In the summer of 2003, I went on a mission trip to New York City. Since that city is completely filled with heathens who have never heard the name of Jesus and who have never been invited to church, we had to go save them. Those poor New Yorkers only have a small handful of faithful, Independent, Fundamental, Bible-preaching churches, you know! All the other churches don't even preach the Gospel!
So we gathered together a group of soulwinners from the BJU-approved church I was attending at the time and drove up to the Big Apple. We sang sacred songs, did puppet shows, and shoved tracts in people's faces for a whole week.
While I am much changed since then and have grown to dislike short-term mission trips (seeing that they often do more harm than good), I do recall fondly our visit to Battery Park. That's where I met Nadia.
During a break in our strenuous sightseeing/soulwinning, I wandered off to walk along the water's edge, and started chatting with a girl sitting on the edge of a flowerbed. She had lovely white-blond hair and a Russian accent. We talked about American food, being separated from our families who were on the other side of the world while we studied in America, and 9/11.
I got her address and promised I'd write her. We did end up exchanging a few letters, and I dutifully procured tracts in Russian so I could save her. After a couple years of sporadic letter writing, she dropped off my radar.
I wish I knew where she is now.
So we gathered together a group of soulwinners from the BJU-approved church I was attending at the time and drove up to the Big Apple. We sang sacred songs, did puppet shows, and shoved tracts in people's faces for a whole week.
While I am much changed since then and have grown to dislike short-term mission trips (seeing that they often do more harm than good), I do recall fondly our visit to Battery Park. That's where I met Nadia.
During a break in our strenuous sightseeing/soulwinning, I wandered off to walk along the water's edge, and started chatting with a girl sitting on the edge of a flowerbed. She had lovely white-blond hair and a Russian accent. We talked about American food, being separated from our families who were on the other side of the world while we studied in America, and 9/11.
I got her address and promised I'd write her. We did end up exchanging a few letters, and I dutifully procured tracts in Russian so I could save her. After a couple years of sporadic letter writing, she dropped off my radar.
I wish I knew where she is now.
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