That Other Place

On Friday night, I went to a worship event. We played a song. That same song played at church this past Sunday. 

It's a song that takes me back to a very specific place, a very specific moment. 

I go back here:

My living room in Kumasi, Ghana in January 2013. Rather than being empty, the room is filled with people: my team, my friend visiting from home, and a group of students from Indiana. 

It's a night of worship after a massive feast of spaghetti. 

And the song starts. I hadn't heard it before. But it's repetitive, so my teammates and I catch on quickly. 

My mouth opens to sing, but my heart screams, "NO!" The lyrics are too difficult to admit. 

No place I'd rather be

No place I'd rather be

No place I'd rather be

Than here in your love, here in your love

But my mouth sang, and my heart joined somehow in defiance. Because even though it was difficult to admit, it was true. 

(We'll come back to that story soon.)

The other day, I was talking with a friend face to face. She was about to leave this home in good, old, cold South Dakota to go back to another home. Our following conversations wouldn't be face to face but through Facetime. 

Eventually, it came out. "Sometimes, I almost think it would be better to do my own thing and stay here than follow God back there."

I nodded. I knew. I knew that night in Ghana singing that song. 

I knew in Eastern Europe.  I knew when I admitted to my boss that I didn't want to finish the year, and she told me I didn't have to. I could quit and go home. 

I knew when I sat down with a teammate before returning home for my cousin's wedding, and he confessed, "Part of me thinks you won't come back. I know you will, but I wouldn't be surprised if you didn't."

I knew when my dad was driving me back to the airport after my cousin's wedding, and I stared out the window because I couldn't hold my tears in. I almost thought it would be better to do my own thing and stay than follow God back there.

But I also knew that there really was "no place I'd rather be." Because God had made it very clear to me that those two years were meant to be spent in those places. Leaving Ghana would have been direct disobedience. Leaving Eastern Europe would have been direct disobedience, as would have not returning. 

Even though those years were full of challenges and homesickness and a list of other places I'd rather be, I was constantly reminded that there was no worthy alternative. Because even when it's hard, I want to be in God's will. I want to be in the places that he beckons me to join him in. 

I want to be in that place where I grow in understanding more of his love, goodness, and faithfulness.

So that night in Ghana, I sang the lyrics to "Set a Fire," and I meant them. I clenched my friend's hand. I let the tears trickle down my face. I sang, and I meant every word. It was a sort of healing confession. It was a reminder of the truth of the goodness of being in God's will even when I don't see much goodness in the moment. 

When I sang it this weekend, I went back there. I went back to the truth of the goodness of being in God's will -- no matter where the physical place is.

And I'm thankful that I'm not alone in that place. That my friend is there too. She boarded that plane; she went back to that other home, and even though it is hard, she knows it is good. And I'm rejoicing with her that some day, she'll see even more of the goodness. She'll see how going to that home helped her grow in understanding more of his love, goodness, and faithfulness -- how being obedient even in the hard things is so good.

Thanks for going, friend. And thank you to all of the rest of you who go or stay even when that other place is so tempting. Thank you for knowing the place He has invited you into. Thank you for trusting Him to meet you there. 

Because there really is no place we should rather be.