I know this story is a little odd. God transformed me from a teenager in western New York hoping to run a horse farm to a 25-year-old completely sold on global missions.

Missions work was not on my mind as a child, and I knew nothing about Africa. I did love The Lion King. Little did I know that one day I’d be living in a place that looks like a scene right out of the movie! “Save the Children” commercials and National Geographic specials were the extent of my exposure to reality on that continent. When images of starving babies flashed across my TV, I would usually change the channel. I’ve always loved kids, and I couldn’t bear to see them hurting. These commercials repulsed me.

I took a few community college courses in my senior year of high school. One day I was sitting on the fifth floor of the library. I was the only person on the whole floor, and I was hiding behind a row of desks. I wanted to get my homework done without any interruptions, but God had other plans.

As I was reading my history textbook, unaware that my life was about to change, I heard the elevator ding. Before I knew it, there was a man walking towards me. I don’t know how he knew I was there because I was not visible from the elevator, but he walked straight up to me and said, in a thick accent, “God told me to talk to you. Can I sit down?”

He was Kenyan. He told me his name was Ernest. His uncle had been killed in a violent raid on his village, and his home had been burned down. He had a brother already living in America, and his brother had sent him money to come to this little community college in the frozen tundra of Rochester, N.Y. He was studying accounting and planned to go back to Kenya when he graduated.

We talked for an hour. We soon realized we were both Christians. Ernest told me he had had a dream, and that God had told him he would meet a young woman in the library who would become a missionary to East Africa.

I was speechless. He also wanted to marry me on the spot, but that’s another story. I turned down the offer.

Maybe it was just a self-fulfilling prophecy. But I do know that Africa was suddenly on my mind a lot. When I arrived at Grove City College the next year and walked around the Organizational Fair looking for campus clubs to join, a group called Project Okello caught my eye. They had pictures of African kids on their poster. I didn’t know anything about Uganda, but they told me that if I loved kids and wanted to get plugged into a group of strong Christians on campus, I should come to a meeting, and watch a showing of the Invisible Children video. Ernest had opened my eyes to the fact that Africa was more than just a big blob on the map; Project Okello showed me that God could use my heart for children in a bigger way than I’d ever expected.

Okello taught me the power of prayer. These people were prayer warriors. I had never experienced anything like it. We made big plans—projects and events that seemed completely impossible for a group of 12 college students. We prayed like crazy and went into the community. We had to be bold with God and with others. The amazing thing was, God answered. We raised thousands of dollars for missionaries in Uganda. We sent huge containers of supplies to orphanages. We sponsored an elementary school in Gulu, northwestern Uganda. Soon we were partnered with dozens of Ugandans who were seeking to build the kingdom of God in a region ravaged by the LRA (Lord’s Resistance Army). Today, Okello has grown from a dozen students to close to one hundred, praying daily for God’s kingdom in eastern and central Africa.

In 2009, Okello was planning to send a team to Uganda to meet the pastors we’d been partnering with. I wanted to go! But, after looking into the details of the trip a bit more, I decided that I wasn’t comfortable going there because of theological differences.

Then I heard that RP Missions had a mission team that went to eastern Uganda. I had never heard of Karamoja, but I looked it up on the map and was disappointed to see how far it was from “the action” of the war-torn northwestern area. Still, I figured Karamoja was better than nothing. At least I could get my feet wet in a Third World country and see if I could handle it. I signed up for the team, not really knowing what I was getting myself into; but I was excited. I was going to Africa!

I spent six weeks working with the Orthodox Presbyterian missionaries in Karamoja. To be honest, I spent most of the time painting. I tried to work diligently and not grumble too much. It wasn’t turning out to be as thrilling as I’d hoped. I did get to teach Bible stories to kids in the villages, which I loved. But most days I was weeding or painting or cleaning. I was quickly learning the reality of missions work—it’s not all thrills and crowds and conversions and adventures. It’s washing dishes and being awakened early by roosters and caring for crying babies. It’s eating rice and beans for lunch five days a week. It is frustrating and exhausting and discouraging. You pour yourself out for other people and often feel empty at the end of the day.

I was surprised at myself on our departure day. Despite how miserable I had been at times on the trip, and how lonely I had felt as the only girl on the team, when we started packing the Land Rover I broke down in tears. I completely lost it. All of a sudden I felt certain that I would never be able to come back to Karamoja, and I was heartbroken. I realized that as difficult as it had been, the work was meaningful. And I loved the Karimojong kids. I had officially been bit by the Africa bug, and there’s no known cure. Once you’ve got the bug, you will spend the rest of your life fighting the urge to go back, or, if you’re smart, you’ll give in and just go live there!

But I had to be realistic. There really wasn’t any way for me to go back to Africa. I was getting my degree in history. I was probably going to become a librarian or a museum curator. I wouldn’t say I had my life figured out, but I was definitely on an academic trajectory. No way could I fit Africa into that plan.

I returned to America and spent two years thinking about Karamoja constantly. It was like having a crush on a people group. That may sound odd, but that’s the best way I can describe it. I thought about Karamoja, dreamed about Karamoja, sang Karimojong songs (the three or four I could remember!), looked at pictures, watched every YouTube video that existed about Karamoja. I learned as much as I could about African politics and the history of the church on the continent. I even changed the focus of my history degree in my senior year, and wrote my 25-page senior paper on the interactions between the first missionaries to Uganda and the British government. I added a last-minute college minor in sociology and took classes on poverty, African politics, and cultural anthropology.

I graduated and moved back in with my parents in Rochester, N.Y. I worked full-time as a nanny and part-time as a house cleaner, and jumped right into serving in my local church. I had gotten used to the idea of living in America, as hard as that was to accept. I had bills to pay. I kept in touch with the missionaries in Karamoja, but I had resigned myself to at least several more years stateside.

One day I received an email from one of the missionaries asking if I’d consider coming back to Karamoja in the fall to teach for three months. I was thrilled! Soon three months was extended to six. I had never taught before, but I knew I could at least teach history and literature. As long as they didn’t ask me to teach math, it would be fine!

My six months as a teacher went better than I could have dreamed. It wasn’t easy, but it felt like I was exactly where God wanted me to be. I found that teaching wasn’t quite as daunting as I’d expected, and I was blessed with wonderful students.

I’m now here for another stint of 10 months, teaching high school history, geography, literature and writing to the missionary kids, and I am feeling right at home here in Karamoja. I am constantly amazed at how the Lord has orchestrated things so smoothly for me, providing just what I need when I need it.

A few weeks ago I got malaria. For the first time, and while my fever raged, our missionary doctor Jim Knox handed me a box of medicine with one hand and a letter from home with the other. God had planned for that letter to arrive at exactly the moment I most needed encouragement. I can look back on so many moments, major events and little boosts of comfort and direction, and praise God for how He has been faithful every step of the way.

“Many, O Lord my God, are the wonders you have done. The things you planned for us no one can recount to you; were I to speak and tell of them, they would be too many to declare” (Ps. 40:5).

—Emily Pihl is a member of the Rochester, N.Y., RPC and is a missionary associate with the Orthodox Presbyterian Church Uganda Mission.