The Adventist Missionary Hat

by Abigail duman

The old bridge crossing over the Rubi River into Buta, Democratic Republic of the Congo, was questionable, even to my 22-year-old mind. Every few seconds of progress were marked by a sharp crack through the air as the wheels of the Toyota Land Cruiser shifted between spaces made by missing boards. Gaping holes in the bridge’s sides provided me with a picturesque view of flowing waters below a sunset of pink and orange hues.

Then suddenly, with a final bump and a jolt, our Land Cruiser crossed the bridge. As soon as the vehicle hit the dirt-packed streets, I heard a rumble from an alleyway just ahead, and a man on a motorcycle shot in front of us. His shouts interspersed with the steady beeping of his horn as he heralded our way through town to our Adventist host family.

A wave of excitement coursed through the locals as the two-vehicle parade charged through town. I wonder who he is and where he got his hat, I thought as I watched the man on the motorcycle. He wore no motorcycle helmet or ball cap—this hat was unlike anything I had ever seen in the Congo. It reminded me of a captain’s hat.

He led the way to a sandy yard where a band of believers met us. They had been expecting us, for the beans were cooked and sombeii (pounded cassava leaves) bubbled from a pot over a charcoal burner. The family clapped and sang, while the man swung a leg over his motorcycle and stepped into the sidelines.

As soon as the greetings were over, the senior missionaries in our group began to talk about the dental clinic, while the handful of volunteers wondered where to find a shower and a spot to set up sleeping tents in the yard. It had been a full day’s trek over the river and through the tropical woodlands.

The next day, our makeshift dental clinic swarmed with patients. “There’s only one dentist in the entire province,” the visiting missionary in charge said grimly. “That’s a province of more than 1 million people.”

During the next few days I spotted the man several times—always wearing the same navy blue hat. He carried himself with gentle dignity and hovered beside the bamboo pavilion where the team worked, ready to assist with anything that we might need. 

One day my curiosity about his hat got the better of me. “May I ask a question?” I turned to an interpreter. “Can you ask this man about his hat?” Our translator rambled a sentence or two in the local language. The man straightened. His eyes gleamed as he spoke. The translator turned back to me. “He says that it is an Adventist missionary hat.”

His words cut quick to my heart. This man thinks that every Adventist is a missionary. He recognized that we were a team to touch the world together. He wore his hat as a reminder that he was set apart to make a difference in his corner of the world, to herald the arrival of the greatest Visitor (Jesus) Buta could ever hope to receive someday.

It’s amazing to think that I have church family all over the globe, and together God is using us to spread a message of hope. Being an Adventist missionary requires being willing to take risks and accept challenges—sometimes much greater than crossing a broken bridge and feeling bone-weary after a day’s travel for the sake of the gospel. Being an Adventist missionary calls for one to see others through Jesus’ eyes. Being an Adventist missionary means simply loving other people. It’s a hat that anybody can wear, and one that nobody should ever take off.