When I was a child, I thought missionaries were brave people who went to live in wild remote places. Then our family became the brave people living in wild remote places. But an element of doubt crept in as I witnessed the strange behaviour of a few of our fellow missionaries. This was counterbalanced by the many good people I came into contact with.
For decades I admired my father, for his fervour in going to the ends of the earth to share what he believed in. I had doubts in what he believed, but I did admire his courage.
Now I find myself in a strange surreal world. I don't admire what our family did, because there were too many lies, half truths and cover ups. I'm not even sure if it was all done for the right reason, more to satisfy the ego of the patriach, than to bring a "Loving God" to those who had not heard. And as I contact those from my past to either see if they survived the experience intact or to ask what there part in this scandal of abuse was, I read the replies that do come back and wonder. Too many just don't want to know, or plain lie about their whereabouts or involvement. Balancing this is the replies from those who also want to rectify the wrongs of the past. Too many missionaries have tainted their reputation by hiding or trying to defend the indefensible, for me to ever attain again the childhood admiration that I had of missionaries and their sacrifices. On the other hand, I look at those who have at considerable personal cost, battle endlessly for justice and fairness, while maintaining their faith. They are now for me the brave Christians who venture into the unknown for a cause that is often forgotten and downplayed.
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