to connect with their ministry and come under their covering. We decided it would be best to tell them that we would no longer be working with them.

That’s when the proverbial fecal matter hit the gyrating, bladed appliance.

We were:

told the operations in our charge had grown too fast and things were unbalanced.
told to relinquish all our financial partners’ information.
accused of owing thousands of dollars to the ministry.
visited by lawyers threatening to take us to prison.
immediately removed from every position and our keys were taken away.
slandered and the church members were told to stay away from us.
told to leave Bolivia and never return.

I was stunned. I knew things had become tense. We had seen things we didn’t agree with. That is why we were stepping away. We turned in our official letter of resignation from the volunteer positions we had assumed as interns. It was shoved back across the desk, rejected.

I was baffled. We didn’t receive a paycheck from them. The people who partnered with us funded the operations and covered our family budget. They had asked us to consider staying on with them. We decided not to. So why didn’t they just let us go? Why did they have to make life so difficult for us?

Why did they banish us from Bolivia?

We messed up? Yes? No?

Our options for how to respond dizzied me. We could: cower, blame, defend, reason, negotiate, formulate excuses, quit, throw a fit, accuse, cry, shrink back, play the victim, bend under the oppression, fight, etc.

Through many tears and prayers and the advice of our home pastor back in the States we decided that it was not necessary to leave Bolivia, but that we would start out afresh in another city. We liked Cochabamba best of all the cities we had visited. We moved.

— — — That was ten years ago. This November marks 12 years for us in Bolivia. — — —

In my mind I replay scenes from those first two years as missionaries. I want to say that all has been redeemed; some has, not all. I wish it never happened the way it did; but it did. I would like to have a better starting out story; but we don’t.

The regret tally marks scratched on my soul still burn. What could we have done differently? In retrospect the list is enormous. At the time, though, I believe we did the best we could with what we knew.

I would like to dress this up with a bow and a pretty ending. We could compare the numbers from our first two years and the following ten. Since our move to Cochabamba we: started a K-12 Christian school, pastor a church of 100+ people, help thousands of pastors throughout the Spanish speaking world with conferences and online resources, have provided care to 53 orphans, published a more than a dozen books, employ more than 60 Bolivians, mentored 3 career missionaries, and own the only bowling alley in town.

The balance of numbers feels superficial. We are not newbies any more, but we are nowhere near done with life. I am 37 and my husband is 38. Who knows how this thing will finish?

Does it do you any good to know we messed up? That we feel wronged? That regrets loom over my head like ominous vultures circling a bleeding carcass? That my dutiful dedication to the works of the ministry often find their motivation in paying a penance or seeking validation?

If there can be any good sucked from hearing our tale of woe it will not have been told in vain. Maybe the good comes from knowing we made it through. We are still serving as missionaries. Bitterness didn’t beat us.

I fear my words will be interpreted as complaining or moaning. I worry you will feel sorry for me – which I want none of, for it does no good to wallow.

Hurts come. Each situation is unique. I feel unqualified to advise anybody walking through relational struggles. I can only speak of character and say:

Keep a tender heart before the Lord
Forgive Forgive Forgive
Learn and grow in spite of the pain
Pray Pray Pray
Love people

The words of Maya Angelou might give you solace.

“Do what you know to do. When you know better; do better.”

Pray with me this prayer attributed to St. Francis

Lord, make us instruments of your peace. Where there is hatred, let us sow love; where there is injury, pardon; where there is discord, union; where there is doubt, faith; where there is despair, hope; where there is darkness, light; where there is sadness, joy. Grant that we may not so much seek to be consoled as to console; to be understood as to understand; to be loved as to love. For it is in giving that we receive; it is in pardoning that we are pardoned; and it is in dying that we are born to eternal life. Amen.

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– Angie Washington, missionary living in Bolivia, South America

blog: angiewashington.com twitter: @atangie facebook: atangie

Do you find yourself disillusioned, discouraged, disheartened, defeated, or destroyed?

What are you doing to keep yourself moving through this valley?

Who can you trust at this crucial time?

Celebrate and Vacate

Today is my daughter’s Golden Birthday: 12 on the 12th! Yeah for Gabrielle! So today’s A Life Overseas post is dedicated to celebrations… and vacations!

Washington kids (Gabrielle is in the middle)

Celebrate the small stuff! Celebrate the big stuff!

Don’t let the work take up so much room that you “don’t have (make) time” for: celebrations, travel, relaxing, fun, vacations, parties… breathing.

When one finds themselves in a long season of frustration the reasons can come from two different places:

#1 – – One has lost the vision / passion / motivation and must return to face the question eyeball to eyeball: why? Why am I here? Why have I sacrificed? Why can I hope?

#2 – – One is exhausted and needs to combat the fatigue with exhaling.

Exhaling

Work is like inhaling. We inhale stress. We inhale troubles. We suck it up and push through and that taxes our beings.

Exhaling is breathing out all that we have sucked up. It takes the form of a break. Because, really, if the work is breaking our backs maybe that is a sign we need to take a break from the work.

Little breaks are vital. Take one day off a week. Contrary to the opinion of some, I do not believe that two half days constitute a full day off. I say a day off is: no work from the time you lay your head down to sleep one night until you lay your head down to sleep the next night.

Make space for margins in your life. Anticipate holidays and enjoy them. Put birthdays, anniversaries, and other special days on your calendar and in your budget so that you can fully embrace the importance of the days.

7 – 7 – 7

Every 7 days how about you take a break? (I know you’ve heard it before… but you need to hear it again: Even God took a rest.)

Every 7 weeks how about you get away for a few days? (It’s about every other month.)

Every 7 months how about you take a vacation? (But that is almost 2 vacations a year!?!? Yes. I hear you. Please keep reading…)

Vacations

Here’s a nice way to look at it.

Single? Once a year do a vacation just for you. And then once a year do a vacation with friends or family.

Married? Once a year do a vacation with your spouse. And then once a year do a vacation with another married couple or a group of friends.

Kids? Once a year do a vacation with the whole family. And then once a year do a vacation by yourself (if you are a single parent) or just with your spouse.

Furloughs are NOT vacations

When you travel back to your passport country and you are speaking in churches, meeting with potential donors, and going to conferences you are working. That is not a vacation. If you would like to combine your vacation time within your furlough time, by all means do so. Be sure you, and others, can distinguish vacation from furlough, though. Maybe a week of vacation before furlough or a week after. Maybe the middle week to break up the work time. Guard it. Value it. Enjoy it!

What’s the next celebration on your calendar?

What creative ways have you found to “exhale”?

– Angie Washington, missionary living in Bolivia, South America

blog: angiewashington.com twitter: @atangie facebook: atangie

Who’s Side is God On?

In Iquique, Chile, at the fishing port you can feed the sea lions seafood scraps as you would feed bread crumbs to pigeons. They swim around the crowded fishing boats bobbing by the docks. Per sea faring legend each boat has a name painted to its side. One of the names caught my eye: EMANUEL. The English translation is Immanuel. We know this to mean “God With Us”.

In today’s polarized generation, rhetoric of tolerance force us to define our differences, identify with our ‘kind’, and put up with all ‘others’. When we hear that one of the names of God is “God With Us” in an unthinking moment we might assume a suffix to that name and read, “God With Us … Not With Them.” We paint God’s name on our particular boat of beliefs, thereby excluding all the clearly defined ‘them’ who are not ‘us’. We do this subconsciously, of course.

But what if “God With Us” actually means “God With ALL of Us”?

As missionaries and international aid workers we enter a new land with purpose. Usually that purpose includes change. Usually the conclusion has been reached that a change is necessary because some aspect of the culture has been found to be, at best, lacking, or, at worst, lumped in the classification of: bad. We then make the jump and connect this ‘bad’ aspect to how we define certain sectors of the population. The natural assumption then becomes that our efforts, our ‘good’ efforts, are so that all of ‘them bad people’ can become like ‘us good people’.

But what if the God who carries the name Immanuel is so great, and so very good, that He is already present with ALL people? Maybe He stepped out of our boat of conditions? Maybe Love Unconditional walks on the waters of ALL cultures and is actively involved in the lives of ALL people everywhere.

If you were not forced to identify the “us” and “them” how would your treatment, or mindset, about the people who live around you change?

What traces of Immanuel have you seen in the people of your host culture?

“¹³When Joshua was near the town of Jericho, he looked up and saw a man standing in front of him with sword in hand. Joshua went up to him and demanded, “Are you friend or foe?”

¹⁴“Neither one,” he replied. “I am the commander of the Lord’s army.”

At this, Joshua fell with his face to the ground in reverence. “I am at your command,” Joshua said. “What do you want your servant to do?”

¹⁵The commander of the Lord’s army replied, “Take off your sandals, for the place where you are standing is holy.” And Joshua did as he was told.” (Joshua chapter 5, emphasis added)

Maybe it’s time to lay down our weapons, take off our shoes, and let Immanuel show us who He truly is.

Who’s side is God on?

– Angie Washington, missionary living in Bolivia, South America

blog: angiewashington.com twitter: @atangie facebook: atangie

My Kid Can Cuss in Two Languages

When the new normal cuts against your soul like a cheese grater on your knuckles, what do you do? Do you lift those bloody knuckles and fight back? Or do you woefully bandage them, let them heal, and wait for the next time the scraping starts again?

We live in Bolivia. We are a bi-lingual family: Spanish and English. Eleven years in a place gives you cool skills like that. Did you know that part of language acquisition means learning naughty words? Bi-lingual means double the fun in this area.

My child comes to me with tears brimming. A foul name from a sibling caused the tears. We do the parent thing. We discuss it. We know our child, the one with the silver tongue, has struggled, been bullied, been picked on. We know the defenses have gone up and one survival technique has been to learn rough speech.

It’s only fair to blame Bolivia for this child’s special knack, right? The romantic tongue of this Latin people makes allowances for explicit descriptions and colorful expletives. I should expect complete cultural assimilation from my children, right? Oh that blessed blame game… like those songs that never end, they just go on and on my friend…

My kid can cuss in two languages. Not an ideal bumper sticker. Although, it could be plastered right next to the one about honor roll. My kid is on the honor roll, too. Somehow that balance doesn’t soothe me, though.

Can I be grateful that our children face real issues under our care? Grateful for the cheese grater? It shall not be said they lived a sheltered life. No indeed.

I was about 11 years old when I had to get stitches because I sliced my finger cutting a head of cabbage. I remember my mom had to drag my younger brothers and sisters with us to Doctor Brown’s office. I sat on the tall bench and screamed as the little ones looked on with wide eyes. Plastered stiff against the wall in that tiny room the whole lot of them maintained perfect silence as the needle went in and out of my tiny index finger. Still have the scar. Still one of my favorite childhood memories. No joke.

Even though blood was everywhere, I was in pain, and the numbing shots did not help, I felt a goodness about me. With all those kids around me I knew I was not alone. I knew I would make it through. And it did.

So my kids fight the habits, and sometimes scrape their knuckles. Oh sure, the guilt still drives me to grind my teeth and bite my nails. Questions buzz around like a mosquitoes in my ear when I am trying to sleep. The prayers turn accusatory with a hint of pitiful begging.

Then the scars on the knuckles of my own soul remind me that our humanity is one of our most becoming features. I dare to hope that amidst the pain, goodness can be felt surrounding us.

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You can share your cheese grater story below. Please know, you are not alone.

What compromises do you feel you have had to make for the sake of “the call”?

When faced with a moral conflict how do you decide your response?

Who surrounds you, reminding you of the good in life, when things get rough?

– Angie Washington, missionary living in Bolivia, South America

blog: angiewashington.com twitter: @atangie facebook: atangie

Fundraising

The summer heat of Oklahoma turned our dingy, grey duplex into an oven. I shuffled papers around, crouched over my bulging belly on the crusty, rust colored shag carpet. Expectancy within, the birth of our third child. Expectancy all around, our impending move to Bolivia. The two events would occur in the fall, just weeks from each other, respectively. The papers contained names and addresses.

We finished our mission school classes and counted down to our launch. Consumed with the tasks of unhooking from our natal culture, we took a step of faith. Our most recent correspondence announced to the world we had quit our jobs. We would derive our sustenance from the generous financial gifts people sent to us. Per our instruction in missions school, we took strategic steps to divide our contacts in lists for effective communication.

‘List A’ : people who had given money in the past or who were sure to give in the near future.

‘List B’ : folks who needed to stay informed whether they gave or not, and the praying people.

‘List C’ : all the rest.

My two chubby toddlers took sweaty naps while I sorted the print-outs into three piles.

With my brain fully engaged in the act of classifications, a simple voice whispered at the corner of my soul, “I am your only list.” My fingers flew, filing on the floor, as I knelt before the homage to our own proficiency. I breathed out a distracted, “Yes, Lord, you are on the top of ‘List A’”. In penitence to effectiveness, my sorting sped up.

Then the grace, oh the amazing grace of my God, came in thicker than the squelching humidity sticking to my skin. This time the voice flooded every corner of my heart, “I AM your only list.”

A a parent, I change my tone if I have to repeat myself. I recognized the tone. I let the papers slip from my hands. Palms turned upwards, I closed my eyes and leaned my head back. I repented.

That pertinent conversation, rubbing at my impertinence, happened in 2001. Have I really lived by those words over a decade? When panic attacks, I go back to those words. As I scramble to reduce, cut back, and suck it all in so we can make it, these words bring comfort. In seasons of abundance and in times of drought I rely, by faith, on my Only Source. My God. Through tears of joy, fear, or sorrow, I can say with Paul,

“I know what it is to be in need, and I know what it is to have plenty. I have learned the secret of being content in any and every situation, whether well fed or hungry, whether living in plenty or in want. I can do all this through him who gives me strength.” (Philippians 4:12-13)

We trade independence and live in dependency. I cringe when I have to answer, “No, we are not with an organization, we are ‘independent’ missionaries.” For I am NOT independent! I am completely and utterly dependent upon my God. I take faltering steps, trusting Him to show us the path.

He overrides my lists. He requires I draw close to Him all the time. He points out His unique provision. Through other people, by creative ideas, and with undeniable miracles, He proves to me He is my only list.

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This piece comes as a response to the many messages, emails, and comments from newbie missionaries who read A Life Overseas.

There are millions of ways to get money as a missionary.

Let’s take up a collection right now. What?! Not a collection of money, silly. A collection of resources in the comment section below. Don’t be shy! What methods have you employed to finance your passion? My kooky list is included…

– Angie Washington, missionary living in Bolivia, South America

blog: angiewashington.com twitter: @atangie work blog: House of Dreams Orphanage

Fair Expectations

We sat in the booth at a sandwich shop. By divine serendipity our paths crossed on “home” soil. She was back from Africa and I was up from South America. As we picked at our oversize, overpriced deliciousness stories poured out.

“Things are so rough in the village. The ladies tell me I need to hit my children. At any time of the day on the street someone was physically beating the kids. When they hit my own kids I didn’t know what to do,” my friend shared as she lifted her hands in exasperation.

We talked of culture, poverty, sickness, and all the other hot topics missionaries share. We cried. We nodded our heads. We even laughed together. Oh, what a hot mess it is when expectations meet reality.

Expectations are unavoidable. Our brains are hard wired to create shortcuts. We read cues and make judgements based on past experiences and learned responses. It’s natural. So we head into new cultural situations and our pea brains can’t compute how to process things that do not meet our expectations.

fair expectations... horses in the city — Horses? In the middle of the city? Yep.

Then comes the real labor of reworking our hard wired synapses and electronic circuiting. We try to readjust expectations. We try to adapt to a new normal.

As a black and white thinker the grays and I have had a hard time getting to know each other. The miscues and confusion started to cause the concept of truth to blur in my heart and mind.

I began to ask: Where is the truth in all this?

As I began to manage the tension of truth vs. perception I began to ask a new set of questions: Might truth be more fluid like a river and not so rigid like an ice cube? Am I forsaking truth if I adapt to cultural understandings of concepts I once thought were rock solid? Can I put on a new set of lenses without losing my core identity?

My son with a great find from the market. “This is a grapefruit!?” Yep.

I know I am not the only one who has wrestled with the expectations factor as a foreigner.

Let’s talk about this.

Which of your expectations have been challenged? What ways have you found to cope when you realized your expectations were unrealistic? How do we keep from falling over into hopelessness, cynicism, or hardness of heart when we adjust our expectations?

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– Angie Washington, missionary living in Bolivia, South America

blog: angiewashington.com twitter: @atangie work blog: House of Dreams Orphanage

Missionary Motivators

Why are you a missionary? What motivated you to live a life of challenge, adventure, and sacrifice? How did you make the decision to serve in such an intense capacity?

We have lived in Bolivia for over 11 years. From the time I was seven I knew I would live outside the U.S. for most of my life. My husband was in high school when he made the same realization. Those initial prodding desires led to practical steps: Praying. Maps as wallpaper. Counsel. Training. Meager living. Extreme serving.

Missionary Motivators 1 — my husband with one of the Dreamers at our orphanage years ago

So, what got you to the mission field?

I see 5 main reasons people serve on the mission field.

Call of duty – a commissioning ceremony, a scripture that spoke to your heart, a sense of obligation
Itching for adventure – you crave risk, you’re an adrenaline junky, boredom terrifies you
Bleeding heart – your heart breaks at the plight of the downtrodden, compassion fills your soul
Way of escape – deep down you know you had to get away, you are running, you are seeking refuge
Purpose driven life – you want your life to count for something significant, fulfillment

I suppose I might as well give voice to what many are thinking. What about number six? Certifiably crazy. Okay, yes, I can see some validity to that being a common motivator. Right? Smile, I’m just kidding.

Missionary Motivators 2 — my daughter feeding the same little girl in the first picture

Then there’s the fact that what gets you to the mission field might not be what keeps you there. Maybe you are not meant to stay forever. Maybe life happens and you have to move back. Maybe you hate life as a missionary. Maybe you knew this was a short term thing to begin with so you are content to return. Maybe you feel you would be more effective in accomplishing what you feel God wants from your life by being based back “home”.

Those who choose to live as missionaries for the rest of their lives will encounter moments (read: hours, days, weeks, maybe even months) of questioning. Healthy evaluation is helpful and necessary. Putting words to why we continue on in this lifestyle might be hard, but it is worth the effort.

Can you answer with gut honesty and full disclosure transparency in one sentence: Why are you a missionary? Care to share? Dare to share? The comment box is open. Thanks!

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Adoption day for this same little girl four years after coming to The House of Dreams Orphanage here in Bolivia. She’s in Europe now with her beautiful new family.

I’m not saying that I have this all together, that I have it made. But I am well on my way, reaching out for Christ, who has so wondrously reached out for me. Friends, don’t get me wrong: By no means do I count myself an expert in all of this, but I’ve got my eye on the goal, where God is beckoning us onward—to Jesus. I’m off and running, and I’m not turning back.

(Philippians 3:12-14 msg)

– Angie Washington, co-editor of A Life Overseas, missionary living in Bolivia

blog: angiewashington.com twitter: @atangie work blog: House of Dreams Orphanage