Bittersweet news

I just got off of the phone with my good friend, Liz, who excitedly told me that she has been "released," meaning that she has raised sufficient funds and will be going back to her mission in Bolivia just after Easter. I praise God that He has provided the means for Liz to return to the land that her heart never left, but I want to cry inside too. Liz and I don't get to see each other very often since she is in Chicago and I am in St. Louis, but the knowledge that I probably won't be able to see her for at least two years puts a damper on my joy indeed.

Liz and I met during my freshman year at Eastern. She was an upperclassmen and had spotted me at the Christian Campus House, easily identifying me as someone who didn't seem to know a lot of people and who was lacking a secure place. She had transferred in as a junior, so she didn't know a lot of people either, but she possessed a greater social and spiritual maturity than I: her focus was as much outwardly on others as it was inwardly on herself. She had also seen me around campus, at the library, and such, and she felt a compulsion to reach out to me. I remember the night that she finally caught the opportunity to talk to me, yelling hi and speaking to me as if we had known each other for years. We were walking down the slope leading to the Campus House at the time, and I was peering through the darkness of the late autumn night, trying to figure out if I knew this very assertive person or not. I finally asked, "Do I know you?" A sheepish grin replaced her full smile, and she said, "No, actually you don't - I just wanted to say hi." We introduced ourselves to each other, and that was that. We didn't see each other after that, until the next semester when we both happened to sign up for political science at the last minute and found ourselves in the auxiliary class added to accommodate a surplus of students. When she walked in the door I smiled and waved hi and she immediately sat down by me. We started talking and were friends immediately. Especially in new situations, especially around new people, I'm usually shy and reserved - or at the very least quietly observant, trying to figure out if I can trust a person or not. Liz is perhaps the very first person I was able to completely be myself around right from the start.

Our friendship grew, and she became an unofficial mentor for me. We laughed and cried together, went camping together, left crazy messages on each other's answering machines, and studied and prayed together. She graduated, I pressed forward in college; she went to Bolivia, I student-taught and tried to figure out what was next. I started teaching; she came home from Bolivia. Yet, through a slew of phone calls and e-mails, we have remained in touch.

Now, she is leaving again, and my heart is a little sad. Her leaving for two years puts things in a stark perspective. It leads me to think of all that might change in the next two years. God willing, I'll be finished with seminary when she returns. Who knows where I will be living? Who knows where I might be preparing to move? What will her life be like then? Will she be planning on returning to Bolivia? Will she always be in Bolivia? And if so, how will the political, economic, and cultural climate there affect her life, and what changes will she have to make to adjust with the shifting times? What changes will we both have to make in our lives to adjust to the shifts and tremors that occur as time continues on?

I am so glad that I am not in charge of making sure that this all turns out okay. I am so glad I am not in charge of working out everything to the best for everyone. A lot can happen in 2 to 3 years. It's scary to think of everything that might happen - good and bad. Once again I am led to trust in God to care for me, to care for Liz in the coming years. Once again obedience and trust hold out hope and peace to me. If I had no one to obey, if I had no one to trust - that would mean I was in charge, that the spin of the world was left up to me. The rise and fall of those around me would be because of me. I'm glad I can just obey God. I can sleep at night.

I'm going to miss Liz. It's kind of scary knowing all that could happen in the next few years while she is not right here. But she's not in charge of all this either, and the same God I am seeking to obey is the God of her heart as well. And this God we serve has shared His heart for Bolivia with her, so she must obey and go and love and worship. And I'll do the same as I go back to school. And I'll look for those people who don't seem to know anyone too well and don't have anyone with whom they feel secure. And Liz will as well. And we will be fine. With Christ as our Savior, what have we to fear?