When I made my first overseas trip the summer before my
senior year of college, I fell in love with Europe. My stay in Hungary lasted six weeks, but what
an adventure it was!
One particular evening, we visited an elderly farmer in a far-off village, where the sunflowers stood in rows in a field, their heads upturned in the sunlight. He showed us about his immaculate farm and served us sandwiches made from the ham he had cured himself while the missionary shared with him the Gospel for yet another time.
Soon it was time for me to leave, but I felt the stay there had changed me a bit. I had been away in a different land, apart from family and friends and all I knew, in a culture where most people spoke a language I didn’t understand. I had been immersed in this place and now would return home. Back to the farm, to the fields, to the routine of my summer. Back to my piano teaching and the children in my Sunday School class whom I could teach in a language they understood.
When we walk about the museum, I wonder at the dozens of glass vases on display and imagine the homes wrecked by the eruption of Mt. Vesuvius. Each artifact holds its own story. Marveling at the exquisite detail on one particular drinking glass, I consider the family to whom it once belonged. How it has survived and lives today to tell its story, and yet those individuals with eternal souls have long since passed from the earth.
But what reaches my heart more than any historic amazement are the two quiet days we spend with a missionary family in the Tuscany region. Their veranda illuminated by lanterns, we enjoy pasta into the evening, spoiled by an excellent cook of a missionary wife. And then, my husband was able to preach for a Sunday service and an evening Bible study. Brother Larry was known about the countryside as a man who took the Gospel wherever he went.
This bond that knits believers together stands as a
beautiful thing, one prayed for by Jesus in John 17, a passage I read just a
few days ago. Perhaps my favorite part
of that prayer is contained in verses 20-21, which read,
I find particularly amazing that, just hours before He was
led away to be crucified, Jesus found time to pray for me! In fact, he prayed for every believer alive today. And, because Jesus’ prayers are always
answered, there is a sense in which all believers, regardless of differences,
are one. The Holy Spirit, referred to as the "earnest of our inheritance" (Eph. 1:14) unites us to the Son. What a precious bond we share
because of Christ!
From writing puppet scripts and accompanying for church
services, to caring for children in the nursery and assisting in food
preparation for a funeral—all aspects of the church work captured my
heart. I longed to return to the mission
field sometime in the future.
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| A puppet show for a VBS in Spain (visited 2004) |
One particular evening, we visited an elderly farmer in a far-off village, where the sunflowers stood in rows in a field, their heads upturned in the sunlight. He showed us about his immaculate farm and served us sandwiches made from the ham he had cured himself while the missionary shared with him the Gospel for yet another time.
I visited the missionary children’s school and sat in
a few classes, explaining to the teacher that I was majoring in education in
college. And every afternoon I practiced
the piano. That had been the agreement
if I was to go, for my senior recital was coming up the following spring and I
must be ready for the big event.
On a sweltering June evening, I gave a piano concert in the
missionaries’ home. The lights of the
city glistened in the distance and chairs clustered about the packed living
room as guests from the church and neighbors became my audience.
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| Taken in Spain, 2004 |
Soon it was time for me to leave, but I felt the stay there had changed me a bit. I had been away in a different land, apart from family and friends and all I knew, in a culture where most people spoke a language I didn’t understand. I had been immersed in this place and now would return home. Back to the farm, to the fields, to the routine of my summer. Back to my piano teaching and the children in my Sunday School class whom I could teach in a language they understood.
But I would always treasure up this time in my heart and my
longing to travel would never depart.
Meeting believers around the globe, seeing that Christ is
real in all corners of this planet is something I deeply cherish. Now, having traveled to Europe, Africa, and
Asia multiple times, I have found that, above all sightseeing and global
adventures—it is my time with believers that I enjoy the most.
They are the same everywhere—just different.
Summer 2017. My
husband and I are on a three-week anniversary trip in Italy. We hustle across the ever-busy streets in
Naples, cars blasting their horns and not slowing a bit for pedestrians. We’re headed to the museum at the end of the
street. “Gelato?” he asks with a wink, as
we pass yet another stand. We’ve come to
believe gelato beats ice cream. Its
rich, silky texture. The variety of
flavors. So with one dark chocolate and one
mulberry scoop, our cone arrives. As
usual, it doesn’t disappoint.
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| Mt. Vesuvius |
When we walk about the museum, I wonder at the dozens of glass vases on display and imagine the homes wrecked by the eruption of Mt. Vesuvius. Each artifact holds its own story. Marveling at the exquisite detail on one particular drinking glass, I consider the family to whom it once belonged. How it has survived and lives today to tell its story, and yet those individuals with eternal souls have long since passed from the earth.
What grandeur the streets of Rome represent! Passing a toppled column in the warm August
evening, gazing upon massive chronicles etched in stone (such as Hadrian’s
Column), wondering at the achievements and architecture that have lasted for
centuries—these marked our daily routine.
One of thousands of tourists, we board buses, embark on trains, and
frequently hear American accents of all varieties wherever we go.
But what reaches my heart more than any historic amazement are the two quiet days we spend with a missionary family in the Tuscany region. Their veranda illuminated by lanterns, we enjoy pasta into the evening, spoiled by an excellent cook of a missionary wife. And then, my husband was able to preach for a Sunday service and an evening Bible study. Brother Larry was known about the countryside as a man who took the Gospel wherever he went.
A dozen churches with Nigerian converts dotted the perimeter
of Brother Larry’s mission field. What a
joy to travel with this dear brother down the lanes of one small village and
hear one African after another stop him to say, “Brother Larry!” as he began conversation, reminding that soul
about the Lord. It seemed not a moment
passed in which he was not aware of the souls about him. As my husband and I left him at the train
station, we waved; but Brother Larry was already engaged in yet another
conversation, speaking on the platform to two women, giving them the Gospel.
“Neither pray I for
these alone, but for them also which shall believe on me through their word;
That they all may be one; as thou, Father, art in me, and I in thee, that they
also may be one in us: that the world may believe that thou hast sent me.”
This bond uniting all who truly
love our Lord Jesus is something the world can see. There’s a difference in the ones who know
Christ. And some day, in Heaven, every
tongue, nation, and people group will sing the praises of the glorious King of
Kings.
Today, we sing in various places on
the planet. Then, face-to-face.
There, we will be the same—but
different.
For at last we will see Him as He
is and be conformed perfectly to Him.
Let us rejoice in our Jesus, who
prayed the same for every believing one.
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