Sometimes being a missionary is the loneliest job in the
world. The hardest. The most impractical. The most draining. The most
exhausting. The most desperate. The most discouraging. The most absurd.
Sometimes being a missionary is just impossible.
When you return to the first world, the world of pampered
convenience, of emergency speed dial, of Walmart, of protests because a TV show
or neighbor’s skin tone is offensive, you can’t understand or relate. You can’t
fathom the [shallow and petty] happenings of the place you once knew as home.
You start crying in Panera Bread after spending 20$ on a haircut, watching the
Martha’s Vineyard style housewives eating 12$ salads and 4$ tea, wondering
where the money could be spent. You stand dumbfounded in the aisles of the
grocery store, counting the jars of mustard and relish, cringe past the frozen
foods: hundreds of prepared meals sitting in wait while you can name a hundred
hungry mouths. You try to keep your eyes on the pavement, averting your gaze
from shopping centers, parking lots, and manicured lawns, for the sight of all
that space, so devoid of people, makes you ache with the possibility of a
hundred gravel-calloused feet running over soft grass and hundreds of dollars
wasted on frivolities. You have no idea what music, movies, or TV shows are
popular. You can’t find a reason to care. People hear where you live and wonder
why; they say, “that’s depressing.” You look around you and can think of
nothing more depressing.
When you’re on the ground in the field, enduring hard work,
hunger, and sleepless nights, sometimes you’re just stuck. It seems there are
no results, there is no progress, no ground gained. You’re still hungry and
sick, and so are they. You’re still an alien and they are still homeless. You’re
still stumbling around the language and they’re still illiterate. You’re still
afraid, or not allowed, to go out alone, and they’re still endangered. There’s
another baby, another plea, another tug at your heart. There’s not enough space.
Not enough resources. You need more funds. More partners. People who pledged
fall away, lose interest. Internet is slow. Email doesn’t open. Messages don’t
send and photos don’t upload. Communication is misplaced. Mislaid.
Misunderstood.
Culture crushes you. The language block ties your tongue in
knots. You’re tired. Tired. Tired. And hot. You want to close the door. Someone’s
knocking. Someone’s needing. Jesus would open it. Open it. Give more. Jesus
would.
“Don’t burn out,” they say. “Take care of yourself.” “Are
you eating?”
Don’t eat too much. Others are hungrier than you. Paperwork
completed. Bills paid (palms greased.) Dead end. More time wasted and resources
drained. Finish the email, the power cuts. Start printing, the power cuts. Get
in the shower, the water’s out. Hole in the mosquito net. Middle of the night,
the power cuts. Fan shuts off. Move to the floor. Swat at mosquitoes. Drop off.
Sun’s coming up. Time to rise.
They’re hungry. No more crackers. Pot is empty. Babies are
coughing. Syrup is gone. Maladies are spreading. Wash your hands! Every surface
is lined with dust. The water’s not been changed since this morning and one
hundred dishes ago. Is there Klorox in there? Change the water. Mosquito larvae
in the barrel again. It’s hot. We need the rain. It rains hard. Trash washes
into the road. Rain pours through the windows, shreds the posters on the wall,
floods the floor of the kitchen. Building needs repairs. Call the Boss. He
calls his workmen. Fix the ceiling, fix the hole in the wall. Three weeks later
there are still blocks, piles of sand and gravel, and cement splattering in
through the windows. Brush debris off the babies’ heads. Call at the men to be
careful. Call the Boss again to finish up. To hold work until after the
children leave. Can’t use the Recreation Room. Can’t use the courtyard. Can’t
find the bucket for hand washing. It’s been broken. Call the Boss. Buy us a
bucket. Clean up your mess. L’ap vini.
He’s coming. It’s always coming.
There are motos loaded with five people. Two people and a
goat. Three people and a chicken. Two men and a 55-gallon drum. One man and
coffin. One man and a cat wrapped carefully in a plastic bag. Two men dragging
iron rebar. Three adults and a baby on the front. At the hospital the doctor
has no thermometer. No stethoscope or blood pressure cuff. No gloves, no sink,
nothing beyond a desk and fan. X-rays are examined in the dim light of the
emergency room. Doctor orders a blood test every time. Come and get results
tomorrow. Pick up prescriptions at one of the five nearby pharmacies and take it
to the house. Sit at the end of the alley and call the doctor again to explain
the dosage, jot notes, then translate for Mama. Tell her the seven year old son
has got to wash his hands as you look at the cement latrine spreading its reek
through the air. Wonder where he’ll get the soap. Drive into the city. Police
officer pulls you over, checking those tinted windows. Sees you have no
seatbelt and tries to ticket you, as taptaps and papadaps full of people on top
of one another pass by, followed by massive trucks with passengers perched atop
overloads of charcoal and bananas. You must put sugar in the milk. You must
cook the spaghetti in oil. Mangoes are good off the ground. Unless marked otherwise,
any wall is a urinal and any ditch a latrine. Don’t worry about washing your
hands after. But always shower before going out anywhere. Go ahead and speak
through the bedroom window and open the shut door without permission. Washing
dishes and clothes is women’s work, whether the man has work or not. There are
no Haitian dollars. But prices are given and currency exchanged in dollars
(gourdes multiplied by 5). You must deposit or withdraw from your bank account
every month, but cannot deposit dollars. Finish the applications, go to the
office, take the paperwork to the other office, sign the papers, get the stamp,
the receipt and the assurance it’s all finished. Then wait three more months
for confirmation. (Did we ever get those papers?)
Sometimes you’re just down. There’s nowhere else you’d
rather be, really. There’s nothing more rewarding, you know, than the children
here and now. Cuddling a fevered student. The ones who didn’t speak piping, “Good
morning!” The bullies, ones constantly called to the office, hugging you round
the middle, gazing up with shining eyes and saying, “I love you and Jesus loves
you!” Proud parents filming their children’s praise performance on their cell
phones in the noonday heat. Being greeted by those parents smiling at you
outside the gate. Everyone at church clean and pressed, hands held high, sweat
pouring down as they sing and dance, praising God with the same joy as your
eleven-year-old housemate who belts glory songs at dawn while cooking. Hungry
bellies fed and gaunt faces filled out. The seven year old with asthma who
breathes normally after her inhaler treatment. The angry six year old from the
abusive home who smiles and expresses herself, snuggles in and shares. The hard-hearted,
money-motivated security guard who falls for the three-year-old class and marches
about the room with these children as tall as his knee. Teachers who come by
faith. Resonance and harmony sung before school. Stars wheeling overhead, shooting
in bursts of glory as you gaze after evening devotion. Plunging in, rooting
deep, and profiting from the abundant wellspring of God’s Word. The sound of
the surf in the still of dawn. Praying in the cool blue before sunrise, pacing
around talking to God on the deserted roof. Coaching English from the timid and
rounding syllables with the [once] shackled. Memory verses recited. Tiny hands
folded, arms crossed, eyes squinted shut in prayer. Coming back after a day of
illness to hear, “I prayed for you!” Preaching Jesus from dawn to midnight.
Jesus permeating every discussion. Utter dependence on God, for there is no
emergency speed dial, no Walmart, no pampering or convenience, no monthly
paychecks or healthcare plan.
Oh, Dear Readers, Supporter, Prayer and Giving Partner, Interested
Party, and Accidental Viewer, I can say with all assurance sometimes being a
missionary is the loneliest job in the world, the hardest, the most
impractical, the most draining, the most exhausting, the most desperate, the
most discouraging, the most absurd. Sometimes being a missionary is just
impossible.
But I can never say that being a missionary is not
rewarding. Not worth all of the trial, all of the inconvenience, hardship,
sacrifice, sweat, fatigue, exhaustion, tears, devastation, desperation.
Yes, it’s hard. Right now perhaps I might be discouraged,
tired, overwhelmed by the overwhelming need here, the overwhelming business and
financial paperwork and communication to maintain, worn out with little sleep,
allergies, improper nutrition, and constant knocking on the door. Right now I
am truly tired. I am honest. It is not easy. Many days, many moments, I feel
like giving up. Many times I dialogue,
Oh, Jesus, let me just
go be with you now and leave behind this impossible world and this impossible
job.
But once again, God is faithful. He is the only hope. And
Jesus reminds me in limitless redundancy that He is the Vine, I am a mere
branch, and apart from Him I can do nothing (John 15:5). That’s okay.
He only calls me to preach Him, to glorify Him. So with
every bucket I lift, every child I cuddle, every lesson I teach, every sweat
drop and sore muscle, I can be thankful to be right here, doing this most
lonely, hard, impractical, draining, exhausting, desperate, discouraging, absurd,
impossible, uplifting, worthy, marvelous, glorious, invaluable job.
With that thanks to God I thank you for your time, prayers,
resources, and funds. Please continue to help me by lifting me up in prayer and
giving to me financially, for there is no salary and there are so many
expenses. There are so many people to share with, in time, resources,
knowledge, and funds. There are so many needs tuggings at my fragile heart. Oh,
Dear Reader, there are so many things I hesitate to tell you for fear you will
think me too weak, too jaded, too incapable, too extravagant, too
irresponsible, too human, to continue here. Yet trust me, verily I tell you, Dear
Reader, all these things I myself may be, but over all these is God, and His
might wins every time.
“I am the true vine,
and my Father is the gardener. He cuts off every branch in me that bears no
fruit, while every branch that does bear fruit he prunes so that it will be
even more fruitful. You are already clean because of the word I have spoken to
you. Remain in me, and I will remain in you. No branch can bear fruit by itself;
it must remain in the vine. Neither can you bear fruit unless you remain in me.
I am the vine, you are
the branches. If a man remains in me and I in him, he will bear much fruit;
apart from me you can do nothing.” ~John 15:1-5 NIV
