“Lord, please show me what to do,” I sighed. “I’m trying to serve You here, but it’s not cutting it.”
For over three years I went through the motions of Christian service, but my heart did not palpitate with joy. Then I concluded, God is through with me. I’ll just have to do the best I can.
Then Ron, a missionary to the Navajo, came to our church. He perceived that my heart was not really in my Christian service. He asked me, “What about the Navajo?”
I replied, “I’m not called to the Navajo.” I reasoned, The Navajo language is too hard. I can speak a little Spanish. I think God can use me with the Spanish people.
However, nothing opened up with the Spanish-speaking or any other door. One door opened—I did not want to go to the Navajo.
Ron returned one year later. Again he preached for one week in our church. “Come visit us,” he invited me. “Plan to stay a week or two.”
Wow! I thought. I don’t get many vacations. I’ll take this opportunity to get away. I said, “Okay, I’ll go for a week.” That one week changed my life.
One day we bounced sixty-five miles in a Volkswagen Bug. Finally, we arrived at Whitewater, a remote area on the backside of the Navajo reservation.
We walked into a small building. Don started a fire in the wood stove. Berta took an empty coffee can, filled it with water and coffee, and set it on the stove. We ate our lunch and washed it down with sweet ice tea and coffee. In the corner of the room sat an old dusty piano.
Before the service we went visiting. A young Navajo woman said, “Yá’áát’éáh” (a Navajo greeting) as I approached her.
“Yá’áát’éáh,” I replied. I just spoke a word in that impossible language, I thought.
Then we returned to the meeting house where a small crowd had gathered. As I played the rusty upright piano, The people sang in Navajo. Something in my heart kept rhythm with the strange words.
Later, I asked Don, “Bro. Don does yá’áát’éáh mean hello?”
He replied, “You’re a pretty good Navajo. God answered my argument, “I can never learn that language,” with one word.
However, I still protested, “I’m not called to the Navajo.”
My last evening in Navajoland I spent in the guest room with my Bible. I turned to Isaiah 42:6, 7: “I the Lord have called thee in righteousness…To open the blind eyes, to bring out the prisoners from the prison, and them that sit in darkness out of the prison house.”
God spoke to me. “Who is as blind as the Navajo? Do they not sit imprisoned by a hopeless religion and in spiritual darkness? Lynn, I want you to go to the Navajo.” I knew God had called me, a single woman, to the Navajo.
When we obey, God blesses. He gave me a husband, Leon, a missionary to the Navajo. He does not call all of us to be missionaries, but He does call each of us to do His will.