One word.
Missionaries.
Did that not instantly bring a picture to your mind? It’s like saying homeschool mom, or Pastor’s wife – it comes with a mental image. That, in all three cases, probably involves bad haircuts and/or pantyhose. These fashion forlorn people – they don’t cuss. Or drink. Or use their tv for anything but select VHSs. They read their Bible, like, a lot. And have family devotions. And pray with their spouse. They don’t have much of a sense of humor and pop culture is lost on them but, hey, they’re kind and their hearts are good. They’re suffering servants, hospitality rockstars, the moms are both submissive and Proverbs 31 women. And of course – they lead a whole lot of people down the Romans Road of salvation. They hand out tracts and they ask their waitress if she knows Jesus as her personal Lord and Savior.
Guess which of part that description fits me? Um. Well, I’d like to think that I’m kind. And have a good heart . . .
So the thought of touring traditional churches and begging, oh so humbly, for support feels kind of like lying. Like forcing myself into a box. Made of pantyhose. Or stepping out on a slippery slippery pedestal. Made of pantyhose.
I think the unglamorous truth is that being a “missionary” isn’t always so holier than thou. It’s not always the hyper-evangelistic lifestyle that a lot of us assume. It’s mostly just a lot of regular old boring living. It’s unpacking and buying groceries and sweeping floors and making friends.
In a way we’re all missionaries. People on a mission? But in another way we need to take the slippery pedestalism out of the concept. We weren’t “missionaries” to Georgia. We’re not “missionaries” to Canada. We won’t be “missionaries” to India. We’ll just be people – living our life, doing our job, squeezing in some mission here and there.
-Jessica
we received coffee (how I love thee, let me count the ways . . . )
