For a couple of years now, I’ve been fascinated by the flight pattern of migrating birds. It amazes me how they are in tune with the change of seasons and know exactly when to begin their miles-long journey.
The cold and dull aches fill my tired bones. The flimsy tent in which I have just awoken has thankfully kept my family safe the previous night from the passing storms. Even at 4 a.m., the sky is already bright, and the sun is about to show its first warming rays.
I cringe at the term missionary. When I was younger I pictured missionaries as large, wholesome families dressed like a blast from the past with awkward kids who had crazy experiences with witch doctors. And bad haircuts.