More than anything, I teetered between anger and fear. Angry that God would invade my privacy and rock my world in such a way that I had no recourse but to listen. Fearful because I believed that I might not live to see the end of the week. My mind flashed back to the last time I had taken communion while at my home church and how emotionally and spiritually sick I had felt to do so. I knew God was not a vengeful God, striking us down and threatening us to make us fear Him. Deep inside me, I knew that I had long since crossed the threshold of what the Scriptures clearly taught in I Corinthians 11:27-31. God had been merciful and very long-suffering with me and my wicked choices.
In my flesh’s last stand, late on the third evening, I pointed my finger to heaven and cried, “Leave me alone, God! Please leave me alone a little longer! I will go and be a missionary in the future. I am just not ready! I cannot and will not go to Africa! Don’t make me!” Feeling like I had gone too far, I buried my head under my pillow and waited to die. At that point, I was so exhausted, I really did not care. Any change would be welcomed. A solid, impenetrable wall was in front of me and I felt as if I would suffocate in my sin. “Then when lust hath conceived, it bringeth forth sin: and sin, when it is finished, bringeth forth death.” (James 1:15) Finally and mercifully, I slept for more than fourteen hours, resting my tired, battered flesh as the spirit within me was renewed.
Waking up the next day, the only thing I could think to do was to call my parents and ask them to come for a visit. In the couple of days that I had to wait for them to work out their schedules, I numbly began to pack my things, choosing to try and ignore God’s presence—though it was palpable.
The next evening my parents arrived and after seeing that my pantry consisted of only rice and bologna, we headed for Red Lobster. That evening I told them I was going to Bible college to prepare to be a missionary. My mother dropped her fork and there was silence among us for some time. The prayers of those two had been answered and they were overwhelmed at God’s working. I apologized for the money that I had wasted over those past couple of years and asked if I could move home while I explored my options about missionary training. It seemed surreal to me. My parents were spiritual and physical bulwarks to their floundering prodigal. I could never thank them enough for their unconditional love throughout my life—through the good and the bad.
Starting out slowly in my reacquaintance with God, I began reading my Bible, but because it revealed so much of my depravity and shortcomings, I could not stay in it very long. In spite of that, I applied to three Bible colleges and naively told God that I was going to the first one that accepted me. Though that may sound shallow, it was a reflection of the kind of Christian I was then. But God knew me and used that pitiful prayer to show me His will. Piedmont Bible College (now renamed Piedmont Baptist College) in Winston-Salem, NC, sent the first acceptance letter, so Piedmont it was. Before I even arrived on campus, I had decided that if I dated at all (I had broken up with my fiance in a heart-rendering, all-night drama, just a few days before I moved back home), I would only date missionary pilots. Though I deviated from that a couple of times, that did remain my focus.
I met Jeff at some point my first year at Piedmont and felt extremely drawn to his quiet and calming presence. But it was not time for that. After the first year, I remained in Winston-Salem during the summer because I had a great part-time job at Wachovia Bank. It was during that same summer that God called me out again. “Am I enough, Kim? Will you commit to go anywhere with Me—even if that means you go alone?” I physically trembled at the thought of it, but I also could not ignore it. Struggling with that question several more weeks, finally one evening in the quietness of my room, I bowed to God and His will for me. Sobbing through my prayer of surrender, I said, “Yes, Father, I will go anywhere with you, even Africa...alone, if You choose.”
Three years of running, trying to hide. But His grace and beauty captured me! The floodgates of my soul released into the soothing balm of tears, sorrow, fear, expectation, and a joy that ignited deep within. It was a menagerie of emotions—and very hard to describe. But He stayed right there with me. His unconditional love overwhelmed me! At that point of surrender, I began to live like I had never lived in my Christian life. Choosing purposely to please Him. My flesh roared with disdain!
A few weeks later, Jeff returned from a six-weeks mission trip to Haiti, finally asking me out. Our first date was on October 17, 1980, and we were married some ten months later. Both 23 at the time, we just knew that it was right. His major? Theology and Missionary Aviation. Imagine that!
Giving up my plans for my life was the most beautiful but difficult thing I had ever done. As the vibration of the Cessna 180 brought me out of my spiritual flashback, I smiled as I found myself right where I had, for so long, feared to go—to the jungles of Africa. But somehow, though I still felt some trepidation about that new experience, it seemed right. Very right.
Welcome Home
Armed with a fresh head cold and a two year old daughter tired of being displaced, I entered a world that was starkly unfamiliar. I tried to focus on the present, to become aware of the drone of the one-engine, four-seater plane, attempting to center myself into that new world with adventurous perception. Looking down into the dense green jungle below, I tried to pray. Thankfully, Michelle was sleeping in my lap as trickles of sweat slowly dripped down the sides of her beautiful cheeks. That reminded me of my own trails of sweat, forming one huge waterfall on my back. Where was the climate control in the plane?
Looking down, I noticed that the tops of the trees looked like lush bunches of ripe green broccoli ready for picking. Peeping through the green was the faint outline of brown woven huts and dark, murky rivers intertwining with unending, thick foliage. How a pilot could know where he was going without instrumentation was beyond my aviator-challenged mind. Jeff, however, was in his element, being trained for that very thing. Hearing the excitement in his voice, I could not help but smile as I watched him.
After an hour’s flight, the plane suddenly took a sharp turn to the left and then cut veeringly to the right. It was the first real civilization that I had seen since leaving the capital city of Monrovia. Six houses, an airplane hangar, a Bible school building, a medical clinic and an OB clinic, along with a few other buildings spaced alongside the airstrip. The airstrip? As I looked, I only saw a long open strip of grass. Looking carefully at the faces of my husband and the other pilot, neither seemed disturbed by the lack of tarmac, so I just held on tightly to Michelle and watched us descend into that new world shrouded by a welcoming lush green canopy.
After an impressive landing, I looked straight ahead to see a massive crowd of people standing by the hangar, but it was the sprays of colorful, exotic flowers that took my breath away! Pinks, blues, yellows, and purples woven exquisitely around the poles celebrated our arrival. Half of my heart beat gratuitously for the warm welcome, but the other half felt like I was falling into a black pit from which I would never again ascend.
As the plane came to a complete stop and the engines were cut off, I heard the singing and was involuntarily initiated into the rhythm that is uniquely African. The women were dancing and swaying perfectly to the music. It was beautiful and I liked it immensely. Even in his height of excitement, Jeff remembered and turned to take my hand. With his beautiful brown eyes beaming, he squeezed my hand and said, “Welcome home, Missy Abernethy.”
CHAPTER THREE
Though I speak with the tongues of men and of angels, and have not charity, I am become as sounding brass, or a tinkling cymbal. I Corinthians 13:1
Fat and Sassy
We stepped out of the plane smack dab into the middle of a strange, but intriguing world; the place to which God had asked us to move, to live, to raise our children, while sharing the Gospel of Jesus Christ to those around us. After respectfully giving us time to greet the waiting missionaries, the African Christians moved in to take a closer look at the new arrivals. Soon I was surrounded by at least a dozen African women pressing in, trying to touch Michelle’s hair. She would have none of that and held on to my neck tightly.
At the same time, I heard some