Panama: What to Think When the Lame Walk

This is probably my craziest story yet.  I’ve seen some undeniable miracles, but never anything to this degree.  I will never forget Panama, because this is the country where I first saw the lame walk.

With the guidance of a YWAM leader, our team travelled to one of the ghettos within Panama City to meet with some people from the local community.  We were warned that if we brought anything of value along, it would be quickly swiped from us.  After my experience in Costa Rica, I felt a bit uneasy but knew I needed to go.  As we drove into that neighborhood, the graffiti on the streets said it all.  There were murals that read, “No more war.  Change your neighborhood.”  It was clear that such taggings were put there for a reason.  We parked our car along a little alley, walked into a dilapidated apartment building, wound up a dark dingy staircase and entered an open area in the middle of an apartment complex.  There was a local pastor preaching, but it was hard to hear a word he said over the chaos.  Children were playing loudly, talking over the pastor, and bouncing from seat to seat.

We were told to begin talking to people and offer to pray for them.  I wasn’t quite sure where to start.  I noticed a small woman in a wheelchair and approached her with a couple other girls from my team.  We asked if we could pray, and with no show of emotion, she gave a subtle nod. We asked her a few questions and tried to converse amidst the noise.  It was almost impossible to hear her, and trying to understand Spanish in such a loud environment made the challenge even more difficult.  Regardless, we figured God understood what was going on and decided to pray to Him for miraculous healing in her legs.   We prayed for a few moments, but nothing seemed to happen.  A woman from the local community grabbed us away after a bit and asked us to pray for some others.

Afterwards, Natalie felt we should return to the woman in the wheelchair.  She looked so incredibly sad and discouraged, and we wanted to at least talk to her more.  Healing or no healing, we figured we could at least show her some love.  We went back to her wheelchair and knelt down to speak to her.  We found out that she’d contracted tuberculosis a while back, and the disease had gone to her spine.  It had affected her walking ability, and she’d been unable to walk without assistance for the past year.  As we talked to her, children crawled in and out of her lap, then ran off to play.  She explained that she had two children, but she was raising them single as her husband had died nine months ago.  This poor woman was only twenty-seven years old.  We are the same age, but our stories are so very different.  I can’t imagine being a widow at my age, alone raising two children already.  My heart broke for this woman as she shared her sad story. 

I used my best broken Spanish to tell the woman how her Heavenly Father loves her dearly, that He is close to the broken-hearted and how He longs to heal her.  The woman said she had once followed Christ, but turned from her faith after she was married.  After we conversed for a while, she decided to turn back to God for hope.  She bowed her head in prayer and accepted Jesus Christ as her Savior.  After she made this declaration of faith, Natalie and I decided to pray for healing in her legs again.  She’d just received healing in her heart (the most important healing), but now it was time for healing in her body.  As we prayed, Natalie sensed that something had happened.  I wasn’t sure.  Natalie asked the woman to get out of her wheelchair and try to walk.  The woman said she was scared.  I was scared too.  I honestly was afraid to push her, but Natalie insisted.  She knew in her heart that the woman had been healed, and told her she needed to claim that healing and begin to walk.  After a few moments of the woman staring at us in fear, she took the boldest step I’ve ever seen.  She let Natalie and I help her out of her wheelchair and she began to move her legs.  Slowly, slowly, slowly she began to walk with our help.  She looked like she was in pain.  I wasn’t so sure we should keep doing this.  But as the woman took baby step after baby step, she eventually let go of our arms.  And she continued to walk—alone.  Completely unassisted, the crippled woman was seriously walking—WALKING!  Amazed and overwhelmed, I followed behind her.  She made a circle around the apartment complex, and as we headed back towards her wheelchair, I foolishly assumed she would be tired and would want to rest.  But the moment we reached her wheelchair, she walked right past it and kept going! Ha!  I’ve never seen anything like it.  Moments before, this woman had been sitting in a wheelchair; this was crazy!  She finally paused for a moment, and her eyes welled up with tears.  Her once stone-cold face cracked with emotion, and she cried tears of joy for her healing.  I began to cry as well, so overwhelmed by the miracle I’d just been a part of.  The Bible says Jesus can make the lame walk, but this was the first time I saw it with my very own eyes!

Days later, our team heard a report from one of the community leaders in the apartment complex.  Apparently, someone had claimed that this miraculous healing couldn’t be real.  At first, she didn’t believe that the woman in the wheelchair had actually been healed.  But days later, the woman was still walking on her own.  The doubter was blown away, dazed and confused as to how this could be possible.  The healing was the talk of the apartment.  All I know is that when we prayed for healing in Jesus’ name, that crippled woman got out of her wheelchair and started walking.  And the tears in her eyes told me how very real her healing was.  I praise God for what He did in this woman’s life and know more than ever than we can’t put a limit on what God can do.    

Costa Rica, Craziness, and Redemption

Border crossing day is generally disgusting, noisy, dusty, and long.  I expected nothing less from the Costa Rican border and was pleasantly surprised to find the complete opposite of what I’d imagined.  As I left Nicaragua behind, I gladly embraced the luxury of a border station equipped with a coffee shop, flushing toilets, and tiendas that sell real chocolate.  Pure bliss.  I noticed busloads of tourists passing through, and as I caught a glimpse of a white boy carrying a shortboard, I realized I had just reached Latin America’s surfing paradise. My team excitedly drove to a quiet fishing village called Playa de Coco and decided to camp out on the beach for the next few nights.  After a long day of travel and border paperwork, I fell asleep to the sound of the waves, thankful for this taste of heaven. 

The following day, a group of us went to grab some food at a local restaurant before heading out to do ministry for the afternoon.  The restaurant where we ended up was started by two drunk guys who visited Costa Rica and never left, and you could sense that their moral compass wasn’t exactly pointing north.  It was clear that the owner had way more respect for a bottle of liquor than for any of the women working at his restaurant.  The waitress who helped my friends and I was in a terrible mood and was very short with us while taking our order.  I was tempted to boycott this restaurant and leave a bad tip to show her how I felt about her attitude.  Yet, my kind-hearted teammates (who never cease to amaze me) approached the situation with the opposite spirit and said we needed to minister to this woman.  Ministry isn’t a special time set aside to show people we love them; it’s just living normal life intentionally.  The men on my team sensed the disrespect of women in the restaurant and felt we needed to show our waitress that she was valued.  Sweet Liz prayed about what to do and said God told her to give the waitress a bar of chocolate.  Seriously?  I thought.  Not only is that culturally bizarre, that woman has been rude to us for the past hour.  But Liz stuck to her conviction and boldly ran down the street to a local supermarket and purchased a bar of chocolate.  When she returned to the restaurant she approached our waitress and said, “My friends and I thought you looked a bit down, and we just wanted you to know that God loves you so much.”  She handed the woman the chocolate along with a note that said, “Dios te ama” (God loves you). The waitress’s face completely lit up, and she looked like a different woman for the rest of our time in the restaurant.  In that moment, I remembered that often the people who seem like they deserve our love the least are those who actually need it most.  And opportunities to show that kind of love don’t require big mission trips or elaborate plans.  It can be as simple as eating lunch in a random restaurant with a cranky waitress who looks like she might need a little affirmation.

Later that day, a group of us decided to travel to a nearby beach village to do a ministry called “treasure hunting.”  I had never done this before, but was willing to try. The idea is basically to search for the Lord’s “treasure”, which are simply His precious people.  You choose a location and ask God for clues to bring you to the people He wants you to bless.  As you pray, if God lays anything on your heart, you have to step out and take the risk of following what you’ve received. As we drove to the beach village, the five of us in my car asked the Lord to show us visions and images in our minds of those we would soon encounter.  Some of the pictures seemed really random, but God was faithful and did weave them together.

We visited two different beach villages, and I’ll never forget the second.  This particular beach looked pretty barren, but a girl named Natalie and I decided to walk along the water and see who we could find.  We walked for quite a while, and no one stood out to me.  We passed by one man who was just standing alone looking at the water.  He said hello, but we kept walking.  I wondered if we should speak to him, but it felt awkward and forced.  We continued on a bit more and saw no one, so we decided to turn back.

“There’s no one around, but I guess we could go pray for that one guy,” I said to Natalie.  To be totally honest, I didn’t really want to but figured it couldn’t hurt.

As we walked back towards him, our teammate Astrid approached us.  Earlier, she’d said God had shown her a picture of a pineapple.  When we reached Astrid, she explained that as she had been walking along the beach, she saw a top of a pineapple floating in the water, directly in front of the man that Natalie and I were headed towards.  I had kind of chosen him by default, but Astrid recognized the pineapple from her vision and felt we needed to approach that man.  I still felt pretty hesitant, but Natalie insisted that we go.

“Wait,” I pleaded.  “We need to think of a question or something so this is not totally awkward.”

The girls laughed but agreed that that was a good plan.

I swallowed my pride, approached the man, and asked him if he spoke English. 

“A little bit,” he responded in a thick accent.

“Um, well we were wondering where a good place to surf is,” I asked, trying not to look or sound like a total creep.  “The waves here seem pretty small; do you know of a better spot?”

The man didn’t know of a good surf spot but began to engage in small talk nonetheless.  We found out his name was Aynid, and he lived in the area. Natalie noticed the cross necklace he was wearing and asked Aynid why he’d chosen the cross symbol.  He said he wasn’t a Christian but that he liked crosses. That seemed kind of weird, so we asked him why.  He told us that was a good question; he wasn’t really sure himself.  As we continued talking, Aynid revealed that his family had separated when he was young.  It had really affected and hurt him.  I could see the pain in his eyes as he opened up his heart to us.  We asked him about the tattoos covering his body—gruesome skulls and other angry symbols.  He explained that he had been very angry when he got them but didn’t feel the tattoos had significance in his life any longer.  Aynid declared that he was currently at a point in his life where he needed to make a big decision.  He wasn’t exactly sure what the decision was, but he knew he was facing a turning point.  He went on to explain that he knew that when we walked by something special was about to happen.  He said that he could just sense that this moment was going to be a significant one but he didn’t know what to do, so he merely said hello.  We told him we also believed this was a divine appointment, that we’d prayed for people to connect with, and God had led us to him.  We spoke about our faith and let him know that we believed God could set him free from the anger and hurt he’d experienced in his past.  He agreed to let us pray for him, breaking off chains from his past and praying truth and love over him.  We explained that God’s love is so lavish that he would send three girls from Germany, Russia, and the U.S. just to let him know how loved he is.  I could see the wheels turning in his head as he asked himself, Is this really true?  Is there really a God who loves me this much?

 Aynid asked us our names, and when I said “Caitlin” he looked confused; so I reintroduced myself as Catalina, the Hispanic version of my name.  He smiled and told me I had a beautiful name.  Aynid then explained that his ex-girlfriend was also named Catalina.  He told us that Catalina had been a really significant person in his life, and he said that he now counted us three as special people in his life.  He promised that he would never forget one of our faces.  He believed this had been a divine appointment, and we were part of the turning point in his life.  Natalie asked him if he would like to make the decision to accept Jesus.  Aynid looked a little hesitant, so I explained that he was under no pressure and suggested he spend some time doing some soul searching on his own.  He agreed that he needed some time alone, just him and God, to reflect and pray.  He knew he was on the brink of big decision and realized the weight of making a decision to follow Christ.  Though I will probably never see Aynid again, I am confident that something changed inside of him.  I could see it.  God was undoubtedly doing something in his heart, and I know that he will find the truth he’s been searching for.

It seemed crazy that God had used a vision of a pineapple to bring us to Aynid.  God is weird like that sometimes.  I also felt honored that God had used my name as a part of this crazy encounter.  I suppose part of Aynid’s hurt had stemmed from breaking up with Catalina, and I knew it was no coincidence that God had sent Aynid a new Catalina to tell him about God’s love.   Inspired by God’s bizarre and beautiful redemption, I went back to our little beach camp feeling encouraged and full of faith.  However, my joy was quickly dashed when I found out that Rose, one of my closest friends on the team, had been robbed while I was gone.  Thieves had broken into our camp and stolen her phone, iPod, wallet, and bag of valuables.  Over one thousand dollars worth of cash and goods had been taken.  I was told to check where I’d been sleeping to see if any of my stuff had been stolen, and immediately my heart sunk.  I’d carried my wallet with me to the beach village, but I’d left my laptop back at the camp.  I slept next to Rose and knew that if her things had been stolen, there was no way my laptop was still there.  Sure enough, I went to check and confirmed that my computer, the only thing of real value that I own, had been robbed.  Natalie checked her things and found out that her valuables had also been stolen.  I felt like the wind had just been knocked out of me.  The reason why losing my laptop was particularly upsetting is because I am in the middle of writing a novel.  I’ve been documenting our journey on my laptop since September, and my dream is to publish the novel when the year is over.  I’d written a lot so far and couldn’t remember the last time I’d backed the document up.  My first reaction to being robbed was panic that I’d lost my writing.  “My novel!  My novel!” I cried, not even thinking about the monetary value of the laptop, all my music, pictures, and other documents I’d lost.  Before leaving for Latin America, I’d known being robbed on this trip was a distinct possibility, and I was scared that I would lose my laptop since it’s the most valuable thing I own.  I couldn’t believe my worst fear had just been realized.  My teammates comforted me as I cried, mourning the loss of my hours upon hours of hard work.

 After I calmed down a bit, Liz told me I needed to go to the police station and file a report of the robbery.  The police officer who wrote the report used old-fashioned pen and paper and took hours to record a few simple things. As she documented the robbery at snail’s pace, other officers came in and out of the office.  When they heard what was stolen, they all replied, “Oh yeah, that’s a bad neighborhood.  You shouldn’t leave your stuff there.”  Annoyed I was receiving that advice now, I simply glared at the officers and said nothing.  I impatiently watched the woman continue to attempt to file the report, writing as if she had learned to use a pen the day before. Everything in me wanted to grab her pen, write the report for her, and run somewhere--anywhere.  But instead, I stood there waiting, watching the officers chat amongst themselves, knowing they didn’t give a rip about what had just happened to me.  To them this was just a missing laptop; to me this was a huge roadblock for my dream.

After I got back to our camp, I tried to go to sleep but couldn’t.  My head was spinning.  I finally caught a couple hours of sleep but soon woke up to the morning heat, feeling groggy and sad.  A group of people from my team reminded me that we were heading out to a beach called Playa Avenilla and asked if I were still coming.  I decided to put my thoughts of being robbed on hold and go with the team, because this was important.  In order to understand the significance of our visit, you need a little bit of background.  Let me back up for a second:

While our team was in Guatemala, Dianne, one of the women on my team, received tragic news from her son.  His wife, Riahnnon (Dianne’s daughter-in-law), had been in Costa Rica with her youngest son, Julian (Dianne’s grandson), and went swimming with him at a beach where there are pretty bad rip currents.  Riahnnon and Julian began to struggle in the water, but there were no lifeguards in the area.  A group of local teens saw them struggling, and a kid named Johan grabbed his surfboard and paddled out to make a rescue.  Riahnnon and Julian got separated, and Johan was able to save Julian, but could no longer see Riahnnon.  When news reached Dianne in Guatemala, Riahnnon’s body still hadn’t been found.   Dianne flew to Costa Rica immediately to be with her son and grandson.  Liz, one of our other team members, accompanied Dianne to Costa Rica to be a support to her.  By the time they got to Costa Rica, Riahnnon’s body had been found and, sadly, it was confirmed that she’d drowned.  Dianne was obviously devastated by her tragic loss.  Liz did her best to serve as a comfort to Dianne and the family, and she tried to remain strong while the family grieved.   After the memorial service, Dianne flew back to the states to be with her family for a while.  Liz flew back to Guatemala and met back up with team.  She shared with us about the events she’d witnessed in Costa Rica and the trauma she’d seen among Dianne’s son, grandson, and the teen surfer who carried the guilt of not being able to save Riahnnon.  As she debriefed, Liz realized how much the tragedy had affected her personally.  She felt little sense of closure from her time in Costa Rica but pushed the feelings down as we travelled through Guatemala, El Salvador, Honduras, and Nicaragua.  Yet, the moment we hit Costa Rica, old feelings came rushing back.  When Liz found out that the beach of Riahnnon’s death was just two hours from where we were camping, she asked if some people from the team were willing to return to the beach with her.  She wanted to pray for Dianne’s family, seek some closure, and possibly find Johan, the teen surfer who had rescued Julian.

Liz has been an amazing friend to me, so despite my own frustrations, I knew I needed to go support her and visit Playa Avenilla.  About ten people total made the trip.  When we reached the beach, everyone took some time to walk along the sand alone and pray for Dianne and her family.  We re-congregated a while later and did a footwashing ceremony for Liz in the ocean, a symbol of service and cleansing.  We prayed for closure and healing for her.  Liz felt strongly that she needed to find Johan and see if he was okay.  While she prayed about finding Johan, she felt God saying that He would bring Johan to her.  Sure enough, after asking just a couple locals if they knew Johan, he appeared on the beach.  Ah, the beauty of a small surfer town and “coconut wireless.”  Liz greeted Johan with a big hug and asked me to translate between him and the team.  I explained that we were friends of Dianne and wanted to thank him for what he’d done.  I told him he was a hero, and our team is so proud of him.  I also asked him to share the details of his heroic rescue, and he explained how he was able to save Julian but unable to find Riahnnon in the water.  Johan let us know that he wasn’t able to sleep for weeks after the incident and took sleeping pills for a while.   I asked him how he is doing now, and he assured us that he is good.  We asked if we could pray for him, and he agreed.  We prayed for blessing and healing over him, as well as release from all guilt.  We assured him that both we and God are so incredibly proud of him and so very thankful for what he did for Dianne.  After praying, Liz treated him to a cool drink at the restaurant by the beach.  We asked him a bit about his family, and he informed us that his mother had died when he was seven years old.  Interestingly, Dianne’s grandson was around the same age.  I found it remarkable that God had chosen Johan to be the one to save Dianne’s grandson, someone who understood exactly what it felt like to lose your mom as a little boy.  God redeems things in such unexpected ways.

After praying with Liz and seeing her reunited with Johan, I could see a burden lifted off of both of them.  The reunion was such a beautiful time of redemption.  And as I walked along the ocean, reflecting on what Dianne had lost, suddenly losing my laptop didn’t seem so bad.  Dianne had lost someone precious to her, someone she can never replace.  And all I lost was a computer.  That certainly put things in perspective.  The most important thing in my life is God, and I am so thankful that no matter what, I cannot lose Him.

The next day, we made our way towards the Panama border and stopped in a town overnight to cut the journey in half.  Before our second long day of driving, our team leader agreed to leave a little later than normal so that a few of us could go surfing.  One of my selfish dreams for this trip was to surf in Costa Rica, but I didn’t think we would find the time to do it.  After feeling like my dreams of writing had been put on hold, it was amazing to have a totally different dream come to pass.  As I paddled through gorgeous waves, a familiar peace rushed over me.  I felt safe and at home.  And although I’m not a very experienced surfer, that day I miraculously caught wave after wave after wave, riding long perfect sets to shore, watching my board rip through the current.  It was like God’s gift to me.  That morning was the redemptive refreshment I needed.  That perfect surf is my last memory of Costa Rica and is what I will carry with me rather than bitterness about being robbed. 

Costa Rica was a crazy experience, but I’m thankful for it all—the good and the bad.  I saw God’s power to restore what had been lost in Aynid, Liz and Johan, and myself.  Our stories are very different, but they all sing of redemption.  Though it’s always sad to lose, I am grateful to have experienced the restoration that follows loss firsthand.  I am more determined than ever to push forward, run this race well, chase after my dreams, and watch God continue to give back what has been lost.

Nicaragua

My team crossed into Nicaragua after a delayed departure from Honduras, due to vehicle problems once again.  As we approached the border, each vehicle was stopped and the driver in my car, Brent, was asked for his license.  He gave the border “official” a fake copy of his license as instructed by our team leaders.  We had been warned that corrupt government officials often take foreigners’ licenses and refuse to return them.  Sure enough, the official told Brent that he would not return his license unless Brent paid a ticket for failing to wear a seatbelt.  Brent had been wearing a seatbelt our entire drive and refused to fall into the trap.  He denied the false accusation and drove on, leaving the copy of his license behind, thankful for the warning we had received.  We continued on to the Nicaraguan side of the border and got everyone’s documents sorted in just three hours—record time for our team.  Feeling hopeful that the license snafu would be our only setback of the day, we drove on towards Jinotepe, our destination city.

The drive to Jinotepe went surprisingly smoothly for the first several hours.  After so many popped tires, blown transmissions, broken axles, etc., I was shocked at how well we were doing.  Unfortunately, I got excited a little too soon.  When we were about twenty miles from Jinotepe, one of the RVs started smoking and suddenly died.  There was a problem with the transmission, and we were forced to tow the vehicle the rest of the way. Squished into the remaining four vehicles, we carried on and arrived in Jinotepe around six p.m. We were greeted by Glenn and Lynn, a missionary couple who run Mateo 5:16, the ministry we would work with for the next few days.  Glenn explained that since it was already Friday evening, a mechanic would probably not be able to look at the RV until Monday morning.  This would probably push us back a couple days--not an atypical experience for our team.

The next morning, we met with Glenn and Lynn to hear more about Mateo 5:16.  Their main mission base is called Nueva Vida and is comprised of a large kitchen, a small sewing room for the local women, a little church building, and a few large dormitories (where our team stayed).  Glenn and Lynn explained that they also run a hotel in downtown Jinotepe, oversee an orphanage, and partner with several churches.  They invited us to join them at any of the Mateo 5:16 church services and help out at the orphanage during our time in Nicaragua.

I gladly agreed to get involved with the orphanage ministry.  Two new girls had flown into Nicaragua weeks prior to meet up with our team and had been living at the orphanage while they waited for our arrival.  Susy and Rachael had quickly become accustomed to life at the orphanage and volunteered to show us the ropes.  They taught us how to use public transportation to get from the mission base to the orphanage so that we would have the freedom to come and go as we pleased.  During our first visit, we were greeted by several friendly faces, a handful of dogs, and a sheep named Princessa.  I found that only nine children lived within the small orphanage, all taken care of by a single mama named Juanita.  This woman is amazingly gracious, kind, and loves each of the children as her own.  Susy explained that many of the children had been abused by their families, passed around as sexual objects from person to person.  This orphanage had become a safe haven for each of them, and Juanita had become a nurturing mother.  When I interacted with these sweet and gentle children, it was hard to believe everything they’d gone through. 

During our second full day in Jinotepe, my teammate, Melissa, and I ventured to the orphanage on our own and joined up with other team members later.  Walking around Jinotepe to find our bus inspired an unexpected feeling of nostalgia.  The city reminded me a lot of where I used to live in Uganda—streets filled with bustling markets, friendly faces, local shops, and dusty dirt villages outside of the city.  Melissa and I enjoyed the adventure of exploring the city and finding the correct mini-bus downtown, then walking down the dirt road to the orphanage—a muddy mess impassable for vehicles.  Upon our arrival at the orphanage, Susy explained that if volunteers don’t take initiative to organize activities for the children, they often waste many hours sitting around and watching television.  She suggested we create an active game for them with whatever resources we could get our hands on.  We decided to design an obstacle course throughout the compound, creatively using the limited resources we had.  We began the course by instructing the children to run through a dirt path lined with random chickens and roosters.  Next, we had them weave their bodies between the swings on their rickety-old playground.  We then drew a hopscotch course in the dirt that led to the next obstacle.  After the last jump, we placed an old table on the ground and told the children to crawl underneath it.  Next, we fashioned a soccer goal by balancing a large stick on two chairs.  We put a deflated soccer ball a few feet in front of the goal and instructed the children to kick the ball over the stick before advancing to the next part of the course.  Susy gathered some pinecones and found an old bucket that she positioned a few feet in front of a pile of pinecones.  The last challenge was throwing at least one pinecone into the bucket, then running to a specific tree stump and tagging it.  The children eagerly agreed to run the course, and we timed each one.  After they took their turns, they insisted that I try the obstacle course as well.  I did my best, but the little girls completely kicked my butt.  Turns out, tossing a pinecone into a bucket is harder than I thought.

We returned to the orphanage a third day and went into the surrounding villages with some of the older girls from the orphanage.  Three of them led groups of us into the village where we visited peoples’ homes and prayed for them.  I was blown away by the faith and confidence that these young women carried.  We had the opportunity to pray for the sick as well as invite people from the community to one of Mateo 5:16’s churches.  The next day, several people came to the church for the first time.

Meanwhile, back at the mission base, the RV was still not fixed.  As we had suspected, the needed repairs would push us behind schedule by a couple days.  We were already three weeks behind our original itinerary, and I began to wonder if this delayed pace would continue.  Things within our team were changing left and right.  We’d just added six new people to the team and lost six original team members.  Dynamics were changing quickly.  In addition, Glenn and Lynn started putting demands on our team that we couldn’t meet.  I was doing the best I could to serve and didn’t know what else to do.  I started to get overwhelmed by all of this, and questions bombarded my mind: Will this trip take months longer than expected?  How much will I miss while I’m away?  Will people be disappointed in me for missing crucial events in their lives while I am here?  How long will my life simply be a revolving door of people?  Suddenly, I hit the point where I realized that I have ZERO control over what is happening.  I don’t know when I will be in any given country or how long this crazy journey will take.  I don’t know who will end this journey with me.  At this point, I honestly have very little answers for the questions I’ve been asked about the future.  And to be completely honest, it scares me sometimes.

Though I am on this trip to serve and minister to others, I realized that I needed someone to take care of me for a moment.  It is a humbling thing to have to admit that you need help when you are the one who is supposed to be offering it.  To be honest, I hesitated to swallow my pride and even let people read this.  But I value being honest and real more than I value looking like I know what I’m doing; and the truth is that sometimes having no control over what’s happening in my own life scares me.  But what a beautiful thing it is to be around people who love you even in weakness.  And better yet, how beautiful it is to serve a God who uses the weak things of the world to shame the wise. 

Most of my team didn’t know how I was feeling, but God did.  During the night that I was struggling, he brought me to a group of my teammates who were sharing their hearts with one another.   After we talked for quite a while, one of the guys said he felt we should pray together for just a minute.  And as we began to pray, a minute of prayer somehow turned into two and a half hours.  As a group, we cried out to God in pure desperation, losing all track of time.  Without me saying a word about how I was feeling, three people from my team approached me, prayed for me, and declared the truth of God in place of the fears I’d been tackling.  Though I had felt my life was out of my control, I remembered that I was never really the one in control to being with.  My teammates reminded me of this and gave me strength when I lacked it—without judgement, expectation, or hidden agenda.  They simply loved me.  And I felt the heartbeat of the Father in them.  I felt His love. 

I had thought I was in Nicaragua to serve at an orphanage, but instead I was really the one being served.  And I think that’s okay.  God’s word says that all fruit flows from intimacy with the Father, so in order to bear more fruit, I need to be with Him. God used my desperation to bring me right where He wants me—close to His heart.  And honestly, there’s no place I’d rather be. 

Honduras

After our brief stay in El Salvador, we crossed the next border into Honduras.  Odd as it may sound, I felt something change as soon as we hit the border.  My heart felt a real peace in El Salvador that disappeared when I entered Honduras.  I didn’t feel scared or physically unsafe; I just felt uncomfortable.  There was something about the way the men leered at me here that put me on edge.  I felt like I was being looked at as an object in a way I hadn’t yet experienced on this trip.

My team drove several hours from the border and camped in a city called Choluteca.  The city is an odd mix of poverty and modern wealth.  Choluteca has a Wendy’s and a Pizza Hut, but there are also slums where people live in garbage dumps just a few miles away.  The odd contradiction was hard to digest.  I walked around the town a few times to run random errands, and those same uncomfortable leers seemed to follow me.  The men in Choluteca treated me and the other females on my team like dogs, hissing at us, whistling, and yelling out gross comments.  This kind of stuff is unfortunately part of life sometimes, but the level of perversion in Honduras was more than I’d expected.  Part of me just wanted to hide in my tent for the rest of the week.

Our team was given three choices for how we wanted to spend our time in Honduras (and hiding in our tents was not an option).  One group needed to go back to Guatemala to get one of our vehicles that we’d left behind at a mechanic.  It was finally fixed after weeks of repair and was ready to be driven to Honduras.  Another team would drive to an isolated village in the mountains several hours away and share the gospel in the village.  The rest of us would stay in Choluteca and find a place to volunteer for the next few days.  We had no contacts here, but were simply using the city as a “base camp” on the way to Nicaragua because of its convenient location close to the Nicaraguan border.

Despite my disgust for the men in Choluteca, I felt like I needed to stay behind and see what opportunities would arise in this city.  I wasn’t sure where to begin, but knew God would open the right doors for our team.  A few people decided to hang out at a local park and see what information they could gather about Choluteca.  They happened to meet an American missionary who said she could connect our team with some local ministries.  Roberta, one of the ladies on my team, went to the woman’s church to follow up the next day and met a pastor who was talking about a prison where he sometimes preaches.  He explained that he had committed to preach at two different prisons on the same day at the same time.  He wasn’t sure what he was going to do.  Roberta gladly jumped in, thankful for the divine appointment, and volunteered our group to run one of the church services.  The pastor gladly accepted our offer and gave us the directions to the Choluteca prison and told us to arrive there the following day at 1:30 in the afternoon.  Two guys and four of us girls ended up going.   To be honest, I was a bit intimidated to walk into a prison full of men, especially after feeling pretty frustrated by the men out on the streets.  Yet, ironically, my experience in the prison is what redeemed my Honduran experience and what broke my heart for the country.

I entered the prison to find a large open area and bustling soccer field.  They were men freely roaming around, not locked into cells.  I noticed some of them staring and kept my eyes on the ground as a man led our group to the prison chapel.  Once we reached the chapel I looked up and suddenly didn’t feel like I was inside a prison at all.  The whole place was more like a small village than a jail.  There were guards outside of the prison, but inside the men were free to do what they pleased.  Every afternoon, about fifty or so men gathered together to hold a worship service.  They had a sound system, podium, and several chairs filling the room.  Though impressed by the chapel, I still felt a bit intimidated and had no intention of getting up to speak in front of all these men. 

One of the inmates started us off by leading worship and then invited Brent, my teammate, forward to speak on behalf of our team.  He shared his testimony and invited any men up who wanted to receive Christ.  Five men stepped forward; one was moved to tears as we prayed for him.  Afterwards, I was invited forward to share a word.  Suddenly, the intimidation disappeared and I felt like these men were nothing but big brothers sitting in my living room.  I grabbed the mic and spoke about freedom.   I told the men that the Bible says, “Where the Spirit of the Lord is, there is freedom.”  I explained that real freedom doesn’t come from a place, from getting out of prison, from earning money, or gaining material possessions.  True freedom only comes from Christ.  And because Christ is everywhere, you can be free anywhere.  Our hope is in something eternal, not the circumstances of today.  As I spoke, the inmates encouraged me with “amens”, “hallelujahs”, and applause.  These men were more excited about the love of Christ than most Christians in America who have everything you could dream of.   Despite everything they’d lost, they were still cheering at the word of God. 

After I spoke, we invited anyone forward who needed physical healing or prayer in general.  Half of the men walked to the front of the chapel.  We laid hands on them and prayed.  One of the older men just grabbed my heart, and I felt a strong sense that God had called him to be a father to the fatherless and a leader within the prison.  I used my best broken Spanish to prophecy over him and tell him that God has a plan for him even inside the prison.  I knew he understood what I was trying to say when he exclaimed, “Glory to God!”  And, though this doesn’t happen often to me, I could tangibly feel the presence of the Holy Spirit rushing through my body.  I knew God was moving in that place and in that man’s heart.  His face lit up, and I watched as he then began to approach the younger men and start laying hands on them and praying for them.

Lastly, before we left, Roberta called up the men who had been falsely accused of committing a crime, so we could pray for justice.  She explained to our team that many innocent men in Latin America are thrown into prison, because the judicial system is so corrupt.  Someone has to pay for every crime committed, but it doesn’t really matter who pays.  Usually, the rich who commit crimes are able to pay their way out and force poor innocent men to pay the time for their crimes.   

When Roberta called the innocent men forward, over half the church got up from their seats and walked to the front.  I was blown away.  The man I had just prayed for was part of that group.  Yet, despite the fact that they had unfairly been thrown in prison, one of the inmates explained that many of the innocent men had not known Jesus before coming to jail and were thankful that they had had the opportunity to meet God while in prison.  I was so touched by the hearts of the men and completely amazed by their unwavering faith.  Sadly, before I knew it, our time was over, and a couple of the men escorted us back to the prison exit and said goodbye.

We had thought that would be our only chance to visit the prison, but two days later we were provided with another opportunity.  We gladly accepted and brought back a few more people from the team.  This time, a few people were allowed to enter the second wing of the prison, a more “high security” area where the worst criminals are located.  Roberta, Ben, and I returned to the chapel.

The brothers in the prison welcomed us back with open arms.  We worshipped together, and then they invited Roberta forward to teach the word of God.  She provided a teaching on our positions as children of God and explained the authority we carry as Christians.  Next, Ben came forward and shared a brief word.  He talked about our ability to hear God’s voice—that it is our right as children of God to hear the voice of the Father.  He took a few minutes to single out a few of the men and prophecy over them in front of the whole congregation.   One of the men was an older gentleman who Ben believed God was calling as a father and leader for the other men in the prison.  He was clearly touched and came forward for prayer, raising his hands in praise to God.  Next, Ben called out a younger man sitting in the middle of the congregation.  He spoke destiny and truth over him. “Whatever you have done in the past, it is over and finished.  You may have made mistakes, but it doesn’t matter.  God has forgotten your sin and entirely cleansed you.  He sees you as righteous.”  Moments later, that man gave his life to Christ.

At the end of the service, a few people came forward for specific prayer.  The man that I had prophesied for two days earlier approached me and said that I had really encouraged him.  He grabbed my hand and gave me a smile that made it all worth it.  When I entered Honduras, I was so frustrated by the leering men that I’d felt I had nothing to give.  And if I were to take the time to stop for anyone, the last person I thought I’d show compassion to would be a male inmate.  But this man stole my heart and redeemed all the negative things I’d assumed about Honduras.  Though the men on the streets had treated us women like nothing more than a pack of dogs, we miraculously found love and respect in this Honduran prison.  Stronger than any culture of chauvinism, the power of Christ and love of God united us in that place.  I pray that my Honduran brothers will receive the justice they deserve and one day be freed from the prison if they have been unfairly accused of crime.  However, I am confident that if they remain in that prison, they will allow God to do great things through their lives in that place. 

El Salvador, The Savior

After being stranded in Guatemala for way longer than planned, our team finally made our way to El Salvador.  We had some trouble at the border due to corrupt government officials who wanted one of our guys to pay a ridiculous bribe.  But after hours of waiting and dealing with nonsense, we eventually made it through and drove on to San Salvador.  We met up with a YWAM leader who hosted us for the next few days.  This is the first time our team partnered with a YWAM base, something we hope to do more and more as our trip continues. 

Our YWAM leader told us about the problems El Salvador is currently having with gang violence.  I realized that the name El Salvador means “The Savior” in Spanish, and if any country needs a savior, it’s this one.  The country is pretty much run by gangs, especially the notorious MS13 gang—known for their gruesome ways of killing people.  Yet despite the warnings of gang violence, I somehow felt at ease in El Salvador.  There is just something about the place that won me over.  The need there is so great, and the people I met were so open to give and receive love.  In this country full of gangs and murder, I oddly felt at home.

On our first day, we ran two church services for beautiful and friendly congregations.  The first was at a church of maybe seven adults and ten or so children.  What they lacked in size, they made up for in heart.  I spent most of the service with the children, playing games and singing with them.  In the afternoon, we headed to a second church, this one much larger.  The service lasted for at least four hours.  We worshipped, did a drama, preached, prayed for the sick, and then asked the Holy Spirit to touch the church body.  Shortly, the church service turned into a massive dance party.  People were weeping, laughing, dancing and rejoicing.  An older man I prayed for confided in me that he had lost his home and couldn’t provide for his three children.  His leg was injured, and it has prevented him from working.  I prayed with him as he wept.  Sadly, he was not healed that evening, but I am believing for a miracle for him.  He stole my heart and showed me the gentle humility that can exist in a country known for its murder rate.  Beneath the hype and the fear, there exists a genuine love in the heart of El Salvador.

The following day, my team visited a government-run orphanage for boys aged ten to seventeen.  The place looked more like a prison than an orphanage.  And it felt like one.  Because the orphanage is run by the government, it’s a holding pen, not a ministry.  On the boys’ eighteenth birthdays, they are kicked out.  There is no transition into the “real world.”  The kids are simply dumped and forced to fend for themselves.  With the amount of gangs in El Salvador, I would assume most of them join gangs to be able to survive.  It broke my heart to see such precious young boys headed towards such a rocky future.  It was clear that the boys didn’t get much attention.  We played soccer, basketball, frisbee, football, etc. for hours.  The kids were going crazy, so excited to have some people to play with. 

The following day, we visited a drug and rehab center for men.  Again, I found a softness in the hearts of those men rather than the hardness you would expect.  As a few of my team members shared about their past addictions and the freedom they’d found in Christ, there were many nods and “amens”.  We prayed for the men, and they openly received.  That same afternoon, we assisted the YWAM base with a homeless ministry they run right on their doorstep.  The staff set up an outdoor shower, and homeless people from the community stopped by for a shower, a fresh set of clothes, a warm meal, and a short devotion.  I had the privilege of leading the devotion and simply hanging out with the men who came by.  One of them, Nelson, spoke perfect English and told us crazy stories from his past.  Quite the comedian, he had all of us laughing.  The ministry reminded me so much of the homeless ministry I used to do back in California.  I felt so at home, just hanging out with these men, talking, and laughing.  The more I travel the more I believe people are the same everywhere.  Everyone likes to talk.  Everyone likes to eat.  Everyone likes to laugh.  People are people. 

Our time in El Salvador felt like it went by too quickly, but our team is trying to catch up a bit, since we are already pretty far behind our original itinerary.  We are meeting more people in Nicaragua to join the team, so we would like to get there soon.  Please pray for safe travels and protection over our vehicles.  Thanks for reading along with my journey and for praying for the team!

Guatemala--Power of the Blood

Our team crossed from Belize into Guatemala, hoping to spend only a few days in Guatemala and then continue on to El Salvador.  Unfortunately, one of our vehicles’ transmissions died shortly after we crossed the border and delayed us quite a bit.  As we waited for the car to be fixed, we took some time to rest and wait on God’s plan for us while we were in Guatemala.  In Mexico, we worked tirelessly doing evangelism; Belize was more focused on discipleship.  And in Guatemala, God had something different yet again.  He showed us that the most powerful thing we could do in Guatemala was pray.

Our call to intercede for the nation of Guatemala was awakened by the country’s dark history.  I could feel the darkness in the atmosphere.  Everywhere we traveled, we found Mayan idols, statues of false gods, and businesses named after demonic creatures.  We camped out at a city not far from Tikal, the largest preserved Mayan city in Latin America with the highest Mayan temples.  We learned that the Mayans had performed human sacrifices at these temples for hundreds of years to satisfy their “gods.”  Ancient Mayan games were played where the winner was sacrificed to the gods.  This was considered a great honor in the Mayan culture.  It was not uncommon to decapitate people and throw their heads and bodies from the top of the high temples in an attempt to appease the Mayan gods. 

Like many cultures and religions, the Mayans believed in an exchange of blood—the blood of their men for the blessing of their gods.  In the ritual of trading, blood is the highest sacrifice.  As Christians, we also believe in an exchange of blood—the blood of Christ for ours.  The Mayans had perverted the gospel of truth, exchanging blood in heinous rituals instead of accepting the blood of Christ for freedom and forgiveness.  Our team felt we needed to travel to the ancient Mayan temples and take back what the enemy had stolen.  We would go to the holy high places and trade the truly powerful blood—the blood of Christ.  We traveled to the ruins in Tikal and climbed up the highest temple we could find.  Though deathly afraid of heights, I understood the importance of this blood exchange and forced myself to get to the top.  Once we’d all completed the climb, we brought out the elements to take communion.  Since we were in Guatemala and unable to get the normal bread and wine, we substituted corn tortillas and some orange Gatorade.  It was the closest we could find, but we figured it wasn’t the type of bread or wine that mattered so much as the heart behind what was happening.

As we ate of the “bread and wine” we made a symbolic blood exchange I hadn’t experienced before.  In the Old Testament, only the high priests were allowed to go into the “Holy of Holies” in the tabernacle.  There was a veil separating people from God, and common people could not enter into His presence.  Yet, when Jesus died for us, the bible says the veil was broken.  Now anyone can come into the Lord’s mighty presence.  In addition, Revelation mentions a “sea of glass” that is before the throne of God in heaven.  Because Jesus exchanged his blood so that we do not have to die, we are able to go into those heavenly places and exchange his blood for heavenly things.  The veil is broken, so we can access God’s presence.  We can go through the veil or enter the sea of glass before the throne of God and exchange the blood of Jesus for all the things he died for—our salvation, love, healing, freedom, restoration, etc.  As our team took communion on the Mayan temple, we symbolically “stepped onto the sea of glass” or “stepped through the veil” to be in God’s presence and pray for His gifts from heaven.  We exchanged the blood of Christ for the salvation of His people.  We exchanged the blood of Christ for God’s presence in Guatemala.  We exchanged the blood of Christ for the freedom of the Guatemalan people.  We exchanged the blood of Christ for righteousness.  We exchanged the blood of Christ for peace in the nation.  We exchanged the blood of Christ for the truth of the gospel to reign over Guatemala and trump the heinous rituals of its history.  And as we prayed, we cancelled the perverse blood sacrifices made through Mayan rituals and declared truth over Guatemala. 

There is such power in the blood of Christ.  Pray with me that this power reigns in the hearts of the Guatemalan people and that they are freed from the demonic rituals that have enslaved them for hundreds of years.

Home Is Where My Sleeping Bag Is

My life is weird--really weird.  Especially when I compare my life now to the life I was living a few months ago.  I think back to July when I was teaching at Cal State Fullerton and can scarcely believe the contrast to my current lifestyle.  Last summer, I would get up every morning and put on nice clothes and dressy shoes and grab my bag and car keys.  I would leave my clean and spacious apartment, well-rested and showered.  I would open my little Honda Civic and drive a few miles down smoothly paved roads to a beautiful university.  I would click my nice shoes down the tiled floor leading to my classroom, teach for a few hours, then head back to my homey apartment.  I would check my email without a worry that my internet might not connect or cut out.  I would pass the evenings as I pleased, having everything I could ever need or want right at my fingertips.  And at night I would curl into my queen-sized bed in my room all by myself, feeling warm and cozy in my safe little home.

The word “home” is now an irrelevant term in my life.  A Guatemalan asked me for my address the other day, and I simply looked at her in confusion, unsure of what to say.  My life has turned into a rhythm of traveling, packing and unpacking.  Some days I wake up and have to remind myself what country I’m in.  Home is no longer a set place, but simply wherever my sleeping bag happens to be at the moment.  The days of privacy and a cozy room to myself are long gone.  I sleep in a variety of cots, tents, etc., but most nights, six girls and I sleep in a pop-up camper together, a portable “room” that we attach to our SUV.  The camper squishes down for travel but can be cranked up into a large tent-like structure.  My usual sleeping spot is probably designed for one person but is shared by two.  Rose, my bed-buddy, and I have about an inch and a half between us.  Our “bed” isn’t quite long enough for us, so our toes rub against the edge.  If I venture out of my camper at night, I often find myself surrounded by random animals.  In the two-minute process of brushing my teeth outside, I encounter wild horses, stray dogs, crazy roosters, tarantulas, and swarms of mosquitoes.  And just a random side note:  I’m pretty sure the bugs in Central America bred with dinosaurs at some point to create this horrific mutant bug species.  My entire team looks like we’ve had the chicken pox for a month.

A good toilet, shower, and internet access have become luxuries.  Simple things and basic hygiene have become complicated processes.  My latest bathroom adventure from Belize paints a pretty good picture of my new and strange life:

One morning, while camping at an RV park, I woke up early and needed to use the bathroom.  The campsite had no toilets, so the team had agreed to share our dinky RV toilet; but it was too early to wake up the people sleeping inside the RV.  I had no problem with going to the bathroom outside, but we were in a wide open field.  The only way to hide myself was to go deep into a woodsy area full of snakes.  Ugh, I thought to myself.  Why do I always get myself into these kinds of situations?

I tucked a roll of toilet paper under my arm, stumbling around in my pajamas, and wandered away from the tents and campers, trying to find a place to hide.  My choices were a wide open field or the middle of snake territory.  I tried to step towards the snake bushes and immediately started getting eaten alive by mutant bugs.  Forget it, I told myself, I’m just going right here in the field.  I don’t know what else to do.  Just as I started to squat down, a pick-up truck full of Belizean men drove by and started honking and screaming at me.  PLAN ABORTED.  Dang it, I thought.  I seriously have no choice but to go into the snake bushes, or else I’m going to be the most inappropriate missionary ever.  I started walking into the bushes and was once again interrupted.  A man who worked at a restaurant across the street saw me and began to wave frantically and motion me to come towards him.

Seriously?  I wondered.  How has this become my life?  What does a girl have to do to go to the bathroom in peace around here??

“Don’t go in there!  Nooo!” the man yelled as he continued to motion me towards him. 

Frustrated, I walked towards the man across the street to listen to what he was saying.  “There are snakes in those bushes,” he warned me.  “Never go inside there!  Come and use the bathroom in the restaurant.”

I thanked him for his concern and crossed the street towards the restaurant, gratefully accepting his toilet offer.  Afterwards, I walked down the street back towards our campsite, still in my pajamas, hair a mess, toilet paper roll tucked under my arms.

Some days are just like this.  The once simple things have become ever so complicated.  Life as a nomad is a bit messy and strange, but it’s my life nonetheless.   Sometimes it feels weird not having a home or bed to sleep in or toilet to use.  It’s strange not knowing what country I’ll be in next week.  It’s weird that I don’t know what to say when people ask me where I live or where I’m from.  It’s strange that I don’t have a place to keep my stuff or a consistent bed to sleep in.  And I don’t particularly enjoy looking like a crazy homeless lady walking down the streets of Belize in my pajamas with nothing in my arms but toilet paper.  There are many days when I miss having a home and a life with even a pinch of consistency to it. 

BUT I also must admit that the things I once took for granted are now things I thank God for every day.  So maybe that’s not so bad after all.  When I have a toilet or read an email from home or get enough phone reception to hear my family’s voice, I am grateful.  When I take a shower, I’m thankful, and when I take a hot shower, I’m in heaven.  When I get a good night’s sleep or don’t wake up itchy or get a moment of privacy, I feel blessed.  And truth is, when I stand atop ancient Mayan ruins in Guatemala, or lay hands on sick people in Mexico who get healed, or spend a week hanging out with a former drug addict in Belize who has completely changed his life around…the sleepiness, itchiness, crowdedness, and homelessness all seem to fade away.  And in those moments, I remember that home isn’t really a building or a toilet or a bed.  Home is wherever I am at the moment.  Today home is Guatemala; in a few days it will be El Salvador.  Home is where my sleeping bag is.  Home is wherever God takes me, and I’m okay with wherever that may be. J