For years I wanted to be a missionary. I was raised in the ’80s. We are the World was one of my favorite songs. Missions work seemed like the ultimate adventure, and still allowed me the opportunity to help others.
When I was first shamed, my pastor knew my desire. He told me several times that he didn’t want me at his church, so maybe I should just go be a missionary. Not knowing what was happening, I decided that missions work was out of the question for me, because I was so messed up I couldn’t even be a good saint, much less someone who could reach out and touch others.
For years after that, I hid the pieces of my dream. I built some other dreams, and tried to follow them instead. And I did. But I wasn’t satisfied.
Dreams mean a lot to people. If someone shares their dream with you, treasure it, protect it, and encourage it. Don’t kill it, crush it, or break it. Dreams are precious things, but they are fragile, after all.
No, I don’t see myself biking across China passing out bibles. But God has a purpose and it isn’t too late to find it. My childhood dream was glorious, but in reality it wasn’t so much about traveling the world as it was about helping others and doing something for God. Maybe its time to brush the dust off of my dreams, to polish them a bit and examine them in the light of experience. Maybe they weren’t so broken, after all. Even if they were, I think I know now Who can fix them.
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