This will be my very first mission trip to Vietnam—and it carries with it more than just excitement. It’s a long-held dream finally coming to life, one that has lived quietly in my heart for years. When my children were younger, I knew I couldn’t just leave them and go. My responsibilities at home were always my top priority. Their needs, their presence, their laughter and chaos—those were the center of my world. But now that they’re older, more independent, and walking their own journeys, I finally feel the nudge from within: it’s time.
Still, I’ll admit—this will be the longest I’ve ever been away from my family, and that’s not something I take lightly. I will miss them deeply. I’ll miss the rhythm of our home, the inside jokes, the everyday moments that seem ordinary but are really the threads that weave our lives together. Stepping away, even temporarily, stirs a quiet ache in my heart. Yet at the same time, it strengthens my resolve. Because I know I’m not just going away—I’m going towards something that matters.
For as long as I can remember, I’ve carried a desire to serve in a different country—to go beyond my comfort zone and extend help to those who have so little. Particularly children. There’s something about the innocence of children, their vulnerability and potential, that tugs at my spirit. I’ve always felt called to do something meaningful for them, to offer love and support where the world may have overlooked or forgotten them. This mission trip is the answer to that call.
But as I prepare, I’ve had to ask myself honestly: What can I really offer on this mission trip? I’m not arriving with all the answers or grand solutions—but I am bringing something just as important: a willing heart, open hands, and the desire to serve with love. And maybe that’s all I need to bring.
We often assume that mission work requires extraordinary talent or resources. But I’ve come to understand that the most powerful offerings are often the simplest ones: presence, compassion, and humility. A kind word, a listening ear, or simply showing up with genuine care—these small acts can become vessels for God’s grace. That’s what I hope to give: my time, my attention, my prayers. I don’t just want to give—I want to learn. To listen. To be changed. Because mission work is not a one-way act of charity—it’s a sacred exchange. We offer what we can, and in return, we are offered transformation.
In truth, while I go with a heart ready to serve, I am aware that I will also receive—perhaps even more than I give. I may receive new perspective, as I step into a different way of life and see how joy, faith, and love thrive even in places where material things are scarce. It’s easy to get caught up in our own world and forget that abundance is not always visible. Sometimes, it’s found in the strength of a mother who sings to her child despite hunger, or in the laughter of children who have so little yet radiate so much light.
I may receive wisdom from the very people I hope to help. Their stories of endurance, of grace under hardship, will no doubt humble me. And I may also receive healing—because in stepping away from my routine, I’m making space for God to whisper, to restore, to move in my heart in ways I may not expect. And perhaps most beautifully, I will encounter Christ in others—in their hospitality, their hope, their struggles and triumphs. These sacred encounters are what make a mission trip not just something we do, but something that changes us from the inside out.
As I go, I am also more aware than ever of the posture I want to carry—not one of pity, but of mercy. This difference matters deeply. Pity, while well-intentioned, can come from a place of distance. It can feel passive—feeling sorry for someone without truly seeing them. Mercy, on the other hand, is active. It gets close. It walks alongside. It costs us something—our time, our comfort, our assumptions. Mercy is rooted in love and humility, and it sees the other not as less, but as equal, worthy, human. I don’t want to serve from a place of feeling sorry—I want to serve with a heart willing to be moved, to be inconvenienced, to kneel down and love as Christ would.
In reflecting on this upcoming journey, I’ve also been thinking about the ways I’ve already encountered Christ’s love in my own life. There have been seasons where I was broken, when grief and pain clouded everything—and yet, even then, love found me. I remember one particular time when a friend simply sat with me in silence. No fixing, no advice—just presence. They held space for me, prayed with me, and reminded me that I was not alone. That was Christ, showing up in human form. That was Christian love in its most powerful expression.
And so, I carry that memory with me as I go. I want to be that kind of presence for someone else. I want to be the person who doesn’t just show up to help, but who sees, listens, and loves. Who respects and learns, who receives and gives in equal measure. Because that’s what mission is. It’s not just about doing good—it’s about becoming good, becoming more like Christ in the way we relate to one another.
I don’t expect this mission trip to be easy. I know I will be challenged, perhaps even shaken. I know I will cry, and I know I will laugh. I know I will miss my family and long for home. But I also know that I will return changed. With a fuller heart, a broader vision, and a deeper sense of God’s presence in the world.
This is my first mission trip to Vietnam, but it’s not just a trip—it’s the beginning of something more. A new chapter of faith in action. A dream long delayed, finally fulfilled. A gift I’m both giving and receiving.
And I pray that in all of it—in the going, the serving, the missing, the loving—I may carry the heart of Christ wherever I step. That in every smile, every story, every shared meal or prayer, God’s love will be made known. That’s all I could ever hope for. And that’s enough.
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