A Chance Meeting in the Desert

A friend and I were talking about missions the other day when I was reminded of a chance meeting I had while on my way to start my life as a missionary. It was June of '83. I had worked with Dad a couple of years but it just wasn't working for me. I had a passion for ministry that just wasn't being satisfied wearing a hardhat and steel toes. So, being a "good Baptist" I went down front at church and "surrendered to the ministry". Yes, I did think about going down and raising my hands in a "don't shoot!" gesture but I didn't think the folks at First Baptist of Monroe would get the joke.

In any case, I applied and was accepted to seminary in Fort Worth. But, before I got to seminary, I was invited to be the PR guy at the Baptist ministry to the Summer Olympics in Los Angeles. The only rub: no salary. I was considered Mission Service Corp and raised my own support. OK, no problem. If God calls, God also equips. I made a list of folks I thought might be interested in supporting my work, prayed over the list and started knocking on doors. All but one were happy to invest. The only one I asked who couldn't was a single dad with kids to raise. I didn't think he'd be able to anyway. My monthly income was cut by 90% but that's a story for a different blog.

Driving in my '69 Ford van towing a couple of dirt bikes, I took three days to make the drive west. Now, picture the van. It was jam packed with everything I'd need for a year and a half. That meant books, more books, stereo speakers, amp, turntable, my "essential" albums (a few dozen), clothes and a few more books. Oh, and a couple of Nikon cameras and a bag full of lenses. And slide show equipment including two projectors, an electronic controller and a projection screen. And I bought a few books along the way. I had built a couple of storage compartments on my motorcycle trailer so all my tools and riding gear stayed outside. I had my racing bike and a street legal dirt bike. What? You mean not every missionary doesn't have a couple of dirt bikes?

I guess it was late on my second day out that I got tired of I-40 and decided to take a little detour. I ended up in Tuba City, Arizona. It was getting late and I needed to park the van for the night. I stopped at a little store for a snack and struck up a conversation with a man outside. He seemed like a nice guy as we talked about this and that. As the conversation winded down, I told him that I was a Baptist missionary on my way to the west coast and asked if he knew of a church or someplace safe where I could park for the night.

"Well, I'm a Baptist missionary, too. I pastor a church just over that hill. You're welcome to park in my church parking lot for the night. Follow me."

Uhh... really? Can you imagine how this blew me away? Keep in mind, this was in the early '70s when we didn't even use long distance credit cards. It was quarters in pay phones with exorbitant rates. I had left my family in Monroe and El Dorado and was heading out to a new life in California. Beyond casual chit chat, I hadn't talked with a soul in almost three days. I missed home and longed for true fellowship. And I met a pastor in a convenience store!

I followed him to the church where I stopped the van in the parking lot. He lived in the parsonage next door. His younger son came out and really thought the dirt bikes were cool. I felt like a big man, I admit it. "Yeah... this one is for playing but this one is for racing!" The next morning, the missionary sent his son out to the van to invite me in for breakfast with the family. The parsonage was modest and I remember being served what I figured was some sort of traditional Native American meal. They were these flat round cake type things. I asked him what they were called. "Pancakes... it's the altitude." We all laughed at my ignorance and then they pulled out the latest copy of Missions USA, the Home Mission Board's monthly magazine.

I loved reading Missions USA for the great articles. Solid writing and world class photography, it was a real favorite. But they went to the back of the magazine where I never bothered to look very much. They found that day's date and read aloud the missionaries who were celebrating birthdays as well as I think a missionary of the day to pray for. And then we prayed. Over those high altitude pancakes, the missionary told me about how God called him to the mission field as an adult with a family and an already established career.

He said he started having an unexplainable passion for the American Indians. He couldn't read enough about them. Teaching boys Sunday School, he would break down in tears when the lesson involved reaching the Indians. I can't remember what he did for work before becoming a missionary but it wasn't a "ministerial" type job. He was just like the rest of us... working. Then God changed everything.

I kept up with this missionary family for a few years. Just now, I pulled down my "analog address book". That's an old fashioned pen and paper address book for the younger crowd, how we did things before computers. Sure enough, I still have that missionary's address. A quick internet search and it appears he's still working in missions... now ministering to Indians in New Mexico. I think I'll drop him a note.