Sosua: Spring Break and Spiritual Stuff

So in October, we started planning. We brought eleven people — nine adults ranging in age from 19 to 79, and two seventeen-year-olds. We designed day programs at two schools built around music, magic tricks, Bible lessons, games, and crafts. This wasn’t a construction trip or a medical mission — though God bless the people who do those things. This was a relationship trip. We connected with kids and adults through play, conversation, and shared worship. We showed up, we sat down, and we stayed present.

But here’s what always happens on trips like this: the people who come to serve end up being the ones who receive.

My team was no exception. One person said, “These kids have, compared to us, almost nothing — and yet they are so happy, so joyful.” Another said, “I experienced unconditional love from children who didn’t even know my name.” That’s the thing about poverty that prosperity has a hard time teaching you: you cannot manufacture that kind of joy. It doesn’t come from square footage or a full refrigerator. It comes from somewhere else entirely.

I learned this years ago when my pastor at the time urged me — honestly, I needed urging — to Belize. And I understood something on that trip I’ve never forgotten: a mission to a developing country isn’t primarily about converting the heathen (them) but it’s about converting the proud (me). That inversion still humbles me.

Cross-cultural experience isn’t a luxury. I believe it’s essential to a well-rounded, spiritually alive life. And I don’t mean boarding a cruise ship, glancing at the scenery from the deck, buying a refrigerator magnet, and sailing home. There’s nothing sinful about a cruise — but there’s a difference between “observing” a world and “entering” it.

A friend of my oldest daughter recently spent six months aboard one of the Mercy Ships. She sailed to Africa, anchored in different ports, and served as hundreds — maybe thousands — of people came aboard for medical care they couldn’t get anywhere else. That’s entering the world.

As a father, I knew my children needed that. To sit with people who are different from them. To laugh with them. To share a meal. To visit their homes, their schools, their churches. To worship in a language you don’t fully speak and discover that worship doesn’t need translation. As a family pastor, I see how much parents and children need shared mission experiences — moments that bond them around something bigger than themselves.

On our first day together, I reminded our team of something I come back to again and again: most people don’t come to faith through condemnation. They come through invitation.

Jesus didn’t corner people. He called them. “Come and see.” “Follow me.” “Come, all you who are weary.” He still does.

We went to the Dominican Republic to offer that same invitation — to children, to their families, their teachers and leaders. And somehow, somewhere along the way, we received one too.

I always come home different. Not dramatically different I guess — I’ve never sold my house or quit my job to head back. But something always shifts. I’m writing this from Sosua, DR, a couple of hours before we head to the airport — and I can already feel it. You spend a few days with kids who grab your hand like you’re the best thing that’s happened to them all week, and it has a way of quietly rearranging your priorities. You start asking different questions on the drive home from work. Different questions at the dinner table. Maybe you hold your phone a little less, and look around more.

And here’s the thing — you can enter and not just observe, too. We’re already talking about 2027. If something in this story stirred something in you, don’t ignore that. That stirring has a name. Talk to me. Or if you want to start somewhere smaller, check out NewMissions.org — you can sponsor a child, support a school, or just learn more about what God is doing in Haiti and the Dominican Republic. It doesn’t take a plane ticket to get involved. Though I’ll be honest — the plane ticket is worth it.

Leading With Imagination,