paradox – A Life Overseas |

A Letter to My Sending Churches

To my dear Sending Churches,

We are coming to the end of our six-month furlough, and my heart is full. It is full of thanksgiving.

I am thankful for how you opened your homes and your lives to our family, loving us while we were here temporarily. Thank you for the boxes of winter clothes that awaited us when we arrived from the airport underdressed for the cold weather. Thank you for being willing to find us a car, research public school options ahead of time, and surprise us with food boxes at Christmastime.

Thank you for your love and support, which have spanned both the ocean and the years—your prayers, emails, and snail mail have been a lifeline for us. Thank you for welcoming our children into your Sunday school classrooms, embracing them with love and patience. We have experienced Christ’s love through you all.

Thank you for trying to understand our stories, for the times you asked open questions and let us try to find words to answer. Thank you for the invitations to meals, the conversations over tea, and the kite-flying birthday parties.

We are coming to the end of our furlough, and my heart is full. It is full of grief.

I grieve the painful conversations and moments of feeling judged as insufficient. Some questions reverberate in my head, leaving a bitter taste in my mouth. Comments like, “So what are you actually doing to fight poverty?” Or, “From your newsletters it sure seems like you focus more on communicating the gospel through deeds rather than the gospel in words.” And, “If your students do not become Christians, aren’t you just educating them for Satan?”

I want to answer graciously, lovingly, and patiently. I want to believe that you ask these questions out of love, that you still support us even if you do not understand our context or our methods. I want to try to help you understand.

But I am also exhausted. I am tired of being on a pedestal. Missionaries are not superheroes or magic-workers. We have no short cuts in solving the world’s problems. We are just trying to follow Christ, as we believe we are called to, in a different culture than you. We are figuring it out as we are going along, and surely messing up as we go—but we are trying. Please, believe that we are doing the best we can. We are on the same team—team Love Jesus.

When we share openly about our ministry, we’re not asking you to observe it with a magnifying glass, looking for errors. We’re not asking for a “grade” or a “rating.” We’re asking you to listen, to hear the pain as we share disappointments and heartbreaks on the field. We’re asking you to be patient, as we also are learning to be patient, and remember that we cannot force results. We’re asking you to be gentle with us, because we feel fragile as we prepare to cross the ocean again and re-enter all the painful realities of our other home.

Recently, a member care friend from our sending organization came to visit, and she brought two rubber duckies. A “yay duck” and a “yuck duck.” A pair-of-ducks. A paradox. We discussed the yays and yucks of life on the field and the challenge and invitation to hold them together. I am realizing that this pair-of-ducks is not only for when I am in Indonesia, but also true for all of life. And definitely true of furlough. There are beautiful memories and painful memories. And as I think of these last six months, I will try to hold this paradox with open hands.

Thank you for loving us. Thank you for sending us. And please, keep learning about the pair-of-ducks with us.

As our furlough comes to an end and we say our goodbyes, please do not forget us. Know that your letters, your emails, your WhatsApp messages, and your times of praying for us are very important. Even as the years continue to pass and our sending churches change, it is important to us to know that halfway around the world, you care.

With laughter and tears,
until we meet again,
Anita

Why Do You Keep Going Back?

When we joined AgriCorps, we said that we would be going to Liberia for one year. One year later we were packing our bags for a flight back to Liberia.

When we joined Hope in the Harvest, we said that we would be going to Liberia for two years. Two years later we are once again packing our bags for a flight back to Liberia.

This year as we join Hope in the Harvest again, we aren’t saying when we’ll be coming back to the US (for good) because it’s kinda starting to look like we are liars anyways….

“Why do you keep extending? Why do you keep going back?”

This is the question that I hear at least 2-3 times a week, so by now you would think that I would have myself a perfectly cultivated answer, short and sweet, clear and to the point, easy to deliver, something that summarizes it all up. That’s what they tell me I should have by now….that most people I encounter will mostly likely only have an attention span of 2-3 minutes to dedicate to hearing about life/ministry in Liberia and that I need to have my “elevator speech” prepared and ready to go at a moment’s notice.

That’s what they say at least. However, I can’t seem to do it….I mean I can… and I guess I have…you may have even heard me do it….but every time I boil it down to those few simple words (“agricultural and spiritual transformation”) I feel like I’m tying a pretty red ribbon up on the outside of a shiny white box that is filled with an absolutely colorful mess inside, about to burst open and explode everywhere!

How do I explain why I am going back in just a few simple sentences? How do I explain in just a few simple sentences all the things that God has laid on my heart and all the ways that God has broken my heart? Good, bad, beautiful, ugly, messy, clean, tangible, intangible, real, fake, and everything in between? How do I explain it all at once? How do I summarize things that I myself don’t even understand? That I can’t even explain? Things that seem like they make no sense?

I’m going back because Liberia feels like home, but also Liberia is nothing like home and that’s why I love it, but that’s also why I miss home.

I am going back because Liberia is so far out of my comfort zone, and yet I am going back because Liberia is exactly inside of my comfort zone.

I am going back to Liberia because in Liberia I feel joy more fully than I ever knew possible, and yet I am going back to Liberia because it is there that I feel sorrow deeper than my heart could hold on its own.

I am going back because I love some of these people more than I can put into words, and yet I am also going back because I want to understand what love really is because it feels like I still don’t know.

I am going back to teach, and yet I am going back because there is so much left to learn.

I am going back to finish what I started, and yet I know that there is no finishing this thing here on earth.

I am going back because I am not afraid of the things people think I should be afraid of, but I am going back because I am afraid of the other things.

I’m going back because I love the work that we get to do there, but also the work that we are called to do there scares me and I don’t love things that scare me.

I’m going back because I’ve found immense purpose there in the work, but also I’m struggling to understand my purpose on a daily basis when it comes to other things.

I’m going back because I have skills/knowledge that I believe are worth sharing and can make a difference there, and yet I know that every good thing that is done and every change that I see happening is all from the Lord’s doing.

I am going back because I want to share with people about how they can have eternal life because I believe eternity with God is what all of us are living for, but also I see people with real needs in front of me now…with whom I cannot talk about eternity if we cannot address the very real hunger that is in their stomachs right now, the very real fears that keep them up at night, the very real diseases that keep taking their children away from them too soon.

I am going back to Liberia because I love agriculture, and yet I am going back to Liberia because agriculture means nothing to me at all in comparison.

I am going back because I feel like I should, and yet I am not at all going back because I feel like I should because I have lots of people telling me I shouldn’t.

I am going back because I feel like I am needed, but I am going back because they don’t need me at all.

I am going back to Liberia because in some ways it is simpler, but I am going back to Liberia knowing that I am leaving the simplicity behind.

I am going back because I have hope for Liberia, but also, I am going back because some days I don’t have hope, but others do and they draw me towards them like light to the darkness and darkness cannot hide from the light.

I am going back because I am selfish and I like to feel good about helping others, but also, I am going back so that I don’t succumb to my own selfishness.

I am going back to be with my family, and yet as I go back, I am missing my family intensely.

I am going back to Liberia because I feel called to go back, but I’m also going back because it is my desire to go back. God has given me a desire to serve the poor, to teach agriculture, and to share the good news of His salvation. He has placed those desires on my heart as I have sought to delight myself in Him and His presence. He has and is giving me the desires of my heart; they are fully His and yet they are fully mine all at the same time. Finally, there is no juxtaposition here.

Delight yourself in the LORD, and he will give you the desires of your heart. Psalm 37:4

You make known to me the path of life; you will fill me with joy in your presence, with eternal pleasures at your right hand. Psalm 16:11

And that is why I’m going back, because the desire of my heart is simply that I want to walk with the Lord on this specific path for a little while longer…to fulfill the desires of my heart. This is not the only path for me, I know that there a number of paths that I could take and serve the Lord anywhere in the world doing a number of different jobs. I know now that it is not necessarily about the specific path that I take, but rather The One who holds my hand and guide me as I walk along that path. And somehow that’s what makes the freedom to choose this path….this rugged, winding, wide, confusing, long, beautiful, joyous, painful, fulfilling path of ministry abroad…even sweeter. My husband and I don’t know exactly how long we will be on this path, but we know that if we cling tightly to the Hand of God, that He will be with us along the way…and that’s all any of us really want or need out of this life…isn’t it?

So once again, we are packing our bags for a flight back to Liberia.

When Your Extended Family is Made Up of 101 Million People

We sat down in church. The pastor found a seat next to us, looked pointedly at us, and started rubbing my son Daniel’s bare feet. I could read it in his eyes: Why does this child not have socks? (Answer: Because when said child has socks, they are somehow pulled off and thrown into unknown locations within approximately 2 minutes.).

Without a word spoken, I began to feel guilty, a failure as a mom in Ethiopian culture. That’s it. I’m going to do the thing that is right in the eyes of society, I thought. I want to fit in, so I will obey “the rules.”

The rules, it seemed to me, were mostly about the fact that children need to be bundled up at all times. We must act as if we live in the Arctic, though we actually live in a place that never gets below 60 degrees and usually hovers around 75. When in Rome…right?

The next week, a sunny day dawned, warm and bright. Nevertheless, I bundled Daniel up in a sweatshirt and socks and put him on my back, feeling righteous and politically correct. We set out for the fruit stand to buy some bananas, and I congratulated myself on living up to this society’s standards.

As we walked down the uneven cobblestone path, a large, imposing lady passed us. Then she whirled around in shock, almost hitting us with her umbrella. She began a dramatic tirade, shaking her umbrella at me and pointing at Daniel, asking me what in the world I was thinking letting my baby be out in the sun.

Eshi…eshi…eshi…(ok…ok…ok…) I said meekly for a while, then turned and continued on my way, her words ringing in my ears. Ethiopian mom fail. Again.

My cultural sensitivity was in conflict with my nerdy health research habits, which told me that it was essential for Daniel to get vitamin D from sunlight at least a few times a week, even if I have to brave the umbrella preachers and flout their advice.

On another day I was similarly walking in the sun, a sleeping baby on my back, through one of the most crowded areas of town. A woman saw me from afar and started yelling as she came towards me, berating me for not putting a hat on my child, etc. This time I didn’t even stop as I said a single, curt Eshi, and kept walking, head high, emboldened by my anger.

Everyone has opinions. Everyone has advice. Everyone judges everyone else. Americans judge people all the time. But the difference between Americans and Ethiopians is that Americans will judge you and talk bad about you behind your back, in private, but Ethiopians will judge you and talk bad about you to your face, in public (and loudly). This is a little hard to get used to.

This tendency to give advice freely to strangers is a corollary to the fact that here, everyone is all up in everyone else’s business, all of the time. There are not many boundaries, not a lot of personal space, not an abundance of privacy. What we do, we do together. What we think, we share.

I was having a grouchy day after being given one too many pieces of advice (on other topics, in addition to the baby lectures), and I stewed on how much I disliked “busybodies” as I lugged my cranky baby to the minibus stop near my house. I gave a stink-eye at anyone who looked as if they might lecture me, punishing them for their countrymen and countrywomen’s actions.

When I arrived at the hotel restaurant to meet a fellow cross-cultural worker who was leaving town that week, Daniel lost it. Not enough nap plus (in hindsight) starting to get sick meant screaming. In the restaurant. And arching his back and flailing his arms and doing all those things I used to judge other parents about before I had children.

It was the first time I had met this fellow worker (and my only opportunity to meet up), so I had no option to ask for a rain-check. I tried to swallow my mortification and my tea while being cool and listening attentively to her story of how she ended up here, etc., while wrestling a child who resembled a (cute) rabid monkey. I’ve gotten better at multitasking since becoming a mom, but not that much better.

Suddenly, our waitress appeared at my elbow. I wondered if she was going to ask me to calm my child down because the other patrons were disturbed or something. But she held out her arms and said sweetly in Amharic, “Let me take him.”

Speechless, I handed him to her, and watched him relax and enjoy himself as she carried him around the whole restaurant, introducing him to all her coworkers, showing him his reflection in a mirror, looking out the window with him, etc. He changed hands several times for 20 or 30 minutes and eventually the host brought him back to me, happy and smiling.

As I took him back, it hit me. The waitress was sent to remind me that living in a very tight-knit community is a coin with two sides. Yes, living in this kind of community means putting up with daily well-meaning lectures and having to deal with a lot of flack if I decide to go against the norm.

But it also means being noticed, empathized with, and helped even when I don’t say a word. I live in a community that views all kids as their own. The idea of a village being needed to raise a child was lived out here before it was trendy.

I live in a community who sees me, for better or for worse. A community that cares. I’m learning to love it. Learning to experience lectures as love. Learning to love living in an extended family of 101 million, a gigantic network of “relatives” in all their bossy, compassionate, quirky, dysfunctional, wise and beautiful glory. It’s a gift, and I choose to receive it today.

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Jessica A. Udall is a culture-crosser who makes sense of her experience by writing it down. She lives with her husband in his native Ethiopia, and is raising one rambunctious toddler. She blogs at www.jessicaudall.wordpress.com and is the author of Loving the Stranger: Welcoming Immigrants in the Name of Jesus. Her favorites include having conversations with interesting people and drinking strong Ethiopian coffee, preferably at the same time.

What Being a TCK is Really All About

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We were sitting in a coffee shop having yet another one of those random conversations in which we could go from our favorite ramen noodle flavors to deep thoughts about our lives as TCKs.

My friend was explaining how blissful and easy her life had been before moving from Canada to Cambodia a year earlier. How her main ambitions had seemed so within her reach. How she had taken everything completely for granted. And then, how her family had suddenly moved to Asia.

I just sat and listened. As a TCK who had lived in Asia my whole life, it broke my heart to think about how she must have felt coming to Cambodia. And in that moment, my heart broke for all the third-culture-people out there, for all the confusion and heartbreak and loss they would feel in their lives. My heart broke for the tears they would shed and the pain that would come with every confusing moment, every tearful goodbye.

I didn’t really know what to say.

Then I realized something. “You’re never going to be normal, you know,” I said.

My friend gave one of her characteristic short laughs. “Yeah. I’m never going to be normal.”

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Third Culture Kids are never going to be normal.

Our life in Cambodia is far from normal. It is sweaty, smelly, and colorful. We’re always a hot mess. (And not in a cute way. At all.) Here, the classic four seasons are reduced to three: hot, very hot, and hot-and-raining. To have an amoeba is totally normal. And having Dengue fever more than once is not uncommon. Items on our bucket lists include tasting grilled dog meat and swimming across a polluted river.

Life is always an adventure. And life is hard sometimes.

There are hellos and goodbyes, which confront us almost on a monthly basis. “Home” is impossible to define. And figuring out who we are is even harder.

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“God doesn’t make mistakes, and He’s planned all along for us to live overseas.” We hear that a lot. Many people tell us that “our experiences will enrich us” or “we will gain so much from our cultural encounters.” We’ve even been told on numerous occasions that “it’ll be easier to get a job because we’ve lived overseas.”

While all of these things are true, and while we do appreciate that encouragement, we also want to say this: We don’t need you to feel sorry for us. We don’t need you to treat us a certain way. Or at least, that’s not the main point.

Sometimes the TCK journey is more about acceptance. There are so many people out there trying to understand us so that they can treat us the “right way” or make us feel better. But the TCK journey is so much more about a personal decision to accept ourselves the way we are. Being a TCK is about knowing we’re different and accepting that as a truly valuable thing.

It’s sort of like doing a puzzle. There comes a time when we struggle with defining “home” and doubt who we really are. We feel like there is only one “piece” that can fill the “home” space in the puzzle and that life is all about finding which piece fits in that gap. We also want to take out certain pieces of our life-picture as an attempt to let go of pain. We want to let go of people. We want to let go of places. We want to be able to replace pieces every time a change happens. But that doesn’t work.

Instead of trying in vain to remove important pieces from our life-puzzle, we need to understand that each piece is important. Essentially, TCK life is more about letting ourselves add pieces to our lives, accepting them equally, and choosing to allow them to live simultaneously with each other. It’s hard and messy and confusing, and we cry a lot. We know that. And it’s totally okay.

We don’t need to be so concerned about the puzzle pieces of our identity not fitting together perfectly. God has called us to find freedom in our true identities in Him. As TCKs, God has called us to experience these struggles for a specific purpose and has chosen to make them a part of who we are.

When we realize our special calling from God as His children (Ephesians 1:5) and find our identity in being his disciples, “the truth will set us free” (John 8:31-32). Our identity in God means that “home” is heaven (Philippians 3:20). We know that there is ultimately a purpose in each hard goodbye (Romans 8:28). We have hope (Ephesians 1:12) and peace (Ephesians 2:14), even when we feel like the future is too unknown or the past is too hard to handle.

Ultimately, the main point of the TCK journey is accepting our not-normal-ness. However hard it may be, it’s not about making the puzzle pieces fit. It’s about adopting a new perspective on our identity.

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Sarah has lived her entire 18-year-old life in Southeast Asia. Originally Swiss, she speaks English with an American accent, German in a Swiss accent, and multiple other languages including Swiss-German, French, and Khmer. She loves Jane Austen, coffee, airplanes, and sentimental conversations about TCK life.

Janelle is an 18-year-old TCK, MK, and PK who grew up in Canada before moving with her family to Asia just over two years ago. She is a lover of photography, passion fruit smoothies, OREOs, mountains, oceans, maxi skirts, and all things “Anne of Green Gables.”

The Far Side of Somewhere

I remember my first home service. All those awkward experiences like drinking water from the tap and flushing the toilet with potable water again. Or feeling naked and exposed with no metal security bars on the windows. Or handing payment to cashiers with two hands (like I do in Cambodia) and then being embarrassed, because normal people don’t do that here.

What was up with the laundry smelling nice, all the time? (Come to think of it, what was up with everything smelling nice, all the time?) Could a load of laundry really take a mere two hours to complete, all the way from wash to wear, without having to hang on the line for two or three days in rainy season and still be damp — and smelling of fire and whatever dish the neighbors last cooked over said fire??

I wanted someone to explain to me why Americans felt the need to store hot water in a tank. Seemed like such a waste of energy when you could use a tankless water heater instead, thereby providing a never-ending source of hot water for yourself. (Running out of hot water in the winter is a big problem for me.)

Today I’m facing another home service. I’ll click publish on this blog post and leave my Cambodia home. I’ll board a plane and begin the process of temporarily re-entering my American home. I need to go. It’s time. After a second two-year stint in this country, culture fatigue has hit me hard. I’m worn out from the collective sin patterns of this culture, and I need a break. I love Cambodia, and I sometimes need a break from Cambodia.

Still, there’s nothing like preparing to go on home service for bringing on an identity crisis. Who am I, and where do I belong? I live in this city and traverse its Asian streets, all without quite belonging to them. Yet I don’t quite belong to the immaculately clean American streets I’ll soon be walking, either. Belonging is a slippery feeling for a global nomad. It can be everywhere, and it can be nowhere, all at the same time.

Nevertheless, when I walk in the door of my parents’ house tomorrow, I know I will once more experience the words of Bernard Cook, words that hung on the walls of every one of my childhood homes: “We need to have people who mean something to us; people to whom we can turn, knowing that being with them is coming home.” Growing up in a military family, I always knew Home was with my family. Home is with the people I love.

And as a Christian, I know Home is with God Himself. I love these words from Christine Hoover’s book From Good to Grace: “With Christ as my city, I can traipse all over the globe and never once not be at home. Because I dwell in His grace.” Christine knows a bit about this unmoored feeling of mine. She and her husband didn’t cross country borders when they moved to Virginia to church plant, but in leaving their home state of Texas to follow God’s leading, they certainly crossed the kind of deep cultural divide that make you wonder where in the world you belong.

I want Christ to be my city. I want to dwell in Him. The best part about finding home and belonging in Him is that He goes with me wherever I go. Psalm 139 is a gift to us global nomads in this regard. In verses 7 through 10, the Psalmist asks:

Where can I go from your Spirit? Where can I flee from your presence?

If I go up to the heavens, you are there; if I make my bed in the depths, you are there.

If I rise on the wings of the dawn, if I settle on the far side of the sea, even there your hand will guide me, your right hand will hold me fast.

When I moved to Cambodia nearly four years ago, I traveled west across the ocean on a morning flight, literally rising on the wings of the dawn. And when I stepped off the plane in Phnom Penh, I found that not only had God flown the skies with me, but that He was already here in this place — for I cannot flee from His presence. Even on the far side of the sea, He holds me fast. And no matter how deep the depths of my life, I know He is with me.

From now on, wherever I go and no matter which side of the sea I settle on, I will always be on the far side of somewhere I love. There is just no getting around that. But how precious of God to include David’s words in His Word. David could not have known about jet propulsion when he penned Psalm 139, but thousands of years later, his words are a balm to the global nomad’s soul. For we rise on the wings of the dawn, and we settle on the far side of the sea, and because God lives in us, we can find Home in every place He has made.

The Little Word That Frees Us

We talk a lot about Missionary Kids (MKs) being Third Culture Kids (TCKs), but we talk less often about another aspect of their lives, the Preacher’s Kid (PKs) aspect. These MKs of ours, these kids we love so fiercely, are both TCKs and PKs. They deal with both the cultural issues of TCKs and the potential religious baggage of PKs. It’s the religious baggage that I want to talk about today.

(A nifty little visual to illustrate the intersection of TCKs and PKs in the souls of our MKs.)

Timothy L. Sanford, an adult MK and licensed professional counselor, wrote about some of the ramifications of growing up in ministry and missionary families in his book “I Have to be Perfect” (And Other Parsonage Heresies). To give you a bit of context for this little-known book, Ruth Van Reken, co-author of the classic Third Culture Kids book, both endorsed it and helped to edit it.

I’m not a PK or an MK, and I can never presume to speak for them. This book was, however, surprisingly relatable for me, and at times rather painful. Perhaps it’s because I entered ministry at age 19 — not still a child, not quite a woman. Perhaps it’s because I spent a few formative years in a highly legalistic church where everyone seemed to be on display.

Whatever the reason, I found I was susceptible to the lies addressed in this book. If I, without growing up in a ministry home, resonate with these PK issues, then maybe other missionaries and church workers do, too. I also know that many MKs and PKs end up serving overseas, and I began wondering if the ideas presented in this book have broader applications for the body of Christ.

While acknowledging the very special and unique lives PKs and MKs have lived, I also want to recognize that adults in ministry roles can absorb false ideas about themselves, about God, and about His people. And we all need truth and grace extended to us.

So this blog series is for all people in ministry contexts. Whether you grew up as a PK or an MK, whether you are currently or were formerly in overseas missions or local church ministry, or whether you’re married to someone who is, this blog series is for you. It’s also for the Church at large. If you are someone who cares about the walking wounded among us, this blog series is for you, too.

I believe, along with William Paul Young, that “since most of our hurts come through relationships, so will our healing.” Sometimes the Church gets stuck in damaging behavior patterns, and we, as a collective people, perpetuate beliefs in the lives of ministry families that simply aren’t true. Lies seep into our souls, and as a community we need to acknowledge them, wrestle with them, and ultimately, reject them – for there is a religious culture at work here that needs destroying.

I love the Church, and I believe one of the glorious reasons God places us in a local Body is so that we can “love each other deeply, from the heart,” and by so doing, participate in the healing of each other’s hearts. That is what these posts are about. Sharing our stories, and finding healing and wholeness together.

It is not about blaming parents or making anyone feel guilty. Rather, it is about mobilizing the Church to dismantle some of our harmful systems. It is about calling on Christians to change the way we do life together. Ministers, missionaries, and their families are the most notable casualties here, but the Body as a whole suffers when any member suffers. I believe we can be part of the healing.

But we need to do something first: we need to give ourselves permission to be honest. Before moving on to the lies PKs tend to believe, Timothy Sanford gives us permission to say the little word “and.” Saying “and” enables us to tell the rest of our story; it enables us to tell all our story.

This is where he caught my attention — because I had not given myself permission to say “and.” I had only been saying “but.” “And” is not the same as “but.” “But” tries to nullify, where “and” respects and includes. “But” attempts to cancel out the bad in our lives by focusing on the good, or to cancel out the good in our lives by focusing on the bad. The problem is, this doesn’t work. The negatives don’t nullify the positives, in anyone’s life. And the positives don’t nullify the negatives. Ever.

For some reason this concept was even more freeing than the yays and yucks I learned about in mission training. The good doesn’t mean the bad didn’t happen, but neither does the bad mean the good didn’t happen. They both happened. The question is, can I hold them both together, at the same time?

For a long time, I couldn’t hold them both together. I had thought it was disloyal to admit that my parents’ choices could ever cause me pain. But as a TCK in a military family, there was pain associated with our various relocations. There was good, and there was bad in our life. Just as there is good, and there is bad, in everyone’s lives. I needed permission to say so. I needed permission to say, “I had an idyllic childhood, AND all the goodbyes and hellos were painful.”

And perhaps you do too. Perhaps you need to know it is equally valid to talk about the negatives as well as the positives. Perhaps you need permission to break the silence you’ve been holding. Perhaps you need permission to say,

“My parents were good people, AND they did some bad things, too.”

“Our church (or agency) leadership loved us, AND they made decisions that hurt us, too.”

“I had some really neat experiences because of my parents’ jobs, AND there were some pretty awful experiences, too.”

Sometimes we just need permission to say these things.

Furthermore, when I read this book, I realized that I must also give that permission to my kids. The life my kids live because of my choices, it’s not all bad. And it’s not all good. (But neither would their life be, had I not gone into ministry, or not chosen to live overseas.)

Oh how I want to see life in black and white, as purely good or purely bad. But life is never black and white. And I learned I can’t take offense at the various things my kids might say were good or bad. I need to let them hold their own “ands.”

“But” is insufficient. We need to say “and.” This little word opens up a whole new life for us. And. Just breathe. In, and out. And then, tell the rest of the story, the rest of your story. Tell all of it together. Tell the entire thing, the parts that make you feel broken, and the parts that make you feel whole. Tell your ands.

Wherever you are in the world, it is my prayer that you will find people who can handle all the ands of your life.

What are the “ands” of your life? Are you being honest about them with yourself and with others? Or is there something you need to say that you’re not saying?

Perhaps the situation is reversed, and you need to hear someone else’s “and.” Are you willing to listen, even if it brings you pain?

Are our communities safe enough to tell the whole story of our lives? Are our communities safe enough for the “and”? Are we brave enough to listen to each other’s “ands”?

Bit by bit over the next few months, we will be processing the lies PKs & MKs (& the rest of us) tend to believe about people in ministry. As we delve deeper into these issues, I hope you will return each month to tell your stories and share your hearts, broken and otherwise, in the comments.

Part 2: “I’m Not Supposed to Have Needs“

Part 3: “I Can’t Trust Anyone“

Part 4: “God is Disappointed With Me“

Part 5: A Conversation with Timothy Sanford

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