Drafted: Boots on Holy Ground

Teenage Training for the Mission Field

Drafted is the story of a girl who was told she was called, chosen, and set apart — before she even knew who she was. It’s about the rush of revival weekends, the pressure to be holy, and the slow, silent trade of identity for belonging. I grew up on the frontlines of teenage Christianity, armed with a Bible, a purity ring, and a deep need to be enough. If you’ve watched Shiny Happy People, you’ve seen part of the story. But there are thousands of high-control Christian environments that shaped a generation — and I was in one of them. Teen Mania Ministries. Acquire the Fire. The Honor Academy. Follow me as I unravel what it looked like from the inside: faith on fire, identity on the line, and a girl who thought she was saving the world — but was slowly losing herself.
This is my reckoning with the years I spent disappearing into goodness — the story of how I lost my humanity in the name of holiness, and the slow, sacred work of reclaiming it.

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📖 This picks up after Part Two — where I shared how I was groomed for missions under the guise of passion. If the altar was where I enlisted, this is where I started basic training.

No one had to convince me to lay it all down — my sleep, my sweat, my sense of self. I gave it willingly, because purpose felt like fire, and I was ready to burn.

I was ready long before I arrived.

My mom walked me all the way to the gate—back when you still could. Pre-9/11 innocence. She gave me a tight hug and that careful, practiced smile moms use when they’re holding something heavy but don’t want to hand it to you. I hugged her back and boarded my first-ever flight, my heart pounding like it knew something sacred was about to begin.

I was only a little nervous. Mostly, I was relieved.
Relieved that it was finally time. That I was finally being sent.

When I landed in Dallas, the heat hit me like breath from a dragon’s mouth. I spotted the Global Expeditions staff in their matching shirts and lanyards, clipboards in hand, greeting wide-eyed teenagers like me as we trickled off planes from all over the country. Missionaries-in-the-making, each of us carrying overstuffed duffels and the quiet belief that we were answering something divine.

We sat on the floor of the airport for hours, limbs stretched out, laughter already echoing in that way it does when kids sense they’re on the same team. The energy buzzed—nervous, excited, holy.

Eventually, a dusty green bus pulled up to the curb, and we piled in. I remember pressing my forehead to the window, watching the Texas highways blur into trees and gravel and endless sky. I didn’t want to blink. I was a wide-eyed sponge, trying to memorize it all—the red dirt, the sun-faded billboards, the growing hum in my chest that whispered, This is it.

Two hours east of Dallas, we turned down a side road. The sign read: Teen Mania Ministries.
And just like that, I arrived at the place I thought would make me holy.

🧠 The nervous system doesn’t just scan for danger — it scans for belonging. In high-intensity spiritual spaces, that belonging is often earned through matching the group’s passion: the tears, the prayers, the fervor. For a kid wired for approval, joining in isn’t performance — it’s protection.
When belief is loud and collective, conformity feels like connection.
And the flood of safety that follows? It doesn’t just feel emotional — it feels holy.

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🚌 The Road to Missionary Village

The bus took us past the guard booth, past a row of buildings I’d later learn were dorms named after famous missionaries, past the fountain that shimmered like some kind of sacred marker in the Texas sun. Then we turned onto a dusty red clay road and pulled up beside a cluster of concrete slabs, each covered by a curved half-dome.
This was Missionary Village.

We’d been assigned huts based on our destination — Uganda, Panama, India, Peru… and Mexico (Junior Missions, of course). Each trip had its own designated barracks. Mine looked like something between a bunker and a garage, crammed with as many wooden bunks as would fit. No air-conditioning. No insulation. Just a few steel pipes and some stretched fabric separating us from the thick East Texas air.

I slung my duffel bag over my shoulder like a soldier reporting for duty. Bible in one hand, notebook in the other, lanyard around my neck — a badge of purpose. I didn’t complain. I didn’t hesitate.
I marched straight to the opening ceremony.

This moment had been building for years.

The auditorium pulsed with innocence and eagerness — hundreds of teenagers buzzing with anticipation, each of us believing we had been chosen. We had responded to the call and were awaiting our marching orders.

And we would, quite literally, march out of that auditorium, following the flag of the country we were going to save.

⏳ The Blur of It All

The timeline gets fuzzy.

I could blame the exhaustion — the heat, the repetition, the lack of sleep — but honestly, it’s been over twenty-five years. I remember how it felt more than what happened when.
And what it felt like was this: intense, nonstop, holy.

The days ran together in a loop of quiet times, team meetings, rehearsals, chapel services, and whatever was on the schedule to keep our minds and bodies pointed toward the mission. I don’t remember every detail — not the exact meals, not every altar call, not even every team member’s name.
But I remember the atmosphere.

I remember the weight of the heat.
The ache in my feet.
The way we were always just a little tired — and always just a little on fire.

It was the kind of fatigue you didn’t fight.
You offered it up. You wore it like proof that you were all in.

Training lasted only two days.

Two days to become a missionary. To learn the drama. To build a team. To surrender everything that didn’t fit into the vision they cast for us.
And then — we were sent.

The bus rolled south, and we crossed the border with our matching T-shirts, pantomime gospel, and the weight of eternal purpose in our backpacks. I didn’t know it then, but that bus ride marked more than just a change in scenery. It was the turning point between belief and embodiment — between playing the role and becoming it.
And I was all in.

That bus didn’t just carry me to Mexico — it carried me deeper into the role I’d already begun to play. Somewhere between the red clay roads and the border crossing, belief solidified into assignment.
I wasn’t just a participant anymore.
I was a recruit.
And I gave myself to the mission without hesitation.
I was all in.

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🪑 From the Therapist’s Chair
Now, with years of distance and clinical training between me and that red clay road, I can see how clean narratives like these take root — not in spite of who we are, but because of it. Systems like Teen Mania offer ready-made meaning, a template for purpose that feels like peace to a performance-driven nervous system.
It didn’t manipulate me into compliance — it mirrored the wiring I already carried.
And when the scaffolding on the outside matches the scaffolding within, you don’t question it.
You cling to it.

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👉 Coming up next: What happened once we arrived in Mexico — the ministry we were sent to do, the stories we were expected to collect, and the quiet pressure to produce spiritual results.
The mission was to reach them, but it ended up shaping my understanding of faith, identity, and what it meant to be “used by God.”
Read the next post: On the Field — Counting Conversions and Carrying the Cost.