For My Father

When my father was a small child, a missionary visited his Sunday School class. After the presentation, the missionary asked if anyone wanted to be a missionary someday. My dad was the only one to raise his hand.

He never made it to the mission field. He became a pastor and served parishes in the United States. Since his death, several missionaries from his class told me that there were only two people who faithfully wrote them personal letters while they were in the mission field. One of them was my father. Though his feet never touched the soil of a mission field, he honored his promise from Sunday School days as well as he could.

Last Sunday, as I visited the Kilolo parish as the guest preacher, I was given a great honor. This was my second visit to this congregation. The very first Sunday in Iringa was spent at the Kilolo parish. It was where I was first introduced to the auction of chickens after worship. During worship, they gave me a piece of fabric to make a shirt and announced that I was now a member of the Kilolo parish. I am not only visiting Africa, I am now a member of an African church.

As the congregation greeted me with applause and singing, I couldn't help but think of my dad. Maybe, in some small way, I'm now fulfilling that promise he made so long ago. I am preaching in a foreign land, a former mission field. I am a member of the Kilolo, Tanzania parish. I have travelled where my father could not, preached where he wished he could have, and become a part of the church in a developing country.

Dad, I do this for you. I can't help but think he is smiling and heaving a great sigh of contentment from his heavenly perch. "My son has continued my calling." Maybe this is only the beginning. Who knows what the next generation will do with this calling?