Jesus Keep Me Near the Cross

I wake up to the sound of my infant daughter's cute grunts coming from her crib. She's awake and she's hungry, but not hungry enough to be mad--just yet. My son is still sleeping. I walk over to her. "Good morning, baby girl!" Her eyes meet mine and she instantly smiles with one of her adorable, drool-filled, gummy smiles.

I put her on my hip, walk into the kitchen, and begin to brew coffee and make her bottle. It's another typical morning in the Bowman household.

Just a few months ago, a typical morning looked different for us.

First off, baby girl was not in the world yet; still a bun in the oven. We woke up--my husband, son and myself--about 9 am everyday in a middle eastern country. Sometimes we woke up and didn't have power, but it was ok. It always came back on eventually.We were always awoken by sounds that seemed to always come right before the alarm clock went off. At first, these sounds were foreign, but now they were beginning to be familiar. The sound of a man and his donkey, making his usual route through the streets past our apartment, trying to sell and collect valuables. The loud metal garage door that opened at the car repair shop just below us. People laughing and yelling Arabic phrases to each other. Children as they went on their way to school. I miss those sounds.

We walked through trash-covered, crowded streets to drop our son off at his preschool where there was only one English-speaking teacher, whom he loved; a single 24-year-old Muslim woman who I'll call Zelda. I was able to tell the Gospel with Zelda one day, and she shared it was the first time she had ever heard it. My heart soared.

Then we would go to our language study. We studied Arabic several hours a day with our tutor, a single Christian woman I'll call Lily. There were many laughs as we said words wrong, did role-playing, and tried to improvise. We learned some Arabic and Lily learned some English--southern English, that is, like how to say Kentucky Fried Chicken correctly (there was a KFC in this place! KFC does well in the middle east actually).

Now here we are, back in our hometown. It is not where either of us wanted to be, or thought we'd be, but it is where God has us. 

I once heard someone say, "This must be the day that the Lord has made, because I would not have made it this way." How true in my present circumstance. I would not have things this way if it were up to me. But, I am not God. And I am thankful that I am not. I wouldn't be too good at it.

We had planned for years and years--ever since my husband and I were dating--to go overseas as missionaries, to people who had little or no access to the Gospel. We had all our eggs in that basket. We were sure we would be there for years. But only three months there, it was evident it was just not the right timing for us, and the company we worked for deemed it best for us to return to the states. 

Many nights I wondered where God was in all of it. Does he not hear us praying? Does he hear but not care? Does he care but isn't able? I clung to scripture, which says he does hear, he does care, and he is able.

For the Christian, Romans 8:28 is a life verse. All things work together for good for those who love God and are called according to his purpose. And of course, the countless verses on God's sovereignty and love, even in the worst of circumstances. I've heard some people say that theology isn't that important, but a relationship with God is most important. Well reader, you can't have a relationship with God unless you know who God is. And knowing who God is is what got me through some of those dark nights. Knowing that I am chosen, loved, and being made holy like Jesus is what encouraged me to persevere. Suffering has no room for shallow theology. 

So many things have happened since we have come back to the states. My health has declined since I had our daughter. I've had some very strange things happen, and I oftentimes hesitate to tell people what all has happened because I'm simply afraid they won't believe me. I've had some dark nights--nights that only God and Blake know about. It's been a nightmare in so many ways. We have bills we can't pay because we're back in the typical American life, which consists of a bad economy, high medical bills and a cost of living that is simply too much. We're not able to share the Gospel with Muslims (the people group we felt specifically burdened for) because they're so rare here in this small southern town. It's an itch we can't scratch.

I don't know what God has for us next. I don't know when I'll begin to feel better or if my health will improve anytime soon. I don't know when or if the heartache of a lost dream will heal. But, just as he was with us in the middle east nearly a year ago, he is with us still. He is still making me like his son. And I must be willing to say, "Your will be done, not mine." He has not ultimately called me to a people group, but to himself.

One night while overseas, I went downstairs, got out the guitar, opened the windows and sang, "Jesus, Keep Me Near the Cross," It was usual for people to stay up late, so I heard several neighbors walk by and stop and listen. Our neighbors didn't speak English, and undoubtedly had no idea why this white girl is singing at midnight. Multiple times a day, the call to prayer came over the speakers throughout the entire city. They were used to hearing that. But no doubt this was the first time, perhaps in their life, that they had heard a Christian song sung live. I didn't sing it for them though; I sung it for God. In the middle of a spiritually dark city, I asked Jesus to keep me near the cross. And I am asking him to do that for me still.