Almost two decades ago, when my hair flamed its natural color without gray and there wasn’t such a thing as a varicose vein on my leg, I sat in church with my husband and children and listened intently to missionary after missionary share his or her testimony about how God ignited a gospel flame in far off places that stunted my knowledge of geography, causing me to run my fingers over the lands of our table-top globe, until I found the dwelling place of these God-touched patches of people groups on that spinning globe. Riveting missionary testimonies that brought glory to the Almighty and Everlasting God.
But how could my husband and I transport our family to places such as this. Places like Irian Jaya serving tribespeople like the Damals. We faithfully pledged to support the missionaries, but somehow that just wasn’t the same as actually serving in the field.
Then one day I realized my mission field. As I spun the globe and watched the patterns of green, and brown, and masses of blue twirl on my table top, as I watched the names of exotic, foreign places pass with each spin, a yearn to serve in such places still lingered, but my finger slowed the globe to a seemingly tiny spot on this intricately speckled sphere—home.
And so my place in this hurting, hungry for love world is my town, my home, my kitchen table, where the tea pot rests full to brim, ready to serve those who tap on the screen door; those who drive down my lane with a heavy heart and need to dwell in His presence…