Some days, when I’m taking up space on a leather chair with my mac laptop and 4 dollar cup of sugar glancing out the window at the slab of metal reading 12th street, my heart is especially aware that it’s not functioning at 100 percent.

The doctors feel my pulse, 67 beats they say, just perfect.

But I know it’s not.

Doctors aren’t always right you know.

Maybe when it comes to colds and flus and allergies but not when we’re talking about a torn heart.

No professional, ultrasound, or fancy machine notices that. How could they? Sometimes I even overlook it.

But not today.

Today I am fully aware- my heart is split.

And not split in the sense that half of it wants one thing and the other half wants something else, or split in the way when someone carelessly rips it out from behind your rip cage and clumsily stomps on the fragile muscle tissue.

No, my heart tells a different story. All the pieces are in tact.

It’s more like the heart hiding underneath my physical flesh is really only a mere shadow of my real heart.

Somewhere in a place I’ve never seen except in my dreams, my heart doesn’t just exist. But it is fully alive, fully beating, fully pumping energetic streams of blood to the rest of my limbs.

But the piece here can’t quite beat regularly. Maybe 10 beats are in perfect rhythm but then that 11th one takes a little bit longer.

In that moment-that slight pause between coursing blood through my veins and being utterly still, my heart cries out.

Cries for its true home.

Cries for a place where it belongs.

Cries for a time when it can naturally bring life to my lethargic bones without feeling like it’s forced to keep me alive. When it can beat out of passion and excitement and a thirst for life instead of out of obligation.

This heart here has found a physical niche tucked perfectly between my backbone and ribs, but a home is not a place right?

When we say home is where the heart is we don’t mean home is literally between our backbones and ribs. We mean home is where the souls of our hearts, the DNA of our hearts, the heart of our hearts is, overflowing with life and love.

I think I know why my heart is split.

I know the place where my heart home and physical heart collide.

And it’s not here.

Right now they reside in two separate places.

The echo here at this coffee shop and the original, ringing voice somewhere overseas living alongside people of another culture, loving them, learn from them and telling those who have never even heard the name of Jesus that their Daddy wants to bring them into His loving arms.

THIS is where my heart wants to fly.

I’m stuck in the in-between. I

 know for now God has me here.

His children are here, too. He wants me to love the least of these in Nebraska, love Him wherever I’m at.

But, His children are also there, too. His hurting, poor, broken, lost, crippled, leper-infected sons and daughters are there.

And, if we don’t go how can we preach? And if we don’t preach how can they hear? And if they don’t hear how can they believe? And if they don’t believe how can God say to them “you were once not my people, but now you are my people”

God is reaching these people.

I want to join Him.

 I trust in Abba’s timing.

I trust that He will not leave my heart half-way beating.

I trust that he will lead me out of this wilderness.

I trust that someday I will go to the ends of earth and tell people who are so different from me yet so the same, “The kingdom is near! Jesus is near!”

For now I trust.

And wait.

And love.

And remember that while I’m here on this earth my heart will always feel this way. Will always be split.

The true inner core of my heart singing and dancing and hugging Abba in His home where His heart belongs and the outer skin, like snakeskin, doing its job under my chest.

I think the reason my heart yearns to plant itself in another country amongst another group of people so badly is not because this home is the most comfortable, or safe, or fun.

But because this home is closest to my Father’s heart (and His heart is also in loving families, in fighting sex-trafficking, in homeless shelters in Lincoln, in crunching numbers at an office).

For me, my heart especially teems with love for Abba when I am telling someone of a different culture about His love.

My heart overflows with passion and hunger and thirst for my Daddy when I see how lovely and beautiful He is to capture the hearts of ALL nations.

My heart courses with life when I see someone worshipping Jesus in another language, or dance, or piece of their culture.

We are all pilgrims travelling through this land until our hearts connect with our true home in heaven.

We eagerly anticipate eternity with our sweet Papa.

But, while on this earth, I yearn to be as close to Jesus’ heart as I can.

And for me, this place is not sitting heavy on top of beige tiles drinking a Cinnamon Dulce Latte, but washing the feet of Muslims, Hindus, Buddhists, being Jesus to those who have never seen Him before.

P.S.- I realize that God may choose to plant me right where I’m at for the rest of my time here on earth. And if He did, I wouldn’t feel like I was missing out, because I know He is with me wherever I am and He alone is my treasure. But, I also think that God has given me a desire to go because He wants to bring me to another country. His heart is just as much for nominal Christians in Nebraska as it is for Muslims in Southeast Asia. Either way, I trust in God’s sovereignty and will be fully satisfied because He is what satisfies my soul, not missions. ImageImageImageImage


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