“Come sit on my lap,” the missionary called.
He was Victor Plymire who criss-crossed hostile Tibet by foot telling people about Jesus.
I was thrilled to have him staying in our home while he spoke at our church in Wayne, Michigan. I was four years old but the memory is still vivid.
“What’s your name, Sonny?”
“David.”
“I have a son named David, too. I did have a son named John but he and his mother died in Tibet helping me tell the people about Jesus.” He paused and I’m sure now he had tears in his eyes.
He cupped my chubby cheeks in his hands and said, “Will you grow up and take my son John’s place and be a missionary?”
“I will, Brother Plymire, I will!”
I knew something important had just happened, and I really meant my answer.
And God did, too.
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