An Open Letter to the Pastor Who Prayed
Dear Pastor,
You probably didn't know it as I walked into the small church next to the grocery store last Sunday, but I had had a rough week.
I don't handle change well, whether it be new furniture or new classes, so moving myself halfway across the globe was difficult, to say the least. I had spent the four days before Sunday desperately wandering around Galway, attempting to set up phone plans and find grocery stores and adjust to living in a place where nothing ever truly dries and no room is ever comfortably warm. I had spent the four nights before Sunday waiting for it to be late enough to call my mom, aching for a familiar voice. They were hours where my relationship with God experienced whiplash, where in some I found myself clinging to Him like a lifeboat, yet in the others I was frustrated, argumentatively asking why He brought me here in the first place.
It was a long four days.
I stumbled into church Sunday morning wide-eyed and dripping wet, the result of my twenty minute sojourn through an Irish storm. As I settled in to my seat next to the highly welcoming and slightly-pushy elderly lady who met me at the door, you came over and introduced yourself. Ten minutes later, when my Bozeman friend, Sarah, came in, you said hello to her and you remembered my name.
In a country where three people have my phone number, it was nice to have someone see me.
As you led worship on an inexpensive keyboard, playing along to the provided rhythm tracks, as you prayed for the members of your congregation, I saw things that my heart deeply needed: Authenticity. Hope. Genuine compassion and faith.
After the service ended, Sarah and I each clutched a cuppa and some biscuits, making awkward conversation with people who had enough geographical knowledge of the US to know where Washington is but not Montana. When they started trickling out the door, you came over and started joking about how you were basically American, since you saluted the flag alongside Will Smith at the end of Independence Day. You complained that the aliens always decided to go to the States, wondering why they couldn't visit Ireland as well. And then you asked to pray for us.
When we hesitatingly said yes, you started praying that God would reveal to us why He brought us to this place at this time. You prayed that God would comfort us in the midst of change, that He would bring hope and bring courage.
You prayed for all the things I desperately wanted but was too ashamed to ask for.
Until that moment, I had not felt permitted to acknowledge the struggle of the last week. Studying abroad is a fantastic opportunity, it is, but I quickly learned that it is initially less sightseeing and staying out late with exotic friends and more trying to figure out how to best pack your groceries so that they don't get wet during the 25 minute walk home. Besides that, how do you tactfully tell someone who is proud of their Emerald Isle or who is enviously back in the States that really, you just miss the color brown?
But in your 90-second prayer, you gave space for pain and confusion and heartache and homesickness to be legitimized. You said amen, not knowing the effect you just had, and looked into my eyes, stating, "Every Christian that comes to Galway is a blessing to the city."
I don't know if I'll end up as part of your congregation while I'm here, or if I'll land in another church family somewhere else. One thing is for certain, though: You may state that I am here to bless the city, but that morning, God put you there to bless me. Thank you for your words. Your wisdom. Your prayers.
I'll be honest: I still cried the whole way home after church. I left, though, reassured that even in those situations where I am overwhelmingly lonely, I am not alone.
Thank you for the way you showed Christ's light yesterday. I hope that one day, I am a pastor who loves like you.
Love,
Mackenzie
You probably didn't know it as I walked into the small church next to the grocery store last Sunday, but I had had a rough week.
I don't handle change well, whether it be new furniture or new classes, so moving myself halfway across the globe was difficult, to say the least. I had spent the four days before Sunday desperately wandering around Galway, attempting to set up phone plans and find grocery stores and adjust to living in a place where nothing ever truly dries and no room is ever comfortably warm. I had spent the four nights before Sunday waiting for it to be late enough to call my mom, aching for a familiar voice. They were hours where my relationship with God experienced whiplash, where in some I found myself clinging to Him like a lifeboat, yet in the others I was frustrated, argumentatively asking why He brought me here in the first place.
It was a long four days.
I stumbled into church Sunday morning wide-eyed and dripping wet, the result of my twenty minute sojourn through an Irish storm. As I settled in to my seat next to the highly welcoming and slightly-pushy elderly lady who met me at the door, you came over and introduced yourself. Ten minutes later, when my Bozeman friend, Sarah, came in, you said hello to her and you remembered my name.
In a country where three people have my phone number, it was nice to have someone see me.
As you led worship on an inexpensive keyboard, playing along to the provided rhythm tracks, as you prayed for the members of your congregation, I saw things that my heart deeply needed: Authenticity. Hope. Genuine compassion and faith.
After the service ended, Sarah and I each clutched a cuppa and some biscuits, making awkward conversation with people who had enough geographical knowledge of the US to know where Washington is but not Montana. When they started trickling out the door, you came over and started joking about how you were basically American, since you saluted the flag alongside Will Smith at the end of Independence Day. You complained that the aliens always decided to go to the States, wondering why they couldn't visit Ireland as well. And then you asked to pray for us.
When we hesitatingly said yes, you started praying that God would reveal to us why He brought us to this place at this time. You prayed that God would comfort us in the midst of change, that He would bring hope and bring courage.
You prayed for all the things I desperately wanted but was too ashamed to ask for.
Until that moment, I had not felt permitted to acknowledge the struggle of the last week. Studying abroad is a fantastic opportunity, it is, but I quickly learned that it is initially less sightseeing and staying out late with exotic friends and more trying to figure out how to best pack your groceries so that they don't get wet during the 25 minute walk home. Besides that, how do you tactfully tell someone who is proud of their Emerald Isle or who is enviously back in the States that really, you just miss the color brown?
But in your 90-second prayer, you gave space for pain and confusion and heartache and homesickness to be legitimized. You said amen, not knowing the effect you just had, and looked into my eyes, stating, "Every Christian that comes to Galway is a blessing to the city."
I don't know if I'll end up as part of your congregation while I'm here, or if I'll land in another church family somewhere else. One thing is for certain, though: You may state that I am here to bless the city, but that morning, God put you there to bless me. Thank you for your words. Your wisdom. Your prayers.
I'll be honest: I still cried the whole way home after church. I left, though, reassured that even in those situations where I am overwhelmingly lonely, I am not alone.
Thank you for the way you showed Christ's light yesterday. I hope that one day, I am a pastor who loves like you.
Love,
Mackenzie
Mackenzie! I did my student teaching in Ireland and I took such a long time to adjust. One of the things I learned is that even though you feel lonely, don't be alone. It wasn't until the last few weeks I was there that I made a friend and it made the biggest difference in the world! I had someone to talk to about how I was feeling and we had sleepovers and even to this day we mail each other candy. Stay strong, and the feeling of the cars being on the wrong side of the road and figuring out how to get from one place to the other without being soaking wet will all become natural.
ReplyDeleteI lived in Bray and here were some of the best things I did:
Buy some wellies (I bought mine in children's size because they were a bit less expensive and I still fit into them.
Find a coffee shop somewhere and when you feel yourself being cooped up, go there. Even if you don't talk to anyone, just being around people makes a big difference.
Don't bother with an umbrella because it is just going to break. Tuck your pants into your wellies, put on a waterproof jacket with layers underneath and you'll have an extra hand and stay just as dry as with an umbrella.
Save your plastic bags and bring them grocery shopping with you so you don't have to pay for bags.
Be yourself. Be happy. And have fun.
-Maree
Beautifully said! I felt like you were talking to me, not because I'm where you are at but I could feel your story. I will pray that you will get all you need...strength, endurance, hope, faith, courage, love, and kindness while in Ireland. I look forward to your stories! ��
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