Pilots, like Maj. Dann Carlson, demonstrate their training and precision by flying F-16 Fighting Falcons in the four-aircraft diamond formation.

As the Thunderbirds roared over his head 20 years ago, Dann Carlson dreamed that he'd one day fly with the Air Force's premier aerobatic team. Today, the Thunderbird pilot has a new goal. "I want people to see Jesus in me," he says, "in the way I live, in my marriage and even in the way I fly."

Years ago, Dann asked his youth pastor for advice when he was accepted to the Air Force Academy. "The Great Commission doesn't just apply to pastors and youth workers," Steve Ross told him. "It applies to you. It applies to your dreams. Go and fly, but remember to use whatever God gives you as a platform to share the good news of Christ."

During Dann's years as a student at the Air Force Academy, he helped pioneer Campus Crusade's Military Ministry there. "Dann was our first cadet leader," says Laurie Lorenzen, a Military Ministry staff member. She says Dann helped emcee the meetings, and spiritually mentored his peers as well.

In 14 years on active duty, Dann has flown over 3,000 hours in fast jets, serving as an exchange officer with the United Kingdom's Royal Air Force. Today, the 35-year-old is in his second season with the Thunderbirds.

"What really matters is eternity," says Dann. "My wife, Sherilyn, and I want to be salt and light in the Air Force. We love the opportunities to share our faith." —Jay Lorenzen

Now university students, the Pallaviccini sisters seek to lead others to Christ.

A friend from church first told them about it: a short-term school in Nicaragua that molds people into leaders using a biblical perspective. Craving spiritual training, the three Nicaraguan sisters—Gaudi, 27, Darling, 26, and Vilma, 22—said they'd think about it. When their friend offered them scholarships to the academy, they hastily enrolled.

In early 2001, the sisters began what would be an intensive 10 months of training. Called the International Leadership Academies, the school is a division of Campus Crusade for Christ that builds leaders outside the United States. Other locations for ILA include India, Bangladesh, Russia and Belarus. Besides classroom study, students hit the streets to learn how to share their faith. Graduates often go on to plant churches.

At the core of ILA is a strict adherence to Scripture, emphasizing a practical application of it. And that's why lives are changing. "The secret of ILA is not that we have these great materials or quality of curriculum," says David Cottrell, ILA curriculum developer. "It's the Word of God. It revolutionizes their lives forever."

The three enthusiastic sisters, who received Christ a short while before attending the academy, grew rapidly in their faith. They had never studied the Bible so intensely, while trying to live by what it said at the same time.

"We learned how to depend more on God," Darling says. "Our lives made like a 180-degree turn."

The Pallaviccini sisters come from a large family—seven children—and their background is rather tumultuous. Their mother, Yadira, is not married. Nor do they have a father figure. In fact, the sisters and their siblings aren't really sure who their fathers are—there may be as many as seven.

Today the entire family serves Christ and they still live together. Among their compact, urban neighborhood, they have gained a reputation for being radical followers of Jesus—a distinction that sometimes brings ridicule. But along with it arise opportunities to pass on what they learned in school.

One day their landlord, Rosivel, knocked on their door, complaining of chest pains. "I feel like I'm going to die," she told them, explaining she couldn't breathe. Darling, Gaudi and Vilma gathered around her and prayed. The pain stopped. Two days later, Rosivel called them, asking how she, too, could follow Jesus.

Other neighbors have called, requesting prayer or asking questions about the sisters' faith.

When they show Christ's love to their neighbors, they do it as a team, often with the help of their mother and other siblings. Darling does the talking. Gaudi and others pray. "We are stronger together because we have different gifts," says Vilma.

That kind of practical ministry is exactly what the sisters learned through ILA. In Nicaragua, the first school opened five years ago. Since then, the concept has spread to almost every major city, including the capital city of Managua. Currently there are 29 academies in Nicaragua, with more in the works.

The new academies are hybrids, offering part-time instruction—a condensed version of the normal training, with an emphasis on ministry skills. Jimmy Hassan, who directs Campus Crusade in Nicaragua, developed the hybrid academies and envisions them as the key to helping reach his country for Christ.

But it's all going to happen through leaders like the Pallaviccini sisters. They are enrolled at a local university now: Gaudi is on track to be a computer engineer, Darling a marketer and Vilma a lawyer. First and foremost, they are trained missionaries, equipped to reach their peers in their new careers. —Chris Lawrence

For more information about ILA, e-mail ila@ilaccc.org or call (480) 657-0077.

Willem De Vink was a troublemaker. At school in the Netherlands, he often got into fights. He dropped plants out the window of the third-floor biology room for kicks. He even tripped some of his teachers with a string.

The antics earned him popularity with his peers but trouble with those in authority. "I was explosive and expressive," says Willem, who in the fall of 2002 became the national director of Agape, as Campus Crusade for Christ is called in the Netherlands. Yet even during his times of rascality, "The Lord was somewhere in my heart."

His parents were Christians and tried to raise Willem in the faith, too, but he was uninterested. That is until he attended a youth conference at a rural farmhouse outside of Amsterdam. Sick with a fever nearly the entire week, Willem, 13 at the time, couldn't participate until the last evening. "What will you do with your life?" asked the speaker. The simple, profound question haunted Willem. Soon he was on his knees.

"It was as if Jesus stood before me," he says. "I was in awe . . . . I surrendered my life, fully aware of the fact that He would be the boss over every decision I should make in the future."

That meant using his talents for the Lord. Early on, Willem discovered he had a talent for drawing—especially comics. Soon his comics were more than entertainment; they carried convicting spiritual messages.

Willem drew the characters with voluminous noses and feet, emulating the style of well-known '70s cartoonists like Robert Crumb. Mostly portraying his peers, the comics were witty and light-hearted—yet zingy.

For Bert, the classmate who always had to buy the latest thing, Willem drew him surrounded by piles of possessions—records, cameras and a scooter. The more he acquired, the less satisfied he became. "Without Jesus you have nothing," reads the comic.

Another drawing was of Hans, a bohemian-type classmate, who thrusts a "change the world" sign in the air. A banner at the end reads: "There is only One who can change [the world], and He starts with you yourself."

A monthly Christian youth magazine discovered Willem's raw talent when he was 14. Soon his comics appeared in each issue. When Willem's classmates saw the comics, they were thrilled—they admired his talent. But the in-your-face messages angered some.

The comics explained a change his classmates had noticed: Willem was no longer the troublemaker they once knew. Now his energies focused in a different direction. "They found it very crazy and extreme that I was so mad about Jesus," says Willem.

Eventually, they warmed up to him again. Willem started a Bible study with 15 of them, and several committed to follow Jesus. Years later, on a Christian radio program, several classmates—even some Willem thought he offended—told of just how profound an impact Willem had on their lives during high school.

After high school, Willem created a comic called Jesus Messiah that he envisioned would tell of Jesus' love around the world. So far, Jesus Messiah is in print in 26 different languages, with plans to add at least 30 more soon. "Just like the JESUS film, it's a God-given tool," says Oswin Ramaker, a friend and co-worker who helped recruit Willem to join Agape.

Willem, 46, is still drawing comics today, but focuses much of his energy on directing Agape in his country. He believes that young people are key to helping break through the stale spiritual environment in the Netherlands. As his story proves, they, too, can have tremendous influence on their peers. —Chris Lawrence

Among the 140 people filling three buses, Terri and Johnny Davila knew only each other, and even that relationship was strained. They felt alone.

In seven years of marriage, the Davilas had weathered the challenges of a blended family of five children and the arrival of a son. Then their 16-year-old daughter died in an auto accident. Ten months later a house fire left them living in a 32-foot camper. Terri began to fear for the future of her marriage.

Their pastor urged the couple to attend FamilyLife's "Rekindling the Romance" conference, and someone from their church paid the costs. So Terri and Johnny boarded the bus with couples from 31 churches in nine Alabama cities and headed to Florida for a day-long event.

At the conference, everyone was asked to recommit to their spouse. "Hearing from Johnny that he would never leave me gave me a sense of security," Terri says.

Back in Montgomery the following Sunday, the Davilas renewed their vows in front of their congregation after church. Several friends signed as witnesses on a marriage covenant certificate.

Terri and Johnny were no longer alone. —Mark Winz


New York
The King's College

On an early September day, three college students stationed themselves on a rough block in Queens, N.Y. Stephen Pyo, a Korean-American freshman, started break dancing while Aloke Blake, an African-American freshman, rapped an evangelistic rhyme.

The outreach was part of student orientation at The King's College, a liberal-arts school housed in the Empire State Building and operated by Campus Crusade for Christ. Before classes even started, 70 freshmen fanned out across New York City. Through their efforts, more than 40 people indicated decisions to follow Christ.

"On a scale of one to 10, how would you rate your connection with God?" David Podhaskie, a sophomore leading the outreach, asked a bystander.

"About a four," replied the man.

"We can help you make that a 10," said David. Shortly after, the man prayed and received Christ.

Stretching the students is what King's is all about. "We view our student orientation like a boot camp," says Duanne Moeller, dean of students. "We give them a chance to experience the joy of personal evangelism right away." —Chris Lawrence


South Africa
CrossRoads

Busi Sigwebela was thinking of quitting. The middle-aged teacher was fed up with her job because of recent policy changes and unruly children. Plus, the children's parents seemed thankless.

With more than a quarter century of experience, the 49-year-old woman questioned whether her job with a public school near Durban, South Africa, was still meaningful.

A retired teacher, named Gloria Vikali, invited Busi to get involved with CrossRoads, a Campus Crusade for Christ program that teaches children values and character. The abstinence-based program, allowed in public schools around the world, also teaches how to have a relationship with Jesus Christ. One participating country is South Africa, where more than 660,000 children are orphaned each year because of AIDS.

Soon Busi's classes began responding to the CrossRoads teachings. Praise from parents poured in soon after. Busi was excited about her job again—and her faith. "If it wasn't for CrossRoads, I wouldn't be so connected with God," says Busi, whose faith was ignited by the training.

Now the educator wouldn't dream of leaving her job. —Chris Lawrence


Nigeria
The JESUS Film Project

The prison cell was dark and rank. With more than 20 men in a tight space, there wasn't even enough room for Bernard Ugwuoke, a Campus Crusade for Christ staff member, to sleep.

Before throwing him in prison, the Nigerian police had warned Bernard to bring money—a bribe might lessen a beating. When the cell door shut, a wave of prisoners surrounded him: "Who are you? Why are you here?"

"My name is Bernard. I'm a missionary and I am here because a man falsely accused me of stealing a car," he said. "And I believe God has put me here to bless someone."

"You're a missionary?" a prisoner asked, his demeanor changing (missionaries are uncommon in Nigeria).

Fear clouded the prison. Many would soon go to trial, their fate to be determined. "Pastor, come pray for us," they said.

Over the next few days, 14 of the men agreed to follow Christ, including a former assassin. Bernard was in prison five days and later cleared of charges. "If God wants to save some men through hearing the gospel, I think sending His servant to jail is too little a sacrifice," he says. —Chris Lawrence