Is It Worth It?

Is your ministry model a good one? Wouldn't it be better to use the traditional method of going and staying?

These kinds of questions are usually said quietly to one or both of us but rarely spoken during a public Q&A.  We sometimes see it written on the faces of people who are listening to us present our ministry, especially when it's the first time they've heard something like this. After all, we spend lots of money to travel great distances to spend a short time there.

Yes, we believe it's worth it for many reasons. Here are just a few.

1. The US missionary force is dwindling. This is not necessarily a bad thing because God is raising up missionaries from many other parts of the world. The U.S. is no longer the leader in sending out missionaries. So it is fitting that we allow the nationals to do the work that they do better than a foreigner will do - that of establishing churches.
2. Time to learn the language. When US missionaries go abroad to share the gospel and plant churches, it takes them years to learn the language. Depending on the language, it may take even more years to be able to teach at above an elementary school level to help develop future leaders and teachers in that community. Yet a national church planter does not have to spend time doing that. He already knows the language and can communicate with ease.
3. It takes years to learn the culture. Most likely, American missionaries will never be accepted as one of the people. They will always be an outsider. If their race does not give them away, their inability to speak, look, and act like a national will do it.

Leadership meeting in Peru

Approximately 80% of the world has already been reached with the gospel. Approximately 77% of all US missionaries are going to these already reached places. If we are going to reach the world for Christ, it is better to further equip the nationals to reach their own people and send Americans to places that are still unreached. 

After the iron curtain fell, Charlie attended a seminar where pastors from the former Soviet block were asked, "What can we do to help you?" Over and over again, they answered. "Send us Bibles, literature, and send people to help us train leaders. One person asked, "What about church planting?" The response? "We know how to plant churches. We need Bibles, literature, and training."

We are willing to go wherever God calls us. If He wants us to spend years in a country, we will do it. For now, however, we believe that strengthening the hand of national church planters is God's direction for us right now.

We recognize that a national pastor is better equipped to reach his own people than we are. So we go in, at the request of a pastor, and teach what he needs. Sometimes our teaching provides a "second witness" to their own teaching. As one pastor put it to me recently, "I have already taught my people about this, but they will hear it better from the visiting speaker." 

When we go, we work under that pastor. We are not his boss. He is ours. We respect him as the leader of the ministry and do what we can to assist him in the building and encouraging
of his people. We want to see that ministry grow, and he knows better than we do how to make that happen.

New Things in Jamaica

We have gone on many trips to many countries. Many of the experiences are familiar. Packing, wrestling with suitcases, travel to the airport, checking in, going through security, flying, layovers, customs and immigration are all things that we expect.

Our team

Yet our trip to Jamaica had some things we had not experienced in a long time, and it even had some new experiences for us.

This was the first time to travel with people from our church and to be under the leadership of our pastor. It was a good experience. We enjoyed getting to know each of these people better. It's one thing to show up on Sunday and Wednesday to worship and pray together. It is even better to spend an entire week with them and get to know them on a 24-hour basis. It was especially good to spend more time with the three teenagers who were on our team.

This was also the first time we went to Jamaica on a mission trip. Charlie visited there years ago when he was serving with the Navy, but I had never been there. It was good to get to know the Jamaican people and to experience a little of what it means to be a Jamaican Christian. We were invited by the pastor to return, so maybe we will go back.

Street evangelism

Only once before (in Guatemala) were we invited to speak in a public school. We were given our assignments: the teens would lead in singing and I would give a devotional. I had 12 minutes. That is not enough time to develop a story, so I decided to teach from a verse in Isaiah. Then the day before we found out that we would be divided into four teams. Charlie and I were one team. So I taught and he played along, driving home the various points. Afterward, the lead teacher asked me for the reference so that she could go home and teach it to her children.

There were other firsts:

• We passed out candy packages with tracts in them. The children eagerly grabbed them, but some of the teenagers refused.  
• We approached some men sitting outside a bar playing dominoes to give them tracts and they turned down the music so they could hear what we said. As soon as we walked away, the music blared again.
• We took shelter under a tree, hoping that the rain would pass. It didn't, so we returned soaking wet to the compound after passing out tracts on the street.
• Charlie spent more time resting. His stamina has not yet returned since his stroke, and he needed more time between activities.
• We invited a person who was smoking weed to church.

Every trip has firsts. This was no different. A major difference, however, was that this was the first trip we took after Charlie's stroke. How grateful we are that God still has work for him to do.

A Guatemalan Harvest

I stepped off the plane, glad to be back in Guatemala again.  Ever since I lived there many years ago, Guatemala is a country that is close to my heart.  The people are friendly; the scenery is beautiful; and the weather is like an eternal spring.  Then, two years ago, my heart bonded with several of the people in the church where we worked, and I was looking forward to seeing them again.  Yet this time it was even more special because Charlie was already there, waiting for me.

On the two-hour ride back from the airport to the small town of Cerro Alto, I saw the corn fields, tall, tasseled, and ready for harvest.  We passed a market where the vendors tables were piled high with garden produce.  I looked longingly at all the fresh fruit and looked forward to sinking my teeth into guava, papaya, and lychees.  Flowers, ready for export, grew along the way.  The abundant gardens gave tribute to a mighty God who was providing for the Guatemala people.

Yet along the way, Charlie told me of an even more important harvest that was happening.  The previous Sunday, eight people had come forward to accept Jesus Christ as their personal Savior.  I was impressed. In a church of less than one hundred people, that it a significant number.  I rejoiced at the wonderful work God was doing there and excited at the prospect of meeting these new believers.

I knew, from our previous visit, that newcomers to this church do not always realize that they need to make a decision to follow Christ.  Their religious background has led them to believe that they are fine.  After all, they were baptized when they were young, and they have tried to do right.  Then, after attending for a while and hearing the commands of Christ to repent of their sin and follow Him, they realize that they need more.  They need to surrender in faith and ask Him to save them.  Eight of them had done this on a single Sunday!

If only those eight had accepted Jesus as their Savior, I would have been impressed by the rich and bountiful spiritual harvest, but God was not done.  The following Sunday, the pastor preached a strong sermon about sin and the hold it has on people.  At the end, he asked if anyone there realized they needed Christ's redeeming work to save them from the power of sin.  Six more people walked to the front!  Now the church was really rejoicing together.  Warm hugs and hand shakes reached out to welcome these new believers into the family.

On the third Sunday, Charlie taught Sunday School.  For some reason, the pastor thought he should follow the lesson with an invitation to receive Christ as Savior.  This time a husband and wife walked forward and asked Jesus to save them.

The birthday girl

On our last Friday night, we gathered in the home of one of the members instead of holding the usual Friday evening service at church.  Their daughter was having a birthday, so they invited the whole church for supper.  Once again, the pastor gave an invitation and a ten-year-old girl raised her hand.  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a 9-year-old boy had done the same.  He invited them forward.  Then another four children came forward as well.  The pastor spoke with them and they professed their faith in Christ to save them.

The last Sunday afternoon we were there, we traveled to a nearby town where a new church plant has started.  A man arrived late to the service.  Most of the seats in the small auditorium were taken, but there was a row of empty seats in the front row.  Together with his little girls, he made his way up there and listened intently as Pastor preached.  Charlie whispered to me, "He is not yet a believer."  I nodded and began to pray for him.  At the end of the service, Pastor asked, "Is there anyone here who is ready to ask Jesus to be His personal Savior?"  The man stood to his feet.  That night one more man was born into God's family.

It was amazing to watch what God was doing in this corner of Guatemala.  I felt as though I was back in Bible times when it says in Acts 2:47, "And the Lord added to the church daily such as should be saved."  Almost every time the church met, someone else was being saved.

More Than Bravery

Mindanao, the southern island in the Philippine archipelago, is known for trouble.  An active rebel movement called the New People’s Army has kept the Philippine army busy for decades.  While we were there, they killed eight soldiers in a town not far away.  In addition, an extremist Muslim group, Abu Sayef, periodically makes the news with its activity.  Years ago they captured New Tribes missionaries, Martin and Gracia Burnham, and held them for ransom.  When the army tried to set the Burnhams and the other prisoners free, Martin was killed in crossfire.  We were grateful that Abu Sayef was quiet that week. 

IPM has a missionary family there, and we wondered what they would be like in person.  There were things we already knew.  We knew that Glen Namoc and his wife have a burden to reach Mindanao and other parts of the world for Christ.  We knew that 31 years ago, they began a Bible institute to train young men and women to become missionaries, church planters, pastors and other church leaders.  We knew that they call Mindanao their home.

In other parts of the Philippines, people think that those who live in Mindanao are either trouble or brave.  The Namocs know about the reputation of Mindanao, but they do not feel brave.  Mindanao is home to them, and just as you and I would deal with difficulties in our homeland, so do they.  Yet even though they do not feel brave, we found something more compelling than simple bravery.  We found a profound dedication that we do not often see, not just in them but in the others who stand with them in their ministry.  We found students eager to learn and to find ways to serve.

Where in the U.S. would you hear stories of:

• a husband leaving his wife behind for four years in order to plant five churches in an unreached part of the island?
• students eager to finish their education in the city with all of its amenities to return to the primitive village lifestyle in order to plant churches and share the love of Jesus with their neighbors?
• a willingness to go hungry in order to attend Bible college?  We heard of one student who often went without lunch because he did not have the ten cents he needed in order to pay for lunch.
• farming families willing to give up their children’s labor in order for them to attend Bible college and go into the ministry?  (Imagine what it would be like if a farmer in the U.S. gave away his combine to further the gospel.)
• a willingness to go into areas known to be infiltrated by terrorists in order to preach the gospel?

  

  This year's graduates singing at graduation.
  White robes signify a 1-year certificate and black robes a 3-year degree.

• being told to leave your motorcycle helmet off so people know who you are and do not attack you?  It also lets your friends know where you were last seen.
• selling a plot of land you inherited in order to buy a motorcycle so you can reach into the mountain villages?

As we heard more and more stories like these, Charlie asked Glen, “What are you doing in this ministry to encourage this kind of dedication?” 

He shook his head, apparently dumbfounded that we thought he was doing it. 

We finally realized something.  Wholehearted commitment is not something you can program into your students.  It is, instead, a work of God.  Although they are doing all they can to encourage the student body toward wholehearted dedication to the Lord, the credit is due not to him, but to the Holy Spirit who is at work in the students’ hearts.

Three Countries in One Day

The alarm’s melody permeated my dreams at 4:45 a.m.  We abandoned the comfort of our beds and twenty minutes later, everything was packed and ready.  I looked across the drive and saw lights in the conference room.  Maybe someone was there getting ready for breakfast, I thought to myself.  Maybe there would be coffee. 

“I’m going over there,” I told Charlie as I pointed to the lighted conference room.  I quickly crossed the driveway in the drizzling rain, with my Bible and notebook in my hand. 

View from the balcony of the conference center.

No one was there.  Teabags and hot water were available, though, so I made a cup of tea and sat down to praise the Lord as I watched the dawn lighten the sky.  Although it was misty and overcast, I marveled at the beauty surrounding me.  I listened as the waves pounded the shore and birds called to each other as they flew overhead.  I thanked the Lord for letting us come to Uruguay.

Before long, a small navy blue SUV arrived.  Anibal Fornazarich, our Uruguayan missionary to Argentina, was at the wheel.  Tied to the top were small suitcases covered over by a blue tarp.  I joined them and helped Charlie take our suitcases to the car.  When they were all loaded behind the back seat, we clambered in next to their teenage son and took off.  A few miles down the road, we heard the tarp flapping loudly.  We stopped and retied the part that had come loose and continued on.

After a while I fell asleep.  The short night was catching up with me.  When I awoke, we had left the city of Montevideo far behind and were surrounded by farmland and sheep and cattle ranches.  If I had forgotten where I was, I might have thought I was in Wisconsin or Ontario. 

“When we get to Rivera” Anibal explained, “we cross over into Brazil.  But it’s a soft border.  You don’t have to worry.  You won’t need a visa.”

When we arrived in Rivera, we wound our way through the city, heading toward downtown.  We stopped at a stoplight.  María, Anibal’s wife, pointed to busy boulevard in front of us.  “This side is Uruguay.  That side is Brazil.  We are now in Uruguay.”

When we crossed to the other side of the boulevard, and María started to laugh.  “And now we are in Brazil.  You could cross back and forth between Brazil and Uruguay many times in one day here.  In fact, most people shop on the Brazilian side because the prices are cheaper, regardless of where they live.”

Brazilian gas was definitely cheaper than Uruguayan gasoline, so Anibal filled the tank, paying with Brazilian Reales.  Then we passed the main plaza in the center of town.  On one corner stood a Uruguayan flag.  On the other flew a Brazilian flag. 

When we left town, the signs along the sides of road in Portuguese let us know that we were still in Brazil.  We drove for almost an hour and made a turn onto another highway.  We passed a sign in front of an unmanned building proclaiming, “Customs and Immigration”.  Evidently, we were returning to Uruguay.

We headed to a home in Uruguay’s northern town of Artigas.  There a group of believers gathered for a service.  What a privilege it was to meet them.  Even though they have no pastor right now, they continue to meet together.  They were excited to hear from a pastor for the first time in a long time.  They “ate up” what Charlie taught.

We left Artigas and passed back into Brazil.  We found a Brazilian steakhouse.  At 10 p.m., it was still the dinner hour, so the restaurant was busy.  We declined the service of “meat on a stick” since the buffet was large without it.  Otherwise they would have kept bringing us steak and chicken from the rotisserie until we were stuffed.  Not only did we not need that much food, we were in too much of a hurry to get to our destination to spend enough time to enjoy such gastronomic delights.

At 11:30, we left the steakhouse and drove back into Uruguay.  We drove on through the darkness, over bridges where the moon shone on the lake.  I wished I could have seen the landscape in the daylight because I could tell that it was beautiful.  I looked in the sky for the Southern Cross but I did not find it.  Two hours later, we approached the Uruguayan/Argentine border.  At the border, the Uruguayan office was closed.  Anibal knew, however, that we needed to document our exit from Uruguay since we would be coming back into Uruguay in order to fly back to the U.S.  If we did not have the exit stamped, we would have to pay a fine.  He got out of the car and asked a policeman what to do. 

“Oh, there is an office open ahead,” he said. 

A mile ahead, a sign indicated where we needed to go.  We got our passports stamped exiting the country.  A couple miles later, we passed into Argentina.  We got out of the car once more and headed into the immigration office.

“Have you paid the reciprocal fee?” asked the agent.

Fortunately I knew that he was talking about the visa and showed it to him.  (Argentina charges the same fee for their visa as the applicant’s country charges for an Argentine to obtain a visa, so instead of talking about a visa, he asked about the fee.)  Our visas from five years ago were still good, so he stamped our visas and we were once again on our way.

Just before 3:00 a.m. we arrived at the hotel where we were staying.  We rapped on the door for several minutes before the night watchman arrived.  We set our alarms for 7:00 a.m. and were so thankful to be able to stretch out in bed.  The long day was over.  Tomorrow was already here.  It was time to get some quick shut eye. 

  

The View from My Office

Normally, my office window looks out on the woods that border our back yard.  I enjoy watching the robins look for food and the blue jays chase each other through the tree branches.  As autumn comes, I can see the changes in the leaves as the woods take on a golden glow.  Now that the day lengths are shorter, I am sometimes already working when the sun rises over the treetops.   It is a peaceful view, and I am grateful for it.

Through the years, however, the view out my “office” window has varied.  Recently it was the view of an airplane wing atop a cushion of clouds on a blue sky since my desk was the tray of the seat in front of me.  

Later that evening, it became the airport as we waited for connections to Uruguay.  Hundreds of people passed by on their way to their gates to fly to places around the world.  Charlie and I sat together working out our presentation for the conference.  After a while, it was time to give up our little table in the "Marketplace" and move to the gate.  There our "office" became a place of rejoicing when Alejandra and Sergio Herrera, our missionaries in Mexico, arrived.  It had been years since I had seen them.

The next day my view changed to that of blue skies, a sandy beach, and a gray-blue bay as I sat at my “desk” in the meeting room of a conference center outside of Montevideo, Uruguay.  What a blessing it was to be surrounded by IPM’s missionaries from all over Latin America as we met for a regional conference.  Some of them we had already met.  Others we were meeting for the first time.  When their voices lifted together in song, it gave me a little glimpse of what a joy heaven will be.

At the end of the conference it changed again. One day it was a panorama of pastoral quietness as we sat in a car for hours driving from Montevideo to the north of Uruguay.  Spring flowers in varying hues of yellow, blue, purple, and peach bordered the roads.  Mile after mile we saw sheep grazing in vast expanses of pastureland.  Then we passed ranches and dairy farms where cattle grazed.  It could have been Wisconsin or Pennsylvania.

Later that week it was the view out a window of a house in a neighborhood of Mercedes, Argentina.  Houses border a dirt road.  Inside the gate, green grass grew and extended outside the gate too.  Dogs barked as they wandered up and down the street.  Inside the living room of this small house more than twenty people gathered to learn about Hermeneutics.  Charlie taught through a translator, a missionary who has been here in Argentina for many years.

Tomorrow it will change again.  Yet in every case, I am grateful.  I have a laptop computer that I can take with me so that I can work from anywhere.  God has given me eyes to see the beauty around me wherever we go in the world, and He has given us opportunities to serve Him in many different places.  What a blessing to have an "office" that changes multiple times throughout the year.  I am blessed.

 

Just a Spoiled North American

Coming back from a month abroad can have several effects on me.  Sometimes I return aware that I miss being abroad and I am disappointed by how fast the time went by.  Sometimes I feel so blessed by the amenities we have here.  This time, though, I came back so very conscious of how spoiled I really am.  There are so many things that I have come to expect after living a life of relative comfort here in the United States.  Being abroad this time was a reminder to me that the rest of the world often has relatively few of the things that I think are normal.


As a North American, I often do not even think about what great blessings these things are.    

• Safe drinking water flowing out of the tap.  We purchased bottled water the whole time we were gone.  Even though many of the places had safe water, we knew there were places where the safest thing for us was to buy bottled water.
• Water that flows into our home 24-hours a day instead of having just a half hour to fill your buckets so that you have water for the rest of the day. Although this was the case in only one location in Peru, it was a reminder to me that this is a reality for many people in the world.
• Hot water in the shower.  On a hot day, I do not mind a cold shower or even a cold bucket bath; but on colder days, I really appreciate the reliability of hot water flowing from the shower head.
• A washing machine that does a good job of getting my clothes clean rather than having to wash them by hand on the rocks.
• A dryer that quickly dries our clothes, even the towels and jeans, on rainy days and adds softness to them.  We do not have to wait days for things to dry on rainy days.
• A car rather than having to rely on public transportation.  I appreciate the lower prices of public transportation, however.
• Public transportation that runs on a schedule instead of "when the seats are full."  A trip that could happen in two hours might take all day since you never know when departure will happen.
• Refrigerators that allow you to purchase more than a one or two-day supply of fresh food at a time.  Daily trips to market allow for fresh food, but they certainly take time.
• Ice in our drinks.  We would have avoided asking for ice anyway, but it is nice to be able to put ice in my beverage if I want some.
• All-day electricity.  In the jungle town, we had electricity from 6:00 p.m. until 11:00 p.m.  We charged our cell phones and computers during this time.  During the hottest part of the day, however, there was no availability for anything that might cool you, not even an electric fan.



Charlie enjoying a frozen Passion Fruit drink on our last day.

• Fresh vegetables that can be eaten raw without pre-soaking in anti-bacterial vegetable wash.  I came back craving salads.  Fresh fruit, on the other hand, was something we had in abundance.  Now I find I miss the variety of fresh fruit juices that were available there.
• Screens on our windows and doors.  I walked into our hotel room, and one of the first things I noticed was the screens.  How grateful I was for them as we saw that most of the homes did not have them.
• A variety in our breakfasts.  This may have been the first time in my life when I said that I had enough white rice for a while. Every morning we had the same thing - white rice, white beans, plantain, and eggs.  It was tasty and I was grateful for it, but it is nice to have some variety.
  
• Covers on my bed.  It was warm enough in the jungle that we did not need covers, but I missed having a top sheet.  Yet I was grateful for what we had.  I am not sure how well I would have fared in a hammock instead.
• Septic systems that allow you to flush your toilet paper and the availability of toilet paper in public rest rooms.

There are other things I could likely mention, but that is enough for now.  I am willing and ready to give up any of those things for a short time.  I could also learn to live without them, but I find it is not as easy as it used to be.  I really have become a spoiled North American.  Maybe it's time to shed some of these comforts and learn to appreciatethe advantages of living without them.

Children of the Amazon

We wandered through the streets of the town, marveling at the beauty of dark thatched roofs against clear blue skies.  Flowers abounded and palm trees swayed elegantly in the warm breeze.  It was, from what we could gather, a typical Sunday afternoon here.

Children scattered down the road in front of us, laughing as they chased each other between the houses and back on to the street.  As we walked further, we heard laughter coming from the river's edge.  There children splashed each other in the shallows.  One boy dived into the murky water and emerged a few seconds later within inches of his friend, startling him.  They both squealed in delight.

We walked on.  The front yard had been converted into a soccer field.  At first I thought it was sand, but on closer inspection I realized they had made good use of the sawdust from the nearby lumber mill.  

"Goal!" one small boy shouted.  He spun, his fist beating the air, and his friend slapped him on the back.  Another chased the wayward ball down the narrow street.  When he returned, they took their positions again and the game resumed.  We walked on, careful to not get hit by a stray ball.

There certainly was no lack in the number of children here, I thought.  They seemed to be everywhere:  children carried wood home in small bundles for cooking fires; others played happily at their mothers' feet while they tended the small stores in front of their houses.  I smiled at the joy and blessing they were bringing their families.

The next day we visited Pastor M.'s family. His eldest daughter was staying with them after the birth of her baby who slept peacefully in the tattered hammock in the kitchen.

"What is her name?" I asked.

"She doesn't have one yet," her mother told me.

"How old is she?"

"Ten days old."

Ten days old and not yet named.  How different things are here, I thought.  Is it because you do not want to name a child that might not survive?  I decided I would leave that question for another time, but here was another example of a beautiful child in this beautiful town.

On Tuesday I wandered into the market.  A round-faced girl with shining eyes, no more than four years old, ran up to me and grabbed my hand in her little one.

"Why are your legs so white?" she asked me.  Reaching down with her other hand, she stroked my leg from ankle to calf.

"God made them that way," I told her.  I smiled at her.

She happily chatted on, tugging at my hand the entire time.  Eventually she asked, "May I go to your house?"

"I don't live here," I told her.  "My house is very far away."

"Oh," she said. "I really wanted to go to your house."  Eventually, she let go of my hand and ran off to play again.

The next day when I headed out for a walk, a makeshift barricade prevented moto-taxis from using that road.  I carefully stepped around the barricade, wondering why it was there.  A few moments later, I got my answer.  Outside the school, dozens of children stood in groups with their teachers, lining up in neat lines.  Independence day was coming, and they were rehearsing for their part in the parade.

"Now let's march," called the teacher.  "Left, right, left, right."  The children followed their teacher, marching down the road.  Some looked my way as they passed, smiling for my camera.

Later that evening the seven of us sat in a restaurant, discussing the events of the day.  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw four teenagers walking quickly down the street carrying something between them.  It was a stretcher with someone on it.  The figure under the sheet was quite small.

"What is that?" I asked.

"It looks like they are carrying someone to the hospital," one of the men said.

"But his face is covered," I said.  "Is he dead?"

By this time the restaurant owner had joined us. 

"A ten-year-old boy died this morning,"  he said.  "You should have heard the father wail."

"Who was it?" Pastor M. asked.

When the owner told him, a look of deep sadness spread across the pastor's face.

"I know the family," he said.  "The children occasionally come to special children's events.  I talked to that boy about his need of a savior, but I do not think he ever made a decision to follow Christ."

"That's the second child to die this week," the owner elaborated.  "The first one, also a ten-year-old boy, drowned on Monday."

My heart sank.  Two children dead in this short span of time while we were here.  Thousands of children in this town who need a Savior, yet so little gospel witness here.  Who will tell them?

"Lord," I prayed.  "Help Pastor M. to reach these children.  Raise up more workers who will reach these precious souls before it is too late."
 

The 26-Hour Day

The sleep of a labouring man is sweet.  Ecclesiastes 5:12

At 2:45 a.m. I heard it - an alarm going off in another room.  We lay in bed, waiting for it to stop, but its owner did not respond.  After about ten minutes, it finally stopped.  Now we were fully awake, on about three hours of sleep.  Five minutes later our alarm sounded.    

At 3:45 a.m., we climbed into the back row of the 12-passenger van. The pastor’s family climbed in after us.   Four-year-old Abigail slept through the transfer from her bed to the van.  Junior, the pastor’s only son, drove to the first stop where we picked up a mother and her seven-year-old son.  They joined us in the back row.  After several more stops, the van was stuffed with twelve adults, two children, and miscellaneous bags at people’s feet.  Another car, also filled with passengers, started to follow us.  At the gas station, Junior filled the van’s tank as well as a five-gallon jerry can.  One of the men climbed to the roof to tie the jerry can up there with some other luggage.  Now it was 4:45 a.m., and we were finally on our way out of the city.

The van sped up when it arrived at the highway.  I settled into my seat, leaning against Charlie, hoping for some more sleep.  After about five minutes on the open highway, we turned off and started the ascent up the mountain on a gravel road.   Twists, turns, and bumps in the road kept sleep away, but eventually I dozed a little.  

A couple hours later, at the entrance to a tunnel through part of the mountain, we stopped to wait for the other vehicle that had fallen behind.

“Can we get out?” I asked.  Charlie’s knees were bumping up against the seat in front of us, and my legs were longing for a stretch.  They let us all out, and the men made a beeline for the bushes.  “If you need it,” I was told, “the tunnel up ahead will provide privacy.”  

Around us, the sun continued to rise, casting shadows on the mountains, slowly reaching into the valleys.  Misti, the volcano that guards Arequipa, was showing off his beauty, and the passengers’ cell phone cameras were capturing the scene.  

Before too long, the other car caught up with us, and we reloaded into the vehicle.  

“Is it possible for Charlie to sit somewhere else?” I asked.  His legs were really too long for the back row.  This time they let Charlie and me sit up in the row behind the driver.  The change in seating turned out to be a greater blessing than I realized at the time.

A couple hours later, Charlie asked them to stop.  The twists and turns of the mountain roads had finally caught up with him, and he was sick to his stomach.  Junior quickly stopped and yanked open Charlie’s door.  He got out just in time.  Sonia, the pastor’s wife, prepared some tea with hot water from a thermos and gave it to him.  It helped settle his stomach, and we were once again on our way.  On and on we traveled, bumping and turning.  Eventually I dozed again. 

By 8:30 my stomach was growling, and I wondered if there would be a stop for breakfast.  But we kept going.  On and on we rode, winding our way up to the 16,000-foot mountain pass, high above the tree line.  

“Look!” someone shouted pointing to one of the volcanoes in the distance.  Volcano Ubinas had just burped.  A cloud formed above and grew larger and larger as steam and ash rose into the sky.

Bumping over the gravel and feeling my stomach lurch, we continued in a descent over the other side of this mountain pass.  Trees, birds, and insects reappeared.  Mile after mile of terraced farming hugged the sides of the mountains.  Our van hugged the mountain, avoiding getting to close to the side where it dropped off into deep canyons.

I kept thinking we must soon be arriving at our final destination.  After almost six hours of travel, we rounded a bend.  A crowd of people stood on the side of the road with large bags of goods.  They were members of the church in that town.  Junior stopped to greet them and began to talk to them about how to get them to our ultimate destination.

“Junior,” Sonia called out to her son.  “Why don’t some of us get out and they can ride?  They have been waiting a long time for you.  Some of us can wait here for you to get back.”

I welcomed the idea of putting my feet on the ground to allow my stomach to settle.  We got out.  They got in.  After they left, the eight of us started walking down the road at a leisurely pace along the river gorge.  I stopped frequently to take pictures of the blue skies, desert hills, and the green valley below us where the grey river sparkled in the sunlight.  After about an hour of walking, we saw the van approach.  Junior turned around and picked us up, and we drove on for another half hour to the village of Cadagua.    

“Breakfast is waiting,” we were told when we arrived.  It was now 1:00 p.m.  

We followed our hosts to the back of the house.  A corrugated metal roof and a small tarp provided shade.  There people sat on benches, boxes, and a few chairs.  Steaming plates of noodles and a red sauce with mystery meat came out of the kitchen.  Since we were surrounded by guinea pig cages, it was no surprise when we later discovered that most of the meat in the sauce was guinea pig.  I should have known when I discovered the small head in the sauce.  I did not eat much.  My stomach was still turning after all the hairpin turns, so one of the young men in our group finished my plate for me.

Evidently, both Charlie and I looked a little green.  One of the women from the Arequipa church came over.  

“Would you like a cup of tea and some soda crackers?” she asked kindly.  

That sounded like just the right thing for our upset stomachs.  We leaned back into the wooden bench and waited while she found cups and prepared us some tea.  As we sat quietly drinking our tea, the women   One man stood next to a table and sawed his way through the bones of an animal, adding the chunks of meat to the pots as well. Children played, swinging from the rafters of the corrugated awning and teasing the guinea pigs.

swirled around us, cutting up vegetables, and adding them to the large pots on the fire.

“It’s time to start the program,” Junior called to everyone.

We joined him in front of the house.  There to one side of this town’s Main Street sat a truck-tire  tub overflowing with water.  Junior began the service, leading the group in singing with his guitar.  “He decidido seguir a Cristo.”  (I have decided to follow Jesus.)  Our voices filled the mountain air.  A few people emerged from neighboring houses to join us to see what was going on.

After singing several songs, Pastor Daniel Araujo stepped forward.  Carefully, he explained what baptism was and why this teenage girl had decided to be baptized.  

 

 “Please share with this group why you have decided to obey the Lord in baptism today,” he instructed her.  Joy flowed from her while she reverently shared her faith in Jesus Christ.  Then she stepped into the frigid water, sat down in the tub, and was baptized in its confined space.  When she arose shivering, we sang again.

When the baptism service ended, Junior once again shouted out instructions. “If everyone would head to the community center, we will be showing a Christian movie,” he announced.   

He drove the van over to the community center and began to set up the computer projection system for the movie.  Men hung a white sheet on one wall of the community building.  People rearranged chairs to face the “screen”.  Soon we were all watching “Facing the Giants” in Spanish.  I went to see if I could find a place to sleep in the van, but someone else had already thought of that idea, and I was afraid to wake them by opening a door.  So Charlie and I sat against the back wall, and I dozed for a while, my head on his lap.

By the time the movie was over, the huge pots of stew we had seen over at the house had been carried to the community center kitchen.  We dragged our chairs from one side of the center to where tables had been set up on the other side.  

Apparently we were the honored guests because our table was served first.  Charlie and I insisted on sharing a bowl since we knew we were both still too queasy to each much.  Several varieties of potatoes, huge pieces of squash, sweet carrots, and alpaca meat were served us.  Delicious.

The conversation in the room lulled as people began to enjoy their food.  An alpaca feast is a rare and welcome event, and the whole community had been invited.  When the last plate of food had been served, those of us who had received food first were done.  Women went into the kitchen to wash up metal plates.  Men washed down wooden table tops, folded their metal bases and stored them in the corner.  They quickly stacked the blue and white plastic chairs in another corner.  When the work was done, the last event of the day was announced – a church service.  Everyone moved back to the other side of the room to enjoy that event together.  

Singing and testimonies were shared as the various churches represented took turns to give testimony to God’s blessings in their lives. This gathering of believers represented people from five of the surrounding villages as well as those of us who had come from Arequipa.  In addition, many of the people from town had come for the feast and to see what else was happening.  Charlie was invited to preach, and our nephew, Jeremy, translated for him.

When it was all over, it was 9:00 at night, and I was anxious to go home, but there were still people who needed to go home before we could leave.  Junior loaded the people from the nearby villages in the van and left.  Charlie stretched out on the floor to get some sleep before the long arduous journey home.

“I can’t drive,” Junior said, when he returned almost two hours later.  “I’m dead on my feet.”  Roberts, one of the men from the church, took over and we left.  

Away from the city and few lights, the full moon shone almost as day.  Stars seemed close enough to reach out and touch.  This time the bumps, twists, and turns did not keep me awake, but they did for Charlie.  He was sick to his stomach the whole way home, and trying to sleep only made it worse.  

When we finally got home, it was 5:00 a.m.  I crawled into bed, grateful  to be able to stretch out and glad that the ground under me was solid.  I cannot remember the last time that I have been so glad to get to bed.  If I felt that way, I am sure that Charlie felt the relief even more than I.  How grateful I am that God gives us the gift of sleep.