No, for real. I am.
This week I’ve learned all sorts of things. I’ve learned about how privileged I am, a white American with married parents, a stable home, and constant access to resources. I’ve learned that I am an enneagram type 9, and about the burdens and joys that accompany that trait. I’ve gotten to participate in dialogues with brothers and sisters in Christ who have different understandings than me, but that value the spreading of the Gospel just like I do.
It’s been an amazing few days. But despite the wonderful things, it’s been hard. Honestly, I might look like I’ve got it “all” together, and that I have got this whole “missionary” thing figured out. But if I’m going to be honest, I feel immense spiritual attack.
Exhausted, this afternoon I laid down for a nap. I was feeling overwhelmed. And rather than falling asleep, I had voices torturing my mind. “You’re not good enough for this.” “You’re a misfit here, and you’ll be a misfit everywhere you go.” “Go home, this task is better left to a better Christian.” I cried.
Lord, why do I want to go home, when You have given me the desire to go live with African people? Abba, please give me the strength to remain engaged. Teach me how to overcome this insecurity, this inadequacy. Basically, Lord, I can’t do this. I’m not a good missionary. I’m the worst missionary. But please, take this tortuous burden out of my weary arms, and cover me in Your feathers. Be my refuge, protect me. Shield me, strengthen me. I can’t wait to see the places You’ll take me, the things that You’ll do, the full life You give me. Lord, meet me here, in the desert of my heart, as I prepare to minister to people in the deserts of Africa.
Because, God? It’s only day 4, and I’m already tired.