I never planned to be a missionary.

When I arrived in Lebanon, I wasn't there because I had a grand vision for ministry or a burning call to reach the nations. I was there because I was broken and needed to heal. Sometimes the best thing you can do when your life falls apart is go somewhere completely unfamiliar and serve people whose problems make yours look small.

So there I was. The reluctant missionary. Unable to speak Arabic. Unsure of my role. Tagging along with a team to visit Syrian refugee families in their homes in Tyre.

I had no idea what I was doing. But I figured God did, so I showed up.

The Most Embarrassing Question

We were sitting in a small apartment with a Syrian family—a mother, three daughters, and a young son. They had fled the war and were now trying to survive in Lebanon, a country that didn't exactly roll out the welcome mat for refugees.

The visit was going fine. The team was connecting with the family through a translator. I was mostly observing, happy just to see how they lived, to be present, to learn.

Then the team leader turned to me and asked, "Michael, has God given you anything to say to this family?"

I froze.

Every good Christian knows this moment. You're supposed to have something. A word. A scripture. A prophetic encouragement. Something spiritual and meaningful that proves you're tuned into God's frequency.

I had nothing.

Absolutely nothing.

I had to admit it out loud, which was equal parts funny, embarrassing, and humbling. Here I was, a guy with decades of ministry experience, a PhD in psychology, years of helping people navigate their darkest moments—and I was sitting in a refugee family's living room with nothing to offer.

But here's what I realized in that moment: if God hadn't given me anything yet, I could wait until He did.

So I waited.

When God Finally Spoke

Toward the end of the visit, it happened.

Clear as day, I heard it: Offer to teach English to the kids.

Now, I had never taught English before. I had no curriculum, no training, no plan. But I'd learned enough about hearing from God to know that when He speaks, you don't argue. You just obey and figure out the details later.

So I asked the mother, through the translator, if she would like me to help her children learn English.

Her reaction was not what I expected.

She looked at me with suspicion. Maybe fear. She pointed at me several times, her voice rising, clearly agitated. Something was very wrong.

The translator stepped in, and after a tense exchange, I finally understood.

The week before, a man had approached this mother. He wanted to purchase one of her daughters. Or marry one of them. In the world of Syrian refugees—vulnerable, displaced, without protection—this kind of predatory behavior is horrifyingly common. Young girls are targets.

And here I was, a strange American man, offering to spend time with her daughters.

Of course she was suspicious. Of course she was scared. She was protecting her children the only way she knew how.

I quickly assured her through the translator that I only wanted to help them learn English. Nothing more. I wasn't there to exploit her family. I was there to serve.

She studied me for a long moment. Then she agreed.

What Happened Next

Over the following three months, I built a relationship with that family.

I taught the kids English—figuring it out as I went, which is basically the story of my life. The girls started coming to church, which was genuinely dangerous for a Syrian refugee family in Lebanon. But they loved the community. They loved the people.

The only other American missionary in Tyre started giving them music lessons. We got the family new beds. We cleared the bed bugs out of their tiny apartment. Small things that made an enormous difference in their daily lives.

And slowly, trust grew.

The mother who had pointed at me with fear and suspicion became a friend. The daughters who had every reason to distrust strange men opened up and flourished. The little boy started learning English phrases and showing off for anyone who would listen.

It was beautiful. And it never would have happened if I had forced something in that living room instead of waiting for God to speak.

The Photo That Says Everything

The photograph at the top of this post is of the three sisters. They asked me to take their picture one Sunday after church.

Think about that for a moment.

A few months earlier, their mother thought I might be trying to buy or marry one of them. Now they were asking me to capture their smiling faces after worship. Lebanese people love having their pictures taken, sure. But this was more than that.

This was trust. Hard-earned, slowly-built, genuine trust.

That photo represents everything that happened between that awkward first visit and the day they felt safe enough to say, "Take our picture."

God is good.

What I Learned About Hearing from God

If you find it difficult to hear from God, I get it. I've been there—sitting in that living room with nothing to say while everyone waited for something profound.

Here's what I've learned: hearing from God isn't about forcing it. It's about patience.

We get so fixated on having the right words at the right moment. We think spiritual maturity means always being ready with a scripture or a prophetic word or a perfectly timed insight. And when we don't have anything, we feel like failures.

But sometimes God's timing isn't our timing. Sometimes the most spiritual thing you can do is admit you have nothing and wait.

Slow down. Listen carefully. Be receptive to what God might say instead of anxious about what you think you should say. Allow things to unfold naturally instead of forcing them to happen on your schedule.

Our ultimate goal is to align with God's will. And that's only possible if we're willing to wait for Him to speak—even when it's embarrassing, even when everyone is looking at us, even when we feel like we should have something and we don't.

I had nothing in that living room. Nothing except a willingness to wait.

And then God spoke. And everything changed for that family.

The Reluctant Missionary's Lesson

I went to Lebanon to heal. I was broken and needed somewhere to put my pain into perspective. Serving refugees whose children were being targeted by predators, whose homes had been destroyed by war, whose entire lives had been uprooted—that has a way of recalibrating your own suffering.

But I received more than I gave. I always do.

I learned that God uses reluctant people. Hesitant people. People who show up without a plan and admit they have nothing to offer. He doesn't need our eloquence or our preparation or our impressive spiritual credentials.

He just needs our willingness to wait. And then our willingness to obey when He finally speaks.

Three sisters are flourishing today because I waited. Because I didn't force something that wasn't there. Because when God finally gave me something to say, I said it—even though it didn't make sense and I had no idea how to teach English.

That's how it works. You show up. You wait. You listen. You obey.

And sometimes, three months later, those same girls ask you to take their picture after church.

If you're in a season of waiting—for direction, for healing, for clarity—be patient. God speaks to those who are willing to listen, even when the timing feels impossibly slow.

You can text me at (303) 435-2630  or email [email protected] if you want to talk about hearing from God or navigating a difficult season.

Have you ever had a moment where God's timing was completely different from yours? What happened when you waited? Share in the comments—your story might encourage someone else who's in the middle of their own waiting season.