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