It’s summer again. A season when our work amps up in intensity and everything we do during the year culminates in the influx of missions teams who arrive to join us in orphan care. It’s an exciting time, a time for all-hands-on-deck, everyone giving 150%. Summer is important, and it’s a beautiful reminder to throw ourselves in dependence on Jesus.
Last summer was a season of deep learning for me, as I was the new girl at the ministry and had a lot to learn very quickly. I thought that this summer would be easier because I had a year under my belt and would be able to employ at least a little experience. I was enthusiastic for the busyness to begin because, this year, I felt capable and strong.
Then, a few days before our summer season began, I found my ankle strapped into a boot and crutches under my arms.
While running and playing with the boys I serve back in March, I’d sprained 3 ligaments in my ankle, and attempting to push through it for 9 weeks had only caused it to worsen. Thus, boot and crutches.
As I write this, I have been removed from the more “active” side of our summer ministry for a few weeks to heal. Stepping back during the busiest season is humbling. Asking for help (and allowing others to help me) is humbling.
Already I’m realizing how I’ve unconsciously prided myself on being independent, on being able to do the hard thing all by myself, on almost never asking for help. My independence has been hard fought-for the past few years, hard-earned since 2016 when I started out on my own, in a different country. Now injured, I resisted the idea that I needed help. I could do it!
Then I messed up my shoulder, too. The moment it happened, I felt immediately the Lord speaking to my heart, “Jordan, how much more do I have to intervene physically to get your attention?”
As I finally surrendered to the process of what God has been trying to teach me about my pride and my deep-rooted habit of pushing help away, I began to see Him showing me what Mercy looks like.
A place of Mercy looks like crutches and a boot – weakness and need.
A place of Mercy looks like a friend who comes into your house and finds you sitting on the floor in the dark because of hard news you’ve just received – who sits on the floor in the dark with you and listens while you unload your heart.
A place of Mercy looks like a community who cares for you like you are their own daughter and sister.
A place of Mercy looks like your own arms as they embrace a child at a children’s home who is feeling overwhelmed over a life transition.
A place of Mercy looks like a clean house to come home to, thanks to the woman who stepped in because you couldn’t do it.
A place of Mercy looks like friends who pick up groceries for you because the idea of walking around a grocery store with crutches and a cart is too overwhelming.
A place of Mercy looks like the flowers that mysteriously appear on your kitchen counter with a little note saying that you are loved and seen.
A place of Mercy are the children at the children’s home who laugh great big belly laughs when you point to the boot and confidently say, “I am Iron Man.”
A place of Mercy looks like the faces of coworkers who light up when you finally say, “I can’t do this/move this/carry this/lead this. I need help. Could you please help me?”
Mercy, mercy. I’ve seen it so tangibly throughout this season. I am learning to see my pride and my fiercely guarded independence for the ugly things they are. I am deeply humbled by how greatly our team and our Back2Back community have stepped in to care for me. I’m humbled by their desire to help and serve and support.
I repent from my pride, my independence gone-too-far. As my team teaches me to lean on them while I recover, they are unwittingly teaching me to lean on Jesus.
Mercy is beautiful.
May we give it.
May we receive it.
Rhythms of Courage 