I love Jesus. And this love has led me to a life in Japan.
Today, a few hours from bedtime, a half-day from celebrating the marriage of two very dear friends, weeks from ushering my fourth child into the world, I am tired. I made myself a late afternoon cup of coffee and sat at the table to gather my thoughts before diving into washing a sink-full of dishes, picking up toys, chopping veggies and sauteing meat, vacuuming for overnight guests, finding wedding clothes for five, bathing and bedding the crazies, etc, etc, etc. But all I wanted to do was cry.
This is not what I assumed following Jesus into the unknown would be. I didn’t know it would be mothering my children through cultural and linguistic problems, wearing myself out at a preschool bazaar, serving snacks to hungry mouths, scrubbing the senmenjo floor, laying futon out to bake in the sun. This is not feeding starving orphans, rescuing hurting women, or risking my life to bring Bibles across the border. This is normal. This is hard, and there are parts of it that really suck, but it looks so much like the life everyone else is leading, what do I have to tell me it matters? That it matters when I choose to move past frustration and do one more thing, or take a deep breath and swallow angry words to hug a small body instead.
A life of deep meaning is important to me. Today, I did have that cry at the table. I cried because I knew what I was doing mattered, I just didn’t know how. For now, that is enough. My tiredness is an offering, though it seems much less glamorous than dying in the jungle, breaking down doors, or talking with burning bushes. It is what I need to learn faithfulness, and I can accept that.