Blog Loss

By Dr. Neil Gilliland

All of us experience loss. We lose our keys. We lose our glasses. Some lose hair and/or teeth. We lose the vigor we had in our youth and try to muster enough energy to get through the day. We lose friends when we move. We lose loved ones in the shadows of death. Loss is simply not a stranger to any of us. There are losses missionaries incur frequently, but rarely speak about.

Missionary life is one of transitions. And with each transition, there are significant losses. Families move from one country to another, from one set of friends to another, and from one culture to another every few years. Several years ago Kristi, my secretary (now a missionary in Spain), was given a college assignment to interview a missionary or former missionary. Since we shared an office, she asked if she could interview me one afternoon. It was an easy interview, until she sighed and said, “Okay, Neil, just one more question. I'm sorry I took your time this afternoon.” Quite honestly, I wasn't sorry, I was sad the interview was about to come to an end. I loved to talk about the wonderful days I spent as a missionary in my beloved Africa.

But, I was unprepared cognitively and emotionally to face her last question. It came as a total surprise. In the thousands of questions I have answered about the African segment of my journey to the celestial city, no one had ever asked a question like Kristi's last one. It was a simple, uncomplicated question and my immediate response was equally simple. But as I started to respond the words lodged in my throat, my mouth became dry and a torrent of tears began to cloud my vision. Her simple question demanded the truth and I had to face the unpleasantness of the real answer.

"What were your thoughts the night before you left Côte d'Ivoire knowing you would probably never return to your ministry at ICA?" Now, how did she expect me to remember my thoughts on one particular evening seven years prior to the interview? I mean, perhaps I could remember the events of that evening. I was dashing about trying to make sure all the loose ends were neatly tied. I meticulously made sure everything was in the suitcases. What seemed to be an endless stream of good-byes were being said to fellow-laborers and our precious boys. I couldn’t even remember the names of those who stopped by that evening, so how did she expect me to remember my thoughts? I wanted to roll my eyes sarcastically and yell, "I don't know!" But the words clung to the walls of my throat. My heart reminded my mind and the naked answer stared at me with no shame. I did know, and for that brief moment my spirit sagged and my heart ached as one whose hope has been dashed on the rocks of despair. I wanted to run from the memory and the all too familiar pain. But at that moment even the soft warmth under the King's wings seemed too far away.

For a moment, the words refused to form in my mouth. The room was filled only with the silent echoes of a broken heart. Kristi seemed to understand and waited quietly as my soul grieved one more time. But I knew I had to answer the question, not for Kristi... for me. I had to face the truth. Pushing back the gray veil that had enveloped me, I whispered thoughts I had kept hidden in a corner of my heart I rarely allowed even myself to visit. In six words the thoughts of that African evening became a painful reality. I didn't remember hearing the familiar cacophony of sounds of an African night; I only remember the six words. Even now as I stare into my computer, the words are sticking at the ends of my fingers. Oh, I realize that whoever might read this memory will find it rather silly and trite. And, I don't really expect anyone to understand. Sometimes, I don't either.

So per chance one day, should you pass by and see a misty, far away look in my eyes (or even another missionary’s eyes) perhaps the waves of those words are dancing their somber dance on the shores of our memories. Remember their loss and breathe a prayer for them.

I wish tomorrow would never come, I whispered.