We were in the middle of our 14-hour trek across this West African road when our missionary asked the question. Since I was the biggest guy on our excursion, I was nestled down in the old Toyota truck back seat while the rest of our team sat against me or on top of me. To deal with the heat, we had the windows rolled down but the dirt and sand continued to fill the stifling back seat. We hadn’t showered in days and our daily ritual was full of walking miles across the desert and finding some piece of earth on which to sleep. One of our guys was making tuna sandwiches as we drove because it really wasn’t the best idea for us to stop anywhere.
Tucked somewhere within the mass of humanity and bags, the missionary who lived asked:
“So what is the hardest thing about being a pastor in America?”
At that moment, I thought it was the most ridiculous question I had ever heard.