Chai

Motherhood, Magnolias and Missionaries

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I rarely struggle for inspiration. Actually, I don’t struggle at all – sometimes I just don’t have it. We’re halfway through the A to Z Challenge and on most days I know well in advance what I will be posting for each letter. But not today. Not “M.”

M! Motherhood, Magnolias, Madness. So many Ms! But I wasn’t feeling it. Was. Not. Inspired. At. All.

stockvault-magnolia-tree121131I care about you, dear readers. I do. I never want to post – just to post. When I read A Living Flame’s post this morning I realized instantly why I was not inspired – she had already written the post meant for today. Voila! Missionary. (PS – I loved this post. PPS – She also wrote the recipe for Chai in my post The Art of Chai.)

A Living Flame

Some days life on the field is easy. Then there are days when it is hard. There are days when I climb to the rooftop and singing praise songs over my neighbourhood and then there are days when I feel like hiding in a quiet corner of my house and listening to the voices that tell me I am not good enough and will never accomplish anything. When I want a close friend to take me out to coffee and pray with me I am reminded that I am alone.

But there is encouragement. There is a way that I bring myself back to reality and realise that my obstacles are small, my friends many and my situation hopeful.

In the past few years I have found great joy (and sorrow) in reading of the lives that have gone before me. When I read about Amy Carmicheal and that she…

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Chai Did It

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In general, I am caught off guard. A remodeled kitchen leads to cleaning out and repainting my pantry, which leads to picking up a box of Tazo Organic Chai Tea (which I don’t like). For some reason, (probably to put off actually working,) I decide to read the box.

“DID YOU KNOW?

In the foothills of the Himalayas, chai wallahs can be found serving up steaming cups of sweetly spiced chai to wandering souls.”

Yes. I did know.

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And suddenly, I am there. I can feel the small, stained brown, angular, hot glass in my hand.  I see a wrinkled, skinny old man in a knit cap squatting on the ground watching me watching him take drags on a cigarette in between sips of his chai.

That was unexpected, but sure enough, I’m there.

 

From 1999-2011 I lived in the country of India as a wife and a missionary.

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