What can I say about this incredible country? India was my first love. It’s a place of vibrant beauty, rich culture, and unforgettable people. The people can be both incredibly warm and—at times—a little frustrating. The food? Easily some of my all-time favorites. But I’ve also learned the hard way—more than once—what a gamble street food can be. Still, it was in this land of chaos and wonder that I first fell in love with sharing the love of Jesus.

A few years ago, while visiting India with some close friends, we received an unexpected invitation. We were asked to visit a very remote area in the state of Andhra Pradesh to worship with and encourage a small group of local Christians. I honestly don’t remember exactly why we said yes—only that we all felt God’s tug on our hearts to go.

The journey began with an overnight train ride to the city of Rajahmundry, where we spent the next day resting. Early the following morning, we set out for what would be a four-hour drive deep into the East Godavari district. Before agreeing to go, we had to weigh the risks. East Godavari is part of the Red Corridor, one of 38 districts in India known for Naxalite activity—a communist insurgent group notorious for violence. Over the years, their attacks have killed more than 4,000 civilians and 2,500 security personnel.

The village we were heading to sat in the heart of this tense region. Unbeknownst to us at the time, just two months earlier, a Naxalite ambush had left a truck driver dead, his shipment of chickpeas stolen, and the vehicle burned. The local church we planned to visit had a tragic history as well. It had been founded seven years earlier and had already lost two pastors. The first was killed just six months after moving to the area. The second—who was local and believed his roots would offer protection—was burned to death in the road just outside the church. He was buried across the street from the bamboo-walled building he had faithfully served.

Now, four years had passed. We were told things had quieted down with the rebels, and that if we left the area before nightfall, we’d be safe. Still, we wrestled with the decision. Ultimately, we felt God calling us to go and encourage the believers who had endured so much.

The drive took us through lush jungle villages, past waterfalls, and along roads dotted with monkeys hoping for handouts. By 11 a.m., we arrived at the village. For safety, our visit had been kept mostly quiet—but word spread quickly. Soon the little bamboo structure was filled with people eager to worship. Children, covered in dust and clearly malnourished, sat cross-legged in front, soaking in every word. Adults filled the back, seated on the dirt floor, listening intently.

As one of our team members preached, I moved around, filming both inside and outside the church. While standing with our driver—who spoke very little English—I noticed a man ride past us on a motorcycle. Then he came back. He stopped about a hundred yards down the road, turned his bike to face us, and made a phone call. Something about it didn’t sit right.

Our driver noticed too. He leaned toward me and said nervously, “Even the government won’t come here. Too dangerous.” My heart sank. Slowly, the reality set in—this place wasn’t just “near” Naxalite territory. It was under their control.

A few minutes later, a local man hurried up to the church, spoke urgently with an elder, and then the elder pulled me aside: “They know you’re here,” he said. “They’re coming down the mountain now.”

I quickly stepped inside and quietly informed our group. We ended the meeting with a brief but heartfelt prayer, said hurried goodbyes, and tried not to stir panic. As the villagers sat down to eat the food they had prepared for us, we were escorted to our vehicle. Several cars followed behind us to guide us safely out.

We had only spent about an hour with them—but I will never forget it. The courage of those believers, their unwavering faith in the face of real danger, and the presence of God in that little bamboo church left a deep mark on my heart.

India was where it all started for me—and where I first understood that sharing Jesus often means taking risks. But it’s in those risky, uncomfortable places that faith becomes real. And love—His love—becomes worth everything.

I once heard someone say, “The worst thing that has ever happened to you is the worst thing that has ever happened to you.” In other words, our personal trials always feel heavy—because they’re ours. And that’s okay. But many of us have been given the luxury of a safe life. We worship freely. We eat until we’re full. We live without fear of being hunted for our faith.

We don’t need to feel guilty for these blessings—but we do need perspective.

When life feels hard, when frustrations mount and problems feel overwhelming, I hope we can all take a step back. Because as real as our struggles may be, they often pale in comparison to what others around the world are enduring.

As I write this, we’re in Uganda, preparing to fly home in the morning. While here, we’ve seen true suffering. We’ve seen heartbreak, hunger, and hopelessness. And it’s shifted something in us. It’s filled us with a deep gratitude for our lives back home—but also with an even deeper longing for Jesus to return and end this suffering once and for all.

Until that day comes, may we live with perspective, compassion, and an urgency to share hope with those who need it most.