Guest Blog Posts
At the end of our lives, we will no longer care about who weighed the least, who made the most, or who achieved human greatness. When each of our lives passes from time into eternity, our former street address will be unimportant, our marital status will matter no more, and the upward climb on the corporate ladder will seem worthless. What will matter at the end of life is how well we loved those whom we were given. It always comes back to love, doesn’t it?
I hesitantly adjust my gaze to meet my new postpartum belly. It mockingly stares back at me. Amidst the saggy skin and stretch marks—which I carried home with me after my previous postpartum stints—this same body boasts a new alteration. My mid-section now bears a six-inch scar a few inches below my belly button. It is still red and tender to touch.
For me, having and executing plans in every aspect of my life brings me great satisfaction. Perhaps you can relate. For people who are not planners, it is hard to explain how much relief and excitement I feel when all the pieces fall together. This can be on the day of an event I have been planning for weeks or something as small as just getting the kids out the door at the exact time I wanted to.
For nearly two decades, I have lived in a village in Western Kenya and worked as a hospice nurse caring for seriously ill adults and children. Each day, I see a combination of beauty and brokenness aplenty within my neighborhood. I walk dirt paths where my footprints blend with those of barefooted children. I ask myself a question that so often serves as a guide when I’m unsure of how to respond to the needs around or within me: What does it look like to love in this situation? I sit alongside joy and pain and witness God’s nearness to the brokenhearted, including my own.