Rest, Risk, and a Right-Side-Upside-Down Year: Part One

“Every experience God gives us, every person He puts in our lives
is the perfect preparation for the future that only He can see.”
- Corrie Ten Boom

Over the past few years I’ve began receiving from the Lord a “word of the year.” It will come to me sometime during prayer around the time of Advent, and I will get a sense of that being my word. Two years ago it was “trust,” and last year it was “union.” At the end of last year when I prayed, I sensed two words being put on my heart: rest and risk.

The two words seemed a bit paradoxical, so I was curious to see how God would lead me to reflect on them throughout the year. Little did I know just how paradoxical 2020 would be.

The word risk already had some obvious implications. I had decided to make a big change at the end of 2019 and return to Louisiana for my second year with Family Missions Company. I had entered into a relationship and wanted to discern marriage. Relationships, moves, and commitments always involve some element of risk.

I moved in with other stateside missionaries in January, and that first month seemed like a dream. I loved the house I was in, and my roommates were wonderful. I was excited about my work, and the office environment was uplifting. I was finally not dating long distance, and Friday evenings out were a thing. To top it off, I had the honor of attending a Mardi Gras ball and felt like a princess for the night.

But by the time I was packing for a three-week trip to Peru, things were starting to go downhill. I regretted making the decision to take this trip and wanted to stay and fix my relationship. Things needed to be discussed, and I wanted to do that in-person. Those discussions would have to wait, and so the unspoken tension remained. I boarded my flight with anxiety and regret. Something was terribly off.

Flying into Tarapoto, Peru

“It’s only three weeks,” I told myself. I would be able to put closure on my time in Peru, see the people I loved, and then return to the US and get back into my routine. I did my best to enjoy my last weeks in Peru, spending time with my dear friends there, helping lead a kids camp with other missionaries, and being a translator for the annual medical mission. But I was grateful to be returning to Louisiana soon. I knew that was to be my home this year, not Peru. I thank God for that clarity.

"Goofy pose!" Never a dull moment with the kids of Pucacaca.

However, as I traveled with missionaries and medical professionals to various villages, news about the coronavirus was increasing. We finished the successful mission, and 24 hours before I was to fly back to the US, the Peruvian president announced the closing of the country’s borders. They would close the following day...a mere 15 minutes before my flight was scheduled to depart from Lima.

Over the new few days of confusion, questions began to arise. If God isn’t calling me here, why am I stuck? Is this is sign? Why didn’t I plan to leave sooner, with the others from the trip? Should I pay to get on a repatriation flight or wait out the quarantine? Will the quarantine only last two weeks, or will it really be extended as some are predicting?

The country closed down from one day to the next, and flights were cancelled with little warning.

In the midst of emotional turmoil, I initiated a difficult conversation with my then-boyfriend over the phone. As the pot of beans I offered to make for the community overcooked on the stove, I probed and prodded until I got the honest answers that I dreaded...and the relationship came to a confusing end. I was heartbroken and frustrated. I blamed myself, thinking that if only I had waited to have that conversation in-person, I could have saved the relationship. (But I was in the midst of a 54-day rosary novena...something that I would eventually learn was not coincidental.)

Still, I knew that God was calling me to try to get “home.” I was in touch with a missionary family an hour away who was also trying to get to the US. I needed to get to them somehow—in spite of transportation between towns being very limited without permission and police patrolling the roads. For now, grieving would have to wait.

With the help of another missionary, I arranged a way to get transportation to the city of Tarapoto, and packed what I could into one suitcase and carry-ons. The rest would have to be left behind. The next morning as I was about to leave, my transportation plans fell through. My best option was to hitch a ride...with anyone who was willing to take the risk. 

So I said goodbye to the local missionaries and made my way on foot to the main road where I hoped a kind soul en route to the city would pick me up.

Stay tuned for part two...