I’m sitting here waiting for Jim and Susanna to return with gasoline for our car…yep, we ran out of gas. Since returning from the States, our gas gauge has acted funny, like it was sticking, and finally, it got to the point it would only register up to ½ tank of gas, even after filling it. When we had it at the mechanic’s we asked him to fix it but he said it would take 2-3 months to get the part and we would have to pay for it in advance. We decided to see if Susanna could find it for us when she goes home in September.
This morning, as we were preparing to leave to go meet with Miguel for his English lessons, Jim pulled out the little notebook we started with our last fill-up…seems the gauge has decided it likes the ½ way mark and has settled there, so we weren’t sure exactly where we were on gas. Well, we are NOW, but we weren’t 45 minutes ago. 44 minutes ago, we were enlightened to the critical need for “gasolina” when the car chugged, sputtered, and protested so violently trying to make it up the hill on the road in front of our house, that we knew better than to try to even make it to the gas station down the street. We did not want to be broken down on the Pan American Highway. Jim put it in neutral and we coasted back to our gate and he managed to back it up the drive to the front of the house. So, thankfully, it’s here and not on the street.
We made one of our, (what at times seems to be too many), 9-1-1 calls to Susanna and once again, God’s taken care of us in that she was on her way up to the Children’s Center which is close to our house. So, she came by and now they are off on a hunt for a gas can and then on the gas station. Hopefully, that’s the problem ‘cause that’s an easy fix, and a relatively painless one…a bit foolish but still not horrible.
The more serious down side is we are not with Miguel at this moment. He is probably one of the very few Nicaraguans who do not own a cell phone…even the very poor often have a cell phone. I have not yet understood why that, of all things, would be a priority over health care, food, clothing or better living conditions. I’ve never been a huge fan of cell phones. I generally see them as intrusive and many owners as inconsiderate in their use, but I have to say I have gained a new appreciation for them here in Nicaragua from a personal point of view. Ours provides me a sense of security that if we were away from the house, we would be able to get hold of someone in case of an emergency…someone I can understand and who understands me. Anyway, as far as we know, the church doesn’t have a phone either. I’m sure Miguel is wondering what has happened to his American friends.
The reason this is such a big deal to us is that the Nicaraguans are used to well-intentioned Americans making promises and then not following through with them. That is the number one caution to visiting teams…don’t make ANY promises to ANYONE because you never know what may keep you from fulfilling them. And every broken promise is just another affirmation to the stereotype we Americans carry here…lots of blow with little show. In other words, sadly, there have been enough broken promises from the gringos up north that it has actually become a stereotypical characterization… everything from “I will come back to see you”, “I will send you clothes (money, gifts, etc.)”, “I want to bring you to America”, “I will get you help”, and so on. We don’t want to contribute to that belief by not honoring our commitment to Miguel. So, missing our appointment this morning is more than missing an English lesson…to all of us.
Well, it’s now 8:30 in the evening. Jim and Susanna got enough gas for the car we managed to make it to the station and get filled up. Today’s experience taught us to go ahead and fill up every week until we get our gauge fixed so that we ensure we always have enough gas for the day’s agenda. And even though we were late in meeting with Miguel, we decided to go ahead and go over to the church and meet with him for a short while and explain our earlier absence.
Our own language class is just about 10 minutes away from Miguel so we took our books with us and stopped at the Metro Centro Mall to eat a quick lunch in the food court. There is a McDonald’s, Pizza Hut, Burger King, Subway, Quiznos, 2 Chinese food places and maybe 10 other local food establishments. Fast food is a misnomer here and since we knew it would take as long to get something from McDonald’s as it would from one of the other places, we chose Rosti Pollos (roasted chicken)…one of my favorite places to go when we eat out. Rosti Pollos has several nice sit-down restaurants in Managua but at this mall, it’s just like any other food court place with the exception of the quality of the food…it’s outstanding!
I may have already told you about it as it is so-o-o good and is a treat to eat there. The chicken is roasted on a rotisserie over an open wood fire and it is amazingly tender and flavorful. We usually get the fajita plate which consists of 2 corn flour tortillas (soft and thick) filled with fajita chicken, sautéed onions and peppers, ensalada (which is a vinegar-based cole slaw with tiny diced tomatoes) and frijoles (a very creamy and flavorful refried bean “paste” with 4 small tostados set on top). It is a big lunch and Jim and I can each order the fajita plate and get a soft drink for a little less than $8.85…a reasonable lunch for Americans but out of the price range for most Nicaraguans.
While we were eating, we began discussing how Miguel would never have an opportunity to eat at Rosti Pollos and it wasn’t a far leap to the next step of us ordering a fajita plate to go. We were both excited as we drove to the church to bring Miguel his unexpected lunch. When we pulled up in front, we saw Miguel sitting outside on a bench under a covered area...his notebook and workbook were beside him on the bench. It was 2 hours past time for us to be there and he was sitting there, patiently waiting for us to arrive.
As soon as Jim got out of the car, Miguel came to him and greeted him with a hug. We told him what had happened that morning and he said he wondered why we weren’t there. He said he kept looking and looking for us because we said we would come and so he believed us. To see him sitting on the bench, just waiting, reinforced even more how important it is we are people of our word and people of the Word. And, it was a perfect picture of how we should be in our waiting for the return of Christ...with anticipation and confident assurance of His coming back for us. We believe He will, He keeps His promises. And as followers of Jesus Christ, we need to keep ours.
We only had about 45 minutes to spend with Miguel – too brief to have much of a lesson but too long for him to have to wait to eat his surprise lunch. And what a surprise it was! Miguel’s favorite expression of gratitude is “Alleluia!” with his eyes and his hands lifted up towards heaven! I love to see him so open with his expression of praise and thanksgiving. He was more than pleased that we would bring him something to eat and he loved it, wiping up every last bit of food with his tortillas. His foam carry out container was spotless…you couldn’t even tell it that it held food just minutes prior. When I asked him if it was good, his smile answered long before the words of assent came out of his mouth. He told us, “No frijoles hoy!” - “No beans today!” Once again, I was struck by the fact that would have been all he would have had for lunch without us providing an impromptu “feast”.
On our way home from our language school tonight, Jim and I were talking about what we were going to have for dinner. We had leftover chicken in the fridge and I told Jim we could have that. He said okay but I knew it was a less-than-enthusiastic response. I asked him if he gets tired of us eating so much chicken and he said sometimes. But just a few seconds later, he said, “It could be worse, at least we have chicken. God didn’t bring us here to complain about our food.” We both were quiet for a second and then I said, “Yeah, we could just have beans and rice.” And then I thought about Miguel…we could just have beans.
I don’t know how it is that Miguel is supposed to be our student but he always ends up being our teacher. Alleluia.
Tuesday, August 26, 2008
Sunday, August 24, 2008
The wind of change is blowing...
What can you think of that makes you uncomfortable? Our answers may generally be the same or they may be very different…certainly our individual stories would differ in details. But for the most part, I think most people resist change. Some may like to travel to new places, try new foods, and make new friends but there is comfortableness in what we know to be familiar. It is no different for us here. I love “new”…but I value familiar. It hasn’t always been that way. And as much as I love “new” when it comes to clothes, cars and travel locations…I resist change. I think that’s why God brought us here…for there is much that needs to be changed in us. And, boy, are there days that my flesh rebels! My head tells me it is my choice how I react to change…it’s just trying to get my heart and my flesh to come in to alignment with my head!
This past week has been a week of changes. Well, actually this past year has been a year of changes but I’ll spare you all that and just hit the highlights of the week. First of all, we changed from our language tutor of several months to going to a formal language school…a necessary change and a very positive one but certainly not easy. I used to think I could be a professional student if given the chance as I love learning. I have found out that does not apply to intensive learning of a foreign language! By Friday, I was hoping I would wake up with a fever.
I grew up in a two story house that had square floor vents. The ones in the living room were the most effective as they were directly above the gas furnace in the basement. The house was built in the early 1900s and the wood floors were plenty squeaky almost 60 years later when I was in grade school. If I didn’t want to go to school (usually because of a people issue, not a subject issue), I would complain of a stomach ache, headache and generally act as though death were camped on my doorstep. My mother was a no-nonsense woman and was obviously not in to her children using theatrics to manipulate their daily agendas. The only acceptable excuses for not attending school were running a fever or throwing up.
One winter, I got up and for whatever reason, did not want to go to school. I tried my usual complaints. No go…not unless I was running a fever or throwing up. I hated regurgitating when it was legitimate and even then, I couldn’t imagine inducing it in myself. Nope. The fever route was going to be a much more pleasant way to avoid having to attend school that day so I went in to their bathroom and got the thermometer out of the medicine cabinet and brought it to Mom.
She probably was suspicious from the get-go about that little bit of helpfulness on my part but stuck it under my tongue anyway, told me to sit still on the couch and then went in to the kitchen to get her morning coffee. It really took several cups of the go-juice for Mom to wake up enough to become sociable and I should have known better than to do what I did next. (That should-have-known-better was my theme song for the majority of my life).
As soon as Mom left the room, I quietly, or so I thought, got up from the couch and went over to the floor furnace vent. Of course, the furnace had been running since it was cold out, and so I promptly stuck the thermometer on the black grate, all the while, peeking around the corner, to see if Mom was headed back my way. I saw her coming and I jumped back on the couch, quickly sticking the thermometer under my tongue, again thinking I was being very stealthy in my moves. ..I guess I had never noticed the squeaky floor thing as a child. I don’t remember the thermometer being particularly warm as I put it under my tongue but I do remember the icy cold stare from my mother after she it back out from under my tongue.
In a voice that rivaled the stare, Mom suggested I go upstairs and get ready for school. I knew better than to argue or plea the case of the reasons I didn’t want to go. When Mom had that look and that tone of voice, survival instinct kicked in and school was definitely the better option so I’m sure I high-tailed it upstairs. Whatever it was I dreaded facing at school probably then paled in comparison to facing the consequences of trying to outsmart that woman. Don’t misunderstand me. Mom wasn’t abusive but neither would she put up with those kinds of shenanigans… not on one cup of coffee, anyway. It wasn’t until years later that we reminisced about that morning and it was funny then. I wonder if God kept His hand on the end of that thermometer to protect me from mercury poisoning and His hand on my “end” to protect me from one angry caffeine-deprived mama! I know He made me go to school.
And so, last Friday, once again, God made me go to school. It’s not the actual going to school…it’s the not grasping the grammar, the pronunciation, the translation and the vocabulary as quickly as I would like. When I was growing up and in school, I put more pressure on myself than anyone else. I guess that part hasn’t changed. I wish I could just go to sleep and wake up speaking fluent Spanish. But that will probably occur only on the day I wake up thin, young and with thick, luxuriant hair…in other words…nunca. Never. Thank goodness, we’re in Nicaragua where floor furnaces aren’t necessary. I might be tempted to try the ol’ running-a-fever thing again!
The other change? We went to a new church this morning. We’ve been attending a Spanish speaking church about a 25 minute drive from here. And although we enjoy seeing some of the people we have met there, we never feel like we’ve really been to church. I have told some of you about this church and that it is very Latino in every aspect. The praise and worship time is fun for us, as observers, but since we don’t speak the language yet, we don’t really know what the words are saying. And I have to confess that rarely do I worship there, as right now, I find I’m often distracted by the activity going on around me. If there are enough American groups visiting, there is usually a translator for the sermon, but it is difficult, at least for me, to become really immersed in a sermon that is being preached in a stop and go method. We knew we needed to make a change but as odd as it sounds, we were comfortable at Verbo. We knew what to expect and even though we didn’t know what it was when it was delivered, we knew the procedure and we knew the faces.
So, after several weeks of having the “should we/shouldn’t we” debate, we decided we would try the International Christian Fellowship church here in Managua. It is an English speaking church with an American pastor who has served in various other Spanish speaking countries and here in Nicaragua the last 8 years. There was a sense of apprehension of once again, starting over. Of going to a new church, with all new faces and a new format. Of being the “new people” in yet another venue. The thought flitted across my mind this morning that h-m-m-m…did my forehead feel a bit warm? Well, yeah! It’s Nicaragua…my whole body felt a bit warm!
Services are held in a covered outdoor area behind the administration building of the Nicaragua Christian Academy and were to begin at 8:00 a.m. We arrived at 7:50. There were only a couple of cars in the parking lot and no people to be seen. We waited a few minutes and Jim got out of the car to go ask the security guard what time church was to start. He could hear music coming from behind the Admin building and so we walked around there. Lots of chairs – no people with the exception of the praise team practicing. At least we knew we were in the right place. We figured we must have read the time wrong and were early so we walked back to the front of the building, found a bench and decided to just sit and enjoy the coolest part of the coming day.
We began talking about yesterday’s situation with the policeman and discussed what we would do if there was a “next time”. God was good to give us that time of solitude in such a peaceful setting. We felt His mercy in the gentle breeze and the assurance of His presence in one another’s words. We both were better after our discussion and having a plan of action in place. God wants authenticity from us in our innermost beings and in our outermost actions. Learning the language apparently isn’t the only painful process we’re going through here.
Not long after we finished the heart of our discussion, the cars started pulling in to the lot. A man saw us sitting on the bench and came up and introduced himself. He sounded Australian and told us that church was indeed scheduled to start at 8:00 but that most folks seem to have gravitated towards Nica time and that meant more like 8:30. Even the pastor was late in coming! A change from Cassville and even a change from Verbo…the Nica church starts on time…the International church starts whenever it seems “right”.
But, from the very first song, Mighty To Save, we knew once again, this change was the right one. We missed the hugs this morning from our Nica kids but it was like taking a long cool drink in this hot and thirsty land, to hear God’s words spoken in a tongue we recognized and understood. The praise and worship time was a cross between the reserved atmosphere of a more formal service and of a Sunday night service at FBC, but there was no doubt that God was ministering this morning to two of his broken-hearted children through the music and the sermon. Even the birds seemed to sing along and the geckos chirped in their own amens. We were blessed in just “being” this morning…in being a child of God, in being with people who we could understand without struggle, in being familiar with the praise and worship songs and in being fed to satisfy a hunger that had gone on for too long. We praise you God and we thank you for guiding us through these changes and so many others, in our lives, and for being the God who does not change but remains the same, yesterday, today and forever.
This past week has been a week of changes. Well, actually this past year has been a year of changes but I’ll spare you all that and just hit the highlights of the week. First of all, we changed from our language tutor of several months to going to a formal language school…a necessary change and a very positive one but certainly not easy. I used to think I could be a professional student if given the chance as I love learning. I have found out that does not apply to intensive learning of a foreign language! By Friday, I was hoping I would wake up with a fever.
I grew up in a two story house that had square floor vents. The ones in the living room were the most effective as they were directly above the gas furnace in the basement. The house was built in the early 1900s and the wood floors were plenty squeaky almost 60 years later when I was in grade school. If I didn’t want to go to school (usually because of a people issue, not a subject issue), I would complain of a stomach ache, headache and generally act as though death were camped on my doorstep. My mother was a no-nonsense woman and was obviously not in to her children using theatrics to manipulate their daily agendas. The only acceptable excuses for not attending school were running a fever or throwing up.
One winter, I got up and for whatever reason, did not want to go to school. I tried my usual complaints. No go…not unless I was running a fever or throwing up. I hated regurgitating when it was legitimate and even then, I couldn’t imagine inducing it in myself. Nope. The fever route was going to be a much more pleasant way to avoid having to attend school that day so I went in to their bathroom and got the thermometer out of the medicine cabinet and brought it to Mom.
She probably was suspicious from the get-go about that little bit of helpfulness on my part but stuck it under my tongue anyway, told me to sit still on the couch and then went in to the kitchen to get her morning coffee. It really took several cups of the go-juice for Mom to wake up enough to become sociable and I should have known better than to do what I did next. (That should-have-known-better was my theme song for the majority of my life).
As soon as Mom left the room, I quietly, or so I thought, got up from the couch and went over to the floor furnace vent. Of course, the furnace had been running since it was cold out, and so I promptly stuck the thermometer on the black grate, all the while, peeking around the corner, to see if Mom was headed back my way. I saw her coming and I jumped back on the couch, quickly sticking the thermometer under my tongue, again thinking I was being very stealthy in my moves. ..I guess I had never noticed the squeaky floor thing as a child. I don’t remember the thermometer being particularly warm as I put it under my tongue but I do remember the icy cold stare from my mother after she it back out from under my tongue.
In a voice that rivaled the stare, Mom suggested I go upstairs and get ready for school. I knew better than to argue or plea the case of the reasons I didn’t want to go. When Mom had that look and that tone of voice, survival instinct kicked in and school was definitely the better option so I’m sure I high-tailed it upstairs. Whatever it was I dreaded facing at school probably then paled in comparison to facing the consequences of trying to outsmart that woman. Don’t misunderstand me. Mom wasn’t abusive but neither would she put up with those kinds of shenanigans… not on one cup of coffee, anyway. It wasn’t until years later that we reminisced about that morning and it was funny then. I wonder if God kept His hand on the end of that thermometer to protect me from mercury poisoning and His hand on my “end” to protect me from one angry caffeine-deprived mama! I know He made me go to school.
And so, last Friday, once again, God made me go to school. It’s not the actual going to school…it’s the not grasping the grammar, the pronunciation, the translation and the vocabulary as quickly as I would like. When I was growing up and in school, I put more pressure on myself than anyone else. I guess that part hasn’t changed. I wish I could just go to sleep and wake up speaking fluent Spanish. But that will probably occur only on the day I wake up thin, young and with thick, luxuriant hair…in other words…nunca. Never. Thank goodness, we’re in Nicaragua where floor furnaces aren’t necessary. I might be tempted to try the ol’ running-a-fever thing again!
The other change? We went to a new church this morning. We’ve been attending a Spanish speaking church about a 25 minute drive from here. And although we enjoy seeing some of the people we have met there, we never feel like we’ve really been to church. I have told some of you about this church and that it is very Latino in every aspect. The praise and worship time is fun for us, as observers, but since we don’t speak the language yet, we don’t really know what the words are saying. And I have to confess that rarely do I worship there, as right now, I find I’m often distracted by the activity going on around me. If there are enough American groups visiting, there is usually a translator for the sermon, but it is difficult, at least for me, to become really immersed in a sermon that is being preached in a stop and go method. We knew we needed to make a change but as odd as it sounds, we were comfortable at Verbo. We knew what to expect and even though we didn’t know what it was when it was delivered, we knew the procedure and we knew the faces.
So, after several weeks of having the “should we/shouldn’t we” debate, we decided we would try the International Christian Fellowship church here in Managua. It is an English speaking church with an American pastor who has served in various other Spanish speaking countries and here in Nicaragua the last 8 years. There was a sense of apprehension of once again, starting over. Of going to a new church, with all new faces and a new format. Of being the “new people” in yet another venue. The thought flitted across my mind this morning that h-m-m-m…did my forehead feel a bit warm? Well, yeah! It’s Nicaragua…my whole body felt a bit warm!
Services are held in a covered outdoor area behind the administration building of the Nicaragua Christian Academy and were to begin at 8:00 a.m. We arrived at 7:50. There were only a couple of cars in the parking lot and no people to be seen. We waited a few minutes and Jim got out of the car to go ask the security guard what time church was to start. He could hear music coming from behind the Admin building and so we walked around there. Lots of chairs – no people with the exception of the praise team practicing. At least we knew we were in the right place. We figured we must have read the time wrong and were early so we walked back to the front of the building, found a bench and decided to just sit and enjoy the coolest part of the coming day.
We began talking about yesterday’s situation with the policeman and discussed what we would do if there was a “next time”. God was good to give us that time of solitude in such a peaceful setting. We felt His mercy in the gentle breeze and the assurance of His presence in one another’s words. We both were better after our discussion and having a plan of action in place. God wants authenticity from us in our innermost beings and in our outermost actions. Learning the language apparently isn’t the only painful process we’re going through here.
Not long after we finished the heart of our discussion, the cars started pulling in to the lot. A man saw us sitting on the bench and came up and introduced himself. He sounded Australian and told us that church was indeed scheduled to start at 8:00 but that most folks seem to have gravitated towards Nica time and that meant more like 8:30. Even the pastor was late in coming! A change from Cassville and even a change from Verbo…the Nica church starts on time…the International church starts whenever it seems “right”.
But, from the very first song, Mighty To Save, we knew once again, this change was the right one. We missed the hugs this morning from our Nica kids but it was like taking a long cool drink in this hot and thirsty land, to hear God’s words spoken in a tongue we recognized and understood. The praise and worship time was a cross between the reserved atmosphere of a more formal service and of a Sunday night service at FBC, but there was no doubt that God was ministering this morning to two of his broken-hearted children through the music and the sermon. Even the birds seemed to sing along and the geckos chirped in their own amens. We were blessed in just “being” this morning…in being a child of God, in being with people who we could understand without struggle, in being familiar with the praise and worship songs and in being fed to satisfy a hunger that had gone on for too long. We praise you God and we thank you for guiding us through these changes and so many others, in our lives, and for being the God who does not change but remains the same, yesterday, today and forever.
God grant me the serenity to accept the people I cannot change, the courage to change the one I can, and the wisdom to know it's me. ~Author Unknown
Saturday, August 23, 2008
We support our local police...
Well, as of today, we have officially joined the ranks of foreigners who have been “shaken down” by the local law enforcement. And, I have to say that, ashamedly, we also are now members of what I’m sure is a most un-elite club of those who have helped to contribute to the graft and corruption for which the Nicaraguan law enforcement are infamous.
We had decided to celebrate the successful completion of our first week at language school by going to have lunch at the Pizza Hut and then on to do some necessary shopping. We had a good lunch, managed to order our food, eat it and pay the bill without leaving the entire wait staff rolling on the floor, holding their sides in hysterical laughter.
We then drove to Sinsa, an extremely over-priced mini-Lowe’s-type store so that Jim could get a new seal for the toilet tank in the hall bathroom plus a new widow-maker for our bathroom shower. Now, because we rent our house, it would make sense that we take these needs to our landlord, wouldn’t it? But considering the fact that after 4 months, we are still waiting for the landlord’s electrician to come to fix the areas of the house where we have outlets but no juice and to install an outside light by our back door; still waiting for the landlord’s lawn mower repairman to come to fix the lawn mower which hasn’t worked since we rented the house in February (and our landlord won’t let Jim do either job…he thinks it’s not something a gringo should do); our landlord was to repair our road while we were in the States and now it’s so bad that a neighbor across the road has tried to fill in some of the holes with brush, sticks and grass clippings…his lawn mower obviously works; our roof still leaks, and is so “open” that the bats continue to throw their wild parties in our “attic”…well, let’s just say we felt it was in our best interest and well worth the money and effort to take care of these recent plumbing issues ourselves. Plus, I think Sinsa is just a place Jim loves to go. He is always thinking of something we “need” from there so a leaky toilet and a cold shower were probably an answer to one of his prayers!
Have I told you what a widow-maker is? It’s an appliance that attaches to the shower head and enables us to have hot showers. That may seem like an odd thing to want in a tropical country but, believe me, it’s much more comfortable to shower with warm water than it is cold water. As hot as it gets here, I haven’t yet reached the point where a cold shower feels good…maybe someday, but not today. The widow maker has electric coils in the head and when the wa
ter is turned on, it also turns on the current which in turn, heats the coils and ultimately, provides us with hot water. Yes, we knowingly are standing under an apparatus that mixes water and electricity…and as long as Jim doesn’t reach up and make contact with the shower head, in our home, it shall remain a widow maker in name only. It’s at this point I probably need to alleviate some concern from our family members…I think if touched, one might get a nasty shock but I don’t know that it would be enough to actually kill someone…although, neither of us are willing to be the guinea pig to prove my theory.
So after getting our plumbing items, we then went on to the grocery store and then on to Price Smart – Managua’s version of a Sam’s Club. Got the things we needed there and managed to get in the car with only two guys in the parking lot trying to sell us pirated copies of DVDs…we were feeling pretty good as we pulled out of the lot and headed for home. Jim drove several blocks and then turned right at one of the major intersections to take us back across town. Immediately after our turn, there was a policeman standing on the right side of the street and motioned us to pull over. Our high spirits quickly took a downturn. Not knowing what we had done, Jim pulled over and I took our insurance card and car registration out of the glovebox and Jim pulled out his driver’s license. I don’t know how Jim was doing, but my heart was pounding…the stories of how the police deal with foreigners is legend.
The officer took the identifications and began studying them. He started rattling ninety to nothing and both of us told him we couldn’t speak Spanish. He asked if we could understand any and I told him we could understand just a very little and asked if he could speak slowly. He must have thought I said loudly because his volume increased. When he realized we really didn’t understand him, he slowed down and began drawing pictures to show Jim what he had done. It seems that there once were lane division lines on the curved part of the road where we had turned right and that Jim had evidently crossed the unseen line. There was no point in arguing and so we just said we were sorry.
He told us he was going to keep Jim’s license and that we would have to go to the bank to pay the fine and then go to the transportation office to be able to get his license back. Of course, this was after a very painstaking question and answer period. Neither one of us were comfortable with the fact this guy was going to take Jim’s license. We have heard stories of that happening and the license disappearing, with no one knowing anything about it. He then asked me where we were living and I told him. We were still about 25 minutes from our house. He wrote out our ticket. He then wanted to know what bank we would go to in order to pay our fine which he had written would cost us 400 cordobas (a little over $20). We told him the name of the bank where we go to pay our bills. We asked him where the transportation office was and he gave us a vague area. When asked for directions, he didn’t give them. Instead, he just looked at us for a long time. My biggest fear at that moment was that Jim might be arrested and that I would have to drive that standard transmission 4-Runner home by myself through the streets of Managua! Okay…not really. But, I was experiencing some anxiety in the situation.
Finally, he took the page where he had drawn the “infraction” picture, and next to it wrote “disculpe”…disculpar is the verb “to forgive”…and with a sly smile, he handed Jim back his license. Now what would two street-saavy gringos in Managua say to a policeman who had just written the word “forgive” on a sheet of paper? Probably not “Gracias,” which is what we did, thinking we were being let off with a warning. Oh no. Street-saavy Managuan gringos would know that this interaction was not yet over. Nope. The officer then, with that same sly smile, said that it was out of his heart that he was doing such a thing and that if we would want to give him a gift, then he would have to receive it. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing…and even more so, I couldn’t believe I was actually understanding him! After all, he was speaking Spanish!!! And I was getting it!!! But, the rejoicing for that little accomplishment would have to wait. We still had business to conduct.
The officer pointed to the amount and repeated that if we were to give him a gift, he would have to receive it. Jim and I looked at each other and he took out the money. I took it from him and asked the officer if we gave him the 400 cords if that would pay our fine. He said it was okay and then he again pointed to the word “forgive” and then to the amount he had written. I realized that in order for Jim to keep his license, we would have to give this guy the money. So, I handed it over to the window to give to him. Obviously, neither Jim nor I know the finer points of bribery…for this is what this was…makes me sick to even think about it but that’s what it ultimately turned out to be. The policeman immediately shoved a booklet of some sort in to Jim’s hands. You want to know how naive we were? We both thought he was giving us some sort of book and for a second I thought I had misunderstood the whole thing, that HE was giving US a gift. Of course, that must have been apparent by the look on our faces because the officer immediately set us straight by pointing to the money and then to the book. His patience with the dim-witted gringos was wearing thin. Jim took the money and set it in the book. The officer took it and motioned for us to go on. We thanked him…what were we thinking, thanking him for letting us “buy our way out”??? We drove off. Both of us were stunned at what had just happened.
Wow. It’s true that the police here are not to be trusted and that they are as much of a criminal element as the guy who steals someone’s purse. It’s true that corruption is rampant and that the authorities operate from the vantage of intimidation. But it’s also true that people like us help contribute to that. In retrospect, would we have done anything any different? I want to say we would have. I want to say that we would say “no” to his gift request. I want to say that we would not be party to bribery…what an ugly thing it creates and what an ugly feeling it leaves inside. Never in a million years would I have thought Jim or I either one, would be a participant in such a thing. But I’ve never been a position where I feared what might happen to my husband and that the initiate of that fear would be a person I should have been able to trust. With corruption brings a sense of violation. The realization that law enforcement is really crime enforcement does not nurture warm and fuzzies tonight.
So, how do I feel about all that transpired during that little interchange? I feel sick at my stomach. Not just for the obvious reason of being scared at all the possibilities of how it could have turned out (most of which would probably only occur in my imagination), but more so that I had a perfect opportunity and it never even entered my mind until we were safely on the road on our way home. In the glove box, next to the registration and insurance cards, are the Spanish tracts and gospels of John that we carry. Did the thought ever even occur to me to hand one to the officer? Nope. Not even when he kept talking about us giving him a gift. He was asking for a gift. We had the Perfect Gift to give him but we were too focused on the situation we could see instead of being sensitive to God’s working. Regardless his financial situation, that officer didn’t need the 400 cords nearly as much as he needs the Lord. If Henry Blackaby were here, he would slap us both. But there’s really no need for Henry, the Holy Spirit’s conviction is plenty painful.
I have wrestled with this all evening. I even wrestled with writing this blog. It’s probably not the wisest thing to be so open about such a failure. Missionaries aren’t supposed to help people sin…they’re supposed to help people come to know the One who can take care of that sin. I’ve already gone to Him over this and like He always does, He forgives when there is a repentant heart. But, we have also let you down and now we ask for your forgiveness. Please pray we would be both wiser and bolder in our walk and that we would not miss the next opportunity God puts before us. Hopefully, it will appear in a different manner.
Let not my heart be drawn to what is evil,to take part in wicked deeds with men who are evildoers;
Keep me from the snares they have laid for me,from the traps set by evildoers.
Let the wicked fall into their own nets,while I pass by in safety. Psalms 141:4;9-10
We had decided to celebrate the successful completion of our first week at language school by going to have lunch at the Pizza Hut and then on to do some necessary shopping. We had a good lunch, managed to order our food, eat it and pay the bill without leaving the entire wait staff rolling on the floor, holding their sides in hysterical laughter.
We then drove to Sinsa, an extremely over-priced mini-Lowe’s-type store so that Jim could get a new seal for the toilet tank in the hall bathroom plus a new widow-maker for our bathroom shower. Now, because we rent our house, it would make sense that we take these needs to our landlord, wouldn’t it? But considering the fact that after 4 months, we are still waiting for the landlord’s electrician to come to fix the areas of the house where we have outlets but no juice and to install an outside light by our back door; still waiting for the landlord’s lawn mower repairman to come to fix the lawn mower which hasn’t worked since we rented the house in February (and our landlord won’t let Jim do either job…he thinks it’s not something a gringo should do); our landlord was to repair our road while we were in the States and now it’s so bad that a neighbor across the road has tried to fill in some of the holes with brush, sticks and grass clippings…his lawn mower obviously works; our roof still leaks, and is so “open” that the bats continue to throw their wild parties in our “attic”…well, let’s just say we felt it was in our best interest and well worth the money and effort to take care of these recent plumbing issues ourselves. Plus, I think Sinsa is just a place Jim loves to go. He is always thinking of something we “need” from there so a leaky toilet and a cold shower were probably an answer to one of his prayers!
Have I told you what a widow-maker is? It’s an appliance that attaches to the shower head and enables us to have hot showers. That may seem like an odd thing to want in a tropical country but, believe me, it’s much more comfortable to shower with warm water than it is cold water. As hot as it gets here, I haven’t yet reached the point where a cold shower feels good…maybe someday, but not today. The widow maker has electric coils in the head and when the wa
ter is turned on, it also turns on the current which in turn, heats the coils and ultimately, provides us with hot water. Yes, we knowingly are standing under an apparatus that mixes water and electricity…and as long as Jim doesn’t reach up and make contact with the shower head, in our home, it shall remain a widow maker in name only. It’s at this point I probably need to alleviate some concern from our family members…I think if touched, one might get a nasty shock but I don’t know that it would be enough to actually kill someone…although, neither of us are willing to be the guinea pig to prove my theory.So after getting our plumbing items, we then went on to the grocery store and then on to Price Smart – Managua’s version of a Sam’s Club. Got the things we needed there and managed to get in the car with only two guys in the parking lot trying to sell us pirated copies of DVDs…we were feeling pretty good as we pulled out of the lot and headed for home. Jim drove several blocks and then turned right at one of the major intersections to take us back across town. Immediately after our turn, there was a policeman standing on the right side of the street and motioned us to pull over. Our high spirits quickly took a downturn. Not knowing what we had done, Jim pulled over and I took our insurance card and car registration out of the glovebox and Jim pulled out his driver’s license. I don’t know how Jim was doing, but my heart was pounding…the stories of how the police deal with foreigners is legend.
The officer took the identifications and began studying them. He started rattling ninety to nothing and both of us told him we couldn’t speak Spanish. He asked if we could understand any and I told him we could understand just a very little and asked if he could speak slowly. He must have thought I said loudly because his volume increased. When he realized we really didn’t understand him, he slowed down and began drawing pictures to show Jim what he had done. It seems that there once were lane division lines on the curved part of the road where we had turned right and that Jim had evidently crossed the unseen line. There was no point in arguing and so we just said we were sorry.
He told us he was going to keep Jim’s license and that we would have to go to the bank to pay the fine and then go to the transportation office to be able to get his license back. Of course, this was after a very painstaking question and answer period. Neither one of us were comfortable with the fact this guy was going to take Jim’s license. We have heard stories of that happening and the license disappearing, with no one knowing anything about it. He then asked me where we were living and I told him. We were still about 25 minutes from our house. He wrote out our ticket. He then wanted to know what bank we would go to in order to pay our fine which he had written would cost us 400 cordobas (a little over $20). We told him the name of the bank where we go to pay our bills. We asked him where the transportation office was and he gave us a vague area. When asked for directions, he didn’t give them. Instead, he just looked at us for a long time. My biggest fear at that moment was that Jim might be arrested and that I would have to drive that standard transmission 4-Runner home by myself through the streets of Managua! Okay…not really. But, I was experiencing some anxiety in the situation.
Finally, he took the page where he had drawn the “infraction” picture, and next to it wrote “disculpe”…disculpar is the verb “to forgive”…and with a sly smile, he handed Jim back his license. Now what would two street-saavy gringos in Managua say to a policeman who had just written the word “forgive” on a sheet of paper? Probably not “Gracias,” which is what we did, thinking we were being let off with a warning. Oh no. Street-saavy Managuan gringos would know that this interaction was not yet over. Nope. The officer then, with that same sly smile, said that it was out of his heart that he was doing such a thing and that if we would want to give him a gift, then he would have to receive it. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing…and even more so, I couldn’t believe I was actually understanding him! After all, he was speaking Spanish!!! And I was getting it!!! But, the rejoicing for that little accomplishment would have to wait. We still had business to conduct.
The officer pointed to the amount and repeated that if we were to give him a gift, he would have to receive it. Jim and I looked at each other and he took out the money. I took it from him and asked the officer if we gave him the 400 cords if that would pay our fine. He said it was okay and then he again pointed to the word “forgive” and then to the amount he had written. I realized that in order for Jim to keep his license, we would have to give this guy the money. So, I handed it over to the window to give to him. Obviously, neither Jim nor I know the finer points of bribery…for this is what this was…makes me sick to even think about it but that’s what it ultimately turned out to be. The policeman immediately shoved a booklet of some sort in to Jim’s hands. You want to know how naive we were? We both thought he was giving us some sort of book and for a second I thought I had misunderstood the whole thing, that HE was giving US a gift. Of course, that must have been apparent by the look on our faces because the officer immediately set us straight by pointing to the money and then to the book. His patience with the dim-witted gringos was wearing thin. Jim took the money and set it in the book. The officer took it and motioned for us to go on. We thanked him…what were we thinking, thanking him for letting us “buy our way out”??? We drove off. Both of us were stunned at what had just happened.
Wow. It’s true that the police here are not to be trusted and that they are as much of a criminal element as the guy who steals someone’s purse. It’s true that corruption is rampant and that the authorities operate from the vantage of intimidation. But it’s also true that people like us help contribute to that. In retrospect, would we have done anything any different? I want to say we would have. I want to say that we would say “no” to his gift request. I want to say that we would not be party to bribery…what an ugly thing it creates and what an ugly feeling it leaves inside. Never in a million years would I have thought Jim or I either one, would be a participant in such a thing. But I’ve never been a position where I feared what might happen to my husband and that the initiate of that fear would be a person I should have been able to trust. With corruption brings a sense of violation. The realization that law enforcement is really crime enforcement does not nurture warm and fuzzies tonight.
So, how do I feel about all that transpired during that little interchange? I feel sick at my stomach. Not just for the obvious reason of being scared at all the possibilities of how it could have turned out (most of which would probably only occur in my imagination), but more so that I had a perfect opportunity and it never even entered my mind until we were safely on the road on our way home. In the glove box, next to the registration and insurance cards, are the Spanish tracts and gospels of John that we carry. Did the thought ever even occur to me to hand one to the officer? Nope. Not even when he kept talking about us giving him a gift. He was asking for a gift. We had the Perfect Gift to give him but we were too focused on the situation we could see instead of being sensitive to God’s working. Regardless his financial situation, that officer didn’t need the 400 cords nearly as much as he needs the Lord. If Henry Blackaby were here, he would slap us both. But there’s really no need for Henry, the Holy Spirit’s conviction is plenty painful.
I have wrestled with this all evening. I even wrestled with writing this blog. It’s probably not the wisest thing to be so open about such a failure. Missionaries aren’t supposed to help people sin…they’re supposed to help people come to know the One who can take care of that sin. I’ve already gone to Him over this and like He always does, He forgives when there is a repentant heart. But, we have also let you down and now we ask for your forgiveness. Please pray we would be both wiser and bolder in our walk and that we would not miss the next opportunity God puts before us. Hopefully, it will appear in a different manner.
Let not my heart be drawn to what is evil,to take part in wicked deeds with men who are evildoers;
Keep me from the snares they have laid for me,from the traps set by evildoers.
Let the wicked fall into their own nets,while I pass by in safety. Psalms 141:4;9-10
Wednesday, August 20, 2008
Back-to-school time...
No new shoes. No new clothes. But Jim and I each got a brand new spiral notebook and with them came a few butterflies in our tummies. Yep, it’s back-to-school time and not just for the kids in the States, but also for this couple of oldies! After much prayer and discussion, we made the decision to discontinue our time with our private tutor and just go ahead and bite the bullet and enroll in a formal language school. I think it was a good decision…of course, we’re only three days in to it, but I believe this will be a very positive move for us.
The school is in what was once a house in a neighborhood off of a very busy street in
Managua. As you can see, it is easy to spot with its bright blue color. It is one of only several language schools in Managua but this one is the most reputable. There are more to choose from in Granada, but that’s too far for us to drive every day…this one is far enough. Susanna went with us when we visited the school last week and she has had some personal experience with it. She agreed it was time we make the move to more formal instruction. We essentially are continuing with private tutoring as Jim and I are the only students in the session we chose…our timing for change (rather, God’s timing for us to change), couldn’t have worked out better.
We enrolled in the intensive language program which means we spend 20 hours a week in class and will be doing at least that amount of study at home with our “tarea”…our homework. We have two teachers, one works with us for 2 hours on conversational skills and the other is teaching us grammar in the remaining time of our class. We chose the afternoon session which allows me to get laundry done in the morning and to hang out it on the line for a while before we have to leave. On the mornings we don’t have other obligations (such as volunteering at the Children’s Center or working with Miguel on his English lessons), we don’t have to leave here until about 15 minutes past noon, but on those other mornings, where we are committed, we generally leave by 9:15 a.m. We will then eat lunch at a food court in a small mall that is near the school and then on to class. Class ends at 5:00 and then it takes between 40 minutes to an hour to get back home, depending on the traffic.
Once home, I have to get supper ready and then we finally settle down to study around 7:30. (I’ll be glad when these silly Olympics are over…I think our studying will be much more productive!!!) Then we struggle to memorize vocabulary, rules of grammar, correct pronunciation and intonation and common phrases, some of which are Nicaraguan in flavor…but all of it is in Spanish. It is quite a lot for us and it isn’t going to be easy, by any means, but we both feel that it is the foundation that is necessary for us to be effective in our communication with the people here.
There is such a need for God’s truth to be told. This culture has gone the way of most of the world in that it has created a God of its own making. That message is God wants us all to be happy, healthy and wealthy. The majority of the adults in this country appear to be resigned to life as it is – poverty, unfaithfulness and a sense of emptiness. Many battle what are often common and simple health ailments which could easily be treated and even prevented and yet, when gone unchecked due to the lack of finances or education, turn in to major health concerns. They sit at the opposite end of the wealth spectrum than where the prosperity gospel teaching tells them they should be. They keep hearing about a “god” who tells them they should have everything they don’t…and yet this “god” doesn’t provide a way for them to receive any of these things. It really is no wonder that God is not “real” in their lives.
They don’t know the God the preachers tell them about…but then, neither do I. Yet I desperately want them to know my God and I have to be able to converse with them adequately and effectively in order to be able to introduce them to Him. It’s a daunting task when I think of it in “me” terms. But I know this is the heart of God…He wants the people who know His name but not Him (as well as those who have never heard the name of Jesus Christ) to have the opportunity to hear the truth about who He is. In my opinion, whoever came up with the notion this country is evangelized is off base…this country may be packed with churches, pastors and priests and drowning in religiosity, but evangelized? I don’t believe it.
Because our language skills have to be our priority right now, we will probably have to cut back on our other activities for awhile. I don’t like that we have to do that, but I do understand the need. I am hoping we can continue to see Miguel possibly twice a week. He and his wife are having a great deal of marital problems and although Miguel is a Christian, (I don’t believe his wife is) he is struggling to be the husband God has called him to be. I believe it is important we continue to maintain this contact with him and to be purposeful in our discipleship of him. The English classes are good but his walk as a Godly man is essential. And as much as I love the kids at the Center, we will most likely cut that back to maybe once a week…that’s hard to do, also…those kids are so precious. I’ll have to tell you about them another time.
Well, I need to get back to the books. This isn’t much of a blog, today, but it’s all I have time to do and my mind is pulled in other directions at the moment. Right now…school rules!
The school is in what was once a house in a neighborhood off of a very busy street in
Managua. As you can see, it is easy to spot with its bright blue color. It is one of only several language schools in Managua but this one is the most reputable. There are more to choose from in Granada, but that’s too far for us to drive every day…this one is far enough. Susanna went with us when we visited the school last week and she has had some personal experience with it. She agreed it was time we make the move to more formal instruction. We essentially are continuing with private tutoring as Jim and I are the only students in the session we chose…our timing for change (rather, God’s timing for us to change), couldn’t have worked out better.We enrolled in the intensive language program which means we spend 20 hours a week in class and will be doing at least that amount of study at home with our “tarea”…our homework. We have two teachers, one works with us for 2 hours on conversational skills and the other is teaching us grammar in the remaining time of our class. We chose the afternoon session which allows me to get laundry done in the morning and to hang out it on the line for a while before we have to leave. On the mornings we don’t have other obligations (such as volunteering at the Children’s Center or working with Miguel on his English lessons), we don’t have to leave here until about 15 minutes past noon, but on those other mornings, where we are committed, we generally leave by 9:15 a.m. We will then eat lunch at a food court in a small mall that is near the school and then on to class. Class ends at 5:00 and then it takes between 40 minutes to an hour to get back home, depending on the traffic.
Once home, I have to get supper ready and then we finally settle down to study around 7:30. (I’ll be glad when these silly Olympics are over…I think our studying will be much more productive!!!) Then we struggle to memorize vocabulary, rules of grammar, correct pronunciation and intonation and common phrases, some of which are Nicaraguan in flavor…but all of it is in Spanish. It is quite a lot for us and it isn’t going to be easy, by any means, but we both feel that it is the foundation that is necessary for us to be effective in our communication with the people here.
There is such a need for God’s truth to be told. This culture has gone the way of most of the world in that it has created a God of its own making. That message is God wants us all to be happy, healthy and wealthy. The majority of the adults in this country appear to be resigned to life as it is – poverty, unfaithfulness and a sense of emptiness. Many battle what are often common and simple health ailments which could easily be treated and even prevented and yet, when gone unchecked due to the lack of finances or education, turn in to major health concerns. They sit at the opposite end of the wealth spectrum than where the prosperity gospel teaching tells them they should be. They keep hearing about a “god” who tells them they should have everything they don’t…and yet this “god” doesn’t provide a way for them to receive any of these things. It really is no wonder that God is not “real” in their lives.
They don’t know the God the preachers tell them about…but then, neither do I. Yet I desperately want them to know my God and I have to be able to converse with them adequately and effectively in order to be able to introduce them to Him. It’s a daunting task when I think of it in “me” terms. But I know this is the heart of God…He wants the people who know His name but not Him (as well as those who have never heard the name of Jesus Christ) to have the opportunity to hear the truth about who He is. In my opinion, whoever came up with the notion this country is evangelized is off base…this country may be packed with churches, pastors and priests and drowning in religiosity, but evangelized? I don’t believe it.
Because our language skills have to be our priority right now, we will probably have to cut back on our other activities for awhile. I don’t like that we have to do that, but I do understand the need. I am hoping we can continue to see Miguel possibly twice a week. He and his wife are having a great deal of marital problems and although Miguel is a Christian, (I don’t believe his wife is) he is struggling to be the husband God has called him to be. I believe it is important we continue to maintain this contact with him and to be purposeful in our discipleship of him. The English classes are good but his walk as a Godly man is essential. And as much as I love the kids at the Center, we will most likely cut that back to maybe once a week…that’s hard to do, also…those kids are so precious. I’ll have to tell you about them another time.
Well, I need to get back to the books. This isn’t much of a blog, today, but it’s all I have time to do and my mind is pulled in other directions at the moment. Right now…school rules!
Saturday, August 16, 2008
The last ride...
Since our return to Managua a couple of weeks ago, it seems as though we have been on the run and yet it doesn’t seem like we’ve accomplished much. Somehow, during our two weeks in the States, I had forgotten that is how much of life is here…a frenzied pace, a frustrating crawl and often, very little to show for either. I have missed my blog time…it really does help me work through so many things that we see and experience. One of those things lately has been the reminder that life on this earth is temporal and that its termination is often unexpected. An elementary thought to be sure but still, profoundly true.
For whatever reason, there seems to have been a rash of dogs having been hit and killed. Or maybe the number is no higher than normal but I’ve just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time and have come upon the aftermath. We recently saw a horse that had collapsed while pulling his master and cart on a busy thoroughfare. And the ambulance sirens’ shrill wail have disturbed more than one night’s sleep since we’ve returned. But those situations have not touched me in the same way I was touched last weekend.
Our housekeeper, Margarita, lost her father-in-law last Sunday. We got news of it that afternoon via Susanna, who also employs Margarita three days a week. The three of us discussed what we should do for her and it was decided that because there would be lots of family and friends there, that we could help out with food. Susanna already had plans in place to go to the beach with her friends that day, so Jim and I said we would take care of getting the food purchased and delivered. We went to the store and bought the basics (beans, rice, oil, sugar, coffee plus some cookies for the children) and two cooked chickens.
Margarita lives way out in the country, it’s a beautiful area but not one many gringos would pass through. On the way out to her house, we passed a funeral procession for someone else who had died. It resembled a small parade. There was a pickup truck moving very slowly. It had the dubious honor of providing the last ride for the deceased (the coffin in the truck bed) and transporting the family members who were packed in to the cab and the remaining space of the truck bed. The rest of the mourners walked slowly behind the truck with many of the women carrying umbrellas to shield themselves from the hot sun.
The procession was similar to our own in the States and yet different enough that it caught my eye. I didn’t want to be rude by staring but my eyes were drawn to the “nakedness” of this ritual. There was no limousine – not for the deceased nor for the family. The pickup truck certainly didn’t have tinted windows or curtains to shield the family from the stares of the curious…ashamedly, like myself. There weren’t floral arrangements being taken to the cemetery and it didn’t look like many of the folks were dressed up. From a distance, it could have been a small demonstration or a small parade. Only the exposed coffin defined the purpose. This was a funeral procession but it wasn’t like one I knew from the States.
The familiar? The grief and the tears and the shell-shocked expressions frozen on the faces of those riding in the bed of the truck were so familiar they made me uncomfortable. I recognized those and because I have experienced each myself, I found my sympathy turned to empathy and I ached inside for these people I didn’t know. They were mourning the loss of someone they loved. We may not have been able to speak the same language but what our tongues couldn’t communicate, grieving eyes certainly could. And suddenly, I felt my eyes had intruded on such a private, intimate time. I looked away. Life here in Nicaragua is so different. Death is the same.
About 20 minutes later, we pulled up in front of the little community where Margarita lives. They live down a small embankment with about a half dozen houses filled with people who are all related in one way or another. There were already quite a few people gathered around outside the little wooden houses. The wake had officially begun. The few plastic chairs were filled with men, many of them already beginning to drink. The children were playing much quieter than children should. The mandatory handful of skinny dogs were sniffing the ground in hopes of scavenging something edible. There were two horses tied to a tree and a couple of pigs were noisily rooting up next to one of the houses. There were several scrawny chickens squawking at one another over what was evidently some sort of poultry infraction. There’s not a blade of grass in the communal area…just dirt. There was an empty pickup truck backed up to one of the houses. If we didn’t know what was happening, it would have been easy to assume this was just like any other neighborhood gathering.
As we were getting out of the car, I realized we were about to go in to a group of people who spoke no English and Margarita was the only one who would know us. For a moment, I felt a great sense of uneasiness but we prayed that we would be well-received and that Margarita would be there. We got the groceries out of the back and started down the drive leading to the communal area. Of course, the smell of cooked chicken immediately drew the dogs. Jim was carrying the chicken and he could hold them up a lot higher than I could have. But thankfully, the dogs only sniffed and didn’t try to help themselves to our bags.
All talking stopped when we got close. There were two men sitting in chairs who greeted us with hard stares. We greeted them good afternoon and they responded with an obligatory like response. It was obvious we weren’t welcome. My knees felt shaky but I stepped toward them and asked in Spanish where we could find Margarita…thank you Lord, for that momentary recall of the language! At the very next second, she stepped out from behind a big tree. She had recognized my voice and came forward with an astonished look on her face. It was obvious we were the last two people on earth she had expected to see that afternoon.
After we hugged for a moment, all I could think to say was “Lo siento,” – “I’m sorry.” It was enough. Her eyes filled with tears and she couldn’t speak. She blinked back the tears, which is so Margarita-like as she rarely shows great emotion. I told her we brought food for her family and she was very grateful. She took part of the bags and told us to wait a minute. It was obvious she was embarrassed we were seeing her familial surroundings. She took the bags in to one of the houses where we could see a group of women gathered...I imagine there was also a great deal of cooking looking at the size of the gathering. Margarita came back out, took the rest of the bags and then hesitated. She asked if we were going or did we want to stay. We told her we had to go, but thanked her for asking and once again, we hugged. Her tears spilled over this time. Jim took my hand and we walked back to the car. As we walked, I could hear the faint sound of conversation. Life resumed. It always does…there in the States and here in Nicaragua.
I told Margarita when she came to work on Tuesday that it was fine if she needed to take some time off this week. She thanked me but told me she needed to work. She also thanked me again for the food we had brought. I asked Margarita if her father-in-law was a Christian. She thought for a minute, shrugged her shoulders and said she didn’t know. She said she knew he believed in God and so did her husband. Her expression was very solemn and there was a worried look to her. There was another pause and then she assured me that she was a Christian and so was her 9 year old son, Freddie. And at that, her face lit up. She put her hands together in the gesture of prayer and thanked Jesus. And she turned to go get busy in the kitchen.
If Jesus waits long enough to return, every one will some day take a final ride of our own. And truthfully, it really doesn’t matter whether it’s in a limousine or the back of a pickup truck. We won’t know. The funeral, the wake, the procession…those are for those who are left here. There will be people who mourn and people who bring food to the mourners. There will be tinted windows and there will be umbrellas. There will be flowers and there will be handkerchiefs. There will be silence and there will be conversations. But all of those things pale in comparison to what really matters when this life ends and that’s where our eternal life begins. We may not get to choose the mode of transportation we have for our final ride, but we certainly do choose our final destination. Please don’t let someone you love be in a position where they have to shrug their shoulders when asked if you were a Christian. If you are, everyone who knows you should know that beyond a shadow of a doubt. And if you’re not, ask God to bring you to the Truth and then ask a follower of Jesus Christ to introduce you to Him. Your future depends upon it.
For whatever reason, there seems to have been a rash of dogs having been hit and killed. Or maybe the number is no higher than normal but I’ve just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time and have come upon the aftermath. We recently saw a horse that had collapsed while pulling his master and cart on a busy thoroughfare. And the ambulance sirens’ shrill wail have disturbed more than one night’s sleep since we’ve returned. But those situations have not touched me in the same way I was touched last weekend.
Our housekeeper, Margarita, lost her father-in-law last Sunday. We got news of it that afternoon via Susanna, who also employs Margarita three days a week. The three of us discussed what we should do for her and it was decided that because there would be lots of family and friends there, that we could help out with food. Susanna already had plans in place to go to the beach with her friends that day, so Jim and I said we would take care of getting the food purchased and delivered. We went to the store and bought the basics (beans, rice, oil, sugar, coffee plus some cookies for the children) and two cooked chickens.
Margarita lives way out in the country, it’s a beautiful area but not one many gringos would pass through. On the way out to her house, we passed a funeral procession for someone else who had died. It resembled a small parade. There was a pickup truck moving very slowly. It had the dubious honor of providing the last ride for the deceased (the coffin in the truck bed) and transporting the family members who were packed in to the cab and the remaining space of the truck bed. The rest of the mourners walked slowly behind the truck with many of the women carrying umbrellas to shield themselves from the hot sun.
The procession was similar to our own in the States and yet different enough that it caught my eye. I didn’t want to be rude by staring but my eyes were drawn to the “nakedness” of this ritual. There was no limousine – not for the deceased nor for the family. The pickup truck certainly didn’t have tinted windows or curtains to shield the family from the stares of the curious…ashamedly, like myself. There weren’t floral arrangements being taken to the cemetery and it didn’t look like many of the folks were dressed up. From a distance, it could have been a small demonstration or a small parade. Only the exposed coffin defined the purpose. This was a funeral procession but it wasn’t like one I knew from the States.
The familiar? The grief and the tears and the shell-shocked expressions frozen on the faces of those riding in the bed of the truck were so familiar they made me uncomfortable. I recognized those and because I have experienced each myself, I found my sympathy turned to empathy and I ached inside for these people I didn’t know. They were mourning the loss of someone they loved. We may not have been able to speak the same language but what our tongues couldn’t communicate, grieving eyes certainly could. And suddenly, I felt my eyes had intruded on such a private, intimate time. I looked away. Life here in Nicaragua is so different. Death is the same.
About 20 minutes later, we pulled up in front of the little community where Margarita lives. They live down a small embankment with about a half dozen houses filled with people who are all related in one way or another. There were already quite a few people gathered around outside the little wooden houses. The wake had officially begun. The few plastic chairs were filled with men, many of them already beginning to drink. The children were playing much quieter than children should. The mandatory handful of skinny dogs were sniffing the ground in hopes of scavenging something edible. There were two horses tied to a tree and a couple of pigs were noisily rooting up next to one of the houses. There were several scrawny chickens squawking at one another over what was evidently some sort of poultry infraction. There’s not a blade of grass in the communal area…just dirt. There was an empty pickup truck backed up to one of the houses. If we didn’t know what was happening, it would have been easy to assume this was just like any other neighborhood gathering.
As we were getting out of the car, I realized we were about to go in to a group of people who spoke no English and Margarita was the only one who would know us. For a moment, I felt a great sense of uneasiness but we prayed that we would be well-received and that Margarita would be there. We got the groceries out of the back and started down the drive leading to the communal area. Of course, the smell of cooked chicken immediately drew the dogs. Jim was carrying the chicken and he could hold them up a lot higher than I could have. But thankfully, the dogs only sniffed and didn’t try to help themselves to our bags.
All talking stopped when we got close. There were two men sitting in chairs who greeted us with hard stares. We greeted them good afternoon and they responded with an obligatory like response. It was obvious we weren’t welcome. My knees felt shaky but I stepped toward them and asked in Spanish where we could find Margarita…thank you Lord, for that momentary recall of the language! At the very next second, she stepped out from behind a big tree. She had recognized my voice and came forward with an astonished look on her face. It was obvious we were the last two people on earth she had expected to see that afternoon.
After we hugged for a moment, all I could think to say was “Lo siento,” – “I’m sorry.” It was enough. Her eyes filled with tears and she couldn’t speak. She blinked back the tears, which is so Margarita-like as she rarely shows great emotion. I told her we brought food for her family and she was very grateful. She took part of the bags and told us to wait a minute. It was obvious she was embarrassed we were seeing her familial surroundings. She took the bags in to one of the houses where we could see a group of women gathered...I imagine there was also a great deal of cooking looking at the size of the gathering. Margarita came back out, took the rest of the bags and then hesitated. She asked if we were going or did we want to stay. We told her we had to go, but thanked her for asking and once again, we hugged. Her tears spilled over this time. Jim took my hand and we walked back to the car. As we walked, I could hear the faint sound of conversation. Life resumed. It always does…there in the States and here in Nicaragua.
I told Margarita when she came to work on Tuesday that it was fine if she needed to take some time off this week. She thanked me but told me she needed to work. She also thanked me again for the food we had brought. I asked Margarita if her father-in-law was a Christian. She thought for a minute, shrugged her shoulders and said she didn’t know. She said she knew he believed in God and so did her husband. Her expression was very solemn and there was a worried look to her. There was another pause and then she assured me that she was a Christian and so was her 9 year old son, Freddie. And at that, her face lit up. She put her hands together in the gesture of prayer and thanked Jesus. And she turned to go get busy in the kitchen.
If Jesus waits long enough to return, every one will some day take a final ride of our own. And truthfully, it really doesn’t matter whether it’s in a limousine or the back of a pickup truck. We won’t know. The funeral, the wake, the procession…those are for those who are left here. There will be people who mourn and people who bring food to the mourners. There will be tinted windows and there will be umbrellas. There will be flowers and there will be handkerchiefs. There will be silence and there will be conversations. But all of those things pale in comparison to what really matters when this life ends and that’s where our eternal life begins. We may not get to choose the mode of transportation we have for our final ride, but we certainly do choose our final destination. Please don’t let someone you love be in a position where they have to shrug their shoulders when asked if you were a Christian. If you are, everyone who knows you should know that beyond a shadow of a doubt. And if you’re not, ask God to bring you to the Truth and then ask a follower of Jesus Christ to introduce you to Him. Your future depends upon it.
Saturday, August 9, 2008
Pick a hand, any hand...
Just thought of something else I want to share with you today. During the two weeks we recently spent in the States, there were so many snapshot moments I tried to engrave in my mind and my heart. Since we don’t know when we’ll next be able to return to the States, it seemed as though all the “little” things suddenly took on a new level of importance. Today’s blog isn’t about Nicaragua, it’s about thanking God for His loving care and provision. You know that phrase, “the devil’s in the details”? Well, today, I want to rebut that statement and say that our God is in the details…we just have to open our eyes and our heart to His presence. God let me know He was ministering to my heart when He gave me all kinds of special gifts during our time home. Here are just a few:
- Our 7 month old grandson, Jeremiah, responded to our greetings with the sweetest smile when we first saw him after 3 months of separation
- Our other grandchildren, Maddie, Sam and Ben let me just hug and love on them whenever and wherever the mood hit me…even in the middle of Wal-Mart…and not one time, did they act embarrassed or push me away
- The peaceful quiet of early mornings at Mandy and Jack’s…I didn’t hear one rooster crow or one car horn honk
- Hearing James preach again “in the flesh” and worshiping corporately in our home church
- Getting lots of kisses from roly poly boxer puppies
- Playing card games on the floor with the grandkids
- Watching Mandy water her garden…”only 5 more trees”
- Just spending time with all of our family
- Eating scrumptious home cooked meals with lots of fresh produce and sweet desserts!...thank you so much Bill and Lea, Lone Star Baptist Church, my Sunday school class and Mandy and Maddie
- Giving and getting tight-don’t-want-to-let-go-goodbye-hugs with both my girls, Mandy and Sadie
- The checkerboard pattern of the farms below as we flew out of XNA airport
- Being handed a financial donation
“How tasteless,” you might think in regards to the last item on the list. But this is something I have to share with you. By telling you about someone who gave to us financially, I am going against a decision Jim and I made, but we are both in agreement this story needs to be told and we think God would approve. Neither of us is comfortable with the posting of the names of those who give to our ministry nor do we believe in mentioning amounts given. And actually, unless the financial gift has been given directly to us or Mandy has been given explicit instructions to pass that info on, we don’t know who has given, who hasn’t or any figures…and that’s the way we want to keep it.
I hesitate to even write this as I don't want to come across as unappreciative. Please, believe me, it’s not for lack of appreciation on our part. We most certainly do appreciate every one of you who supports us in our efforts here. And we know that many of you are generous in your giving and many of you are faithful and there are even those who are both. We are blessed through you and we pray to be good stewards with those funds and to be a blessing to others in return. But the reason we’ve chosen to stay in the dark about certain details on the financial giving aspect is we don’t want to be drawn in to the dangerous waters of comparison, favoritism or the judging of the amount of the gift. I wish I could tell you that wouldn’t happen and I would like to think it wouldn’t…but neither Jim nor I are willing to be put to that particular test. So, we have chosen to follow a form of what Jesus said in Matthew 6:3-4: “But when you give to the needy, do not let your left hand know what your right hand is doing, so that your giving may be in secret. Then your Father, who sees what is done in secret, will reward you.” We want to be the uninformed left hand and we want you to be rewarded by our Father in heaven.
Now, that being said…let me tell you about one of our financial supporters and how she revealed herself to me. Our first Sunday back at First Baptist, Barbie Ray and I were talking. She was telling me that Elizabeth (age 4) and her little brother, Jackson (I’m guessing around 2 or so) usually get a can of pop when they go to Wal-Mart. Barbie will give them each a quarter and the kids get their own sodas. She told me that she and Curtis had been telling the kids about missions and what Jim and I are doing and asked Elizabeth if she would like to help support that. Elizabeth apparently had to think about it long and hard and finally decided she would but she really hated to give up her Wally World treat. Under-standably so…she’s 4 years old. I laughed and told Barbie that was so sweet but that I didn’t want to see Elizabeth lose her pop and that the thought was enough. Truthfully, I didn’t think much more of it.
After services our last Sunday evening at church, the night before we were getting ready to fly back to Managua, I was trying to catch up with Bobbie Heinz - never did catch you, Bobbie, you were out the door like a shot! I ran in to some other folks in the foyer that I wanted to visit with for a minute. As I was standing there talking with Geneva Hicks and Laurie Strickland, all of a sudden I felt a tug on the hem of my blouse. I looked down and there stood Elizabeth Ray with all the sobriety and dignity a 4 year old can muster. She was holding up a quarter to me and she said, “Here, this is for you.” I held out my hand and she lay the quarter in my palm. And off she ran. I looked at the quarter, looked at Geneva, looked at Laurie and proceeded to burst in to tears. I caught up with little Miss Elizabeth, gave her a hug and thanked her…”That’s okay,” was her reply.
You probably think that was a sweet story…it is but it’s more than that. That was truly sacrificial giving. That giving cost Elizabeth something. She had to make a decision whether to give a quarter or to receive a soda. I knew she had to make the choice to bypass her treat of a soda pop from Wal-Mart. And that precious little 4 year old chose to give. Not many 4 year olds would do that…as a matter of fact, not many 40 year olds would give that sacrificially. After all, the stakes get bigger as we get older, don’t they? I don’t know that scripture allows us a loophole on age or circumstances. I don’t know the last time I was humbled to the degree I was with that one act of having a quarter pressed in to my palm. How I wish I had such a sacrificial, giving heart. When did I quit having the spirit of a 4 year old? When was the last time I was willing to give it all?
Elizabeth didn’t give so she could see her name in print or be recognized for an impressive figure – although now, both will most likely occur. She didn't give because she thought it would help with her taxes at the end of the year. That's the beauty of being four...she's not concerned with tax deductions or write-offs. She gave because she knew it was what Jesus wanted her to do. She didn’t finagle or rationalize how she could keep part of it, she didn’t justify not giving by the depth of her own thirst or desire…she just gave. “Big deal,” you might think. It was. It was a big deal to Elizabeth, a big deal to us and it’s a big deal to Jesus, too. Who knows how God is going to use that quarter and who knows how He is going to reward His child? This was one instance this left hand was pleased to know what the right hand was doing.
We're back...
After spending two weeks in the States and this week getting settled in back here in Managua, it’s time to once again share thoughts, feelings and experiences with you. The up side in not blogging for a few days shy of a month is that there’s so much to share. The down side is there’s so much to share. So, once again, I will caution you to settle in because as a dear friend of mine, Wanda Sanders, once said about me, “She’s kind of long-winded,”…oh, how right you were, Wanda!
When we left that morning about 6:45, I was a week in to a yukky chest cold so the thought of riding 4 ½ hours up to Rio Blanco wasn’t appealing but we knew it was our time to go. By the time we picked Susanna up and got on the other side of Managua to get Pastor Sergio, it was over an hour later as we left the 
city...long before the drinking and the rally would begin. It rained on us off and on all the way up and we encountered a lot of delays with road construction plus one time when we had to stop for a convoy of about 30 busloads of people heading in to the celebration in Managua. The government makes sure that its supporters will be there in full force. But even with the delays, we still made pretty good time all in all and arrived about 5 ½ hours later.
We headed out to our last house. This was the home of the man who had only one leg. His place was the one upon the hill that was a bear to get to with all the mud. Guess what? All the rains continued to make for yet another muddy trek through the pasture, across the creek and up the hill. As with the other two homes, Pastor Sergio carried the food basket…I think Jim was really thankful that was the plan with this third home especially. The baskets were heavy and the mud made walking and remaining upright enough of an adventure for us…neither of us relished the thought of trying to make it up the hill carrying that slick, black plastic bundle!
The man had seen our car coming down the road from ½ mile away and knew it was us. He sent his grandchildren running down through the pastures to open the small barbed wire gate which opened to the path. We waded through ankle deep water in the low places and climbed up the small hill to the next gate. Although we were better prepared for our trip up to his home this time (we wore boots), we still had to slosh and sludge our way through mud and manure and slip-slide across the large rocks we used as stepping stones to get across the creek.
When we finally made it up to the house, the man was sitting in a hammock he had strung under the new roof. There were clothes hanging on a line (which would be a real plus for such a rainy climate) as well as a small hanging plastic pot of flowers to decorate the new “living” space. He was so glad we had come to visit and told us he knew it was us when he first saw the car coming. He was telling us how they were gradually moving the large pile of dirt, using it in their garden, and that he had plans to get sides put on the new structure. He said that it was so nice to have such a place to sleep (this is outside) with the hot and rainy weather. He then became very teary, thanking us again for his new house. He said he would never have had that without the team. He said that there were people all around , but no one helps one another and that we came from so far away to help him. He said he knew God had sent us and he wiped away tears as he spoke. We had a few of our own to wipe away. Although he didn’t open his food basket, he knew what it was and again, became very emotional, thanking us repeatedly. He and Pastor Sergio talked and he said he thought he would like to go to his church. Pastor Sergio told him he would be glad to have him come. We are praying that happens.
In the course of our visit, he shared with us that he had been having a great deal of pain at the site of the amputation of his leg. It seemed as though he had a hernia there and it was causing some problems. We have some money set aside left by several of the South Carolina team along with some other funds of our own and we are trying to get this gentleman some medical care. There was a medical team due to arrive in Rio Blanco the first week we were going to be gone to the States. One of the doctors scheduled to come was an orthopedic surgeon and he was supposed to go see this man. We are anxious to find out what the diagnosis is and what kind of follow up medical care he needs and we hope to be able to help out with that.
We stayed the night and came home the following morning. We had planned on staying for church services with Pastor Sergio but I had a reaction the night before to some medication I was taking for my cold. It necessitated Susanna getting the doctor we know in Rio Blanco to come to our hotel room and checking me out. We all decided it would be best if we headed back to Managua first thing Sunday morning.
I have had many people question my medical care here. I have to tell you I can’t complain. With whatever it was I had a couple of months ago, the doctor I saw in Managua managed to come up with the right combo of antibiotics to get me back on my feet after 3 weeks of being down. And Chela, the doctor who saw me in Rio Blanco, couldn’t have had a better bedside manner. She not only left her home to come to the hotel to see me, she was gentle and kind and she joined Pastor Sergio in laying hands on me and praying over me as I lay on the bed. And to top it off, in spite of our insistence, she refused any kind of payment saying it was what she could do for me as her sister in Christ. I think I have told you I am a good giver. God has had to bring me to Nicaragua to teach me how to be a good receiver. It’s a humbling place to be in.
So to get you caught up…the weekend before we left for the States, Jim, Susanna, Pastor Sergio and I made a quick visit up to Rio Blanco. We wanted to do some follow-up with the families on whose homes we had worked on the month prior. Jim and I also wanted to do a large food basket for each of those families plus another family with whom we had some contact during that week. We bought 3 large plastic containers and filled them with staples, such as rice, beans, flour, corn flour, salt, sugar, coffee, and so forth.
The Saturday we chose to go to Rio Blanco was also a national holiday here. It goes by many names but is most commonly called Revolution Day or Sandanista Day and was originally intended to celebrate what is now 19 years of freedom under the cruel dictatorship of Somoza. But as is common with most such celebrations which we see worldwide, what began as remembrance of a day of liberation has turned in to an excuse to hold a political rally of great magnitude; this particular one colored by the current party’s spin on the evil intentions of our own country. An American in this country is wise to keep a low profile in the capital that day or as we chose to do, go somewhere else during the celebration. I do want to add for those of you who might worry, our government is not liked here due to our backing the Somoza regime in the 80s, but as most other Americans who live here will testify, we do not experience problems one on one with the people. And I will repeat what we said during our stay back in the States, we don’t want to be seen as Americans, our desire is to be seen as followers of Jesus Christ.
When we left that morning about 6:45, I was a week in to a yukky chest cold so the thought of riding 4 ½ hours up to Rio Blanco wasn’t appealing but we knew it was our time to go. By the time we picked Susanna up and got on the other side of Managua to get Pastor Sergio, it was over an hour later as we left the 
city...long before the drinking and the rally would begin. It rained on us off and on all the way up and we encountered a lot of delays with road construction plus one time when we had to stop for a convoy of about 30 busloads of people heading in to the celebration in Managua. The government makes sure that its supporters will be there in full force. But even with the delays, we still made pretty good time all in all and arrived about 5 ½ hours later. We went straight to the first home we wanted to visit. It was a house directly across the road from the first house we had worked on with the team from South Carolina. A single mother lives there with several young daughters. The first day we were roofing across the road, we got caught in a terrible rain storm and this woman and her children took Jim and me in to their house. Although the size of their wooden plank home was a bit larger than most, it still had a dirt floor and contained very little furniture. The mother gave Jim and me two of the three plastic chairs we saw there. They had a small wooden table holding a small tv…the picture wavy and the sound static. There were no lamps and the only light coming in was from the open doorway. I imagine she was probably illegally hooked up to the power lines as she didn’t appear to have the means to be paying an electric bill.
The mother left to go in to the room directly behind the living area and we could hear noises coming fro
m there. We must have looked puzzled at the sound because one of the little girls took me by the hand and led me to the doorway. The mother was chopping up small pieces of wood in order to make a fire…she was going to fix us some coffee. I stole a look at the kitchen. It held very little. We thanked her but told her we couldn’t stay as our group was getting ready to leave. I was so touched by her hospitality. The women across the road were getting a new roof from the gringos and she was getting nothing, yet she opened her home to two strangers and was getting ready to share her meager bit of provisions with us. I asked if I could take a picture of the girls along with their friend…she smiled and said yes but hid behind the door when I wanted to take hers. We left.
m there. We must have looked puzzled at the sound because one of the little girls took me by the hand and led me to the doorway. The mother was chopping up small pieces of wood in order to make a fire…she was going to fix us some coffee. I stole a look at the kitchen. It held very little. We thanked her but told her we couldn’t stay as our group was getting ready to leave. I was so touched by her hospitality. The women across the road were getting a new roof from the gringos and she was getting nothing, yet she opened her home to two strangers and was getting ready to share her meager bit of provisions with us. I asked if I could take a picture of the girls along with their friend…she smiled and said yes but hid behind the door when I wanted to take hers. We left. This is the first family we went to visit with a food basket. I don’t know if she’s a Christian or not, she wasn’t there when we came back for the follow up visit, but I do know she showed the kind of hospitality that we as Christians should show. She wasn’t concerned with how her house looked but rather she was concerned we were getting wet. She wasn’t ashamed she had only plastic chairs to offer us, rather she offered us what she had. She wasn’t embarrassed she had to cut wood to make coffee, rather she was willing to use her wood and her bit of coffee for her guests. I thought of all the times I chose not to have guests because of a dusty mantle or a well-worn couch or only left-overs to offer. And I realized God was using this woman’s generosity to make me face up to yet another area of my own mis-placed pride. The basket of food was my own way of saying thank you to a woman who would never have understood how much I appreciated not only her gestures and her spirit, but also her teaching me a very important lesson.
The children remembered us and were excited to see us again. We had wrapped the baskets in black plastic to keep them from getting wet so the kids didn’t know what was in them…but they knew it was a gift and that was enough to make them giggly. We had Pastor Sergio take the basket in as we want the people to make the connection of ministry through the church, not through us. Our role there is to support Verbo church and its pastor and if the connection is made to us, it can easily be misconstrued as just another handout. Pastor Sergio asked the girls a few questions and told them to tell their mother where the church was downtown and that he would love for them to begin coming. The little girls remembered the church as they had attended the VBS the South Carolina team had put on during their time there. We gave hugs and got ready for our next visit across the road.
As I read this part out loud to Jim, he said something that was really good. He doesn’t talk nearly as much as I do, doesn’t get a chance, but boy, when he does, he has something worthwhile to say. We were talking about the woman’s hospitality and he told me he had just read about that subject this morning in his quiet time. He reminded me of what Jesus said in Matthew 25:34-46…you can look that up and read it for yourselves. But then, Jim said, “It looks different when you see it like this than what we picture from the pulpit, doesn’t it?”
The family across the road was surprised to see us and seemed a bit apprehensive that we were there. Once again we had Pastor Sergio take in the black plastic bundle. The culture here is that when given a gift, the recipient doesn’t open it in front of the one who did the giving. This home doesn’t have a man in the house either and so the women graciously accepted the bundle from Pastor Sergio and set it down. The conversation was a bit awkward at first as the only woman living there who attends Verbo church was gone and the others were not sure what Pastor Sergio wanted. When they discovered we simply came by to see how they liked their new kitchen and just to check on them, they warmed up to us.
One of the ladies took us in to the new kitchen addition and proudly showed us how much bigger it was. Jim took several photos as she was making tortillas. The roof was new but the smoke from the cook fire was as much of a problem as it was in the old kitchen. Breathing in the heavy smoke didn’t help my cough from having a cold and so we cut our visit a bit short there. Plus we were running out of time as Pastor Sergio had his weekly radio program to do in just a couple of hours.
We headed out to our last house. This was the home of the man who had only one leg. His place was the one upon the hill that was a bear to get to with all the mud. Guess what? All the rains continued to make for yet another muddy trek through the pasture, across the creek and up the hill. As with the other two homes, Pastor Sergio carried the food basket…I think Jim was really thankful that was the plan with this third home especially. The baskets were heavy and the mud made walking and remaining upright enough of an adventure for us…neither of us relished the thought of trying to make it up the hill carrying that slick, black plastic bundle!
The man had seen our car coming down the road from ½ mile away and knew it was us. He sent his grandchildren running down through the pastures to open the small barbed wire gate which opened to the path. We waded through ankle deep water in the low places and climbed up the small hill to the next gate. Although we were better prepared for our trip up to his home this time (we wore boots), we still had to slosh and sludge our way through mud and manure and slip-slide across the large rocks we used as stepping stones to get across the creek.
When we finally made it up to the house, the man was sitting in a hammock he had strung under the new roof. There were clothes hanging on a line (which would be a real plus for such a rainy climate) as well as a small hanging plastic pot of flowers to decorate the new “living” space. He was so glad we had come to visit and told us he knew it was us when he first saw the car coming. He was telling us how they were gradually moving the large pile of dirt, using it in their garden, and that he had plans to get sides put on the new structure. He said that it was so nice to have such a place to sleep (this is outside) with the hot and rainy weather. He then became very teary, thanking us again for his new house. He said he would never have had that without the team. He said that there were people all around , but no one helps one another and that we came from so far away to help him. He said he knew God had sent us and he wiped away tears as he spoke. We had a few of our own to wipe away. Although he didn’t open his food basket, he knew what it was and again, became very emotional, thanking us repeatedly. He and Pastor Sergio talked and he said he thought he would like to go to his church. Pastor Sergio told him he would be glad to have him come. We are praying that happens. In the course of our visit, he shared with us that he had been having a great deal of pain at the site of the amputation of his leg. It seemed as though he had a hernia there and it was causing some problems. We have some money set aside left by several of the South Carolina team along with some other funds of our own and we are trying to get this gentleman some medical care. There was a medical team due to arrive in Rio Blanco the first week we were going to be gone to the States. One of the doctors scheduled to come was an orthopedic surgeon and he was supposed to go see this man. We are anxious to find out what the diagnosis is and what kind of follow up medical care he needs and we hope to be able to help out with that.
We stayed the night and came home the following morning. We had planned on staying for church services with Pastor Sergio but I had a reaction the night before to some medication I was taking for my cold. It necessitated Susanna getting the doctor we know in Rio Blanco to come to our hotel room and checking me out. We all decided it would be best if we headed back to Managua first thing Sunday morning.
I have had many people question my medical care here. I have to tell you I can’t complain. With whatever it was I had a couple of months ago, the doctor I saw in Managua managed to come up with the right combo of antibiotics to get me back on my feet after 3 weeks of being down. And Chela, the doctor who saw me in Rio Blanco, couldn’t have had a better bedside manner. She not only left her home to come to the hotel to see me, she was gentle and kind and she joined Pastor Sergio in laying hands on me and praying over me as I lay on the bed. And to top it off, in spite of our insistence, she refused any kind of payment saying it was what she could do for me as her sister in Christ. I think I have told you I am a good giver. God has had to bring me to Nicaragua to teach me how to be a good receiver. It’s a humbling place to be in.
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