It is November 9, 1989. A young woman stands on a riverbank deep in the jungles of Papua New Guinea. She holds a 20-month-old baby boy in her arms, and two sons, ages three and five, stand beside her. A few feet away, her husband unloads their belongings from a canoe. She desperately tries to keep her tears from flowing as so many emotions course through her. The main one is fear. She fears the jungle, the snakes, the mosquitoes, the crocodiles, the local people standing beside with their bodies covered with ringworm. Most of all, she fears the loneliness and isolation awaiting her. She knows how many miles they are from town and how far it is to the nearest hospital, doctor, telephone, store, etc. It takes everything within her to take the hand of her three-year-old son, climb the hill to their 400-square-foot house, and embrace the future ahead of her.

It is now February 2, 1997. The same woman is standing on the same riverbank. She is not as young anymore. She has no baby in her arms and no toddlers beside her. This time, fear is not one of the emotions she is feeling. This time she doesn’t even notice the ringworm covering the bodies of the people around her as she embraces many of them in a final hug. This time she is not able to keep her tears from flowing. Saying goodbye to these people who have become her family is one of the hardest things she has ever had to do. She is so thankful for the eight years God has given her and her family to live here.

The scene changes again. Now it is October 25, 2012. Again, I find myself (yes, I am that woman) standing overlooking not one river, but three—the Monongahela, Ohio and Allegheny Rivers in the city of Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania where we have accepted a call to be church planters. This time I am definitely not young anymore, and my children have all left home to forge lives of their own.

Later that night, I lie awake in a panic wondering what in the world John and I think we can offer the people of Pittsburgh. Thoughts stream through my mind, threatening to undo my peace and assurance in God’s leading. What if our house in Michigan doesn’t sell? How will we adjust to urban living? How will I get things wrapped up for my accounting and tax business?

But these thoughts remind me of that day on the banks of the Sepik River 23 years ago, and I immediately recall the faces of all the people God put into our lives to bless and grow us throughout our years with AFM. I think of so many of you dear supporters who sacrificially supported us financially and with letters, prayers and packages year after year. I’ll never forget the times John or David Lackey would come back from the quarterly trips to Wewak. Everything would stop, and we would sit on the floor of our home surrounded by unopened boxes of supplies, letters and packages, opening letter after letter filled with prayers, words of encouragement and news of daily life in the States.

Then there were the years of readjusting to the frantic pace of life in the United States, getting our four children through academy and then college. And still many of you kept sending us letters and staying in contact with us. Many of you in Berrien Springs were around to help us settle in and assist us in many other tangible ways. Without you, we could not have done what we did. You are our heroes, and all we can do is thank you from the bottom of our hearts.

Our years of service with AFM are coming to a close. But I am confident that the same God who was with our family in the jungles will be with John and me as we begin a new mission. Thank you again one and all for your love, support and prayers.

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