Struck down but not destroyed

I used to be a missionary. It feels like a million years ago, it also feels some days like it never even happened. It also feels in a rare occasion like I’m still in it, if I let my mind open the steel vault of memories it all comes rushing out with an intensity so overwhelming I have to slam it shut again for fear of completely losing control.

The hardest part of leaving missions is finally having the courage to honestly ask myself if I did more damage than good. If being a part of the monster made me a monster too.

I left a decade of ministry questioning everything I thought I knew about missions. I got to see the beast from the inside. The greed, the abuse of power, the pride and hierarchy. The way people were valued differently dependant on where they came from, who they were married to, and how much money was in their back pocket.

I see now that my spirit had been completely crushed, my joy all but extinguish before I left. The only thing that kept me going the last two years were the children I had grown to love so dearly and the worth while work I was doing in housing. 



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