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

Something Old, Something New

Figuring out how to begin this post is proving difficult because I'm having a hard time figuring out how to explain what exactly the beginning of this year was like.  I just finished the first quarter of my third school year in Honduras -- my second working at the school in Gracias -- and it's been wave after wave of different emotions.  There are the beginning-of-the-year nerves when you're just meeting your new coworkers and students, and you're trying to figure out how to live and work with all of these new personalities.  At the same time, there's mourning over the people and familiar comforts of the previous year here.  That is followed by the excitement of the honeymoon phase where you've decided that everything is wonderful and it will be a splendid year.  Then there's a bit more mourning because feelings.  Finally, you settle into your current situation a bit and feel content.  This is right around when DEVOLSON hits.  The newness is gone, you're no longer feeling refreshed from summer break, your to-do list is growing, and things like final grades and parent-teacher conferences are looming in the not-so-distant future.  Now, a week after parent-teacher conferences, I finally feel like I have a somewhat accurate impression of this year.

Year one in Gracias was exactly what I needed after the blow of the previous school year.  I had a small, wonderful group of students, most of whom were fairly quiet and calm (with a couple of stinkers to keep things fun).  By chance, I ended up with the best roommate I could have asked for.  All of the American teachers bonded, and we provided a strong community of support for each other.  This year is different.  While I once again have a wonderful group of students whom I love, my kiddos are helping me sharpen my management skills quite a bit more than my first class.  Despite that challenge, I feel much more comfortable in my work.  I know the curriculum, I have accumulated a lot of supplementary resources, and I'm generally much happier with the way my classroom works.  Life outside of my job is also drastically different.  I haven't gelled the same way with anyone nor felt part of a strong community the way I did before, so I've dealt more with loneliness.  However, the fact that I don't immediately hop on over to someone else's house when my roommates are busy also has helped me slowly become more and more comfortable with functioning on my own.  That's something I was not ready for when I first moved to Honduras almost three years ago, but the sum of my experiences since then has made this an adjustment that I feel good about.  This change is also causing me to realize that I need to lean more on the One who brought me here in the first place.

Ultimately, this year seems to be one full of opportunities for growth -- personal, professional, and spiritual.  My unceasing hope for the year is that I use the wisdom to seize those opportunities rather than using all my energy to mourn what this year is not.

A Short List of Embarrassing Things That Happened Before High School

This has nothing to do with travel or teaching, but I just needed to think of some things to make myself laugh tonight.  Enjoy.

·         In kindergarten, I stole a fistful of coins from my dad while he was sleeping.  I spent that whole school day reveling in the thrill of rebellion.  When my dad came to pick me up from school, he saw me playing with some of the coins.  He asked where I’d gotten them, and I panicked.  I made up a lie that I’d sold some of my crayons to my best friend.  He said that it wasn’t a fair trade, and I’d have to give the money back.  He made me get out of the car, and we walked over to my teacher to explain what had happened.  The teacher called over my best friend and her mom and told my friend that we’d have to trade back.  I burst into tears the second I saw my friend’s confused face, and I had to tell my dad, my teacher, my best friend, and her mom that I had not only lied, but had also stolen.

·         Another time in kindergarten, I rolled over my own face with a floor scooter that I was sitting on during gym class.

·         For whatever reason, I never had to go to the bathroom during the scheduled bathroom breaks in 1^st Grade, so I would always end up asking to go in the middle of class.  My teacher got tired of it and handed me 6 popsicle sticks one morning.  She said that, each time I went to the bathroom, I would have to turn in a popsicle stick.  If I ran out, I couldn’t go again that day.  I was a painfully shy child, and I hated drawing attention to myself.  My desk never seemed squeakier than the times that I had to open it to pull out a popsicle stick, and when I carried the stick to my teacher’s desk, I felt like I was wielding some sort of glowing beacon.  My pee schedule lined up with class bathroom breaks within a week.

·         I had to miss recess once in 3^rd Grade because my classmate screamed in response to my telling a slightly dirty joke during bathroom break.

·         In 5^th Grade, a teacher walked into the bathroom just as I was ninja kicking a stall door.  She stared at me for a second, totally unsure how to respond, and then continued into another stall without saying anything.

·         When I was about 10 years old, my hormones went nuts, and I started to pit out like an overweight, middle-aged man "Sweatin’ to the Oldies" with Richard Simmons.  My participation grade dropped because I was too self-conscious to raise my hand.  I also had to pin two layers of sweat shields into my shirts each morning.

·         One of my friends informed me in 6^th Grade that my fly was down.  I was convinced that it would be more obvious for me to zip my pants in the middle of the classroom than it would be for me to have an open fly, so I continued walking around with my fly down.

·         At some point in Jr. High, one of my best friends and I were chosen to play hand chimes along with a song we were singing in choir.  The choir director put us next to each other.  When it was time for us to play the song for church, my friend accidentally started to play early.  I laughed so uncontrollably that, not only was I unable to play my chime at all, but then I peed under my choir robe.