Coming down a long driveway, a blue sign with white letters welcomed us to “Iglesia Bautista Sublime Gracia”. We drove around the back of a long brick ranch house to where the other cars were parked under the scattered pines and oak trees.
Almost as soon as we’d parked and gotten out of the car, Ric and Beth Hurd arrived. They are IPM missionaries who live in Georgia and whose ministry is to reach out to ethnic groups here in the U.S. We waited for them to park and greeted them. Charlie and Ric went to meet and pray with the pastor before the services began, and Beth and I went into the main building to find seats. Our light complexions stood out in the sea of darker skin, so we introduced ourselves as we went. “Buenos dias,” I greeted as we passed.
“Buenos dias,” they returned.
Inside the house, some of the walls had been removed to create an auditorium that could seat about a hundred people. We’d been told that Sunday School would start at 9:30 and that Charlie would speak during Sunday School.
Not long after 9:30, the service began. We sang a few songs and the younger classes were dismissed. Teenagers stayed with the adults. Charlie spoke on “The Four Laws of Communication” from Ephesians 4, a lesson he’s taught throughout the world. Translation was provided for him by another man who is a former missionary to Latin America.
As Charlie spoke, it was clear to me that some of the young men in the room were fluent in English. They laughed at Charlie’s jokes before they were translated and were listening for the accuracy of the translation. So when “the first hour of Sunday School” was over, I spoke with them and said, “You could have been the translator.”
“Oh, no,” they said. “He did a much better job.” I am hopeful, though, that at some point in the future one of them will take up that challenge when those skills are needed again.
We took a half-hour break out under a large tent where children and adults lined up for a snack. Two young women were pouring “Atole de Avena” into Styrofoam cups. Atole de Avena is a Mexican hot oatmeal drink, sweetened with honey and seasoned with cinnamon – a healthy way to keep everyone satisfied until they could eat lunch.
A half hour later, we were back in the auditorium for “the second hour of Sunday School”. During this hour, the classes that were dismissed included teenagers, a singles class, and a new believers class in addition to the younger classes. About forty people remained in the room, among them children and teens who could have gone to one of the other classes but chose to stay for “The Pastor’s Class”. Attendance was taken by calling out a name and that person responded by getting up to say the day’s memory verse or by admitting that they hadn’t learned it. Of course, this took quite a bit of time. There were also those who were turning in their worksheets from their daily quiet times as the pastor was trying to encourage them to develop new habits. The pastor then taught a lesson for the next half hour.
At 1:00 in the afternoon, all of the classes returned to the main auditorium where they sang “Happy birthday” to those who’d had birthdays during the week. Among them was the pastor’s wife. The people were reminded of Communion Service that night at 5:00 with the qualifier that it was only for baptized members of the church. The day’s worship service would be at 6:00 p.m. Then the Sunday school teachers led in a “Goodbye Song”.
While we were gathering up our things, one of the women came and asked if we would join them for lunch. Unknown to the pastor’s wife, the ladies of the church had planned for “dinner on the grounds” to celebrate her birthday. We agreed to stay.
Another woman came and put her hand in mine.
“Juanita,” she said (in Spanish). “My sister was named Juanita. She died a few years ago, and I miss her. I don’t know if she’s in heaven or not, so I’m so thankful to meet you. Thank you for learning Spanish. It’s been so hard for me to be here where no one understands me. English is so hard to learn.”
My heart went out to her. I know what it’s like to be in a foreign country where no one speaks your language. I imagine that church is like a little slice of home to her.
We went outside, fully expecting to stand in line with the rest of the people, when we were told that our plates were waiting for us. At the head table, next to the pastor’s family, were plates of steaming food: rice, beans, salad and carne guisado (stewed pork, in this case). Delicious!
During lunch, I found out that the pastor had five children and that their arrival in the US was “a long story.” I listened to the shortened version, and then watched as the pastor’s wife teased the children that the very large cake was hers, and she was going to take it home. But a few minutes later, she began to cut it up and divide it out among the guests. A child brought me a plate, and it reminded me of the moist birthday cakes I’d had in Guatemala, many years ago.
One of the children asked the pastor’s wife if there was going to be a piñata. Since she wasn’t in charge of the plans, she didn’t know. But sure enough, a few minutes later one appeared.
With full stomachs and hearts full of praise for the work that God was doing there in Douglasville, GA, we took our leave. The party was far from over, but we had an evening service to get to in another town. As we left, excited children were gathering around a piñata, waiting for their turn to try to break it open.
As our car drove down the driveway, I sighed. For a few hours, I could have believed I was in Latin America again. Everyone spoke Spanish. The food was deliciously Latino, and the people were delightfully Hispanic. I could get used to this, I thought. It was sort of like biting into a piece of cake and finding hidden flavor. You were expecting a vanilla sponge cake and found ribbons of chocolate and coffee syrup thrown in. I could definitely get used to this. Here in the middle of Georgia I had found a little slice of Latin America.
Almost as soon as we’d parked and gotten out of the car, Ric and Beth Hurd arrived. They are IPM missionaries who live in Georgia and whose ministry is to reach out to ethnic groups here in the U.S. We waited for them to park and greeted them. Charlie and Ric went to meet and pray with the pastor before the services began, and Beth and I went into the main building to find seats. Our light complexions stood out in the sea of darker skin, so we introduced ourselves as we went. “Buenos dias,” I greeted as we passed.
“Buenos dias,” they returned.
Inside the house, some of the walls had been removed to create an auditorium that could seat about a hundred people. We’d been told that Sunday School would start at 9:30 and that Charlie would speak during Sunday School.
Not long after 9:30, the service began. We sang a few songs and the younger classes were dismissed. Teenagers stayed with the adults. Charlie spoke on “The Four Laws of Communication” from Ephesians 4, a lesson he’s taught throughout the world. Translation was provided for him by another man who is a former missionary to Latin America.
As Charlie spoke, it was clear to me that some of the young men in the room were fluent in English. They laughed at Charlie’s jokes before they were translated and were listening for the accuracy of the translation. So when “the first hour of Sunday School” was over, I spoke with them and said, “You could have been the translator.”
“Oh, no,” they said. “He did a much better job.” I am hopeful, though, that at some point in the future one of them will take up that challenge when those skills are needed again.
We took a half-hour break out under a large tent where children and adults lined up for a snack. Two young women were pouring “Atole de Avena” into Styrofoam cups. Atole de Avena is a Mexican hot oatmeal drink, sweetened with honey and seasoned with cinnamon – a healthy way to keep everyone satisfied until they could eat lunch.
A half hour later, we were back in the auditorium for “the second hour of Sunday School”. During this hour, the classes that were dismissed included teenagers, a singles class, and a new believers class in addition to the younger classes. About forty people remained in the room, among them children and teens who could have gone to one of the other classes but chose to stay for “The Pastor’s Class”. Attendance was taken by calling out a name and that person responded by getting up to say the day’s memory verse or by admitting that they hadn’t learned it. Of course, this took quite a bit of time. There were also those who were turning in their worksheets from their daily quiet times as the pastor was trying to encourage them to develop new habits. The pastor then taught a lesson for the next half hour.At 1:00 in the afternoon, all of the classes returned to the main auditorium where they sang “Happy birthday” to those who’d had birthdays during the week. Among them was the pastor’s wife. The people were reminded of Communion Service that night at 5:00 with the qualifier that it was only for baptized members of the church. The day’s worship service would be at 6:00 p.m. Then the Sunday school teachers led in a “Goodbye Song”.
While we were gathering up our things, one of the women came and asked if we would join them for lunch. Unknown to the pastor’s wife, the ladies of the church had planned for “dinner on the grounds” to celebrate her birthday. We agreed to stay.
Another woman came and put her hand in mine.
“Juanita,” she said (in Spanish). “My sister was named Juanita. She died a few years ago, and I miss her. I don’t know if she’s in heaven or not, so I’m so thankful to meet you. Thank you for learning Spanish. It’s been so hard for me to be here where no one understands me. English is so hard to learn.”
My heart went out to her. I know what it’s like to be in a foreign country where no one speaks your language. I imagine that church is like a little slice of home to her.
We went outside, fully expecting to stand in line with the rest of the people, when we were told that our plates were waiting for us. At the head table, next to the pastor’s family, were plates of steaming food: rice, beans, salad and carne guisado (stewed pork, in this case). Delicious!
During lunch, I found out that the pastor had five children and that their arrival in the US was “a long story.” I listened to the shortened version, and then watched as the pastor’s wife teased the children that the very large cake was hers, and she was going to take it home. But a few minutes later, she began to cut it up and divide it out among the guests. A child brought me a plate, and it reminded me of the moist birthday cakes I’d had in Guatemala, many years ago.
 |
| The children waiting for a piece of cake. |
With full stomachs and hearts full of praise for the work that God was doing there in Douglasville, GA, we took our leave. The party was far from over, but we had an evening service to get to in another town. As we left, excited children were gathering around a piñata, waiting for their turn to try to break it open.
As our car drove down the driveway, I sighed. For a few hours, I could have believed I was in Latin America again. Everyone spoke Spanish. The food was deliciously Latino, and the people were delightfully Hispanic. I could get used to this, I thought. It was sort of like biting into a piece of cake and finding hidden flavor. You were expecting a vanilla sponge cake and found ribbons of chocolate and coffee syrup thrown in. I could definitely get used to this. Here in the middle of Georgia I had found a little slice of Latin America.
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