my failure

A few nights ago, I tried to explain to My Girl what an immigrant and a refugee are. While talking about living in a new country, I mentioned that after college I lived abroad for a couple years. My Girl did not know this. She's almost 8 years old, and she did not know that I ever lived outside of the U.S. She has not heard stories; she has not seen pictures; she had not even heard the name of the countries (Bosnia/Croatia). How could this be?

It's been 13 years since I returned from my 2 years overseas working for a missionary organization. 13 years, and I have hardly spoken of it. With anyone. And when I do break the silence, I speak of it only in general terms. Honest, but not too revealing, because I can't say what I'm supposed to say.

I can't say it was rewarding (it wasn't).
I can't share touching stories (I don't have any).
I can't talk about lives changed or wonderful work done or purpose revealed.

I'm supposed to, but I can't. I once had a women's group ask me to speak about my experience for their annual missions luncheon. I spoke about my 3-week trip to Kenya instead, because what would I say about my time in Bosnia and Croatia?

"The people were beautiful but heartbreaking; the children I taught were sweet and spunky."
"I was a complete and utter failure."

Brené Brown says we're supposed to speak our shame. Well, here's my biggest shame: I believed God was calling me overseas. I went. I was awful. I came home disillusioned, scared, lonely, feeling broken.

During my very first week in Bosnia, another 2-year-stinter spoke about how she prayed that God would give her brokenness. I remember thinking, "Why the hell would you pray that?" I didn't say this out loud, of course. I'm still not sure I understand that prayer...asking for brokenness. I think she meant that she wanted to get to the point where she was fully dependent on God, but I'd still never ask for brokenness. It seems naive and unfair to those who truly are broken, who would trade that brokenness in a heartbeat. I don't want to be broken. I want to be whole.

When I think back to that time of my life, it seems so ridiculous that I stepped into that airplane, headed for a position as a "relational evangelist." What the hell was I thinking? I'm not good at building relationships in my own culture with people who are like me. How in the world did I expect I would be good at it in another culture? Miracles, I suppose. I grew up on missionary stories of miracles. I expected a miracle.

But there was no miraculous transformation. I was still me, in a position that didn't suit. I needed a more explicit job, with more support. I needed a roommate who didn't despise me. I needed some defined purpose... more than "meet people." And so, after 6 months in Bosnia doing not very much other than teaching a few English words to some refugee children and helping a missionary mom with her youngest homeschooler, I transferred to Croatia to be a homeschool teacher for a couple of brand-new missionary kids. It was a job to do. It was a purpose.

I loved those kids with all my heart. And I was a good teacher...to one of them, but not to the other. Not because I was intentionally negligent, but because I didn't understand what she needed until it was too late. So I had a job, but still I failed. And I was so isolated. Often those kids were my only companionship, my only conversation. Maybe that would've been OK if I'd believed I was still serving a good purpose, but I failed at even my very small purpose.

Now, I know that there are small bright spots in this picture I'm painting very bleakly. I did love those children, and perhaps I was a kind, caring presence in their strange new world. I did learn about what it means to be a stranger in a strange land. I learned I could survive. I learned what a life of privilege I lead. My perspective shifted, widened, changed. But I didn't contribute very much.

I am grateful for what I learned, and for any small brightness I might have added in someone's life, but if I could go back and speak to that girl in her tiny Bosnian room, sobbing with fear and shame and loneliness, I would tell her, "Go home. Sometimes it's OK to quit. Don't worry about disappointing your organization (that organization is going to change their rules and repudiate you in a year anyway). Don't worry about disappointing the family and friends who supported you, or the God who called you. They will welcome you with open arms. Don't worry about disappointing yourself. You will find new life. Go home."

I wonder, now, why I did it. Why I went, why I stayed. From the age of 14, I believed God was calling me to a life overseas. I think it was because I wanted to count for something; I wanted to make a difference. I believed sharing Jesus was the most important difference.

I still believe sharing Jesus is the most important difference, though I believe it in a different sort of way. And despite my added years of wisdom (or foolishness), much of that inner desire to count for something still pulls at me. I want to make a difference. I want to share Jesus.

Only these days, I don't expect miracles. I expect to fail.

No, that's too dramatic. I don't expect to fail at everything. I expect that I will complete school and hope that I will be a good occupational therapist. I expect that I will love my family to pieces and hope that I will be a good mom/wife/daughter. I expect that I will look for ways to be compassionate and kind, and hope that I will take first steps, even when they're scary. I don't expect to fail at everything, but I do expect to fail sometimes, maybe even a lot of the time.

I wonder what my 50-year-old self would say to me now. I imagine that somewhere in the speech would be, "Don't worry so much. Failing at a task doesn't mean that you are a failure. Keep trying; give yourself a break; don't miss the joy that is to come. And may your fear of failure always be overcome by your hope for brightness."