Amazing Calls

I'm amazed as I look back on how God called me. It began first with reading a series of books when I was a teenager--books about five missionaries who were speared to death in the jungles of South America. Strange that reading about someone being brutally killed should result in my heart volunteering or being drawn toward the career that brought about their death.

There were five books in the series as I remember. My Sunday school teacher passed them around as others finished reading them. From the first book I felt strangely drawn. Not toward death, but toward missionary service. I quietly counted the cost even if it meant by life, my heart said yes, and peace filled my soul.

Six, seven years later. Poor choices made. Times of questioning God and even of shaking my fist at Him. I was married to a wonderful man, but one who had not come to trust my Jesus for salvation. It was five long, difficult years before that happened.

Even after John came to Christ and, three weeks later, announced that he wanted to start attending church with me, my missionary call seemed lost. I felt that I had "blown it," sinned too much. I knew that God had forgiven my wandering, but I felt I had missed my opportunity to be a missionary. I settled into doing what I could at home--teaching Sunday school, Vacation Bible School, Bible clubs, Christian ed. committee, and much more at my church. I read missionary biographies to my children by the dozen. I prayed God would call others in my place.

But the missionary call only grew louder and more insistent. It grew so strong I could hardly stand it.

I never talked about it with my husand. Not once. He was happy farming. He loved his farm. It was his dream come true, and he never wanted to do anything else. He talked farming by day and yelled at his cows in his sleep at night.

The missonary call for me became so strong that I needed to share it. I began praying with a couple who came to minister at the high school where I taught. I prayed that God would take the burden of this calling away from me, or that He would give it to John. I was sure He would take it from me.

On Palm Sunday 1979, we were driving from our farm in Fremont, IN to Jackson, MI where our kids had been staying for a brief visit with my parents. I was chatting about many things, but John was not responding. "What's the matter?" I asked.

He began crying, sobbing. I had never seen him shed a tear before.

"I just think God is calling us to be missionaries!" He choked out the words. "I think he is calling us to go to Africa as missionaries." He said that morning as he was milking his cows, "minding his own business," it was just as if God was standing right beside him, telling him that he wanted to go to Africa as a missionary. He said that he could think of ten perfectly good reasons why he didn't need to do that, but that God would not let him off the hook.

I wanted to jump through the roof and shout "Hallelujah!" but I was too dumbfounded.

I tried not to act too eager, but after a few minutes I shared with him how I had been feeling the same calling and had been praying about it for two years.

It's now 29 years later. We spent some time getting ready, and we've served in Africa for 27 years--23 of them with Every Child Ministries, the mission we now serve.

Many times when I think of the mountains of difficulties we've faced, I've questioned God's call. Sometimes I've even asked myself if I might be crazy to even attempt the things we've set our sights on. Sometimes that call seems distant and unreal. But in those times I have only to remember that my John Rouster gave up his beloved farm to become a missionary, and there was no doubt whatsoever that God called him and not me. When I remember that, it all becomes real again. It's God's private sign to me that I did hear His call. WE did. Thank You, Lord, for the reality of that call.

Actually, John went to Zaire (now called DRC or Democratic Republic of Congo) with the idea of helping teach agriculture. I went with the idea of teaching English. We understood that those skills were needed in Zaire. John was an agriculturalist and I was a high school English teacher.
When we went, we didn't yet know that our calling was for African children. We only wanted to help out wherever we could.

We did a lot of thing that first term. By the end of it, it was clear that God was calling us to work with children. That idea was a seed that has quietly but steadily grown in our hearts.

A couple years ago I was reading a book that challenged me to think through and write down my life purpose, and to ask God to impress on my mind a Bible verse to claim as my life's purpose. I thought through my many roles--missionary, executive, teacher, trainer, writer. All were true, but none fully captured God's calling on my life. Then I thought of "Mama." People in Africa have called me "Mama Lorella" for a long time. That was it. I thought of Judges 5:7, in which Deborah describes the terrible condition of Israel in her day, "until I arose," she says, "Arose a mother in Israel." She too had many callings--wife, prophetess, judge, warrior. She didn't work alone. She went into battle with Barak. But she was aware of her life having made a difference. When she thought of it, she didn't say "I arose a judge" or "I arose a warrior." She said "I arose a mother in Israel."

I became conscious of having been called as a mother to millions of African children. I haven't labored alone. I've had lots of help. I hope my life has made a positive difference. Conditions for African children were very bad. They needed someone who would take their burdens on her heart. God didn't call me as an executive, although that's one of my roles right now. He didn't call me as a writer, although I do a lot of it. He called me first and foremost in the role I know best and love most. He called me as a mother. A mother to my own precious children and grandchildren first, of course--Carrie, Sharon, John Henry, Kristi--Marissa, Caleb, Serena, Alaina, Elizabeth, Tessa, Jordan, Hannah, John Everett, Whitney and Jenna. He called me as a mother to African children too. Not only Kristi and Whitney that we adopted into our family, but to millions of African children. He laid a continent's children on my conscience, and He stretched my heart to be able to hug them all.

It might sound presumptuous to talk in such big terms. Mother to African children. How could God ask such a thing? But I am delighted that I am not alone in this calling and our family is not alone in this calling. I have come to know others who have a similar burden. Some I have known are Phyllis Kilbourne of WEC International's Rainbows of Hope and Heidi Baker of Iris Ministries in Mozambique. There are many of us, I know. Africa needs many mothers.

So what do I give Africa? I've given her years of service, of course. Sweat, yes, lots of sweat. Tear, yes, lots of tears. Work, yes countless hours of labor. Prayers. Well, I don't claim to be the greatest prayer warrior in the world, but yes, I've given lots of prayers. Money, lots. The years of my life. But mostly I have given her my heart. I have loved her children. You see, God called me to be a mother to Africa.

Next time: The terrifying vision God gave me