We came back from Nepal with next to nothing, and in quick order were blessed right back into a world with enough towels to handle baths and coats for our kids and a set of knives with which to cut our food. Just like that, we were average Americans again– warm clothes, ample food, a roof over our heads. And because we had stared into the face of lack (only for the briefest moment) we were able to sit in a circle on the carpeted floor in our empty living room in our rented house, look into one another’s eyes and sing praises that were more genuine than we had ever offered before.
As a mother, those were some of the most precious moments I have ever witnessed. Children holding a new-to-them shirt freely given by another child and swelling with gratitude. Children getting the news that a box had arrived with new pillows, and dancing– dancing!— because tonight, one of their brothers or sisters might have something fluffy under their head. Children happily volunteering to unload, carry in, and reload heavy wood furniture from a trailer brimming with donated goods that might hold the treasure of a bed frame or two.
I watched it all, and realized that, like Mary, I wanted to treasure up all of these things and ponder them in my heart. Because these moments, these experiences and impressions, I realized, are all a part of the bigger lesson that God was giving us instruction in as we wandered the road to Nepal and back again.
All of us, from the oldest to the youngest, have had our eyes opened not just to a place of sincerely waiting on provision with expectation while in deep need, but of humbly accepting the generosity of others. The journey there is nowhere near over (more on that later) but the impressions left in our hearts and souls have already begun to show fruit. We are more gentle with one another. We are more forgiving when others misunderstand us. We are more graceful when we extend our own hands in assistance.
I never could have taught these lessons to my children, to myself. Truthfully, I thought we were humble. I thought we relied on the Lord. I thought we were without entitlement or a sense of being owed what we happen to have in our laps at that moment.
I was wrong.
This refining time continues to show me cracks in the clay of my faith. What I realize now, sitting on the other side of having now been here, in NC, longer than we were in Kathmandu, is that the bitter taste in my mouth has been replaced with a sweet wondering over it all. Not that I no longer question why it had to be this road, this hardship, this loss … No. But what I see is growth. What I see is strength.
What I see is beauty from ashes. Just as promised.
To grant those who mourn in Zion, Giving them a garland instead of ashes, The oil of gladness instead of mourning, The mantle of praise instead of a spirit of fainting. So they will be called oaks of righteousness, The planting of the LORD, that He may be glorified. Isaiah 61:3