Perhaps you read Will Jesus Buy Me a Double-Wide? and remember the story of The Missionary:
He grew up in Chief Joseph country, where God tucked away a stash of rough-cut mountains, several crystal glacier lakes, and acres of emerald meadows. These were the treasures the Missionary knew back when he was nothing more than the Farmer’s crippled boy.
“Back in those days men counted their wealth in the sons they had. Sons were your work force. My brothers were all pretty sound and then there was me. In my dad’s words, he had this ‘damn cripple boy.’”
It made him feel gosh-awful bad to hear his father talk about him that a’way. It wasn’t like it was his fault he was a cripple. He’d been born perfectly healthy and stayed that way till somebody, likely somebody from outside the county, brought in that paralyzing polio virus. Nearly killed him, too, but even as a three-year-old, the boy possessed a defying willfulness.
Perhaps you remember that the retired Wycliffe Missionary and pastor is my husband’s father, the only grandfather my children have ever known.
He’s in an Idaho hospital today, life-flighted out of the beauty of Oregon’s High Country, and taken to a hospital more equipped to handle his needs. It’s been a chaotic few days for The Missionary’s wife. Exhausting and worrisome all the way around, for all, but most especially for the wife.
If you could pray for Gene and Gwen Zacharias, we’d be grateful for that.