Come

In a couple of months we will relocate back to the UK and continue ministry here through visits and working remotely. We will have completed five years of overseas service. So few years compared to the years we had hoped and planned to spend living here and yet deeply significant years. It's no exaggeration to say that we're not the people we were when we came.

As I've been reflecting on our time here, I've wondered what I would have said to myself five, six, seven years ago when we were thinking and talking and dreaming and praying about serving God overseas. And what would I say to someone in a similar position now?

This is what I would say:

Come.

Come, even though it will be harder and more humbling than you could ever imagine. Come, knowing that there will be days that you feel so lonely, so worn out, so inadequate. You will cry, you will wonder how you will keep going, you will feel homesick, you will miss family and friends. You will try your hardest to fit into a culture where you'll always stand out as the foreigner and then find that you've left a piece of yourself here so that you don't fit so easily into your passport culture any more.

Come, and you will change. You'll be thrown so far out of your depth that you can do nothing but cling to Christ. You'll find that when you feel lonely and misunderstood by those around you and those back in your passport country, you can spill out your words to Jesus and he will truly understand you. You'll trust in God's sovereignty like you never have before because you see the reality of how not-in-control you are of your life. You'll find you are weaker than you ever supposed but Christ is stronger than you ever imagined.

Come, and you'll make friends with people from other cultures, eat new foods, learn a new language, explore a new country and rejoice in the diversity of God's creation. Come, and learn a little more about what it means to have citizenship in heaven and to long for our true home.

Come, one sent by and with the support of your church 'back home', because the church is the bride of Christ and God's means of advancing his kingdom on earth. And because you are going to need the support of your church family. Come, listening to the advice both of older believers who know you well and of those who've been out on the field a long time, because you know less than you think you do and there are so many things that you don't know that you don't know. Come, in partnership with the local church and believers where you'll be serving. There's nothing worse than foreigners who turn up and think that they know better than mature, respected local pastors.

Come, because although it might feel safer to stay home, you are safe with God. Come, even though you will see how deeply rooted the tendrils of pride and self-dependence are rooted in you. Come, knowing you are weak and not up to it, because God delights in using weak people and his grace is sufficient.

Come, because there are millions of people here who have never truly heard and understood the Gospel and the consequences are eternal. Come and know that results are not guaranteed because it is God who saves. But you may see lives changed and people saved and God might even use you - yes, you - as a means of accomplishing his work.

Come, even though people will disappoint you and hurt you and oppose you and you will invest so much only to see people walk away, because Jesus will look even more beautiful then.

Come, because the work is not yet done and the harvest field is ripe. Come, because God is at work and it is our privilege to be part of it. Come, because Jesus is worth it.

Life in a goldfish bowl

"We've seen you around here. You live in that building, in that apartment don't you?" 

We're outside on the grass that sits squashed between the mosque and the back of our apartment building. I've carefully chosen this time in the afternoon so that my children are not running around pretending to be knights and sword-fighting with sticks while on of the daily prayer times is going on. Three women have crossed over the street to talk to me from the apartment building opposite. A young woman, her mother and a grandmother. The grandmother leans on her granddaughter's arm. 

"We've see you out on your balcony. Your children are so sweet. We've seen how your husband plays with the children too, how much you both love them," one of them continues. The grandmother had wanted to come and say hello in person. I nod and smile and say something politely back to them, mentally noting that our balcony is under observation.

Another day, we're in a park with friends. A Turkish lady I don't know is talking to my friend. My friend tells me later that I'm apparently well known enough in the area that this Turkish lady, who I've never talked before, used me and the building where I live as a landmark to explain where her shop is located. 

Before we lived in this city, I read about some European workers living in China in the 1800s. They had to get used to curious faces looking in at the window, watching what they were doing and commenting among themselves on the actions of the strange white Westerners. I thought to myself then that I was glad I didn't live in a goldfish bowl. Imagine how discomfiting it would be to feel like you are constantly on display. 

I remember living in Istanbul and consciously thinking that there were enough foreigners that we didn't stand out too much. Walking down the street, we didn't blend in with the Turks but it wasn't unusual to go to a children's play area in the part of the city we lived in and hear other people speaking English.

Now we live in central Turkey, in a tall apartment block surrounded by other tall apartment blocks. We don't live in as small a goldfish bowl as those workers in China did. There are no wondering faces pressed up against the glass here. That's one benefit of living in a second floor apartment. They're just looking out of their windows, across 10 metres and into our windows instead.

We live in a large goldfish bowl. In a city where there are very few Westerners, it's easy to stand out. With three small boys, closer in age than Turkish children often are and all with varying shades of light-coloured hair, we stand out a mile. We walk down the street and I know that people are looking at us. Some of the elderly men say maşallah, maşallah approvingly as I pass, a throwback to the old agricultural economy which prized boys. I hear murmurs of çok tatlı (they're very sweet) from others about the children. Somebody stops me outside the small supermarket to say hello because they've seen me in the park with the children before.

Some days, I love living in such a friendly and sociable community. I know that I'm challenging some of their preconceptions about how Christians (because all Westerners are considered Christians by most people here) dress and act and speak. I hope that helps break down barriers for the Gospel, or at least raises a question in their minds. Other days I long for anonymity, to not be watched and talked about and commented on.

The truth is, though, all of us live in a goldfish bowl. No matter what country we live in, our family, friends, colleagues and neighbours are watching how we live. They may not tell us that we're under observation quite as bluntly as my Turkish neighbours do. But they're taking note of us. Of whether we practise what we preach, of whether our claim to follow Christ truly impacts how we live. 

And when we close the curtains and shut the door, it is tempting to think that we've managed to gain some privacy. It's all too easy to forget, though, that the sovereign God is watching. The drawn curtains might give us some privacy from the neighbours but every part of our lives is on display to God. God - mighty, merciful and unimaginably holy - sees my every thought, my every word, my every deed. 

My family is highly visible in our community. That's just part of life here and it regularly, rightly, gives me pause for thought. But how much more should I pause to think about the whole of my life being visible before God.