In Honor of the Newtown Shooting Victims

Life is ironic.  I have been traveling for the last fourteen months through notoriously dangerous countries--venturing into spear-filled jungles, walking through slums run by armed drug lords, and driving on some of the worst roads in the world. 

Yet, oddly, it wasn’t until I came home to suburban Connecticut for the holidays that I was exposed to one of the most gruesome events of my lifetime.  On December 14^th, I stood in shock with my state at the news that a madman had shot his way into a local elementary school and murdered several children as well as a few staff members.  I’d heard about shootings before, but never at an elementary school—and never so close to home.  Though “home” has become a relative term at this point in my life, Connecticut will always have a special place in my heart.  I suppose I’ve become a mix of East Coaster, Californian, African, and Latin American nomad; but my roots will forever be in Fairfield County, Connecticut.  I was born-and-bred here; my parents and little sister still live here, my older sister nearby.  While in South America, I dreamt of Connecticut many times, looking forward to a typical New England Christmas season—cozy nights by the fire, a potential snowstorm on Christmas Day, picking out a tree with the family, and wearing my snuggly Santa pajama pants.  My thoughts of Connecticut were comprised only of rest, relaxation, and peace.   Yet, the shocking news that school faculty and children in Fairfield County’s peaceful little Newtown was a sobering taste of reality.  Evil can happen anywhere.

The evening of the shooting, I received the appalling news that one of the victims was Mary Sherlach, the mother of my childhood friend Maura.  I was shocked.  I’ve known Maura since I was four or five years old.  Over the years, our reunions have evolved from elementary school birthday parties to the prom to weddings.  But the thought of having a reunion at a funeral home was beyond our worst nightmares.

I contacted Maura and turned on the news shortly after.   I stared at the television for three hours or so, horrified by what had just happened.  At times I broke down into tears.  At other moments I simply repeated, “I can’t believe it.  Oh God, I just can’t believe this.”  Eventually, I tried to go to bed but found it impossible to sleep.  I lay awake, watching hour after hour on my clock pass me by—two a.m., three a.m., four a.m.  I kept thinking about Maura and her family.  My heart broke for them.   I thought about the parents who had lost their six-year-olds.  I was sickened.  So many lives had been turned upside down in a moment.

The next few days were tearful ones.  It seemed everyone in the community was somehow connected to someone in the shooting.  Everyone I encountered looked like they were hurting.  Churches were filled with crying people.  Kids were scared to go back to school.  Pastors were overwhelmed.  One church lost eight children from its congregation.  Newtown residents struggled to do simple tasks like going to the grocery store, because the press had taken over.  Each day, the local paper announced which victim was being laid to rest that day.  Horrific.

I kept thinking about Maura, her sister Katy, and her dad Bill.  I wanted to do something—anything—to help them, but I knew I couldn’t fix a thing.  I prayed for them, but my prayers seemed weak.  “God, comfort them,” I asked, wondering how anyone could actually feel comforted after such devastating news.  I decided to visit the Sherlach home, wanting Maura to know that I loved her, if nothing else.  I walked into her house, immediately noticing her mom’s stocking still hung up on the fireplace, Christmas decorations filling the house.  Maura told me more details of what had just happened, still processing how her life had drastically changed in the past few days.  She confirmed that her mother, the school psychologist, had confronted the gunman with the principal and lost her life in an attempt to save others.  The last time I’d seen Mary Sherlach was at a wedding.  I had no idea I was looking at a hero.

Bill, Maura’s father, caught a glimpse of me and gave me a surprised smile.  “You’re in the country?!” he exclaimed.  “I’m so glad you’re here.”  He walked towards me and greeted me with a big hug and kiss.  “Good to see you, sweetie.  So glad you could come.  Maura is happy you are home. ” He smiled so warmly, but I knew his heart must be broken.

As Maura and I spoke, she asked me how my mom was doing.  I’d had my own scare a few years ago when my mom was suffering from cancer, and I feared I would lose her.  Of all my childhood friends, it had once looked like I would be the most likely to lose a parent early. Yet, my mom is now in her third year of remission, healthy and very much alive.  When I told Maura about her good health report, a genuine look of relief overtook her face.  “Oh good, I’m so happy to hear that.”  Here she was, suffering the loss of her own mother, yet selflessly celebrating the life of mine.

Two days later, my mom, little sister, and I went to Mary Sherlach’s wake.  800 people attended.  We waited in line outside for an hour before we could even get into the funeral home, then two more hours inside to get to the family.  I’d never seen anything like it.  Clearly, Mary had touched many lives and was well-loved.  Her family was extremely loved as well.  After finally making my way towards them, I was greeted with hugs from Maura, Katy, and Bill.  Maura gave my mom a huge hug and once again shared her happiness about her good health report.  “Mrs. Scudder, I’m so glad to hear you are healthy.  Congratulations!” she exclaimed.  I was blown away by her grace, selflessness, and compassion.  I saw a strength inside of her to which I can only aspire.  I walked back to the car, humbled by it all.  I wasn’t sure how I had ended up the lucky one and how Maura could be so gracious in the midst of suffering. 

The following day, I attended the funeral, praying that God would give a supernatural ability for the family to get through it.  The reception afterwards provided one last time to speak with the family.  When I said goodbye to Maura, I knew it would be months before I saw her again.  We hugged, feeling grateful we’d seen each other but obviously sad that it had been under such tragic circumstances.  And then, my heart almost breaking in two, Maura’s dad embraced me one last time with a warm hug and a big kiss.  “Goodbye sweetie; be safe.”  It seemed quite ironic that I was usually the one people worried about in regards to safety with all my travels to “dangerous” places.  Yet, Mary Sherlach had simply gone to school one day and never come home.  It just didn’t make sense.

The whole scenario is simply tragic.  The shooting was pure evil.  But somehow, in the midst of everything, I have seen good.  God has given us free will, and the shooter chose evil.  However, the Sherlach family and many others have chosen good.  In their actions and their hearts, I see the presence of God, and I am in awe.  God is three persons—Father, Son, and Holy Spirit.  In Maura, Katy, and Bill, I saw each facet of God displayed this week.  In Katy, I saw the Holy Spirit--the comforter.  She laid aside her own pain to console her father in his distress, linking arms with him and patting him on the back to comfort him. In Maura, I saw Jesus.  In John 19, while Jesus is hanging on the cross, he says to his mother, “Woman, behold, your son!”  He then says to his disciple John, “Behold, your mother!”  From that day forth, John took Mary into his household.  Even as Jesus suffered, he made sure his family was taken care of.  And in the same manner, Maura checked in on my family, showing concern for me and my mother--caring about others in the midst of her own heartache.  And lastly, in Bill, I saw the heart of God the Father.  Though I wanted to somehow take care of him, he approached me like a father, protective and concerned about my safety, not himself.  When he told me to be safe, I realized that no matter what, a father remains a father.  I saw the heartbeat of God manifesting through each member of the family.  Not one had chosen to match evil with evil.  Instead, they confronted it with love, light, and faith.

I am honored to know such an incredible family.  I am humbled by the interactions we’ve had this week.  I am thankful that despite the evil in the world, love is still winning.  And for all those who have beaten us to Heaven, I know that death, pain, and evil can never touch them again. 

For many people, this tragedy has somehow turned into a platform for their personal political agendas.  To be honest, the only agenda I care about right now is loving people better. I’m not so concerned about guns or video games or new laws or assigning blame.  I’m concerned about the people right in front of me—kind, genuine people whose hearts have been broken.  Sometimes I don’t know what to do or what to say or how to comfort those whom this tragedy has affected.  But I want to take a moment to say on paper how truly sorry I am for the lives the shooting has taken.  I want to say that my heart breaks for those who have lost a loved one, and I pray that God will mend your hearts.  And I want to honor the families, especially the Sherlach family, for showing such love and grace in the midst of it all.  Maura, Katy, Bill, and Newtown’s hero Mary—I genuinely admire each of you.  I honor and support you and will be praying for you in this coming season of healing.  I pray anyone who reads this will do the same.  God bless you all.

The Guianas: South America Complete!

This was it—the final stretch of the continent.  We would end our time in the Guianas—a group of barely-known countries on the northern coast of South America.  Though considered one entity, the Guianas are actually comprised of three countries:  Guyana, Suriname, and French Guiana.  Technically considered part of the Caribbean, the Guianas exude an Afro-Caribe vibe as well as cultural flavors from the countries that colonized them—England (Guyana), Holland (Suriname), and France (French Guiana).

Prior to the Guianas, our team had split into small groups, and we each made our way to Georgetown, the capital of Guyana, to reunite for a “family reunion” and team debrief.  Several of the girls had decided to fly home early for the holidays, and many teammates were unsure about returning to the Caribbean after the holidays for the final leg of the trip.  This meant our time in Georgetown as a full team would probably be our last.

My small group made our way to Guyana from Venezuela.  Because there is no legal Venezuela/Guyana border crossing, we had to travel from Venezuela back to Brazil, then to Guyana--hitting a record three countries in one day.  From the border of Guyana and Brazil, we made our way to northern Georgetown, only around 260 miles away, but a nightmarishly long journey due to abysmal infrastructure.

Upon our arrival at the Guyana border, we were bombarded by mini-bus drivers who offered to transport us to Georgetown, claiming the best rates.  Unaccustomed to bargaining in English, we happily negotiated prices in our native language after over a year of Spanish and Portuguese.

At around 2 p.m., our driver informed us that we would be in Georgetown by around 10 or 11 o’clock that evening.  After a couple hours of bumping along terrible dirt roads, our bus driver informed us that if we didn’t reach a certain “checkpoint” by 6 p.m. we would have to rest somewhere for the night and continue traveling the following morning.  Though the driver acted unsure as to whether we would reach the checkpoint or not, we later found out that it had never been a feasible option to cross and make it to Georgetown the same evening.  Turns out, the lies of arriving by 10 or 11 were not only absurd on such poor roads, but legally impossible to boot.

Just before 6 p.m., we were forced to pull over on the side of the road where we found a random hut and shack where two local men sat staring at us.  I reluctantly set up my sleeping mat on the floor of the hut, already getting eaten alive by bugs. Throughout the next few hours, the hut filled with hammocks and random men from other buses that had also failed to reach the 6 p.m. checkpoint.  We were instructed to sleep until 3 a.m., when we would get up and drive for a few more hours to arrive at the checkpoint by 6 a.m.

After a few hours of attempted sleep, we reloaded our mini-buses and drove to the infamous checkpoint.  Upon arrival, I realized why its closing would have presented problems for us.  The “checkpoint” was actually a river that divided the road, and the only way to cross was by taking a crickety old ferry that only made trips between 6 a.m. and 6 p.m. each day.  The decrepit little boat looked like it was about to fall apart, and watching several mini-buses awkwardly drive on and off didn’t inspire much confidence.

We safely made it to the other side nonetheless and continued our drive towards Georgetown.  Other than frequently being stopped at random passport checks, our journey otherwise consisted of frighteningly fast driving.  It was clear that our driver’s priority was getting to Georgetown as quickly as possible; but as he wildly maneuvered dangerous curves and unstable potholes, my priority quickly became arriving as alive as possible.

Meanwhile, dust poured from the roads into our vehicle and covered us from head to toe.  We rotated between opening the windows in an attempt to not sweat to death and closing them to avoid choking on large clouds of dust.  Almost twenty-four hours after leaving the border, we arrived in Georgetown with aching backs from the jarring ride, skin and hair covered in dirt, and luggage that had barely survived.  My suitcase, which had been on its last legs for a while, realized its death along the way.  When it was unloaded from atop the mini-bus, the inside frame was smashed in, holes had ripped in the sides of the bag, and my clothes and belongings inside were wet, muddy, and damaged.

Within days, the rest of the team arrived in Georgetown with similar horror stories.  We laughed and caught up on our time apart.  And sadly, we began our official debriefing of our time in South America.  We spent time encouraging each person and sharing what good we saw in one another.  As we spoke, I realized how much all of us had changed in the past fourteen months.  We’d shared obstacles and victories together, and every moment (whether good or bad) had been well worth it.  Though we’d worked with ministries throughout an entire continent, our most important mission had been the same in every country—our love for God and our love for one another.

On November 5^th, we began a series of tearful goodbyes when the first group flew home from Guyana.  The remaining eleven went on to finish the last two countries, Suriname and French Guiana.  We first traveled to Paramaribo, the capital of Suriname, via mini-bus, ferry, and another mini-bus.  Though Georgetown’s English-speaking Caribbean flair seemed out of place in South America, Suriname’s culture felt even more bizarre. Suriname possessed a wild clash of cultures including Dutch, Indian, Chinese, and Indonesian.

We found a small hostel and met together to pray for God’s vision for Suriname.  Elizabeth had felt a special tug in her heart for the country and believed our time would be marked by random encounters that only God could set up for us.

Our first day, I went to the grocery store with Taylor M. who approached a stranger on crutches and offered to pray for his leg.  The man shut down Taylor immediately.  Pure and cold rejection.  I wondered if all hearts in this country were so closed.  A few hours later, we walked to a local church just minutes from our hostel to attend their evening service and ask the pastor if we could serve his church.  When we entered the church, there appeared to be only two congregants, and the pastor was too proud to step down from his stage to even acknowledge the presence of several clearly-foreign visitors.  We tried to speak to him, but we once again felt harsh rejection and ended up leaving the church building. 

Admittedly, my spirits were low.  I was physically exhausted.  I’d been suffering from a horrible ear infection that began in Brazil and was causing pain all the way down to my jaw.  I could barely hear when people spoke to me, and I was growing frustrated by the rejection from the Surinamese people.  And on top of this, I was still trying to recover from the trauma of losing over half of our team before finishing the trip.  My heart was heavy, and my motivation was severely lacking.  I knew most of my teammates were already enjoying the luxury of proper beds, nice toilets, and pampering from their moms and dads.  I reminded myself that the remaining eleven still had weeks ahead of us.  I wanted to end in victory, not simply limp along at the end.  But how could I do this?

After being rejected by the pastor, we decided to check out the city square and see if we could find some food or anything interesting going on.  We noticed a large sign advertising a gospel concert and stopped under it for a moment.  Two young Surinamese men approached us and explained that they ran a national Christian radio show for youth.  We told them a bit about our journey, and they invited us to speak on their show in two days.  We excitedly agreed, and my spirit began to come alive again as I saw God’s faithfulness in bringing forth random and unexpected encounters. 

The young men asked us if we’d like to see the radio station right then, so we followed them a couple blocks to the station where their friend was already in the middle of a broadcast.  He introduced himself and invited us to sit and listen to the music he was playing.  Yet suddenly, he told us to be silent.  He was switching from music to talking, and we were live.  Before I could even register that we were not in fact waiting for two more days to go on air, a microphone was in my face, and I was live on a broadcast being aired throughout the entire nation.  Flustered and slightly miffed that I just-so-happened to be the one sitting closest to the radio man, I gulped and coyly spoke into the microphone.  “Hello Suriname…”

The broadcaster asked me several questions, and my mouth began to answer before I even had a moment to think.  Afterwards, the man interviewed each member of my team, giving us all a very unexpected but special opportunity.  At the end of the broadcast, Natalie M. was asked to pray for the entire nation.  Our day of rejection had quickly transformed into something amazing.

Feeling more hopeful, we headed to the hospital the next morning to pray for patients.  We had such a great time talking and praying for people that we ended up returning the following day to pray some more.  Some of the people whom we’d prayed for the first day seemed to be better physically and emotionally on the second.

As we asked to pray for people, we realized the large mixture of religions in Suriname including Christianity, Buddhism, Hindu, and Islam.  Yet, no matter what religion people were, all of them told us that we were welcome to pray to Jesus.  Despite my original impression of a cold and closed people, I started to feel an authentic warmth from the culture.  I was fascinated by the way the different religious and cultural groups genuinely loved and respected each other and lived in peace and harmony.

Taylor M., Ben, and I prayed for a woman named Gloria who had lost all feeling in her leg out of nowhere.  She said the doctors were unable to figure out the cause, and she was waiting for a diagnosis. Meanwhile, she struggled to walk on this leg and hoped the feeling would somehow return.

We laid hands on her leg and began to pray.  As we spoke, her leg started to shake beneath our hands, and she excitedly reported that the feeling had come back.  Gloria looked shocked.  We asked her to try to walk, and she got out of bed and paced around the room.  She smiled in awe.  Ben declared, “Jesus just healed your leg.”  The other women in the room, Buddhist and Hindu, watched and clapped in celebration.  This was wild.

The random divine appointments continued when Ben walked to a nearby park to have some time alone with the Lord.   A woman named Sandra approached him and asked for help.  She explained that her boyfriend had just broken up with her, and she was overwhelmed and heartbroken.  She was afraid to face her children back home and was waiting in Paramaribo, unsure of what to do.  Ben counseled her a bit and prayed for her, as she began to cry.  He asked if she’d be willing to meet him later at the park, and she agreed to return at 5 o’clock.  Ben walked to our hostel and asked if any of the girls would like to come back with him to minister to her.

A few hours later, I accompanied Ben to the park and met Sandra.  She seemed an open woman, seeking love and wisdom, yet slightly uncomfortable in her own skin.  As we talked, she slowly revealed pieces of her story to us, explaining that she had three children from three different men, and now her most recent boyfriend had left her.  She had no job and no way to provide for her kids.  She felt lost.

Her eldest daughter, aged fourteen, repeatedly criticized her for her poor choices and constantly declared that she would never be like her.  Her other children were angry that their fathers were not around.  Sandra kept saying, “I never wanted my life to be like this. I never planned this.  I wanted one husband and father for my kids.  I never wanted my life to go like this.”

I realized that more importantly than forgiving the men who’d mistreated her or forgiving her children for their anger, she needed to forgive herself.  I prayed for Sandra, and then asked her to repeat these words:  “I forgive myself.  I am free from the words of my daughter.  I am loved.  I am free.”  After this, she seemed lighter.  Sandra said she was ready to face her family now and more equipped to love her daughter.  When Ben and I left Sandra, she was a smiling woman.

Days later, we continued on to our last country in South America—French Guiana.  This final trek included another three-hour mini-bus ride to the border and a motorized canoe ride from one side of customs to the other.  When we arrived on the French Guiana side of the border, we noticed a large sign that read, “France.”  We found out that French Guiana is still a department of France, not a fully independent country.  So technically, we were in France, South America, and the Caribbean all at once.  What a way to end!

The drawback of being in “France” was French prices.  We’d heard rumors that French Guiana was ridiculously expensive and decided to only stay for a few days to avoid going broke.  We’d been warned we would need to spend at least forty euros a night just for a hostel and weren’t sure how we’d swing these prices.  We prayed that God would provide some type of miraculous accommodation, but rumor said no cheap hotels existed in the country.  By the grace of God, an angel in a pick-up truck appeared at the border and asked us if we needed a cheap place to stay.  For no cost, just simply for the sake of being kind, he led us to a cheap hotel near the border where we each paid around six U.S. dollars a night.  Praise the Lord!

We’d heard that there were indigenous villages all along the river and decided to go for a visit.  I told God I would be satisfied if He sent us even one person to affect with an encounter of love.  Just one person would be enough.

We bargained with a man on the river to take us on his canoe to a nearby indigenous community.  I had no idea if this would be awkward or awesome.  We boated just fifteen minutes upriver and were dropped off for a couple hours in a beautiful and quiet village.  We cautiously entered the village and said hello to some people watching us, hoping they would receive our presence warmly.  We asked someone if the chief was around in order to get his blessing to walk around the community and pray for people.  We were quickly welcomed with open hearts and given permission to do as we pleased.  While passing by a porch where a few people sat, we struck up a conversation with one of the women, who soon asked us to pray for her sick brother who was lying in a hammock just feet away from her. 

We prayed for the man and the other women on the porch, and word of our visit quickly spread.  Within minutes, other people from the community appeared at the porch to see what we were doing and soon lined up for prayer.  I had asked God for just one person, but it seemed He had given us a whole village.  For the next two hours, we talked and prayed with several of the villagers.  One young man pointed to his ears, and it appeared that he couldn’t hear or speak.  While we prayed, he began to shake by the presence of God, and his face lit up with a brilliant smile.  He still spoke no words, but gave us the thumbs up signal, indicating that some type of healing had been received. 

We then prayed for another woman with ear problems.  From what I understood, her ears were clogged, and her hearing was affected.  Still dealing with my own ear infection, I laid hands on the woman’s ears, hoping both of us would get healed.  As I prayed for her, my ear opened!  The woman began to lift her hands and praise God.  Again, she didn’t explain what was happening, but from her reaction, I assume her ears were also healed.  Oddly, when I took my hands off of her, my ear closed back up.  (I ended up getting completely healed a few days later, but I found it interesting that my own ear opened and closed while praying for someone with the same condition).  Afterwards, we were asked to visit another woman’s house where we prayed for a few others until our boat came back to the village to pick us up. On our canoe ride home, we were amazed at how quickly and beautifully God had arranged this time for us.

We left French Guiana on November 14^th and later received news that Tanya’s baby boy, Zion, was born that same day.  Just as we were leaving the very last country of the continent and completing the vision for South America, new life came forth.  It was a sweet reminder that every end means a new beginning.

Unfortunately, we weren’t able to fly home from French Guiana, which meant backtracking through Suriname and Guyana and flying from Georgetown.  We stayed in Suriname for two nights en route and noticed a homeless man begging for change the first.  Breck stopped to talk with him for a few minutes, and a couple people offered him coins and food.  We walked back to our hostel, thinking very little of this encounter. The following night, we passed by the same man and decided to talk to him. His name was Theo.  He remembered Breck from the night before and thanked him for speaking to him instead of passing him by like everyone else.  Theo explained that people normally ignored him or treated him like an animal, having no value for him because he lived on the streets.  We spent time praying for Theo and simply chatting about his life and family.  We quickly discerned that Theo was a far cry from the stereotypical addict on the streets begging for change to pay for drugs.  His heart was genuine and pure, and the only thing he craved was love.  I’ll never forget his words.  “You stopped for me.  You talked to me.  You treated me like a person.  I feel better inside now.” What had originally meant very little to us had meant the world to Theo.  An encounter with love, no matter how big or small, changes people.

After a while, we headed back to our hostel, sobered by our encounter with Theo.  Holding back tears, it hit me—LOVE.  This was what our journey was all about.  We’d traveled for over fourteen months and in twenty-one different nations.  We’d seen miracles, watched amazing prophecies realized, and rubbed shoulders with great leaders.  But in the end, I realized every adventure, every snapshot taken in a foreign country, every skill learned, and even every healing miracle would have meant nothing without love.  To be honest, the greatest miracle is the simple love of the gospel, and that will never change. We can pray for healings, visit ministries around the whole world, and prophesy until our faces turn blue, but without simple, genuine love, it’s all worthless.  When people ask me the greatest thing I’ve learned on this trip, I think they may be expecting something more profound, but this is the deepest thing I have to offer: 

Love God.  Love people. 

That simple combination will never fail you.

1 Corinthians 13:

If I speak in the tongues of men or of angels, but do not have love, I am only a resounding gong or a clanging cymbal. ² If I have the gift of prophecy and can fathom all mysteries and all knowledge, and if I have a faith that can move mountains, but do not have love, I am nothing. ³ If I give all I possess to the poor and give over my body to hardship that I may boast, but do not have love, I gain nothing.

⁸ Love never fails. But where there are prophecies, they will cease; where there are tongues, they will be stilled; where there is knowledge, it will pass away.

¹³ And now these three remain: faith, hope and love. But the greatest of these is love.

Friends, this will probably be my last blog until January or February.  When the team begins working in the Caribbean, I will resume writing.  Thanks for reading, praying, and celebrating what God is doing.  Love you all.

 

Venezuela--Back to the Top!

*Some names have been changed to protect privacy.

Ten months ago, my team and I arrived in Cartagena, Colombia and started the long journey down to the tip of South America.  Circling the entire continent and arriving back at Venezuela, Colombia’s neighbor to the east, seemed ages away.  But after traveling through mountains and jungles, experiencing both icy cold winters and boiling summers, and most recently crossing the Amazon River…we’re finally back to the top! 

The last few weeks have been a strange period of changes within the team, and as usual, nothing is going quite the way we planned it.  Several weeks ago, our team decided to plan a hiatus for the holidays, aiming to finish the South American continent before Thanksgiving and returning to the Caribbean after Christmas.  Though this has birthed a new wave of ambition, it has also created a bit of a time-crunch.

While in Fortaleza, Brazil, Tanya (our nine-month pregnant team leader) decided to stay behind to await the birth of her second child.  Her husband and “birthing team” are currently in Fortaleza with an amazing mid-wife and could be there for a while.  Our team goal is to meet up in the tiny country of Guyana by the beginning of November.  In the meantime, the rest of us have been left to choose whether to stay in Fortaleza to help out there, spend some time in the Amazon jungle, or travel to Venezuela.  While many chose to stay in Fortaleza for a bit before making their way to Guyana, I (and seven others) decided we were going to get to the Amazon jungle and Venezuela and still make it to Guyana on time to reunite with the rest of the team.

At first I thought it wouldn’t be possible to cram so much traveling into such a short time period, but with the right combination of prayer and stubbornness, you’d be amazed at how much you can get done.

Getting into the jungle with such limited time and money was literally a miracle for our group of eight.  We headed to Manaus, a jungle city on the Amazon River, and prayed that God would provide a way to travel into an indigenous village.  At first, we were told it would take at least three days on a boat and hundreds of dollars.  But after a day of researching and praying, God brought Moises into our path.  Right away, this local Brazilian boated us to a tribe he’d been working with for years.  We ended up visiting an amazing village on the Amazon that required only a couple hours of travel and about $30 including both boat fuel and food for a week.  What looked impossible at first quickly unfolded into a perfect and smoothly-executed plan.

After returning from the jungle, we had less than two weeks to get in and out of Venezuela and make it to Guyana to meet the team.  Two people from our jungle team flew home early for the holidays, and three of the guys stayed behind in Brazil to sort out passport issues.  However, Elizabeth, Natalie, and I were determined to get to Venezuela.  Again, God arranged things just right, so what seemed an impossible goal became smooth and easy.  Our jungle friend Moises connected us with his friend Raquelle who connected us with her friend Rosa who connected us with her friend Anamaria.  After four degrees of separation and two tiring bus rides, the three of us girls ended up at Anamaria’s home in the city of Santa Elena, Venezuela.  Anamaria, a fiery pastor of a local church, provided us with beds, constant food and coffee, and the entertainment of her children (two biological daughters and another young girl who lives at the house).

Her seven-year-old daughter, Lupe, excitedly asked us where we were from, as she threw in comments about her dream of going to Disneyland one day.  When I told her that I’d lived in California, just miles from Disneyland, her face lit up in pure amazement.  From then on, she introduced me to friends as “the one who lives near Mickey Mouse.”   When our new Venezuelan family found out our palest team member, Elizabeth, was from South Africa, they confusedly asked her why she wasn’t black.  They constantly made remarks about her skin, and Lupe began to introduce Elizabeth as “the one who lives with tigers and elephants.” 

During our first night in their home, Anamaria sat with us and asked us to share our hearts for ministry.  She assumed we were a typical missions group who had pre-planned dramas for children’s programs or cheesy skits to share with the church.  Anamaria explained that she had a children’s service the upcoming weekend and asked what we normally do.  Slightly worried about what she’d think, we explained that our team isn’t your typical group of missionaries.  Our goal is to be led by the Holy Spirit, not to run programs that we could run entirely by our own strength.  Our desire is to accomplish things that would be virtually impossible without the power of God.  We told Anamaria that one of our main ministries is praying for the sick and seeing the power of God heal people.  And the last time we’d run a children’s service…well, we’d asked the children to ask God what He was saying, and they started drawing all the visions God was showing them and prophesying dreams over their futures.

We weren’t sure how Anamaria would react, afraid she might be disappointed that we didn’t have everything planned or that we operated too “out of the box” for your typical church.  But as we shared our hearts, a huge smile spread across her face, and she said our arrival was an answer to prayer.  Her church had been contending for breakthrough in healing and seeing God’s miracles, but most had yet to see or experience such a thing.  Anamaria wanted us to share with her congregation and pray for the breakthrough they’d been waiting for.    

When we chatted that first night, everything appeared to click just right.  We’d been brought to Santa Elena for a reason, and that reason seemed quite clear. We were eager to serve alongside Anamaria in any capacity, assuming we’d already figured out God’s perfect little plan for Venezuela.  Yet once again, things didn’t go quite as planned...

The next few days consisted of a bizarre series of events that revolved around Anamaria’s demanding schedule.  Our first morning, she knocked on our bedroom doors at 5 a.m. and told us to get up to pray. We groggily got out of bed to find Anamaria and a church member named Juanita passionately praying in the living room.  After an hour or so, we drove to the church where we met other intercessors.  I’m all for prayer, but I could hear the woman next to me repeating the same words over and over and over rather than praying something from her heart.  She seemed afraid, as if she didn’t say the right words three hundred times she hadn’t prayed correctly.  I sensed legalism and obligation—the stark opposite of the freedom we are living in.

The next morning, Anamaria’s daughters banged on our doors bright and early once again and told us we had five minutes to get ready. Anamaria wanted us to go the market to “evangelize.”  Unsure of what she was expecting, I reluctantly went to the market with Natalie, Elizabeth, and two of Anamaria’s girls.  I have never seen an effective street preacher and was not about to try to be one.   Rather than barking at random people in Spanish, we decided to just talk to people and pray for them.  However, the hearts of the people in Santa Elena were closed, and we were continuously rejected.  Anamaria showed up after about an hour of awkward attempts at prayer, and we told her that we’d failed to accomplish anything. She explained that the people in her city were afraid of foreigners and that she'd known all along that we wouldn’t be well-received.  It seemed that we’d been deliberately thrown to the wolves.  Ouch.

Later in the week, we were out in the city with Juanita, one of the women from the prayer meeting.  She received a call from Anamaria who ordered the Juanita to drive us to the church right away to run a children’s program.  We had told Anamaria we didn’t have dramas and programs prepared and were a bit befuddled by the demand to run a program with just two minutes notice. We were shoved in a car, dropped off at the church, and thrown in front of a group of kids.  We asked the children to close their eyes and ask God what He was telling them.  When they shared, their responses were, “I am a bad person” or “I need to be more obedient.”  As I listened to the kids, I began to notice a theme of fear and control that seemed the exact opposite of what Christ died for.

Whenever we tried to talk to Anamaria or get information about how we could plan ahead for ministry, we were told she was busy.  I wanted to confront her but felt it was not my place.  Natalie and Elizabeth felt the same.  We spent our days confused and frustrated.

After a few days, we received news that Taylor, Ben, and Moose had their passports sorted in Brazil and would make it to Venezuela after all.  Juanita kindly offered to host the boys in her house. 

They arrived on Saturday, and the following morning, we attended Anamaria’s church service together.  We were shocked to see that her congregation consisted of only twenty people or so.  All her meetings, all the demanding orders, and all of her oh-so-busy schedule had given us the impression that Anamaria was the pastor of a mega-church.  Yet, we realized that this congregation was just a tiny group of people.  When Anamaria clapped, the congregation clapped.  When she stood, they stood.  When she knelt, they knelt. 

Appalled by the way the congregation seemed to worship their pastor as much as God, I bowed my head and prayed that these people would have genuine encounters with the love of God and walk in true freedom.  After worship, Anamaria called our team up front and gave us a chance to share.  We talked about freedom, God’s power instead of our pwn control, and  true identity.  I hoped our words would pierce Anamaria’s heart and the hearts of her congregants.

Just for the record, my heart is not to defame anyone or to criticize anyone’s ministry.  However, it makes me sick to see people abuse pastoral power for their own selfish gain.  I am not a Christian to achieve influence.  I am a Christian, because I love Jesus.  Honestly, I hate religion.  I hate rules and structure that are created to make one look important or to create a feeling of control.  I hate the abuse of a pastoral position to gain power, esteem, or clout.  I hate the hypocrisy that has caused many to despise the word “Christian.”  But I love God, and I love His people.  And forcing religion upon them is not loving them at all.

I wondered if our words would take root in peoples’ hearts or if they would simply be dismissed. I wondered what Anamaria really thought about us. I wondered why I had come to Venezuela at all.  At first, I had thought it was to serve Anamaria; but I soon realized God had not sent my team for the person seen in the front of the church but actually for a few of the most invisible members.

Ben and I prayed for a quiet girl in the congregation who requested prayer for her family.  While praying, Ben received a word of knowledge about wrist pain and asked if anyone in the girl’s family had wrist pain.  She extended her arm towards us and said that she had pain.  We prayed for her wrist, and the pain left right away.  Surprised, she went over and showed her friend.  God heals His children, because it’s His good pleasure.  That is love.

Natalie, Elizabeth, and I spent time talking to the girl who lives at Anamaria’s house (but is not her biological daughter) and realized her value was constantly being challenged.  She was treated more like a servant than a daughter and needed to know that her worth didn’t come from how many dishes she could wash but simply who she was as a daughter of God.  So we spent time talking, laughing, and telling her she was beautiful (something I am not sure she’d heard many times before).  She begged us to stay longer, and I realized maybe God had sent us just for her.

As the week progressed, we girls hung out at Juanita’s house as well to spend some time with Taylor, Moose, and Ben.  We realized it was God’s perfect plan to get the boys to Santa Elena.  If they hadn’t made it, we wouldn’t have had much connection with Juanita.  Juanita was another person who was slightly under the radar but in serious need of being noticed.  She worked for a tourism company that takes people to beautiful waterfalls a couple hours outside of the city and offered to take all six of us for free.  We gladly accepted her kind offer.  She seemed discouraged when we left Santa Elena, but while at the waterfalls, her spirit seemed lighter.  She had raised two sons who were now adults, and I think she felt a sense of family when she spent time with the boys on our team.  She smiled as she watched Moose and Taylor playing in the waterfalls and told us girls that they seemed like two big kids.  We laughed and agreed with her conclusion.  I could tell that Juanita missed her own sons, and some piece of her heart came alive when she was with us.  She told Natalie that she’d felt so sad lately, but when we came, she started to feel different.

Juanita opened up to us about how she’d been hurt within the church and was tired of being controlled.  Part of her wanted to leave the church, but she also longed to see change there.  She felt trapped and had no one to talk to.  Her husband already had bitterness against the church, and she knew venting to him would only cause more.  Within the church, she found herself unable to speak freely about the issues she observed.   When she saw that our team noticed the brokenness no one else wanted to admit, she opened up her heart to us.  As we spoke with Juanita, encouraged her, hugged her as she cried, and prayed for her, I knew it was no mistake we’d come to Venezuela.     

I wish I could say that by the time we left, everyone’s problems were reconciled, and revival and change broke out in the church.  Well, that didn’t happen.  There’s still a lot that needs to be confronted and dealt with in that little church in Santa Elena, Venezuela.  But despite the mess, we knew it was worth it to travel just to be with Juanita and the girl who lives in Anamaria’s house and some of those in the church who don’t normally get the time of day.  At times on the journey we’ve seen people dramatically healed of cancer or deafness; at other times we’ve seen remarkable inner healing.  Yet, at other times, all we get to see are tiny seeds planted; and the best we can do is pray they will grow into something beautiful.   

Heidi Baker, the founder of Iris Ministries, often says this simple expression.  “Stop for the One [God], and stop for the one [the person in front of you].”  Sometimes it’s this simple.  We don’t always get the glory we would like or see the fruit of our labor, but stopping for the One and stopping for the one needs to be enough.  It is enough.  A hug, a smile, or an encouraging word for somebody--it’s all worth it when we stop for the one.

Brazil: Our Crazy Life of Contrast

Just over a year ago, I hopped in a pick-up truck with three old friends, two bags, a bit of cash and my passport.  We drove to a church in Los Angeles where I met up with the original members of the Iris Latin America team.  I transferred my luggage from my friend’s truck to the team’s large green SUV, a vehicle that would soon become the closest thing I had to a home. 

I said goodbye to my friends and drove off with a group of strangers.  When I looked out the window at the streets of California, I still saw home; but when I looked at the people sitting next to me, I felt a million miles away. 

Now, a year later, these people have become my family.  This September, we celebrated our “team-iversary” of one year on the road.  We travel together, minister together, eat together, work out together, and hang out together.   We share everything—food, space, tears, money, beds, sickness, and laughter.  We’ve grown to around thirty people, and it’s not uncommon to squish all of us into sleeping quarters meant for ten or less.  We all know who has the wildest morning hair, who snores the loudest, who takes the longest in the bathroom, and who will be the crankiest without coffee.  We love each other through the car breakdowns, the miracles, the adventures, and through the mess.

Originally, we planned to complete our entire journey in eleven months.  Now, over a year later, we are just working our way up the coast of Brazil.  We still have four more countries to travel within South America, not to mention the islands of the Caribbean.  I’d be lying if I said this trip wasn’t a bit more than I had bargained for.  Mentally, I had set my mind to invest just a year’s worth of time, energy, travel, finances, physical discomfort, etc.  Yet, here I am with many months ahead, at times tired from the past but more determined than ever to finish the trip and to finish it well.

As I reflect upon the past twelve months, it is hard to believe all the craziness I have seen and experienced—both the good and the bad.   I have seen deaf ears opened, uneven legs grow even, a woman walking out of a wheelchair, and cancer healed.  I have stepped foot on seventeen countries.  I have traveled by, car, bus, train, motorhome, ferry, canoe, foot, and taxi. I have slept in cars, on top of cars, on the floor of an old bar, many church floors, the beach, sex motels, tents, a jungle hut, a pop-up camper, an RV, nice hotel beds, disgusting hostel beds, strangers’ homes, and more.  I have been to the beach, the jungle, the mountains, the dumps, the slums, and the nicest parts of some of the most amazing cities in the world.

The immense contrast that I experience every day is one of the most mind-blowing facets of this journey.  Months ago, one of my team members joked that whether we were told we were sleeping at a five-star hotel or on a cement floor, we would have the same reaction.  Neither would surprise us.

Our time in Brazil has been a continuation of striking contrast and constant adjustments.  This diverse country is a fascinating mix of buzzing city life, gang-polluted ghettos, fetid dumps, and stunning stretches of nature.  We began our time in Brazil in the region of Cabo Frio, a coastal area outside of Rio de Janeiro.  Carol (a Brazilian who joined our team in Chile) grew up in Rio state, and her family generously hosted all thirty of us at their Cabo Frio home.

Carol excitedly welcomed us to her city and arranged opportunities for us to bless her church and friends.   One afternoon, she brought a group of us to visit a Christian rehabilitation center for men.  Each man had a different story, but it seemed as if most had been homeless or addicted to drugs at some point before coming to the center.  The residents greeted us with huge smiles and proudly offered us an elaborate meal that included a special type of chicken that is only served on special occasions. Humbled by their generosity, we enjoyed the delicious lunch then went to the center’s chapel to worship with the residents.  Most of the men were voraciously hungry for the presence of God.  The rehab center was in a pretty isolated location, so the men were very excited to have visitors come who shared their faith.  The worship service was open and informal; it didn’t feel like a rehab center but more like a family simply seeking God together. 

Several people went up front to share words of encouragement, and we offered to pray for each individual afterwards. One older man sitting in front of us had been a gang leader and murdered many people before coming to the rehab center. He’d ended up in a wheelchair, which I assume was the result of being shot during his gang days.  A couple people prayed for him, but he was generally unresponsive.  Taylor disregarded his cold demeanor and boldly went in for a hug.  As he embraced this man, something changed.  I caught a glimpse of both Taylor and the man, arms wrapped around each other.  Several minutes later, I saw that they were still hugging, both now weeping as well.   I didn’t know what was happening, but I could clearly see that it was something powerful.  The old man’s heart was suddenly softening, and he began to cry out to God with desperation.  After a while, he let go of Taylor and raised his arms toward heaven, cheering and loudly praising Jesus. 

We later found out that literally the night before, this very man had said he wanted to leave the rehab center and declared that he hated God.  He had dealt with aggression all his life and only knew how to fight.  However, he didn’t know how to resist love.  Instead of coming against his malevolence with aggression, Taylor confronted him with love.  His warm hug melted away the anger and hurt, and this once bitter man was radically filled with the love of God. 

Later that week, a small group of us drove about two hours outside of Cabo Frio to meet up with members of a new church plant to minister in the red-light district of their city.  At one or two in the morning, we walked the streets looking for prostitutes and transvestites.  I saw a scantily-clad woman approach a car and lean in to talk to the driver.  After conversing for a moment, she lifted up her mini-skirt to prove to the potential customer that she was an authentic woman.  The man approved, and she walked around the front of the car, opened the passenger’s seat and drove off.  As I watched the car disappear, I wondered how that woman felt and how scary it would be to know you were about to sell your body to a stranger. 

Moments later, a group from my team approached a transvestite whose street name was “Sabrina.”  All prostitutes are massively disrespected, but the transvestites in this area were met with particular disdain.  They were so hated by some of the public that men would often drive through the red-light district and kill the transvestites. While my teammates talked with Sabrina, some men with guns drove by on a motorcycle.  The people from the church plant later explained that the men would probably have shot Sabrina if he were alone on the street corner.  Because my teammates and the church members were surrounding him, the men with guns backed off.  My teammates asked to pray for Sabrina, and he asked that they would use his real name, Junior, when they prayed.  “Sabrina” was just a character he played to make money, but he wanted prayer for his true self—the man Junior that was inside of him. 

After a beautiful week of ministering in Cabo Frio, we turned up the intensity a bit more and entered the heart of Rio’s slums.   Our second favela, or slum, was called Parada de Lucas--a dark area run by drug traffickers and gangsters.  Carol got in touch with the director of a YWAM base in the favela and said we were willing to spend three nights at their base.  The director explained that this was a bleak place, and no one ever wanted to visit. Carol said our team was called to the darkest places and was fully prepared to come.  Days before we arrived in the favela, the director contacted Carol to confirm that we really were coming. He said every group always ended up bailing; they all got afraid and gave up on the favela.  His voice cracking, he assured Carol, “I don’t blame you if you guys back out.  Everyone does.  I understand if you don’t come to visit us; I really do.”  But standing firm in what she’d agreed, Carol promised the director that our team would keep our word and visit his base.  

Two YWAM staff greeted us at a parking lot in the city and escorted us to the barren YWAM base which would become home for the next few days.  At first glance, I wasn’t sure how we would all fit inside.  The guys were instructed to sleep in the hallway or on the roof.  The girls slept on the floor of a few small bedrooms on the second floor.  My room had no electricity and no door.  The bottom floor of the building had a tiny kitchen and one toilet that didn’t flush.  Thirty people, days without showering, one non-flushing toilet, and tight sleeping quarters…you do the math. 

Any time we left the base, we were escorted by locals who had a relationship with the drug lords in order to keep us safe.  The streets were filled with the stench of weed and gang members who carried walkie-talkies to communicate with other gangsters and drug lords---the “protectors” of the favelas.  Fireworks constantly went off as a signal to warn people of the police’s presence.  The locals were accustomed to the fireworks and used them to gauge when to get out of the streets.  Clashes between police and gangs often erupted.

One day, our team had the opportunity to speak at two different schools within the favela.  We acted out a couple dramas for the kids and spoke at a school assembly for children aged six and up.  I talked to them about dreaming big, the constant interruption of fireworks bursting in the distance.  Some of the kids laughed when they went off; others didn’t react at all.  They were completely desensitized to the gang war going on around them.  As I looked at the children, I thought about the drug lords and gangsters I’d seen in the favela and how these kids could grow up to become the same.  I imagined the gang leaders as innocent children and wondered when their turning points had been.

It’s crazy, because no matter where I’ve gone, I find that kids are kids, even in the craziest of circumstances.  After we spoke at the school assembly, Carol asked the children if they wanted to ask us any questions about anything.  A brave volunteer raised her hand and asked, “Do you like cake?”  Ahh, the beautiful innocence and oblivion that exists in the mind of every six-year-old.  Though we’d talked about more serious topics and there was a clear war going on inside her neighborhood, all her little mind wondered at that moment was whether or not we liked cake.  I was reminded of the purity and innocence that every child is born with and saddened to know that it was only a matter of time before this little girl would be corrupted by the world outside of her.   It seemed impossible for such a naïve child to turn into something so evil.  Remembering that the gang leaders and traffickers had once been something so innocent and pure broke my heart for them.  They had simply been tainted by a corrupt system and were unable to find an escape.  Though they tried to intimidate others with fear, I know fear and manipulation actually marked their lives and had trapped them in a system that the deepest places in their hearts probably didn’t actually want to be a part of.   

After a few days of intertwining our lives with this twisted system, our team left the favela, many questions buzzing in our minds.  I wished we could have magically stopped gang violence, drug trafficking, and corrupting children in the snap of a finger.  I felt overwhelmed by the darkness and hopelessness I’d seen in the favela.  But then I remembered the gang leader in the rehab center whom Taylor had embraced until he began to cry out to Jesus and weep tears of repentance and love.  There is still so much I don’t understand, but I DO know that no one can resist 100% genuine love.

On our way out of the favela, three people from a local Iris church joined up with our team and brought us to their ministry in Rio before I’d even had a chance to wrap my brain around the past few days.  This trio visited garbage dumps in Rio every weekend to play with children, visit families, and often play films in the middle of the dump.   The three volunteers said no one ever wanted to come participate in their ministry, and it was a dream come true to have thirty people willing to come with them to the dumps.

They escorted us to a dump about a half hour from the favela.  Thirty minutes brought us to an entirely different world.  Piles of garbage were surrounded by winding dirt roads and shacks where families lived.  No Portuguese needed, I started kicking a soccer ball around with a little boy in the street, and others soon joined in.  Moments later, one of the little boys started chasing me down the dusty street with a chicken as I screamed and he giggled uncontrollably. 

Later, my teammates and I made house visits with the volunteers leading us.  The children from this neighborhood excitedly followed us from house to house, as we greeted different families and prayed for them.  Along the way, I found a little boy who’d gotten hurt and stood in the street crying.  I grabbed him and held him in my arms until his tears stopped.  Whenever I tried to put him down, he lifted his feet and wouldn’t touch the ground.  The atmosphere reminded me so much of Africa—kids freely roaming the streets, playing soccer, jumping into the arms of strangers with smiles and trusting hearts.  A piece of my heart felt at home in that place.

After a while, one of the girls who’d brought us to the dump said she was taking us to her family’s extra apartment where we could rest for a few days.  I wondered what kind of family had the money to have an “extra” apartment for guests and later found out this volunteer was actually a famous Brazilian bikini model.  She also happened to be the daughter of Pepeto, one of the most famous soccer players in Brazil who had basically won the World Cup for the Brazilian team in the nineties.  Turns out, some famous Brazilian models happen to love Jesus and hang out in the garbage dumps in their free time.

I had to take a moment to reflect on all that had happened in just one day.  My morning had started in the gang-infested favela; then I transitioned to an African-style dump.  And, oddly enough, the evening ended with a famous bikini model taking my team to her gorgeous apartment in one of the most posh parts of the city.  This type of day is an accurate reflection of the strange but beautiful contrast I have experienced throughout the last year.  I never know what is coming next; sometimes it’s hard, but it’s all part of the adventure.  As my team and I work our way up to the northern region of Brazil, I’m sure many more surprises are in store.  Please pray for the endurance and grace to receive every situation well and finish the continent in victory!