Somewhere around fourth grade, my mother challenged me to be a reader. She said if I read, I could go places I wouldn't go in real life. I would see things I could never see. She told me that reading would open the world for me. I began reading that year. She took me to the library. I got my certificate for reading more books than the goal. I do not remember how many, but I started a lifelong passion for reading.



While reading those books, my imagination soared. The life stories of my missionary heroes are what I read. I read the life of Hudson Taylor, Adoniram Judson, David Livingstone, and many more. I dreamed I might live a life like theirs someday.

Working in the garden in the cool of the early morning, I dreamed of preaching in Africa, going to China, and making a difference with my life. I watched the jets leave their trails across the sky and asked God to allow me to get on one of those planes and travel the world preaching.

I’m not sure you will understand this. As a boy, I often went to sleep, and my feet did something weird. My dad said my feet went to sleep, but I could feel needles in my feet. In my dreams, I thought of missionary life. I dreamed of being tortured for my faith in a Chinese Concentration Camp. I would wake up scared because of what the anti-God communists were doing to me.

Thinking of the mission field consumed my life. Every book I read fueled the spark. Every dream seemed to take me there. I wanted to live like those men of God.

Now you have to realize I am living on a farm. I see more cows and pigs than I ever do, people. Dad leaves me a list of things to do as they go to work. My siblings and I get the list of chores done or else.

There are only three snowy channels on TV, and during the day, they only play dumb soap operas. Boring shows on TV, but books opened an entire world to me. My mother was right. I was traveling the world, preaching in villages in Africa. I traveled in sampans in Chinese rivers to share the gospel and dreamed of what God might do with me someday.

In the summer, I attended a camp for boys, Royal Ambassador Camp, sponsored by the Baptist Churches. There I met Jeandoc. She was a retired doctor who had served in China. She told me stories. When they gave us free time, I would run to her cabin as an 11- and 12-year-old boy and listen to her stories. She let me ask questions.

During Vacation Bible School, there was always a missionary story. It was my favorite time of VBS. People were doing things I could only dream about.

My pastors always encouraged me. I wanted desperately to be used by God, to be a missionary. I needed a mentor—someone to help me accomplish what I believed God had placed in my heart.