Peshawar, Pakistan 1997 There is a pair of well-worn, muddy shoes outside our door. On the inside, a faded shuttlecock burka hangs on a hook, and the sound of scrubbing comes from the kitchen. I look up from the rattling keys of my word processor. The thing I admire about Zu Bibi is her faithfulness. She comes across muddy fields, rain, hail or shine. She always comes. I’d never get all those letters done for the bishop if I didn’t have her coming part-time to help around the house. She’s ...

---