The lovely, smoggy view of Bogota from Monserrate, a famous mountaintop chapel in the capital city.
Me, a missionary? Never in my youth would I have considered calling myself by such a title. To me, missionaries were people who gave up all they had, lived with whatever they could carry in a backpack, and went around trying to convery everyone to Christianity.
Now, the first couple of parts of that equation sound pretty good to me. I enjoy the thought of living with little (although I seem to accumulate more stuff than ever before, as a home owner), and living out of a backpack definitely has its own rewards.
But that third part, the proselytizing piece, that has always sounded really ugly me. I’ve never enjoyed speaking to Jehovah’s Witnesses, or people who pass out Bibles or religious phamplets, and it’s even a stretch to get me to wholeheartedly give my attention to the person at the head of a church if the sermon is too pushy.
But when I learned that my company held a yearly mission trip to COLOMBIA, I knew I had to go. It wasn’t a matter of “feeling called.” By birth as a Colombian-American I have been called to help my mother’s country. It’s my birthright.
So this comeing week I will embark on an 8-day trip to Colombia, where I’ll work in Soacha, a slum of Bogota, and Tunja, a town a couple hours northeast of Bogota.