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Have you heard the expression “Boots on the Ground?” Well our Live Dead Missionaries are the boots on the Silk Road. Here we’d like to take a moment and allow one of them to share a snapshot of their life with you. Some names and details have been changed, but this is a true story from this colorful, vibrant, and sometimes surprising region.

The whisper in my head began softly. It was just quiet enough to ignore. But with each step down the sidewalk, the voice got louder. Finally, after I’d gone several blocks, the idea cleared its throat and, accompanied by trumpet fanfare, proclaimed:

“You’re lost!”

I’m not sure how this thought got there. I was definitely, absolutely, certainly not LLL … LLL. See, I had standards. No way was I going to acknowledge that this crazy idea could be true. I … was … not … LLL …

Maybe this is a good time to go back to the beginning.

It was a Monday, our ninth day living in a Central Asian capital city. The previous night, we had moved into the house that would be our home for the next several years. And being an agenda-driven, task-oriented American, I jumped right into my to-do list. Item one: enroll our 5-year-old daughter in an international school on the other side of the city.

We did not yet have a vehicle or phones or any marketable skill in the language, but I had visited the school once and possessed a basic understanding of the mass-transit system, not to mention a flawless sense of direction. No problem.

With the school enrollment forms in hand, along with handwritten directions (turn right at this street, go about three blocks, turn left at that street, go a few more blocks …), I caught a minibus in our neighborhood.

The bus meandered through the city, stopping whenever and wherever anyone stepped into the street to flag it down, but we eventually reached the intersection where I would continue the journey on foot. And here is where the story begins.

After walking for about 15 minutes and making a few turns, I lost the scent. This is how it happened: The main avenues had signs at each intersection, identifying the cross streets, but once I got away from the major roads there were no signs. No markers. No labels.

I kept going, operating on instinct, trying to feel my way to the school based on the no-longer-helpful directions in my hand and the fuzzy memories in my jetlagged head. I was guessing my way toward the destination.

And that’s when the whisper started. It soon became loud and impossible to ignore: “You’re lost!” Technically speaking, this statement was inaccurate; I could easily get back to where I’d started. But I had no idea how to get where I needed to go.

I eventually reached a major north-south street and realized I’d gone too far. As I circled back, able to guess more accurately now, I gave thanks that at least the main roads carried ID.

As I neared the school, I was blessed with a moment of clarity that is still vivid in my memory all these years later. The voice in my head changed from “you’re lost” to “they’re lost.” A million people live in this city, and just a handful know Jesus. Worse still, the overwhelming majority have never even heard of His love for them.

And instantly, I had a job description I could put into words: We’re here to build street signs to direct them and draw maps to show them the way.

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