For nearly six months, I lost my “voice.”
After returning home from a summer spent with refugees from Third world countries, I can’t really say that I have found it yet. I have, however, recognized my personal need to write. I hope that as I sort and process the events that have spanned the last several months, I can share more. We’ll take it one step at a time.
I spent the summer twenty minutes away from the Krispy Kreme in downtown Atlanta. I lived in a place where Americans were the vast minority.
Partnering with an organization focused on unreached people groups, I served on a team of 18 to host short-term mission trips and bring the Gospel to the unreached in a teeny-tiny town called Clarkston.
I spent two months immersed in and among refugees from nations such as Burma, Nepal, and Somalia and learned how to unconditionally love every tribe, nation, and tongue.
I delighted in the afternoons I spent teaching English to a Somali girl with PTSD, eating meals with a Burmese family that couldn’t even read their own language, meeting Nepali children who experienced freedom for the first time in coming to the USA.
A thousand times my heart broke.
A million times God’s glory magnified.
I discovered a paradox. The more I loved, the more broken I became. The more broken I became, the more I loved.
Once again I forgot that I was American. Once again my beating heart was stilled for the people the Jesus loves. I was no longer temporarily broken, returning home only to forget…
…but this time my eyes were opened to the heart-wrenching, eyes-burning, up-all-night, joy-comes-in-the-morning kind of brokenness. The kind that says, “you will have trouble. But take heart, I have overcome it all.”
Though my soul longs to be among the destitute in that little town just outside of Atlanta once again, I have learned that as long as I am here on earth, I will never be home.
I will, however, always be seeking to be broken