So … My daughter is on the World Race, serving as a Christian missionary in 11 countries … in 11 months. She’s on a team of 7 twenty-somethings, in a squad of 45 mostly twenty-somethings. I’m proud as heck of her, but the mother instincts are kicking in.
“So,” I say to her, “I read on your blog that your team fasted and made a kajillion peanut butter and jelly sandwiches to hand out to people … in … I don’t know, wherever you are in Nicaragua.”
“Yeah!” she exclaims as only a twenty-something can.
“So … do you want the word to get out that there are some rich American kids in town handing out freebies?”
“Oh, we’re not there anymore.”
“So … where are you staying? Not in another tree fort with monkeys, I hope?”
“No, we’re at a hostel.”
“So … are you eating well?”
“Well, we didn’t have any food when we were in the tree fort, so … we were hungry.”
“Weren’t there any coconuts?”
“We didn’t think of that.”
“All you have to do is watch the monkeys. They aren’t hungry.”
The Skype screen goes dead. A few attempts to reconnect, then we go to audio on Viber.
“So,” I say, “I’m concerned for your safety, dear. Are you in dangerous parts of the country?”
“No, we don’t go into any dangerous places.”
“Are you sure?”
“Mom, I’m being sarcastic.”
“Oh, that’s comforting.”
“So … I need to go. We’re going out exploring.”
“At this hour of the night?”
“Yeah, gotta go.”
“I love you, Sweetie.”
“Love you, too.”
The Viber call blips off. Lord, set your angel round about them.
So … now I’ve got to figure out how I’m going to get some sleep. Somehow, I’ll manage. I was once a twenty-something missionary myself. Now I know how I drove my mother to her knees in prayer.
So … all is well.