imagined spending so much on groceries at one time. There was some money left, but I was beginning to not feel well again, so I decided not to spend it. The verse in Proverbs that says, “The heart of her husband doth safely trust in her,” kept ringing in my ear as my stomach churned in too many directions.
I knew that Jeff had so many things on him, so I guiltily fought down the anger welling up inside me for being put in such an overwhelming situation. I gratefully took a cup of strong espresso that the kind owner’s wife gave me. Surely she must have seen the panic welling up inside me? The espresso-like coffee, though rich and ambrosial, only served to jolt me with more agitation because of its high caffeine content. Thanking her, I walked outside with Michelle and a much lighter money pouch. Two employees parked the two carts brimming over with groceries beside me on the sidewalk.
By the time Jeff and Brian returned for us and our horde of groceries, I was not in good form. They tried to soothe and assure me that I had done fine, though Jeff’s face paled when I gave him back the small amount of money that was not spent. He touched my face tenderly, smiled at me, took Michelle from my arms, and in the midst of my anxieties, I felt totally safe and loved. He was forgiven.
CHAPTER TWO
God hears no sweeter music than the cracked chimes of the courageous human spirit ringing in imperfect acknowledgement of His perfect love. —Joshua L. Liebman
Perspectives
Perspectives are respectful insights though not solid foundations on which we should try to stand. They are, after all, personal interpretations. Frames of reference, points of view. As we loaded up the small Cessna aircraft for the hour flight to our new home in the jungle, I realized that I had absolutely no perspective on which to base the next phase of my life. Everything in front of me had no referral point. No magical number of class credits or talking to someone who had done it could fully prepare me for the cultural impediment of being a middle-class white American woman going to live in West Africa for the first time. In 1985, there was not the wide spread awareness of international affairs as there is now. The African world is almost now fully available to us by video, books, music, the internet, or even by having met African nationals who now live in the states. Not so much in 1985. Africa was still somewhat perceived as the “Dark Continent.”
Heading into the jungles of West Africa was something that I would just have to experience. Pure irony since I had in my rather recent past told God that I absolutely would not be caught dead in Africa. Well, I was alive and I was in Africa. As we took off into the bright West African sky, I pondered the goodness of God and how His amazing grace had brought me to that place.
Flashback of a Jonah Kind of Run
Missionaries are fallen, depraved humans saved by the amazing grace of Jesus Christ—just like a Christian architect, a Christian banker, or a Christian childcare worker. We all must bow in awe and gratitude to the exclusive salvation provided on the cross of Christ through God the Father as a penalty for our sin. Look all you want. Look where ever you want. The Truth has been, is, and always will be in Jesus Christ alone. That being said, perhaps this book would be more meaningful if I elaborated on my own journey in becoming a career missionary.
Saved at the age of seven, I grew up in the rural town of Delco, located near Wilmington, North Carolina. Livingston Baptist Church, the church where my family attended was small but friendly, and I always felt well nourished there in spiritual and physical love. Unfortunately, as I went into my teen years, rebellion permeated my heart and I turned to the whims of my own flesh. Despite that, when I was home in Delco, I was expected to attend church. And so I did. Between my freshman and sophomore year of college, I attended a missions conference at my home church and was intrigued by the desires and emotions that welled up in me when I heard a missionary speak of God’s work in other countries. Overwhelmed by God’s wooing, on July 3, 1977, I walked the aisle of the country church and told the pastor that I felt God tugging at my heart about becoming a missionary.
Later that night, the flesh almost immediately washed over me, prompting regret that I had made such a public commitment. A few days later, I was faced with one of the greatest spiritual dilemmas that I had ever experienced in my young life. Previously, at the end of my freshman year in college, I had been chosen to be the next editor of my college’s newspaper, and since Journalism was my major and my passion, I was struggling about giving that up and having to enroll in a Bible College to begin my training for missionary service.
As I had so often done, I succumbed to the flesh and its cry for immediate gratification. I determined to return and gain the experience of being a college newspaper editor, and later consider what I needed to do for a possible missionary career. Satan is, in some cases, subtle, knowing our desires and with what to tempt us. In my case, it was a royal flush! During that next year, I continued dating a young man who I knew was instrumental in leading me astray as a young Christian woman. In essence, he was not good for me. He was not right for me. Despite that, I felt that I loved him and in my own stubborn way, continued to incorporate him into my plans. I was selfishly using him, stringing him on. Giving him false hopes.
One year after the call on my life to be a missionary, I found myself farther from God than ever before. Having graduated from junior college, I looked at my future with confusion. Always tugging at my heart was the reality that I was to be somewhere else. Haunting me constantly was the deep-seated knowledge that I was missing something, that I was to become a woman whom God would use for His glory. My thoughts pursued me: To Africa, if I say yes to You, God; you will send me to Africa alone—living in the jungle where it is dark, remote, and certainly dangerous. I can’t do it. So, I ran. Just as Jonah ran. Only there was no large whale to swallow my miserable self up. But my bitter, fearful flesh was swallowed up with the ugliness of what my life had become.
Ironically enough, I moved to Charlotte, to the hometown of my future husband, though I knew none of that at the time. Jeff had surrendered to be a missionary just twenty days after my own calling to missions. Just in a different city and church. Thankfully, he had chosen to obey God and was already at Piedmont Baptist College preparing for that call. Me? Deciding that I would go into Broadcast Journalism, I enrolled in Carolina School of Broadcasting, and lived in an apartment alone during my training.
Those were dark days and I do not choose, nor is it necessary to summon back the things that so easily ensnared me. I lived in a false light with forced happiness as my companion. During that time, my longtime boyfriend proposed to me and I snatched at the opportunity to bring something exciting and happy into my life. It seemed that surely it was the right thing for us to be married. So I accepted his ring and we set our date for April 8, 1979.
During Christmas, my mother attempted to talk about wedding plans but I diverted her questions. Something was not right, but I could not speak of it. I know that deep in her mother’s heart, she understood there was a battle going on. Some days I barely ate or slept. I felt irritable, hemmed in, threatened by the powerful way God was stirring my heart. Though my spirit was malnourished, it was not dead. It is impossible for a Christian’s spirit to die within him. Quenched, oppressed, overwhelmed with sin—yes, but never dead.
After graduating from broadcasting school, I snagged a job at a local television station in Charlotte. I met some very interesting people. During one assignment, I traveled with a crew (I was a camera grip for a few months before coming a script editor) to Raleigh where Madalyn Murray O’Hair was speaking at a forum. Being only the lowly grip, I was not given entrance to the conference room, so had to settle with waiting in the foyer outside.
Soon, Ms. O’Hair’s son, William, came out to take a smoke break. He usually traveled with her, he told me, as we introduced ourselves to each other. Though not a strong Christian, I did relate to William how I had felt back in fourth grade when we were told that we could no longer pray. Again, speaking more out of my limited knowledge
