The church is warm, hot really, which isn’t surprising considering it’s the middle of summer in Kansas. My stomach sends nervous signals that make me fidget. As insistent as the signals are, I’m unsure – or afraid – of their meaning. Do I get up? Do I walk forward? Do I not?
The missionary stands at the front of the church, waiting. His impassioned plea for more workers for the harvest has stirred me to respond; thus, I fidget. I’m scared of the first step.
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