I Thought I’d Stay In My Tiny Christian Community Forever. Then One Thing Changed Everything.

Once or twice a year, my pre-planned family life would include a trip to South Florida for shopping, movies, recreation and maybe a trip to Disney World. If we saved enough and were adventurous in the future, perhaps we might take a Carnival Cruise through the Caribbean. One family on the island even made semi-regular trips to Nashville, a place that once felt distinguished and cultured. All were places that were easy and familiar in some way ― vacations planned for a change of scenery, not too far outside the comfortable zone. 

By the time I was 15, I was attending most of the services regularly out of obligation and a desire to “be a good person.” However, my heart was never truly in it except during the fourth week of June every year, when the New Life Missions Conference was held.

The handsome missionary and his family had strong southern accents, and they told stories of their upbringing in the hills of Tennessee before God called them to do His work in South Africa. A projector was set up, and the lights in the church were dimmed as the young missionary shared images of the school they had built on the outskirts of a remote African village. He spoke of his “calling” and the need to spread the word of Jesus throughout the “wilds” of this foreign place. 

Intermingled with images of young men sawing trees and constructing a thatch roof, were photos of breathtaking vistas and animals I had only seen on National Geographic. As I looked at the enthralling images, there was a moment, unexpected and unintentional, when I felt my world, and its possibilities, expand.

I came back eagerly the next night to hear the stories of the older couple from Michigan whom God had called to preach in Thailand. I immersed myself in their home videos, not drawn to their message of conversion or the saving of lost souls, but to their faraway landscapes, the motion and the “elsewhereness” of it all. 

I wanted to do “that,” but did “that” mean I wanted to be a missionary? I questioned myself, zoning out on the evenings’ sermon as a donation basket was passed around. Even in my teenage mind, where the possibilities were endless, as I searched my soul, I did not find a calling, at least not a religious one. Instead, I found the seeds of wanderlust being planted; a yearning to go.

The storytelling was meant to incite the faithful with a desire to convert more people to Christianity (or at least open their wallets to support those doing this good work.) Instead, it allowed me to witness a world far wider than my tiny island, and seeing it, sparked a need to go further.

Years later, as a young adult, I pulled away from the religion of my childhood, and I moved away from the island. The expectations and culture had always felt restrictive and forced, even as I faithfully showed up for services weekly. I never felt like I belonged in the bible study groups as the devoted Christian housewife, even though I had learned the teachings and could easily talk the talk. I followed along the only path I thought was an option, masquerading in a costume that sometimes felt like a straitjacket. It just never connected with my soul.

Instead, I connected with the far-off places, presented to me on a grainy projector once a year, when religion meant feeling the sense that the world was calling me.