Three years ago. . .
I was an intern at the International House of Prayer in Atlanta, praying and worshiping nightly from midnight to 6 a.m. I didn’t consider myself an intercessor and many evenings wondered what God was up to asking me to be there. I was confidently unconfident,Â defiantly independent and intensely imploring God for freedom from the shackles of self-injury. Face down on the floor of the prayer room I fought a battle and came away dusty from digging in the ashes but delivered.
Two years ago. . .
I was at training camp in the backwoods of Georgia with no idea how drastically life was about to change. I didn’t consider myself missionary material and didn’t even know how to set up a tent. I was terribly timid, perpetually frozen and completely convinced I was in over my head. It was a stretching week and a half that would become a mile marker in my story. When camp came to a close, I breathed a sigh of relief until IÂ had to attempt removal of red clay from the clothes I had been wearing for ten days.
I stumbled off a miserable platscart (3rd class) train ride and, with soil from a Romanian Gypsy village still clinging to my sneakers, I entered the country of Ukraine with no clue that God was going to use this time to alter any ideas I previously had about my future. I didn’t consider myself a social butterfly and hated large cities. I was feverishly sick, unfashionably dressed and needlessly nervous about university ministry. When the month came to an end, I cried crocodile tears until I was almost sick. Now I am moving there.
And I can’t help but wonder. . .
What will next October hold?