Some days I hate my life.
Africa life is not all it’s cracked up to be.
Sometimes I don’t want to hop out of bed and embrace the day.
The language barrier is freaking hard.
Being hit on by grown men just because I’m white gets obnoxious.
Bucket showers get old.
Walking miles and miles to get to a house that doesn’t even want to hear the name of Jesus is exhausting.
Washing all my clothes by hand makes me want to get on the first plane back to America and push “start” on my washing machine.
Putting on a skirt every single morning makes me miss my skinnies and converse.
Getting internet once a week at a cafe makes me miss constant wifi.
Carbs for every meal makes me want a huge fresh salad from Jason’s deli.
Sitting through 4 hour church services not having a clue what’s going on makes me want to get back home and go to a service that is no longer than 1 hour.
Throwing up outback because my stomach can’t handle it makes me want to curl in a cozy bed at home.
Seeing people dying of AIDS on a daily basis makes me weep.
Picking up infants on the side of the road makes me want to pack them all up on a plane and rescue them from this god forsaken place.
The teenage girl with a baby strapped to her back from the random man who seduced her for a night makes a righteous anger rise within me.
Hearing lies from the king saying that if you have sex with a virgin your AIDS will go away makes me want to scream from rooftops.
I find myself wanting to hop back on a plane just so I won’t have to see all of this…
I easily want to forget the crazy life He has called me to.
Being a “Missionary” isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.
It’s easy to think that some people were created from birth to be called overseas…
Hell no.
There is no such thing as a cookie cutter missionary.
Missionary life (whatever that even means) is freaking hard.
Borderline insane.
I could go on and on.
It’s easy to sit at the local Starbucks and read “Radical” and want to do something…
but once you get to wherever that may be…
It’s freaking hard.
Part of me wishes someone else would’ve been called to such a life.
Part of me wishes I could live the typical American dream and be satisfied with it.
But, it’s not true.
That’s not for me.
This is the life I’m called to.
It’s freaking hard…
but so worth it.
Every single day I have to choose to forget my flesh and listen to my spirit.
My flesh says I’m an idiot for choosing such a life.
My spirit says I’ve never been so alive.
Because of this,
I submit my flesh to the Lord.
I beg Him to tame me…
Give me strength when I see death everywhere I look.
Give me JOY as I walk for hours and wash my clothes in a bucket.
Give me patience when people don’t want to hear the name of Jesus.
Give me grace when all I want to do is get angry.
Give me love for the snot nosed babies.
Give me peace when I weep myself to sleep for such a broken country.
Give me wisdom when I have no idea what to do.
Give me your love for this place when I just want to run away.
He is eager to answer my prayers…
He’s already answered a ton of them.
Clearly the missionary life isn’t pretty…
But it’s so worth it.
He calls the hot messes…
the broken.
He doesn’t need saints to change the world…
Just willing spirits.
Sometimes those willing spirits have to be whipped into shape…
but he’s got it covered.
Even when I don’t feel it,  He is good and uses me.