For most of my life, I believed that "mission work" was strictly a young person's game. I always pictured college students with boundless energy, sleeping in sleeping bags on concrete floors, digging ditches, and playing soccer with kids for hours. At 70 years old, I enjoyed my comfort. I had arthritis in my knees, a strict medication schedule, and a bad back that required a special mattress. So, when the pastor at my church announced an upcoming trip to build a school in a remote village in Guatemala, my first instinct was to write a check and stay firmly in my pew. But the idea wouldn't leave me alone. It was a nagging, persistent tug in my chest that felt like conviction. I argued with God for weeks, listing my age, my health, and my lack of construction skills as very valid reasons to stay home. But the feeling only grew stronger, until finally, feeling slightly foolish and very anxious, I signed up. I was the oldest person on the team by at least forty years. As I packed my suitcase with ibuprofen and braces for my knees, I was terrified that I would be a burden to the group- a liability rather than an asset.
When the team arrived in the village, my fears seemed to be realized immediately. The work involved mixing concrete by hand and carrying heavy cinder blocks up a hill. The young men on the team jumped in with enthusiasm, their muscles working hard in the heat. I tried to help, but I quickly realized I couldn't keep up physically. I felt useless, sitting on a bench wiping sweat from my forehead while everyone else worked. But then, I noticed something. The village was full of elderly residents who were sitting on their porches, watching the construction. They were the matriarchs and patriarchs of the community, and they weren't interacting with the teenage volunteers, who didn't know how to approach them. I decided to walk over. I didn't speak their dialect, and they didn't speak English, but I sat with them. I showed them pictures of my grandkids; they showed me pictures of theirs. We bonded over the universal aches and pains of aging, communicating through smiles and gestures.
I realized that in this culture, age was honored, and my presence carried a weight of authority that the teenagers didn't have. I spent the week praying with them, holding their hands, and listening to their stories. By the end of the trip, the village elders embraced me as a brother. While the young people built the walls of the school, I had built the bridges to the community's heart. I came home exhausted, yes, but I realized that God didn't need my muscles; He needed my availability. He showed me that you are never too old to be used by Him.
