On Getting Tested for HIV

I was the all-American good girl growing up. I turned my homework in on time, studied for tests, and got straight A's. I never drank or smoke or did drugs. I went on mission trips. I never dated. (I was, after all, part of the "I Kissed Dating Goodbye" generation.) And I saved myself for marriage...

I never even kissed a guy till I met my husband.

We fell in love as missionaries in his home country of South Africa. We got married and pioneered a ministry in the poorest region of the country.

It was the thing of fairy-tales...

So I never in a million years expected I'd ever have to get tested for HIV.

But I did.

Because my husband was unfaithful. And because we lived in the country with the highest AIDS-infection rate in the world.

He was with her for over a year-and-a-half before the truth came out. And when it did, he chose her. Over me. Over the ministry. He walked away from it all, in pursuit of a new fairy-tale all his own.

With my life crumbling all around me, I was forced to face things I'd never imagined.

Like an HIV test.

I couldn't hold back the tears as vial after vial of blood was taken.

My heart hurt far more than my arm did. I sobbed over the fact that I even needed to get tested. And I wished I had someone there with me. To hold my hand, literally and metaphorically.

My HIV test came back negative (for which I was—and am— overwhelmingly grateful), and I was given some heavy-duty antibiotics to kick any possibility of STDs. So all is well.

Physically.

But, even two years later, I'm still trying to process the reality that someone who professed for-life love put me in this vulnerable position.

And I wrestle with feeling that saving myself for him was a waste. (Even when I know it wasn't.)

I wish there was a pill that could cure my heart of distrust, fear, and insecurities. But there's no quick remedy for broken trust, a violated heart, and a deep-seated fear of rejection.

All I can do is trust the Healer...

Even when it still hurts.

Originally a guest post on Prodigal Magazine. Read the comments there >

epically epoch

Nothing sounds more contradictory than a black-tie missions gala.

But Epoch 2011 pulled it off masterfully.

I was honored to attend their inaugural event in Atlanta, and while I don't know what I was picturing, what they delivered far blew away any expectations I may have had.

The night was spectacular in every way. I'm not just talking about the historic Fox Theater, the classy meal, the engaging presenters, or the elegance of the entire evening. Although every element from start to finish was artful and captivating.

The most amazing part for me was the undercurrent of genuine humility.

I don't say something like that lightly. So hear me out.

The event was hosted by Adventures in Missions, an incredible organization that itself lives on financial support. And yet they made the evening about everyone but themselves.

They found sponsors, invited donors, and distributed grants to support-based organizations, even when they very much need (and would make good use of) those same resources. Seth Barnes, the founder and director of Adventures, said grace before the meal, but other than that, he chose to not be front and center. At all.

This wasn't about him. This wasn't about Adventures.

This was about serving and honoring their co-laborers around the world.

The ballroom was filled with over 400 people on all sides of missions work: from those who live full-time on the field to Kingdom-minded individuals who make a significant impact through their financial support.

The majority of us felt very out of place in our evening gowns and tuxedos, and yet... felt oddly at home with each other. Because underneath the heels and bowties, our hearts beat the same.

I spent an evening surrounded by those who have given of themselves more than anyone could possibly fathom. And yet it wasn't flaunted. The Gala wasn't showy or ostentatious. It was beautiful, yes. Classy, absolutely. But genuine, because of the genuine hearts present.

That "great cloud of witnesses" the author of Hebrews talked about? I was surrounded by the pre-Heaven version.

The faith, sacrifice, perseverance, and blood-sweat-and-tears labor that filled that room was nothing short of astounding. Nations have been changed -- and will continue to be changed -- by that roomful of humble misfits in evening attire.

It was a night like none other.

And I already can't wait for next year.

That is... if I get invited back after my shenanigans in the photo booth. My true self came out in typical fashion, despite my red dress and uncomfortably high heels. My friend Tracee and I are still laughing at these ridiculous pictures!

Click over to LIKE the Grit on Facebook & view the crazy photo booth pics >

In honor of Epoch, Cross & Crown is offering a HUGE discount on design projects between now and 11/15 >

Where have you seen genuine humility recently?

ready or not...

Yep, I'm moving to Nashville with the Hodges!

Some of you already knew this, but Nash is where I was ultimately wanting to land. I decided months ago that while I may not know what's next for me, I do know that I want to chase down community. (Cue The Little Mermaid: "I wanna be where the people are...")

Nashville has an incredible church and some amazing people that have already felt like home to me. I just needed to detour to the left coast on my way south. Because again, in my heart to chase community, God knew I needed the Hodges. They have been such a refuge for me. I am beyond thankful for friends who've become family.

Brent is the new North Campus pastor for Cross Point Church. So we all get to make this move together. As a family of five. I am really excited to be able to embrace this new journey and season together.

We're leaving Friday, June 10th to drive from Oregon to Tennessee. That is gonna be one heck of a road trip! Make sure you're following all of us on Twitter so you can drive cross-country with us! I'm sure it'll be a wild ride!

Me Tam Brent Kass Kota

Ready or not, Nashville... Here we come!

maybe he was right

I keep hearing my former pastor's words, spoken to my 19-year-old self over 13 years ago. "The worst possible thing you could do with your life is become a missionary."

And I am starting to wonder if maybe he was right.

I've always felt confident about my decision to step into ministry when and how I did -- against all the odds, really.

I've seen fruit of lives changed and considered it all the proof I needed that I was doing something far from the "worst possible thing".

But here I sit, late at night when the darkness is darkest and the doubts and unknowns are the loudest.

I sit here with my heart pounding and the tears flowing. And now...

Now my confidence is cracked and crumbling. Now while I know lives were changed by our team and years and service in Africa, I still hear my former pastor's words to my faith-filled teenage missionary heart.

And I've gotta be honest. I no longer have my youthful faith and energy that bounded me away from the fateful words spoken over me. I don't have the fight left in me that it takes to stand up against these kinds of roadblocks.

Even when they are only internal.

I simply don't have any fight left.

And I can't help but think...

That maybe he was right after all.

Maybe he was right. Maybe my decision to be a missionary was the worst thing I could've done because of the domino effect it would cause. Because while people got saved, pastors and churches strengthened, young leaders equipped to teach their peers in public schools about abstinence and AIDS prevention, and so many other mind-blowingly amazing things were done that led to transforming a nation... simultaneously my marriage fell apart, the man of God I loved decided to pursue another woman and walk away from God, me, and the ministry, and everything crumbled to pieces.

So maybe he was right all along. Maybe had I not gone to Africa, someone else more suitable and prepared and strong would have gone. And the end result of years of ministry would be so much more than what it currently is.

Maybe he was right...

I know to live in past-tense hypotheticals is completely futile. I know this. But in dark moments of deafening quiet, my heart immediately goes to that place. And I can't help but cry as my chest caves in under the weight of it all.

Maybe he was right...

Maybe He was right.

I gasp, and my breath catches in my throat.

Why do I trust so easily the words of the meteorologist and yet hesitate at the words of God? Why do I more easily trust the negative, fearful voices in my head than I do God's truth?

He told me to go. I went. Lives were changed through the grit and the glory. Including my own.

And so through the ugly tears, I'm starting to hear a growing whisper.

Maybe He was right.

Maybe He was right.

healing in the storm

Africa has the greatest storms. The rainy season finally comes after months of drought. By the time the first drop falls, the earth is cracked and parched. Lakes and ponds have all but dried up. The tall savannah grass is brown and brittle.

The earth is thirsty. Ready. Waiting.

And then, out of nowhere one day, the storm clouds roll in.

The blackened sky sobs heavy tears. You can feel the thunder deep in your bones as it echoes through the plains. The lightning makes you jump with fear and paralyzes you with awe all in the same loud, bright instant. The wind reminds you that only God could tie the trees down tightly enough.

Africa's storms are altogether wonderful.

And altogether terrible.

Water rushes into homes, through the cracks in mud hut walls and the gaps in old thatch roofs and the seams in tin shack ceilings. Gusts of wind blow right through bedrooms and marble-sized hail destroys gardens. Those with only their feet for transportation run for any cover they can find---the bus stop, the liquor store, the first home they can reach in the village.

The storms are harsh. And unrelenting. And inconvenient.

And yet, they are welcomed.

There is a joy about the rainy season. "We need it," is what you'll hear.

"We need it."

They find it easy to say. Easy to see. Easy to recognize and acknowledge that as challenging as the storm may be, good will come of it. It is, after all, an answer to countless prayers for the sun-scorched ground of Africa.

They know that the thirst can't be quenched without the storm.

Spring can't come without the rain.

New life can't bud deep beneath the surface of the dry, crusty ground until the heavens unleash their fury.

The drought doesn't end until the storms start.

We need it.

I need it.

I need this storm in my life. Not as punishment or discipline or as some cruel cosmic joke that has God chuckling to Himself. I need it because of what's waiting on the other side, that I can't see yet.

I need it because my cracked, dry heart doesn't remember anymore what it feels like to be filled to overflowing.

I need it because everything in my life has turned the bare, barren brown of winter. And I'm despearte for the life-awakening green of spring.

I need it.

Even when I hate it.

Africa reminds me to take joy in the downpour.

For there is healing in this storm...

Originally a guest post at Mary DeMuth's...