Truly, truly, I say to you, unless a grain of wheat falls into the earth and dies, it remains alone; but if it dies, it bears much fruit. Whoever loves his life loses it, and whoever hates his life in this world will keep it for eternal life. If anyone serves Me, he must follow Me; and where I am, there will My servant be also. John 12:23-25
His disciples did not understand these things at first. John 12:16
I first read this verse, really read this verse, twenty-two years ago, almost to the day. And although I knew that I was committing at a new level to die, it is of course absolutely true that I did not understand at many levels what that meant, and certainly what it would look like, this death of mine.
It is true that bits of me attempt on a daily basis to scrabble through the piled-on dirt in protest. But He is faithful to hold me to my release. And bring me back once again to this death so I might live. Truly live and bear fruit.
It was impossible to escape the heat. Even before the sun had lifted above the crooked mountain range lining the northern horizon, sticky sweat slid down my temples and between my shoulder blades, tickling like so many lazy flies. I flipped open my tattered Bible, haphazardly scanning familiar verses for something for the afternoon women’s study in Osobaumpo.
I tell you the truth, unless a kernel of wheat falls to the ground and dies, it remains only a single seed. But if it dies, it produces many seeds. The man who loves his life will lose it, while the man who hates his life in this world will keep it for eternal life. Whoever serves me must follow me, and where I am, my servant also will be.
To the death. Carelessly I let the idea tumble through my memories. Had I truly died yet? Had the beast been stabbed through, or was I still scraping at scabs bits, in the manner of Eustace the dragon in the Voyage of the Dawn Treader? Surely Christ was here… deep in the Sonoran Desert, nestled in between a chicken ranch and a pig farm, alongside the few scattered ejidos of crinkled-skinned, warm-eyed subsistence farmers. Images piled fast and furiously. Howling grief-stricken Dominicans swirling around an uplifted baby Nicole, Pushing a double-cab truck through a rising river bed with three children peering anxiously through the back window while God’s clear voice queried if I would accept its loss as being from His hand, if it was swept away with the tumbling boulders. Kneeling beside a trembling two-year-old Heather Moon-eyes, delirious with malaria fever, and releasing her with only the slightest hesitation to her Heavenly Father. Even smashing wedding plates tossed by laughing college interns pierced the old nature cowering and clinging in the shadows. But to the death. How could there be anything left rotten and gasping, and why was I unable to slip confidently past this challenge of a weary Lord who had set His face towards Jerusalem?
OK. I am no fool. I had already worked my way through the fruits of the Spirit… asking for patience full well aware that irritating, mindless, tedious folks would wend their way into my hectic life to let the Spirit do His thing. Done asked for love, and then a woman with a grating voice and self-pitying whine moved in for six months. But to the death. Bar nothing. Toss in the whole enchilada. Why was God going there this August morning, just before the routine rush of tortillas and bean sorting and clothes scrubbing began? I could already hear early riser Heather scrabbling around in the living room book shelves and Andrea clumping up the stairs to our little room.
I loved my life, in spite of the non-stop people, scorpions, and frog-stained water. I loved the families who worked alongside us at Escuela La Argentina. I loved the two little church families in Navojoa and Alamos who had embraced us seamlessly into their own. I loved my three little women’s sewing groups who met weekly for crafts and a Bible study. I loved the bright-eyed and sacrificial volunteers who filed down to stay with us a few days, a week, a month, a year to deepen their relationship with God and to serve alongside the Mexican nationals. And most of all, I loved my three sparkling little girls and my brilliant, creative husband. Life was good and I loved it. So what? I had always figured this was the found life promised to me because I had turned my back on air conditioning and salad bars, for His sake.
The screen door slammed below and I knew I had to make a decision. Quickly. To the death. For the glory of God. I stepped into the challenge, scooped up Andrea and headed towards the kitchen.
All day the dying kernel kept coming back to me. It was a tough time at the ranch. Legal land issues were always bubbling below the surface, and the first day of school was rapidly approaching with teachers’ meetings, trips to town for supplies, and the ever-looming question of enough water down at the school site. The two-year drought was ravaging the water table on which the hand-dug wells depended. Brandon was doing his best to repair the school van before classes began. One of the cowboys was apparently stealing firewood and selling it off the back lot. Miguelito, a boy-now-young-man from our refugee camp in the Dominican Republic had finished two years of agronomy college and was arriving in two weeks to work with us, if we could get the paper situation straightened out. The goats seemed to have another sort of skin disease and another trip to the vet was required. And right now, Nini and I and the girls needed to get lunch on the table for eighteen people. You know God, yeah, you can take this life. It’s all yours.
So I look back to that day. And all that death and life has brought me over these years. But there are still more layers around that kernel that need to be broken down and ripped through and released, and I know once again that is where He wants to take me. To recommit to following Him, wherever He might lead. In the same way that He set his face toward Jerusalem, that we might have life. And have it abundantly.
Yes LORD, to the death.
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