I am a Missionary

I am a missionary.


Standing around the side of the church crying, that reality hit me like a ton of bricks.
It was the morning after our arrival on the tiny island of Atchin. Daniel was on day six of a high fever and I was running on an hour or two of sleep. Don’t get me wrong, the accommodations were pleasantly surprising. We were given a small room in the church next to the baptismal. We had concrete floors. But we were HOT and Daniel’s screams bounced off our concrete walls ALL night.
I had just returned from staring down the “smol haos” for the second or third time when I lost it. Everything within me wanted to hop back on the boat, drive the hour down the bumpy jungle road and wait at the burned down airport for the next plane to arrive. I didn’t care if it was 3 days from now, I was done.
Yes, I was crying over an outhouse. I couldn’t shake the image of a cockroach crawling out of that pit onto poor Ella the night before. So here I was, 10 feet from the outhouse telling God I couldn’t do it. He already knew.

In the few weeks leading up to our departure I walked through a difficult time. Call it culture shock, an identity crisis, a disruption. I believe it was a purposed disruption, an emotional response to something hiding in my heart that I needed to take a look at. God wanted my attention.
I was feeling unloved and unlovely. I wanted my business suits and heels. I wanted my clients to call and tell me how they desperately needed to come talk to me. To wake up in the morning and curl my hair. To feel important, beautiful and valued. If I was honest, I had some serious reservations about living in the jungle for nine days.
I sat with God processing all I was feeling and I clearly heard that I was being humbled. Ouch. I thought I was fairly humble! (pride is funny like that) That day as I wrote in my prayer journal I told God that I was willing to submit to the process, to go ahead and take my will, my stubbornness and fear and make me into the woman He wanted me to be. I told Him I wanted my life to be about Him, not me.
In that surrender, God began a deep and at times, painful work.

It was day four and we were headed back to the mainland of Malekula by boat. I didn’t have too many expectations for the trip but began to get very antsy after a couple hours of trekking about with no obvious goal or objective. Ethan and Ella were on the mend from illness the day before and as we continued down the long dirt road with storm clouds rolling in all I could think about was the fact that the further down this road we got, the further we would have to walk back. Now I know my kids pretty well by now and the hungry/whining clock was a tickin’. I didn't have much time. We finally arrived at a location (a large mango tree) where they said we would be having lunch. As we sat waiting another thirty minutes on bamboo benches for the host family to give the okay to enter the village, the heavens opened up and the rain came hard and fast. Eventually we were invited to enter the village. We crammed into a small dark home and were introduced to an elderly woman and a few family members. We were told she had been sick for over five years. Ella was holding her stomach and giving me her most polite “I am going to wither away and die if I can’t eat soon” face while Ethan wriggled his way up on a chair between the elderly woman and a friend and made himself at home. Daniel quickly decided he had seen enough and filled the small hut with screams. Embarrassed I scrambled for baby food, a clean diaper, ANYthing to make it stop. Everything was buried deep in Jeremy’s hiking backpack and I was quite the spectacle emptying out our provisions for the day, more than most of these families would need in a week. I quickly realized that I needed to excuse myself so I grabbed an umbrella and walked outside into the downpour. Standing in the rain and mud, tired and hungry, unable to provide for my kids…I was annoyed, I was uncomfortable.


An hour or so later the food was finally served and we managed to put on a good face for more laplap, a local delicacy. With my tummy full and Daniel in the arms of another  mama, I felt the Lord tugging at me to go back to the first house with the elderly woman. I did my best to explain to God that I happened to be in a bad mood, but the prompting was loud and clear.

Entering the house I noticed she was no longer in her chair. I looked into a dark bedroom and saw her frail body laying on a mat. I asked her if I could pray for her. As I prayed she began to weep and pray with me. We cried out for her healing and then gave God thanks. She slowly began to gently sing a worship song. Listening to her sing to Jesus and holding her small hand in mine was a precious gift. She looked up at me with teary eyes and said “Jesus sent you here to me.” Jesus did send me, and the work He did in my heart in those few beautiful moments will be with me for the rest of my life.

Practically skipping down the bumpy road home the words hit me again, but this time they felt different,
I am a missionary.

It was dark and I was putting Daniel to bed when I heard the cry. It was sincere and loud. I've noticed in Vanuatu when a child falls down or gets hurt the first reaction is to laugh, the second is to wallop them upside the head. It’s something I’ll never get used to. Kids are on their own as soon as they can walk and I have yet to see any tenderness towards children.
Five or ten minutes later I was able to leave Daniel sleeping and was surprised to still hear crying. I looked around and there were at least ten adults within earshot doing nothing. As I headed out into the dark church yard I found a small boy sitting in a lump sobbing. Two other boys quickly tugged on his arms trying to get him to his feet. Asking them what happened I found out that one of the boys had thrown a large rock at him and the kid was still hurting. Without thinking about cultural norms I put my arm around him. He wouldn't tell me where it hurt. He wouldn't talk. As I rubbed his back and told him it was ok I felt his little body go limp and lean into my side. His tears subsided. I spent the next twenty minutes holding the little guy and talking about the bats flying overhead and soccer. He never spoke but his body language told me he could have stayed there for hours.

I have heard all my Christian life the term “dying to self.” The last month it feels like God has been killing off a lot of “Merissa.” In those moments of weakness, discomfort and fear I die a little bit more. It isn't about my comfort or having what I need to feel in control or familiar. It’s in those moments of risk and total discomfort where God is allowed the space He needs to come in and fill my uncertainty, my doubt and show me what really matters in this life. God needed to bring me to a place of total dependence, total surrender so He could show up powerfully, so I was usable for His glory. I traded in my comfortable house, a great job and my curling iron, but I am living a life that I never knew was possible. I am terribly uncomfortable at times but I am more uncomfortable thinking about what I can miss by living life for myself. Living as though my happiness, safety and plans are more important. I am living for those moments with my little friend, for those times I reach out in the dark to be the comforting hands of Jesus. The times when I crawl into a hut to pray for a woman that has been sick and discouraged for years. I don’t want to miss that. I can still feel her hand in mine and his little elbow in my side and it’s more than enough.

I am privileged. I feel like the luckiest girl on the planet knowing I am right where God wants me. I am in process. I am dying and learning to live.

I am a missionary.