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calm. There were five kids with five schedules, five sets of homework, mountains of laundry, and a veritable army to feed at every meal, including numerous guests. Complicating those issues was a meager income with which to purchase food and a dad who seemed to be gone far more than he was at home. But we felt loved and safe. And, we knew God was working in and through our little church that miraculously kept growing.
    Maybe it was the long, cold (we’re talking Siberia cold) winters that toughened us up. Or perhaps it was due to the fact that we sat squarely on the lower end of the middle class (or the top end of poverty level) that strengthened our resolve to trust God in the good times as well as the difficult. One thing was certain: our parents were not quitters. Our father was a man of faith who regularly put his trust in God for all to see. Perhaps he got his steady nerve from his British father who survived the horrors of the First World War. When my dad was running a Bible college, he once asked a pastor to fly four hundred miles to Saskatoon once a month to teach classes. The pastor was uncertain whether the funds would be available to cover his airfare. Ultimately the man agreed to come, saying, “Henry, I don’t have the faith that the money will be there, but based on your faith, I will agree to come.”
    Looking back, we’re not sure how our mother held it all together in those days. She was (and is) a very strong woman. During our first month in Canada, she walked straight into a burglar at 2:00 a.m. as he was entering her bedroom. (The unwary thief’s ears are probably still ringing from that scream!) She was not perfect (we have stories, but we are sworn to secrecy!), but she was our fiercest, most reliable, and loyal supporter. She was also the best cook we knew (her homemade cinnamon buns were legendary!) and a woman of prayer. She would later return to work part-time in order to obtain some of the items our little house needed, such as a paved driveway, a microwave oven, a dishwasher, finished bedrooms in the basement, and Christmas presents. You can read her perspective on our home in her book Experiencing God Around the Kitchen Table .
    Almost African Missionaries
    The missionary spirit was instilled into us as children in our earliest memories. Our father’s first church was in a high-crime neighborhood in the Bay area of San Francisco. The local police regularly called on the young preacher to help them with difficult cases (including talking a man who had barricaded himself in his house with a gun while threatening to kill his wife, into turning over his gun). Our father’s second church had been victimized by two church splits. In both cases, God used him to bring the congregation back to health and vibrancy.
    Then our parents attended an international mission service and were challenged to go wherever God called them to serve. In obedience, they applied to their denomination’s international mission board. They were preliminarily approved to serve at a Bible college in Africa. Then a problem occurred. Richard began to suffer unexplained fainting spells. Richard’s brothers like to explain that a battery of tests were performed on his brain, but they could find nothing! Doctors suspected a brain tumor. The mission board suggested our parents not proceed until the medical issue was resolved. Had it not been for Richard’s health, we would have all grown up in Africa! Instead, it was during the following year that Faith Baptist Church in Canada contacted our parents, and they were redirected north instead of east. Interestingly, once our family moved to Canada, doctors ran the same tests on Richard in order to continue his treatments, but they found nothing wrong.
    Growing up in pioneer missions in Saskatchewan, we learned about making sacrifices for the cause of Christ. One sacrifice was living far from relatives. Our mother’s sister’s family served as missionaries to Eastern Europe when