Probably because my grandparents were missionaries, I had a desire from a young age to be a missionary. To some that might sound like the strangest thing. But for me in my family context, it was just the most normal thing. There are a few missionaries littered across the branches of the family tree and missionaries were frequently around.

I started learning French when I was in Year 5. I still remember getting my next-door neighbour’s hand-me-down high school French exercise book (which I still have) and sitting out in my back garden and reading it one afternoon.

That was a while ago. I still haven’t mastered French or Chinese, which I started learning much more recently. They’re both only at ‘survival’ level.

Definitely better survival with French though.

For a number of years I had ‘missionary in France’ on the list. I had no desire to study theology (that seemed utterly boring) but telling the Europeans about the Lord was for me.

Until a conference, which I realise was 20 years ago now, at which I attended the French missionary session. I should have loved it but discovered myself in the session wanting to return to a completely different session that I’d attended the day before.

It was weird. I couldn’t understand why I just didn’t seem interested.

Since then I have taken a different path which God planned instead. I always wanted to master the French language too, but that hasn’t happened yet. Potentially part of the appeal of being a missionary was that I always wanted to be a polyglot.

That hasn’t happened either. When I found myself working in a Languages staffroom some years later with people who actually were fluent in multiple languages it felt like God was mocking my desires.

But maybe he wasn’t. Maybe he was just saying that he knew and he remembered.

Recently someone gave me a note asking if they could pray for me. They wrote the note on an old, used envelope. An envelope for ‘France Mission’. The day before I was given the note, I’d been in the city and walked by a few guys who were clearly speaking French. I even knew what they were saying in the few sentences I caught as I walked by.

Is God telling me it’s now time to think again about being a missionary in France?

I don’t think so.

Although, I couldn’t help but click the short-term mission page on the mission’s website.

I think he was just telling me that he knew, and he remembered. Because he’s a God who never forgets.

Yours still serving Down Under,

Alison