Part 2, Missionaries: hairy, dirty people who live in huts, wear outdated clothes, and eat things no one in his right mind would eat

As for missionaries being hairy and dirty (continuing from last week), well, once in a while some of the men let their hair and beards grow—my husband included. I’d forgotten about that until I recently saw a photo of him proving it.

And dirty? At times some of them, out of necessity, couldn’t bathe for a couple of days.

Take, for example, the time my friends Dottie and Fran, working down in the jungle, had to flee for their lives when rifle-toting guerrillas threatened to kill them. (You can read about it in Chapter 39, “We’re coming back later and if you’re here, we’ll kill you,” in Please, God, Don’t Make Me Go: A Foot-Dragger’s Memoir.)

It took a couple of days for them to reach a safe place. First, they hitched a ride in a canoe full of pigs. Next, to find a way to continue up the river, they had no choice but to seek help from a drunk man.

Dottie and Fran spent the night in a storeroom. The place was dangerous, but they barred the door with heavy boards. They didn’t get much sleep that night.

The next morning, they flew to safety in Lomalinda, thanks to one of our brave and talented pilots, George DeVoucalla, who had spotted them along the river.

You’ll read more details about Dottie and Fran’s escape but here’s my point: The ladies might have been “dirty” when they landed in Lomalinda—wouldn’t you and I have needed a shower and change of clothes?

Routinely my missionary friends were bathed and well-groomed even when their clothing might not have been the latest style.

And then there’s the notion that missionaries eat things no one in his right mind would eat. That impression can be correct.

Even I—the coward, the one who resists adventure—ate some curious stuff: piraña (piranha), boa constrictor, caiman, dove, plátanos, ajiaco, and cinnamon rolls seasoned with dead weevils.

A friend offered me grubs, but I passed on them.

I drank chicha (wait until you find out what that is!), and tinto, and warm bottled sodas, sometimes with bugs inside. At times I gagged or nearly fainted, wondering what I’d gotten myself into. (You’ll find that in Chapter 42 of Please, God, Don’t Make Me Go: AFoot-Dragger’s Memoir.)

Now, looking back, I admit those were FUN experiences!

But back in the very beginning of this whole adventure,

when my husband surprised me with

his wish to move the family to South America

so he could teach missionaries’ kids,

 it seemed that

both God and my husband

wanted to make my life terrible.

I wish so much I’d realized the truth

of what Samantha Conners writes:

“God doesn’t call us to do things

in order to make our lives terrible.”

(from “5 Lies People Believe About Missionaries”)

It took me a few months in Lomalinda 

to figure out that living and working there 

would be far from terrible—

in fact, it would turn out to be a highlight of my life.

Looking back now, I can say from experience

that Jeremiah 29:11 is true:

“For I know the plans I have for you,”

declares the Lord,

“plans to prosper you and not harm you,

plans to give you hope and a future.”

Or, here’s the way The Message words that verse,

“I know what I’m doing.

I have it all planned out—plans to take care of you,

not abandon you. . . .”

And He did what He said. Oh, yes, He did!

Missionaries: hairy, dirty people who live in huts, wear outdated clothes, and eat things no one in his right mind would eat

What do you think of when you hear the word missionary?

“Twenty years ago,” writes Samantha Conners, “. . . in my mind, missionaries were hairy and dirty, wore clothes that were outdated and odd, ate things that made my stomach turn. . . .” (from “5 Lies People Believe About Missionaries”).

I, too, had a quirky view of missionaries. Never in a million years would I have guessed my husband would want to move our family to an outpost called Lomalinda (Spanish for “pretty hill”) and work among missionaries.

Back then, when I thought of missionaries, the first image that came to mind was that of a pudgy older woman with gray hair pulled up in a bun who told stories I couldn’t really grasp. Probably that was because I wasn’t interested in what missionaries had to say.

I figured they were just plain weird, and I didn’t like my husband’s idea. I mean, really—live in South America and hang out with weirdos??

I felt so different from missionaries—of course, I wasn’t a weirdo—and I just knew I wouldn’t fit in.

I wrote in my memoir:

“Missions work was too radical for the circles I ran in. Counter-cultural. Downright bizarre. My parents raised a non-daring, non-adventuresome girl—the wrong kind for the mission field. They prepared me to lead a conventional life and working in Lomalinda was the least traditional existence I could imagine” (from Chapter 1, Please, God, Don’t Make Me Go: A Foot-Dragger’s Memoir).

Also, Samantha points out many people suppose missionaries live in huts.

I was one of those people. Here’s another excerpt:

“What kind of house would we live in?” I asked [my husband]. I pictured a hut with a dirt floor. 

“I don’t know,” he admitted. 

“What if we had to build our own house? And with what? Bamboo and palm leaves? Besides,” I heard my voice getting shrieky, “we don’t even know how to build a house.” 

My mind went wild. “Would we have to grow our own vegetables and meat? What about eggs? And milk? The kids need milk, you know. Would we have to get a cow? I bet we wouldn’t even have electricity. And what about water? Would we have to haul our water?” (from Chapter 1, Please, God, Don’tMake Me Go: A Foot-Dragger’s Memoir).

Those were only two of the imaginings that worried me about moving to Lomalinda. The list went on and on.

For example, there was the notion that missionaries wear outdated clothes. I would learn that, yes, sometimes they did. But considering Lomalinda folks had no local clothing stores, and considering they returned to their home countries only every fifth year, it’s true that their wardrobes didn’t keep up with the latest trends.

But since we lived at the end of the road in the middle of nowhere, no one knew what the new fashions were anyway.

Come back next week and we’ll talk about whether missionaries are “hairy and dirty” and eat things no one in his right mind would eat. 

You’ll be surprised to learn what I—even I, 

the coward, the unadventurous—

ate and drank!

But in the beginning, when my husband first announced he wanted us to move to Lomalinda, I didn’t know all the good that awaited me there, and I rebelled.

I could do only one thing,

and that was to pray:

“Please, God, don’t make me go!”