Moving (Pt.15)

During those two days at the guesthouse, I began to rebuild my website, shifting the focus of the ministry back to writing.

Yet, as I browsed through the elegant online shop I had once crafted with my own hands, hesitation rose within me.

Every detail of the site reminded me of the process—how I personally designed it, carefully selected items, reached out to ministry partners back in China, ordered samples to be air-shipped to Barcelona, and coordinated logistics. Behind all of it were real costs, genuine passion, discernment, and my expression of love.

It wasn’t merely a “shop.” It was my response in a season when I felt I could no longer do anything unrelated to the gospel—a hesitant step taken in the fog of confusion.

But I also understood that it stood in tension with the essence of my writing ministry. Especially since the products centered on “gospel-themed cultural goods,” they could easily be perceived as a “superficial experience of faith.” Even if they were designed by Christian artists, it was nearly impossible for them to convey the same depth and reverence as my writings.

So I hesitated, deleting items one by one, trying to preserve only the quiet, understated ones—anything not to dilute the sacredness of my words.

Yet inwardly, the debate raged. I questioned myself: if I continued managing orders, logistics, and all the trivialities that followed, would these not eventually erode my whole self from walking that deeper, rarer path that I truly felt called to?

But another voice replied: not every blessing must come in the purest of words or the deepest of truths. Christ’s ministry also included feeding five thousand with bread, healing lepers, dining at banquets—tangible acts that people could touch. The breadth of His service was no less holy.

My greatest enemy was always myself. To conquer one’s own heart is harder than to take a city.

However, at that moment, I suddenly remembered something: I had left behind a custom fridge magnet (Jesus holding the hand of a child walking on water) in that former landlord’s house.

And I realized—I hadn’t worn a cross necklace in quite some time.

Clearly, whether I had these objects or not made no difference to my faith. In fact, without them, I felt freer.

The Spirit gently whispered to me:

“You think this carries My presence, but it is only the meaning you’ve projected onto it. The truth is, I am never bound by objects. My comfort is given freely, without cost.”

Then I saw it plainly: my selling of “gospel merchandise” was not only a subtle temptation toward materialism, but also a way of trying to bypass the sovereignty of the Spirit, offering consolation through human-crafted designs for the senses.

What I was selling, in essence, was a hidden kind of “indulgence.”

And so, I finally began shutting down the store.

The decision itself came in a single moment—the instant I put my hands to action, there was no more hesitation.

Step by step, I deleted products, plugins, and data, cleaned out pages and menus. After double-checking everything, I erased the backups.

This was the moment I shifted from “creator” to “vessel.” I burned away every part laced with self-will, worldly logic, and emotional projection, and said to the Lord:

“I am willing to return this part—what I so carefully built—back to You.”
“I am willing to lay down the ‘creator-self,’ and give it to You.”

The website now stood clear and uncluttered, reflecting the essence of my calling.

On the day I moved into my new home, I met again with the young woman who had sublet me the room. We chatted for a long time. She listened attentively as I spoke about history, culture, and certain theological ideas. She admitted that, though she had lived in Europe for so long, it wasn’t until that moment that she finally understood some of the deeper currents beneath it all.

I never understood why so many Chinese fight their way into Western countries, yet remain blind to the countless churches that fill the streets, never stirred by curiosity about Christ. But as I fluently used the language of faith to interpret the world for her, for the first time, I felt I was indeed not merely an “ordinary Christian.”

That night, after unpacking my new home, I rolled across the floor and prayed over the room. I asked the Lord to sanctify it, to set it apart as His dwelling place.

The next morning, birdsong and sunlight woke me. The room was fresh and bright. Rising from bed, I knelt and leaned by the window, gazing out.

Amber tipuana trees, a lush green park, the sunrise scattering faint beams of Jesus-light across the horizon… Praise be—this was the world the Lord created, and this was the dwelling place He had given me.

That morning I completed all my medical check-ups at the hospital—everything went smoothly. In the afternoon, the landlord had cleaners restore the common areas of the apartment to their best.

By evening, I stopped by the first girl’s house to pick up the luggage I had stored with her.

Two young men were there viewing the place, so we didn’t chat much—just a few words of polite updates. I was immersed in the joy of moving into my new home, but I sensed, behind her courtesy, a trace of regret.

Yet I had already let go. I left with blessings for her.

I began exercising again, eating regularly. Chaoplain’s wife finally replied to my message, and we arranged to go to the French countryside together in a few days.

Two days later, the desk I ordered online arrived. Piece by piece, I assembled it according to the manual. After clearing away the last bit of clutter, I finally had a sanctuary of my own.

This spotless white desk would be the altar where I meet the Lord in writing.