What makes a missionary?
More specifically, what right do I have to call myself one?
Because I am a great lover of words, and also because I like starting sentences with “Merriam-Webster defines (blank) as…”, I will start there. Merriam-Webster defines “missionary” as: a person who is sent to a foreign country to do religious work (such as to convince people to join a religion or to help people who are sick, poor, etc.) For all intents and purposes, that’s what I’m doing with this next chapter of my life. So when I say “I am a missionary,” I’m not lying. I guess.
The tricky thing about classifying myself as a missionary is that I don’t feel like one. I know people who, upon announcing that they’ve decided to leave their normal, comfortable lives behind and travel into the dark unknowns of the world to spread the light of the Gospel, would elicit zero surprise from anyone they know. None. Being a missionary just makes sense in the context of some people’s lives.
Plot twist: that’s not me.
(This is me.)
This won’t be a blog about why I am and will be a terrible missionary, I promise. My hope is to encourage anyone who may be in a similar situation, beating their head against the wall and wondering what God has called them into. Because that’s where I am some days.
First: take a breath. God doesn’t make mistakes. I am historically quick to accuse God of making a mistake when He made me. Sometimes I feel stitched together all wrong. Sometimes I’m certain that I came with a whole bunch of parts to assemble, but no directions. I think and say and believe horrible, ugly things about myself that I would never speak over ANYONE ELSE’S life. Like God dozed off when I was being created, but was too compassionate to toss me in the discard pile. And if that’s the case, why would He call me to something as big as being a missionary? He wouldn’t. So, one of two conclusions can be drawn: 1. The all-powerful, all-knowing, ever-present Creator of the universe made an oops when I was on the table, or 2. I’m wrong. That happens occasionally.
“For it was You who created my inward parts;
You knit me together in my mother’s womb.
I praise You because I have been remarkably and wonderfully made.
Your works are wonderful,
and I know this very well.
My bones were not hidden from You
when I was made in secret,
when I was formed in the depths of the earth.
Your eyes saw me when I was formless;
all my days were written in Your book and planned
before a single one of them began.” Psalm 139:13-16
Oh, this verse again? Don’t write this off as a cliché. I know it is well-used and well-loved when talking about women’s ministry or self-worth or even abortion. Most people have heard it. If you’re like me, you get tripped up because the word “womb” makes you feel icky. It’s easy to miss the whole point. But seriously, I would encourage anyone and everyone to do everything they can to remember these verses. Write them down. Read them out loud if you have to. Especially the last part where it talks about how EVERY. SINGLE. ONE. of our days was written down before they even happened. That’s not an act of a God who would make a mistake. Every day. Even that one. Even the day that that one thing happened. Even the day you lost something precious to you. Even yesterday. Today. Definitely tomorrow. It’s not an accident.
People are complicated. I’m complicated. Sometimes I feel more difficult than those around me. My therapist once described me as a “hundred-gallon bucket in a world full of dixie cups.” I have been so many people throughout my life that I feel like everyone I’ve ever met knows a different Erin. Unfortunately, there are people who would laugh if they heard that I’m going on a year-long mission trip. Some wouldn’t believe it. I can’t blame them, they just didn’t see Christ in my life. There is at least one person in very recent history that should and probably does think that I’m a huge hypocrite. (To you, should you read this, I should have shown you better and I’m sorry.) Conversely, there are people (SMART people!) who believe that I’m the right person for this. People who truly know me and still think I can do it. Wise, educated people who have heard me swear and seen me drunk and know how easily I break when I’ve given my heart to something I shouldn’t have. I recognize that this is not due to my own merit, I’m not some supernatural kind of awesome that absolves me from the accountability of believers around me. But God is doing big things within me, and my supporters can see it. Even through my failures. They believe in God’s power to use me, unclean lips and heartbreak and all.
So, how dare I call myself a missionary? I am not awesome. But I serve a God who is. Because I believe that, because I believe that He knit me together and wrote down every day of my life thousands of years before I was even born, because I believe that He has traded my crown of ashes for one of beauty (Isaiah 61:3), I can also believe that He has called me to be a missionary. And really, as believers, we’re all called to some sort of mission while we’re here on Earth.
I got home from training camp 26 days ago. Those 26 days have been some of the most stressful, loneliest, self-revealing of my life. What am I thinking? I still have to get my shots! Those are expensive! I don’t have an airporter yet! I quit my job! Who just QUITS their job?!? AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH
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Ahem. I’m not even being dramatic. There has been screaming. I’ve cried a lot. Regardless, in about six weeks, I’m getting on a plane for South Africa. Not because I always want to, but because I’ve been called to it. And if you’re reading this and you remember me as someone who wouldn’t have ever lived for something bigger than herself, my apologies. I’m still working on it, but I was wondering if you’d be open to starting over from scratch? I’ve got a good story to tell, and I’m about to put a year’s worth of adventures under my belt which I’d love to discuss at a later date.
Thank you for reading, friends. I truly love you so so much.
~*~*eRiN*~*~ (Sorry. Obnoxious.)
