Saturday, Dec. 30 pm

Ruth Padilla DeBorst

Tonight I have a confession to make. As I stand before you here, I face two nagging questions. The first of them is, “Why am I here, speaking to all of you?” I would much rather be speaking to—say, this bunch of people, and be down there with them, talking back and forth. This standing and delivering is not quite my style. Besides, this is for me a cross-cultural experience.

You may wonder why my English is decent. My mother was born in Pennsylvania, but my father is Ecuadorian; I was born in Columbia, and I grew up in Argentina. How do you imagine you would feel if you were plunked in the middle of Buenos Aires, in a mass political rally, say, and you were told you had to speak?

Well, the other question is, “Why should you hear my story?” And believe me, it’s not that I don’t like telling stories. My mom, who’s sitting over here, could tell you she had to quiet me at the table so my siblings would have a chance to talk about their day. When I was in grad school, my thesis was on the use of story in Christian education. I love story. I love telling stories. But the question is, “Why this story, and why share that when there are so many stories many of you could tell?” Well, I’m here because I must speak. God’s love forces me to give testimony. I cannot but share his goodness, even with a group as big as this, as diverse as this—even if it’s not comfortable or easy for me.

I’m going to ask you to travel with me for a moment to a small country in South America. Its claim to fame is that the equator runs through it. It has the highest active volcano in the world, the snow peak Cotopaxi. And a while back, in one same day it had three presidents.

Bright sun, a valley spreading at our feet, white volcanoes in the background, sparkling against a blue sky—from the green spot where my husband Neil and I sat, life looked good. Our children, Jonathan and Luana, were growing up strong and healthy. Our third child was thriving in my womb. Our ministry among students in Latin America was flourishing. Good books were being published. We were finishing up a manual on video production. The network of Christian communicators around the continent was growing in strength and in number. Neighbors were visiting our discipleship group. We had good friends, and we were learning to enjoy living in Quito, Ecuador.

You know, years before, when I was doing teachers’ training in Buenos Aires, I had been actively involved in InterVarsity. I had led a discipleship group on my campus, I had been a part of student leadership at a national level, I had planned training events, I had written a discipleship manual, I had even gone to international events to learn and be trained.

When I left Argentina to pursue further studies at Wheaton College Graduate School, I did so with a clear vision that I was to return and continue serving in student ministry, and I was convinced that it would be in Argentina.

Of course, that’s where I knew the people—I knew the country, I knew the issues, I knew the culture. That was the most logical place, right? That was where God would have me serve. But God had other intentions. He had to work in me before he was ready to work through me. I, the efficient, active doer, needed to be broken, humbled, healed. Barriers had to be broken within me. I had turned to another kind of logic. That logic eventually led me into marrying an American, of all people. I had almost vowed I would never marry an American. The same logic carried us, after two years of married life and prayer, to Ecuador, this new country where I didn’t know the people—I didn’t know the issues, I didn’t know the culture. But that was where God would have us serve—building on the gifts and opportunities he had given both of us throughout life.

So Neil and I sat that Thursday afternoon, under the strong, shady pines, thanking God and praying and planning for yet greater things to come. Life was good. It felt worthwhile for the Kingdom of God. We even drafted a complete proposal for the communication ministry in the region that same day, and sent it out to our team.

Another Thursday, four weeks later, we were driving home, and we spotted on the hills of the outskirts of Quito a bushfire. Neil was really excited because he needed some video footage for a video we were producing. So we stopped by our house, picked up the camera, and went over there. He jumped out of the car with our son Jonathan to film. That would be his last footage.

Moments later, three shots blasted through the Quito evening. The three car thieves drove away and left me and my two children alone to look for help. Once the police finally arrived and got Neil to the hospital, the doctor’s words rang through clearly in the midst of all the confusion: “Lady, your husband is dead.”

Dead? Gone? Never to return? No. It can’t be. Not me. Not him. Not us. Those things only happen to other people, far away in the news.

With Neil died all our dreams, our hopes for family and ministry. Nothing really remained unchanged. I lost a loving partner. My children lost a playful and dedicated father. Latin America lost a servant ministry.

“But Mommy,” Jonathan frequently demanded, “you say God always takes care of us. What happened that night?” A drilling, unavoidable question. Really, where was God when Neil was murdered in front of our very own eyes? Actually, where is God when families are torn apart by war, violence, genocide, hunger, AIDS, poverty, drugs?

“He’s absent,” some say. “He just sent this whole thing in motion and walked away.”

“He’s indifferent,” others will say, “even cruel and he revels in watching us just wriggle in our own excrement.”

“He’s weak,” others will say. “He’s unable to counter the powers of evil.”

Where is God?

Well, the essence of the good news is that God, through Jesus, is with us: Emmanuel. God doesn’t simply look on in empathy and help us in suffering and loss; he himself suffers. When Neil dropped to the ground, Jesus was murdered. When I was wrenched apart by separation, Jesus felt that darkness. At the cross, he took upon himself all our death and suffering—all the death and suffering that has weighed on humanity, through all times and places. In life and death, he took on the devastating pain of total separation from the Father, with whom he had enjoyed intimate communion like we wouldn’t even believe. Because he loves us, God submitted himself to death itself, so that we might live, forever reconciled to him, to nature, to each other.

Now which is our most automatic question when things aren’t going well? We ask “Why? Why me, why now, why?” I’d like to challenge us to look at things from a different angle. The question we should ask as Christians isn’t “Why?” but “Why not?” If our creator, savior and king, suffered the consequences of our sin, why should we be immune to suffering? If creation itself is moaning under the burden of our disobedience, why should we not be affected? People around us are broken, sick, dying forever. Where would Emmanuel have us be?

We are sent, as he was, into the world, so that by our wounds, others may be healed. We are sent to love. We are sent to die. Understanding his will for our lives, then, needn’t be a guessing game of the right versus the wrong choices, or futile attempts to never be in the wrong place at the wrong time. God has not put us in a maze, in which a wrong turn means we’re lost and we’re just destined to wander like lab rats. Nor are we called to receive a map, which traces all the possible routes so that we can pilot ourselves to safe haven.

No, his invitation is that we accept his love, so that we can walk with him, as he wants to walk with us; and so that we can walk like him, no matter where, no matter when; so that we may respond in love to him and to others, wherever we are, no matter the circumstances; that we live as subjects of the Kingdom. When we obey this, we allow his purposes to be fulfilled through us and we carry out our mission.

I stand here before you tonight to give testimony of God’s enduring love. Remember I said that with Neil’s death, nothing had remained unchanged? Well, I realized I was wrong. One thing hadn’t changed: God’s love.

He remained faithful to himself, and he kissed us through his Word that acquired deeper meaning, as I wrestled through murder and its consequences. He kissed us through his Spirit, breathing the breath of life, giving strength to keep going, to nurture my children, to give birth to a healthy baby, to make healthy choices, to face pain and not be overwhelmed by it. He kissed us through his people: hundreds from near and far rallied to support us in prayer, encouragement and practical care, so that even if I had chosen, I couldn’t have fallen too far. My family wove a nest around that we could be warmed in, and be ready to fly off again.

His grace provided abundantly for all our needs. But you know what? His provision didn’t start then. It started before that. He had pre-provided for us through a Christian home. My parents, Rene and Catherine Padilla, pioneers of the student work in Latin America, are here with us at Urbana. I want to thank them publicly for all they planted in me. Thank you, viejitos.

God also provided to me through the church in a student movement that opened up opportunities to serve and grow. He strengthened me to continue ministering as a Christian Reformed missionary in Ecuador and in Argentina, serving with the International Fellowship of Evangelical Students for the region, and directing the publishing efforts. He has been healing my children from the trauma of that night. And more recently, he began recreating our family and granting us new dreams and opportunities.

Two months ago, I married my friend and fellow missionary, James DeBorst. And we’re starting up a new life in Salvador, with new challenges. We are now working on blending our original three children with the other three children, and we have six now. We have the blessing, also, of integrating colors and racial backgrounds, right around our own kitchen table. Maya was adopted in Liberia.

So why, in the end, am I sharing my story with you? What keeps me going through all the changes in life—some brought on by choice, others far from it? Sheer willpower? Heroic efforts? By no means. It’s because of the certainty that nothing can separate us from the love of God. And his creative purposes, his mission, and consequently ours will prosper. Death, in all its forms, will die. So we can serve in love and die today, knowing that his Kingdom, which is already begun in Jesus, his Kingdom of peace and justice for all, will come. And the whole world will recognize that God is with us: Emmanuel.

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