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Collin is a warm-hearted student at a school in Virgina. He loves reaching out to people who need a friend, and God is taking him great places.

Three and a half years ago I met Jesus at a Chi Alpha retreat. Jesus spoke joy over my life and revealed himself to me in the way that only He can.

I became consumed by His passion for the lost, and during that first year Jesus told me where he wanted me to go. His summons came as a word and a map, but it was enough to get me excited for what He has in the future for me.

The only problem was I had no idea what the point of being a missionary was!

I had no contact with missionaries. I didn’t know what they did. Over the last three years I’ve picked up bits and pieces from trips I heard about where people went to South America and Africa, and I concluded that missions was mostly about rough living conditions – the kind where even the water is out to get you! It seemed like things happened so fast on the field that there was barely time to think, and it never occurred to me that a missionary might even have the option of having kids or settling down.

This year I visited Turkey, and on my second night there I was able to go out on the town and have an amazing meal with some students. I was able to share my heart with one of them, and I could feel how much Jesus loved him. As my head hit the pillow that night, my only prayer was to have the ability to more fully communicate the gospel with him the next day. But in the middle of the night it hit me – I was sick. Really sick. Apparently I’d gotten food poisoning, and the “events” of the night left my flat on my back with so little energy I could barely move. I was quarantined by my team to a missionary’s home for a day and a night so I could sleep, rest, and recover without getting anyone else sick – just in case it wasn’t food poisoning! What a bummer!

Why would God allow me to be sick, rather than protecting my health so I could be out sharing His love?

The missionary family welcomed me and gave me their children’s playroom to sleep in. As I arranged my things, I noticed a toy that looked familiar. It was a blue plane with a human face on it, and I remembered how I had the same plane as a child and thought it was really creepy. I also noticed some of the books the missionary kids had, like “Goodnight Moon,” and I remembered how my mother used to read it to me when I was a child.

I had always felt so safe in my mother’s arms, especially when she was reading, and I began to think that these kids must also feel the same way with their mother.

Suddenly, it became very real to me: a missionary’s life is more than an action flick or a fairy tale gone bad. The life of a missionary is – I strain to say it – normal: they go to work, they raise their kids, they have books and creepy airplanes. There is room for family, though there is no special way to protect their children from dangers that lurk around the corner – their lives are just as dangerous as any other. It is almost like missionaries just have a different job title.

In this children’s playroom I realized the possibilities and reality of the calling God had placed on my life. I felt so uniquely loved that He would choose this moment of great weakness to speak to me.

Being sick in a children’s playroom has spurred me on like never before, and I will not forget that this trip has refueled my passion for the lost.

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