I've said several times now that one of the most beautiful and maybe unsettling parts of becoming a missionary is the vulnerability of needing help. I've asked so many people for so much help these last few months. Help with my garage sale, help with selling my car, help with my student loans, help with the move, help selling my stuff that didn't sell in the garage sale. People have stepped up to offer help that I hadn't even asked for yet and didn't even know that I really needed. For weeks I've been driving a truck that is WAY too big for me and that I have NO business driving...because one of the saints at First Round Rock saw before there was a need that there would be. When I get to Sierra Leone, I'll have a car to purchase and the money almost totally raised already to purchase it. And the parties! So many cookies baked, invitations sent, and decorations planned.
For someone who counts herself pretty dang independent, it's uncomfortable. But it also reads like love. And I am overwhelmed by it.
One of those love stories came last Sunday. My step-mother Cessie had driven down to help, along with my sisters Marde and Sara (with Jimmy, Isaac and Aaron in tow). It was about time to go pick up the trailer and Jimmy asked where the keys were. Welp, they weren't in my purse, they weren't on the shelf, they weren't in my luggage or in Sara and Marde's bags or on a random kitchen counter. One by one people stopped what they were doing to help look for the keys until the whole house was looking. Even four year old Isaac.
Somebody said with a cringe, "I wonder if they got thrown away." And without skipping a beat, Cessie went straight outside to the dumpster can that had been filled to the brim with stuff, including wet dogfood that had inexplicably made its way onto like every third piece of trash. Cessie took every piece out by hand, ending up on the ground with the dumpster on it's side to reach the errant trash that had made it's way in there without a bag.
Still no keys. After an hour of looking, someone looked in Cessie's purse. And there in a side pocket sat those keys.
I might have been mad, except that Cessie was the first one out there digging in that dumpster to the very last dogfood-covered piece of scrap.
That's the kind of love I've seen and known these last few months. Everybody has pitched in. It's hard to even consider how many hours, personal checks, and gallons of gas have been given on my behalf. It's a good reminder to me of how much we really do need each other. Sometimes I forget.
But more than that, it's shown me the kind of deep love that I have known and been given. A Dig in the Dumpster kind of love.
The move has happened. Now I rest with family and friend in Dallas/Fort Worth. I get on the plane Wednesday November 15! Here are a few highlights of the last week.