It was not often
that I had seen my father scared. He was sitting there in his reclining chair,
a light shade of green, with luggage piled up next to the door. He hadn’t slept over three hours on any night
the entire week, and he was due to take about twenty college students to El
Salvador for a ten-day mission trip the next day.
As a Spanish
professor at a Christian college, Dad was the likely choice to take students on
mission trips to Spanish-speaking countries.
He had contact with students who wanted to learn Spanish; he had contact
with native speakers who lived in the countries where the trips were to occur;
he had contact with the language and the cultural mores of the country
visited. If you were to make a list of
the people on the campus where he teaches who would be the most likely person
to take a group to El Salvador, Dad would be near the top of that list. Yet there he sat, turning ever-more
olive-toned.
At the time, I
really didn’t connect with Dad’s fear.
It was the summer of 1994, and I had just finished my first year of
college. I had seen much of the effort
he had put forth to make this happen. He’d worked hard, and he had built a team
that, by all accounts, should work well together. As is his practice, he put in long hours and
trained these students the best he knew how.
He listened to the ministry organization and leaned heavily on their
advice. He chose highly-motivated
Spanish speakers as his student leaders.
The group had worked together, prayed together and unified to have a
successful time of ministry in El Salvador.
His effort was exemplary.
So, I thought, “why
didn’t he feel comfortable?”
Knowing my Dad, he
had been thinking the previous week about why he shouldn’t feel
comfortable. He thought about the
insanity of taking a group of college students to a country that had, until
recently, been embroiled in a violent civil war. He recognized his own personal weaknesses,
some of which were not perfect for overseas ministry (weak stomach). He considered all the work he could do—around
the farm or at his office—that he could get done during these ten days. He imagined all the bad things that could
happen to his life, to his career, if things went wrong. He even chose I Corinthians 2:2 as his verse
for the trip, focusing on the “For I determined not to know anything among you”
part. He knew he wasn’t truly equipped
for this trip. And he turned
ever-greener.
As the caring
college student I was, I thought most of this was pretty funny. I had thought about the trip for a whopping
thirty seconds, so I felt like I had a pretty good handle on the
situation. At least I had a good enough
handle on it to offer a bit of humor.
I said, “Dad,
you’re looking a little sick. Shouldn’t
you get Montezuma’s revenge after you
eat the food?”
He looked up at me
with the “get-away-from-me-or-I’ll-throw-this-recliner-at-you” look on his
face. I smiled internally.
I continued. “No, really don’t you want to go?”
He answered. “Not really.
No.”
I was a little
surprised. Most of the time, Dad’s
pretty enthusiastic about his ideas. If
he’s come up with it, he’s also discovered the reasons to get excited, or at
least motivated, to do it.
My next question
was pretty bold. “Then why are you doing
it?”
I was still at that
stage in life where I thought that people didn’t do anything they didn’t truly want to do. (My interaction with the federal tax code
that summer would change my thinking somewhat, but that’s another issue). Dad had volunteered for this, hadn’t he? He had prepared; he was equipped. Why dread it now?
He answered. “You’ll never mature if you don’t do things
that make you sick.”
Even now, his
answer is a little odd. I’ve grown up in
a society that encourages the avoidance of discomfort and the rejection of pain
altogether. Hard times—even in Christian
circles—are seen as the result of bad decisions or loose morals. Too hot?
Turn on the air conditioning.
Relationship gone bad? Find
someone new! Get too fat and your pants
don’t fit? Don’t lose weight—buy new
pants! I was swimming gleefully in those philosophical waters.
I thought about it
for a while, and I’ve come to the conclusion that Dad was following in the
footsteps of some pretty significant men of God who didn’t want to do what God
had asked them to do. Who were
afraid. Who turned green at the thought
of the upcoming tasks, ticking off the list of things that could go wrong. Men like Moses and Abraham, David and Elijah,
Peter and Paul. These guys, and a bunch
of guys like them, had moments in the reclining chair, thinking. They had sleepless nights. They had swirling visions of utter
calamity. (Quite often, they also had a
smart-alec beside them asking stupid questions).
These guys weren’t
imbeciles out for a quick thrill or a thoughtless adventure. These were men who planned and worked and led
other leaders. They weren’t without
talent or brilliance or ability. Yet they
were asked to do things that made them nervous or scared or sick.
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