we discussed Christianity for more than thirty minutes, and he seemed drawn to the conversation. When it was time for him to return to the room, he allowed me to enter with him.
Though I was never able to talk with William again, before leaving the conference room at the end of the program, our eyes met and he gave me a slight salute. Within a year, the news came out that William Murray, son of Madalyn Murray O’Hair–renowned atheist—had become a believer of Jesus Christ and not surprising, his mother hastened to denounce him as a shame and disgrace to her family. I have always wondered if anything I said that day had prompted him to turn towards the Truth. God does not need us to do His work, but He certainly delights in using us.
It had felt good to share my faith—what little bit there was of it. “But God hath chosen the foolish things of the world to confound the wise; and God hath chosen the weak things of the world to confound the things which are mighty.” (I Corinthians 1:27) As the cold of winter blew through the city of Charlotte, my spirit was chilled by the reality of my life. I became disgruntled with all of it, dreading even to see my fiance. My starkly decorated apartment became a prison, and of course, it became difficult to sleep at night. The only deterrent was music. LOUD music. Music that appealed to my flesh, keeping it fed and strong.
One night I was getting ready for a soiree with some friends and was shaving my legs. I had cranked up the music and was working on my “party” attitude. While holding the razor in my right hand, I sensed that the music had stopped. Later, I was to realize that there was nothing wrong with the radio. It was God calling me out to listen to Him. One more time. It was the still small voice of God–not audible except in my spirit–but a distinct and definite conversation between my spirit and His. “Kim, I have strived with you for a long time. I have called you out. You know that and you continue to run. You are defaming my name instead of proclaiming it. This is your last chance, child. I have such great plans for your life. Trust me.”
With the reality of what I heard, the razor cut deeply into my leg. My heart pounding, I jumped out of the bathtub, ran to my bedroom, and dove into my bed pulling the covers over my head. I had been found wanting and there was no excuse. For three days, I stayed in my bedroom, not answering my phone, not answering my door, not eating. I found my Bible which had been packed away in the back of my closet. I fumbled with the unfamiliar pages and tried to read.
More than anything, I teetered between anger and fear. Angry that God would invade my privacy and rock my world in such a way that I had no recourse but to listen. Fearful because I believed that I might not live to see the end of the week. My mind flashed back to the last time I had taken communion while at my home church and how emotionally and spiritually sick I had felt to do so. I knew God was not a vengeful God, striking us down and threatening us to make us fear Him. Deep inside me, I knew that I had long since crossed the threshold of what the Scriptures clearly taught in I Corinthians 11:27-31. God had been merciful and very long-suffering with me and my wicked choices.
In my flesh’s last stand, late on the third evening, I pointed my finger to heaven and cried, “Leave me alone, God! Please leave me alone a little longer! I will go and be a missionary in the future. I am just not ready! I cannot and will not go to Africa! Don’t make me!” Feeling like I had gone too far, I buried my head under my pillow and waited to die. At that point, I was so exhausted, I really did not care. Any change would be welcomed. A solid, impenetrable wall was in front of me and I felt as if I would suffocate in my sin. “Then when lust hath conceived, it bringeth forth sin: and sin, when it is finished, bringeth forth death.” (James 1:15) Finally and mercifully, I slept for more than fourteen hours, resting my tired, battered flesh as the spirit within me was renewed.
Waking up the next day, the only thing I could think to do was to call my parents and ask them to come for a visit. In the couple of days that I had to wait for them to work out their schedules, I numbly began to pack my things, choosing to try and ignore God’s presence—though it was palpable.
The next evening my parents arrived and after seeing that my pantry consisted of only rice and bologna, we headed for Red Lobster. That evening I told them I was going to Bible college to prepare to be a missionary. My mother dropped her fork and there was silence among us for some time. The prayers of those two had been answered and they were overwhelmed at God’s working. I apologized for the money that I had wasted over those past couple of years and asked if I could move home while I explored my options about missionary training. It seemed surreal to me. My parents were spiritual and physical bulwarks to their floundering prodigal. I could never thank them enough for their unconditional love throughout my life—through the good and the bad.
Starting out slowly in my reacquaintance with God, I began reading my Bible, but because it revealed so much of my depravity and shortcomings, I could not stay in it very long. In spite of that, I applied to three Bible colleges and naively told God that I was going to the first one that accepted me. Though that may sound shallow, it was a reflection of the kind of Christian I was then. But God knew me and used that pitiful prayer to show me His will. Piedmont Bible College (now renamed Piedmont Baptist College) in Winston-Salem, NC, sent the first acceptance letter, so Piedmont it was. Before I even arrived on campus, I had decided that if I dated at all (I had broken up with my fiance in a heart-rendering, all-night drama, just a few days before I moved back home), I would only date missionary pilots. Though I deviated from that a couple of times, that did remain my focus.
I met Jeff at some point my first year at Piedmont and felt extremely drawn to his quiet and calming presence. But it was not time for that. After the first year, I remained in Winston-Salem during the summer because I had a great part-time job at Wachovia Bank. It was during that same summer that God called me out again. “Am I enough, Kim? Will you commit to go anywhere with Me—even if that means you go alone?” I physically trembled at the thought of it, but I also could not ignore it. Struggling with that question several more weeks, finally one evening in the quietness of my room, I bowed to God and His will for me. Sobbing through my prayer of surrender, I said, “Yes, Father, I will go anywhere with you, even Africa...alone, if You choose.”
Three years of running, trying to hide. But His grace and beauty captured me! The floodgates of my soul released into the soothing balm of tears, sorrow, fear, expectation, and a joy that ignited deep within. It was a menagerie of emotions—and very hard to describe. But He stayed right there with me. His unconditional love overwhelmed me! At that point of surrender, I began to live like I had never lived in my Christian life. Choosing purposely to please Him. My flesh roared with disdain!
A few weeks later, Jeff returned from a six-weeks mission trip to Haiti, finally asking me out. Our first date was on October 17, 1980, and we were married some ten months later. Both 23 at the time, we just knew that it was right. His major? Theology and Missionary Aviation. Imagine that!
Giving up my plans for my life was the most beautiful but difficult thing I had ever done. As the vibration of the Cessna 180 brought me out of my spiritual flashback, I smiled as I found myself right where I had, for so long, feared to go—to the jungles of Africa. But somehow, though I still felt some trepidation about that new experience, it seemed right. Very right.
Welcome Home
Armed with a fresh head cold and a two year old daughter tired of being displaced, I entered a world that was starkly unfamiliar. I tried to focus on the present, to become aware of the drone of the one-engine, four-seater plane, attempting to center myself into that new world with adventurous perception. Looking down into the dense green jungle below, I tried to pray. Thankfully, Michelle was sleeping in my lap as trickles of sweat slowly dripped down the sides of her beautiful cheeks. That reminded me of my own trails of sweat, forming one huge waterfall on my back. Where was the climate control in the plane?
Looking down, I noticed that the tops of the trees looked like lush bunches of ripe green broccoli ready for picking. Peeping through the green was the faint outline of brown woven huts and dark, murky rivers
