Chapter Two: A Promise by Moonlight

     The Missionary's Daughter

I haven't sewed my children's clo'se

For days, the way I'd like to do;

I don't neglect 'em, goodness knows, 

'Cept when it's my duty to;

They're less important, anyhow,

'Cause I'm a missionary now.

My heathen doll's not half so dear

As all my Christian children there,

And that's what makes my duty clear

To always give him speshul care;

'Cause I have found it wrong to do

The things I'm always wanting to.

-Burges Johnson

     When I was about seventeen and on a trip to visit my parents in Honduras I stumbled across the poem "The Missionary's Daughter".  It was in a small frame on my Mother's shelf.  In the frame next to the poem there was a picture of a small girl in braids teaching a rag'a'muffin doll while her other dolls in pristine condition sat on the floor unused.  

     As I read the words my eyes filled with tears and all of the pent up emotions from my childhood flooded back to me in an uncontrollable tsunami of sorrow.  I read it over and over, amazed that I had never seen this before in my parents home.  Where did it come from and how was it written so perfectly for me?  It was as though the author stepped into my seven year old brain and stood by watching every feeling I struggled with as a child.  How did they know? And why of all places was it here in my parent's home in Honduras?! 

     Sitting on the concrete floor of my parent's living room with beads of sweat rolling down my low back from the tropical heat as the constant whir of the ceiling fan spun overhead I faded away into a distant memory.  A night I promised myself never to forget, but which had grown dim with the passing of time.  All at once spurred by the words of a timeless poem I was shot back into my seven year old self.

     It was late at night and all of the house was asleep.  As I lie in my bed tossing and turning I saw the moonlight shining brightly through a crack in the blinds of my window.  Wanting to see the moon in it's full glory I quietly tiptoed down the hallway and into our living room.  The carpet was being replaced (or maybe just cleaned) so the furniture was moved back into the dining room leaving the picture window completely open to view.  As I turned the corner from the hallway I saw the living room full of silver moonlight.  I walked up to the window staring out at the shimmering scene below.  Trees a perfect blackness framed by silver gilding were casting strange shadows on the crystal blue light that filtered through the yard.  Above me the sky seemed full to spilling over with the largest most beautifully white moon I had ever seen.  I was in complete awe at the wonder surrounding me.  In the perfect stillness I began to talk to God.  

     I say talk and not pray because my conversation with Him was not in the standard "Dear God" and "Amen" order.  It was literally a pouring out of my heart to Him.  I thanked Him for waking me to see the beauty of the night.  I told Him how I had been feeling very sad, that I missed my Mom and Dad because they were very busy helping other kids.  I told Him I knew they were doing an important work and I should not be upset but happy that other kids felt loved and cared for.  Then I asked Him if it were possible, could  He please make me poor and brown so that I could be held and cared for too?  I told Him I knew Mom and Dad loved me, but sometimes I just wanted them to hold me.  Then I did what as an adult I shamefully fail to do...I was quiet and waited for an answer.  I watched the shadows move slowly across the lawn as I felt the Lord comfort my heart.  Then I told Him I knew He was right, that my parents had work to do and I had to understand that even if it was hard sometimes.  I promised Him I would not leave Him and would serve Him always, and could He please give me one blessing?  Would He please bless me to never forget this night and to always find wonder and beauty in the small things He created?  Then, with my heart finally at rest, I looked one more time at the moonscape before me trying to burn it into my memory and quietly slipped to bed.

    Sitting in my parent's house as an adult I felt ashamed to broach the subject with my Mom, afraid she would look into my eyes and know what I was struggling through.  Afraid to make her feel even the slightest twinge of guilt over their decisions when we were young.  But my curiosity got the better of me and, when I felt I was sufficiently under control, I asked her about the poem and if I could take it home with me.

   "Take it home with you?  That's my favorite poem, I love it.  No you can't take it.", I looked in her eyes pleading for understanding, "Mom, this was written for me.  I was that little girl.".  My Father overhearing the exchange became upset, "No you can't take it.  Your Mother gives up everything for everyone all of the time.  This is something that is special to her and I am putting my foot down.  You can't expect her to give up everything you know.".  The whole while he spoke I maintained eye contact with my Mom, my eyes growing teary as I tried to hold back my tears.  I do not know exactly what my Mother saw in my eyes, I have never asked her.  But I know what she saw convinced her of my deep set need for validation.  To know that at some level she understood there was a piece of me in that work, even if it was something she might never fully know or understand.  As she watched me never breaking eye contact she said, "No honey, it's okay she can have it."  

     They say there are two sides to every coin and as humans we are rarely if ever able to fully see or comprehend the side opposite to us.  A missionary's work is necessary and important, but I find only the glory of it is ever spoken of.  There is a glorious side, one that made me into the woman I am today who does her best to be reliant on the Lord at every turn.  There is also a side of great sacrifice that cannot be ignored or imagined away.  It's a sacrifice that is unexpected and affects every member of the family.  Growth is not achieved without sacrifice and because of that I am thankful for the sacrifice my family has made.