The Missionary

It was a paperback book on my father’s shelf of religious books that heralded the first stirrings of what would later develop into the sexual awakening of puberty for me.  I was a curious five year old snooping through his office when I stumbled upon it.  The cover featured a painted illustration of a beautiful white woman’s face peering out at me with dark brown eyes, rich black hair, and full red lips.  Behind and surrounding her on a smaller scale were menacing bare-chested African warriors with shields and spears.  

I don’t remember the title, but I knew it was a story about the dangers missionaries face in deepest darkest Africa.  I don’t know if it was some kind of early example of Christian fiction that is so prevalent in Christian bookstores these days or an actual account, but to my young eye it was exotic and quite alluring.  In retrospect, it smacked of sexism, racism, and other typical isms of 1970’s America.  All I knew at the time was that if it took going to the “Dark Continent” to get a wife that looked like that, it was the missionary life for me.

***