I am new to the whole missionary thing.  I am the first missionary in my family; the first missionary of my close friends.  Before coming to Gainesville, I was the only missionary I ever really knew. 

I've read stories.  I've seen videos.  I've heard missionaries speak at church before. 

Just like you can't really understand what it's like to be a parent until hold your own child in your arms - I didn't really get it; I couldn't get it until I lived it.

A few things strike me as I walk in these "missionary" shoes a bit. 

One; I didn't get any training.  Most missionaries go through some training before being sent out.  I didn't.  I just kind of jumped in.  I'm 93% glad that I didn't go through training.  There is only 7% of me that wishes I was better prepared. 

Two; the definition of "missionary" is changing, I think.  The traditional boundaries of what a missionary is (and isn't) are being shifted.  I'm 100% glad about that.  Well, maybe only 99% glad, the other percent is simply because I'm uncomfortable in ambiguity. 

Three; this is hard.  I'm being broken continually.  Just when I think I'm getting in the groove, life comes to disrupt it.  Crazy me, but I guess I thought that once I made the leap to full-time missions work, it meant I had earned the "now-I-got-it-together" badge.  Like maybe I had passed a hurdle of brokenness that I would never again have to revisit.      

Nope. 

It means that I really, really, R*E*A*L*L*Y have to depend on God to show up a lot more often.  

Being a missionary gives me a whole new appreciation for the sink or swim concept. 

I used to be very afraid of sinking.  Swimming - goooood.  Sinking - baaaaaad.  What I'm finding is that when I'm swimming, it is really good.  God is there.  And those moments are magnificent. 

Yet, when I'm treading water and barely hanging on, it's good too.  It's in those moments I see that God is with me. 

I saw it at the Lucas' as we clung to the assurance that Jesus never fails for one another.  When one of us was faltering, two more threw the burden up on their shoulders and said, "here, let me carry that for you for awhile."

I drank it in at the Gessler's living room as we began to share our dreams.  The dreams started to grow wings as we unveiled them.  The wind of faith began to blow as we prayed together.  I could see some of them take flight when we connected with others.

I got a taste of it when Caleb, Jubilee, Merry, Erin, Steve, Tiana , Rachael spent some fleeting moments discussing their dreams .  I remember telling Steve, "You aren't in this alone", and thinking to myself, "Teri, you aren't in this alone either."

We experienced it as road weary travelers taken in, fed delectable food until we were in a delightful stupor, pampered, bathed in prayer, and lavishly loved on.  The Steers pour into us so that we can pour into others.

Community was popping out all over the place once we reached the Longs.  Lively conversation broke out as we shared our dreams and thought of ways to help each other gain momentum.  Encouragement was flowing like the coffee.  We celebrated God and dreams and each other and coffee and laughter and worship and prayer and community and God all over again.

I saw it as Rebecca and Peter talked about Haiti.  And Lisa and Tangi talked about life.  And in how Lily played dress up with Elliott and dreamed of being princesses in a far off castle.

I saw it in the eyes of Jenna and Stacie as we talked via web cam while they were in fast food joint California and we were sitting in a kitchen in Raleigh.  I felt it in my heart.  I needed them.  I needed to connect with them as friends and dreamers and fellow sojourners of faith.

Last night before we went to bed, Lily needed to know that Rebecca and Lisa were still going to go with us to our next stop.  I said yes.  She said, "No, Mommy.  Are they going to keep going with us to help dreams?"  Yeah.  Even a six-year old understands that dreams needs community.