“What if you gave Me your story? What if you surrendered
that story to Me? Couldn’t I use it
then? If you gave it up?”
These words came to me, as I hyperventilated over my
bathroom sink, trying desperately to figure out what I was going to say in the
Bible study that morning. What did a depressed, failure of a missionary, wife
and mother have to say to anyone? What could I possibly say that would benefit
anyone?
I had no wise words, no special insight.
Only my own almighty failure.
Failure to thrive as a person living overseas, having accomplished nothing in our three years in Thailand, and
returning to Australia now only a whisper of a person. I had barely learned to speak Thai, I was
utterly befuddled by the ex-pat community, and to top it all off, I used air
conditioning. Every night. Gasp. I realized in our time in Thailand, how little
I had to offer anyone. I had no admin skills, no counseling skills, no driving
passions, and had pooped out all my compassion reserves.
I had failed.
And
worst of all, I couldn’t seem to hide it. I couldn’t fake it. I was even a
failure at hiding my failure. And yet, I
was being asked to come to Bible studies, and prayer meetings. I was able to wiggle out of most of them,
sighting “children at home” duty. But
this was a ladies Bible study. In the morning. On a school day. There was no
wiggling out of it. And so, I stood hyperventiliating over the bathroom sink,
fighting the rising panic, wondering what I could say. How I could get through
smiling, and hiding... praying desperately that God would help me fake it.
And then God asked me to give it up. To surrender it all to
Him. He pointed out that He didn’t need me to defend Him. He doesn’t even ask
that of anyone in the Bible. All the murderers, liars, and people of rather
weak character that He calls, and uses,
and even esteems. None of them defended God’s perfection by their own. In fact,
it almost seems like their imperfections proclaim His perfection all the more.
God asked me, like David and Abraham, simply to follow, and to testify.
I really wasn’t sure how I could do that. I was still
desperately depressed, and battling anxiety like I have never experienced
before. I wasn’t all fixed up. I wasn’t sure I was ever going to be. It was
possible at that time, that “Missions” had eaten me alive, and there may not
have been anything left. But He assured
me that stories surrendered to Him can become what He chooses. That stories sat
on and buried, will fester and rot. I endeavoured to unfurl my white knuckle grip
on a story that kept leaking out anyway.
My surrendered story was received with much prayer and
compassion. It was a safe place to begin. Surrounded by good food and women who
cared, my story sat safely in that space. Little by little I felt freer and
freer to tell it in other places. It was often met with
grace and compassion, and not a few “Oh My Gosh! Me Too!” which I always find a
balm.
Slowly I did begin to heal.
I still am healing.
Some days I feel so weak and tired and the same words of failure, and
worthlessness and unwantedness wash over me. But, then I remember where I have been.
And I remember that healing can come, if we hand up our sickness to the only
one who can do anything with it.
