267: Missionary Letters

My friend Alan and I have had a two-decade long conversation on the topic of missionary letters, as he is a writer of them, and I am a receiver of them. Missionary letters have long irritated me with their vague spiritual-jargon.

Dear Partners in Prayer,
God is teaching me many things through the challenges He sends my way. I praise Him for His faithfulness in helping me overcome the obstacles. We continue to work hard in the field for the harvest, and are making progress in the village of SanTaoGoWanIski, and covet your prayers . . .

et cetera, so on and so forth, ad nauseum, ad infinitum.

I would much prefer one that was more brutally honest, and less vague:

Dear Person-I-Would-Like-to-Have-Send-Me-Money/Continue-To-Receive-Money-From;
I wish I understood how cleaning toilets every morning with a toothbrush meshed with the ministry I thought I was coming out here to do. I try not to have a sullen attitude while I’m doing it, but some days, it’s just too much. The village of SanTaoGoWanIski is full of people who were happy with their lives before we got here, and who, though they are charmed by the puppet shows and awed by the movies we show on a large sheet in the jungle over the roar of the generator, only answer the altar call out of politeness.

Something like that.

A young woman of my acquaintance (the youngest of the Clan de Baldwini, about whom much has been written on the 52) wrote this on Facebook about her mission trip to Mexico. It’s not as bleak as my version, but I think it’s on the right track. (Not that I think missionary letters need to be bleak, just that this one has that ring of honesty to it that I so desire and admire in a missionary letter).

Mara was chased by a chicken, sunburned within an inch of her life, had her world view changed, thought she was going to die, saw a roaming ostrich, rode in the back of an open truck, threw trash into a cess pool, cried, laughed, slept. All in all a fantastic mission trip. Thanks to everyone who prayed for me! (And that chicken was going for blood, so I’m lucky I’m alive).

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