Hot and dry. A thick orangey-red haze coated the landscape as I stepped out of the Lilongwe International Airport. I pushed the heavy cart loaded with maybe three or four suitcases and a large trunk wrapped with luggage straps to keep them from busting open. Brooklyn and Jackson, my siblings, pushed their own carts piled high with luggage as well. With one arm, we all struggled to push the heavy carts through the small airport, while using the other arm to hold the top suitcase in order to keep them from falling. Our mom followed close by, holding Jasper, our youngest brother, by the hand, who was clutching his favorite stuffed bunny and lion. Our dad led the way pushing another cart as we crossed through the doors and into the late afternoon heat.

Up until that moment, never in the sixteen years of my life, had I spent more than five hours on a plane, and I had just finished the longest trip of my life: 30 hours later, from the cushy, clean, and green suburbs of Portland, Oregon, arriving in Lilongwe, Malawi, Africa which was not cushy, clean, or green.

“Takulandirani!” an old man smiled, his wide grin revealing missing teeth.

“Muli bwanji!” a couple of African mamas said, walking past with their babies strapped to their backs with colorful fabrics called kitenges.

People were everywhere, walking in and out of the airport, waiting for the bus, leaning on the sides of their taxis. I looked past the sea of people to see our missionary team. “Welcome to Malawi!” they cheered.

I felt so excited. Finally, we are here! But almost immediately, I felt overstimulated. My ears were filled with words that I never heard of before, the sounds of airplanes taking off, laughter, and motorcycles called tuk tuks tooting their horns. My nose was overwhelmed with the many interesting smells like smoke from the fires that burned the maize fields and body odor. Lots of body odor. People everywhere, some yelling, asking if we needed a taxi, others chatting while waiting for the bus, and then our missionary team waving and smiling and welcoming us to our new home.

After we said our hellos and gave hugs to the welcoming group, we packed all of our luggage into the dirty Toyota Fortuners and headed off to the missionary compound where we would be living for the next few years.

I looked out the dusty window and saw the orange sun begin to set over the Malawian landscape. A herd of skinny goats pranced along the side of the road. Small, stick-like trees sat still in the middle of the maize fields. Long trails of white smoke danced up into the sky. As we travelled down the bumpy red dirt road, the driver swerved to the left and right to avoid potholes and people and asked us how the trip went. I couldn’t believe that we were finally here.

We were “home.”

As much as I would like to share how idyllic, wonderful, and adventurous life was after that day we arrived in sunny, hot Malawi, it unfortunately was not.

From the first night onward, this city girl had no idea what she had gotten herself into. I had heard of culture shock but thought of it as a myth. There’s no way I will deal with culture shock like some people. Maybe it’s because they’re weak? Those were my honest thoughts.

I was wrong.

I lived in perpetual culture shock, whenever I opened my eyes in the morning, to when I closed them to go to sleep. Everywhere I looked and went, there was something new to learn and understand. It felt like I had to learn how to live all over again.

Over the next few weeks, our team members would tell us, “Don’t drink the tap water! The power goes out all the time! We will run out of water! Watch out for the mosquitoes! Lock your doors!” I know they were trying to be helpful, but honestly, it was far from helpful. My already overwhelmed brain was trying to understand all of this new and unfamiliar information.

As I dealt with the shock of being in a third-world country, I started to feel the overwhelming realization that I was living there, and that this was my new reality. I missed my grandparents and my friends. I missed my house and my room. I missed my church and my school. I even missed the little things like brushing my teeth with the sink water, and when the leaves change colors in the fall.

I wanted to go back home to America.

Each day, I started to feel like God was farther and farther away. I wondered where God was. Each night before I would fall asleep, I would think to myself, “Why would God allow this to happen? Why would He take away every single thing I loved so much? Why did my family have to go?” I did not get an answer.

I believed the fact that my family and I were “stuck” in Malawi. I did not have a good attitude about my new life in Africa. Life seemed to be getting harder and harder and my friends and family stateside began to grow farther and farther away. Going to school in Malawi was a horrible experience, and I started to feel so alone. The days turned into months and suddenly the start of a new year began and I was the loneliest I have ever been.

Whispers of a thing called “the coronavirus” started to circulate, and I will never forget the day that the Malawian government shut down the schools. When the government told the country to quarantine, we began a new routine of waking up early, doing school online, and then finding things to do on the compound since we couldn’t leave. As the weeks went by, we heard news via Instagram and Facebook and from concerned family members about how serious the COVID pandemic was getting.

The U.S. Embassy contacted the American expats living in the city to inform about a flight leaving Malawi and going back to the States before the government shut down the airport. Deep down I prayed that my family would leave. I would rather sit in an uncomfortable seat for 12 hours in economy than stay in Malawi.

My wonderful, prayerful parents wanted to leave, too. But to this day, they will say that they did not feel released from God to leave. Soon before the flight’s departure date, my parents sat me and my siblings down after dinner and said: “We have been praying about what to do next, and we feel like we need to stay in Malawi.”

I felt like I was punched in the gut.

What do you mean “stay in Malawi?” All by ourselves? The rest of the team is leaving! What will we do now? I was so disappointed. I did not understand why we had to stay in Malawi when it seemed like this was our ticket out of Malawi for good. Our time in Malawi had been difficult for each one of us, and it was not what we expected. Again, I wondered where God was in all of this. Little did I know that staying would actually be the best thing to ever happen to me and my family.

One by one, the families on our compound left Malawi and went back to the U.S. while my family stayed confined in the red brick walls of our compound. At first, I was mad. Then I felt relieved. Maybe this isn’t such a bad thing. Maybe there is a reason for all of this. Soon, it was just my little family alone on the compound.

My family had always been a close family, at least closer than most of my friends’. We had family dinners and had movie nights on Fridays and had little traditions throughout the year. But when COVID came to Malawi, everything changed. It forced my family and me to spend lots and lots of time together: watching Lost and Alias, baking from-scratch chocolate cakes, and even celebrating Christmas in July (because it got “cold”). We had so much time to be with each other which we now reflect on as the best time in our lives and laugh at all of the memories we made together.

In the midst of wondering where God was, and whether He abandoned me or not, I decided to turn to Jesus during what was the hardest season of my life. In my room during quarantine, after months and months of asking God why and where He was, I realized that God never left me. He never left my family. Even through difficulty, frustration, and pain, that is where I found Jesus. At 16 years old in the middle of the COVID 19 pandemic, in Malawi, I re-dedicated my life to Jesus. It took moving across the ocean to a foreign land (that I honestly did not know existed) for me to start my own relationship with Him.

When I first got to Malawi, I wondered where God was and what He was doing. Now, years after that first day stepping out of that small airport, I know that God was with me the whole time. I do not know exactly why God sent my family to Malawi specifically. But I believe that it was to change me, draw me closer to Him, and draw me closer to my family. Moving there at 16 years old, prepared me for living a life with God. What I have learned is this: Wherever you are going, wherever God has placed you, He has a purpose and plan. He will use the good, the bad, and the painful to bring us closer to Him and for His glory.

Self-care in a season of chaos.

When we moved to South Africa, I had come out of a very challenging season in Malawi. It was hard on all fronts – from helping our children transition, to navigating life in a foreign country, the ever-precarious visa process, the insurgence of Covid-19, to understanding a new organization and all of the intricate policies, procedures, and bureaucracy. It was hard. But, like I have said before, we were able to find creative ways to establish stability.

Still, when we arrived in South Africa, I felt like I had run a marathon and was standing at the starting line of yet another marathon. The decision for our move was, primarily, to get help for Jasper. We knew he had some significant developmental issues, and South Africa provided the much-needed resources to help him.

As I sat in our Airbnb one afternoon, completely exhausted and weary, I remember thinking: “Can one lose resiliency? Is it possible that I am not able to bounce back from challenges like I used to?” A friend of mine called me. She and I have known each other since high school, and we are both Third Culture Kids. She said to me, as I was thinking out loud, that the question of resiliency cannot be answered when one is in the middle of transition. She encouraged me to walk slowly and take it one day at a time.

I was beginning to feel like, perhaps, God was disciplining me- that all of this hard stuff we were facing and working through was because I had, somehow, upset and disappointed God. I was stressed out trying to determine if my own frustration and anger at some of the things we had experience had been a result of me not being a good enough Christian, missionary, wife, mother, etc. While I was grateful- deeply grateful- that God had brought us to a place where we could help Jasper, and we had even found incredible resources for him, and for our family, I couldn’t shake this feeling that I was somehow responsible for how hard the past year had been. And I was worried that I might not bounce back from it.

A few months later, I was on a Zoom call with a mentor of mine, sharing with her my fears, my worries, and doubts, and she said to me, in the most empathetic and kind way, “Amy, I think you need to walk in God’s love. His yoke is easy, and his burden is light. He is not disciplining you. He wants you to know that he loves you, and he is with you.” I can’t begin to explain how the combination of my friend’s words and this mentor’s words spoke life to me. They still do. I have a small sign that I received as a gift from this mentor before we moved overseas. It says, “You are loved”, and it is a gentle reminder of this truth that I see each day when I sit at my desk.

Walk in God’s love.

Be gentle with yourself.

Breathe.

Release these burdens and cares and rest in God’s presence.

Take it one day at a time.

Transition in a season of chaos brings a kind of weariness that is difficult to describe. It overwhelms and saturates so much of our lives. Too often we brush it off, or we blame ourselves for not being strong enough or resilient enough to handle the chaos, rather than recognize that we have limits. And it is okay to have limits. It is okay to say, “I’ve reached my capacity.”

Self-care in a season of chaos, for me, looks like:

1.     Waking up in the morning and reminding myself that I am loved by God.

2.     Loving my husband.

3.     Prioritizing my family.

4.     Homecooked meals.

5.     Handing over the things that are out of my control to God.

6.     Laughter with my family.

7.     Reading books that help me understand the process I am working through.

8.     Regulating social media.

9.     Speaking kind words to myself.

10.  Letting go of guilt when saying “no” to something is the healthy thing to do.

Transition is a season. It is not a lifestyle. The missionary life tends to be more transitory in nature than a regular occupation, but constant transition is not the norm, even for missionary life. It is a season; these seasons pass.

It’s not so much that we’re afraid of change or so in love with the old ways, but it’s that place in between that we fear…It’s like being between trapezes. It’s Linus when his blanket is in the dryer. There’s nothing to hold on to.

Marilyn Ferguson, American Futurist

Transition is the in-between. It’s the letting go and the reaching out with no clear sight of the new beginning. I would add to Marilyn Ferguson’s thought that we, as Christ followers, do have something – Someone – to hold on to. The season of transition breeds all kinds of internal restlessness, and it feels overwhelming when we are in the thick of it. However, we are not alone. As we learn to pivot in the chaos, we have someone in the storm keeping the boat from sinking. Jesus never leaves us. He promises that he has gone before us, and he is also in the middle of all the mess with us…standing strong.

Resting in his love and allowing his presence to carry us through the seas of the in-between, will give us the resilience we need to keep pressing on and moving forward.

It is okay to take care of yourself in these seasons of chaos. It is okay to hit “pause” and remind yourself that you are loved by God. Rather than try to figure out if you are doing it right, or doing it well, give yourself the gift of care – whatever that might look like for you. This is not a race…you don’t lose points for those moments you pause…stop…recalibrate. One of the greatest gifts you can give to yourself- and your family- through periods of transition is self-care. Eventually, you will find yourself on the other side of the trapeze.

How to Transition Well in a Season of Chaos

1. Give your people space to speak up and process.

Silence is not always a good sign. We often misread silent cooperation as a sign of compliance and agreement, when, in fact, what is going on internally is the complete opposite. The silent follower will eventually silently walk away.

I would much rather have a very vocal response to transition and change in the people I am leading – whether family or team – because then, I know exactly what is going on in their minds and hearts. A vocal dissent can be addressed. Knowing where the pain point is, or where the frustration lies, allows me to know how to better walk with someone through the transition. Silence seems golden, but it can be very costly. Navigating through unhappy and frustrated discussions is much more likely to turn into authentic support and authentic compliance.

When we moved to Malawi with our four children, there was a great deal of negative discourse on the whole matter.

Our oldest daughter was sixteen years old and knew exactly all of the amazing experiences she would be missing during the course of our first term. She was extremely vocal in expressing her anger and grief. I had no question in my mind where Sydney stood regarding our move to Malawi. She was very clear, even to the point of emphatically declaring, “I hate Africa!” There was no confusion. Her honest and verbal expression of her feelings gave us all the raw material we needed to walk alongside her through the process of transition.

Our older son, Jackson, was 12, on the verge of turning 13. He, too, was highly expressive with his negative feelings about living in Malawi. He was also dealing with severe anxiety, which began to surface the year prior to our move. He was struggling both overtly and internally with this transition. As difficult as it was to hear and receive all of Jackson’s negativity, we allowed him the space he needed to explode and process. It tore at our hearts, but at least we knew what was going on in that head of his. Even when he went silent, the physical manifestation of his anxiety gave him away. These outward and inward expressions of upset allowed us to know where he was and how to walk him through each phase of the transition process.

Our second daughter, aged 14, was our silent follower. Brooklyn is a peacemaker. She longs for harmony and will sacrifice her own needs in order to keep everyone happy. Her biggest fear in all of this transition was being an additional “burden” (her perception) on her parents. And so, she quietly went along, while feeling all the same emotions and fears as her siblings. I had a sense that she wasn’t doing as well as she was trying to portray, but oftentimes, due to the very loud and negative voices echoing through our home, her quiet struggles were buried.

Brooklyn wasn’t just wrestling with the grief of losing her life in the United States; of all of our older three children, she experienced, what I would refer to as, the most “trauma” at their new school. She was unjustly, and inappropriately, reprimanded by the headmistress for something she did not do; she was the target of ongoing teasing by the boys in her class, while simultaneously the girls in her class ignored her and marginalized her; and when she was struggling to understand a concept in math, her teacher yelled at her for asking questions (thankfully, he apologized to both Brooklyn and us, quickly recognizing his out-of-bounds behavior). It was awful. Brooklyn, our easy-going, life-loving girl, went deeply inward. She pretended to be sick in order to miss school and walked around in a state of apathy for the greater part of those first six months.

It took Covid-19 and a quarantine to give us a chance to dig deep into the heart of what Brooklyn was going through. I often reflect on what a gift Covid-19 was for our family. While Brooklyn followed along and didn’t rock the boat, out of our three older children, she was the one that was probably at the most critical place of brokenness by the time we were able to address her pain. I remember doing a Bible study with her and Sydney during our quarantine, and she shared with me that she was angry at God. Her pain was deep. Her grief was intense. Those precious months of processing with her opened up a tremendous opportunity for healing.

As difficult as it is as a parent, or a leader, to hear dissent, to hear the irritation and frustration of those we are leading through change, we have to challenge ourselves to see it as a gift, not a burden. Like I said at the beginning, I would much rather hear, and know, how my people are feeling – the good, the bad, and the ugly – than to think that because everyone is smiling and going along with everything without complaint that all is well. I can guarantee one thing for sure, no matter what the change or transition, there will always be internal struggles, fears, and negative feelings at some point. It is inevitable, and perhaps why there are so many books written on leading through change (Managing Transitions, by William Bridges; Tempered Resilience, by Tod E. Bolsinger; The Grief Tower, by Lauren Wells…to name a few).

Let the vocal dissent become your friend. Let it guide you as you walk with those you lead. An empathetic and listening ear will open up the heart of those who follow you and create trust. Dismissing authentic feelings as “difficult” or “bothersome” will inevitably create anger and hostility, and a lack of trust.

2. Walk your people through the transition.

What does it look like to walk people through transition? Every person has different needs in the transition process. For some, they need to understand the plan and to feel like they can get a handle on the part they play in all of it. Some just need to their feelings to be validated and noticed. Some need to take the transition in bite-size pieces.

First, as best as you can in the chaos of transition, create structure. Brooklyn needed to walk through the transition one step at a time. We have always created routines and rhythms in our home, regardless of where in the world we live. I function at my best in routine and structure, and so does our family. They need to know that there are consistent benchmarks that guide our days/weeks/months. For all of our kids, the daily structure we set in place gave them security, especially for Brooklyn. Taking life day-by-day, rather than event-by-event, gave her breathing room and a sense of normality that her new life in a very complex context did not always give to her.

Sydney has often shared with me that the effort we put into creating “normal” in her daily life helped her to feel safe and regulated. We told our kids that they were to pick an after-school activity to participate in (this was both when we were living in Malawi and before we transitioned to an online school). This was a non-negotiable. It turns out, even though there was some initial push back on this, that having an activity in their lives ended up being a huge part of what helped them settle into our “new normal”.

Second, create an atmosphere for processing. Regular and consistent family meetings that allowed our kids to open up and share, times for listening to music and worshiping together, prayer and laughter,  gave them a firm spiritual foundation in the chaos. We never pressured our children or told them, “You must love Africa.” Or, “You need to get on board and love this.” Giving them the freedom to not love any of it was the catalyst for changing their hearts. Those evening family times saved our family and relieved the pressure to feel feelings that they were not ready to feel.

Third, a very important part of this process is having a sense of humor. Laughter is therapeutic. Transition is so serious and stressful. It zaps us of our energy. Finding times to play and laugh and just pull out of the heaviness of the moment brings rest, hope and cohesiveness.

By the end of March, 2020 Covid-19 had shut everything down, and while Malawi never imposed a formal lockdown, most businesses were closed, and life came to a screeching halt. School migrated to an online format, which brought on a whole new kind of stress, and our routine and structure had to pivot quickly. By July, we were beginning to feel a little stir-crazy. And so, we decided to do “Christmas in July.” We put up our Christmas decorations, baked Christmas cookies, set up our video projector to watch Christmas movies, and even did our traditional “Secret Santa” gift exchange. For a week, we escaped the mundane and the heaviness of the pandemic and played. It was marvelous, and our children will tell you it is one of their favorite memories.

3. Validate. Don’t alienate.

In chaos, none of us are functioning at our best. I will forget side conversations, and sometimes the bigger vision gets buried in all of the chaos of transition. And so, I like to ask questions. I have learned that not everyone likes or appreciates questions. In chaos, I also will reach out for clarity or even request structure to help me along the process. I have also learned that this, too, is not always appreciated. The sad thing is, the more those questions, efforts at clarity-seeking, and requests go ignored, the less I feel compelled to continue following along, and it feels alienating. In seasons of chaos and transition, when we want our people close, our dismissive behaviors actually push our people away.

I noticed this a lot with our kids during transition. I think I’ve made myself clear. I’ve answered the same questions and explained the plan a dozen times, and then someone comes and asks for clarification. I can get frustrated and irritated because in my mind, I’ve already answered those questions. Why do I need to repeat myself one.more.time?

The reality is, when we are in transition, when the chaos is all around us, our brains can’t hold on to all the information, and we struggle to keep the facts in order. Therefore, we continue to ask questions.

It is somewhat like we revert to our preschool selves. Have you ever watched a group of preschoolers play at recess? Their play is often a representation of something they are trying to internalize. For instance, when I taught preschool, there was a little girl in my class who wanted to play “funeral” every single day at recess. She would gather her friends and they would reenact a funeral over and over again. I thought to myself, “why on earth would a bunch of three-year-olds want to play such a dark game of pretend?” Then, when this little girl’s mom came to pick her up from school, she briefly mentioned that they had been to a funeral over the weekend, and it had been a heavy week for their family. This little girl was processing all that she experienced and observed over the course of the previous weekend. She used play to solidify the experience. It was how she made sense of something so enormous. And here is the key…she didn’t just play “funeral” one time. She played “funeral” for a solid week until she understood her experience.

I believe this same concept can be appropriated to life transition. We keep asking questions in order to grasp what is happening. Questions should NEVER be seen as a threat. As the leader/parent, we should really be proactive in repeating the vision, the purpose, the plan, and the daily goals over and over again, no matter how repetitive it may seem. The repetition will bring ownership and peace. When we think we’ve made ourselves clear, we need to repeat all of the above again (and again, and again).

“Let us hold unswervingly to the hope we profess, for he who promised is faithful.” Hebrews 10:23

Hold on.

When I think of what it takes to hold on – to endure, to press on, to persevere – the word tenacious comes to mind.

Tenacity is defined by Merriam-Webster as: the quality or fact of being able to grip something firmly.

In spite of my easy-going, compliant nature, I have been known to be quite stubborn and tenacious (just ask my husband and parents). Do not let the calm exterior fool you. Deep down inside there is a stubborn streak that hangs on hard and long, gripping firmly to the conviction I hold in my heart. Sometimes that has worked for my good, and sometimes not. It is both a strength and a weakness. When I apply it in the right direction – when I hold on tight to the path that God has laid out for me – it serves me well. But when I cling to the “my way or the highway” on something as insignificant as where to place the throw pillows on the couch (yes, this is a real issue for me), one might suggest that this tenacious spirit is being channeled in the wrong direction.

Gripping firmly. Holding tightly. Tenacity.

If we are going to remain, stay, continue and fulfill God’s plan and purpose for our lives, there is no doubt in my mind we are going to need tenacity.

One of my favorite books of the Bible (one of many, actually) contains one of my favorite verses: “Let us hold unswervingly to the hope we profess, for he who promised is faithful.” Hebrews 10:23

This verse exhorts us to hold on steadily…resolutely. No matter what…hold on.

This past year, with all of the transitions – highs, lows, Covid-19 drama, uncertainty, worldwide instability, grief and disappointments – never has my proclivity towards tenaciousness been more necessary for holding on. Today, with the sun beating down and the air feeling right and sweet, I find myself coming out on the other side with joy…peace…gratitude…and a firm grip on all God’s faithfulness.

Covid-19 is still here and uncertainty and worldwide instability continue to abound, but…He never fails. And his faithfulness gives me peace. Clinging tenaciously to God – His Word, His truth – is the only way we can endure, persevere, and press on towards God’s promises.

If our faith is so weak that we cower and recoil when life gets messy and hard, ugly and painful, we will quickly lose our grip…we will not overcome. We really do need to shed the unnecessary and frivolous in order to give ourselves capacity to hold on. We also need to be willing to work those faith muscles and allow God to stretch us so that we can keep moving forward.

Jackson, my thirteen-year-old son, has a goal for this year. He wants to increase his muscle tone and strength. Through no fault of his own – we can blame it on genetics – Jackson is not naturally athletic. He is long, lean, and prefers building with Legos over building up his muscles. However, he made the decision that this is the year that he is going to “buff up”. While I am not a work-out aficionado, I do know one thing for sure: building strength and muscle takes time, commitment, and tenacity. Jackson will need all three of those characteristics in order to achieve his goal. Rather than hold on to an idea and a dream, he’s going to have to wrap his real hands around real weights, hold on tightly, and press on no matter how tired and uncomfortable his body may get. He’s going to need a lot of tenacity to achieve this goal.

Likewise, it takes a type of fearless tenacity to pursue obedience in the face of trial, disappointment, and adversity. It is not self-reliant fearlessness that says, “I can do all things through the strength I can muster up inside of me because I’m a strong and capable person.” This kind of fearlessness will eventually lead to exhaustion and defeat. The kind of fearlessness that carries us through every challenge and every wearying moment is the kind that says, “I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me” (Philippians 4:13). It is completely and utterly dependent upon Christ working inside of us and through us.

It gives us the capacity to hold on. To cling and to stand our ground. Christ’s strength within us makes us tenacious and fearless. When the blitz from the enemy comes, we set our gaze heavenward and carry on.

“Therefore, since we have a great high priest who has gone through the heavens, Jesus the Son of God, let us hold firmly to the faith we profess…Let us then approach the throne of grace with confidence, so that we may receive mercy and find grace to help us in our time of need.” Hebrews 14:4

If I could give one word of encouragement today – to anyone feeling the weight of struggle, doubt, weariness or uncertainty – it would be this: hold on tenaciously to hope, to the faith that we profess, to the One who gives us the grace we need at the exact moment we need it.

Hold on.

Remain faithful…he is faithful.

Stay steady…his hands will steady you.

Continue forward…he is leading the way.

Fulfill the purpose…his plans are good and trustworthy.

“He who promised is faithful.”

Hold on.

Stay in the race.

You do not want to watch me run a mile. I promise. It’s painful for me to run a full mile, and I am confident that it would be equally painful for you to watch. My dad is a runner, my sister is a runner, and I am a wannabe runner. I try, but this body is geared more towards walking and sitting…not running. Sometimes, when I’m running, and pretending to be the runner I wish I could be, I visualize myself running the Marine Corps Marathon. (I know…it’s actually a little embarrassing to admit.)

Almost eleven years ago I visited my sister in Washington DC and was able to watch, follow, and cheer her on as she ran the Marine Corps Marathon. It was one of the most exhilarating experiences I have ever had. The energy and electricity of the crowd, and the excruciating looks on the faces of the runners as they pressed on towards the finish line, almost – almost – made me want to join the race. It was incredible.

All that to say…when I run, I sometimes imagine myself running in the Marine Corps Marathon. And it is this silly brain-game that helps me push through the discomfort and complete my one-mile “marathon”.

As painful as it can be – as hard, challenging, frustrating and messy as it can be – the race we are running in our spiritual lives, in the ministry and the appointments, the circumstances and seasons that God has placed before us, is a race we must run to completion. We cannot give up. We cannot forfeit this race. We need to stay and run with endurance and perseverance.

The race will wear out our legs – our muscles get taxed from the constant beating against the pavement – we must resist the urge to quit and keep moving forward.

The race will mess with our minds- we can think of a myriad of reasons to quit- so we must continue to dwell daily in the Word in order to guard our minds from distraction and lies.

The race will make us tired – the race pulls every ounce of our energy and focus – so we must find rest and refreshing in God’s presence.

The race will cause our hearts to work extra hard – the cardio impact of pushing our bodies beyond capacity can tempt us to stop in frustration and exhaustion – so we must ensure that our hearts are kept in check with the heart of God.

The race will sometimes bring pain – skinned knees and body aches – we must lean into the One who heals our hurts and bandages our wounds.

The race will be sweaty and dehydrating – the pace and the exertion are depleting – so we must drink regularly the Living Water that will restore our strength.

The race will look endless – with miles behind us, and still miles to go – we must set our focus on the prize…the purpose for which we run.

The race will sometimes feel lonely – our singular focus can leave us blind to reality – so we must open up our ears to hear the cheers from the crowd.

The race will be long and oftentimes challenging – hills and rocks, uneven pavement and tough terrain can cause us to lose our footing – so we must tenaciously set our minds to the finish line.

The race will stretch us beyond capacity – so we must endure…resolve ourselves to keep running.

“And let us run with perseverance the race marked out for us, fixing our eyes on Jesus, the pioneer and perfecter of faith. For the joy set before him he endured the cross, scorning its shame, and sat down at the right had of the throne of God.

“Consider him who endured such opposition from sinners, so that you will not grow weary and lose heart.” Hebrews 12:1-3

What race are you running right now?

Has God placed you in a circumstance that feels far beyond your capacity?

Has God called you to surrender and you just want to hold on so tightly?

Has God brought you into a season where there seems to be no clear answer or direction, and quitting is not the answer?

Has the race become arduous and painful?

Stay in the race.

Every point of pain has an eventual ending, just as every point of victory has a beginning.

The race may be wearing you out right now. Fix your eyes on Jesus. Run to him. Find your strength and rest and joy in him. Do not waver. Set your feet to the pavement and keep pressing forward. “We are surrounded by such a great cloud of witnesses…” We have a cheering section. We do not run this race alone.

It has been a challenging season for me, personally, and I will be honest, I am preaching to myself today. The race is hard. Running is hard. The last few days my legs have felt like spaghetti and my lungs are feeling spent, but the race is not over. As I imagine myself running in the Marine Corps Marathon to get me to the finish line, I want to encourage you, as well, to keep on running your race.

Finish it well.

Finish it strong.

Every victory has a beginning.

Do not quit.

Stay in the race.

“I run in the path of your commands, for you have set my heart free.” Psalm 119:32

“Where he leads me, I will follow.” – E.W. Blandly

Only a few weeks ago, messages from the American Embassy had become a regular and consistent presence in my inbox. Updates from the Malawi government were an ongoing alert in every social networking group I am a part of, and most of those messages appeared to contradict each other, making it impossible to truly know exactly what was going on in our country. What we did – and still do – know is that we are living through a historical event, a worldwide pandemic, a life-altering, priority-shifting moment that is changing everything.

Today, all is quiet. In fact, this past week it would appear as though not a trace of COVID-19 has touched Malawi soil. And while we know this is not true, life in the “warm heart of Africa” keeps rolling along, moving to the beat of its own unique drum.

I find myself wondering, often, how it is possible to feel complete peace and disorientation simultaneously. One minute I breathe in the sweet African air, sensing a little bit of joy, and the next minute I feel an incredible loss of equilibrium. I feel unsettled and stable, lonely and hopeful, disappointed and peaceful, confused and contented. It doesn’t make any sense to me. I see God’s providence in bringing us here for such a time as this, while also scratching my head because this is not what we had planned for or what we had expected.

“We can be on the right path, but it may feel wrong.” – Jennifer Rothschild

I’m just wondering, can you relate to that?

Do you ever feel that where God has you is not where you should be, or where you think you should be? Even when we know we are right where God wants us to be, there is no guarantee that everything we experience in the season, or along the path, is going to make sense or feel right. In fact, there may be times when everything feels wrong.

I find that when I am following the Shepherd down a path that is suddenly starting to look dark and daunting, I want to bargain with Him to put me on another path. I don’t like to be uncomfortable. I don’t like the crushing and the disorientation of challenging times. I tend to prefer obedience that equals smooth sailing and smooth roads ahead.

But the path where God leads us doesn’t always promise us that, and while it may appear to be all wrong, completely not what we thought we were signing up for, it is still the path God has called us to journey.

I think that is why, in the midst of walking a path that feels wrong, we can, simultaneously, feel incredible peace. Where God leads us is not always going to be easy, nor will it fit into our standards of comfort and preference, but we can trust that God will give us stability, hope, peace and contentedness. When we fear what we cannot see, we can lean into the One who is leading us along. And this is where we find this paradox of emotions. God settles us, in spite of the instability. God fills our hearts with hope when there seems to be very little to hope in, or for. God speaks peace to our anxiety and brings contentment in the confusion.

“The Sovereign Lord is my strength; he makes my feet like the feet of a deer, he enables me to go on the heights.” Habakkuk 3:19

When we are led to places that contradict our heart’s preferences, we can trust that God will give us everything we need (from internal fortitude to joy and peace) to continue on the path and enable us to climb the heights.  Our feet will be made swift to carry on and journey through.

As God remains on this path, so we, too, remain.

We continue following the Shepherd.

And somewhere down the road we will see the fulfillment of God’s plan in all of this.

Keep pressing on. Don’t fear the path, even when it seems all wrong.

Trust the Shepherd as “he leads you in paths of righteousness.”

“And Paul. His life recklessly caromed from adversity to persecution and back to adversity. In one passage he looks back and summarizes:

‘I have been beaten times without number. I have faced death again and again. I have been beaten regularly thirty-nine stripes by the Jews five times. I have been beaten with rods three times. I have been stoned once. I have been shipwrecked three times. I have been twenty-four hours in the open sea. In my travels I have been in constant danger from rivers, from bandits, from my own countrymen, and from pagans. I have faced danger in city streets, danger in the desert, danger on the high seas, danger among false Christians. I have known drudgery, exhaustion, many sleepless nights, hunger and thirst, fasting, cold and exposure. Apart from all external trials I have the daily burden of responsibility for all the churches. Do you think anyone is weak without my feeling his weakness? Does anyone have his faith upset without my burning with indignation?’ (2 Corinthians 11:23-29 Phillips)

None of that had the power to push Paul off his path. None of it convinced him that he was on the wrong way. None of it persuaded him that he had made the wrong choice years earlier on the Damascus Road. At the end of his life, among the last words he wrote is this sentence: ‘I’ve got my eye on the goal, where God is beckoning us onward – to Jesus. I’m off and running, and I’m not turning back’ (Philippians 3:13-14).’” – Eugene Peterson, A Long Obedience in the Same Direction.

We just finished eating dinner. The kids are washing dishes and doing kitchen clean- up while Joel gives Jasper a much-needed bath.  I’m sitting here in our living room taking a minute to collect my thoughts. It’s been a full day, even while quarantined on our compound. In between all the activities of the day, my mind has been processing the drastic turn of events in our world.

Sometimes Malawi feels very far away from the sobering reality of this unprecedented worldwide pandemic. Life keeps rolling along here: street vendors selling their fruits and vegetables, children running barefoot along the side of the road, car horns honking and bicycles weaving in and out of traffic. The only noticeable differences are the school closures and the shutting down of government offices. It is difficult to believe that ordinary, everyday life back home has been completely altered. And even more difficult is contemplating the helplessness I feel living an ocean away.

Several weeks ago, I sensed that God was calling me to a more intentional season of prayer. I began reflecting on the word remain once again, and recognizing the increasing desire inside of me to run away, pull out, distance my emotions and my heart from the place where God had called me.

Remain – to stay; to continue; to fulfill.

Thinking about the word remain, various interpretations of this word started coming to my mind:

Physically staying where I am – not moving.

Feet planted and not wavering.

Continuing forward in an intentional direction.

Most of the time this word expresses the choice of being present in mind and body. But as I was thinking intently on the word remain, I found myself challenged to not just remain physically where I am, but to remain in prayer and intercession.

In the New Year, I started reading through the Old Testament again. Recently, there was a story that caught my attention. It’s a story that I’ve read a million times. I’ve grown very familiar with it; I could tell the story in my sleep. Somehow, though, this time I found myself reading it with a fresh perspective.

It is the story of the battle between the Israelites and the Amalekites (Exodus 17:8-16). Moses called Joshua and instructed him to choose some of the men to go out and fight the Amalekites. Joshua did, and Moses climbed a hill with Aaron and Hur to pray over the battle. As Moses lifted his hands to the sky and prayed, Joshua and his men overpowered enemy. As soon as Moses lowered his arms, the battle would turn in favor of the Amalekites. Realizing this, Moses kept his arms stretched up to the sky. When he grew tired, Aaron and Hur stood on each side of Moses and lifted his arms up once again.

In the end, the Israelites won the battle.

Joshua was strong and mighty. He was born to conquer. This story is the first time we are introduced to Joshua, who would one day lead the Israelites into the Promised Land.

But the battle could not be won through Joshua’s fierce strength. The battle was won through prayer and intercession. Joshua’s strength, that allowed him and his men to conquer the enemy, came from the persistent and unwavering prayers of Moses.

While Moses’ hands remained lifted in prayer, Joshua was enabled to fight and win the battle.

Moses’ hands stayed lifted.

Moses continued to pray.

Through Moses’ obedience in lifting his hands and interceding for the Israelites, Joshua was able to fulfill his commission and defeat the enemy.

Little did I know when I sensed God calling me into a deeper and more intentional prayer life a few weeks ago that COVID-19 would upend the world, that our friends, family and church would be faced with so much uncertainty, that my sister would be fighting this battle on the front lines as a nurse in one of the largest hospitals in Portland, Oregon, that my parents would be sequestered in Rwanda alone, that friends and teachers here in Malawi would hasten their exit to the United States, and our children would be face-to-face with transition on top of transition. God knew. And God was preparing me.

A few things that I have been learning through all of this:

God reigns.

God’s love overrides fear.

God fights our battles, and we don’t have to lift a weapon to win.

God hears the spoken and unspoken prayers and desires of our hearts.

God provides.

God sustains.

God gives us the grace we need each and every day- His mercies are new and fresh each morning.

God’s peace is a precious gift.

God wins.

With hands lifted high, I will remain. The battle that we face will not be won through the economy, through job security, or through the healthcare system. The battle will be won through the constant and ongoing prayers and intercession offered by you and me.

Will you join me in staying and continuing in prayer to see the fulfillment of God’s purposes in all of this?

Jasper’s bath time is over. It is time to transition to jammies, stories, prayers, and bedtime songs. The older kids have shut down the kitchen and are preparing for some quiet family time. The pace is slow but deeply enriching. As we remain in this quarantine, we also remain in prayer. God is faithful.

Our hands are lifted high.

“Because he loves me,” says the Lord, “I will rescue him; I will protect him, for he acknowledges my name. He will call on me, and I will answer him; I will be with him in trouble, I will deliver him and honor him. With long life I will satisfy him and show him my salvation.” Psalm 91:14-16

“In the beginning you laid the foundations of the earth, and the heavens are the work of your hands. They will perish, but you remain; they will all wear out like a garment. Like clothing you will change them and they will be discarded. But you remain the same, and your years will never end.” Psalm 102:25-27

The unchanging God. The constant and faithful. Though this world, this earth – our very lives - will one day perish and fall away, God will remain.

God will stay.

God will continue.

God will fulfill.

Life in Africa, while predictable in many ways, holds a great amount of uncertainty. The people here are far more attune to the realities that tomorrow and the day after that are not a guarantee. Nothing is guaranteed. Our days pass here with the constant reminder of the fragility of life.

At times that uncertainty- this fragility- weighs heavy.

We had one of the worst storms sweep through our city this past week. The pounding rainfall, the nearness of the thunder, lightening stretching out across the vast blackened sky, the wind fiercely rushing and uprooting walls and trees in its howling path, were all reminders that the very foundations of this earth are completely out of our hands. It really wasn’t until the following day that the damage in various areas of town was evident. Walls crumbled under the weight of the rain. Paths were strewn with branches and leaves and remnants from the previous night’s activity.

Sitting here this morning, taking in the beautiful yellow glow of the Malawi sunshine as it pours into this little corner of my world, it is hard to fathom that such a fierce storm whipped its way through our city only a few days ago. Still,  if I look a little more intently, I can see areas that will take some time to recover from the storm, and I find myself meditating on this one statement from Psalm 102: “But you remain.”

From the red dirt that stains our shoes and clothing to the termites that have eaten the insides out of one of our cane chairs to the basic fundamental fight for life, I find this statement incredibly comforting.

Nothing – not even the foundations of this earth – will last forever. But…God will remain.

This promise is so encouraging to me. You see, even though this life is but a breath, and the possessions we own and the things we accumulate will pass away as quickly as a pair of jeans in Africa, God remains.

And as God remains, so do his plans and his promises. The work he begins, he completes. God is constant and his plans are certain. We can have confidence that, while the world may seem to be struggling and striving, hurting and broken, God remains. He is faithful. And he will complete what he has begun.

This means that God stays: “I will never leave you, nor forsake you.” Joshua 1:5

This means that God will continue: “Your faithfulness continues through all generations; you established the earth, and it endures.” Psalm 119:90

This means that God will fulfill: “Being confident of this, that he who began a good work in you will carry it on to completion until the day of Christ Jesus.” Philippians 1:6

I find great comfort in the promise that my life remains in the hands of the One who laid the foundations of the earth. In a place where life is fragile and tomorrow is uncertain, I take hold tightly to the assurance that God remains – his presence never waivers; his hands always holding, arms embracing, keeping me in perfect peace.

But God remains.

“Splendor and majesty are before him; strength and joy are in his dwelling place.” I Chronicles 16:27

Transition is like watching the tide make its way in and out along the smooth sands of the ocean shore.

One minute all is calm. All is peaceful. The seas are friendly, relaxing, and smooth. There are no worries. The crystal clear waters sparkle and dance under the warmth of the morning sun. Life feels balanced and refreshing.

Then slowly something starts to stir, and suddenly there are waves and riptides; churning waters and sea foam spread out all over the coastline. Bodies in the water get tossed about as if they are in the spin cycle of a washing machine. It is difficult to find balance. It is nearly impossible to keep one’s head above the water. One big wave and the body is submerged into the salty sea. There is no balance. It is simply about survival.

Last week, the tide came in at the Slater house. From out of the calm and balanced came the crashing weight of the reality of transition. We’re still in it. Granted, we are not in it constantly (thankfully, because I don’t think my emotions could handle that!), but, like the ebb and flow of the ocean tides, we are still very much working our way through this season of change.

As I write this, the power has gone out twice. I’ve almost gotten used to power outages at the most inconvenient times. These minor interruptions to my morning might have gone unnoticed had not all the kitchen appliances dinged and whirred the minute the power came back on. I sometimes wonder if I will ever get used to losing power. Maybe that will be my sign that I’ve completely assimilated into my Malawi life.

Last week was difficult for our kids. The power – metaphorically speaking – went out for each of them at different times. The tide came in, and it nearly drowned them.

The thing about transition is the powerlessness one feels as they are being tossed about and hammered against the ocean floor. There is so much grasping with nothing out there to grab ahold of. It is a hard, lonely, and overwhelming experience. The power is out. Our children feel powerless because they can’t seem to find their footing in this new world and this foreign culture. Joel and I feel powerless because we can’t fix it. This kind of power outage, I may never grow accustomed to.

Praying for our family, as the tide of transition made its way to shore once again, I realized we have two options here. Maybe we are not altogether powerless. Maybe we have a choice. It hit me that we could choose to pack it up and leave, return to a life and a city and a school and a familiarity that our children are longing for in this specific moment. We could do that. We could say, “enough is enough”, and run for comfort and convenience rather than power outages and rough waters.

Or, we could ride the bumpy, jostling wave all the way into shore.

We could choose to leave, or we could choose to stay.

Remain.

To stay…continue…

“Strength and joy are in his dwelling place.” I Chronicles 16:27

In order to ride the wave, we need power. In order to have power, we must lean into the power Source. Strength to endure during challenging times is not something that we can manufacture. I can’t will myself to be strong. However, this Scripture reminds me that strength is in the place where God dwells, and His Holy Spirit dwells within each believer.

(Just chew on that for a minute or two…)

God’s spirit resides within us. It’s not some place out there that we have to travel long distances to, or a building that requires our attendance in order to tap into God’s presence. We are his dwelling place. And therefore, His strength is inside of us.

We remain, we stay, and we continue wading through the waters and tides of transition because God’s strength enables us to do so. Quite honestly, my children would never fully comprehend this principle if they were still living their perfect suburbian lives in the United States. I’m not knocking that life, by the way, but the treasure I am discovering in all of this chaos is that God is being faithful to guide us and give us a deeper awareness of his faithfulness and his strength.

And what is even more amazing to me is that we not only have God’s strength, but we can experience pure joy, even when the waters cover our heads.

“Strength and joy are in his dwelling place.”

Joy doesn’t mean we’re always laughing and singing and dancing and playful. Joy doesn’t always look like a happy face.

But joy, true joy, strengthens our weary hearts. It reminds us that there is purpose in this transition. There is purpose in the tide. Stagnant water gets polluted and dirty, but moving water shakes out the disease and the debris. We need the tide to keep us moving forward, to stir us up, to strengthen us for the long haul.

We remain.

With God’s strength and God’s joy dwelling inside of us, we can handle the rough waves that threaten to knock us down. We are not powerless. The safest position is not to turn our back on the waves and focus on the shore; the safest place is looking ahead for the next oncoming wave, anticipating how we may catch it and ride it to our ultimate destination.  And when we choose to learn how to swim through the transition, we find that those smooth waters and calm seas do return.

“Strength and joy are in his dwelling place.”

It’s rainy season in Malawi. As I sit here, looking out at the quiet morning showers as they wash the lush, thick grasses, heavy hanging trees, and cactus plants in their soft dew-like downfall – nature enclosing me as though I were snuggled up safely in a canopy of green – I find my inner self settling down into a calm, stable feeling of peace.

It is January. The first month of a new year. The first month of a new decade. And I feel that I am a little behind in the revelry of all this newness; you’ll have to forgive me. I think the slowness of the African pace has made a big impact on me. I am moving more slowly, too.

Or, maybe not.

I think a better word might be intentional. I’m not moving slowly simply for the sake of moving slow, but I’m moving slowly because I am learning to be more intentional with my time, my words, and my actions. Africa helps me to remain intentional. Africa moves to the rhythm of its own drum. It beats in tandem with the ebb and flow of nature. It works within the context of its environment. So often, in my American ways, I try to make my environment bend to my expectations, my plans, and my organized strategy. But Africa moves alongside its environment. Dry seasons and rainy seasons depend upon the other, and the African depends upon those seasons. Fruits and vegetables are produced in season, not produced on demand. Life works within the context of its environment, not the other way around.

Over the past four months, I have been challenged to be more intentional. Not by any person or event, but Africa itself has laid out this challenge for me.

One way I am striving to be more intentional is how I invest in this blog. Since I started blogging over ten years ago, my main intention was to have a place to practice writing. I needed some incentive to write semi-regularly, to record my thoughts, journal my parenting journey, and find my voice as a writer. I have had seasons where I posted weekly, bi-monthly, and annually – sometimes more, sometimes less. I want that to change. While the sporadic nature of posting has kept me from feeling constrained and pigeon-holed into a commitment that I feared I may not be able to fulfill, I am realizing that without intentionality, this blog will remain stagnant, stifled, and impeded in the growth that could be its potential. Therefore, I have decided to begin this new decade with the commitment to be intentional with the regularity of my posting, and even in its content.

For those of you who try to follow along on this journey with me, I am deeply grateful. Even miles apart we are linked, arm-in-arm, through the highs and lows of life. This post is specifically for you. I wanted you to know my intentions with this blog, and even ask for a little accountability.

Here is my “strategy towards intentionality”:

• Each year will have a specific word or theme.

• Each post will be reflective of/inspired by that word.

• For the year 2020, I will post once a month, on the last Friday of the month.

It is not mind-blowing or earth shattering, but it will be consistent and intentional. Each post will come from a place where, I believe, God wants to work in my life…and I will share that with you.

This month I will actually be posting twice as I wanted to communicate my plan first, and then, on the last Friday of the month, I will post the first installment of this year’s posts.

As I wrap up this “letter” to you, and as the warm African sun is gently pushing away the slow morning rains, I will leave you with my word for the year. I hope you will stick with me on this journey.

REMAIN –def. to stay; to continue; to fulfill.