Missionary?

Strong in faith.  Wise.  Outgoing.  Brave.  Selfless.  Pious.  Devout.  Resilient.  When I think about the word "missionary" these are the kinds of descriptions that enter my mind.  I picture one of those people brimming with energy and enthusiasm for sharing their faith; someone who is great with people and can easily rally support and participation from others; someone who knows the right thing to say or do in almost any tough situation; someone who always knows the right words to pray or the right Bible verse to share; someone with a thick skin but a tender spirit.  I've spent most of the last two years working as a missionary in some capacity, but honestly, many of these are some of the last phrases I would use to describe myself.  I'm very socially uncertain, and I tend to be not very good with anyone who isn't under age 6.  I'm painfully shy in new settings.  I frequently say the wrong thing if I've even managed to muster any words at all.  I blush and sweat when I'm brought to attention in front of people.  I usually have to learn lessons the hard way, but I'm slow to forgive myself for my choices.  I swear... a lot.  I really like beer.  And mojitos. And pretty much anything mixed with Bailey's.

On top of all of those things, I spent a large portion of the past two years seriously doubting that there really even is a God. I was annoyed that it seemed like the only way you can believe is if you're consistently trying to convince yourself that it's real, but at the same time hurt by the fact that I so badly wanted the confident faith that brought me to Honduras three years ago but couldn't seem to get it back.  I did my personal devotions (though, perhaps, sporadically), went to church, and attended Bible studies.  I went to a missions conference with high hopes that being around people with similar goals would give me some sort of spiritual high that I could ride back to my previous faith.  Instead, I got some handouts about cultural adjustment and the somewhat annoying advice to "Remember your first mission trip whenever you question God's purpose for you," as though that should speak more loudly than everything that I had failed at since that point.  I made so many prayers pleading that, if this God really exists, He would give me some sort of reassurance that I'm not just talking to myself.  And for months I heard nothing except my own voice bouncing back to me off the cement walls, and I became increasingly convinced that there was nothing there to hear me.

In my last blog post, I talked about how this school year holds a lot of potential for growth.  In the time that I've gotten to spend alone, I really have seen the actualization of that.  While I've definitely had waves of loneliness and bitterness, I have had time to just be quiet and listen.  As irritating as I'd found that advice to be, my thoughts were continually brought back to when I first became interested in mission work.  When I was 15 years old, I went to a conference with my youth group.  Compassion International was there to give a presentation about their child sponsorship program, and a good friend and I decided to sponsor a child together.  That didn't feel like enough, though.  Once I had gotten a glimpse of the level of need that exists, I wanted to do more.  I went home and said that I was interested in being a missionary, but I quickly buried that plan away in some back corner of my brain when my family didn't support it.  A year later, I went on a two-week science trip to Costa Rica with a school group, and I became fascinated with Latin American culture.  I remember being just as excited about driving through the towns and looking at all of the people and houses as I was about the activities to which we were actually traveling.  At some point after that trip there was a Compassion International child sponsorship drive at my church, and my Mom began sponsoring a little boy from El Salvador.  A bunch of people from my church also sponsored children from El Salvador, so they arranged to go there on a group sponsor tour.  Because my mom doesn't like flying, she asked if I wanted to go in her place -- an offer which I happily accepted.  I headed down to El Salvador for one of the most wonderful weeks of my life, and I felt so restless when I got home.  I suddenly felt out of place.  I dreamed about the people and places I'd seen, and my heart ached to go back.  Several months later, a representative from the school system I now work for came to my college to recruit teachers for the upcoming school year.  One of my friends heard about it and, while I was still a couple of years away from graduating, suggested that I look into it.  That representative came back two years later, and because I'd messed up my previous school year quite a bit and would be graduating a semester late, mid-school year, it worked out for me to come to Honduras to teach a six month English immersion class at one of the schools.  Six months turned into a year and a half of falling in love with this place before I decided I should go home and try to settle down there.  That time of "settling down," though, spurred the most restless period of sadness, self-doubt, and existential angst that I have ever experienced.  Right when I was feeling the most lost, the unexpected opportunity opened up for me to move back to Honduras for a short-term homeschooling position.  I then re-connected with my previous school and made plans to return for the next school year, where I am now.

I'm not back to the unwaveringly confident, fresh Concordia graduate that I was three years ago when I wrote my first blog post, trying to sound not too naïve by saying that I knew there would be thousands of lessons ahead that I couldn't anticipate.  Nor is that where I want or am meant to be.  Had I never dealt with the doubt, I never would have seen the specific examples of how God has literally used the last ten years of my life to groom me for where I am now, nor would I have really claimed my faith as my own.  Had I not attempted to operate in my current position at a point where I was so aware of my shortcomings, I never would have fully understood how much He can do through a person who not only falls pitifully far from perfect, but who even lands miles outside of the standard image of a missionary.  When I look at my students and reflect on how much they've grown in their past seven months with me, the love I have for them, and the words I've found in my most frustrating moments, I can see with confidence that these things came from something much bigger than myself.  And while I still struggle with doubts in my faith and in myself, I'm learning to accept that perhaps my weaknesses are exactly what have made me suited for this calling.

"But he said to me, 'My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.'  Therefore I will boast all the more gladly of my weaknesses, so that the power of Christ may rest upon me.  For the sake of Christ, then, I am content with weaknesses, insults, hardships, persecutions, and calamities.  For when I am weak, then I am strong." 2 Cor. 12:9-10