Ask a little kid what they want to be when they grow up and they'll tell you exactly what you predict: doctor, princess, fireman (or woman. I'm not sexist, so whatever floats your boat), superhero, rock star. Those same kids will hold on to that dream until they either A- "grow out of it", which frankly seems like a really stupid option because I think childhood dreams stem from who we truly are (but hey, that's just me.) Or B- some genius comes up and tells them that they can't do it (killing a child's dream? That's an awesome idea, NOT.)
Want to take a stab at what I wanted to be? Nope, you can't cheat by looking at the blog title because that would be wrong. Sorry. But I wanted to be a rock star. Yes, I was one of the predictable children, and I was darn proud of it. However, I didn't want the money, or the cars (although I can appreciate the beauty of a car just as much as anyone). I didn't want a mansion. (Nope, I wanted a purple trailer with rockets on the back that could make it go super duper fast.) I didn't even want to be particularly famous.
Here's what I wanted: to share my music with the world. I KNOW. Awesome for someone who is four, right? I wanted to go up there and sing what I couldn't say (and let me tell you, although I was a somewhat articulate four year old, I was no Dora. I mean, come on. She's bilingual.)
Anyways, nobody told me that I couldn't become a rock star. I stood up on my parents' boat dock with a jar by my feet, belting out songs in my little high pitched voice. (For the record, my step dad put the jar there, not me.) But, since nobody told me otherwise, I held on to that dream for years.
As I got older, I came to grips with my odds. A rock star? Highly unlikely. I'd been told that I had the talent, and I'd been in choir for years, but I didn't think it was an option. So I came up with a plan that was, to me, more likely. At thirteen, I thought I had my entire life planned out.
How I thought my life would go:
- I would go to Yale and study business and music. (Don't ask me why I chose Yale to study business and music. Again, I was 13.)
- I would move to Boston and get married at 24.
- I would have three children. A boy named Jude so that I could sing "Hey Jude" to him as a lullaby, a girl named Emerson, and either a boy or a girl would be my third child. The boy would be named Brody, the girl would be named Ruth (after my grandmother, although I wish I'd known about Ruth from the Bible at the time).
- I wouldn't ever ever ever drive a mini-van. (No offense to those who do...)
- I would own my own Record Company. (I was trying to keep that thought of having music in my future alive.)
It was the perfect life for me. Comfortable, easy. When I was fourteen...
BOOM. Gone. The entire plan, out the window. I went from having everything going according to my plan to having everything going according to God's Plan, except I had no clue what it was. I can't remember a time in my life when I was more terrified of what was to come. I trusted God, but I was struggling to let go of my comfort.
And then.....I finally find out. Let me tell you, every detail of it shocked me to my core. I was going to Africa. Africa. The place that was nothing but a big old pile of mystery to me. And not just any part of Africa. Chad. Yep, that's right. Chad: the place where they would chop your head off just for believing in God. Better yet, it borders Sudan: the place where they would not only chop your head off, but defile your body in unthinkable ways. I was being sent into a war zone. Maybe you've heard of the conflict between Sudan and Chad, maybe not. But I guess you know of it now, don't you?
I felt like my insides were constricting.
"Chad? No, no that can't be. I need to stay in America where they have air conditioning and clean water. I'm going to get married and have three kids and live in Boston. Chad? No no no. Definitely not. I'll pass. God must've meant this to be for someone else. It can't be ME. I mean, look at me! I'm quite possibly the antonym of what you'd think a missionary would be. No. Not Chad. There must've been some mistake. I can't do this... I can't. I'll let God down. I can't let God down."
This was my thought process. It's not pretty. It's even extremely blasphemous in some parts. (Psh. Like God could make a mistake. Come on, He's God.) But there it is. I'm ashamed to think that I thought this at some point, that I denied my fate. However, I did. It happened. I can't deny this. I was shaken. I was terrified.
I wasn't ready. I wasn't ready to grasp this concept of leaving, of going out of my comfort zone and stepping deliberately into the path of danger.
If you would have tried to tell my four year old self that I was going to be going to Africa as a missionary, I would've probably called you stupid and walked away. Wasn't I just a gem?
But here I am. I'm actually excited to go. I'm not ready yet....no, I'm definitely not ready yet, but the concept is easier to think about. And I've grown. I've grown as a person, and more importantly, as a Christian. I can wrap my head around the idea now.
Granted, I'm still terrified that I'll make a mistake. I always will be. But the good thing about it is that I'll get more and more chances to get it right.
Thinking about going to Africa has changed me. I'm more grateful for my current surroundings. For example, look around you. Go ahead, look. Now, look again.
I won't have any of that. So when I have moments like these when I want to just float through thoughts of how fortunate I am, I look around me and thank God that I got to live this before I lived the life of the poor. And you know what? I'm fine with being poor. That statement means that I've come a long way.
As for now, I'm just a Wannabe Missionary, living in amazing circumstances.
This was the first entry of (hopefully) many. Thank you for taking the time to read that extremely loooooooooooooong post :)
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