I limped out of the orthopedist’s office and squinted at the glaring sun. Of all the times to get a foot injury, this was probably the worst. My family hadn’t been on the field very long, and navigating the medical system in a place where I hardly spoke the language was challenging—to say the least.

The day before, I had walked over five miles on the dusty Middle Eastern streets carrying groceries, wrangling our children, and dodging taxis. As the day went on, I became more and more aware of a pain in my big toe—one I’d been ignoring since an incident during a soccer game weeks earlier. But by that evening I could no longer pretend it was healing on its own. I must have broken the toe.

I paused in the middle of the sidewalk, trying not to put too much weight on the blue cast that extended to a few inches below my knee. The plastic bag protecting the hardened shell rustled in the breeze. I felt ridiculous staring open-mouthed as I searched for the pharmacy where I could buy a boot to cover my cast.

With all the signs in Arabic script that I couldn’t yet read, I had to look through every window to figure out where I was supposed to go. A few people slowed down to give me a quizzical look, but my lack of language skill meant I couldn’t ask for directions either.

I felt pathetic. I was…humbled.

When we lived in the U.S., I had been a high-functioning citizen. My wife and I owned our home and two cars. We had a nice yard for our kids to play in. If we needed food, healthcare, or even a bit of fun, we knew where to find it. We felt loved and respected in our community. We had a sense of safety, security, and significance.

But all that changed with our move overseas. We had no car, and I couldn’t communicate with taxi drivers. We didn’t know how to find grocery stores on our own and couldn’t read the prices once we finally did locate one. We had to ask for help to do everything from paying utility bills to installing an internet connection.

Just that morning, the nurse at the orthopedic clinic had needed to come outside to track me down for my appointment because I couldn’t find the clinic or understand her directions over the phone.

In so many situations, I felt like a child, totally dependent on others to meet my needs and accomplish basic tasks.

I hobbled under the awning of a nearby shop and took a deep breath. “Lord,” I prayed silently, “this is so hard. Do you have any idea what it’s like to go from being successful, respected, and competent to feeling helpless and completely dependent on others?”

I sensed God’s answer immediately. Of course He knew what it was like!

When Jesus came to earth, He came as a helpless infant. The source of living water had to cry when He was thirsty, and later when He learned to walk, He likely tripped over the ground He created. Jesus humbled Himself enough to take the form of a literal baby. I only felt like one.

In that moment, the wonder of the incarnation of Jesus took on new significance to me, and I discovered the joy of limping in His footsteps.

Each time He invites us to take a step of faith, He asks us to humble ourselves as He did. My family’s move to the Middle East required me to leave behind the spaces that made me feel significant. But it has also taught me to rely on Jesus in new ways and given me a greater understanding of just how much He loves His people. Even clumsy ones like me.

Pray:

• Lift up field workers as they navigate new cultures and cross language barriers.
• Praise God for inviting us into His work and sustaining us as we follow Him.
• Ask the Lord to bless the efforts of new workers as they learn to reach out to their Muslim neighbors.

**This account comes from a long-term worker. Names have been changed for security.**

Main photo by iStock

Original article: https://frontiersusa.org/blog/limping-in-his-footsteps/