Far distant from the slain Goliath of our history, now we battle with scars, old injuries that never healed quite right and achy joints brought on by the passing of time. But time, it doesn’t bring us to peaceful fields to rest does it? Where are the still waters, the green pasture? Indeed it can seem time instead brings us to yet again, another battle with another

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

The funniest thing is that usually I think I do a fairly good job of washing…
Until I visit America.