Missionary Unfiltered

Well I thought it must be time for a real life Cherie blog. So, make a coffee, sit down, and let me invite you into my weird and crazy world.

If people had told me years ago that I would be a missionary living in Manila and regularly traipsing throughout the biggest garbage tip in Manila to work with the urban poor, I'd have laughed loudly and fallen off my platform shoes.

Me? A missionary?

I love high shoes, false eyelashes, colorful hair, I'm quick to laugh at things that perhaps I shouldn't and I seriously hate to sweat.

I grew up in the Brethren Church, so I know what real missionaries look like. I have sat through countless conferences as a child, hearing them talk of bush foods, weaving clothes from coconut fibers, dodging spears and re-using tea bags for days on end. These people are hard core! And not a platform shoe in sight! 

Don't get me wrong, I have the utmost respect for these missionaries; their fervor and the incredible sacrifices they have made for Jesus. But me? Nope! Not missionary material!

So, before you read on, I will warn you. Be careful what you sing in church, be careful what you pray for.

In 2005, my family went on a two-week exposure trip to the Philippines to visit a Christian school working amongst the urban poor in metro Manila. This was my first time to see first-hand extreme poverty. It was such a time of blessing but also such a time of immense heart break. On returning from our trip, I was haunted by the images of the children and families I had seen. I began singing and would find myself humming the song “Hosanna” by Hillsong United.

For those of you who don't know the song, here are several lyrics… 

Heal my heart and make it clean
Open up my eyes to the things unseen
Show me how to love like You have loved me
Break my heart for what breaks Yours
Everything I am for Your kingdom's cause
As I walk from earth into eternity
I honestly hadn't thought this through completely as I sang these words. Open up my eyes? Break my heart? How often do we sing these words and fail to understand the power of the words and the awesomeness of God?

So, God heard my words. He broke my heart and He opened my eyes.

After many years and countless stories later, I find myself living in Manila, working in a transitional home for abused, neglected, abandoned, and traumatized children.

People now refer to me as a missionary, which, I must say, I still struggle with as I battle the stereotypes of old knitted vests, in my head. I still own platform shoes, and even have a wee wedge on a pair of thongs (that’s flip flops for the non-Aussies) that grace my feet every time I drudge through the muddy mounds of the dumpsite. I am also known to don the occasional false eyelash and still fancy a bit of colour in my hair.

I am not perfect by any stretch of the imagination. I don't feel saintly, chosen, or even the least bit amazing. I am just plain old Cherie, a woman that still hates to sweat and who struggles each day with the reality of living and working where God has placed her.

Please don't get me wrong! Being where God has called you to be, is so very precious and a privilege. However, it is not a sweet ride filled with cute kids, birthday cakes and parties. Some days are just plain yuk.

I struggle being separated from my eldest son Nic. Over the past four years I have kidded myself that it will get easier. It doesn't. Not a day goes by that I don't wish that my family were altogether, rather than living in two different countries. I am not there when he is sick, or to celebrate his successes or just to give him a mum hug. I'm not there…I'm here.

I struggle being away from my parents and family and from my husband Dave’s parents and his family. Each year they get older and the reality of this kicks in. We are not there when they need some extra help.

I miss my friends too, so very much! I miss laughing so hard that your whole-body aches! I miss sharing silly worries that only a close friend can understand.

I will never get used to the smell of Payatas or the heartbreak of meeting a traumatized child for the first time. I still cry when the children share their stories of abuse from those people who were supposed to love them most of all. I still wince at the stories of kidnapping and incest. I feel helpless when the drug raids happen in these communities in which we work, killing innocent fathers and uncles and sons. I just hold on tight when the kids punch, kick and swear at me as they are so hurt and so sad that they need someone to lash out at. But I know I am not enough.

But what I do know is that God is enough. Jesus sees each tear, hears every cry and loves each and every little life. I also know that as followers of Christ, we are asked to be his hands and his feet in this world. That means moving out of our comfort zones, putting our faith into action and getting messy and even sweaty for Jesus.

So, I suppose this is me getting real and raw. Please don't think I'm having a pity party…I'm not.  Some days we laugh so hard and some days, we don't. This is my world here at Safe Haven and the world that I will continue to embrace until God leads me where he wants me next….with my platform shoes and eyelashes in tow.