by Rhonda Vander Sluis

A Christian evangelist from Iowa is transformed by the compassion of the Turkish souls she hopes to save

“Why did you choose Turkey?”

I get asked that question a lot, after my effusive recitation of the highlights of eight years I spent living and working there.
I hesitate. Do they really want to know? Or, more to the point, do I really want to tell them? Should I get into the missionary stuff? I’m embarrassed to admit it, but the reason I went to Turkey was to evangelize Muslims—“unreached peoples,” in missionary lingo. I had done a stint in Pakistan and was uncomfortable with the restrictions imposed by a strict Islamic state. Turkey was more modern, easier; you didn’t have to wear a head covering and could move about quite freely as a single woman. But I would still be bringing the message of salvation to the group of people that, at least in the eyes of my mission superiors, needed it the most.

Because proselytizing in Turkey was illegal, I had to come up with some other convincing story for why I had left a lucrative nursing career in the States. “To learn Turkish,” I insisted brightly to anyone who asked, misinterpreting their polite silence and subsequent “don’t ask, don’t tell” indulgence of me as acquiescent acceptance of my ruse. As it turned out, my long denim jumpers and conservative lifestyle marked me as a religious worker anyway. The only one I was really fooling was myself.

Living with a Turkish family was encouraged by my mission organization as an excellent way to learn the culture along with the language. After securing a spot in a Turkish language school, I turned to my church colleagues for advice on finding a suitable family. Katie, a missionary veteran, was quick to oblige. “Mustafa amca and Gülsüm teyze, they’re the sweetest couple,” gushed Katie, using the Turkish honorifics for aunt and uncle out of respect for their age. “Their son is getting married and they want to rent out a room for extra cash. It’d be a perfect place for you.”