When I set out on my Walk to Emmaus, I wrote down three questions for God and rolled them up and carried them in my spirit, trusting that I would hear from Him on the way.
The day before I left for my Walk, Ann wrote these reflections upon on her return from Guatemala - when you want the first step in fixing a broken word. Inspired by her words, in each of my questions, I simply asked God to provide the clarity I craved, to show me, "This is the way; walk in it."
And I heard.
The first question I asked was this, "Will You send me? Will You release me from the enslavement of this culture and send me out into the wild to be bread broken for those who are literally starving? Will You move in my husband's heart and could we please be on the same page about going?"
What I wanted to hear was Yes. Sell everything and go. India. Africa. South America. Go.
This was not the answer I heard.
What I did hear came to me on the very first morning of my Walk. From the mouth of an incredible woman, one of my table mates who has lived many, many decades on this earth, who started the very first food banks and homeless shelters in a nearby community, who is the embodiment of all I want to be in my life, she said on the very first morning we were there,
"Your ministry is where your feet are."
All around me, my table mates moved on with discussion, but I sat there gasping for breath. I knew by the way my heart seized up that I had heard - with clarity - His answer.
Later, I made a feeble argument before Him. But Father, what about those who are literally starving? What about those who have never heard the gospel of grace and Good News? What about those who are living in heart break every single day?
And He said, "Megan, open your eyes. All around you in the community I have planted you in, there is hunger and heart break. This is the way; walk in it."
Two, three, four times a week, we pile into my little old Toyota and go to meet with other Christians, to celebrate fellowship and grow in discipleship. But would you believe I don't even know the names of most of my neighbors? In the two years we have lived in this house, not once have we invited them to be table companions. I don't know their stories. I don't know what they hunger for. I don't know what makes their hearts break. I don't know the empty places that need to be filled with the gospel of grace.
How could I be trusted to go and serve in another country, in another culture, if I can't be trusted to love my literal neighbors?
On my walk, I was ministered to and served daily in innumerable tangible ways. For the first time in my many years of living as a follower of Christ, I got to experience what it feels like, what it looks like, to be cared for in that way. It breaks my own heart to see clearly now what I have been withholding from those around me.
And I know now, without a doubt, with precise clarity, where He is sending me. And it's the wilds of across the street and down the block and my own backyard. It's my toy-strewn living room and my wobbly dining room table. For me, for now, this is the way. This is where my feet (and my ridiculously long toes) are. My ministry, the ministry of administering the grace of Jesus, is here. I'm walking here.
I know the things I write about my faith and spirituality aren't for everyone. I feel compelled to share with you the answers I've received from God in the past few weeks. It (probably) won't always be like this. Thank you for graciously bearing with me while my heart filled to overflowing splashes onto your screen.
