It was 1970 and I was 7 years old when I first recall being called to missions. In May of 1983 I graduated from Kings Way Missionary Institute in McAllen, Texas and two days later found myself in the back-end of a 4 wheel drive pickup truck, headed down a winding treacherous mountain road in the heart of Veracruz, Mexico off the coast of the Gulf of Mexico. Somewhere around 2 or 3 thousand Nahuatl Indians had gathered for a three day preaching and teaching campaign. I’ll never forget as we jumped out of the truck, they lined us up like cattle at a feed trough. They had made 50 foot long tables by driving 4 inch posts into the ground and nailing a 12 inch hand cut pine board to the top. They lined us up by the hundreds, standing only, on both sides of the tables. The seasoned missionary, with whom I was sent to work, had given me one simple instruction: “You will eat whatever they give you. You will not make faces nor reject their food, if you do, you can pack your bags and head back to the United States.”
