Tag Archives: missionary

The Teacups Part Two: YET

The spinning may never stop.  The nausea may never abate.  Living life on the teacups may cause me to walk through this life failing at the simplest tasks merely because I can’t get my bearings.  I may feel ill-equipped, I may feel lost and forsaken, I may want to constantly return to steady ground.  I may cry out in anguish repeatedly.  Living in spite of the spinning has been the hardest thing I have ever done, and I question daily whether or not I can continue.  My struggles are countless, my body is tired, and I long for a reprieve. 

Yet once in a while, the teacups slow down, and the blur subsides.  Those times are when I get a small glimpse of the world around me.  Often it is for merely a brief moment, YET what I see is the beautiful hand of God.

“Sing to Him, sing praises to Him;

   tell of all His wondrous works!”

Psalm 105:2

 

I have watched an entire family come to the baptismal font to receive a new birth, been present at the confirmation of a new church member, greeted parents attending service for the first time with their children, watched a church being built from the ground up, and witnessed the ordination of a pastor.   All of these sights are beautiful in every culture, at any time, but when the church in a country is in its infancy, when it is only the third church building to be built, the second pastor to be ordained, the first confirmation of a congregation, the beauty of these moments takes my breath away.  

The spinning is constant, YET these are our “why” moments: WHY we sold all our belongings, why we said goodbyes to our family, why we gave up our normal life, and why we chose to step on the teacups in the first place. We have been given the gift of salvation.  By the grace of God we have been redeemed, and we have an eternal hope in Christ Jesus.  This is what we want to share with others, what the Lord has done for us and for them.  This good news of salvation is not ours to hoard to ourselves.  It is to be shouted from the rooftops, to be shared with our neighbors, and proclaimed to all nations.  

“To them God chose to make known how great among the Gentiles are the riches of the glory of this mystery, which is Christ in you, the hope of glory. Him we proclaim, warning everyone and teaching everyone with all wisdom, that we may present everyone mature in Christ. For this I toil, struggling with all his energy that he powerfully works within me.”  

Colossians 1:27-29

I grew up in a church that was well-established with hundreds of members.  The comings and goings of God’s people were all I really knew.  Yes, in Sunday School I heard of missionaries and countries that still needed to be told of God’s love.  I knew it was needed and important, but it wasn’t relevant in my life – until now.  Now I SEE beyond the bubble I used to live in.  I am outside in this great big world that needs to hear of God’s perfect love. I have had the opportunity to see the kingdom of God grow. When the church is only a handful of members and not hundreds, watching one member added is more impactful than anything I have witnessed before. 

“But you will receive power when the Holy Spirit has come upon you, and you will be my witnesses in Jerusalem and in all Judea and Samaria, and to the end of the earth.”

Acts 1:8

In the middle of the swirling ride of the teacups, these moments have left me awestruck.  Me.  God chose me.  Me, who after five years is still nauseous on this spinning ride.  Me, who still can’t tell my right from my left when trying to walk this journey.  Me, who feels absolutely ill-equipped for every single part of this life I am living.  God chose me to witness these spectacular moments of grace upon grace being bestowed upon His children.  

We often draw a number of parallels from sowing seeds when we live out our days in the mission field.  We toil at a ground that is not ripe for planting.  The soil is hard and unforgiving.  The sun is hot. The days are long.  The labor is intense, and our bodies are weary. Sowing seeds is a business for the future.  The field does not produce crops overnight.  The hard work put into the field is an investment, and in the mission field, it is often an investment into a future most missionaries will never see. 

In mission work, it is rare to see the fruits of the labor.  The seeds planted are often harvested long after missionaries have come and gone.  The fruits I witness in my time are due to the labor of many different missionaries and servants over the years.  Many fields take a lifetime or longer to see a harvest.  So I do not take the times I have seen them for granted.  I understand the magnitude of glory they hold.  Standing in His presence as He redeems His children is an experience that words cannot describe.  Watching the kingdom of God grow by baptism, new church plants, and local pastors being raised up is witnessing His marvelous fruit bloom.  

A missionary does not enter the field expecting to see the fruits of his labor, but there are times when God giftwraps a fruit for His beloved.  Maybe it is a thank you from Him, maybe it is a small taste of heaven, or maybe this once-in-a-million moment is a reminder that He is faithful.

“And I am sure of this, that He who began a good work in you will bring it to completion at the day of Jesus Christ.”

Philippians 1:6

We had dear friends visiting us in May of 2019.  These are not ordinary friends.  These are those extra special-type of friends that will last a lifetime.  These friends have a lot to do with why our family entered this mission field journey.  These friends served as missionaries in Venezuela for over twenty years.  These friends are loved by and love our children dearly. These are the friends we look up to and want to be like.  And they are also the friends we want to hang out with on a Friday night.  

They came to support us in a very dark time.  We were in a season of deep struggle–in our family, our marriage, our work, and our purpose.  Our home congregation had sent them to us to simply be with us, not to check up on our work, or to do work themselves.  They came to be a friend, a pastor, and a hug from home.  They came to sit and listen to the good and the hard of our daily lives.  They cleaned our home, they read to our children, they took us to the beach to give us a few days away.  They came solely to be there for us.  It was the most impactful way our home church could have given us support.  

They came during a very busy time for the mission.  We were in the middle of many exciting events.  One of those events was our Venezuela Foro (Foro is Spanish for Forum, and the term our mission team uses for times of planning and focusing on the needs and future of a country’s church body).  The country of Venezuela has had its struggles over the past few years.  We have team members and dear friends from Venezuela so I’ve heard of the heartbreak firsthand, and I long to wrap my arms around the people of Venezuela. Because it isn’t feasible for our team to travel to Venezuela, the mission brought the Venezuelan pastors up to the Dominican Republic. This gave them a chance to sit down face to face and discuss the status of the Venezuelan church and develop plans for the upcoming year. 

The Venezuelan pastors have always been a joy to be around, and I am always thankful for time spent with them, but I was extra excited this year knowing our dear friends have an unbreakable bond with the people of Venezuela and would know some of the pastors attending the Foro.  

We met them at the mall one evening where the pastors were doing some shopping and having dinner at a food court.  They happened to be in a Payless shoe store when we met up with them.  It had been twenty years since our friends had seen many of these humble servants that they call close friends.  The reunion was filled with hugs, tears, joy, and laughter.  They swapped stories, shared pictures of children, and praised God for this time together.  

That reunion was filled with joy that I was anticipating, the beauty of laughter between friends meeting after many years in circumstances only God could arrange.  The embrace between a pastor and his mentor who taught him about Jesus, laborers who toiled a ground together so long ago, hugs, jokes, memories–can you see it? Can you feel the merriness and jubilee shared amidst the boxes of shoes?  The night was remarkable and filled with gladness. That evening was followed by a few more days of study and lunch breaks of catching up, all of it special and good. 

All of that would have been more than enough to treasure and hold close when the ride of the teacups would become overwhelming in the months to come.  But God took a beautifully orchestrated reunion and heaped on the goodness. Right in the middle of all the hugs and tears, one of the younger pastors came up to my friend and introduced himself.  I watched as I saw her mentally flipping back through the years trying to place the name he gave her.  He continued to reference people and places and memories until finally she placed her hand on his arm and exclaimed, “Oh!”  I could see through her instantaneous tears and smile, she had remembered as she wrapped her arms around him.  He thanked her and asked to take a picture with both her and her husband.  

It was a special evening, but it wasn’t until later that weekend when the four of us were sitting around the fire after a day of rest and fun that I truly understood the significance of that moment in the shoe store.  

We were in the middle of soaking up the wisdom and grace that our good friends were dishing out, when we asked them their favorite moment of their trip.  She told us the story of Omar.  When they had left Venezuela, he was still young.  He would sometimes accompany his mother and sister to church but never seemed to pay attention and wanted to be anywhere but in that pew.  I could picture the scene she was describing.  I knew that boy. 

I knew him from the years teaching preschool in the States.  I knew him in the different church plants in the Dominican.  He was the boy with the dirty hands.  The one with the lollipop in his mouth as he ran around the playground.   He was the boy who would give his poor mother a run for her money.  The boy who would sneak out of the back and goof off in the bathroom.  The boy I was sure just didn’t want to be there. The boy I tried so hard to share the love with Jesus with, but it felt like day after day the story of God’s grace fell on deaf ears. 

I think most of us, who have ever sat in a back pew and watched a mother bring her uninterested son to church, know THAT boy.

My friend had left Venezuela when Omar was still that boy.  He was possibly the last face she thought she would ever see in a Dominican Payless shoe store twenty years later.  The story she told us around the fire explained the immense mix of shock and joy on her face when she had finally realized who was standing right in front of her.  That boy.  The one who constantly tested his mother’s patience, the one she figured would stop attending church as soon as he was old enough to stay home alone, the one she was sure never paid attention. He was standing in front of her in a shoe store, a grown man of God, a pastor, a shepherd to the people of a land she loved dearly.  He was excited to see her again.  He wanted to thank her for everything she had done for him so many years ago in a land that was not her own.  He wanted her to know what God had done in his life since she had left Venezuela.  

And in the middle of a Dominican Payless shoe store, my dear friend got to see the fruit—the fruit from the seed that was planted while she lived in a land so far from her home.  God is faithful.  He completes a good work, and even a year later, this memory still brings tears to my eyes.  

We won’t all get to see the fruits of our labor.  We won’t all get to see what the Holy Spirit does with the seeds sown during our time in the mission field.  But some of us will, and some of us get to witness others seeing the fruit.  Because even if it wasn’t the fruit of our labor, seeing the fruit or even hearing of it is still so overwhelmingly magnificent because that is our “why”. On the darkest of days, these moments give us hope, hope that God continues to work this unforgiving soil even when we can’t see any hope for the harvest.  It is a reminder that we did not move across the world for nothing.  The fruit produced by the Holy Spirit, a soul saved by grace, is why we are here.  This is why missionaries share stories with each other and with those back home.  We want to share the beauty of hope we see firsthand.  These moments lift us up. They sustain us, and they refresh our weary souls. 

These gifts remind us that we are in God’s mission field.  The work does not belong to us and neither do the fruits.  The work and the glory are His.  We are merely a chosen few, chosen to witness the marvelous moments of His love, His mercy, His goodness, and His grace.  

In those times, the glory of God encompasses every part of me, and I stand in awe at His Majesty.  There is nothing else, no spinning of teacups, no nausea, no whirring of the world around me.  I am simply in that extraordinary moment, witnessing the Almighty Maker.  

“And amazement seized them all, and they glorified God and were filled with awe, saying, ‘We have seen extraordinary things today.’”

Luke 5:26

 

When I look back over the last five years, there have been many times of frustration and anguish and only a few times that the teacups have slowed for me to see the glory of God in the world around me. When the days of frustration pile on, I have wanted to cry out just as David does in Psalm twenty-two.

“My God, my God, why have You forsaken me?     

Why are You so far from saving me, from the words of my groaning?

O my God, I cry by day, but You do not answer,

and by night, but I find no rest.

YET You are holy,”

Psalm 22:1-3

But just like there is a YET in verse three for David’s cries, there is a YET for my cries as well.   Because what is true for David is true for me:  the YET is more important than anything before it. 

Life is hard, YET…

The world is whirling around me, YET…  

I can’t stand up, YET…

God is Holy.  

God is faithful.  

He is good.

His works are marvelous.

And I stand in awe at the wonder of it all.

The Makers

My lettering journey began shortly after we moved to the Dominican Republic.  I was looking for a new way to share Bible verses in our newsletters that we send out to our supporters.  This new hobby soon was an appreciated escape from the burdens and woes of culture shock, homesickness, and all the other hurdles I faced as I learned how to live in another country.   But my lettering journey really began that first Mother’s Day after we lost our third baby, Gabriella Faith.

Four days after we had to say bitter goodbyes, my sweet husband handed me a new iPad pro and Apple pencil on that very painful Sunday. It was then that I dove headfirst into the world of lettering.  Deep in the folds of grief, while the world continued to swirl around me, I found peace and comfort in creating. I didn’t understand the why behind it, and at the time it didn’t matter, I just knew that lettering was a balm to my aching soul.  

 Later that fall I opened my Etsy shop and sold my first piece.  Since then I have improved my lettering skills, made almost 300 sales, and have taught lettering classes.  But even four and a half years into this lettering journey, I am still caught off guard when someone refers to me as an artist.  It makes me laugh because I have never identified myself as an artist.

For me, lettering has never been about the finished piece of art.  I am truly humbled that there are people out there who find my art, relate to it, and want to hang it on their walls.  I am grateful that my lettering pieces bring joy and smiles to those who receive them. But for me it was never about the final product.  It has always been about the process.  

When song lyrics, a Bible verse, or a prayer hold onto my heart in a way that words cannot describe, that is when I create.  I narrow down the exact words I want in my piece, I play with different layouts and style options. I sketch out a rough draft, and then, slowly, piece by piece, I put it all together. It is in the creating that brings peace to my troubled heart.  It is in watching a design come to life on a page that brings joy to my spirit.  

After I joined this unofficial small business community, I learned of so many mothers just like myself who began creating and opened a shop after experiencing deep loss and heartache.  And I began to ponder why. Why does creating bring comfort? Are we trying to fill our empty time with purpose? Are we trying to give the hands that were preparing to hold a baby something to do? Are we finding a calm in the creating?  Whatever the reason behind it, I firmly believe that the art of creating brings healing to weary souls.

Psalm 119:28

Yes, I am a creator.  I am an artist. I am a maker.  

But, I would argue, so are you.  We were all created in the image of our Heavenly Father, in the image of the Ultimate Creator.  We are makers because He is a maker. Not only did He intricately create each one of us, He created the stars, the mountains, drops of dew on the petals of the daisy, and each grain of sand the ocean touches.  He continues to create new life, sunsets, rainbows, and blooming flowers daily. Our Heavenly Father is a maker and created us makers in His image.  

Psalm 92:4

When I see someone who has perfectly folded clothes in a drawer, a color-coded schedule, delicious cookies fresh from the oven, an intricate excel spreadsheet, a thought-out strategic plan, or someone who has  designed a well-running machine, I see an artist. I see a maker, and I see a child of God made in the image of the Almighty Maker. Our God created the world in seven days, He created the central nervous system, time, lifecycles, thunderstorms, and the rainforest.  He created order; He created schedule; He created working parts that fit beautifully together. We are all creators just like Him.  

Matthew 11:28

I suppose that is why it is so healing to take time to create when our hearts are heavy laden.  We were created to create. We are makers, however that might look according to the talents He has given each of us.  Creating heals gaping wounds. That is true whether we use a paint brush, an oven, a piano, or a computer. 

I found solace in lettering.  I found comfort in watercolors.  I found peace in the paintbrush. After I lost my baby and I felt as if my world was falling apart, art was my stillness.  My lettering was part of the beauty from ashes that God gifted in a time of grief.

Isaiah 61:3
with Christel Neuendorf in Puerto Rico

This past November I traveled to Puerto Rico to work with one of our fellow missionaries serving in the city of Ponce.  Christel and I have been friends since I first visited the Dominican Republic the year before we moved. She has also been supportive of my lettering journey and Etsy shop every step of the way.  She asked if I would be able to visit Puerto Rico and teach lettering classes to different members of the community.

Puerto Rico was hit by Hurricane Maria in September of 2017.  The damage was devastating and extensive. Even after two years, people and communities are still trying to rebuild and heal.  Christel works alongside fellow missionaries in Ponce and a nearby city of Mayaguez to bring comfort and God’s Word to a hurting community.  Bringing me to the island was part of Christel’s ongoing plan to help those who are suffering process their pain through art and God’s Word. 

While there I led four different workshops.  I met new friends and shared my love of lettering.  I thoroughly enjoyed every minute of it. We may not have spoken the same language. We may have been raised in different cultures, and our scars may have come from different types of trauma, but what binds us together far exceeds all of our differences. We are makers.  We were created in the image of our Father in heaven. Together we created. That room held wounded and weary souls, but in that room there was art, there was the Word of the Lord, and there was joy. 

______

I had every intention of sharing this beautiful story of my lettering journey and trip to Puerto Rico with you, my friend, and ending it in that room where we created pieces of art, but then January seventh happened, and Puerto Rico experienced an earthquake with a magnitude of 6.4.  In fact, Puerto Rico continues to experience earthquakes, and no one can say when the earthquakes will cease. A community still trying to rebuild and heal from the hurricane has been shaken. Buildings have been destroyed, and hope seems lost.  

My heart is broken for this incredible country and these beautiful souls.  My days are constantly filled with prayers for the people who have been without a safe shelter since the earthquakes first began, for those filled with anxiety when the ground begins to shake again, and for our missionaries, like Christel, who are tirelessly sharing the love of Jesus and the hope given through Him when the world around is falling apart. All I can do is pray.  So I pray, and I create. I create when I don’t know what else to do with the heaviness I feel.  

I have been in contact with Christel these past weeks and sent a few pieces to her that she requested to use with those who have been displaced from their homes and are currently living in tent cities.  Coffee, art, and Bible study are what people in shelters are asking for from our missionaries. Coffee and art are bringing them to the table. While they sit and create together, they also get to hear they are loved by God Almighty and of the eternal hope in Jesus Christ. 

The residents from this facility where we held our lettering and paint afternoon have been evacuated and their building is condemned.

Other church groups have reached out, and I helped Christel come up with art projects. Groups are purchasing supplies and prepping materials to create bags that will be ready for Christel to lead projects with those who need to create with their hands to heal their heart.  Our missionaries from across our region have gone to Puerto Rico in the weeks following the first large earthquake. They have assessed damage, created plans, comforted hurting hearts, and shared the love of Jesus to those whose burden is heavy. (Matthew 11:30)

If I have learned anything about the road of grief and healing, it is that it is long and winding.  The future in Puerto Rico feels overwhelming and uncertain. The recovery efforts have just begun to unfold, and no one can say quite where the future is headed right now.  

  • William and Gustavo checking on a neighborhood after the earthquakes.
  • Blake surveying the damage at our church in Ponce.
  • Christel and fellow missionary Stephanie leading art for those living in tents on the side of the road.
Photo credit: Johanna Heidorn

The truth is, we already knew that in this world we will have trouble. Our souls will always be weary while on this earth because we are sojourners.  Our home, our hope, our firm foundation is secured in heaven. We can hold onto this truth because we know we are loved and forgiven by a Savior, because we were created by a merciful God who delights in us.  And until we find rest in His eternal presence, we will continue to hurt, we will continue to be shaken, we will continue to face storm after storm, and we will continue to create. Because we are the makers, just like our Father in heaven. 

The Missionary Left Behind

This missionary world is made up of very different, usually odd (I can say that because I am one of them), individuals and families who have been brought together by the Lord to serve His people in different parts of the world. These brothers and sisters aren’t always the friends I would have chosen for myself, and sometimes personality conflicts exist. But nevertheless we are all thrown together, and we call it family. We become a family because this group of people we serve with understands our life in a way that no friend or family member back home ever could. They are family because they have been through the similar struggles and triumphs of leaving loved ones, adjusting to culture, and experiencing trauma we can’t always write home about. So this group of odd individuals–odd because normal people don’t give up everything and live outside their comfort zone to tell the world about Jesus–is now our family, our missionary family.

This new family we have acquired is like every other family. Some members struggle to get along. Others love to be together. Some cause drama, and some keep to themselves. It is a large, messy family. Some of our family live close by and will be there when we need them to bring meals, take us to the doctor, babysit, and help in times of crisis. Some family members live half a world away, and we see them once or maybe twice a year. We love catching up with them, and our time together always goes too fast. Phone calls, messages, and video chats hold us over until the next time we get to be together. This is a family. This is our missionary family. 

But this missionary family is not like every other family. It is fluid. It existed before us, and it will exist after us. We are everything to these brothers and sisters–until we are not. There will come a day when our favorite sister or brother will leave the field. They will not be missionaries forever, and in reality, neither will we. We may be a part of this family for a year, three years, ten years, or more than twenty. We have seen family members come and go. And during the time they are our family, we will drop everything to help them out, to support them, to love them, and to care for them. They need us to survive, and we need them just as much. And then they will be gone. And our family dynamics will change once again. 

We live in this fluid family as our greatest weaknesses are exposed through culture shock and language learning. This family sees us at our very worst. They care for us when we are too sick to get out of bed. They sit by our hospital bed and help us translate devastating test results. They see us at our lowest moments and love us all the same.  And yet, we don’t always let them in.  

It is hard to build trust and transparency in this family.  We are all well aware that this family isn’t forever, and our hearts are already fractured from saying so many goodbyes in our home country. Is it possible to get close to new family members if we know more goodbyes are coming?  So we do what we can to protect ourselves. We don’t always let them in and probably not when we really should. We don’t let them in because we know the day is coming when another missionary will announce the decision to return home.

It only took about six months after we entered this family to come to this realization. The culture shock was wearing off, and we had said our first goodbye to a missionary family member. We felt the thoughts of sadness but noticed other missionaries experiencing emotions far more complicated and laced with anger. How could they be angry? If God has called every missionary to the mission field, then by that same reasoning, can’t He call them away? Shouldn’t we rejoice equally with each call from our Father?  

Years later, we get it. We are now the missionaries with the complicated emotions laced with anger.  The mission field has bruised us. We have been beaten down. Our hands and our hearts have callouses from the work we have been sent to do. The labor is tough. We have had more failures than triumphs, and we are tired. Oh, how we are tired! We know it’s coming. It happens about every six months. We don’t look forward to it. But we know it is coming because that has been the pattern since we entered this family: another goodbye is just around the corner.  

We spend all year working, toiling a ground that is hard and unforgiving. We go through challenges that are unimaginable and feel insurmountable. Our family loves us and cares for us the best they can, but it often feels as if it isn’t enough. And just the same, we love and care for our mission family that is made up of so many different people, each struggling with enormous challenges, each being spiritually attacked in different ways, each facing their own fears and weaknesses, each being beaten down by the logistical challenges of living in a foreign country, each dealing with health concerns big or small. We care for them as best we can, but we know it is often not enough. The mission family has a lot of members to care for each other but at the same time a lot of members need care. The scale is often tipped too far in the unfavorable direction. 

So we get it. We understand when it comes. We are no longer naïve and wearing rose-colored glasses in this missionary life. Our hearts grieve, and our feelings aren’t always supportive. But they are real, and they are honest. We aren’t always as supportive as we should be because it hurts to lose a family member. We go through this process each time. Sometimes some stages are stronger than others. But we still feel them.  

Here is what I have come to know as the ten stages of grief when losing a missionary:  

1.    Sadness – I like this family member. We had great times together. We were there for each other through struggles and hard times. We laughed together. We cried together. We made memories. Missionary life will be different without them.

2.    Happiness – I know this is something they want. Life has been hard and unfair. They have been beaten down. They haven’t had the help and care they needed. They could use rest. They need to feel safe again. They need to be closer to their family. They have been presented with an opportunity that will give them all these things, and I want them to be happy.  

3.    Jealousy – It’s not us, and we are tired, too. I, too, want rest and recovery and to feel safe. I am struggling. My family is struggling. Our struggles seem just as big if not bigger. Why hasn’t God brought us a new path? Why can’t we live closer to our family and friends? I want help. I want to live closer to the things that are familiar. I want to be able to breathe again.  

4.    Guilt – for the jealousy. I shouldn’t feel jealous. I should trust God’s plan for us. I should trust His timing for our family. I should know that He has a reason for keeping us where we are right now. 

5.    Pride – It wasn’t me. It wasn’t my family. We are still here. We weren’t the next ones to leave. Oh, how there were days when I thought it would be us. I haven’t given up yet. I didn’t throw in the towel. We survived another six months, and we weren’t the next one to say goodbye to the family. We didn’t call it quits. Way to go us!  (Guilt with this one too – because I shouldn’t rejoice or pat ourselves on the back when someone else leaves.)

6.    Frustration – The needs of these missionaries didn’t get met. They were struggling. Life was hard. Couldn’t there have been something done to give them more help and support? Couldn’t there have been something done to keep them on the field longer?

7.    Judgment — Why couldn’t they have tried harder to stick it out? Don’t they know how much work there is left to do? Couldn’t they have made it longer? Don’t they know how others have survived in worse conditions?  (I can’t believe how ugly my thoughts can be at times!)

8.    Anger – There is still work to do. The work left undone, and the extra work that is involved in helping move a family home will be placed on the already heavy loads of the remaining missionaries. They can’t take on more work. They are already buckling under the loads they are currently carrying. We all are.  

9.    Defeat – It will take about two years to replace them–at least! I will have to get to know new family members. Maybe I won’t get along with them. The work will not continue, or others will carry the workload for two years until replacements can be found.  Will they be able to do that? Will it be too much for them?

10.  Hopelessness – The system is broken, and the cycle doesn’t seem to end.  It takes two years to bring a missionary to the field, two years for a missionary to learn language, culture, and become effective, and on average, a missionary leaves one year after that. There has to be a better way. There must be something that can be done.  The problem is so far beyond one person. So far beyond us. It all feels hopeless. 

What was it? What was the real reason they left? Would they ever be able to tell anyone? What could have been done to keep them longer? This has been a question I have wondered since we got here. I have tried so hard to search for this answer.  I want so badly to fix this cycle because it will be us someday. I am often surprised it hasn’t been us yet. I don’t want to leave before God is done using us here. If God calls missionaries to the field, doesn’t He also call them back home when He is ready? Why am I so quick to assume that those who have left are leaving early or before God is calling them home? Is it because the harvest is plentiful and the workers are few?  And no one feels that more than the missionary left behind, living half a world away from their comfort zone.

I don’t know the reason. But I imagine it is always very complicated. I imagine each missionary may even have trouble putting into words what could have made them stay longer. It may be vastly different for each missionary. So how do we, the church, keep missionaries on the field longer? Should we no longer expect missionaries to stay on the field as long as they did in previous generations? Do we embrace this as the new normal for a missionary term of service? And if that is true, then how do we replace missionaries faster?  

I don’t know what it is like to leave the mission field. I don’t know if we will be consumed with feelings of guilt and shame or feelings of relief and thankfulness. I don’t know if it feels like completing a job well done or feels like I just couldn’t take another step. I don’t know what it is like to leave the mission field, but one day I will. One day it will be us. We will be the ones leaving the family, the family that we love and care for so deeply, and they will be the ones left feeling abandoned, empathetic, devastated, and overwhelmed.  I hope we leave because God has set a new path before our family that He wants us to take and not because life became too hard and we could no longer continue.   

I don’t know what it is like to leave the field. But someday I will. It may be in a week, a year, or maybe ten years. 

I imagine leaving the mission field will be like crawling into my own bed after a long tiring day–exhausted, bruised, beaten down, in need of rest and recovery. It will be like crawling into a space that is safe and familiar, but then at the same time, we will be different. We will be changed. And our bed probably won’t fit quite as we remember.  

There are no profound conclusions here. Just questions, thoughts, and jumbled emotions. Mission work is messy. There are more problems than answers and more challenges than triumphs.  

This work and this life belong to God and are in His mighty and capable hands. My prayer is that the Lord will continue to be with those He has called to the mission field and that He will give them the grit to survive the impossible trials, surmount the insurmountable circumstances, and conquer the unconquerable challenges. I pray that our family members find a friend on the days where isolation grips their soul, they find comfort when their heart has been devastated, they find strength when their cup has been emptied, and they find hope when there doesn’t seem to be a way to journey onward. And, I plead with God to give our brothers and sisters all laboring in foreign countries the stamina that they will need to get up day after day, to continue on despite criticism from others, to fight the good fight, to run the race even while feeling weary and heavy-laden. 

My prayer is that missionaries do not give up but only leave when God has truly called them home to do His work elsewhere. And that the rest of us left behind would rejoice with them as they continue on their new journey.