Read Online Everything’s Coming Up Josey by Susan May Warren - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Susan May Warren
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Roosterâs dim night-lights on my way home from Iowa.
Maybe the sneaking part comes from the knowledge that I have a secret, one that Iâm not quite ready to expose to Gull Lake. It felt weird enough telling Chase. On paper.
Or maybe I started with the hardest task first.
The Holiday station is open, and I debate cruising in, just for a current copy of People, but, since Iâm going to have to learn to do without for the next year, I decide to bypass it. Iâm fairly proud of my self-control. See, I can do this! I am a missionary!
There are going to be a plethora of changes over the next year. Evident from the fist-thick binder belted into the passenger seat. I step on the gas as I leave town and turn onto the gravel road that runs out to Berglund Acres. Rolling down the window, I let the air whip my hair. It smells of lake and pine and home.
The Conquering Hero(ine) returneth.
I have a certificate of acceptance in my bag in the trunk and about six more books, items of interest I picked up at the campus bookstore, all delving into the world of missions, from John Piperâs Let the Nations be Glad! to Bruchko to Operation World. (Donât I sound prepared?) For some reason, receiving that eight-by-ten slip of paper felt better than when I got a callback for the senior play. As I shook Dwightâs bony hand, then hugged all one hundred thirty pounds of him, I wanted to twirl in a circle like Julie Andrews and cry, âThe hills are alive with the sound of music.â
They liked me, they really, really liked me!
I even made friends with Janice and Ken and learned our fighter verse faster than little Kenny. (It helped that he couldnât read, but I didnât let that stop me from gloating. The kid needs competition, right?)
I am a missionary. I roll that word around a few times, and make myself three promises.
1. I will not, ever, dress in missionary barrel dregs nor tape my glasses in the center with duct tape.
2. I will not let the inflection of my motherâs voice in any way make me feel like Iâve parted with my sanity.
3. I will not, even if I am stationed in Siberia, become so out of touch with relevant culture that I resort to singing songs by KC and the Sunshine Band or Styx. (But I am allowing myself cuts from Karen Carpenter now and then. Sheâll always be in fashion.)
I pull up to the Berglund Acres house, and sit there as Steve the car ticks, reprimanding me for keeping him out so late. Itâs after 2:00 a.m., but I wanted to get home and begin packing for my new life.
The moon is full tonight and it turns the nearly still lake to sterling. I get out, let the cool summer air rake over my bare arms. Iâm buzzing from the long drive and the hope inside me pushes me out to the lakeshore. I can feel change in the air, something fresh, something vibrant.
No, itâs not the scent of fresh rolls from my motherâs time-baked oven, itâs my future. I can nearly taste itâfull, sweet, quenching my hunger. It even slides into the empty crannies of my heart. Iâm going to spend a year in Russia, teaching kids how to speak English, maybe even leading them to salvation.
Which means that my life matters, in the eternal scheme, right? I chew on that, let the flavors explode in my mouth. The wind rushes over me, a belated welcome that tangles my hair over my face and raises gooseflesh. Russia, it says.
I smile.
Oh, and the fighter verse that I slam dunked little Kenny on? Isaiah 43:18-19. Forget the former things; do not dwell on the past. See, I am doing a new thing! Now it springs up, do you perceive it? I am making a way in the desert and streams in the wasteland.
Is that a sign or what?
I donât even look at the darkened windows in the apartment above the restaurant, or ponder the look on Chaseâs face when he gets my letter.
Because I am a missionary.
Three killed and thirteen injured in Moscow blast
MOSCOW, (Reuters)
Three Muscovites
Maybe the sneaking part comes from the knowledge that I have a secret, one that Iâm not quite ready to expose to Gull Lake. It felt weird enough telling Chase. On paper.
Or maybe I started with the hardest task first.
The Holiday station is open, and I debate cruising in, just for a current copy of People, but, since Iâm going to have to learn to do without for the next year, I decide to bypass it. Iâm fairly proud of my self-control. See, I can do this! I am a missionary!
There are going to be a plethora of changes over the next year. Evident from the fist-thick binder belted into the passenger seat. I step on the gas as I leave town and turn onto the gravel road that runs out to Berglund Acres. Rolling down the window, I let the air whip my hair. It smells of lake and pine and home.
The Conquering Hero(ine) returneth.
I have a certificate of acceptance in my bag in the trunk and about six more books, items of interest I picked up at the campus bookstore, all delving into the world of missions, from John Piperâs Let the Nations be Glad! to Bruchko to Operation World. (Donât I sound prepared?) For some reason, receiving that eight-by-ten slip of paper felt better than when I got a callback for the senior play. As I shook Dwightâs bony hand, then hugged all one hundred thirty pounds of him, I wanted to twirl in a circle like Julie Andrews and cry, âThe hills are alive with the sound of music.â
They liked me, they really, really liked me!
I even made friends with Janice and Ken and learned our fighter verse faster than little Kenny. (It helped that he couldnât read, but I didnât let that stop me from gloating. The kid needs competition, right?)
I am a missionary. I roll that word around a few times, and make myself three promises.
1. I will not, ever, dress in missionary barrel dregs nor tape my glasses in the center with duct tape.
2. I will not let the inflection of my motherâs voice in any way make me feel like Iâve parted with my sanity.
3. I will not, even if I am stationed in Siberia, become so out of touch with relevant culture that I resort to singing songs by KC and the Sunshine Band or Styx. (But I am allowing myself cuts from Karen Carpenter now and then. Sheâll always be in fashion.)
I pull up to the Berglund Acres house, and sit there as Steve the car ticks, reprimanding me for keeping him out so late. Itâs after 2:00 a.m., but I wanted to get home and begin packing for my new life.
The moon is full tonight and it turns the nearly still lake to sterling. I get out, let the cool summer air rake over my bare arms. Iâm buzzing from the long drive and the hope inside me pushes me out to the lakeshore. I can feel change in the air, something fresh, something vibrant.
No, itâs not the scent of fresh rolls from my motherâs time-baked oven, itâs my future. I can nearly taste itâfull, sweet, quenching my hunger. It even slides into the empty crannies of my heart. Iâm going to spend a year in Russia, teaching kids how to speak English, maybe even leading them to salvation.
Which means that my life matters, in the eternal scheme, right? I chew on that, let the flavors explode in my mouth. The wind rushes over me, a belated welcome that tangles my hair over my face and raises gooseflesh. Russia, it says.
I smile.
Oh, and the fighter verse that I slam dunked little Kenny on? Isaiah 43:18-19. Forget the former things; do not dwell on the past. See, I am doing a new thing! Now it springs up, do you perceive it? I am making a way in the desert and streams in the wasteland.
Is that a sign or what?
I donât even look at the darkened windows in the apartment above the restaurant, or ponder the look on Chaseâs face when he gets my letter.
Because I am a missionary.
Three killed and thirteen injured in Moscow blast
MOSCOW, (Reuters)
Three Muscovites
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