I barely knew any Spanish and hardly had any relationships. I was learning to navigate the city and the culture. There was more cement and more heat than I had ever experienced. I was a newbie to our mission organization and to our church.
Yet, there I stood with a stop sign in hand and a smile on my face. I surely looked out of place with my terrible accent and unsure direction. My four-year-old son accompanied me and stuck out with his light skin and red, sun-kissed cheeks. Yet, there he was, waving and hand-slapping folks as they came to the entrance of the church. I couldn’t teach a class with my Master’s of Divinity training. I couldn’t lead the youth with my experience as a youth pastor. I couldn’t even use a broom to sweep the entrance stairs, because I couldn’t understand the person telling me where to find it. But I could serve. I could smile. I could greet. I could make sure people got across the street without getting swiped by a bus.
At the mission compound, I hadn’t gotten fully onboarded or confidently in my role. We were “the new family.” But I could serve. I could open the security gate for cars to exit next to the playground, where my kids were acclimating to the heat and to our new surroundings. I could pick up trash that blew out of the street into the campus.