The Purple Sheep

I like writing. I’ve been keeping journals since my early teens. However, I don’t write blogs super often, because I have this idea in my head that writing about myself is conceited and not glorifying to God (even though I read memoirs and autobiographies all the time). So, I open word documents and start writing stories about the things I see and hear, trying to make a story that’s somewhat original, informative, entertaining, and not at all about myself. And then I get frustrated and close said word documents without ever publishing.

However, the longer I work in the ministry world, and the longer I work alongside people, especially hurting people, the more I realize the only story I have the right to tell is my own.

Because, honestly, it’s not my story anyway. It’s God’s story, and I just happen to be the main character in this particular chapter. Kind of like how Friends isn’t actually about Phoebe, but she happens to be one of the characters, and some episodes are more about her than others.

So, here we go. Cheers to vulnerability.

Guilty pleasure confession: I enjoy personality tests. Everything from the little dorky ones (I am Rapunzel, a Rebellious Punk, a Ravenclaw, and my boyfriend is Tom Hiddleston) to the more serious, “scientific” ones. As people, we long to know and be known, to understand and be understood, and to love and be loved. I think we (or at least, I) spend time clicking options and filling in bubbles on these quizzes in an attempt to be known, understood, and loved.

The first time I took the Enneagram, about a year ago, I got upset. Everyone in the room swore I was going to be a 2 – The Helper. I help, I serve, I see needs and I try to meet them, and many of the missionaries I know are 2’s. It made sense. That was the mold I wanted to fit into.

But, it’s not. I am a 5 – The Investigator. According to the test, I thrive on knowledge and learning. I need to feel competent and capable. If I don’t, I isolate myself. I have difficulty trusting people and opening up emotionally. I need people to know that I know what I am doing. I need to be independent, original, and nonconventional.

Well, that doesn’t make sense (even though it totally does). Missionaries aren’t 5’s. I read all that, and thought “NERD.” What about helping people? What about having compassion? What about faith? Do these Enneagram people even know me? Do they even know my life, the crazy stuff I’ve had to do without proper training and education? Do they understand the insane leaps of faith and trust in God I’ve had?

So, because I am a 5, I isolated myself. I felt like an incompetent missionary, because my personality type doesn’t make any logical sense for the field I’m in. It doesn’t make any logical sense for God’s calling on my life.

And then I became even more hyperaware of my other differences I perceived as weakness. Most missionaries I know are extroverts. I am very, very introverted (INFJ-A, to be exact). Being around loads of people for extended periods of time drains me. Some days, I don’t even want to talk to people. I want to sit in my room and just be alone. But the ministry field is all about God and people, and that requires listening to people, talking to people, spending time with people, and having extroverted coworkers and friends who want to spend time with you on your day off when really all you want to do is sleep past noon and have a date with a cup of coffee. Alone. In your house. Away from noise and conversation.

 

If we are part of God's flock, and missionaries are the black sheep going against the grain, I feel like the purple sheep. Not fitting in with either group.

I’ve been struggling with this. It’s a weird paradox in my head – I want to be original, and not follow the crowd. I see the problems of the world (and of the ministry world), and I don’t want to be part of that. I want to contribute something unique. But I want to fit in and be understood by my community. I want to be competent, and I’ve perceived competence as being the same as the other competent people around me. Why did God even call me to ministry if I’m not like the others who are obviously more suited for this job?

Because I have strengths where others have weaknesses. Where a 2 might see a need that needs met, I search for the deeper meaning behind the need, its roots and origin, to grasp the bigger picture and find the most effective, long-term solution. Where an extrovert might struggle sitting in silence with someone who is hurting, I am perfectly comfortable being nothing more than a presence, without filling the air with empty advice, prying questions, or unimportant chatter (not that all extroverts do that, and there definitely is a place for advice, questions, and small talk). As a 5, I love to learn, and I will gladly sit in trainings, conferences, and language classes for hours without tiring.

Even within our personality types, we are all created different, and we all have a role in this glorious design. A mentor once explained to me, “Imagine my thumbprint is God, and the tip of this pen is you.” He drew a tiny dot on his thumb. “That is your God-given identity, all your strengths and gifts. Somebody else might be this,” he drew another dot in a different place, far from the first one. “They have different strengths and gifts, but they still come from God. Or maybe some dots overlap a little, where we have similarities.” Even as a purple sheep, I have a purpose. My calling isn’t a mistake or an accident. My dot overlaps with some people, and not with others, and that’s totally okay. We are all here with the same purpose, with the same goal – to serve and glorify God.

Thanks, God, for my personality. Thank you for making me, me. Thank you for my story. I pray it continues to glorify You.



P.S. - I totally recommend taking personality tests (like the Enneagram and Myers Briggs) to learn about your strengths and weaknesses, and your dot on God's design

(in)dependence

I am twenty-three years old. I have not had a boyfriend since I was sixteen. Not that I haven’t wanted one; that’s just how it worked out.

Being single all through college and moving to Africa on my own a year ago has taught me so much about independence. I had a conversation with another single friend a few months ago about the view of “strong, independent women.” Is that attractive to the Godly men we want to date? We’re not damsels in distress – we’ve had to learn how to do many things on our own (including, but not limited to, basic home repairs, jumpstarting cars, and changing tires). But people need to be needed, and they need to feel that they’re needed, especially our husbands.

Even before I moved here, coworkers and acquaintances back home would notice and comment on my “independence.” Sometimes it felt like a compliment, sometimes it would sting a little. I desire a husband, but is that evident in the way I act? In the way I speak? Are guys not attracted to this type of personality?

But here’s the secret – I’m not independent. I am totally dependent on God.

And that’s how I’m able to move halfway across the planet without a man for companionship and physical protection. God’s not going to change my flat tire for me, but He gives me the patience and wisdom to learn. He grants me discernment for what is safe and where to avoid in town. He surrounds me with friends and community to love me and support me, to show me I’m never alone in this life.

My (in)dependence allows me to walk in the confidence that I am loved, valued, strong, beautiful, and important, even without a boyfriend or spouse.

It’s still not easy. I can’t be a father to our girls. I couldn’t get my refrigerator out of its Styrofoam casing. I can barely carry our hefty three-year-old. My Friday nights are usually spent with a book and early bedtime. I get far more proposals and remarks on the street than a woman walking around with her husband at her side.

I desire a husband. But my singleness does not define my value or womanhood. Only the Father can.

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Still Can't Strum

Once upon a time, I thought Green Day was the coolest band in the world, and I bought (with the help of my family) a guitar to become just like Billie Joe Armstrong.

I played for hours and hours every day, learning new songs and dreaming of being a rock star and standing for something (whatever that something would be).

As classes got harder and band and orchestra (oh yeah, I also played clarinet and violin) rehearsals demanded more, that guitar rested in its stand in my room, only to be picked up a few times a month to see what I could still do (which dwindled to almost nothing).

I discovered my love for teaching, and my dreams shifted from being a rock star to being a band director.

Later I went to college for a music degree. Whether it was classes or rehearsals, music consumed the majority of every day. People who shared my aspirations, some of whom would do anything to get to the top, surrounded me. Competition was fierce and a chronic feeling of inadequacy reigned my heart. Even as my technique improved and my knowledge grew, I still felt mediocre and self-conscious next to my peers.

As time went on, I discovered I love people more than I love music, and I started searching for career paths that would be better suited for my passions (i.e., music therapist, counselor, etc.).

Then I graduated and moved to Africa and brought a guitar with me. I was excited to start learning worship songs while being separated from the competitive music lifestyle I know so well.

But, I soon discovered that two other people on the ministry team also play guitar, and are way better at it than I ever was, especially now since I haven’t played in at least six years. There’s no way I could play with or in front of people who actually know what they’re doing. Besides, I left my chord charts and capo at home in the States, so I don’t even have the necessary tools to really play…never mind that the local music store is within blocks of my house and it doesn’t take a ton of effort to write out chords.

Months pass. The stress of this ministry starts weighing down on me. I journal and watch movies and read books to escape, but that actually does very little for my soul. Then, we get some hard news about the future of our girls, and I sink into a weeklong mild depression with no outlet.

That’s when I receive a package from my older brother back home, complete with eight three-subject notebooks and a pack of pens. Perfect for writing out songs and chords. On my day off, I walk to the music store and purchase an overpriced capo. And the work begins.

I start with four worship songs in my notebook (a grand total of six different chords) and play them over and over, experimenting with strumming patterns (spoiler alert: I don’t really know how to strum – I just make it up), and softly singing along. I copy down a few more songs, a few the girls know, and play through them a few times.

This is great, I think. I love this. I love playing by myself. No standards. No pressure. No judgment. And I can play whatever I want. I never want to be in a band or play for people.

I take my guitar to the girls’ home to get some extra practice, and before I know it, my bedroom is full of eight kids singing along and requesting song after song.

They’re not ignorant – they know I’m only learning and that I have a long way to go. They know when I play wrong chords and sing off key. But they don’t care. They just want to sing and have fun.

Sometimes I get annoyed when they request the same songs over and over and have no desire to learn something new.

But then, that’s how every relationship is, isn’t it? You go on for a while by yourself, and you think, Wow, this is great! I can do whatever I want! I can go wherever I want! I can buy whatever I want! I can wear whatever I want! Nobody will care if my clothes don’t match! Nobody’s going to judge me for only wearing underwear around the house! Nobody’s here to be better than me! Nobody’s here to tell me any different! I don’t have to share anything or listen to anyone!

That’s all great and grand for a while, then life gets a little lonely, so God drops a friend or roommate or boy/girlfriend or spouse or 16 African adolescent females on your doorstep, and that all changes.

Now you have to share stuff. Now somebody cares if you eat their peanut butter. Now it’s less okay to run around the house in your underwear.

Now somebody’s going to tell you want songs to play. Now somebody’s going to notice when wrong notes happen.

As their guardian, I have full right to say “no” when they request a song, and sometimes I do, or I suggest something different I think they’d like. But if I say “no” too many times, then they’ll stop singing along altogether. And what’s the point of that? Music, like peanut butter, is meant for sharing.

Two weeks later, I now have 39 songs in my trusty notebook (some worship, some Katy Perry, some T-Swift, some Mumford, and some in between), and I still don’t really know how to strum. But I play every day, and nothing fills my heart quite like Nadia knocking on my door and asking, “When are we singing?” before I’m even dressed for the day.

When I shared the news that I was moving to Africa after graduation, people would tell me how excited they were for me to share my musical gifts, because music has such a healing power.

I finally discovered that’s true, not because of how it’s healed the girls, but because of how it’s healing me.

What were you?

Brothers and sisters, think of what you were when you were called. Not many of you were wise by human standards; not many were influential; not many were of noble birth. But God chose the foolish things of the world to shame the wise; God chose the weak things of the world to shame the strong.
1 Corinthians 1:26-27

I was going through some old photos on my laptop last night, and I found some gems from pre- and early high school, such as a family vacation to Las Vegas and a trip to Chicago with my brother. I hadn’t opened these files in at least six years, and what I found was almost laughable.

Back when I wore boys’ clothes, cut my own bangs, and had terrible acne. It was a somewhat shocking sight. And it’s almost more shocking to think about who I was back then.

An angsty, adolescent female who dreamt of rock concerts and wanted nothing to do with church. Who was teased at school and could count her shady social circle on one hand. Who didn’t want to exist and regularly scripted suicide notes.

This was about two years before I read the words, “For all have sinned and fallen short of the glory of God” (Romans 3:23) and studied Lewis’s Mere Christianity in Sunday school, which God used to help lead me back to Him. When I think of that girl, that lost sheep, it’s hard to believe she’s now living in Africa as a missionary to “defend the weak and the fatherless, uphold the cause of the poor and the oppressed,” and to “rescue the weak and the needy; deliver them from the hand of the wicked” (Psalm 82:3-4).

There’s no way that transformation could have happened by my own power, or solely by the power of therapists or medication (not that I don’t condone seeking professional counseling).

That transformation was done by the power of Christ. He is the reason I am sitting at a dining room table in my house in Swaziland, surrounded by thread and fabric and paper beads to teach struggling women how to support themselves out of prostitution.

There’s no way I can say, or even think, “Way to go, Rachel! You did it! You made something of yourself!”

All I can say is, “Wow, God. You repaired this weak, broken vessel, and now you are using it as a testament of your love and grace. I owe everything I am to you.”

It is because of him that you are in Christ Jesus, who has become for us wisdom from God – that is, our righteousness, holiness and redemption. Therefore, as it is written: “Let the one who boasts boast in the Lord.”
1 Corinthians 1:30-31

Power of Testimony

About a year ago, I wrote a blog post in Swaziland titled Generation of World Changers, in which I reflected on the brokenness and vulnerability in my teammates and myself, and how our lives can be reflected in Paul’s words from 1 Corinthians 9:19-23.

Today, back in Swaziland and surrounded by a whole new level of brokenness, I’d like to take this a bit further and share what God has been teaching me about the power of testimony.

Even at 22 short years on this glorious earth, I’ve had some bumps and bruises along the way. I’ve stumbled and fallen so far from God I never believed I would recover. I would suppress my anguish until it would manifest in the unhealthiest of ways. It wasn’t until I finally couldn’t take it anymore, until I felt I was going to implode, until I recognized my path of self-destructiveness, that I shared my suffering with someone else, and then began to experience relief.

Healing – emotional, spiritual, physical – begins with sharing, with opening up about what’s going on inside. Of course, ultimate healing comes from sharing your pain with God. But in an age where we need immediate, tangible feedback, it’s seemingly easier to share with people than with God, at least at first. With that, he provides people in our lives to share our burdens with, whether it’s a trusted friend, family member, or counselor. There is value in sharing your pain with others, and I will explore that in depth in a moment, but first, let’s look at what it means to share burdens with God.

Two years ago, in a moment of total despair, a friend shared with me this verse:

Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest. Matthew 11:28

These, of course, are Jesus’ words in the first gospel of the New Testament. Notice that the first word he says is, come. Come to me. The first step is a willing choice to go to Christ with your burdens. After that, he says, all you who are weary and burdened.  He specifies all of you - not some of you who are weary, or only a few of you who are burdened. He says, all of you. Once we make the willing choice to go to him in our suffering, he will give us rest. Healing. Relief. Eventually, that peace turns to joy. And this forms our testimony of grace.

Side note: being vulnerable and bringing burdens to God also includes sharing your anger at our Father. Not all David’s Psalms were of joy and praise (e.g., Psalm 22). God answers those cries, as well.

After I reached the point of healing, both from sharing my burdens with others and with God, I began to learn the value of my story – my testimony. In the book of Acts, the apostle Paul also learned this lesson.

Paul began his story as Saul, who persecuted the early church. He approved the execution of Stephen, who is now called the first martyr for Christ. He “breathed murderous threats against the Lord’s disciples” (Acts 9:1), until one day Jesus revealed himself to Saul as a flash of light that blinded the poor man. Long story short, Saul met some of the disciples and his sight was restored. God renamed him Paul, and he spent the rest of his life spreading God’s Word.

In Acts 22, Paul was arrested in Jerusalem for teaching against the Jewish practices and for allegedly bringing Greeks into the temple. While he was in prison, Paul was allowed to speak to a great crowd of people, with whom he shared his story.

I am a Jew, born in Tarsus of Cilicia, but brought up in this city. I studied under Gamaliel and was thoroughly trained in the law of our ancestors. I was just as zealous for God as any of you are today. I persecuted the followers of this Way to their death, arresting both men and women and throwing them into prison, as the high priest and all the Council can themselves testify. I even obtained letters from them to their associates in Damascus, and went there to bring these people as prisoners to Jerusalem to be punished. Acts 22:3-5

To start his speech, Paul provides a brief history of where he grew up and his schooling. He confirms his faith background by saying, I was just as zealous for God as any of you are today. He recognizes their love for God and relates to it. After those three initial statements, Paul blatantly admits to persecuting Jews, killing both men and women for their faith and practices. He hides nothing. He doesn’t give gory details, but he doesn’t hold back on his honesty. From there, he continues to recount how Jesus revealed himself to him, which led him to teach the gospel everywhere he went.

How did the crowd respond to this story? Did they fall on their knees and call Jesus their Lord? Sadly, no. They demanded he be executed, and the prison commander took Paul to be flogged. And this is just one chapter of Paul’s persecution and suffering for the sake of the gospel.

Later, in a letter to the church in Corinth, Paul addressed his testimony and his role among the apostles:

For I am the least of the apostles and do not even deserve to be called an apostle, because I persecuted the church of God. But by the grace of God I am what I am, and his grace to me was not without effect. No, I worked harder than all of them – yet not I, but the grace of God that was with me. Whether, then, it is I or they, this is what we preach, and this is what you believed.” 1 Corinthians 15:9-11

Paul’s story is not a pretty one, especially before accepted Christ as his Savior. But by the grace of God I am what I am… It was God’s grace that made Paul the apostle he became, the apostle who wrote a majority of the New Testament, and whose words are studied and shared thousands of years later.

In the specific incident in Acts 22, Paul was arrested in Jerusalem by the Israelites – God’s own people. Sometimes, it will be our own family or friends who disown us for our story. Paul and the other disciples were scoffed and persecuted in city after city during their travels. They were arrested and stoned and beaten numerous times. But they always persevered, and God rescued them from every situation. And their work bore fruit:

As they traveled from town to town, they delivered the decisions reached by the apostles and elders in Jerusalem for the people to obey. So the churches were strengthened in the faith and few daily in numbers. Acts 16:4-5

A testimony can be defined as “a public recounting of a religious conversion or experience” (New Oxford American Dictionary). This is the form of testimony Paul shared in Jerusalem and several other places. My personal favorite definition, however, is, “evidence or proof provided by the existence or appearance of something.” My testimony is evidence of God’s existence, grace, and love.

Once I shared my weary and burdened soul with Christ, my story became God’s story. It became a story not of my own life, but of God’s grace in my life.