Blog Bolivia

washing the feet of the shoe shiners

2006-07-27T12:34:00.000-07:00

We started a shoe shiner bible study a few months back and usually ten or so shoe shiners show up. Ali, David, and I will be leaving our ministries and friends here and coming back to America in three days. Last night was our last bible study with our shoe shiner friends.
David has been shoe shining consistently with these guys for most of his time down here and he was the featured speaker last night. He made a video that talked about shoe shining, but then talked about how Jesus washed his disciples feet. And after 6 months of having our feet cleaned by our friends, the shoe shiners, we followed the instructions of Jesus and washed their feet.

mud shacks

2006-07-27T08:33:00.000-07:00

I used be of the philosophy, like most, that we will have mansions in heaven. This week I visited a small, isolated, jungle village and stayed in a mud shack and my philosophy is beginning to change.

We hiked away from La Paz for two and a half days and arrived in a mountain jungle town named Chulumani. There we caught a minibus that carried us turbulently over thousand-foot-cliffs for three hours. We got to our destination town just after the sun set. We opened the thin metal door of the dusty house. It was made of mud bricks, roofed in by metal sheeting. Magno (a shoe shiner in La Paz) had brought us here because he wanted to show us his life living in the jungle.

That night we all cut up carrots and peeled peas to help Magno make a simple soup for us. It was delicious and nutritious to my stomach and my heart. As we helped Magno fix dinner, ate together, talked and went to bed so close together, I thought, this is what we lack in American homes. Mom’s cooking dinner in the kitchen while the kids are watching TV in the TV room, and dad is in his car listening to talk radio on the way home in time for hopefully a quick dinner together. We hardly ever have an excuse to be working and living so close to each other like a house with only one room provides.

The next day we got on sandals (made of cut up tires stapled together) and hiked three hours more up into the hillsides of the jungle. They had cleared away the trees in places and terraced the land to plant crops like coca, cotton, coffee, oranges, manderines, bananas, and they harvested a lot of it every year. We cut off a big bunch of bananas, and plucked our backpacks full of mandarins and oranges and hiked up to another mud shack built into the hillside to cook lunch. We stoked the fire under the clay stove as we peeled the bananas, potatoes, and peas for lunch. Magno cooked up the soup and we ate our fill, courtesy of the land. Then we squeezed the oranges and mandarins into delicious juice before taking a nap in the sun.

The hike up was hard: thin air, slipping rocks and blistered feet. But there were moments when we got to a clearing and could see how far we’d come, from the river in the deep valley cutting through the massive mountains. And then we’d turn and realize we were among orange trees that held out their ripe fruit to freely pluck as we walked by and Aloe Vera plants waiting for us to spread their ointments on our sun-kissed skin. Cotton trees held out their buds bursting with celestial gauze for our blisters. This mountain had everything we would need, and it had it in abundance.

Ever since I had the dream where my mom told me she didn’t know if she liked heaven that much yet, I have begun to gaze upward in search of a new metaphor.

Do you think, my friend, that perhaps heaven is a challenging hike that takes us higher and higher? Maybe, each day we get closer to being like God, and getting blisters and acclimatizing to the thin air is part of the training? I think in order for people to always be able to be generous in heaven, the resources must be limitless. When we need it, God holds out all the fruit that we need for new energy, the cotton to help in the toughening process for our feet, and the ointment to heal our skin, not quite ready for the intensity of His light.

Perhaps it is a steep, narrow path but when the trees open up and we can see how far we’ve come, how much bigger and grander the view is, and how small we are in comparison, we will realize that we are getting closer and closer to the heart of our creator. And that we are becoming more like him as we strive on.

Lessons at Bolivian roadblocks- part 1

2006-07-03T19:05:00.000-07:00

Part 1
When the robbers wanted my money last summer they squeezed off the flow of blood to my head. In Bolivia when someone wants something they cut off the roads until the country begs mercy. I was the only gringo on the bus on its way to Cochabamba when the Bolivian Coca farmers (the key ingredient to cocaine) decided to strangle their country for some reason.
I looked out of the windshield. Ahead of us they were picnicking in the middle of the road, having piled big rocks in lines across both lanes. After an hour or so I got off, driven by hunger, and walked between the burning tires and protest banners. About the time I should have turned back to make sure my bus was still there, a kind but desperate looking woman waddled by me carrying very bulky cargo, “Please, can you help?”
“Of course I can help,” I said and took her huge bucket of street glue (street glue?). I propped it on my shoulder and began the hike. About a mile into the roadblock I set the bucket down where she told me to. I turned around and began to run back. I knew that it was possible that my bus had turned around and gone back to La Paz with my backpack safe onboard but me neither being safe nor on board.
Reader, tell me this. If my bus has left without me, was it still a good decision to help the woman?
I peeked around the big Bolivian protest banner as I peaked the last hill. It appeared my bus driver was kindly returning my backpack to La Paz but they had left me. I sat down on the side of the patient road.
Was it still a good decision to help the woman? I guess it depends on what type of life I live. Perhaps I could look at this as a problem that I should have avoided. Or perhaps I could look at it as God, writing a new adventure and challenge into my life for the sake of teaching me something and making life richer. Not easier, but richer.
After a few minutes I saw a cloud of dust rising in the distant desert. A bus was at the front of it and there was a chance it was mine. It would be a long run again, almost another half mile carrying my jacket under my arm, to meet up with where it would intersect with the highway. If I didn’t get there in time, it may hit the main road and head back to La Paz full speed without even noticing I’m in very cold pursuit.
When I finally got there on time and climbed onto the bus, it seemed the whole front quarter of the passengers were in the aisle or standing waiting to hear what happened to me. First in line was the woman I had been sitting next to. I had shared a cookie with her earlier in the trip and I guess that had instantly won her over because after hearing a bit of my story (I had also found out she was quite deaf so she may not have heard any of it) she helped me into my seat, gave me a cough drop for my coughing, told me I should take my jacket off, eat this bread, told me how much she had looked for me before the bus left, and she said I cannot get out of my seat again until we get to Cochabamba. It was really a quite warm welcome, like she were my own mother, though quite embarrassing. She kept on asking why I had gone so far away from the bus. I kept on answering but apparently she was deafer than I had thought.
I had helped a woman and kind of gained a new mom. This is rich living.

Lessons at a Bolivian roadblock- part 2

2006-07-03T19:04:00.000-07:00

We had been waiting at the roadblock for another 45 minutes or so when they said, everybody get off the bus and walk the mile or two to the end of the roadblock. We’ll meet you at the other side. So we piled off and began to walk. My new deaf mother was old enough that they said she could stay on the bus but she was very concerned that I was taken care of. She told an 18 year old young man to hold my hand walk with me so I didn’t get lost. We looked at each other and chuckled, but I had found a new friend. Out of the whole line of buses and trucks that were forging the alternate route through the rough desert, our bus was the first to make it to the other side. As the reached the road they said, “Get on quick! The Coca farmers are coming!” We all rushed onto the bus and pedaled out of there.
The next time we stopped was a false alarm, just a small traffic jam.
The third time we stopped, they told us to take our things and walk across this road block and over the bridge where other transportation would be waiting to take us the rest of the way in. My deaf mother and I trekked down the hill waiting to come upon a bridge (not without stopping once for her to drop her trunks and pee behind a tire once right there on the road). We once again walked by the Coca farmer picnics and burning tires. The sun was going down and I lowered my hat because I thought if they really wanted to make a political statement it would be easy by singling out the gringo.
We walked by police sitting on the bridge.
The group of people got to the other side of the bridge and when they saw minivans waiting there, a mad rush ensued. We luckily crammed ourselves into the front seat of a minibus but after a few meters our headlights hit a solid wall of big trucks completely blocking the road. There were kids running around and yelling everywhere, wanting to get on a bus. One of them yelled, “Go up that dirt road there!” And so we tried. But we were too heavy and I could smell the clutch burning out as we tried. He told people to get off and they did until he got up the steep part. We piled back on and the kids were now were begging us to take them with us. The bus driver said, just one. The boys ran around to the doors and looked in as if they were all going to pour in. but hardly one would fit. I looked one of them in the eye for a moment and thought, “Should I do the moral thing or the easy one.” I was confused. Did these boys even want to go to Cochabamba? I didn’t know how my deaf mother would fend if I left her by herself, and she wouldn’t let me get off to help the bus up the steep road so how would she react now? I reached down and shamefully locked the door.
We headed up and down over the rollercoaster dirt road having to stop on the shoulders to let big rock carrying trucks by us. We came a split in the road and a voice from somewhere out of the minivan said, stay to the left. We went left. We kept descending and found ourselves in a tiny town. As we passed, I saw and heard a little kid throw a handful of dirt at us. We bumped over holes and little creeks and came to a bigger creek with large branches cut and laid across the road on the other side. We forged it and paid the boy at the other side. They moved the branches aside and we passed. We found ourselves at the edge of impassible river in the headlights of huge trucks coming at us through the river. Our driver hollered at a young man standing outside our window. He came over and my deaf mother friend leaned over our minivan driver and cried mercy in so many words. “For the love of God, we’ve been traveling all day, trying to get to Cochabamba! Help us!” I’m guessing she didn’t know how pathetic and senile it sounded (or maybe just panicking Bolivian it sounded). The man said, “Where did you say you’re trying to go?”
Our driver said, “Cochabamba.”
“You are way off. You should have turned way back there. You’ll never get there from here!” Ugghs spread through the passengers. We turned around and got ready to go through the tree branch road block again. Now, ahead of us were a group of arguing men.
I seriously was thinking, we are at the total mercy of these men. I suppose they could rob us and leave us to freeze the night away (it gets cold here) here in this desolate forest by the river.
We convinced someone that we had already paid and they let us through again. We forged the creek again and headed back over bumps and holes through the town. This time the kids weren’t throwing dirt. They had made a roadblock of their own. Smaller rocks and branches were spread across the road we had just come down. Our driver got out and said something like, “Look here, guys. Nice try but we really need to pass.” And he, with another person from our van moved the rocks aside and we continued on.
When we got back to the original paved road it had cleared and we made it to Cochabamba within a couple hours. People were grateful and joking around, though we continued to pass stranded people trying to hail a ride. We passed them because we were already completely full, and the gas tank that was on empty throughout the whole ordeal made me more thankful we couldn’t pick up any more people.

Slashed apart Hector

2006-06-08T13:14:00.000-07:00

We were walking through La Paz at night when a man came up to us and gave us an intricate story why he needed money. Randy offered to buy him some bread but when we got close to a bread shop he said, “You can just give me the money and it will be easier for you.” Randy said, “No, we’re only going to buy you food.” The guy said forget it and walked away, throwing insults back at us.

A few minutes later a kid came up to us and started to tell us what street we were on for some reason. We looked over and saw something was wrong with his face. As we walked under each dirty light pole we saw the blood crusted on his face, hands and shirt that had seeped out of the many slashes across his face. It looked as if someone had held him down and slashed him ten times across his face.

We asked him what had happened and he said it was a fight. He continued to mumble to us what street we were on and what street was going to intersect it. We finally stopped him and tried to get things straightened out. His name was Hector. He was drunk… or I suppose he could have been in shock too. He had gotten in a fight and gotten his face all slashed up with nails and he said something about getting stabbed in the leg.

We started asking people about hospitals in the area and found out there was a clinic up the street, but he said he didn’t want to go because they treat his type of people differently. I told him, “We will go with you. I will stay with you the whole time. I will make sure they give you the best of care.” He finally agreed to go.

Randy, Keith (Randy’s visiting friend), Hector and I got in a taxi and went to the clinic. As the doctor got ready to dig in I went to him and said, “Please give him the best service possible. We will pay, whatever the price.” I stayed in the operating room as they stitched up his face for the next forty five minutes. Sometimes he would begin to squirm or ask where I was and I would say, “Hector, I’m still here.” They checked out the wound on his leg and it was big and swollen. They told me it must have happened a couple weeks ago. The opening was about half the size of a quarter, but his thighs were full of similar scars. This must not be rare to him.

When they finished we went and bought him the prescription for pain and scheduled a time to meet up a few days later at the hospital to get the stitches out. We asked where he lives and he said he is homeless but lives up by the river. We bought him a drink and left him on the Prado, as he walked home.

I gave it a 50% chance that he would show that Saturday to get the stitches out. I waited at the clinic for about an hour and he didn’t show up. I asked how much getting stitches out would cost, and then left twice that for whatever need he might have if he showed up and I left.

I thought of the good samaritan several times that night and was glad this story looked similar to what had just happened. “But a Samaritan, as he traveled, came where the man was; and when he saw him he took pity on him. He went to him and bandaged his wounds, pouring on oil and wine. Then he put the man on his own donkey, took him to an inn and took care of him. The next day he took out two silver coins and gave them to the innkeeper. ‘Look after him,’ he said, ‘and when I return, I will reimburse you for any extra expense you may have.

The most inspiring thing I heard at the Youth For Christ conference in Caracas, Venezuela

2006-06-01T18:20:00.000-07:00

Let's plunder hell to populate heaven.

Coffee with Danielle

2006-05-28T13:40:00.000-07:00

Danielle is a beautiful, caring friend of mine that loves God very much. I got to share coffee with her as she told me the recent events that have brought her to one of the most pivotal moments in her life.

She works for a man named Greg hurst, who runs an organization that helps a lot of needy people. She is struggling through a very unfulfilling business degree while she does business paperwork behind a desk for Greg. Her passion is to work face to face with street kids and prostitutes. She has always told Greg that as soon as she finishes her school she is going to look for a different job where she can interact with the needy people face to face. Lately she has begun to feel that there should also be a way she can help them in a more permanent way.

She had just gotten back from a conference for an organization that ministers to street kids and prostitutes. She reluctantly had found herself in business seminars at the conference and then talking to people who were very excited to be doing business stuff for this organization. It got her thinking. She went for a long walk. She thought. She prayed. Ideas began flowing. Ideas to use business to give them a brighter future, more permanently. But one idea grew bigger and bigger about the present. A voice said, "Greg is looking for one person and you are it." She argued, "but I have always told myself, I don't want to, I can't, and I won't work like that for Greg." She walked more. She prayed and cried more. Finally she said, "Lord, for what you desire, I am willing."

When she returned and talked to Greg he told her, "Danielle, I have to tell you. I know you've always told me you don't want to, you can't, and you won't work like that for me, but I am looking for one person to run all the ministries. I prayed about it and I think you are it. I think you will want to do it, you are able to do it and you will do it, if you choose to."

He continued with passion, "I have a vision of how things could change. I think that any street kid, or prostitute no matter how dirty or sinful, is just as important as the person in charge of the whole program." Danielle, with tears in her eyes told him, "I had a vision too, that even the dirtiest and littlest should be able to sit down and pour out his heart to the one in charge."

I was so happy for her. Tears seem like such a strange form of joy, but that's the way it works in me. I was so happy to see our great God showing His love to her. She wiped her tears away and said, "sorry I've been talking about me this whole time." And she made me take my turn. I told her about the exciting revelations I had recieved in the spiritual battle for Juan's heart.

It might sound weird that we cry over sharing such simple stories with each other. I think the closest I can come to putting my finger on the reason for this good joy that brings us to tears has something to do with this: sincere friends realizing they share in the same big love of the same big creator.

Mom tells me about Heaven

2006-05-28T13:16:00.000-07:00

My mom died almost two years ago. A couple weeks ago I had a dream about her that was more vivid than any I’ve had since she died. I have some ideas about it but if you have any ideas what it means, please share them with me!

We were in a room on the day before my little brother was to get married (he doesn’t even have a girlfriend yet). I cried and hugged her over and over, but she seemed rather detached. She told me about the after life. She said, “I’m not sure I like it that much yet. It’s like a carpenter shop. Just remember carpenter, Ross. But we get breaks. It’s also like a heart with circulation.”

She was so unemotional about seeing her family again, about meeting Nicky’s future wife, about being in the world again. But she did get a carefree smile and looked very content when she told me she saw her life as “making a lot of lunches, helping dad out, and doing laundry for her family.”

I thought to myself, finally I’ve talked to someone on the other side and know that there is something on the other side of life. I can stop searching and wondering. Then I woke up and realized, it's not supposed to be that easy for me. I'm ok with that. I'll keep searching out my creator.

I met a Canadian in the airport a couple days ago. I asked him what he does. He said he is a carpenter. When I asked about his job I found out we would call his job construction. He was going to build houses almost completely from the cement to the drywall.

"Just remember carpenter, Ross."

Joh 14:2 "In My Father's house are many dwelling places; if it were not so, I would have told you; for I go to prepare a place for you."

Hans is a shaman

2006-05-27T13:00:00.000-07:00

Hans was the guy who had approached our group one night, completely drunk and/or high telling his story how his own people had robbed him that day- "My own people!" He lied that he was homeless and then failed to meet up with me a few months ago and I hadn't seen him since.

I was walking on the Prado the other day and someone patted me on shoulder. I turned around and there he was. He had something white painted on his cheeks and big dark glasses. The writing on his shirt looked like swollen veins were growing out of his shirt and was the name of a death metal band.

We went and drank a pop together. He has a ritual when he drinks a pop. He pulled out a tiny treasure chest, turned away from me to open it. He pulled a pill out, put it into his mouth, stared at the sky for about ten seconds, and drank the whole pop in one lift. I asked him why, and he said it was his ritual to protect him and give him power.

He asked me if I still had the pendant he had given me on the first night. I said, 'yes, it is in my drawer at home.' He mentioned it several times and insisted that I do not lose it. Why would that pendant be so important? What if that pendant brings some sort of curse or something. I don't know the realities or power of that stuff but, I need to be prepared in case there is some witchcraft. If I am going to deal with it, I am looking forward to learning the strategies of the enemy and learning how to fight it.

Maybe the devil tempts in many ways, and on many fronts because someday he will break us. But what if we use those times to turn them for good. For example, I can use this pendant for something good. The first time Juan gave it to me, I told him, this symbolizes our friendship. I need to do more to use it for good. I like the idea that if I keep taking the attacks of the devil and turning them into good, he will stop attacking me, because he is just giving me opportunities to do good.

A few days after I ran into Juan, I invited him to the pizza party we had for our English class. He showed up with two friends. I thought I smelled alcohol on them but all the same I invited them to share with us. We had the final exam in the English class and then we all had pizza. Soon after they said they were leaving and they took their pizza and pop and left. But Juan was very slow in leaving, saying goodbye to everybody and then stopping to talk to me some more. He eventually left.

He reappeared a couple minutes later. I greeted him happily and we talked a little more. He said goodbye and slowly left again.

He reappeared a couple minutes later. This happened about 4 times. He would leave, come back and talk and then slowly leave again. I don't know what it was that kept drawing him back. Was it something desperate inside of him being drawn to some sort of hope he sees in us? Or maybe something evil trying to break us down.

Somehow it came out that we both like to write. He said, I’ll tell you a story. My girlfriend was murdered. She was running and the person she was running with left her. He looked at me, held up a fist with a tremendously tortured look on his face, fear and anger overflowing. “They found her dead,” he motioned that they had slit her throat and wrists. A tear dropped to his pant leg.

Another time when he came back he said that we should go to Sorata. He added, you will feel the energy there. My friend, he pointed to the friend that came with him, is from Sorata. Then Juan told me he is a "Chaman". Finally I figured out this meant he was a Shaman, or like a witchdoctor.

During this time when Juan was talking to me, Fernando was talking to his friends. In reality, we were in Fernando’s church and I was a bit afraid to have brought drunks and shamans into his church. I think those are the people who we should welcome there the most, but Fernando was kindly letting us host our English classes there and I didn’t want to insult him. Later I found out that Fernando was trying to talk to Juan's friends about ways he could help them. He was just as concerned about them as I was, and like me, wanted to help them.

Last week at church I caught something that I’ve heard many times but this time it stuck. The Word of God is our sword in spiritual battle. I started to memorize scripture this week to be ready to pull out during this battle. I don’t know yet how to swing the Bible as a sword but I am going to be swinging in the dark until I hit something. And hopefully slowly I will learn and get good at hitting my target.

Eventually Juan and his friends really left, just before the rest of us left. That night our little family prayed for him and his friends. I see that this battle is too big for me to win. All I can do is take instructions and fight my heart out and be ready for God to take the victory.

The life of William Wallace

2006-05-15T06:44:00.000-07:00

I got to talk to a good friend of ours on Friday, a shoe shiner named William. He calls himself William Wallace. He shared his story with me.

He told me how his family had prayed so hard that his father wouldn’t lose his job as a taxi driver after he got in an accident. Well, he did lose his job but two days later he got one that paid twice as much. William said, “We always pray when we have problems but we forget God when the good things happen.”

His brother had a lot of problems with drinking and in their eyes he was ruining his life. His family was praying for him. Then he met a girl and she invited him to church. His life changed completely and now he is successful and has a family.

He told me how his father had gone to live with another woman. He left his wife and kids with only a note saying that it wasn't working out with his mom. Eventually he came back and said it didn’t work out with the other woman and he just told his wife to accept him back. So they went back to the way it was before, hitting his wife and treating her badly. William loves his mom so much for all the troubles she’s gone through and he talked to his dad very sternly and told him not to treat her that way. It got better, at least when William is around he doesn’t hit her. William tries so hard to accept his dad but his brother has given up and lives separately with anger against his dad.

William’s mom got sick and had to go to the hospital. He thinks it is because all the emotional beating she has taken in her life. She was very depressed. He loves her so much. He says that sometimes it is so hard to not lose hope but he tells his mom, it’s all we have. Someday it will get better.

William tries so hard at college so that his life will be better but it came to a point in his life where he had to take a break from college and try to work instead. He wanted to make enough money to rent a place in the city so he could be close to school and also he wanted to buy his mother a small street corner kiosk where she could sell things and have something good in her life.

That was six months ago that he had quit school to work. He says he had given up going out with his friends and buying the things that he wanted because he had to work so hard. And after six months he looks at what he has saved and sees that he’s not getting anywhere.

There a lot of people in need here. Some of them do it to themselves. Some of them are trying very hard to help themselves. William is one of those. He gives me hope in humanity again. Even though his dad has been so bad to them William has committed to accepting him. And he loves his mom so much that he would work so hard and give up a lot of pleasures to help her out.
I am planning on asking if I can spend an evening with them to get to know William’s family a little better. And then I want to offer to go with them to buy his mother the things needed for her little street corner kiosk. William said that if he had saved just 90 dollars it would be enough to buy it for her. I have 90 dollars. I could be the something better he had been trying so hard not to lose hope in.

Victory in the darkest hour

2006-04-20T07:28:00.000-07:00

In The Lion, the Witch, and The Wardrobe there is a very dark night when Aslan gives himself to the Witch to be killed in the place Edmond, the one that had betrayed him. The witch threw her dagger down into Aslan and thought she had won. Finally her day of victory had come.

Last night was like that at the shoe shiner Bible study. We had prayed and fasted for Freddy, the brokenhearted drunk we’ve been trying to minister to. We prayed hard for him and I truly believed big things were beginning to happen in Freddy’s heart. The next day Freddy showed up drunker than I think I’ve ever seen anybody and he disrupted the Bible study the whole way through. The suffering crawled all over his face as he grinded his teeth and tried to spill out his hurting heart all over the table in garbled speech in the middle of Randy's talk. I think the forces that have a grip on his life were rejoicing in their day of victory... for the prayer they had overcome and beaten... for the other shoe shiners they were distracting... for bringing Freddy into these depths of hopelessness.

But in my heart I was rejoicing. I think the enemy has slipped up. He went to far. In his zest to ruin Freddy’s life and discourage all of us by it, he messed up. During the whole Bible study I was at Freddy’s side. Whispering truth and love into his ears. My hand was constantly on his back and I whispered and prayed Jesus’ name and God’s protection over him over and over.

The thing about Christians is that when no hope seems to be left in this world, when Freddy shows up drunker than he has ever been the night after we prayed and fasted for him as if God doesn't exist, we still have hope. We believe God works through us to use the depths of brokenness to bring new victory. When it seems all is lost, when Aslan has been slain on the stone table, we believe a deeper magic is at work.

The enemy messed up because Freddy got to see that we will not desert him. The others in the Bible study now see that we will not desert them when they are at their worst. We will stick by their side with our hands on their backs while we whisper love and protection into their ears. The enemy slipped up. Now we have seen him. He slipped up because now we know what we have to overcome. He threw everything he could at us. And we still weren’t broken. We turned it around for good. We will pray more, and fast more, for Freddy’s spirit and we now know the strength of the enemy, and we know our God is stronger.

Lord, Jesus, I thank you for this day. I thank you for being the stronger magic. I thank you for hope that we will win even after the enemy thought he has won. I thank you for Freddy.

I had this image come into my head this morning. Singing with a multitude of people in front of the throne. I looked over and saw Freddy, smiling at my side. Maybe we will be there together some day.

Last night Freddy left early and I followed him. I made sure that he got into a taxi to take him home. He said, don't stay, I'll make it home. I said, I'm not going to leave you. I want to get you home where it is safe. I don't want to get another call from you saying you're drunk on the streets and need help again.

We did get a call from him this morning. About 9:15 he called. It was the first time in a few days that I had talked to him when he wasn't drunk. He had called to apologize to us.

God, this is how you work through the hearts of men. While our enemy hits us with a barrage from the outside, you change our hearts from within. You meet us in our most private, and often most broken place and you say, guess what? I'll still die for you. You wanna hang out with me for a while?

Tears falling like bricks on the cobble stones

2006-04-17T13:11:00.000-07:00

Freddy is a shoe shiner and a friend of ours. A little while ago he found out that his wife cheated on him with his brother and these days he usually resorts to drinking when he wants to forget it all.

It was good that he spent most of Easter with us yesterday but Randy got a call from him at 4am this morning. Randy woke me up and we went down into the dark, cold city to find him. When we found him he was drunk. We sat with him and he talked to us. He told us his stories.

The night was cold and shadows of men began to surround us so we escaped and invited him back to the refuge of our house. There he talked to us some more until the sun rose.

When you talk to Freddy he says he has bad luck. When you ask how he is, he'll tell you he has a broken heart. When you sit with him longer and the real stories come out he'll tell you how he could not believe that his wife was sleeping with his brother for five years, and how he had trusted her so much and how his mother hid it from him and how much he loves his kids. He told us last night, as he wiped his eyes, ‘my tears are bricks: they don’t feel a thing.’ They visit him so often, but they are hard and still leave him lonely

Last night, however, we also got to hear a little bit about the happier times. He told us when he lived with his mother in the jungle, when he shot a puma and when he found gold in the river. He said he was happy in those days. Then his stepdad started beating them and his mother sent him away to find refuge somewhere in La Paz.

He said his other friends take him out to get drunk and to find girls to forget his troubles. But he said he has found some new friends that are faithful and will listen to him when he needs someone to talk to and apparently that will pick him up at 4 in the morning when he is drunk.

He doesn’t sleep very much, he says. It makes him think about things that are too painful. He doesn’t go home unless he has to. In the place he calls his home he is alone and he begins to remember the painful memories and wants to “forget himself” again.

He says he often just wanders the streets with a broken heart thinking about how his beloved had left him for another and how most of all he just wants the best for his kids. The bricks falling from his eyes, he cannot get away from this pain.

God, is this a glimpse of you?

He wanders lonely through the night, heartbroken that we have left Him for lovers severely less passionate. He cries out for his children "Come back! I will protect you in my strong arms," dropping tears like bricks in the cobble stone streets all night long. He cannot sleep. Home is not worth going to if his family is not there. He is looking for a way to have us back, unable to forget his pain.

Freddy left early this morning but called again at 9:30am. He wanted us to meet up with him again this afternoon. We went to him, Randy, Ali, David, and I. He was drunker than before and he said he was now going to see some friends. We asked what type of friends they were and what they were going to do. He said, “I don’t want to tell you.” He's now in the room next to the one I'm in, our little refuge in La Paz. Perhaps he is building a castle with his tears as his heart overflows to Ali or David, while I write.

This world is broken and it feels like it is breaking me.

This is not my home. At home we will be in the arms of our beloved husband who even yet searches the streets for us, trying to find us and win us back. Even while we waste ourselves in the beds of his enemies, he is preparing a bedchamber for us and will carry us there and lay us down and fulfill us and He will make all things new. He will win our hearts over once again.

Street Fighter night

2006-03-26T10:53:00.000-08:00

Last night was our monthly outreach and we called it "Street Fighter Night – en vivo." ("that means Street Fighter - live") We had four teams and we competed in MarioKart, fusebal, and live Street Fighter. And we ate cereal all night.

For street fighter, we each had a character. David was a pot bellied bus driver of the busses on the most dangerous road in the world (which they say is here in Bolivia) complete with trucker hat. Ali was japenese beauty, Shen Lui (how do you spell that?) from the original Street Fighter arcade game, complete with deadly chop sticks sheathed in her hair. John was a plaid shirted lumber jack. And I was a disgruntled war veteran.

We would put two characters on the stage and would pick two audience members to command them to either Golpea (punch), “Patea!” (kick), “Atapar” (block), or “Saltar!” (jump). Randy was the fight announcer and sound effects box. Then the two characters would act out a fight on stage complete with sound effects and specialized super moves.

I made an 8-minute video called “Rich Living” or “Vida Plena”. And we watched that. I’m pretty happy with how it came out. I wish I could show my dad and people back home. It seems like a pretty good representation of a big theme in my life, and a good reason to believe that God has a good plan for us.

At the end of the night we watched “The Emperor’s New Groove.” We had a good time. I got to talk to some of the kids and try to build relationships with them, so I will know how I can help them the best.

Hey Evo, que tal?

2006-03-26T09:59:00.000-08:00

I was walking through our neighborhood today and I came across a group of political supporters. I recognized someone on the stage. The president of Bolivia, Evo Morales, had come to La Paz and was speaking in our neighborhood, Sopacachi! There were probably 100 people in the crowd. There were bands blowing in reed flutes and pounding on big skin-covered drums.

A couple other people spoke and then Evo spoke. I couldn’t understand him (which means I need to learn a lot more Spanish). Then some women climbed onto the stage and laid out piles of hard boiled eggs, beans, potatoes, corn and lots of other stuff on colorful blankets. The crowd pushed each other to get their hands into the big raw, messy piles of food. This is the Bolivian version of a Potluck and they call it Aptapi. They handed out a corn alcohol called Chichi.

It’s sad to see how much more willing we become to shove each other when there’s something good given to us.

I talked to one of the men helping Evo and asked him, "What is the best way to help the youth in La Paz?" He said, "They need to learn good character. Help instill this in education from when they're young until they are old."

Shorn, like Aslan

2006-03-13T13:02:00.000-08:00

It was the all night basketball lock in. I was captain of all of the white teams. Kavil was captain of all of the green teams. Our hair was at stake. Whoever lost would soon be bald.

It came down to the last game, Kavil’s team versus my team. We were the obvious underdogs and the obviously undersized. Then they decided to heighten the competition by letting Kavil and I play with our junior teams.

In the first half we gained the lead: 18 to 10. I was the tallest person on the court (if you can believe that!) and they weren’t prepared for my fast breaks, nor the small distance between my hands and the rim (comparably). It was still a fairly novel experience for my team when we would score and my boys would cheer like Superman had been subbed in, he had just punched the bad guy out, and there was hope again. The first half ended.

The next half brought some more new faces onto the other side of the court. The strange thing was, I don’t think they were on Kavil’s team until they were down by eight. This changed the tide. They caught up quickly and we couldn’t do much with their new players. We struggled that half, but I told myself, I would trust in my players and we kept passing and playing as a team.

It came down to the last minutes and it was now 18 to 20; we hadn’t scored a point since half time. I called a time out and I asked my guys what should be our strategy. They suggested we pass more. I was so proud that they were still problem solving and thinking like a team. So when we began again and I got a fast break I remembered what they said and would pass it off instead of going in for the perhaps more reliable layup myself. I was proud of myself for honoring my boys’ strategy and teamwork over my beloved hair. I wanted to show them how much they meant to me and I wanted to teach them good sportsmanship.

As the last minute rounded out to zero, while their new players had guarded me, Kavil had almost single-handedly scored all the points that gave his team the possession of the trimming shears.

It was a bittersweet loss because the crowd had all seen the teamwork and rebirth of hope and enthusiasm in our underdog team, even as we fell under the curse of baldness.

I felt like Aslan as I kneeled down and willingly let them shave my head. One of the sweetest volunteers that was helping out with our night of basketball, Mariana, was at my side catching my hair mourning the loss, “Ohhhhh, Ross.” It made me think of the women crying over Jesus as he was being crucified.

A few days ago, Randy had talked to me about how Jesus has put the incredible job of carrying on his kingdom into our hands. Jesus put the responsibility of the kingdom into the hands of the disciples, as small and confused as they seemed. He left and said carry my message to all nations. I had put the basketball into the hands of my small teammates, and had gave them the responsibility to carry on the game, even if it made me bald.
I had put faith in my team and though we had not won the game, I felt like something deeper had been at work. Perhaps that is how it works with Jesus.

Hans isn't homeless

2006-03-13T12:45:00.000-08:00

I went to the fountain on El Prado where I had planned to meet Hanz, the drunk belligerent kid from a couple nights ago. He showed up just a few minutes after I got there. he was with a friend named Carlos. Carlos had lighter skin and a more northern, slimmer face and long hair. He asked for “a big favor”: that we could go up to the corner where his mom was because his mom wanted to know what type of people he was hanging out with. We walked up El Prado.

They finished a bottle of refresco and I’m pretty sure I saw Carlos throw it close range at a passing boy. It was thrown back at us, and it hit my butt.

We went to the corner where Carlos said his mom was but he went inside the building, a bank or something, and never came out.

Hans and I walked a bit and then left to go to his house. I wasn’t planning on doing this but somehow we ended up in a bus going up the mountain supposedly towards his house. He had told me the night before that he lived in a cardboard box. Now he said he lived with his grandma in a house.

We were rising out of La Paz. I knew that El Alto was above La Paz and that it was known to be dangerous and crawling with pick pockets. We got out and walked down a wide, clean, quiet, cobblestone street. He had been telling me that from his house there is a wonderful view. When we got to his house, I saw that he wasn’t lying about this. He and his grandma lived in the upper floor of a humble, brick house. We went out onto the patio, which was probably the size of the inside rooms put together.
He said to the lady I believe to be his grandma, “Good afternoon. Can you make something very Bolivian for us?” He had been talking about peyote (a drug) and Mescal (an alcohol) at his house. I told him that I don’t want to try any drugs ever, that for some reason I am trying to stay clean. I had a fear that if I ate anything at his house, it might be drugged. It would be an easy, profitable crime for him, except for the fact that I know where he lives now. I guess he wouldn't have to let me live. I lost all the worries when I saw the beautifully prepared, delicious meal that he brought for us from his grandma. He also brought an unopened bottle of soda that he had gone to the corner to buy.

We ate in his room as we listened to his music. His room looked like the messy arrangement of someone’s un-harnessed mind, crumpled kleenex, dirty clothes, unmade bed, all scattered about the cement floor. There were lots of music posters and music pictures ripped out from magazines. He had colored and drawn on a lot of them. He said he liked to draw.
When we were in the little van coming up he had told me he doesn’t believe in God. Now he was telling me that he believes in a loving God. He seemed to be contradicting but now I told him it sounds like we believe in the same God.

He asked for my phone number and I said I don’t have one- well, that it was for lots of people in my house. He said, “you don’t trust me yet.” I said, “I need to get to know you better.”

I found out we were born 10 days apart on the same year. His birthday is on the 2nd of November. Mine is the 12th.

I found out he goes to college for Anthropology. He had a big chart of how to pronounce the English letters that he had made at his university (I think) on his wall.

I told him I had to be down to El Prado at 4:00 to meet a friend and that I would like to leave at about 3:00. In typical Bolivian style (as much as I tried to push the punctual American way) I was not able to say goodbye and catch the bus until 3:40.

When I got in I asked if it goes to El Prado, and they looked at me like it was an unusual question, though it seemed to me like El Prado was the biggest street in La Paz. They also said it would take about an hour to get down.

The thing is I told Rolando that we would meet at 4:00. I realized that the chances were very slim that I would get there on time and one of the last things I want to do is be inconsistent with my new friends. I want them to trust me. I prayed that I would not let Rolando down.

We still seemed to be near the top of the hill when I heard a man’s watch beep like it had just turned 4:00. When we got near the bottom of the hill, what seemed like 45 minutes later I asked the man beside me if we were close to El Prado. He said we were a block away. When we got close enough we got out and I asked him the time. He told me the time was now 4:00 exactly. Amazing. I didn’t know if this could be possible. To make sure I asked a poor old, scared lady who said she didn’t have the time and avoided my gaze. Finally after walking towards where we planned to meet I saw a kid walk by with his arm over a girl and his watch revealed, and I almost asked him the time, but I realized I had seen it right there in front of me as his arm had passed right by me. It said it was now 5 after.
I got to the place where I was to meet Rolando. I looked around for a minute or so and asked a guy who was in a little kiosk selling things what the time was. He said 10 after.

I looked across the street and realized Rolando was sleeping on a bench.

Our meeting was quick. Rolando told me he needed school supplies.

The amazing Alvar and the Lion

2006-03-13T12:42:00.000-08:00

In the morning we went to the children’s hospital, to the burn unit. I sat down with a a young boy named Alvar. His face was covered with thick gauze soaked in a blood/scab colored salve. His hands were wrapped in thick gauze and just his fingertips poked out. He had a clipboard and was drawing on a paper bag. He asked for another bag to draw on. I brought one to him and I asked him what he would draw. He had a lion king coloring book on his lap that he was looking at. He said, “A lion.” I started telling him a story about a boy named Alvar and lions. I stopped several times in the middle of my story because I was amazed at his drawing. It was amazingly proportional and there were no mistakes. Finally, he finished it off by coloring it in.

After a while I was trying to think of something to say and I pulled out my notebook and showed him my drawings. He wanted to see more and more. Finally he asked me to draw them again for him. So I started drawing one of them again but this time on a paper bag. Before I finished he was asking me to draw the next one. I had drawn like 5 of them and then some invented ones by the time I had to leave. He was enthralled. He asked me if I was coming back and if I would bring him a drawing.
God used my gift of drawing to connect to this boy. We’re going back tomorrow.

Hans the homeless

2006-03-13T10:53:00.000-08:00

While ten of us were waiting outside of the church for our meeting to start a young man came close and leaned against a car. He looked distressed and he was not in any shape to be tactful about how he laid his eyes upon us so heavily. A few minutes later he approached some of the Bolivians with us and started talking about wanting to fight and being robbed and he made a lot of offensive gestures. He was intoxicated, probably with alcohol and drugs. The Bolivians who knew best looked away from him and turned their backs to him to protect the rest of us.

Now before going to Bolivia I tried to make myself ready to risk my life in the case that it could help another. I saw in his red eyes and violent nature, another to help.

I leaned around the friends that were protecting me and found his eyes, "Hey, what's your name?" He had found an audience. His name is Hans, (or Juan in Spanish). He drew close and his eyes focused on me and he began his story.

He said he had just been robbed. It was police that robbed him of his cell phone and everything, he said. He told this story over and over and when he told it he clenched his fists and cussed, and then pointed his fingers like guns at me and then at his own temples, with tears dropping from his eyes. “Mi propio gente! Mi propio gente!” He would scowl, “My own people, my own people did it to me.”

In the mean time, it was decided that the meeting was cancelled so we should go get a nice italian meal. I read their body language and much of it was saying, 'ok, Ross, this is a good excuse to get rid of him.'

My evening hadn't been filled with enough risk to fill me up so I pushed it, "Should we buy him dinner?" The looks suggested it was not a good idea. "Can I buy him dinner?"

Randy heard my request and with no hesitation approved it.

Some of the other Bolivians with us told us to be very careful and that they had seen a couple other boys hanging around below us. I thought their advice was very healthy, but I thought this opportunity was worth the risk.

We waited for dinner. Hans told me over and over, with animated belligerent hand movements how they had stole his cell phone and money, his own people! He told me how he wanted to kill them, on the day of justice, when he is reincarnated. I asked him what that would gain? I suggested to change the hate into love and tried to appeal to him by the heroic nature in this. He said, but they would not understand this, they were not people of the spirit, but people of material things. He went on to talk about Darma (good Karma) and Karma (bad karma).

He said he liked Hitler. Because he hated the Jews. He had worked at four jobs which had Jewish owners. They had been very tight with their money. He asked me what I thought of Jews. I told him I grew up in a home where they said all people are equal and that I had no experiences like his to make me think of Jews as any less valuable.”

A few times when we eventually came around to reach the same conclusion on something very deep, like turning hate into good, he would take my hand, intertwine our fingers and squeeze it between us vehemently and look into my eyes. At other times, in the heat of his stories he held his same fingers in my face and clasp them into fists and shake them before me.

I have found that giving gifts is very important to Bolivians. He appreciated the dinner we bought him and appreciated my sincere ear. In this spirit he gave me two things. He tugged on the necklace hanging from his neck and it snapped off. He put it in my hand and said it would protect me. The leather strap held a wire twisted into shape of a sun's rays, or a hand's fingers or a marijuana leaf. The other emblem on the strap was a Mayan cross. It is a symmetric cross with steps in between the arms and a circular hole in the middle. I wasn't sure what they meant, and by the looks of one of the other Bolivians at the table watching us, it wasn't good. I told him, this is the symbol of amistad, of friendship between us. The other thing he gave me was the empty cell phone case around his belt. I promised him I would find a good use for it, therefore turning a bad event into something good.

He knew a few words and cultural facts about many cultures. He quoted some American songs. He said a few words in English.
I told him we were Christians and that we wanted to help him.
I asked him, “can I trust in you?” He said yes. I said, “you can be a very good person.” He said, “I am a good person.” I had doubted much of his story and imagined he had a very rough street life. But I had faulted in giving him the grace that someone has so unequivically given me.

He talked about people getting high. He said he wanted cerveza when I asked him what he wanted to drink. He talked about Mezcal and Peyote. When we were paying for dinner he pulled out his wallet and looked for cash to pay me. I said, its ok, I will buy your dinner. He looked for something in his empty wallet to pay with and all he could find was a paper folded into a pocket. He gave it to me. I opened it far enough to see small dark green shavings inside. I gave it back to him and said, no, but thank you anyways. He said thank you.

I offered to go for a run with him to get his angry energy out. He thought that would be a good idea. I knew it could be dangerous but I would try to lead us and take us only to lit areas. But as we were leaving David told me that Kavil (one of the Bolivian volunteers) had said, be very careful, make sure Ross doesn’t do anything dangerous. I took that as a sign and I told Hans that they told me I had to do something with them now and couldn’t run with him. We planned to meet the next day at the fountain on the Prado.

I asked him where he would go now. He said he would walk home. I asked where was home. He told me very far and that he had no money to get a taxi. I hesitated and the others didn't think it was a good idea to impersonate an ATM. I apologized to him and he nodded like, 'I was hoping for more but that's what I expected.' He said, "I'm Aztecan. We are tough. Don't worry about me." We left him at the corner and I looked back many times. He was not following us. I did not trust him very much still. I wanted to but I did not want to be stupid. I had learned once before not to trust someone though they seem to be a new friend.

I'd take a punch in the face for these kids

2006-03-03T12:09:00.000-08:00

Every Thursday of Lent from now until Easter (seven weeks) kids make a pilgrimage to a certain church in the south of La Paz. They spend all night walking and spending time in the plaza outside the church. It is a catholic tradition so we saw much opportunity to talk to people about faith.

Last night, at 2 am we went down there with a video camera and began asking kids questions. A lot of the questions were fun and were meant to get to know them, and a lot of the questions were religion related. I said I could be the DJ and go talk to the kids. Miguel and Mariana went with me to help with Spanish and filming. The kids seemed to be generally receptive. My Spanish needs a lot of work and I think I probably made a fool out of myself a couple times, but it was a challenge and I learned what to do better, and it’s better than doing nothing at all, and we did get some interesting conversations going.

One time I went up and started getting to know a group of kids who were walking. Then I started asking deeper questions. “How do you avoid hell and get to heaven?” They said, “you must try to live a good life.” I asked, “Is it harder for people to live a good life when there is a lot of poverty? Do they have to steal and lie more, to survive?” They said, “Yes, I guess so.” I continued, “Then how is that fair, that it is harder for a people in a poor country to avoid hell than it is for people in a rich country, like the United states or somewhere?” One of them said, “That’s just how life is sometimes.” It's interesting to see their perspectives. Randy and I were talking about their concept of fairness, and in some cases it has a different twist than we think it does.

There was a soccer game going on in the street at the side of the main plaza by the church. I asked if I could play with them and we began to play. About an hour into it I noticed a kid from each time, pushing each other and throwing punches. I saw no direct hits but I moved in quickly. I put myself between them and started probing into the problem. I shouted, “The game is won by talent, not anger. We’re playing soccer now, not fighting.”

I looked into the eyes of the kid on my team, and he just pointed to the other kid and said, “It’s him. He’s just…” His face was red and his eyes were squinty. I could almost see the heat rising from his face in the night. As he seemed to protest how unfair the other kid was, I told him, “We can be better by being more fair than them.” I revisited him several times to see how he was. I told him that if he wants to switch positions with me (he was the goalie), just tell me. I asked him how he felt and if everything was ok. He said, “No you’re good. It’s ok.” His hand shake and a sincere nod through his squinty eyes and heated face seemed to infer a bit of friendship.

I was not afraid to take a punch. I lose so little for what could be gained. I could get a broken nose, but my nose is already crooked. I could get a black eye but those heal. What we maybe gained was perhaps a bit of wisdom, and maybe an example of good sportmanship. I think of how amazing someone has to be to make an impression on my life, big enough to change it. And I am such a rookie that I don’t think any lives could be changed by how I handled the situation. But I have hope, and the faith that if I do my best with the situations God gives me, he can work through them to change lives, in his time. I have a lot to learn on how to treat the situation better next time, but with the knowledge that I had, and the willing heart to take a punch and be a good presence, I feel contentment that God could have used me.

Rolando: the friend without manners.

2006-03-03T11:47:00.000-08:00

We made a cake for Rolando’s birthday. I met up with him in the usual spot and walked to our house. On the way up he stopped at a toy store and looked in the window and talked about the toys. I felt that even though I don’t want to just keep giving him money, I would be a bad friend if I didn’t buy him a birthday present. And above all I’m trying to be a good friend. I said, I would like to buy something for you for your birthday and asked him what type of things he might want. Eventually we went in and looked at prices but we decided to come back later.
We went to my house and I fixed up some cake and ice cream and the candles and sang a quick song to him. The traditions here set up a little bit of extra confusion. He waited to blow the candles out. He kept looking towards the doors of Randy and Jon’s rooms as if waiting for them to come out. Finally when I asked him what he was waiting for, it made more sense. He was thinking of what to wish for. Eventually David, Jon, Randy, Kavil, Ali, and Hannah had all stopped in and had a little cake together or a steak and egg sandwich.
On our walk back down to the Prado Rolando asked me if instead of using the money to buy a toy, it could go towards helping him buy the pants and shirt he said he needed for school. I said that was a great idea. But then he started doing the math and saying if the toy was going to cost 48 B’s (the most expensive toy we looked at) and then he could get better pants for 35 B’s and add a shirt for a little more… I got disappointed and told him, with a little bit of the disappointment coming through in my voice, I’m not a bank.
That very morning, at our morning devotional/gringo meeting we had talked about giving and what the Bible says about giving. The Bible seems to say that you should give them more than they ask for and keep on giving (if he asks for your coat, give him your tunic too, if he asks you to carry it a mile, offer to carry it a second). It seems like the Bible infers that the poorer you are financially, the richer you are spiritually. That makes sense, to me: when you don’t have the money to be your safety net, God has to become your safety net.
I told Rolando how I felt used and that what I wanted to give him was a gift, not a bank account for him to tap. After I got that out on the table, things were better. You know when you are holding something against a friend, or family your whole time together suffers? It’s like there is a wall between you, and it is very difficult to play over that wall. Sometimes it seems to help to get it out on the table. After I did, it was finally fun to hang out with him again. We were laughing and joking. He actually said Thank You for these things you’re giving me. And that was long-awaited. It felt really good to hear it. And I guess in some way it felt more right than if he had said it like polite Americans say it right away. The fact that he said a while afterwards meant that he was still thinking about it and probably wasn’t saying it just because it was the polite thing to do.
I think it’s interesting, interacting with Rolando. He didn’t grow up with parents to teach him the things most kids learn, like manners. He was given to an adoption house shortly after he was born. I think it’s interesting because I get to see maybe what a person would be like without the front of manners hiding who he really is. Some might say that being educated is part of who you are, and I think that’s true, but with Rolando, I think I can see his root instincts bared in what he does. When sometimes that’s uncomfortable for me to be with him, other times it seems more valuable because I get to see the real him.

When we finally got to go buy him pants so he could go to school, I was surprised that he went to get sweat pants and a Bolivar Jersey. I asked him if that was really what he needed to go to school, and why. He said yes, and that it was so that if he fell he could clean them better. I later asked Pedro (the Bolivian YFC boss down here) if that made any sense. He said, no. He said, I should say they have to ask him if they want us to buy them something.
The next day I met up with him and I asked how he was. He said his not so good- that his stomach was very empty. Again that barrier grew between us and I felt like a bank again. I had taken him out to lunch before and I can see how it would seem like it was becoming a habit. I told him I was full but if we wanted to get something cheap from one of the stands I would pay for half. We went over and got some cookies.
From the time he said, I’m hungry, until we parted, there seemed to be that wall that was very hard to play over between us. In fact it was he that said, he had to go do something instead of spend the rest of our usual time with me. I have to say I was relieved but a little bit sad that our friendship was suffering. I think next time I need bring something else to focus on. Like have him teach me how to make the bracelets that he says he can teach me.
He did do me a couple favors, which I see as his way of giving things to me. I had a 200 B bill (which is a unusual bill because it is worth so much). I said I needed to get change. He said, there on the corner is a friend of his that will change the bills for 1 B if I ask him, but for free if Rolando asked him. So I gave him the 200 B bill, a little bit of a test with the roughly 25 dollars walking away from me in the hands of someone who I felt thought of me as a bank.
The other favor he did for me was that he tried to save a shoe shiner box for me. I told him I wanted to buy a shoe shining box so I could start shoe shining. He had seen one for sale at a good price and tried to ask them to save it for me, but they didn’t. Rolando is a good guy for favors like that.
Rolando had told me that he doesn’t like to wear a mask when he is shoe shining, but today, and lately he had been wearing one. I asked him why. He pointed to the big scar on his face and I think he said, “I don’t want to scare people away.” And also he said that he didn’t want certain people to know he was a shoe shiner because then they wouldn’t talk to him. I have a hunch that also he has problems with certain kids because they beat him up.

Tall, blonde, water balloon targets

2006-03-03T10:57:00.000-08:00

Carnaval is the weekend before Lent when everybody is supposed to get out all of their sinful desires before they have to give them up for 40 days. This mostly takes the form of trying to kill people with water balloons.

It was the second to last day of Carnaval, the prime day for water ballooning and we had to walk along the Prado, through one of the main balloon assault areas to get down to teach our English class. David and Ali were going to take a taxi as Hannah and I were to walk. Hannah, a tall blonde girl walking down the Prado turned out to be the target they had been waiting for the whole day. It started out with a few balloons lobbed our way which we could dodge. Then there were more, getting harder to dodge. And then finally as a great battle cheer rang out across the street as the rest of them saw us, the unavoidable barrage began. It was a group of 50 to 100 young people that had seen us and declared us the targets. We were easy prey. For the next 30 seconds it was hailing water balloons. I could avoid some of them but not all; there were probably 5 balloons splattering over us or the pavement by us every second. Hannah, being an even more prized target than myself, was hopeless. She had to keep her eyes on the sidewalk to compensate for her lack of depth perception, but I don't think it would have helped much even if she could look up.

Suddenly, as they saw our hopelessness, and inability to defend ourselves at all, they charged. A solid wall of cheering, bloodthirsty high schoolers coming across the road at us. Balloons were unavoidable. I realized we needed an escape; we would be in bad shape after a few more seconds of this. I looked up and saw a stairway (the only escape on our side of the road for the equivalent of several blocks). I grabbed Hannah’s hand and we climbed the steps. A few people continued to chase us up the steps to exhaust their ammunition on us. One of those balloons that Hannah received had an extra little ingredient to add insult to injury. It was full of mud and rocks.

After all was thrown and wet, we were both soaked and Hannah had a thick stripe of mud on her face and back, and a bruise underneath it. We decided it would be too dangerous to walk back down there to the English class. We tried to get taxis but they said that the street was closed off right now (probably because two blonde americans had almost just been killed there), so we started to walk back along the streets above.

However, we found out, our challenges weren't over yet when a couple of kids standing in a doorway pulled balloons out from behind their backs and smiled mischevious smiles, ready to throw. I gave them a competitive smirk and slowly shook my head. It was enough to buy us us 20 feet. We were across the road when one came running at us. He threw the balloon. After the war of balloons we had just survived, this challenge was nothing more than an opportunity. With my backpack on my back and my notebook drying out in my left hand, I caught the balloon with my right and strated to run the kid down. His friends in the doorway were yelling at him to hurry. I was quickly gaining on him. Finally, from only a few paces away, I let loose. The water balloon splattered over the back of his legs. I gave his friends a look that said, "Hope that was as much fun for you guys as it was for me" and turned around to walk away. I heard cheers from across the street. A couple old men were smiling and clapping because they had seen the whole thing.

Finally, after getting a call from David and Ali, we tried again and finally a taxi said that the Prado was now open and he could take us to our English class. All our sweet little kids snickered at us that afternoon, as we stood at the board in all our wet clothes, shivered as we tried to teach of bit of english.

Song by David and Ross

2006-03-02T08:13:00.000-08:00

Overflowing:
(Capo 1)

Verse 1
It is not safe
It is not comfortable
But it’s good

And I’m hungry
And tired
But he’s close, he’s close

My vessel is small
And it overflows so easily
My vessel’s so small
And it overflows with joy

Chorus:
Just a whisper in my ear
Just a word, I am here
C#m B
And I’m broken and I’m undone
A
again

Just a song that I can sing
its a fragile heart I bring
I’m so broken and I’m undone
again

Verse 2
C#m
What if its just some product
Of science and evolution,
All this ridiculous snot and tears?

The early sun rises
On my empty stomach
I struggle in the silence

Chorus

Verse 3
My vessel is small
And it overflows so easily
My vessel’s so small
And it overflows with joy

He is the Word
That fills me from within,
And I’m Over,
overflowing, overflowing.

Trusting in God makes dying more fun

2006-02-28T08:49:00.000-08:00

This is the account of our "orientation" backpacking trip. It was a lot bit scary. We join the story at the height of the adventure. Enjoy:

The big drops of rain were cold and nothing on us was dry. Hannah, Ali and I had finally found Randy, Jon and David again and we were at the base of a steep mountain of unstable shards of black rocks. They were topped with slippery snow like melting frosting on a cake. I could barely feel my feet. Randy had said, once we get over that saddle back at the top of this mountain, we will find a lake. Randy was a great guide but because of the weather conditions he had been wrong a couple times about how far we would get how fast. We couldn’t see anything in the fog. And now we found ourselves at a place where he hadn’t been before. David and Jon had hiked ahead to scout it out and as they yelled back, we realized they didn't see the lake. We all felt that we couldn’t hike another valley and mountain. Too cold, too slow, and too tired.

What I saw happening would be, the coldest weakest member of the team would stop and say, I can’t go any more, I’m too cold and too tired. We would push them and say we have to keep going. That would happen a couple times until they really couldn’t go any more. A couple might stay with that person and try to keep them warm. But they would just get colder because they stopped moving and the water would begin to freeze on them as the sun set. The others would go on for help until they couldn’t go anymore. And if anyone ever found us they would find a few hunched, frozen bodies littering the landscape, covered in snow.

I hiked alone now. I was the relay between the two scouts and the other, slower three that were too far apart to yell back and forth. I climbed the sharp rocks with my hands and feet thinking to myself, “We may die here. All of us. How will that story look to the rest of the world? This is going to be painful. Oh no! My novel will never be finished. But it probably wouldn’t have really been anything special anyways- unless, I guess, it was really God’s plan for me to write it. And maybe this, here on this desolate mountain, is part of God’s plan. God probably isn’t even real. People do freeze to death sometimes, lost in the mountains and God doesn’t save them. But maybe that is God’s plan somehow. Maybe if we died, it would be the trigger for someone who heard about it to step up and carry out God’s plan. Maybe God can work a miracle and get us out alive.”

I was confronted with a decision. Do I believe in God, or not? Do I trust that we are in his big hands and in his good plan? I stopped on the side of the mountain and took off my backpack. I looked up. I remembered the words on the back of Hannah’s shirt. “The joy of the Lord is my strength.” The joy of the Lord is my strength. My eyes got wet, from the inside out. He gives me living water and I thirst no more. He gives me living water and I thirst no more. He gives me living water and I thirst no more. The joy of the Lord is my strength. I praise you God. You have a good plan. We may die here, but I will abide in your plan.

I felt joy. I was filled with energy. My body was cold but my soul was warm and that joy melted away everything else.
“Ross!” Randy yelled up to me. “Can you come down to carry one of these bags?” Randy had taken one of the girls backpacks on top of his own and was running out of energy below me. I hopped down the mountain to meet them. Grabbed the bag and continued up ahead of them. I grabbed my bag and slung it over my other shoulder and continued ascending, powered by joy.

Randy had communicated to Jon and David that they were looking in the wrong spot. So Jon, I found out later, though he was dangerously cold and in desperation got a second wind and ran all the way to the peak for the new lookout. When he got there he yelled back to us, “Here’s the lake!” We all continued upward on the slippery, sharp rocks, in the cold rain, now with hope pulling us and the end in mind.

We summitted and saw a beautiful lake appear as a break in the clouds below us passed over it. We continued down. Jon and David had gone ahead to set up the tent. Soon it was in view and the other four of us pushed our way down the trail. Praise you God. Your plan is good. There was a rumbling somewhere in the valley. A rock slide. Even the rocks will cry out and sing of your glory.

We got creative on ways to feed ourselves and to keep ourselves warm that night. Jon had a fever and could hardly speak. He huddled in the sleeping bag as the others tried to get him warm while keeping ourselves warm. Our clothes were wet and as we opened up our sleeping bags we realized they were wet too. We each got a couple hours of cold sleep and we hoped, above anything else to wake up to clear weather and sunshine so we could get dry and warm and survive the next day.

We woke up the next day and the tent had almost collapsed on us because it was covered in snow.

This three day trip was full of adventures. Hannah’s lack of depth perception was a constant challenge to her and along the way she always had one of us guiding her steps. Her toe nails were pushing against the edge of her shoe so much as she hiked, several of them fell off. Jon seemed to have gotten a slight case of hypothermia. My heel is still sore, 5 weeks later from so much frozen hiking.

The last day we sent David and Jon ahead to finish the trail and send back help. But we came upon a couple places where the road divided and the way we took seemed to go on ten times as far as it should have. We finally found the town we had planned to meet at and Jon and David weren’t there. There was nowhere to stay in this small town so we broke into a deserted school building and were planning to sleep there. Randy and Ali went to go find a telephone (I was very hesitant to split up the team again).
One time I peeked out the school house window I saw a van backing down the road, its lights illuminating a couple figures walking down with it. I ducked away from the window so we wouldn't be caught trespassing. Then there was a knock on the door. Randy's voice was behind it. He said, "We're going home." They had found Jon, and David and a van that would take us back home.

The van had taken us 10 minutes out of that town and into the wilderness when the driver stopped the van. He hopped out in the rain and rummaged around until he found something. He crawled under the car and jacked it up. We thought, “of course, our adventure couldn’t be over yet.”
We got home late that night with sickness, injuries, exhaustion and a grateful spirit. We had almost died, but that had provided the stage for a deeper level teamwork and team bonding to grow.