By Andrew Flewelling
Originally posted on his personal Facebook page on 10/27/24. Posted with permission.
I hate mission work.
I hate mission work because it reminds me of all the conveniences. It makes very clear to you all the conveniences you have that are such an incredible burden on your life.
I hate mission work because I meet new people, and I learn about their lives and that I need to care. I hate mission work because it reminds me that, perhaps, …perhaps there is actually a greater power at play; a power greater than all of this.
I hate mission work because it reminds me, it makes it clear, that I have a lot to contribute and that I must contribute.
I hate mission work because it exposes me to people who have had far more difficult lives than me and that reminds me of how selfish and uncaring I can be. I hate mission work because there’s a chance that I return and I lie in bed in the dark, bawling my eyes out.
I hate mission work.
I hate mission work because I end up going back to my life, a life that is running one quarter throttle. I hate mission work because it hits me physically and emotionally, spiritually. I hate mission work.
I hate mission work because it has allowed me to see how God treats some people or how circumstance has treated them. Or how God has allowed people to insulate themselves from the toils of life.
I hate mission work because it reminds me of how far away from the soil and the toil and the work that is living that I am.
I hate mission work because it reminds me that I have so, so, so much to do and have so much more to offer and that if I don’t, if I fail at that, I’m cheating myself. I’m cheating my brothers and sisters.
I hate mission work.
I hate mission work because once you experience it, it’s such a high. It’s such a high and you have to reconcile yourself to going back to life in this lazy hum. So, you have to find another mission because you need that dopamine rush, you need that feeling, that sense, that reality, that you are in fact making a contribution to those in need, in some sort of need, some form of need, and that you have so much to contribute.
I hate missions because invariably you’re going to encounter some baby, some toddler on the flight out in the charge of another adult or an adult who is an adult but who is different from you, and you judge them because you don’t know their life circumstances. And you are a human being, and you judge in a subtle way or a harsh way or whatever, and then you spend a little bit of time with that toddler in the seat next to you, previously worried about their behavior on a 3-hour flight, and it turns out that they just maybe need a little attention. They just maybe need a little distraction, maybe they just need somebody next to them to put the headphone buds or earbuds back in so they can watch Dora the Explorer and listen to the sounds. The Lion King playing on the back of the seat front monitor. And, you become that person. Or maybe they just need somebody to put a piece of paper and a pencil or a pen in front of them so that you can draw them a horse or something that theoretically looks like a horse. Or maybe you just need to show them how the lights work above their heads and guide them away from the attendant call button. And you become that person. And then you need to remind or use a translator to let the mother or the sister or the nanny know that it doesn’t bother you, that the toddler turns the lights on and off because you appreciate the toddler is experiencing something entirely new, just like you, and is taking it all in, is taking it all in this moment. They just want to explore everything because this is what life is for them. And, for you. And for the mother, or sister, or nanny.
And the tears well up again. Because life is so big.
You know you’re going to be okay. You just got to get up and maybe turn the lights on and start the coffee and your day will start again and all the feelings that make you feel full of life, full of potential, they’ll still be there, right underneath the surface. But the surface will take over and protect you. The dermis of your life will protect you from all these infections of what humanity and living really are, and you’ll sign up for it again in another two or three months. And another after that until your pain goes away.
I lift a handkerchief to my nose that is washed in the waters of Honduras, the mission. It’s a different smell and I know; I know in a couple of days most of it will be gone. But you’re just reminded that you’ve been in a different place; been in a different place physically, mentally, emotionally.
I haven’t felt this way, this next day aftermath, since my first trip to Haiti.
Note: this was posted right after Mr. Flewelling returned from his recent mission trip serving at the CHHF clinic in Limón, Dept. of Colon, Honduras.
