When I was a little girl I would often imagine myself working overseas. At the age of six I pretended I was witnessing in the amazon jungle, at age eight I was designing an orphanage to build in Haiti, and by the time I was eleven I announced my plans to be an international missionary. My parents (understandably concerned about the idea of their little girl moving thousands of miles away to minister in the jungle) would encourage me to follow God’s leading, but also liked to point out that people in my home state needed to hear the gospel as well. Although I outwardly agreed with them, inwardly I wasn’t completely convinced. Sharing the gospel in my home state seemed less urgent and (to be completely honest) rather boring compared to traveling to a distant land. Besides, I would reason with myself, I had always wanted to work with those society deemed to be the “least of these” and share the gospel with people who had never heard it before. Why would God give me those desires if He was leading me to a small suburban neighborhood? I viewed my calling to share the Gospel as far away, elusive, important and very exciting. And I couldn’t wait to begin that calling. . . someday.
“She destroyed my picture of the orphanage I want to build!” I ripped the now torn and crumpled paper from my sister’s hands. She looked at the damage she had done and started to laugh. At twelve years old the amount of self-control I had was rather limited and I felt frustration rising up inside of me. “That’s the second drawing she has wrecked today”, I complained to my mother. My mother firmly corrected my sister’s behavior and sent her to play in a different room. Then, seeing my still downcast face, she invited me into the kitchen to talk with her as she cooked.
“Why do you want to be a missionary?” My mother asked as my sister rolled away in her wheelchair.
I thought about the question, and then answered as honestly as I could, “I want to tell people about Jesus. I want to help people who are hurting and let them know Jesus loves them.”
“Did you know you can do that here?”
“Well, yeah. But . . . you know . . . not like that.” I knew what my mother meant, and I knew we were supposed to share the gospel with others no matter where we lived. But international missions work had a sense of importance and urgency that I didn’t feel towards my home state. My mother understood what I meant even though I couldn’t fully articulate it. She gently sat down beside me and pointed to the younger sister, who I had just been arguing with moments before. “Did you know that she used to be an orphan?”
My sister had been adopted from foster care only a few years prior and I only knew a little about her past. The pieces I had heard frightened me and seemed to difficult to imagine so I avoided thinking about them. Although she was now in a safe home, my sisters past had left a mark and many deeply rooted behaviors that sometimes made her difficult to interact with. I knew she had been adopted but the fact that she had been an orphan hadn’t truly sunk in until that moment. I stared at my torn and grubby picture for a moment before my mom continued, “You spend a lot of time talking about helping orphans and hurting people, and I’m glad you want to do that. But I think you forget there are hurting people who need the Gospel right here. Maybe one day you will serve as a missionary somewhere else, but right now your calling is here.”
A few weeks ago, I opened my door to welcome three frightened, hyperactive, and confused children into my home. Within twenty minutes they had investigated every toy and book in my house and within half an hour the oldest child had decided he didn’t like any of them. My husband and I rallied together to locate clothes and carseats for them, assign rooms, hide breakable objects, and prepare food for them to eat. As we finally gathered around the table together to pray, they asked what we were doing and I briefly explained we were talking to God, thinking that explanation would be enough for the moment.
“What’s a God?” The little girl asked timidly, looking around for the mysterious creature. Her far from timid older brother blurted out, “I want one too! I want a god first!”
These children have lived in my community their entire lives. They went to the same library. They shopped at the same Target. Until recently they had never heard the name of Jesus and they lived within 10 miles of three different churches.
I still have a heart for international missions work. Someday I may find myself serving overseas. But for the present, God has shown me my mission field. The present calling on my life is far from the exciting and exotic one that I imagined as a child, yet it is exactly where I am meant to be. It is a ministry to those society may consider “least of these” - the hurting, frightened, alone, and sometimes forgotten. It is a calling to share the Gospel with three children who have never heard it before, and to love others in a way that is largely invisible. Sometimes my calling can appear simple or even mundane when I get caught up in the daily tasks of feeding, clothing, correcting, protecting, and loving the children God has placed in my life. Sometimes my calling can be heartbreaking and difficult, as I wipe away tears, sooth fears, and try to explain my Heavenly Father to children who have never had His love explained to them before. But no matter how my mission field presents its self day to day, it is my ministry, the calling God has given me right now. Right now, my calling is here.
“Therefore, we are ambassadors for Christ, God making his appeal through us.”
- 2 Corinthians 5:20
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