My parent’s first missionary term was in a remarkably inaccessible place. The rough dirt road passed through three rivers, and the largest one still needs a four-wheel drive to cross—amid rocks and boulders no one has bothered to clear in seventy years. And we were told to not even think about crossing it after a rain. No wonder many people moved away from this remote place after a tarmac road was built a day’s walk away. They had a church out there with two humongous missionary houses. Hard to conceive. My mother was only twenty-five and my father, thirty-one. There he…