Papa.

Papa.

I loved that.

When I was 14, the church that I had just taken up with had recently gone through a search for a missions pastor. They found a lovely family with two sons, and one daughter, and I distinctly remember seeing the picture of the younger son and knowing that our lives would somehow intersect.

A few weeks later then, when he arrived in Zion from the Philippines, our lives intersected.

I'm not sure when or how or why, but we became friends, with a twist. And when he'd pray, he'd pray "Papa." Papa God. I thought it was beautiful.

Months later, I remember standing in the kitchen with his Mom, heart-broken that he was going on a month-long missions trip back to the Philippines. She told me that distance makes the heart grow fonder. Apparently, the cure for distance is bad grammar--he wrote me these atrociously-edited emails that killed the heart-break. He also sent this beautiful necklace. It was a red stone on a black cord, and I thought it was about the sweetest thing that had ever happened to me.

He's married now. Someone else is dealing with his inability to distinguish between "their" and "they're." And I bet he has no idea that when deep in prayer, I think of that intimacy, the word "Papa," and I remember him. When I remember him, I remember all of the Christians who have touched my life. And when I remember them, "Papa" becomes all the more precious.

I am deeply in love with the people I've met here, the church, and the life I lead (more so than most of them know). Even the hard parts. The ones I cry over. But this isn't my life in Christ. This place, this time--they don't define me fully. Maybe now, but not forever. For better or worse, there will be other Christians, and other churches, and that won't change the reality of God. That won't displace the urgency of Christ.

God is timeless. Thus, I am timeless. At least the part of me fashioned after my Father. My Papa.