It is no secret that culture shock, a pandemic and lockdown make for a very disastrous combination. With God’s help, we eventually emerged on the other side in one piece. Throughout our time in the field, we have sorely missed many things that once used to define our lives, hence part of the culture shock. The easiest way for me to process and understand this, the main concern of my heart, is by what I dream about at night.

While most of my dreams don’t make the slightest sense and usually fall on the hilarious side (bungee jumping goats), a particularly vivid one stayed with me for a long time:

Somehow the pandemic was over, and we were back in the U.S. on furlough. We had arrived on a Friday afternoon and went to a grocery store to buy some food for the Sabbath. Then it dawned on me that Emily had outgrown all her dresses and did not have anything to wear for church. Since we had been isolated and far from a church for so long, we had been investing primarily in pajamas throughout the year; it is what our children wore for our home Sabbath School.

Now, all I wanted was to sit in a pew at Pioneer Memorial Church, feel the walls trembling with majestic organ sounds and join the congregation singing a worship hymn. Unfortunately, because everything moves too slowly in dreams, we did not have time to shop for a dress.

The next day, I was sitting in the front row of a church full of people, singing my lungs out to the tune of the organ, with tears flowing down my face and wearing a huge smile. In my arms, I was holding my daughter, who was wearing nothing but a pair of white baby pajamas.

I woke up with tears still on my face. My heart was beating fast in my chest. Now, almost one year later, we are on furlough in the States. We have settled in our beloved former house, eaten our favorite foods, and hugged friends dear to our hearts. But the best dream came true on our first Sabbath. As “Blessed Assurance” rang through the crowded church and friends surrounded us, I lived out my old dream as I choked back my tears and lifted up a prayer of gratitude. In my arms, I held my little girl, who was clothed in a blue dress. But I would not have minded if my daughter wore pajamas.

On behalf of missionaries everywhere this Thanksgiving, please remember to be thankful for your churches—and the fellowship, freedom, and all the imperfect people that fill them. Don’t take anything for granted. As we recharge our batteries before returning to the field, we cannot help but remember how hard the road is and how cherished the least progress, from one planted seed to a growing church. We are grateful to all of you who keep recharging our souls with your love and support, and we thank God for the privilege of worshiping with you once again.

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