A few months ago, I found myself walking the cobblestone streets of Antigua, Guatemala—streets my daughter Sophia once walked during her World Race. It was the first time she had ever gone international without me, steps taken in faith, on a journey that would unknowingly guide the one I am on now. I retraced her footsteps, each one heavy with memories and meaning. And there, in a small tattoo shop nestled between vibrant walls and bustling vendors, I got the words inked into my skin: Hineni, Shlachaini.
“Here I am. Send me.”
The tattoo itself is Hebrew—words that have followed me, whispered to me, shouted through others, until I could no longer ignore the thread being woven through my life. My best friend Michelle first brought the scripture to me. It’s her life verse. Her license plate reads “Send Me.” Her coffee mugs say it. She even got me one. I thought it was beautiful, a little mantra of hers that resonated in the background of my life.
Then came Joe.
When I met Joe and heard of his vision—his bridge—my spirit responded before my mind could catch up. Yes. I’m in. Send me. It wasn’t a cautious, logical yes. It was immediate. Instinctive. Deeply spiritual. The kind of yes that changes everything.
That yes led me to the greatest fight for His Kingdom I’ve ever known.
While in Guatemala, Mae—part of our local AIM base—told us about their newest program: Hineni. A local discipleship initiative, preparing Guatemalans to go to the Middle East and make disciples. When she said the word—our word—I nearly lost it. That was our scripture. The one whispered to me by Michelle. The one I unknowingly said with my life many times and most recently when I said yes to the bridge. So there in Antigua, where Sophia once got her tattoo, I stood in that same city and made a mark of my own.
I wanted to scream: Here I am, Lord! Send me! Use me!
This tattoo is for that moment. For all of those moments. And it’s positioned so whether my arms are lifted high in worship or extended out in surrender, it reads the same. Upright or upside down, my posture and my ink both say, Hineni. Send me.
Fast forward to this new married life— in Panama. Washing my hair with river water. Letting my socks dry in the sun. Sitting beside my husband on a concrete floor in a tent next to two other tents. Spending our honeymoon on an air mattress instead of a resort. Eating rice and beans. Showering at a faucet or in the river. Working alongside people who don’t speak our language. Living off-grid, literally.
And still—this is what my yes looks like.
This is what obedience feels like.
Because that bridge we said yes to? It’s being built. With love. With calloused hands. By families who now have income they’ve never known. By women who can work beside their husbands. By sons who don’t have to leave town for work. By teams who carry 400,
100-pound bags of cement through 18 miles of mountain terrain. We’re doing it together—those of us who said yes, who said Hineni.
We have a new, beautiful extended family here. People and children with stories that will never make the headlines but are transforming the Kingdom. This bridge, this life, is not just stone and sweat. It’s obedience. It’s surrender. It’s a love offering to the One who asked us to go.
So yes, I got a tattoo. But it’s not just ink. It’s a declaration.
Hineni. Shlachaini.
Here I am. Send me.
And I will keep saying yes. Even when the floor is concrete and the air mattress leaks and my socks are wet. Even when the climb is uphill both ways.
Because He’s worth it.
And so is this life of surrender.
