Saturday, August 4, 2012


Three years ago I heeded the call to "Go" and traveled to the Philippines to meet and work with the girls at My Refuge House who were rescued from the sex trade/slavery. You can read that story here. It was my first mission trip and the first time I returned to my birthplace after 40 years. It was an experience that impacted my heart, shattered my soul, and altered my mindset. I was forever changed. The faces of those girls continued to burn in my memory and I remember promising them I'd return soon. Since then several girls have been blessed by the restoration and rehabilitation provided at My Refuge House. Every year I tell myself to organize plans for my return. But three years have passed and I haven't stepped foot outside of America. I continue my volunteering efforts with My Refuge House whenever I'm needed but can't help thinking it's not enough. 

Lately, I've been willing myself to hear the word "Go" again. I sit in solitude pleading with God to send me now, somehow, someway. In my arrogance I negotiate and barter trying to convince him those girls need people like me to help. Frustrated and discouraged I secretly sulked like a spoiled rotten child. But this week the Author of my story opened my blind eyes to the reason why I wasn't being sent outside of my country. I was already laboring on the mission field God prepared for me. 


I chafed at being stretched too thin and pulled in a million directions by my kids, grandchild, sister, boyfriend, parents, extended family, etc. I RAILED at not having enough alone time and having to make myself present for them. But I realized I had to readjust the lenses of my vision and tweak the way I viewed my circumstances. Instead of looking at my home life as one holding me back from my mission I forced myself to clearly see that I AM fulfilling my mission. 

My daughter, Chloe, has a continuous love/hate affair with stairs and last week it almost crippled her. She strained her achilles tendon while stepping on an uneven bottom step and had to use crutches. My granddaughter, who was overly concerned the night she came home with them, cautiously helped her mommy up the stairs to her room. 

The following night we went to Disneyland and guess who pushed the wheelchair with both of them on it? I laughed at myself. If it's not a stroller, it's a wheelchair. As I huffed and puffed around Disney's California Adventure I knew I had to take care of my people at home before I would hear the word "Go" again. If I'm blind to my family's needs how could I be entrusted with the needs of those at My Refuge House? Until that time arrives I'll continue to plow and harvest the mission field I'm assigned to with a grateful and humble heart.