(a recent prayer letter received from a CAN missionary)

“Nunca pensé que tendría un hijo tan lejos.” (“I never thought I would have a son so far away.”) That’s something my mother often said to me. It wasn’t meant to make me feel guilty; it was simply an honest expression of her love, sacrifice, and amazement at what God had done. My mother, was the proud mother of a missionary. She was the kind of woman who, when asked on her deathbed if she would like a chaplain to visit, quickly responded, “No, yo tengo el mío” (“No, I have my own”) before telling the entire nursing staff that her son and his family were missionaries.

In the world of missions, not enough is said about the parents of missionaries. The modern-day Zebedees who joyfully let their children walk away from the family business to follow Jesus, or the 21st-century Salomes who surrender their fears and anxieties to God as their children take up their crosses and follow Christ. Not every missionary has that kind of support system at home, but those of us who do can’t imagine doing missions without it. My wife and I are doubly blessed. On both sides of our family, we have parents and siblings who faithfully pray for us, support us, and go out of their way to care for us when we visit. They spoil our kids with gifts, take them on adventures, and encourage my wife and I to rest. They welcome us into their homes tired and worn down, and send us back to the field refreshed and ready to keep going.

As a child, I was blessed with amazing parents who instilled in me the values of hard work, sacrifice, and dedication. When I was five years old, they enrolled me in a small Christian school five miles across the U.S./Mexico border so I could learn English. For fifteen years, my mother made the long commute across the San Ysidro border twice a day to take me and my siblings to school. My older brother and younger sister excelled academically—but me? Not so much. I was the classic underachiever in a family of overachievers. I hated school—not because I didn’t want to learn, but because I couldn’t understand the language. I couldn’t follow the teachers. Reading, writing, and spelling made no sense to me. On top of that, I was suffering from an undiagnosed rare medical condition that caused extreme dehydration and excessive thirst. I was overwhelmed, struggling with language barriers, adapting to a new culture, and physically suffering every day.

But my parents never let me quit. They suffered alongside me and never allowed me to believe there wasn’t a solution to every problem. When I couldn’t read or write, they enrolled me in an after-school ESL program. When doctors couldn’t figure out what was wrong, they kept taking me—over 20 times—until I finally had a diagnosis. When I was told I couldn’t play sports or go on field trips because of my condition, they bought a small cooler and some ice packs, packed my medication, told me not to lose it, and taught me that there was nothing I couldn’t do. From an early age, through their example, they taught me how to find solutions, how not to feel sorry for myself, and how to suffer with grace. They didn’t know it at the time, but they were training me to be a missionary.

As an adult, my mother continued to love me well. When I was 22 years old, I told her that God was leading me and my soon-to-be wife to one of the most hostile places in the world for Christians. Although she was worried and afraid, she responded with prayer. Alongside my father, she committed herself to supporting us in every way she could. Throughout my adult life, I spoke with her almost every day, sometimes just for a minute or two to let her know we were okay, and other times for hours as we caught up. No matter the time of day or how she was feeling, she always picked up. She made herself available to listen, to encourage, or to give me the advice I didn’t know I needed. Sometimes it was simple: “You need to sit down and read Psalm 119 again.” Other times, it was more profound: “Es algo muy grande que Dios te trajol, porque no cualquiera te sigue .” (“It’s a big thing that God brought you your wife, because not just anyone would follow you all the way.”)

As Mother’s Day approaches this weekend, I can’t help but wish you all could have met my mom. She was godly, kind, loving, intelligent, wise, and witty. She had a beautiful smile and a contagious laugh. More than anything, I find myself praying that God would raise up many more godly mothers with a burden for the cause of missions. Women who embrace the divine calling to raise up missionaries, and who one day will be able to say with joy and conviction, “Yo tengo el mío!”

Stateside Trip

On February 26th, my mother passed away after a long battle with liver disease. We spent March and April in the U.S. to be with family and to take part in her funeral and celebration of life. We returned to our country where we serve on May 2nd. Thank you for the many kind messages of love and condolence, your support meant so much during this season of grief.

Manna Center

While we were away, our team launched our second Manna Center. On March 8th, they began serving daily meals to 50 children in a village on the outskirts of the city. These children live in mud huts and attend the primary school we established three years ago. Our hope is that through the consistent presence of the gospel, education, and nutrition, these children will one day break free from the spiritual and physical bondage they were born into.

This morning, we woke up to news that a neighboring country had launched airstrikes into our country—marking a significant escalation in the decades-long conflict between the two nations. Having just returned on May 2nd, we do not have any plans to leave at this time. We ask for your prayers—for peace, wisdom for national leaders, and a swift resolution to this crisis.

Thank you for your prayers, love, and support.