I thought a lot about writing while being in Sierra Leone, not too long ago. I had all kinds of ideas swimming through my head while there. And then, on the long flights to Brussels and then crossing the Atlantic.
There are some hard realizations I've faced every time I've willingly gone on mission trips. First, these trips aren't about my personal agenda, my social status, my self-esteem. Good thing, too, because my self-esteem is quietly and firmly crushed each time I've gone. It hurts... a LOT. But it's also very necessary and enlightening. This isn't, and never has been about me, and it's about time I figured that out.
Blogs are a tricky thing. Whatever the topic, whatever the mood, it's always a personal perspective; skewed, self-centered, and always a reflection of the person writing them. The biggest difficulty for me, I think (and hopefully others), is what I write one moment is "in that moment." It's not always accurate, and my maturity level may just increase the tiniest bit the second after I push the PUBLISH button, and I realize my error. Granted, my maturity level doesn't usually adjust that quickly, but you get the idea... I hope.
I went on this last trip with the spirit of adventure; a spirit of hope and excitement. I was going to see people I considered family; people I had been praying for since seeing them two years earlier, all the while wondering how Ebola may have affected them. I couldn't wait to be back; couldn't wait to see Chief Ishmael, the Imam, and the kids! I thought for weeks about how I would greet them. Would I hug them? Was that a cultural foo-pah? Not to mention the threat of Ebola (but I never took that too seriously). Would we laugh and talk about fishing? I knew they would see me and yell "Kpanah!" (the name they gave me the last time I was there).
What really happened? They saw my team mates and yelled and cheered; hugged and greeted, and laughed (not sure about most Africans, but the people in the village of Mania - AKA Mahn-Ya - laugh at almost everything coming out of Westerner's mouths). As soon as they realized Kristie's hair had changed but it was still the beautiful spirit they knew from previous visits, they yelled "Konima" (her given African name). When they saw me, they said "and... who are you?"
Long story, shortened, I was commonly known as "Konima's husband" or "pumoi" (slang for white person). When I told them my family-given name (Daniel), they went "Oh" and generally called me Dennis, instead. Dennis was the other team member Kristie & I went with...
I was disappointed, to say the least. I had invested prayer and time with them on our last visit; I had poured my heart out to a few of them and we had embraced just before I got back on our little fishing boat to leave for who-knew-how-long-before-I'd-be-back. And, now, I return and I'm the one white dude no one remembered.
That's where this all comes down, though, isn't it? It is not, and never was, about me. Oh, sure, to me it was about me, on some level. But, in the grand scheme of things, I'm a dot of sand on the beach; worthless without the Master's hand. And when His hands are involved, I'm only one of millions of grains He's using.
What I saw this last trip (again, it's my blog, so I can only give my perspective), however, was an amazing shift of perspectives. We had a man who had visited us on numerous occasions, and always seemed just out of reach. He would be on the outside of the shelter when we were telling stories about God's love for us, and His gift of Jesus' death; sometimes he'd disappear into the shadows. Other times, he'd sit and listen... and... fall asleep. This time, however, the first day we were there, he asked some difficult questions. Not deep theological questions, but questions about being a follower of God while struggling with things I'd venture we all struggle with. Sometimes those are harder to answer than, say, "what is the Trinity?"
At first, I thought he was asking questions to challenge us. This is a predominantly Muslim community (as far as I know there may have been ten Believers on the entire island - one for every third village there!). But, the next evening, he came back and quietly told one of our missionary leaders "I am now your brother. I have decided to become a follower of Jesus."
The next evening, I was asked to escort him back to his hut, and he said the same thing to me. "I am now your brother." And then he asked, "when will you come back?"
Even now, I am humbled by this memory. This man, a cousin of the chief and the Imam, confided in me he was leaving the traditions and religion of his people, and following Jesus. It was powerful. But, again, I was just a speck of sand God had placed there at that moment. It was not, nor ever will be about me, in any sense of the word. This was about what God had done to one heart in that village.
Because of the repercussions of his decision, he decided not to be baptized until a later time, as this would be a public proclamation, and he was not ready. I would ask you to pray the roots go deep. He was not someone who took this decision lightly, as he told us they had been talking about the Message God had sent us with since our first visit to the village; almost three years earlier. He was also someone who didn't play in platitudes; when he asked questions, you knew he was serious.
Until I was in my late thirties, I didn't have much of an interest in doing missionary work; unless, of course, it was with a band playing in dingy clubs (I always liked that sort of evangelism - I could connect with rockers and "dropouts" better than with successful or popular crowds). I didn't have a desire to go anywhere else in the world; well, maybe Sicily and Ireland, but only as a tourist. Kristie was the same way. One day, however, both of our hearts were changed at about the same time. We didn't talk about it until later because we knew how resistant the other one was to the idea of leaving our comfortable home and family, and neither of us realized God had been moving the cogs in each of us.
This is all still very new, and sometimes very painful. But, in the grand scheme of things, it's a worthy sacrifice... then, again, it's never really been about me, has it?
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