MY BLOG POSTS

Career options are thrown out to high school students like beads at a Mardi Gras parade. These poor kids are drowning in choices. Overwhelmed with options.

So let me add one more.

Missionary.

That’s right. Missionary. Don’t click on the “X” just yet. Hear me out. Or read me out. Whatever.

I used to think all missionaries did was live in the jungle, eat monkey brains, and try not to get skewered. While teaching people about Jesus.

Until I met some missionaries.  And here’s what I found — missionaries do a lot of  the exact same stuff we do here in the states. They just do it in other countries.

Want to be a teacher? How about teaching in another country? There are hundreds of schools that desperately need teachers.

Want to go into the medical field? Oh, man, there are countries where no hospital or clinic exists for hundreds of miles. Pick a continent. They need you!

How about engineering? Agriculture? Counseling? You name it, you can do it just about anywhere. Don’t feel bound to the US. God can use you and your gifts anywhere in the world.

My sister and her husband worked in a community center in southeast Asia. They played sports and taught English. They didn’t stand on the street corners with “The End is Near” signs, but they did share the love of Jesus with those who wanted to hear about Him.

I know a lady who works as a librarian in Turkey. Another is a secretary in Spain. One women I met runs an orphanage in Mexico City.

And, of course, some missionaries are pastors and church planters and evangelists. Some do live in the jungle and eat monkey brains. But get this: they like it. They wouldn’t want to live anywhere else.

Don’t miss that. God gives you a desire to do what he wants you to do. He made me want to teach and to write. I love my job(s)! Not that it’s perfect. Nothing on earth is perfect. But I have no doubt I am doing what God created me to do. One of my best friends stays home and home schools her four kids. And she loves it. She knows she is doing exactly what God wants her to do. My sister-in-law has a very difficult, emotionally taxing job. But she knows it is what God wants her to do. She has joy, even in the difficulties, because God has equipped her for that job.

So forget looking for what occupation has the biggest paycheck. Money brings far more headaches than happiness. Look for what God wants you to do – whatever that is. And pray about whether or not he wants you do that job overseas, as a missionary.

Learning a new language,  new culture, meeting new people – it’s amazing. Seeing God work in ways you’d never imagine – priceless. Being a missionary involves sacrifices, to be sure. But it is also a career full of rewards.

I got a letter in the mail today.

Not a bill. Not an advertisement. Not an envelope full of coupons I’ll never use. Just a note from a friend in California, saying she enjoyed my book.

I can’t remember the last time I got a letter. It made me happy.

Then it made me sad.

Letter writing is a dying art. Back when I was in school (I can’t believe I just wrote that…what’s next, dentures? Arthritis cream? Eating dinner at 4:00?), letters were how we communicated with out-of-town friends and family. Stamps were about .22 and my grandparents would get them for me in rolls of 100. I’d use them all in a matter of months. I liked writing letters and I loved receiving letters.

I still have a box full of letters I got from my grandfather. He would have been 91 years old today. He passed away over seventeen years ago, and I still miss him. But I have his letters. In his handwriting. He would write and tell me he was proud of me. He would write and encourage me to work harder in Chemistry. He would always end his letters with an “I love you.” I treasure those letters. Last summer, my grandmother found a letter Grandaddy had written to his sister during World War 2. He wrote it when he was young, unmarried, stationed in England. I heard his voice in that letter. He talked about the pretty British girls and how he was too shy to talk to them. He told his big sister not to worry about him, that he was fine. His handwriting was similar to the handwriting I knew, but a little larger, less controlled. I loved seeing that glimpse of Grandaddy, the young soldier. I had heard the stories. But holding a piece of that period in his life was so special.

Will my grand kids have letters like that from me? Or will they just look back on Grandma’s blog? Her archived e-mails? Sift through the files of digital pictures stored on her external hard drive?

I love technology. But I miss what it’s replacing.

Like letters.

I had forgotten how much I liked letters until today. So thanks, Susie, for the reminder.

And for the letter.

Today on the website Girls, God, and the Good Life, Maddie, a 13-year-old guest blogger, wrote this about First Date:

“I have always had a Bible in my bedroom but I don’t remember doing anything with it other than carrying it to church on Sundays.  Addy’s example made me want to study my Bible to learn more about God’s word so I could share it like Addy—in a natural, non-threatening way.  I started reading my Bible right after I finished First Date and I haven’t stopped.  Now instead of being buried on my desk, it sits right next to my bed on top of the stack of my favorite books.”

I may not ever see my name on the NYT Best Seller List. I may not even get below #57,374 on Amazon’s list. But you know what? That’s all right. Because I’m not trying to make MY name famous. My job is to make the name of Jesus famous. To point people to him. I want to count success by the lives changed, not the number of books sold.

So thanks, Maddie. Reading that meant more to me than the best review I’ve gotten from any critic out there.

When I was a kid, I loved the Jetsons. Who am I kidding? I still love the Jetsons. And I remember thinking this wasn’t just a good cartoon. This was the future. When I grew up, I’d have that cool closet that would dress me and style my hair. I’d have a robot maid and vending machines in my house.

But best of all, I’d have a flying car.

And it wasn’t even so I could take vacations to Mars or drop my kids out of an escape hatch in the bottom. Well, not just for that. It was because that just seemed like the next logical step: From horse and buggies to cars to personal flying machines.

I want to leave my house at 7:25, buckle up in my space sedan, lift off, and land at school at 7:30, ready to work. I want to load the students up in an “air bus” and take them to see a play on Broadway. For the day. And have them back in time for softball practice. And I want it to cost no more than a tank of gas. Because, yes, I know, there are private planes that can do some of that. But they are for the wealthy. The Jetsons weren’t wealthy, though. George worked his blue collar job at Cogsworth’s and still was able to afford his flying car. And the occasional vacation to the moon.

So I’m feeling a little bummed right now. Sure, technology is great. I like my iPod, my laptop, those cool new Coke machines at Burger King that have fifty million drink options.

But I’d give all that up for one flying car.