The wooden floor in our dining room is scratched from years and years of chairs being pulled up to the table. It’s not pretty. The varnish is peeling, and the discolored planks are grooved deep. This floor has stories written across its grain, generations of stories of missionary families from all over the world who […]
Well, friends, this week marks one year since we left the U.S. for PNG. People told us that the first year on the field can be especially hard, and we definitely found that to be true. Months of transition, breath-stealing homesickness, feeling overwhelmed in new ministry roles, culture shock, and other unexpected difficulties came to
We spent a lot of time in the car when I was a kid. Hour after hour after day of nothing but road rolling on as we traveled the States, visiting churches and partners who supported my parents’ ministry in the Philippines. We were good little missionary kids. The kind who whined and fought in
It’s a grey and wet day, the fifth day of rain this week. For long, dusty months we’ve been praying and watching the sky as our water tanks empty and the river runs low. So this is welcome. But the mud and fog look different than what we’ve gotten used to. When black clouds roll
The year I was in kindergarten, I grew six inches. I started out as one of the smallest kids in my class and ended up being one of the tallest. (Impressive, especially since now I tower over even the biggest kindergartners at an enormous five feet…) I remember laying in bed awake late into the
My jeans are smoked. Not smokin’. Smoked. They hung on the line as ash fell like snow and billows of grey rolled through in post-apocalyptic waves. It’s not from wild fires or a volcano; it’s from people burning their fields. On purpose. Some of the fires are started by mischievous boys, but many of them
I lost my grandfather last week. He was a quiet man, gentle and calm. He worked with his hands, and he could fix just about anything, from a leaky radiator to a hole in the wall (like the one put in his basement paneling by yours truly 27 years ago). The last time I saw
Within a few hours of moving into the house we’ve been renting, we discovered something unique about the refrigerator. It sounds like a chicken. It squawks and clucks and murmurs like a worried hen. The other morning I pushed the plunger down on my coffee press, and it moaned like a pitiful cow just as
Let’s face it, MK friends. Most of you have feet that wouldn’t win you any foot modeling jobs. (How do people get into that line of work anyway?) But your feet are my favorite kind in the world. And here is why… 1. They are dirty. Gloriously gross in the most grimy-toed, stained-soled, freedom-proclaiming way.