Chinese Pews

Yesterday, I sat in the third pew. The only white woman in the room, I had the privilege of sharing at a wonderful Chinese church. For 45 minutes. This pleased my long-worded, excessively descriptive, talking-with-my-hands, heart. Surrounded by adorable Asian kids, familiar songs and missions verses plastered on the wall, I felt at home. Never having been there before, I felt at home.

This is a common occurrence for me, all around the world. Standing on the stage at the closing ceremony of the Arafura Games in Darwin, as the medal bearer for the closing ceremony in front of a couple of thousand people – at home.

my face.
waiting to go up.
on the big screen

 Sitting outside a bombed out school in East Timor, with an open Bible, pretending I know how to play the guitar – at home. 

you have to take the cover off first? what?

not to do with anything.
just found it.

Sharing a toilet with a best friend because there are two seats in the one cubicle and it simply has to be done – at home. 

yep.
it was also necessary to take a photo.

Sharing at a Chinese Church, about HIV, Africa, passion and the Biblical mandate for missions – at home.

I get uncomfortable when I’m comfortable. There’s not really any explanation for this other then the idea that, as one wise and wonderful one told me once, that Jesus comforts the disturbed and disturbs the comfortable.

My life right now is so random. I sit in class listening to lectures about the cultural medicalisation of menopause around the world. I write a paper about spinal fusion surgery, and write short stories about strawberries. I spend a good chunk of one lessson, discussing the lactation habbits - of a cow, and spend another lecture (for two hours) watching youtube clips of Asian drumming. I get paid to play dance dance revolution, travel on the train, sort through New Zealand reciepts, and diffuse tantrums - mostly over nutella toast, and the way I spread it wrong. I have meetings about HIV, play a game called “lava floor” and walk through Woolworths pretending to know what I’m doing, watching my brother order “breast of chicken,” as we try to be independent and run a household side by side. I run to early morning sermons, and fall asleep surrounded by Donna Hay magazines, as I try to expand my cooking skills. I drive to a new part of Sydney, share with a Christian group at my university, skype my parents in Africa, order books on Amazon, and wander the streets of my city, getting lost – trying to give a local tour. 

this is Chris, you may remember him from Seattle.
this is also the Harbour Bridge.
& ngaire.

this is Government house.
what is that? no idea.

I walk around my house loudly practicing my sermon, and watch the farmer wants a wife with wonderful friends. I sit outside of Government House eating pizza shapes, and play the Summer Heights High board game (don’t do it, it’s terrible).

I like that though. I’m tired and scatterbrained and everyday is different. Every week is different. And for the first time, at home, I’m out of my comfort zone – and regularly. If I ever get to a point in my life where I’m not feeling nervous and uncomfortable at least a couple of times a week, you have every right to pull me up on that. Put me in front of a crowd, or even more scarily for me – invite me to be a part of a ministry completely and in even way behind the scenes ( No way to feed my pride? Terrifying! I have soooooo much room to grow). Life is always, always better when you’re outside of what you know. New places, new things, new depth of relationship – new challenges, new levels of self discipline, and service, new investment, new revelation.

Sitting in the third pew and meeting new people, several times a week. I’m not at home, at home. I like that.

at reachout.
posing with Malawi.
(& freaking out about public speaking!)