A Seed in the Soil

In a country village a young missionary mother navigated criticism, cultural tension, and deep spiritual divides. From barefoot babies to Qur’an school conversations, her life intersected with Teyze’s in ways that revealed both resistance and rare moments of openness.

This story is about planting gospel seeds in unlikely soil—and trusting God for the harvest.

Baby Cyprus waddled around and stood in the yard and then dropped to the dirt with a plop. Choban Teyze frowned. “You don’t take care of him at all—not at all!” she scolded. I laughed. I knew letting him outside barefoot would have been enough to elicit disapproval from the neighborhood, but he was clad only in a diaper on this hot summer day. As much as I wanted to integrate into the culture and build connections and respect, there were some areas to which I just could not adapt. Bundling my baby up on a hot day was one of them.

Choban Teyze was at it again. She always had a word of criticism when she visited, but I could tell that behind the narrow worldview was curiosity and favor. I didn’t immerse my baby in saltwater and wrap him tightly in gauze, as she recommended. I took him out in public too soon, and I let him sit up before he was 6 months old. But despite her disapproval, she saw that he was healthy and had straight bones. My milk supply hadn’t stopped because I went barefoot on the cold tile floor, either.

“You should send your boys to Qur’an school,” she said one day as we sat visiting in the dining room. She was an easy guest—she wouldn’t let me fix her tea, and if I did serve her something else, she usually puckered up her face and spit it out. Her visits were short and memorable.

I shook my head about the Qur’an school, where local children spent their summer hours learning to read, write, and recite the Arabic suras that were so foundational to their religion and culture.

“Why not?” asked Teyze.

“We don’t believe in that, Teyze,” I struggled for a better explanation.

I knew this talk, even though I didn’t understand it. It was the Muslim manifesto, the declaration of beliefs I had heard by others demonstrating their commitment to their faith and hoping to win us over.

Teyze began to talk, and her talk got stronger and faster. I knew this talk, even though I didn’t understand it. It was the Muslim manifesto, the declaration of beliefs I had heard by others demonstrating their commitment to their faith and hoping to win us over. I had been surprised by how our Muslim friends would try to convert us. They didn’t usually seem to worry too much about whether or not we actually understood what they were saying; it was more of a regurgitation of what they had been programmed to think and say, the absolute truth as they knew it.

My heart rate quickened as Teyze preached, and I scrambled about in my mind as to what I could possibly say to defend the truth. It was a familiar feeling of responsibility, humiliation, and inadequacy. Even if I spoke Turkish like an angel, even if I had the wisest and wittiest response, what good would it do for this little old shepherdess before me who had lived her whole life within one absolute, unquestioned worldview?

An Unexpected Opening

Teyze had lost her mother when she was a small child, and when she was 14, her father married her off. Her husband was good to her, but she lived a hard life, working long hours to raise food and livestock. She never earned a high school diploma, and became a mother when she was very young, without the benefit of her own mother to support her or even the support or respect of caring in-laws. One thing she did have was the constantly reinforced doctrine of Islam: Allah is one God, Muhammad is His prophet, and you must earn merit to go to heaven.

I took a deep breath and looked at Teyze as her monologue began to come in for a landing, asking myself what was really behind it. At last she had nothing more to say. I leaned forward, looking closely into her eyes, in which I always perceived a spark of love through her saltiness. “Teyze, you really love us, don’t you?” I asked.

“Yes, I do,” she said as she grabbed my face in her weathered hands and kissed my cheeks. “I want you to go to heaven!”

When she was finished hugging and kissing me, I searched again for words in my limited vocabulary. “Auntie, I can’t speak Turkish very well,” I reminded her, “but someday I hope I can share with you what I believe, too.”

Months turned into years, and I saw Teyze less. But she loved my mother, and when Mom visited, we always dropped in to see Teyze. One day, in the course of conversation, matters of faith emerged. Teyze mentioned that we must all burn in hell for our sins. Suddenly I saw her differently, so small and hunched and withered. And afraid. This time I had the vocabulary and an open door.

“Teyze, I do not believe you are going to burn in hell,” I said firmly. “I believe God loves you!”
“Then how do you think we get to heaven?” she asked. A sweet question she had never before voiced.

I did my best to tell Teyze the Bible story of sin and salvation, redemption and eternity, as simply as possible. Teyze listened quietly, without a word of criticism. The good news slipped behind the veil of her heart, and I may never know, this side of eternity, what impact it had. It broke into the enclosed system of thought that had never before been challenged. Like nearly every other seed sown in the apparently dry soil of this country, I did not see a sign of life, but if God is who He says He is, the seed is not lost. Somewhere in a little cottage by a garden in a humble village, in the aging heart of an old shepherd woman, a seed of life rests, watered and nurtured by the Holy Spirit. I have great hope of meeting Teyze on resurrection morning and finding her surprised that instead of the excruciating pain of hell, she is met with youth and joy, life and Jesus.