Domžale, Slovenia

The afternoon sun was hot, and my heart, beating in contrast to my sluggish feet, was infiltrated by a sense of hurry. Each step fought against me, melting into the cement as my friends and I walked the streets of Domžale, an hour from the capital. I knew I needed to talk to God, ask Him to guide my steps, but I caught myself burning with pride and wanting to pray simply to check a box and go home.

Someone once told me you can’t rush slowing down, but as obvious as that statement sounds, there I was, attempting the impossible.

Finally, I fell a pace behind my friends, allowing my mind to quiet, and began breathing in the world around me. Thoughts of pride were replaced by the beauty of creation coming to life in every detail: chirping birds landing gently on tall fences, young boys laughing as they pushed their bikes forward, even cars rolling beneath the changing streetlights. The homes ahead grew larger as the trees danced around them, wrapping the brick houses in a border of green. I welcomed an inhale that seemed to stop time.

In that moment, I became aware of the knocking on my heart. I swung the door open to a flood of thoughts, ideas, and prayers. I realized I’d been treating God like a power to harness instead of a Person to walk with.

“I just want to walk in step with you, Lord,” I whispered. My voice was barely audible, but inside, my soul was screaming.

It became less of a prayer for ministry and more of a prayer for my own heart.

Help my unbelief. Strengthen my faith. Purify my heart.

Speak, Lord, for your servant is listening.

As I lifted my eyes, a house in my peripheral caught me—so sharply it might as well have grown an arm, reached out, and tapped my shoulder. Before the instinct of fear could climb to my throat, a quiet certainty took over. I turned and walked up the driveway, my steps quickening, drawn forward with excitement and expectancy to the vibrant orange walls. The rest of the world, along with what seemed like sound itself, simply fell away. There was no turning back now. And though my friends stayed to the road behind me, I knew I was not walking up alone. With a few knocks to the wooden door and a quick glance to the potted plant brushing against my pant leg, I looked up and locked eyes with a young girl about my age. In the quiet between us, her eyes communicated a lifetime more than a simple hello.

Who are you? What do you want?

I sensed her hesitation, understandably so. Yet, there was comfort in our closeness in age, and as it turns out, a fresh coat of painted nails is a universal language. Soon, we were laughing over the kinds of small things my brothers back home would have rolled their eyes at. But beneath her laughter, I could still feel a heavy undercurrent of confusion. I kept my voice gentle, attempting to build a bridge between us one word at a time. We had been talking for just shy of ten minutes when I felt the nudge to ask if she was a praying person, and if there was anything she needed prayer for. Before she could answer, her older brother peeked around the corner. She began to translate my question for him, but the dismissive wave of his hand told us everything—he had already been listening from the shadows.

“Are you a Jehovah’s Witness?” he asked, his voice guarded.

“No.”

“Mormon?”

“No.”

I watched his shoulders visibly relax. “Oh… then what?”

I explained that we were visiting from the States and had simply been walking around after attending a church service a few blocks away. We were interested in getting to know the people here—the same community our friends had moved across the world to serve. His sister looked at me with eyes of recognition as I repeated what I had told her only minutes before.

Because “missionary” often means “Mormon” to Slovenians, I avoided the title and instead described the life of RC and Bri, the couple we were visiting. They had moved to Slovenia four years earlier to simply love and live among the community—a place where I was learning that faith was defined by a quiet nominalism rather than a lived reality. For many, to be Slovenian meant to claim Catholicism as a heritage. The more I asked about their beliefs, the clearer it became: God wasn't a Father to be known, but a concept they had rarely even considered.

“I know it feels completely random,” I added, offering a smile to break the weight in the air. “But the orange walls of your house stand out so beautifully in this neighborhood—unlike anything I’ve ever seen. I simply had to know who lived inside.”

They smiled then, genuine smiles that finally reached their eyes as their curiosity deepened. From there, the conversation grew long and soon enough my friends from the street walked up to join me. The brother continued to ask questions about morality, the existence of evil, and his tangled thoughts on church, religion, and God. Watching him, it became clear that he carried a quiet brokenness in his chest. His eyes gave him away—there was a heaviness resting beneath them, a guard meant to keep his heart at a safe distance. He had been hurt before. Yet, beneath the armor, he was searching.

His sister looked over at him, a startled laugh escaping her when he revealed that he had been trying to get accepted into a school for Islam. To her, this was a striking, vulnerable admission, and from the look on her face, it was clear this was the very first time she had ever heard of her brother’s search for God.

“What is the difference between all of these religions? Are they not all the same?”

His questions grew increasingly existential. In response, we shared with them the idea of going to church—offering it not as a rigid rule, but as a safe space where they could keep asking these massive questions. He carefully took down the name, admitting he wasn’t opposed to showing up the following Sunday.

The sister then ventured a question in Slovene directed at her older brother. He smiled, and I raised my eyebrows, longing to understand the secret language passing between them.

“She was asking if we had any ice cream for you all,” he translated, his smile widening. “Since it’s so hot out today.”

I fought to keep my blink of shock from showing. The distance between their guarded skepticism an hour ago and this tender offering of hospitality was the size of an open sea.

He continued softly, “I would invite you inside, but I have a lot of schoolwork to study.”

Looking at the two of them, I couldn’t believe how the hour had evaporated. The conversation had felt entirely absent from the clock, as if time itself could not reach the front steps we shared. I shifted, breaking the stillness, knowing we should start heading back to our group. We said our see-you-laters and walked back down the stairs with peace—one that surpassed understanding.

Forget me, I prayed silently.

Forget me from this moment.

The Lord is chasing after you.

He was the one who walked up your front steps today

and knocked on your door,

it was not me.

It was your Father who used me,

used my friends,

to share His name with you.

Forget me.

Do not forget His name.

…

That following Saturday, the brother and sister agreed to meet us at a coffee shop to connect with RC and Bri. More than anything, I wanted to anchor them to someone who actually lived locally.

The afternoon of the meeting brought a quiet tension between anticipation and anxiety. As RC maneuvered the car into a parking spot near the café, I began to pray aloud while Bri worked to soothe their two-month-old in the back seat. My prayer laid bare all my nerves and fears, prompting RC to pause and allow the Lord to use him to comfort us before we stepped out.

“This is going to sound weird…” RC started.

I was intrigued. “Okay…”

“I want you to think about your toes.”

I couldn’t hide the expression on my face if I tried; my confusion was as written all over it. What?

“Trust me,” he replied, catching the look of concern painted across my features. “Think about how they feel in your sandals. Move them around, stretch them, let them breathe. Now, let your mind move to the ball of your foot. Now to the heel. I bet you haven’t thought about the heels of your feet all day,” he joked.

He was right; I hadn’t. But I still didn’t know why he was having me do it now. Yet, as I followed his instructions, a sudden awareness settled over the bottom of my feet—a focus I hadn’t given them all day. It was almost an intense, piercing awareness, but with it came a stillness in my mind that I hadn’t experienced in weeks.

“Let’s go.” RC blurted, abruptly shattering the quiet.

What? Was that it? What was the point of the exercise? They were almost half-formed thoughts, fading almost instantly because the rest of my being no longer cared. The doubts and lies that had been creeping into my mind just moments before were gone, replaced by a strange, quiet focus. Confidence had taken their place.

I stepped out of the car, hyper-aware of my feet as they hit the pavement. Hyper-aware of the Foundation I was walking on—Christ Himself. Hyper-aware of our servant-hearted King who once knelt to wash the feet of His disciples.

By the end of our two hours together; after shared laughs, heavy stories, and hard questions, the Bible that had arrived in the hands of RC left in the eager hands of the brother.

The next morning, he showed up at church, just as he said he would.

Both the brother and sister have stayed in contact with RC and Bri ever since we packed our bags and left Slovenia. In the months since, that missionary home has remained a place for community, where questions and doubts are welcomed, not feared. Today, the brother is actively reading through the Gospel of John and The Case for Christ. He is continuing to grow toward Jesus, with his little sister following his lead. What began as a single, small step of faith toward the unknown led me to a brother and sister I now confidently call my friends—two children God wants to draw back to Him.

…

“How beautiful upon the mountains are the feet of him who brings good news, who publishes peace, who brings good news of happiness, who publishes salvation, who says to Zion, “Your God reigns.”

Isaiah 52:7