Atlanta

NOTE: I think just about anyone who’s been on a mission trip will tell you it was a life-changing experience. Therefore, I’m sure in the few months after I returned from my mission trip to Atlanta I said the same thing. For a month in my life that I’ve cherished for the last 30 years and counting I don’t have much memory of it. While the trip is something I’ve cherished, it’s not something I’ve shared. I’m sure this experience was overshadowed by the events that occurred in the following years. I didn’t realize how much I hadn’t shared until I sat down to write this. I reached out to a couple of people I met on the trip, who thanks to the invention of social media I’ve been able to keep in touch with to see what they remember in hopes that it would jog my memory. They remembered more than I did. Once I began writing things started coming back to me. While I did get the input of a couple of others who were in Atlanta with me that month, I did the writing myself. As always, to protect identity and confidentially all names have been changed.

Sometime in June of 1994, the summer before my senior year in high school I took off for the inner city of Atlanta, Georgia for a month on my second mission trip. While the rest of the country, perhaps even the world was watching the Los Angeles police chase OJ Simpson’s white Ford Bronco down the freeway I was in downtown Atlanta dressed in head-to-toe black, including a lone ranger mask portraying death to anyone who came to watch our street drama and heard about it when I got home.

My first mission trip was the Christmas break of my freshman year in high school. Even though it was with the same organization it was a shorter trip lasting only 10 days. I think that would’ve been 1991 into 1992. The first and so far, the only new year I rang in in another country, the Caribbean nation of the Dominican Republic. Over the years it’s become quite a tourist destination and I’ve spoken to a handful of people who have visited on vacation. I’ve heard of a few who went on missions as well. The only thing I remember of that trip was being easily identified as Americans wherever we went. Norte Americano as we were called. The last day of the trip before returning to the US was the one fun day and I got to enjoy the Caribbean Sea.

When I started looking for a job years later my passport was used as my second form of identification in place of my social security card. I met a few people in the first few years who thought I was pulling their leg and my passport served another purpose; proof I had been to the Dominican Republic.

As tiny as our church was another girl in our church went to Asia with the same organization in the summer of 1993. My mom tried to get me to go that summer, but I didn’t feel it. My experience in the Caribbean is something I will always remember. It comes in quite handy at getting-to-know-you games, when they have to guess who the person is, however, I had never felt called to overseas missions, much to my mom’s dismay. The verse “go ye into all the world” doesn’t mean you have to leave the country. Your own people are part of the world too. Listen to the song America Again by the late great Carman. It’s fitting it was released in 1993, within a year of my Atlanta trip.

In the summer of 1994 my mom all but forced me to go. She called it giving me a kick in the butt. I remember the conversation telling her I didn’t feel like missions is my calling. I was given the catalog at church and started thumbing through it. In previous years they had been to a lot of South American countries, however they were focusing on Eastern Europe, Asia and Africa. Albania, Thailand, Russia, Botswana, India and even China were among the selections. Nothing jumped out at me and said go here. I was already dreading telling my mom I didn’t want to go when I got to the last page. For the first time, they had decided to take or perhaps keep a team right here in the United States. I ran to the back of the church for my mom like I was running the 100 meter dash to tell her I made my decision. I wanted to stay in my own country and go to Atlanta. She thought I was kidding. She took the catalog, looked at all the countries, and asked me why I didn’t want to go to any of them. It was Atlanta or nothing.

Fundraising efforts started shortly thereafter. We didn’t have GoFundMe back then. We had to mow lawns, sell candy bars and collect pop cans as they are called in Iowa. In early June of 1994 I boarded a flight out of Eppley Airfield in Omaha, Nebraska which I’m sure landed in St. Louis before reaching it’s final destination. All teams, regardless of country met in Miami for a few days of training before departure for their mission trip.

Upon arrival in Miami, before we even got to the hotel, I met a couple of people who were going to Atlanta as well. Two teams of about 20 people each went to Atlanta for the month. As I’m sure is custom with these kinds of things, say your name, where your from and why you picked Atlanta. Ironically enough, quite a few people had the same story to tell. They weren’t even going to go that summer until they got to the last page of the catalog and saw Atlanta. I did however, encounter a couple of people who got stuck with Atlanta because the other country’s spots filled up faster. However, by the end of it, they were glad they went to Atlanta too.

The city was preparing to host the 1996 Summer Olympics so there was Olympics stuff everywhere. While I don’t have any memory of passing the Olympic Stadium I’m sure we did. As I’m sure you could imagine, prices were sky-high as they readied themselves for the summer games.

Our mornings were spent doing street drama in various places; parks, parking lots and street corners. You name it and we probably did the drama there. Our mission field ranged from little kids all the way up to those old enough to be our grandparents. The one memory of the drama that sticks out to me is the time nobody came, but we did it anyway. Someone could’ve been watching from an upstairs window. I believe there were eight of us who portrayed death in the drama. I’m afraid I don’t remember a drama I did 30 years ago and counting. If I were to see it again I would probably say I remember that.  

Afternoons were spent serving in the community. We cleaned, painted and fed the homeless. We all came to the agreement that except for us all speaking the same language, and eating American food we had the hardest trip. A lot of pizzas were ordered, however one dinner, to give us a feel for what other missionaries had to do in their country we ate MRE (made ready-to-eat) meals.

We partnered with a local ministry. We would refer most people to them in order to help them get back on their feet. The local ministry put together the concert in the projects of the city. We helped them set it up. It was in such a bad area the police didn’t want to enter it at night. One of my fellow missionaries found a baggie of drugs on the ground. A Christian rap group performed. I’m sure the Gospel was presented in a way they could all understand.

This was missions and not a vacation. There were about 40 of us on the floor with sleeping bags. I’m not sure where we stayed. It was a campground with a clubhouse or community center of some kind located in the Atlanta suburb of Tucker. The sleeping area was upstairs. Meals, services and any group activities were downstairs in another big room about the size of a basketball court. Now that I’m thinking of it, I’m remembering basketball hoops. We spent at least one weekend at an extremely hot community center. We took group showers as well. Unless there was some kind of emergency we were limited to two phone calls home.

I’m sure most of us who have been on a mission trip have that one person that we remember. Someone that broke our hearts. One of our last evenings in the city we shared our memories. A couple of people wore white T-shirts to the park and left wearing brown because they got dirty from playing with a kid who hadn’t showered in days. It is true, everyone should go on a mission trip at least once and see how good we have it.

God refreshed my memory and reminded me of a then 11-year-old boy I’ll call Chris. He is the only person, child or adult whose name I remember. We had a few encounters with him throughout the month. He carried a backpack. We often wondered what was in it. One night a group of us prayed that he would put a Bible in his backpack. That 11-year-old boy is over 40 now. While my memory did need some refreshing, I now remember the impact he had on me at the time.

After putting garbage bags on the ground, covering them with liquid soap, turning on the sprinkler, and sliding down the hill in the mud we headed to Stone Mountain National Park for the Fourth of July. The laser show and fireworks display were breathtaking. My favorite was the horse and rider that was brought to life on the mountain. Fireworks I had seen in the past were nothing to write home about.

We made one trip to the Atlanta Underground, which was near the Coca-Cola Museum at least at the time. I don’t think I toured the museum. If I did, I don’t remember it. We also visited the local mall on a couple of occasions, always making sure we were in groups of four. That was a requirement. Atlanta is where I got my first taste of Chick-fil-A. Somewhere in the midst of this, I sent my mom a postcard, complete with Fulton County Stadium, then the home of the Atlanta Braves in the background. We had rooted for the Braves the previous couple of baseball seasons.

As always, trips; missions or vacation have to come an end. We packed up and boarded the bus for the return trip to Miami for at least one day before heading home. The bus ride to Atlanta was in the afternoon, whereas the return ride was overnight. I doubt I slept well. I’ve never been one for sleeping in vehicles.

I didn’t want to leave and everyone had to wipe the tears from my eyes as we were leaving for our return flight. As I look back, I don’t think I was the best missionary I could’ve been. That trip was the first time I had socialized with people in my age group for more than a few hours and gone to the mall with someone other than my mom. I was enjoying having people around. It felt like I had the siblings I had longed for 17 years. I know now that trip was in preparation for the events that would happen not even three years later.

I boarded the plane at Miami International Airport, which I’m sure left for St. Louis before landing in Omaha. Prior to September 11, people could pick us up right at the gate so mom and grandma were there waiting for me with open arms. There were a couple of surprises waiting for me when I got home.