The Missionary Goes Home

In honor of Joe Bagby, our preacher while we lived in Sweetwater, Texas, I am reprinting this story from my book Poems, Prayers and Peanut Butter. It was originally written for “Abe” Lincoln a preacher/missionary from Lubbock. But it applies to Joe as well. Keep Joe in your prayers, he has only a few weeks until he goes home.

     All things must come to an end. Athletes hang up their cleats for the last time. Seniors must graduate. Champions must take what they have learned and move on to other championships. Coaches move. Younger generations take over the older ones.
     There was a man who dedicated his life to the mission of Christ. He took seriously the Lord’s command “Go into all the world and preach the gospel to all creation.” (Mark 15:15) He moved his family to a continent far away from friends and family as they all committed themselves to a new life and a new love. The Thai people became the missionaries’ friends and family as they became brothers and sisters in Christ.
     This man and his family worked hard, toiled long and poured their bodies and souls into this new land and their mission. There were many disappointments, but greater was their joy as the gospel of Christ advanced into the hearts of the people.
     The church was planted.
     Rooted in the grace of God and grounded in the love that fellowship brings, the church grew. It was watered and nurtured by God himself and this missionary family. Soul after precious soul was baptized. Babes in Christ matured into workers in God’s kingdom. Men stepped into leadership roles and their faith deepened. Women learned the subtleties of being the strong undercurrent of nurturing and progressing the work of the men.
     Time was up.
     It was time for the missionary and his family to go home. It seemed so sudden even though they had all known from the beginning that this moment would have to come. Packing big memories into small boxes, the family prepared to leave.
     There was the plane.
     A final glance backward and they soared toward home.
     In an instant, Thailand and the life they had enjoyed for many years disappeared. Their hearts longed for all the people on either side of this gap–those in Thailand and those at home.
     At the gate, every face that the missionary family had almost forgotten was there to meet them. Every handshake, every hug was familiar and loved. It had been so long, but time seemed to melt.
     Sunday morning came.
     Thai people sat stunned as they tried to mourn and move ahead all at once. Their attempts seemed feeble and half-hearted. Where they had learned confidence and faith, there seemed to only be despair.
     Then one voice sang the familiar song–the first song they had learned together. Other voices, broken and tearful joined in. The song would have remained unfinished had they not joined hands and simultaneously stood with faces turned toward heaven. Strength filled their hearts as they realized they could carry on.
     The missionary had simply gone home.

     A small church in the States gained this missionary as their preacher. They loved his skill with the Word of God and drank from its milk whenever they were together. The preacher showed a compassion and love that was rarely seen among men. He could talk to anyone! In every conversation, he talked of Jesus….
     The church grew. Soul after precious soul was baptized. Babes in Christ matured into workers for the Lord. Men stepped up into leadership roles and their faith deepened. Women learned the subtleties of being the strong undercurrent of nurturing and progressing the work of the men.
     Time was up.
     It was time for the preacher to go home. It seemed so sudden even though they had known from the beginning that this moment would have to come.
     There was the end.
     A final glance backward and the preacher soared toward home.
     In an instant the world and the life he had enjoyed there for many years disappeared. His heart longed for all the people on either side of this gap–those in the world and those at home.
     At the gate, every face that the missionary had almost forgotten was there to meet him. Every handshake, every hug was familiar and loved. It had been so long, yet time seemed to melt.
     Sunday morning came.
     The little church sat stunned as they tried to mourn and move ahead all at once. Their attempts seemed feeble and half-hearted. Where once they had learned confidence and faith there seemed to be only despair.
     Then one voice sang the familiar song–the song they had sung so often together. Other voices joined in, broken and tearful. The song would have remained unfinished had they not joined hands in love and unity and stood simultaneously with faces turned toward heaven. Strength filled their hearts as they realized they could carry on.
    The missionary had simply gone home.

(C) 1999/2003 Elizabeth Jackson

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