Jamie the Very Worst Missionary

Five Years; a Farewell

noreply@blogger.com (Jamie, the Very Worst Missionary) — Wed, 23 May 2012 16:13:00 +0000

I can't believe it has been five years.

Five years of life and ministry in Costa Rica.

Five years worth of blood, sweat, and tears poured out so that God might be glorified and Jesus might be proclaimed to those who have not yet been restored to the family of Christ.

Five years of learning what it really means to be a “missionary” and examining missions in the context of the church, the neighborhood, the city, and the world at large.

Five years of trying to live out His call to be and to make true disciples.

Five years of heartbreaking failure, overwhelming sadness, silly mistakes and the kind of sweet, holy Redemption that can only wash over you when you're lying flat on your face on the living room floor at three o'clock in the morning, wondering what in the hell you're doing.

Truly, we have lived five of the most Grace-filled years you can imagine, finding that our God is utterly present with us – always – and that without Him we are aimless.

We have been challenged, tested, broken, humbled, and, irrevocably transformed. And now, after five incredible years, we find ourselves bringing our time in Costa Rica to a close.

Yes. It’s time for us to go “home”.

I'm super excited and little bit terrified to announce that in just 7 weeks, on July 10^th, we will be returning to our hometown of Folsom, California, where El Chupacabra has taken on a key role in Missions and Outreach at Lakeside Church.

This is a dream come true for us! We get to return to our roots to share out of our experience as missionaries and to continue on our path as learners. We have never stopped loving and feeling connected to Lakeside, so for us this is a true “homecoming”.

We couldn't be happier. And we couldn't be more sure that this was God's hope for us, all along. Five years of preparation. Five years of education. Five years of vision.

We leave behind (though we don’t take an ounce of credit) a country that is thriving for Jesus. Costa Rica boasts a wonderful, growing community of Christ followers and a host of Seminaries where Costa Rican leaders are being trained and equipped to lead the Church. We believe the hand of God is upon this tiny country and her beloved people, and have seen with our own eyes how His spirit dwells here.

Words cannot express how much we will miss this place and the dear friends it has brought us, nor the depth of our gratitude for having had the privilege to live here. Seriously, y'all... Life here has been no less than AMAZING. While we're looking forward to this next chapter, we will dearly miss this place.

Five years is a heartbeat and it's a lifetime; it's just long enough to fall in and out of love approximately one million times. I have.

And it was good.

…. …. ….

Through this journey, you have been our faithful supporters, our financial partners, our prayer warriors, and our friends. Without you, these five years would surely have looked different. Your partnership has been invaluable - I will never stop being grateful for the encouragement I've found in these pages.

Of course, I've wondered what will happen in this space, what will become of “The Very Worst Missionary”? And maybe you're wondering, too.

I'll share my thoughts on that another time, very soon, but some other time when I'm not crying so hard I can't see my own words through my tears.

For now I'll just say this;

I told you, recently, how I would happily exchange a life that was interesting for a life that was meaningful, and... well... I think I just did.

.... .... ....

I'll be posting more on the details of our transition (that's gentle speech for "I'll give you the low down on my rapid spiral toward crazy-town") on Friday.

Feel free to ask questions... I already know what the #1 question will be: "Will Knives the Cat be applying for a green card?!"

Stuff they've taught me.

noreply@blogger.com (Jamie, the Very Worst Missionary) — Mon, 14 May 2012 20:32:00 +0000

Yesterday wasn't Mother's Day in Costa Rica. It was just Sunday.

I'm cool with that. The truth is, I'm not a very good mom, so Mother's Day always feels kinda weird to me. Like my poor kids are being forced to give undue accolades to their weirdo, manic-depressive, spazzy Mom. “Here's breakfast in bed, Mom! Sooo....will you be getting out of bed today?”

I mean, we're doing fine, but I often feel like I'm learning way more from my loin-fruit than they're gleaning from me. So yesterday, while all y'all brunched on eggs benedict and mimosas in honor of good ol' Mom, I wrote a tribute to my kickass kids, and everything they've taught me:

They taught me to laugh. A lot...

I don't know what it is about having kids, but there are times that if you can't laugh, you'll just want to die. It starts the day they're born, when you inadvertently poop during labor. To poop yourself while 9 people are watching has got to be the #1 thing on my list of “Reasons to Jump off a Bridge”. Of course, #2 would be being pooped on (which each of my children did within 5 minutes of meeting me). #3? Finding a booger in your hair. Yeah. Been there.

When you have kids, your entire life becomes like an episode in a sit-com in which you are not the star. You're the sidekick who's always being pooped on. You're the Steve Urkel, the George Costanza, the Barny Fife. If you can't chuckle about the poop on day 1, you'll be completely miserable by day 4,395. So you've got to learn to laugh this stuff off, otherwise you risk ending up bitter and angry. With boogers in your hair.

They taught me to meet people where they're at...

When they were little, if I wanted to really connect with my kids I had to get on my knees and look them in the eye. Being on the same level helped them hear me and it helped me understand where they were coming from. Eventually, I began to see how this is true of every relationship I've ever had with my friends, family, and coworkers. It also explains my extreme distaste for people who think they're above me.

They taught me that having teenagers isn't a big deal, like, at all...

...unless the parents are still acting like teenagers. Then it suuucks. Trust me, I'm speaking from experience. But when the grownups act as grownups should, it's pretty easy for everyone to manage through all of the unchecked hormones, unwanted acne, and unsolicited boners of teen-angst without anyone committing any form of homicide.

They taught me that high-maintenance is the same as no-fun...

You can't go swimming because you it'll ruin your blow-out? You won't go camping unless there's a hot shower? You'd rather not get your shoes muddy?

Your kids do not give one shit about your hair, your hygiene, or your clothes. Not one shit.

I've noticed the best memories my kids have, the things they talk about the most, come out of our most spirit led adventures. They speak of treks through wet cow pastures and walks in the pouring rain and copious amounts of sand in our butt-cracks. Ant bites and wild animals and encounters with crazy people are the stuff of our dinner conversations. But they never say, “Remember Mom? You were wearing that super cute racerback and your makeup was impeccable.”

My little men (who aren't so little anymore) taught me to relax. And now we have more fun.

They taught me how to share...

It was my babies who taught me what “selfless” means, my littles ones who showed me the joy in giving away the cherry on a sunday. The showed me the beauty to be found in sleepless nights and busy days and a never-ending pile of laundry. They taught me how to love another person by giving myself away to them in increments of sleep and time, and by doing things I hate, like folding socks over and over and over again, a million times - because if you love someone, you have to give yourself to them a hundred different ways. And that's what real sharing is, right? It's not saying, “You may use my stuff until I want it back.” It's saying, “For you, Beloved, I die to myself...”

It was my munchkins who taught me what it really means to say, “I've got a frappuccino. Do you want the whipped-cream?”

I'm telling you, greater love hath no woman than this.

My children taught me there's no such thing as blind faith...

Through a thousand blown kisses, fluttering invisible to my turned cheek, my open hands, my beating heart, three chubby babies showed me that I already believed in what is unseen. I knew their love and it knew me. No explanation required, no proof needed, and nothing blind about it.

Indeed, having Faith means seeing. To have Faith is to see what others can't or don't. And if you've ever caught a fat baby's blown kisses... well, then you know what it means to have faith, too, I guess.

I will never stop being grateful to my kids for making me a Mama, but even more I'm thankful for the person they've helped me become.

Happy Mother's Day, indeed.

... ..... ...

What have your children taught you?

The least boring review I've ever written: Storyline.

noreply@blogger.com (Jamie, the Very Worst Missionary) — Tue, 08 May 2012 16:55:00 +0000

Last week, I went to the Storyline conference in Portland and now I want to tell you about it, but I feel weird asking you to read a review of a conference since I think reviews are some of the worst reading on the internet. Dropping a conference review into somebody's reader/inbox/newsfeed is like asking for their permission to bore the crap out of them.

Whatever. I'm writing a review anyway.

So. I want to tell you everything about Storyline, but I also want to tell you nothing - because I want you to actually go, show up, sit through it for yourself, experience it. That way, when you hear me saying really nondescript things, like “It was AMAAAZING” or “It messed me up. In a good way.”, you'd just know what I mean.

The conference is hosted by Donald Miller and a crew of hard working, well-dressed, incredibly good looking staff. And a dog. Somehow this team has managed to turn 30 consecutive hours of your life into what feels like a brief stay in a top-notch psychiatric facility.

When you check in to the conference they hand you a sharpened pencil and *The Notebook of Doom. *not its actual name The people at check-in are kind; they smile gently and offer you chocolate. Looking back, I can see that they weren't just being nice - They knew. They knew I was a lamb headed for slaughter. They had seen inside the notebook and they knew that before the end of the day, I would either be well on my way to living a better story or I'd be catatonic, curled up in the fetal position on the floor of a hotel closet. The chocolate is to make you... stable. Just a little cocoa to help boost that serotonin, right when you need it most. See? Now I get it: The chocolate is to keep you from stabbing yourself with the pencil.

So, without getting too far into the material (because I really don't want to spoil it for people who attend the conference), the idea is that we only have one life to live, one story to tell, and if we don't invest heavily in our relationships, work ethic, and spirit right now, we will die tomorrow ~or 50 years from tomorrow~ leaving a really boring story behind us. And that would be regretful.

That's where the Notebook of Doom comes in. The conference uses this book to walk you through several different modules relating to your life, using storytelling as a guideline. It takes you through the process of breaking down your history and your present, examining them pretty closely, and then rebuilding with a plan to improve your future. The purpose is to help you walk away with a map of your ambitions, hopes, and inspirations – and the motivation to move toward those goals.

Don Miller leads the charge through some pretty heady material with warmth and a whole lot of humor. The guest interviews were (mostly) engaging and memorable. I was particularly charmed by Bob Goff. This man, whom I had stupidly written off as goofy and overrated, is actually one of the most charismatic, enthusiastic, and seemingly genuine people I've ever been in the same room with. I LOVED him - Yes, capitalized L.O.V.E.D. him, he was that great.

I do have a couple of complaints...

First, the sessions were broken up by long breaks and “homework”. I found myself a little too overwhelmed by the material to want to sit down and scribble out my response in ten minutes. I wanted to think. I wanted to eat my chocolate, stab myself with my pencil, and then think about everything for awhile. My husband filled out the majority of his notebook while we were in Portland, over lunch and in our hotel room - I doodled all over mine, but didn't touch the good stuff until we got home and I'd had some time to process.

The other thing that kind of bugged me was that there seemed to be a lot, I mean a lot, of people who were treating this as a writers conference, like they were there to learn to write a better story – and so they were kind of missing the point. (I get that this is just me, being annoyed – a common occurrence) but it gave the open Q&A sessions a douchey, pseudo-intellectual feel. Answers to questions like “Who are your role models and why?” were exactly what you'd expect to hear from a bunch of wannabe Christian authors; C.S. Lewis, Dietrich Bonhoeffer, Nietzsche, crap like that. I wanted so badly for someone to call out “Julia Child” or “Martin Scorsese” or “Scott Hamilton”. I even nudged my husband and told him I was going to shout, “Chelsea Handler! Because she broke away from her odd religious upbringing to pursue a dream - and while she's a total hedonist, at least she's fully committed. Plus, we both like Vodka.” I didn't do it... but I still kind of wish I had.

Overall, the conference was good.

It was like a a partial lobotomy with a gentle massage. It was deep and a little agonizing, but comforting and redeeming.

I give it 5 Stars....2 Thumbs Up....Miss Congeniality...Best in Show...

I dunno. It was just a really good conference. If you can attend, I'd recommend it.

That concludes this boring review.

You may go about your business.

…. …. ….

Ever been to a conference or read a book that changed your life? Do tell...

Oh, Portland. You're silly.

noreply@blogger.com (Jamie, the Very Worst Missionary) — Thu, 03 May 2012 05:14:00 +0000

This is what I learned about Portland, Oregon over these last couple days.

First? Portland is obsessed with being Portland. No kidding, it's like the only thing Portland talks about. No matter what subject you bring up, Portland will trump your story with how Portland does it better.

“What's that? You saw a documentary about free-range chickens? That's neat. My friend from Portland runs a free-range chicken farm on top of a 13 story building, in Portland.”

“Awww, you made a home brew? That's adorable. My cousin in Portland brews a rosie amber pilsner using home-grown yeast scraped from the feet of Portlanders. You should totally try it.”

“Oh, you bought a book somewhere? That's awful. Portland has the best bookstore in the Universe. It's so big it has a functional wishing well... and a unicorn...and a secret vortex to another dimension... and socialized medicine. It's amaaaazing. I pretty much only buy books in Portland.”

This odd Portland-centeredness should be annoying, but it's really not. The truth is, in a matter of hours you'll be doing the same thing as you rave about how the soft-shell crab you plucked off a food truck was “the BEST on the PLANET” or the tabouli salad you had for lunch was “like, O.M.G. Fresh”. You will start to believe, as the Portlanders do, that everything is better in Stumptown.

But just as you're on the verge of calling a realtor and a moving company, you'll notice that people in Portland only wear black and dark black. And sometimes grey. If you wear anything other than black or black or maybe gray, everyone will know you're not from these parts. And let me warn you; If you wear red jeans in Portland, waiters in trendy restaurants will ignore you for an extra 10 minutes and then they will speak to you as if you don't know how to read. People will point and stare. A guy will shout “WELCOME TO PORTLAND!” from his car window as he drives past. But you have to remember, these people have never seen the sun. Treat them with Grace. They exist in the gloomy cloud cover of a colorless world. It's not their fault.

Despite their lack of appreciation for the full spectrum of the rainbow, I feel like Portland is the friendliest city I have ever stepped foot in. I don't know what you've heard, but they really won't damn you to hell for eating bologna on non-sprouted white bread. Portlanders struck up conversations with us on the street. They helped us navigate the MAX (light-rail) system. They encouraged us to fit in by gently reminding us that “Um. People don't use umbrellas around here.” And they freely opened doors to welcome us out of the rain.

Oh, yeah. Portland just loves to talk about rain. And when they did, we were like, “Rain? Oh, Portland. You're silly. In Costa Rica, the rain is like the sky opening up and trying to drown you in a vertical river.” And then we'd chuckle a little, like condescending douchebags, “You call this rain? That is so cute.”

… ….. ….

It's quirky and clean and easy to navigate, and whether you like a little bit of pretentious hipster with your food-truck burrito, or not, Portland is a charming big, little city. I think it just became one of my top 3 favorite cities.

What's your favorite city and why?

My Father's Son

noreply@blogger.com (Jamie, the Very Worst Missionary) — Sun, 15 Apr 2012 17:59:00 +0000

Yesterday was Stephen's last football game. Ever.

It was a tough loss, but a good game. I watched my son lay his whole heart out on the field, giving his strength and his spirit to his teammates. He took orders. He took risks. He poured every ounce of energy he could muster into his game, and even though the team lost, he considers it a personal best.

I went to greet him on the field after the final whistle and he said, "Did you SEE ME?!"

Of course I saw him! I thought he was wonderful - but I'm his Mom. He could have been the worst player on the field (or in the history of the world) and I would have thought him a hero. But as we were walking off the field, the head referee stopped us to shake Stephen's hand. He looked my boy in the eye and said," You're a beast. You are a FRIGGING BEAST!"

My son didn't shrug off the compliment. Nor did he say, "Thank you".

He looked right back at the ref and said, "I am my Father's son."

I am my Father's son.

That I didn't fall on my knees and weep, right then and there, is a small miracle. I was just so moved by those five words. I wish I could bottle the moment and hold onto it forever as a reminder of that incredibly humble and incredibly powerful acknowledgement.

Our amazingness is never ours alone.

My son was being literal; He gets his natural size and strength from his Dad. He was coached by his Dad. He has his Dad's propensity for general badassedness. He is clearly his Father's son. But the gifts and dedication of his Father combined with his own willingness and effort are what make him remarkable.

In the same way, when you lean hard into the gifts that God his given you and when you pour your might, spirit, and heart into those gifts, then you reflect beautifully on your Father in heaven.

You get to lay it all out there! And then remember that Shame and Pride have lost their place in your world - You are simply your Father's son.

That's it. That's all there is.

... .... ...

For me, it looks like this:

I write a blog. Some say I'm a writing beast... I am my Father's daughter.

Ok. Now you try it...

Healthy Short-term Missions? Do it like Jesus.

noreply@blogger.com (Jamie, the Very Worst Missionary) — Tue, 10 Apr 2012 18:31:00 +0000

Continuing our conversation on the folly of Short-term Missions...

This is how Short-term missions teams are often done:

Invite anybody (who feels like it/can afford it) on a trip to a (safe but adventurous) place. Raise funds, collect loads of supplies, buy matching t-shirts printed with a catchy logo and/or leading question to use as a traveling evangelism tool. Create a detailed packing list. Travel to destination in matching shirts, being sure to strike up at least one conversation at every stop to indicate that you are “serving the Lord, Jesus Christ”. Stay as a group in a dorm, church, hostel, or hotel. “Help” poor people, or the disaster afflicted, by offering unskilled labor, unwanted prayer, and cartoon Bible tracts. Give away some junk. On the last night of the trip, order Pizza because everybody is sick to death of local food. Arrive home, slightly conflicted, burdened for “those less fortunate”, unsure if any actual help occurred, but grateful for all your “Blessings”. Share none of your doubts, but tell family, friends, and especially financial supporters that it was an awesome trip and that you totally saw God at work.

Aaaaaaand...

This is how Jesus sent “short-term teams” in Luke, chapter 10:

“After this the Lord appointed 72 others. He sent them out two by two ahead of him. They went to every town and place where he was about to go.

He told them, "The harvest is huge, but the workers are few. So ask the Lord of the harvest to send out workers into his harvest field.

Go! I am sending you out like lambs among wolves. Do not take a purse or bag or sandals. And don't greet anyone on the road.

When you enter a house, first say, 'May this house be blessed with peace.' If someone there loves peace, your blessing of peace will rest on him. If not, it will return to you. Stay in that house. Eat and drink anything they give you. Workers are worthy of their pay. Do not move around from house to house.

When you enter a town and are welcomed, eat what is set down in front of you. Heal the sick people who are there. Tell them, 'God's kingdom is near you.

… The 72 returned with joy. They said, "Lord, even the demons obey us when we speak in your name."

Soooo.... basically, we do it, like, exactly opposite to the way Jesus did.

Where Jesus appointed, we take volunteers.

Where Jesus sent pairs, we send herds.

Where Jesus admonished for danger and quiet humility along the road, we opt for vacation destinations and loud self-congratulations.

Where Jesus asks to be bringers of peace, we often bring chaos.

Where Jesus designed an opportunity for a disciple to lean into a new family, learn a new culture, and serve under the head of a household (who best knows his own need), we march in with a plan and the resources to git'er'done – completely missing out on the gift of being “a worker worth his wages”.

What if the original picture of “short-term teams” was meant to show us this valuable step in the process of discipleship, where we can learn dependance on God, love for others, and how to serve well?

And what if we've taken that picture and turned it into a billion dollar industry, creating dependance among the poor - not on God - but on the ourselves, damaging Christ's image in the world, and missing the point entirely?

Perhaps the first step to creating healthy short-term missions can be found in stripping them down to their most basic form, creating them to look more like part of the discipleship process. What if we unashamedly refocused the dynamics of a “mission” trip onto the one being sent, and removed pseudo-humanitarian efforts (which are often more harm than good) altogether?

I dunno.

It's just a thought...

How to recognize us at Storyline 2012.

noreply@blogger.com (Jamie, the Very Worst Missionary) — Sat, 07 Apr 2012 21:18:00 +0000

At the end of this month, you'll be able to find me and El Chupacabra in the land of bridges and bicycles - the lovely yet gloomy hipster paradise of Portland, Oregon.

We'll be easy to spot, as I own absolutely no vintage clothing (unless you call underwear so old it has lost its elasticity “vintage”) and because El Chupacabra's glasses are real and completely necessary. So, if you're in the great Pacific Northwest on April 30th, keep your eyes peeled for two dorks in baggy panties, clothes from Target, and functional eye glasses. It will be us. I promise.

We'll be there to attend Donald Miller's Storyline 2012 conference, and we're pretty excited about it. The conference website describes it like this:

WHY, you ask, are two people who have obviously taken some pretty extraordinary steps toward living life to its fullest going to a conference about learning to live well?

Um... That's a really good question.

Here's the answer:

We've found ourselves at a bit of a crossroads - Over the next few months we'll be facing some major life changes that we'd like to step into with a sense of direction. Our work/ministry dynamic will be changing. Our family dynamic will be changing. And our home base might be changing.

We want to spend April 30^th and May 1^st at the Storyline conference, examining these forthcoming changes. We're hoping to use our time there to prayerfully and willfully narrow the focus on our wildest passions and truest gifts. We want to explore our future, as our oldest son is moving out, and soon we'll begin daily life as a family of four. (Ugh. When I typed that, I think my heart opened up and leaked out something important. I'll never be the same.) And we want to continue to seek God regarding our future as missionaries.

Truly, I live an interesting life. Moving to a foreign country seems like an obvious choice if an “interesting” life is what you're aiming for. But I don't want to settle for an interesting life when I could upgrade to a meaningful life; A life that has depth, and impact; A life that serves, blesses, and equips others on their own paths. That is the life I want to live.

I want to live an unforgettable, honest, meaningful story - one clearly defined by Faith, Hope, and Love, and book-ended by Grace and Redemption.

It's just time for some self-evaluation, to be sure that's where we're headed, ya know? For that reason, I think the Storyline conference will be helpful to us. We're excited about it.

Oh. And you should totally come! Then we could hang out. A fun time would surely be had. Then sometime, way down the line, when we're old and wrinkled and looking back on our amazing stories, we could talk about the time our paths crossed in Portland and you knew it was me by my stretched out underpants, and I knew it was you by your...

....Wait. How will I recognize you?!

Grace. And girl-farts.

noreply@blogger.com (Jamie, the Very Worst Missionary) — Thu, 29 Mar 2012 21:06:00 +0000

I have done a terrible thing.

A shockingly awful, embarrassing thing.

It involves a lie that I told.

Yes, I lie.

(Whatever! You lie, too. If you claim you don't, go away. Your kind isn't welcome here.)

Anyway.

I told a lie to my kids and now that my darling oldest son is 18 and moving out and venturing ahead - particularly into close relationships with women who are not his Mother - I can see how my lie is going to disrupt his life a bit. Possibly cause him some pain. Maybe destroy him completely.

You see, when my giant, burly boy was a wee babe, I taught him a mild untruth about the human race; I told him that...*ahem*... Ok. I told him girls don't fart.

"Girls don't fart."

Ever.

Like, at all.

I may have inferred that it's physically impossible.

Of course, as God poured more boys into our family, with the addition of two more extremely well-endowed sons (you're welcome, guys!), this slight misrepresentation about the feminine form was easy to hold to. So I let it fester.

But as my children have awakened from the innocence of their childhood, transforming from rascally chub-faced angels into the trio of furry, smelly, mouthy young men I currently live with, they have begun to question my teaching. “Maria Laura farted in P.E., Mom. I heard it. I smelled it. She admitted it was her. What do you say about that?”

And I can feel my credibility slipping, sliding toward the agonizing death of the Easter Bunny and the Tooth Fairy, to take it's place in the sewer of lies-parents-tell, at the right hand of Santa Claus.

"Mom doesn't know what she's talking about. Or? She's a liar."

Either way, I look like a dumbass. A broken, lost soul; hopelessly prideful, and full of her own ideas. An imperfect Mother, clinging to the hope that my children will each, in their own (hopefully not too agonizing) way, come to know true Grace, and in turn, generously impart it to their oh-so-mortal Mom.

I'm sorry. I lied.

I know I should have told them the truth from the very beginning.

Girls fart!

...but I never have.

WHAT?! Baby steps, people.

... .... ...

Grace, for your silly little heart. And mine.

Hugs for Jesus.

noreply@blogger.com (Jamie, the Very Worst Missionary) — Fri, 23 Mar 2012 06:06:00 +0000

A few weeks ago, a couple of friends and I had a remarkably awkward interaction with a group of short-term missionaries, right here in Costa Rica. The whole thing reminded me of the ongoing conversation on this blog regarding some of the more glaring failures of short-term missions, and it reaffirmed my conviction that we desperately need to examine missions as a whole.

We had zipped on in to the city so my friend could shoot some footage for a documentary, when we ran across a group of young people playing music in front of a fountain and offering passers-by hugs in the name of Jesus.

Yes. Hugs... For Jesus.

As we moved through the crowded promenade, we could see these Gringos were were out in force, carrying signs (many in English) that said “Free hugs” and “Jesus loves You” and a couple of references to 1Corinthians, the love chapter.

Eventually, one of them found her way over to where we were sitting to offer a Jesus hug. Being a non-toucher, in general, I quickly declined. “No, thank you. I'm....I'm good.” And when my sweet, affection-loving friend finally relented to the poor girl's persistent (insistent?) offer to give her a hug from Jesus, I knew immediately that I had made the right decision. That chick had my poor friend wrapped up like a cage-fighter when I saw how bad she was pitting-out. We're talking pit-stains the size of Rhode Island.... For real. Want a hug? And possibly a communicable disease?...*Shudder*

By the way, Jesus loves you!

We ended up shooting an impromptu interview with this group of college aged youth, who'd come from all over North America and Europe. We asked them simple questions like who they were, what they were doing, and what they hoped to accomplish by giving out hugs on the streets of Costa Rica. I can say they were at least able to tell us their own names with confidence - beyond that, it was obvious that none of them was really sure why they were here or what they were doing. One girl even admitted that she wasn't even a Christian when she arrived in the field, and that her Mom had signed her up (As a missionary! On a missions trip!!) without her knowledge.

We asked them, “If someone accepted a hug and was so moved by said hug (and subsequently knowing that Jesus loved them) and they wanted more information, what would you do?”

And they weren't really sure.

So we helped them out with a suggestion, “Would you, y'know, maybe refer them to a local church?”

“Oh, yes! Yes. For sure. We would refer them to a church.”

Cool. Which church?

“Oh. Costa Rica has tons of great churches.”

Ok. Do you know what any of them are called? Or where they are?

“Well... No. But, they're everywhere around here.”

Oookaaay... Do you go to a church here? Like, a church that you could invite people to attend?

“Um...yeah. Hey, you guys? What's that church we go to? Like, on Sundays. What's it called again?”

So you don't even know where YOU go to church?

And then, a leader came up and tapped her watch and said, “Sorry to interrupt, but we've got to go do... a...thing...” And then they split.

To be frank, this was probably the most significant conversation these kids had all week. Perhaps all month. And they had no idea whether or not we were Christians – as we parted, a couple of them shouted “Remember, JESUS LOVES YOU!”, so I'm guessing they assumed we were not in the brotherhood – but they were on a schedule, one which apparently cannot be disrupted by pesky people asking annoying questions about connecting with Jesus.

.... .... ....

I know, I promised to take this conversation in a new direction, to lay off the complaints and instead offer some helpful suggestions for healthy, useful missions. But I relayed this story because I think it's a great illustration to help us carry this conversation forward, as it raises some really good questions to get us started:

Should anyone at all be allowed on a short-term mission trip? If not, what should the criteria be? What should the vetting process look like?

Does the purpose of a mission trip matter? Does your church choose to partner with world missions that fall in line with its own view of ministry and discipleship? For example: Would your church see “giving hugs for Jesus” as a valuable contribution to the process of making disciples?

Are you willing to do the work to make missions matter? Missions will continue to be crappy as long as we're willing to sign up on a whim, hop on a plane, and do whatever we're told without an ounce of intelligence. For instance: Do you think people in Costa Rica, where even the ER doctor will greet you with a kiss on the cheek, are in dire need of physical connection – Is there a lack of hugs around here? And, do you think that in a country, like saaaay Costa Rica (where people are very sensitive to body odor, cologne is the bread of life, and showering is as important as eating), that hugs from a bunch of greasy, smelly Gringos with pit-stains down to their belly-buttons are a good way to connect and say, “Jesus loves you”? I mean, come on – isn't there a better way?

And that's what it all boils down to, I guess. Is there a better way?

Welcome to the second part of this whole messy series on Short-term missions. I'm really excited about exploring these questions (plus a few more) in depth with you guys over the next few weeks. I would love to hear your thoughts, and I hope that you'll feel comfortable to claim your stake in this important conversation as we talk it out.

As always, I hope and pray that you'll carry these questions off of this page and into the offices of your pastors and onto the sofas of your small group leaders, that this conversation will take wings in the world and effect much needed change.

..... ...... .....

Would you have accepted or declined the sweaty Jesus hug? Tell the truth...

And now I'm giving tips on writing? Ridiculous.

noreply@blogger.com (Jamie, the Very Worst Missionary) — Tue, 20 Mar 2012 14:01:00 +0000

In what I believe is, perhaps, the greatest twist of irony ever to happen to the internet (second only to the whole "Make Kony Famous" thing making poor Jason Russell really, really famous), someone has invited me to write about writing.

That just made me LOL.

But it's true.

Today, I'm honored to be guest posting over at "The Write Practice". A writing blog.

For real.

Joe Bunting is running a series on humor writing and asked me to contribute. And while I can easily admit that my post is nowhere near as good, or as useful, or as funny as Paul Angone's post, prior to mine, it is filled with my most important, hard-learned lessons on writing like a funny person.

So if you're into that kind thing, head on over and check it out. And if you're not into that kinda thing, head on over anyway and pat me on the back so I don't kill myself for lack of false-esteem.... I'm kidding. But, please?

Here's a teaser:

The Very Worst Missionary’s Four Tips of Being Funny
To be fair, I don’t really consider myself a humor writer. I’m more like a half-assed blogger whose personal dysfunction makes people laugh out loud in airports, coffee shops, and cubicles. (Wow. It’s actually kind of sad when you think of it like that.) Whatever. Here I am, contributing to a series on humor writing – so, for today, let’s pretend that I’m a humorous writer, sharing the secret formula to being hilarious.

Get ready for it. Pretty sure I’m about to blow your mind…

.... .... ....

PS - I HATE writing guest posts. Every time I do it, I tell myself, "This is the last one. I'm never doing this again." It's just too stressful. I just know everyone is going to hate it and wonder why I was allowed to contribute. I suck. This was the last one. For sure. Probably.

El Chupacabra wears a tiny dress and goes under the knife.

noreply@blogger.com (Jamie, the Very Worst Missionary) — Fri, 16 Mar 2012 06:27:00 +0000

If you and I are not already BFF's on Twitter or Facebook, then you might not know that El Chupacabra had knee surgery yesterday.

Let me tell you, you really missed out. I tweeted the hell out of that surgery.

I tweeted when he went in, and I tweeted when he came out, and I tweeted about a million times in between. Apparently, I tweet when I'm nervous.

And I was so NERVOUS!

It was fairly minor surgery, but I couldn't keep from freaking out. The hospital is super clean and modern, but it still maintains enough awkward, third-worldyness to throw me off my game.

The first weird thing was that they made us give them a $500 deposit before the surgery. This had nothing to do with insurance or deductibles or copays, or anything like that. It was just a "deposit", which they said would be returned after the surgery. I'm still not sure what it was for, exactly, but we paid it at the bank in the hospital. (And I still think it's kinda weird that there's a bank inside the hospital, but ok.)

So we payed the "deposit" and found our way to the surgical ward, where they gave El Chupacabra the biggest gown they could find...

I cropped this photo. You're welcome.

This gown came down to approximately 3 centimeters below his boys. It was hilARious. So we're both in the changing room, doing that whisper/laugh thingy, where something hysterical is happening but you can't just let it rip, so you wheeze and gasp and hold your breath until the laughter shakes your whole body and eventually explodes out the sides of your cheeks.

Finally a little, tiny nurse's aid came to the other side of the curtain, "Señor, are you ready?"

When he whipped back that curtain, nearly naked, she offered him a fuzzy blanket to wrap around his butt. As I left him in pre-op, I heard him say, "Nadie quiere ver mi culo.", and then I sat in the waiting room for hours, thinking, "Great. If something awful happens in there, the last words I'll have heard from my husband will be 'Nobody wants to see my ass."

The surgery was only supposed to last an hour, and it was supposed to start at 6pm. But it wasn't until 10 (just as I had concluded that El Chupacabra was surely dead) that the nurse came out and told me he was fine. Then she said a whole bunch of other stuff that I didn't understand because it was 10pm and my ability to speak Spanish really ceases somewhere right after 7.

She pointed down the hall and gave me some instructions and then she left.

So I walked down in that general direction and stood there for a minute, confused, until I saw a woman sitting at a desk. By this point I was too tired to give a crap about sounding like a total dipshit, so I walked up to the lady and said (and this is an exact quote), "I'm supposed to go somewhere and do something." (Nicely done, Jamie.) And that poor woman just looked at me for a second, like "stupid gringos", but she was really cool and patient, and she helped me understand that I had been sent to get my $500 back, and then she walked me over to the bank and made sure I did it right. Very cool lady. Grateful for her.

When I finally saw my man, he was in recovery but he couldn't be released because his feet didn't work. They had given him a spinal block, and it was just taking way longer than normal to wear off. Actually, I think the doctor explained that to me on his way out, but it went right over my head...

What the doctor didn't tell me was that when they got into El Chupacabra's knee, they confirmed that he had torn his PCL and discovered that his ACL is hanging by a mere thread.

So, basically, he needs more surgery - and if he opts to have the PCL repaired, he'll have to go to the U.S. for it, because nobody here can fix it.

Lame!

But what are you gonna do, right?!

So as I was processing this sucky information, and they were finally getting El Chupacabra out of his tiny dress and into his clothes, the nurse hands me a bag full of meds and starts going over instructions for post-op care - including GIVING HIM A SHOT, once a day, for the next 5 days.

Seriously.

So this morning, I gave my first ever shot. It was awful. But it was also kinda cool. And while I squealed and squirmed and hesitated this morning, as if this was the most barbaric, ass-backwards, unreasonable thing for me to have to do, I know that by day 5 I'll be all, "What, this syringe? Yeah, I'm gonna give you a shot with it! *poke*" And then I'll act, for the rest of my natural life, like I'm a badass who will give you a shot just for the hell of it, because I live in Costa Rica and in Costa Rica this is how we do.

Anyway.

Overall, it has been a good experience, and we feel confident in the care that El Chupacabra is receiving. He is feeling good and his knee is healing well.

The stitches oog me out, though. They look like two little dead eyes on a puffy cartoon face...

Right?!

Ok. So, all of that to say, THANK YOU for your prayers! And THANK YOU to those who gave generously to help us cover the deductible and other costs associated with this surgery and the next one. This internet community has been a support to us in ways we never could have imagined, and we thank God for you.

We are super grateful for each of you who follows along with us, on this messy, beautiful journey. At least it's never boring, huh?

.... ..... ....

I've never had surgery. Have you?

And more importantly, have you ever given anyone a shot?!

What I was doing when I wasn't here.

noreply@blogger.com (Jamie, the Very Worst Missionary) — Mon, 12 Mar 2012 16:42:00 +0000

Hi.

It's been awhile. Life has been crazy, hectic, busy, good, and kinda bad, too. Here's a brief recap:

Part 1: Houston based independent filmmaker, Scott Brignac and his lovely wife/assistant Melissa, came down to Costa Rica to film a short documentary about our family.

Yes, a documentary. No, not a reality show.

Here are some things I learned from the experience:

- I hate cameras. They make everyone act like weirdos.

- All my clothes are old and ugly. And I'm fat.

- My kids are exactly as awesome as I believe them to be. (I was so impressed by their poise and candor.)

- 96% of my exuded confidence is false. Apparently, I am a frightened child.

- My husband shores me up. I feel like I can do anything when I'm with him, even make a fool of myself on film.

- I'm a terrible, terrible actress. The worst, really.

- It feels good to trust the artistic process of another person, even when they're shedding light on your life.

- A good filmmaker can do stuff with his equipment to make you look not as hideous as you really are. It's pretty cool.

- If a filmmaker is grabbing footage of your husband playing football, and he leans over and asks you if you ever worry about him getting hurt out there, and you say "Pshhh, No! He's having fun doing something he loves!", then you can expect your husband to rupture his meniscus and tear a ligament in his knee about 5 minutes later. I think this is like the Christian version of Karma (sometimes called "humility") - It's either that, or shit happens. I'm not sure which.

Anyway. Scott and Melissa were super fun, super cool, super professional and super patient. We really loved having them here, and I'm looking forward to sharing the final product of their time here with all y'all.

So, did you catch the part where El Chupacabra blew out his knee?

That's Part 2 of "What I was doing when I wasn't here": El Chupacabra busted up his knee.

But then he didn't want to go the doctor because he didn't want to spend the money on an appointment. Finally, after much convincing, he went, and the doctor sent him for an MRI and the MRI said "You are so screwed."

We went back to the doc with the MRI results and he said, "You need surgery. Would you like to do it today?"

And we were like, "Whoa, whoa! Hold on..."

We had a few questions about the surgery and recovery, and all that, and finally, El Chupacabra asked him, "What are my options?", and the doctor paused for a second to think, then he said, "Your options are surgery."

So now El Chupacabra is having knee surgery on Wednesday. And we are feeling completely freaked out by the $2500 insurance deductible, while trying so hard to feel grateful that we have insurance at all. Y'know?

*heavy sigh*

I'm gonna be honest. We don't have a spare $2500. A few people have graciously stepped up to give however they could and we are incredibly thankful! - But we're still about $1850 away from the bottom line...

Sooooo? If you're inclined, please feel free to find that PayPal button over there ➔ on the righthand side of my blog and click away. We could really use your help right about now.

>>> UPDATE: Through the generosity of this community, the deductible was fully covered!!!<<<

THANK YOU!!!

(And if you're wondering why he's out there playing football when he should be doing more missionarying or whatever, read this. Football has a clear purpose for us. As we've connected with our players, and their wives and girlfriends, we talk a lot of Jesus and we've really been blessed by God's presence among us. It's a thing.)

Also? My youngest son has a mystery fever that comes and goes. It's got me a little stressed out on top of everything else.

... .... ...

If you wouldn't mind praying for us (particularly for that messed up knee, steady surgical hands, fast healing, and the finances to pay for it all) we'd be filled with gratitude.

And hey, if you've got a prayer request, let's have it! I'd love to pray for you, too, my friends.

Blog fail.

noreply@blogger.com (Jamie, the Very Worst Missionary) — Sat, 10 Mar 2012 01:00:00 +0000

I'm gonna post something here tonight!

Or tomorrow.

Or, possibly...... Monday?

Love,
Jamie, the Very Worst Blogger.

The Final Freaking Rose.

noreply@blogger.com (Jamie, the Very Worst Missionary) — Thu, 23 Feb 2012 18:10:00 +0000

Let me preface this post by saying: I have no right to write about pop-culture.

I sort of gave up that link to social relevance (along with regular hair cuts and a proper collection of shoes) when I moved out of the U.S.

But.

I have cable TV.

And my cable TV includes network television programming from Miami.

And my husband coaches football on Monday nights, so there's nobody here to work the remote control for me.

And that's the only way I can explain how I've seen the last four episodes of "The Bachelor".

And ARE YOU FREAKING KIDDING ME?! That show is everything that's wrong with the world.

It's true.

If you're unfamiliar with the Bachelor (perhaps because you live on a submarine in the Bermuda Triangle), the premise is that a whole bunch of women meet ~and miraculously fall in love with~ one dude, and then he dates/makes out with all of them at once, and then, at the end of each episode, he kicks one or two of them to the curb. Each weeks "winners" get a red rose and another shot at beating out the competition on the path toward the "Final Rose Ceremony", which culminates in a marriage proposal from, basically, a total stranger.

It's terrifying.

I'm sorry if you love The Bachelor. And I'm sorry if you think that Neanderthal Ben is soooo dreamy and you wish that Psychopath Courtney would perish in a freak accident so that Ben could ride off into the sunset with Nicki on Lindzi's horse... to your house, where he would dump Nicki and give YOU the final rose.

But, dear sweet baby Jesus, have we grown so apathetic to the human condition that we've turned Love into a gameshow?

I've been sitting there watching the carnage of The Bachelor on Monday nights with a cocktail of glee and pity as woman after woman gets her pathetic little heart stomped into the ground.

Do I enjoy this?

Um... I kind of do.

It's so bizarre.

I'm simultaneously horrified and amused. I want 5 minutes with these women because I want to tell them how they're too worthwhile to be embarrassing themselves in this appalling circus act. But I also want to karate chop them in the throat, and tell them what a bunch of stupid idiots they are for signing up in the first place and that if they're gonna be a bunch of stupid idiots then they deserve to be crushed and humiliated in front of everyone on the planet.

It's a real dichotomy.

So I sit there all by myself on Monday nights, saying, "Change the channel, Jamie." Over and over again, I tell myself, "This is bullshit. CHANGE THE CHANNEL. Do not be a part of this crap. CHANGE THE FREAKING CHANNEL."

But I keep watching because I'm "just curious" as to who will walk away at the end of each episode with the elusive red rose that denotes her superiority over the competition, and who will collapse in shock when they realize that they have not been chosen by the douche with the roses.

Not gonna lie, it tweaks my heart a little when they interview the dumped girl as they drive her away in a limo. It kinda gets to me when she does that squeaking, gasping, crying thing, and then she croaks out her rejected dismay from behind a snot bubble. I can practically hear what's left of her tattered soul, begging the universe for answers - "If I can't find love on the Bachelor, then how will I ever snag a man before all my eggs shrivel up?!". I want to reassure her that she'll be ok as they send her packing with nothing but a broken heart and, presumably, a cold sore.

The show itself is a travesty. And yet, as I watch, I can't decide which is more devastating; That the show exists at all? Or that, in my brokenness, I help it exist?

I am, however, reminded of one simple truth as The Bachelor wreaks havoc on the Earth with those damn red roses every Monday...

We need you, Jesus.

We need your Grace. We need your Hope. And we really, really need your Love.

Cause this thing we're doing? Where we turn pain into profit, and love into a gameshow, and then we put everything we have on the line for a final freaking rose that has no value...?

Yeah.

I don't think it's working out that well.

.... ...... ....

What about you?
Are you a Bachelor apologetic? Or do you think it comes straight from the bowels of hell?

It's ok... you can tell us if you love it. ;)

The Tourist Gospel

noreply@blogger.com (Jamie, the Very Worst Missionary) — Sun, 19 Feb 2012 03:34:00 +0000

A million years ago, El Chupacabra and I spent a weekend in Manhattan.

We stayed in a fancy hotel, we rode the subway and the Staten Island ferry just for fun, we saw Rent (be very jealous). And we ate. We ate every quintessentially “New York” thing that crossed our paths; massive slices of pizza, fat bagels, cheesecake, hot pretzels, hot nuts, hot knishes, hot dogs, and anything at all with the word “deli” in front of it.

I loved that weekend so much.

But of all the wonderful things we experienced and of all the incredible calories we consumed, my favorite moment happened one night when we were walking back to our hotel from Washington square; A car pulled up beside us and asked us for directions!

Not even kidding! Isn't that cool?!

Of course we weren't able to offer any real help to those lost souls, but we were kinda thrilled that the occupants of the car had mistaken us for actual, legitimate, they-look-like-they-live-around-here New Yorkers!

Yes, I can understand how one might think that being stopped for directions under a street lamp on the corner of an iconic city isn't a very big deal, but I think it's pretty much the coolest thing ever. And it's not like I have some longstanding yet unfulfilled dream of living a sleek metropolitan life among the grit and glitter of Manhattan (Ok, fine. I do.), but, the thing is? I have this crazy huge aversion to looking like a tourist... I just hate it.

I know that you know who I'm talking about. We've all seen them; goofy, overly impressed, oddly dressed, picture snapping, map gazers, huddled in the shadow of the empire state building. Not that there is anything inherently wrong with looking like a complete douchepickle while you're on vacation – I'm not saying that. I just prefer to blend in, that's all.

I've thought about this a lot since we moved to Costa Rica, where no matter how hard I try not to, I will always stand out as a Gringa. Where, even though I've never subscribed to the missionary uniform of Chacos and rolled-up safari pants, I'm still obviously foreign. And where, even though I refuse to wear a backpack and a floppy hat on the bus, I still look distinctly out-of-place. The truth is, if someone figured out that they were lost in the little town I live in, I'd be the last person they'd look to for answers. A smart person would look for someone who at least appeared to be at home here.

So, all of this has got me thinking about what happens when, as Christians, we let ourselves be so far “set apart” from the world that we end up looking like a bunch of tourists, instead of the ones with the answers. It got me wondering if maybe Paul knew what he was talking about when he said, “I have become all things to all people, so that by all possible means I might save some. I do this for the sake of the gospel, that I may share in its blessing.”

All things to all people? Man, I love that. And not despite the gospel, but “for the sake of the gospel”.

All things to all people so that the blessing of the gospel might be shared.

But here we are, the Church, huddled together in awe and fear of the big, scary world, wearing ugly-ass shoes and a stupid-ass hat, and talking like a bunch of foreigners - but we've got our fingers crossed that the people will see how we're so totally set apart, and then they'll come ask us for directions.

Hmmm....

.... ..... ....

>> Insert cheesy question to encourage conversation here. <<

This is STILL not a food blog. But...

noreply@blogger.com (Jamie, the Very Worst Missionary) — Thu, 09 Feb 2012 18:59:00 +0000

I've been bakin' Picaken.

Yes. The incredibly odd "Picaken" has taken a foothold in my house, where we celebrated 3 birthdays in 3 weeks, each calling for its own version of Frankenstein's monster; a cake with a heart of pie.

I already posted a play by play of my first Picaken experience; the diabolical grafting of a blackberry pie and a lemon cake. But people are still asking for the recipe (which I don't have, because I just make it up as I go), so here's a general guideline:

Step 1. WORK OUT. I am not kidding - go burn some calories. You'll thank me later.

Step 2. BAKE A PIE. Really. Any pie will do. If you aren't into baking pies from scratch, then buy one. I promise people will be too filled with horror and intrigue when they see that you've crossbred a pie and a cake to wonder whether or not the pie was fresh or frozen.

Step 3. PUT IT IN A CAKE. Pour about a cup of cake batter into a prepared springform pan, then... dump a pie in it. I really HATE this part. This is the awful, awful moment when you loosen a gorgeous, freshly baked pie from its tin and flip it into cake batter as if it wouldn't have tasted perfectly delicious all by its lonesome.

You may need a drink to get through this. It will mess with your head that much.

Step 4. THROW THAT SUCKER IN THE OVEN and bake it until it's done. You can check for doneness by any manner of child abuse: shake it, slap it, stab it, poke it with toothpicks. If it's not done when you think it should be, shout "What is WRONG with you?!" at it.

(If, at some point, it looks like a Gremlin that you fed after midnight, you're doing it right.)

STEP 5. COVER THE 8 1/2 LB PIE/CAKE THINGY IN AT 2 LBS OF BUTTERCREAM.

For the love of all things holy, make your own icing. That stuff in a tub may be fine for an ordinary cake, but this is no ordinary cake. This is a Picaken, people, A PICAKEN.

But, really, make your own icing. It only takes 5 minutes! (plus 2 and a half hours to clean up the layer of powdered sugar dust that will inevitably cover every surface of your house)

Step 6. WORK OUT. I am NOT kidding. You're gonna need it.

Ok. Let's recap:

You make a lemon pie. You put it in a vanilla cake. You cover it in buttercream.

Then, if you're me, you make a cherry pie. You put it in a chocolate cake. You cover it with buttercream.

And here's a handy tip: If your Picaken doesn't seem rich enough or decadent enough or sickeningly sweet enough -with its pie and crust and cake and frosting - add ice-cream.

I can honestly tell you, I'm Picakened out. I go to bed at night and pray, "Please, God, no more Picaken."

Making it is a real pain in the ass. And eating it is.... making my ass a pain.

But I don't get a lot of opportunity to spoil my family rotten, to do extravagant kinds of things for them. If I can give them something extraordinary on their birthday, something beautiful, something kind of amazing in its own weird way, I'm gonna do it. And I'm gonna do it as well as I possibly can, just to say "I love you. You're worth my time. You're worth a pie AND a cake."

And I hope, when my son's face was bright with candlelight and the rest of us were boisterously singing about how happy we are that he was simply born, he knew that he is loved and cherished, and that he is surround by people who pray that his wish will, indeed, come true.

Even if that wish is for a pie baked into a cake. :)

.... .... ....

HAPPY 14th BIRTHDAY, Dylan!!!

and

HAPPY 18th BIRTHDAY, Stephen!!!

May your wishes come true...

.... .... ....

Have you bought into the "Picaken" trend? It's so weird, right?!

I confess; I SUCK at email.

noreply@blogger.com (Jamie, the Very Worst Missionary) — Tue, 07 Feb 2012 15:05:00 +0000

Soooo... How's it going?... How was your Monday?... Did you see the Voice last night?...

Ok, ok. Fine. I'll cut right to the chase (even though I have no idea why we say "cut to the chase"):

I owe dozens and dozens of you an apology.

Many months ago, I invited you all to participate in a series of Saturday guest posts about how ~ in your everyday, ordinary, not-a-missionary life ~ you share your Faith in non-douchey ways with friends, neighbors, coworkers, families, transients, hobos, hookers, girl scouts, plumbers, babysitters, and trash collectors.

And then my inbox went KAPOW!!! Full, I mean full, of submissions. And then I curled up in a ball and took a nap, because I just couldn't get my tiny brain around how to organize and respond to all. these. freaking. amazing. posts.

I managed to stay on it for a minute and then I just... left it behind. Left you behind.

And I'm really sorry about that.

I feel like a huge tool.

I just SUCK at email!

Other things I suck at? Blogging. Schedules. Common courtesy. Flossing. Opening a cereal box without tearing the top.

So you can easily see why it was not a great idea for me to be all, "Hey, Everybody, send me an email that you've dumped your heart and soul into!" (And, also, why the cereal is stale.)

So here's where I'm at:

I'm gonna re-launch the "Missionary Positions: How a _________ does it." series, because I think it's good and that it has value. And because I have a ton of really great, well-written, heartfelt pieces of work sitting in my inbox, waiting for their 4 seconds of pseudo-fame on the interwebs.

But. I'm just gonna post them whenever. I can't do the whole Saturday thing. Apparently, committing 5 minutes to do something every single Saturday is just too much for me. (Yes. I'm kind of pathetic like that.) I will coordinate each guest post with the author of the post - other than that, you'll just see 'em when you see 'em.

If you submitted a guest post (and then you never heard back and now you think I'm a heartless bitch for ignoring you), you'll be hearing from me soon. I promise.

*Sadly, I can't use all of these wonderful posts. I have too many "stay at home Mom" submissions, and too many "I'm a missionary, but" submissions, and a couple of posts that simply don't capture the spirit of the conversation we're trying to have, or are just too long. Plus, if I used them all, this series would last for like 3 years, and that would be weird.*

Also - I'm not accepting new submissions at this time. Sorry. Just can't be done.

So.

First, I'm asking for your forgiveness.

I dropped the ball. I neglected some souls. I failed to heed God's leading and I failed to care for the gifts He has given me.

And I'm really, really sorry about all of that.

Second, I'm asking for your patience as I make a silly attempt at organizing the mess I've made. I swear, this is like asking a 4 year old to give a car an oil change - my inbox feels that complicated and overwhelming to me. But I'm going to do this. I just am.

Third, I'm hoping that you'll stay tuned. The series will continue in a jiffy. (Yes. A jiffy. Why do we say these odd things?!)

Anyway.

I really like you guys. I don't say that often enough, but I'm so grateful for how you've turned a blog into a community. Thank you for that!

.... ..... .....

Are you good at inboxing? Or, like me, do you suck at email??

If you've got tips for how to stay on top of the email monster, I'm listening! Help!!

For today...

noreply@blogger.com (Jamie, the Very Worst Missionary) — Thu, 02 Feb 2012 17:39:00 +0000

Faith for an uneasy soul.

Hope for a reeling mind.

Love for a tender heart.

And Grace, amazing Grace, to bind it all together. Grace to wash over it all. Grace to fill in the cracks. Grace to salve the wounds. Grace to light up the dark.

Grace.

To make you whole.

...

Amen.

I'm ready for my close up.

noreply@blogger.com (Jamie, the Very Worst Missionary) — Sat, 28 Jan 2012 22:22:00 +0000

This is really strange, but, just one month from today, a filmmaker is going to step off a plane in Costa Rica with his fancy cameras and lights and sound junk, which he will then use to follow us around, ask us probing questions, and (I presume) get close ups of all of the dirt, cobwebs, and shower scum in my house.

I am not making this up.

Scott Brignac is a U.S. based film-maker, and he's making a film about...us!

Weird, huh.

When Scott first approached us with the idea for a short documentary, I warned him that we are positively the most boring people on the face of the planet and that our lives, while occasionally whacky, might seem interesting because we live in a foreign country and hang out with foreign people, but they are, in fact, not the least bit entertaining. Like, at all. In any way imaginable.

But, still, he thinks he sees a story in us.

So, in a month, we're giving him a bed to sleep in and the creative freedom to coax (what we hope will be) a worthy story out of us.

I'm kind of embarrassed to admit that the impending arrival of cameras has put me in a bit of a tailspin.

I guess you could say I'm not ready for my close up.

It's true that I haven't had a haircut in over a year, and I have flapping old-lady flesh draping the backs of my arms, and my face is aged and wrinkly and icky. Honestly? Getting caught on film will dispel any myth of attractiveness which I may have been able to fake with the help of digital filters and a carefully closed mouth. If Scott Brignac makes this film, you'll soon know that I'm only “Instagram pretty” and that I have teeth like Kirstin Dunst. It's tragic.

But that's not what's freaking me out.

I guess I wonder what you'll see, from the outside looking in. It worries me that you'll see what I already know, which is that things are not as they should be.

I am not the Mom I should be.

I'm not the housekeeper I should be.

I'm not the Christian I should be.

My marriage is not what it should be.

And maybe I'm afraid that you'll see, frame by flicking frame, that the brokenness I've talked about in these pages isn't just some clever imagery, some silly metaphor, but the stuff of real life.

Maybe I'm afraid that you'll see that sometimes we look pretty Godless, El Chupacabra and I. And it's not because we're some hipster Christians who act that way on purpose to be “relevant” or something. It's because we're just not letting God in, to be part of what we're doing here on His Earth. We don't always seek Him, or listen to Him, or obey Him – even when we know we should. We look Godless sometimes because... well, we are Godless sometimes. And it's ugly. And sad.

And maybe I'm afraid that you'll see how this life has taken its toll on El Chupacabra and me, and how we've run short of Love and Grace and Mercy for one another. Having been married since we were children, we carry with us the tenderness of life long friends, but also the familiarity of inbred cousins. When we argue, which is often, we lose our minds – saying the same things again and again, and ending with a venomous chorus of “Screw you!”, “No, screw YOU!”, “NO, SCREW YOU!!” - until we're both just too tired to keep shouting about who ought to be screwed.

Not that we would do that if there were a camera in the room.

No, of course we wouldn't. Because sometimes we're full of shit. Sometimes we play nice when we don't feel like it because we know someone is watching. For the most part, our lies are innocuous and silly things to make us look smarter or harder working or better disciplined than we really are. But sometimes they're just straight bullshit; dangerous, hurtful, self-preserving lies, to cover our sin, to hide our failure, to shadow our most indecent shortcomings.

Maybe I'm afraid that the camera will ferret out our most horrible selves and those who watch this film will be left scratching their heads, thinking, “Wow. She really is the very worst missionary.”

And maybe I should be okay with that.

Maybe split ends and flabby arms and messy houses and the hard stuff of real life are the things that make a great story.

Maybe we can find God there.

I don't know.

Maybe this broken bullshit world needs more close ups...

.... ..... ....

What would a documentary of your life look like?

This is NOT a food blog! But...

noreply@blogger.com (Jamie, the Very Worst Missionary) — Tue, 24 Jan 2012 14:26:00 +0000

...I made a Picaken.

A "picaken" is a whole entire pie baked into a whole entire cake. And you can't just go and make a Picaken and then not talk about it on your blog. A Picaken is more than food... it's an adventure.

It all started when I was poking around on Pinterest one night and I stumbled upon a Picaken. I thought it was ridiculous and honestly kinda gross looking, so I showed my husband, fully expecting him to agree that, yes, it was absurd and "why would anyone ever do that?!".

He took one look at it and said, "THAT is what I want, no, demand for my birthday cake!"

And since I'm not the type to let a demand for dessert go unanswered, Picaken happened.

We agreed that a lemon cake with a blackberry pie sounded pretty darn delicious. So using every bit of culinary prowess I could muster, I set about my work, determined to complete the monstrous task of impregnating a cake with a pie.

This is a step-by step guide to the weirdest dessert I have ever made:

Step 1. Bake a pie. Mine was too fat. I should have used less berries. If you use a fruit pie, you need to really thicken up your filling. If it's too juicy, your Picaken will... um... leak. A leaking cake is not appetizing. But whatever - just bake a pie.

Step 2. Whip up a cake. Any cake recipe will do. Just whip it up and pour the batter about 1/4 inch thick to cover the bottom of your prepared pan (you need a BIG pan. I used a spring-form).

Step 3. I have no pictures of this because I was FREAKING OUT when I did it. But this is the part where you take that gorgeous pie, the one you just made, and you dump it into the cake batter. And then you pour more batter on top. Bye bye, perfect pie.

Also? I'm totally not gonna tell you about how, while it was baking, the cake overflowed like lemon flavored lava covering every inch of the inside of my oven and then nearly killed my whole family by smoke inhalation and then took me 2 hours to clean up. It's just too discouraging.

Step 4. Cool the 9 pound monstrosity on the window sill. (I always cool cakes and pies on the window sill because no matter how big the disaster is inside your house, the people outside will see and smell your creation and think, "That chick has got her crap together.")

Step 5. Release the PICAKEN! Turn that mother out onto a plate. If it starts to leak, you can just swipe the goopy stuff off with your finger and eat it until you have a stomach ache.

Step 6. While you're waiting for your picaken to quit leaking, make icing.

Step 7. Ice that bad boy.

Violá! You've got yourself a PICAKEN!!

Here's a recap - You bake a pie, then you put it in a cake, then you decorate it as if you haven't just done something really bizarre.

Of course, even sitting there covered in a half inch of buttercream, I had no idea what to expect when we opened it up. To be honest, I really thought that as soon as I cut into the cake it was gonna, like, barf out the pie...

But it didn't.

It all stayed put...

...and it tasted really, really, really exceptionally good.

Now everyone in the family wants a Picaken for their birthday. *sigh* Great.

*I will say this; You can easily buy a frozen pie and a box of cake mix and throw this sucker together in 15 minutes flat. But where's the adventure in that? That's like riding Disney's Jungle Cruise and saying you've crossed the Amazon. ....But who's judging?! Not me! Even a half-assed adventure is better than no adventure at all!*

.... ..... .....

Now, I have to come up with new flavor combos for my February birthday boys. I'm look for suggestions. What pie/cake combo would you want in your Picaken?!

I finally wrote something, but not here...

noreply@blogger.com (Jamie, the Very Worst Missionary) — Fri, 20 Jan 2012 15:09:00 +0000

Hi. Remember me? I write this blog...

I haven't been around much because 2 of my 3 spawn are still home on summer break. So I'm doing this crazy thing where, instead of keeping them subdued with limitless video game play, I force them to interact with real life by giving them household chores, making them help me cook, and engaging them in good old fashioned conversation. I think it's called "parenting" - and let me tell you, it's a lot of work, it's super time consuming, and it's taking me away from other stuff (like writing this blog). In general, parenting is a huge pain in the ass, but I read somewhere that it keeps your kids from ending up on death row, so that makes it all totally worth it!

They go back to school in 2 weeks. I might miss them.

.... .... ....

Anyway. I did manage to crank out a few words for my friend, Ed Cyzewski, who is hosting a series called "Women in Ministry"and has graciously allowed me to join in on the fun.

Please check out my post, and then poke around his blog for oodles of other good stuff! Here's a teaser:

"From Woman in Ministry to Woman who Ministers"

"I’m just gonna come out and say this: I never, ever, in a million years, wanted to be a “woman in ministry”. Never. And I never in my wildest dreams imagined that one day I would actually be one.

I grew up far from any church influence, so the very narrow example I had seen of women in ministry came mostly from television, where they were often portrayed in the form of nosy, judgmental, gossip-loving Bible-thumpers. As a teen, when I finally crossed paths with some real live women in ministry, I found them to be…well…nosy, judgmental, gossip-loving, Bible-thumpers.

... click HERE to read the rest on Ed's blog, In a Mirror Dimly".

Thanks!

Looking for a kick-ass Missions Pastor?

noreply@blogger.com (Jamie, the Very Worst Missionary) — Tue, 10 Jan 2012 04:11:00 +0000

We like to lay in bed at night and talk about the future.

Our timeline in Costa Rica is quickly drawing to a close, and imagining all the places God might take us this year brings hundreds of scary possibilities to mind. I admit, I find some kind of twisted pleasure in considering the worst.

I say, “What if we end up somewhere and it gets really super cold in the winter, like below 65°, and my nose freezes solid and falls off. Will you still love me?”

He holds two fingers up, across my face, and looks at me for a minute. “It will be hard,” he sighs, “you're pretty fugly without a nose. But I'll do my best.”

“Ok. What if we end up somewhere in the Middle East and I have to wear a burka and walk behind you?”

The thought of this makes us laugh and laugh, but our laughter is tinged with nerves.

This is what we do. We surf the internet while we day-dream of our future, saying things like "How do you feel about Toledo?" and "Shoveling snow builds character." Sometimes we're joking, sometimes not. Late nights find us laying there together, our laptops lighting up our faces, wonder aloud where it is that we'll end up.

We're anxious to know what our future holds, what stories will unfold for each of us and for our children in the coming months. We're feeling excited and impatient.

The truth is, we've begun exploring our options...

Ugh! Fine. I'll say it out loud: The real truth is that we're actively looking at jobs in the U.S. (!!!, Right?!)

“Exploring our options” sounds way less scary to me than the truth, which is that El Chupacabra has already begun sharing his resume with churches. We're committed to the idea that it may be time for us to head back up North. And we're prayerfully seeking guidance to the right job, at the right time, with the right people, in the right place.

Yes. Even if that place gets below 65° in winter.

So we lay in bed, hashing out our ideals; coaxing our greatest hopes out of the mass of possibilities.

El Chupacabra would be a kick-ass Missions Pastor. This much, I know.

He and I, both, have a passion to see missions redeveloped, executed with integrity and intelligence, and handled with the preservation of dignity for all involved. The hands on experience we've gained in the past five years is invaluable and incomparable. We're unbelievably grateful for what we've learned and anxious to put this knowledge to work, to see it spill into the DNA of a dynamic, engaging, socially responsible community.

So we're praying. A lot. And we're looking around for something along those lines - a place to fit in, a place to grow, and a place to help effect change.

We still don't know what that means, exactly. I guess we could end up on staff at a church. Or maybe as trainers for a missions org. We're truly open to any possibilities.

Anyway. Here's what's important:

We are fully and happily committed to our ministry in Costa Rica. That hasn't changed and, if it becomes abundantly clear that we're to stay here, we would gladly do so.
We would love your help in spreading the word that we're...*ahem* “exploring our options”. So -if you go to a non-sucky Church- feel free to ask your church leadership if they're looking for a super-cool, radically bearded, amazingly gifted Missions or Discipleship pastor.

Pass along our blogs (The VWM / El Chupacabra) and or twitter feeds (The VWM/ El Chupacabra). The more people who know we're looking, the better.
Pray. No, like, for real. Please pray that our story would unfold with clarity.

Thanks!

....

How is your future fleshing out? Can I pray for you somehow??

Be afraid.

noreply@blogger.com (Jamie, the Very Worst Missionary) — Mon, 02 Jan 2012 18:00:00 +0000

At the stroke of midnight, we welcomed 2012 with some of our favorite people on the planet by our side.

We ate and drank and danced a little, and then we piled into 3 cars and drove 5 minutes up the hill to the most perfect vantage point for watching Costa Rica do what she does best – Celebrate!

It would be impossible for me to describe the view as the clock struck 12, so I won't even bother. You either know what it's like to stand on the side of a mountain as the valley beneath you fills with the streaking, pulsing, bursting light of a million fireworks, or you don't. If you don't, let me just say, it's spectacular in the most spectacular way. It's spectacularly spectacular.

We passed around hugs and kisses and pats on the back for an old year, well-lived, and a new year, well-received. And then, as the light show below us waned and finally died off altogether, we said goodnight to our friends, to find that we had locked our keys in the car.

The perfect night, topped off by a minor calamity.

We finally got home around 2 a.m., so (in keeping with my custom of procrasturbation and seeing that I was to leave for the airport in less than 3 hours) I decided I had better finish packing for a last minute trip to the states. My friends are getting married on Friday and her Dad, a commercial pilot, had comped me a flight to the good 'ol U.S.of A. I was so so so excited, still throwing odds and ends in a bag when I got the message that there was a problem with my ticket. Turns out, one airline bought another airline and -effective at Midnight on New Years Eve- my ticket became invalid. My last minute trip was canceled at the last minute.

I crawled in bed, totally defeated before the 5^th hour of the new year, thinking "Pssshh. Happy New Year? My ass."

And I lay there for awhile, wondering if this was a sign of things to come. Wondering if 2012 would be a year fraught with struggle and disappointment. Would all of our perfect nights end with a fight just to get home? Would my great anticipations, my wild hopes, be denied life at the last second?

In the dark, I asked God if this was gonna be a good year or a bad year. I asked Him,
“Should I be afraid?”

And in the deep place, the place that feels like my beating heart, but isn't, right there, in the very core of my soul I heard His gentle whisper...

Yes.

You should be afraid.

Because I AM that I AM. Both Dangerous and Good.

I am Justice and I am Mercy.

When you follow Me into the darkness, you will suffer the unknown. You will bear the burden of risk. You will get stuck. You will feel stranded. You will step back, fall down, trip up. You will be disappointed, disheartened, disenchanted. You will be exhausted. Sometimes you will be sad.

Because I AM that I AM.

Both Dangerous and Good.

I am Wrath and I am Grace.

When you follow Me into the darkness, you will be witness to what is Spectacularly Spectacular; the unspeakable beauty of this world, my beloved Creation.

Be. Afraid.

Follow Me in fear and trembling. But follow Me.

Be afraid.

And then? Be brave.

For I am Dangerous and Good.

And I am with you...

Merry Christmas!!! (Don't be a Party Pooper.)

noreply@blogger.com (Jamie, the Very Worst Missionary) — Sun, 25 Dec 2011 04:22:00 +0000

Hi.

It's Christmas.

Right now, there are about 300 million people who have run out of things to talk about during awkward extended-family gatherings. And that's why God invented YouTube.

Here are a few things to help you start a lively conversation while you sit around doing a puzzle with your 84 year old great aunt Helga and her horrible neo-nazi grandson in-law. Or whatever.

Naturally, the first thing that come to mind is Baby Monkey.

But everybody has already been there, done that. You'll have to go a different direction...

You could always chat about history:

If you're feeling brave, you could talk politics:

Of course, you could always bring up religion. That usually goes really well at family gatherings:

Um. Check out..... The Very Worst Missionary.

But, whatever you do, don't be a party pooper. Please.

Wishing you a Merry and Bright Christmas from Costa Rica!

With love and laughter,

Jamie the VWM, El Chupacabra, and our 3 little pigs.

ps. The Bad Lip Reading videos are insanely clever and funny! I cannot get enough of them.

Fly on the wall.

noreply@blogger.com (Jamie, the Very Worst Missionary) — Wed, 21 Dec 2011 21:34:00 +0000

My teenagers have invisible friends.

No, not like imaginary friends – I mean invisible friends; Friends who are totally real, completely unseen, and right here in my living room.

Thanks to Xbox 360 and the magic of the interwebz, our little home in Costa Rica occasionally becomes a public place where people from around the world gather to trash talk each other while they blow each other's heads off with an M4A1 assault rifle and impossible feats of digital acrobatics. Modern Warfare, indeed.

It's not all that unusual to hear German or Portuguese spilling out of the little black box, over the rata-tat-tat of gunfire. Or some English bloke, calling attention to his flawless “temperrr shot” or “Did you see that trips colat?!”, in a perfectly sublime Harry Potter impression. And then, of course, my kids have the added advantage of being able to chill with other players in Spanish speaking countries, too. From what I've heard, I can tell you that “noob” is a universal insult.

It may sound kinda loud and annoying, but it's actually a pretty cool little feature. It allows my kids to play their favorite games with their friends and cousins, who live in the states, and they've also been keeping up with their classmates over the break. And I've noticed that their conversations aren't always limited to gamer geek jargon, like who's done a “360 no scope” or whatever - sometimes they actually talk about the real world and real life stuff. And I like that.

But there is one small problem...

If my kids have nothing to add to the conversation (and since they don't have a headset to filter what gets broadcast) they usually keep our living room on mute. They can hear what's going on in the game, but the rest of the world can't hear us. The problem is that sometimes they unmute us without mentioning it, and then our home, our life, and our family goes on auditory display for anyone who might be listening.

Now. I don't know what kind of conversations your family has... but my family can be kinda weird.

I didn't even know how weird I was until I became aware that there were other ears in the room. By then, my terribly syndromed middle child was crying out, “MOM! You're SO embarrassing! Everyone just heard you yelling about Asexual Unicorn Reproduction!” And I was like, “WHAT?! I wasn't claiming it as fact, just offering it as a theory. Sheesh! Relax, son.”

But really, I can understand why he's upset. I mean, what teenager needs his Mom running around, ruining his wannabe hard-ass-king-of-the-nerd-herd persona by calling out, “Have you showered today? You better get off that video game machine and take a shower so you don't get all itchy, ya know... down there.”

Truly, the problem is working itself out. My darling spawn are learning that if they want to keep up appearances of any sort, they need to let us know when our words are public fodder. But even more important, they learning that we're not a family that's about “keeping up appearances”. So deal with it.

And they are now aware of the fact that (particularly in this day and age, when “butt-dialing” and “accidental DMing” are verbs) there's always the potential for somebody out there to become the proverbial fly on the wall.

If you have secrets, you ought to be very nervous.

If I didn't want anyone to know what my family is really like, I would be nervous.

But what people hear when they slip into our living room unnoticed is a family that laughs, plays, bickers, taunts, teases, and giggles. A LOT. If they stick around long enough, they'll likely hear some nasty fighting, some puffed-up arrogance, some blatant disrespect, and some unparallelled selfishness. For sure they'll hear a bit of homegrown douchebaggery. Hopefully, they'll also hear the ferocious, protective Love of a mother for her cubs, and the admiration of children for a worthy, hard-working father (who probably won't be heard, because he's hard-working, therefore, at work). They'll hear a clan that seeks Jesus together, fails together, and moves forward through the mess together. And, yes, sometimes they'll hear about Asexual Unicorn Reproduction, or other silly stuff, because sometimes we talk about really goofy, unimportant crap. Ok, fine. A lot of the time we talk about goofy, unimportant crap. And I'm cool with that. In fact, I love that about us.

So if, Dear Gamer, (while you're busily “n00b tubing” or “lag switching” or “drop shotting”) your ears grace my living room, have mercy. Real, funny, broken people live within these rooms. We're kinda weird and kinda cool and kinda silly. Sometimes we're kinda lame. And we're not gonna put on a show for a fly on the wall. Nevertheless, you're welcome to stick around.

..... ...... .....

Ever been "caught" saying something stupid/weird/awful when you didn't know anyone was listening?

What kind of ear candy would a fly on the wall in your house be treated to?