Move No More

September 2019

Since I was a child, I knew exactly what I wanted to be: a missionary. When I went to college, though, I chose to major in education instead of missions, because that seemed practical. Always passionate about missions, I was excited to take the one missions class required for all majors. (Ironically, that’s the only class in which I ever forgot a project until the night before its due date, and the only class in which I failed a quiz.)

However, even if I had majored in missions, taken every class, and read every book, I sort of doubt that would have prepared me for one very difficult aspect of mission work.

You can study language learning, cultural adaptation, church planting strategy, discipleship philosophy, and biography, but I don’t know if that would prepare you for this part either.

You can find much instruction about entering a different culture well, about establishing and doing ministry. 

But how do you leave?

How do you pour out your soul for one year or ten years or thirty years, tie your heart to other people’s, and then walk away?

— They had worked in China for one year that seemed in some ways like a decade. Constant police harassment, political unrest, recurring illnesses, and ministry frustrations abounded. Then their toddler was diagnosed with muscular dystrophy, and they left the life they had established to get answers and help for him. They didn’t know then that they wouldn’t be returning to that life.

— An Australian man and an American woman had met on their field in Central Asia. Working side by side, they decided to partner for life, and they got married. A few years later, her lupus necessitated access to quality healthcare. Tears rolled down her face as she explained, “I’ve seen quite a few people come and go in my time here. None left because they wanted to. I just never thought it would end like this for me.” They sold and gave away their belongings, packed up, and moved to Australia. 

— His appearance, Gandalf-like, was one of both humor and wisdom. The lines on his face were in the right places, etched there by a lifetime of smiling. He passed around a picture of his family and recounted stories from their years of service.

A friend asked, “So what was it like for you guys when you left China?” 

He paused thoughtfully. 

“Well, there’s a difference from when you leave but you know you’re going back. You’re going to doctor’s appointments and shopping, and you’re excited about what you can do in the States, because, ‘Hey! We’re getting ready to go back!’ But when you leave…” He stopped talking, and his eyes filled with tears. “But when you get back to the States, and you realize, ‘We’re not going back,’ that’s just a very different and difficult thing.”

— They had moved to the jungle in their fifties. She’d had lupus for years, but she always found ways to love people with every bit of strength she had. They learned language, taught, translated, built both buildings and people. They started what became a very large medical ministry. But the jungle is a harsh place, and it will take its toll on even a healthy body. After eleven years of its afflictions, they said a month of tearful goodbyes in the bush and relocated to the capital, where they can continue ministry and access medical care as needed.

— A strange place had become home. They learned the language, built friendships, and taught the Word. They walked through personal and ministry joys and griefs, and they saw the birth of church where there had been none. Then ministry partnership disintegrated, and they chose the humbling road of grace to protect the unity of the fledgling church. That road led them to a different country, to start all over again.

— Their family seemed to be the perfect fit for their field. Their skill set and personality couldn’t have been more needed. They laid a foundation for a lifetime of fruitful service. Then tragedy struck, and for their family’s health they couldn’t stay. So they left, to go serve in a different field. 

— He had prepared his entire life for one thing: preaching the gospel to Muslim people groups. God brought him a wife with the same vision, and they became a fabulous team. They moved to a closed country and thrived in ministry and family life. Then violence erupted, and they were forced to evacuate. Though they planned to return, painful circumstances grounded them in the States.

—
Every story (and not one is fictitious) has two things in common. One, they left because of circumstances beyond their control. Two, they were broken in the leaving. 

Why? Why does God work this way? There are so many unreached fields, and so few willing to go labor in them. Why wouldn’t God intervene for those laborers to stay where they have given their hearts? Why do they have to move?

There is a level of fortitude required just to make it to an unreached field. Simply showing up and physically existing in those locations demonstrates persistence and passion. To press on through the adversity, to feel less of an alien and more of a neighbor, to find increasing fruitfulness in the field where God put you – that is nothing less than a miraculous work of grace. Why cut that short with another move?

September 2020

Perhaps there isn’t a clear, specific answer for the “why” question.

I’ve moved so many times I lost count. The last I remember was that it was sixteen moves by the age of sixteen. Military and missions make for a life of transitions. I was born into both, and choosing to follow Jesus for myself has included the latter.

Returning to the States last fall, I was clinging to the hope of settling somewhere. “Do I have a problem, that I can’t seem to land anywhere longer than a couple years? Commitment issues, maybe? Let me prove that I can put down roots, live somewhere long enough to become useful and really invest.”

During my travels back, I jotted down the stories above. They seem to deflate the desire for stability. These folks gave every effort to stay, and they still had to move. So throughout this past year, I’ve mulled over questions of going and staying and leaving. I’ve reached the conclusion that…

…there is no conclusion, except to be faithful. And patient. And hope in the promises of God’s kingdom. And rest in the security of a Father’s care.

In all the coming and going, the settling and uprooting, the eager greetings and tearful goodbyes, God is doing a mysterious work of grace in the nations, and in His servants. The more we leave, the more we lean towards the promise of a kingdom where God Himself plants His people, and we “move no more” (2 Samuel 7:10).

If I move sixteen more times in the next sixteen years, I’m confident it will be so because that is most strategic for what God is doing in the world and in my heart. The kingdom’s advance exceeds the scope of my perspective, but Providence means confidence.

If we’re friends, you may need to remind me of this. Like circumstances, I am given to change…but this conclusion is worth clinging to.

One day, when our Father has fulfilled every promises to His people, we will move no more. Until then, may every transition move us closer to His heart, while we work and wait.