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Corinne is an Oncology Nurse, who has a thirst for adventure, and loves Jesus. She loves to be outside, whether it’s on her parents’ farm in North Dakota or exploring a new place. 

It was similar to rush hour traffic in America, but a bit of a different sort of bedlam. Take away the smooth asphalt roads and sleek, modern vehicles. and add a cacophony of Nicaraguan horses and carts, uneven lines of jeeps honking all the way up the hill, trucks piled high with workers on their way home talking and chatting over the noises of the city, and cars waiting on either side to turn into the deeply rutted dirt road that stretched out before us.

Inside our truck, I was getting restless. Weren’t we going to be late for the worship service? We were already late waiting for one of the men to get home from work earlier that day so we could leave to go up to the mountain. I was traveling with the pastor and musicians leading the service –it seemed kind of important that they get there in time! Not one other person in the truck seemed perturbed, though, and looked like they were enjoying themselves as we sat placidly in the middle of the road, fellowshipping, planning, and visiting.

My impatience had started earlier that afternoon: no one thing could be checked off my to-do list that day because of interruptions. The kids were more uncooperative and it was hard to get them to listen, the staff were stressed and I couldn’t do anything to help, and now we were stuck in traffic for who knows how long, and couldn’t get the church on time.

Restless Feet

My feet were starting to twitch. I had an impulse to get out and walk for a bit. It was probably going to be faster than the slow crawl we were managing in the vehicle. I resisted the urge, though, tried to be at least pleasant, and after some time our truck maneuvered through the snaking traffic and surged up the mountain again as the night fell.

Maybe I should have though. Maybe I should have gotten out of the vehicle and plodded along, one dusty footstep after another, up the road. Maybe the smelly vehicle fumes, the honking and yelling, and the trudging pace would have jarred me back to what I had just been talking about, only one night before, to my Nicaraguan friend. All week I had been noticing the slower pace of life that Nicaraguans lead.

They often are so much better about resting and taking time for important things: conversations, fellowshipping, and sharing a cup of cold water with a stranger.

Those of us back in the United States (or maybe it’s just me, I don’t know) have tight schedules, too many “do good” activities to get to, too many church functions to plan, to afford being hours late to a worship service.

Restless Heart

My restless feet that night were indicative of my restless heart. They wanted to shuffle off the straight and narrow path set before me, and instead find any attractive lane that served me, my time, and my desires. These Christians I had been working with all week had been showing me their hearts, their compassion, patience, and service, and I was too restlessly impatient to see it.

Their feet, if I had had the time to look at them, were beautifully at rest, because they were shod with the readiness of the gospel of peace (Ephesians 6:15).

Months later, I wish I could say that I have learned that lesson, that in the midst of my busy life in fast-paced America, I have learned to rest, to take time for others, and to know that the Lord has set my feet in a wide place (Psalm 31). I wish that my feet wouldn’t be so eager to keep moving, moving, moving—and by so doing, to move away from Him toward a muddled, murky, me-focused path.

I pray that the restlessness would be completely overtaken by the peace of Him who has called us out of darkness into His marvelous light (1 Peter 2:9).

I still have far to go.

I want to go back. I want to experience those people again, see their hearts, watch their souls ministering, and bask in the goodness of the Lord to His people across the world in every culture. But even while I’m here at home in my own paved, organized city, I am so thankful He taught me that Nicaraguan lesson in patience, and I know He will teach me again and again here, elsewhere, and everywhere—because He knows the lessons my restless feet need.

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