Miles In Missions

Let me neither ignore my pain, pretending all is OK when it isn’t, nor coddle and magnify my pain, so that I dull my capacity to experience all that remains good in life.
For joy that denies sorrow is neither hard won, nor true, nor eternal. It is not really joy at all. And sorrow that refuses to make space for the return of joy and hope, in the end becomes nothing more than a temple of worship of my own woundedness.
So give me strength, oh God, to feel this grief deeply, never to hide my heart from it. And give me also hope enough to remain open to surprising encounters with joy, as one on a woodland path might stumble suddenly on dapplings of golden light.
Let me learn now, oh Lord, to do this as naturally as the inhale and exhale of breath:
To breathe out sorrow, to breathe in joy.
To breathe out lament, to breathe in hope.
To breathe out pain, to breathe in comfort.
To breathe out sorrow, to breathe in joy.

— Douglas McKelvey

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There is a lingering grief that quietly resides within me. I believe it stems from the life I once knew in Nigeria, a life that felt eternal, a life I fully invested in, selling everything I owned to embrace it, for Him. It was a life where every day was steeped in prayer, drenched in His word alongside fellow believers. Each day was surrendered, wrapped in uncertainty, never comfortable but always full of purpose. A purpose not tied to earthly comforts but rooted in the eternal, where my calling was to help others experience Christ’s love in everything I did. And though I haven’t truly named it until now, I realize I still grieve that life.

I grieve the rhythm of waking up each day with no set plan except to trust fully in Him, to let Him lead. It was a life marked by constant surrender, by walking in faith, even when the path ahead was unclear. I think, deep down, I miss that simplicity of surrender, of not knowing what each day would hold, but trusting wholeheartedly that God had it all in His hands. Even now, I can feel that ache, the longing for that life of ministry and the connection to something greater, something eternal.

Yet, even in this season of grief, God continues to remind me that there is a purpose in this waiting, in this in-between. He continues to walk with me, guiding me to trust that He will use me again when I am ready. It may not look the same as before, but I know He is preparing my heart for something new, something that still reflects the deep love and surrender I experienced before.

I am learning, slowly but surely, to hold space for both grief and joy. To breathe out the sorrow of what was and to breathe in the hope of what is yet to come. Just as the poem says, I want to feel this grief deeply, to not shy away from it. But I also want to remain open to the surprising moments of Joy that God will bring, even when I least expect it.

For now, I will continue to walk in faith, trusting that God’s plan is unfolding in His perfect timing.

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