As a young man, I thought that my missions classes in college had prepared me for serving Christ cross-culturally. I’ve often said to my wife over the past 30+years, someday I’ll write a book titled, “What They Never Taught Me In Missions 101.” Here are a few of them:

That it would be so difficult for both of us – it became difficult for me because it was so difficult for her. I headed to the field pumped and ready to conquer the continent. My wife and I arrived in Africa with an 8-month-old baby, Cherith, to shimmering heat waves dancing across the tarmac. The drive from the airport took us past piles of rotting and burning garbage, bouncing through potholes while avoiding the seemingly endless sea of people on foot, passing mud homes, witnessing the mass of people everywhere, and experiencing the distinctive smells of Mombasa, Kenya. The difference between the small-town suburbia where my wife grew up and the realities of Africa was challenging to navigate.

That the process of brokenness would hurt so much, so much of me to be squeezed out so that it would become “not I, but Christ.” Those hard spots are often removed with a surgeon’s scalpel. The potter has power over the clay and will reach into the lump to remove hard spots that, if left unattended, will mar the reflection of His Son Jesus Christ. Much of my energy to serve God was motivated by a mixture of genuine desire coupled with self-reliance and pride. How much I needed to be genuinely humble.

That God would use so many other people and their hurts and struggles as tools to shape me. Hurting people often hurt people. I would need to take those abuses and wrongs in a spirit of kindness and long-suffering, looking past the person who was delivering the wounds to the One who was allowing those bruises for my own sanctification and growth.

That my pride produced a fear of being misused, abused, and taken advantage of. We were often mistreated, lied to, and taken advantage of – targets of conmen because of being new. I so loved myself that I loathed the thought of being taken advantage of. Because I did not understand the people or culture well, I was often guilty of suspecting someone was trying to take advantage when they were not.

That I would need to die “a thousand deaths” to my reputation, dreams, goals, and desires, choosing for those to be consumed by a passion for the exaltation of Christ among the people I carry in my heart. We would need to turn our backs on security for our future and a comfortable retirement, and often be called upon to trust God for health concerns on behalf of one another and our children. That we would choose to be misunderstood without holding hurt, wronged without harboring bitterness, and choose the path of humility and shame like our Lord Jesus.

That loving people and seeking relationships with them would mean doing things that in my culture are unthinkable – helping grieving family members dress the corpse of their loved one and prepare it for burial. Sitting by the bedside of a beloved Christian brother or sister who was suffering in agony without the ability to organize the medical care to alleviate that suffering. Venturing into hard (and dangerous) to reach places in an attempt to find a way of infiltrating that place and those people with the gospel of Jesus. Eating things that I would never choose to eat, but doing so for the sake of those I seek to reach with the gospel.

Despite these challenges and unexpected lessons, I wouldn’t trade this journey for anything in the world. The joy of seeing someone understand the gospel for the first time, watching indigenous leaders rise up to shepherd their churches, and experiencing God’s faithfulness in seemingly impossible situations far outweighs every hardship. The privilege of being Christ’s ambassador in places where His name is not yet known brings a satisfaction that no comfortable Western career could match. 

Yes, missionary life will break you, reshape you, and humble you in ways you never imagined—but this breaking is the pathway to true joy and eternal impact. If you’re considering this calling, know that while the cost is real, the reward is greater: seeing Christ formed in you and in those you serve. This sacred work of carrying light into darkness is worth every sacrifice, every tear, and every “death to self.” Don’t let fear of the unknown hold you back from this greatest adventure of faith, and the joy of obeying Jesus with your life.