The stillness of the African night was shattered by a piercing scream. Fair-skinned, red-haired Mary Slessor hurried out of her hut, a concerned look on her face. As she stood listening, she heard the sound of yelling and drumming growing steadily louder in the distance.
Raucous laughter and pulsating music resounded through the crowded, chaotic street. Eric tried to keep his fellow missionaries in sight as hundreds of drunken revelers surged around them on all sides. Eric (who later became my husband) was twenty-three, and this was one of his first missionary assignments—doing street evangelism on Bourbon Street in New Orleans during Mardi Gras&
I stood nervously in front of the microphone, trying to smile at the audience of forty teen girls who were sitting at beautifully decorated tables nibbling on cupcakes and sipping tea. I was eighteen. It was the first time I had ever been invited to speak publicly. The organizer of a mother-daughter tea at a large, wealthy church in our community asked me to share about my d