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It’s easy for me to trust God when life is easy, but when a major decision gives me knots in my stomach, too often I realize I’ve only given mental assent to what I’ve been taught about God’s trustworthiness. Putting those teachings into practice is an entirely different matter. Last week I told you about a time I was at a defining moment . If we were to join Wycliffe , as “faith missionaries,” my husband and I would not receive a paycheck. Instead, we’d depend on God to form a team of individuals and churches who’d pledge to support us financially. But we, and all missionaries, must deal with this: Those who say they’ll support missionaries don’t always follow through. That meant Dave and I would be giving up a steady, predictable income. And even if everyone who promised to send money did so, we’d be living at only 65% of what we were accustomed to. We humans are so used to being self-sufficient—trusting in our own wits and education and hard work to make a living. But moving to Afri...

I haven’t kept it a secret from you: I’ve confessed that I really didn’t want to move to Africa. And I also confess that all my reasons were worldly. “I didn’t want to get rid of our furniture, our treasures, or possessions. I didn’t want to dismantle our home. . . . I didn’t want to say goodbye to friends. I didn’t want to leave Port Angeles , with its forests, mountains and sea. . . .” (From Chapter 2, Grandma’s Letters from Africa ) And here’s another reason: I didn’t want to give up a steady income and good health insurance. Let me explain. Some mission agencies pay their personnel, but Wycliffe Bible Translators , like many, does not. Instead, “faith missionaries” rely on God to pull together a team of people and churches to send donations. Some churches and individuals promise to send money and always do, right on time. A few promise monthly donations but send it sporadically. Others discontinue their financial support because of a serious illness, a death, or other financial se...

If someone had told me I’d one day stand on African soil, I’d never have believed him. But there I was, sitting next to my husband on a British Air 747, and we had just touched down at Jomo Kenyatta International Airport in Nairobi, Kenya.  Africa! The date was August 21, 1993. Dave and I ducked through the jet’s little oval door and, squinting in early morning sunshine, we clunked down a metal stairway. With carry-on bags and laptop computer tucked under our arms, we followed fellow passengers across the tarmac and up the stairs into the terminal—much smaller than the last three we’d seen, JFK and London’s two airports, Heathrow and Gatwick. Inside the dimly lit terminal, a man stepped out of the crowd and handed us forms. Bleary-eyed after an all-night flight, we thumbed through our passports, searched for numbers and dates, and filled in the forms’ blanks. Next, we joined a line facing a row of narrow wooden booths that looked like something from my childhood back in the 1950s—h...

“By tomorrow, Maggie, you’ll have lived on this earth for two months,” I wrote to my new and only grandchild, “and I’m scratching my head, trying to figure out how I can be your grandmother from way over here on the other side of the world. “I always imagined I’d be a traditional, quaint grandma like my grandma, the kind that sits in a rocking chair and knits baby blankets.” (from Chapter 1, Grandma’s Letters from Africa ) Yes, I dreamed, and expected, I’d grandparent in the ways my beloved Grandma Mac had. You couldn’t ask for a gentler, kinder, more loving grandmother. She was soft-spoken and preferred to live quietly in her home, a home full of love that she and my grandpa had created. I loved them with all my heart and their home was always a safe, happy place. Grandma was always doing things for others—sewing, knitting, or crocheting clothes for her grandkids. And cooking delicious meals. Sundays after church, my parents, little brothers, and I used to pile into the family car...