There is no routine, no blueprint really, no specific “guidelines” for and in my missionary-life.

David’s face was etched with hints of the thirty one years on the mission field but he carried it with such grace I marveled at how much he still resembled the youthful photographs I had discovered back in our home office in Illinois tucked away in an old shoebox with a note that simply read—remember.

It’s Friday night, March 8th and I’m tucked away in my small boat cabin, shared with two other ministry partners who are hard at work in the sweltering heat of the Bolivia Amazon Tributaries.

There is one fan blowing down on me, and I am in deep gratitude for the air circulating around me

This fan will only last until 10pm when the boat generator shuts down and all goes silent and still. At that moment I’ll  let out a complaint in the form of a childish groan.

Nothing could have prepared me for

My husband Troy and I were struck speechless on the drive home from Helmar that night. What we had experienced was so tender. That church had embraced us as if we were their own. They listened to our story. They laughed with us, encouraged, asked good questions and in the end one farmer in the congregation took off his hat and