Eternity

'Spirit lead me where my trust is without borders,

For I am yours, and you are mine'

I start every blog entry with 'so' and I think it's because I'm too scared to pause before I start writing, preferring instead to hurl self at blog entry without checking self. The result: semi coherent transfer of thoughts from brain onto computer via fingers and the only word able to carry the words over is a so. 

So. To continue my thoughts and write them down as I think. So. 

Driving about in the van this week John said something about heaven. It was very profound and rather deep and I have absolutely no idea what he said, all I remember is that it made me think I'd like to write about heaven because it reminded me that heaven is important. Sorry hubby, but hey at least you know you inspired me. Inspire me, rather. Daily.

As Christians go I'm not very good at remembering about life after death. I'm so captivated, entranced, galvanized by the things that Jesus said to do this side of dying. Zealous for his world to be transformed by justice, obsessed with living in a way that honors Him, passionate about living this life to the full.
He said 'if you love me you'll obey my commands, and my command is this, that you walk in love'. Is there anything more simple or beautiful than that? Is there anything more difficult and broad than that?
I believe that it's the Holy Spirit in me, the 'God bit' of me that howls in rage when this world destroys innocents. I know that it's my faith that makes me who I am - somebody who thinks it's important to stop suffering, to house and love the orphan, for example. I am certain that without Jesus nicking my life ten ish years ago I would be living a selfish, empty life and would not be changing the world in any way.
My relationship with God, my 'Christianity', has no problem with the focus on the here and now. I fully understand that to preach the gospel with my mouth while withholding rescue from those in pain is obscenity. Me and the social action part of the gospel are buddies.

When I was at uni my friend asked me if I'd gone to see the Passion movie. I hadn't, but she told me to, so I did. Afterwards we were sitting in the pub and talking about my opinions (my favorite topic, obviously) and she isn't a Christian so the whole Jesus movie thing was an interesting topic. At one point she asked me 'do you think you're going to heaven?' and I nonchalantly said something to the affirmative. She looked at me like I was a moron for giving such a blithe reply and said something like 'if only I had that'.

Um. Eh?
What?
My nonchalance was bred from an upbringing in Christian land, from knowing from childhood that God loves me and wants me to be with Him forever. That I don't have to go to hell because of Jesus and what he did to rescue me. It's always been the backdrop - that when I die I go to heaven.

I was taking, and still take, this for granted.

And I was clueless, an idiot, in the face of such huge human condition questing.

When every religion is set up to enable this, when it's all about how to get there and not go to the bad place, when thousands and thousands of years of history reveal our fear of death, I sit with my vodka orange and casually grunt that yeah, I believe that I'm going to heaven. Ridiculous woman. This is not a small deal, this is massive. When did it become uncool to get excited about heaven?

I'm going to abandon any ill fated attempts I ever made to pretend to be cool and get excited now. What is heaven? 
The Bible says that God will wipe away every tear. Everyone who cries now, every sadness, will be personally comforted by the One who made us, loves us, rescued us, holds us.
To be in a place where my sin, my selfishness, can't break things anymore?
Safe.
Oh this is so hard to articulate, this longing in my heart for home. This tucked away joy for later, for ever, this promise that it's all going to be so much more than ok. This thing that if I look at it I have to swerve because it's too much for this feeble brain of mine to grasp. This hunger for intimacy and wholeness that's held in the certainty of satisfaction, that one day all the holes in my heart will be full. To know that there is nothing that can rob me of Him, of all the joy without all the pain. Untainted. God.
To be without struggle, to be free from the weight of my self obsession, to have every question answered. Every question answered, for now we see darkly but everything will be revealed. Every why or where were you or how could you. All of it, laid to rest, at peace. To know and to understand.
To finally have everything in perspective, to be gazing at Him and to know my smallness and to be relieved. To stop trying. To be loved and to be able, finally, to love without sin blackening my heart's efforts.
To have every hurt smoothed away, irrelevant.

I am a Christian. I know that Jesus helps me now, that the Holy Spirit strengthens me now, and that God the Father loves me now.
I am a lady called Fritha. I know that I am not capable of living without sinning, that as hard as I try, or more often don't try, I will screw up. I will hurt the people that love me, I will not be a perfect mummy or a perfect lover or a perfect friend. I am messed up. I am a human being.

And it's ok.
It's ok now, because Jesus is helping me.
And it's going to be so beautiful then. Forever. For all the evers.

So as much as this life is all about the orphans my heart is listening, distracted, to the songs of the angels. 

xxxx

Missionary learnings

It's night time and the little people in the family are finally asleep. The bigger ones are watching How To Train Your Dragon in Russian and laughing a lot - including John and that's a bit surreal - so i'm allowed unfettered access to the laptop. At last!

I love to write but I don't get to do it that often at the moment. Something to do with having a tiny person permanently attached to my, ahem, self. All day i'm musing things inside my mind, lots of deep things I could write about like how weird it is suddenly having two teenage daughters, or how God seems to be holding our heads above water with invisible hands, or how John is starting to deal with the trauma of some of the things that happened when Sim was born or...a million things. But Sim doesn't sleep a lot, I don't have a lot of time and also I'm not that interesting so if you want to know about the deep stuff then email me. You will receive a misspelt answer typed onto a smartphone with one finger while Sim is attached to the aforementioned, ahem, self.
In the meantime here is a silly list that sort of sums up some stuff we've been realizing about missions lately.

What being a missionary gives you:
1) Flexibility.
We were pretty chilled out before we got out here (i.e. completely unorganised) but after a couple of years on the missions field we are bendy like sexy yoga teachers. In the last two weeks we've been told that Svieta isn't going to move in, and then that she is going to move in, and then that she'll be sleeping a few nights a week in dorms, and then that she actually doesn't like it there and will be coming home tonight for dinner. And that ain't nuthin. Things change so much out here that trying to keep track would give one whiplash and thus we keep our knees bent, our eyes on the horizon and ride the waves of change as if we've never made a plan in the first place.
This annoys the bananas out of family who need to know days in advance when we can skype. But we don't know. We have a plan, but the plan is written in pixie dust and liable to dissolve. Sorry. Blame the people who design our days. 'Cos it's not us.

2) The Giggles
Things that once seemed profound/ worrying/ important start to seem, well, just kind of silly. Oh no, my laptop is broken. Hahaha!
Oh no, Beth is having a strop again. Hahaha!
We haven't had our date night. Our what night? Hahaha!
We regularly, every day, spend our time with children who were dumped in orphanages at three months old. We cuddle babies in hospital who are alone and scared and nobody comes when they cry cos it hurts. We deal with corrupt police, civil war and not understanding anybody ever.
It makes one a little frothy in the face of things that used to be a big deal. Things that once would have prompted an indignant blog rant have been demoted to 'silly'. That and also we're hysterical with exhaustion and despair. Wheeeeeee!

3) Sugar issues.
We comfort eat. We crave food with energy in it. We're borderline diabetic. Send celery.

4) Weird kids.
Beth's speaking age in England is that of a four year old, which is fun 'cos she is two. It got a bit ridiculous, even trips to the park ended in accolades for the smart kid. Random grannies were impressed. It was nice.
Here she is regarded as a slack jawed moron by local kids who, to be honest, are themselves essentially pond life. Because she can't speak Ukrainian. As a proud mother I hate that her true genius isn't appreciated as it should be, and that the locals aren't wearing t-shirts emblazoned with pictures of her FACE. Everyone should have one.
But it's ok. She doesn't care. She thinks it's normal and she's learning the new words super fast and she potters about making up her own languages in the sandpit and employing classic toddler choosiness when meeting strangers. Think blank death stare if you're speaking Ukrainian. It's brilliant. I love her.

5) Owbies.
Last week we decided to travel as a family to one of the orphanages that we visit. Why? Because two hours each way isn't a big deal (see point two). Because it's good for the kids out there to see, and learn, what a loving family dynamic looks like and because it's really fun for Beth because there's playgrounds and piles of dirt and feral puppies and possibly ebola. Also it's fun to do things together. And everyone loves babies.
On our way home Beth snuggled in to me - face covered in chocolate ice cream, mud, sweat and blood from a monkey bars induced fat lip - and it was perfect. Sim passed out in the car seat, tired from too many gentle head strokes and pokey fingers. Maternal guilt is a fairly constant state but this time I decided to shrug it off, all those thoughts of 'what if' and 'oh no' and 'what will people think'. Instead I decided to hold my sweaty bleedy princess while she dreamed of dirtpits and be grateful that this life affords her a little adventure. I don't believe that God wants me to (s)mother in fear, I think that although I will never forget every single bump and graze and the terror of serious harm...I think that I can give all that to Him to deal with and learn to rejoice in the freedom of raising a slightly feral child. Because I want her to know her own capacity for bravery and joy. I want her adventures to shame mine.

6) Some things that look a bit like Jesus.
There's a new thing at the centre of me and I think it's joy. Maybe. Peace? I'm not sure what to call it, and please bear in mind the sleep deprived-ness of me, but I don't recognise myself from ten years ago. Or even last year when culture shock was making me a crazy person.
If you'd told me a few years ago the kind of thing I'd be dealing with in 2014 - two ridiculous childbirths, learning how to raise babies, learning how to love a new culture and the teenagers that it brings into my home that isn't even my home and how do I deal with that and working in orphanages and sourcing things and having permanently high blood pressure and and and and and. I would have kicked you in the privates and run away screaming.
But now there's a God-bit within me, forged and being forged, sharp. I am held together by the prayers of the saints at home but also the core of me is getting more like Him. More peaceful, more joyful and more content.
Oh dear I'm tired and talking rubbish.
Over and out. xxx

babies and babies and babies

Have somehow landed with a toddler napping and baby napping (hopefully) in buggy whilst being pushed around by daddy.

When Simeon was born I felt God point me towards the psalm that says 'children are a blessing from the LORD'. Or maybe it says a reward from the Lord. Either way, something good.

Doesn't always feel good. Often I am too complainey and selfish to really cherish the moments, to revel in the gorgeousness that mother hood can, and maybe should, be. So here's a poem, and it's probably going to be terrible, but my sleep deprived brain can't handle full sentences so with my apologies, here goes...

Children are a present, a wrapped up for nine months,
going to burst out of the box, 
going to wreck the parcel,
and it's going to hurt,
kind of a gift from God.
A you can't sit down for weeks,
a you aren't sure who you are anymore,
a covered in puke and panic
kind of gift.
A why are you crying
and i've pulled all the muscles in my neck
because you don't want me to put you down
kind of present.
The kind of present that ruins your life,
your body,
your security,
your rest,
your you time, your food time, your clean house time, your community time.
Your married time.

I don't remember asking anyone for that kind of present.
One could assume that the giver
hates me
and wishes to cover me in korma poo and sodden nappies.

But these presents,
they are stealthier than they seem
with all the screaming 
it's easy to miss the soft whisper of a heart shifting over
making room
for one more
for now we are four
and these presents are wrapped up in so many layers
the velvet feet
the complaints at night that mean 'i'm alive! I arrived safely and whole and the odds were stacked against me but i'm here...
now feed me again, 
mother. '

Mother. Mummy.
Not forced to do this but
empowered to choose this
to be swept along 
surrender control
forgo selfish things that don't fulfill,
to be surprised by the satisfaction bestowed by first smiles
even if he's smiling at the shower curtain
instead of me.
The terror of harm befalling the tiny ones,
the heart break of seeing big sisters uncertainty
and not being able to go to her 
sweep her up in cuddles and kisses
because i'm chained to the second kid
and the first one hates cuddles anyway and would just run off to play with Grandma.
The endless concern,
the fear, 
the gift of caring more about someone else than about myself,
the step closer towards being like Him,
the blossoming of my depraved soul into something more beautiful,
the knowledge of love,
to experience what it feels like to long for another's health and happiness

and yes, to long for more sleep.
The holiness of this mundane mummy life
that I would have scorned as unfeminist, 
and demeaning,
but now I find that this girl who ran national charities, wrote books, bossed people about, notched up adventures all over the world,
has never been so empowered as when she did a VBAC.
I did that.
Me.
Strong.
Screw equal, how about divine?

Children are a gift
and maybe the giver
loves me enough to make me
stronger, 
more aware of the weak bits that need help,
more selfless
more insane with love/ sleep deprivation,
to revel in the simple existence of another person,
of these two people whom
actually
I adore

and who He adores more.

Agh the baby's home got to go xxxxxxxxxxxx

Why?

Hello. From gorgeous England, hello.

We flew home about a month ago and it's been a constant exercise in 'why don't you live here anymore?'
Why are you stubbornly sticking to Ukraine? When this country you're in right now fits you like you were born here (because you were), when this nation feels like comfort, when there is such fun and community and love for you here. When you slot back in like you've never been gone. When the children can, and will, talk to your daughter in a language she understands. When democracy is prized here and when the doctors agree with you and you agree with them. When clothes fit you. When you have the freedom to do anything because you can talk to anyone. When it's easy here, why would you be there? Why?

For the first few weeks, we didn't know the answer to that. Some people think we're returning to Ukraine out of guilt, out of a commitment upheld and nothing further. Stubborn.
Some people think we're going back because we love the orphans. Noble.
Some people think we're going back because it's fun. Tourists.

Not sure any of those things apply.
If I was motivated by guilt then I would generally behave better in life. Guilt's never stopped me doing something selfish and it doesn't prompt me to good deeds. If I feel guilty I just get defensive and blame others and sink further into my fortress of judging. Guilt's a rubbish motivator. That isn't it.

Also, don't tell anybody but my heart is not noble and I would one hundred percent put myself before others every time the choice came up. So it's not about the orphans.

Because it's fun? Yeah, Ukraine is all about the merry japes. (That's sarcasm, just to be clear.)

So, then, as we face moving back with an as yet unborn tiny bundle of vulnerability, why would we leave England? Why are we falling in love with England all over again even as we book our tickets back to Ukraine?

I have an idea, some ideas actually, and I'm not going to YWAM it for you. Not going to coat it in glossy sheen as if people only like to give money to happy, confident, thriving missionaries. I could start face book again and spin our lives round and round til you can't quite see what we do but you think we must be very good Christians and come away so very impressed and moved to give. I could lie to you in the name of the orphans/ my vision/ my purposes/ my denial.
Not going to.

The why is complicated and messy, but I'm going to try to explain. To wit: Everything is basically meaningless.

Keep coming back to Ecclesiastes and it's one depressing rant in places. Drinking? Done it. Religion? Done it. Hard work? Done it. Money? Had it. Conclusion: It all means nothing.
So all the fun I'm having in England, all the lovely food and easy healthcare and smooth friendships and driving on the left side of the road, it's all meaningless. There is no eternal, life giving point to life in itself. I think this is the kind of conviction that is only liberating if God shows you it when you're needing it - and I need it now. I need to realise that pleasure and esteem are weightless, pointless, and will not fulfill me or mine. Pleasure and comfort are not in themselves enough to keep me here. The access to takeaways is wonderful but will tarnish quickly should we tarry. Quality family time, while precious, is not a reason to linger. Even our lovely community here would not fulfill, as much as telly tries to convince me that all I need in life is money, friends, parties and a house...even if we had all those things, we would still know discontent. And we could still have all those things in Ukraine. And they would still be meaningless. Because life is not about 'living well' but about living to the full and to me those are two different things.

The reasons to stay here aren't good enough. Don't need a house of my own, don't need lovely furniture, don't need farrow and ball. Don't need play groups or pre school in a language I understand. Don't need iplayer. Don't need ready meals or posh herbs or morrisons dry iced veg. Don't even need pork pies. Don't need country roads bathed in sunshine, don't need running in the rain with Beth, don't need cinema or restaurants in English. Don't need the ten o clock news or Beth's grandparents or not on the high street dot com.
Some of those things are silly, but some of them, like Beth's grandparents, are a treat that it will break our hearts to walk away from. Some of those things we don't need are still very, very nice to have even if it's for this bittersweet two months.
But no, not essential. England's standard of living is incredible - we spent the first week back here going to ASDA repeatedly, for no good reason, just to marvel at the shiny aubergines and cheap home furnishings. But shiny aubergines never saved anybody from anything. ASDA may be my happy place but it doesn't actually make me happy. 

Why don't we stay in England? Because everything is meaningless, so we might as well be in Ukraine. I know it sounds like a crap reason, but to me, it's not. The things that could keep me here are not actually good enough to keep me here.

The things that thread meaning through my life all come from somewhere other than either England or Ukraine. Things like John, Beth and tiny baby boy. We will be together wherever we will be.
Things like knowing that we are still doing what we think is important. I think that looking after Ukrainian orphans is important so I will do that.
Listening to God has meaning, obedience has meaning, and God hasn't told us to quit so we're going back. That gives me huge satisfaction that is very difficult to explain.
Seeing my husband thrive makes me happy, and he is perfect for his role in Ukraine. He fits in Ukraine. Even though the lifestyle comes with huge struggles and sacrifices, he is the man for the job and that makes me happy. Contented in his day to day because I don't know anybody else who could handle what he handles and move with such grace and strength. Ukraine gives him meaning.
Also, trying to stand against injustice is very important and what we do out there tries to change things. That's a pretty good/ God reason to do anything.

So that's kind of it. Not very varnished and not very inspiring, but right now it's the truth. Might get all fired up later but right now content to abide in 'blessed to be in England, blessed to have a purpose to go back to'. Does that make sense? Probably not. Sorry.

Punch Fear in the Face

So here I sit, in my broken leather armchair in my broken country, trying to think clever and deep things to say to you after such a long cyber absence.
We took a step back from face book because it felt like the healthy thing to do, and it was, and we're not really up for getting back on the promo wagon. Freedom from living life in the light of other peoples' eyes, freedom from comparison and striving and also in my pregnant state I have a tendency to non-filter the rage that spews forth from my face. Status updates were getting a little bit offensive, because the inside of my head is often quite offensive, and it was time to step back and cool off a little bit.
I've avoided writing the blog because honestly I haven't felt like anything I could say would be worth reading. Have been quiet in myself lately, not needing to rant or vent, perhaps because I've been concentrating on growing a mini human in my tummy while nurturing the other mini human in my house. John can be so demanding.
Just didn't feel like my thoughts were worth inflicting on the internet, felt like I needed to go away and be quiet and helpful for a while.

But, well, the last month happened and I think maybe it's time to break the silence.
Because we need to punch fear in the face.

It's time to step up to the mic and shout down the panic until it's left the building. It's time to shame the enemy, by pointing at the King.

So we've been here in Ukraine through revolution, peaceful and violent. We've been here through panic buying, gas shortages, power cuts, shootings in our city, street blockages, wars and rumours of wars. We're here as a certain captain naughty pants strolls around on land that isn't his, parading his big tanks (compensating for anything?) and his big missiles (really? You're making this too easy) telling the world to be afraid. And the BBC, whom I love, jump up and down shrieking about the apocalypse until we're ready to panic buy all the train tickets home.
Our conversations strive to pick apart a future that hasn't happened yet, we say words like contingency plan more than once a day. We're planning for visas and passports and airplanes and embassies and the kinds of things that normal people don't have to spend that much time discussing. We go for dinners and wonder aloud who it was that our friend saw shot that afternoon in the park. We go to parties and debate how many months until we're made to leave the country in a hurry. We make plans like 'I'll row you across the river to Moldova in a blow up dinghy', which was reassuring thank you husband. 
The thing is, the panic can build. The peace can be diminished. That Human Rights degree can backfire when your head is full of Amnesty reports on war crimes, when you know the awful things we can do to each other, when you know too much to remain brave. When your nights are packed with nightmares of war. When you fear for your children. When you freak out when your husband is home late, imagining his face covered in bruises. When you've booked your tickets home a thousand times.

The thing is, all those worries, all that anxiety, it's whispers of hints of possibilities made huge by fear. It's not real.
Hosea says that God wants to be acknowledged.
I need to acknowledge him. The things he has done. 

And the thing is, I've learnt about Him and fear. He's bigger.
A few years ago I was told by a doctor that I had an anxiety disorder. I was offered a lot of treatment options, a whole world of band aids to slap on the wound, an array of things to pacify and soothe and heal nothing, just to numb the symptoms. I opted instead to go a bit deeper, scrape this thing out from the bottom.

Not many people know about what was going on in this season of my life, but the line I used with the people who did know was that I'd been through some stuff in my life and had healed but not quite right. Some bones needed to get broken so they could be re set. Some scars had to be cut into again so we could heal them better. Broken to heal.

Counselling, with a gifted and kind woman who loves Jesus, got me a long way. Broke the bones to reset them, this time with Jesus doing the operations instead of me in my ignorance. DTS finished the job. By the time we came home, baby in belly, a revolution in Egypt witnessed, a world of poncy travel pics and pretentious stories to tell, I was better.

I've been better ever since.
It's not been that long but I'd like to venture that a woman given to worry doesn't pack up her seven month old infant and move to a new country to live and serve people she barely knows. With no formal wage, no pension, no insurance, no ASDA (ASDA is my happy place), no family, no security.

Furthermore, I don't think worriers sit around in a war zone making jokes over pudding.

There is a peace in myself that reaches beyond what has happened, what is happening and what could happen. There is a woman in this house who mothers and works and wives (that's not a word) in strength and I think her name is me. The person who was crippled by fear doesn't recognize those feelings when they try to crop up, the worry that became my identity for some time has no place in the life I live now. Fear is alien.

So to acknowledge him - I've been writing this to 'see beneath your beautiful' by Labrinth and Emilie Sande and it needs to be said: I am healed because He has healed me. What's inside me is Him.

I am brave because He is King/ Lion/ Ruler/ Volcano maker.
I am here because that's where He's said to be.
I am whole because He loves me.

He used counselling and DTS and my friends and my pretty darn perfect husband and he took those opportunities to take my crap away and give me happiness instead.

So yup, wars and rumours of wars.
And we're not going to panic and run about in our pants wailing, although that could be fun, we're going to stay until He says go.
Because fear and me?
I'm over it.













 

One

Moving countries can turn you into a bit of a nut bag.
All the things you never noticed about yourself, about how you function and what you prefer and how you understand the world, all those things that you never have to look in the eye, well they pretty much stand up and punch you in the face when you step off the plane.

Falling on the tarmac of the runway.

Well, it's not quite that soon. That's just every time you come home from going home, continually confused flying back and forth from who you were and who you're turning into. Planes between worlds, connected by the internet, nothing making any sense.

Nope, the first time your identity crisis slaps you about is when you've been in the new country for a few months or so. When your subconscious - sluggish as it tends to be - finally grasps that you're
not
going
home.
That what you thought of as home is a box of memories, punctuated by awkward skype conversations with people you can't touch. And if you try to, you look mental. That home has passed, gone, you committed to a new life in a place that is drowning you and you
can't
go
home.
You can pop back, and Lord knows we have, for operations and weddings and holidays and awareness raising and thankfully the reasons don't go away, so the journeys don't stop and there's always a future visit to look to. But it's not going home. When you're here you call there 'home' but also vice versa, seeing loved one's faces cringe a little when you call some far off location where they don't live 'home'. Calling everywhere home because nowhere is. Not sure where you belong and so you don't belong anywhere. Lost.

And suddenly you are aware that you're not, really, in England anymore. Ever.
You're in Ukraine.
But, your tiny brain rails, you are English! Not Ukrainian! YOU DON'T FIT HERE. EVERYTHING IS WRONG.
So you obsess, constantly, without meaning to, without trying to, while trying not to, on the differences, on the wrongness, on how you don't fit. But because you are up yourself, this gets projected onto the new home - you obsess over how actually they don't fit. Everyone else is wrong.

Everyone else is unfriendly. Or rude. Or judgemental. Or ignorant.
Ridiculous, stupid xenophobic reactions but these ideas have stamina and they will gather traction and they will hold you in their grip, trapped by hurt masking itself as superiority.
When we went home for Clare's wedding last month we chatted to our taxi driver about how he found the move from Pakistan to England. He was angry with England, he said 'everyone here pretends to be family orientated but they're not, they don't care about you'.
It was like an echo of my thoughts, but dumped on the country I've been longing for, my England. And he was so certain.
Like I've been so certain. Of so many opinions.
Horrible opinions, about how different people are here, navigating life through massive generalizations, and it is terrifying to be so certain about things that are so wrong.

Moved here, got scared and confused because it all feels so different and because I don't have England as a home anymore. So I let my brain go all defensive and accusatory. Found flaws in an entire culture. Idolised my own.
Took nationality as an identity - when you realise your national identity is different, you burrow deeper into 'I am British'. And your days, hours and minutes are spent noticing how British you are compared to the Ukrainians around you. Laminating badges in your mind and pinning them to everybody. Labels. Nationalism. Culture.
Sin.
Stupid.

And you don't notice the cage you've built around yourself til you try to grow, but you can't because you built the cage too small. So all the fruit, all the beauty that could come from this missionary life is choked to death - never stood a chance - because you're in a tiny box with no room to grow. So you just get tangled and bitter and you say absurd things and wish ridiculous things. And the cage says ENGLISH on the door that you never open.

When you could have been turning into something gorgeous. When God has been holding you, meeting you, providing for you, gloriously and enthusiastically present this whole time but you never looked up cos you were fiddling with the dirt on the bottom of the cage. New branches all stuck in the bars.

But he's bigger than my silliness. And he can teach me, on a bus journey to Zhmerinka orphanage, through my headphones and the kindness of my team who let me sit in the back savouring the toddler-less peace that is a minivan drive through the frost, headphones in and ignoring everyone. He can grab me. I gave him that permission with every worship song I tried to mean, with every prayer week and Bible verse and journal entry. We go way back. So that cage, that nationalism? Like dust, mate. He's got me and he's not going to let me be lied to indefinitely.

He can gently, quietly remind me of who I actually am.
I'm not British.
Sorry, family and friends and your majesty the Queen, but I'm not yours.
I'm also not Ukrainian. Sorry, orphans. I know, what a loss.

I'm in Him.
He's in me.
It's called the cross, it's called looking at God come to die, God's blood on the dirt, His body in the dirt. His tomb empty. His hands, scarred so you can see through the holes, still healing women and children and men bewildered by their own powerlessness. Still overflowing His Spirit all over this world of us, in so many levels of denial but still needing that healing and it's called saying YES.
It's called walking after Him, with Him, carried by Him.
It's called the last ten years of painting with Him,
dancing with Him,
listening to Him at 3am,
chasing Him,
writing awful poetry for Him,
wrestling with the HOW COULD YOU and WHY DON'T YOU and
falling in love with the world he is making,
it's called
being a mini Jesus
being a Christian.

Not British. My friends here on the team aren't Ukrainian, or American, or Russian or whatevs.
They are Jesus'.
His.

It's bigger than anything, this is the truth that the enemy was desperately jumping up and down in front of, trying to stop me from seeing. No! Look! They eat weird jelly! What a terrible country! You will never have friends here! You are too different! You should abandon the orphans! They're so ungrateful!

And behind him, bigger than him, bigger like the sun is bigger than my hands, stands Jesus. My Jesus.
He doesn't have to say a lot.
Just...
you're mine.

And I know I can be here. I can live here and I can be ridiculously happy. I can grow. We can all be here, this bunch of nut bags, this motley crew (not cru) of sons and daughters. Together, the same, loving the children who haven't ever been loved, loving each other with cookies and can-I-pray-for-you and let-me-babysit-for-you and let's go for lunch after church. And the grace of a community that have seen me sulking in my cage and instead of slapping me out of it, have stood and waited, have trusted me with their ministries and dreams and tasks. We're all the same, we're family, and nationalism is just this stupid Babel babble that makes wars.

We're His. I'm His.
And maybe when I grow up I can be a tree.










 

some gratitude, badly expressed

I can’t do this.
Life.
Trying to live well, or at all, is unrelentingly difficult. Walls after ditches after tranches after oh for goodness’ sake what I am trying to do now? Who thought this was a good idea? When did I agree to this? And so on.

But it’s ok. Not because I’m a super duper Christian lady who spends lots of time with Jesus every day, not because I am filled with the power of He who defeated death (well, ok, a bit because of that, ok, a lot because of that) but what I’m trying to say is that this missionary life isn’t possible because of my brilliant Christianity.
My Christian walk is appalling. Really. You would be appalled. I’m like a walking advert for why someone should not follow Jesus. Such a flaming hypocrite so riddled with need and distractions and frankly a bit of a judgy bitch. John wouldn’t use that naughty word but he knows me very well indeed as being married to a woman with no filter can be illuminating. Poor hubby. He knows the terrible things I think about people because I will tell him them in a stream of sinful consciousness ‘these are my current thoughts, based on my current emotions, and in ten minutes I’ll change my mind but right now I’m saying incredibly judgemental things about so-and-so and if you’re really lucky I’ll dress them up as righteous insights’.
I don’t even know if I’ve read all of the Bible.
John’s read it all at least twice.
When judgement day comes I play the ‘I’m with him’ card and hope it gets me points.

Very bad at being like Jesus. Left to my own devices would shop online for cocktail frocks, for hours, then go read a book by someone low brow and eat a cake. Not so much into the caring about other people, just me.

If I was all by myself then this whole ‘missionaries in Ukraine’ thing would have been over a very long time ago.
But it’s ok! I’m not by myself! Other people exist!
Here is a list of things that other people do:
Well, the most obvious one is people send us money every month so that I can shop online for cocktail frocks. Or buy food and clothes for the kids and petrol for the Lada and pay our staff fees and that kind of thing. It’s amazing and I don’t think you’d find much of that outside of the church i.e. people who follow Jesus. People working their jobs and then saying ‘oh I shall take a large slab of this hard earned income and redirect it to the Washingtons, because it’s good to love people and orphans and Ukraine and all that stuff and I’ll be nice about it as well and never send them weird emails asking for accounts, in fact when I see them I’ll also give them chocolate and cuddles and not ask where all those cocktail frocks come from and why Fritha is wearing them to Tescos’. Mental. Brilliant. Beautiful. Not normal. 

I often need people to tell me things. Sometimes I need people to say ‘ooooooh you’re doing so well you precious little flower for the Lord here’s a virtual hug muffin’ (my real hug muffin is John HAH!) and those things are vital because when one is neurotic one can become a little insecure and it’s actually not possible to convey how kind words through the internet have kept us going. The other sort of thing I need people to tell me goes along the lines of ‘stop that. Put that down. No. Do I need to put you in Time Out?’ and those are difficult things but I need them too.
As an aside: If you’re one of the people who does the latter because you have known me for years, because you trust me and I trust you, because you have cried with me or giggled with me or drunk wine with me while shouting at the telly…that’s good. And you know who you are. If, however, you are one of the people who sends me bizarre emails from a place of having met me a few times, years ago, and you think I need a Bible verse with an opinion let me just point this out: I know the Christian answers. I am not interested in them. Please pocket your clichés and your empty concern and go disciple a hamster. You’ll find it more receptive. Better yet, jack in your shiny Christian career, work full time for free, have a kid, move to another country, help orphans and exist in a missionary community and do it for longer than me with more success and then I might listen to you. If you’re not my friend and/or Jackie Pullinger I very much doubt that what you’re going to write will help and I suspect that you’re not so much interested in helping as in being more correct than me, which is tiresome and the last thing I need out here is religious vitriol. Jesus loves you, go relax somewhere and leave me alone. 

Too cross? Well…it’s been brewing. Naughty.

Another obvious one is praying.
We don’t pray enough, my approach to life seems to be ‘throw self in deep end shouting very loudly about all the things I’m going to do’ and I tend to forget to ask for help. Which is why it is very important to have many people around the world having conversations with God that look something like ‘Hi, LORD, so, Fritha’s in a pickle again, can you help her out? Thank you’ and then God says ‘well alrighty then’ and jumps in the deep end too and tows me out. And then we splash about having a nice time/ swimming lesson and then we go get some crisps from the vending machine. Of life.

I can’t do friendships very well anymore, especially having moved away and left this huge chunk of myself back in England with all the people I love. That was painful and I got scared that I was forgetting how to be close to people because I was in this weird self defence mode of not getting attached to people because this is YWAM and everybody leaves, and sometimes that someone is me. Do you know how painful it is to see your daughter try to climb into to laptop to cuddle her family? Do you know how difficult it is to clean soggy marshmallow off the screen because she thought she could feed Granny snacks via skype? Do you know how annoyed a husband can get that you actually just left it for him to clean?
So I don’t attach. But I have been amazed by the generosity of people – old friends and new – who on purpose attach themselves to me. I could be numb, too wrecked by this last year to be open to anything nice. But people around me are fun, and inspiring, and kind, and funny, and I haven’t had the chance to become a weird missionary hermit, I’ve had to remain in community and laugh about stuff. Or cry about stuff. But not numb and not alone.

So yes. I’m not alone. And it’s not like I’m supported by amazing Christians like what are in books, it’s just that together we make a whole, lots of bits of people clumped together holding each other up. Maybe when I’ve grown up a bit I can be one of the pieces holding up others.

Beth’s awake so I’m going to go and do kisses which is her trying to wriggle away and annoy the dog. xxx