I have been blessed to spent many months in countries across the world. To see beautiful creations, and experience different cultures and things. To live life with the people I was with.
Something happened. Something ruined me. As I spend my days here in the U.S. working and living until I leave in September, I more times than not feel like a misfit (if I am being honest). The night before stepping on a plane to Kenya, the Lord wrecked my life. He showed Himself to me, for the first time that my once-blind eyes could see. He made a promise to me that I would be a part of a world changing effort, but that it would take sacrifice. He ruined my life.
The days after that brought beauty, and pain. Both in immense quantity. I watched as a man I prayed for got up out of a wheelchair that he had been bound to for 30 years after praying for him. I saw a little girls foot that was swollen to the size of a watermelon from a snake bit shrink to normal size right in front of my eyes. But the pain and suffering stuck with me.
I witnessed massive riots in capital cities. Listened as men spoke of seeing their mothers/sisters raped and murdered, then having to kill their own fathers. Slept in huts with former soldiers recounted horrible stories of things they have done/seen. Embraced a crying Gypsy man, who couldn’t stand living because he felt like a waste. Invaluable. I walked through slums where families sleep on top of sewage and trash while their kids chew on razors and used tampons as if they were toys. Held dead children that lost their battles to HIV/AIDS as their families wept. Their skin torn to pieces. Little girls blown up by IED’s in the village.
All the while, I knew I would be leaving soon. Headed back on a plane. But not them. They could not medicate or relieve their suffering with money like I could. It was their life. And this messed up.
It is what I think of as I drive into work in the morning, shirt and tie on. People see the smiling face, but often ask what’s going on behind it? They notice the hurt. I don’t enjoy things like I did. American life confuses me. I am a misfit in my own country.
I want to talk to people, but I know some just won’t understand. I want to love those around me, but most of what I loved overseas was lost. And those closest to me here often only see the worst in me. The selfish moments. Anger. Running to seclusion. Afraid to love. Thinking there is “freedom” in not loving.
So, why do I say these things? For you to know we missionaries aren’t perfect. And more times than not, we need more grace than those we try to love on.
I miss grieving with my people overseas. Miss hugging and kissing the kids, telling them they are beautiful. I miss sleeping next to them, living in the same conditions, knowing that they trusted I would walk through life with them, whatever storm may come. I want to be back there, suffering with them. Laughing with them. Crying with them. And I feel like my mundane day-to-day activities are worthless.
The Lord will plant dreams and passions so deep in your being and soul that you cannot separate yourself anymore. It is who you are. You feel things to the core, you can truly feel the pain of those around you. You experience it deep in the caverns of your soul.
And it changes you. It shows you the unconditional and overwhelming love of the Father. That He is my strength each new day, and that His love overcomes all fear. He has proven true that He is strong, and that He loves me.
It has taught, in the last few days, to love selflessly. To cherish the small moments. To hug my mother a little longer and tighter when I see her. To make myself available, all the time. To roll down the window and let the wind brush against my face. To not let any call go to voicemail. To not miss any chance to laugh. Or to love. To wake up each day and give my heart away.
And to be ok when the pain comes…
