Being served

Sometimes we try too hard. Sometimes we create in our minds an image of what it means to be a Christian or a missionary, a person who is flawless in every way, minus the actual halo. And while it is true that God expects much of us (“Be perfect, just as your heavenly Father is perfect” ~Mt 5:48), He does not expect us to shed our our very selves or that which makes us human.

All of this to say, I’m missing home this week more than usual. Friday afternoon you could have found me in church, sitting on the floor in front of the first pew, looking at the crucified Christ and asking Him why life seems hard sometimes. But, as usual, my intended “silent” prayertime was slightly disrupted by little voices that emerged in the pews behind me. I ignored them for a while until I began hearing words that referred unmistakably to me (“missionary......Bible.....”). So I turned around, smiling albeit with tears in my eyes, to say hello to three curious young girls.

“Are you crying?” one asked me with great interest.

“Yes, because I miss my family, akong familia” I replied, struggling to find the Visayan words for what I wanted to say. “They are dili doul, far away in America.”

We all sat quietly for a moment until I recollected my “missionary face” enough to ask the girls their names and ages. As it turned out, they had arrived in the church early for “Flores de Mayo,” a daily Catechism lesson held for children during the month of May. A few minutes later, two teens from the parish entered the church and began preparing day’s program, so I said goodbye and walked home.

A little embarrassing, I thought, for me to be found crying by the very people I came here to serve. I wondered what they must think of me, an American girl with comparatively few worries in life when you consider the broken families and neglected children that abound in our small town of Sagay.

How grievously I underestimate the human capacity for empathy and compassion! The following afternoon, my teammate brought me two cards that she received from girls who ran up to her in church looking for “Ate” (big sister) Rebecca.

The cards read:

“Dear Ate Rebecca, Don’t be sad, because we will love you as we can, and don’t missed your family because were here, to love you as more as more as more. Love, Julymae”

“Dear Ate Rebecca, Don’t be sad, because you will see your family soon if you will go to America. And don’t be sad, because you have three friends that loves you..... And I love you too..... Jiean’s B-est F-riend F-orever is Ate Rebecca!!! When I first time see you I feel that your a good missionary... Love, Jiean”

The last sentence of Jiean's note is the most comforting to me because, in our encounter at church, I did nothing "missionary-like." If anything, I allowed the girls to serve me as they asked with concern about my sadness and about my family. But perhaps being a missionary is not about having my entire life under control or always looking put-together. Maybe the best missionary is the one who acknowledges her humanness and offers it to the Lord as a pleasing sacrifice, tears and all.