Seeing Ghosts

This Image. The sign in this image is proof that the organization that has overshadowed 5/6ths of my life actually exists outside of my parents' conversations and random sites on the internet. I am amazed, shocked, to see its physical manifestation. Even, maybe, a little sad that it looks so... American. I always imagined that red white and black flag to be another flag of the country of Europe... sort of like the German flag, or the French one, but encompassing a part of them all. Like some part of each country belonged to it. Which is weird, really, 'cause knowing the people in the organization, the organization itself is clearly secondary to the actual life's work of living with the European people and loving them and representing Jesus in their lives.
I feel like it is a good time to speak something that has been on my mind for a while. My parents' lives are changing. Part of that change has been a progressive distancing from the mission field... meaning, if things continue as they are, I really don't see how we would be going back to Spain. It hurts me in ways I don't quite understand myself. When I think that I will be tethered to this vast continent of a country for all of the forseeable future, it's as if something wrenches apart in my insides and dies. Am I to be stuck in this aridity?
And another thing that I have been slowly, slowly working through in the past few months. How...- Was...- no. I can't even phrase it properly after 6, almost 7 months. My parents dedicated their lives- their LIVES, you understand, their lives and mine and my sister's- to ministering to people in Europe. We were there, we were set apart, we were foreigners in strange, yet wonderful lands, for a purpose. That purpose was to help other people understand the love of God. To help them think about their position in life, and realize the truth. My family was a cause. We were our own little island in a sea of fascinating, normal people, some of whom even I could see were in incredible pain. And we were there to show them the answer. (It's cheesy, I know, but I was a kid. That's what I understood)
And now I am realizing that what my parents did really wasn't all that much. I hear stories of men and women who changed the world. That, I think, is too much to expect of everyone, so I include my parents in everyone. But then I listen to the stories of other, more radical missionaries. The people who went and lived... and then the accomplishments of my family seem tiny. Like we didn't give God enough room to operate through us. Granted, I was a little kid for most of the time we spent there, so I might not have seen the fruit of my parents lives (to speak a little christianese). Still, I have to wonder... could we have done better? Were we -were my parents- only half-heartedly devoted to their call? Do I have to doubt my most beloved role-models? I do not know the answer. Just asking that question throws me into a hurt and a confusion that I'd rather not touch, it smarts so much. Pray, if you think about it, that God would- would what? Assure me that my parents' work was enough? Assure me that it wasn't enough, but he's ok with that 'cause they tried? Tell me that yes, they failed, but I, as their daughter and his, have a chance to make it right? Gah! All of those options are messed up. So, I don't know. Just... pray. Pray that in this messed up, confusing world, God would indeed prove to be a Rock.

I have rambled, my reader, long enough. That IS my prerogative as author of this blog, but still, I think it's suficiente now. Prou. Genug. Sufficient.
Good night, from GEMk
E.O.