compound. I gave him a number of reasons why I couldn’t go
the first year, but by the second year, my reasons only
sounded like excuses.
I finally threw out the condition that I couldn’t go unless my
husband, Roger, went with me, which I thought he’d be unable
to do because of his heavy counseling load. To my surprise,
Roger felt God indeed wanted both of us to go to Ndola,
Zambia. He would give a marriage seminar to almost two
hundred pastors and their wives over two days, and I would
preach at the compound, sharing my testimony at a crusade on
two evenings.
From the moment I left the United States, maybe even before
I left, I was afraid that I was going to get malaria or die of
something. For lack of a better description of myself, I am a
chicken. I never heard of anyone who had a bad reaction to
their shots required for international travel—except for me.
And when I got to Zambia, I never felt comfortable or safe. I
always felt afraid of something—the food, the water, or the
gate guards with guns.
So on the first night of the crusade, our little team piled into
our single vehicle and drove slowly for one mile (or it felt that
long) down a bumpy dirt road to get to the compound. While
the sun was still shining, our van pulled onto the dirt soccer
field where a temporary stage and lights had been erected for
the crusade. The sound of a youth choir practicing their
worship songs reminded me of my favorite church in New York
City—Times Square Church. I was OK at this point, until our
one vehicle— our only transportation—was driven away.
My first thought was, “Where is our driver going with the
vehicle? How can we leave this place if something goes