I have scribbled out several blog ideas over the past few weeks, but I always run into a problem: I think a lot of things about a lot of things. I suppose I could fill volumes with the things I have to say. Some of them would be riveting and clever; others would have the entertainment equivalent of oatmeal. Lately, my mind zips around from theology to dessert recipes to the mood phenomena of college students during December and perhaps ending with my wild anticipation of the new Channing Tatum movie. I’ve been dying to snatch a wise man from someone’s yard (they weren’t there, look it up), I finished the second Hunger Games book today, and I showed my Spanish final who’s boss.
As this is my adventure blog, I suppose it is appropriate to talk about my latest quest. Next stop: Macedonia. I planned to take this mission trip last year, but the Israel tour was sort of a once in a lifetime opportunity. This trip will be different because the focus is missions instead of study, although we will get to visit Philippi, Kavala, Neapolis, and Thessaloniki. We will be teaching English and building relationships with Muslims. I am jumping up and down, and the trip isn’t until August 2012 (if you are even under the impression that we will have an August 2012).
I’ve got to admit that growing up in West Texas has not afforded me a lot of contact with Muslims. Most of the people I know associate them with terrorists and wife-beaters. I have tried to form a more educated view. I don’t want people basing their ideas about Christians on the Crusades. As best I can tell without knowing any, I love Muslims. They are hospitable people who hold high standards in a world that doesn’t respect absolutes. I disagree with them and have such heartbreak about the deception they live under, but I admire them. The mosques we visited in Israel were breathtakingly beautiful. They train their children to be experts in theology. It inspires me to dig deep in the truth of the Bible and know what I’m talking about. It also reminds me how important prayer is. I read that the god of Islam is impersonal and detached. I want so desperately to introduce these people to the merciful God who went out of his way to suffer and die for a relationship with his beloved children. I want women to know the freedom and dignity that is in Christ. I can’t tell people about a God I don’t communicate with.
My decision to go on this trip didn’t really surprise anyone but me. I felt that the responsible thing to do this year would be to stay home. I didn’t want to put any financial strain on my family and I felt that I could do some service with the youth events that go on in the summer. But really, all I’ve wanted to do since sixth grade was to go. At G.A. camp, bewildered at the thought that there could be people in the world who had never heard of Jesus, I decided that I wanted to be a missionary. As I got older and pretend-wiser, I qualified my earlier statements. I decided that surely God had intended that I live a mission-minded life here in the states. Surely he did not intend for my get-married-have-8-babies years to be spent in a grass hut. Surely, I would do something more normal…Well, God’s name is not Shirley.
The day after I sent the email to Dr. Shaw asking to be put on the Macedonia team, we had Mission Chapel. Super, God, I’m on the right track, thanks! But there was more. Dr. Shaw began to speak about a friend he made during his extensive time in Macedonia. His friend was the mayor of a town that had recently had an influx of radical Muslim missionaries. This man was a Christian and was deeply concerned about the youth in his community. He begged Dr. Shaw to find just one missionary who could stay with them permanently. After chapel, we all went to lunch like every other Wednesday, but I couldn’t really shake it off like everyone else. Days later, I was ironing and thinking about what went on in chapel, what went on inside me. All of a sudden it was like some part of my heart did that thing your dog does when it hears something and his ears get all lopsided. And then I just knew. I don’t know when, or how, but someday I’m going somewhere as a missionary. I don’t know if I will be there for 4 months or 40 years, but somewhere in the plan for me are foreign missions. God wasn’t misleading me in the sixth grade and he will never lead me in the wrong direction now.
Perhaps someday I’ll reach my bucket list goal of being trilingual. On the other hand, maybe I’ll just learn a lot of different ways to say bathroom. I don’t think I’ll surprise my grandma, who watched my brother and me play “African Village” instead of house. Maybe I’ll email the computer teacher who let me to a powerpoint about Lottie Moon instead of a sports star like the rest of the class. Whatever happens, wherever I end up, I know that I am in capable hands. As far as spending my marriageable years in a far-off land, I direct you to Figure 1. My Father who knit me together knowing who I would be and how he would use me never leaves my side. He has a carefully constructed plan for my life. I can only hope that he doesn’t send me to some place where I have to survive on pop-tarts. Dear merciful God, no more hummus!