Mission: Possible

Sometimes it pays to be a completely unorganized person.  I can say that because I’m a completely unorganized person whose drawers are so full that random things fall out and surprise me.  (to clarify—I’m talking about desk drawers.)  Today, my third grade class picture fell out of my desk drawer: seeing it was like traveling back in time.  I remember third grade vividly for two reasons.  First, a new boy joined my class.  This was a novelty—I went to a very small Christian school, and we rarely had new arrivals.  This boy fascinated me.  He was the only person shyer than I was.  He was from an exotic place called Maryland.  And he could beat me at math drills.

The second reason I remember third grade is because it was my introduction to missionaries.  Our teacher was obsessed with missionaries.  Every story she told us was about missionaries “behind the Iron Curtain.”  We learned about Bible studies held in dark Russian basements and about people smuggling Bibles into China.  And we learned that if God called one of us to be a missionary, we were to answer the call with a wholehearted “Yes!”

To prepare myself for the call, I went to the library, which was my beloved second home.  I checked out books about missionaries.  And I was horrified—I read that entire groups of missionaries had been tortured and killed in hideous ways.  The ones who survived looked like they were at death’s door.  I took the books back to the library with a sinking heart.  And that night I began to pray, a prayer that I repeated every night for a long time:

Please, God.  Don’t ask me to be a missionary.  I love my family too much to leave.  And I can’t withstand torture.  I’ll tell where the hidden Bibles are before the Russians even get near me!  I’ll do anything else for you.  Just please.  Please, God.  Don’t ask me to be a missionary.

Then I’d lie in bed, hoping not to hear God’s call.  I’d compose goodbye letters, planning to leave them on my rumpled, empty bed for my family to find in the morning—I was convinced that missionaries left in the middle of the night like a covert ops team.  I was sure they kept a duffel bag packed, under their bed, waiting for the night when a man’s giant silhouette would fill their doorway and say, with an ominous foreign accent, “It’s time.”

To my enormous surprise and relief, I made it through third grade without getting “the call.”  And over time, I forgot about my terror of being called to be a missionary.  I even came to admire missionaries and the incredible work they do.  I didn’t forget about the boy from Maryland, either.  When I was twenty-one, I married him.  And we lived happily ever after.

Except that we didn’t, really.  I spent a decade of my life addicted to drugs and alcohol before finding my way into recovery.  Early on in recovery, I asked God again and again how He was going to redeem the wreckage of my life and assemble it into something useful.  I was convinced that I was too broken and damaged for God to ever use me for anything.  But as I began to learn the twelve steps of recovery, my idea of who God could use changed.  My friends in recovery were all being used by God—their friends and families were being changed as they watched God transform the life of an alcoholic or addict from a complete mess into a message of hope.  I wanted God to use me like that.

Then one night, in the dim basement where my group meets, I learned about the 12^th step, which is, in part, to carry the message of strength and hope to anyone who needs to hear it.  And from somewhere in the deep recesses of my brain, I heard two long forgotten words:  It’s time.  God was calling me to share His message of love, grace, hope, and redemption.  My spirit responded with a wholehearted “Yes.”  And just like that, I became a missionary—no duffel bag needed, no goodbye letters to write.  Just God saying, “It’s time.”  Time to let my light shine—not from a basement in Russia or a prison in China—just from here, at my unorganized desk, with my Monty in the next room, undoubtedly honing his math skills.

I believe everyone has a mission.  You do.  Right this minute, someone somewhere desperately needs your light.  Someone needs to know that hope exists.  That love is real.  And you might be the only one who can show them that love and hope.  It’s time. Turn on your brights and light up your corner of the world.  Wherever you are tonight, shine on, my friend.  Shine on.