Raucous laughter and pulsating music resounded through the crowded, chaotic street. Eric tried to keep his fellow missionaries in sight as hundreds of drunken revelers surged around them on all sides. Eric (who later became my husband) was 23, and this was one of his first missionary assignments — doing street evangelism on Bourbon Street in New Orleans during Mardi Gras — and he was not at all comfortable being there.
It was a moonless night. Our group shuffled through patches of crusted snow, trying not to slide on the slipshod shoveled walkways up to the front door. The row of tiny apartments located on the sadder side of town stood unfriendly and unwelcoming. There was no warm glow coming from inside; no festive Christmas wreath or light-up reindeer stood on the front lawn. They just looked empty, barren, bereft. But there was still a reason to sing.
When Eric and I first stepped into full-time ministry, I was completely unprepared for the spiritual attacks that hit us full force. Financial difficulties, false accusation, health problems, discouragement, and exhaustion became a normal part of our lives.
At first glance, his life seemed like a dismal failure — his untimely death a senseless waste. Robert Jermain Thomas was a strong, well-educated, talented young man who left for the mission field in China with his wife in 1863.
The lovely, innocent-looking teenaged girl fidgeted nervously as she shared her heartbreaking story on camera, hesitantly answering questions posed by an off-screen reporter. The account she shared was true, but so disturbing it was almost hard to believe.
Her hand reached up into the cupboard and pulled down the jar designated for grocery money…