by Brandon Abbott
I remember as a fifth grader traveling to Montgomery,
Alabama for the annual Royal Ambassador conference. Well, I say I remember it.
I remember a van ride, a trip to Shoney’s breakfast bar, and taking a picture
by a large rock. (We didn't get out
much).
One other thing I remember about the conference is meeting a
missionary. She was serving in some
country, the name of which apparently got trumped in my memory by the trip
to Shoney's. She was dressed in authentic
native clothing from that area, and she also had this ornamental jar with a lid and a metal straw.
“Would you like to taste?” she asked. You have to understand that outside of pizza
and cheeseburgers, my diet was limited to Coke and oxygen. So I was
understandably skeptical.
“What is it?”
“It’s tea from [insert country name here]. It’s green, but
it’s good. You just have to drink it through this special straw so you don’t
get any of the leaves in your mouth.”
The phrase “leaves in your mouth” left me with absolute
certainty that I would in no way be tasting the tea from the country we speak
not of. But as passionate as I was about
my diet, I was even more passionate about pleasing others, especially those
kind men who drove four hours in a church van with a group of unruly eleven
year olds.
“Come on, Brandon. It won't hurt you,” they encouraged
me. Eventually I relented and sipped the
tea. It was bitter, and strong. And the special
straw failed, because I ended up with a slimy leaf snaking across my
tongue. I was mortified. I choked and
spit in a very dramatic display of disgust.
To top it off, I ended up with a massive headache and laying down in the
back of the van all the way home.
Since that day, I think I built a kind of wall in my mind between
missionaries and the rest of us. I mean,
on one hand you have normal people, and on the other hand you have oddly
dressed purveyors of poison leaf juice waiting to infect unsuspecting Royal
Ambassadors.
This week, the wall came down.
First things first . . . I have not been offered, nor have I
consumed any kind of tea. Mostly just sparkling
mineral water. (It’s a pretty big deal out here in Oberwiesenthal, Germany). And
I have seen no one in any kind of authentic native garb. What I have seen are real people. Parents
with real children. Normal, everyday Christians
with real smiles, real tears, and real problems.
Like me, they deal with issues like where their kids go to school, what to make for
dinner, and how to fit 25 hours into a 24 hour day. What’s
different is that they happen to deal with these issues in a foreign country
among people who are ignorant, indifferent, and even hostile to their God and
his mission for them.
As we have worshipped and prayed together this week, I have watched
these people, many of whom are lonely and tired and misunderstood, as they thanked
God for how He had blessed them. I
watched people who experienced cancer, theft, danger, and isolation, praise God
for his healing and provision, his protection and constant presence.
I have listened to them sing as they raised their hands, closed their eyes, and poured out to Heaven . . .
Never once did we ever walk alone.
Never once did you leave us on our own.
You are faithful, Lord you are faithful.
This week, I came to serve missionaries. And in the process, a wall came down. I no longer saw these people as strangers in
strange clothes dispensing strange beverages. I saw them as people just like
me. I saw people serving God by living
out the great commission, no matter the cost.
Then I looked in the mirror and realized that this week, I was their
mission field. Though I came to serve
the missionaries, they have served me.
