From MK to Missionary.

 I've always been a missionary. Or at least a missionary kid. When my parents stepped into missions, it became a family endeavor. We kids willingly took part, it was who we were. I space out my life by the two sides of missions - the "field" and "furlough." As a little girl  we visited many States-side churches. My sister and I were often models demonstrating Quichua dress, or helping volunteers dress up. I spoke a few Quichua greetings, recited John 3:16 in Spanish, and knew my parents' presentation by heart. People asked, "What's it like? Do they eat Mexican food? Say something in Spanish!" On the field, I patiently (most of the time) let dark, work-roughened hands stroke my hair and marvel at the long, fine, blond strands that were foreign to them. I picked up words here and there of the conversation, my limited Spanish and their blending of Spanish and Quichua inhibiting full comprehension. But with warm smiles and friendly hand shakes, clear understanding wasn't always important. For a shy girl, spending time with them was enough.

Kids from the prison ministry

As I grew older, I became more involved. No longer just the daughter who sat quietly in the background, participating when asked, I began to take part and help as I could. In Jr. High and High school I was involved in ministry in several different ways.

Translating at a church in Anguiñay

I know what it is to be the missionary. It means reaching out to people and loving them. It involves standing out and often alone. (But not completely alone, because family was always there). It involves telling people what God has done and pointing to Scripture and to Christ. It necessitates stepping up to lead when the ball is dropped, or reaching out to the quiet person in the corner, even though I want to be the quiet girl in the corner. I know how to be a missionary. Or at least, how to be part of a missionary family.

Family is a huge deal in Ecuadorian culture. Family is a huge deal in the life of an MK, as it is one of the few stable things in a transient world. So you can imagine how an MK who grew up in Ecuador feels as she steps out by herself into the life of missions work, into support raising. Alone. And as much as my friends, family, and those around me love, support, and encourage me, I enter into this venture alone. I ride the bus alone. I gather my courage to call someone alone. I meet with people alone, write thank yous alone. And I look into the next week, not knowing what I'm going to do, but knowing it will be alone.

Some girls from ICI

My inherent shyness, once thought conquered, comes rushing back. Last Sunday after church I stood fidgeting in the back, berating myself, "Go talk to someone. Anyone. Stop standing by yourself. A good missionary talks to people. Go talk to people." And I wonder, If I can't even initiate conversation and relationships in this setting, how do I think I'm going to do it with the girls at ICI? And yet somehow that seems much less daunting - I've always been better on the field in ministry than at "home."

Throughout my life, God has stripped away the things in which I placed my identity. At least five major changes in life left me groping for something secure. I now stand, stripped of my country, my family, and my school - alone. But not alone. Because each time something is stripped away, it causes me to lean more on God. And though it is painful, and sometimes I feel like Eustace as Aslan tore away the dragon scales and skin in C.S. Lewis' The Voyage of the Dawn Treader, as each layer is stripped away I know I become more of who He is shaping me to be. Each time, my flailing hand is grasped firmly by my faithful God. 

And so I have embarked on this journey out into the vast sea that is support raising. It's been four months. When I was stopping by familiar ports, staying near land, it was an adventure. But now that it is time to enter uncharted waters, the route is no longer clear. The ocean is boundless and structure-less, lacking landmarks to guide me. The Psalmist says, "I lift my eyes up to the mountains, where does my help come from?" In this mountain-less place, my eyes lift to the stars. As they do, I see that "The heavens declare the glory of God," and I remember where I am going. 

  You see, it was in the quiet of remembering to worship God for who His is that I was assured of going to Inner City Impact. It is in the quiet of sitting before God that I no longer fear. And it is in the quiet of gazing at God that I remember I am not alone.

Remember the raindrops? 

Grocery bag stockings.

The thick scent of the unwashed swept over me as she walked down the aisle saying, "Change to help with hygiene, so I can get a job?" She repeated this various times in a scratchy old voice, rustling a plastic bag to receive alms as her thin frame swayed to the rhythm of the train. The tan trench coat she wore was ripped all the way down the right side, her bare arm just moments before exposed to the fringed winter air. The dark skin was weathered and worn, like that the the Quichua women I had seen so often working in Andean fields, chapped by exposure to incessant, harsh winds. A fleece blanket, safety-pinned at the shoulder, attempted to give another layer of warmth, but failed to give proper coverage. Plastic bags peeped out of the worn black Crocs on her feet.
My heart wrenched within me as those on the train ignored her. I was guiltily warm in my heavy parka, tall fur-lined boots, fleece gloves and alpaca scarf. Should I give her my coat? Could I take her to a meal? Bring her home for a hot shower and warm bed? Did I have cash I could give her? Or was this all a ruse, did she really have more clothes to wear bundled in the old grocery bags that filled her folding cart? Maybe she dressed poorly on purpose to "sell" the homelessness. I had heard of people doing so. I averted my eyes as she walked by, tiredly pleading for others to care. Looking up after she passed, I briefly met the eyes of a smiling honey-blond man near my age, wrapped snugly in scarf and coat. Did his heart lurch at the sight of her, wishing to do something? Or did he look down on her, a dirty, smelly distraction on a cheerful Sunday morning outing? Why did no one else reach out to help her?
A small relief, the "Thank you" of her scratchy voice as someone behind me dropped spare change into her bag. "Dempster," rang out the automated voice as the train slowed to a stop. I stood and hurried to the door, wondering how I could be so cold-hearted. But what would my mother say if I gave away the coat she gave me? I couldn't exactly afford to buy another one. The scarf crocheted by my sister couldn't just be given away. Gloves I could easily replace - but by then I was  out on the platform heading to the stars, surrounded by chatting, laughing young people. Didn't I have a ten in my pocket? Why hadn't I given her that? How could I go about my day, sitting piously in church, when the woman on the train couldn't even stay warm?

I am already serving, already pouring out my life for others. Is that not enough? I grew up on the mission field; now, less than 6 months after graduating from Bible school I am raising support to work with inner city kids here in Chicago. How much more can I do? Do I pour out my every second, every breath into helping others? This is what my heart calls for, but I know from experience it leads to burn out. And I have seen the "help" that people give to those in need be detrimental in the long run. But couldn't I have done something? Should I volunteer somewhere? Carry around winter attire to give away? As a student, I walked by the YMCA and the gathering of the homeless on the railing more times than I can count. Sometimes I would smile and reply to their friendly comments, but often I would look straight ahead and rush by. Even now I often simply pass by the shaking cup or cardboard sign, the pleading mother or tired old man. I am ashamed.

So what can we, as followers of Christ called to care for those in need, do?

We can acknowledge them as people. Made in the image of God, precious in His sight. Look them in the eye and give them the dignity of recognition as such.
Remember that we can't help everyone. But be sensitive to the Spirit's leading, and be prepared to follow it. One blustery day in downtown Cincinnati I felt the persistent nudge to buy a cup of coffee for a man outside on the street bench. As he warmed his hands around the steaming Starbucks cup, I felt the pleasure of my Lord. We can't always do something, but we can be ready and willing. We can try to carry change, or a granola bar, or an apple to give away. Be willing to buy a meal occasionally. We needn't feel guilty for what God has given us, but we should never become callous to the needs of others. 

"Give me your eyes for just one second, give me your eyes so I can see everything that I keep missing. Give me your love for humanity. Give me your arms for the broken-hearted, the ones that are far beyond my reach." - Brandon Heath.