Life in the Locker Room

What is the first thing that comes to mind when you hear the word, “missionary”?

Is it chacos and tacky pants, unwashed hair and no makeup?

Is it a preacher who shares the Gospel all day, every day?

Is it someone out in the middle of nowhere, who sees the Lord the way Moses did, face to face?

Is it a perfect person? Perfectly holy, perfectly Christian, perfectly… perfect?

That’s what I think of. A goody two shoes who has the whole Bible memorized and finds delight in dirt because it connects her to the Lord, who graciously holds babies who pee on her and giggles when they do, who secretly loves the fact that there’s no running water because then she has an excuse not to shower.

Ok, so the last one might have been true of me, but the rest of it is total garbage.

I ran into some missionaries this past week. They were dressed in normal clothes, and they weren’t on furlough from Africa; their mission field was the gym.

Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome to the congregation the group fitness instructor and the janitor.

“Wait a minute, Natalie,” you say, “missionaries are called to their mission full time. They support raise and fly to exotic places and wear local clothes and…”

Wrong answer, gossip girl.

These women look normal. They were both wearing black, logo workout clothes. One stood in front of a room packed with middle aged women, the other stood out of the way and folded towels. Both make their living in the fitness industry, complete with a paycheck, security, and probably benefits.

The instructor plays high-energy music that also happens to double as thinly veiled worship music. The songs are remixed, so it’s hard to tell (unless you happen to know word- for- word every Christian song since the 90s… which I do). Instead of blasting out songs calling for more sex, more alcohol, and more boys, boys, boys, this lady subliminally messaged into her audience’s mind lyrics that sought the Lord.

Meanwhile, in the hallway between the locker rooms, another sweet lady calmly sorts laundry while the middle aged women march by, are stopped by the kind words offered by this missionary in disguise as a real person, and slowly start to verbally unravel their shockingly messy lives, while every shaky statement uttered is met with accepting eyes and responses leading the confessor straight to Jesus.

It’s unreal.

I know I always say, “where you live is a mission field,” and, “the church is called to be a witness to the world,” and “you don’t have to leave the country to share the Gospel,” but I never imagined that there could be a real mission field in my gym. I mean, seriously. These are the high profile socialite moms who can lift more than their college kids and know how to work it. They shake, shimmy and sweat their way to perfection both in and outside of the large, glass walls at this local fitness center, and they need Jesus, too.

Even though their lives (and bodies) look perfect.

And the people who are getting through to them? The group fitness instructor and the janitor.

Will the real missionaries please stand up? Because these normal, everyday women are about to show us a thing or two about ministry:

It doesn’t have to involve orphans or dirty hair.

It does have to be loving, grace- filled, Spirit- led, every day life.

So what’s your mission field?