At Just The Right Time

One of the worst moments of my life started pretty innocuously.

A typical Budapest Saturday night: a shared Mexican taco feast, followed by lighthearted banter, farewell hugs from friends, and a walk back to my apartment under the soft hum of those Budapest streetlights. As in other cities, the streetlights grow fainter the further you move from the main road, as though money quietly dictates how much light is offered.

Wandering downhill toward my apartment, moving literally from light into shadow, a wave of sadness washed over me, sudden and sharp, like a jolt from a grazed electric fence. I became very aware of how lonely I was, how unprepared I felt for this calling into cross-cultural missions, and how overwhelmed I was by the otherness of it all. It hit me like a two-by-four. No time to breathe, no reflexive kick back into gear.

And completely unwelcome.

Instead of heading home to the quiet of my sleeping daughter and my resting husband, I took another lap around the block, trying to stuff the feelings back inside. I will never know why a dimly-lit, late night walk felt more comforting than a warm bed and a familiar hug. Actually, that is not true, I do know. The instability and change in our lives at the time was not just affecting me; it was affecting our whole family. The last thing I wanted was to bring more sadness into the mix, especially when, at this particular point, I was the one holding the strongest ground. So I kept walking. But the waves of sadness kept crashing, until I found myself leaning against a chain fence, tears on my cheeks, trying to contain it all, the emotions, the mess of it.

And then, unexpectedly, a call from my dad.

It was not entirely surprising, as we talked about once a month and it was about that time. But particularly on this night, the timing mattered. I recently read a story about a child with disabilities living in a group home who had a regular Wednesday visitor. One Tuesday, he woke up unusually excited. The staff tried to calm him, reminding him it was not Wednesday yet. But ten minutes later, the visitor arrived, a day early, explaining she could not make it the next day. Sometimes deep connections stir something in us before logic catches up. And here was my dad, calling at just the right time.

I don’t think I told him everything that was going on, but I’m sure the edges of it came out over the course of the call. When I was younger I was always brutally honest with my dad, when I wasn’t busy lying. He never responded by shaming me, instead trying to respond with love and clarity about consequences. That is an important lesson to learn young: the difference between shame and consequences.

That night, he simply asked how I was doing and talked with me for over an hour. I don’t think I told him the full story, but he was present, chatting, sharing about his month, talking me through things. It was a small moment of reprieve and understanding in a sea of loneliness.

I was not completely put back together by the time my walk was concluded. But as I took the elevator back up to my apartment I was not falling apart in quite the same way.

I learned a couple of important lessons that night:

1. Missionaries do not have it all together all of the time, and I don’t think we are meant to.

An old biblical promise is that trouble will come, trials will come. But we have an example of someone who has walked through it all before us. The first step to moving through the troubling times is to acknowledge it exists and that it is too much for us. Which leads me to my second point:

2. True connection can steady someone who feels like they are drowning.

It doesn’t always look like “problem and solution” connections. Dad didn’t work through all my problems and solve them with me. He was just there, he cared, he knew me, and he made time for me. That was deeply steadying in a hugely unstable environment.

Troubles show us that life is still happening, with all its weaknesses and mess. In those times connection and genuine understanding remain some of the most valuable things we can offer each other. We’re not meant to do life alone.

So thanks Dad.

Again.