“Don’t eat it.”
His giant brown eyes narrowed. He slowly lifted the salt-dough ornament to his mouth in defiance of what I know, despite the language barrier, had been understood as a clear “No” from me.
“No. Do not eat that. No eat.” I made exaggerated motions with my hand, my mouth, the other unpainted festive shapes, urging him to put the ornament down. Unimpressed, he made direct eye contact with me before proceeding to bite the star off the Christmas tree.
His face scrunched up in disgust as he realized the salt dough ornament wasn’t a cookie after all. He spat the ruined chunk onto the table and looked up at me with irritation, holding me responsible. As if I hadn’t just played a passionate round of charades to dissuade him from eating the not-cookie.
In a different context I think I would have found it funny, maybe even endearing. It’s funny to me now! But at the time, I was all kinds of tired from a week of ministering to rambunctious kids, my nerves sensitive and frayed from being a first-time mission trip team leader. So instead of laughing lightheartedly and patiently showing him how he was supposed to be painting the ornament instead of chewing on it, I just said flatly: “Yeah, that’s why I told you not to eat it.”
He had already moved on with life at the craft table and he didn’t understand English, so my words landed with no one but me. And as they echoed in my own ears, I realized I was angry – angry that he had deliberately disobeyed me, angry that he didn’t seem the least bit appreciative of this camp we had worked hard to put together, but most of all, angry that my heart’s response in a situation like this was…well, anger.
Why was I even here? How was it that I had ended up in this country, leading a mission trip? Obviously my heart wasn’t bleeding for the children of this nation.
Obviously I was not an overwhelmingly compassionate being.
Obviously I was a far cry from my friend Jesus, who probably would have sat down on the dusty floor and whisked all the frustratingly disobedient children into his lap in patient lovingkindness. Obviously, I was the wrong girl for this.
I mentally back-tracked as I watched the kids run around, a few more of them trying to eat the ornaments and regretting it. Was there some bad motive or insincerity that brought me to this place? Had I horribly misinterpreted the Lord’s leading and landed myself somewhere I evidently did not belong? Had I allowed pride to lead me here, and was this my ‘humbling’?
As I reflected, I felt the Lord wrap His reassurance around my heart: I wasn't here because I was pretending to be someone I wasn't, or because I was the best-suited candidate for the job... I was here because I love Him. “And,” I heard Him add, “that’s enough for me.”
Even if my love for Him was weak, faltering, often unsure of the best way to express itself, sometimes selfish, and most certainly still maturing, it was there. It was real. It was willing to say “Yes,” even if it landed me in a small room of screaming kids in a mountain village where I felt acutely out of my depth.
The grand revelation I had in that colorful, messy, chaotic room of kiddos is that that simple love, as underdeveloped as it is, is actually enough for God. He sees all our lack and chooses to not only accept us, but cheer us on and propel us forward anyways. He doesn't mind that we feel incapable, or that we might fall short when we try...He cares about capturing our hearts.
Whatever shortcomings, failings, or challenges may accompany it, our "Yes" is enough for Him.