Yeah, I have my doubts.

My friends ask me if I have doubts.

They ask if I ever doubt the existence of God. Or sometimes they ask if I wonder wether we’ve misinterpreted His calling on our lives. But what they’re really asking is if I worry that we’ve left our stable income and fancy retirement plan and hip little house in the suburbs, complete with 42 inch flat screen and Turkish travertine floors, and uprooted our children to drag our sorry butts to Central America, all to serve a God that maybe doesn’t exist, or doesn’t care, or, perhaps, just doesn’t want us here.

When I’m being honest, I say yes.

I have doubts. I mean, really – have you met me? This is not my life. This is not my dream. This dream belongs to the girl that invited me to Christian camp in the 7th grade. The one I wasn’t allowed to go to because my Dad didn’t want some weak-minded-Bible-thumping-Jesus-freak shoving the propaganda of organized religion down his daughter’s throat. I’m not exactly the selfless, smiling, modestly dressed missionary you imagine serving her family tuna-casserole twice a week. I’m not that woman, and I wasn’t that girl. I never wanted to be a missionary.

Don’t think I don’t feel bad about that either.

I do.

Stealing someone else’s dream is a rotten thing to do. I feel really bad when I think that maybe there’s been some giant cosmic error, and God sent the wrong chick. And that poor girl, the one living my life? I think of her standing in a Manhattan loft over looking Central Park, the Nanny’s out with the kids. Her fingers are gliding along the pearls at her throat, and she’s wondering how it is that her new Manolo Blahniks fit her like a glove, but the rest of her life is all…wrong. Poor thing.


I don’t actually believe that I’m the living, breathing, consequence of some divine mistake (man, I would be so bitter if that were the case.), but I usually don’t bother explaining to my curious non-Christian friends that my doubts lie not with God, but with the church.

I’ve met an awful lot of Christians that seem to think they’ve got it all figured out, but I highly doubt they’re right.

I doubt they know God as well as they think.

I doubt that God thinks they’re as awesome as they act.

I doubt I’m even close to getting it right, either.

And I have no doubt that I was chosen for this life, but I sometimes doubt that it was a good choice.

Ask anyone, and they’ll tell you I’m not exactly the poster-child for gentleness and kindness. The truth is, I find most people…irritating. I don’t like being poor, I don’t want to be touched, and I’m pretty much entirely self-oriented, hell, I don’t even recycle all the time. I’m an odd choice for this job, to say the least.

But I doubt God didn’t factor all of that in…


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