The Last Ten Percent

 I dedicate this post to my Hume campers 

Ever since Hume I’ve been thinking through the “last 10 percent” and what that means for me personally. I’m already a Christian and I try to be obedient to His callings.  But I also know that until Christ returns or I go to be with the Lord, I am not fully sanctified. I will always be seeking to go the extra mile, because Christ went where no man could go. Which means I will be trying my whole life to just get as close as possible. 

So how does that translate into my life right now? How can I go even further in my obedience to the Lord and my emulation of Christ?

Well, to be frank, my prideful heart thought I was doing pretty well. I imagined myself in the last five percent. I live in one of the grungiest and most impoverished cities in the world, working to end the sex trade. And while I still have my reservations. [There are places I haven’t gone, like into the trash piles with women who dig for food; or things I haven’t eaten, like street food made with gutter water.] It was honestly just a matter of time, because that’s my personality. Taking risks and being adventurous comes relatively easy for me.

Thankfully God likes to humble us. Last weekend He showed me that the “last 10 percent” is what is HARDEST for us to give. I’m foolish if I think I will serve God better simply by mustering up enough courage to sit further into filth. But what is hard for me, what God wants from me, is for my heart to bleed as His does.

Let me explain:

This past weekend I left my city for the first time to pass out medical supplies to local villages.

The journey started with a two-hour car drive south, a boat ride across the murky swamps, and another 30 minutes by bike until we finally reached a small, run down, concrete government school. There we set up chairs and started treating villagers who had traveled all day to meet our team, most of whom needed care way beyond our capabilities. 

And while the medical camp itself was fun: talking with the local women, practicing the local language, playing with the kids, holding babies, and laughing with my team; it was probably one of the hardest days of my time so far.

I couldn’t find the words until I got home and started opening up to my roommate Jen, who is a saint for putting up with me all the time. I finally pinpointed the reason for my restless sprit. For whatever reason, my heart had finally opened up, leaving it vulnerable and unguarded.

On my way to the medical camp we passed brick factories. For as far as the eye could see mud was being packed, dried and baked into large, red stones. And right in front of me, in plain, clear sight; I watched five to seven-year-olds slave away in those fields, carrying and shaping mud with sweat rolling down their brows.

My heart froze in time. I saw but I couldn’t comprehend. It was as if those red bricks weighed down on my soul all afternoon. And finally, I broke. I was able to cry, for the first time, over the poverty and injustices I vicariously experienced each and every day.

Through my tears I managed to say what I’ve wanted to scream since being here, “I’m sick of watching innocent children robbed of their childhood and then just driving away.”

For months I had been on protective mode, not really letting these precious kids or their precious mothers into my heart, because if I did I'd be wrecked like I was that day. It was a coping mechanism … a way to stay sane.

But staying sane left me right around 90 percent….

We are taught here that giving the children attention just makes matters worse. If westerners give them food, then their mothers wont. If they can’t work underage, they will be trafficked. If we give them attention, their traffickers will beat them for not getting money as well. If we give them hugs, it creates a dependency on receiving love. If you smile, they will want something more. If you are nice, you’ll make yourself vulnerable.

The excuses are endless. Some make sense, some don’t.

And yet, as I reflect over the way I have been taught to live; the way I have been prompted to protect myself, I can’t help but think that Jesus would have never just walked away. Jesus would have never ignored a child. Jesus would have never refused to eat dinner with an “untouchable.” And so nor shall I.

This is my “next ten percent.” This is the narrow alley way my Savior has asked me to walk down: opening up my heart to those who need it.

The way I live doesn’t make sense to most of the world and frankly to most of my closest friends. But I don’t answer to them. I answer to the Holy Spirit who speaks directly to my soul.

So this is my one piece of advice to you High Schoolers. You know the convictions of your heart. You know what God is asking of you. (And if you don’t read the book of Matthew.) But my point is, don’t be afraid to leave yourself vulnerable to the world. We may get hurt, our hearts may get trampled on; but God wants us to bleed as He bled, for how else will we be remade? 

And know that I will always be here cheering you on. Encouraging you to take that next step into the unknown.

With All His Love,

Kristy