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.
If I am soft to myself and slide comfortably into the vice of self-pity and self-sympathy; if I do not by the grace of God practice fortitude, then I know nothing of calvary love.- Amy CarmichaelMarissa pulled her car into the driveway of her little blue house and sighed as a feeling of heaviness descended upon her. It had been a hard week. Actually, it had been a hard year.