Interrupted

 The emerald stone on my finger glistens in the light as I stare out over the Indian cities outside the train window. Fumbling with it in a nervous fashion with my thumb, I can feel the pressure welling up in my chest as I open the curtain to how I’m feeling and peek behind, curious to process, scared of what will come out.

 

Little desert hills. Stacked apartment buildings. Cows. Trash. Naked babies. Women with buckets and grain. Men gambling on the platform. Color. Noise. Stench. Sunshine. Laughter. The words “Chai, Chai, Chai” from the men pacing down the aisles.

 

My friend buys some for me. I smile. My favorite.

 

I purchased this ring only 2 days ago from a man we got to share Jesus with and pray with him to know the one true God. I won’t forget his face. I won’t forget him saying “I’ve worked here for 10 years and met plenty of Americans, why has no one told me about this Jesus.”

 

Hot, wet, fat tears stream down my face as I think to myself, “I wasn’t finished.”

 

It was only 10 days ago that we entered into India. Corona had been mentioned, more than a few times. We weren’t immune to the chatter or the fear that had started to spring up on our nightly social media scrolls.

 

But the mission was at hand! And I’ll be honest, I spent no time at all on Corona. I would hear little snippets but I gave it no power, no time, no worry. I was on the other side of the world. I had work to do.

 

India was a country full of hope and opportunity for many of us. We had received direction, prophecy and full hearts for what God had for us here.

 

By the time we began to get the news, we were all knee deep in our placements, beginning to catch traction and get a sense of what the rest of the month would be like. Energized. Hopeful.

 

It started with a redirect. To be expected.

 

We had been planning to head to Nepal but that was too close to China who was clearly in distress at this point.

 

 

We would skip China and Nepal and move directly to the middle east.

 

Logistics makes sense to me. Efficiency is my language. So the movement and the solution finding and the work arounds just felt like creativity and problem solving. I live for problem solving. So while the world was in distress and America had started holing up, I was just focused on how we would continue to do this thing.

 

It didn’t even cross my mind that going home would be an option.

 

Mourning the inability to see China and Nepal, we continued to move forward each day without a shift in focus. Looking back, I’m not sure why I wasn’t more sad since those were countries I really wanted to see, but I think that as long as I could hold on to the movement and the mission, I felt comfort.

 

As long as I felt like I was still pressing forward, completing the calling, I was comfortable with the hard left turns and the unexpected redirects. In some ways, it felt fun – It was just like the Holy Spirit to mix things up.

 

We had recently met with a doctor who was working on connecting us with organizations locally that would fuel some of my biggest heart desires for India – girls homes, trafficking, poverty. It wasn’t a chance meeting and he wasn’t a small connection. We felt as if God had placed us there very specifically.

 

So when I pulled up the email at around 5 am, half asleep, half dreaming, the light from my phone causing me to squint, I didn’t breath for a few seconds. My eyes read over the subject line “New Update – Please read ASAP.”

 

“Ah, another route change I’m sure.”

 

Deep breath.

 

And then, without warning – “The decision has been made to send ALL squads home.”

 

“I didn’t read that right.”

 

 

“The decision has been made to send ALL squads home.”

 

 

The amount of time it took for tears to start rolling down my face. It was one of those deep belly cries that can’t be silenced and I got embarrassed thinking I would wake up my teammate Zack beside me.

 

Right alongside the sadness followed a little twinge of fear and the need to be held so I opened the door and walked out to find another couple of teammates at the kitchen table. Silent.

 

It’s hard not to dramatize this moment. Because. Well. It was in fact, dramatic. I don’t want to simply glaze over the fact that the emotion welling up inside of me felt like a death.

 

The death of a dream. The death of a purpose. The death of a drive that had been igniting a fire within me for the past 2 months. The death of community. The death of the movement. The death of the completion of something epic and beautiful and life altering.

 

I was grieving, before I even knew it.

 

And I as I sat there, tears streaming down my face, I realized I had been here before. Life had sucked the breath out of me before. I knew that deep stomach pain and I knew that little girl disappointment and sadness. I knew this feeling. I’d met it head on before and so, well, I would get through it just like I had before.

 

The next couple of days were a division of utter sadness and a desire to inflict everyone around me with hope and strength. Strange as it sounds, I see sawed between wallowing in self pity and preaching sermons to myself about how joy was still at hand.

 

The ever present monologue of the missionary I think.

 

It was like I was holding hands with happiness, continuing to laugh and smile and absorb the space around me, but every 30 minutes or so, I would let go and I would remember that I was sad. I would remember what was happening and that these moments were numbered. And I would get another gut punch – a few steps closer to the funeral.

 

I fumble with the ring on my finger again looking out the train window and realizing we are a few minutes away from New Dehli where we will fly out, back to America.

 

“I guess it’s a reminder, now. Something to hold on to. I won’t take it off till we go back out again.”

 

The next two days in New Dehli felt like waiting for a burial.

 

There were moments of beauty, like when I was reunited with friends from other teams or when we worshiped and prayed on the Indian rooftop asking the Lord what was next.

 

And there were moments of hope like when God gave me vision about driving across the U.S. to preach and sing and worship and praise his name.

 

Still yet, there were moments of sadness like when our plane landed in NY and I couldn’t make eye contact with anyone because I was so angry and sad and numb and running.

 

As our feet stepped out onto U.S. soil I was still somewhere in India. I think I left my heart there and my hope there too. It felt foreign and strange and I honestly felt like I was dreaming.

 

I lost my appetite.

 

It was cold, a stark difference from the heat in India.

 

It was gray, a stark difference from the warm red brown.

 

It was deserted, a stark difference from the crowd of color and bustle.

 

It was quiet, a stark difference from the music and voices and beeps.

 

It didn’t feel like home.

 

Holding the hand of my friend and sharing a knowing glance that this “had to be a nightmare, right” – we made our way through the motions of baggage claim and buses and hotel lobbies and crisp clean rooms and free coffee and logistics conversations and questions of “what’s next.”

 

We walked through it. But it’s hard to remember now. I know I was there. But I wasn’t really there.

 

And now I’m here. A cabin in Tennessee. Three squad members with me. A scarf wrapped around my shoulders. Soup on.

 

 

The events that led me here are beautiful. Somewhere in between battling the shock of being sent home and the fear of being ripped from my community, God met me with a vision of a dirt path and a cabin.

 

And within 3 hours, my closest friend would reassure all my fears by telling me we had a cabin for quarantine, we had room for friends and we would have everything provided to us.

 

And God did it. He carried me from a place of hurt into a place of provision. He listened to my heart cries and gave me community, adventure, beauty, and space to heal and listen and rest.

 

When He says He will provide, He does.

 

And so I’ve been interrupted. A pause has been injected into my plans.

 

I’m still sorting through and processing what I feel and what I don’t. I’m still a little angry and a little irritated. I’m still a little sad and a little dejected. I’m still wondering what’s next and impatient for the answer.

 

But one thing I’m not? Scared.

 

I’m not scared.

 

Corona doesn’t scare me. This pause doesn’t scare me. Even the horrible threat of never returning to the race doesn’t scare me.

 

And I could write a long and carefully scripted answer to why that is. I could list some psalms for you that would feel appropriate and timely and lovely. Because they are, of course. I could take you through biblical stories and characters that have risen above fear and famine and worldwide chaos, because that’s real and those things happened.

 

I could preach a little. I could try my hand at that.

 

But the truth. The honest right down to the bottom truth of why I don’t have fear – Is that I know Jesus. I know him. I’ve seen him. I’ve felt his presence. He has walked with me in miracle and in might. He has promised me deliverance from all evil and an eternity of peace. I’ve watched him answer big and small prayers. I’ve leaned on him. He’s been there.

 

He’s real.

 

I know him.

 

So even when the world is wild and things feel uprooted and wavering and uncomfortable and uncertain. I’m not scared.

 

Jesus continues to speak to me the line “Nothing has changed.”

 

So though the definition of interrupt is to “stop the continuous progress of something,” and I find myself comparing it all to an alarm waking me up from a good dream, I know that Jesus is still on his throne.

 

I know that his promises still withstand, that is peace is still accessible and that his character is still trustworthy. None of this mess changes what I’ve seen or alters what I know will come.

 

I’m not scared because I trust him, even in the interruption, even in the alarm that wakes me up from the good dream.

 

Maybe I need it.

 

Maybe we all need it.

 

So as I wait for things to level out, for answers to my questions and for a brighter tomorrow, I will be strong in this interruption. I will rest in this interruption. I will try to find the lesson in the alarm.

 

And I will hope that it all leads to a new interruption, the one where my squad and I leave our homes again and head back out to the nations.

 

Pray with me that we do.