We had been driving for an hour when our driver pulled over by the side of the dirt road next to a carpenter’s shop. “Why are we stopping?” I asked our translator. “Aren’t we going to the church our friend planted using stories?” “Yes we are,” the translator replied, “But we can’t go any farther in the car because we will get stuck.” We piled out of the 4-wheel drive Range Rover and onto the backs of motorcycles. I clung to my driver as we darted off onto a tiny foot-wide dirt path. Endless corn fields, pineapple fields, and tall grasses brushed against my skirts as we rode under the African sun for half an hour without seeing a single hut. I was just beginning to wonder how anyone had even found this village in the first place when suddenly a hut loomed in front of us, and then another and another. We entered the village and jetted towards the center. As we approached, I heard singing. Turning the corner, we saw the church—a covering made of dried palm leaves supported by thick branches cut from trees. It was literally spilling over with people, every single one of which was dancing and singing and praising God at the top of their lungs. This church was planted in January by one of the trainees from the Aja training we held in November. He had come here telling the stories we had developed, and so many people had accepted Christ, that the church sprang up almost overnight and had now grown to over 150 people!