I have long been inspired by the story of Ann Judson, the first wife of Adoniram Judson. Even as a teenager, I was struck by Ann’s heart for those who had not yet heard the gospel, especially for women who had little to no chance of ever hearing. Among other things, God used the story of Ann Judson to shape my heart for the nations. I was emboldened to sacrifice much so that there might be more at that final feast.
Before we left for the field, my husband and I counted the cost. We grieved the life we would never know. Our friend group living our early post-college years would never be the same. We wouldn’t watch basketball games anymore with our small group at church. We wouldn’t get to see our nieces and nephews grow up, and our kids wouldn’t have close relationships with our friends and family. We let go of our dog, our house and car, our cultural literacy, our language proficiency, and conveniences. I wept over long runs, playing in the garden, church community, and decorating in a style I loved. We forsook the illusion of the known, predictable, and expected for the unknown.
While the cumulative cost seemed significant, we didn’t know what we were getting into. What a grace of the Lord that most of us do not know the true cost. But still we went out with hope and great expectation that what we were doing mattered. Our hearts were beating with the zeal that more might call on his name. We believed that the Lord would meet us, comfort us, and sustain us. We might have been brave, but we were certainly naïve.
As we weathered storms and faced increasingly greater costs, we pushed on. A few in our family had near death experiences, there was significant oppression, our health took massive irreparable hits, relationally we bore scars, and our retirement fund was not much to speak of.
What was less noticeable, and yet still deeply painful, was how this life shaped us. How our time on the field stunted relationships “back home,” impacted our kids’ educational pathways, scattered our support structure, isolated us from many who knew us, deconstructed our carefully constructed worldview, and reordered our priorities. We didn’t fit in our new land. And when we lost our visas, we learned all too quickly that we certainly didn’t fit in in the land of our birth—not many understood the risk or valued the cost, even fewer still noticed the toll.
At the time, I didn’t know how to publicly process the losses, believing that my stoicism or toxic positivity were the “holy response” to our losses. Surely, I couldn’t let people know that the people of God suffer—wouldn’t that be a stain on his reputation? Also, if I told too many of the hard stories, would people think I was bragging or looking for attention?
Some of our hardships made it into our letters—I shared some, asking for prayer. Many times, we were grossly misunderstood, put on a pedestal because of our suffering, and asked if we just wanted to “come home.” Thankfully, along the way, we found a few friends—treasures—who bore witness to our hearts and our stories. After a while, many of the struggles found their home in my journals and prayers where I poured out my heart to the Lord, asking for relief, pleading with him to change situations, and praying that he would be glorified in us and among the peoples we grew to love.
Twenty years and three countries later, I am so grateful for how the Lord has sustained us and met us. Even still, I periodically pause to grieve the long-term cost we have paid along the way. As I return to Ann’s stories, I am reminded of one of the sentences I have long pondered: “The years had taken their toll.” Treasuring this phrase had helped me as I weathered different storms. In many ways, my starry-eyed self who first went to the field carried a warped understanding of scripture: that in our being “more than conquerors,” the trials wouldn’t take a toll. That phrase and the story of the Judsons gave me permission to be sober-minded, grieve the costs, stomp my feet at injustice and evil, and let the Father comfort me. Additionally, I had carried a warped understanding of risk—that the costliest options were the holiest. Somehow in the phrase about Ann, I found permission to discern costly choices, ensuring that I stewarded that which the Father had entrusted to me with his wisdom and guidance.
We are not promised an easy road. In our lifetime, we may have nothing to show for our efforts. To much of the watching world, we are on a fool’s errand. There is a cost. It is steep, it leaves a mark, and it hurts.
Sisters, as you endure this journey to which you have been called, may your hearts continue to long for our heavenly home. May you be encouraged that your labor is not in vain, may you be deeply comforted by the one who called you, and may you be sure that you will never walk alone.
How has the “toll of the years” shaped you, both positively and negatively? What would you want to tell your younger self before she left for the field? What would she want to tell you?
