Sometimes God doesn't explain where He's taking you.
He simply asks you to go.
Months ago, I was sitting in church when the words "Mission Trips" appeared on the screen.
Two trips.
That was it.
There wasn't a sales pitch. There wasn't an emotional video. There wasn't a logical reason for me to sign up.
But there was something else.
A quiet voice that wouldn't let me ignore it.
I can't explain it any other way except to say that God was calling me.
At the time, I didn't know why.
I just knew I was supposed to go.
Looking back, I realize something now that I couldn't see then:
The mission trip didn't begin when I landed in Poland.
It began the moment I said yes.
As the team came together, I began noticing something remarkable.
No one had been randomly assembled.
God had gathered this group from different places, different backgrounds, and different walks of life, yet somehow we fit together like pieces of a puzzle that only He could have designed.
Before we ever picked up a paintbrush, God was already building something.
Not just in Poland.
In us.
Our journey wasn't smooth.
Flights were delayed.
Plans changed.
Travel is exhausting.
But something stood out to me.
I don't remember hearing anyone complain.
Instead, I saw people who had already settled something in their hearts:
"We're here to serve."
When your purpose is bigger than your comfort, inconveniences lose their power.
That lesson stayed with me all week.
One of the first divine appointments didn't happen in Poland.
It happened in an airport food court in Atlanta.
Three of us were eating when a man cleaning tables walked over and started talking.
Out of hundreds of people passing through that airport, he chose us.
Or maybe...
God chose him for us.
He was a Vietnam veteran.
A helicopter pilot.
A man with stories that deserved to be heard.
But underneath those stories was grief.
He had been married for nearly sixty years before losing his wife to COVID.
You could hear the loneliness in his voice.
We thought we were waiting on a flight.
God knew someone was waiting for us.
Sometimes ministry looks less like preaching...
and more like listening.
By the time we reached Poland, I had already begun asking myself a question.
How many moments do I normally miss because I'm too busy trying to get to the next destination?
Then we met Adam.
I'll never forget opening the door to his apartment.
The lights weren't on.
The room felt heavy.
The darkness wasn't just in the apartment.
It seemed to have settled into Adam himself.
Even though we couldn't understand each other's language, we understood something else.
Pain.
Pain has its own language.
It doesn't need translation.
Adam didn't know why a group of Americans had traveled across the ocean to help him.
Honestly...
Neither did I.
Not yet.
The first day he barely spoke.
He mostly sat quietly on the floor while we cleaned, painted, and repaired his home.
Some people might have looked at that and wondered whether anything was changing.
But God often does His deepest work where we can't immediately see it.
Sometimes He's repairing hearts while we're busy repairing walls.
As I watched Adam, I couldn't stop thinking about my own life.
Before coming to Poland, my engagement had ended.
My heart was broken.
I had left behind questions I couldn't answer.
I had left behind grief I couldn't fix.
Standing in Adam's apartment, I realized something.
Our pain looked different.
But it pointed us toward the same Savior.
So I wrote him a letter.
Not because I had answers.
But because I knew where hope could be found.
I told him that Jesus had not forgotten him.
As Marta translated my words into Polish, I realized something beautiful.
God didn't need us to share the same language.
He only needed us to share the same Savior.
Something began changing.
Not just in Adam.
In me.
I had come thinking I was there to help someone else.
Instead, God was healing parts of my own heart.
Isn't that just like Him?
We think we're bringing something to God.
Then we discover He has been preparing something for us all along.
One evening PROEM hosted a barbecue for college students.
After working all day, I almost stayed behind.
I was tired.
It would've been easy to skip it.
Then I felt that familiar nudge.
Go.
No explanation.
Just obedience.
So I went.
That night I had conversations with students about Jesus.
Driving back, I couldn't help but smile.
Once again, God knew something I didn't.
How many blessings have we missed because we needed an explanation before we were willing to obey?
As the week came to an end, I kept returning to one thought.
God never wastes pain.
Not mine.
Not Adam's.
Not yours.
Pain has a way of making us believe we've been forgotten.
But Scripture tells a different story.
God sees.
God knows.
God remembers.
Maybe that's why He sent a handful of Americans halfway around the world.
Not simply to paint an apartment.
But to remind one man that Heaven still knew his name.
And maybe...
He was reminding me of the same thing.
When I look back on Poland now, I don't remember paint colors.
I don't remember jet lag.
I don't even remember the long workdays.
I remember seeing God.
I saw Him in an airport conversation.
I saw Him in a rainstorm over lunch.
I saw Him in the laughter of our team.
I saw Him in Adam's apartment.
I saw Him around a barbecue with college students.
I saw Him in the quiet whisper that simply said,
"Go."
And I learned something I'll never forget.
God is already working before He calls us.
He's already preparing the people we'll meet.
He's already arranging the conversations we'll have.
He's already writing the story.
Our part...
is simply to say yes.
Because on the other side of our obedience is often someone else's answered prayer.
He simply asks you to go.
Months ago, I was sitting in church when the words "Mission Trips" appeared on the screen.
Two trips.
That was it.
There wasn't a sales pitch. There wasn't an emotional video. There wasn't a logical reason for me to sign up.
But there was something else.
A quiet voice that wouldn't let me ignore it.
I can't explain it any other way except to say that God was calling me.
At the time, I didn't know why.
I just knew I was supposed to go.
Looking back, I realize something now that I couldn't see then:
The mission trip didn't begin when I landed in Poland.
It began the moment I said yes.
As the team came together, I began noticing something remarkable.
No one had been randomly assembled.
God had gathered this group from different places, different backgrounds, and different walks of life, yet somehow we fit together like pieces of a puzzle that only He could have designed.
Before we ever picked up a paintbrush, God was already building something.
Not just in Poland.
In us.
Our journey wasn't smooth.
Flights were delayed.
Plans changed.
Travel is exhausting.
But something stood out to me.
I don't remember hearing anyone complain.
Instead, I saw people who had already settled something in their hearts:
"We're here to serve."
When your purpose is bigger than your comfort, inconveniences lose their power.
That lesson stayed with me all week.
One of the first divine appointments didn't happen in Poland.
It happened in an airport food court in Atlanta.
Three of us were eating when a man cleaning tables walked over and started talking.
Out of hundreds of people passing through that airport, he chose us.
Or maybe...
God chose him for us.
He was a Vietnam veteran.
A helicopter pilot.
A man with stories that deserved to be heard.
But underneath those stories was grief.
He had been married for nearly sixty years before losing his wife to COVID.
You could hear the loneliness in his voice.
We thought we were waiting on a flight.
God knew someone was waiting for us.
Sometimes ministry looks less like preaching...
and more like listening.
By the time we reached Poland, I had already begun asking myself a question.
How many moments do I normally miss because I'm too busy trying to get to the next destination?
Then we met Adam.
I'll never forget opening the door to his apartment.
The lights weren't on.
The room felt heavy.
The darkness wasn't just in the apartment.
It seemed to have settled into Adam himself.
Even though we couldn't understand each other's language, we understood something else.
Pain.
Pain has its own language.
It doesn't need translation.
Adam didn't know why a group of Americans had traveled across the ocean to help him.
Honestly...
Neither did I.
Not yet.
The first day he barely spoke.
He mostly sat quietly on the floor while we cleaned, painted, and repaired his home.
Some people might have looked at that and wondered whether anything was changing.
But God often does His deepest work where we can't immediately see it.
Sometimes He's repairing hearts while we're busy repairing walls.
As I watched Adam, I couldn't stop thinking about my own life.
Before coming to Poland, my engagement had ended.
My heart was broken.
I had left behind questions I couldn't answer.
I had left behind grief I couldn't fix.
Standing in Adam's apartment, I realized something.
Our pain looked different.
But it pointed us toward the same Savior.
So I wrote him a letter.
Not because I had answers.
But because I knew where hope could be found.
I told him that Jesus had not forgotten him.
As Marta translated my words into Polish, I realized something beautiful.
God didn't need us to share the same language.
He only needed us to share the same Savior.
Something began changing.
Not just in Adam.
In me.
I had come thinking I was there to help someone else.
Instead, God was healing parts of my own heart.
Isn't that just like Him?
We think we're bringing something to God.
Then we discover He has been preparing something for us all along.
One evening PROEM hosted a barbecue for college students.
After working all day, I almost stayed behind.
I was tired.
It would've been easy to skip it.
Then I felt that familiar nudge.
Go.
No explanation.
Just obedience.
So I went.
That night I had conversations with students about Jesus.
Driving back, I couldn't help but smile.
Once again, God knew something I didn't.
How many blessings have we missed because we needed an explanation before we were willing to obey?
As the week came to an end, I kept returning to one thought.
God never wastes pain.
Not mine.
Not Adam's.
Not yours.
Pain has a way of making us believe we've been forgotten.
But Scripture tells a different story.
God sees.
God knows.
God remembers.
Maybe that's why He sent a handful of Americans halfway around the world.
Not simply to paint an apartment.
But to remind one man that Heaven still knew his name.
And maybe...
He was reminding me of the same thing.
When I look back on Poland now, I don't remember paint colors.
I don't remember jet lag.
I don't even remember the long workdays.
I remember seeing God.
I saw Him in an airport conversation.
I saw Him in a rainstorm over lunch.
I saw Him in the laughter of our team.
I saw Him in Adam's apartment.
I saw Him around a barbecue with college students.
I saw Him in the quiet whisper that simply said,
"Go."
And I learned something I'll never forget.
God is already working before He calls us.
He's already preparing the people we'll meet.
He's already arranging the conversations we'll have.
He's already writing the story.
Our part...
is simply to say yes.
Because on the other side of our obedience is often someone else's answered prayer.
