This morning, as I balanced a crate of books on my hip, I hunted the keys to open the door to my mission field.
Oh, I can almost hear that audible gasp, and see the question marks in your eyes. Mission field?? You ask. I thought you taught at that Mennonite school. All the children come from strong, Christian homes. You consider that a mission field?
Yes, though it's been a growing process, I can now say I most certainly do.
Ever since I can remember, which is when I was about four or so, I remember bed time conversations with my mom as she tucked me in for the night. "When I grow up, I want to be a missionary. I want to help lots of people and tell them about Jesus." And,in my juvenile mind, I would picture strange, unreal places, barbaric people, and myself as a Gladys Aylward or Florence Nightingale in the midst of it, brandishing a Bible and winning souls for Jesus.
The vision never dimmed, though my perception of the details certainly changed as I got older. In high school, I considered mission work to be very high on my list of future endeavours. My question was "where" and "when", not "will it be me?"
God led me to experience foreign culture in a two month stay in Peru. I returned with a zeal burning brighter than ever before for reaching out to the lost.
Then, His plan was for me to try something I thought I would never do--work at a nursing home. I learned I could enjoy my job. I loved it when I could make a pained, wrinkled face light up for even a few moments when I took a little extra time to listen or give affection. But, I wondered, when will I be called to the mission field?
Friends were called. To Thailand, Grenada, Kenya, Mongolia, Nicaragua. Poland. Guatemala. Puerto Rico. Then I got asked to teach school.
Yes, that was another one of my girlish dreams, to teach. But, surely, God wanted me somewhere else, far, far away to serve Him. Maybe this was just supposed to be for the in-between-now-and-then time. I said I would.
Yes, I would be moving two hours away from home, but not to any superstitious tribe of warring natives. I would be going to serve a church much like my own. God, aren't you expecting more?
One year, turned into two, three...this is now my fifth year teaching. And every year, God shows me more about my mission, or His mission that He's using me to fulfill.
I help a child learn to read clearly and distinctly, to read with feeling, to observe punctuation marks. He may be the minister of a church 20 years from now, calling upon his reading skills to share truth with the world. Perhaps I will sit in audience, not remembered for having been his teacher nor really caring, but being blessed by the way God has led and used a life I cared so deeply about.
My back aches as I bend over another one's desk. The math problem just doesn't work out, no matter how he tries it. No, he won't remember the problem in even 3 days from now, most likely, but maybe a lesson in perseverance was learned. And who knows, but he might be the foreman of a crew that works to rebuild homes for the world's less fortunate or those ravaged by natural disasters. His math skills may come in handy some day.
One little girl watches me so carefully. I just have this feeling. One day, she may be a teacher. Will she, like me, think back over her days of school and glean every positive character trait, helpful example, and ways of doing things from her former teachers. Maybe this day is one she will remember the rest of her life the way I remember my grade four teacher telling us how to remember how to spell "beautiful". B-E-A-utiful!
And the one who simply does not seem to enjoy academics very much at all but has a huge heart for anything lonely or hurting. Will she have been given tools to reach out to those around her and show them a picture of what Jesus is like?
I could go on, but it wonders me how, little and childish though they are, these young people will grow up one day to be what they are becoming now.
I embrace my mission field. God is good. All the time!
Are you living your mission?
