No Hope

NOTE: The story below is a fictionalized combination of events that we saw happen while working with the Maquiritare people, who also called themselves the Ye'cuana.  

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Juan felt the sweat dripping down his brow into his eyes. The hot sun beat down on his bronzed body as he slashed rhythmically away at the brush. He worked alongside the other men from the village to clear a garden for Clemencia.

Slash and burn. They had been doing this for generations and Juan was sure they would do it for generations to come. He was a Ye’cuana and proud of it. He came from a long line of strong men, men who could clear out of living in the dense jungle, men who could make dug-out canoes that were in high demand by other villages up and down the river, men who lived by the old traditions despite civilization creeping in on them, and men who needed strong women to survive alongside them in a hard land.

Juan glanced over to where Clemencia was giving drinks to the other men. She was a woman such as that, a strong Ye’cuana woman who made living in a hard land look easy. Better yet, she was in the right family line to marry Juan. Juan hoped his parents would arrange a marriage between him and Clemencia. She was beautiful in the Ye’cuana way. She had a solid back and neck, thick strong legs, and endurance. She was a woman that would make any man proud. She had the strength to bear many children.

Juan was young, strong—and in love.

Clemencia noticed Juan looking in her direction and headed his way.

“Would you like some of my drink?” she asked.

“Yes, I want it,” Juan responded, reaching for the large gourd of fermented drink. He downed it quickly though his stomach rebelled as more fluids were added to the large quantity he had consumed throughout the morning. But that was the Ye’cuana way. You never refused a drink—and you always emptied the entire gourd offered you.

Juan promptly turned to the side and let vomit spew from his mouth as the drink hit his already distended stomach. That was also the Ye’cuana way. Clemencia smiled as she retrieved the gourd. Juan was a man.

Feeling young and virile with the world before him, Juan returned to slashing the brush. He could feel Clemencia’s eyes on him and it was a good feeling.

Maybe it was the sun in his eyes, maybe it was the sweat dripping down his brow into his eyes, or maybe it was that his mind was so preoccupied with thoughts of Clemencia. Whatever the reason, Juan’s reputation for having eyes like an eagle failed him that morning. The fluorescent green snake slivering through the brush remained obscured from his sight until it moved to strike—and then it was too late.

The strike was fast, hard and accurate. The fangs sank into Juan’s forearm and the feeling of the venom entering his body made Juan go cold with the chill of death despite the heat of the day. He knew all too well what was to come next—and it wasn’t the culmination of his dreams.

“Snake! Snake!” he yelled out a warning to those around him as he fought to not show his pain.

An uncle standing close by slashed at the retreating snake, cutting off its head in one smooth stroke.

Juan gripped his arm, the shock of what had just transpired causing a deep-seated fear to enter his bones. The men gathered around studying the snake from a safe distance. All agreed it was one of the deadliest in the jungle.  All knew without stating it that young Juan was facing a death sentence.

The pain increased as they walked back toward the village. Juan was already spitting blood.

“Wait here,” he was ordered as they drew near the closest garden to the village.

Juan waited, knowing what was happening, hating it, but accepting it. They would go into the village, they would tell his mother what had happened, and they would bring him his hammock. He would not be allowed in the village because they knew he was going to die. If he were to die in the village that would necessitate a move of the entire village. Death could not take place within the village. That was the Ye’cuana way.

So he waited for their return. He waited for them to hang his hammock. He waited for death to come. He waited without hope.

 

©2010 Rosemary Cochran

The Toy Box

The twins weren't speaking yet. Gibberish would be the best way to describe the sounds that came out of their mouths---even if they were convinced they really were communicating! Usually that was not a problem...until this one day.

I was in the kitchen making dinner and had sent our toddler twins back to their bedroom to pick up their toys. They weren't gone long enough to have completed the job when they were back at my side gibbering away about something, a something of which I had no idea. All I knew was that they couldn't have finished picking up their toys that fast. Like a good and faithful mother, I sent them back to complete the job. They chattered away in their own little language at the idea, but complied, heading back to their bedroom.

It was only a few minutes before they were back again, this time the gibberish being even more animated. They were definitely intend on telling me something and not sure why I wasn't getting it! Realizing that nothing was probably going to get done until I checked this out, I followed them back to their bedroom where they excitedly pointed out to me that there was a snake in their toy box! I'm sure they were wondering why I hadn't understood them, why I couldn't have grasped the concept that they could NOT put away their toys!

I did what any good wife and mother does. I quickly took the twins from the room, away from the poisonous snake, as I simultaneously thanked God for His protection and called my husband to deal with the deadly intruder!

I'm sure the twins were disappointed when they realized that one snake in their toy box did not institute a life-time ban from picking up their toys!

Unwelcome Intruders

 

It was the voices suddenly lowered to a near whisper that caught my attention. In a house of rambunctious boys, whispers meant I needed to really pay attention.

Walking out of the office into the living room I was greeted by the sight portrayed in the picture above. The unwelcome visitor had found its way in through a screen torn the previous night by a cat refusing to stay outdoors.  Our eldest son stood poised, BB gun in hand, aiming at the unsuspecting intruder.

"Wouldn't it be wise to have a machete handy, just in case?" I asked as I scooped up our miniature doberman pincher in my arms, poised myself, but poised to make a mad dash for the bedroom if the snake moved from its perch.

They obliged my need for a back-up plan, but my fears were unwarranted. With machete at hand, Joe took the shot and the snake fell dead to the cement floor below. Another unwelcomed intruder disposed of.

The Contrast

Most days go about the same. Upon waking, I walk downstairs to find the automatic coffeemaker has brewed a fresh pot of coffee. After coffee and devotions, I turn on the flat panel TV and catch the morning news & weather before heading upstairs to get dressed for the day. Ready for the day, I double-check  that I have my laptop, cell phone, and yes, the keys to my Toyota Yaris---which I love and my  husband loves making fun of it!---before heading out the door for the office.

On some days as I'm walking out the door of my nice home that contains all the modern conveniences that we Americans take for granted ... on some days I feel a disconnect. The contrast between my current life and my former life is so great that the one at times seems to begin to fade away. And yet I do not want that part of my life to fade away. I want to remember. I want to continue to have my goals, my desires, and my mindset tempered by a life far different from the one I now lead.

I want to remember that I lived in a remote jungle village only accessible by river or plane. I want to remember that I lived in a primitive mud and pole hut with a palm roof---and that I shared it with creatures that  I often times wished God hadn't bothered to create! I'm sure snakes, spiders and scorpions had a better reputation before the fall of mankind!

I want to remember that one outhouse is enough for a crowd. Who would spend more than the absolute time necessary in a palm-walled hut shared with spiders? I want to remember that the closest thing to air-conditioning was a dip in the river. I want to remember how it felt to live without refrigeration, without microwaves, without a hair dryer, and without internet.

I want to remember that one can live without and still live a full and wonderful life, that all the trappings (as wonderful as they are!) of American society are not essential to our happiness. I want to remember that it's not about what we have, but about who we serve. It's not about what we've acquired in life, but about a relationship with the God of the Universe.

Our Responsibility Vs. God's Responsibility

Where He leads me, I will follow... .

These lyrics from a song express our hearts' desire to follow God wherever He leads us. And lead us He has. He led us to Venezuela, ultimately to serve for many years in a remote jungle village under primitive living conditions, reaching out to a branch of the Maquiritare tribal nation that stood strong against Christianity. The villagers were clear in stating, "We're glad you came. We'll accept all the benefits of having a missionary in our village, but when you're ready to preach we will not listen."

Daunting? Of course! Those aren't the words a missionary wants to hear soon after settling in. But it was okay. We were convinced that God had led us there. Our responsibility was to be faithful. The people's hearts were God's responsibility.

Ten years later God led us away from the jungle village of Parupa, leaving few believers, but many friends. Sadly, for the most part they remained true to their word, accepting all the benefits, but refusing to listen to God's Word. Though recognizing the advantages gained in culture and language by living in such a remote village steeped in the old, traditional ways; we can't say we comprehended why God would have us there and so few come to know Him. We only knew we'd been faithful to His leading.

His leading continued, taking us back to the heart of the Maquiritare nation where churches were in abundance but stagnant and crippled by unresolved sin. Dealing with sin and then aiding in the healing process took time. God gave us the time necessary to see the Maquiritare church heal and become spiritually mature before the doors to that region of Venezuela were closed. We needed each of those years for the healing to be complete and God provided those years by moving us out of Parupa. Still our hearts yearned for the still largely unsaved village of Parupa.

With the region soon to be closed, God led us back to the US. It was with mixed feelings that we boarded the jet heading stateside, away from a lifetime of ministry. There was joy at the thriving Maquiritare church as a whole, yet sadness and sorrow that many of our friends in Parupa still faced a Christ-less eternity. There was sadness in leaving a ministry we loved, yet a strange excitement and joy in knowing it was God, not us, moving us onward. There was uncertainty regarding our future mixed with the calm assurance that God knew where He was leading us. It was a time of conflicting emotions.

It would be several more years before we would learn of the Maquiritare believers reaching out to the largely unsaved village of Parupa. We had planted and watered the seed. Others received the increase. And we all rejoiced.

God leading us to leave NTM after twenty years of service took some getting used to. We moved to central New York to work with the migrant Hispanics in the area, a ministry my husband had begun during our times of leave from Venezuela, but that now he was able to expand upon. We bought a house in the area, we settled down, and we figured we'd be there forever.

Several years into the Hispanic ministry various circumstances made it apparent that the Lord was moving us on once again, asking us leave our home and take a pastorate. The church was small and struggling, but with a great desire to see growth and revival in their midst. The logistical nightmares to overcome to make the move a reality were great.

Daunting? Of course! It seemed an impossibility! But God.... God gave us the definite directive to move forward despite the obstacles, then He opened doors where doors shouldn't have been. God made it possible.

God has given us a love for these people, this church, and this community. We move forward anticipating what miracles God will perform in these people's lives, in this church, and in this community. Our responsibility is to be faithful; His is the increase. Is there not a theme here?

The Joys of Paperwork

      My Venezuelan identification, called a cedula had expired. Multiple trips to town to try to remedy the problem had been without positive results. The entire country had been without the ability to make the identification cards for longer than one could dream possible. But now, they were ready to make identification cards. Stations were set up throughout the city to process the masses --- and masses there were. Arriving at one such location, I prepared for a long wait in a long line. I was not disappointed.
      After hours under the hot tropical sun, I finally entered the building. I sat at the foldout table across from the woman filling out the forms, answering all the pertinent questions. Next was the wait in line to have my picture was taken, followed by another wait to have my fingerprints taken. The final step before printing the card was to verify the information. The end was in sight...or so I thought.
      As I read the information that was to go on the card, my heart sank. They had me down as an American that was born in Canada. I didn't want to deal with it, but I knew if they printed it as such it would come back to haunt me. I admitted the error in the paperwork and was sent back to the woman at the table, the one with all the forms. I could understand why the woman had become confused.
      "I was born in Wales, Great Britain --- not Canada," I explained to the woman.
      "But when you became a Resident of Venezuela you were a Canadian?"
      "Correct," I answered, pleased we were getting this sorted out.
      "But now you're an American as well?"
      "Yes, that's correct." Whew! This was going better than I'd expected.
      "But that can't be," she then insisted, dashing my hopes of a quick resolution.
      "But it is true," I patiently insisted.
      We went back and forth for a while, but she didn't get it --- and I couldn't get why she couldn't get it. She would agree with every statement --- then say it couldn't be.
      We gave up. She sent me several levels up the chain to the women in charge.
      "So let me see if I understand this correctly," she told me. "You were born in Great Britain but moved to Canada and became a Canadian. You then entered Venezuela as a Canadian, but now you're an American as well."
      "Yes." She'd got it!
      "That can't be," she said next, echoing the other woman's sentiments and blowing my bubble of hope. "You can't be a citizen of both countries."
      We went round and round going nowhere.
      God, I need a way to explain this that also allows her not to lose face, I prayed. God gave me the answer.
      "Let me explain it this way," I began. "My three youngest sons were born in Venezuela. Being that their father is an American, he had the right to petition for 'Birth Abroad' status for them, making them Americans through him. When we were at the American embassy doing that, the Venezuelan woman working there urged us to be sure to also get their Venezuelan paperwork in line also, getting their Venezuelan passports as well. We smiled and let her know we had already done that. See, Venezuela doesn't say you lose your Venezuelan citizenship just because you become a citizen of another country. Likewise, Great Britain and Canada do not say you lose your citizenship there just because you become a citizen of the United States. Therefore, I do have three citizenships."
      Before I explain what happened next, please understand that being a foreigner, and American at that, in a country that wasn't very friendly to Americans at the time, my general goal was to try to be as invisible as my glaring white skin would allow me to be. But invisibility was not an option... .
      The light went on. I could see it in her eyes. She got it and admitted it, not just to me, not just to the women across the room that had been working on my paperwork, but to all in-between.
      "She was born in Great Britain," she yelled across the room as all eyes turned on me.
      "She then moved to Canada and became a Canadian," she yelled in the same loud voice as more eyes turned to study the pale foreigner.
      "And then she married an American and became an American citizen," she concluded, saying what I had been saying for a long while now, but that suddenly made sense. And as long as it made sense to her, the other woman was willing to accept it.
      I felt anything but invisible at that moment as I walked back across the crowded room to finish up the paperwork. All eyes were on the strange foreigner who seemed to have the exceptionally strange hobby of collecting citizenships. But I didn't care. I was going to walk out of there with a valid identification card! Mission accomplished!

How Do You Eat an Ant?

There's not always a good escape route. I might have had one to avoid eating slimy worms, but on another occasion my plan was not quite so foolproof.

The conference was nearing an end. By being quite adept at finding the more "civilized" Maquiritares to sit with during meals, I had avoided all unsavory morsels. My escape routes had worked. Or so I thought....

On this day I was earlier to the dining hall than normal. I seated myself by a group of women (men and women ate separately). I was feeling quite pleased with myself. What I failed to consider was the fact that the seats to my left were empty. A group of very backwoodsy women arrived, chattering happily, so pleased to find the seats next to me vacant. Seating themselves, they began to offer me some of their delicacies. There was no escape. There was no where to run, no where to hide --- at least not without being offensive, and that, I did not want to be.

Large ants floated on the surface of the water in the plastic dish that was set before me. And then they weren't floating --- they were swimming! They were trying to escape! I was ready to help them, but restrained myself.

Upon my admission that I'd never ate ants before, they were eager to guide me in how to do so without getting my tongue bit in the process. It was getting more interesting by the minute!

You bite the head off first, killing the ant and preventing the possibility of being bit. Then you pop the remaining body of the ant in ... and down it goes!

Think cod liver oil capsule. That's about the right size. The juice oozing out of the body and down my throat definitely had an oily feel to it. Juice. I had to name it something besides "ant guts" to manage to let it glide down my throat without any embarrassing regurgitation!

I survived, the women were thrilled, and the realization came that it's not always best to have an escape route. Some things in life just have to be experienced.

The Best Laid Plans of Men and Mice...and Pregnant Women.

The night before should have forewarned me. Cars were scarce amongst us new missionaries there in Venezuela and an insistent offer came to drive to me the Bible study that evening. I'd been riding on the back of our motorbike since day one of the pregnancy. I had no problem climbing aboard again that evening. Yet appreciating their concern -- and with rainclouds looming on the horizon -- I obliged.

Labor began in the wee hours of the morning, light and inconsistent compared to the birth of our first son. When the doctor said he would meet us at the hospital at 7 a.m. it sounded like a reasonable plan -- that is until my water burst. The pain that followed was caused by a child suddenly plummeting down the birth canal. Matt walked in as I sat panting to keep from pushing.

"We're not going to make it to the hospital. The baby is coming," I told him between pants.

"Should I go get Cubie?" Matt asked, referring to our friend who was a nurse.

My mind said, "No! Why would I ever want you to leave me when I'm ready to deliver your child?" I think it was the image flashing through my mind of my husband passed out on the floor while attempting to assist that made very different words come out. "Yes, that would a good idea," I heard myself say.

Matt was out the door in record time. I could hear him one story below our window rattling at the lock on the cage where our motorbike was stored. The head was crowning. To tell or not to tell?

Part of me wanted to call out to Matt, telling him of the progress; the other part realized the indecision that would create. If complications arose we would need a nurse. It was best if he continued on for help. I could always pant. There was no 911 number to call.

I heard Matt revving up the motorbike, the sound of its engine disappearing in the distance. Childbirth continued. Our child was born without any complications, slipping into my waiting hands in a surprisingly natural and amazing moment.

Matt arrived less than ten minutes later with Cubie. If only I'd had a camera to capture the look on their faces when they entered the room. I don't know what they expected to find, but they definitely weren't expecting to find me with a baby in my arms.

"It's...it's...a baby!" The words came out in a stutter from a man who never stutters.

Cubie's shock was combined with sheer disappointment that she was too late to deliver the child herself. "I know you're in shock...," she began.

I could only smile back. "No, I'm not in shock. I think it's you two that are in shock right now!"

And no one disagreed.

Spider Stories

I can't say I have a phobia of spiders. I barely notice the ones Stateside. They are so little! Tarantulas on the other hand are not so tiny. In our early days in the village of Parupa we lived in a palm-roofed hut with dirt floors. Spiders running on the ceiling, the walls or floor was not an oddity. I remember lying in bed convincing myself that I was safe on the bed.

One night I looked up to see a large tarantula lowering itself from the ceiling towards me. See, they can get on the bed! my mind practically screamed at me.

I awoke with a start, only able to convince myself it had been a dream because of the logical fact that a moment before I could clearly see the spider ... but now I was staring into pitch blackness.

It had been a dream. There was no tarantula lowering itself to my face. But the truth of the matter stood firm. Spiders can lower themselves by spider webs. Spiders could get on my bed. My rational mind had to accept the fact---but how to deal with it?

I lay in bed staring into the pitch blackness knowing a spider could be there. God would protect me, I reassured myself. That sounded good. It sounded solid. It sounded spiritual. God wouldn't want me to be bit by a spider so He would prevent it.

Hmm... I was convinced He could prevent it. I was not so convinced there was any scriptural basis for God having to prevent it. God could also give me a million dollars, but that didn't mean He was going to.

What did ring true was the scriptural truth about fear---about fear not being of God. This wasn't really about whether or not a spider would get on my bed. It was about accepting God's will, not my will, for my life. If that meant I would fall asleep to be awakened by a tarantula reaching out to touch my face with its hairy legs, could I accept that? Could I accept whatever circumstances God was to allow in my life for whatever reason He permitted it?

I took a deep breath. I knew God loved me more than I could ever comprehend. I knew I could trust HIS best will for my life---even if that meant a possible tarantula in my bed. I closed my eyes and slept like a baby.

Jungle Walks

My co-worker and I used to take long walks along sometimes barely visible jungle trails, machetes in hand. I remember her asking about the various scurrying noises we heard along the way. The airstrip may have been a safer environment, but the jungle was definitely cooler. The jungle also had the mysterious element of "where would this trail lead us?"

One such day the trail we explored led to the river's edge. Looking down at the cool river water my co-worker asked, "Should we take a swim?" She wasn't ready for my negative response.

Laughing, I had to explain that the text I'd been transcribing for language study that week had been two true stories from the lives of the villagers. The first was about a mountain lion that had terrorized the village, keeping people locked behind the doors of their houses for safety. That having been a true story, I was impressed that I was out in the jungle that day at all.

But the second story, it was about an anaconda wrapping itself around one of the Maquiritare men. Being a strong man of sturdy build, he had managed to chop the anaconda with sufficient strength with his machete to deter the attack. I didn't figure I would have such luck. I lacked the sturdy build and the strength! I also had to admit that being squeezed to death and then swallowed by an anaconda hit near the top of my most non-desirable methods of dying!

We didn't swim that day, but we did continue our walk in the jungle.

Worms...

How you ever stepped outside of your comfort zone to be a friend? One day in the Maquiritare village of Parupa I did just that. The women of the village invited me to go "worm collecting." That doesn't sound too bad, right? With the mud squishing up between my toes and my fingers digging deep into the mud along the riverbank, I felt like a kid again. I had decided if I was going worm collecting then I would collect a lot of worms!

Hours later we were back in the dugout canoe slowly motoring back to the village. We had our worms, but the work wasn't over. The women were rinsing their buckets of worms over and over again. I set myself to the task, rinsing my worms over and over again.

You might be wondering why they would bother to rinse worms that were going to be used for bait. The truth of the matter was, these worms weren't intended for bait. Some would be boiled, while others would be slowly smoked into jerky. This was supper we'd gone digging for!

I had known the intent, though didn't bother dwelling on it. My stomach did much better without envisioning these slimy creatures getting stuck half way down my throat. Anyways, I had my escape route all planned. Each women would take her private stash of worms home at the end of the day. My goal was to not take my private stash home but to stop by the house of one of the little old gramma's in the village on my way home and bless her with a wonderful bucketful of worms! And this was one of those times my escape route actually worked!

Snakebite

She was reaching to harvest more of the yucca plant when the snake bit her on the hand, its venomous poison entering her bloodstream. She was a wife, a sister and a mother. Her children ranged in age from young to some already looking for husbands of their own. But right now she was just a woman in trouble.

Hurrying back to the village, she headed down to the river's edge to bathe. She took the time to dress herself in clean clothes before heading to the missionaries' house for help. She figured she'd probably be flown out to town for medical help and wanted to look her best. She didn't figure on the fact that all her activity was pumping the venomous poison throughout her body, closer and closer to her heart, closer and closer to death.

The missionaries did all they could, but the venom had already taken hold. Her time was too short. Town was too far away. She hadn't been preparing herself for a trip to town. She had been preparing herself for her death.

She hadn't awoken that morning expecting to face death, but death came nonetheless. A husband stood stoic but looking forlorn without his wife. A sister wailed the death of her best friend. Children mourned the loss of their mother.

We don't awaken each morning expecting to face death, but one day, maybe when least expected, we will face death. How are we preparing ourselves?

Back to Sourpuss Carlos

Remember the post on the salvation of Sourpuss Carlos? The story didn't end there. Carlos became a regular at our house. He became my husband's translator checker for the chronological Bible lessons Matt was writing in the Maquiritare tribal language, and as such, Carlos received his own personal discipleship class from the Word of God.

The Bible speaks of those who read God's Word but go away unchanged. That was not the case in the life of Carlos. He was a dry sponge soaking up the truths from God's Word. He was a dry sponge turned sopping wet to overflowing with the truths of God's Word.

Carlos did not pick and choose from the many truths. He didn't say, "Well, I don't like what that truth would mean in my life so I'll ignore it." No, he took each truth, he applied each truth, and we had the privilege of watching our strangely odd looking SourPuss Carlos turn into a joyful caring man of God whose testimony shone as a bright beacon to the unsaved in the village.

His life should be a testimony to us all. We have so much truth before us. Are we picking and choosing which truths to obey or are we applying each truth as it is revealed to us and allowing it to change us from the inward out?

Doesn't Everyone Speak Spanish?

On my husband's recent trip to Guatemala he was welcomed with open arms into the homes of men he knew. There were humorous moments as well. The partner and manager of the farm closest to where we live had traveled down with Matt.

Doug was dependent on Matt since he does not speak Spanish. One of the young girls found this non-Spanish speaking white man to be quite fascinating.

She just had to ask my husband, “He really doesn’t speak any Spanish?”

"No, he doesn’t,” Matt responded.

“And he doesn’t understand it at all? Like, if I talk to him he really doesn’t know what I’m saying?” She just had to confirm that this could really be true.

“That’s right,” Matt told the girl.

She thought it was unbelievable. It didn't fit any norm in her young mind. Everyone understands Spanish. Everyone speaks Spanish---at least in her world view!

She wasn't the only one in awe of these foreign visitors. All the children were pleased to have such strangely different white men in their homes. They were quite disappointed when they found out Matt and Doug were leaving Monday morning. They had been hoping to take them to school for “show and tell”! These white men were quite the novelty!

Did We Choose Our Place of Birth?

Did we choose our place of birth? What would our lives be like if we'd been born to different parents in a different culture in a different country?

We could have just as easily been born into a poor Maquiritare tribal family as we could have been born into a comfortable American family.

We could be eking out of living in the jungle. We could be walking ten minutes to the river to scrub our clothes on a rock at the river’s edge. We could be carrying all our water in a bucket on our head from the river to our palm roofed hut and sweeping our dusty dirt floors.

We could be working long hours in the hot sun to grow all our food. We could be dependent on whether our husband is a good hunter or not for meat.

We could be living in fear that our child will die from malaria or hepatitis or a simple cut that became infected just because medicine is unavailable.

We could be consumed with simply living our lives to exist. with none of the conveniences we take for granted. No ice for our soda. No refrigeration at all. No telephones, no internet, no blogging, no facebook.

We did not choose our place of birth and yet we so often take our relative luxurious life for granted. Sometimes we’re even downright ungrateful and discontented.

If we could have chosen where we were to be born, would we have chosen to be born into poverty? Probably not.

What if we knew that by living an impoverished life we could impact others lives? Would we have chosen to have been born to live an impoverished life? Probably not.

Yet that is exactly what Jesus did. Jesus could have stayed in heaven and lived in heavenly glory. Instead He chose to leave heaven.

He chose to come even though he knew that after spending three years teaching His disciples and others, that in the end one of His disciples would sell Him out—and the world at large would reject Him.

He chose to live this life even knowing they would mock Him, beat Him and ultimately hang Him on a cross to suffer an unimaginably painful death.

He chose to be born into this impoverished life in order that He might give up HIS life to make a way possible for us to be reconciled with His Heavenly Father, to make His Heavenly Father our Heavenly Father.

Jesus was man, but He was God. As God He was omniscient. He knew all this was going to happen. He knew, but He still came.

He knew, but He still submitted to the will of His Heavenly Father.

Jesus was God, but He was man. He agonized in prayer in the Garden of Gethsemane before being arrested, praying that "if it be possible, let this cup pass from Me; nevertheless, not My will but Thine be done!"

"If it be possible, please don't make me suffer this way! If it be possible, please don't make me have to be rejected and crucified! If it is possible... ."

"Nevertheless, not MY WILL but THINE be done!"

Total acceptance and total submission to the will of His Father even knowing what it would cost Him.

As we’ve just celebrated Easter and have been dwelling on all Christ did for us, are we ready to say as Jesus said, “Not my will, but Thine be done!”

Are we ready to submit OUR will to GOD’S will? Are we ready to die to self that Christ may live in and through us? Are we ready for total acceptance of whatever God's will for our lives is? Are we ready for total acceptance and total submission?

We may not have been able to choose where we are born, but we can choose whom we will serve.

Sourpuss Carlos

Carlos was a strangely odd looking man with a sour disposition and a frown on his face. He wasn't high on the list of prospective believers-to-be. Not that we did not wish to see him saved. It just didn't look very hopeful. He didn't like us. He didn't want to listen.

I remember the day his wife left him for a younger, better looking man with all the flash. Having only seen the sour disposition side of Carlos, I found it interesting to listen to the men in our visiting room discussing what a fool his wife was for leaving him. In their minds, she was leaving a good provider, a great hunter and woodsman...for some flash. It made me sit up and reconsider who this Carlos was.

The upside to the problems in Carlos' life was that, without a family, he began to spend more time with my father-in-law learning to read. Of course, Dad used the Bible to teach him. Admittedly, for the most part, he still maintained his sour disposition.

Months passed. The language barrier was definitely a big issue---but God is bigger than all things. Through Dad's lifestyle testimony and the truths Carlos could not ignore through the reading of the Bible, Carlos leaped from the list of "not hopeful prospective believers-to-be" to having his name written in the Lamb's Book of Life!

The Wise Man Built His House Upon the Rock

I've always loved this picture. I can't look at it without thinking of the song, "The wise man built his house upon the rock...."

This was an actual house built upon a rock in the frontier town of Puerto Ayacucho, Venezuela. The rock was definitely a norm for the area, but the only one with a house balanced at the top! I'd never seen anything like it before--and I've definitely not seen anything like it since!

Anybody got any unique house shots to share with me?

Three Men & Three Wild Cats

There were three wild cats taking out the chicken population by night. Losing their fear they became emboldened and started to raid the chickens by day. During this time I found myself having coffee with my husband, our co-workers and our visiting Pastor and his wife when a tribal man came hurrying into the house to let us know the wild cats were back.

It was at this point that I had to shake my head as three men ran out of the house after three wild cats with one shotgun---and one shell. Turning to Elaine, our Pastor's wife, I had to ask if this made any sense.

Several minutes later Pastor Ron arrived back at the house. His bad knee had slowed him down. Finding himself alone in the jungle with no gun he also came to the conclusion that three men chasing three wild cats with one shotgun and one shell didn't quite add up---especially when you're nowhere near the one man with the one shotgun and one shell!

I was thankful to later find out the wild cats were of the smaller version, still vicious and capable of inflicting harm, but not like having jaguars or cougars roaming the village! Oh, and yes, the other two men came home safely as well.

Safely Home From Guatemala!

More stories will follow I'm sure, but suffice to say for now that Matt arrived home safely from Guatemala!

After picking him up at the airport in Rochester, I listened to story after story on the ride home. Stories about the guys getting lost and being an hour and a half late to pick Matt & Doug up at the airport. Stories about all the volcanoes they saw, the drop off winding mountain roads, the warm days but cool evenings. Stories about the people and the opportunities to have input into their lives. I listened---and tried to stay awake!

We pulled into our driveway sometime after 2 a.m. this morning. The alarm this morning was not a welcomed sound!

Safe Arrival in Guatemala!

Yesterday I wrote that Matt was on his way to Guatemala. This morning I was semi-bemoaning the fact that I didn't have any contact with him. No phone calls. No e-mail. No texts. Nothing.

And then my phone rang.

"Unavailable" flashed across the digital readout. To answer or not to answer? I decided to answer and was so glad I did! It was great to hear my husband's voice. Admittedly, there was an extravagant amount of background noise, but it was definitely him. He'd arrived safely, had spent the night in the capital city, and was heading to his friend's house as we spoke.

Matt will be in Guatemala until Tuesday. He has been given the opportunity to meet with a group of pastors down there, to speak at a combined service of two of the local churches, plus one other speaking engagement. Please be in prayer for Matt, for safety in all his travels, and for clarity and relevance in what he shares with these Guatemalan believers.