I went on my first family mission trip shortly after turning 12 yrs old. As an overthinking, anxious preteen–I was terrified of what we would be walking into– positive that my little sisters would contract some sort of horrible disease from the dirt, the stray dogs, or the water. I couldn’t understand why my parents would do this to us; no one I spoke to could calm my nerves. Needless to say, I was the last one off the bus when we arrived at the campsite near Tijuana, Mexico. I was in for an even bigger shock when I realized that we would be sleeping in tents, showering with rain collected, bagged water, and using a porta-potty-styled hole dug in the ground as a toilet. I paced around the site, quickly realizing that there was nowhere else to go; I was trapped and would somehow have to manage for the next week. As panic ensued, I breathed long enough to notice that no one else in our group shared the fears that I did. Either they were crazy– or I was unreasonable. 

 

Kicking and screaming, I eventually joined my family in the van heading to our worksite, armed with purell and safety-capped water bottles. Determined not to let the disease-ridden dirt infect my siblings and I, I put myself in charge of keeping our water and lunches safe and clean. My sisters hopped out, feet to the floor without thinking twice, while I had another panic attack. It took a woman in our group that I did not know prior, to pray with and encourage me to get out of the hot vehicle.

 

For the first half of the trip, I stood in fear. Fear of sickness, dying, and loss of control. I was scared to touch anything or anyone, and was sadly not much help to my team. Our mission was to build an entire, one-room home (the size of my bedroom) for a  family in need, in 5 days. Much like their neighbors, they were currently living in a tin roofed, tarped, makeshift shelter. I had never seen anything like it. I began to realize that this mission was more important than my fears; I needed to dig deep and activate my faith.

 

Unbeknownst to me, in my refusal to touch anything, I was the perfect, available playmate for the local children running around us. With words I did not understand and big smiles, they worked their way into my heart. I was holding their hands and letting my anxieties fade away. 

 

Towards the end of our trip, I was building, believing, and loving every minute of this mission; completely unrecognizable to the girl that had first stepped off the bus. I marveled at what God did during that week. When it was time to leave Tijuana, and say goodbye to the children that I had come to love, I was the last one to get in the van. Captivated by the generosity and gratitude of a community that had nothing; I knew I wanted to be a missionary when I grew up.

 

I still keep this in my heart, now wanting to create opportunities for my own children, and other families, to experience the power of love, faith, and service abroad.