Dozens of memories overwhelm me, stories of laughter, pain and adventure.

-Eskimo kids holding my hand and talking…three at a time!

-Missionaries receiving knock after knock at their door, suturing a wound, discipling,
finding a safe place for children whose mom and dad or auntie are drunk.

-Sitting on the back of a pickup truck eating moose steak out of a dusty Ziploc bag,
listening for the cargo plane due hours ago.

-Leading a young Athabascan Indian girl to the Lord by the campfire as a native
Christian teenager stand by, listening.

-Mud fights, basketball games, beaver meat, and little league baseball.

-Bear stories, airplane stories, mosquito stories.

But all these memories are stamped by one word: Yes. For ten minutes, native missionary John and I sat silently on the rough-hewn benches.

“You are learning to fly, ah?” John asked.

“Aye-ah,” I answered, shaking my head yes.

“You want to fly here?”

“Aye-ah,” I said, “to be a missionary.”

He asked me what it was that I wanted to do. I told him my dreams, my ideas. “Yes,” he answered strongly, his eyes bright, “Yes.”

In the village where he grew up, John told me, there was no Christian person to work with the kids, no one for the women, no one for the men. Once, two young men came to work with the teenagers, but they didn’t stay. His voice dropped sadly, as if ashamed.

“Yes,” he said, “My people need someone who will stay.”

Should the Lord allow, I will return, and I will stay. It is Christ’s love that compels; His will that leads; His hand that guides; and His grace that sustains.