Category: Living Like a Missionary Page 3 of 4

Brokenhearted Joy

On November 26, 2020

In Living Like a Missionary, Re-Entry to America

Johnny’s pretty confused, I think. He brought home all of his Thanksgiving paraphernalia from third grade–the placemat, the turkey hat, the turkey cookie. A worksheet asked, What is your favorite Thanksgiving food? “Pizza” was Johnny’s response.

We celebrated Thanksgiving in Tanzania, of course. But it was never on a Thursday and there were no fall leaves or parades on television or feasts at school. Thanksgiving was just a normal school day and our mission team would celebrate it on Saturday or Sunday. We would eat traditional Thanksgiving foods, but I don’t know if Johnny picked up on that. After all, we met monthly with our mission team, so eating chicken and mashed potatoes in November probably didn’t stand out to him.

For several years, our team chipped in to buy a turkey, which cost over $100. We eventually gave up and in recent years, roasted a bunch of chickens instead. I would dutifully buy a giant Tanzanian pumpkin which had to be hacked open with a machete. Cooking down the pumpkin and making the crust from scratch was an all-day affair.

This year, my eyes bugged out of my face when I saw turkeys on sale for $7.00. I resisted the temptation to announce it to the strangers around me, Did you see these turkey prices? This is incredible! I had to remind myself that this is normal for everyone, and I am working hard to avoid being weird. I am not hosting Thanksgiving this year so I didn’t need to buy a turkey, but I bought one anyway, just because I could.

I Am Guilty of Cancel Culture

By Amy Medina

On November 19, 2020

In How Americans Think, Living Like a Missionary

Here’s an interesting question: If it were possible, would you choose to have your political party to be the political party? Like, the majority in every state, in every election, for every candidate?

Or how about this one: If it were possible, would you want every church to be a part of your denomination? So that every Christian ascribed to your doctrinal statement, worshipped like you do, had a building like yours?

There was a time when I would have enthusiastically answered Yes! My political position was the best for society. My denominational beliefs were the closest to Scripture. So for the good of all mankind, it would just make sense if everyone believed the same things as me. It might just usher in some kind of utopia.

In fact, I was so convinced of my rightness that I really wasn’t interested in hearing dissenting opinions. Reading something that opposed what I believed got me agitated, and, I would discover, even a bit hostile. It was easier to just shut those voices out of my life. I would take those blogs out of my feed. I would unfollow those people on Facebook. I would only read books that I knew I would agree with. I would avoid certain topics of discussion with certain people.

I was, essentially, canceling them.

Cancel culture is defined as “a modern form of ostracism in which someone is thrust out of social or professional circles – either online on social media, in the real world, or both.” Since Christians and conservatives are often the ones who are canceled by the media and universities, we often feel the brunt of this blacklisting. But what I hadn’t considered is that I was guilty of doing the same thing.

Ideas Are Always More Important Than Battles

By Amy Medina

On October 22, 2020

In How Americans Think, Living Like a Missionary, Race and Diversity

In 1865, soon after Lincoln’s assasination, anti-slavery Senator Charles Sumner wrote, “Ideas are always more important than battles.” The context was Lincoln’s Gettysburg address, which is now known as one of the most famous speeches of all time.

Sumner said this:
“That speech, uttered at the field of Gettysburg…and now sanctified by the martyrdom of its author, is a monumental act. In the modesty of his nature he said ‘the world will little note, nor long remember what we say here; but it can never forget what they did here.’ He was mistaken. The world at once noted what he said, and will never cease to remember it. The battle itself was less important than the speech. Ideas are always more important than battles.”

This election feels like a battle. Both sides seek to kill and destroy. Friendships broken, people leaving churches, harsh words posted online that would never be spoken in person.

I keep hearing the cry of, “But lives are at stake!” Ironically, both sides say this. Unfortunately neither side’s platform encompasses all the lives Christians should care about. Unborn lives. Black lives. Refugee lives. There’s also the environment, which Christians are commanded to steward well. Or the issue of poverty, where each side sees a different strategy (wealth redistribution or creation?). I see Christians drawing the line in the sand, hurling vicious accusations against the other, both sides decrying the other for being immoral, unChristian, uncaring. We are being forced to take a side, and in doing so, fracturing our values and our souls.

We are faced with impossible choices in this election. No matter who wins, Christians lose something that should be important to them. No matter who wins, we will still have work to do.

I Get to Vote, but This Still Is Not My Country

By Amy Medina

On October 19, 2020

In How Americans Think, Living Like a Missionary

I lived as a foreigner through several election cycles in Tanzania. As a foreigner, that meant I had an opinion about elections, but I didn’t expect it to matter very much. I listened to Tanzanian friends give me their view on the candidates, but I stayed relatively objective. My goal was to understand their thoughts because I wanted to understand their hearts. I was there to reach people with the gospel, not get mired down in political arguments. My purpose there was to love all Tanzanians, not take sides.

Not Home Yet

By Amy Medina

On October 5, 2020

In Living Like a Missionary

There were several years of my life when I daydreamed about being evacuated.

Those first few years in Tanzania, a lot of the time, I wasn’t content. Everything felt different and strange and hard. Driving was terrifying. I had to re-learn how to cook, how to shop, how to speak. We went through several years of electricity rationing. I dreadfully missed the people I loved. I enviously watched friends’ pictures on Facebook of crisp autumns and pumpkin patches and chilly Christmases. I followed birthday pictures of my nieces and nephews, watching them grow up without me there. I acutely felt the ache of what I had left behind, especially since I often felt incompetent or out of place or like a failure.

Yet I knew I was supposed to be in Tanzania. Our ministry was a perfect fit and we were filling a need, and it was incredibly fulfilling. I didn’t have a good reason to leave. Throwing in the towel would have made me feel like a quitter, even more of a failure than I already was. So I daydreamed about being evacuated. It would be perfect: Some sort of civil unrest or world emergency (not a personal emergency, of course, that wouldn’t be good) would force us to leave against our will. It sounded like a rather noble and heroic way to get to go home.

Yes, I realize how stupid and selfish that sounds. And ironic, of course, since in the end, a mandated evacuation was how we left Tanzania. It felt shameful, not at all noble or heroic. But that’s also because around year six or seven, Tanzania became home. It became a place I never wanted to leave. Tanzania was where I was comfortable and known and where I belonged; America was not.

But obviously, the concept of home remained complicated for me. I spent my first few years in Tanzania longing for home, and the last few years dreading when I would have to return home. So leaving early was traumatic, not a relief.

In June, I laughed in bitter irony when the door slammed shut for us buying a house. I had lived a nomadic life for so long, living in a place that was not my own. Foreigners can’t buy property in Tanzania, so that had never been an option for us. I wanted to put down roots, to belong somewhere. So a year ago, when we knew we would be leaving Tanzania, buying a house was my new daydream. Finally, we would have a place to call home. That restlessness that had been a part of most of my life would be put to rest. Buying a house meant more to me than just a nice place to live; it represented stability and permanence and a place to call Home.

As soon as we knew it wasn’t going to happen this year, I immediately understood the lesson God had for me in the rejection. I knew exactly what he wanted me to learn; I just didn’t want to learn it. After all, he had been teaching it to me over the course of my entire life of living as a foreigner. I am not supposed to feel at home here, on this earth, in any country. That longing for home that I’ve never been able to shake is because I was not meant for this world.

And though we are still hoping to buy a house in the next year or so, I’m really thankful that God gave me this reminder (again!). Owning a house will be nice, and financially wise, but may I be sure to never attach my heart to it as Home.

During the past several months, as I debated whether to continue blogging in this new season of my life, I realized that this outworking of “Home” while living in the country of my birth was something that I needed to continue to write about. The lessons I learned overseas as a foreign missionary can and should be applied to my life in America. And perhaps, there are others who can benefit from my wrestling.

So I hope you will join me. I plan to continue to write about missions, adoption, and memories from Tanzania, but most importantly, how the first half of my life as a foreigner is now influencing the second half of my life as an American.

The best way to follow along is to either sign up to receive posts by email, or to use Feedly or another type of content organizer. I love followers on social media, but it’s not always a consistent way to see what I’ve written.

You always have permission to share links to my posts, so don’t feel like you need to ask. And I welcome your thoughts, either by email or comments. Thank you so much to those of you who faithfully followed Everyone Needs a Little Grace in Their Lives. Welcome to Part 2!