A whole post about truth.

This might take the form of a rant of sorts so I apologize in advance.


Last night when we were at the bible study I sat there looking around asking myself,

“What am I doing here?” The truth of the matter is I shouldn’t be here; I’m the last person who should be in mission. The truth is that I don’t like being a missionary; I don’t like having to give up my school schedule to help people. I don’t like having a shower that’s just a pipe in a wall. I don’t like living without some comforts. The truth is I complain and I get disagreeable when these things happen.

The truth is I get mad at God for asking me to do things like this. The truth is some days I just want to ignore him. The truth is my life gets messed up.

A missionary should be perfect right? They should be a saint, a shining example of Jesus Christ.

That’s not me. A missionary should pray every single day and read the Bible for hours on end right? Well I don’t do that, I try, but some days I forget to pray, some days I don’t want to pray.

But the truth is also that I am here in the Philippines. And I am a missionary at this time in my life. So there must be an answer to my question.

“What am I doing here?”

Something interesting happened last night at the Bible study. The building that we go to is called the Barangay Hall, behind and around it are the houses of people who live in this Barangay, which are basically different sections of land where people live. As we are white we stick out A LOT here in the Philippines. So of course some people came out to watch us just because of that fact, but by the time the meeting started they had gone back inside their house. Soon it got dark and we started the meeting with singing. And I saw someone creep out of the house and hide behind a tree to watch us. But this person, I think it was a woman, wasn’t standing in a place where she could see us Americans very well. She could hear us though. I saw in her not a curiosity of white people, but of what we were doing here.

Who are these white people who sing?

I don’t know the full answer to the question, “Why am I here.” But I have an idea, and I have a story. The story is about my family, who according to a lot of people are crazy. We have ten children, we moved from our home, our farm, our family and our job to live with the poor in the Philippines.

They sing these white people with guitars. They dance with us, these white people. They act like fools and they don’t mind. These white people, they tell us of a man who says He loves us. These white people. They are different.

I’m going to start to tell my stories; every week at least I’m going to plan on finding a story. Not because you need to hear them, but because I need to remind myself why I’m here.