Sometimes being a missionary is just impossible

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