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 I was about 13 years old, I attended a worship service that included a powerful song about the love of God. As the words of the song echoed through the church, I suddenly had the clear realization that God could have chosen to let humanity go and never have tried to redeem them.
Several decades ago at a gathering of Christian believers in Ethiopia, hundreds of believers were challenged to send someone from among them to reach the unreached tribes in their country with the Gospel; tribes where nobody else had been able to go for generations.
The sound of humming lawnmowers and the carefree laughter of children playing could be heard throughout the neighborhood on that summer afternoon as I excitedly cut through backyards in an effort to reach my house as quickly as possible
Winter had just given birth to the splendor of spring and the notion of swapping my thick knits for lighter layers was an exciting one. I had also been a mama for a full year and felt the need for a little polish and poise in my wardrobe and appearance.
As I have studied Amy Carmichael’s astounding rescue work, marked by such a dauntless commitment to seek and save the lost, I am continually reminded of the night when God seemed to pose the question, “What if that were Hudson?”
When our first child, Hudson, was four years old, Eric and I had a memorable conversation with a missionary who worked in an extremely corrupt and destitute part of the world. Thousands of children were dying everyday from starvation and neglect in the country where she served. She told us about a little boy who was just about our Hudson’s age.
I hopped on my Instagram one morning a few months ago to reply to some messages and make a post. As I did, I inadvertently noticed a piece of information about my account that was rather surprising and discouraging. Huh. That’s strange, I thought to myself as I closed the app and moved on to getting ready for the day.
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.