When I’m in New York, I sometimes stay at the Hephzibah House, a guest house on the Upper West side for those involved in Christian ministry. This brownstone, about two blocks from Central Park, was named after Hezekiah wife’s, whose name in Hebrew means “he delights in her.”
Now it is used for international bible studies and hospitality, but it was built in the 1800s as a school for women of disrepute, giving them skills for the marketplace rather than the slave markets of the flesh. The use that strikes me most, however, was its role as a holding place for missionaries and their families as they waited for the luggage to be loaded from the docks onto the ships that would take them to distant lands.
It’s not difficult to imagine missionaries waiting with their loved ones for a week or two in those small rooms, waiting for the tides to rise and the ships to weigh anchor. Often, if not usually, each day brought the growing realization they would never again see those loved ones and family members who had accompanied them to the city. So many tears and prayers must have mingled in that place, a sweet smelling offering before the throne of God.
When I think of preparing a missionary, I think of the Hephzibah house. And the task of the church still, in sending its own to foreign fields, is not just the praying and the crying, but getting the stuff on the dock.
In a couple of weeks, a shipping container will be set down outside the parsonage on Concord Road, and in just four hours, with the help of a fork lift from Jonesville Lumber, all the things the Hoyts will take to Argentina will be set in this small space, and the container will begin its journey down to New Orleans, across the Gulf to the Panama Canal and down the edge of another continent. There it will be unloaded through customs, and placed on a truck to be taken to Carlos Pas.
But getting the stuff on the ship, so to speak, is the easy part. Getting it on the dock, and getting the family in the room and their hearts on the field has proved to be more difficult than we expected or imagined.
There is so much to be discarded or stored or released. There is the last Christmas and the last Thanksgiving and the last birthday before they leave. There is the coffee table where the family played games together and that one imperfect photo that won’t make the cut in the limited space for books of memories.
Katie and I have been privileged to be part of this process. For several months, we’ve meet with Kim and Ivan each week they were in town to help with this process- not the process of leaving, but the process of letting go.
What we have learned together is that the distance between the calling and the going is great, measured in moments, not miles. We’ve celebrated each new supporter and challenged each new obstacle. When we were able, we’ve encouraged them in the setting aside of their stuff, the letting go of their fears, and the anticipation of their work. We’ve talked about problems with our computers and our children, our parents and our past. We’ve shared recipes and regrets.
And now it is time. The luggage is on the dock and we are gathered today in this small room with family and friends to celebrate God’s grace and obey his call. Ivan and Kim have sorted their things and searched their hearts. They are ready to go.
And by God’s grace we are ready to let them. Or to join them, if God requires. What will we leave and where will we go? The Hephzibah House is a place we all must come.
In Isaiah 62, God says this of his people:
For Zion’s sake I will not keep silent,
till her righteousness shines out like the dawn,
her salvation like a blazing torch.
You will be called by a new name;
you will be called Hephzibah,
for the LORD will take delight in you,
