If only I’d known I would love living there

What would you expect your living conditions to be if you were to move to the end of the road in the middle of nowhere in South America?

That’s where my husband, Dave, wanted me to move, along with our two preschoolers. But to me, Dave was acting like that “wild and crazy sheep in love with thorns and brambles” that Thomas Merton wrote about. 

In my other memoir, Grandma’s Letters from Africa, I described Dave as “a free spirit who seldom limits himself to coloring within other people’s lines.”

But I was the opposite kind of person. Adventure and risk—those “thorns and brambles”—were not my cup of tea.

And coloring outside the lines? Never!

The thought of moving to a remote outpost in South America—of all places!—shot scary stuff into my brain and heart, stuff that assaulted my wellbeing, night and day.

If only I could have looked into the future—because then I’d have seen how much I would love working at our mission center, Lomalinda (pretty hill), alongside remarkable people.

But, of course, I couldn’t see into the future. I had no idea what rich adventures and relationships my family and I would enjoy there.

Instead, my mind went bonkers. Here’s an excerpt from Chapter 1:

 “What kind of house would we live in?” I asked Dave. I pictured a hut with a dirt floor.

 “I don’t know,” he admitted. 

“What if we had to build our own house? And with what? Bamboo and palm leaves? Besides,” I heard my voice getting shrieky, “we don’t even know how to build a house.” 

My mind went wild. “Would we have to grow our own vegetables and meat? What about eggs? And milk? The kids need milk, you know. Would we have to get a cow? I bet we wouldn’t even have electricity. And what about water? Would we have to haul our water?” 

I didn’t give Dave a chance to answer. I was on a roll. “Living in South America could be deadly! After all, look what happened to Jim Elliot. The natives killed him and his friends.” 

My voice rose an octave. “Karen’s only three years old! And Matt just turned five!” Our kids were so vulnerable, and the unknown for the four of us shook me to the core. Sometimes God does lead people to perilous places, and I didn’t want to find our young family among them.

I envisioned the worst. All I could do was pray—urgently: Please, God, don’t make me go!

Think about it: 

What would you expect your living conditions to be 

if you were to move to the end of the road 

in the middle of nowhere in South America?

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(Please, God, Don't Make Me Go: 

A Foot-Dragger's Memoir by Linda K. Thomas), 

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