I’d bought them during last month’s visit to the States. Purchased in a store with wide aisles and cool air; placed in a huge cart filled with other special goodies. I picked the pair with the sparkly rhinestones that made me feel less like a 34-year-old tired mom and more like a movie star.

But sometime after I packed them in my suitcase, after they made the three-day journey to Indonesia, jostled through four countries’ x-ray machines, or after I’d unpacked them in my steamy Indonesian house in a race against my kids’ attempts at “helping” me, they broke.

Photo by Mr. Thinktank

Typical. Figures. No movie star eyes for me. Those were my first cynical thoughts sprung from disappointment.

Hours later, I crushed the pretty new purse I’d bought in the States in the door of my car—after the rain had begun again and I was in a hurry to put my kids into their seats before another motorcycle splashed more water on me. One of the pretty beads now fractured and floating in the oil-glistened puddle.

Another new thing, broken.

Just like me, I thought.

Somewhere along the journey to Indonesia, through my husband’s and baby’s bouts with dengue fever, in the midst of the loneliness of those first years overseas, jostled through two pregnancies and two babies born overseas, rubbed against the heartbreaking lives of Indonesian friends, I’ve become more broken. Less new and shiny. More shattered by the poverty and hard stories around me. And, well, more gray.

Ideals of making a difference sanded down by the realities of serving. Bravery of adventure fractured by the fears brought by overseas motherhood. The closeness of community peeking through the cracks of my own sin.

Less movie star. More frazzled mom.

And yet…

He asked me to come here. He brought me through those hard things. He allowed the jostling to happen. And He alone makes me new.

And somehow, through my brokenness, the Gospel is made most true. My own cracks allowing His love inside me to be seen. My own humility—sometimes humiliation—giving way to His grace. And because of His brokenness, I, too, am made whole. I, too, am saved for a happy ending.

I button up the brown and pink flowered shirt on my daughter. I work fast before she squirms away to do busy toddler things. Wow. She looks just like Katie—my friend’s daughter, who wore this shirt a couple years ago, back when she was my daughter’s age.

My son, now 3, spent his first couple of years as a sort of third twin to another MAF friend’s twin boys, walking around in their hand-me-down clothes.

But what may look like second-hand things to others represent treasures in my life.

Even after years of training and preparing and months of packing, when I moved to Indonesia six years ago, I came without a lot of things: knowledge of how to make yogurt from scratch; ability to drive on the other side of the road; and…without kids, or any of the stuff that comes with them.

I wanted to be prepared. But how do you pack for three and a half years’ worth of life on the other side of the world? What book do you read to prepare you for geckoes on the walls? And what course in college do you take to learn how to wake up to a newborn’s cry when you’re exhausted?

But I soon discovered Treasure Number One. Community. One MAF friend handed me her yogurt recipe. Another sat beside me, giving calm advice, on my first drive. And when the kids began arriving three years into life overseas, my MAF friends gave me Treasure Number Two. Provision where I’d lacked.

One by one, friends came over, carrying clothes, toys, car seats, cribs, a baby sling, high chair—all handed to me with nostalgic tears. Soon my nursery overflowed with others’ memories attached like finger paints.

And Treasure Number Three? Comfort…for the hard days where the mixture of overseas living and motherhood leave me feeling sweaty, unprepared, lacking. Just a flustered phone call away, these friends who understand are ready to offer more than stuff. They give me the hand-me-down advice that I use and wear proudly, hoping I look a bit like these special mom-friends of mine.

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To Him, I’m thankful for the opportunities to combine my ordinary with His amazing.

The visit to a neighbor’s house is short—squeezed in between preschool and nap time—and I strain to understand her fast use of my second language while my kids climb on my back.

To Him, I’m thankful for His ability to make things squeezed out of the temporary last forever.

We climb into the MAF airplanes—the orphans first, then my son, then me—on this field trip with my English students to the MAF hangar.

To Him, I’m thankful for dreams that soar above life’s heartbreaks.

My friend and I work out a budget on her husband’s meager salary as our children make toys out of sticks and shells at the beach.

To Him, I’m thankful for a debt paid in full and a limitless “bank account” of gifts.

I eat my favorite Italian foods made from special, expensive ingredients by friends celebrating my birthday.

To Him, I’m thankful for friends who know my stomach’s cravings and my heart’s needs.

My 3-year-old son teaches me his favorite game of cards that he learned from an Indonesian friend, colorful cards flying as we clap hands.

To Him, I’m thankful for His lessons taught to me by the children He gives me.

My husband and I sweat over the spicy rice in the steamy hole-in-the-wall restaurant that has become our favorite lunch date spot.

To Him, I’m thankful for a love story that has lasted 15 years, and for the one that will last for eternity.

We plan our potluck Thanksgiving with other MAF friends who are more than family in a country that becomes more “home” each year.

To Him, I’m thankful for memories that will linger long after the day of giving thanks.

Renea being held by Indonesian Pastor, Pak Nasion

My son, Evan, crouches next to his new older “brother,” Chris, pointing and chattering in a mixture of his two languages as the pilots pre-flight their MAF airplanes. My 1-year-old, Renea, lays her head on the pastor’s shoulder, snuggling in his arms.  

It was just a day and a night ago that my husband and I decided to take into our home an Indonesian pastor, and his wife and son, who had traveled to our town the previous week to seek medical care for the pastor’s dying mother.

For the first couple days of their visit, they rented a tiny room in a shack and we brought them water and rice and dinner and friendship. But it wasn’t enough, we decided, our hearts full of both fear and excitement. So we brought them home, for a day and a night.

They joined us last night for our weekly MAF dinner at a nearby restaurant and prayer time in an MAF home with our team. We invited them to sit while we—some 20 of us westerners—surrounded them. My husband spoke his heart to God about their needs, their struggles and His promises. He used English so he could pray without searching for words. This couple didn’t understand his language, but they wept. So we cried, too.

Evan shares time with a new friend, Chris

Earlier in the day, I took them to the local beach—their first time ever to an ocean beach. Their 12-year-old son caught crabs for my boy, who laughed and counted the tiny critters skittering in his bucket and kept asking for more. We ate pineapple and searched for seashells and felt the wind and listened to the waves. And what I had thought was hard—this taking-in of a family of a different culture—became a gift that gave and encouraged and taught and changed.

Sure, there was some cultural awkwardness. They seemed confused by the shower. They were overwhelmed by the restaurant. I worried my tea wasn’t sweet enough or the fried-rice breakfast was too bland. And I was embarrassed by the nice stuff in my house, knowing they had so little.

Rebecca Hopkins, and her family, saying goodbye to their Indonesian guests

This morning as we wait for their flight, I watch the pilots work—all in a normal day for them—following the same checklists every day. The faces of the other passengers are unfamiliar to me. They live in other small villages that will spray mud on the clean, white planes.

But this family I know. They ate my food. They shared their stories. We admired their courage.

Later, Chris waves from the airplane window and my son waves back. The plane zooms off the paved runway to fly over the jungle. I drive home and put the sheets in the washing machine, glad for this gift of a day and a night.

“Here is my favorite store . . . that sells mozzarella cheese,” I told them on this driving tour. “There is the biggest mosque in town,” I pointed out. “Here is the airport where my husband works,” I said with pride.

After five years of being here, I’m no longer surprised every day like I used to be. And I long ago stopped bringing my camera to capture the interesting things people carry on their motorcycles. But that day, a new feeling amazed me—that Tarakan had become my home, and a home that I really enjoy.

Somewhere in the middle of sweating and serving and having babies and making language mistakes and missing family and making yogurt and flying along with my husband and hanging with friends, I had grown roots. And that’s not something that’s easy for this Army brat to do. In fact, I’ve never lived anywhere as long as I’ve lived in Tarakan.

Now, of course, the day after I was enjoying that revelation, I opened the door to sit in the passenger side of our car so my husband could drive. I sat and waited and waited for Brad to get in next to me and start the car, until his laughter showed my mistake. I’d gotten in on the wrong side—on the right—as if I was back in the States.

My laughter joined his and I lived in the moment of joining surprise with familiarity, right with wrong and foreign with home.

A week later, my friend told me she was glad her child wasn’t the only one who loses control sometimes. Her 3-year-old son—about the same age as my son—has a disability. He hits his head on the floor if he gets overwhelmed or doesn’t get what he wants, which is hard to figure out since he only knows a handful of words. My friend’s in-laws blame my friend for her son’s slow development and behavioral issues. Her marriage, which was arranged, is in shambles. And my friend admitted that she often can hardly stand her son; her love is renewed for him while she watches him sleep peacefully. My friend’s load is heavy and painful and often seems hopeless.

My friend also told me that she wishes she could have a new heart, one that isn’t full of sin and anger. She wishes God would forgive her. She yearns for a relationship with Him. I shared with her some verses, telling her that God wants those things too. I prayed with her, begging God to turn her sorrow into dancing. Then I thanked God for turning my daughter’s tears into an opportunity to share hope with a friend.

How about you? Has God ever used an uncomfortable situation that you’ve been in and turned it into an opportunity for Him?

It had been months since Brad had last flown into Lumbis. But this was to be the first of several flights over the next few months as part of a new effort for Indonesian pastors to train others in this village. Brad flew eight pastors that day–making two trips in his airplane–all pastors from other remote villages who would be doing the training. An Indonesian church in Jakarta had caught the vision and helped sponsor the trip. While many of the villages in this part of Kalimantan have Indonesian pastors, they often lack theological training as they try to lead people who have struggled with animism, poverty, teenage pregnancies, and other issues.

Brad almost didn’t make it in that day. For the past month, rain had soaked the airstrip every day–making it unsafe for landing. But in Lumbis, Pastor Lukas had spent two days fasting and praying that the rain would stop so that Brad’s plane could land with the pastors on board. The rain stopped the day before Brad’s trip.

After delivering a second plane full of pastors, Brad stopped to drink some tea alongside the pastors as honored guests to the rhythm of drums, the colors of the traditional dancers flashing in front of him. And he made it home just in time for dinner with a son ready to jump into the story.