Reflections from a visit to our missions’ old headquarters in Fall of 2008
I walk into the bare apartment and it all comes back to me, rushes at me like a gust of wind in my face. I spiral back 26 years and am that girl again, the terrified and excited coed, the child of privilege walking into the missions house and wondering, “What in the world am I doing here?”
Here is suburbia in northern Chicago. I remember the way I looked at the house—a pale green wooden two-story structure, so perfectly middle class, so assuredly not my Atlanta neighborhood or my college campus.
If I had walked onto another college campus, I would have known how to act. But here was a place I did not know, a place I felt called to—whatever that meant—a place where God seemed to have reached down and picked me up and transported me to, all in a dizzying breath. Here. Missions 101.
I was in class, after all. I was in a wonderful world of new things and learning.
How I learned!
And I remember him. My first glance as he stood there in his doorway, bare-chested and in cut-off jeans took my breath away. Surely this was not part of the plan. Not him!
I recall as if it were just a few minutes ago how all of the wonderfully spiritual thoughts and intentions flew right out of my brain and landed somewhere halfway around the block and there I was—love at first sight. What did I do with this?
Everything I am remembering is familiar and so strange, one long lesson after another.
This apartment is perfectly clean, decorated with comfortable furniture, stocked with everything we need, but bare—bare of living. I recall how quickly we filled up that other house, the house of 26 years ago, the house of our learning to be teammates. We stocked it with groceries, and we tentatively spoke to each other—the young couple with the baby, the Jamaican girl with the boisterous laugh, the teenager with the northeastern accent and the big smile, the young woman from Quebec who did not speak English and spoke a brand of French that I had never studied in my eight years of language schooling. And the young man. The him. The one who was making it oh, so difficult to concentrate on all the other new people and new things I was supposed to be learning.
And now it is 26 years later and he is still here, beside me, and I am in awe. We got our beginnings in this place, this mission, this little haven of middle-class suburbia where young eager Christians were given a chance to spread wings and fly off to the far places for God.
Earlier today we stopped in a little town 50 miles north of Chicago to visit a couple who had been instrumental in our lives during that transitional year in Chicago. Now they are older, and he is suffering from Parkinson’s; he is feeble and unsteady, physically weak, his voice tired, but as sharp as ever in mental acuity. We share a meal, we share stories of the past, we remember. As we talk, I think of the joyful sacrifices that so many on the staff with our mission have made throughout the years to keep us on the field. We have learned so much from those who are older and wiser. Our heroes.
We cannot stay long—we have miles to go, and he is tired. As we say goodbye, they seem so grateful and surprised that we would go out of our way to visit them for a short hour.
And I marvel. We tell them how good it is to be with them and we are telling 100% the truth. I want to reach out and say, “Visiting you was not going out of our way. Visiting you was just another stop on our way, right along the road to Zion, toward our Master. It is a delightful side trip into yet another of God’s good gifts: friendship preserved, a chance to whisper ‘thanks’ to one of our heroes, and a hint of what will come to us one day, too.”
We leave them, and I burst into tears. I cannot hold them back. The hurting is so real, so deep. In this life of missions that began in that pale green house 26 years ago, we have said way too many goodbyes. And after a long while, it became easier. The tears did not flow so freely. We hardened that weak muscle enough to survive all the transitions. But every once in a while the tears come in a flood, a heaving flood of ache which he understands. We understand. We reach across the seat of the car and grasp hands.
We reach across the memories and years and miles and grasp eternity. And whisper a humble ‘thanks’ for the way Our God has brought us this far.
How are you “going out of your way” during this time of confinement and gradual reopening of life?
ELIZABETH MUSSER writes ‘entertainment with a soul’ from her writing chalet—tool shed—outside Lyon, France. Find more about Elizabeth’s novels at www.elizabethmusser.com and on Facebook, Instagram, Twitter, and her blog.
Elizabeth Musser 
Hi, Elizabeth! Those pictures are priceless! For a moment, I thought I was looking at a grainy picture of one of your sons, they are so like Paul. And it caught my breath to see your mom’s sweet smile in that younger picture of you. Thank you for sharing that beautiful memory of your heroes in the faith!
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OH Elizabeth, What a beautiful memory. We were asked recently here at our retirement facility, who was a hero in our life. I thought of my Mom and Bob of a dear judge mentor but there are so many, those who have gone before and gone on. Thank you for sharing this. Your life is such an inspiration to others – a heroine to them as well. With blessings,
Harriet Muir
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