I needed to get away.
I snatched up my leftover wood-oven pizza from the staff break room and escaped to the trail lining the highway with the intention of finding an hour’s worth of stillness. My overgrowing to-do list, responsibilities, and quickly ticking away time had me feeling weighed down and concern was beginning to root itself.
I can’t do this. I can’t prepare to leave for 11 months for ministry. How did I once think that I could actually leave for that long? I can’t possibly be ready or meet my financial deadlines by the first week of October either. Life is too out-of-hand right now.
I was officially overwhelmed. There I sat on a stained wooden bench munching on my over-microwaved floppy pizza asking God all kinds of questions and unloading massive amounts of thoughts to Him. I wasn’t in a good state on that bench to receive any sort of reassurance; I allowed myself to spill over my worries with little space for peace.
Once my pizza therapy session ended, I began to realize the summer air was surprisingly not stifling but contained the warning of future thunderstorms. The moisture and electricity in the air was palpable.
Without missing a beat, warm droplets started plopping and soaking through my teal scrub pants. Even though I knew it was wise to hurry before finding myself racing through a downpour somehow I didn’t feel the want to hurry. I liked the rain well enough anyway.
As I started to mosey back down the path with lukewarm drops sliding down my bare arms and water bungee jumping off the tree’s leaves catching in my now frizzy hair, moments from years ago when I was in Costa Rica slipped into my mind.
The days there could be exactly like this. Richly green, earthy, warm, and rain riddled.
I didn’t travel to Costa Rica for any sort of formal ministry but instead was with a group of other high school students on a language trip. The goal was to hone our Spanish we had been learning for the past few years and stayed individually with host families to attempt this. I still can’t speak Spanish well, which is humorous in a way.
I remembered the forest we trekked through but instead of concrete beneath my feet there had been musky, soft mulch and instead of robins in the trees there had been sloths hanging out on the limbs. Then another memory maneuvered its way to the forefront.
My group was on a bus, the kind you probably rode to faraway football games or overnight camps that had those cushy seats covered in that navy 80’s print fabric with the yellow triangles and bright cherry flecks. I had the seat directly next to the window as we drove near San José which is the capital of Costa Rica and extremely urban.
We blew by it briefly but it was difficult to miss glimpses of the neighborhood. There were barefoot boys kicking a soccer ball to one another in front of homes made of tin sheets. I remember thinking that I was impressed that those homes could stand. It was as if they were kept together by wishful thinking and a few rusty nails.
Then my heart ached. I was there for a language trip but I had this longing to ensure that this neighborhood that understood poverty had heard that they were loved and wanted.
My feet slowed then on that path back to my work building and I felt a sinking realization that brought a sliver of shame but also the peace that had pervaded me minutes before during my pizza thoughts.
I had forgot.
Beneath the pile of gear I’ll be taking on my trip, fundraising conversations, support raising planning, responsibilities at my full-time job, stacks of lessons for elementary ministry co-teaching at my church, syringes for necessary vaccines, and underneath my own selfishness was the neglected, forgotten core of why I decided to leave for 11 months of international ministry in the first place.
No wonder I was overwhelmed. In the wild to-dos and busyness, I had somehow misplaced my heart and purpose for leaving. God has lead me by the hand to right here so why do I consistently keep allowing panic and fear to have dictatorship over my days?
When I saw the tin-roofed, wooden-ladden neighborhood in Costa Rica I wasn’t that much of a devoted Christ follower. I was also naive and really young even though I would have told you otherwise if you’d asked me then.
But that longing is still strong; I’m leaving among other things to ensure the world received Christ’s letter to them that they are loved, that they belong, and that they are not forgotten. Not just those in dangerous, poor neighborhoods but those everywhere all with their own needs. The lost as well as the hurting can be anyone.
There’s a host of misconceptions about international missions. Many that I’m still sifting through and I am sure I’ll continue to reflect about. There are a lot of reasons I am not going.
I’m not going because I see myself as the American savior to other cultures and nations.
I’m not going because I’ll get to travel to many different countries around the world.
I’m not going because I’m only wanting to transform my privatized life with the Lord.
I’m not going because I think that missions only exists outside of America and my own hometown.
I’m not going because I believe I know more about being a Christ follower than other Christians do globally.
I’m not going because I’m following the misleading stereotype that being a “Christian” means you have an international missions trip under your belt.
I’m not going because I think I can fix poverty, melt resistant hearts, or have some special skill that can save the world.
I’m not going because I believe I’m made superior by saying yes to 11 months of partnering with international ministries.
I’m not going because it will satisfy a longing within me, fulfill me, or make me whole.
I’m not going because it will always be a fun adventure because, let’s be honest, there are some incredibly difficult and trying days waiting ahead.
I AM going because I know this is next with the Lord even though I’ll be gone from everything familiar and considered home.
I AM going because as I’ve told a few of the sweet, supportive people in my life – I want to be a part of the movement of stories of His people flowing through diverse individuals and different cultures. Not stories of ourselves within our own devices but the narrative of God the Creator. The writings within our own lives, the life of Christ, and the radical event in history where there was Him, a cross, and redemption.
Now, this, this I need to remember. We simply, as Mother Teresa says, are little pencils in the hand of a writing God who is sending a love letter to the world. A letter both you and I can continue to share here and abroad.
