to flourish {tales of a hometown missionary}

I bought books that year. Piles and piles of missionary biographies. A Chance To Die. Jungle Pilot. Evidence Not Seen. The Little Woman. These Strange Ashes. They stacked by my bedside and I immersed myself in the lives of men and women who gave up everything for the sake of Christ.

I learned. Words from Nate Saint and Amy Carmichael and Gladys Aylward began filling my thoughts, forcing me to push out of my comfort zone. They yanked my mind from daydreams of handsome knights to visions of a lost and dying people. People who lived next door. 

Then came the call. The one from church. From the pastor. Come lead our children’s department. I wanted to so badly.

It was the type of thing that I loved and excelled at. Teaching made me flourish. Yet, one blistering truth remained, even as I ached to agree to the position: I would not have energy to reach the children on my street if I was developing a children’s ministry at church. I called the pastor and told him I was unable to take the position.

After I hung up, I cried.

A few nights later I was watering the tulips that surrounded my front porch when Helen arrived. “Tasha, can I play your guitar?” she asked.

I sent her inside. “It’s in the office,” I explained, “just open the window and so I can hear you while I finish up.”

She pulled a chair over to the window and placed the brightly colored instrument across her knee. She strummed a discorded melody and tried to sing.

I come in empty and I leave filled

Bring my sickness and I leave healed

“Tasha?” she paused from her singing, “Is God really like a father?”

I looked up from the midnight tulips and my gaze met her confused blue eyes. I ached at the thought of her own father who had stood by while she was mistreated and abused. My mind screamed prayers as I softly began talking of God and fathers and the deep-deep love that led the Son to the cross.

After she went home I stood in hushed reverence. Please, please, Lord– make something useful out of my broken words. I wrapped the hose and wiped my bare feet on the front mat. A few hours later Delite and I took our evening walk and our conversation turned to prayer and then singing.

Let Your glory fall on this street

Let it go forth from here to the nation

Let your fragrance rest in this place

Lord, we want them to see Your face

And the truth shuddered near. Only in following the Master could I truly flourish. And this was the place He had called me to. This place filled with brokenness and beauty and hope and sorrow.

Part One: {In Jars of Clay}
Part Two: {Wind and Waves}
Part Three: {Miracles and Mustard Seeds}
Part Four: {Labels and Trust}