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For ten days during our first summer as workers, we found ourselves meandering throughout the high mountain meadows of a northern sea region. Everything was lush and green and dew dropped. The men and women walked through the villages with rubber shoes, and we bought some too along with traditional headscarves, a practical choice for trying to blend in and show our respect for the local culture.

While driving on twisty, bumpy roads we whispered prayers, “God, is this where we should come? Is this the mud we should sink our spiritual boots in?”

What draws ones gaze to a region that shouts the beauty and creativity of God, is the absence of anything that even hints of His reconciliation to humanity through the sacrifice and resurrection of The Son.

No Christians.

No Sunday morning worship services.

No Bibles for sale in the local bookstore.

No knowledge of Jesus.

Eventually God did lead us to plant our boots, though on a different region of the country. Where we are is dry and most beautiful in the fall when the apple tree branches bend low to the ground by the weight of their fruit. A different landscape, but spiritually barren as well.

Today I sit in a local clinic, waiting our turn for my daughter’s well-child check-up. An elderly woman hobbles in, wading through billowing, flower patterned pants.

I notice her shoes. Rubber shoes.

In this moment the past few years seem to have come full-circle. Nostalgia for those initial years of exploration and thankfulness for the Lord’s guidance and provision rush through my head. But most of all I am struck with a renewed awareness of the fact that I have been led here to bring spiritual fruit where none yet exist.

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