I think in some ways that it is easier to be a missionary than a missionary's parents. Sure, the missionary has to deal with a new language, new culture, new illnesses, new obstacles, etc. But the parent often deals with all these things vicariously but with the added difficulty of the unknown.
People have even asked my own mother on numerous occasions, how do you cope with the worry of having your son, daughter-in-law, and grandchildren in such a far away place as Mongolia? By God's grace, my mother has always been able to respond that God has given her a peace that passes all understanding as she has simply given her children and grandchildren into our Lord's keeping.
Take as an example the recent protests about the elections in Mongolia that grew into riots. While we were cautious and felt reasonably safe, our parents did not know exactly what was occurring. When they saw the pictures on the news of bloodied protesters and heard about the state of emergency that had been declared, they could not really know what it all meant. Were foreigners being targeted for violence? Were their children and grandchildren safe or in danger? Did the state of emergency hinder the ministry or not?
Or take another example: the parents of a missionary hear that a grandson or granddaughter is sick. How sick is sick? Will the doctors be able to accurately diagnose the disease? Will treatment in Mongolia be adequate or will the grandchild need to leave the country to seek treatment? Missionary children have been taken out of the country on emergency medical flights on more than one occasion, and at least one missionary child has died on the flight that was taking him from the country. The missionary has the work and urgency of finding his child medical treatment to keep him occupied. The grandparent has nothing they can do to assist.
Or perhaps the parent senses discouragement or spiritual depression in a phone call or e-mail. How can they help? What is their son or daughter going through that is dismaying them? And even if the parent hears about the particular situation, can they truly comprehend the problem? After all, they may have never been to the country or only visited briefly.
The distress is compounded by the distance involved. It is not as if the parent can drive over to provide help or even schedule a flight to visit. Once while we were on deputation, Kristie was plagued with an illness during one of our trips to the Midwest. God had provided a house for us to live in, and we felt comfortable there. Still, Kristie's mother was able to fly out and spend a week with us which freed me up to continue my schedule of meetings and encouraged Kristie. It also put her mother's heart at rest to know exactly how her daughter was doing and be able to contribute to her comfort. But how does one do that when a flight to the far corners of the globe may cost a month's salary? The chances of someone flying out to Mongolia on a cheap ticket that they found at priceline.com - very small.
I know from experience that it is harder for our parents to watch us leave for Mongolia than it is for us to go. After all, we are returning to our home in Mongolia, to friends that eagerly await our return. At our journey's end lies a return to our ministry. Our parents are just losing part of their hearts. When they return from the airport to their home, there are no friends eagerly waiting, no new ministry to keep them occupied.
A story about our first departure for Mongolia many years ago illustrates well what I am trying to say. We were gathered with our families at the airport. My parents were there, my wife's parents, and the parents of a young lady who was to assist us in Mongolia for some months was with us. We were gathered before the lines that led to the security checks. It was literally one week after the attacks of September 11, 2001 and no one besides ticketed passengers was allowed to travel beyond that point. Because the lines were long and security was tight, we knew that we needed to be moving on. We found an open spot and the four families gathered around into a tight circle. The little, closed ring seemed to shut out everyone else; it was as if we were in our own little cocoon separated from the bustle of passengers that swept by us like a river.
It was a good thing because there was much emotion in that small group. For all three families, it was their first experience at allowing their son, daughters, and grandchildren to leave for a foreign country for months. The recent destruction of the World Trade Center in New York emphasized the truth that there were people in the world who wanted to kill Americans. And here we were leaving the certainty of living within the world we knew to depart to a country that most of us in the group had never visited.
As we stood there, I knew that someone needed to pray. I was distracted by my own children and the nervousness of flying internationally with my family. I was double-checking tickets and passports (for the fourth or fifth time since our arrival), saying my goodbyes, and keeping an eye on my young children. It became apparent that no one wanted to be the one to admit that we needed to move on. It was as if we had circled the wagons and to break the circle would be to risk being lost in the blizzard of the unknown or to invite attack. The circle was a warm, comfortable sense of belonging and unity that we might not experience again for a long time. But I knew that someone had to do the obvious and suggest prayer for our trip. Because my wife's father is a pastor, I thought it would be fitting for him to pray. After all, every preacher is always to be ready to preach, pray, or die; and I had never known my father-in-law to not be prepared to pray.
So getting everyone's attention which was not hard in the tight gathering, I said something to the effect that we needed to be moving through security and that the time had come to pray. I asked my pastor to pray and bowed my head. The little group grew quickly quiet. I waited expecting at any moment to hear the confident voice of my spiritual mentor approaching the throne of grace on our behalf. But all was silent. After perhaps thirty or forty seconds, I opened my eyes and lifted my head to see if he was about to pray. All heads were bowed in reverence, and I could not see my father-in-law's face. I waited for what seemed like minutes and then finally realized: he was too choked-up to pray. His only daughter and more than half of his grandchildren were launching into the great unknown at just the time when the only certainty seemed to be that the course of U.S. history was changing. I am certain that he wanted to pray but could not find his voice. I was on the verge of tears myself and was not sure if I could find the words but somehow finished the prayer.
My experience that day was later confirmed with other missionaries. It was harder for the missionary's parents to watch them leave than it was for the missionary's to launch out. "O launch out into the deep; oh let the shoreline go" are the words to an old missions song. But what about those God has called to stay on the shoreline serving Him in their own land? For the missionary, leaving for the mission field is often the culmination of years of labor, the goal for which he has been aiming for perhaps much of a career. For the father and mother, it is the loss of a beloved child. The missionary is leaving for a place that while unknown is the geographical center of God's will for him. The parents go back to empty holidays: Christmas and birthdays that once meant family gatherings now mean an empty spot. The missionary is eager to explore his new home and establish a new ministry. The parents wonder when they will see their children and grandchildren again.
So I ask you again: have you ever prayed for a missionary's parents? Have you ever considered as you pray for a sick or discouraged missionary, that behind most struggling missionaries is a worried mother or father who may not even know what is going on?
The next time that a missionary is brought to your attention -- weak with disease, frightened by persecution, troubled by finances, dismayed with ministry -- stop to pray for his parents also. They may be suffering silently even more than the missionary.
We had enjoyed our (very) brief time at camp with our neighbors and used the opportunities we had to witness. Our Sunday responsibilities took us away sooner than we would have liked. On Saturday morning, they slaughtered a sheep for us. Although I had seen the process before Kristie never had. They cooked the entrails first and just before we left we ate a true Mongolian delicacy: sheep entrails. That's a bowl of it fresh on the left in the picture. We tasted liver, heart, intestine, etc. but did not eat the stomach.
