We were doing more door to door evangelism. The first house’s owner wasn’t there, but his aging mother was. Christina was breaking up dirt to plant sweet potatoes. With church member Annalise translating, Arden and I explained that we were with Mzuzu Pentecostal Church, and we were missionaries from America. We were in the neighborhood to encourage and pray with people and help them in any ways they needed. We asked if there were any areas in her life that she needed encouragement, or if she had any prayer requests. Christina hesitated, then touched her eyes and said she had a hard time seeing, as well as a bad cough and body pains.
When we ask someone what is going on, it’s not always easy to hear the answer. Do you ever greet someone with the typical, “Hi, how are you?” only to be met with an honest, unhappy answer? That’s usually how it goes for us.
Often, we are presented with a struggle that we know nothing about and can do nothing about, other than praying, which, to be honest, doesn’t usually feel like enough. But it’s all we have. Prayer, the Bible, and our physical selves, sitting on our butts in the dirt.
So when she told us about her pains, the four of us–Christina, Arden, Annalise, and I–sat down right on the ground, on the reddish, packed down dirt. I opened my Bible and aimlessly thumbed through it, not sure what to say. This is what we do when we go door to door: we talk to people, and then are expected to encourage them by talking about a Bible verse or some story that can pertain to their lives. We missionaries who have come from so far away are always somehow supposed to know what to say. But here’s a secret: we don’t. At least, I don’t.
I have shared “a word” at dozens and dozens of houses this year, and even though we’re supposed to be listening to God and open to what the Spirit might be telling us to say, I have no idea what that word might be the vast majority of those times. Here’s what happens in those moments: I open my Bible and aimlessly thumb through it, not sure what to say until I land on a passage that I could make a comment or two on. I don’t hear God talking to me. I don’t feel inspired during my impromptu sermons. And I don’t leave feeling like I’ve hugely blessed anyone.
As far as I can tell, I am making up something nice to say about God. I’m playing the part of a foreign missionary tuned in to the inner workings of God and man. But really, I’m just faking it.
That’s how it feels. But thank God that’s not what it is. In 2 Corinthians 6:8-10 Paul says this:
“We are treated as impostors, and yet are true; as unknown, and yet well known; as dying, and behold, we live; as punished, and yet not killed; as sorrowful, yet always rejoicing; as poor, yet making many rich; as having nothing, yet possessing everything.”
I can identify with some of those dichotomies. I feel sorrowful going out, or at least reluctant or bored or grumpy. I feel poor when I go out, like I don’t have enough words or love for myself, let alone for stranger after stranger. Yet when I meet people, whether it’s nerves or a pinch of adrenaline or good manners or the Holy Spirit, I find myself smiling and using energy I didn’t know I had to be with people.
Most of all, I don’t see others judging me as an impostor, but I sure judge myself that way. I don’t really have something to offer. I just pretend to by looking the part, rattling off some Bible verse I memorized in third grade, and vamping on it for a minute, hoping it somehow applies to the listener’s life.
Yet somehow, the work we’re doing is true.
I know that because at nearly every house, we are thanked and called blessings and commended for working hard for God. And our frantic, forced, feeble words of encouragement are actually precious words from God that make many rich.
But I still didn’t know what to say to Christina about her pain. I opened my Bible to John 8, where Jesus calls himself the Light of the World and said something about that. My words prompted some thoughts from Arden, and after both of us had shared, Christina told us something more.
She had had 12 children but only one was still alive: the son whose house we were sitting in front of. He was troubled, she told us. He would disappear and not say where he was off to. He was trying to finish school. She was sad. She was out of energy. She was staying alive for him but it was hard.
What do you say to that? Not much. Arden, Annalise, and I just sat with Christina for a little bit. We prayed with her. I held her hands and she apologized because they were dusty and I said it was okay so we kept holding hands. When we were done praying Christina was crying, and so were we. We have been to a lot of houses, but there was something special about this woman that moved us.
We sat there for a minute longer in the dirt and I told her she reminded me of my grandma. Geekers had the same wrinkles and strong hands. Then we had to leave. Christina was smiling when we left and headed deeper into the neighborhood. She didn’t go straight back to work. She waved and remained seated for a little while. Arden and I sniffed and wiped our tears, trying to restore our default settings for the next stranger we’d meet.
This work is hard emotionally, mentally, and socially. It is exhausting and I don’t trust God because I want to. I trust God because if I don’t I won’t be able to do it. But trusting God doesn’t mean things feel comfortable and in control. I still slog from house to house and feel awkward. But sometimes you can’t wait for God to speak to you. You just have to start talking or hugging. And you know that despite or because of your action, God will show up. Even if you feel like a fake, you’re real. Our morning with Christina showed me that.
