Dear Missionaries, I'm Sorry

Dear Missionaries, I'm gonna be straight with you…I judged you. I big fat ugly judged you. Well I judged the generalization in my head of you.

I mean, "Really," I thought to myself, "It can't possibly be that hard to throw on some mascara and run a brush through your hair, Amiright?"

No. No I was not right. 

I was not even close. 

I am ten weeks in, I'm going to scream if I have to put on a maxi skirt again. My face hasn't seen the like of make-up in upwards of four weeks, and a lady at the passport office told me I needed some oil for my hair last week. 

Oil. For my hair. 

If that is not a terrifying call to the reality that is my frizzed out hair I don't know what is. 

I just didn't get it. I really didn't get what it is like to have iffy electricity, cold to lukewarm water, and zero time to yourself. Zero. 

Now I get it. And I'm sorry. You people have your act together. You wash dishes in water filled basins that have to be emptied outside, you cook food on miniature stoves and fires outside. You throw on your headbands over your braids and give yourselves over to the people you serve. You wear the maxi skirts and tank tops and look adorable and approachable. 

All that to say I'm sorry. I'm also stinky, sloppy, tired, and out of patience. 

I judged you. This friends, is why the Bible says judge not lest you end up in East Africa with BO and bangs you cut yourself so that you didn't end up having to put on yet another headband.


Well I paraphrased.