Missionary

I am a missionary. Weak and broken, wounded and sinful, stressed and depressed, selfish and lonely. I am a missionary. Not heroic, not courageous, not selfless, not righteous, not faithful, not wise, not loving. I am a missionary. Clinging in desperation to the only truth that has ever been proven real, the only love that has never lied, the only King who became a servant, the only Father who trusted the untrustworthy... over and over and over... the only God who died for the love of us all. I am a missionary. Trusting that my darkness becomes light in His glory, my weakness clears the way for His strength, my sinfulness displays His grace and forgiveness, my fear is shown to be foolishness in His faithfulness, my brokenness opens channels for love to flow more freely from His heart, through me, to others... I am a missionary. With no remarkable talent, beauty, education, intuition, wisdom, or personality. Not worthy of praise, admiration, or imitation.

But then again... I'm not the point, am I?