Two years ago today, I returned from a six-month trip through Southern Africa. While the trip was fruitful and goals were accomplished, Africa caught me by surprise.

Many of us [most of us, I assume] have had glimmers of fantasy concerning Africa. We imagine ourselves holding orphaned black children, dancing to beating drums around fires, and preaching to the masses. In such fantasies, we look rugged. Men, we have beards and dirt on our faces. Women, you have your hair pulled back and a long skirt on. Such reveries are common.

When we see Angelina Jolie and Brad Pitt, Oprah, Madonna, and Bono performing their various humanitarian exploits in such an iconic fashion, it’s only natural to desire to do the same. We can’t help it. [Messiah Complex is contagious].

The reality I returned with on February 15, 2008 was completely different than the fantasy I developed when purchasing airfare, reading travel guides, and packing bags. Although I had once before visited Africa, it was only for two weeks. A measly two weeks, I now concur.

While still at the airport, with friends and family wishing “safe travels” and “bon voyage,” my excitement was difficult to contain. I was absorbed in romanticism. Six months, I thought, would be far too short–– only a whetting of my appetite for the continent. Little did I know, however, that those six months would be some of the most wearisome (emotionally, physically, and spiritually) months of my life.

My friend Cam and I travelled to many corners of Southern Africa–– through Malawi, Mozambique, Zambia, and Zimbabwe. Our trip was filled with adventure, joy, and ministerial success.

And mundaneness.

And loneliness.

And feebleness.

And disappointment.

Being the dangerously optimistic person that I am, many of my expectations were unmet at the consummation of our trip. The satisfaction I had hoped for (through opportunities at heroism, benevolence, and conditional contentment) was hardly obtained… When I returned home, there was still a void inside.

I’ve concluded that I was jaded by the common romanticized portrayal of Africa. I had unrealistic expectations of the continent. I thought I’d live happily ever after on red soil in the company of smily black people, enjoying beautiful sunsets, exotic wildlife, soccer, and mangoes. (Naïvety at its finest). The same emptiness that I sought to fill during my African expedition haunted me on February 15, 2008.

The weeks and months that followed my return to the States were crucial. It was up to me to work up another hankering to fill that lingering void. It was my job to grapple with expectations unmet and dreams unfulfilled. In that season, I found a Man who could help me with this. He affirmed me, mending my broken places. He gave to my heart a certain balm, anointing, to help it recover. He plundered my negative thoughts and feelings of disappointment. And I rallied to victory, gaining fresh perspective.

So, this is my counsel to any and all who dream of third-world long-term ministry: look to Jesus to fulfill your dreams. Don’t allow Africa (nor Asia, Europe, Oceania, South America, urban America) obliterate your expectations, because it (they) will. To all who are allured by understaffed orphanages and remote villages: be wooed by God, not the transformation nor revolutionization of those places. To all who dream of happiness amidst poverty and shoddy conditions: fantasize of happiness with Jesus, regardless of setting. Conditions, cultures, heroism, charity, travel, and people in and of themselves will never (ever) satisfy you.

[If I'm coming across as burnt out/ regretful/ let down, I'm getting my point across].

That’s what I learned on my trip to Africa.

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