Real Missions, Real Life

Too Big to Forgive?

2011-07-25T05:28:00.000-07:00

We talk glibly about forgiving when we have never been injured; when we are injured, we know that it is not possible, apart from God's grace, for one human being to forgive another. -Oswald Chambers

There are distinct moments in one's life when the path you are traveling forks unexpectedly, and you have to decide which way to go. Someone has hurt you. Will you choose the path of bitterness or forgiveness?

Jim Wilson, in "Spirit of Revival," notes, "Bitterness is based on sin that is somehow relates to you. It is not concerned with how big the sin is; it is based on how close it is. For instance, if some great and gross immorality occurs in Iran, Iraq, El Salvador, or Colombia, what do we do? We read about it, but we will not feel guilty. We read about it, but we will not feel bitter. We might be appalled or amazed, but we do not feel guilty, and we do not feel bitter. Nevertheless, it was an awful sin, and someone actually committed it. So it does not depend on how great the evil is, it depends on how close the other person is to me. Bitterness is related to those people who are close. Who are likely candidates? The answer is simple: fathers, mothers, brothers, sisters, husbands, wives, children, boyfriends, girlfriends, roommates, immediate superiors, immediate subordinates, co-workers, business partners, and maybe some other relatives."

The hardest people to forgive are those closest to me, because when they fail, the hurt is deep. In studying the life of the Lord Jesus Christ, our Supreme Example of forgiveness, I have been humbled and convicted about my reluctance to forgive.

In the past, when I've read about the crucifixion of Jesus, I've been amazed by His love for me. But recently, a new aspect of the "mind of Christ" was made clear to me. I've always pictured the cold-hearted Roman soldiers to be strangers who carried out the bloody horror of the crucifixion as God the Father allowed them to. But until recently, I never considered how the Lord Jesus felt about each man who took part in His death.

That Roman soldier who is nameless and faceless to me was no stranger to Jesus. Years before, the Lord Jesus chose parents for this baby. He formed his tiny body in his mother's womb. He carefully shaped the hands that would beat him. He had been present in the hour of his birth, witnessing both the pain and the joy of his mother. He watched this baby's first clumsy steps, listened his stuttering words, smiled at his childhood games. He watched him grow and mature. The Lord Jesus lovingly surrounded him with witnesses of Himself, the Creator of All Things: He opened flowers for him to enjoy, cooled him with afternoon showers, painted breathtaking sunsets at the end of the day. "Watch this! This is for you!" He knew his fears, his sorrows, his joys. This man was special to Jesus. In every moment of this man's life, Jesus had been present, longing for a personal relationship. Jesus loved this man more than I love my parents, more than I love my husband, more than I love my child.

Yet this man, who had been showered with love throughout his life, beat Jesus mercilessly, laughed at His agony, and watched Him die with cold, uncaring eyes. Jesus gave only good, and received evil in return. Yet somehow, He drew in a painful breath and cried aloud, "Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do" (Luke 23:34). He prayed for this man's soul. He wanted him to be reconciled with the Father. He wanted his slate wiped clean. He didn't want him to suffer eternal punishment for what he had done. He desired good for this man.

How dare I read about my Lord's suffering, thanking Him for His forgiveness, and fail to do the same! Can I really look Jesus in the eyes and tell Him there's too much to forgive? Can I tell Him my hurt is too great? Can I tell Him I've suffered too much?

The only reaction of a forgiven heart must be forgiveness. If you had asked me a few months ago if I would be able to forgive to this level, I would have firmly replied, "No." And you know, it is true. There is nothing in me that can or even wants to forgive. You may believe the same of yourself, and you'd be right. But what I've discovered is what I can do is irrelevant; what matters is what I allow Him to do through me. It's all Him.

Take heed to yourselves: If thy brother trespass against thee, rebuke him; and if he repent, forgive him. And if he trespass against thee seven times in a day, and seven times in a day turn again to thee, saying, I repent; thou shalt forgive him. -Luke 17:3-4

Note to my readers: I want to personally thank you for continuing to read my blog over the past few months, even as we've had to return from the field to rebuild. I didn't see this coming, but the Lord did, and He's in control. The past few blogs haven't been typical, and I've had to stray from my "Real Missions" theme as I'm back in the States. But there's a lot more "Real Life" now, as I've shared how the Lord is working in my heart. Thank you for praying for our family and staying in touch. -christine-

Is This Really Good?

2011-06-23T05:27:00.000-07:00

And we know that all things work together for good to them that love God, to them who are the called according to his purpose. -Romans 8:28

It's a verse we teach our children. It's one of the first verses we give someone who is hurting. We've scrawled it on sympathy cards and hung it on our walls. You'd think I'd have understood it by now. But I don't think I did until recently.

"All things work together for good." In my mind, that meant that whatever problem I'm facing will have a happy solution. I've understood this verse to mean, "Hang in there, God will fix it all. He's already got a solution figured out. Just be patient. You'll get your happy ending."

"To them that love God." That's me! Hey, I'm trying to live for Him! So this verse guarantees me results...good ones. If I've been a wise, biblical steward, my money problems will go away and I won't lose my home. If I have raised my child right, he will never go his own way in rebellion. If I am a loving wife, my husband will be faithful to me. If I treat others with kindness, they will reciprocate. I've reduced God to some kind of cosmic vending machine. If I put in what he wants, I get the product I want. It's that simple. Isn't that what I deserve?

Facing a trial that you didn't see coming will cause you to go back to the Bible and read it as if for the first time. Suddenly, nothing is as it seemed. God is not Who He seemed. Has He let me down? The trial in my life has caused me to thirst for Him, to know Him more. Because evidently, I've believed things about Him that were not true.

In the case of Romans 8:28, I wanted to know what "good" He was talking about. This doesn't seem good! Could it be that He wasn't referring to my circumstances at all? "Getting it" was as simple as reading the next verse: "For whom he did foreknow, he also did predestinate to be conformed to the image of his Son." Was this the "good" He was referring to? Not an escape from my problems. Not necessarily a happy ending here on this earth. The good He promises is my sanctification. Isn't that infinitely more important than my satisfaction? He is much more concerned with my holiness than He is with my happiness. So He's using a trial to drive me to Him, to understand Christ's suffering more than ever before, and to know His love and grace on a daily basis.

Being covered by His grace doesn't necessarily mean my problem will work out the way I want it to. But it does mean that I can be the person He wants me to be. It means He holds me tenderly and comforts my heart. It means I learn to depend solely on Him. It means there are days I can't get out of bed without spending time in His Word. It means every verse, every sermon, every hymn has a deeper, multi-dimensional beauty. That's the good--the sweetness found only in a trial. And that's how we can give thanks right in the middle of it. I thank Him for Who He is. I thank Him for what He suffered for me. I thank Him for what He's revealed in my heart that needs to change. I thank Him for less satisfaction with this present world, resulting in a greater longing for Heaven. I thank Him for the good, and for being good.

Dead Man Walking

2011-05-24T07:32:00.000-07:00

Then they took away the stone from the place where the dead was laid. And Jesus lifted up his eyes, and said, Father, I thank thee that thou hast heard me. And I knew that thou hearest me always: but because of the people which stand by I said it, that they may believe that thou hast sent me. And when he thus had spoken, he cried with a loud voice, Lazarus, come forth. And he that was dead came forth, bound hand and foot with graveclothes: and his face was bound about with a napkin. Jesus saith unto them, Loose him, and let him go.

"Why do you think that when Jesus rose Lazarus from the dead, he had him come out in his grave clothes?" A wise man of God asked me a question last week that I had never considered. Why didn't he leave his graveclothes neatly folded inside the tomb as Jesus did? Why didn't he emerge in a shining white robe?

The four days Lazarus's body spent in that grave had surely caused quite a bit of decay. The intense heat combined with the lack of embalming would have rotted the flesh quite quickly. Surely there were parasites already doing their work inside that tomb. The sight and smell of those graveclothes had to be absolutely revolting. If Jesus had the power to completely resurrect and renew Lazarus' body, why wouldn't he have taken care of the putrid, worm-ridden graveclothes as well?

What must have the onlookers thought as Jesus commanded them to "Loose him"? I wasn't there, but I'm pretty sure some of them thought, "No way! I'm not touching that!" I'd probably have been one of them. Maybe others thought, "Um, sure, Jesus, but let me see if I have any hand sanitizer on me...or better yet, anybody bring Lysol?"

But there were a few special people there who flew to their friend, threw their arms around his neck, and cried with joy. Their disgust for the graveclothes was completely overshadowed by their love for Lazarus and their amazement for what the Lord had done.

Over the past few weeks, I've been grateful to have many such grace-filled people in my own life. When your family goes through a difficult time, especially if your family is in ministry, you fear what personal failure will do. It's not going to be pretty. Even though the Lord has been working in our hearts in miraculous ways, the effects of sin are still there. The hurt is real. The shame is crippling. I can't help but wonder, Who can stomach this?

Since this journey began, I've watched in utter amazement as my precious grace-filled brothers and sisters have looked past the graveclothes. They've run to us, embraced us, loved us. I look into their eyes, searching for revulsion, but it's not there. The Lord somehow allowed them to see past the ugliness to witness what the Lord can do--resurrect, revive, renew.

Too many times, we hurry the "failures" into closets. "This is so embarrassing!" And it's true--there is no doubt that sin brings shame and painful consequences. But when we do that, we miss the best part. Thank the Lord, when we cry out to Him in repentance, He can bring beauty out of the ugliness. He can make all things new. He can restore. I want to be part of that. I want to witness the miracle. I'm praying every day, "Lord, give me grace." And He is.

Now our Lord Jesus Christ himself, and God, even our Father, which hath loved us, and hath given us everlasting consolation and good hope through grace, comfort your hearts, and stablish you in every good word and work. -II Thessalonians 2:16-17

A New Chapter

2011-05-11T12:38:00.000-07:00

Just one month ago, my life took a very unexpected turn. In just one afternoon, everything came crashing down, and it became very clear that life would never be the same. My family was facing great hardship; it became very clear that we should not go through this battle alone. After some difficult phone calls and much counsel, we returned to the States for an indefinite amount of time in order to resolve these issues.

These have been painful days. I am in the fight of my life, in areas I never dreamed would change. Everything that I thought was sure and stable: my walk with the Lord, my marriage, the ministry, life in Honduras, homeschooling my daughter, is tossing about in a sea of uncertainty. Just when I catch my breath, thinking I'm over the wave, another hits.

Areas of my life that were once private are now exposed, and I am raw. I am asking questions I've never imagined uttering. I'm struggling with sins I didn't know I had.

But He's holding my hand through it all. I can feel His firm grip, and I know that no matter how much I'm shaken, I'm in His hands and He's not letting go.

I'm not sure where this road is leading. I'd like to share one of my journal entries from this past week:

This is not the Story I wanted to write. My Story told of foreign lands and incredible adventures. It described culture shock, dangerous situations, and soul-stirring missions at its best. My Story was going to be a best-seller.

I never saw it coming. In just a few moments, everything swirled and spun upside down. I gasped for breath, but didn’t want that breath to come. It hurt too badly.

What did come was the Death of my Story. There was no more beauty to write. New Story was ugly, filthy, and black. It was horror. It was something that happened to other people, never to me. I squeezed my eyes shut, clench my knees to my stomach, and waited to wake up to Old Story. But it wasn’t there. Old Story was no more. Everything about Old Story was a lie. I couldn’t write about it, because I couldn’t believe it anymore. The stench of New Story pervaded everything. New Story was my reality now.

This is not the Story I chose. But it’s the Story my Father gave me. He ripped up Old Story and handed me the pen. Start over. Write New Story.

I don’t like this Story. Nothing about it is familiar. Nothing about it is beautiful.

“Just wait,” He whispers. “You don’t know how it ends.”

As I began my New Story, the Lord spoke to me through the words of a song I had sung/played with Pilo Tejeda (a man in our church in Honduras) just a few weeks before life changed forever. I listened in awe to my own words that now held new meaning for me.

Purify my heart,
Let me be as gold and precious silver.
Purify my heart,
Let me be as gold, pure gold.

Refiner's fire,
my heart's one desire
Is to be…holy;
Set apart for You, Lord.
I choose to be…holy;
Set apart for You, my Master,
Ready to do Your will.

Pray for me as I'm in the Refiner's Fire...I want to come forth as gold! I know I can't do it in my own strength; but He's holding my hand every step of the way.

Blessed Be Your Name

2011-04-05T14:19:00.000-07:00

One of the funniest parts of helping out our Surgical Team in the OR during the Medical Brigade is listening to groggy patients' comments. This year, one gentleman under heavy anesthesia begged me to scratch his beard for him every two minutes or so, each time rewarding me with "Oooooh, gracias, Cristina. Perfecto!" Another elderly gentleman told me I was a beautiful angel sent from heaven (that was the morphine talking). One lady cried and told me she loved me like a daughter. Being the only Spanish-speaking person definitely had its perks; my self-esteem was boosted with every case! (I accept even narcotic-induced compliments.)

But one patient in particular stood out to me. Freddy is a gentleman in his 40s who attends a Baptist church just outside Progreso, where he participates faithfully by playing piano. This would be his first surgical procedure, and he was understandably nervous. Since I knew him personally, I tried to give him a little privacy as they prepped him to have his umbilical hernia repaired. I busied myself on the opposite side of the room, but the anesthesiologist called me over after a few minutes.

"I think the patient is trying to say something, and I can't understand him."

"Brother Freddy, are you having any pain?" His eyes were a little glazed, but he smiled and continued to talk.

"Wait a minute. He's singing!" I listened a little more closely. The words were a little slurred, but I was definitely hearing "Power in the Blood" (Quite the choice considering his surroundings!).

"He's singing hymns?" The anesthesiologist was surprised. "Well, that's a new one!"

Freddy continued his song until he finally went to sleep.

After the surgery, we bustled about cleaning the room, and sure enough, we heard it again. Freddy was coming to with another hymn! I chuckled as I pushed his bed into the recovery room, hung up the IV bag, and placed the blood pressure cuff on his arm. It was time to really wake Freddy up now.

The anesthesiologist shook him gently as I said, "Brother Freddy, wake up. You've had your surgery." He squinted at me groggily and smiled, "Halleluuuuujah!" Then he continued with his repertoire of favorite hymns as he gradually returned to consciousness.

I was amazed. Singing in surgery! Whoever heard of something like that! What a testimony!

I want to be Freddy. On my darkest day, during my most painful hour, when I can't even see straight, I want to keep my song. I want to praise Him when it's tough. That's when the world will find out what's truly in my heart. Do I really believe what I've been saying on the good days? It takes really bad day to find out. I hope I do as well as Freddy did.

Blessed be Your name
In the land that is plentiful
Where Your streams of abundance flow
Blessed be Your name.
And blessed be Your name
When I'm found in the desert place
Though I walk through the wilderness
Blessed be Your name.

Every blessing you pour out
I'll turn back to praise.
And when the darkness closes in, Lord,
Still I will say
Blessed be the name of the Lord.
Blessed be Your name.
Blessed be the name of the Lord.
Blessed be Your glorious name.

Blessed be Your name
When the sun's shining down on me
When the world's all that it should be
Blessed be Your name.
And blessed be Your name
When the road's marked with suffering
Though there's pain in the offering
Blessed be Your name.

You give and take away,
You give and take away,
My heart will choose to say,
Lord, blessed be Your name.

-"Blessed be Your Name" by Matt Redman

Free at Last

2011-03-16T20:10:00.000-07:00

What an exciting day! We always look forward to the medical brigades we coordinate through Medical Missions Outreach. The last time we held a brigade, we had a surgical team perform hernia and gallbladder procedures in the local public hospital, in addition to the general clinic held at a local public school; we plan to have these surgeries once again this year, next Monday through Thursday.

This year, two doctors flew in early to help with preoperative consults for the surgical candidates. Since I am responsible for coordinating the surgical team, I assisted Dr. Waller and Dr. Bray this morning and translated for these consults.

When we first arrived at the hospital, we noticed quite a few policemen walking around the premises. Honduran policeman will definitely draw a foreigner's attention; they carry large AK-47s. We wondered what in the world was going on at the hospital. There are always security guards, but these policemen were all over!

It wasn't long before we found out. We were on our second consult when the head nurse stuck her head in the room. "Can you see the prisoners now? We shouldn't keep the police waiting long."

"Huh?" I was too startled to translate right away. I informed Dr. Waller of our next two patients' status; he raised his eyebrows, shrugged, and said, "Well, send them in!"

Two policemen escorted the first patient in...in handcuffs. I was a little nervous when they began removing them, but just tried to smile and act as if everyone were escorted in this way. After the exam, he began to tell us about his life. He'd trusted Christ as a boy and gone to church faithfully; but as a young man he'd made some poor choices and run from the Lord. Dr. Waller encouraged him to make things right and return to the Lord.

"Yes, I'm just like the prodigal son!" the prisoner exclaimed.

The second prisoner came in without handcuffs, but he looked like he needed them a lot more than the first guy! This guy was built like a linebacker, had a long ponytail down his back, and wore a scowl on his scarred face. He looked like he'd seen it all. If I'd run into him downtown, I'd probably have been terrified.

To my great surprise, he spoke in English: "I'm here because I have a hernia."

The doctors examined him and we learned his story. He was Honduran, but his grandfather was a Native American (Apache) who had come to Honduras at some point.

Dr. Waller asked him, "Can you imagine what it would be like if someone walked into the jail and offered to pay for you to go free? We can't pay your jail sentence, but Someone has already paid the price for your sin debt." He began to share with this man what Christ had done for him. Dr. Bray explained how he could decide to accept the free gift of salvation offered to him. His hard face melted, line by line, until he finally nodded: "I will do that today."

He bowed his head, and I wanted in amazement as Dr. Waller led him in prayer. He repented of his sins and asked the Lord to save him.

This is why we are here! I can't wait to find out how the Lord works this week through the medical brigade. Please pray for our efforts. We want to show the sick and hurting the love we know through our Savior Jesus Christ. Every patient we see will hear the gospel and make a crucial decision. Pray that lives will be changed for eternity!

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Did you miss the stories from our last brigade? You'll want to read:

"Searching for a Way Out: Maria's Story"

"Fighting for His Life: Maynor's Story" (BE ADVISED: GRAPHIC IMAGES)

A Change of Heart

2011-03-14T07:40:00.000-07:00

The stories I share aren’t usually as personal as this one, but I’m not sure why. God’s greatest miracles aren’t usually things that happen to us; they are how He works in us, changing our hearts.

Last year about this time, I began to struggle with discontentment. It all started when a house down the road from us became available. We went and looked around with the owner one afternoon. As the tour progressed, my eyes grew wider and wider.

This house was nice. Really nice. It had not one, but two bathtubs. I would no longer have to wait for furlough to take a nice long bath. Not to mention how much Claire would enjoy bathtime; four year-olds are not fans of showers. The home also boasted a hot water heater! I immediately began to dream of washing the dishes with hot water once again. The living spaces were air-conditioned. I thought of our own kitchen, dining room and living room, and how hot they get, especially when we have company over (See, I was thinking of others!). The house was newer and prettier—I loved the colors she had chosen and the beautiful tile floors. There were real glass windows instead of the louvered kind we had. The yard was fully enclosed by a giant security wall with electric current running across the top. Wow, we certainly wouldn’t have to worry about break-ins! I thought of our chain-link fence running down one side of our current property and how insecure I felt sometimes. This would be great! Claire could play in the yard without me watching her like a hawk!

“Well, this house is beautiful, but I’m sure the rent's out of our price range,” Robbie told the owner. “We can’t pay more than $*** per month, and we have a really good deal where we are.”

“Oh, I would let you have it for that!” she agreed. “We can go to a lawyer and work on the paperwork.”

We were speechless. This is amazing! Thank you, Lord!

I was already redecorating in my mind. I measured my curtains, deciding which ones to use in the new, larger rooms. We could move the air conditioners that we had purchased for our bedrooms to the new house; since she had already installed AC in all bedrooms and the living room, I could put one of ours in the kitchen! I could cook without sweating like I’d run a marathon! I was absolutely giddy with excitement.

I never saw it coming. Had I been paying better attention to my husband’s face, I might have been forewarned. We prayed about it that night, emailed my parents to ask them to pray, and went to bed. The next morning, he told me: “Chris, I don’t have peace about taking that house.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me.” The Lord had given us that house! I was sure of it! How could I live here with no hot water, cooking in a kitchen with broken tile and no AC, being embarrassed of toilets with hard water stains (Will our company think I don’t clean them?), when such a beautiful, secure house was right down the street. And the rent was less than we had paid for our first little apartment in the States!

“I think the house is just…too nice. Can you picture the poor people from our church being comfortable there?”

"But, but…there are also people in our church who live in houses just like that! And we’re American! They expect us to live like that.”

“I just don’t have peace about it.”

And that was the end of it. Just like that, the dream died. Lord, please don’t let me become discontent over this. I had been perfectly happy in our current home for five years. But now I sat down and stared our cracked bedroom wall with its peeling paint. Why would He let a beautiful home become available, dangle it in front of me, only to snatch it away? I could not understand.

Furthermore, why were we in our thirties now with no home of our own? Other missionaries we knew had purchased homes by getting loans from churches or family members. We had been frugal with our money and saved enough for a down payment, but we simply couldn’t finance a home with the outrageous interest rates here. It wouldn’t be wise. So we saved and prayed. I often thought of just purchasing some lot out in the country back in the States and hanging on to it for an investment. At least then we’d have something in our name. That’s what you are supposed to have by our age.

My thinking was being controlled by a list of rules in my mind. Rules about what it meant to “be a good steward.” Doesn’t that sound biblical? We should have a certain percent of our income in savings, set aside a certain percent for retirement, and we should own property. Those are the rules. Robbie and I are both tightwads when it comes to spending and had worked hard to save for the future; but somehow, we’d never had the opportunity to purchase a home. What were we doing wrong?

Over the next few months, the Lord began working in my heart; He started by throwing my “Rulebook of Good Stewardship” out the window. What if He was calling our family not to own a home? What if we don’t live in the best house we can afford? Is it the right decision just because we can afford it? What does He want to do with our money? Somehow, I’d always believed that if a good thing became available and the Lord provided the funds, He wanted us to have it. Was there more to it than that?

I’ve been broken to realize how materialistic my thinking was. What a horribly limited, genie-in-a-bottle role I’d assigned to my Heavenly Father! How could I demand these “essentials” from the One who didn’t have a place to lay His head on this earth? I was the exact opposite of Christ-like.

Little by little, He’s opened my eyes to a more eternal perspective. This is not it. I know that. But I’ve not lived like it. Who cares if I never get my dream house here on earth? So what if I’m not comfortable? What if I’m not supposed to be?

With His Word, He’s been cutting right through the lies I’ve believed one at a time. And He’s still working. It’s a painful process, but I’m seeing some things clearly for the first time and I can’t wait to discover more. I'm not "there" yet; I'm still working on this area daily, praying for victory. But the joy and freedom He is giving me through this process is indescribable. I don’t know what He has in store for our family, but I don’t ever want to limit Him again.

Note: Aside from the Bible, which has transformed my thinking more than anything, the Lord has also used two books in particular over the past 9 months to work in my heart and help me gain a more eternal perspective: Heaven by Randy Alcorn and Radical by David Platt. I highly recommend both (to read and reread!).

Pass the pina colada, por favor!

2011-03-07T11:44:00.000-08:00

Admit it. You've thought it. But you're afraid to ask.

Just what exactly do missionaries DO all day?

Good question! And one you should never be afraid to ask! Perhaps this update video Team Honduras did for our (the Ellises' and Masseys') sending church will help you answer that question...Enjoy!

Not Again!!!

2011-02-28T12:16:00.000-08:00

Although we've been on the mission field for six years now, I doubt we'll ever get used to the rampant theft that comes with life in a third-world country.

Our team has been robbed of both major items (The Goinses have had a vehicle stolen, and their house was broken into while they were on furlough.) and minor ones (packages, books, cell phones, stroller, etc.).

We all have installed a security device called a Mul-T-Lock on our vehicles.

When I park my car, I remove the long rod from its holder and insert it into the slot, sliding it across the gear shift, locking the vehicle into "park."

Robbie's truck is a stick-shift, so the device works a little differently. His u-shaped lock hooks around the shifter and secures it in "reverse." If someone stole his truck, they'd have to make their getaway backwards!

Any attempt to cut through the lock automatically disables the engine. This Israeli technology is very effective and has become popular in countries with high rates of auto theft. Unless you have the specially-designed key, cars with Mul-T-Locks are very difficult to steal.

Yesterday, a thief broke into the Goinses' car while we were eating lunch and was apparently deterred by the Mul-T-Lock. He decided to grab what he could; Dallita returned to the car to find the lock broken and her church bag gone. What was inside was of no value to the thief, but it was a great loss for Dallita. Her Bible, journal, and music books were inside. Good music is hard to find in Honduras, and she'd worked hard to accumulate several good piano, chorus, and hymn books for the music ministry over the past few years. Many were purchased in the States and will be impossible to quickly replace.

I'm so thankful the Lord has placed His own "Mul-T-Lock" on our joy. A thief can take our music, but he can't touch the song in our hearts. We are here to serve Him. It's natural to feel discouraged and wonder why the Lord would allow something like this to happen to someone who is busy serving Him. But that temporary discouragement gives way to peace, knowing He is in control and sees the big picture.

But let all those that put their trust in thee rejoice: let them ever shout for joy, because thou defendest them: let them also that love thy name be joyful in thee. -Psalm 5:11

A Beautiful Spectrum

2011-02-14T11:54:00.000-08:00

¡Guao! ¡Qué blanquita sos, Hermana Cristina! Wow, you are so white, Sister Christine!” My face burned as I looked in horror at the lady who had just commented on my ghostly pallor. And I had been so proud of the tan I’d been getting from Saturday Bible Clubs in the tropical sun! I couldn’t believe she’d be so rude!

After a few months on the field, I realized that the Hondurans thought they were complimenting me on my pale skin! Dark skin here is indicative of lower class people (many of Mayan descent) who live in the mountains. Those with more Spanish and European blood are taller and lighter skinned. In Honduras, fair skin is desired! When I realized how the ladies coveted fair skin, I described to them how American women spend a lot of money on tanning beds and creams just to obtain a lovely brown complexion. I told them that the prettiest, most popular girl in my class in middle school was of Latin descent. All the other girls admired her jet black hair and bronze skin tone. The Honduran women just looked at me like I was crazy—tanning on purpose?

When Claire was born, the ladies oohed and aahed over her blonde curls and blue eyes. I was constantly stopped in the grocery store by women wanting to know what kind of shampoo I used on her hair, as if that made the difference. After numerous unsuccessful attempts to explain genetics, I finally started answering, “Johnson’s.” It was much easier that way!

One teen in our church refused to believe that Claire was Honduran just as she was. No matter how many times I explained to her that Claire was born in Honduras and had citizenship, she said, “No, she had to born in the USA!” I described which hospital I delivered in and told her that I certainly didn’t return to the States to have my daughter. Finally the girl cried in exasperation, “Well, then how did she come out so WHITE, then?”

We laughingly told these stories later, but not all racial comments we’ve heard here have been so innocent. I’m not sure why, but somehow I’d always viewed racism as an American issue. I thought that living in another country, we’d never experience racial tension. Surely we’d never hear racial slurs or offensive jokes once we left. I was dead wrong.

Racism is not an American problem; it’s a mankind problem. Discrimination is rampant in all cultures, because of man’s sinful nature.

I recently read that perhaps one reason God chose to create different races and cultures was to accomplish His goal of creating man “in His image.” Just one man or one culture would greatly limit the reflection of our Lord. Instead, He made people of many colors, shapes, and sizes. He created an amazing spectrum of races and cultures to give us a multi-dimensional glimpse of Himself. If this is true, then racism is a most offensive sin, because it is a rejection of the prismatic nature of God Himself. There are certainly sinful cultural practices that the Christian should never overlook in the name of “multiculturalism”; but the inverse is also true. There is beauty and uniqueness in each culture that points us to the profound nature of our Creator.

I’m so thankful for the church that the Lord has given us, made up of precious souls from different classes, races, and cultures.

And they sung a new song, saying, Thou… wast slain, and hast redeemed us to God by thy blood out of every kindred, and tongue, and people, and nation. -Revelation 5:9

Enjoy a few pictures taken at our Valentine's Banquet on Friday night. We are very thankful for the couples of our church!

Save the World, Lose my Child?

2011-01-28T06:22:00.000-08:00

The pace of life on the mission field genuinely surprised me. Being used to the busyness of ministry in the States, I had braced myself for the inevitable boredom that was to come. I envisioned moving from New York City to Mayberry. This was going to take some adjusting.

I soon discovered ministry is busy wherever you are. There are church services, special activities, discipleships, counseling sessions, visitation, and staff meeting. Somewhere in there, I'm supposed to find time to prepare meals and clean house. With the arrival of a group from the U.S., life becomes a whirlwind.

Where does family time fit into all this? Will Claire suffer from Mama and Daddy being on call 24/7?

I'm the first to confess, I don't have it all figured out. I know the key is balance...now how do we strike it? But I would like to share some things the Lord has taught Robbie and me over the past few years about a harmony of family time and ministry.

1. My husband is the head of our home. The Lord placed my husband as the head of this family; no other man has this role. The Lord gives Robbie wisdom to decide exactly what our family can handle. Every family should serve in the church; but not every family can be involved to the same capacity. I must trust the leadership of my husband. He would tell you that I tend to frequently over commit. I recall one weekend in particular that we had a church event the weekend before we left for furlough in the United States. Already in the flurry of packing and organizing for our trip, I was also in charge of the meal for this event. Instead of asking someone for help, or ordering chop-suey from the Chinese restaurant (as my husband suggested), I decided to make the food myself. For one hundred people. Somewhere around 1AM, I was standing in the kitchen peeling eggs for the potato salad, rolling my eyes at myself. Dumb, dumb, dumb! Why didn't I listen to my husband? As hard as it is to admit at times, there's a reason I'm not in charge!

2. My relationship with the Lord is top priority. It becomes pretty obvious when I become too busy doing and not being with the Lord. My schedule is overflowing, I frantically rush from activity to activity, and I begin to resent my ministry. If everything I do doesn't revolve around Him, it will quickly fall apart. And my daughter needs to see that. Years ago, before I was married, my cousin Kimberly shared something the Lord was teaching her that really stuck with me. She had the habit of rising early to have her devotions before her two young boys were awake each morning. But one day it occurred to her that her little ones didn't see Mama reading her Bible and praying each day. Yes, she probably had fewer distractions with the boys asleep, but it was important to her that they know she had her quiet time with the Lord. She began waiting until they were awake, then sent them out to play on the patio just after breakfast. They could see each other through the glass, and they knew this was Mama's time to be with the Lord. I've incorporated the same habit now that I have Claire; some mornings she even sits beside me and looks through a Bible picture book because she wants to "have her devotions" as well. My quiet time is the most important part of the day, and all other activities must take a backseat to my spending time with the Lord.

3. My daughter will benefit from our family's involvement in the ministry. We all hear horror stories of pastors becoming so involved in the ministry that they lose their own children. Certainly there is a dangerous extreme of trying to "save the world" yet losing one's own family in the process. But somehow, I believe the devil has deceived us at times with the lie that the ministry is competing against our family and we must be on guard for fear of losing our children by "serving the Lord too much." The ministry is not the antagonist of my family time. If we are following Biblical principles and submitting to the leadership of the head our homes, I believe the Lord will give us a beautiful balance and enable us to serve the Him with our children. Some of my favorite times with Claire have been watching her sweep the church alongside me, her chubby hands grasping a small broom that we bought just so she could clean the Lord's house. She plays with children on visitation while we talk to their parents about their salvation. She passes out napkins at the men's meeting while I serve the plates of food. She loves being part of the ministry!

In a small seaside town about an hour north of our church, lives a national pastor whom our church supports. While we ate dinner with him and his wife one night, they shared their salvation testimonies, then began to tell how their children had trusted Christ. The story of their son's decision was one of the sweetest I've ever heard.

"One Sunday night, a visitor raised his hand during the invitation,
indicating that he wanted to trust Christ. I went to him and asked him to go
next door to my house to talk further. But I saw that my four year-old son would
be left alone in the pew, since my wife was praying with a lady, so I decided to
bring him along with me. In our living room, I gave Axel, Jr., a basket of toys
and he began to play quietly as I shared the gospel with the visitor. I didn't
think my little boy was even listening as I read the verses from the Roman's
Road; I knelt to lead the man in a prayer of repentance, and when I opened my eyes, I was surprised to see little Axel kneeling beside me, his lips moving in a
silent prayer. He never said a word to me; he simply finished praying then
returned to his toys. The next morning at breakfast, he announced to the family,
'I'm going to heaven, now, too!' My wife looked at me in surprise, and I asked
Axel why he believed he was going to heaven. 'Because I prayed and asked Jesus
into my heart last night!' Ever since that night, Axel has always given a
confident testimony of his decision to trust Christ as Savior."

What a beautiful example of a man's service to the Lord resulting in the salvation of his son! It's my prayer that our family's involvement in the ministry influences Claire's heart for eternity. Sometimes, it may mean saying no. Other times, it may mean an incredibly busy week. But the Lord will give us the wisdom to know how to serve the Lord together as a family.

I was glad when they said unto me, Let us go into the house of the Lord. -Psalm 122:1

The Mango Tree

2011-01-04T12:26:00.000-08:00

One of my most treasured possessions is my copy of A Child's Garden of Verses by Robert Louis Stevenson. There's an inscription inside the cover in my grandma's familiar scrawl: "To Christine from D-daddy and Grandma, 1981." When I found out I was pregnant with Claire, my mom dug the beloved book out of the attic and brought it to me in Honduras. I was surprised to find I could still recite many of these treasured poems, especially the one about Leery, the lamplighter. I have loved rediscovering the beauty of these pages with Claire, who never tires of the galloping rhythm of "Windy Nights," her personal favorite.

Another poem describes the joy and wonder of a child when he climbs into a cherry tree and discovers new worlds beyond his own yard. I made a collage of pictures of Claire in our yard a few years back and tweaked the poem to fit our own story:

Up into the mango tree,
Who should climb but little me?
I held the trunk with both my hands
And looked abroad on foreign lands.

I like to picture a knowing smile on my Heavenly Father's face as He listened to a younger me dreaming of looking "abroad on foreign lands" that lay beyond my own yard. Little did I know what He had in store! As He shaped and molded this great adventure for me, He put more care into each detail than Stevenson did into perfecting each line of poetry. She's going to love this!

One of the devil's most widely-accepted lies is that following God's will is dull. Nothing could be further from the truth! I've found excitement, fulfillment, and complete satisfaction in serving Him.

I often wonder where Claire's path will take her. What mountains will she climb? Which rivers will she cross? Whom will she meet along the way? I can't see the future, but I do know that if she follows God's will for her life, she'll find surprises and twists she can't possibly imagine, meticulously crafted just for her.

God's gifts put man's best dreams to shame. ~Elizabeth Barrett Browning

Sticky Fingers

2010-12-23T08:35:00.000-08:00

We liked Mayra from the start. She was a troubled teen from a Honduran family who had immigrated to the United States. When her mother was diagnosed with cancer, Mayra’s behavior became a great burden to the family, and they sent her to live with her grandmother in Honduras, where she had been born. Although she definitely had her difficulties, she was friendly and a joy to be around. She began to come to church, some youth activities, and even over to visit us at the house now and then.

She showed up at our gate one evening in tears. She had gotten into a fight with her uncle’s family and had left in anger. We gave her supper, counseled her for over an hour, and insisted that she call her grandmother. We offered to let her stay overnight with us (with her grandmother’s permission) so that everyone could cool off before we took her back in the morning. We let her sleep in Claire’s room, and moved Claire into our room for the night.

Everything seemed to be fine the next week, but, sure enough, she appeared at the gate again on Saturday evening. It was not a good time; we had a group from the United States in for the week and were responsible for fixing meals and transporting them from place to place. But this was important; once again, we sat down with Mayra, listened to her side, and counseled her to apologize for her part in the family dissent. Again, we allowed her to stay the night, and I lent her clothes for Sunday morning service. After church, she went to visit some friends, and we returned home. She said she would return for her backpack later that afternoon.

After I put Claire down for her nap, I began to pick up the typical weekend clutter that had accumulated in the house. As I put towels away into the hall closet, I noticed the flatiron my parents had sent for my birthday was missing. Where in the world did I leave it? After searching for a few minutes, I began to get a sick feeling in my stomach. More things, as well as a small amount of cash I had in a drawer, were missing as well. Someone had taken them.

I went to Claire’s room, sat on the bed, and stared at Mayra’s book bag in the corner. She wouldn’t! We took her in, fed her, lent her clothes. She could have asked us for anything, and we would have given it to her! There’s got to be another explanation.

I went to Robbie’s office and filled him in. “What should I do? I don’t want to go through her things! That seems like a breach of trust…”

“Well, I can’t think of another place those things might be. Just go open the front pocket and see if you see anything suspicious.”

Sure enough, I opened the front pocket and thank-you notes from my drawer, pens and pencils, and pictures of Claire fell onto the bed. The other pockets contained larger items: an old baby bottle, small pictures frames, ponytail holders. The flatiron wasn’t there. In fact, everything in the backpack had very little value. If you were going to break our trust, why didn’t you at least take something worth stealing? This doesn’t make sense. There was nothing there (including the flatiron) that I wouldn’t have given her if she’d asked.

I was angry and hurt. We were trying to help Mayra! Why in the world would she steal from us?

We talked to her when she returned home and she apologized. She admitted to the items we found, but never did confess to taking the flatiron. It was long gone. We hugged and “made up” but it wasn’t over for me. Robbie was able to joke about it that same day when we showed up late at Matt and Dallita's because of dealing with the situation: "We had a family emergency! All our thank-you notes were stolen!" But I wasn't laughing along with him inside; I still felt hurt by Mayra’s actions. It took me weeks to truly forgive her.

How do we love, forgive, and minister to those who hurt and disappoint us? I’ve poured myself into someone and invested in her life, only to see her drop out of church, offend me, or lie to my face. How can I not take it personally? How is the failure of someone I have mentored not a slap in the face? How can I go to my next discipleship without thinking, “Maybe she too will let me down”?

It’s been one of the hardest battles of the ministry for me—loving people. I’ve got to love them as Christ did, with all their scars, their secrets, their skeletons in the closet. Why? Because I’ve got mine. So the minute I start to feel insulted, to feel personally offended by a wrong, I’ve become too proud. I’m mistakenly thinking, “I’d never do anything like that! I deserve better than this.”

No matter how many hours I invest in a person, she doesn’t “owe me.” She is not obligated to take my advice. She must make her own decisions. And when she doesn’t do what I want her to, that doesn’t sever our relationship. I’ve got to keep loving her. Because that’s what Christ did for me.

Love God. Love people. Unconditionally. It’s the hardest thing I’ll ever do, but I can’t have an effective ministry without unconditional, long-suffering, limitless love.

Help!

2010-11-19T20:17:00.000-08:00

I glanced at the clock on the dashboard and pressed the gas in our Nissan Frontier just a little harder. I was returning from a trip to the grocery store just before lunch time. Robbie and Claire were waiting, surely hungry by now.

To my dismay, I saw a long line of cars up ahead proceeding at a snail's pace up the steep hill to the cemetery on the side of the mountain. I was going to be seriously late.

On second thought...I had frequently been with Robbie when he whipped through some back roads in the colonias at the bottom of the hill. If I could do what he did and get ahead of the procession, I'd be home in no time! I hung a sharp left and bumped down the road, weaving my way home.

Roads in Honduras don't have names, so I had to rely on my view of the mountain to keep my bearings. At the same time, I was trying to pay close attention to the road itself, which was soggy from heavy rains. After a few minutes, I realized I had gone too far to the north and would have to correct my direction by cutting through a rough neighborhood. Not good.

I breathed a sigh of relief as I headed down the last street of the colonia and saw the steep road up the mountain up ahead. There was no sign of the procession; I had done it!

Just about that time, I felt my wheels slip. The rainy season had nearly destroyed this road, and the mud was affecting my steering. I corrected and recorrected, praying I wouldn't bump into any of the walls or fences lining the road.

I neared the final turn and saw that the road ended in a small U. Both ends connected to the next road. Why were there two? The one on the left was very muddy; the one on the right was grassy. Afraid to brake in the mud, I had to make a quick decision. Wanting out of the mire as quickly as possible, I opted for the grassy path. Bad move.

The entire front of the truck dropped into a huge ditch lying beneath the grass. My head hit the roof, and I knew...I was stuck.

I got out to inspect the damage. The grill guard was caught on the ridge of the drop off, and the entire front right tire was suspended in air. There was no way I could drive out of this one. I was going to have to call Robbie.

Back in the truck, I locked the door and grabbed the cell phone: "Robbie, can you come get me? I'm stuck at the bottom of the hill..." He was on his way before I could finish the sentence. He knew exactly what kind of neighborhood this was.

I double-checked the locks, got the cell phone out of sight, and began to pray. It wasn't too long before I was spotted.

El Chele staggered down the road and squinted at the truck leaning precariously into the ditch. “Just great,” I muttered. El Chele was a resistolero, a drug addict who got his highs from sniffing glue (a common addiction in many third-world countries). We’d been hassled by this guy before, and he was persistent. But Robbie had always been with me; this was much scarier. I sank a little lower in the seat, hoping the tint on the windows was dark enough.

It wasn’t. El Chele peered in and rapped on the glass.

“I’m fine! My husband’s coming down the road! He should be here any minute.” I tried to look confident, but my heart was beating out of my chest. El Chele continued to knock on my window. He wasn’t going anywhere.

“Lord, I need your help here!”

Just then, help came flying down the hill in a gold pick-up. Robbie and Nathan (our partner) had arrived! By now, a small crowd had gathered around the truck. Most of them didn’t look any better than El Chele, but that didn’t matter now. My knight in shining armor was here!

My scary experience brought to mind a Bible verse I'd often read:

God is our refuge and strength, a very present help in trouble. -Psalm 46:1

I've taken quite a few "wrong turns" on my Christian walk. But when I cry out to my Heavenly Father, He's faithful to rescue me from the mess I've made. Today, I'm praising Him for being my Knight in Shining Armor. Is He yours?

Iguana...It's What's for Dinner!

2010-11-19T06:32:00.000-08:00

Any missionary can tell you one of the questions we are asked most when we return to the United States is, "What's the strangest thing you've ever eaten?" I've eaten some pretty odd things (i.e. cow stomach soup), but iguana has to be at the top of my list! So here's a story in pictures! Enjoy!

The hunt begins!

Something's crawling around in that tree!

Can you spot our dinner?

Got one!

The mighty hunter returns!

They caught this one alive!

Cleaning the meat

You'll need vegetable oil, chicken bouillon, water, milk, onion, garlic, and lots and lots of fresh cilantro!

Admit it...this looks pretty good!

Who needs turkey??? Iguana--it's the other white meat.

Under Attack!

2010-11-09T12:22:00.000-08:00

The yelps and barks from the side yard startled me, and the dish I'd been washing dropped into the sink. I peered out the window in time to see a Honduran woman on the other side of our chain link side fence stoop down, grab a rock, and hurl it at Roxy, our two year-old Rottweiler. Drying my hands on my apron, I flew out the side door and called out, "Stop throwing rocks! She can't hurt you!" The fact that our guard dog couldn't possibly leap over the seven-foot fence seemed to have escaped the woman, who continued to hurl rocks as fast as she could grab them. Roxy dodged the rocks and continued to bark furiously.

I grabbed Roxy by the collar and tried to no avail to drag her away from the fence. "Lady! Stop throwing rocks! She's not doing anything to you!" Now the rocks started coming in my direction!

Robbie had been collecting fruit from the cashew tree in the back yard. Hearing the commotion, he started walking toward the fence. He was surprised to see his apron-clad wife yelling at a small woman, chasing the dog in circles, and dodging rocks right and left. My attacker had not slowed in the least. As she continued to hurl rocks, the grimy dress she was wearing began to creep down to her waist. Robbie was almost doubled over laughing at the sight of me being pummeled by a half-naked, angry woman. He heard me yell, "Stop throwing rocks! And, good grief, pull your DRESS up!"

He helped me drag Roxy to the other side of the yard, and admonished me, "Chris, she's not all there, babe."

"What do you mean?" I looked a little more closely at my attacker. I felt my face grow hot as reality sank in. I had been yelling at a mentally challenged person. The poor woman had probably been frightened to death by our dog's barks and hadn't realized Roxy couldn't get to her. She obviously didn't understand what was going on at all. I had seen her as the aggressor and instantly made the situation worse by yelling. I ran to her to calm her down and apologize for my behavior.

Unfortunately, this isn't the only time I've been guilty of misjudging a person. Many times I focus on the rocks being hurled at me, failing to look beyond them at the hurt, the fear, the misunderstanding on the other side of the fence. I take things personally, I jump to conclusions, I preach my opinion. How many times have I stopped to ask questions? To try to see the situation from another's point of view? To show compassion?

I've got learn to shut my mouth and look past the rocks.

Much learning does not teach understanding. -Heraclitus

Out of our Element

2010-11-02T11:30:00.000-07:00

"Daddy, what is THAT?" Robbie turned around to see a big-eyed little girl staring at the metal box that magically produced a stream of water.

"That's a water fountain," he replied, chuckling to himself.

"I'm thirsty!" she exclaimed, skipping over to the large box. She positioned herself in front of it, closed her eyes, and opened her mouth as wide as she could.

"Umm, Claire, you have to lean in like this, and push the button," Robbie instructed. She's a little behind the times...

Water fountains aren't the only magical treat Claire has encountered over the past couple of weeks. Our first trip to a mall on a Friday night proved just as fascinating. Robbie and I walked around feeling a little self-conscious. We were back! But did we look the part? I was in my own country, in a familiar place, but I didn't belong anymore. I felt like people were staring at us. "Do we look normal?" I whispered to Robbie.

He looked a little uncomfortable himself. "I think so...this is weird." We tried our best to nonchalantly browse the stores. I was careful not to gawk at price tags or stare at the weird sandal/boot shoes all the girls seemed to be wearing. Blend, blend! I told myself.

But four-year old Claire's eyes grew huge at the large bungee-rigged, bouncing contraption in the middle of the atrium. Then she almost yanked my arm off when we passed a large assortment of giant gumball machines. She found the smell of Cinnabon intoxicating. By the time we got to the food court, she couldn't contain herself any longer...

"I LOVE this place!" she shouted, twirling around with her hands thrown into the air.

Our faces flushed as the people at nearby tables stared our way. Robbie grabbed Claire's hand, muttering, "Way to blend."

We have been here a couple of weeks now, and I'm still not sure we are blending back into American society very well. Claire addresses anyone of another nationality (like our Chinese waitress or a Bahamian hotel steward) in Spanish. Elevators are thrilling rides. Toilet paper can now go into the potty. And Walmart, well, as she says, "I think this store has everything in the whole wide world!"

Life is anything but normal right now. We are traveling constantly and eating out
quite a bit. Robbie and I looked at each other in horror when Claire exclaimed, "In Honduras, you have to cook your food. But in the United States...they just bring it to you!"

So if you are out and about this week, and you see three weirdos oohing and aahing over a slushie machine or an all-you-can-eat buffet, just ignore us. Culture shock works both ways.

You need me...right?

2010-10-07T07:36:00.000-07:00

Meetings, meetings, meetings. Every year about this time, we have our annual Staff Retreat to plan the upcoming year. We have a notebook with dividers for each team member to fill with his notes. One by one, all six team members go over their areas of responsibility in order to review what has been accomplished in the current year; then we give suggestions, ideas, and a specific plan for the upcoming year. How can we grow? Expand? Reach more?

This year, to save money, we didn't leave town for our "retreat." We retreated to Garris's bedroom (the toddler son of our partners, Nathan and Jennifer)! We met for three days, discussing, planning, scheduling. We finally have a 2011 calendar that will work! Now it just needs to be bathed in prayer and carried out.

One item of discussion that differs from any pastoral staff retreat in the U.S. is furlough. When a team member goes on furlough, he must present a plan in which his duties are covered for the 3 months or so that he will be gone. Robbie and I leave next week, so it was our turn to discuss furlough at this particular meeting.

As I went over who would teach my class, print bulletins, and mentor my disciples, my heart began to ache. How can I leave? What pastor and pastor's wife leave their church for three long months? What about finishing the new building? How can I not be here to decorate it at Christmas for the first time? What about my October ladies' meeting? Will Miriam, my mentoree, be okay while I'm gone? What about my 2-5 year-olds class? Will they wonder where I am? Understand why I had to go?

But as I looked around at the faces at the table, I knew. Nothing would change. Dallita will teach in my place at the ladies' meeting, and it will go smoothly. Jennifer can handle the rowdy 2-5 year-olds, probably much better than I can. The bulletin will be printed and on the table every Sunday morning. They could handle it.
I love being part of a team. I was a part of many teams growing up: basketball, volleyball, fast-pitch softball (my favorite!). When I made the varsity basketball team in 8th grade, I was thrilled! It was a dream come true. I only played in four games the entire season, and most of the time I went in just a minute or so before the final buzzer sounded (When it was too late to mess anything up!). But I practiced hard all summer, determined to be better. In 9th grade, I started every game! Looking back, it was probably more because of how many starters we lost rather than my improved skill, but it was thrilling nonetheless...I felt needed by the team for the first time! I was important!

Team Honduras is the best team I've ever "played" for. But I have come to realize, that I am not really needed. It's a privilege to be on this team. And if I don't come through, if I throw in the towel, God can easily use another in my place. I don't play because I have to. I play because I get to.

We've also discovered a few wonderful benefits to these long absences by each team member. First, we appreciate each other much, much more after we have had to cover their duties for a few months! There are so many things we all do that go unnoticed and unappreciated until someone else has to fill in. We love and respect each other much more as a result of these furloughs.

Second, there is an openness and a humility because we have walked in each other's shoes. If Dallita has a suggestion about how to improve the Ladies' Ministry, I don't think: Well, wait a minute! That's my area! It's none of her business. She's taught ladies' meetings in my place many times. She knows that ministry like I do. I listen to her ideas, because she's done the job, too. And I benefit from the fresh perspective.

Any missionary will tell you that leaving his field to go on furlough is difficult. But every missionary must acknowledge that he has a split ministry. I minister to the people of Iglesia Bautista El Faro, but there are also those State-side that we are responsible to minister to over the next three months. Pray with us that this furlough would be safe, effective, and God-honoring.

A Dios Sea La Gloria

2010-09-26T15:22:00.001-07:00

We have just finished one of the most exciting weeks of ministry we've had in Honduras. I still can't believe we are finally in our own church building. So much work, prayers, sweat, and tears have gone into making this day possible. To God be the glory!

Below is the link to the video on Facebook (with English subtitles) that our partner in the ministry Matt Goins put together for our series of inauguration services. Please take a few minutes to reflect with us on all the Lord has done here in just over five years; we truly serve a great God.

"To God Be the Glory"

The Battle Wages

2010-09-14T14:15:00.000-07:00

“If only there were evil people somewhere insidiously committing evil deeds, and it were necessary only to separate them from the rest of us and destroy them. But the line dividing good and evil cuts through the heart of every human being. And who is willing to destroy a piece of his own heart?"

-Alexander Solzhenitzyn, The Gulag Archipelago

Last week I headed out to the building site to work in Robbie's office. It's been a little project of mine for the past few months to get it ready for him. Now that Moving Day is almost here, it's finally time to start working on the details.

In order to prepare concrete walls for paint, they must be scraped with a metal spatula and sanded. It took me an entire day just to smooth the walls to an acceptable finish, though I did get a late start due to a protesters' road block that morning. After the walls were sanded, I cleaned them with a heavy-duty broom. When the cloud of concrete dust finally settled, they looked pretty good.

The next morning I applied a coat of primer to seal the walls and keep the paint from popping off from the moisture. Eric (*name has been changed), a young man who trusted Christ as a child and recently rededicated his life to the Lord, works on the crew out at the building site. Although he was laying tile this particular week, his specialty is painting (You have to know how to do a little of EVERYTHING when you work construction in Honduras!). I consulted him several times about the sanding technique and how to apply the primer. He showed me a few tricks and lent me a device he had fashioned to clean excess paint off the roller right out of the bucket. He even taped off a window for me as I worked, so that I wouldn't have to stop. As we worked, we listened to BBN, one of the few Christian stations broadcast in Honduras. The program "Unshackled" was playing, and Eric commented on how much he enjoyed that particular series. I knew Eric had a drinking problem and could relate to the stories that aired.

The next morning, I was finally able to begin painting with the colors I had selected for the room. It was exciting to see it all coming together. Eric came up to check on me, and saw me struggling to cut in the edges near the ceiling with a horribly cheap brush the paint store had sold me. "They just don't have good quality brushes here!" he sighed. "Wait a minute, I've got something you can use." He came back with his backpack and removed a 45 degree angled brush with a wooden handle. He presented it to me with obvious pride. "My twin brother works as a painter in Georgia; he sends me brushes sometimes. It'll be much easier to work with this."

I thankfully accepted the brush and soon learned he was right; I was able to work twice as fast and quickly finished the first coat. When Eric saw me beginning to put my supplies away, he offered to wash out my tray, brushes, and roller. I saw him carefully wash and dry his angled brush, then place it back in its original packaging. I felt guilty for even using it; it was clearly a prized possession.

I called my mom that night and asked if she and Dad could pick up some new brushes for me before they come down on Friday. I thought it would be a nice way to thank Eric for his help on Robbie's office.

Last night I learned the main part of the crew had finished their jobs at the church and would not be working today. I called Alex the foreman first thing this morning to see if he could get in touch with Eric; I could hire him to finish the second coat on Robbie's office so that I could work here at the house.

Alex called back a few minutes ago with bad news. He had looked for Eric for a good part of the morning and finally found him at a neighborhood bar, drunk and unable to work. My heart hurts for him, knowing what a battle he is in.

It's so tempting to herd people into groups. The good and the evil. But the truth is, we all are both. We are all in a battle. I am praying that the Lord will do a work in Eric's heart and that he will one day have his own "Unshackled" story to tell.

I also pray He will work in my own heart. May I never think that I am one of the "good." My heart is no different from Eric's; there is good, but there is evil as well. I must daily surrender my will, crucify the flesh, and pray for victory. He is the only One who has the power to unshackle.

Team Honduras Presents...Creatures!

2010-09-07T18:14:00.001-07:00

The Missionary Life

2010-09-01T10:09:00.000-07:00

Goodbyes, a plane ride,
My life’s in a crate;
New land, strange place,
My stomach’s got an ache…

¿Como está, señor?
What did he say?
Mas lento, por favor,
A hundred times a day.

Concrete walls,
And tile on the floor
Tiny geckos scamper
Behind a cupboard door.

Tropical sun,
My coke’s in a bag,
Sitting on a porch
Where time seems to drag.

Crowding in a bank line,
Praying for grace,
These people don’t know about
My personal space.

Brown tap water
Makes your belly reel.
Trip to the pharmacy,
Parasite pill.

Man beside the road
Stabbed with a knife,
No one cares to cover up,
Forgotten life.

Late night music
From the party down the street
Put a pillow on your head,
Walls shaking to the beat.

Civil unrest
And riots downtown,
Until the weary curfew ends
We’re all on lockdown.

Bible Club bug bites,
Itchy legs and feet,
Better grab the Calamine
‘Cause we forgot the Deet.

There goes the power
But it’s all right,
We’ve got a generator
To get us through the night.

Bumping down the road
In a loaded pickup truck,
If it starts to rain,
We’re all out of luck!

Going door to door
Down the dusty street,
Precious gospel given
To everyone we meet.

Sunday morning on a porch
The seats begin to fill.
Short sermon, raised hand,
Amazing thrill!

Little brown hand
Slips into my own.
She calls me, Hermana,
But I’m the only mom she’s known.

Here comes a group
From the USA!
Debbie snacks and Slim Jims
Headed our way!

Believer’s baptism
In a mountain stream,
Living testimony
Of a heart that’s clean.

Prayer letter’s due,
Furlough’s just ahead
We’re only here because of folks
Who gave as they were led.

In a borrowed minivan
We make our stateside rounds,
Been to every Cracker Barrel,
Gained twenty pounds.

Shopping with my sis
Down every Target aisle
These shoes are all so ugly!
Wait…am I out of style?

Preacher says, “Thank you, Lord,
For those who will go
To give someone the gospel,
In a place where they don’t know.”

Some seem to pity me
“That poor missionary,
Foreign land, safety threats…
Must be pretty scary!”

My mind’s eye quickly sees
A dearly-missed brown face,
And I know without a doubt,
I’d never trade my place.

In honor of some of our missionary friends (and many others not listed!):

Matt and Dallita Goins
Honduras
www.teamhonduras.com

Nathan and Jennifer Massey
Honduras
www.teamhonduras.com

Mark and Amy Coats
Honduras
Currently in Costa Rica (language school)
Journey to Honduras

Brad and Tricia Henderson
Tanzania
truth4africa

Brad and Kelleigh Edmondson
Medical Missions Outreach

LeRoy and Amber Rolston
Honduras
Rolston Ministries

Family Night

2010-08-18T07:37:00.000-07:00

Once a week, we have "Family Night" with Claire. We usually play board games, read books, or watch a movie together. I know many other families do the same. If you're looking to mix it up a little, here's an idea for a missions-themed family night.

World Missions Family Night

To prepare, choose a country and missionary family to learn about and pray for. It's a good idea to choose a couple with children about the same age as your own kids. Use the internet to learn some fun facts about the country, and try to obtain a prayer card or recent prayer letter from the missionary family so that your kids can see whom they are praying for.

Family Night begins with a great dinner. If you are brave (and your children aren't too picky!) you can try a recipe from the country you are focusing on! If you want to start smaller, a new dessert is a good idea. If you choose Honduras, or another Latin American country, here is a great homemade flan recipe from a lady in our church.

1 can of condensed milk
2 cans of evaporated milk
3 eggs
1/2 cup sugar

Preheat oven to 325 degrees. Caramelize the sugar in a heavy skillet over med-high heat until the sugar begins to melt. Shake the skillet to heat evenly, but do not stir. Once it begins to melt, reduce heat to low and cook about 5 more minutes until all the sugar is melted and golden. Stir with a wooden spoon as needed. Pour the melted sugar into the bottom of a glass 8x8 baking dish or a pie plate. Place this dish in a larger dish (13x9 works well) so that there is space all around the smaller dish.

Heat a medium saucepan of water on high heat. While it is coming to a boil, beat the milks and eggs until well-combined (but not frothy). Pour the egg/milk mixture into the 8x8 dish. When the water boils, pour it into the 13x9 baking dish so that it surrounds the smaller dish. The depth of the water should be about 1 inch.

Bake in 325 degree oven for about an hour, or until a knife inserted near the center comes out clean.

If you want to serve it warm, cool slightly on a wire rack. Before serving, loosen the edges of the flan with a knife. Invert over a large serving dish.

If you want to serve it chilled, cool on a wire rack then cover and chill in the refrigerator. Loosen edges with knife, and invert over a serving dish.

After dinner, take some time to learn about the missionary's country. A globe or a world map will help. Keep the facts fun and interesting. Try to pronounce a few words or phrases in the language of that country (You are guaranteed to get some laughs!). Read the prayer letter (or only highlight portions if it is long) and have a prayer time for the missionary family and the people of the country. Consider writing the family to tell them you prayed for them; you could also ask them questions your children may have about the mission field. Smaller children can draw pictures and dictate their letter. While they work, play music from the country of choice (found on the internet).

Throughout the night, ask your children questions to get them thinking about the mission field, such as:

1. What do you think would be the hardest part of living in another country?
2. What do you think you would like best about living in another country?
3. Why does God call people to live in other countries, far away from their homes?
4. What could you do to serve God in another country?

Develop a heart for the mission field at an early age! Sadly, many American children grow up oblivious to other cultures and assume the rest of the world lives just as they do. Open your children's eyes to the needs around the world. Who is waiting for your child to share the gospel? What will you do as a parent to make that happen?

If you are interested in doing a "Honduran Family Night" email me at christine@teamhonduras.com for a free information packet.

The Return of Barracuda

2010-08-11T08:52:00.000-07:00

I was surprised to see a familiar face at the construction site of our new church building. How do I know that guy? Robbie exclaimed, “Do you know who that is? That’s Barracuda!”

Daniel, known as Barracuda by his friends, was a young man we had briefly met in 2005, our first year of ministry in Honduras. He had come to a Men’s Meeting where my father, Ricky Tippett, gave a lesson and spoke with him about his need for Christ. Dad was burdened for Daniel, knowing his lost condition. He took a picture of the him with Robbie, hung it on the wall in his office, and prayed for him faithfully for four years. Robbie had seen the picture on our last furlough, commenting, “Wow, I haven’t seen that guy since he came to that meeting! I wonder what ever happened to him…”

When he showed up unexpectedly a few months ago, Robbie told Alex, the foreman, about the picture. “My father-in-law has been praying for that guy every day.”

Alex raised his eyebrows and nodded with understanding, “Well, that’s why he’s still alive then! I wondered how he had survived this long…someone is praying for him!” He then went on to tell how Barracuda had made some bad choices and gotten mixed up in the wrong crowd. He’d gone back to where he’d grown up, the Bay Islands off the coast of Honduras. He lived a life of alcohol, drugs, and gangs. Through some bad dealings, he’d become a wanted man by one of the gangs. When he realized they would not stop until he was dead, he’d returned to Progreso and sought refuge with Alex. Alex found a little room where he could live and helped him out with a job. Of course, he told him that in order to live there, he would need to clean up his act and come to church. At the end of his rope, Barracuda agreed.

A couple of weeks later, Robbie called Dad with some exciting news. “You know that guy whose picture is on your wall? Well, he got saved last night!” Four years after their meeting, Daniel had trusted Christ as his personal Savior.

Daniel began his new life with almost nothing. We were able to get him a Bible, toiletries, and used clothing to wear to church. He arrived early each service and read his Bible until everyone else arrived. As excited as he was to begin his walk with the Lord, he deeply missed his family in the Bay Islands. Though his life was in danger, he packed up his bags and returned.

This young man has much to overcome, but God has preserved his life and forgiven his sins. We can’t wait to see how He will continue to work in Daniel’s life! Please pray that he will not fall into temptation to return to former sins and that he'll be a testimony of the changing power of the Holy Spirit.

Design on a Lempira

2010-08-01T12:40:00.000-07:00

I feel like I just spent a week in someone else's life.

I've always enjoyed anything to do with decorating. When we lived in the States, my favorite channel was HGTV. I remember watching design shows in which homeowners would work with an interior decorator to create a beautiful space. Although I was fascinated by these shows, I never dreamed I'd ever actually get to work with an interior designer. Foreign missions and interior design just don't go together. Life in a third-world country is much more rustic; we think functionally and worry little about aesthetics. Working with an interior designer would never happen here...or so I thought.

About six months ago, I began to plan and save for Robbie's new office, which will be located in the new church building. I wanted to have a desk and built-in bookshelves made for him. One night I was talking to my mom on Skype, I mentioned that I wish I knew more about interior design, because I'd love to make his office look very professional and distinguished. She replied, "You know, I should ask Liza Ellis if she could help you." I had never met Liza, but she'd been coming to Mom's Sunday school class for several months. She had a degree in interior design and was working at an architectural firm in Raleigh.

"Do you really think she'd mind a few questions? I would love to get an idea of paint colors and how to do the curtains for that arched window!"

I began to communicate with Liza by email over the next few weeks. Before I knew it, she had sent me a beautiful plan for Robbie's office, complete with paint colors and fabric swatches. It was a dream come true!

Robbie's future office began to take shape. But the rest of the building still needed work. Our situation here is quite different from building a church in the U.S. We cannot finance this project. We pay for it as the money comes in. The plan is to get the building to occupancy level in order to move in as soon as possible. Then, we will do detail work (paint, ceramic, drop ceilings) as the funds are available. Since we'd be working project by project over the course of several months or even years, our concern was that the building would be a patchwork of different designs. We needed one overall design scheme. Since Liza seemed so willing to help, I timidly asked her if she'd mind advising us on wall colors for other areas of the building.

After we relayed to Liza our needs for the new building, she put together designs for the two nursery rooms and three classrooms. Then this past week, she flew down to spend eight days with us. She toured the new building and gave us ideas for some problem areas. We went to lighting, paint, and ceramic tile stores where she found beautiful choices for the classrooms, offices, kitchen, and bathrooms. We can't purchase everything right away, but when we do, the building will have an professional, cohesive design.

I am still pinching myself! I just spent a week with a professional designer who came to work on our building, free of charge! Who would have thought?

Our heavenly Father delights in surprising His children with special, unexpected blessings. It has been our prayer that this church building be a testimony of excellence and beauty to reflect the character of the Lord. And He answered this prayer above and beyond anything we could have imagined!

Mi Casa Es su Casa

2010-07-13T11:05:00.000-07:00

This week, I'd like to invite you to our home! Missionary homes may vary greatly, depending on the area of the country, but our home is typical for an average missionary in Central America. Welcome!

This is our house as you drive up. It's pretty standard in Honduras to have a security wall or high fence for safety reasons. Almost everyone gets broken into at some point, so we have to take every precaution possible. We live on a dirt road, even though we live in town. Only the main streets are paved in our town.

As you walk through the front gate, you will see the carport and porch area. It's very nice to have a porch in Honduras, because the house gets very hot. We often eat or visit with guests on the porch instead of inside.

This is our guard dog, who is about to have puppies!

One thing I love about Honduras is the beautiful plant life. In our yard, we have a cashew tree, two guanabana trees, an orange tree, and a mango tree.

This is a view of our side yard. We are very thankful for a large yard, a rare find in this country. We've been able to host many youth activities and large church events here.

Now let's go inside!

This is our living room/dining room area. The open floor plan has been perfect for hosting large groups. We shove all the furniture into the other rooms and the hallway, and can fit quite a few people in here! We even held Wednesday night Bible studies here before we had a church house. The windows in this area and the kitchen stay open 24/7 year-round in order to take advantage of any breeze coming off the mountain, since this part of the house is not air-conditioned.

Beyond the dining room, you can see the hallway leading to the bedrooms. And through the arched opening on the right is the kitchen. You will notice that the walls are all concrete and the floors are all tiled--no carpet in Honduras! It wouldn't last long with all the dirt and dust we have!

The kitchen is where I spend a LOT of time! Missionary wives learn to cook for a crowd! There are church events, medical brigades, youth groups...we are cooking machines!

We have a double sink that works great for the disinfection process. No, we don't have a dishwasher (and I'm not sure how well one would work, anyway, since we don't have hot water). Since we wash by hand with cold water, we place dishes into a container filled with bleach water (which I change at least once a day). They soak here for a few minutes before I place them aside to dry. We also soak fruit and vegetables here to clean them of any pesticides.

Since the water here is unsafe for drinking, we purchase water jugs from a truck that come through the neighborhood daily. We use this water for drinking, cooking, and brushing our teeth.

These are louvered windows, which are slats of glass that we can open with a knob. We have screens to help with insects and dust; we have to hose these down pretty frequently.

Heading back up the hallway, we turn to the left into Robbie's office. He will be moving out shortly when the church building is completed (we are praying to be in by September 19); I plan to convert this space into a homeschool room for Claire to begin K-4. I am very thankful to be able to have an area specifically for homeschooling!

This is our master bedroom. I've tried to make it a real haven; it's so nice to go in at night, take a shower, and run the AC! We are very thankful for our room!

This is the master bath. When we first moved in, we called it the psych ward bath--all white, white tile, and a shower with a long hose to spray cold water! Just recently, I was able to paint and redecorate it to warm it up a bit. One thing that's different about bathrooms in Honduras is that you can't flush TP; the pipes are too small and are easily clogged. We keep a lined trashcan with a lid beside the toilet and empty it frequently. Americans usually forget at some point, so the rule in our house is...you clog it, you plunge it!

Now heading to the right side of the hallway...looking through another archway, we have a wall of closets. This has been a huge blessing because most homes in Honduras have very little closet space and no attic.

The middle closet door opens to reveal...the guest bathroom! One difference from homes in the U.S. is that bathtubs here are a rare luxury. We use a small plastic tub placed in the shower to bathe Claire, but she's also gotten used to the showers. One thing I love to do when I go back to the States to visit is take a nice hot bath!

To the left of the closets, we have a guest room that serves as my office right now.

To the right of the closets is Claire's room.

This is a typical closet (we have these in the three bedrooms). You have a built-in dresser area with drawers behind one door. Behind the other two doors is room for hanging clothes. Above are three doors for storage.

Now let's head out the kitchen door to the right side of the house. Here we keep our drinking water jugs on the sidewalk that surrounds the house (another unique Honduran home feature). To the right, beyond the big palm is the clothesline, and beyond that is the bodega.

A bodega is a storage building behind Honduran homes. In front, they always have a pila. We are blessed to also have a cistern and pump.

A pila is a large holding tank for water. Our water goes out very frequently here, so we can use this water in reserve to wash clothes, bathe, and flush toilets. Notice the scrubbing area. Most of my washing I do in a washing machine, but this scrubbing board does come in handy for the mop and anything I want to wash by hand (which we must do if the water or power are out).

Beyond the pila is an open-air room that holds our freezer, washer, dryer, and cleaning supplies.

Honduran homes have a "servant's quarters" in the bodega because it's common to have a live-in maid. Since we don't, we have fixed up this area for guests and interns--missionaries have LOTS of visitors! We just had a young man finish an eight-week internship, and this room and bath was just perfect for him.

We are very thankful for the home the Lord provided for us. Above all, we pray that it is a blessing and a haven to those who stop by, whether it be for several weeks or just a few hours.

Bring on the Heat

2010-07-07T13:45:00.000-07:00

Today's post consists of tips for missionaries in tropical areas to survive the heat. Although many of my readers do not live with such extreme weather, I hope reading about it will help you know better how to pray for missionaries on the field.

I had no idea before visiting Central America for the first time what it was to be hot. I'm not talking about sweating a little at a Fourth of July cookout back in the States. I'm from the South, and we certainly did have some hot summers growing up. But I had never experienced real heat until we moved to Honduras. It is absolutely suffocating; the humidity makes the air so thick, you feel like you are walking sluggishly under water.

Even after five years on the field, I have to admit it: the heat still gets to me. Today was no exception. I went to clean the church and came home all sweaty and disgusting, only to find that we had no power and no water. Again. I wish I could tell you I sang, "Count Your Many Blessings" and sweetly carried on as usual. But I was irritable, my nerves were frayed, and I had absolutely no desire to begin making lunch in that hot kitchen. Today, like many days, my hardest battle took place in my own mind; the enemies were discontentment, moodiness, and a complaining spirit. All sent straight from the tropical sun!

Even though this is a area I've not fully overcome, we have learned some things as a family over the past few years to help us combat the heat.

1. Rest when you find it necessary. Visitors and new arrivals to a tropical climate have an especially difficult time with the heat. During our first six months on the field, Robbie and I found ourselves completely exhausted every afternoon. I have never been one to take naps; I can't usually sleep at night if I sleep during the day. Not to mention, both of us are extremely by-the-book, schedule-oriented people. A naptime in the middle of the day!?! But during those first few months on the field, we learned it was wise to occasionally indulge in a 20-30 minute power nap (after a cold shower); we awoke feeling refreshed and invigorated (and were able to accomplish more in the remaining hours! After awhile, our bodies adjusted and we no longer required this resttime, but it greatly helped us during those first few months of transition.

2. Stay hydrated. It's very important for those who live in a tropical climate to stop frequently to drink water. We also make fruit smoothies and frozen treats for unbearable days. The temptation is to drink sodas, but I always feel much better when I choose water. I'll never forget the baptism service we were holding one Sunday afternoon. We gathered in the small concrete church as the sun beat in the windows. We were all sweating profusely, and the small fans only blew the hot air around in circles. As Robbie stood up to preach, he looked a little woozy. I prayed he would be able to make it through the sermon; the table we had set up in the back was loaded with homemade banana bread and three-liter Pepsis. Just a few more minutes, I told myself. POP! Suddenly, there was a horribly loud explosion from the back of the room! We turned around just in time to see one of the jumbo Pepsis soaring through the air, turning end over end and spewing soda in all directions! The heat had caused it to explode! Only in Honduras! Next time you want to drink a Pepsi on a hot day, just remember what it might do to your insides!

3. Be a smart cook. Our house, like many missionaries' homes, does not have central air conditioning. Even if it were available, we could never afford it. Energy is unbelievably expensive; we pay more for our electric bill than we do for our rent. We have small AC units to cool the bedrooms and Robbie's office (but only while we are using them!). For the living room, dining room, and kitchen, we simply leave the louvered windows open and run a fan. We dry clothes on the line and run our bedroom AC units only at night, thus saving as much energy as possible. When the heat of the day kicks in, the last place I want to be is over a hot stove. I've learned to make some changes to help me get through the most sweltering days (and no, eating out doesn't count!). First, I cook our big meal for lunch instead of dinner. That way, I get the majority of my cooking done in the morning hours. We can have sandwiches or leftovers for supper. Second, I use the crockpot as much as possible. It beats standing over a hot stove any day! Third, when the days are more tolerable, I cook double portions to freeze, saving me from cooking on a hotter day. I have also learned to make more "cold meals," like wraps, chicken or egg salad sandwiches, cold bean dip, etc.

4. Mind over matter! As many little tricks and helps as I have learned, some days there is just no way around it. It's hot! But complaining does nothing but sour everyone's mood. I focus on NOT saying, "It's so hot! Can you believe how hot it is?" every few minutes. I make lame jokes about being upset I left my coat and gloves at home. I try not to think about what I look like; everyone else looks just as sweaty! And they are from here!

5. Pray, pray, pray! My attitude is a constant matter of prayer. I can feel myself slipping...I snap at Claire, glare at Robbie, and roll my eyes when the power goes out for the fourth time in 24 hours. But just a few minutes talking to the Lord, asking Him for strength, does more than a cold shower or a power nap ever will! Heat may seem like a silly little thing, but I would not be one bit surprised to find that it's caused a missionary to leave the field. The devil could definitely use such an extreme environment to discourage me and keep me from serving the Lord. I have to stay on my knees!

Shortly after moving to Honduras, I learned that the locals have a nickname for the area we've chosen to live in: La Caldera del Diablo. The Devil's Cauldron. Yep. That just about sums it up! So as you pray for the Ellis family, please ask the Lord to help us survive the heat! Because let me tell you, the devil is bringing it on!

Claire and I escaped to her treehouse for a picnic lunch today.

This is our living room area. The louvered windows stay open year round and the front door is open most of the day. The ceiling fan (a birthday present from Robbie) has been a huge help.

This is the mini-split air-conditioning unit we use to cool our bedroom at night. I have thermally insulated, lightblocking curtains on the windows to cut energy costs (and to keep the unit from blowing up!).

Be sure to check back next week, when I will post pics for a "virtual tour" of our home! It's quite a bit different from how we lived in the States, but the Lord has given us a very nice place. We'd love to have you stop by!

A Church that Made a Difference

2010-06-29T07:39:00.000-07:00

"It was the best of times, it was the worst of times..." The opening line from one of my favorite novels came to mind almost daily. In April of 2006, I was preparing for motherhood. Pregnancy brought a strange mix of emotions, moods, and hormones. I was thrilled to be a first-time mom, but my heart ached thinking of all the times I was missing with my mom and sister. All communication, even the big announcement that we were expecting, was done through phone calls, and those had to be short and sweet. I began to feel a little sorry for myself as I selected crib bedding online at an internet cafe downtown; it just wasn't the same as going shopping with mom. We were supposed to be doing this together. I was missing out.

The Lord's goodness to me during such a hard time soon became very real. I didn't deserve it; I was self-centered and weak. Countless women go through pregnancy without their mothers. I knew when we surrendered to go to the mission field that we would live very far from home. I should have handled it in stride. I should have been tougher. But my Heavenly Father patiently and lovingly reached out to me in my cloud of gloom in a very unexpected way.

Robbie and I stopped by the post office one afternoon to pick up our mail. I was surprised to see three large, mysterious boxes with our names on them. We had not been expecting anything, let alone such large packages. We excitedly loaded them into the truck, eager to get home and open them.

We set the packages in the living room floor and examined them. The return address read "Lighthouse Baptist Church." This church, located about an hour and a half from my hometown, had taken us on for support during deputation. One of the boxes was marked, "Open first," so Robbie carefully cut the packing tape and lifted the lid.

Sitting on a layer of tissue paper on top was a VHS tape. The spine read, "Robbie and Christine's baby shower." I looked at Robbie questioningly and popped the tape into the VCR.

The recording began in what appeared to be the fellowship hall of the Lighthouse Baptist Church, decorated with pastel balloons and tiny paper cutouts of baby clothes strung from a clothesline. A banner read, "Congratulations, Robbie and Christine!" Then, my heart lept as I saw my mom and sister appear on camera and sit in the front, in the seats of honor. They were wearing corsages and beaming proudly. A lady from the church welcomed everyone and explained that this was a "Ghost Baby Shower." Since Robbie and I could not be there, they had somehow gotten in contact with my mom and sister (whom they had never met) and invited them to come open presents on our behalf. Tears streamed down my face as they opened present after present, oohing and aahing over each item. I found the corresponding baby gifts, along with the banner and decorations in the carefully packed boxes. I was overwhelmed by their thoughtfulness, ashamed of my self-pity, and encouraged in spirit.

Paul wrote to the church at Philippi, "Now ye Philippians know also, that in the beginning of the gospel, when I departed from Macedonia, no church communicated with me as concerning giving and receiving, but ye only. For even in Thessalonica ye sent once and again unto my necessity.... But I have all, and abound: I am full, having received...the things which were sent from you, an odour of a sweet smell, a sacrifice acceptable, wellpleasing to God." (Philippians 4:15-18)

The Lord had used some precious ladies to encourage a young, pregnant missionary wife. The baby gifts were much needed and appreciated. But even more importantly, they had found a way to connect me to my family and share a special moment with them. They had ministered to my soul.

To the Finish

2010-06-18T08:03:00.000-07:00

"Daddy, did you play football when you were in high school?" Kathleen and I were watching a UNC game with my dad, peppering him with questions like most school-age children do.

"Well, I always wanted to, but I couldn't."

"Why not?"

"I only have one kidney, so it would have been a little risky."

"You have only one kidney?"

Suddenly, the football game seemed less entertaining. We had never heard this story before.

"In 1952, I had a severe infection; they had to do surgery to remove one of my kidneys. It was very painful; I was only three, but I can remember everything very clearly."

We were in awe. Only one kidney?

With Father's Day approaching, I've been thinking about dad and the football days he never had. I recently read an illustration by a college professor that compared parenting to a crucial game of football. There are parents who make it to the pre-teen years and decide to drop their kids off at the 50-yard line. "Well, here we are! Good luck!" Some stick with it longer and fight their way through to age 16: "Here's your car. You've got a job. You'll be just fine." More dedicated parents, however, continue to push through to high school graduation and drop them off just five yards from the goal line. "I guess you've got it from here!"

My dad did no such thing. He stuck with it, fighting alongside me those last five yards, those crucial college years when a mate and a life's work are decided upon, to be sure I made it to the end zone of adulthood. These last five yards are when the hardest blows occur. Every inch is precious as a child nears the goal, and the enemy will fight tooth and nail to keep him out. Dad was right there with me every minute, blocking the blows, making sure I stayed on my feet.

As Robbie and I walked toward our gate at the airport that cold January morning in 2005, I took one last look back. Dad and Mom stood arm in arm, waving and smiling proudly through the tears. We were a little bruised up and our hearts were aching. But we made it.

Dad, you may never have gotten to don a helmet and pads, but you're an all-star lineman in my book. Happy Father's Day.

Love,
Christine

Meatballs, Mayhem, and Mrs. Amato

2010-06-08T20:51:00.000-07:00

It was one of those awful slow-motion moments where you helplessly freeze in place, bracing yourself for the impact. I had just stumbled up the bleachers at the after-church fundraiser, balancing two plates of meatball subs and leading Claire to be seated on the second row. As soon as we sat down, I saw it coming. The volleyball was careening toward us, and there was nothing I could do to shield it.

The ball hit me directly, knocking one of the plates into the air. At Claire's shriek, the other spectators looked in horror. Red, meaty sauce covered my blouse and hair. I looked like the victim in a B horror movie. A teenage boy ran to me, apologizing profusely. I gathered he had been the one to spike the ball in our direction, so I laughed and waved him off, "No, it's fine, no big deal!" Poor Claire was frantic; I felt terrible that I couldn't pick her up, being covered in sauce, until I heard her snub, "My food! What did you do to my food!"

I sighed and headed for the bathroom to try to clean up. We were in Florida on furlough; I didn't know many people, but thankfully, a teen girl lent me a shirt for the rest of the evening.

I stuffed my stained white blouse into a grocery bag and thought, Well, that will never come out! It was one of my favorite shirts, too!

As I sat back down to finish my food, a kind-looking lady approached, "Christine, could I take your shirt home and wash it for you?" Before I could stammer a reply, she continued, "My husband is from Italy, and I have a wonderful detergent we get from there--it's perfect for removing tomato sauce stains!"

The idea of attempting to wash my shirt in the hotel room sink really wasn't appealing, so I finally surrendered the bag. "Don't worry if it doesn't come out! It's really caked in there!" I warned Mrs. Amato.

The next day, Robbie preached chapel for the Christian school's annual revival, while I entertained Claire at the hotel. He came back with an unexpected surprise: a gallon-size Ziploc bag with my favorite shirt inside, neatly pressed and folded. It was perfectly white; not a trace of sauce remained. I couldn't believe it. Mrs. Amato had also included a sweet note. I was overwhelmed by her thoughfulness.

A few months later, I would learn exactly how sacrificing Mrs. Amato and her family were. A family in our church was in need. Jose and Ismenia Rodriguez wanted to send their son Christian, one of our youth group's finest young men, to a Christian school his senior year. Since he is bilingual, they began to explore the option of sending him to the United States, where he could get a quality Christian education. Pastor Matt put them in contact with West Florida Christian Academy in Milton, Florida. It would be a perfect fit, since Christian planned to attend Pensacola Christian College after graduation. There was just one problem--where would he live?

I was thrilled when Mr. and Mrs. Amato and their son Daniel offered their home to Christian. They would care for him as their own son, giving him his own room, cooking his meals, and including him in family activities. I was relieved that he would be with such a sweet family.

We went to visit Christian on his last night in Honduras. There were many tears amid the packing, and my heart hurt for Ismenia, who was having an especially hard time. Then I remembered my encounter with Mrs. Amato, "Ismenia, let me tell you about the lady who will be taking care of Christian..." I explained to her exactly how Mrs. Amato had searched me out and kindly offered to clean my shirt, even though we barely knew each other. "That's how she is. She's very...what's the word? Maternal. Christian will be in good hands."

Ismenia's relief was evident. "Thank you for telling me that, Cristina. I am so glad that he will be taken care of!"

Christian had a wonderful year in Florida with the Amatos. He came back last week, a high school graduate. We are thrilled to have him home and ecstatic about what the Lord is doing in his life. And it was all possible because of an exceptional lady named Mrs. Amato.

See pics of Christian and his adventures in Florida with the Amatos!

He Guideth my Steps

2010-06-04T09:48:00.000-07:00

I thought I needed to make pancakes in a hurry this morning; the Lord knew I needed to let Claire break the eggs and stir the batter.

I thought I needed to have the beds made right away; the Lord knew I needed a little extra quiet time in prayer.

I thought I needed to finish my financial report by nine o’clock; the Lord knew I needed to stop frequently to dress and redress a tiny Cinderella doll.

I thought I needed to finish Sunday’s bulletin; the Lord knew I needed to console a church member who called to say her feelings had been hurt.

I thought I needed to cut out my craft for Sunday school; the Lord knew I needed to drop it when Robbie came in: “Chris, I need your help…”

I thought I needed to just “pop in and out” at the grocery store; the Lord knew an exceptional cashier deserved my praise to her boss.

I thought I needed to make five church visits this afternoon; the Lord knew the first lady would need me to stay the entire time.

I thought I needed to feed my family of three at dinner; the Lord knew unexpected (but hungry!) guests would show up at the gate just as we sat down.

I thought my kitchen should be spotless before I headed to bed; the Lord knew I should sit down and enjoy a basketball game with my husband.

I thought my day should be perfectly planned by a neat checklist; the Lord threw my checklist out the window and guided my steps.

For as the heavens are higher than the earth, so are my ways higher than your ways. –Isaiah 55:9

That Dirty Rat!

2010-05-27T13:12:00.001-07:00

Robbie and I have been going through something lately, an issue that I feel pretty sure was not covered in our marital vows. Just so we're each sure about our obligations in this scenario, I am compelled to write it all out. It all started in the building out back that houses our laundry area...

Christine's role: Notice little pieces of trash on the laundry room floor. Sweep them up, only to rediscover more a day later.

Robbie's role: Listen to Christine complain about how quickly the laundry room gets dirty.

Christine's role: Become more curious about the messy laundry room floor and decide to move the appliances. Lift the dryer, feel something scutter across left foot, shriek frantically, drop the dryer, hop on top of it.

Robbie's role: Come running from the house with concern when he hears the shriek. Laugh when he finds out it's over a rat who's decided to live under the dryer. Move a few Rubbermaids of cleaning supplies. Look a little pale himself when he actually sees the size of the rodent.

Christine's role: Say "I told you so" a few hundred times (with a "Who's the sissy now?" thrown in for good measure).

Robbie's role: Watch the rat race out of the laundry room into an adjoining lot and set out poison in case he returns.

Christine's job: Start the dryer the next day only to hear a sickening thud when the fan starts up.

Robbie's job: Take the back panel and vent off the dryer and laugh when the dead rat falls out.

Christine's job: Dispose of rat carcass.

Robbie's job: Turn to open-mouthed single guy who is interning with Team Honduras and advise, "Before you get married, you need to make sure your wife can do that!"

Christine's job: Disinfect and reassemble dryer. Figure out some way to blog about the ordeal.

After not just one, but now two rats caught in the world's most expensive rat trap, a.k.a. our clothes dryer, we are getting good at this!

I think we make a great team!

Ready to Bail: Elena's Story

2010-05-24T15:25:00.000-07:00

I won't lie to you. Going to Elena's house was the absolute last thing I wanted to do. She needed counseling for marital problems. Serious ones. She and her husband were not on speaking terms and had not shared a bedroom for months. He and boys slept in their room, and she had moved in with the girls. She was ready to leave; if it were not for their five children, she'd have been gone already.

Going to Christian college and marrying a pastor did not make me an expert in counseling. In fact, counseling is the ministry of a pastor's wife that makes me most nervous and uncertain. There have been many times in a counseling session when someone has unloaded a big problem on me and I struggle with what to say. What usually pops into my mind is something like Whoa. Good luck with all that!

I asked Elena to describe her marriage and let her pour out her heart for about an hour. Then we came to the part I dreaded. The part where I was supposed to tell her what to do. The Holy Spirit had given me what to say, but it would be hard to hear. She had criticized and demeaned her husband for years. She had not trusted his leadership or submitted to his authority. She had even gone behind his back to get her way. Words like obedience, respect, and submission were not what she wanted to hear. But they were what she needed. So I took a deep breath and made the words come out.

To my surprise, Elena listened carefully and thoughtfully to each Bible verse I read and the counsel I offered. Then she tearfully admitted to manipulating and disrespecting her husband. We prayed together and outlined a step-by-step plan to apologize to her husband and change her habits, without expecting any reciprocation. He had made more than his share of mistakes as well. But Elena determined to change her own heart, and leave his to the Lord.

I left feeling sure that God's Word had spoken to her heart. But whether or not she would choose to obey it was yet to be seen...

Just three days later, Elena found me at church. "He bought tickets to the church Couples' Banquet" she whispered excitedly. "He wants to go with me!"

The next week, their oldest daughter Alicia confided in me: "Hermana Cristina, you won't believe the changes we've had at our house! I used to dread coming home. Just last week, I was walking home from school and smelled someone on our street frying fish. I thought, I wish we could have fish at our house or even at least eat together like a real family. But when I got closer, I realized the aroma was coming from my house! I saw my dad in the kitchen frying fish and making a salad! When my mom got home from the factory, we all sat down and ate and talked together like we hadn't done in a long time."

Elena and I kept praying and meeting regularly for several weeks. Finally, I got the news I was waiting for. She came in one night, all aglow and giggling like a teenager. "Hermana Cristina, you'll never guess what happened! I came home and my husband had moved the boys back into their room and said I was moving back in with him! He said, 'I am a new husband because I have a new wife. And we need a new bed.' He had gone out and bought a brand-new bed with new sheets and pillows and everything!"

Every time I see Elena's husband smile at her lovingly with his hand on the small of her back, I am reminded that God's Word still changes lives. I don't have to know exactly what to say in every situation; I usually don't. But if I simply share the Word of God, the Holy Spirit will convict of sin. At that point, many decide to ignore counsel and continue on their unhappy path; maybe change seems too hard, or they only wanted to vent. But for those who follow biblical principles, joy and peace are waiting.

With [the Lord] is wisdom and strength, he hath counsel and understanding. -Job 12:13

What Would It Take?

2010-05-18T12:19:00.000-07:00

“Look! Hermana Cristina! I made a swing for Angie!” Carlos proudly showed me the scrap rubber strip that he had tied to a long piece of rope and hung from the avocado tree. His sister Angie happily swung back and forth on their new creation.

“That’s really creative, Carlos!” As I entered their backyard, I saw the other children playing in the dirt. Four barefoot boys crouched on their hands and knees, carefully constructing streets and tunnels. Scraps of wood and metal became their houses and bridges. The only real toy they had was an old Tonka truck. They methodically passed it from one boy to the next, each taking a short turn to maneuver the dirt roads. They laughed and talked happily, swatting mosquitoes all the while.

What would it take to make us happy? A different job? A newer house? An expensive car? More respect from our spouse? More compliant children?

According to Paul, we simply need a lesson in contentment. He writes in Philippians 4:11-12: “…for I have learned, in whatsoever state I am, therewith to be content.”

Contentment is an acquired skill that requires discipline of the mind and humility of the heart. It is not dependent on circumstances or the actions of others.

People often ask us, “Do you like living in Honduras? Don’t you miss hot water? You don’t have a dishwasher? Isn’t it really hot?” Actually, we struggled just as much with contentment in the States as we do now. Change of surroundings make no difference at all. When our hearts focus on seeking “first the kingdom of God and His righteousness,” we are happy and content. When we take our eyes off Him, we allow room for complaining and resentment.

One of my favorite shows to watch is Extreme Makeover: Home Edition, which we can occasionally see here in Honduras. One day, Cinthia, a girl from our church was visiting, and we watched it together. As the workers began to demolish the house, she exclaimed, “They are tearing down that house! What’s wrong with it?” In that moment, I pictured Cinthia’s little two-room cinderblock house with an outdoor shower and clay stove. The house they were tearing down was a dream house to her. It was all a matter of perspective.

Paul goes on to say in Philippians 4, “I can do all things through Christ which strengtheneth me.” We can be content, no matter the situation. Ask the Lord to give you the right perspective—His perspective.

Faithful, One Hundred Per Cent!

2010-05-07T10:25:00.000-07:00

Just this morning, I read (for maybe the hundreth time!) "Horton Hatches the Egg" to Claire. It's a classic Dr. Seuss tale of an lazy bird who delegates her egg-sitting job to Horton the elephant. He faithfully warms the egg, enduring many difficulties while Mayzie the bird lives it up in Palm Beach. She returns just as the egg is hatching to reclaim it. To everyone's surprise, the baby that emerges from the egg is "something brand new"--it's an "elephant-bird" complete with large ears and a trunk!

Dr. Seuss asserts, "And it should be, it should be, it SHOULD be like that!
Because Horton was faithful! He sat and he sat!"

As we celebrate Mother's Day this weekend, I thought of my mother's faithfulness to me and my sister for the past 30 years. She had a much tougher job than just sitting on an egg, yet she didn't delegate it to another. She embraced her role as mother and sacrificed to spend as much time with us as possible. I have memories of picnics, trips to the library, and homemade apple pies. There were walks around the neighborhood at dusk, endless board games, and heart-to-heart talks. She was like Horton: "Faithful--one hundred per cent!"

A poem she cross-stitched to hang on the wall in my nursery describes her perfectly:

I hope my children will look back on today
And see a mother who had time to play.
There will be years for cleaning and cooking
But children grow up while we're not looking.
Dusting and scrubbing can wait 'till tomorrow
For babies grow fast we learn to our sorrow.
So quiet down cobwebs and dust go to sleep
I'm rocking my baby, and babies don't keep.

Claire giggled with delight when I read about Horton seeing his little one for the first time.

"IT HAD EARS
AND A TAIL
AND A TRUNK JUST LIKE HIS!"

Dr. Seuss was definitely on to something. Only when a mother sacrificially invests her life in her child will she have a great influence on the person he becomes.

Someone once said, "The greatest compliment anyone could give me is to say, 'You remind me so much of your mother.'" If I am just a shadow of the woman my mother is, I know Claire will be very blessed.

I want to be just like my momma: "faithful--one hundred per cent!"

I love you, Mom! Happy Mother's Day!

Medicine for the Hurting

2010-05-02T13:43:00.000-07:00

“Christine, there is something wrong with my baby, and I think I have it, too. Could you take me to the hospital?” Lourdes was a single mom, who had recently trusted Christ. Even over the phone, she sounded very worried.

We picked up the young mother and her three-month old baby girl a few minutes later. I immediately saw the reason for her concern. Their skin was covered with scabs, beginning at the abdomen and concentrated around their lower limbs. The baby’s tiny legs and feet were almost completely covered. Both had been ill with respiratory infections the week before; the skin condition had set in shortly after. It looked a lot like impetigo. I walked with them immediately to the public hospital to get treatment.

During the long wait in the emergency room, I assured Lourdes everything would be just fine. "They'll give you some medicine to clear it up--don't worry." As a new mom myself, I sympathized with her. There's nothing worse than seeing your child suffer.

When Lourdes finally emerged from seeing the doctor, I asked to see her prescriptions. To my surprise, there were only two; both were for the baby. One medicine was for the symptoms of the respiratory infection, and the other was simply a written instruction to buy acetaminophen drops. “Where are your prescriptions? And why didn’t she give you something for the baby’s skin?” I asked.

“She said she would only treat one of us, so I told her to treat the baby,” Lourdes tearfully replied.

I tried to control my frustration as I back-tracked to the doctor who had seen Lourdes. “Why have you not seen both of these patients? And where is the prescription to treat the skin bacteria? They are going to keep infecting each other unless you treat both mother and daughter!”

“Oh! Yes, you are right, doctora! Just a minute and I will have those for you!” Her reply caught me off guard—it took me a minute to realize what was going on. She thinks I'm a doctor, visiting with some foreign medical brigade! As she rushed around preparing an injection and filling out more prescriptions, I couldn’t help but enjoy my undeserved power—I decided that on my next trip to the public hospital, I should borrow a white coat and stethoscope to see that our patients got the best of care!

So many times, so-called “mission” works treat people the same way the dilapidated public hospital in El Progreso does. They address a few surface symptoms instead of dealing with the root of the problem. Some short-term relief may follow, but these people are ultimately doomed to return to the same miserable condition. Any assistance, whether economic, educational, or medical, must be given with the ultimate goal of sharing the gospel of Jesus Christ. If we fail to give the gospel, all of our other efforts are temporal at best. Let’s remember the real reason we give to others—we must bring dying men to the Savior before it is too late.

Hospital El Progreso

Ideas for Long Distance Families, Part II

2010-04-17T21:18:00.000-07:00

Continued from last week's Ideas for Long Distance Families, Part I (Note: All pictures in these posts are of Team Honduras kids with their grandparents).

6. Frequently send fridge art. Now that Claire is doing preschool work, I send the grandparents papers to decorate their refrigerator or office space. The mail from Honduras is slow, so sometimes I scan the artwork and email it. Scanned art makes a great desktop background for a proud grandparent.

5. Make a “Good Night Wall.” The hallway in our home (like many homes) is lined with photos of family members. When Claire was small, we made the “Good Night Wall” part of our bedtime routine: “‘Nite, Uncle Jonathan!” “’Nite, Aunt Kathleen!” This habit helps little ones match faces with names.

4. Pray daily for family members. Nothing brings two people closer than prayer. Children should pray for their family members by name, rotating nights to be sure everyone is mentioned. Show young children the “Special People Book” pictures so they’ll know exactly whom they are praying for.

Although Claire was rarely ill as a toddler, she was plagued by constant constipation; we made it a matter of prayer. After the problem was solved each time, we would thank God profusely! Around the time she was struggling with this problem, we found out my dad had cancer. We added him to our nightly prayer list, explaining that Papa was very sick and we needed to pray that he would get better. She solemnly agreed and launched into a prayer, “God, please help my Papa push out the poo-poo. Amen.” Thank goodness the Lord understood what “sickness” was to her little mind; He DID translate and answer that prayer, despite the stifled laughter from Momma and Daddy!

3. Tell stories about family members. Claire never tires of hearing how Grandma (as a teenager) drove a tobacco harvester into her uncle’s new barn or how Tia (Aunt Kathleen) had to eat green beans out of the trashcan when they were discovered hidden in her napkin. Stories about loved ones back home provide an instant connection for little minds.

2. Visits work both ways. It’s almost always more convenient for one family to travel to the other’s home. Many times, visits end up being very one-sided because of cost or practicality. However, a reasonable effort should be made for both families to make visits. If Grandpa never goes to visit Claire in Honduras, he won’t know her world. He needs to know her friends at church, where her backyard swing is, and which pet is her favorite. Just one short visit will reap rewards for months; now when they talk on the phone and Claire tells him, “I got to fingerpaint out on the porch today,” he can picture exactly where she was. It works both ways. If Grandpa tells Claire he raked leaves this afternoon, she needs to be able to picture him working under the tree where they played together one day last year.

1. Hold a “Cousins’ Camp.” I can’t claim this idea; my mom recently heard about “Cousins’ Camp” from her own cousin and said she would like to incorporate this idea one day (as soon as Claire gets some cousins!). Here’s how it works: Grandma and Grandpa set aside a week each summer to have all the grandchildren for a visit. No mommies and daddies allowed! They plan activities for the week and spend time getting to know each other. This idea works best for potty-trained children who are old enough to be away from their parents for a week. What an opportunity to create lasting memories!

Do you have some creative ideas for staying in touch? Be sure to post a comment!

Ideas for Long-Distance Families, Part I

2010-04-14T21:10:00.000-07:00

One of the most difficult aspects of life on the mission field is the separation from close family and friends back home. A lot of determination and a little creativity, however, can help. Team Honduras families have found a twelve ideas to maintain those family ties:

12. Create a “Special People Book.” When Claire was very small, I kept a photo album called her “Special People Book” in the diaper bag. As she flipped through the pages and pointed to family members I recited their names. This year, I plan to expand that idea and make Claire a “My Heroes Book,” with pictures of her parents, grandparents, great-grandparents, aunts, uncles, sending church pastor and wife, etc. Each page will include a brief testimony of how that person was saved and served God).

11. Write personal notes in front of books. Our family loves to read! Even before Claire was born, I invested in quality children’s books so that she’d have a great collection of stories. Since then, family members have contributed to her library. I always ask them to write a short note in the front of a book when they give it. Every time I read the book to Claire, I also read their note; that way she will remember who gave her the book and will connect that person to something familiar. I try to include details like “This was Papa’s favorite book when he was little, because he loved trains.” I also add notes along the way, even when the book is not new anymore: “Claire, age 2 ½: Grandma read you this book so many times you memorized it! The picture on the third page always makes you giggle.”

10. Send pictures and videos of your kids frequently. The Lord answered a fervent prayer of mine just 7 months after Claire’s birth: we finally got internet access in our home! Suddenly, we were connected in a new way and were able to send pictures (almost daily when she was very small) to grandparents. I would also include bits and pieces of our day. A short note mentioning your child’s latest milestones or funny statements is a wonderful way to make grandparents feel connected.

9. Grandparents, return the favor! Sure, you want pictures of your grandkids, but have YOU sent them any pictures or video? Papa recently made Claire's day by sending her a picture of himself shoveling snow from the sidewalk. And one of Claire’s favorite videos is a homemade one from Papa and Grandma reading to her. They sent the video in a package along with four books; I turn on the video and she follows along as Papa and Grandma read to her. Instant connection! My aunt and uncle, who have musical ability, made a video that included not only reading but also sing-along-songs; it was a favorite video for their grandchildren for many years.

8. Make a “My Day Storybook.” Moms, I know exactly how busy you are, but try this one day: keep a camera in your pocket and snap a few pictures throughout your typical routine. At the end of the day, print them out, add a few quick captions with the time, and you will have a “My Day Storybook.” Grandma will be thrilled to know exactly when your little one eats her morning snack of Cheerios, splashes happily in her bathtub, or snuggles up on the couch for a story. Once she knows your schedule, she can glance at the clock throughout the day and know what her grandbaby is doing miles away.

7. Use Skype and a webcam. Skype is an affordable program that allows you to call your family over the internet for pennies, even if they live in another country. By calling through the internet, we save money and can call more frequently. We also like leaving voice mail messages when we know Papa and Grandma aren’t in. My dad will probably never erase the one he got at work that said, “Papa, you’re my best friend! Call me!”

You can add a new dimension to your internet calls by hooking up a webcam on each end. It’s almost as if you were sitting across the table from each other! What a treat for everyone! It’s also great for special occasions; we open Christmas and birthday presents using webcams. Nothing does Grandma’s heart good like hearing squeals of delight and seeing the glee as her carefully chosen gifts are opened.

There are more ways to keep touch from miles away! Be sure to read "Ideas for Long-Distance Families, Part II"!

Five Year Anniversary of IBF

2010-04-11T15:09:00.000-07:00

Today was a very special occasion for our church--we celebrated five years since we met for the first time, a small Bible study on a neighborhood porch down the road. We had only eight people with us that day; they had come after trusting Christ as their Savior on our door-to-door soulwinning efforts. We set up a few plastic chairs and a small keyboard. They seemed to like the cake I had baked; having refreshments helped break the ice. As we prepared to begin, Robbie passed out song sheets with the words to a few simple hymns. Singing them didn't go very smoothly; my piano skills were rusty, and our "congregation" didn't know any hymns yet. We would have to learn together!

Just before Robbie began his lesson, I quietly escorted the three children to the living room to hear a Bible story and color a picture. This would be our first children's class. There was no nursery yet, so I had to get pretty good at maneuvering the ABeka Book Flash-a-Cards while holding a baby on my hip.

Afterwards, we loaded everything up in our pick-up and headed home. We were so excited! Our first service! Little did we know how the Lord would continue to work...

On this April morning, five years later, we watched 252 men, women, boys, and girls file into the churchhouse, many of them arriving from our two bus routes. They came from all walks of life: a cobbler, a school counselor, a foreman, a vice-mayor, a city engineer, a seller of chickens. There are different races and different social classes. But they have one thing in common; a relationship with the Lord Jesus Christ.

So much has happened in five years. Yes, the church has grown, but even better, the people have grown. Some of them are even burdened about becoming missionaries or pastors themselves.

When men's chorus sang, "Bueno Es El" ["He is Good"] just before the message, our hearts all sang with them. He has been so good to us. And He's not done yet. If He can do this much in five years, what can He do in ten? We can't wait to find out.

"Vision without action is merely a dream.
Action without vision just passes the time.
Vision WITH action can change the world."

To see a video of photos from Iglesia Bautista El Faro's five years of ministry, scroll to the bottom of the page.

Just for Fun: How to Get a Honduran Missionary to Roll His Eyes at You

2010-04-04T15:13:00.000-07:00

Part of being a missionary is hosting mission groups who come down to visit. Team Honduras averages somewhere around 6 or 7 groups a year. The week a group is here, it’s an exhilarating, exhausting, and enjoyable experience. But you should know, we might be rolling our eyes at you if you say…

1. “Do people take a bath here every day?” Oh yes. In fact, since most days the temperature is above 100 degrees and we don’t have central air-conditioning, I’ll bet we take a lot more baths than you do.

2. “Where can I plug in my curling iron?” You go right ahead and curl that hair. Let’s see what it looks like in ten minutes.

3. “Well, I know crime is bad here, but it’s really getting to be this bad in the States.” Until you personally know five people who have been kidnapped for ransom, have a friend gunned down for his Toyota, live behind a wall topped with razor wire, see a stranger gunned down in the street, and pretty much everyone you know has been robbed at gun or knifepoint for a cell phone and some pocket change, sorry, this is not even a discussion.

4. “I don’t know if I could live without Walmart.” I don’t even think about missing Walmart anymore. You’d soon forget about it, too. Now missing momma and daddy…that’s the tough one.

What do ya know!?! We DO have a Walmart! Does this count?

5. “Oh, it’s this hot in Florida!” I’ve lived in Florida. Spent four years of college there. There is no way this is true; and even if it were, they have central air in Florida.

6. “Does everyone here speak just Mexican, or do some people speak American, too?” You’ve got to be kidding me.

7. “I’m so glad you are willing to take the gospel to the 10-40 window!” Contrary to popular belief, Honduras is in Central America, not Africa. We aren’t in the 10-40 window, but we do have a great need here as well.

8. “I’m going to try some of that food they cook at the roadside stands because I really want the ‘full experience.’” Well, you go ahead and do that. But let me know as soon as the “full experience” hits, and I’ll bring you some Immodium.

9. “Wow, our church sent you a lot of stuff! Can I have one of those Little Debbie snacks?” This is the first time I’ve held a Little Debbie peanut butter bar in my hand for two years. We’re having a moment. Go away.

10. “Thanks so much for hosting us this week. It’s been so great to see your ministry.” Are you kidding? The privilege is all ours—anytime our supporters can see our work here first hand, it’s a great blessing to us. We really do love you and appreciate what you’ve done for us.

Team Honduras is so thankful for the many groups who’ve come down to help us during our five years of ministry!

QA 4: The OVERreached People Group

2010-03-22T09:55:00.000-07:00

Candace writes, "How well do the people of Honduras accept Christianity (Baptists)? Is it a shame for them to come to church/accept Christ?" Another reader, Mike, refers to the strong Roman Catholic tradition in Central America, "How are you able to get past traditions and get Catholics to engage in Gospel discussions without seeing everything through a Catholic lens?

Most church-going people have heard quite a bit about "unreached people groups" around the world. There are millions who do not have a copy of the Bible in their language and have never heard Jesus' name. Honduras does not fall into this category. What we have here could be referred to as an overreached people group.

Before arriving on the field, we heard statistics from various sources calculating Roman Catholicism to be the religion of somewhere between 97-99% of the Honduran population. We soon discovered that there are two very different kinds of Roman Catholics: those who adhere to the teachings of the Catholic church, attend mass, and pray to Mary; and those who simply claim to be Catholic because their parents, grandparents, and great-grandparents were. I was surprised by the large percentage of non-practicing Catholics. Once on visitation when I asked a young man if he attended church anywhere, his quick reply was, "Oh no, I don't go to church--I'm Catholic."

Then we found that this group of non-practicing Catholics has been largely proselytized by other religions. The Jehovah's Witnesses flood our city with door-to-door evangelists. We have counted 16 Mormon churches in the city limits of El Progreso (population: 100,000). There is a "Four-Square Gospel" church that teaches a works-based salvation to its followers. We've also seen a Christian Science headquarters, Seventh-Day Adventists temples, and Pentecostal churches. Without a doubt, there is no shortage of religion in Honduras. They've been reached by nearly everything but the truth.

What this "overreached people group" is missing is a personal relationship with Jesus Christ. We've found that even the most skeptical Roman Catholics who attend our services are drawn to the "warmth," the "excitement," the "genuineness." Most can immediately see what they've been missing. One such man was Orlando Rice.

As I hurried to sweep the porch and set up for the Men’s Meeting in January, I was surprised to see a stranger approach the gate. “Is this Iglesia Bautista El Faro?” he inquired.

“Sure is. Are you here for the Men’s Meeting?” Since we wouldn’t start for another hour, I got him some iced tea and we chatted while I finished setting up.

His name was Orlando, and he was the brother of one of our ushers, Roberto. Having seen the changes in his brother’s life, he wanted to find out more about our church. I asked him about his background, and he replied, "Well, I'm Honduran, so I'm Catholic! We all are!"

He attended a few services and asked to meet with Robbie at our house. They talked for several hours; Robbie showed him from Scripture the differences in what he had been taught all his life and Biblical truth. Orlando realized that he was ineffectually relying in his good works to save him, adhering to the restrictions of an empty religion. What he needed was a relationship with Christ.

Praise the Lord, Orlando left our house a changed man that day! He trusted Christ as his Savior and been growing ever since. We are excited to see how God uses his life.

Orlando prepares to follow the Lord in baptism.

I haven't found a formula or strategy to win a Roman Catholic to Christ. Many are deeply entrenched in their faith and are very difficult to talk to. But if they are honestly, open-mindedly seeking the truth through careful examination of the Scripture, they eventually do realize the futility of empty rules and regulations. We have seen them turn from their idol worship and rituals. Some trust Christ within a few weeks, others after many months of searching. The key is the Word of God.

There is alienation, to some extent, of those who convert from Catholicism. They feel conflicted about attending family funerals, weddings, and other events that involve going to a Catholic mass. Many times their stand for Christ cuts them off from family and traditions.

Although there are hardships, the other side of this decision is freedom. Miriam, a lady I am discipling, was recently telling me of the joy she has found in her relationship in Christ. "Christine, I used to follow a procession on foot for miles and miles every January to pray to the Statue of the Black Jesus. Once, my mother crawled the last mile on her knees, aching and bleeding just to be guaranteed an answer to prayer. But now I know I can simply pray and God will hear my prayer."

Robbie once explained to a man in discipleship the history of the true church. He drew a diagram on a board to show that we did not split from the Catholic church. Rather, we can trace our lineage back to the New Testament church. Pilo studied the diagram thoughtfully, then turned to Robbie: "Yes, I understand that we are the true church and our doctrine is biblically sound. I know what you are saying is true. But...what took you so long to get here?"

It's a haunting question. If we have the truth, why are we the last ones to arrive to El Progreso? It's a question for all of us. What are we doing with the truth that we have?

Roberto and Suyapa, who were devout Catholics, trusted Christ. Several family members have followed their example.

Sandy and Cinthia (middle and right) both have Catholic backgrounds. After many months of hearing the Word of God, they both trusted Christ as their Savior.

Josselyn (right) came from a Catholic family; she is now a teacher assistant.

For God, who commanded the light to shine out of darkness, hath shined in our hearts, to give the light of the knowledge of the glory of God in the face of Jesus Christ. -II Corinthians 4:6

QA 3: My Weird Little MK

2010-03-15T21:18:00.000-07:00

Charlene writes: “What is [the mission field] like for Claire? For example: What does she think of America? Does she miss it when you go back to Honduras? How is it for her not seeing her grandparents? Does she ever feel like she is out of place with that blonde hair?”

What great questions! In fact, one of the biggest question marks in my mind, once I surrendered to the mission field, was how this decision would impact my future children. I often joked with my college roommate, “My kids will inevitably be weird and socially awkward…you know how MK’s are!” One happy day, she burst into our dorm room with, “Christine, I met an MK today in chemistry… and she was normal!” I considered conducting a study to understand this fascinating anomaly!

A year before our Claire was born, my dear missionary friend Julie gave me some valuable advice that I’ve considered often since becoming a parent. She told me about a conversation she overheard between her own children and the young daughter of a missionary couple headed to the field. Learning the little girl had just celebrated a birthday, the kids inquired, “What did you get for your birthday?” The girl lamented, “Jesus took away all my birthday presents, because we are going to the mission field.”

Julie went on to say, “Christine, help your kids have the right perspective of God and the mission field. I try to constantly point out to my kids the fun, amazing things we get to do—just because we are missionaries! For example, when we bounce along in the car on the way to a visit, I tell them, ‘Those poor kids that live in the States don’t have cool, bumpy dirt roads like this! They have to wear seatbelts all the time and ride on boring old paved roads!’ My kids are so glad we are missionaries!”

She was exactly right! If my heart is discontent and my spirit negative, Claire will adopt a “poor-me” attitude about our life in Honduras. She’ll go to the US on furlough and see fancy toys, libraries, kids’ museums, fun parks, candy stores; if my response is, “Well, we don’t have things like that, because we’re missionaries (insert mournful sigh),” my daughter will grow up bitter and eventually rebellious. She will resent both God and us for dragging her here and depriving her of a wonderful childhood in the magical land called the United States.

I try to follow Julie’s example and constantly point out to Claire, “Look at that monkey! You know, I never saw a monkey like that till I came here!” or “Let’s go pick some mangoes! Aren’t we lucky to have fruit trees right in our backyard?” She thinks it’s the greatest thing in the world when there’s no running water and she gets to take a bucket bath. And when the electricity goes out, she excitedly grabs her own little flashlight. It’s all about attitude!

She does love going to the States, especially to see family. It’s important for parents who live far away from Grandpa and Grandma to make extra effort to connect their children to family back home. Claire has a “Special People Book,” a small picture album I made when she was little. There are pictures of her being held by Papa, Grandma, Nini, and Papaw, plus aunts and uncles, close family friends, etc. I kept it in the diaper bag when she was younger and often pulled it out while waiting somewhere, “Who is this, Claire? Yes, that’s Aunt Kathleen! Remember when you went to her house and slept in the blue bed? She’s so much fun, isn’t she?” (Look for an article in April: “Ideas for Long-distance Grandchildren” with more practical suggestions for staying in touch.)

As much Claire enjoys her visits to the States, she loves coming home to Honduras. In some ways, she’ll never totally fit in; her blonde hair and pale skin make her the constant subject of cell phone photos wherever we go. But somehow, we have become accustomed to the constant stares. The last time our partners, the Goinses, went on furlough, they told us they walked through the New Orleans airport in wonder: No one is staring at us! No one is trying to pick up our kids! They aren’t even looking at us! We’re normal!

But Honduras is home, and our kids are very happy here. In fact, we all are! Whenever someone pats my shoulder and says in a pitying voice, “I don’t know how you do what you do…” I feel a little guilty. Honestly, I’m not a martyr! I’m having the time of my life! Even with all its hardships, the will of God is the greatest adventure I’ll ever have. I’m so glad my daughter is an MK—what a lucky girl!

OBSERVATION GAME: Can you spot the MK's in the picture below?
Okay, I didn't say it was a hard game!

EXTRA: Time Change Weekend

2010-03-13T06:51:00.000-08:00

As I read reminders posted by our friends in the States to turn back their clocks for Daylight Savings, I can't help but laugh and think back...

Our first year on the field, we found out that Honduras did not "spring forward" and "fall back" as we were accustomed. But in 2006, Honduran Congress had passed a law to institute Daylights Savings Time for the very first time. Since the sun comes up here around 5:15, we were very much in favor of the decision; others, however, felt quite differently.

We soon found that many Hondurans simply didn't understand this foreign concept. A woman on the news complained that "the children will have to get up an hour earlier for school every day! They'll be so tired!" Others were upset that they would "now being going to work at 5AM instead of 6AM!" Demonstrations were held to oppose the new law.

We made more visits than usual that Saturday before the time change. If people in the States miss church because of time change, what would happen here? We were afraid our small Bible study would be deserted. We spent almost an hour at one woman's house, who told us she would not be coming the next day because of the time change. "I have to get up at 3AM and change all the clocks! I'll be so tired!"

"No, no," we tried to explain. "Just change them when you go to bed!"

"But the newspaper said you have to change them at 3AM! That's when the time change is!"

After arguing back and forth for quite awhile, we realized we were getting nowhere.

Time Change Sunday did finally happen, but many simply refused to comply. Now we were forced to distinguish "New time or old time?" for every appointment. There were large-scale protests all over the country. It was all very confusing. We were scheduled to host a Medical Brigade the next month, and the school administrator lamented, "Well, this changes everything! Now the clinic will be from 7-3 instead of 8-4!" We tried once again in vain to explain that the time did not actually change every day, but our explanations fell on deaf ears.

Thankfully, Congress repealed the law to institute Daylight Savings, and we are back to waking up with the birds at 5:15. Trust me, I'm not complaining!

QA 2: In It for the Long Haul

2010-03-08T11:54:00.000-08:00

This week's question is from Dennis: "When you were called to the mission field did you feel it was a lifetime calling and that you would make Honduras your home or just a "season?" I ask because many missionaries are called then spend several years on deputation only to return to the States after a few years of mission work."

After graduating from college in 2001, I returned to Raleigh, NC, to teach in my alma mater. I spent my days immersed in classic literature, diagrams, and compositions. I absolutely loved it. Robbie taught third grade, so I enjoyed little opportunities to sneak down the hall and wink at him from his window. Then after school, we quickly changed, grabbed our whistles, and hustled to the gym to coach our middle school girls' basketball team. On Friday nights, we'd get together with another couple for a movie. Saturday morning was bus route-we'd pile into the car with some of my students/basketball team members and make our visits for Sunday morning. Then on Saturday night, we'd meet my parents at Milano's, a little pizzeria where we were usually the only customers. It was a good life--comfortable, safe. But the whole time we knew: it wasn't ours.

God had something completely different in mind for us, and that vision was growing in our hearts. We wanted to plant a church in Central America. And then another, and another. And wouldn't it be great to have a children's home? And a Christian school? And we'd need a Bible Institute to train nationals...

When we were on deputation, I met a few people in different churches who were actually from Honduras. They all asked the same questions, "Have you been to Honduras? And you really want to live there?" I think they were having a hard time picturing Americans happily living in a land of dirt roads and dengue fever. It really didn't make much sense.

But here we are, five years later, right at home in Honduras. This is our life, strange and unpredictable as it may be. We are here for the long haul. Unless God leads otherwise, this is the path for us. And we can't wait to see where it leads us.

I can't speak for other families, and I know there are a plethora of reasons why missionaries return from the field. Sometimes they leave prematurely; sometimes their work is considered complete, and they move on to a new task. Each missionary has a different story, and each ministry is unique.

But I do know that in our case, the mission field wasn't just "a good option" or "a nice idea" or even "something we want to try out for awhile." This is our calling, our life's work. And truly, there is no greater joy than to know and do the will of God, wherever that may lead you.

QA 1: Plowing Through the Language Barrier

2010-03-01T11:49:00.000-08:00

March is "Question and Answer Month" and I'm excited to reply to the questions that have been emailed to me so far. Today's blog is in reply to a question sent by Lee, who asks, "I am praying about being a missionary. What are some things that my wife and I could expect to encounter as we leave our country and family behind and move to the foreign field? (any advice on adapting culturally, difficulties you have faced, language, etc.)"

Some of my other Real Missions, Real Life readers are prayerfully considering the mission field; others are on deputation or in language school; still others are plodding through high school Spanish. This week’s blog is especially for them. One of the most daunting obstacles to getting to the foreign mission field is learning a second language. Here’s a bit of advice to get you started or keep you going.

1. Invest for a later return. Learning a new language is a slow, arduous task at first, and most days I felt like I was drowning in vocabulary lists and verb conjugations. But then I started using what I had learned, little by little. I began breaking that communication barrier and realized it was all worthwhile. One day a word popped out without much thought, and I realized with exhilaration that it was right! It’s kind of like financing a house. You are paying a lot at the beginning and not seeing a lot of equity; it will come. You have to invest in order to see that return.

2. Be a grammar nerd. Okay, maybe you don’t have to love English like I do; but the better you understand how your own language works, the better you will be able to maneuver in a foreign language. Knowing the parts of speech, the names of tenses, etc. will help a foreign language student see patterns in the new language more easily. It’s hard to understand that in Spanish direct objects come before the verb, if you aren’t sure what a direct object is and that it comes after the verb in English.

3. Pretend you’re a parrot. Or maybe a stand-up comedian. If you are one of those people who can impersonate others, you’ve got a head start. Part of learning a new language is listening carefully to how others pronounce and arrange their words and simply imitating them. To be honest, I felt a little silly at first, like I wasn’t using my own voice. But if I spoke Spanish the same way I do English, I wouldn’t be doing it right. In fact, I would sound less intelligent. I had to learn to use new muscles and make sounds I’d never made. I watched people’s mouths and tried to imitate exactly what they said. This is a proven way to learn a language. After all, how do you think you learned English?

4. Search for opportunities to use the language. People who master a second language are those who use it on a regular basis. I got out of my comfort zone and signed up to be an assistant Sunday School teacher in a Spanish children’s class. I talked to immigrants in the grocery store. I taught an adult ESL class on Tuesday evenings. One summer, I took a missions trip all by myself. In order to retain all that book learning, I had to get out there and use it.

5. Never stop learning. Though I began learning Spanish as a teenager, though I dream in the language, though I can communicate very easily now, I’ve realized that the more I learn, the more I realize I know very little. Learning a language is something I can never “check off the list.” It’s a lifetime of commitment. I must never let up, never be content with my mastery of the language. Language is a living, growing thing; in order to keep up, I must keep a teachable spirit.

6. Be able to laugh at yourself. This is perhaps the most important piece of advice I can give you. If you aren’t willing to put yourself out there, you will never learn. You can’t wait until you think you’ve got a handle on a language to start speaking it; you’ve got to start from day one! Yes, you’ll say all kinds of silly, embarrassing things. Just laugh along with everyone else and say it right the next time! Any missionary can tell you countless stories of goofy things he’s said, even at times he meant to be very serious. There is nothing to do but enjoy the joke and go on!

I’ll never forget the time as a teenager when I announced very confidently to a large group of Hispanics “Tengo hombre!” [I have a man] instead of “Tengo hambre!” [I am hungry]. Amidst their chuckles, I realized my mistake and quickly blurted, “Estoy embarazada!” thinking I was telling them how embarrassed I was. Unfortunately, embarazada does not mean embarrassed; it means pregnant. Live and learn, right in the middle of howling laughter.

Then there was the time I was teaching a salvation lesson to a group of Mexican children on a teen mission trip. In describing sin, I meant to ask if they ever fought with their brothers and sisters. But I omitted a vowel and ended up asking if they ever skinned their brothers and sisters. Between their horrified faces and the snickering MKs in the back of the room, I knew something was up…

I studied harder, and my mistakes were not so frequent. But one night at a get-together with both Americans and Latin Americans, I was asked to explain a popular party game to the Latino crowd: Spoons. I went into great detail, telling them there would be a big pile of spoons in the middle of the floor, and when one person got the right hand of cards, he could grab a spoon. "As soon as that happens," I went on, "we all have to grab the spoons. If you don't have a spoon, you lose! So fight hard and grab a spoon any way you can!" The Americans listened patiently for me to finish; but I saw that the more I explained, the larger the Latinos' eyes grew. Then it hit me. I was saying cuchillo instead of cuchara. Knife instead of spoon. The looks on their faces said it all: These gringos are crazy!

Ten years later, I’m still goofing up and laughing it off! Yes, it’s been a long, hard journey. But let me tell you, there’s nothing like knocking on a door when we are back in the States on furlough and meeting a sweet immigrant lady. She’ll glance at my white face, shake her head in resignation, and start to close the door with an apologetic smile. That is, until she hears, “¡Buenos días! Me llamo Cristina…” Her face lights up with wonder: She speaks Spanish!

I won’t lie to you. Learning a second language is one of the hardest things you’ll ever attempt. It’s slow, frustrating, and even humiliating at times. But it is one of the most rewarding things you’ll ever do. Hang in there. It’s worth it.

Congratulations to Dennis Pustinger, the winner of the drawing for a Honduran coffee assortment! Be sure to check back each week for more answers to your questions about life on the mission field!

Nicodemo

2010-02-26T09:25:00.000-08:00

Last night about 9:30PM, Robbie was watching a Kentucky basketball game and I was absorbed in a crossword puzzle when we heard gunshots down the street. The sound of gunfire doesn’t usually draw our attention anymore, because the guards here are known to routinely fire shots into the air. But something was different this time. The shots came too close together; they couldn’t have been from the same gun. Then we heard screams.

A vehicle came speeding by, and we looked at each other with alarm. What had happened? The screams and cries continued, and we knew: someone had just been murdered.

Robbie locked Claire and me up in the house and went down to the street to see if he could help. After what seemed like forever, he returned shaking his head. “It’s Nico.” My heart sank.

Nicodemo and Dana are our neighbors and good friends. He was born in Jerusalem, but had married and settled down here in Honduras. He owned an open-air restaurant downtown called Las Tejas; it was one of our favorite spots. He and Robbie had gone on a four-wheeling trek up into the mountains together once. I had always enjoyed talking to his wife Dana; we had gotten together a few times for coffee while Claire and Jacobo, their four year-old son played together. They were a sweet couple.

We had invited them to church countless times. Nico called Robbie one night, asking him to come by and talk. He got right to the point, “How do you know the meaning of life?” he wondered. Robbie was able to share the gospel with him, but Nico did not make a decision.

Then Sunday before last, Nico and Dana finally came to church. Robbie preached a clear gospel message from Galatians, and they listened attentively. Afterwards, one of our church men asked Nicodemo if he enjoyed the message. “Yes, it was great…but I wanted to hear more!” He assured us they would be back.

As I walked down the road last night, just a block from our house, I saw bullet casings, a watch, and finally Nico’s lifeless body, bleeding in the road. Dana was doubled over on the ground, wailing and begging someone to get a doctor. “Take him to the hospital! Please!” she screamed. I tried to comfort her, but I don’t even think she knew me; she was out of her mind with grief. She vomited and fainted a few times before a family member finally dragged her to the house. She had watched her husband gunned down for his vehicle. I silently thanked the Lord that Jacobo had not been with them; he was with his grandmother, asleep in the house.

We need your prayers this morning. Please pray for Dana and Jacobo. Pray for Robbie and me to be a help and comfort to this precious family. Pray for our team; to be perfectly honest, acts of violence that strike so close to home always shake us up. We are not immune to fear, even after being on the field for five years. We find ourselves solemnly asking if we really do believe in the Lord’s protection; those aren’t just words to us anymore.

I will both lay me down in peace, and sleep: for thou, LORD, only makest me dwell in safety. –Psalm 4:8

The Honduran Michael Jackson

2010-02-22T16:41:00.000-08:00

I never knew his real name; everyone in Quebrada Seca called him Michael Jackson. He was a black man, but the similarities ended there. Our MJ had very little in earthly possessions. He lived in a tiny makeshift shack by the river’s edge. Michael earned a few lempiras here and there, selling fruit from the basket of his rusty bicycle. I spoke with him only once, when I bought some lemons to make a pie; but I often spotted him around the neighborhood while we were on visitation. Several people in our church gave him food when they had some to spare. They themselves were poor, but Michael was painfully destitute.

I seldom thought of him, until that Sunday morning in late December. Robbie was preaching a Christmas message, when suddenly there was a loud explosion. It sounded like lightning striking a tree, but there were no clouds in the sky. Probably a transformer exploding, we assumed. Our city’s power grid is overloaded, and such explosions are frequent.

But heading home on the bus after service, our church people were met with a tragic sight. Hanging from a nearby power line was the charred body of Michael Jackson. A crowd gathered to watch as he was lowered to the ground. It was common knowledge that in order to earn extra money, he would charge about $10 to reconnect someone’s power after it had been cut due to unpaid bills. He worked bajo, bajo (illegally) in this dangerous work until he grabbed the wrong cable, instantly snuffing out his life.

Faces pressed against the glass, unable to look away, we were sobered by thoughts of death. A man unexpectedly entered eternity. We had tried to meet his physical needs, but what did we do for his soul?

The world lost two Michael Jacksons last year. One lived in a mansion, one in a shack. One was sheltered by scarves and umbrellas, the other burnt by the sun. One sold platinum albums, one sold fruit. One had unmatched fame, the other an unmarked grave. Both are now in eternity, their lives on earth a haunting memory.

Is one any better off than the other?

For what is your life? It is even a vapour, that appeareth for a little time, and then vanisheth away. –James 4:14

Did you encounter someone today whose life is empty? Rich or poor, educated or ignorant, powerful or weak, they have the same need. Show them Jesus Christ.

Don't forget to submit your question by the end of this month in order to participate in the drawing for a Honduran coffee gift basket! Is there something you would like to know about life on the mission field? Ask me this week! christine@teamhonduras.com

The Uneaten Cucumbers

2010-02-16T08:30:00.000-08:00

I recently spoke with a friend who is struggling with morning sickness in the early stages of pregnancy, and our conversation took me back to my own pregnancy four years ago. I was the typical first-time mom. I read a stack books on pregnancy, learning everything I could about the new life growing inside me. I took my prenatal vitamins religiously, being sure I had the recommended amounts of iron, calcium, and folic acid. I made a diet plan, determined to eat right, count those extra 500 daily calories, and steer clear of sweets and soft drinks.

Remembering a favorite veggie from my childhood, I bought a few pounds of cucumbers, peeled and sliced them, then placed them into containers of apple cider vinegar to soak in the fridge. A good ol’ Southern way to eat fresh cucumbers! I couldn’t wait to dig in the next day.

But when I awoke the following morning, I said hello to nausea and goodbye to eating well! I couldn’t keep anything down. Like many pregnant women, I discovered “morning sickness” is a very loose term that can mean, “morning-noon-and-night” sickness. As soon as Robbie sprayed on his cologne that morning, I went running for the bathroom and never looked back. The very thought of those huge containers of cukes in vinegar gave me cold chills. I couldn’t even go in the kitchen, let alone open the fridge. The only things I managed to keep down were dry toast and Sprite (which had been a definite no-no just 24 short hours before). My carefully crafted diet plan was decidedly thrown out the window until the end of the first trimester.

It amazed me how quickly my tastes changed! Poor Robbie was given the task of disposing of two large jars of cucumbers and vinegar (double-bagging to spare me the pungent aroma). In less than 24 hours, what had seemed so delicious was the very thing that made me sick.

What is the Lord doing in your life to change your tastes? Do you have an appetite for the things of the world? Unlike my first-trimester experience, God gives us a taste for good things. He helps us develop a disgust for all that is worldly and unholy, and a hunger for the pure and right. We’ve seen it time and time again with new Christians here in Honduras; a new creature in Christ will have new desires, new goals, new dreams. I pray that my tastes will keep changing, molding my will into His will.

Delight thyself also in the Lord: and he shall give thee the desires of thine heart. –Psalm 37:4

ATTENTION "Real Missions, Real Life" Readers! March is "Question and Answer" Month! Is there something you would like to know about life on the mission field? Every reader who submits a question will be entered in a drawing to win a Honduran coffee gift basket! Email me your question(s) at christine@teamhonduras.com.

Raising a Missionary

2010-02-09T08:13:00.000-08:00

Last year, my mom sent me a stack of old letters that my dad had written to her when he was in graduate school in 1980. He had gone to Florida for six weeks, leaving my mom and me in North Carolina. I was shocked to read the following words in a letter that he had written when I was just an infant:

Giving over completely to God I believe means a sacrifice. You don’t sacrifice to God that which is of little value or low esteem. My family—you and Chris—are of very high value to me. In a real sense you are both my sacrifice to God. I believe he’s accepted it. Wouldn’t it be wonderful to someday see her tearfully walk up the airplane ramp with her husband to go to the mission field? God may call upon her to sacrifice family time for His work. I want her to be able to respond unhesitatingly to that call.

I couldn't believe it! My father had very specifically predicted my life’s course when I was only four months old! Was he some kind of modern-day prophet?!?

But the more I thought about it, the more I realized that this was not so much a prediction as it was a decision. He had not merely guessed at how my life would turn out. He had determined which way he wanted me to go—the way of sacrifice.

The decision to serve the Lord is not a single one. It’s hundreds of thousands of decisions made habitually over many years. For me, it began with decisions I did not even make myself…going to church every Sunday, reading a Bible story and praying each night, attending a Christian school. These were life-altering decisions that my parents made for me.

But sometimes it’s those seemingly trivial decisions that become very important down the road. I remember countless spankings because of my refusal to speak to adults. Instead of saying, “Oh, she’s just shy. It’s a stage; she’ll get over it,” my parents forced me to be polite. And I am thankful for that training when I greet the first-time visitors each Sunday at our church. I still feel timid inside, but my parents helped me win that battle years ago. I can't help but wonder if I could have ever worked up the nerve on my own to knock on a stranger's door and give them the gospel; I seriously doubt it. My parents trained me to overcome my natural shyness so that it would not hinder me from doing the Lord's work one day.

Doing God’s will is not an “event” our children will encounter one day down the road. It’s today. It’s now. It means I can’t let Claire tell me “No!” It means I make her come when I call. It means I discipline her attitude, not simply her actions. Preparing my daughter for lifetime service to the Lord is an intimidating thought. But, thank the Lord, it’s brought about by one decision at a time, beginning with the “little things.”

What Are YOU Throwing Away?

2010-02-01T18:01:00.000-08:00

“You’re throwing these away?!?” The garbage man who had begun to rummage through our bags pulled out several old magazines and held them up, his face incredulous.
“Well, yes…,” I stammered, a little embarrassed.

“I can sell these!” He pulled them out one by one, wiped clean the ones soiled by discarded food, and carefully set them aside. “Tell me when you are going to throw out good stuff like this!” He looked suspiciously at our other bags in the back of the truck. I knew he would go through those as well.

There are few things more sobering than having someone rummage through your trash in search of a treasure. When we take our trash to the dump, I watch in horror as the people who live there delve into the bags and scarf down old pizza slices, stale bread, and overly ripe fruit. How can we have so much and not even realize it? I always think as we leave.

We are extremely rich compared to the average Honduran, but not simply because of our material possessions. We have the incredible treasure of a personal relationship with the God of the Universe. Every day, we can take time to communicate with our Creator. Yet we often take this precious gift for granted.
As we step into eternity and the Lord reads our names from the Lamb’s Book of Life, will we be asked by a tearful soul, “You knew this and did not tell me?”?
What does your relationship with God mean to you? Is it as unimportant as yesterday’s trash, or do you treat it as a valuable treasure, sharing it with those you meet? Someone you know is starving for what you have. Tell him about Jesus today.

Signs of Salvation: Nairobi's Story

2010-01-24T12:32:00.000-08:00

Timid little Nairobi approached me after church to tell me that she would like someone to tell her more about going to Heaven. Since the bus was about to leave, I made arrangements to visit her as soon as possible so that I could continue our conversation.

After I arrived at Nairobi’s house, I asked her grandmother's permission to talk to Nairobi about trusting Christ. She gave her consent, and Nairobi took my hand, leading me to the drab couch in the tiny living room. I opened by New Testament to the Romans’ Road, beginning with Romans 3:23.

“Nairobi, do you know that you are a sinner? The Bible says that we all have sinned, done wrong things against God.” I was surprised to see tears stream down her little face. Although she was only nine years old, the Holy Spirit was convicting her of her sin. She nodded solemnly.

“That’s why I want to get saved,” she whispered. With great joy, I was able to show Nairobi the rest of the Romans’ Road and lead her in a prayer to trust Christ as her Savior. It was a happy day in Nairobi’s house.

As exciting as it was to lead Nairobi to Christ, I wanted to proceed with caution. In working with children, we must be careful when it comes to salvation decisions. One can talk a nine year-old into almost anything; they are usually very eager to please adults whom they respect. I wanted to be sure that I had the right balance of showing her the need to trust Christ, while making sure that any decision made was her own and not mine. It’s easy to lead a little child in a prayer, but if they are not ready or don’t understand the decision they are making, such a prayer can result in a false confidence. Many teens and adults doubt their salvation because they prayed a prayer as a child that they have little memory of. They’ve simply been told, “Remember? You asked Jesus into your heart when you were four years old.”

On the other hand, children certainly can come to Christ. They are capable of understanding their sinfulness and need of a Savior. And we must express to them the importance of trusting Christ at a young age, before the world has a chance to take root in their hearts. But in our zeal to lead them to Christ, we must not forget the necessity of each individual making his own choice.

Also, after a child prays to trust Christ, it’s often difficult to know whether his
profession was sincere or not. Marks of a Christian, such as turning from the world or confessing Christ before others, are sometimes more difficult to identify in a young child. Because they are not involved in deep sin, it may be difficult to see a lifestyle change. Sincere or not, they may simply lack the words to clearly describe their decision to trust Christ because of their young age. This doesn’t mean that we discourage them—“You must not have really asked Jesus into your heart!”—but that we simply wait patiently for the signs to appear, all the while encouraging them to know Christ.

I was pleased to see Nairobi return to my class the next Wednesday. We had a full room, over thirty boys and girls squeezed into a tiny space. On this particular night, I had to work harder than usual to keep the class’s attention. Then a teacher came running in from an adjoining classroom needing help. A sink had come off the wall, shattering on impact, and a geyser of water from the wall was flooding the 2-5 year-olds’ class. An usher was called to shut off the water and the teacher assistants were sent for mops and buckets. The 2-5 year olds were filed into our class to finish the Bible story about Elijah.

Amid all this chaos, a little girl sat on the front row, her shining eyes never leaving my face. Nairobi listened eagerly to the Bible story, hungry for every word. Amazingly, the mayhem around us didn’t seem to bother her a bit.

After church, she found me with Claire, cleaning up the classroom. “I want to give these toys to your little girl.” She carefully pulled a small plastic dish, fork, spoon, and hairbrush from her bag and gave them to Claire. She tried to downplay the magnitude of her sacrifice, “I’m too big to play with them now.” But I saw her look at them longingly. She was giving up something that was very special to her.

As I watched Claire hug Nairobi and examine the little toys one by one, I prayed that the Lord would one day work in my daughter’s heart in such a miraculous way. It's my desire for her that we would not see an empty profession that would later lead to doubt, but a real repentance resulting in a changed heart.

If we walk in the light, as he is in the light, we have fellowship with one another, and the blood of Jesus, his Son, purifies us from all sin. -I John 1:7

How to Help Haiti

2010-01-20T07:02:00.000-08:00

If you are like me, you've been watching the footage of the devastation in Haiti and your heart aches to do something. There are a lot of charitable organizations out there, but how much of your money really be used to help the Haitian people?

Are you burdened to help the earthquake victims in Haiti but unsure of the best way to give? Please let me introduce you to Medical Missions Outreach, an organization that works with missionaries on foreign fields to minister to the hurting with the ultimate goal of sharing the gospel of Jesus Christ.

I have been privileged to be a part of two medical brigades and a surgical team organized by MMO; these efforts allowed us to minister to people of our community as an outreach of our local church. Each patient who came through the clinic heard a gospel presentation and was given an opportunity to trust Christ; many of these patients prayed that week to trust Christ as their personal Savior. We missionaries then followed up on all these decisions, visiting them in their homes to encourage them to grow in their faith.

Medical Missions Outreach, unlike many organizations of its type, is not simply charity with a missions label slapped on. MMO ministers to the hurting just as Jesus Christ did—healing the body in order to reach the dying soul. This is medical missions done right.

MMO has assembled an emergency surgical team that will arrive in Haiti this Sunday for a week-long tour of duty. They will be working 12 hour shifts in order to keep the surgical center operational 24 hours a day. There are still some supplies that they need to purchase: narcotics for the anesthesia, surgical supplies in bulk, and overage fees on the luggage.

This is an excellent, reliable way to help the precious souls in Haiti whose lives are in ruins. For a list of needs and information for donations, click here. Above all, please pray for this team and the patients they will see this week. What an awesome opportunity to turn the worst day in someone’s live into the best day, telling them of the One Who died so that they might live!

Crossing with Confidence

2010-01-17T12:24:00.000-08:00

Yesterday afternoon, like any Saturday in Honduras, we headed to church to General Visitation. After meeting at church and sending the kids to the nursery, nineteen of us piled into two vehicles and drove to a nearby neighborhood. As we headed down the road, I glanced out the window and saw a disturbing sight. A man was hiding behind the corner of a building; he was carrying a large rifle and peering around the corner. I pointed him out as we passed, and everyone sighed in resignation. "Oh no, another thief...I hope no one gets hurt." It's amazing to me what becomes "normal" in a third-world country.

We had a great time of knocking doors, and although no one trusted Christ, we found several who were interested and would be good prospects for follow-up visits. Once again we piled into our vehicles and headed back toward church to pick up the kids. But as we neared the paved road that led back to church, we saw a large crowd of people and many parked vehicles. I immediately remembered the armed man we had seen on the way to church and prayed no one had been killed. As we neared the bridge that led back to church, we stopped beside the road to ask what was going on.

"Protesters have taken control of the bridge. A lady in this neighborhood is planning on putting up a cellular phone tower on her property and the protesters don't want her to. Everyone is afraid of getting cancer from the tower."

In dismay, we stopped our vehicle on the edge of the dirt road and talked about what to do. Over half of us lived on this side of the blockade, but many of us had children at the church. I had to find a way to get to Claire. And the only way across was this bridge. No one knew how long the protesters would maintain control of the bridge, and it starting to get dark.

Robbie had to stay with part of the group and the vehicles; I had to go get Claire. He sent Oscar, an older teenage boy from our church, to walk with me and a couple of other ladies who lived on the other side of the bridge. We weaved through cars and bystanders, nearing the bridge cautiously. As we approached, we saw that the protesters had used large rocks to block the bridge, and no one was passing, not even on foot. I looked down at the swirling waters of the brown river below. I could cross easily to get to Claire, but was unsure of how I could manage on the way back, if I were holding her. Lord, please help us cross!

I decided to look confident and continue toward the blockade. No one looked very hostile, and I doubted they would stop a foreigner accompanied by a body guard (Oscar had shoved his hands into the front of his shirt to look like he was carrying a gun).

As I got within ten feet of the blockade, the police officers made their move. We froze in place, waiting to see what would happen. They grabbed the rocks and moved them to the sidewalks lining the bridge. A few delayed motorcyclists, frustrated with the blockade, assisted them. Some of the protesters grabbed rocks and raised them in defiance, threatening to throw them at the police. Thankfully, they eventually lowered them and moved to the road's edge to sulk.

We passed through without incident and arrived safely at the church. I took Claire in my arms and began the trek back to the vehicles. By the time we reached the bridge this time, all that was left of the incident was a long line of traffic (about an hour's wait on both sides). Robbie's face melted with relief as he spotted us turning up the street where the van was parked. We headed home with prayers on our lips and gratefulness in our hearts.

I wondered on the way home how many of our friends and supporters back in the States said a routine prayer for our safety that day, never knowing how the Lord would answer. Thank you to each of you that calls out our names to God each day; I know we are on many prayer lists. Please know that a simple prayer of "Lord, please keep the Ellis family safe," means the world to our family. We can cross barricades and face danger with confidence and peace in our hearts, knowing Who is in control.

Looking Back Part III: The Birth of a Ministry

2010-01-14T10:15:00.000-08:00

Is this really going to work? I have to admit, this was my thought as Robbie, Matt Goins (our partner), and I got out of the truck on our first day of door-to-door visitation in Honduras. Years of preparation had led up to this day. Robbie and Matt had studied Pastoral Ministries with a Missions minor at Pensacola Christian College. I had majored in Spanish Education. We had learned from the best exactly how to give the gospel, plant a church, and disciple new believers. We had faithfully attended Mission Prayer Band to hear the wisdom of those who had gone before us. We had prayed for months over different countries, learning about their needs and talking with missionaries that served there. We had worked on bus routes and taught Sunday School classes. The Lord had finally led us to form Team Honduras, together with the Goins family, to reach this needy Central American country with the light of the gospel.

But here we were in the middle of a third-world country, in a city where we knew no one. We were outsiders, foreigners with thick accents and little knowledge of the culture. We didn't have a church to invite anyone to yet--we didn't even have a lead on a place to meet. We each held in our hands a little notecard with carefully-planned survey questions on it. We would ask, "Do you believe the Bible is the perfect Word of God? Do you believe in heaven and hell?" The series of questions would hopefully give us a good place to begin to share the gospel. I prayed I would be able to understand their answers. Would they even take us seriously? As we headed to that first door, I said a silent prayer and struggled against the doubt. Lord, is this really going to work?

How wonderful it is to know that God is faithful! Despite our initial trepidation, a teenage boy trusted Christ that first day on visitation, and many more followed in the weeks to come. We formed a small Bible study on the porch of a convert; the small study of six people grew and grew. We rented an empty house to accomodate our increasing numbers. A charter was drawn and signed to officially form the church. In five years of ministry, we have seen many precious souls come to Christ and grow in their faith. The church has grown (averaging around 200 each service) and is now in its first building program. We have staff in training to found a children’s home and Christian school so that young people can be trained to go into surrounding areas with the good news that Jesus saves. Plans for a Bible Institute are in the works for those who surrender to the call to full-time ministry.

We can now confidently say: It does work. The Lord has proven Himself to us again and again. The promises of the Bible are true and still change lives.

And he said unto me, My grace is sufficient for thee: for my strength is made perfect in weakness. -II Corinthians 12:9

Looking Back Part II: Set Up

2010-01-07T09:55:00.001-08:00

A week or two after we arrived on the field in 2005, I got an email that said something to the effect of, "How many are y'all running at your church now?" I gasped, chuckled a little, and showed it to Robbie. "How many are we running? Are you kidding me?" Evidently we had not explained to this particular person all that was involved in setting up a new life on the mission field.

We were starting from scratch. We arrived with no vehicle, no housing, no prospects. We didn't know where the grocery store was or where to go to change money. We had to meet with a lawyer about obtaining residency. And we needed to go back to the airport to hopefully find the eight Rubbermaid containers that had not arrived on the plane with us. It's pretty scary to condense your life down to the bare essentials only to have it go missing at JFK!

Those first few months on the mission field are unbelievably crazy, especially if you are beginning a new work in a largely unfamiliar area. And let me tell you, culture shock comes right up and slaps you in the face...

After we had finally obtained housing and a vehicle, ordered major appliances, and met with a carpenter to have some furniture made, our new home was beginning to take shape. We just had not figured on everything taking five times as long in a third-world culture.

For example, we decided one morning to tackle the next item on the to-do list: a way to send and receive mail from the States. There is no system in Honduras that delivers mail to residences; that probably has something to do with the streets not having names. So in order to get mail, we had to go downtown to rent a post office box.

I tentatively followed an employee through a padlocked metal gate into a small grimy room lit by a single dim bulb. A large, bored-looking man sat behind a desk that looked like it had survived a war only to be covered by tattered letters, ratty packages, and dried up ink pads. This is where our mail would be coming?

"Excuse me, sir, I'd like to secure a post office box, please."

"We don't have any available," he gruffly replied before returning to the soccer game on the radio.

"Excuse me?"

"They're all occupied."

This was the only post office in the whole town. Not looking good.

I glanced at the wall of small boxes stuffed full of letters. It looked like he was telling the truth. Then I spied some larger boxes on the other side of the room. "What about those?"

"Oh, those are commercial boxes. They are too expensive."

"How much?" Visions of care packages were dancing in my head.

"Nine hundred lempira for a year." I pulled out the calculator that had been glued to my hand since we arrived...about fifty dollars.

"I'll take it!"

He sighed heavily and pulled a worn receipt pad from the desk drawer. "You need to buy a lock for your box."

"Where do I get a lock?"

After he pointed me in the direction of nearest hardware store, Robbie and I set off to find it. After getting turned around and asking for directions from several suspicious bystanders, we finally found a dingy hardware store with rusty, antique-looking locks. I pulled the sample the post office worker had given me from my purse. "I need one of these." She removed a small box from a drawer, took out the lock, inspected it for a seemingly endless amount of time, then quoted me the cost. I dutifully negotiated for a deal and we finally settled on a price. I reached for the lock, but she withdrew it quickly.

"No, you go pay over there at the register first."

I waited in a "line" (literally a mass of sweaty people shoving their way to the front to hand their money through the tiny opening in the bullet-proof glass), collected my receipt, and took it back to the first lady.

"Oh no, you still need to get it stamped. Go over there to that counter first."

I was beginning to feel like a rat in a dark little maze that smelled like rust and paint remover. After another wait, I handed the frowning manager my receipt which he scanned repeatedly. I saw that the first lady had given him the the box containing my lock, which he held up next to the receipt to be sure they matched. Then he removed the lock and inserted each key, opening and closing it to show me it worked. Finally, he pulled the receipt back out and checked it one last time.

I was wondering if I was going to be asked for a blood or urine sample, when he finally handed me the bag with great flair and motioned toward the door. Finally! But as I started to leave, a large security guard stepped in front of me and held out his hand. Are you kidding me? What now?

"Receipt, please." I dug the receipt out of my purse and showed it to him. He opened the bag with my two-dollar lock and inspected it carefully. Finally satisfied that I had received exactly what I had paid for, he motioned for me to leave.

Like Jason returning with the Golden Fleece, I strode into the post office and proudly presented the gruff man with the lock. He looked it over and said, "The man who installs the locks isn't here today. You'll have to come Wednesday at noon." Install the lock? Are you serious? I looked down at the simple brass object in his hand. Give me a screwdriver!

But I held my tongue, remembering he was the one who would be handling our care packages. "Oh, well, while I'm here, can I buy some stamps?"

"We're out."

A whole morning gone and nothing had been checked off our list! And the Honduran scavenger hunt was just beginning. We were so desperate to start our ministry, but many days we felt like we were spinning our wheels!

So my dear readers, please remember, if you ever email a missionary a couple weeks after he arrives in a third-world country and ask him how many doors he's knocked, just be prepared. He might just fly back home to slap you!

Thank the Lord, after a few more weeks we were set up and ready to go! Be sure to return next week for "Looking Back Part III: The Birth of a Ministry" to read about how we got started.

Looking Back Part I: The Making of a Team

2010-01-03T15:11:00.001-08:00

This month Team Honduras celebrates an anniversary of service on the mission field. As we give thanks to the Lord for all that He has done, I have been sentimentally recalling the exciting journey we embarked on just five short years ago. I know that some of my readers are missionaries (who can relate to the story I will tell), some missionary candidates (who may learn from our experiences), and some supporters back home (who may be interested in the ins and outs of our journey to arrive on the field). Whatever category you may fall into, I pray that you will rejoice with us in how the Lord brought our team together and prepared us for the journey ahead.

Matt Goins, Dallita Clay, Christine Tippett, and Robbie Ellis (1999)

Robbie Ellis and Matt Goins became friends as freshmen at Pensacola Christian College, due to common interests in worldwide missions and Kentucky basketball. Then at Mission Prayer Band one Monday evening, they were challenged by a missionary named Brian Burkholder to pray about working as a team instead of "going solo." He cited many advantages such as accountability and encouragement. The Lord began to work in both of their hearts about forming a missions team; they began to pray for one Central American country each week. When they began seriously dating their future wives, Dallita and me, we joined in prayer and study of various countries.

The Lord used several different people and situations to lead us to Honduras. Robbie had a roommate from Honduras, who continually spoke of the need in his country. I had a close friend from Honduras, and I spent two weeks at her home one summer, teaching in a Christian school. Matt and Dallita were asked by their pastor to pray about going to Honduras, having been made aware of a need there by a Honduran he had met. It seemed that God kept bringing this small Central American country to our hearts in a variety of ways.

The Ellis and Goins Families

The Goinses graduated and were married in 2000; they then joined the staff at West Florida Baptist Church in Milton, Florida, where Matt taught sixth grade and Dallita assisted in a kindergarten class.

Robbie and I graduated in 2001, married, and joined the staff at Beacon Baptist Church in Raleigh, NC, where I had grown up. He taught third grade and I taught middle and high school English. Both families also served in various ministries at our home churches: teaching a children's class, working on a bus route, attending soul-winning visitation. Yes, we were in transition; we would not arrive on the mission field for a couple more years. But that was no excuse not to serve. We needed to train and learn from these two great churches before we arrived on the field. He who is not willing to serve at home will certainly not serve abroad. Ministry is not location; it's a lifestyle.

Saying goodbye to some of my former English students just before we headed to the field

Robbie and I met with Pastor Tim Rabon of our home church about our desire to be sent from Beacon Baptist Church to the Honduran mission field. A few months later, we prepared a presentation which we nervously presented to the Deacon Board.

Robbie and I with Pastor and Mrs. Rabon shortly before leaving for Honduras

Once we had Pastor and the board's blessing, we began contacting churches to schedule meetings. Also during this time, Robbie and Matt flew to Honduras to conduct a survey trip to help them decide where to plant the first church. I continued to teach English at RCA; Robbie worked part-time at the NC Credit Union. On the weekends we traveled to churches to present our work and hopefully be taken on for support. We slept little and logged many miles on our Ford Contour, but the Lord blessed and we were able to raise our support in just nine months.

At a missions conference in Las Vegas with the Pattersons, missionaries to Mexico

A third-grade Christian school class (RCA, Mr. Barker) gave us a going away shower of many gifts, such as luggage and our first digital camera.

Meanwhile, Matt, Dallita, and their infant son Joash had raised their support as BIMI missionaries and had headed to a year of language school in Costa Rica, where their second son Jadon was born.

Having had some previous Spanish classes, Robbie and I opted for a two-month intensive course; we joined Matt and Dallita in Costa Rica in August of 2004. The men bussed up to Honduras to conduct one last survey trip before the final semester of language school. They hit ten cities in fourteen days, talking with missionaries and national pastors to find out where the biggest need for a fundamental church was.

As soon as they returned, we plunged back into study.

My classmates and teacher at language school in San Jose

Shortly before our departure, we took our first Staff Retreat, traveling to a beautiful resort at the base of a live volcano, Arenal. Here we decided on the organization of the team (Robbie would function as the team leader) and the details of the first church plant.

The active volcano at Arenal, and the cabin where we met to plan our first-year and five-year goals.

We finished our Spanish training and arrived on the field within a few weeks of each other, Matt and Dallita just before Christmas and Robbie and I in the second week of January. Our hearts were filled with excitement, nervousness, and even some apprehension; but were were eagerly anticipating what the Lord could do through our ministry. We could never have dreamed all that lay ahead...

Be sure to check back next week to hear about one of the most exciting times in our lives--our first few months on the field!

Rich Beyond Belief

2009-12-28T14:32:00.000-08:00

We just celebrated an amazing Christmas...Robbie and I agreed that it's been one of the best ever. Even though we did not get to spend it with our families in the States, it was a sweet, special time with our own little family. I think what made this year so wonderful were the great opportunities we had to give. Honestly, I feel that some years it's easy for Christmas to veer out of control. Claire is the only grandchild on both sides of the family, and if we are not careful, the focus can easily become piles of gifts from our dear relatives who rarely see her. But this year we were able to be a part of quite a few projects that helped us stress to her the joy of giving.

I helped the ladies of Iglesia Bautista El Faro organize bags for needy new mothers who give birth at the public hospital. Hospitals here (even the private one where I had Claire) do not give out "freebies" like the ones in the States. You have to bring your own supplies: diapers, wipes, acetominophen, feminine products, etc. Patients at the public hospital even have to purchase their own IV bags from the pharmacy downtown. So we church ladies organized bags of supplies for the new mothers who arrive with no money to purchase what their newborn needs. It was a great privilege to present 84 bags to the maternity ward, along with a letter of encouragement from our church.

Our church people, young and old, gave toward a "Christmas Gifts for Christ" project that focused on two areas. First, they gave offerings to help build a fundamental church in El Salvador. Then, each age group was assigned a food item to bring to church for the offering. The little girls and boys brought dried rice and beans. The teens brought white and corn flour. The adults brought shortening and dried pasta. We put together fifteen large food baskets to take to needy families in our community on a special visitation, where we surprised them by singing Christmas carols outside their houses. Caroling is not a tradition in Honduras, but our people loved their first caroling experience! And Claire went right along with us, singing loudly at each house and shouting, "Feliz Navidad!" as we left.

Claire and I baked Christmas cookies into the wee hours of the morning to take to the families of our church on Christmas Eve.
We also told her she could choose one little girl in her class to buy a present for this year. She chose a sweet little girl whose mother had abandoned her when she was an infant. We took Claire to the store where she chose a beautiful baby doll dressed as a princess. I was gearing myself up for the "I want to keep her" comments, but they never came. She was truly excited about seeing Allison get her new doll. She wrapped it and placed it under the tree. When family members from the States asked Claire on the telephone how many presents she would have for Christmas, she always said, "One, the doll for Allison," thinking only of what she would be giving. I was so proud to see her little heart grow with love for others. I knew Claire would be opening her own presents, but thank the Lord, the joy of giving was taking predominance. When Claire took the doll to Allison on Christmas Eve, the little girl accepted the present then ran inside to place it under the Christmas tree; it was the only gift there. We were able to show Claire the joy of giving to someone who truly appreciated it.

Claire also chose gifts for me and Robbie. She was beside herself as I opened up a very colorful candle she had picked out--it looks like a big roll of lifesavers, but I love it because she selected it just for me. She also chose a red and white striped shirt with large, poofy sleeves because, "I want you to dress like a candy cane, Mommy!" I will wear it with pride.

I know some Christians adamantly shun gift-giving at Christmas, citing materialism and greed. But I believe gift-giving done in the right way can be a sweet, special experience; we just have to find balance.

Here on the mission field, we are surrounded by poverty and suffering. But we are also surrounded by stories of supernatural sacrifice, as new Christians who have nearly nothing scrape together what they can to buy a bag of dried beans to bring to church. One man whose flocks had grown this year tithed a sheep. No matter who we are or what we have, being a recipient of salvation necessitates sacrificial giving on our part. Our hearts compel us to give, and especially as we medidate in Christ's incarnation. I pray that the Lord will always help us to strike a balance in our family of giving. We've been blessed so much, it will be hard to keep up; but we are sure going to try!

Merry Christmas to all my Real Missions, Real Life readers and followers!

Through the Eyes of a Child

2009-12-20T16:30:00.000-08:00

There is something about having a little one in the house at Christmas that makes the season magical again. It has been so much fun this December to celebrate traditions, bake favorite goodies, and sing old carols, because our three year-old daughter Claire is now catching the excitement. She oohed and aahed over each ornament we hung on the tree, examining them carefully with her tiny fingers. She squealed with anticipation when I pulled from the oven the freshly-baked gingerbread men that she had helped with. She belted out "Al Mundo Paz" ("Joy to the World") as she marched an endless procession of dolls past the manger scene to "visit with Baby Jesus." She carefully selected a doll for a little girl in her Sunday school class whose mommy abandoned her when she was an infant; she wrapped it, labeled it with a "C" (from Claire), and proudly placed it beneath the small tree in her room. She is eagerly awaiting Christmas Eve so that we can take it to her. And I've got to admit, I'm probably just as eager for Christmas as she is. I can't wait to eat our traditional big breakfast, read Luke 2, and see her open the gifts we chose for her. Seeing Christmas through a child's eyes has brought back a magic that I'd forgotten existed.

It reminds me of one of the most beautiful blessings of missions, one I never anticipated before arriving on the field. It came to me unexpectedly as I taught a small children's class during our first year in Honduras. Seeing quite a few more children had arrived than usual, I had asked a teen girl to assist me; she sat in the back and helped me quiet the unruly ones. But I noticed that during the story about the three Hebrew children who refused to bow to a graven image, she was listening just as intently as the children were. I explained how the wicked king ordered the men to be thrown into the fiery furnace, and a low gasp spread across the room. They leaned forward in their seats, worry on their faces, as I told how even the men who threw the Hebrews into the furnace were consumed by the flames. "But Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego were not burned!" They smiled and nodded, clearly relieved; but their smiles changed to puzzled looks when I told them, "But the king looked up at the men walking around in the fiery furnace, and realized that there were not three, but four men in the flames!" I paused dramatically, waiting for their anticipation to peak before I continued. But not everyone could stand it. The teenage girl shouted out from the back of the room, "Well, who WAS it?"

What an awesome privilege it is to tell someone a Bible story for the first time! Those stories that I had heard over and over since I was a child became new to me again, because I was telling them to people who had never heard them. I had received the unexpected blessing of a second dose child-like wonder for what God can do.

On the mission field, we definitely miss being around seasoned Christians who are mature in their faith; I sometimes ache for the church family and leadership we left in the States. I know that one day we will have people like that in our church here; they have already made leaps and bounds in their walks with the Lord.

But even as we see Christians here grow to maturity, I pray that the Lord will always allow me to have the privilege of working with new Christians as well. There is nothing like leading someone to the Lord and watching them learn in awe of what their Savior can do.

_________________________________

I grew up in Sunday school,
I memorized the Golden Rule
And how Jesus came to set the sinner free.
I know the story inside out
I can tell you all about
The path that led Him up to Calvary.
But ask me why He loves me
And I don't know what to say.
But I'll never be the same because
He changed my life when He became...

Everything to me.
He's more than a story,
More than words on a page of history.
He's the air that I breathe
The water I thirst for
And the ground beneath my feet.
He's everything, everything to me.

-Chad Cates

A Christmas Caroling Adventure

2009-12-07T11:16:00.000-08:00

Christmas in Honduras! Forget the turkey, piles of presents, snow, and Santa--those are American traditions. Here we have tamales, fireworks, and of course, the usual heat! But there are some things about Christmas that are universal. As I remember the great variety of Christmases I've celebrated, both near and far, one particular memory always comes to mind.

It was Christmas 1997. I was a senior in high school, and we'd just finished our annual Christmas Concert at Raleigh Christian Academy. I'd gone with a group of friends to Miami Subs afterwards. As we finished eating, we realized we still didn't have to be home for a few hours. What should we do?

We discussed a number of pranks on teachers and fellow classmates. But then someone suggested, "Hey, since we're all dressed up, why don't we go Christmas caroling?"

We stopped off at the Dollar Tree to purchase taper candles and matches, then excitedly drove to the first house. We arranged ourselves in front of the porch steps and began to belt out: "Joy to the World!" The family hurried to the door to enjoy our repetoire of familiar carols. This was fun! What a great idea!

We stopped at house after house, some family members, some church friends, to wish them a "Merry Christmas" in song. One of our last stops was Pastor Rabon's house. As we were leaving, our curfew quickly nearing, he commented, "You know, you should go sing for Mr. and Mrs. Thiede."

"Do they still go to our church?" I had not seen them in quite awhile. Don and Audrey Thiede were an elderly couple that had been friends and neighbors of my grandparents for years, but their health had declined greatly; they didn't get out much anymore.

"Yes, they still live over there on Folger Street," Pastor said. "I think they'd really appreciate a visit."

When we got back to the car, we discussed going to their house. "But we need to be home soon!" "Isn't it too late? They probably go to bed really early." Finally, we agreed to make the Thiedes' house our final stop that night.

A few minutes later, we nervously positioned ourselves in front of the front door and began to sing, "O come, all ye faithful, joyful and triumphant!" After the first stanza, the door slowly opened, and there stood Mr. and Mrs. Thiede, arm in arm. I almost didn't recognize him. He was pale and thin from sickness. They were both beaming however, and listened eagerly to the familiar carols.

As we finished the last song, someone shyly asked, "Do you have a request?"

Mrs. Thiede replied, "Would you sing 'Silent Night'? That's my husband's favorite."

Silent night, holy night,
All is calm, all is bright,
'Round yon virgin, mother and child,
Holy Infant so tender and mild,
Sleep in heavenly peace!
Sleep in heavenly peace!

Mr. and Mrs. Thiede thanked us with tear-filled eyes, and we quietly left. How glad we were that we had stopped by! It was the perfect end to a special night.

The next morning at school, we excitedly told our classmates about our Christmas caroling adventure the night before. Then the bell rang, and we busied ourselves with English Literature. Toward the end of first period, the announcements were read over the intercom: Christmas parties, exams, special events. We began cramming our literature books into our bookbags, ready to head to second period. But the final announcement halted our hasty exit. "Please be in prayer for the family of Mr. Don Thiede, who passed away last night in his sleep. The funeral will be held...."

We looked at each other in shock. He passed away last night? But we just saw him! Our hearts were heavy for Mrs. Audrey, and we wondered how she was doing.

But as I reflected on that night's events, I was so thankful that we had gone to see him. I prayed that on his final night on earth, Mr. Thiede had truly been able to "sleep in heavenly peace" only to open his eyes in the presence of his Savior, the One Who had come as a baby for him.

The Outsider

2009-12-07T08:15:00.000-08:00

Christmas at Grandma and Granddaddy Tippett's house was always a special time in our family. After eating a huge meal prepared by my Grandma, we would gather around my Granddaddy's leather recliner while he read the Christmas story from Luke 2.

Then we would begin opening the huge pile of presents under the small Christmas tree by the front window. It was one of those rare times my sister was glad to be the youngest grandchild, because she always opened the first gift. The rest of us grandchildren followed, from youngest to oldest, we girls squealing with excitement over the baby dolls Grandma had chosen for us.

Then we would scurry off to the next room to play with our toys, while the adults opened their presents. The older grandchildren were given the task of counting out all the coins Granddaddy had saved all year, and dividing them into seven piles, a gift to each grandchild.

As I think back to these long-ago Christmases in Raleigh, a face comes to mind. Mr. Robert Strickland, an older gentleman who was a friend of my grandparents, joined us for several of these celebrations. I never questioned his presence at the time, but years later asked my mother, "Was Mr. Strickland related to Grandma? Why was he always there at Christmas?" My grandmother's maiden name was Strickland; I figured he was somehow kin.

"I think maybe he was somehow distantly related," she replied. "Grandma and Granddaddy met him when he started coming to our church; when they realized he had nowhere to go at Christmas, they invited him to join us."

Mr. Strickland was a gruff old man with an abrasive personality that some found hard to tolerate. But he was always welcome at my grandparents' house and we just considered him "one of the family." There were even a few presents for him under the tree.

My grandparents, Elbert and Kathryn Tippett, had set a beautiful example for me of what Christmas is really about. So many times we think Christmas is simply about being with family.

But what about those who have no family to be with during the holidays?

In 2005, Robbie and I spent our first Christmas away from family; we had arrived in Honduras as missionaries early that year. Eager to celebrate, I bought decorations, played Christmas music, and decorated cookies; but with temperatures in the 90s, no parties to go to, and the house empty, it just didn't feel like Christmas. After a simple program at church on Christmas Eve, the Alvarado family invited us and our missionary partners the Goinses to their home. "Are you sure?" we asked them. We didn't want to impose.

The Alvarado Family

"Oh, please come!" they insisted.

As we awkardly sat down in the tiny living room with its concrete floor, we listened to the kids laughing outside the door lighting sparklers and firecrackers, a Honduran Christmas Eve tradition. We were given shredded chicken sandwiches, with apologies that it was a simple fare. "No, this is great!" we insisted. The family squeezed in among us, some perching on the arms of tattered furniture, others choosing to sit on the cold floor. We laughed and chatted easily, with small brown children and the lucky chickens that had escaped the hatchet wandering under our feet.

As I looked around the room, I finally felt that familiar warmth I had been craving. Now it feels like Christmas! This time I was Robert Strickland, an outsider who had been taken in. But Christmas is just not about being with your family. It's about celebrating our Savior's birth. As I gazed on the smiling faces of my Honduran brothers and sisters, I knew the reason we had gathered together. That tiny baby in the manger had come to save us all from our sins. Most of them were celebrating their first Christmas as believers; the joy in our hearts was the same.

And we have seen and do testify that the Father sent the Son to be the Savior of the world. -I John 4:14

A Life with a Purpose: Oscar's Story

2009-12-01T08:26:00.000-08:00

A tiny newborn lay discarded among banana peels and milk cartons, struggling for breath inside a plastic bag. His mother had lost her mind and decided to kill the baby boy; she would die days later from loss of blood. His father, an orange peddler, found the infant, and took him to the woman he was currently living with so that she could care for him.

Oscar was raised in a home full of wickedness and sorrow. His father eventually left and set up a shack, squatting on a piece of land near the hospital where he would push a cart to sell oranges each day. Oscar would bike the five miles to visit his father and look for work. He was greatly disturbed by the crime and evil he saw daily: people robbed at gunpoint for cell phones and pocket change, girls beaten and raped, angry quarrels ending in bloodshed. In anger and desperation, he purchased a gun, which he hid in his room while he plotted. He decided to form a posse of teens to rid El Progreso of crime. His plan was to find thieves and gang members and kill them execution-style in order to bring safety back to the city.

One day while he was looking for work, he noticed that an American couple had moved into a house near the hospital. He inquired there about work, and the man hired him to cut the lawn one day. Although he was at first frustrated by the foreigners insistence that he pay attention to detail and leave the yard clean and neat, Oscar soon learned how to pass the “inspections” and was able to earn good pay each week. He got to know Pastor Robbie and his wife Christine; they fed him lunch and made small talk with him when he finished the yard. One day, Pastor Robbie sat down and explained to Oscar that he was a sinner and needed to trust the Lord Jesus Christ to forgive his sin and be his Savior. Oscar listened with interest. He admitted that he did indeed have a sin problem, but was not willing to trust Christ. He already had his own secret plan for justification: become a vigilante. He shook his head and told Pastor Robbie, “No, not for me.”

It took four years for Oscar to finally realize that he was as wicked as those he plotted to kill. After washing the pastor’s truck one morning, he sat down on the front porch with Robbie and talked of his need to trust Christ. He bowed his head and repented of his sins, trusting Christ alone to save him.

Excited to grow in his new faith, Oscar began taking the one-on-one discipleship course with Nathan Massey, his youth pastor. As he began to grow, he realized he needed a place to serve. He joined the church’s set-up crew, now arriving on his bike an hour before each service to arrange chairs, sound equipment, and furniture on the outdoor porch where we hold our services. After the porch is ready for service, he hops on a bus and assists the driver in maintaining order on the route. When he gets back to church, he dons his usher badge and greets people at the door as they arrive.

The baby who once lay dying in a trash heap is now a young man serving the Lord in every way he can. Oscar recently testified in a Wednesday night prayer meeting, “I thought I could change Progreso by violently ridding the city of evildoers; but then I realized the only way to change Progreso is by sharing the good news of Jesus Christ. He is the only One who can truly change a life.”

Are you thankful for what the Lord has given you? Take a tour of what has been Oscar's father's home for the past twenty years:

Oscar enters the land where his father lives as a squatter.

The make-shift shack where he keeps his belongings.

Oscar's dad's kitchen

Oscar's dad's bed

How It All Began...

2009-11-14T18:31:00.000-08:00

A famous comedian recently interviewed people walking down a busy street, asking them about the best and worst “pick-up lines” they had ever heard. Their answers ranged from the classic, “Your dad must be a thief…because he stole the stars and put them in your eyes,” to the overused, “You must be tired…because you’ve been running through my mind all day,” to the corny, “If I were to rewrite the alphabet, I’d put U and I together.” One favorite was, “Do you know how much a polar bear weighs? …Enough to break the ice! Hi, I’m ____.”

As I laughed at the silly lines and wondered who in the world had ever fallen for one, I thought back to my freshman year at college. Before even arriving on campus, I had heard the standard jokes about going to college to get an MRS degree or “find a man.” I had responded with disdain, “I’m not dating anyone seriously until at least my junior year, maybe my senior year. I’m going to focus on my grades.”

I had decided that since I felt the Lord was calling me to the mission field, I would only date someone who also was called. That ought to narrow it down a bit, I thought. And I definitely won’t date much for a couple of years; I’m here to learn! My major would be Spanish Education. I wanted to learn the art of teaching in order to help in my future ministry. Studying Spanish would help improve my language skills; I had already had two years in high school and had worked in a Spanish ministry back home, but I wanted to become more fluent. I chose English for my minor because not only did I love grammar and literature, I also knew that English teachers can get into just about any country. I decided to take as many hours as I could handle in order to graduate early. Yes, the plan was to study hard and not date!

The plan went out the window exactly two days after I arrived on campus. I went to lunch with my best friend Summer and her brother Kevin, who brought along his roommate, Robbie Ellis from Kentucky. We all chatted easily, but when lunch was over, the upperclassman with the big brown eyes suddenly caught my attention. Summer asked Robbie what he wanted to do when he graduated. “I’m going to Peru to be a missionary,” he responded without hesitation. Hmmm, I thought. That’s interesting.

“Do you speak Spanish?” I asked him.

“No. But you’re going to teach me!” he declared with a twinkle in his eye.

I felt my face burn, and I quickly changed the subject. But the deal was sealed. This country boy from Kentucky had called his shot. It was the best pick-up line I’d ever heard; and although I didn’t let on, it had worked like a charm.

After a few months, I realized how much I looked forward to lunch with a group of friends every day, because that’s when I’d see Robbie. He would walk me to my box to check mail afterwards, and we would talk about our day. We were “just friends,” but it was becoming clear that there was more to it.

Every week during college, my dad would write me a letter and close with a list of “Do’s and Don’ts,” his fatherly advice for the week. One week, when I received the letter, Robbie said, “What’s on the list this week?” I had finished reading the main body of the letter, so without glancing at the list I said, “Here, you read them out loud.” He read through the “Do’s” and then chuckled when he got to the list of “Don’ts.”

“What is it?” I asked. There in black and white was Don’t #3: “Don’t get stuck on Robbie like a band-aid. Date around.” Oops.

“Well, I guess I wasn’t supposed to let you read the list this week!” I said with an embarrassed laugh.

Later that night, I was still cringing, thinking of Robbie reading that particular piece of candid advice. I pulled a 3x5 card out of my desk drawer and wrote him a quick note to send with that evening’s campus mail.

“Dear Robbie,
It’s too late.
Christine”

I then found a band-aid, attached it with great flair, and sent the note, giggling and briefly wondering if it was too forward of me. Almost as soon as I got back to my room, I began to feel sick to my stomach. I shouldn’t have said that! That’s way too bold! How can I get it back? I wondered what on earth had possessed me to write such a message. It was very uncharacteristic of me to express my feelings that openly to him. I had been very tight-lipped up until this point. I watched the clock and imagined him getting my note, shock on his face. He would be appalled by my candid confession and wonder why in the world he had ever considered me ladylike.
I was so busy worrying that I almost didn’t hear the mail slip under the door. I was surprised to see a small envelope with my name on it. The last mail I'll ever get from Robbie Ellis, to be sure. He had written it hours before getting mine...

That Robbie Ellis sure knows how to call his shots! Eleven years, thousands of miles, and many Spanish tutoring sessions later, I’m still stuck on him like a Band-aid and having the time of my life!

Mommy, where am I from?

2009-11-09T13:14:00.000-08:00

As I reflect on Veteran's Day this week and my heart fills with gratitude for those who have paid a high price for my freedom, I also consider my little girl's future. Claire was born in Honduras and has dual citizenship. She is what is known as a "third culture kid," a term used to refer to children who grow up in a country other than the one on their passports. Many times, these children fail to develop a sense of belonging to either country; the mix of cultures and traditions forms a "third culture" in the child. Even as adults, these children may not completely identify with any one culture; they can truly become men and women "without a country." Today I want to relate my thoughts and feelings concerning our choice to allow our daughter to grow up in a third-world nation and how our choice may affect her level of patriotism.

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After we had our daughter Claire in 2006, I had a recurring nightmare. We were back in the States at a basketball game at my old high school. Claire was 5 or 6 years old and was seated in the bleachers next to me. When we rose in unison and placed our hands over our hearts to sing the national anthem, Claire stared at me blankly. She didn’t even know to put her hand over her heart, let alone how to sing the words to “The Star-Spangled Banner.” My face burned with shame and disappointment. I had forgotten to teach my daughter how to be patriotic.

I was determined this dream would never become a reality. Even before Little Claire could sing along, I began teaching her patriotic songs and pointing out the American flag. She began calling it the “Grand Ol’ Flag” because of one of her favorite songs. Every time we passed one, we would put our hands over our hearts and sing together. It wasn’t long before she became giddy with excitement whenever she saw the stars and stripes.

One of Claire’s favorite things to tell people is that she is special because she has two flags: the Grand Ol’ Flag, and the Honduran flag. It occurred to me one day that I should spend as much time talking about the Honduran flag as I do the American flag; she is, after all, a citizen of both countries. I want her to love and respect both nations. Robbie and I must be careful to not criticize or demean the culture in front of our Honduran daughter. If we have a critical spirit of Honduran ways, Claire will sense our distaste. It’s easy for missionaries to find fault with a foreign culture; many times our thinking patterns and customs are drastically different. But we never want to communicate a spirit of American superiority to our daughter. After all, she is just as Honduran as she is American.

But then, I’ve also known missionaries who have gone to the other extreme. One teenage missionary kid I met could barely speak English because her parents had neglected to speak it at home. Others show disdain for the United States. “That’s not my country,” they declare. “I only go there to visit.”

One of my biggest prayer requests for my family is that God would give us wisdom as we strive to teach our daughter a love for both of her countries. I pray that tears will one day fill her eyes as she sees a fallen soldier laid to rest. I pray that she’ll listen with interest as the President gives the State of the Union Address. I pray she’ll sense a deep obligation to vote in every election, even when she must do so by absentee ballot. I pray she'll stay informed of current events, forming opinions with a discerning mind and a biblical worldview. I pray her heart will swell with pride when she visits the grave of her great-grandfather who served in the Navy for 32 years. But I know that none of this will happen unless we her parents consciously work to instill patriotism in her heart. Claire doesn't have to be "a girl without a country." May God help me to instill in her a passionate love for both the United States of America and Honduras.

Do you have ideas for practical ways to teach patriotism to children? I would love to hear your ideas and family traditions and share them with other missionaries! Please post a comment to contribute.

Team Honduras 2009 Fourth of July Celebration

The Little Girl with the Corkscrew Curls

2009-11-02T09:06:00.000-08:00

A little girl I had never seen shyly approached me after Sunday morning class and extended her paper for me to see. She was about 6 years old with big eyes and dark hair full of corkscrew curls. I ooed and aahed over her picture and started to hand it back, but she shook her head. “For me? Oh, thank you!” I hugged her and told her goodbye.

After the buses had left, I tidied up my class and prepared to leave. When I walked out to the porch where the adults meet, I was surprised to see the small girl waiting on the bleachers. “Nayeli, did you miss your bus?” She nodded and looked a little embarrassed. But her expression changed to excitement when I motioned her toward our truck. “Okay, we’ll take you home.”

We figured out whom Nayeli had come with—her grandmother, who had been attending our church for some time. “Do you live with your grandmother, Nayeli?” She nodded solemnly. “Where does your mother live?”

“En los Estados Unidos,” she answered, hanging her head. In the United States—she must have gone to work there.

“Your daddy, too?” She nodded again.

“When did they leave?”

“El año pasado.” Last year. And there would be no hope of seeing them again anytime soon. Those who go mojados (illegally) don’t come back to visit, for fear of not being able to re-enter. This little six year-old was basically an orphan. And even worse, her parents had left her by choice.

When dropped her off at her grandmother’s house, no one came out to meet us. I wondered if she’d even been missed. She smiled and promised to return the next Sunday, and we waved goodbye.

As I glanced down at the picture she’d drawn, my eyes filled with tears. “For the most beautiful teacher who is so beautiful.”

My heart hurt for the little girl who missed her mommy so much. I wondered if anyone took time to read her stories, or teach her to make tortillas, or brush her hair after her bath.

There are so many children that come to our church every week who are just like Nayeli. They arrive in tattered dirty clothing that they’ve clearly outgrown. Some have lice or parasites. They eagerly wolf down the cookies I hand out, and I realize that this is probably their breakfast. Just this past Sunday, I cleaned and bandaged an oozing burn that looked days old, on the leg of a little three year-old girl. But much worse than their physical condition, their little hearts are hurting for love and affection. Sometimes I can hardly sleep at night for thinking about them. I’d take them all home with me if I could.

But one thought brings hope to my heart. In 2011, Team Honduras plans to begin a children’s home for little girls like Nayeli. Mark and Amy Coats, a couple from North Carolina are currently in training and are raising support to come and direct this home. They will become parents to little boys and girls who have none. These children will be fed, clothed, and educated. Most importantly, they will learn of the Heavenly Father Who loved them enough to send His Son to die for them. These forgotten children may be the pastors and teachers who take the gospel throughout Honduras one day.

So we are praying and working to see this dream come true.

The Hardest Day for a Missionary

2009-10-21T09:45:00.000-07:00

The goal of my blog is to communicate on some level the reality of the field in order to dispel romantic notions that so often confuse the American’s concept of foreign missions. In doing so, I must honestly address some of the difficulties missionaries face. But it is in those moments the Lord’s presence is most intimately felt…

What is the hardest day for a missionary? Yes, we go through difficulties here on the field. There are robberies, kidnappings, and physical dangers. There are strange tropical illnesses and parasites. There are problems in the ministry at times; no one volunteers to fill a need, gossip runs rampant, or new Christians succumb to old sins. There are power and water outages. There are cultural frustrations. But really, that’s all just a part of life.

The hardest days for a missionary are those in which he realizes once again exactly what he has given up by going to the foreign field. For a missionary wife, it's being pregnant and not going shopping or decorating the nursery with her mom. It’s getting a phone call that your sister has miscarried, and you aren’t there to cry with her. Or it might be like the day one year ago, when my dad called me and told me he had cancer.

I felt like I was walking through a fog for days. I kept functioning, but could think of almost nothing else. I just wanted to be with my family and felt guilty for not being there to support my parents in the way that my sister was. I was numb with shock and grief, and helpless to do anything.

I had a big event planned for the ladies’ of our church that weekend. We had invited the ladies from another church to attend a meeting, and their pastor’s wife taught the lesson. The whole event ran smoothly. I smiled, shook hands, led the singing; but I felt dead inside. I was just going through the motions, getting through another day until I could go home in November for the surgery.

As I was saying my goodbyes after the meeting, Jenny Alvarado (wife of Alex from "Not All Heroes Wear Capes") slipped something into my hand. “I don’t know what this is, but Kevin was working on it all afternoon. He wouldn’t let me see it.” Her ten year-old son Kevin was in my children’s class and his little brother Jonathan was Claire’s age.

After the ladies had filed out to the bus, I glanced down at the hand-made envelope she had handed me. I pulled out the letter written on notebook paper and read:

Christine, I am very sorry for what your dad has but I know you trust and have faith in God. If you have faith in God, God is going to help him and do a miracle so that everything will be all right. And I am going to pray that your dad is healed. Also, I am going to pray for your trip that it goes well for you, Pastor Robbie, and your Princess Claire.
We love you very much and we are going to miss you too much. God bless you.

With affection, Kevin and Jonathan

For my friend Christine

I smiled at his thoughtful words and started to put the note back, when I noticed a drawing he had done on the back side of the envelope. There was a series of stick figures standing hand in hand, labeled “Dad, Mom, Kathleen, Christine, Andres (Robbie’s Honduran name), and Lissi (Claire’s Honduran name). Over our heads hung dark clouds, symbolic of the cancer looming over our lives. But descending down out of that last cloud to grasp Dad’s hand was la mano de Dios, “the hand of God.”

Tears streamed down my face and joy filled my heart. I was not alone. God was holding our hands, joining us across the miles. He had used a child to remind me of a simple yet profound truth. He just wanted me to cling to His hand.

Precious Lord, take my hand
Lead me on, let me stand
I'm tired, I’m weak, I’m lone
Through the storm, through the night
Lead me on to the light
Take my hand precious Lord, lead me home.

Carolina's Persistence

2009-10-20T08:22:00.001-07:00

It was Ground-breaking Day at Iglesia Bautista El Faro. We rented tents, set up chairs, and held a special service to dedicate the property the Lord had given us. After some special music and the sermon, Pastor Robbie explained that we would be signing a special Bible to bury in a time capsule beneath the site of the first building. The Bible was placed on a table in front, and we were instructed that one representative of each family should come to the front and line up to sign the Bible in turn.

A line began to form as Pastor Matt played his guitar. Robbie assisted in the signing of the Bible, but noticed that a mother, her teen son, and her two school-age daughters were all in the line.

They were sweet people from a very poor family; Carolina was an uneducated and simple person, but one of our most faithful attendees. He whispered to her politely, “Hermana Carolina, just one of you can sign for the whole family. Tell the children to sit down, and you can sign the Bible for them.” To his surprise, she looked rather irritated at his comment, and grudgingly ordered the children back to their seats. Robbie drifted back over to the table to continue assisting those who were signing.

Just a few minutes later, he noticed that Carolina’s children had once again joined the line, this time in a different place. Puzzled, Robbie once again approached the lady. “Just one representative per family, please, Carolina. The children don’t need to sign.” He received the same irritated look and hesitant response.

When the children got back into line for the third time, Robbie was sure there must have been some kind of misunderstanding. Why does Carolina keep sending the children back to the line?

It wasn’t until the next day we realized why this dear lady had been so persistent. Another lady in the church confided in us that Carolina had been standing beside her during the burial of the Bible. As it was lowered into the ground, Carolina whispered, “You know, if your name is in that Bible, you are going to heaven.”

“What? What do you mean?” the other lady asked.

“You have to have your name in that Bible to go to heaven!” explained Carolina, her eyes wide and serious.

“No, no, it’s just a time capsule to commemorate the new building,” the lady assured her.

“Well, I don’t think so. I think you have to have your name in the book!” Carolina replied. Poor Carolina was convinced that we were burying some sort of Lamb’s Book of Life. And that wicked pastor had been trying to keep her children out of heaven!

Yes, it’s silly to think that we could get to heaven because we signed our name in a Bible. But this is not an uncommon mistake. Tragically, millions go to hell because they are trusting in what they have done to save them. They need to hear the truth: the debt has been paid in full. Christ did for us what we could never have done for ourselves. He made a way for us to receive eternal life. We can’t add to or take away from what He has done; we simply need to accept it.

Victory for Honduras!

2009-10-15T07:37:00.001-07:00

Soccer is King in Honduras. Every little brown, barefoot boy kicking a tattered ball between two rocks in the street dreams of one day playing for the Seleccion, the Honduran national team. On game days, nearly everyone, from toddlers to middle aged men and elderly women, proudly don Honduran jerseys and hang flags in anticipation of the big event. When the game begins, the streets are deserted. The only people who are not at home watching the game are those who decide to watch it at the mall or local bar on the big screen. Then, for ninety minutes, life in Honduras stands still. They agonize together over missed goals, and scream with joy when the team scores. Even if you are not watching the game, you know when Honduras scores; fireworks sound and shouts ring out after each goal.

Last night was a big night in Honduras. It was the last chance for their beloved Seleccion to qualify for the World Cup, something that they had not been able to accomplish since 1982. In order to make it to the 2010 tournament (which is held every four years), two things needed to happen: Honduras had to beat El Salvador, and the USA had to tie or beat Costa Rica, the team that was competing with Honduras for the final spot.

All of Honduras watched both with nervous anticipation. Honduras played well and beat El Salvador 1-0. But Costa Rica came out fighting hard, and scored two goals against USA. Team USA managed to score one point, but the game was quickly coming to a close. In the final seconds, they managed to head in one last goal to tie the game! Shouts and fireworks erupted all over the country, celebrating the USA's goal. Honduras was headed to the World Cup for the first time in 28 years!

On our way home from church, we watched in amazement as the streets filled with people shouting, dancing, and celebrating the victory. Cars blared their horns and pedestrians banged on our roof and waved flags in front of our car.

When we arrived at the house, we turned on the television to watch more of the celebration and catch the replays of the game. Suddenly all the channels went black, signalling the start of a government broadcast. We turned to the Honduran channel in time to see the President make a live announcement, congratulating the team and yelling, "Viva, Honduras!" Then he declared the next day a national holiday!

The country is united in a way it has not been in months, all because of a soccer game. Honduras has taken some hard hits this year; unemployment reached 30%, a 7.4 earthquake struck, and the removal of the President tore the country apart. But today, we celebrate!

Next month's elections are quickly approaching. Please pray that the results of November 29th's election will be recognized internationally and that Honduras may begin to heal, one victory at a time.

Five Feet Tall and Bulletproof

2009-10-12T10:24:00.000-07:00

This is a follow up to August's story "Not All Heroes Wear Capes..." http://realmissionsreallife.blogspot.com/2009/08/not-all-heroes-wear-capes.html

As Alex drove toward his building project one Friday morning, he reflected on how the Lord had blessed him. This site was one of three where he had crews working; he was becoming known for his honesty and quality work. It was payday, and his workers would be glad to see him coming.

He glanced in his rear view mirror and saw a taxi speeding along, quickly closing the distance between them. He shifted slightly and motioned the vehicle around; it passed him and continued to speed down the road, but then pulled off onto the left hand shoulder. As Alex passed the now parked vehicle, he was horrified to see the windows were down, and two men were aiming guns directly at him. He slammed the accelerator to the floor and heard bullets ripping into the side of his truck. He lowered his head as glass shattered and the firing continued. He drove like a madman, until he finally reached safety a few minutes later.

After he was sure he had not been followed, Alex got out to look at his vehicle. Bullet holes peppered the driver's side panel of his Mazda. Two entered the driver's side window and exited through the winshield at an angle. He could not figure out how they did not hit him in the head. Then he looked at the driver's seat--there was a bullet hole in the uphostery right where he had been sitting. Shocked, Alex reached around to touch his back in the spot where the bullet should have hit him. His skin was untouched, but the bullet had burned a hole in his shirt.

The men who tried to rob and murder Alex that day were surely mystified to see him keep driving after they had showered his vehicle with gunfire. They don't know the One who shielded Alex from their bullets.

Alex has told of his miraculous escape to give testimony to the goodness of the Lord; but the miraculous change in his life gives the greatest testimony of all. The Lord can take a alcoholic, thiefing, drug addict and use him for His honor and glory.

...he is a new creature: old things are passed away; behold, all things are become new.

-II Corinthians 5:17

To Bribe or Not to Bribe?

2009-10-09T06:59:00.000-07:00

Many times on the mission field we are faced with questions we never had to ask ourselves back in the US. One of those is whether or not to employ mordidas or bribes in our everyday interactions. Anyone who has lived in a developing country knows that bribes are a part of everyday life. Missionaries basically fall into two categories in this area. There are those who say, "Well, it's just part of the culture," and proceed to pay the tips and bribes; then there are those who have strong convicitions against giving bribes and refuse to participate. We know missionaries in both schools of thought; reasons could be given for both sides. Many "bribes" that one is asked for are not illegal; we are simply asked for money to expedite a process like applying for a driver's license (a two-day process if you do not pay a "tip"). So the missionary is left to decide based on his conscience which way is best in a given situation. Of course we would never employ bribes to get around a law or do something illegal. But many times we are asked for "tips" in order to actually get someone to help us; one thing we have learned in Honduras is that no one is in a hurry. Other times, we have been threatened by consequences if we refused to pay a bribe.

One day we were returning from our monthly bulk grocery run in San Pedro Sula, a larger city to the west of Progreso. We had the car packed with groceries, and little Claire was propped up in her carseat between boxes and bags. Just after leaving the city limits, we ran into a police checkpoint. Honduran police do not typically patrol as police in the US do; there are not enough vehicles for them to do so. Instead, they set up police checkpoints across the city, pulling over random cars for inspections and license checks. On this day, we happened to be one of the cars pulled over; Robbie grabbed his license and registration and handed them to the officer as soon as he arrived. The officer checked both, then began to peer into the windows of the backseat.

"Do you have a receipt for that milk?" he asked.

"A receipt for the milk?" Robbie was incredulous. I, on the other hand, began to dig through my purse in search of it. I was acting on a respect for law-enforcement officers that that been ingrained in me since I was a child. Robbie, however, was beginning to smell a fish.

"Yeah, do you have a receipt for that milk? I need to see it."

"No you don't. You are supposed to look for traffic violations. Not milk." Robbie wasn't budging on this one.

Feeling the milk was a dead end, the officer said, "Do you have any traffic triangles?"

"What are you talking about?"

"You know, those triangles you have to put in the road if you break down. You have to have those; it's the law here."

"No, we don't have any, and no that's not the law here. I'm not driving a tractor trailer. This is a normal truck and we don't need triangles." Robbie's patience was wearing thin.

"Yes, this is pretty bad, not having traffic triangles. I'm going to have to fine you and take your license, and you'll have to go downtown and pay it."

When he got no reaction he continued, "Yes, you'll have to go downtown. Since you're not from here, you probably don't even know where that is. Hmmm, what are we going to do about this?"

Robbie just stared back at him, not concealing his disgust.

"I tell you what! I'll help you out. I don't want you to have to go all the way downtown to pay a fine. You give me the money and I'll take care of it for you!" He looked at Robbie expectantly, hand outstretched.

This was the moment we had dreaded. Lord, what do we do?

"Fine me," Robbie said, and smiling widely at the officer for the first time.

"What? No, you'll have to go downtown, they keep your license, it will take you all day!" The officer looked confused.

"I know. I want to pay the fine. But do me a favor, before you write it, go back there and get your chief. I want to talk to him first." Robbie jerked his thumb in the direction of the older officer who was apparently in charge of the post. Then with great flair he began writing down the man's badge number.

"Uh, well, ah, I guess we could let this go this one time," the officer stammered, backing away from the car, hands raised. He shook his head as us as we drove off. Dumb gringos, don't they know how things are done here?

The Lord gave Robbie the wisdom he needed to navigate this situation well. There have been other occasions when we believe He directed us to pay a person in order to get service. I read a great explanation of this rule by another missionary: "Paying a bribe to convince an official to break or avoid a law is always wrong. Paying an official to convince him to follow a law or do his duty is acceptable."

The most important issue here is protecting the name of Jesus Christ. We may have to jump through some hoops and stand in long lines because we don't pay illegal bribes. But you simply cannot put a price on testimony.

Missionaries: Jacks of all Trades

2009-10-01T10:48:00.000-07:00

One of my favorite things about my life is that there is no “normal” on the mission field. We stay incredibly busy, but we are not usually doing the same monotonous task all day long. Before we started the church here, I never knew all that was involved in making a ministry function. I took for granted all the “behind-the-scenes” work that made our home church run smoothly. We members of Team Honduras quickly learned that we could not opt out of tasks because it was not in our job description. Regardless of what degree we earned in college, we had to be willing to learn new skills, many times out of our comfort zones.

Since becoming a missionary, I’ve had to learn how to keep books and careful records of finances (and I am not a math person). I teach a class of 30 two to five year-olds, even though I got my degree in secondary education. I learned how to pour cement and tie rebar at the site of our new church building. I recently got to scrub into surgery during a medical brigade. I communicate with our supporters and help maintain our website. I’ve learned to organize and prepare a meal for over 100 people. At church, I can scrub a toilet and wring a mop with the best of them. I’ve had to brush up on my piano skills to play in church, something I would never do in the States. But on the mission field, you don’t say you’re not qualified. You just roll up your sleeves and get in there! In the early years of a ministry, if you don’t do it, it won’t get done.

Robbie now knows quite a bit about architecture and construction from our first building project; he’s learned about photography and videography to improve our promotional material. Matt learned how to play the guitar and lead music in church, because there was no one else able to do so. He also taught himself how to produce videos so that we can send our supporters a Year-in-Review DVD each year. We’ve all had to stretch ourselves here on the mission field, because there’s so much to be done.

I once read a book for wives that included a “Standard Dumb Cluck Test.” I was immediately convicted about my hesitancy to learn new things. The author admonished women for not being “crowned with knowledge.” She warned that all too often we don’t learn to do things that don’t fall under the job description we’ve envisioned for ourselves. She asked questions like, “Have you ever checked the oil in your car?” and “Can you use a hammer, saw, tape measure, and screwdriver?” I was challenged to be my husband’s helpmeet in ways I had never considered, because, as she said, “Any good woman should be able to fix a screen door.”

I definitely struggle with flexibility. I like to know what I’m supposed to do ahead of time, make a list, and get to it. And heaven help the person that tries to add to my list! Being on the mission field has taught me not to say, “That’s not my area,” or “I’m not really comfortable doing that.”

Let’s forget our job descriptions and comfort zones. The Lord doesn’t accept such lame excuses! To opt out of opportunities such as these is to miss a great blessing. Let's allow the Lord to stretch us and use us in new ways. He always makes it worthwhile.

…the prudent are crowned with knowledge. –Proverbs 14:18

A Night that Changed His Life

2009-09-25T10:33:00.000-07:00

Jose Hilario woke to cold metal being pressed against his temple. "Don't move or talk," the stranger warned. Masked men tied up Jose and his wife Ismenia, rendering them helpless. "We've been sent to kill you; lie still." Sheer terror gripped Jose's heart as he heard the men break down the door of his only son's bedroom. Sixteen year-old Christian was just down the hall, but Jose couldn't see or hear him at all. Would they kidnap him? Or kill him? Jose prayed as he had never prayed before.

Just three years before, an American missionary couple had knocked on Jose's door and invited him to a neighborhood Bible study they had just begun. Ismenia had trusted Christ as her Savior years before, but Jose and Christian had never been very interested. A little curious about these foreigners, Jose agreed to go visit Pastor Robbie's Bible Study. A few weeks later, Jose trusted Christ has his personal Savior, and Christian soon followed his example. Things began to change at the Rodriguez household.

The family attended church together faithfully and all took the personal discipleship course in order to learn more about the Bible and grow in their walk with the Lord. It was exciting to see changes in their lives.

On this terrible December night, bound and gagged in his own home, Jose reflected on what the Lord had done in his own heart and in the hearts of his family. Pase lo que pase, estamos seguros de nuestro destino final. Whatever happens, we are sure of our final destination, he thought. He prayed for courage and strength as the masked men ransacked his house and continued to yell profanities at his family. After what seemed like an eternity, they finally escaped into the night.

After struggling for some time, Jose and Ismenia were able to free themselves. They ran to Christian's room, where they found him safe and sound. They thanked the Lord together that they had made it through this ordeal and that He had spared their lives. The men had stolen jewelry and some cash set aside for their business, but the loss was minimal in comparison with what could have happened.

Over the next few weeks, changes became evident in Jose's life. He began to attend soul-winning visitation for the first time. He had realized in his darkest hour the value of the gift of eternal life; how could he not share this with others? During the following months, he led person after person to a saving knowledge of the Lord Jesus Christ. The Lord had used a horrible situation to create a determination in Jose's heart to share the good news he'd been given. So many in Progreso still have not heard...

Have you realized the value of what you've been given? Our eternal security offers us not only a home in heaven, but also guarantees us peace here on this earth. What are you doing so that others may receive this gift?

Lay not up for yourselves treasures upon earth, where moth and rust doth corrupt, and where thieves break through and steal. -Matthew 6:19

Ismenia (Jose's wife) talks with Joey Goins at a church activity.

Christian and Jose both serve as ushers at Iglesia Bautista El Faro.