Prologue Jog:
By now you should know how these things go: this is the warm-up to another verbal marathon. The good news is, it’s divided in stages, and I saved the last half for next time. Besides, no one says you have to run. You can walk, jog, crawl, summersault, or my personal favorite, skip: just read the parts that look interesting. The sections this time are all short stories and reflections from my trip to Colombia in February. (The dates of each section correspond to the time of the story, not of the writing. In other words, they’re dated by the occurrence of the event, not by the occurrence of my over-heated cerebrum.)
It’s hard to believe that two and a half months have already gone by since February 16-21, when I was privilege to help staff an international missions conference in Medellín, Colombia. I even had the opportunity to speak in one of the afternoon workshops. Normally I would have said “no thanks” and made some excuse about not being able to speak Spanish, but its miraculous how the Spirit of God can put the words in your mouth and a smile on your face as He impresses your mind with the infinite love, mercy, justice, and power of God.
The theme of this year’s congress was Entrega Total, or Total Surrender, and the conference banners and bulletins pictured the silhouette of a young man kneeling before a cross formed by the words of Matthew 16:24. Speakers David Gates, Steven Bohr, Rimberto Parada, and others, challenged attendees to a fuller commitment to Jesus Christ and service to others.
In the cultural Christianity of today, too many of us have forgotten the true meaning of the cross of Christ. When Christ said, “Take up your cross and follow Me,” He did not mean for us to hang crucifixes on our necks, key chains, and rearview mirrors while continuing to live self-centered and self-seeking lives. To take up the cross means to go against the grain of human nature, to die to self, and to sacrifice your life to work for the salvation of others.
Recently we took the kids bridge jumping at kilometer 31. It’s not a really high bridge, six meters, maybe seven when you jump from the top of the railing, but its enough to intimidate a few of the more acrophobic. Julio in particular just couldn’t bring himself to make the drop. He clung to the railing for close to half an hour, peering down at the water, sometimes leaning out, but never letting go.
“Just take the railing with you!” we teased.
When it comes to the Christian life, it’s all or nothing. We have to take the plunge; we have to be all in. We should be unashamed of radical commitment. Who cares if people say, “oohh, he’s really gone off the deep end!” Who’s afraid of the deep end? God specializes in the deep end! Is not the deep end where God Himself dwells? “He discovers deep things out of darkness, and brings out to light the shadow of death.” His “judgments are a great deep” and His “thoughts are exceedingly deep.” (Job 12:22 Psalms 36:6, 92:5). And yet He longs for us to experience more of that depth. He came to give us life and that more abundantly (John 10:10). He longs to grant us according to the riches of His glory to be strengthened with might by the Spirit in the inner man; to dwell in our hearts by faith, that being rooted and grounded in love we might be able to comprehend the breadth, and length and depth, and height, and to know His love that passes knowledge that we might be filled with all His fullness (Eph 3:16-19). I don’t know about you, but I long for a deeper experience. But all too often, I’m like Julio on the bridge. I know I have no control in a free-fall and I am afraid to let go of my guardrails and just jump.
God’s Wings. February 16, 2010
There are six of us in the twin-engine Aerostar 600 A, piloted by Capitan Jeff Sutton, director of GMI’s aviation program here in Bolivia. As we climb through the early-morning fog, I notice that the reflection of the cockpit cabin is mirrored in the chrome just behind the prop on the right wing, and it seems a good reminder of what holds us up.
I think of James 1:23-25, Exodus 20, and Psalm 91:4, and I wonder if the Divine Law, as a transcript of God’s character and a monument to His creative and sustaining power, is the chrome on the wings of the Almighty.
“By Their Food You Shall Know Them”
About six hours later we descend into Medellín, Colombia’s version of Interlaken, Switzerland: green and pristine, a slice of paradise in the mouth of the mountains.
When we arrive on the university campus, my host, Señora Isabela, the girl’s dean for off-campus housing, is waiting to greet me and take me to her apartment where her whole family gives me a warm welcome, and she shows me my room and the shower. After I clean up, she asks me what I would like to eat. I’m not picky I tell her: I’ll eat anything as long as its vegetarian, though I also try to avoid dairy products. So she serves me a full-course meal with a huge bowl of fresh-cut mangoes and several whole-wheat peanut-butter sandwiches on the side. Afterward she won’t even let me clear my plate from the table, and I don’t know what to do with this first-class treatment. Later, when I ask if I can borrow an iron to press my clothes, she tells me to just leave them out and she will iron them. If I were Pastor Steven Bohr himself I wouldn’t have been treated better.
One morning I leave the house early to attend the 7:30 meeting, and since the family doesn’t seem to be up yet, I figure I’ll skip breakfast. Not so. I’m helping to set up chairs for the morning workshops when Jerry tells me there’s someone looking for me. I go outside to find a distressed Isabela packing a complete breakfast-to-go.
“No no no, mi Kodito, we can’t let you go hungry! That’s terrible! You need to have your breakfast!” As if that isn’t enough, she takes me to the nearby University breakfast bar and buys me grape juice and empanadas. If I had a better tan and spoke better Spanish everyone would think she was my mom!
My friend Lyli doesn’t fare as well. Her host (who happens to be a pastor) forgot to tell his wife that they were going to have company. When Lyli arrives, the Señora is so upset about the surprise that all she can manage is to show Lyli her room before disappearing into the inner recesses of the house without even a word of greeting. No supper, eight hours, and no breakfast later, poor Lyli is starving and, I would think, sorry she ever came to Colombia. Instead, she tries to make the best of it.
“God knows,” she tells me. “Maybe I need this experience.”
“Maybe your host needs a smack on the head!” (Apparently I have as much to learn about Christianity as the pastor’s wife).
Thankfully I remember that I have a couple granola bars in my backpack, so she at least has something to take the edge off her hunger while we work all morning setting up the school’s booth and manning the registration booth. I want her to come to “my” house for lunch, but she feels bad coming without an invitation.
Later, over a plate of rice, lentils, plantain, and salad, I tell Isabela about Lyli’s situation. She is horrified, and scolds me for not making Lyli come for lunch while she packs up a plate to go.
If Every Home Were a Hospital…
There would be a lot more homeless people. On the other hand, maybe home hospitals would drop the cost of health care. One thing I’ve noticed in South America is there seems to be a lot more in-home medical care. For example, the abuelita, Isabela’s mother, is suffering from high blood pressure, and the doctor stopped by this evening for a consultation. I ask if that’s normal, and they say it depends on the doctor, but most are quite willing to make home calls. I’m not surprised, considering Isabela invites him to stay for supper. I wonder if the greater number of home calls is more about convenience, or more about the fact that the hospitals here aren’t always the clean, healing machines one might expect. In any event, I was thinking about what defines a hospital and I somehow got stuck on the word hospitality—not surprising perhaps, in light of my current context. But what does hospitality have to do with hospitals? It seems like a typical English Learner question: difficult, but logical. Upon a little reflection, however, I would respond “more than you might think!” Hospitality is treating even visitors and strangers as if their lives depend on it, being solicitous and attentive of their needs, and letting them go feeling better than when they arrived. If every home practiced true hospitality, maybe there would be more real Christians and fewer sick and homeless among us.
Unwitting Walk. February 19, 2010
On my way to the University campus for the morning meeting, my head must have been in the clouds (or so it seemed to me as I inhaled traffic fumes) because I turned right at the corner instead of taking the direct route straight to the east entrance. I considered turning back, but I was already over halfway up the block to the next street, I decided to keep going.I had just turned left for the University when a security guard in a maroon suit called to me from the corner. Oh no, I thought. Did I just walk on someone’s lawn, or break some neighborhood code? (It hadn’t taken me long to discover that Medellín’s orderly appearance is largely the result of legislative rather than personal initiative.)
“Brother!” he greeted me. “Can you pray for me?” Whew what a relief. That’s easy! Wait, is this guy serious, or is he making fun of me? With my shirt and tie and my Bible in my hand, I suppose I looked prayer-worthy.
But as I approached I could tell by the look in his eye that he was serious.
“Of course!” I replied. “What’s your name, sir?”
“Javier”
“Any requests in particular?”
“Yes, for my family.” And he proceeded to explain an all-too-typical tale of family tragedy. I put my hand on his shoulder and said a prayer for him and his family. As I turned to leave I remembered I had some Centinela tracts with the title “Does God care when I’m hurting.”
It wasn’t until I’d almost reached the University entrance that I remembered that a mere two hours earlier I had asked the Lord to guide every facet of my day and give me opportunities to share His love with those around me! It amazes me how God can use us in spite of ourselves!
February 20, 2010. Walls. You see them everywhere here. People say that the Hispanic culture is a lot more open, but you sure wouldn’t guess it by the architecture. Granted, we’re in a big city, and one has to take precautions against thieves. But you would think that in broad daylight one could at least open the gate between the church and the street, and if not every day of the week, at least early on Sabbath morning. But then there wouldn’t be this colorful pilgrimage or worshippers wending their way along half a kilometer of walls and fences, a living metaphor of the straight gate and narrow way and the few there be who find it.
Tuesday, April 27, 2010
Tuesday, March 23, 2010
Mass Email gone Massive…
Preamble Ramble. March 22, 2010:
What do the following have in common: Weeds in the garden, stacks of ungraded papers, trees to prune, and tales to be told? Well, other than all sharing space on my interminable to-do list, they all get taller as time goes by! (except for the stories, which I always pass on with pin-point accuracy rooted in reality down to the last nitty-gritty detail!) Actually, as I think about it, perhaps that is my main problem in life right now, summed up in one word: detail! As a teacher, you can’t ignore the details, but you have to learn to pick and choose your battles. For those of you who know me, I’ve never been good at picking much of anything (other than my nose, and certain kinds of fruit) so I invariably end up letting the battles pick me, which as some of you may know, is a good way to get yourself killed.
For example, I was recently elected to be the director of campus maintenance, something I could easily allow to turn into a full-time job. I have two student workers right now, and I’ve kept them busy organizing and cleaning the tool shed, repairing broken tools, and taking inventory, as well as helping me with the mowing. I’m also suddenly receiving requests to fix people’s light switches and unplug everyone’s sink. Every work period (morning and afternoon) I have a bevy of students that gets sent to me for work assignments, and it is real easy to get bogged down walking them through the details of each job I want done. But you can’t over-explain the work assignments I’ve been finding out. I assigned some girls to level a recently cleared area so that it can be cut with the push mower later on, and I failed to mention that they should not fill the hole with the valves that control the water system for the staff duplex. (Which, by the way, was quite some distance from the area I asked them to level! They probably heard the word “holes” and went looking for holes to fill!)
A slip of the tongue in class two weeks ago cost me hours of time this week. The literature class that I teach is for both juniors and seniors, and I attempt to tailor assignments to each level. We meet for class only once a week (officially), but I have to plan and explain enough homework to keep them busy until the next Thursday. On Mondays I supervise a two-hour guided-study session where I can answer questions and give individual help. The theory behind this setup is to encourage self-motivated, independent learning and responsible time-management in the students.
Anyway, in my brilliance, I decided to design my class with some built in weekly homework including journaling, reading, and vocabulary building. Unfortunately, as I was assigning the number of pages the students were to journal, I used the word hoja instead of página.. A página is your normal, regular page. An hoja on the other hand is the entire paper, both front and back. So when I gave the seniors five hojas and the juniors four, you can imagine their response. But students always complain, I know that. And I’ve learned I shouldn’t change my mind on account of a few complaints, especially on the first day of class! You make a decision and you stick to it, otherwise those rascals will run you and your classroom! So they wrote. Eleven seniors and eleven juniors. Twenty-two notebooks. Ninety-nine hojas. One-hundred-ninety-eight pages.
“I don’t have to read all of these completely” I told myself. “I’ll just read a page or two of each, make a few corrections and comments, and move on.”
An hour later I had wallowed through one and a half notebooks. But boy, did those kids write! A few of them really surprised me and went all-out. At the beginning of class we had sung the hymn “Santa Biblia,” followed by a mini-lecture on the importance of thinking about the lyrics and a phrase-by-phrase analysis of the first verse. One of my senior boys responded with ten pages of journal analyzing and explaining the lyrics of one of his favorite hymns one line at a time, interspersed with personal experiences, stories, and commentary. It was one of the finest pieces of work I’ve seen in a high school literature class, not only because of the creativity and relatively error-free syntax, but also because of the spiritual maturity and depth. Another student had several short, creative essays on everything from current politics and how Bolivia fits into the One World Order, to chive, a typical Bolivian seasoning made from yucca.
Of course, not every journal was such a joy to read, but they were good diagnostic material, and I’ve compiled a list of things we need to work on, one of which is the everlasting sentence. Most students are quite adept at splicing a dozen circles’-worth of tangents into one very fierce string of unorganized thoughts with enough barbs to hang you up with your reading comprehension until the cows come home.
So between grading journals, teaching class, giving piano lessons, and directing campus maintenance, I’ve been keeping occupied. I’ve been meaning to update you all with one of these mass emails for the last four weeks now. If you thought my emails were long before, I apologize. (I did take out the section about the mission congress in Colombia, because I haven’t had time to finish writing it yet) Hey, at least you don’t have to read 22 of these! I still have three of last week’s journals waiting for me.
The following takes place between March 2, 2010 and March 22, 2010. (Sorry Mr. Bauer :).
March 2, 2010
School starts in eight days, and we are feverishly trying to complete the girl’s dormitory and the classroom buildings, buy more desks, tables, and chairs, clean up campus, and do the initial paperwork, including the annual curriculum plans that must be submitted to the government. More students have arrived in the past two weeks, and its good to have the extra help with the construction and with reclaiming campus from the jungle. A couple weeks ago Mr. Cornelio and the kids harvested the first stage of the rice we planted last fall, and in between thunderstorms, the girls dry out the kernels on tarps while the boys help pour the floor of the girls dorm underneath more tarps, thunderstorms or no. (We pour with wheel-barrows, just to clarify, and advance at about 2 rooms a day.)
Today I am in town buying diesel for the generator (about $2.44/gallon), checking prices on sinks, and looking for two-inch schedule 40 PVC pipe for the girl’s dorm bathroom. Unfortunately it is nowhere to be found, so it looks like a trip to Brasil may be in the works, otherwise we’ll have to order the pipe from Santa Cruz, unless we decide to just go with the cheap thin stuff. The school truck is out of commission for a while with some kind of electrical ailment, so getting supplies to the school is a bit more complicated. Thankfully one of the brothers from the church has hauled a couple of loads for us with his truck. Other than that, we’re stuck hitch-hiking or taking the busses.
March 3, 2010
On my way back from town yesterday, I was waiting at the parada de los pobres for the bus, when a big square of a man offered me a ride on an equally square truck, loaded with cargo well above the cabin. Offering rides is normal here, and everyone charges five Bolivianos (same as the bus) for the thirty kilometers out to the school. I wasn’t sure how he planned to secure my 55 liter tank of diesel, but as the bus was another 15-20 minute wait and might not even be willing to take my fuel, I decided to go for it.
“Your tank will ride here, and you sit here” he said, indicating a solitary tire, the only article visible above the tarp-covered mountain of cargo. I sat on the tire with the diesel cradled between my knees. We took off, and it didn’t take me very long to realize that I was in for a wild ride. Mr. Square was a Jehu, but even worse, his method of avoiding the potholes was a jerky swerve at the last possible second. He reminded me of a kid fresh of the merry-go-round. Is he trying to throw me off of here? I wondered. I felt rather like a mounted officer on the front lines, or a solitary camper trying to hold down the tent in a bad storm. I could envision having to ditch the diesel to avoid toppling to my doom. Fortunately, there were some cargo straps to cling to, and the inertia of 55 liters also worked to my favor, and we soon passed the worst section of road and arrived at la tranca. While we waited for the officer on duty to lift the gate for us, another truck pulled up beside us, and the driver offered me a ride.
“That would be great!” I said.
“Hold on just a minute, and I’ll help you move your tank to my truck” he said.
“NO way!” it was Mr. Square. For some reason, he was adamant that I ride with
him.
“Nothing against you,” I said. “I’m just nervous about riding up here with no way to secure all this diesel. It almost fell off back there!”
“Don’t worry!” he said. “The road is good from here on, and I’ll drive slow.”
The other driver had backed off at this point, and since I had no one to help me move the tank to the other truck, I stayed put. As we started down the road, I realized that “slow” for Mr. Square was more like the fast end of normal, and I couldn’t help but wonder if his driving reflected an insecurity about his likely pedestrian pace. Thanks to God, we arrived at the entrance of the school driveway without incident.
So, in other news, I’ve been upgraded to a different house this school year, complete with a shower and flush toilet, the latter of which leaked at the base until I reset it this morning. That and a few dozen million other projects are crying out for attention and I wonder if I will ever have time to prepare for my classes: literature 3 and 4, voice choir, and piano lessons. And yet here I sit writing you this update…
I also want to start a book-selling program (also known as colporteuring) for students who are interested, I just don’t know where I’ll find the books I want. I did find out I can get some nine-volume sets that include Steps to Christ, Ministry of Healing, Counsels on Stewardship, and the Conflict of the Ages series, all for 100 bolivianos, or about $14.00, but they all have the same cover design, not exactly ideal for selling door-to-door. The container in the States that we’ve been planning to bring down here has boxes of donated Spirit of Prophecy books, but it will cost thousands of dollars to ship, and who knows when that will happen. I guess God does, and He has his timing. I’d like to coordinate with the churches in Guayara, but the pastor there is resistant to anything outside of the official church program, and so Keila tells me that if I start a colporteur program I’ll probably have better support from the local pastor if I invent another name for it. Funny how a difference in a name can change a person’s mind without changing much of anything else at all.
March 4, 2010
Turns out to be a good thing I went to town Tuesday and even better that I came back the same day. Yesterday all the bus companies started striking. They’ve blocked the road into town and won’t let any vehicles go in or out. It seems the government just passed a law that any driver of public transportation who is pulled over and found to be under the influence will be jailed, have his vehicle impounded and his license suspended for life. In retaliation, all the bus syndicates have declared a national huelga. Ruan got into town yesterday by taking some back roads on his dirt bike, and he says the men at the tranca are guarding the road with rifles and drinking their cervezas as they please.
March 7, 2010
The roof sheeting from Santa Cruz still hasn’t arrived for the Girl’s dorm, but it should be here any day. Raul, one of our 3rd-year boys from La Paz said the girls should be happy about their incomplete habitations — they’re going to have a million-star hotel! The girls aren’t laughing.
I’m not either, as we hike the two kilometers out to the portable asadero, pushing a wheelbarrow full of tanks of gasoline and water, a sharpening kit, block and tackle, and machetes. My socks are slipping with every step, farther into the toes of my rubber boots where they chafe against the blisters I won on this same hike last Friday. I’m on my way to move another downed log and set up the saw to cut more 2x2’s for the pearling on the roof of the girl’s dorm. The world’s a sauna, and I think the portable sawmill should rather be called an asandero, because I’m asando(roasting) after a mere 15-minute walk, and it’s still early. The sun flashes through the foliage like gold eyeteeth, and I trudge through a corridor of steaming green that sweats just from the simple exertion of feeding itself. Like the sun, the grasses show their teeth and punish my skin as I brush against the orilla. This is my third day in the last four of working with the sawmill, and my forearms are red and cut like the future stakes that I know are grazing out here somewhere in this madness of snarled pasture, returning to its natural state only months after its baptism by fire.
When we arrive at the downed log via the path I had the kids blaze with their machetes, it takes nearly the whole morning just to move it into position using the block and tackle and a tripod of hardwood four by fours. The next step is to set up the saw. The frame is light, and assembles quickly, but it takes the rest of the morning to get everything square. We return to the school for a hot lunch of steaming rice and beans, refill our water bottles, and hike back out to the work site. The kids are really slowing down by this point. One boy in particular has a very rotten attitude about today’s work requirements...(to be continued)
March 9, 2010
As soon as I grabbed it I knew there was something drastically wrong. My tortilla was crusty! You know, the kind that crack when you fold them, or shatter when you try to wrap your burrito. I don’t want this tortilla, I want a nice soft one that I can fill with my beans and salad! I told myself. But it was too late. I had the tortilla in hand, and I would eat it, si o si, as I well knew from childhood programming.
And then came a brilliant epiphany: this tortilla was a lot like the leftover piecrust mom used to bake with sugar and cinnamon! No sooner thought than said, my idea gave rise to an invitation from Tara to retrieve the missing ingredients. (We were eating our takeouts from the cafeteria at Ruan and Tara’s house, as we often do.) So, I went to the cupboard, fully expecting to soon indulge myself with a creative, impromptu pastry. The cinnamon was an easy find, but alas, the sugar was another whole rummage- around.
“Where would I find the sugar?” I had quickly tired of scanning the shelves of various containers and bolsas of seasoning, flour, and other varying culinary supplies.
“In the plastic box there on the left” Tara informed me.
The plastic box on the left however, was full of medio-opaque bolsas, forcing me to read the labels in order to ascertain the contents. Flour, baking soda, milk powder, unknown substance: I quickly ran out of shelf space to place the baggies as I removed them from the box, so I replaced them all in the box, and took the whole mess to one end of the table, right next to a stack of books and papers. Bad mistake. As I lifted one of the bags, another bag fell against the side of the box, poofing milk powder all over the papers and books. I lifted the offending bag to refold the open end and clip it more securely when Lyli interrupted “Kody, look out! It’s still spilling!”
Sure enough, some more milk powder caught in the wrinkles at the folded end of the bag were cascading into the plastic box. After finally subduing the rogue milk-bag, I went to dump the loose powder out of the box.
“Just put it in the cat’s dish” Tara suggested. “She likes it.”
I approached Marmite’s bowl on the floor next to the stove and bent down to empty the milk powder. Thwack! I had failed to consider the overhead cabinets that extend out past the stove and over the animal’s dishes, and my head rebounded from the bottom cupboard door, like a ping-pong ball according to Tara, although I contest that my rapid reflexes enabled me to withdraw from the point of impact with such rapidity.
Finally I uncovered the bag of sugar at the bottom of the box: simply large, brown crystals, but it was sugar nonetheless, and I would have my pastry. The bag was unopened however, so to avoid further mishaps, I handed it to Lyli to open, which she did without incident.
At last! With a sprinkle of sugar crystals and a dash of cinnamon over my crusty tortilla, I opened my mouth for the first delicious bite, when Lyli, who at this point was in the middle of an animated story, said something that made me laugh one of those short, spontaneous snorts that exits through the nose, right over my uplifted tortilla. Sugar and cinnamon scattered all over the table.
By this time, all of us were laughing, and I felt like a complete fool.
I would have been better off to just be content and eat my tortilla plain and crusty!
“Not that I speak in respect of want: for I have learned, in whatsoever state I (or my tortilla are in), therewith to be content. I know how to be abased, and I know how to abound… (Philippians 4:11-12).
March 22, 2010.
I had big plans to finish this email today. I was going to write some stories from working with the sawmill as well as tell you about the mission congress in Colombia last February. But, things just happened, and looks like it will have to wait. I hope that something you read in all this madness was a blessing and an encouragement. Thanks again for all of your prayers and support. Please pray for our students and for this school year that we may do the will of God and experience His transforming and creative power working in our lives in a visible, tangible way, every moment of every day. Blessings!
What do the following have in common: Weeds in the garden, stacks of ungraded papers, trees to prune, and tales to be told? Well, other than all sharing space on my interminable to-do list, they all get taller as time goes by! (except for the stories, which I always pass on with pin-point accuracy rooted in reality down to the last nitty-gritty detail!) Actually, as I think about it, perhaps that is my main problem in life right now, summed up in one word: detail! As a teacher, you can’t ignore the details, but you have to learn to pick and choose your battles. For those of you who know me, I’ve never been good at picking much of anything (other than my nose, and certain kinds of fruit) so I invariably end up letting the battles pick me, which as some of you may know, is a good way to get yourself killed.
For example, I was recently elected to be the director of campus maintenance, something I could easily allow to turn into a full-time job. I have two student workers right now, and I’ve kept them busy organizing and cleaning the tool shed, repairing broken tools, and taking inventory, as well as helping me with the mowing. I’m also suddenly receiving requests to fix people’s light switches and unplug everyone’s sink. Every work period (morning and afternoon) I have a bevy of students that gets sent to me for work assignments, and it is real easy to get bogged down walking them through the details of each job I want done. But you can’t over-explain the work assignments I’ve been finding out. I assigned some girls to level a recently cleared area so that it can be cut with the push mower later on, and I failed to mention that they should not fill the hole with the valves that control the water system for the staff duplex. (Which, by the way, was quite some distance from the area I asked them to level! They probably heard the word “holes” and went looking for holes to fill!)
A slip of the tongue in class two weeks ago cost me hours of time this week. The literature class that I teach is for both juniors and seniors, and I attempt to tailor assignments to each level. We meet for class only once a week (officially), but I have to plan and explain enough homework to keep them busy until the next Thursday. On Mondays I supervise a two-hour guided-study session where I can answer questions and give individual help. The theory behind this setup is to encourage self-motivated, independent learning and responsible time-management in the students.
Anyway, in my brilliance, I decided to design my class with some built in weekly homework including journaling, reading, and vocabulary building. Unfortunately, as I was assigning the number of pages the students were to journal, I used the word hoja instead of página.. A página is your normal, regular page. An hoja on the other hand is the entire paper, both front and back. So when I gave the seniors five hojas and the juniors four, you can imagine their response. But students always complain, I know that. And I’ve learned I shouldn’t change my mind on account of a few complaints, especially on the first day of class! You make a decision and you stick to it, otherwise those rascals will run you and your classroom! So they wrote. Eleven seniors and eleven juniors. Twenty-two notebooks. Ninety-nine hojas. One-hundred-ninety-eight pages.
“I don’t have to read all of these completely” I told myself. “I’ll just read a page or two of each, make a few corrections and comments, and move on.”
An hour later I had wallowed through one and a half notebooks. But boy, did those kids write! A few of them really surprised me and went all-out. At the beginning of class we had sung the hymn “Santa Biblia,” followed by a mini-lecture on the importance of thinking about the lyrics and a phrase-by-phrase analysis of the first verse. One of my senior boys responded with ten pages of journal analyzing and explaining the lyrics of one of his favorite hymns one line at a time, interspersed with personal experiences, stories, and commentary. It was one of the finest pieces of work I’ve seen in a high school literature class, not only because of the creativity and relatively error-free syntax, but also because of the spiritual maturity and depth. Another student had several short, creative essays on everything from current politics and how Bolivia fits into the One World Order, to chive, a typical Bolivian seasoning made from yucca.
Of course, not every journal was such a joy to read, but they were good diagnostic material, and I’ve compiled a list of things we need to work on, one of which is the everlasting sentence. Most students are quite adept at splicing a dozen circles’-worth of tangents into one very fierce string of unorganized thoughts with enough barbs to hang you up with your reading comprehension until the cows come home.
So between grading journals, teaching class, giving piano lessons, and directing campus maintenance, I’ve been keeping occupied. I’ve been meaning to update you all with one of these mass emails for the last four weeks now. If you thought my emails were long before, I apologize. (I did take out the section about the mission congress in Colombia, because I haven’t had time to finish writing it yet) Hey, at least you don’t have to read 22 of these! I still have three of last week’s journals waiting for me.
The following takes place between March 2, 2010 and March 22, 2010. (Sorry Mr. Bauer :).
March 2, 2010
School starts in eight days, and we are feverishly trying to complete the girl’s dormitory and the classroom buildings, buy more desks, tables, and chairs, clean up campus, and do the initial paperwork, including the annual curriculum plans that must be submitted to the government. More students have arrived in the past two weeks, and its good to have the extra help with the construction and with reclaiming campus from the jungle. A couple weeks ago Mr. Cornelio and the kids harvested the first stage of the rice we planted last fall, and in between thunderstorms, the girls dry out the kernels on tarps while the boys help pour the floor of the girls dorm underneath more tarps, thunderstorms or no. (We pour with wheel-barrows, just to clarify, and advance at about 2 rooms a day.)
Today I am in town buying diesel for the generator (about $2.44/gallon), checking prices on sinks, and looking for two-inch schedule 40 PVC pipe for the girl’s dorm bathroom. Unfortunately it is nowhere to be found, so it looks like a trip to Brasil may be in the works, otherwise we’ll have to order the pipe from Santa Cruz, unless we decide to just go with the cheap thin stuff. The school truck is out of commission for a while with some kind of electrical ailment, so getting supplies to the school is a bit more complicated. Thankfully one of the brothers from the church has hauled a couple of loads for us with his truck. Other than that, we’re stuck hitch-hiking or taking the busses.
March 3, 2010
On my way back from town yesterday, I was waiting at the parada de los pobres for the bus, when a big square of a man offered me a ride on an equally square truck, loaded with cargo well above the cabin. Offering rides is normal here, and everyone charges five Bolivianos (same as the bus) for the thirty kilometers out to the school. I wasn’t sure how he planned to secure my 55 liter tank of diesel, but as the bus was another 15-20 minute wait and might not even be willing to take my fuel, I decided to go for it.
“Your tank will ride here, and you sit here” he said, indicating a solitary tire, the only article visible above the tarp-covered mountain of cargo. I sat on the tire with the diesel cradled between my knees. We took off, and it didn’t take me very long to realize that I was in for a wild ride. Mr. Square was a Jehu, but even worse, his method of avoiding the potholes was a jerky swerve at the last possible second. He reminded me of a kid fresh of the merry-go-round. Is he trying to throw me off of here? I wondered. I felt rather like a mounted officer on the front lines, or a solitary camper trying to hold down the tent in a bad storm. I could envision having to ditch the diesel to avoid toppling to my doom. Fortunately, there were some cargo straps to cling to, and the inertia of 55 liters also worked to my favor, and we soon passed the worst section of road and arrived at la tranca. While we waited for the officer on duty to lift the gate for us, another truck pulled up beside us, and the driver offered me a ride.
“That would be great!” I said.
“Hold on just a minute, and I’ll help you move your tank to my truck” he said.
“NO way!” it was Mr. Square. For some reason, he was adamant that I ride with
him.
“Nothing against you,” I said. “I’m just nervous about riding up here with no way to secure all this diesel. It almost fell off back there!”
“Don’t worry!” he said. “The road is good from here on, and I’ll drive slow.”
The other driver had backed off at this point, and since I had no one to help me move the tank to the other truck, I stayed put. As we started down the road, I realized that “slow” for Mr. Square was more like the fast end of normal, and I couldn’t help but wonder if his driving reflected an insecurity about his likely pedestrian pace. Thanks to God, we arrived at the entrance of the school driveway without incident.
So, in other news, I’ve been upgraded to a different house this school year, complete with a shower and flush toilet, the latter of which leaked at the base until I reset it this morning. That and a few dozen million other projects are crying out for attention and I wonder if I will ever have time to prepare for my classes: literature 3 and 4, voice choir, and piano lessons. And yet here I sit writing you this update…
I also want to start a book-selling program (also known as colporteuring) for students who are interested, I just don’t know where I’ll find the books I want. I did find out I can get some nine-volume sets that include Steps to Christ, Ministry of Healing, Counsels on Stewardship, and the Conflict of the Ages series, all for 100 bolivianos, or about $14.00, but they all have the same cover design, not exactly ideal for selling door-to-door. The container in the States that we’ve been planning to bring down here has boxes of donated Spirit of Prophecy books, but it will cost thousands of dollars to ship, and who knows when that will happen. I guess God does, and He has his timing. I’d like to coordinate with the churches in Guayara, but the pastor there is resistant to anything outside of the official church program, and so Keila tells me that if I start a colporteur program I’ll probably have better support from the local pastor if I invent another name for it. Funny how a difference in a name can change a person’s mind without changing much of anything else at all.
March 4, 2010
Turns out to be a good thing I went to town Tuesday and even better that I came back the same day. Yesterday all the bus companies started striking. They’ve blocked the road into town and won’t let any vehicles go in or out. It seems the government just passed a law that any driver of public transportation who is pulled over and found to be under the influence will be jailed, have his vehicle impounded and his license suspended for life. In retaliation, all the bus syndicates have declared a national huelga. Ruan got into town yesterday by taking some back roads on his dirt bike, and he says the men at the tranca are guarding the road with rifles and drinking their cervezas as they please.
March 7, 2010
The roof sheeting from Santa Cruz still hasn’t arrived for the Girl’s dorm, but it should be here any day. Raul, one of our 3rd-year boys from La Paz said the girls should be happy about their incomplete habitations — they’re going to have a million-star hotel! The girls aren’t laughing.
I’m not either, as we hike the two kilometers out to the portable asadero, pushing a wheelbarrow full of tanks of gasoline and water, a sharpening kit, block and tackle, and machetes. My socks are slipping with every step, farther into the toes of my rubber boots where they chafe against the blisters I won on this same hike last Friday. I’m on my way to move another downed log and set up the saw to cut more 2x2’s for the pearling on the roof of the girl’s dorm. The world’s a sauna, and I think the portable sawmill should rather be called an asandero, because I’m asando(roasting) after a mere 15-minute walk, and it’s still early. The sun flashes through the foliage like gold eyeteeth, and I trudge through a corridor of steaming green that sweats just from the simple exertion of feeding itself. Like the sun, the grasses show their teeth and punish my skin as I brush against the orilla. This is my third day in the last four of working with the sawmill, and my forearms are red and cut like the future stakes that I know are grazing out here somewhere in this madness of snarled pasture, returning to its natural state only months after its baptism by fire.
When we arrive at the downed log via the path I had the kids blaze with their machetes, it takes nearly the whole morning just to move it into position using the block and tackle and a tripod of hardwood four by fours. The next step is to set up the saw. The frame is light, and assembles quickly, but it takes the rest of the morning to get everything square. We return to the school for a hot lunch of steaming rice and beans, refill our water bottles, and hike back out to the work site. The kids are really slowing down by this point. One boy in particular has a very rotten attitude about today’s work requirements...(to be continued)
March 9, 2010
As soon as I grabbed it I knew there was something drastically wrong. My tortilla was crusty! You know, the kind that crack when you fold them, or shatter when you try to wrap your burrito. I don’t want this tortilla, I want a nice soft one that I can fill with my beans and salad! I told myself. But it was too late. I had the tortilla in hand, and I would eat it, si o si, as I well knew from childhood programming.
And then came a brilliant epiphany: this tortilla was a lot like the leftover piecrust mom used to bake with sugar and cinnamon! No sooner thought than said, my idea gave rise to an invitation from Tara to retrieve the missing ingredients. (We were eating our takeouts from the cafeteria at Ruan and Tara’s house, as we often do.) So, I went to the cupboard, fully expecting to soon indulge myself with a creative, impromptu pastry. The cinnamon was an easy find, but alas, the sugar was another whole rummage- around.
“Where would I find the sugar?” I had quickly tired of scanning the shelves of various containers and bolsas of seasoning, flour, and other varying culinary supplies.
“In the plastic box there on the left” Tara informed me.
The plastic box on the left however, was full of medio-opaque bolsas, forcing me to read the labels in order to ascertain the contents. Flour, baking soda, milk powder, unknown substance: I quickly ran out of shelf space to place the baggies as I removed them from the box, so I replaced them all in the box, and took the whole mess to one end of the table, right next to a stack of books and papers. Bad mistake. As I lifted one of the bags, another bag fell against the side of the box, poofing milk powder all over the papers and books. I lifted the offending bag to refold the open end and clip it more securely when Lyli interrupted “Kody, look out! It’s still spilling!”
Sure enough, some more milk powder caught in the wrinkles at the folded end of the bag were cascading into the plastic box. After finally subduing the rogue milk-bag, I went to dump the loose powder out of the box.
“Just put it in the cat’s dish” Tara suggested. “She likes it.”
I approached Marmite’s bowl on the floor next to the stove and bent down to empty the milk powder. Thwack! I had failed to consider the overhead cabinets that extend out past the stove and over the animal’s dishes, and my head rebounded from the bottom cupboard door, like a ping-pong ball according to Tara, although I contest that my rapid reflexes enabled me to withdraw from the point of impact with such rapidity.
Finally I uncovered the bag of sugar at the bottom of the box: simply large, brown crystals, but it was sugar nonetheless, and I would have my pastry. The bag was unopened however, so to avoid further mishaps, I handed it to Lyli to open, which she did without incident.
At last! With a sprinkle of sugar crystals and a dash of cinnamon over my crusty tortilla, I opened my mouth for the first delicious bite, when Lyli, who at this point was in the middle of an animated story, said something that made me laugh one of those short, spontaneous snorts that exits through the nose, right over my uplifted tortilla. Sugar and cinnamon scattered all over the table.
By this time, all of us were laughing, and I felt like a complete fool.
I would have been better off to just be content and eat my tortilla plain and crusty!
“Not that I speak in respect of want: for I have learned, in whatsoever state I (or my tortilla are in), therewith to be content. I know how to be abased, and I know how to abound… (Philippians 4:11-12).
March 22, 2010.
I had big plans to finish this email today. I was going to write some stories from working with the sawmill as well as tell you about the mission congress in Colombia last February. But, things just happened, and looks like it will have to wait. I hope that something you read in all this madness was a blessing and an encouragement. Thanks again for all of your prayers and support. Please pray for our students and for this school year that we may do the will of God and experience His transforming and creative power working in our lives in a visible, tangible way, every moment of every day. Blessings!
Wednesday, February 17, 2010
Jet Streams.
2/2/2010
We leave the house at 3:40 a.m. for Sacramento International. Four hours of sleep is not a good way to start a 23-hour trip! I’m reminded that the immune system is most active when you’re sleeping and that airplanes are like bacteria test tubes,
and I resolve to nap today as much as possible. But I’m going to try not to sleep the whole time because I’m taking some GLOW tracts with me, and I’ve been praying I’ll meet some people who want to hear the good news!
United flight 410, departing from Sacramento to Denver.6:00 a.m.
The kids are up early in Sacramento this morning. I can see their flashlights glowing under the wrinkled sheet of morning fog, and I wonder what books they are reading. Joe, (I think that’s what he said his name is) in the seat next to me, is reading The China Study,the same book I have tucked inside my computer bag. The book makes for a great conversation starter about health and the original diet. Turns out Joe’s brother has heart problems, and the plant-based diet prescribed by Dr. Colin Campbell pretty much saved his life, so he let Joe in on the good news. I
mention how it’s interesting that God’s plan for our diet in the beginning still makes the most sense today.
Joe and his wife are on their way to North Dakota, the state where I was born, the Siberia of the U.S. It seems like we’re flying over Siberia as the first rays of sun light up a frozen wilderness. Joe’s wife is a kindergarten teacher and so when they ask where I’m headed I tell them a bit about UETIRG and our program there and contrast it with the memory-based Bolivian system and our own teaching-to-the-test tendencies in the U.S. I want to talk more, but its early, and I can tell they’d like to sleep. So I watch the landscape. The Rockies are beautiful! Here and there I see lakes so clear they could be windows into other worlds.
As we approach Denver we fly over textured farms with plowed fields, striped like layered cake, or stratified stone. A jet crosses close below us, sketching a white line across the sky.Strange how we can cross paths with so many people and leave only a wire of a cloud that still somehow calls attention to heaven.
When we land, Joe and his wife wake up, and while waiting to dock at the gate we talk some more and wish each other safe travels. Joe still has The China Study in his hand and I notice he’s using a pen for a marker. As we debark, I give him the Glow tract called “A Day to Remember” and tell him he can use it for a bookmark. Original diet, meet original Sabbath!
Denver to Miami, United flight 266, 10:17 a.m. mountain time.
We’re flying over a landscape dressed in polka dots. It seems a lot of people out here farm in circles, and I wonder if that’s ever a problem. Maybe it facilitates crop rotation! I laugh at my own ridiculous imagination. But sadly, that’s about as ignorant of farming as we’re becoming these days.
Miami to Santa Cruz, Bolivia with a stop in La Paz. American Airlines 922. 10:25 p.m. eastern time.
I’m surprised to discover that my seat assignment is 9C, the aisle side of the row right behind first-class. Because it’s by the emergency door, there are only two seats in our row. I’ve never had this much legroom on a plane before. There are no seats in front of us, so I have to stow my computer bag in the overhead storage, but first I take out my Bible and my water bottle.
My seatmate is standing while he waits for everyone else to board the plane. He is tall with a hard face, and hardly seems to acknowledge me when I say hello. I figure it will be a quiet ride. That’s okay, because I really want to sleep! I settle into my chair and am about to close my eyes when he asks in very good English if I’m going to La Paz.
“No, I’m going on to Santa Cruz” I respond.
“Really? That’s where I live.” He says. He starts to ask what I’ll be doing there, and then he stops, and pointing to my Bible asks:
“Are you a missionary?”
And just like that we’re into a conversation about the high school where I volunteer, and what a blessing it has been. At some point we switch from English to Spanish, and he seems more comfortable. He is surprised that the church organization doesn’t support the school financially, but I tell him that God has always provided and we’ve never lacked our necessities. We’ve had food or money arrive the very day that we finished our last meal. The flight attendants have strapped into their jumper seats right in front of us, and they can’t help but overhear our conversation and when I glance at them I can tell they are listening.
Later, when the flight attendants pass by with the supper I ask for the vegetarian meal I ordered on my reservation. The attendant apologizes and says that vegetarian meals are only provided on longer flights. My seat mate Señor Salomon asks me if I’ve always been vegetarian.
“What do you eat to replace the meat?” he asks.
“Nuts, beans, and other legumes.They have all the protein in them your body needs” I tell him.I’m surprised when Guermo, the flight attendant, brings me a whole-wheat roll and a huge salad with spinach and shredded carrots on a tray with a real napkin and real silverware. On the side is a bowl of mixed nuts! They’ve been listening to everything! I talk some more with Mr. Salomon about diet and health. He says he avoids meat during the week, (he means red meats: fish and chicken don’t count) but on weekends they still eat carne. Mr. Salomon owns a paint distribution company that’s an affiliate with Sherwin Williams. He’s on his way home from a trip to Milan, Italy. He says he’s a Christian, and that he wants to witness to other business owners.
“But for them to listen to anything you say, you have to be successful” he tells me. “When I first started, it was all about the money. God had to humble me a couple of times. Once my factory burned down and I lost everything. I had insurance, but they only covered half of my loss. Now I realize the most important things are God’s approval and the approval of my wife and family.”
When I exit the plane in Santa Cruz, I hand the flight attendant a GLOW tract. Mr. Salomon waits for me to clear customs and then offers me a ride. He and his wife ask me more questions.
“What do Adventists believe about the carnival?” they ask. It’s about a week before a big carnival notorious for its debauchery, where many people party themselves into a stupor. I tell them we believe that followers of Christ will respect their health and their bodies and will avoid putting themselves in places where they will be tempted to let sensuality and fleshly passions reign unchecked."
“Oh, that’s good.” He says. “The people here in Bolivia need to be taught that, because they grow up accustomed to the carnival, and it really is a licentious disaster.”
When we arrive at his house, Mr.Salomon has his driver José take me by the paint business, Casa Color,so I’ll know where it is. He wants me to come by later
to pick up some paint for the school.
“Make sure you send me pictures” he said, and handed me his email address and cell number. After showing me the business, José drives me right to the door of my destination.
P.S. I spent the weekend in Santa Cruz and then God blessed me unexpectedly with a flight with Pastor Gates to Guayaramerin! It was such a blessing to not have to be stuck waiting around in the big city! I’ve been at the school for a week now, helping with the construction and also helping interview new students for the coming school year. Tomorrow it looks like I will have the opportunity to fly to Colombia for a mission youth conference, so please keep that in your prayers as well. God bless you all.
We leave the house at 3:40 a.m. for Sacramento International. Four hours of sleep is not a good way to start a 23-hour trip! I’m reminded that the immune system is most active when you’re sleeping and that airplanes are like bacteria test tubes,
and I resolve to nap today as much as possible. But I’m going to try not to sleep the whole time because I’m taking some GLOW tracts with me, and I’ve been praying I’ll meet some people who want to hear the good news!
United flight 410, departing from Sacramento to Denver.6:00 a.m.
The kids are up early in Sacramento this morning. I can see their flashlights glowing under the wrinkled sheet of morning fog, and I wonder what books they are reading. Joe, (I think that’s what he said his name is) in the seat next to me, is reading The China Study,the same book I have tucked inside my computer bag. The book makes for a great conversation starter about health and the original diet. Turns out Joe’s brother has heart problems, and the plant-based diet prescribed by Dr. Colin Campbell pretty much saved his life, so he let Joe in on the good news. I
mention how it’s interesting that God’s plan for our diet in the beginning still makes the most sense today.
Joe and his wife are on their way to North Dakota, the state where I was born, the Siberia of the U.S. It seems like we’re flying over Siberia as the first rays of sun light up a frozen wilderness. Joe’s wife is a kindergarten teacher and so when they ask where I’m headed I tell them a bit about UETIRG and our program there and contrast it with the memory-based Bolivian system and our own teaching-to-the-test tendencies in the U.S. I want to talk more, but its early, and I can tell they’d like to sleep. So I watch the landscape. The Rockies are beautiful! Here and there I see lakes so clear they could be windows into other worlds.
As we approach Denver we fly over textured farms with plowed fields, striped like layered cake, or stratified stone. A jet crosses close below us, sketching a white line across the sky.Strange how we can cross paths with so many people and leave only a wire of a cloud that still somehow calls attention to heaven.
When we land, Joe and his wife wake up, and while waiting to dock at the gate we talk some more and wish each other safe travels. Joe still has The China Study in his hand and I notice he’s using a pen for a marker. As we debark, I give him the Glow tract called “A Day to Remember” and tell him he can use it for a bookmark. Original diet, meet original Sabbath!
Denver to Miami, United flight 266, 10:17 a.m. mountain time.
We’re flying over a landscape dressed in polka dots. It seems a lot of people out here farm in circles, and I wonder if that’s ever a problem. Maybe it facilitates crop rotation! I laugh at my own ridiculous imagination. But sadly, that’s about as ignorant of farming as we’re becoming these days.
Miami to Santa Cruz, Bolivia with a stop in La Paz. American Airlines 922. 10:25 p.m. eastern time.
I’m surprised to discover that my seat assignment is 9C, the aisle side of the row right behind first-class. Because it’s by the emergency door, there are only two seats in our row. I’ve never had this much legroom on a plane before. There are no seats in front of us, so I have to stow my computer bag in the overhead storage, but first I take out my Bible and my water bottle.
My seatmate is standing while he waits for everyone else to board the plane. He is tall with a hard face, and hardly seems to acknowledge me when I say hello. I figure it will be a quiet ride. That’s okay, because I really want to sleep! I settle into my chair and am about to close my eyes when he asks in very good English if I’m going to La Paz.
“No, I’m going on to Santa Cruz” I respond.
“Really? That’s where I live.” He says. He starts to ask what I’ll be doing there, and then he stops, and pointing to my Bible asks:
“Are you a missionary?”
And just like that we’re into a conversation about the high school where I volunteer, and what a blessing it has been. At some point we switch from English to Spanish, and he seems more comfortable. He is surprised that the church organization doesn’t support the school financially, but I tell him that God has always provided and we’ve never lacked our necessities. We’ve had food or money arrive the very day that we finished our last meal. The flight attendants have strapped into their jumper seats right in front of us, and they can’t help but overhear our conversation and when I glance at them I can tell they are listening.
Later, when the flight attendants pass by with the supper I ask for the vegetarian meal I ordered on my reservation. The attendant apologizes and says that vegetarian meals are only provided on longer flights. My seat mate Señor Salomon asks me if I’ve always been vegetarian.
“What do you eat to replace the meat?” he asks.
“Nuts, beans, and other legumes.They have all the protein in them your body needs” I tell him.I’m surprised when Guermo, the flight attendant, brings me a whole-wheat roll and a huge salad with spinach and shredded carrots on a tray with a real napkin and real silverware. On the side is a bowl of mixed nuts! They’ve been listening to everything! I talk some more with Mr. Salomon about diet and health. He says he avoids meat during the week, (he means red meats: fish and chicken don’t count) but on weekends they still eat carne. Mr. Salomon owns a paint distribution company that’s an affiliate with Sherwin Williams. He’s on his way home from a trip to Milan, Italy. He says he’s a Christian, and that he wants to witness to other business owners.
“But for them to listen to anything you say, you have to be successful” he tells me. “When I first started, it was all about the money. God had to humble me a couple of times. Once my factory burned down and I lost everything. I had insurance, but they only covered half of my loss. Now I realize the most important things are God’s approval and the approval of my wife and family.”
When I exit the plane in Santa Cruz, I hand the flight attendant a GLOW tract. Mr. Salomon waits for me to clear customs and then offers me a ride. He and his wife ask me more questions.
“What do Adventists believe about the carnival?” they ask. It’s about a week before a big carnival notorious for its debauchery, where many people party themselves into a stupor. I tell them we believe that followers of Christ will respect their health and their bodies and will avoid putting themselves in places where they will be tempted to let sensuality and fleshly passions reign unchecked."
“Oh, that’s good.” He says. “The people here in Bolivia need to be taught that, because they grow up accustomed to the carnival, and it really is a licentious disaster.”
When we arrive at his house, Mr.Salomon has his driver José take me by the paint business, Casa Color,so I’ll know where it is. He wants me to come by later
to pick up some paint for the school.
“Make sure you send me pictures” he said, and handed me his email address and cell number. After showing me the business, José drives me right to the door of my destination.
P.S. I spent the weekend in Santa Cruz and then God blessed me unexpectedly with a flight with Pastor Gates to Guayaramerin! It was such a blessing to not have to be stuck waiting around in the big city! I’ve been at the school for a week now, helping with the construction and also helping interview new students for the coming school year. Tomorrow it looks like I will have the opportunity to fly to Colombia for a mission youth conference, so please keep that in your prayers as well. God bless you all.
Sunday, January 31, 2010
Just Sharing the Blessings :)
Two more days and I'll be back in for Bolivia, Lord willing! I’m excited! Being home the last few months has really been a blessing and inspiration though, as I’ve had so many opportunities to study and share and learn, I just have to share some of them with you! I’ve never seen a church so active in ministry before as the one here in Oroville! There are daily Bible studies in people’s homes and in the church, there is colportuering outreach, personal ministries, community services, and a church choir, all in addition to midweek prayer meeting and Sabbath vespers. Even more importantly is the Spirit behind it all. Things aren't perfect, but God's Spirit is moving! I definitely haven’t run out of things to do! God also provided me with a few days of work at a wholesale business that cuts up old wine barrels and resells them as planters, a redemptive aspect I find very satisfying!
When I was at Weimar a few weeks ago for a Hispanic Youth Conference, about 50 of us got on the Weimar Academy bus Sabbath afternoon and drove to Lincoln where we gave door-to-door surveys to probe people’s spiritual interests. In over half of the homes my friend Sean and I visited, the people spoke only Spanish. It was such a blessing to still be able to communicate. At one house, the young man who answered the door was interested in virtually everything on our survey.
“Health seminars?”
“Si!”
“Cooking and nutritional classes?”
“o si!”
“Seminars on how to manage your stress?”
“Si, seria muy bien!”
Finally we came to a break in the affirmations when I asked about stop-smoking seminars and he said he doesn’t smoke. “Stop drinking classes?”
“Eso si, necesito eso!” he looked sheepishly at his wife.
We took a brief break in the survey as he invited us inside.
“It’s cold out there” he said. His name was Jose Luis, and he introduced us to his wife Patricia and their two little girls, Yaquelin and Sabata. We continued the survey and he said yes to everything else including Bible studies and prophecy seminars. He said his family is facing some really hard times right now and they are looking for all the help they can get. I asked if we could have prayer with them. He looked confused.
“Sure.” He said, “But how?” I was shocked to realize he and his family had no idea how to pray!
“It’s simple,” I said. “We just talk to God like we would to a friend, but also with respect as our Lord and Savior.” We made a circle, and after asking if they had any specific requests, we prayed what must have been their first family prayer.
“Thank you so much!” was all they could say as we were leaving, and their smiles made the 40º weather feel like 75. What a powerful blessing to be able to tell someone the good news that they can talk directly to God, that He listens, and He cares!
In just over an hour we had talked to three more families interested in Bible studies and several more interested in the health seminars. You cannot tell me that the Holy Spirit is not at work today! People are hungry! Sean and I kept thinking about a quote that Pastor Johnny Suárez, director of the Spanish radio programming Pan de Vida, had shared in his sermon a few hours before and we realized there is a big work to be done among the Hispanic communities here in the States!
Pastor Johnny told the story of two colporteurs from PUC (Pacific Union College) who started the Adventist work among the Hispanic population in the U.S. Not able to speak Spanish, they were frustrated until they met a bilingual Baptist pastor. He didn’t want any of their books, however, and instead of offering to help them, he challenged them to a public debate on the topic of the Sabbath.
On the day of the debate, the pastor received a letter from a Hispanic couple in a neighboring town asking him to come explain to them why Christians observe Sunday when their recent study of the scriptures showed Saturday to be the true Sabbath. “Perfect!” thought the pastor. “After this debate I’ll go up there and straighten these guys out too!”
At the debate, the minister thought he would be smart and make the colporteurs go first so he could refute everything they had to say. He hadn’t even bothered to seriously prepare, because he was sure that by merely listening to their arguments he would be able to point out their fallacies. The colporteurs, on the other hand, had fasted and prayed and prepared a presentation including over 40 biblical references. At the last minute however, they felt impressed to keep the presentation simple and stick to a few basic verses. As they began, they noticed the pastor furiously taking notes, but he soon put down his pen in amazement. When it was his turn to speak, instead of refuting the message he publicly confessed Saturday as the true Sabbath and gave his full support to the Adventist cause!
Pastor Suárez went on to share the following statement from Ellen White: "I was shown that the Hispanic work will be placed as the forerunner, and will march as the head of the cause of God in the United States." (Declaration of Ellen G. White to Abel Sánchez in California, 1913.) – The Untold Story, 100 years of Hispanic Adventism by Dr. Manuel Vásquez. Interamerican Publications, 2000, pg. 21.
This statement was probably surprising in 1913 when the Hispanic population was comparatively low. Now however, the Hispanic population is skyrocketing, (the US Census Bureau in 2002 reported* the U.S. population to be 13.3% Hispanic, and a 2004 press report predicts that percentage to nearly double by 2050.) But while the numbers are interesting, what impresses me even more is the open and receptive spirit one generally finds in the Hispanic community.
Incidentally, I talked to the pastor of the Hispanic church in Lincoln, and he promised immediate follow-up on all the contacts we made and asked for our contact information.
“If there are any decisions for Christ, we’ll be sure and let you know” he said. I’m looking forward to an email!
As we drove home that evening we sang scripture songs. Sean is gifted with a mind for numbers. He used to keep track of license plates, always watching for the new series when they would come out. Now, whenever he sees a license plate number it reminds him of a Bible reference.
“Did you know,” he tells us “that the Bible is organized in chiastic structure? At first I didn’t realize it, because you have 66 books, 39 in the old, and 27 in the new. But if you look at it again, you realize you have a group of 12 books at the end of the Old Testament: Hosea, Joel, Amos, Obadiah and the rest of the Minor Prophets! We would do well to study the chiastic center of the Bible!”
When he said that, I got really excited. Recently I had been studying some of the Minor Prophets and I had been blown away with the exactness with which their message speaks to God’s church of today. For example, the book of Amos talks about a people who claim to look for the coming of Christ (5:18-22) but are living like the heathen around them (1:1-15, 2:2-12), have rejected the spirit of prophecy (2:12) and have introduced mixed styles of worship and music that produce tumult and confusion (3:9, 5:23, 6:1-6). Again and again you the see the repeating motif of Samaria (a mixture of God’s people and the world, 2 Kings 17), its “tumult” (3:12) and its mountain, where the temple of Gerizim mixed pagan practices with the worship of God, (4:1, 6:1-6, 8:14). And then check out this reference! “Hear this, O ye that swallow up the needy, even to make the poor of the land to fail, Saying, when will the new moon be gone, that we may sell corn, and the sabbath, that we may sell wheat…” It reminds me of the days when I used to count down the hours until it would be sundown so I could “have fun!” For all of God’s people who have lived like this, the prophet says “Woe unto you that desire the day of the Lord! To what end is it for you? The day of the Lord is darkness, and not light.” (5:18). What a tragedy! Have you ever looked forward to something with great anticipation only to discover in the end that it was the exact opposite of what you had hoped? It’s devastating! Oh how I pray that doesn’t happen to us with the Second Coming! The remedy? Repentance and real heart work.If you haven’t studied the Minor Prophets lately, go take a look! It’s some powerful stuff if you apply it to your own life and don’t just think it was only meant for the ancestors! It is a blunt straightforward message that calls for soul searching, humility, and repentance. It also promises the outpouring of the Holy Spirit in the last days (Joel 2:28-29)
Speaking of the Holy Spirit, last week I had the opportunity to preach at the Oroville Seventh Day Adventist church, and I knew the only way I could do it would be through Holy Spirit power. My presentation didn’t turn out quite as I had hoped, but God really blessed in spite of myself. The title of the message was Acts-pansion: The rapid growth of the church in the book of Acts and how it can happen again. Have you ever been tempted to doubt the word of God that the gospel will be preached to all the world (Matt 24:14) when the world population will grow by 75 million this year alone? We get so excited about a million member increase in church membership, but we are falling seriously behind! What really stood out to me from my study more than anything was just how vital the Holy Spirit is to accomplish the work and what we need to do to receive it. (We have to pray for it, for one thing, as Christ does in the book of John. According to Peter we must also “repent and be baptized …in the name of Jesus Christ for the remission of sins, and you shall receive the gift of the Holy Ghost” (Acts 2:38). The word remission here means a lot more than simply forgiveness as anyone who has experienced the remission of cancer can attest! There’s a lot more I could share here, but I know some of you already heard my sermon, so I won’t repeat it!
Thanks to all of you for your continued prayers, support, and encouragement. God is providing for our needs for new teachers this year! I just got off the phone this morning with an old friend who is a math teacher, and she and her husband are planning to come in July! She already speaks Spanish fluently, so that is a huge blessing. The only vacancies that haven’t been filled yet are for another primary school teacher and for a high school science teacher (chemistry and physics). Please join me in praying for the students and staff of UETIRG this year and also for the gift of repentance and humility and the further outpouring of the Holy Spirit in all of our lives.
One more thing: we’re still trying to get a crate (think semi-trailer size) container of supplies shipped to Bolivia. The contents include much needed equipment, a truck, and literature to use in outreach, and other miscellaneous items. If you feel impressed to help ship the crate you can make donations to the BEM (Bolivia Education Ministry) account at GMI (Gospel Ministries International.) Go to the How to Help tab on the top right of the page. Or just call GMI directly at 423-473-1841.
May the God of peace keep your hearts and minds through Christ Jesus!
Monday, January 11, 2010
01-11-10
Today seems almost apocalyptic in its binary and chiasmus, reminiscent of both Revelation and the quasi-prophecy of science fiction. Today, time is a palindrome, and no matter what worldview you take, the ending digit is the same as the beginning.
Ten years ago we thought the world was ending. Maybe we were right. We just didn’t realize it would take this long! Society was already toast; it’s just been pushed down for another round—again. Don’t mind the smoke and charred crumbs; it’ll hang in there on the hotwires until flames make somebody pull the plug. Movements seem controlled by unseen forces working in the shadows. America’s prosperity is a facade, the papery farce of Obama’s billions seems like a desperate exhalation, the last burst of bubbles before the drowning reflex makes us gulp for air and fill our lungs with water.
Yet people want to hope. “Things will come around,” I hear them say in the grocery line, or at church, or on the 12:00 news. “Just give it a year or two!” And they are right, things will get better, we are prisoners of hope! But things will also get worse, for we are prisoners of sin and its curse (Rom 7:14, Isa 42:7). We flounder for power, for something to hang onto, some sense of control in a rogue world. We seek it in knowledge, popularity, politics, wealth, business or pleasure, but we are left unsatisfied. What our hearts really long for is Christ, “The Desire of all Nations” (Hagaii 2:7). I tell you that the only sure hope I have ever found is “the hope of the gospel,” of “Christ in you, the hope of glory,” the Creator of all things “that are in heaven, and that are in earth, visible and invisible” living in you! (Col 1:23,27, 16). That is why “I am not ashamed of the gospel of Jesus Christ, for it is the power of God unto salvation, to everyone who believes.” (Rom 1:16). I used to wonder how I could believe? Was just saying “I believe” enough to make it true? How does one believe? The Bible says that “faith comes by hearing, and hearing by the word of God” (Rom 10:17). Imagine Jesus Christ the Verb of John 1:1, Creator of worlds (Heb 1:2) inside of you, recreating the synapses of your mind, rewiring you to truly hear his voice, giving you new thoughts, new motives, and new actions! God has ever wanted to give to us His hope and power. Is that good news or what? It is literally the reason we’re still breathing. It is the reason I do what I do.
In about three weeks I will be returning to Bolivia to teach for another school year, Lord willing! I’m really excited about this opportunity to continue to serve, grow, and learn to trust God more. Classes don’t start until the beginning of March, but I have been invited to a mission conference in Colombia on February 15-21. I planned to fly there directly to avoid backtracking and cut down on cost, but I can only be outside of Bolivia for 90 days total during a year, or I lose my resident status which would mean buying another visa and a lot more paperwork—and yes, you do have to buy a lot of the paperwork. Sometimes you even have to pay for someone else to do your paperwork for you!
I’m excited to see what God is going to do this next year. I know we have a church to build for one thing. The mayor of Yata has already donated the land. The simple health care, weekly visits, prayers, Bible studies, and community service that the school has been providing for the last few years are finally reaping a harvest.
Enrollment is up from 40 to about 70 for this next year. That means we will have a lot of new students who have not yet heard the good news! Many of our students arrive having never even held a Bible in their hands before, let alone having read it. I’ve been praying for them already, that the Holy Spirit will prepare their hearts to receive the truth.
Another idea I believe the Lord laid on my heart for this next school year is a colporteuring program. This school year we have classes on Sunday and one day in the middle of the week is designated as outreach day. There will be a number of different projects, from health clinics to house raisings. I would like to train some of the older students who are willing to do door-to-door colporteur evangelism. The biggest hurdle right now is our book supply. I’m hoping to find a supplier in the country in order to avoid large shipping fees and the hassle of clearing customs. (Customs officials will sometimes impound imports and demand large sums of money for their release.)
The last couple months I’ve been trying to find some work to help sponsor myself through this next school year. I obtained my substitute-teaching permit for Butte county and have been registering with the various school districts, but so far they haven't needed me. I did get another part-time job in addition, but work has been slow. But the Lord is good, and I’ve had a lot of opportunities to be involved in church activities and some local bible studies.
Two days ago I had the privilege of going to Weimar, CA with some friends to attend a Hispanic youth congress on the mission and direction of the Adventist Church. It was absolutely incredible! I gained a whole new perspective on the work here and I witnessed God's power first hand as I visited people door to door on Sabbath afternoon. I also had the chance to do some networking. More on all that coming soon!
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
Because life here would just be too perfect if it weren't for snakes...
It’s hard to believe the school year is almost over. Classes end this Friday, and most of the kids will go home soon thereafter, just in time for Thanksgiving.
We’re already celebrated with a few thanksgivings recently as God provided for our needs in the knick of time, again. At breakfast last Tuesday, the directors announced that we were down to our last meal and didn’t have the money to buy food for the week and asked the students to join us in prayer. A few hours later the needed money arrived. Another morning a few months ago the kitchen had served its last when the parents of one of the students showed up unexpectedly with a large donation of food. This week again, the money came just in time. I think God likes testing us. It’s times like these when you wish you were a quick study.
Just as I was getting ready to come to town this morning, Yerco, one of the primary school kids, arrived late to school on his bicycle, sweating and distraught. “Me picó una vibora” he announced, much calmer than one would expect for someone with that kind of news.
“Where? When?” My mind immediately jumped to the worst-case scenario were I imagined us making a bed in the back of the truck, tourniqueting and elevating his leg and force-feeding him charcoal while bouncing to town at full speed…
“Just now in the entrance”
“Where in the entrance?” (It is over a kilometer long)
“At the corner” (Just a few minutes out). “Let me see” I ordered. He lifted his pant leg and pointed to his ankle. “Here?” I asked, pointing to two small red dots that looked like they could be fang marks, although they didn’t seem particularly fresh. He shook his head. “Lower.” I didn’t see anything, but some snakes have very small fangs and their bite marks can be very hard to see, but I was encouraged to see that his ankle wasn’t red or swollen.
“What did the snake look like?”
“It was yellow, and not real big.”
His pulse was normal and he wasn’t abnormally warm or cold, but he was limping and seemed to be in pain. Miss Susie put a charcoal poultice on his ankle and we brought him to the clinic in town just to be on the safe side. After the 40 minutes ride, he still showed no further symptoms, leaving us relieved and praising the Lord for his protection. What a lesson for me too, I couldn't help but think. There are always snakes in the road, trying to bite me and make me fall to my death. But God is good, and if I get up and keep in the road, God will provide my salvation.
At the clinic Yerco’s story was a bit more detailed and colorful. He said the serpent had latched onto his leg and he had fallen over with his bike and kicked it off. It was hard to tell if the story was simply growing with the audience or if he had just recovered from the scare enough to finally give the full version. The doctor wanted to keep him 24 hours for observation, so we went to his family’s house in town to let them know and they took it from there.
My next stop this morning was the immigration office to pick up my passport and carnet (the international ID card that is the last step of becoming a legal Bolivian resident), only to find out that there is a new police chief in Trinidad, and he wants the foreigners to go there in person to pick up our carnets. This wouldn’t be a problem, except that my flight home is the 23rd and if my passport doesn’t get back in time, I’ll have to change my flight again. (Sound familiar?) The lady at immigration said she would call and try to work something out, so I’m going back this afternoon to see what she found out. In the meantime, God is helping me not to worry. I know it’s all in His hands.
Monday, November 09, 2009
Soul Maintenance
Rainy season is here, wide-open and roaring wet. I wish I could send you a recording of the thunder. Sometimes you hear nothing coming, and then suddenly the sky cracks directly above you, so loud it sounds like its falling on your head.
It’s hard to dry anything. Clothes are still moist when you take them off the line, and sheets are damp and sticky when you crawl in bed at night. Leather shoes scum over with mildew, and books molder on the shelves. But the weather has been cooler and more comfortable to work in.
The jungle growth-rate has shifted into maximum acceleration, and it takes a small army of machete wielding alumnos to keep it from taking over the place. I fear that when the kids leave, the school will go as wild they will. One nightmare variety of grass turns into a shrub if you let it grow too long between cuts. It develops an enormous sobre-terranean root-ball that is impossible to cut lower than a foot off the ground. The “stump” that remains has to be dug out with a pick and shovel. It takes lawn care to a whole new level. I find myself longing for the commercial John Deere ride-mowers and self-propelled Honda push-mowers of the Walla Walla Grounds Department, although the tractor with the brush hog or at least the flail mower would be a lot more practical for our situation.
Speaking of mowers, I started working on our solitary push mower this week, the one we haven’t used once yet because no one has had time to fix it’s clogged carburetor and watered-down oil since it arrived in July. Fortunately the cylinder and piston seem to be okay, there was no sign of rust. I think it’s going to work once it’s all back together. Reassembly will have to wait however, because a student helper twisted the head off of one of the bolts that secures the torque converter. (We were going to bring it in to town today, but kind of forgot about it with all the snakebite excitement.)
Cutting the grass so often really makes me think of soul maintenance. I’ve uncovered all kinds of discarded ugliness and a few treasures that have been hidden by the overgrowth: old rotten clothes, mango pits, trash, bricks, tools, and even a couple of spoons, a nearly complete archaeological record of life here at UETIRG. I’ve been surprised at the abundance of the heart of the jungle. As popular as it may be, letting things go natural is not the greatest idea. The closer the jungle comes to your house, the closer come the critters. I found a snake in my house two days ago, and Paeter recently almost stepped on a porcupine on his way back from a late-night jaunt to the bathroom. As the hillbilly buddies would say, “there be things that live in them there woods!” So keeping the bush cut back is not just a matter of keeping up appearances. Please pray for the kids as they leave for vacation that they will remember what they have learned this year and not just default back to harmful lifestyles and habits.
We’ve been busy planning for next school year while we try to wrap up this one. Enrollment is already up to 70 students, making it a necessity that we finish the new girl’s dorm and classrooms over the vacation. A group is supposed to arrive the 20th of November to help with that. Tara has been working on the new class schedule for next year. Several volunteers are not returning, and combined with the increase of students, that makes planning a workable class schedule difficult. Right now I’m leaning toward coming back for another year. I would probably teach two sections of chime choir as well as help with voice choir and teach third and fourth year literature. Tara wants me to write up a literature/language arts curriculum, so if you know someone who would be good at helping me think through that one, let me know!
I’m still working on the school website when I can. You can check my minimal progress here for stories on the international food fair, recent outreach projects, and other news. I’ve been slow about the updates… uploading pictures is a real hassle with the slow internet connection.)
I pray for God speed and thorough sanctification and the soon coming of our Lord and Savior. Blessings
Friday, October 30, 2009
A poem I wrote after doing laundry in the creek...
Sanctification:
Hip deep in murk, in water over muck
I stretch my off-white, splotched-brown
pants across the scrub-board bridge
between the jungle bank and home.
Suds and soil mingle in the cleaning
toil of the bristle brush breaking
down cloth and widening
my underdrawers from waist to crotch.
After hours of wringing
sheets and towels and scrubbing
collars, I get out
like an old man
and leave the blue bar of jabon
to glue itself down...
The wrinkles of my dirty
shirt have gone inside my fingertips.
I am my own
sock: a little cleaner and longer,
yet left wrung and wrong-
side-out and hung up
to dry and fade stiff.
Oh, to be Christ's sock!
I can only wait the coming
take-down and the hard-
heeled foot that will break
my crust and make me
worn and fit again.
Hip deep in murk, in water over muck
I stretch my off-white, splotched-brown
pants across the scrub-board bridge
between the jungle bank and home.
Suds and soil mingle in the cleaning
toil of the bristle brush breaking
down cloth and widening
my underdrawers from waist to crotch.
After hours of wringing
sheets and towels and scrubbing
collars, I get out
like an old man
and leave the blue bar of jabon
to glue itself down...
The wrinkles of my dirty
shirt have gone inside my fingertips.
I am my own
sock: a little cleaner and longer,
yet left wrung and wrong-
side-out and hung up
to dry and fade stiff.
Oh, to be Christ's sock!
I can only wait the coming
take-down and the hard-
heeled foot that will break
my crust and make me
worn and fit again.
Wednesday, October 28, 2009
"The Best Days of My Life"
On my way to my house I passed Javier. “How’s it going?” I asked.
“Whew, teacher” he whistled through his teeth. “We’re supposed to be making tortillas in the kitchen, and Brayan and I don’t know how, and Ruth got there late, and there’s not enough firewood” (We gather and cut our own wood for the kitchen fires, and it’s amazing how much wood you burn to cook ten kilos of potatoes, fry 240 tortillas, and boil four gallons of aupi.)
“Oh wow,” I responded. “I’m no expert at making tortillas, but maybe I can come help you out in a little bit.” Why did I just say that? I immediately thought. I have too much to do! I don’t have time to go work in the kitchen all afternoon!
I went to my house and started working on my long list of things I wanted to get done, and promptly forgot about my promise—for about 15 minutes.
You should go up and help in the kitchen. The thought reoccurred to me.
Nah, they don’t need help. They’ll be fine. I need to prepare for class tomorrow.
-->
Dude, what did you come here for anyway? Do you think that your piddly translations of literary and linguistic knowledge are really going to make a difference and give these kids the edge on life? Leave it and go help in the kitchen why don’t you?
So, I left my work and went to the kitchen where I peeled and sliced the cucumbers and tomatoes to make the salad that the slacking morning crew was supposed to have prepared and served for lunch. I didn’t realize how dirty the cucumbers were until I went to wash my hands afterward and noticed what looked like dead skin peeling off of my fingers. “Wow,” I said “I’ve never peeled caustic cucumbers like this before! They ate the skin right off my hands!” The kids laughed at me and told me it was just dirt, and I felt stupid. Yet how many times have I been such an idiot, with sin such a part of me that I think I’m losing my skin when God starts to rub off my grunge?
The kids seemed really grateful for my help, and they seemed more friendly, talkative, and open to listen. Nothing huge, but sometimes small things like that can be really encouraging.
Speaking of encouraging, we just finished a fortnight-length marathon week of prayer and spiritual emphasis. I spoke twice for the evening meetings. I felt so unprepared and unorganized, as I didn’t have the time to really prepare everything ahead of time, but God helped me find the words somehow, although I’m pretty sure I didn’t put them in the right order. I felt so scattered.
At the end of the first week we had a communion service and on Sabbath the pastor came and spoke for church and baptized five of our students who have made a commitment to follow Christ: Barbara, Roly, Rodolpho, Rosalia, and Erika.
The third year students went to visit the nursing home and assisted in caring for the residents this last week for their outreach project. They’ve been learning some basic care skills in health class, and this week they’ve been practicing on each other and the staff, feeding each other, putting on socks and shoes, brushing teeth, shaving, and combing hair.
The kids were excited when they came back and shared their experiences. Alcides, one of our third-year boys and leaders on campus said “Let’s pray for the ancients.”One line from his prayer still sticks with me and makes me smile every time I remember it: “Thank you Lord for the opportunity to be here and for the gift of service, and for what has been, for my part, the best days of my life.”
May the Lord bless each one of you and may today be one of the best days of your life. :)
Tuesday, October 06, 2009
A Wimp's Wakeup Call
“Day off” usually means a two-kilometer walk to the end of our driveway followed by a wait for the flota or some form of mobilidad to stop and give us a lift into town where we make photocopies for classes and buy fruit, groceries, and other necessities including some internet time. On this particular day Kaila and I got a late start on our walk to the entrance and missed the 8:30 bus. Nothing else was passing, so we sat and waited, and I took the opportunity to continue reading the book of Jeremiah. About 9:20 the next bus came along. As I boarded, I noticed the following prayer plastered across the windshield:
“Guíame en el buen camino, oh Dios.” Guide me in the good path, oh Lord.”
Oh, isn’t that beautiful, I thought, appreciating especially the absence of the typical and inappropriate stickers and posters that usually cover public transits, where the scantily clad babes you see next to the Virgin Marys are not the Baby Jesus!
I sat down happily in an empty seat next to a young man and continued reading Jeremiah chapter three. After about half a chapter, I tired of trying to focus the blurred and vibrating words as we rattled down the washboard road. I put the book down and begin to look around me. The young man in the seat next to me with the dragon embroidered jean shorts…the plump young mother two rows up nursing her baby… the bent and withered man at the front, sitting on his canvas sack of yucca that he would later sell in the market… What were they all thinking about right now? How much pain and suffering was represented by the cross-section of humanity before me? I suddenly felt an overwhelming burden to share with them something better.
I started to fantasize about standing up and walking to the front of the bus where I would say in a strong voice that everyone could hear: “How many of you noticed the slogan on the windshield of this bus? How many of you know what God’s good path is?” And then I would teach them about the law of God and the importance of repentance and the miracle of a new heart enabled by the grace of God to walk in purity and obedience.
This is weird I thought. Why am I thinking like this? Is God trying to tell me something?
Why don’t you really do it? Why not? This could be the only chance some of these people will ever have, and here you sit, you who have been blessed with so much, and you sit here with your mouth shut, hoarding the goodness of God. What if this is the closest some of them will ever be to the truth and you did nothing?
But they’ll think I’m crazy! My self screamed at me.
Hey, the other voice said. Just last Sabbath you were telling your students how they should speak up when we go visit people in Yata! You should not be ashamed to share the gospel of Christ because it is the power of God until salvation! You hypocrite!
Ouch.
It’s just a feeling! How do I know this is not just some crazy fancy passing through my head? Four reasons immediately came to mind: First, it was uncomfortable. I typically don’t spontaneously invent uncomfortable. Second, it was perfectly in accordance with Scripture and with our Christian Commission. Third, I felt ashamed for not having the guts to do it. And finally, I couldn’t get the thought out of my head.
Why don’t you just take control of me if you really want me to do it? I argued. Please just make me get up and start talking… If you really want me to do it, just take control of me and make me so I can’t help myself! Make me like Jeremiah with your word burning in my bones so I have to speak to keep from bursting into flames!
You fool, the other side of me seemed to say. How can you expect God to give you the strength you need when you won’t lift a finger, let alone your hind end from the seat in an effort to do what you know full well is your express duty as a servant of the King?
Still, I couldn’t make myself move. For 15 kilometers, the dialogue raged in my head. Why don’t you ask Kaila? She would be a lot better for the job. Spanish is her native tongue!
Do you think God doesn’t know that? If He wanted her to do it, He wouldn’t be asking you! ¡Debilucho que eres! Just do it!
I can’t! Lord, forgive me for my weakness and lack of faith, but please be patient! Couldn’t you give me a sign or something? I don’t have a fleece, but if you stop the bus I’ll know I’m supposed to say something. We’re getting close to town now, and there won’t be time otherwise. Besides, that wouldn’t be hard for you! (As if that justified my petition. It was more like blaming God by way of comparison!) Just flick a tire with your finger, evaporate the gas out of our tank, or drop a bead of your sweat in the policeman’s coffee at the tranca so he’ll be in a foul mood and detain the bus for awhile. Anything!
Nothing.
Lord, forgive me, but could I have some kind of sign? Jonah ran away from his calling, and you sent him back to his job in a whale’s belly. Have patience with me!
We passed the tranca.
I wish I could say I eventually gave in, that I stood up and gave a stirring discourse on how to get started going down God’s Good Road. Instead, I am the one who learned a lesson: I am a spiritual wimp in need of some serious spiritual workout. What makes me think I’ll have the courage to stand before the wrath of nations and defend the honor of my King when I can’t even stand up on a bus and tell a few travelers that my God is amazing, that He wants to guide them in His path, take away their sins, and lead them to glory? Where is my boldness and zeal to share the Word of God? What kind of soldier am I that I would choose to protect my own pride and ego over the interests of my King? Why is it so easy to be a whitewashed sepulcher, to lack Devine power, to have a gutless, Ford Mustang godliness?
At least now I know something more I need to pray for. And fortunately, our God is a God of patience and opportunities. After making my purchases in the market, I was walking to the internet café when a sidewalk clothes vendor called to me.
“Hey, where are you from?”
Usually I probably wouldn’t even have noticed, but this time I stopped and answered.
“I’m from the U.S., but right now I’m from the internado at kilometer 30. It’s a collegio with a Christian emphasis. Do you know the place?”
“There’s a school out there?” she was surprised. “I didn’t know that! What denomination runs it?”
“Well, that’s a little complicated to explain. All of the volunteers at the school are Adventists, but the church does not officially sponsor us. That doesn’t mean they don’t approve of what we’re doing, it’s just they don’t have the money or aren’t willing to help with this particular project, although the local church here really supports what we’re doing.”
“Oh, okay” she said. “That’s good. I’m familiar with the Adventists.”
“Are you a Christian?” I asked.
“Catholic. I know what you teach about the Sabbath, but there’s no way I could close my shop because that’s the day when I get the most business!”
Wow, here you go you wimp, I told myself. Here’s another chance to share what God has blessed you with!
“That must seem hard,” I said, “But you know God is always faithful to take care of us when we obey His commandments, I have so many stories…”
“Hey, you speak really good Spanish” she abruptly changed the subject, and I thought of the Samaritan woman at the well and wished I could be as good as Jesus at casually inserting another truth into the conversation.
We continued to chat until we were interrupted by the arrival of another customer, but not before she said: “Now that I know there’s a school there, I’ll have to stop by and visit it sometime. I have some daughters who are high-school age.”
I hope she makes good on that promise, and if not, I know where her shop is! Her name is Elsa, and I think she is another one of the many people out there longing for something better.
May the Lord grow and strengthen us more every day to be His fearless ambassadors to a world withering under the curse of the Enemy.
Sunday, September 20, 2009
Lighting, Lightning, and Sharing the Light of the World
I’m currently at my desk in the two-room hut, typing this up so I won’t have to waste two hour’s of internet funds on work that I can do right now to the tune of the blessed mosquitoes singing lustily in my ears despite the wisping smoke from two flanking Baygon coils. I even paperclipped one coil to my John Deer hat. I feel as fearsome as Captain Blackbeard himself, but the mosquitoes remain unimpressed, except for the three that made the mistake of backlighting themselves in front of my computer screen—they’ve been thoroughly impressed — into print on my palms! Touché.
Actually, the fact that I still have light at this hour, as well as power for my consumadora and its half-an-hour battery, is thanks to a recent upgrade to our electrical system. Last week, Clint and Ruan hooked up four massive 700 amp, twelve-volt batteries, the type that are used to back up cell phone service providers. They come in six, two-volt cells inside a metal box, and we have them connected in pairs. It takes the generator four to six hours to charge them completely when they are dead. Fully charged, the batteries supply our power needs for two to three days.
To save on generator fuel, Clint asked Noel, Max, Joaquín and me to move the solar panels from the old system and hook them up to the new batteries. The solar panels were all wired together on top of several four-meter posts. Rather than unwire all of them and take them down one at a time, I borrowed Ruan’s climbing rope, tied the panels in three loops, and passed the rope over the peak of a nearby roof. One of the boys held the rope while the rest of us cut the support posts and lowered the whole shebang in one “fell swoop.” Getting them up to their new home atop a fragile fiberglass roof was not so easy, however. We had them hoisted halfway up when we almost lost them due to a miscommunication with the rope handler on the other side of the building. Thankfully, we regained control of our expensive burden, and now everything is hooked up and functioning for the time being.
Speaking of all things electrical, last week I witnessed the most intense thunderless lightning storm that I have ever seen, according to my following journal entry dated 9/18:
Every three seconds all horizons flash, 360 degrees of electric sky, and the buzzing insects provide the only sound effects… 40 minutes, and no sign of letting up. If I didn’t know better, I’d say God has opened a discothèque! Instead, I’d say He’s just playing with the light switches, or having an all-night photo shoot so He can archive a face-book directory of all the angels.
At any rate, the bugs are really getting into it. I can see the fireflies and luciernagas, the moths like roadside reflectors of passing trucks, insects going berserk, as if there has been some emergency. The crickets all have their sirens on. The big lights say there’s been a traffic accident on Saturn, but all units are already out on a high-speed chase just south of the Milky Way.
Fortunately we have had a little rain and cooler weather along with all the lightning, and the air is a bit cleaner now. The neighbors have all been burning their chacos, the trees and brush that they cut in order to plant rice and yucca, and the air is so full of smoke at times that it makes your throat go sore, the sun set red and deep, and the moon rise bright as a tangerine.
We’re still cutting our own chaco. I like to think I am gaining some modest skill with the machete, though my accuracy is still lacking. For some reason it is very satisfying to fell a two-inch tree with a single stroke.
It is incredible how much you sweat out there. You know you’ve sweat a lot when your clothes cling to your body and insects drown in your runoff. The worst is that the flies and hornets love the salty syrup of sweat. I’ve learned to look before I swat.
Despite all that drama, things have settled down here you might say, making room for new problems! But the beautiful thing about problems is they keep you busy praying and trusting in God.
There has been a lot of sickness lately. Right now there are six students down with aches and fever. The good news is that the malaria tests all came back negative this time. We’ve had no new cases since the last outbreak I mentioned. Only, Mamerto Zapani, one of our staff members, contracted malaria shortly after leaving to visit his deathly ill father. He returned yesterday, and though weak, seems to be recovering.
Other than that, Alcides, one of our third year boys had what we think was dengue, or broke-back fever, another mosquito-bourn nicety. I had it when I was here in 2006 and I can vouch for the appropriateness of the nickname. The good news is that you can only get it once. The bad news is, you only have one back, and there are four different kinds of dengue. Also, the antibodies from one type sometimes react with those from another, causing more mayhem.
Last week, Barbara, one of our freshmen, was having terrible stomach pain that did not respond to medicine. The initial diagnosis was gallstones, and the doctors wanted to operate. We were reticent to let them do the operation, however, because of their limited resources and experience. (When Kaila Valenzuela Flores, one of our volunteers, injured her knees in a motorcycle accident this last spring, (you can read the story in the July archives of Ruan and Tara's blog) they sewed her up without cleaning her wounds sufficiently and she got a terrible infection.) The pain got so bad however, that we went ahead and let the doctors operate. They ended up taking out her appendix. She is back at the school now, and already able to walk without assistance, gracias a Dios.
This last week was week of mission emphasis. Every night we shared slide shows, videos, and stories from missionaries around the world. Some of the stories made our problems here look like nothing. I realized how little I have really sacrificed to the cause of God. The students were encouraged and inspired as well. Limbert, one of our sophomore boys, really wants to go to the Philippines.
Speaking of mission service, every Sabbath afternoon we visit the people in Yata and sing, pray, and study the Bible with them. It’s really a neat experience for the kids, as well as a great way to reach out to the community. During the week, the students also do clinicals and other community service projects.
This week, Juan and Juana, the couple that my group usually studies with, wasn’t home, so we went wandering to see who else we could visit. First we stopped at the neighbors, a house the kids have never gone to. The inhabitants weren’t too excited about our company, and took about five minutes to drag themselves out of the house, and then only the señor would sit and visit. But in the end he let us sing him a song and have a prayer with him, and I have a suspicion he liked it more than he had expected, because he told us we could come back any time.
The next person we visited was an older gentleman named Humberto. He was thrilled to have the company, mainly, it seemed, to have someone to talk to, although when we sang to him I was afraid he was going to break his face smiling. We shared a few Bible texts, and then asked him if he had any prayer requests, or anything we could help him with. He told us that all his family has passed away and he only has one friend who comes to visit him. Also, his house burned down recently, and he’s been having stomach problems that left him incapacitated for weeks. “This guy’s worse off than Job,” I thought.
“More than anything, I’m lonely” he said. “I’ve seen your groups visiting other houses, and every week I’m like a dog trailing along behind, hoping to be noticed, but it seems like they never want to come.”
The kids were visibly affected by this revelation, and promised to return every week.
“There was a missionary girl from Columbia from your school who used to visit me, a very nice young lady, but she stopped coming and I didn’t know what happened. She promised to bring me a Bible, but she never did.” Humberto continued.
I recently bought a Spanish Bible here, and I don’t know why I didn’t think to give it to him on the spot, but I’m going to give him one next week for sure, along with a copy of the Great Controversy.
Classes are keeping me busy. The kids are making progress in chime choir. I think we’ll be ready to play a hymn for church in another week or two. Voice choir is fun, too, although many of the kids haven’t had much musical background, and some still cannot match a pitch to save their lives, let alone read music.
I’m also teaching my first piano lesson ever. Max Miro, one of the third year boys was asking for lessons long before I arrived, and before the school even had a piano. He’s learning fast. Amazing what a little desire can accomplish. For my part, I’m reviewing some of the theory that I never learned as well as trying to memorize the music terminology in Spanish. Pointing with some basic descriptors works pretty well in a pinch, however: that black thing there with the tail on it gets one beat. :) (Incidently, quarter notes are called negras or “black notes,” which tells you nothing about the time it receives.) Despite such challenges, my literature classes are the most difficult for me, mainly because it’s just plain hard to teach literature in your second language! Fortunately, most of the principles of good reading and writing still apply, and even many of the grammar and punctuation rules carry over. We’ve been reading The Voice in Speech and Song, and I’m making the kids read aloud and evaluate each other on volume, clarity, posture, pacing, and expression.
What I really struggle to teach them more than anything is how to think critically. I’m not sure what more to do for them, other than to keep pushing them, asking questions, and trying to model my thinking process. Today we talked about the importance of reading for understanding and not just “barking at print.” I introduced the strategies of paying attention, (only half kidding) reading in context, and breaking down unfamiliar words to help guess their meaning. (Curiously, one of the examples I stumbled upon is that ostentación (ostentation, showiness) contains the word tentación (temptation). Thinking of Matthew chapter four, it’s easy to see why! Satan either tempts you with some big show, or he tempts you to make a big show of yourself!)
I had all my students write me a personal essay so I could get to know them better and diagnose their writing abilities at the same time. The first part was fun—the latter, not so much. Many of them really struggle. I had one-on-one conferences with them and then they rewrote their essays, some of them exactly the same as before. A few of them really improved, however, and I plan to eventually post some of their stories on the website in both English and Spanish.
Tomorrow is student day, a national holiday here in Bolivia. The staff is getting up at five in the morning to sing to the kids—the same treatment they dole out to birthday boys and girls, minus the trip to the arroyo for an early morning dip. (Really gives one a lot of ganas to get older.) We couldn’t do anything else special for the kids tomorrow, but on Thursday we’re going to Nueva Canaan, a Christian retreat center just outside of Guayaramerín. As long as we don’t have to march around Jerico, I’ll be happy… although I could stand for a few walls to come down… my visa situation is still in the works. I have accumulated a month’s worth of fines while waiting for my Interpol to come through, only to find out that they will no longer send us the document from Santa Cruz and we will instead have to go in person to Trinidad. At this rate, I’ll probably get my residency just in time for the end of the school year. Ruan and Tara say it must mean I’m supposed to come back here next year. Who knows? Anyway, it's late, and I have class at eight tomorrow morning. ¡Gracia y paz a cada uno de vosotros!
Monday, August 31, 2009
Problemas
This is my fourth week of round two here at U.E.T.I.R.G. (pronounced “way-teer,” its an acronym for Unidad Educativa Technical Industrial de Richard Gates) the little school with a big name and a bigger purpose out here in the medio-selva of northeastern Bolivia. So much has happened since I wrote last: a building has gone up, another has almost gone up—in smoke — a lot of trees have come down, to cut into lumber to sell and to use here in construction.* Six students have been kicked out, I spent 36 hours riding the bus to Rurrenebaque and back to take another student home, trimester grades were due last Friday, we started a pathfinder club, one of the school’s motor bikes was stolen, we’ve had an outbreak of malaria at the school, and my visa has expired! I’m still working on all the paperwork to get legal again.
In my last post I mentioned the students who were kicked out. Well, one of the girls named Luzmar (Light-Sea in English) was afraid to face her mother after being expelled, and jumped from the truck while she was being taken home. Thankfully the truck wasn’t going very fast and she was not hurt, but she had to be restrained by two teachers for the rest of the ride to town as she kept screaming “I don’t want to go home, I want to be with Jesús” (I’m pretty sure she was referring to the boy named Jesús who she had been sneaking out with, but who knows, as she seemed intent on throwing herself out of the truck again.) Now we’re beginning to understand why she did not want to go home. Her mother was irate when she found out her daughter was expelled, and immediately threatened that we would be sorry. Since then, she has begun a campaign to shut down the school, coming up with all kinds of wild accusations, saying that we pushed her daughter out of the truck and that she was badly injured and had to go to Cochabamba for medical attention. She also claims that we mistreat the students here, even airing an advertisement on TV warning against our school. And all of this even though she is an Adventist sister who was previously very supportive, assisting with student accounts and paperwork, and helping to acquire documents for the students, many of whom came here from the primary/school orphanage Familia Feliz in Rurrenebaque. It wasn’t until recently we discovered that she was obtaining these documents in an illegal and fraudulent manner, but that is another story. At any rate, she promises not to rest until she has done everything she can to bring us down.
As a result of her complaints, the district officials for the department of education came to visit last week and interrogated us extensively on the nature of our school, what the program is like, are our teachers certified, how do we treat the students, how do we practice our religion… they also interviewed individual students, and toured the whole school. None of the administrative team was here that day, but Kaila and Lyli (two of our volunteer teachers from Mexico) did a good job answering their questions. To tell the truth, it was a great opportunity to glorify God to these men who were visibly shocked by the singular nature and purpose of the school. By the time they left, it seemed they were satisfied that the accusations against us are false. Even so, this is just the beginning.
The first court hearing was this last Tuesday. The Bolivian equivalent of Child Protective Services is kind of siding with the mother. There is a Bolivian law that says a student cannot be expelled for being pregnant, and they are construing it to mean that we cannot expel students for being out together at night, even though this was not the first offense, and the staff has been working with these kids for a long time to get them to change and follow the rules. Fortunately, God has blessed us with a good lawyer who has been very kind and helpful, promising to do everything in her power to help us — so far, without cost!
With all the rumors flying around about the school, we thought it would be good to clear the air a little bit, so on Sunday we had a general assembly with all the students’ parents as well as the local pastor and any church members who wanted to come. After a small musical program where the students performed some numbers and shared their testimonies about what the school has done for them, we had a question and answer session in which staff and students shared their side of the story. Noel, one of our third year boys, explained that he has seen Luzmar in town shopping after her jump from the truck. He talked to her and she said her mom was sending her away to the school in Cochabama. She showed no sign of injury whatsoever.
The meeting went well, and the parents and church members were all very supportive. Many of them shared what a blessing the school has been to them and their children. One non-Adventist mother was especially adamant in her support. That is another blessing: strengthened relationships with student’s parents and the local Adventist churches. So am I worried? No, not at all. This is God’s school. I’m just privileged to serve here and to see what great things the Lord is doing and to be a small part of it. We have nothing to hide and nothing to fear.
Unfortunately, right in the middle of all this we had another crisis to deal with… To save time, I’ll tell the story here in present tense, as I wrote it while sitting up half the night. The first part has to do with the wood we’ve been cutting in the jungle, but it leads into the other story:
* 8/24/09 Mr. Dion, Ruan’s dad who comes here every few months to help out, cuts the lumber on a portable milling saw, and we’ve been carrying the boards out of the jungle on our backs. They’re wet and solid hardwood and my shoulder is still sore from two days ago when I helped carry out a load of 12 foot 2x6’s to sell in town. As the board cut into my shoulder, I thought of Christ and wondered how he ever bore the cross at all after being scourged nearly to death, not to mention staying up the entire night before, sweating drops of blood, carrying “the weight of the world on His shoulders” as we like to say, the salvation of the human race, the risk of eternal loss, and the pain of complete separation from His other 2/3rds. Wow. And I, with nothing but the weight of half a cross, stooped and stumbled, and the in the end needed help bearing my burden the last half of the 500 meter-or-so trek between the fallen and milled tree and the lumber cart waiting on our unfinished runway. From there, we wrestled the over-laden cart another few-hundred meters to the school and the waiting truck.
(Here followed an explanation of the problems with Luzmar.)
On the other side of my hut is a young man lying on the top bunk, feeling a weight of guilt and despair that he cannot carry as easily as he carried the 2x6’s out of the jungle. His name is Marki (Changed for privacy), and I am here to watch him and make sure he does not try to harm himself like Luzmar did. It is going to be a long night. I’m watching my Manutata velas (candles) burn themselves down one at a time until the last centimeters of wick have nothing solid left under them and begin to tilt and finally fall, extinguishing themselves in the plastered mess of their own melted bodies. But it does not happen all at once. Each candle starts out tall, with a strong blaze, each one’s melt drips slowly down the sides, hardens, and is overrun by new streams of displaced wax. Sometimes the sloughing sides seem to rise on themselves, the fresh drips building upward on each other, on the backs of congealed burrs that jut out just enough to hold them up and let them rise like liquid elevators, like barges in dam locks, until the overpowering volume of cascading wax spills over the ascending drops, engulfs them, and carries them back down to help bury the remains of the fallen: four black wicks, soon to be joined by another, their charred carcasses held fast in a molten lake that ices over from the outside, entombing them alongside two moths and a score of scorched gnats that lost their wings for a joyride through the flames. Even as I write, one comes winging in too close, and lights up like a match-head, with a poof, more like a miniature Hidenburg, and spirals against the base of the wick where he looks like a martyr, pegged to the stake, his burning abdomen snaps and crackles like popcorn. But he is no saint, or hero, he is a suicide: a moth worthy of the proverb that tritely symbolizes the self’s attraction to the wicked lights of destruction. How many must die? Is it really so fun to fly by fire? Don’t they see their floundering comrades below, squirming vainly to free themselves from the gel that thickens about their treading legs, sets their wings still as concrete?
I hear Marki turning in the bed across the room, and I know he must feel absolutely mortified. He told us he felt like this was the end for him. It was his flip-flops we found behind teacher Kaila’s house… I was over at Ruan and Tara’s when we heard her scream “someone is behind my house!” Ruan, Paeter, and I grabbed our lights and rushed out to see if we could catch the culprit. This was not the first time the girls thought they saw someone spying on them. This time it was unmistakable. Lyli was showering when she looked up and saw the silhouetted of someone standing on the top of the wall under the thatch roof. When she looked up, the head ducked back into the shadows. “Kaila, come here!” she called, and the shadow immediately leaped down behind the house and took off running. That was when Kaila called us. While we searched behind the house, someone else checked the dorm. Two boys were missing (one was just overlooked under his mosquito net.) Marki was already suspect, but when he showed up unexpectedly and without reason and hermano Mamerto’s house, he appeared barefoot and very serious. Meanwhile, Juaquin, Max, and I found his chanelas behind Kaila’s house, and that was the clincher.
We had another fire today. Ruan was burning the chaco just up the driveway, and the blaze started to get away from him. Mamerto, Gabriel, the boys and I came to the rescue, cut and wetted a line through the chest-high grass, and steered the fire away from Enrique’s house toward the creek. It burned quite a large area, but we saved the nearby banana trees and pineapple patch. With the fire out, we all went back to what we were doing before, only to see smoke billowing up a few minutes later. Some smoldering logs along our firebreak had burned like fuses, bridging the line to ignite the grass and call us back to the fight. Why is it that destructive fires are so tenacious, but the light of a candle is so easily snuffed out?
8-25. After class this morning, Ruan and I had a talk with Marki. Usually it would be the whold Ad. Committee that would talk to him, but most of them are gone today. Ruan is feeling bad because he’s spent the whole morning dealing with Rodolfo and Paulina’s parents who arrived last night to visit their kids and ask for a mountain of things including rice and a guitar (the latter which we could not give them, of course. But I guess they figured, “you have not because you ask not”). Ruan finally got them taken care of, only to have the Marki situation to deal with, and no ad-council members to support him. Kaila would be a good one to talk to him if not for the fact that she was one of his victims and he couldn’t bear to face her. So I told Ruan I would be happy to try to help him. Kaila, Ruan, Helen, and I had a prayer together, asked God for wisdom and the right words to say, and reminded ourselves that this is God’s school and Marki is God’s child. Then we went down to have the talk…
“What do you think we should do?” Ruan asked him.
“I want to leave,” he said. “I want to start over new.”
“What do you mean when you say ‘I want to start over new’” I asked.
“Go somewhere else” he said.
“And what happens next time you have the same problem? Will you go somewhere else again? Run away from your problems? You know that’s not the way to start new. The only way to truly have a new start is to realize what you did was wrong, feel sorry you did it, and ask for forgiveness, first of those you have wronged, and then from God. That is the first step in starting new.”
The anguish on his face was evident as I talked. I could see his pride fighting the conviction. “Lord, please give him the desire and the courage to make things right!” I prayed silently.
“Of course, it has to be your choice” I continued. “We can’t, nor do we want to force you, but you do need to know that whether you go or stay, that first step to start anew is the same.”
“Just know that we care about you, and we want to help you work through this” Ruan said.
I know God gave us the words to say, just as we had prayed.
Still, Marki remained intent on going home, and he could not bring himself to make things right before he left. With the whole ongoing Luzmar fiasco, we knew we couldn’t just let Marki go home by himself, especially since he is still a minor. Ruan asked me if I would make the 20 hour bus ride to Rurrenebaque where Marki’s father Carlos lives. I didn’t particularly want to, but someone had to do it, so I said “why not?” Besides, I’d get to see more of the country and have a chance to catch up on my writing. My trip there and back is another whole story, but I’ll just say that God really blessed and worked everything out. We missed our bus when it went past the school Tuesday morning, but after waiting about ten minutes at the end of the school driveway we got a free ride on a pickup truck to Riberalta where the bus stops again, and from there we booked passage to Rurre. Ruan had given me money for the bus fare, and said it should cost 120 b each, but they ended up charging us 140 ($20). Marki said it was “Gringo tax.” On my return trip when I was by myself, however, I got my ticket for the normal rate, so apparently the original rip-off was thanks to Marki con su cara tan de gringo.
Right after getting on the bus, another passenger who was arranging his luggage handed a notebook to Marki to hold onto for him. I glanced down to see that the front cover was plastered with a scantily clad woman. Marki quickly turned it over, looking embarrassed. “Tentación” he said. It made for a good segue into a conversation about the importance of guarding our thoughts.
We arrived at 11:40 pm in Rurrenebaque. Ruan was never able to contact Carlos and let him know his son was coming home, but he seemed to take it all in stride. Fortunately, Ruan was able to talk to Jerry, one of the volunteers at Rurre, and when I called Familia Feliz to let them know I was in town, Jerry was already on his way to pick me up. Originally, I had thought I would stay at Familia Feliz for a day or two, since the kids had off this last weekend and there were no classes anyway. Also, the bus for Guayara leaves Rurre early in the morning, and since I hadn’t gotten to bed until after 1:00 the night before, I wanted to sleep in a little. But when Jerry called from Rurre and said there was another bus that was leaving in half an hour, for some reason I felt like I should go. At the time, I thought it was because I needed to get back and work on the paperwork for my residency. It is 13 km of rough, muddy road between Familia Feliz and Rurre, and about halfway there I realized that there was no way I’d make it there in time. “Oh well, I guess I’ll stay here another day like I originally planned” I thought. But as we rolled into town, there was the bus, stopped on the side of the road as if it were waiting for me. Twenty-two hours of mud-holes and washboard later, I made it back to the school, just in time to come to town and work on getting my papers. Now here I am, still “working” on my papers. The first step was to get some pictures taken and send them along with a copy of my passport to Santa Cruz to get an Interpol background-check from the international police. I’ve sent for it twice already, and still no luck. Until I get that, I can’t really do anything else except pay the $2/day fine for my expired visa. It’s not just me that is having visa problems either. There are four or five of us right now who are all having the same problem.
Anyway, there is still more I have to share, but I’m running out of time. I just want to ask for your continued prayers. I’ve already seen God at work, using these trials to bring the staff and students closer together and closer to Him. I know that as we continue to seek Him, God will use all these trials to strengthen our faith and to bring honor and glory to His name.
Que Dios nestro Padre y el Señor Jesucrsito les concedan gracia y paz.
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