I was gripping the handle of a hand truck, balancing a washing machine, when my mother-in-law called out from the house, “Bob, you have a phone call. It’s Don Ingle.” My wife and I had just departed Texas and returned to North Carolina. Except for some remote work, seminary was finished, so we were seeking God’s open door for ministry, hoping to serve a church as its Pastor. In the thick humidity of August 1992,…