Since birth, I ate, drank, slept, and absorbed evangelism in all my pores. I watched my parents and other missionaries plant churches in Africa. I read missionary biographies including the exploits of the Apostle Paul, and I tried to obey the Great Commission and share my faith with every stranger on my path. Though my heart was in the right place, however, my actions were paste jewelry.
Along with the injunction to share the Good News, I collected some lies. All these years, I’ve carried around a deflated, stretched-out balloon. The Lord offers me a colorful hot air balloon instead, but when I climb in, I can’t seem to let go of that useless piece of latex. I need to go back to where it first inflated.
I dedicated my life to missionary service in Grade 6, so when someone asked, “What if God called you to stay in the States,” I emphatically replied, “He wouldn’t!” It’s a little ironic how many times people have declared, “I’ll go anywhere, Lord, except . . .,” and usually they fill in the blank with “Africa.” Yet I could not face my own “What if” and fill in “America.”
And so, Lord, I hand you my pride and arrogance. That little balloon, held at arm’s length in my sixth-grade hand, stood for the call to evangelism, to missionary service. I should have placed that balloon in my heart and sought HIM instead, where He could fill it with His Spirit.
I drop that melted balloon in the trash and soar with God, wherever His Spirit takes me. There’s no climbing out of this craft. I’m here now, and here’s where I plan to stay, and unless we land somewhere else, it’s safest in the center of the basket.
A 2022 Update. God is not limited by the choices we make, our deflated dreams, or even our emotion-laden vows. From my more mature perspective today high in the air, I can see the route He took to bring me to the fulfillment of His dreams for me, and I am at peace.