A few weeks ago, John and I (along with twenty other people) took a trip to Wasilla, Alaska. We spent five days on a mission trip, which changed our lives. But definitely not in the ways we expected.
Our mission was unclear, an unusual turn of events for a trip by its very definition includes the word “mission”. We arrived full of excitement and enthusiasm (and Bibles), ready for God to change our lives. Ready to hear all about our mission and jump right in.
Except that no one knew what our mission was, including the local organizers. Those of the construction persuasion came to build, repair, replace, and remodel. But no one could tell them what to build, repair…you get the idea. Those of the educating nature came to, well, educate. But no one could tell them how many and what ages.
I’ll admit, we got a little whiny. But then we regrouped. The men found some projects around our place of lodging and jumped right in to build an outside structure to shelter vehicles. The Vacation Bible School (VBS) group trekked around the community (in the rain) to hand out flyers and recruit children.
John and I rounded out the cooking team, which daunted me a bit. I’d never tried to cook for twenty people three times a day. Grocery shopping in Wasilla was akin to foraging in the woods, or what I imagined it could be. “Cake mix? Hmmm…well, if we have it, then it would be on Aisle 7.” Seriously? People in Alaska don’t use cake mix? We never did find the butter, but had better luck at another store.
VBS began with four children, and the next day it grew to seven. They’d purchased food for forty kids, so our cooking team got creative, incorporating the unused food into our menu. Fortunately, building an outdoor structure in fifty-degree rainy weather makes people hungry. Starving, actually. We had very few leftovers.
The construction team ran out of money, but called home to Louisiana and scrounged up some more. And those seven children had the most personalized VBS in the history of, well, VBS. We had our fair share of conflict, from personalities to lack of resources. But at every turn we shouted a rallying cry and kept going.
We changed planes in Seattle, and the powers that be moved our gate twice. We were tired, jet lagged, and fed up with overcoming adversity. We plastered neutral looks on our faces, trying to look happier than we felt. I must have failed in my efforts, because one of my team members caught my eye. He said, “Jann, don’t let the airport steal your joy.” His words brought a smile to my eyes and my mouth.
That phrase has stuck with me as I’ve settled back into my life. That happens a lot, doesn’t it? We weather crisis after crisis, telling ourselves if we can just make it through this one trial, then life will be okay. But there’s always that final straw, that problem that breaks us. It isn’t the hardest time we’ve ever faced, but it’s hard enough to topple our faith. Don’t let the airport (or any situation) steal your joy. You can do much more with it than without it.
As everyone exited the plane in Dallas, John called out to several people, “See you later!” Reactions were mixed, ranging from looks of disbelief to maniacal laughter. Maybe I should send my team this article?
Jann Goar Franklin graduated Russellville High School in 1989. You can reach her at jann@jannfranklin.com