How it Began

As some of you know, I had the opportunity to go to Mongolia with a mission team in August of 2004. Never in my wildest imagination as an adult, did I think I'd end up on the other side of the world some day, but God had other ideas. Thinking back, I know He had it planned for a very long time.

When I was about twelve years old, at a church service where a foreign missionary spoke about missions and the need for people to go and serve, I felt in my childish heart that God was calling me to be a missionary. I think most young Christian children experience that at some time. In addition, I knew even then that I wanted to be a part of the medical field when I grew up, so it was natural that I'd see myself as a medical missionary.

So, at the altar call at the end of the service, I walked to the front and told the pastor that I wanted to commit myself to be a medical missionary. That pastor had known me and my family all my life, and being the intuitive and experienced man that he was, he very gravely and kindly accepted my "commitment" and suggested that I pray about it a lot, and in the meantime, do my best in school and get the necessary education.

Time and circumstance (and a handsome young man) intervened, and I found myself married, with children coming along at intervals, and not only was I not a missionary, I wasn't even in the medical field! I don't think I ever really forgot the missionary idea, though it definitely was buried deeply in my mind. I'm quite sure I didn't forget the medical part, because at the age of 37, with some trepidation, I enrolled in nursing school, and at age 40, I was a registered nurse, working at our local hospital.

Fast-forward to 2004, and I'm a 64 year old widow, still working at the same hospital, and quite content just doing my job. Picture another church service, with another foreign missionary speaking, telling of the need for help where he lives and works - in Mongolia, of all places. I felt the old stirring in my heart, but thinking of my family, my job, my home and all the many obligations in my life, I knew I would never just sell out and move to the other side of the world.

Wait! What was that? He said, "We need people who will come and spend just a couple of weeks with us, helping us meet the needs of the children in our care, and those of the nomads out in the countryside."

Just a couple of weeks?? I'm listening very intently now.

"We need men who can do construction."

Well, that leaves me out. I'd only be in the way.

"We need women who can cook and sew, to teach our local women how to prepare nutritious meals from the food we're growing, and how to make clothes for the children."

Well, I like to cook, and I can sew a little. Oh, but anyone can do that, probably better than I can. They don't really need me.

Then he said the magic words. "We need people with a medical background, doctors and nurses, to staff the remote clinics for the nomads out in the countryside."

Oh, my! Now he definitely had my attention, and at the end of the service, I found myself once more walking down a church aisle. The amazing thing is, I didn't "get" the connection at that time. It was not until I was sitting astride a bench, beneath a tent on the banks of a river in Mongolia, taking blood pressures and interviewing an endless line of nomadic folk, that it hit me. I was on a mission trip, and I was doing medical work. I was a medical missionary!

The lesson in all of this, for me, is simple. God's plans for us aren't always what we imagine them to be. When I was twelve, I pictured myself in deepest, darkest Africa, fighting bugs and malaria, and helping leprous, starving people. Fascinating, but that wasn't His plan. No, His plan for me wasn't that dramatic. He planned for me to be on that bench, beside that river, doing a simple job, and nothing more. All He asked of me was that I be willing, and I suppose I had been willing all my life. I know for a fact that God engineered my entry into nursing school, but that's another story. I know now that He was preparing me for Mongolia, among other things. Anyway, it was just a matter of my willingness and preparation meeting the proper circumstances, and that's what happened on that Sunday when the missionary to Mongolia spoke at my church.

So, that's how the Mongolia missions began. In later posts, I'll share installments from the journals I kept on those two trips. If I can figure out how to do it, I'll include some pictures. Mongolia is a starkly beautiful, strange land, and I want very much to return. Perhaps one day I will.