I am Mrs Nesbitt

There’s a great scene in the movie Toy Story: Buzz Lightyear, space ranger extraordinaire, has been captured and forced to face the reality that he is nothing but a toy: a child’s play thing. Upon this realization, he loses all hope, and doesn’t even fight a little girl forcing him into a pink apron and frilly hat for the upcoming tea party. When Woody, his friend the second rate cowboy, comes to rescue him, Buzz looks up at him in total despair and yells,

“Don’t you get it?? I AM MRS NESBITT.”

The space ranger who had formerly been preoccupied to the core with defeating Zurg and protecting the galaxy, who wasn’t afraid to fly and even less afraid to prove himself, this is the toy sitting at a tea party with a pair of headless dolls.

“One minute you’re defending the whole galaxy, and suddenly you find yourself sucking down Darjeeling with Marie Antoinette and her little sister.”

I think I identify with Buzz on most days… or, perhaps more accurately, Mrs Nesbitt. Sometimes, I am too content to sit at a tea party, asking if my hat looks good, knowing the whole time that something has gone horribly wrong.

Buzz was created to fight Zurg.

I was destined to fight Satan.

Buzz was faced with the reality that he was a toy.

I am daily confronted with my sinful flesh.

Buzz was kidnapped and dressed in pink.

I willingly turn to idolatry over my living Savior.

Buzz sat sipping tea while all of the toys that were counting on him were left defenseless.

How long have I been enjoying the American luxuries while the children I’ve been sent to rescue sit around with no one?

Luckily for Buzz, Woody came into the messy tea party, (literally) slapped Buzz in the face and reminded the space ranger who he was.

Who am I? Am I a space ranger, trained by years at an academy to fight Zurg? No. But neither am I reduced to sucking down Darjeeling with a pair of headless dolls.

Who is my Woody? Who is willing to step into the complete and utter mess that I feel my life has become most days, telling me to snap out of it and not letting me wander off in despair after the confrontation?

“I’m sorry. You’re right- I’m just a little depressed that’s all. I can get through this. I’m a sham. Look at me I can’t even fly out of the window. The hat looked good? Tell me the hat looked good. The apron was a little bit much…”

It’s not about the hat, Buzz.

It’s not about the location, Natalie.

It’s time to saddle up. Woody is waiting for Buzz, and my African babies are waiting for me.

No more wasting years of academy training for us.

The So Called Little Men

Recently, I was challenged to prayer walk my neighborhood.

It was almost surreal, as the last few times I had prayer walked were in Asia, around the bar districts where girls were forced into prostitution, up and down mountains where massive stone idols were set up for people to worship, even around a city in a closed, Muslim country, where you could literally feel the demonic oppression as you walked through the masses of people eager to find relief for their souls.

But prayer walk Northern Virginia?

True to form, I continue to be reminded that the God of the mission field is the same God who reigns back home, and the things I did on the Race are just as important to do back here.

So a- prayer- walking I went.

I meandered to the shopping center across the street, and stood looking at all the businesses there: restaurants, a carpet store, a vet, even (my favorite) a Starbucks.

"Jesus," I prayed, "please bring men and women into each of those businesses who love you and will use their job as a mission field- literally turn this shopping center over to Your glory."

Amen and done, right?

Later that night, my Dad and I went to go meet a man who was helping us sell my grandmother's house. You want to talk about emotional instability, well here it was. This was the house I was raised in, where I moved back later and learned what love really is- deep and unconditional and a little bit kooky. This was the woman who never let me out of her sight without reminding me to pray and trust Jesus, because He has everything under control.

As we sat with this man, my heart was hurting. Some new young family was probably going to move in to this house of spiritual warfare, this home that had seen knees on it from my grandmother and my mother, day after day, year after year.

As we left, we prayed for the people buying the house, then the real estate agent told us that he sold more houses on his knees than on his feet, as he shared a story of how he prayed every night with his daughter and gave us a glimpse into some of those answered prayers.

I realized in that moment that this is what the Christian life is: it's men and women who are radical. Not that they all have to abandon everything to go into the bush of Africa, never to be seen again- rather, they live their lives with quiet strength, interacting with the fallen world in a way that quietly screams there's a God in heaven and He loved us enough to die for us.

This man may never hold a distraught orphan or comfort a widow burying her child, but he is a warrior of the faith and is doing great things in the background. The church may not recognize him as a giant, but last night, I did, and was reminded that it's not about fame or fortune or even Africa, it's about being faithful to the Lord and bringing Him glory wherever you go: Africa or NOVA or real estate.


We're the body of Christ, and this is our mission: to heal the sick, to raise the dead, to cast out demons.
Let's go. :)