“Don’t Tell Anyone”

Guarding the Vision: Lessons in Sacrifice and Trust With Advice I Never Expected.

It was a warm afternoon as I strolled across the campus of Loma Linda University, my alma mater. The familiar paths felt both nostalgic and inspiring. I had graduated medical school, completed my residency, and now worked in the job I had dreamt of for years. My journey into medicine wasn’t born out of a desire for prestige or wealth—it had always been about becoming a medical missionary. I had devoured everything I could find in the Spirit of Prophecy, immersing myself in the principles and ideals of medical ministry. This was the life I envisioned.

Now, I was living it. I worked for the church, earning a pastor’s modest salary, and collaborated with pastors in the community, striving to improve health and share the gospel. My medical school years had been challenging; reconciling what I learned with my convictions was no easy task. I feared the training would only prepare me for commercial medicine, a model that felt so distant from the ministry-focused work I aspired to. But despite those challenges, I persevered, completed my residency, and became board-certified in family medicine.

After a year in my position, I felt deeply fulfilled. This was everything I had dreamed of—combining medicine and ministry, working for God, and touching lives. As I walked the campus that day, hands in my pockets, my head slightly bowed, I couldn’t help but reflect on the immense effort it had taken to get here. The struggles, the doubts, the moments of exhaustion—all of it had been worth it.

Lost in thought, I barely noticed where my feet were leading me until I found myself standing in front of a door. It read: Dr. Lyn Behrens, President, Loma Linda University. I stopped and stared at the sign for a moment, unsure why I felt drawn to it. On a whim, I reached out and opened the door.

The cool air inside was a sharp contrast to the heat outside, instantly refreshing. A secretary stood behind a counter, noticing me immediately. She approached with a polite smile and asked, “Can I help you?”

I hesitated, realizing I hadn’t planned any of this. “I’m…not sure,” I admitted, feeling awkward.

“I’m…not sure,” I admitted, feeling awkward.

She tilted her head, clearly puzzled. “Are you here to see Dr. Behrens?”

“I…guess so,” I replied, unsure myself. Her expression shifted to one of polite suspicion, but she maintained her professionalism.

“What’s your name?” she asked, and I told her. Then came the inevitable follow-up: “What can I tell her you’re here for?”

There was an even longer pause this time. Finally, I said, “I don’t really know.”

To her credit, she didn’t send me packing. Instead, she simply nodded and said, “Let me see if Dr. Behrens is available.” She disappeared into the back office, leaving me to stand there, wondering what on earth I was doing.

A moment later, she returned with a smile. “Dr. Behrens will see you now.”

I followed her into a spacious office filled with light streaming through a massive window that overlooked the campus. A large desk sat before the window, and to the left was a cozy seating area with a couple of chairs and a small table. Dr. Behrens rose from behind her desk as I entered, her warm smile and outstretched hand immediately putting me at ease.

“Dr. Torquato! How lovely of you to stop by!” she said in her pleasant Australian accent, as if she’d known me for years. “Please, come in. What can I do for you?”

Her genuine warmth caught me off guard, and I stumbled over my words. “I, uh…I didn’t really plan this. I was just walking around the campus, reminiscing, and…I guess I ended up here.”

She laughed gently and gestured toward the seating area. “Well, I’m glad you did. Have a seat. Tell me what’s on your mind.”

As we sat, I shared my story—why I had pursued medicine, my dream of becoming a medical missionary, and the challenges I’d faced along the way. I told her about my current work, partnering with pastors to combine ministry and medicine, and how fulfilling it had been. Finally, I admitted that I wasn’t sure why I’d come to her office but asked if she had any advice for someone just starting out as a new physician and a medical missionary.

She listened intently, her expression thoughtful. When I finished, she nodded slowly and said, “Dr. Torquato, I do have some advice for you. But first, let me tell you this: the work you are doing is exactly what we’ve been called to do as a people. It is sacrificial, profound, and rooted in principles that matter deeply. You are not alone.”

Her words struck a chord. I hadn’t told her how isolating the path of medical ministry sometimes felt, yet she seemed to understand. She repeated it, as if to emphasize the point: “You are not alone. Many before you have pursued this work with the same spirit of sacrifice and commitment. Some succeeded, some struggled, but all were following the convictions God had placed in their hearts. You are part of something much bigger than yourself.”

I felt a wave of gratitude, knowing that someone in her position understood and valued this work.

Then she leaned forward slightly, her tone shifting. “Now, here’s my advice: Don’t tell anyone.”

I blinked, confused. “Excuse me?”

“Don’t tell anyone,” she repeated.

“Don’t tell anyone,” she repeated.

“I don’t understand,” I said, shaking my head. “I’m trying to build a ministry. Wouldn’t I want people to know, so they can join me?”

She smiled knowingly. “You’re doing important and sacrificial work, it is a grand work, but you’re young and inexperienced in it and everyone wants to be part of something grand.  If you share broadly, wise people will notice what you’re doing and want to join you—but not because they’ve sacrificed as you have, but because they want to be part of something grand. They’ll join you, come close, and become your confidants. Eventually, you will look to them for advice, and they will influence your decisions. And because they haven’t made the same sacrifices, they will lead you in a direction you’re not prepared to resist.

“If the Lord is truly in your work, He will bring you the help you need, exactly when you need it. If He isn’t, you wouldn’t want the work to continue in the wrong direction anyway, would you? So trust Him. Be patient. And don’t tell anyone.”

Her words felt counterintuitive, even backward, but something about them resonated deeply. Over time, those words would shape the way I approached my ministry, teaching me lessons I might not have otherwise learned until it was too late. They revealed to me the significance of safeguarding my vision, the importance of humility, and the wisdom in waiting on God’s timing. I came to understand that ministry isn’t built by shouting your plans from the rooftops but by bending your knees in prayer and letting God align the right people at the right time.

In the decades that followed, her advice proved to be a guiding principle in my work. When I honored her counsel, I saw my ministry grow in ways that felt intentional and God-led. I was able to visualize and resist some of the difficulties that would have risen from advice of those who had not demonstrated humility or willingness to sacrifice, but wanted to be part of something grand. On the rare occasions when I strayed from it, I experienced the kind of setbacks she had so accurately warned about—partnerships that lacked shared sacrifice, decisions influenced by those without the same convictions, and the confusion that comes from too many voices and which sometimes lead me in ways I was not prepared to resist.

Decades later, I look back on that chance meeting with immense gratitude. What I thought was a random stop at her office turned out to be an orchestrated moment of divine intervention. Dr. Behrens’ wisdom has guided me in ways I couldn’t have imagined by helping me guard the vision that came with sacrifice. Though I haven’t seen her in person since that day, I’ve spoken with her on the phone to thank her for the insight she shared in those few brief moments. Her kindness, her understanding, and her counsel left a mark on my life that I will never forget.

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