Part 15 - Formal Meal

It was nearly 1 pm: lunchtime at L'Abri.

A handful of us walked casually down the long road stretching east out of the village of Huemoz towards the woods. With every head hatted, every coat zipped to chin, we grasped hands to form a human chain as we veered from the road and down a steep field path. The slant and snow and fearful giggling all made me feel like Anne, traipsing through the deep winters of Prince Edward Island.

We made our way around the back of a dark chalet named Minchuletta, until we came to a side entrance. Wet things removed and stacked on the wooden bench outside, we tiptoed across a tile-floored foyer and into a wide open room. The top level of this 2-tiered room was a dining area into which we were welcomed. One long table stretched across the middle and a pedestal table fit in on the side. Seventeen of us scrunched behind our plates of choice, each set to simple perfection on matching tablecloths. Spotless windows lined the opposite wall, exposing the snowiest view I had ever seen.

The meal began with a brief silence before the prayer.

"Bon Appetit!"

Then, eyes darted; awkward clinking of forks to plates and nervous gulps taken from small glasses,

Our formal meal began.

Two weeks into my ten-week stay, I now knew what to expect at one of these formal meals. Not fragile china or mandatory pantyhose, the formality of this daily L'Abri tradition was in the conversation.

...

Part 14

I talked on.
In fact, I couldn't find my "off."
He sat opposite me and did not flinch. The light showering from his balcony faded and turned to shadow. He switched on a lamp nearby to encourage me to go on.

"The entire time I was in Kenya- and I mean every waking moment- I was terrified or guilt-ridden or a blinding mixture of both. The fixed predatory gaze pointed at me from most of the men; the total lack of apparent traffic laws while we traveled all over the city in vans (called matatus) packed beyond capacity with sweaty bodies and sneaky hands (we were warned to keep any cash in our shoes as people can less easily find their way into your SHOES than your bag or your pockets); the half-naked little ones without a loving adult to hold their hand or at least mourn over their swollen bellies...The threat of thieves seemed ever-present and non-navigable: from the blitzed out glue-sniffing boys reaching their scarred arms into the vehicle if you happen to stop, to the very pastors and teachers we were meant to be learning from. The pastor that we lived with was the one exception. He and his wife sheltered us as best they could. But the sly requests from almost every other authority figure- for a little cash on the side so they could pay for matatu fare or feed their children or buy Bibles- confused me profoundly. My trust could not land anywhere.

And even though the organization I represented had grossly miscalculated my costs for this internship, I did not have enough to go around.
I didn't have enough granola bars to hand out.
I didn't have enough shoes to give away.
I didn't have enough training to offer any real help.
I didn't have enough cultural understanding to steer clear of offending.
I didn't have enough energy.
I didn't have gracious enough tastebuds.
I didn't have enough kindness toward my fellow intern.
I didn't even have the categories to try and name the level of poverty and abuse I witnessed daily.
And I don't have enough courage to admit to everyone back home that I was and am a total failure..."

My face and hands were wet with articulated grief.

I pressed my palm against my forehead, sniffed unapologetically, and forced my head up to look at Dave. He raised his eyebrows just slightly and half-smiled. He wasn't mocking me - he had heard.

"Yes, that's true," he said.
"What's true?"
"The part about you not having enough. The part about you being a failure."
"Wait, WHAT?" I changed my tune.
"What do you mean by THAT? I tried my best, OK? I mean, I'm not perfect, but it was risky to go on that internship and I gave everything I could. I sacrified an awful lot..."

My jaw jutted out to one side as I finally heard how bizarre I sounded. How schizo.

It was quiet then.

We shifted in our well-designed chairs.
We looked at our watches and mentioned how dinner had come and gone.
I said I should probably go and he said OK.

As I stood, he remained seated.

"Anna, why does God love you?"

Um...

"Why does God forgive you, Anna?"

                                                                                                 ...

Part 13 - The beginning of Honesty

        "...I just want God to be proud of me.

...I thought he clearly told me what to do and so...I did it.

Ever since I first gave my heart to Jesus- in the kitchen with my mom when I was very young- I have also been convinced that I should be a missionary. Like on the banks of the Amazon, in a hut built with my own hands, translating the Bible for the first time into the language of a previously unknown people group. I felt His smile whenever I imagined it. 

Hudson Taylor's 2,000 page story of pioneering  missionary work has been my guide...

I love traveling.

I love different cultures and languages. 

I've always wanted to work with kids, like as a teacher...

I like adventure and taking risks and...

I love Jesus! I want other people to know him, I really do! 

...Doesn't all this add up to a "calling?"

Add to that: the majority of trustworthy adults in my life have confirmed that they, too, think I should pursue full-time overseas missions! When other pre-teens were entranced with the American Girl catalogue, I read descriptions of short-term mission trips in Teen Missions International's annual magazine. If something was in North America or Europe- I mean, come on, you call that a mission trip? I was looking for hard-core.

For awe-inspiring.

Maybe even terrifying.

Sensational, 

Radical,

and definitely braggable.

...Just drop a little "Yeah, I'm not gonna see you at the beach this summer, actually, because uh, I'm gonna be backpacking the GOSPEL into obscure villages on a tiny island in the Philippines."

Clouded by naivety and pregnant with energy, I set out to save the world. My best friend would tease me that surely I would "Climb the highest mountain, swim the deepest ocean, preach to millions!" She's the one I told you about, the one marrying my brother.

Did I mention, Dave, that my Dad is a pastor and a pretty zealous one at that? I've always known that the Good News matters. It's worth sweat. Blood. Tears. Martyrdom!

But then, after all this, after feeling like I couldn't choose a course of study for University without really spending some time on the field and figuring out what I should be trained in (nursing? teaching? linguistics?), after delaying college in a family that does NOT delay higher education, after raising over $8,000, I kissed my boyfriend good-bye (oh, did I fail to mention I have a boyfriend? Well, I do and it's serious.) ...and set off for Nairobi, Kenya. 

I had three days of training prior to the 4-month internship. 

Three days of very broad training with other short-termers who were heading off to Europe (ha), the Caribbean, or elsewhere in Africa. 

I knew I couldn't wear pants- skirts were still the only modest attire for women in Kenya-

I knew not to drink water straight from the tap.

I knew God was proud of me.

I was 18 years old."