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Topic: Camping (07/11/05)
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TITLE: The Reluctant Missionary | Previous Challenge Entry
By lisa elg
07/18/05 -
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It all began with a small group meeting. One of the participants announced the need for team members for a short-term mission team headed to Romania. I had always been fascinated with missionaries. I marveled at how they made the corner of the world where they served seem so important. The brushfire of their excitement would burn in me, but slowly my fire would burn out with the demands of my daily life and I would thank the Lord that I was a spleen.
Her request circled my mind like a song that wouldn’t leave and in the weeks that followed I had many conversations with her, my husband, and God. I could not wrap my mind around the fact that God was sending me to Romania. It was as if he looked down from heaven, asked. “Whom shall I send?”, and then picked me, the only one hiding behind the bushes.
The three-hour bus ride from the airport to Christior, Romania was more turbulent than the eight-hour flight across the Atlantic. The roads were like post-detonated mine fields and the driver tore through as if were being chased by the mad bomber himself. I remember literally grabbing my own hand, pretending that it was God’s, and praying fervently. After a couple of deep breaths, I began to look out the window and take in the view. The countryside was blanketed with miles of green fields flanked by grassy mountains. My eyes feasted on the beauty of my surroundings as peace began to claim me. A stirring of excitement crowded out my fear.
As we pulled into the orphanage driveway I was assaulted with equal amounts of trepidation and anticipation. My insides were trembling and my smile wobbled as we were ushered out of the van into the center of a crowd of children. They smiled and waved as their names were called and we followed suit. The miniature- sized mob was mostly made up of little ones younger than ten, but there were a handful of teenage girls. These girls had a different kind of smile from the others. It was as if they’d seen the end of the Wizard of Oz before the beginning and already knew the futility of Dorothy’s pursuit.
One teen, Larisa, stood apart from the others. She didn’t bother to smile when she was introduced, but her gaze was steady as she eyed the team individually. I held her gaze and felt its sting. In that instant I wanted to apologize for the struggle that was her life as if I were personally responsible for it. I wanted to find a way to redeem myself for being a privileged American who had no working knowledge of the word injustice. Most of all, I wanted to hold her in my arms, soak up her angry tears with my shirt, and infuse God’s peace into every pore of her body.
During that week in Romania Larisa and I spent many hours together. Fortunately Romanian children are taught English in school, so there was neither a language barrier nor a heart barrier. We walked and talked and eventually Larisa gave me a glimpse of the pain that camped out just under her thick skin. She received hugs and love in any expression reluctantly, but eventually her armor fell away leaving me with tear-stained shirts that matched my own cheeks. It was during those embraces that I felt the Spirit of God most profoundly, as if we were literally cloaked in his love.
It’s been a year since the trip and that place in my heart is still tender to the touch. Over time I’ve come to realize that, like Larisa, I had some stuff camped under my skin too. My spleen mentality was not based on God’s view of me, but on the view I held for myself. Through my inability to forgive myself I had become judge, jury, and executioner as I sentenced myself undeserving of God’s love. My prayers now go something like this: Dear God, please show me what I look like in your eyes. Sometimes in His answer the light I see behind my eyes is blinding.
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