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.
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