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I wanted God to talk to me so badly I thought I could sweat blood like Jesus did in Gethsemane (maybe that would get his attention and get him to speak to me), but just as God didn't speak to Elijah in the earthquake, wind or fire, he didn't speak to me through a megaphone. He often speaks in whispers. Whispers that we don't always even recognize as his.

Not only did he not yell in my ear to get my attention (maybe because he already had my attention?), he didn't "call" me. What did he think he was doing, not giving me a "call"? That's why people go to missions conventions, right? To "get the call"? The night we committed ourselves on the decision card, I watched hundreds of people stand up, declaring that they would go to the missions field and serve. I felt like crying (okay, well, so I did cry), not just out of joy that so many would say, "Yes, Lord, I will go with You to the ends of the earth!" but because I hadn't heard him ask, "Julie, will you go with me?" I knew better than to push my way into a journey God didn't want me on-I still remember what would happen whenever I tried to tag along behind Kevin, my older brother. I wasn't going to tag behind God, pushing to go where I wasn't invited. But I didn't feel invited anywhere at all. I didn't "get the call."

My disappointment in not getting the call, in not being one of the elite who seemed to know exactly what God wanted of them, blinded my vision. The fog slowly cleared, and a week later I could see what God had been doing in my life at Urbana 96. At the convention, my soul connected with God's heart for the lost and poor. Things I'd always known but never felt suddenly "clicked" as the emotional pieces met with the mental pieces. I had always been convinced that God wanted us to aid the poor; I'd known for some time that he'd commissioned us to share the Good News with the lost. And I even knew that he has different plans for his children-we can't all be and do the same thing.

But my emotions had never really fit with my knowledge, and it crippled me from joining God. I was overwhelmed by the immensity of the world's hurt; how could I do anything? I was afraid of my meager store of knowledge; how could I tell smarter people about God? I wanted to live the wild stories; I wanted to be Jim Elliot, not just Karen Medin's daughter (who?-exactly my point). My emotions were exactly that-mine. Me. I was focusing on me.

Silly girl. Who are you supposed to focus on?

God.

That's right. And who is it that accomplishes everything worth accomplishing?

God. (At this point, I'm getting rather disgusted with the smug tone of my thoughts-why hadn't this corner of my mind spoken up a week ago?)

Because you were too busy pouting that you hadn't been "called."

Ouch. Score one for Corner of Brain.

Do we have to go back to Sunday School? Remember Moses? Didn't he object to God too, saying something like, "God, I can't be your speaker; I st-st-stutter!"? It seems to me God managed to use him. And doesn't Acts-which you studied at Urbana 96-tell how the Holy Spirit gave Peter, an uneducated fisherman, the words to speak? Doesn't God work through every willing heart, doing miraculous things, even if they don't get published in fourteen languages?

Enough, enough! I get it.

I'm not through with you, baby child.

You're sounding a lot like Tess from that angels show.

Don't get me sidetracked. Do you recall, or were you sleeping, when you and all the other delegates each gave a few dollars, whatever you could, for hunger relief, and again, later on, for IFES? Don't you remember how much money you raised together? More than $445,000! Now you tell me God can't work through your puny talents, skills, faith, checkbook or whatever? I recall his being pleased by one little boy who offered his lunch to feed 5,000 people. Let me tell you, God makes do.

And he does. I may not have received the "call" I wanted, but I learned something far more important-to keep my eyes on Jesus, not myself. If I'm immersing myself in his presence and Word, his whispers will be sufficient to keep me where he wants me. I would still rather be Jim Elliot than just Karen's daughter (no offense intended, Mom), but he's working on that one.

Actually, I'm almost glad my husband and I didn't "get a call" when I remember the exhibits. God doesn't often tell us every detail-I suppose he gave us minds for that reason, not just to skunk your husband at Cribbage three times in a row. But as we tried not to lose each other for the fourth time in the Armory, it became increasingly clear that our mission interests differed. How could they not? What's the chance of us both gravitating to the same booth-one in nearly 300-when we don't share malts because we can't agree on a flavor? Not much, let me tell you.

"Julie," he said when we stepped out into the March-like weather, "if God did send us overseas, where would you like to go?"

My mind immediately dropped us in Russia, a place that seems familiar and foreign at the same time. But, obedient wife that I am, I didn't answer his question. "Why?" I ventured. "Where are you thinking we'd go?"

Peter's eyes glazed over as he dreamily replied, "I think God could use me in a Muslim setting."

"What!?" I wanted to scream as scenes from Not Without My Daughter flashed before my eyes, imagining myself imprisoned in a culture where women are virtually powerless. "No way." Instead, I just gave him a non-committal "Really?" and the conversation ended.

Now, a few months later, I am ashamed to admit my reaction, and it occurs to me that there are places in post-Soviet countries where Peter could reach out to Muslims. I realize that my fierce protection of my independence is something that needs to be shattered anyhow, not just if I, like Dorothy Gale, am whisked to Oz. Again, my focus was on me protecting my independence, instead of seeking God's plan and trusting him to take care of me.

Now you're getting it, baby child.

Oh, go away.