Chasing Sunsets

One thing I remember so vividly from my days on the Race is the appreciation of sunrises and sunsets. Most mornings I would rise while it was still dark, slip out of my bed (or sleeping bag), tiptoe out the door (or gate or tent), and sit, silently awaiting the golden orange rays to break up the dark sky. There were almost as many evenings spent walking back to wherever it was that we happened to be living, watching the sky go from a clear blue to an explosion of cotton candied colors, a visual feast for our tired eyes.

It didn't matter which country we were in, each day held a new beginning, and ended with yet another display of God's glory and majesty.

I've seen a handful of sunsets (and even fewer sunrises) since hitting the States, and they seem to be strangely devoid of the supernatural power that the ones on the Race had. For months, I assumed it was because America wasn't as beautiful as some of the countries we visited, but then I remember what those countries were like, and I realize that can't be it. Maybe it's because the other countries were so messy that the sunrises were a fabulous backdrop, but then I look out my window and see a messy city beyond my window.

Maybe, I realize, when I actually take a minute to ponder it, it's because I was so desperate for the Lord those days. Maybe it's because I needed the reminder that He was there. Maybe it's because I took my time to find Him, instead of filling myself with every distraction I can find.

America is no better or worse than any other country, but oh my- this place is busy. There's no such thing as down time, or quiet time, or any time- any moment not spent in meaningful activity is quickly swept into waste, whether it's online, on a phone, or changing channels. It doesn't matter if I'm busy or not, I can't go thirty seconds without something occupying my immediate attention.

Tonight, in a desperate attempt to get out, I took the keys, jumped in the car, and started driving. I didn't know where I was going, and while I had called a few people "to talk," no one seemed available. So all I could do was wander the streets of San Diego, searching for anything that would leave me feeling slightly less empty than I had become.

The first thing I saw was the sunset, and it was the same sunset that I had missed these last few months being home.

Yes, it was slightly obscured by random buildings and highways that I couldn't seem to get to stay west. Yes, there was traffic and noise and smog. But still, that sunset was there.

Right before I launched, another Racer told me, "don't forget in the darkness what you knew in the light."

Don't forget about the sunsets because of the glow of a computer screen.
Don't walk away from the words of the Lord because of the vibrations of a cell phone.
Don't forget the God who is the same yesterday, today and forever just because one of those days seemed off.
Don't settle for what is, in light of what could be.


Stop chasing the sunsets, and run toward the dawn.

Life in the Locker Room

What is the first thing that comes to mind when you hear the word, “missionary”?

Is it chacos and tacky pants, unwashed hair and no makeup?

Is it a preacher who shares the Gospel all day, every day?

Is it someone out in the middle of nowhere, who sees the Lord the way Moses did, face to face?

Is it a perfect person? Perfectly holy, perfectly Christian, perfectly… perfect?

That’s what I think of. A goody two shoes who has the whole Bible memorized and finds delight in dirt because it connects her to the Lord, who graciously holds babies who pee on her and giggles when they do, who secretly loves the fact that there’s no running water because then she has an excuse not to shower.

Ok, so the last one might have been true of me, but the rest of it is total garbage.

I ran into some missionaries this past week. They were dressed in normal clothes, and they weren’t on furlough from Africa; their mission field was the gym.

Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome to the congregation the group fitness instructor and the janitor.

“Wait a minute, Natalie,” you say, “missionaries are called to their mission full time. They support raise and fly to exotic places and wear local clothes and…”

Wrong answer, gossip girl.

These women look normal. They were both wearing black, logo workout clothes. One stood in front of a room packed with middle aged women, the other stood out of the way and folded towels. Both make their living in the fitness industry, complete with a paycheck, security, and probably benefits.

The instructor plays high-energy music that also happens to double as thinly veiled worship music. The songs are remixed, so it’s hard to tell (unless you happen to know word- for- word every Christian song since the 90s… which I do). Instead of blasting out songs calling for more sex, more alcohol, and more boys, boys, boys, this lady subliminally messaged into her audience’s mind lyrics that sought the Lord.

Meanwhile, in the hallway between the locker rooms, another sweet lady calmly sorts laundry while the middle aged women march by, are stopped by the kind words offered by this missionary in disguise as a real person, and slowly start to verbally unravel their shockingly messy lives, while every shaky statement uttered is met with accepting eyes and responses leading the confessor straight to Jesus.

It’s unreal.

I know I always say, “where you live is a mission field,” and, “the church is called to be a witness to the world,” and “you don’t have to leave the country to share the Gospel,” but I never imagined that there could be a real mission field in my gym. I mean, seriously. These are the high profile socialite moms who can lift more than their college kids and know how to work it. They shake, shimmy and sweat their way to perfection both in and outside of the large, glass walls at this local fitness center, and they need Jesus, too.

Even though their lives (and bodies) look perfect.

And the people who are getting through to them? The group fitness instructor and the janitor.

Will the real missionaries please stand up? Because these normal, everyday women are about to show us a thing or two about ministry:

It doesn’t have to involve orphans or dirty hair.

It does have to be loving, grace- filled, Spirit- led, every day life.

So what’s your mission field?

Making it Dramatic

Confession: I've spent the last few days starting applications to every single missions organization and overseas opportunity I can find.

I seem to have this wanderlust that consumes me.

It's this idea that my life would somehow be magically better if it were in some exotic location, holding small children and eating weird foods.

It's funny how selective my memory can be, since I literally just returned from a year of that exact lifestyle.

And I hated it.


I'm not sure what it is about this constant need for adventure. I would lie on the ground in the middle of Africa or Asia or wherever we happened to be and moan about how we needed to "go on an adventure." One time that landed us in the back of a semi truck with a Portuguese- speaking driver, another time it got us hopelessly lost near a mountain as the sun was setting and our shoes were disintegrating.

I always seem to want to be "anywhere but here." It's as if I need this constant dramatic music to be playing or I'm just not satisfied.

Paul learned the secret of being content in any and every situation... even the monotonous days spent in jail, where I'm sure he truly understood the desire for "anywhere but here."


Why is it not enough to be here, in one place, doing one thing, making an impact on one person?
How has that somehow become "less Christian" than the missionary who goes off to the bush and preaches all day?

I'll tell you this: it gets old fast.

You're not a better Christian because your current background is glamorous.
You're not more holy because you love "the least of these" for fifteen minutes before packing up for the next place.

Americans need Jesus, too.
And they're not too interested in a Savior who is here one day and gone the next. Sometimes, the most "Christian" thing to do is to stick around...

...even when that's significantly less exciting than hopping on the next flight out of here.


So turn up the volume on the dramatic music, and leave your bag alone.
There is work to be done here, and it will never be finished if the workers keep jumping ship.