The Little Girl with the Pink Suitcase

I don’t think I could have been much more than 7 at the time, but all the way back then, missionary was part of my vocabulary.

I remember traipsing around the house with an old Mary Kay bag my aunt had given us, a smattering of my belongings crammed inside.  I remember sitting down with my sisters, sipping hot water from cups and pretending it was tea (’cause tea seemed like such a grown-up drink).  We read from Missionary Stories and the Millers and then we’d each pick a country to go to.  We’d board planes to faraway places to tell people about Jesus, just like in the stories.  All through my growing-up years, I devoured every missionary biography I could get my hands on, enthralled by the stories of these heroes of the faith.

Fifteen years later, I packed up suitcases that altogether weighed twice as much as much I did, flew across an ocean, and landed in a place I’d never been to before.

To be a missionary.

People have told me I’m brave, they’re proud of me, that I’ll do great.  I feel neither brave, nor confident, nor great.  I feel like one very small girl who has been given too big a job.

I’m now living the life I’ve dreamed of ever since I can remember.  But the reality is much different than I imagined it would be.  Turns out missionaries are pretty ordinary and unspectacular, and you don’t just step off a plane and start telling people about Jesus.  You came to share the Hope, but first you have to live the Hope – which means dying to self, and that’s painful.  And no matter how long you’ve wanted to do this, you still struggle and make mistakes and lose your focus and miss home like crazy.

That little girl with the pink suitcase had very little idea of all that would be involved and of just how hard it would be.  But she also couldn’t have foreseen the rich blessings that come from following Christ.  Nor did she realize just how big her God really was.

My story may not be finished yet, but I already know Who the hero is.