If I were to write a novel about a missionary, it would probably begin something like….
Africa ruined a man and healed a man, the same man, at the same time. He had not known it then, but realized it now– more discovery than knowing, and more sudden insight than understanding. He had come expecting to effect change in others; instead, he was terminally infected by something altering him forever, nearly convincing himself that his motives had been pure in leaving a grieving mother and moving across the globe to an alien place with unfamiliar customs, cacophony of language and confusing demands on the Wazungu. A more honest probe would lay bare a wanderlust magnified by grandiose imagination and highly inflated self-estimation. He was, after all, a missionary. Fortunately,God uses fools, frequently softening them in the using.