Posted in 08 Serbia by Kat Davis on 4/10/2012
Okay, I failed. Again. I just cannot get a hang of this blog thing.
There are many things I want to share with you – and I thought an easy way to do this would be through a Q&A session.
So, grab a cup of coffee, pull up a chair, and pretend like we’re just catching up.
Q: Where are you?
A: I’m currently in Uzhgorod, a small-city in the far west of Ukraine on the border of Slovakia.
Q: You told me you would write more last month and you didn’t. So what exactly did you spend your time in Serbia doing?
A: Mornings were filled with trips to the cafes to meet local Serbians, and our nights were filled with prayer-walks, church-services, youth groups, and pastries with our wonderful host-family. We also had the opportunity to travel to local villages and minister to Christians who are too far away to attend church services.
Praying over the city
Q: Where did you live?
A: We lived in a small “apartment” in the back of a house owned by a member of the church. We had a bathroom, a tiny kitchen, and two rooms (technically, a living room and a bedroom.) We had four girls on two couches, one in a bed, and me on the floor. We lived on top of each-other for the entire month.
Q: What’s your favorite memory from the month?
A: I preached. For the first time. For an entire 25-minutes.
Q: I noticed on Facebook that you were in Auschwitz. How on earth did you end up there?
A: We had a few extra days in between our Month 7 and 8 of ministry, so we took a detour to Budapest and then Krakow. From Krakow, we visited Auschwitz. It was both an incredible and and incredibly tiring trip.
Q: How did you get to Uzhgorod from Poland?
A: Okay, get ready for this. It’s a little confusing:
The overnight train (and the last direct one for 24 hours) to L’viv, Ukraine, was full, and we couldn’t afford a hostel, so we slept in the train station for the night. Apparently, the Krakow train station turns into a homeless shelter at night, and we shared the floor with about 100 homeless drunks.
Sleeping on the floor on the Krakow Train Station
My neighbors for the night
Since we missed our train to L’viv, it was time for Plan B:
We boarded a six-hour train to somewhere in Poland at 7am.
Once we got off the train, we took a ten-minute drive on a mini-bus to the Polish/Ukrainian border, where we got off and proceeded to walk over the border and through the crossings.
Walking across the border
Then, we boarded another hour-long bus, which took us to the L’viv train-station.
Although we were hoping to make the 4:15 bus, we unknowingly passed through a new time-zone and got to L’viv an hour after the train left.
The next train to L’viv left at 9pm, and we boarded it to find the most ridiculously vintage train I have ever been on. We didn’t have our own room, so we slept among the snoring Ukrainians.
Finally, at 2:30am, we arrived in Uzhgorod, Ukraine, and disembarked the train to find our host waiting for us on the platform. Luckily, he’s a former Racer, so he wasn’t too thrown off by the change in plans.
(If you’re wondering, we traveled for about 35 hours and slept for about four.)
Q: Where are you living in Uzhgorod?
A: We live in another “apartment” on the first floor of a church member’s home. We have two rooms, a bathroom, and a kitchen. It’s about two times the size of our home in Serbia, but I’m still sleeping on the floor. Maggie, however, has joined me this month.
Q: What are you going to be doing in Uzhgorod, Ukraine?
A: Two of us will be working at a hospital helping care for babies who have been abandoned, two of us will be working with children who are disabled, and Maggie and I will be splitting our time between visiting Roma camps to teach hygiene and sex-ed classes and making appearances at local English classes.
Q: Where are you going next?
A: At the end of the month we'll board a flight and head back to our side of the world. We'll be spending our last three months of the Race in Central America. As of right now, we'll be in Nicaragua, El Salvador/Honduras, and Guatamala. ... But you know how things go on the Race.
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Posted in 09 Ukraine by Kat Davis on 4/10/2012
While America was celebrating Easter, Ukraine was celebrating Palm Sunday. My team and I took public transportation downtown and walked down a little alley to an unmarked door – it would be our first church experience in this Soviet turned unitary nation.
The room was full when we entered, packed with around a hundred Ukrainians dressed in casual clothing. None of the women wore head-coverings, a departure from the traditional Orthodox norms of the country. The music was done by a classical guitarist and the preaching by a young lawyer-turned-pastor.
Evangelical Christianity in Ukraine is, in a post-Soviet era, legal. But, for many, giving up ones’ Orthodox-roots is, in effect, giving up ones’ national identity.
Their voices filled the room in both Russian and Ukrainian, mixing with the voices of the few English-speaking missionaries. Some of the songs were recognizable and I sang along in English. Others were unfamiliar, most likely written by the guitarist, and, in those moments, I simply stood there, feeling the presence of the Holy Spirit saturating the room.
Some of the believers in the room had been disowned by their families.
Many had been harassed for turning their backs on their country.
They had chosen Jesus over religion; love over condemnation; freedom over tradition.
And now, they are suffering the consequences from a nation unfriendly towards anything that is not Orthodox.
People in Ukraine don’t just call themselves “Christians”. They are “Orthodox” or “Catholic”, but never “Christian”.
“Christian” comes with a label that we take for granted in America. It is a label that brings persecution and suffering; it is the label of an outcast.
Christians in Eastern Europe travel for hours on public transportation to attend a Bible-believing church. We find a new church when the brand of coffee served before the service changes.
I think there is a reason that I stood in that room full of Ukrainians, all of them crying out to a living God, with tears streaming down my face. I think there is a reason why the presence of the Holy Spirit is so powerful in these places.
Jesus isn’t just some good-luck charm to them, some easy way to get to heaven. He is all there is, the only way they survive.
One of the many things I’ve learned over the course of my eight months is this:
Jesus costs everything. Literally, He costs everything.
And that’s how it should be. Because anything less is just that: less Jesus.
And I, for one, want all of Jesus. And absolutely nothing else.
“Whatever gain I had, I counted as loss for the sake of Christ. I count everything as loss because of the surpassing worth of knowing Christ Jesus my Lord. For His sake I have suffered the loss of all things and count them as rubbish, in order that I may gain Christ and be found in Him.”
- Philippians 4:8-9
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Posted in 07 Romania by Kat Davis on 3/12/2012
A few highlights from Romania:
My team and I, along our partner-team Ignition, boarded a train out of Bucharest at 9:00pm. We had just spent ten hours flying overnight from South Africa and were freezing from waiting at the train station for six hours. (We were all wearing almost every article of clothing we owned to keep warm in the frigid weather.) We all piled onto the train and slept for a few hours. The train would take us to another station, where we would need to wait for several hours to catch a train to Targu Mures. At 1:00am, we threw on our enormous packs and stepped off the train and into a field of snow up to our knees. We managed to cross the tracks and make it to the platform (why we weren’t dropped off at the platform, I have no idea), where we found a small room with no electricity and, obviously, no heat. We all huddled inside, attempted to sleep for a few hours, and woke up and ran out to our next train at 6:00am. Apparently, however, that train split in two, and we were on the wrong half. Off the train we went, down the tracks, and back onto the train, all while trudging through knee-deep snow in our tennis shoes and jeans. We made it onto the train (the right one, this time) and ended up in Targu Mures - where we were greeted with more snow.
Our daily trek through a field of snow to visit and pray for families
in a nearby gypsy village.
Spending time with a gypsy family in their home.
Sara Norton, my beautiful team leader, was raised up into the position of Squad Leader.
Team Sound of Strength, 1.0
My new team leader, Amaris Torres, is an amazing and hilarious woman who fits in with my sisters and me perfectly. Plus, she’s fluent in SPANISH, which will come in handy in a matter of weeks.
Team Sound of Strength, 2.0
We prayed for an elderly Gypsy man named Albie the entire month. Right before we left, he passed away. We attended his outdoor Romanian funeral, complete with an open casket and wailing women. After a few words were spoken, we followed the crowd – and the casket – through the melting snow and mud for about half a mile. Then, we ascended a hill of mud to a hillside cemetery (of sorts). And yes, the made the ascent as well. Once we sang, listened to some men speak, and buried Albie’s casket, we walked back down the hill, where we were immediately greeted with glasses of orange Fanta and buttered bread topped with salami and pickles. Then we stood on the side of the road with 50 or so Gypsies and ate while some of the men took shots of vodka off to the side.
Procession to the burial site.
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Posted in 07 Romania by Kat Davis on 3/12/2012
Okay… I know. It’s been a while. About six weeks, actually. And while six weeks in normal American-time might not be that much, I’ve lived in two different countries and gone through a 100*F climate change.
When I last wrote, I was in the sunny and hot country of Swaziland. My team and I had about had our fill of the African continent and were anxious for a change. We had no idea where we’d be spending the sixth month of our Race. …or the seventh or eighth, for that matter.
Since then, I’ve said “goodbye” to my amazing hosts in Swaziland, flown to a different continent, and gone through a slight team change. (I’ve also read the Hunger Games series, but I suppose that’s not quite as significant.)
I’m currently writing you from a lovely cafe in Pozarevac, Serbia, a small city an hour outside of Belgrade, the site of my ministry for month seven. We arrived here a few days ago, after a late night train ride, a night of sleeping on a gas station floor, and a headfirst fall with my 50+ pound pack in a Serbian bus station. (Don’t worry, I survived with only a bruised knee.)
We spent a snow-filled January in Targu Mures, Romania, a city close to Hungary, trekking through fields of white powder to minister to gypsies in villages, hanging out with high-school students, and trying to survive the multiple feet of snow outside our door.
I realize that many of you have no clue what I’ve actually been doing recently, so I’ve decided to send out a blog filled with a few highlights from my month. Hopefully, you’ll forgive me for my lack of writing and view this as the Cliffs Notes version of Month Seven. We’ll call them Kat Notes just for the heck of it.
Until I show up in your inbox next, I love and miss you all. Can you believe it’s already Month 7?!
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Posted in 06 Swaziland by Kat Davis on 1/25/2012
The sun is bright and hot, even though the air is still sticky from the rain shower that passed a short time ago. We’ve just spent a few hours at a feeding station on the base of the mountain that separates Swaziland from South Africa, and the stories of the playful children who had, once again, captured our hearts are still on our lips.
We park our car on the side of the road and begin the walk up the mountain. Our destination is a small homestead a little ways up; the home of Ntombi, a mother who has all but lost the ability to use her right leg. She was severely burned several years ago, and the burn that took a chunk out of her right foot has never healed properly. Somewhere along the line she has developed what is thought to be a disease resembling cerebral palsy.
We take a dirt path up the side of the mountain, avoiding the trees and the rocks along the way. When we reach the clearing, it’s as though we’ve entered into a painting. Five huts stand before us, all complete with thatched roofs. Pigs intermingle with mules while, under their feet, chickens chase after their young. Our elevation provides us with an amazing view of the green landscape that lies below us.
Ntombi’s mage (SiSwati for “mother” and pronounced “mahgay”) comes out of one of the huts. The majority of her family lives on this homestead. She’s in her mid-60s and full of life. She greets us and, after gathering chairs or laying out mats for us to sit on, she heads to a neighboring hut to get Ntombi.
Ntombi hobbles out of her hut, aided by her mage on one side and a stick on the other. As she makes the twenty-yard walk from her hut to our sitting place, her mage leaves her side. Ntombi continues, and, although she moves slowly, it’s clear she’s used to making her way on her own. I suppose that’s something she was forced to learn early on, as her family is often too focused on finding food for their next meal to be by her side every moment.
She sits on one of the mats, her bandaged foot propped up onto an old water carton. Her body is tense, and she keeps her hands clutched in fists, held tightly to her chest. There’s so much dirt and so little care, her toes have become deformed from years of infection and limping around. She winces as one of our contacts unwraps her bandage, although I think it’s more out of embarrassment than pain – she was burned so deeply and has gone so long without care that almost all of her nerve-endings are gone. The wound is about the size of a softball and as deep as her bone. It looks as though someone has taken a pickaxe and hacked away half of her foot. As he assesses her wound, someone tells me that his only training has been from a visiting nursing student. But, unless Ntombi makes the long trek into one of the major cities, he is her only medical care. And then, of course, there is always the challenge of money for hospital visits.
She sits there silently as we watch. I can only imagine what it must be like for her, to be sitting in front of so many young, white girls, as if on display. I wonder if she knows that our hearts are breaking for her, or that we feel embarrassed for having so little to offer her. Does she ever think of life before the fire, or is it too painful to look back? I pray that, along with her foot, the flames stole some of her memories as well.
I feel the Lord prompting me to tell her that I think she’s beautiful. And so I do.
When she hears the words, Ntombi shifts her gaze from our translator to me. Her eyes light up in a mixture of disbelief and excitement, as if she has never before heard those words spoken to her, or even thought them about herself. She drops my gaze and looks down in embarrassment, a smile still plastered on her face.
I like to believe that, in that moment, Ntombi truly believes she is beautiful. Not because some young white girl from America thinks so, but because the God of the universe does.
As they coat the wound with peroxide and spread a layer of honey* over it, I wonder what my nurse-sister would say about the whole situation. I think about how much I wish she were here, on this mountain, to provide some medical guidance. But it’s just us, a jar of honey, and the Lord, in the middle of nowhere-Swaziland.
I help tape Ntombi’s bandage back on and Britni asks if we can pray for her.
I stand there, my hand on Ntombi’s shoulder, begging God to heal her, pleading for a miracle. I beg Him to change this, to somehow make it easier for her.
I open my eyes to the same scene that I closed them to. Her foot, still deformed. Her body, still racked with disease.
We say goodbye, shaking Ntombi’s hand as we head down the mountain. She holds on to each of us, not wanting to let go. But eventually, she does.
And then we leave.
The blogs of my fellow racers around the world are chocked full of stories of healings they’ve witnessed. Of God showing up and doing big, tangible things.
That hasn’t been my race so far. I’ve seen so many broken people, so many people desperate to be made whole, and I have not witnessed a single healing.
At first, it bothered me. I suppose, if I’m honest, sometimes it still does. Is my faith not strong enough? Am I too broken myself to be of any help? “Why aren’t you here, God? Why don’t you show up and do something about this?”
But I’ve realized something, through all the countries and all the poverty. I’ve realized that God is in it, even if He isn’t “showing up” before my all-too-human eyes.
I hear His voice amidst the impoverished, His truth spoken to the widows, His love among the orphans.
I am God in the midst of this pain. I hear their cries.
But, my beloved, My ways are higher than yours.
I don’t get it. I can’t pretend that I do. I live among the impoverished, knowing that in a few months I’ll be home, in the middle of the land of abundance.
I guess I’m in good company, though. God sentenced His own Son to death, and not even the angels understood it.
I’m learning how to trust Him, His sovereignty, His power. My mortal brain can only handle so much, so I’m starting to leave the rest up to Him.
And His plans seem to work out pretty well.
*Honey, as it turns out, is a natural sealant. And, more importantly, it’s cheap and readily available in rural Swaziland.
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Posted in 06 Swaziland by Kat Davis on 1/14/2012
This blog was written a few weeks ago. Only ten days left in the Swaz!
Sara walked outside with our garbage, intent on burning it, and was immediately surrounded by children who wanted to go through it. They were on their hands and knees, desperate for anything they could find; a rotten onion, scraps of bread, packets of ketchup - anything that might bring their family sustenance for another day.
Amidst a backdrop of beautiful mountains and rolling hills, the land around us is barren and impoverished. The children are starving, as food and water are scarce, and they’re dressed in clothing that we, in America, would consider to be rags. Most of them are orphans and raised by their grandparents, if they’re raised by anyone at all.
Their beautiful faces are hardened by the reality that is theirs - although, now, they are playing with the white girls and will receive a hot plate of rice, they will soon be back to scrounging for food. They are with us for only a few hours every day, a brief reprisal from their life of hardship. They come to play, to crawl on us, to hear us tell them that they’re beautiful and loved; they come to, if only for a moment, be children.
With the half-way point quickly approaching (…WHAT?!), my team and I find ourselves in the middle of Nsoko, a small village in the eastern-most part of Swaziland. We’re stationed for the month at an Adventures in Missions base, where we live in the middle of a feeding station. (Seriously. The kids are fed 20 yards from our front door. Which means they are always around. As I type this, there are five little children peering through the gate on our front door, zoo-watching style.)
We’ve been blessed with a giant room and an actual bed for each of us. (Although, I’m currently covered in bed-bug bites, so I suppose there was something good about sleeping on the floor last month.) We have running water and electricity, both of which go out intermittedly, and the closest… well, anything… is ten miles away (and by “anything”, I mean a small store to buy bread and rice). We cook for ourselves on the smallest budget we’ve had so far and live off of sandwiches and eggs. We can’t really afford bottled water, so we drink it from the tap - and besides a slightly brackish taste, it’s apparently quite safe. (Don’t worry, we’ll still take anti-parasite pills before we leave, just in case.) There are no trees under which we could find a slight relief, and, in order to respect the local customs, we wear skirts and cover our shoulders, even in the sweltering heat.
We’ve spent nine weeks on this continent, and now we’re down to our final three. Our braids are beginning to come out and we’re starting to discuss what summer clothing we’ll drop before our flight. In just a short while, we’ll be on a plane to spend three months in the cold of Eastern Europe.
But God’s given us this final month to allow us to truly see His heart. To allow us to spend time in His undeveloped creation, the heat and the dirt that makes up the bush of Swaziland. To allow us to fall in love with the dark faces of this country - the orphans walking around in ragged clothing without shoes, the widows struggling to survive, the grandmothers loving their community with everything that they have.
Three more weeks in the bush of Swaziland. I’ll let you know how it goes.
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Posted in 05 Mozambique by Kat Davis on 1/3/2012
Can I be honest with you for a moment?
I’m miserable. I’ve been in Mozambique for entirely too long, I’m tired of the heat, and I’m tired of being dirty. I just spent four hours working in the fields, and then four hours scraping paint in a hot room. To top it off, we have no water. Guess it’s baby-wipe showers for everyone.
Needless to say, the Lord is teaching me things that I know could only be learned here, under the scorching heat of Mozambique.
Great. Now that we’ve gotten that established, I present to you my fourth month of the World Race:
My month has been spent in Machava, Mozambique. My team, along with two others, is working at Beacon of Hope – Africa, an incredible ministry that brings boys into a home and provides education, discipleship and life skills training. They learn how to become productive members of society and are expected to use their initiative and new skills to find jobs upon graduation. The boys work for everything and are given no handouts.
It is truly an amazing ministry, run by an American woman who has given up her life to disciple the young men of Mozambique.
But, it’s summer here. School isn’t even in session. So we’re here, all twenty of us, with no boys to help. …What do we do now?
Well, in this case, we work outside on the grounds. We work hard. And we do it all in 95+ degree weather.
I’ve gotten in touch with my Mid-Western roots this month and have become a farmer. I wake up every morning and join my team as we head off to the fields. We hoe ground covered in weeds and grass to create an open dirt field. We plant food - sometimes corn, sometimes cabbage, sometimes squash. Then we eat lunch, take a break while the scorching African sun goes down a little, and head back out to the fields. When there isn’t work to be done in the fields, we scrape paint and clean floors.
Manual labor, all day, every day.
My pampered Washingtonian-upbringing did not prepare me for this.
My skin has turned brown. My hair is braided into tiny braids, with fake hair woven into my own. I spend my days in the fields, and my nights under a mosquito net. I sleep on the floor in a tiny room with three other women. I share one bathroom with 19 other people, 16 of whom are female. We filter water every morning because we’re too poor to buy it bottled. I haven’t seen a mirror in a month. I walk for an hour just to get a Coke Light. I live in a constant state of sweatiness and exhaustion.
And I live in a constant state of pleading for Jesus to help me through another day.
Desperation. “Jesus, You have to carry me because I literally cannot go out to that field today.” Asking for help, and knowing without a shadow of a doubt that if God doesn’t show up, I’m going to be in some real trouble. Because really, I can’t do this anymore.
I’ve learned how to pray desperately this month. I’ve learned how to rely on God as my Provider – a provider of strength, of comfort, of surprise desserts.
Here, I get down on my knees in thanksgiving every time we’re blessed with something like chocolate because it’s such a rarity. At home, I can swing by 7-11 on my way home from work to pick some up. It’s always there, at my fingertips, whenever I want it. But now, everything I receive is truly a blessing.
Someone recently told me, “In America, we believe in God. In the rest of the world, they depend on Him.”
And so I’m here, in the middle of Mozambique, learning how to depend on God. Not just believe in Him – but depend on the power of His name and the goodness of His provision. God is teaching me what it means to trust Him, to follow Him, to die to myself and to let Him live through me
.
And that’s my goal, isn’t it? He is made greater, I am made less.
In less than a week, my team will head out to Nsoto, Swaziland. We’ll be in the middle of the absolute nowhere, living in the African bush.
I expect it to be hard. I expect my skin will continue to get darker in the 95+degree weather, and I expect to spend many more nights asking God to allow me to sleep, despite the heat.
But, I also expect God will to continue to teach me about His provision, about His sovereignty, and about His love.
A month in the African bush. Guess it’s game time now.
And I’m ready. (especially with these braids.)
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Posted in 04 South Africa by Kat Davis on 12/15/2011
My entire squad has gathered back together after three months on the field. We’re spending a few days on a beautiful beach on South Africa. We’ve come to pray, to laugh, to worship, and to… well, mourn.
No, no one has died or anything. It’s nothing like that.
You see, at the end of month three, every squad goes through a series of team changes. New squad leaders are raised up, new team leaders are chosen, and all of the teams scramble.
Simply put, we’re all here to mourn the loss of our old teams.
I know, “mourning”? It just sounds crazy, doesn’t it? We’ve known them for what, three months?
But these are the people we’ve just spent those three months living with (and usually in very tight corridors). They have been our comfort, our nurses, our partners-in-crime. They are the ones with us when we got kicked out of Chinese cities, when we were bent over a toilet for hours, and when we saw God move in ways we’d never even imagined.
And now, as each of us open a single piece of paper, all of that changes.
It’s almost like a really mean joke. Our one real sense of comfort and familiarity on this journey into the unknown, gone in an instant.
I sat on a bench overlooking the vast Atlantic Ocean as tears flooded my eyes. Of my team, of the women I had grown to love and adore, not a single one of them was on that piece of paper.
Five new names, all female, all completely new.
More tears. More cries to God. And then, He spoke: “ My daughter, I have this.”
I went into the initial lunch with my new teammates scared, worried of what they’d think of me, of my story. After lunch, we sat on couches and chatted. For hours.
My fears were calmed. My worries, erased. My hesitancy to embrace a new team, shattered by their love.
He has blessed me with the most incredible group of women to walk with. They are strong (both in faith and personality!), hilarious, and desperate to see the Kingdom come to earth. He knew what I needed even when I didn’t. My fears were nothing compared to His plan and His glory.
Just like He told me on that beach on South Africa: He has this.
team
Sound of Strength
Sara Norton (leader)
Britni Bersin
Kat Davis
Jessica Fischbach
Maggie Lavigne
Shannon Meador
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Posted in 04 South Africa by Kat Davis on 11/29/2011
Fully funded. Fully funded. Fully funded.
Sometimes I have to repeat those words just to remind myself that it’s true.
But it is. I’m completely funded for the rest of my World Race.
THANK YOU.
Talk about a lesson in God’s provision.
I never believed that I would be here, months away from the deadline, with enough money in my support account to last the year. That means enough money to send me to Eastern Europe. And to Central America. And home.
From the bottom of my heart, thank you for supporting me. Thank you for believing in the work God is doing across the nations. Thank you for believing in a Kingdom powerful enough to break through poverty and injustice. And thank you for believing in me.
God knew where the money would come from even when I didn’t. I guess it shouldn’t surprise me… it was really never our money - it was always His. And man, is He generous.
“Let us be grateful for receiving a Kindgom that cannot be shaken,
and let us offer to God acceptable worship, with reverence and awe, for our God is a consuming fire.”
Hebrews 12:28
I have a teammate who is still in need of money to reach her December deadline. My sister Maria Rocha is a beautiful woman of God who is desperately pursuing Jesus and His calling on her life. She has touched my life in amazing ways – I can’t imagine my Race without her! If you’re interested in supporting other missionaries who are on the field with me, please considering clicking on her name above. You’ll be taken to her blog, where you can read more about her journey and donate.
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Posted in 04 South Africa by Kat Davis on 11/22/2011
I thought I would be the one changing.
I thought I would come home after a year on the field and find things pretty much the same.
Let me tell you: I’ve been on the field for three months so far, and one thing is becoming blatantly clear to me:
I was wrong.
People at home are moving on. They’re getting engaged, getting married, and having babies.
I thought home would stay the same. But so much of home is changing.
And through it all, I find myself asking one simple question: Why am I here?
I make a two-mile walk to the township of Capricorn every day. It’s a small community living in third world conditions; an impoverished land trapped amidst a country on its’ way to becoming a first-world nation. We’re warned constantly of the danger of doing ministry there – white people are often mugged or beaten on the streets.
And so we go in broad daylight, walk in groups, and carry nothing with us. As we walk towards the township, we ask for protection from the God who desperately loves the people of Capricorn. And then we head for the library, where we listen to the children read, have dance parties, and attempt to give all the love we possibly can to children whose only existence has ever been in a slum.
Because if we don’t go, who will?
My friends at home are getting dressed up and going to weddings. They’re eating out at fun restaurants and getting free-refills on soda. They’re getting engaged and having babies.
And I’m here, in one of the poorest beach-towns in South Africa, living with 30 other people in a small hostel and eating on $2.38 a day.
My intention is in no way to trivialize the lives of my friends at home or say that their lives back in the States are wrong – not at all. My intention, instead, is to say this: “I want to be living that life.”
But I’m not. Instead, I was called here, on the World Race.
Sometimes I struggle with the “why’s” behind my journey. I struggle with why my life, my story, took me on this path, instead of on a path of relative comfort and painlessness.
Perhaps I’m struggling with this question a little more this month because the dichotomy between the poverty of Capricorn and the wealth of downtown Cape Town makes an appearance in my weekly life.
Perhaps it’s because the clash between my own two worlds, one of a middle-class privileged white girl and the other of a so-called radical missionary living out of a backpack for a year, are so blatantly obvious to me here, in this moment.
Who Jesus calls me to be instead of who I am.
The places God wants me to go, instead of where I want to go.
The people God wants me to love instead of the people I want to love.
I’ve been removed from my own reality and dropped right in the middle of, well… reality.
Sometimes I want to go home. Most times I want reliable internet, air conditioning, and ice in my soda. But always, always, am I confident of God’s calling on my life. And that calling has placed me here, in a poor South African town.
In about a week, my squad and I will pack into buses and begin the long trek up to Mozambique. I have no idea what I’ll be doing there, where I’ll be sleeping, or what I’ll be eating. The only thing I’m sure of is that I won’t know. And I won’t know what will happen when we enter Swaziland. Or Bulgaria. Or Serbia. Or any of the other eight countries we have left on our journey.
There are days when I literally cannot stand living in a small room with 12 other women. When I don’t want to share the few precious articles of clothing that I have. When I’m tired of not knowing and not being in control.
But that’s the thing.
When I don’t know, I believe completely that Jesus knows.
When I’m not in control, it means that Jesus is.
And when I feel as though I can’t go on, or that eight more months is just far too long, I know that Jesus can go on.
And I know He will carry me.
The Great Commission was never meant to be a suggestion. I know I’m called to more than my comfortable, middle-class life in the States, and I know that picking up my own cross wasn’t ever supposed to be some lofty ideal reserved only for the most religious.
I question things on the Race. I struggle with why I'm here. But the thing is, for whatever reason, I know I'm meant to be here. I know that Jesus called me to this, I know that He sees the sacrifice, and I know that He is pleased.
And if that's all I know for the entirety of my Race, I'm pretty sure I'll be okay.
excerpts from Decisions that Define Us by Graham Cooke
We’ve decided that teaching the Gospel without demonstrating the Gospel isn’t enough. Good preaching, good doctrine, and being good people is not enough.
We’ve decided that reading the book of Acts without living the book of Acts is unthinkable.
We’ve decided that hearing about the Holy Spirit without experiencing Him is silly. That believing in His presence without seeing it manifested in signs and wonders is hypocrisy. That believing in healing without seeing people healed is absurd. And that believing in deliverance without seeing people being delivered is absolutely ridiculous.
We’ve decided to be Holy Spirit filled, Holy Spirit led, and Holy Spirit empowered – anything else doesn’t work for us.
We’ve decided to be the ones telling the stories of God’s power –
not the ones hearing about them.
We’ve decided that living saved, but not supernaturally, is living below our privilege and short of what Christ died for.
We’ve decided that we’re a battleship, not a cruise ship. An army, not an audience. Special Forces, not spectators. Missionaries, not club members.
We’ve decided to be radical lovers and outrageous givers. We’ve decided that we are a mission station, not a museum.
THEREFORE:
We are not limited to the four walls of a building – our influence is not restricted by location. Not even nations are out of bounds.
We raise up world-changers, not tour guides. We train commandos, not committees.
We’ve decided that nothing short of “His Kingdom come and His will be done – on earth as it is in Heaven,” will satisfy.
We are people of our destiny, not our history. We’ve decided that
it is better to fail while reaching for the impossible
than succeed in settling for less.
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