They cry, their dirty arms reaching, pleading for me to come back.
I understand what Abigail meant when she said that missionaries don’t last long here. It’s too depressing. But for the first time in years, I feel like my personal deprivations are worth it. I’m filled with a deeper sense of purpose. This work matters—bringing food and clothes to people in desperate need, not just singing for our supper in another exotic, wealthy country.
We visit the local orphanages every few weeks. When we don’t have donated goods to bring, we sing songs and play games with the children, even dressing up like clowns and performing silly skits to make them laugh.
When I return to the Home, I try to shut out the anger and pain I feel over their suffering, otherwise I won’t be able to focus on my daily work. I tell myself that at least we are doing something to assist, unlike most people. But I hate that I am helpless to change their situation. Songs and games won’t redirect their lives, but I can’t fix the economy or the government. For the first time, I’m aware that this is ultimately what it would take to help these people in a lasting, substantive way.
I have been in Kazakhstan a couple of months when Abigail summons me to her room. As I make my way down the narrow hallway, my bare feet sticking to the plastic linoleum, I sense a new tension in the air. Is it something about Emily? I wonder. I’ve been teaching her how to read and write and do basic sums. She’s calmer now than when I arrived, and she’s stopped throwing fits.
I knock on Abigail’s door, and she waves me in. “Please sit down here on the bed.”
Wary, I sit.
“How are things going for you? Are you happy here?”
“Yes,” I reply, no other answer acceptable.
“What do you think about Benji?”
“He’s a sweet guy. A great guy, like a brother to me.”
She nods absently as she continues: “Do you think you might consider sharing with him?”
I freeze like a rabbit in the glare of headlights. Other than the FGA men my parents’ age, he’s the last person here I’d want to share with. Like having sex with my younger brother, I think, shivering. My brain scrambles for a polite way out.
“What about Yana?” I suggest. “I know she really likes him.”
Abigail nods considering it as she waves me away. “Well, think about it. We need to make sure all our young men are taken care of.”
No thank you, I think as I escape. I really hope it works out with Yana. She’s told me she likes Benji but that he hasn’t approached her. Maybe he’s put off by her work boots and corduroy pants?
I continue to focus on Emily and my daily chores, hoping this will blow over. But a few weeks later, when I sit down in my usual spot in the living room to join everyone for Devotions, Philip begins to read a Mo Letter about the danger of being unyielded. This is an old letter. Why are we reading this instead of one of the new Letters?
When Philip is finished, Abigail looks at me.
“We all know how important it is to be yielded to God,” Philip continues. “We cannot let any unyieldedness or selfishness separate us from God.”
We all nod in agreement.
“Faith,” Abigail says.
Ten pairs of eyes land on me, and I freeze.
“Philip and I were praying for you last night, and we got a prophecy. I’m going to read it.”
I bite the insides of my cheeks. Not good. Not good.
“‘This child of mine has been unyielded to My Word. She has refused to share my love with those who need it. She has hardened her heart against my gentle hints. Now she must throw herself on the rock and be broken, before the rock falls on her and grinds her to dust.’”
What have I done? How have I been unyielded? I search my mind, desperate. I’ve tried so hard to be good. I don’t complain about the food or the cold, about being stuck all day with a three-year-old, about sleeping on a lumpy mattress. Yes, I was told that I needed to smile more, that my serious expression didn’t show God’s love. I can do that. I can smile more.
As she finishes reading the page-long prophecy, she asks, “Do you want to be more yielded to God?”
I nod silently, all eyes on me as the familiar sting of humiliation burns my eyes.
“Kneel in the center of the room.”
I kneel on the gray carpet, my head bowed.
Everyone gathers around me. The weight of twenty hands presses down on my head, my shoulders, my back. I shut my eyes to hold back the tears even though my face is covered by my long hair.
“Halleluiah. Thank You, Jesus. Praise Your name. We glorify You, Jesus. Halleluiah. Praise You, Jesus,” everyone repeats over and over above my head.
As the praise quiets, Philip begins, “Dear Jesus, we bring this daughter of Yours before You. She wants to be free of her unyieldedness. Deliver her from the spirit of pride and rebellion. Make her into a yielded vessel. Ready to submit to Your will, no matter the cost. Deliver her from the spirit of selfishness. . . .”
The prayer goes on and on, my back aching under the weight of all the hands. “Now, let’s see what the Lord wants to tell her in prophecy.”
Everyone goes quiet, listening.
“Whom I love, I rebuke and chasten,” says Dana.
“I got a vision of the potter smashing the vessel with a defect and making a new beautiful vessel out of the clay,” Tim adds.
After a half hour of verses and prophecies, I stumble onto my feet, my legs numb from kneeling on them so long. My eyes are red, and I need more tissue to wipe the snot streaming over my mouth. Everyone hugs me. I walk, dazed, to my room and curl against the cold wall in my bunk bed. Abigail follows me.
I feel the heaviness of her body on my mattress and her hand on my knee. “Praise the Lord for those prophecies. Remember God wants our yieldedness. We must be willing to share God’s love through our bodies.”
I can barely lift my head. I don’t have the energy.
“I want you to take some time to pray and get prophecies for yourself about what God is asking you to do,” she continues. “I feel like the Lord may want you to change your name to demonstrate that you are a new person and to remind you of your promise to be yielded to Him.”
I feel a spark of resistance, but it flickers away as Abigail leaves me alone in the dark.