We finally received Consulate Appointment (CA) confirmation yesterday but it was our last choice and if we wanted to leave on the 2nd with the rest of our group we would be required to stay in country for 3 weeks. I was very saddened to hear this news. I actually spent most of my morning weeping because I knew Jason cannot be gone from his job for three weeks.
So we discussed with our agency about leaving a week later, on the 9th. They said yes, we could do that. But now, our CA would have to be rescheduled because Audrey is over 2 and requires a TB test to leave the country. With our confirmed CA being on a Monday, and our appointment at the medical clinic being on a Saturday, it would not give us enough time to have a clear reading in time for the CA.
We discussed keeping our CA but traveling a few days early to get Audrey in order to give us enough time to complete these steps. (Even once you get in country, there are number of things that have to happen in order. One cannot occur before the other and so it has a domino effect if one thing gets out of whack.) However, this option had us traveling for longer than 2 weeks again and was really not a great option either.
So we were forced to request a new CA. And reschedules are not the top priority of our wonderful consulate in Guangzhou. Our travel coordinator said that it could take up to another 3 business days - maybe longer. We cannot make travel plans or buy tickets until we have that CA confirmed.
We have requested new dates but in trying to be as courteous as we can to Jason's employer and make our trip as compact and efficient as possible, we really can only go if our CA is on a certain day of the week. So we have requested 5 new dates...we hopefully will leave either the 11th or the 18th.
Because of the time crunch, we have also decided to skip Beijing. That usually consists of 2 days of sight seeing and I really wanted Amelia to see the Great Wall, the Forbidden City, etc. Who knows if we will ever get a chance to return to China? Because of this shortened trip, and the closeness our trip now falls to school starting, we also are now considering not bringing our girls - which rips my heart out. I don't think I've been away from either of them for more than a total of 5 nights and never more than one night at a time. Honestly, I can't even think of one time other than an occasional sleep over that Ava has. I can't think of anytime I've been away from Amelia.
This is all very difficult for me. And there are several other intense pressures and stresses from many other sides (which is putting it lightly) that have made this a trial which I am allowing to steal my joy at the prospect of finally being able, after almost one year of seeing her face, to get our daughter and bring her home. I'm ashamed to admit this but it is the truth.
To further drive home the lesson the Lord is trying to teach me, I awoke to this:
Rain so close and yet so far away...
We are having a downpour in our lives, but not the "wet" or rainy kind. In fact, it's not the kind we want at all.
To the east and to the west we were surround by clouds and building storms this morning. But no rain for us. I have let some of my horses out in the "back yard" to graze because there is no grass left in their pastures. This is what my grass looks like:
And then, through a friend's blog, I read this post from Ann Voskamp that boy, could I relate to...it just made me weep and weep...
“And we didn’t get nothing — not one drop.”
That’s what the farmer’s wife said to me before breakfast.
How she headed home from town in a flat-out gully washer of a rain, thinking this was finally it — the whole dark sky like the ocean coming to find dry land, and she was just certain of it, the rain splatting across her windshield like a certain promise coming right now.
All the corn fields to the north and the south, they’ve been standing twisted right up for weeks.
Leaves curled tight and high in drought. Farmers, we call it pineappling — when corn leaves don’t hang relaxed, quenched and green and soaking in sun — but they writhe up like sharp pineapple spears — taut and parched and desperate to escape anymore heat.
It’s like the whole countryside’s reaching up like a begging.
But she said when she turned the bend, right there at the county line, not a mile and a half from the home farm, all that rain, all that hope, just evaporated into thin, clear air.
How there was nothing.
“When I turned up our lane, there was dust in the rearview mirror and rain coming down hard to the west.”
Hope, it can feel like a balloon string dangling over your head that you just can’t reach.
She shakes her head.
“I don’t think we’re going to make crop.”
That’d be like taking all of last year’s wage and investing it into a project — then putting in 12 hours a day everyday for six months, counting on it, and — and being told that you’ve just lost all of last year’s income — and you won’t be getting paid for this past six months either. That you’ll just have to go home with nothing — to a lot less — because the sky hanging right over your head, sky skirting with abundance just a mile to your north and a half mile to your south — it didn’t open up right overhead and let down your only lifeline.
Farmers in these parts are talking in days. How many days they’ve gone without rain. How many days left until their crop is futile in the field.
“We talked to a farmer who took his thousand acres and cut it down for silage — because when they peeled back the husks? None of the cobs — on a thousand acres— had even a kernel.”
Behind all the husks, there are a thousand ways that a life can feel barren.
Behind all the husks, there are a thousand ways there can seem not to be a kernel of hope at all.
The Farmer had emailed me while I was standing in a lobby in Port Au Prince, Haiti, in between blackouts, in between losing power in a country waiting for a gully-washer of hope. It had blinked up on the screen just before the dark: “We’ve never had a corn crop look so bad.”
And yet — hope is standing in the dark with a lamp lit with prayers.
The lights came back on.
I turn to the Farmer’s wife and I tell her what I had tapped back the Farmer: “So we pray.”
And the Farmer’s wife, she looks over at me and she says it in this sharp desperation of her own —
“You really think it works like that?”
Oh.
My silence, my interior groping — it must betray my confusion. She says it louder.
“You really think it makes any difference, anything you pray? It’s just going to be what it’s going to be.” She turns away.
“It’s just going to be what it’s going to be.”
She says it like she’s watching hope in the rear view mirror, hope headed away heavy for someone else.
And I know that feeling, that witnessing. When I got home at 2:30 am on Sunday morning from Haiti, when after the sermon, I stood on the lawn with the Farmer, my sister and her husband and all our 11 kids, and we watched the sky grow heavy to the west and I begged “Oh, please, Lord…. please.”
And I’m another’s farmer’s wife too and how can I find it for myself and my prayer sounds more like a panic than a peace and I am the biggest mess of them all.
The Farmer’s got his hands in his jean pockets. He’s standing there where the lawn gives way to the corn field.
“I think we’re just on the south edge of this one. And it’s headed just a bit north of us…” He pulls a big Dutch hand out of his pocket, points towards the elevator bins across the fields. ” — See how it’s raining there on the other side of the highway?”
And I feel wild…
What if we get nothing? What if it is the way it is?
And he turns into all my angst storm and he can read me. He looks me in the eye and says it like a forecast:
“When you know your Father’s loving — what can you fear losing?”
He’s as calm as a man walking on water.
“He hears us. He loves us. He has us. So whatever happens, He’s good and we’re good.”
I look at him — He’s like a man completely resting on water. Isn’t that it? We pray to the Lord knowing His answer is Love.
And God is no genie and we don’t pray to God to pry something from God. We pray to God to be prepared by God for a purpose of God.
We don’t pray to get more from God — we pray to become more in Christ.
We pray because entering His presence is the answer to all our prayers.
Somedays just laying our head in His hands is the way we lay the burdens down.
The scars on His hands were made to be the perfect ditches for our tears.
The Farmer pulls me into him and wraps me in more faith and we stand together watching the sky, how the rain goes north.
How it comes down right here like a certain promise:
When your prayers look right into the face of Christ — every hopeless end turns into an endless hope.
As the Lord seems to be telling me time and time again, will I trust Him even when things look bleak?
Even when He doesn't choose to send the rain.
Even when He doesn't choose to send the confirmation we need to make travel plans.
Even when everything is up in the air,
We have no plans,
No timetable,
And mounting stresses on every side.
"And without faith it is impossible to please him, for whoever would draw near to God mmust believe that he exists andmthat he rewards those who seek him." Hebrews 11:6
"Beloved, do not be surprised at zthe fiery trial when it comes upon you to test you, as though something strange were happening to you. 13 But rejoice ainsofar as you share Christ’s sufferings, that you may also rejoice and be glad bwhen his glory is revealed. 14 cIf you are insulted dfor the name of Christ, you are blessed, because the Spirit of glory2 and of God rests upon you. 15 But elet none of you suffer as a murderer or a thief or an evildoer or fas a meddler. 16 Yeteif anyone suffers as a gChristian, let him not be ashamed, but let him glorify God din that name." 1 Peter 4:12-16
Trying to glorify God in these difficult times...
When All Hope Feels Like a Drought
Aman can watch the sky like a plea.“And we didn’t get nothing — not one drop.”
That’s what the farmer’s wife said to me before breakfast.
How she headed home from town in a flat-out gully washer of a rain, thinking this was finally it — the whole dark sky like the ocean coming to find dry land, and she was just certain of it, the rain splatting across her windshield like a certain promise coming right now.
All the corn fields to the north and the south, they’ve been standing twisted right up for weeks.
Leaves curled tight and high in drought. Farmers, we call it pineappling — when corn leaves don’t hang relaxed, quenched and green and soaking in sun — but they writhe up like sharp pineapple spears — taut and parched and desperate to escape anymore heat.
It’s like the whole countryside’s reaching up like a begging.
But she said when she turned the bend, right there at the county line, not a mile and a half from the home farm, all that rain, all that hope, just evaporated into thin, clear air.
How there was nothing.
“When I turned up our lane, there was dust in the rearview mirror and rain coming down hard to the west.”
Hope, it can feel like a balloon string dangling over your head that you just can’t reach.
She shakes her head.
“I don’t think we’re going to make crop.”
That’d be like taking all of last year’s wage and investing it into a project — then putting in 12 hours a day everyday for six months, counting on it, and — and being told that you’ve just lost all of last year’s income — and you won’t be getting paid for this past six months either. That you’ll just have to go home with nothing — to a lot less — because the sky hanging right over your head, sky skirting with abundance just a mile to your north and a half mile to your south — it didn’t open up right overhead and let down your only lifeline.
Farmers in these parts are talking in days. How many days they’ve gone without rain. How many days left until their crop is futile in the field.
“We talked to a farmer who took his thousand acres and cut it down for silage — because when they peeled back the husks? None of the cobs — on a thousand acres— had even a kernel.”
Behind all the husks, there are a thousand ways that a life can feel barren.
Behind all the husks, there are a thousand ways there can seem not to be a kernel of hope at all.
The Farmer had emailed me while I was standing in a lobby in Port Au Prince, Haiti, in between blackouts, in between losing power in a country waiting for a gully-washer of hope. It had blinked up on the screen just before the dark: “We’ve never had a corn crop look so bad.”
And yet — hope is standing in the dark with a lamp lit with prayers.
The lights came back on.
I turn to the Farmer’s wife and I tell her what I had tapped back the Farmer: “So we pray.”
And the Farmer’s wife, she looks over at me and she says it in this sharp desperation of her own —
“You really think it works like that?”
Oh.
My silence, my interior groping — it must betray my confusion. She says it louder.
“You really think it makes any difference, anything you pray? It’s just going to be what it’s going to be.” She turns away.
“It’s just going to be what it’s going to be.”
She says it like she’s watching hope in the rear view mirror, hope headed away heavy for someone else.
And I know that feeling, that witnessing. When I got home at 2:30 am on Sunday morning from Haiti, when after the sermon, I stood on the lawn with the Farmer, my sister and her husband and all our 11 kids, and we watched the sky grow heavy to the west and I begged “Oh, please, Lord…. please.”
And I’m another’s farmer’s wife too and how can I find it for myself and my prayer sounds more like a panic than a peace and I am the biggest mess of them all.
The Farmer’s got his hands in his jean pockets. He’s standing there where the lawn gives way to the corn field.
“I think we’re just on the south edge of this one. And it’s headed just a bit north of us…” He pulls a big Dutch hand out of his pocket, points towards the elevator bins across the fields. ” — See how it’s raining there on the other side of the highway?”
And I feel wild…
What if we get nothing? What if it is the way it is?
And he turns into all my angst storm and he can read me. He looks me in the eye and says it like a forecast:
“When you know your Father’s loving — what can you fear losing?”
He’s as calm as a man walking on water.
“He hears us. He loves us. He has us. So whatever happens, He’s good and we’re good.”
I look at him — He’s like a man completely resting on water. Isn’t that it? We pray to the Lord knowing His answer is Love.
And God is no genie and we don’t pray to God to pry something from God. We pray to God to be prepared by God for a purpose of God.
We don’t pray to get more from God — we pray to become more in Christ.
We pray because entering His presence is the answer to all our prayers.
Somedays just laying our head in His hands is the way we lay the burdens down.
The scars on His hands were made to be the perfect ditches for our tears.
The Farmer pulls me into him and wraps me in more faith and we stand together watching the sky, how the rain goes north.
How it comes down right here like a certain promise:
When your prayers look right into the face of Christ — every hopeless end turns into an endless hope.
As the Lord seems to be telling me time and time again, will I trust Him even when things look bleak?
Even when He doesn't choose to send the rain.
Even when He doesn't choose to send the confirmation we need to make travel plans.
Even when everything is up in the air,
We have no plans,
No timetable,
And mounting stresses on every side.
"Therefore, since we are surrounded by so great a cloud of witnesses, let us also lay aside every weight, and wsin which clings so closely, and xlet us run ywith endurance the race that is zset before us, 2 looking to Jesus, the founder and perfecter of our faith, awho for the joy that was set before him endured the cross, despising bthe shame, and cis seated at the right hand of the throne of God." Hebrews 12:1-2
"Count it all joy, my brothers,2 when you meet trials fof various kinds, 3 for you know that gthe testing of your faith hproduces steadfastness. 4 And let steadfastness have its full effect, that you may be iperfect and complete, lacking in nothing.
5 jIf any of you lacks wisdom, klet him ask God, lwho gives generously to all without reproach, and it will be given him. 6 But mlet him ask in faith, nwith no doubting, for the one who doubts is like oa wave of the sea that is driven and tossed by the wind. 7 For that person must not suppose that he will receive anything from the Lord; 8 phe is a double-minded man, qunstable in all his ways." James 1:1-8
"Beloved, do not be surprised at zthe fiery trial when it comes upon you to test you, as though something strange were happening to you. 13 But rejoice ainsofar as you share Christ’s sufferings, that you may also rejoice and be glad bwhen his glory is revealed. 14 cIf you are insulted dfor the name of Christ, you are blessed, because the Spirit of glory2 and of God rests upon you. 15 But elet none of you suffer as a murderer or a thief or an evildoer or fas a meddler. 16 Yeteif anyone suffers as a gChristian, let him not be ashamed, but let him glorify God din that name." 1 Peter 4:12-16
Trying to glorify God in these difficult times...
