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I can't talk about it without getting misty-eyed; even though a decade
has passed since it happened, I still get choked up every time I talk about
it. It was the first day I ever gave something to missions that really
"Hector" (not his real name) was my pastor. No, I didn't attend his
church, I was a pastor myself, but even pastors need pastors and I was
lucky to have Hector. His church was about 90 miles from mine, but we talked
on the phone a lot and we rode together to Executive Board meetings in
Hector has a great sense of humor, I still chuckle when I think of some
of the things he's said over the years. He was a coin collector and I was
a baseball card collector, so almost every trip we made together we'd find
some out of the way collector's shop and browse through the merchandise.
We always had a great time together and he was always there for me if I
needed someone to talk to.
Always, that is, until he answered a call to become a missionary to
a part of the world where missionaries aren't allowed. I can't write him,
because doing so could jeopardize his safety. In reality, I gave my pastor
to missions-I gave my friend.
Every year when I give to missions at Christmas time, I remember Hector,
I pray for him and his family, and I give joyfully knowing that he and
others like him, will use what I give to spread the gospel. Really, no
matter how much money I give, I could never give a greater gift than I
did when I gave my pastor to the mission field. But because I gave that
gift, I know that I must give this monetary gift, because he's counting
And he's counting on you, too.
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