It was our second full day on the road, and we were exhausted.

The dirt road was riddled with potholes, but the Land Rover bounced over them with surprising ease. The night before, we had stopped at a gas station just to hunker down and survive the night. There were six of us in the back of the vehicle, and somehow, we maneuvered ourselves like sardines, lying sideways, trying to get any sleep we could.

Mosquitos buzzed in our ears. We had to keep the windows open for ventilation or the car would have turned into a sweaty oven. None of us slept well. We kept telling ourselves, hopefully, tonight will be better.

We were on our way to a village in the Zambian bush for a four-week trip during my volunteer mission year, and so far, it wasn’t going well.

As we bumped along the road the next morning, I noticed smoke drifting out of the engine. Not a good sign.

Sure enough—we broke down on the side of the road in the middle of the African bush. Stranded. Barely any food. Running low on water.

We weighed our options. The local man driving us knew of a small town about three hours away where we might find the replacement part we needed. So, we waited. And waited. We sat in 99° heat with no air conditioning, rationing water. 

But while we waited, something happened.

People from a nearby village began to gather around the vehicle. They stared at us with wide, curious eyes.

Kids climbed onto the back of the Land Rover and pressed their faces against the windows, making expressions and laughing. Many wore tattered clothes. Only some had shoes. A few parents stood back watching cautiously, while others came closer, just as curious as the children.

In that moment, I felt like an animal in a zoo exhibit—fascinating, strange, and unfamiliar.

Two completely different worlds had collided on the side of a dirt road. For five hours, none of us knew what to do except look at each other.

That was only day two of a three-day journey to the remote village in Zambia—and my first real glimpse into life there.

We spent one more night on the road, eating small snacks we had picked up at gas stations. Then, after a long boat ride, we finally reached our destination—a small village called Chipwa, nestled along a river. This would be our home for the next four weeks.

We unloaded our supplies and pitched our tents in a field just outside the village. Immediately, people began gathering. Many had never seen white people before. Children crowded around us, shouting, “Muzungu! Muzungu!” (White people, white people!) Some cautiously came up and grabbed my arm, rubbing my skin to see whether I was really that color.

During the day, we ran a dental clinic, and at night, we held evangelistic meetings. We quickly realized that the medical need was overwhelming, so we also opened a small general clinic. Word spread quickly; people traveled for hours to be seen.

The local clinic was often neglected, and some villagers had turned to witch doctors out of desperation because they felt they had no other option. Infection, untreated wounds, chronic illness—problems that would be minor back home—became serious here simply because help wasn’t available.

So, we worked. Day after day. Showering in tents. Washing clothes by hand. Praying over patients. Serving nonstop.

That month opened my eyes to how vast the medical need is in much of the world—not because solutions don’t exist, but because resources and workers are scarce. I kept thinking of the words from the Bible: “The harvest truly is plenteous, but the labourers are few” (Matthew 9:37–38).

When people ask me about my mission year in Africa, I still answer the same way: it was a character-growing experience.

And I mean that. It was the hardest year of my life—but also the most rewarding. Because with sacrifice comes something greater than comfort: purpose. And there is no greater reward than seeing lives touched for eternity.