Early in my adolescent years, my mother remarked that if Dad said the sky was blue, I would say it was green. This exchange stands out in my mind. Although I most likely protested (duh), inside I knew she was right. Maturity glossed over that stubbornness as I grew, yet pride still hovered close to the surface.
August 1992 in Murree
I was 29 when I married Todd and 33 when our first child was born. Suddenly a lot of “set in my ways” was unset and upset. Then we arrived in Pakistan in 1992.
Altars marked the path of Abraham. God said go and he obeyed. He moved his tent to the next place, built an altar and worshiped.
Altars marked his encounters with a holy God, a covenant-making God. Some marked sacrifice and absolute surrender—holding nothing back from the One who called his name.
As we moved our “tent” across the world and established home in the temporary place, I thought of Abraham and Sarah. I drew strength from their journey to a place they did not know.
I dropped off a load of ironing at the press-wallah in our Delhi neighborhood and admired his two parrots that were hopping around on the charpai (rope bed) in front of his tent. How do you describe this to friends in America who’ve never walked a street in India?
