I was kneeling in the stagnant heat on a desolate, gasoline-soaked dirt road, holding the hand of a dying woman.

In my first six days in Nigeria I experienced, heard, and saw hardships that simply don’t happen in the United States. However, nothing compared to the horrific accident witnessed by me and my traveling companions.

A minibus, the kind you find all over the developing world, had run off the rough road, rolling over several times in a cloud of dust and ejecting passengers. The bus had seats for 15 people, a number easily exceeded by the passengers.

As we stopped our car and rushed to help, the occupants still in the bus slowly began to climb out. Some tended to injuries while others tried to salvage their possessions.

Walking around the vehicle, I was chilled at the sight of one of the victims, or at least the part of her I could see.

An older woman had been trapped under the bus when it rolled onto its side. Only her legs and feet were visible, while the other half of her frail body crushed underneath the side-turned minibus.

We quickly gathered to lift the bus off of her body. Upon relieving the weight of the bus from her, I was shocked to discover she was not dead. Not yet.

What could I do? Was there anything I could have done to save this woman from her nearly certain death? Probably not. Her chest had completely caved in under the vehicle. Likewise, her skull was also smashed. No ambulance or rescue helicopter was coming to speed her away to a trauma center. No emergency personnel would give her antibiotics and bandage her gaping wounds. She was fading quickly.

Was there any way for me to impact her before her rapidly deteriorating life came to a close? Anything I could give her to ease the pain or prolong her life? Possibly. I could have bandaged her wounds, or some of them. I could have taken off my shirt and put it under her head to give some comfort.

I could have, but to my shame, I did nothing more. I was paralyzed by fear and questions about the future. What would the crowd do if I touched her in a culturally inappropriate way? I had gashed my thumb a few days earlier. Would I contract HIV if I got bloody? We were in a violently Islamic area. What would happen if I started sharing Jesus’ love with this woman? Would I or one of my friends be the next casualty?

Kneeling silently as this woman slipped closer and closer to her death, I did nothing.

God is calling Worldlink to Northern Nigeria. I had traveled here to understand the hardships and opportunities of the church. Native Christians face the possibility of death every day from Muslim extremists. They also understand that these same people will die without Christ, as the woman next to me likely did. Thankfully, these Christians are doing something about the bleak situation.

I hope you will take some time to watch this video where I share more about my experience on the road that day. I would like to share more of my experiences with you through several more emails over the next two weeks. I would appreciate it if you would read them and help me tell the story of God’s work in northern Nigeria by forwarding them to your family and friends, as many people as possible.

Gratefully,