The Lord said, “Whom shall I send to my harvest field?”
     We said, “We’ll go.”
We went. We’re here. We’re hurting.

What went wrong?
    Is this what it means to be a missionary?
Is this what it’s like to gather in the harvest?

The Mission wants to hear that we’re empowering the local church.
     The local church wants to hear how many dollars we bring.
Our sending church. What do they want?

Is a missionary letter a stockholder report?
     Should we hide the gory and only show the glory?
Instead of saving souls we’re serving on committees.
Instead of translating verses we’re fixing plumbing.

Above it all, God looks down and can’t be pleased.
     And our supporters would be disappointed if they knew.
And the local churches were hoping for something else.

You said, “Go.”
     We went.
We’re isolated.

From each other.
     From our families back home.
From the people we came to serve.
The language is impossible.
The culture is unsearchable.
The weather is unbearable.

We’re burned out. And tired. And in conflict.
We’ve been bitten by dogs and mosquitos and scorpions and snakes.
Children have been stricken.
Marriages have been wrecked.

I, Lord, have been spared.
    Why me when so many have left the field?
Or linger on in brokenness.

My wife and my children are whole and happy.
    Our marriage is heaven on earth.
But for how long?

When many stronger than I have fallen.

God, I cling to you.