It was the fall of 1994 and a church plant group in the western suburbs of Fairfax County, Virginia, was excited to finally be calling its first official rector.

It was my sister Mindy who suggested that we go to the market in a place called Chichicastenago in Guatemala on our trip there in January.

I set off on my bike for the Garifuna village to spend the afternoon with friends, to stroll on the beautiful Tela beach along the Honduran coast. Before I knew it, it was getting late and I knew, as a young single girl living in a foreign land, that I’d better hurry home before it got too dark to be out on my own.…

We had been in Honduras for a few months when I decided to wander off in the crowded San Pedro Sula market to “look for care bears.” I was three years old, but I still remember my mother’s frantic expression, running through the rows of vendors, with my older sister in tow. “Busca mi nina,” she called over and over in her broken Spanish. She was sweating, half-crazed, and crying when she swooped me into her arms, shouting, “never do that again!”