An American Child in a Foreign Field

photo credit: Robert Janz, Sr.

Lake Atitlan, Guatemala 1928

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On August 9th, young adults from Greenwich, CT visited Jan Hus church for Sunday service. Ordinarily, they would have gone to a Central American country but because of economic concerns, New York City was their "mission trip" destination instead. I was moved by the testimonials. Perky Elizabeth said she had been awed by the sheer number of the crowd in need at Times Square, 2:00a.m. I identified with Colin, clearly disturbed by his experiences and struggling to know if he were doing the right thing. I understood the shock and bewilderment. I grew up with missionaries. As a child, I saw the good they did and I observed the harm. I cringed at the hatefulness. The hardships they endured touched me. My Baptist friends took care of dentistry and digging wells; the Methodists taught reading and washing hands; the nuns were examples of piety and discipline; the beautiful people of the American Field Service brought me to vigils. All of them knew, "Jesus loves the little children, all the children of the world." The musical education was the best. I learned Leaning on the Everlasting Arms from Marcia, a Texan in Colombia; the prolific Charles Wesley was Marilyn's treat; the Scots Presbyterians "owned" the bagpipe version of Amazing Grace; and Sister Prisca, the Swedish nun in Panama, sweetly sang Dona Nobis Pacem. My brother cautioned me not to be condescending. "They don't want your pity. Who is to say candomble isn't every bit as powerful as what you have?" I smirked, the only believer in a family of non. Personally, I thought what I had was heaps better but still I knew voodoo worked. My folks were heathens which was a problem as they were highly amused and regularly so at my religious bent. My mother called me, "The Little Seeker looking for Somebody to thank." She often exclaimed, "You have the most interesting companions!" but I don't remember her giving them the time of day past a cheery diplomatic, "Hello! How are you??" She didn't like being preached at unless it was about the lilies of the field. She put my interests first, though, and doggedly took me every Sunday to early Mass despite her recurring migraines and tropical fevers. I sorted through the differing spiels. The Jehovah's Witnesses declared there was no Hell but everybody else knew very well there was and who was going there. The Mormons said there were 7 Heavens, whereas Mavis' brother (one of the kindest souls I met, later to die in Vietnam) stated emphatically there was only one and hardly anybody was going. My mother preferred Dante's Inferno to John's end of the world scenario. Like Colin, I often asked myself if I were doing the right thing. I prayed nightly for direction. Ultimately, I decided that it was not possible to know. What mattered was that the missionaries spread a message of choice to people who were unaware there was one, who were not acquainted with the Prince of Peace. ~~~~~~ ...may the blessings of the quest and trying your best be yours and may it find a rich harvest at your table...