I’ve spent the last week at CIT, a missionary training and debriefing center in rural North Carolina. Our family is attending a debriefing retreat, which, after nearly ten years on the field, has been very needed.
There’s a short hiking trail that runs through the woods behind the retreat center, about half a mile long. Meandering at a slow, contemplative pace, it takes about thirty minutes to walk from one end to the other. The woods are pretty standard: a variety of trees and vines, some huge upturned stumps now and again, birdsong wafting through the canopy. It’s easy to tune out your surroundings and get lost in your thoughts, which is how I spent a recent afternoon.
One part of the hike, though, stopped me in my tracks. I could hear a babbling brook not far from the trail, though I couldn’t see it, as there were vines overgrowing the area between me and where I assumed the creek to be.
As I looked around for a path that might lead me to the water (I love finding water to sit and stare at while I think or meditate), I made a surprising discovery: I couldn’t tell where one tree ended and another began—honestly, I could barely tell the ground from the bushes—because everything was covered in kudzu vines. What should’ve been a biodiverse group of distinct plants became one giant blob of identical leaves, jutting up here and there, but leaving no hint as to what was underneath.
It was striking in its uniformity. If you take a moment to throw “kudzu” into a search engine, you’ll see what I mean. It makes a landscape look almost alien, like sculptures trying to burst up from underneath some suffocating layer of fabric.
I wasn’t about to try to navigate through the mess down to a possible creek, so I turned back to the trail and headed on my way. But this starkly homogenous view in the middle of the forest stayed with me, inviting me to meditate further as I walked back toward our apartment.
Kudzu is invasive. It’s not supposed to be here, but it is, and it’s wildly out of control. Take a drive anywhere south of the Mason Dixon and you’ll see whole stretches of highways that look as if someone’s thrown a green blanket over them. The native plants are stifled and only the kudzu can be seen.
In our group devotions the next morning, we talked about being perplexed but not in despair; struck down, but not destroyed (2 Cor. 4:8). My husband remarked that so much of this comes from relinquishing control to God and acknowledging that He knows the plans so much better than we do. “And, we only see in part,” I whispered under my breath.
Often, in our life as global workers, we reach points in our work where we have a very limited picture of what’s ahead. Honestly, there are whole seasons, years even, where we might live in that state. We can only see a bit ahead of us, and we have to trust God with the rest.
Will the Lord bring new friends for my kids? For me?
Will we ever see a convert?
When will I ever get a visa?
Should I switch vocations? Organizations? Fields?
Is this something cultural, or should I address this between believers?
Will I need to leave the field to care for family?
Will my teenager be okay in our passport country without me for university?
Will we ever recover from this loss? This trauma? This season?
How can we ever afford to keep doing this work?
How can we ever afford to leave the field?
When I was in the kudzu-covered forest, I couldn’t see anything that was going on below the surface. It all looked the same to me—covered in a veil of green leaves. But underneath, there is a whole variety of flora just out of my vision. I know it’s there. I just can’t see it.
There’s a lot of things in my life that feel unclear and uncertain right now, like I’m just staring out into a forest of kudzu. I know that there’s stuff under there. Sometimes I can even hear the creek. But all I see is a disorienting blanket of green.
And yet, God. The maker of streams and trees and, yes, kudzu. Who knows every blade of grass and every frog and every snake I was anxious about on that trail. He knows exactly what’s under all that kudzu. And He knows exactly how my story will play out. I’m so grateful.
Does this knowledge make navigating the forest of my life abroad any easier? Sure doesn’t. But we can take heart knowing the Lord is with us.
If you find yourself in your own kudzu forest season, here are a few things to remember:
- The Lord is the maker of the forest—and the author of your story. He knows every step in your journey, every path you’ll take (Psalm 139), every person you’ll meet along the way. None of it is a surprise to Him.
- The Lord gives wisdom when we ask for it (James 1:5). Sometimes that comes in big chunks of a map, and other times it’s just a half step in front of us. But He is with us, and He knows the way.
- Ours is a God of peace, and not of confusion (1 Cor. 14:33). Notice that I didn’t say “clarity” there, because that’s not what Scripture promises! But we are promised His peace when we seek it.
When you find yourself a bit lost, or the future looks like one big homogenous blob of green, take heart, friend. We serve a God who sees beneath the mess with perfect clarity, carves a perfect path, and leads us every step. We only need to know His voice and follow after Him.
