Sunday, June 22, 2008
When Your Own Side Shoots Arrows
What happens if we talk?
That was my last question. Because I'm struggling. Maybe I am the only one. I doubt it. I heard recently of things which happened to missionary families, broken marriages, lost faith, things we would not whisper of.
I'm struggling. I talked to two friends. Friends who listen, who hug, who pray for us are a blessing. Precious things.
But both said the same. "You need to talk to your leadership. You need help."
I did agree. I was not excited about it. This is the same leadership who has been too busy to respond as this situation slowly worsened. I was never sure if they really believed there was a problem. Or if our "job" or our "abilities" were of more importance than the fact that help is needed.
But I told them. There are struggles, and help is needed.
My field leader listened. He sounded so sympathetic, so kind. Of course, I am concerned, and will help.
Two days later, a phone call. Accusing me of making things up, of exaggerating things.
Where do we go when we hurt? I already knew this would be his response. I knew because he has responded this way many times over the last several years as this problem increased and grew worse. Ah, but it hurts all the same. Deep, scarring pain.
So where do we go when we hurt? Today, I don't know.
A verse came into my head today as I worked, alternating between anger and tears at the treatment I am facing. I don't want to dishonor God's name. I don't want to destroy people. I simply need help. My kids need help. But we are ignored, set aside. Your needs are not as important as your uses. Being accused of lying, of many things. It hurts.
The quiet voice which comes when I get to the end of my fussings and tears, and look up at God with quieted tears. "But You, O Lord, are a shield about me, my glory, and the One who lifts my head." Ps 3:3.
Oh God who sees, You, Yourself, are my shield. Shield me from the attacks of men who should be on my side, but who are today shooting arrows, lies, unseeing of our pain. My glory. You, Yourself, are my glory, my honor. The One who lifts my head. When people judge, when people accuse, when people cover their eyes and stop their ears and walk on and say "a real missionary would...", You don't. You stoop down and lift my head again. Give me grace to live, strength to act as Your child. God, who sees, my eyes are on You.
Some arrows hit hard and sink deep. Lord, catch my tears.