The Dominican Republic: Yo Soy Catalina

Yo soy Catalina.  My name used to be Caitlin, but no one here in the Dominican Republic can pronounce it.  “Caitlin” has become just a jumble of letters and sounds, something unrecognizable.  In Puerto Rico, I still had my name and some of my culture, but those days are over.  I’m Catalina again.  I’m a missionary in a foreign country again.  Having a holiday break in the states seems like a distant dream; now it’s back to reality.  In the Dominican Republic, I can’t depend on electricity or running water or internet.  I can’t go for a jog on my own in the neighborhoods where I stay.  I work with people who don’t speak my language or understand my culture.  People make constant comments about my hair, my skin, my body.  Caitlin is being squeezed out of me all over again.  Yo soy Catalina. 

As challenging as it’s been to jump back into life here after being in the states, I wouldn’t have it any other way.  As I sat in a poor farming village the other day, random dark-skinned children running their fingers through my hair and laughing, my heart felt at peace.  I’m in the right place.  Sure, I am challenged daily.  But I am blessed daily.  I love the islands.  I love the people here.  I love the kids, the prisoners, the lepers, and the senior citizens I’ve gotten to hang out with in the last few weeks.  I love the beautiful Caribbean ocean.  I love the simplicity of things here.  Though being Caitlin was a lot easier, I love being Catalina.

My team began our time in the Dominican Republic in the capital city of Santo Domingo.  After a short flight from Puerto Rico, we were greeted at the airport by Pastor Luis and Julio, his friend from the church.  While driving from the airport to the pastor’s home, I could already sense a stronger Caribbean flavor than what we’d experienced in Puerto Rico.  The main road from the airport into the city hugged the coast, providing us with breathtaking views of sparkling crystal-clear water.  Palm trees hid people in their shade and swayed with the rhythm of the gentle ocean breeze. 

On the way to Pastor Luis’s house, we pulled over at a man’s fruit stand where he treated each of us to a freshly cracked coconut.  We swigged the sweet milk straight from the coconut, then scooped out the remaining fruit.  Now we were in the real Caribbean.

As we continued driving, the roads became a bit more industrial, and we could sense a shift from laid-back Caribbean life to a chaotic favela community. Luis’s neighborhood is called La Canela, meaning “cinnamon” in Spanish.  And just like the spice, this neighborhood is a flavorful little barrio, bustling with people, commotion, and noise. Whether dogs barking, stereos blaring, children playing, street vendors announcing their products, or motorbikes whizzing by, noise rules La Canela at all hours.  The neighborhood is comprised of a series of steep up-and-down streets, weaving a wild labyrinth of roads filled with colorful homes. 

Upon entering Pastor Luis’s home, we were excitedly greeted by his beautiful and bubbly wife, Belkis. She had heard through the grapevine that Roberta loves a traditional Dominican food called la bandera which literally means “flag” in Spanish.  Belkis had a bowl on the kitchen table covered in a cloth and declared that she’d prepared la bandera for us.  She pulled the cloth away to reveal a literal bandera--a flag folded up in the bowl.  She burst into laughter at our look of surprise, pleased by our reaction to her clever joke.  Moments later, she whipped out the actual meal of la bandera and invited us to sit and enjoy.  We shared an amazing spread of rice, savory meat, and sautéed vegetables. 

Throughout the week, we spend much time at the kitchen table surrounded by good company and some of the best food of our entire Latin American journey.  Meals were a time to enjoy the local culture, share our hearts with Pastor Luis and his family, and gain corporate revelation about spiritual matters.  Luis and Belkis explained that normally when visitors come to their neighborhood, they offer them a place apart from their house where they stay on their own.  They are careful about who they let stay in their home.  We were all surprised, because we were under quite the opposite impression.  When we’d called Luis from Puerto Rico, he had offered us his home instantly, without asking a single question about us.  But while in his home, Luis explained that the Holy Spirit had moved inside him during our brief Skype call, and he immediately knew he needed to receive us.  Belkis nodded in agreement, explaining that when she prayed for us, the Holy Spirit told her we came with pure hearts.  We’d done nothing to cause such certain expectations and such a warm welcome.  God had done it all, and we undeservedly reaped the benefits of His work. 

Throughout the week, we worked within Pastor Luis’s church; but more importantly, we took the gospel outside of the building.  Preaching, sharing testimonies, and heading up a conference for church leaders were all good opportunities to share the love of God.  However, my heart really came alive when I got to do ministry outside the church walls.  Pastor Luis had hoped to light a fire for missions in his congregation, and we arranged several little outreaches that honestly began to spark something.  Many people from the church had been interested in evangelistic outreaches for a long time, but they’d never taken the initiative to organize them.  Our team got the ball rolling and initiated visits to houses within poorer areas of La Canela, a local prison, and a leper colony.  Everywhere we went, young people from the church ministered alongside us.  Once people saw how easy it was to jump in and how God worked so powerfully through these outreaches, they excitedly declared that they would continue the work after we left. 

Pedro, a young pastor from Luis’s church, accompanied us on every outreach; and the fire inside him transformed from a spark to a burning flame in just a few days.  He had a natural gift for preaching and evangelism but wasn’t yet operating in his full potential.  The Lord had given him a vision to preach in every prison in the Dominican Republic, but he’d never been to a jail yet.  So we went to a prison with him and encouraged him to preach.  Pedro wanted to share the gospel outside the church, but had no platform to do so.  So we went house to house within La Canela and prayed for needy families.  Pedro wanted to pray for the sick, so we went to a leper colony together.  He loved every moment.

During every outreach, we saw hearts touched and enjoyed our own breakthroughs with the Lord.  But I saw the greatest breakthrough in Pedro’s life, and I rejoice for what God is doing in him.  His eyes were opened up to countless ministry opportunities within his own community, and many doors were opened that he may not have attempted to open on his own.  By the end of our time together, Pedro felt empowered to continue with the ministry we began together.  Other members of the church were starting to catch that fire for missions as well; and I believe we witnessed the start of a powerful evangelism team who will share the gospel around Santo Domingo for years to come. 

To be honest, I sometimes worry about coming into a city for only a week or so, because I don’t know what will happen after we leave. I wonder if our efforts ever go to waste.  But God reminded me that He is faithful to complete the work He starts.  In Santo Domingo, He connected us to the right people to follow through with the work that was started during our time there.  I am confident that Pedro will revisit the houses within La Canela, the prison, and maybe even the leper colony.  I am excited to hear about what God does through his life and the life of others within his church.

One of our greatest moments together happened while visiting homes inside La Canela. While walking through the maze of small homes that comprise the neighborhood, we encountered an older couple who asked for prayer for different health issues.  The wife said she had pain in her back and knees, so we prayed for God to heal her.  After, we asked if she could do anything now that she couldn’t do before.  She began to bend over and twist.  Realizing that she hadn’t been able to do those movements just moments prior, she began to celebrate her healing and excitedly praise God. 

The woman was a Christian and wanted her husband to know Jesus as well.  We asked how we could pray for him, and he explained that he had a heart condition in addition to diabetes.  Earlier in the day, he had attempted walking from his bed to the front door but wasn’t able.  He’d become too dizzy and had to return to his bed.  We prayed for God to heal him too and afterwards asked him to try to walk.  This time, the man walked to the door and back without problems.  His dizziness was gone.

The man sat back down and explained that he had not yet accepted Jesus into his life. But he was happy that God had chosen to heal him nonetheless.  So were we.  The man went on to explain that during this very week God had begun to speak into his heart.  God was inviting him into His love.  Just one day prior to our visit, the man felt a real desire to go to church.  He said he had been too sick to get there, but declared that God had brought church to his house today.  His eyes radiated with true joy.  His body looked old, but his eyes were like those of a boy—excited, pure, and captivated by the love of His father.  The man said he wanted to pray with us; and inside his little home, he accepted Jesus into his life.  Because God had just touched his body, it appeared as if he would now be physically strong enough to go to church.  But no matter what, I rejoice that his heart was touched by God’s love, and no sickness can ever take that away from him.

After a week in Santo Domingo, we prepared to move on to our next city in the Dominican Republic.  We had originally planned to travel to Santiago, but after going in circles with our contacts there, we realized this was another closed door.  Pastor Luis went to bat for us and made several calls to pastor friends around the country.  We waited to see what came through.  We needed to leave on Wednesday, and on Tuesday night, we still had no idea where we were going.  All we knew was that we were going to the bus station in the morning and would get on a bus—to somewhere.  On Tuesday at midnight, plans were confirmed.  We made plans with just hours to spare!  A pastor from the city of La Romana invited us to work with his church and stay with a family from his congregation.  La Romana is a coastal city about two hours east of Santo Domingo.  With no other options, we hopped on a bus to La Romana and hoped for the best.

And the best is what we got!  We were met at the bus station and hosted by two of the most joyful people I’ve ever met.  Always-laughing Ramone welcomed us into his home, constantly calling us beautiful, giving us hugs, and sharing funny stories.  His gorgeous wife, Lucy, showered us with hospitality as well—working tirelessly to prepare amazing meals and serving us with a smile on her face.  The kindness of strangers blew me away once again.  I immediately felt at home and looked forward to hearing Ramone’s infectious laughter each day.

One evening, while eating dinner, Ramone told my teammates and I that he’d seen us in a vision two weeks before we arrived.  He had forgotten about the vision until that moment and then realized he’d seen the whole scene before.  He explained that he’d seen each one of us sitting around his table, talking.  We’d had no idea where we were going until midnight the night before, but Ramone had seen us weeks ago.  God had it planned all along.  Crazy.

We worked at Ramone and Lucy’s church, attending prayer meetings and preaching (apparently I’m a preacher now); but again the work outside the church walls is what really moved my heart.  We connected with several women from the church who accompanied us to a senior home, a prison, an orphanage, and a Haitian community outside the city.  One of the women, Maria Teresa, astonished me with her faith.  She lives in a poor community and visits homes in her neighborhood almost every morning, sharing the gospel and praying for people.  She regularly visits a local orphanage and a prison as well.  She has almost nothing, but everything she receives, she gives to others.  She waits for God to provide enough money for her to catch a bus to the prison and uses those coins on bus fare instead of her own needs.  She walks long distances to get other places.  She works tirelessly, day after day, loving people with radical abandon, yet receiving no glory.  She is a faceless, nameless woman who will probably never receive due honor here on earth. 

When I travel, I have strangers taking me into their homes and cooking me feasts.  When I’m in the U.S., I have people showering me with generosity, praising me for simply doing the work I love.  Yet, there are local people in these poor countries who never get praise, honor, or glory.  They work simply because their hearts are full of the love of Christ.  Maria Teresa is one of these women.  She is a hero, and the world will never know.

I had already fallen in love with her genuine heart, but when I heard more of her story, I was literally in awe.  Maria Teresa’s father had been her closest companion, the man she adored.  He was unjustly murdered, and three men were accused of the crime.  Instead of resorting to anger or bitterness, Maria Teresa chose to love.  God told her to go to the prison and pray for the men who had killed her father.  She started visiting the men who had been accused—to show them love.  The three alleged killers all claim innocence, but they are still awaiting trial, so there’s no proof either way.  Maria Teresa doesn’t care whether the men are guilty or innocent.  She loves these men, and they love her.  Over time, she’s become a mama to them.  They adore her and shower her with affection when she walks into the prison.  Maria Teresa is a walking story of forgiveness and God’s redemption.  Wow.

Normally, she goes to prison alone whenever she can save up enough to get there.  This time, my teammates and I arranged for a vehicle and went with Maria Teresa.  She was very glad to have company and thankful for transportation.  We arrived at the prison and were told to leave all our belongings at a dodgy kiosk outside the jail.  We waited in the scorching sun for about an hour and a half, our water bottles and sunglasses already confiscated.  Finally, we were led into the jail, where we underwent the most humiliating prison security inspection yet.  We might as well have been prisoners ourselves.  Each of us still reeling from the shock of that experience, we walked into the main meeting room where inmates were receiving visitors. 

Immediately, we were greeted by a smiling Angelio, one of the accused killers.  He didn’t look like he could hurt a fly.  He was probably a few years younger than me, and I could see all he wanted was someone to hug.  We sat down with him and chatted about his life.  He said he used to live a godless life—doing drugs and getting into trouble.  Open and honest about his past, he admitted he was far from perfect but declared that he had not killed Maria Teresa’s father.  He had been accused of committing the crime with two other men whom he’d never met prior to being thrown in prison.  When he met them in jail, he heard they’d been accused of the same crime and were his alleged partners in crime.

Angelio wanted his freedom back but said that he was thankful he’d met Jesus in prison.  He said God had actually shown him mercy by bringing him to jail.  All his friends from the streets had been killed.  His life was heading in the same direction, but God spared him.  Now Angelio knew God, cleaned up his life, and had hope in something greater.  But the thought of never leaving prison was more than he could bear.   He wanted to be free and start a clean life.  He wanted to have friends he could trust.  He wanted to see his mom.

We asked if we could pray for Angelio, and he knelt down in the middle of us, reaching out to hold me and Aleeza’s hands.  Tears poured down his cheeks as we prayed for him.  Afterwards, he stood back up and said, “I didn’t do it. I didn’t do it.”  He looked like a child, scared and longing for comfort.  Without knowing quite what to say, we sat with him and held his hands.  Roberta sat with her arm around him, and he drank in her presence like a young child does with his mother.  He broke my heart.

Visiting hours quickly faded, and we had to say goodbye.  Angelio left us with a smile, and I forced a smile back, knowing freedom was just steps away for me and maybe years away for him.  I believed in his innocence but knew the corrupt system could easily find a way to prove otherwise.  I wondered what Maria Teresa thought, but then I remembered that she doesn’t care.  All she wants is to love.  And she does.  She loves Angelio with all her heart.  And he knows it.

Yo soy Catalina.  I am a blessed woman.  I think my life is hard sometimes, and then I look at the world around me.  I am free.  I am loved.  I get to see what God is up to all around the world.  In the Dominican Republic, He’s up to a lot of good.  He’s using selfless people to reflect His incredible heart of grace, love, and forgiveness.  And lucky me—I get to see it.  I am humbled by my time in the DR and amazed by God’s goodness.  His love is beautiful beyond words.

Puerto Rico: Our Island Adventure Begins!

God…is…so…cool.

He does weird things, unexpected things—things that make no sense in the eyes of the world.  Walking with Him is such an adventure, because we never know what’s next.  But I suppose that’s the fun part—taking risks and watching Him provide beyond what we could ever imagine.

During my holiday break, I spent a good chunk of time preparing for the last leg of the Iris Latin America journey—the Caribbean.  After very suddenly being designated our new team leader, I had mixed feelings.  Such authority felt like both a huge privilege and a heap of unwanted pressure.  Though leading gave me an opportunity to plan the Caribbean trip the way I’d always envisioned it, it also meant accepting the burden of anything that went awry.   

As I wondered how things would pan out, God continually reminded me that this was a season to dream with Him, as a daughter dreaming with her Father.  My decade-long desire to minister in the islands was coming to fruition, and I needed to maintain a heart of thanks, not a heart of worry.  Serving in the Caribbean would not be a test of obedience but a test of belief—would I dare to dream with God and trust Him to bless the desires of my heart?

While praying, I felt God told me that our team would go to five countries (or territories) in the Caribbean.  My heart is to travel to the neediest islands, so the DR, Haiti, Cuba, and Jamaica seemed like no-brainers.  But God told me our first island would be Puerto Rico. I was confused as to why we’d waste any time in this affluent U.S. territory and had no desire to go.  In addition, whenever I attempted to land contacts in Puerto Rico, every door seemed to slam shut.  However, regardless of circumstances, I knew God had something significant for us in Puerto Rico.  Natalie had a vision of a closed door and an invisible hand opening it.  I didn’t know how or when, but I did believe God would open doors for us.  My teammates and I took a leap of faith and booked our tickets to Puerto Rico before establishing a single contact on the island. 

During the holiday break, I thanked God every day--for His plans for the Caribbean team and for the doors He had promised to open.  Time passed.  I sent a million emails.  I heard nothing in return…then more of nothing…and still nothing.

Just a week before our flights, I received an email from a pastor of Bethel Church in California.  He’d mysteriously lost a message I’d sent him weeks past and apologized profusely for getting back to me so late.  He figured it was too late at this point, but forwarded me the information of a pastor in Puerto Rico nonetheless.  I immediately emailed Edwin, the Puerto Rican pastor, and told him about our team.  I received a response fifteen minutes later.  After a couple emails and a few phone calls, we had a ride from the airport, a place to stay, and an amazing church to work with. 

Days later, I said goodbye to my family, my comfortable bed, my hot shower, and my home turf.  I boarded the plane to Puerto Rico and faced that moment I dread every time I return to the mission field—that painful moment of tension between excitement for the adventure ahead and the fear of territory completely unknown.  It’s the ache of turning my back on my loved ones and everything familiar, while trying to be strong enough to run into my destiny.  It’s that moment where I am exactly where I am supposed to be, yet loss and fear try to tell me otherwise—and where pieces of myself are painfully squeezed out of me, making room for new cultures, new friends, and new missions.

Upon landing, the blast of warm air in the San Juan airport eased my spinning mind.  The heat of the island made everything seem better.  My teammates and I happily reunited and were soon picked up by Edwin and his beautiful wife, Maggie.  They drove us to their home in the city of Arecibo, where they explained that we would be split between their home and their friend Barbie’s house.   Barbie explained that when her husband built their home, he purposefully added extra rooms to house guests in the future.  They wanted to provide a safe haven for missionaries and told us that their house was just as much ours as theirs.  Barbie’s daughter, Sally, agreed to escort us throughout the island for the following ten days—taking us to home groups, prayer meetings, church services, homeless outreaches, evangelism events on the beach and in the marketplace.  Sally was the best guide we could have asked for.  Full of love, generosity, solid faith, and lots of laughs, she quickly became like a sister on our team.

One morning, Sally took Natalie, Roberta, Alan, and I to a rehab center for men.  The men who live there were war veterans, former drug addicts, and homeless.  We gathered the men and sat in a circle as many of them looked at us with skepticism.  We explained that we were missionaries who had been traveling throughout Latin America for the past fourteen months and had recently begun our travels around the Caribbean.  Natalie shared some testimonies of how God had moved in rehab centers we’d visited in Colombia and Brazil.  I shared the story of our friend Godfrey who had been set free from addiction in Belize.  Alan and Roberta shared parts of their personal testimonies, and Roberta asked the men what their dreams were. 

One by one, the men shared the deepest dreams of their hearts with us and with each other.  One man dreamt of being a missionary.  Another dreamt of having his own home.  Yet another said he dreamt of preaching.  Still others remained quiet and ashamed.

We offered to pray for each individual, and a man named Renaldo hesitantly approached Alan and me.  He said that he’d done many bad things in his past, and terrible thoughts still haunted him.  He listed some of his past crimes and then silently made a gesture indicating that he had shot people, too ashamed to speak the words aloud.  I asked him if he’d forgiven himself, but it was clear he was not yet able to do so. 

As Alan and I prayed for Renaldo, I saw two pictures.  The first was a vision of his past.  He was hiding, about to do something destructive, but he was filled with fear.  The second picture was of his future.  He was dressed nicely, standing in front of a crowd with a microphone in his hands, speaking to children.  After we prayed, I asked Renaldo if anything in his childhood had caused him to fear.  He paused for a moment, sadness filling his eyes.  Slowly, he opened his mouth.  “When I was young,” he began, “My father did bad things to me.  He beat me; he grabbed me.  He did black magic.  There were frightening things happening.” 

I wanted to tell him about the good I saw coming in his future, but he beat me to it.  “You know, I had a dream that I was preaching in the future.  But I just don’t know if I could do that.”  I saw doubt written all over his face.  Some part of him wanted to believe his dream, but more of him felt he was too much of a failure.

I told Renaldo what I’d seen during prayer—that I had a glimpse of the fear that ruled his past.  I explained that the enemy was using fear to keep him from his destiny.  I told Renaldo that he was called to be a protector and had a destiny to protect children from feeling the same fear that he did.  I described my vision of him speaking to crowds, especially youth.  I assured him that his dream will one day become true—that his testimony will be a powerful example of how God can change someone’s life.  There was no reason to live in shame.  The rougher your past, the more your story can show what a powerful transformation God is able to make. 

As I confirmed Renaldo’s dream, rather than agreeing with the lie that he’ll never be good enough, his eyes lit up.  He looked like a child, eager and happy.  His countenance shifted from shame to hope.  He asked my permission to give me a hug, and I opened my arms to him.  He embraced me, then went to each one of my teammates, declaring that he needed a hug from each person.  When we said farewell, he was still smiling from ear to ear.

Everywhere we went, I had the privilege of watching God touch peoples’ hearts.  In every church, God gave us specific words for people, and many were moved to tears as they encountered the love of Christ.  Countless people approached us to tell us different things we’d said confirmed desires or promises in their hearts.  Person after person told us how deeply touched, encouraged, and moved they were. God blew us away by using even the littlest details to bring people hope. 

During one youth meeting, we prayed for those who felt called to the mission field.  Natalie gave a general word that she believed some people in the group were called to China, Indonesia, and Latin America.  She wasn’t sure who these words were for, but announced them regardless.

One guy stepped forward and said he was called to China, some Arabic countries, and Russia.  He explained that he knew a bit about China and the Arab world, but Russia was completely unknown territory for him.  When he realized Natalie was from Russia (and speaking about China), he was intrigued.  He also explained that the shirt she was wearing confirmed that the Lord was speaking.  His ministry was called Kingdom Come Ministries, and he’d had either a dream or a vision of a castle of many colors.  Funnily enough, Natalie happened to be wearing a shirt with a castle on it and very colorful letters that read, “Let your kingdom come.”  Lord, I thought, how very clever you are.  You can use a Russian girl’s T-shirt to confirm someone’s calling.  God is cool like that.

The longer we stayed in Puerto Rico, the more I realized God had not just brought us here to serve others but to receive blessings ourselves.  Though the heart of Iris Ministries is to go into the darkest places, God still has some pleasant surprises up His sleeve for His children.  He undoubtedly brought us to Puerto Rico, meaning “Rich Port”, and quickly showed us unexpected riches that matched the island’s name.

First of all, besides being provided with comfortable and beautiful accommodation, the churches where we served gave us financial blessings beyond my wildest dreams.  One church gave us each an envelope with an incredibly generous donation inside.  When I opened it, I gasped in shock.  It was enough to cover my flight from New York to Puerto Rico as well as half of my flight to the Dominican Republic! 

Secondly, starting our journey in Puerto Rico helped create a smooth transition coming from the mainland U.S.  The island is a U.S. territory and contains much evidence of mainland U.S. culture yet maintains its own Latino flavor as well.  It was nice to transition back to speaking Spanish in a place where most people are bilingual and could help remind me of the words I’d forgotten over Christmas break.  I appreciated easing back into Latin American life with some familiar comforts from the continental U.S.  As we travel next to the Dominican Republic, it will feel a little less like home, and by the time we get to Haiti, we’ll be in a different world.  The gradual transition from place to place makes the process a lot less jarring.  God knew our itinerary before we did and is very intentionally taking care of our hearts and needs.

Lastly, and most importantly, our time in Puerto Rico provided us with godly connections for our remaining time in the islands.  Though Puerto Rico itself didn’t quite fit in with my vision to go to the poorest places, the pastors in Puerto Rico had the connections we needed to get into those places.  While in Texas for Christmas, Natalie received a prophecy that we would meet a man of influence in Puerto Rico who would help us have a smooth journey throughout the rest of the islands.  Name-dropping would connect us and provide for us as we traveled; and our path would be smooth, restful, and easy.  Pastor Edwin and his brother Ephraim are incredibly well-connected throughout the Caribbean, and working with their church has already opened up doors for us in the Dominican Republic, Haiti, and Cuba.  Though I had originally thought it might well be impossible for Americans to enter Cuba, Ephraim has informed us otherwise.  He has gone there many times recently and knows all the ins-and-outs of traveling there legally as a U.S. Citizen.  He’s provided us with connections and information that is giving me hope and excitement to get into Cuba.  Things are panning out a hundred times smoother than I ever dreamed possible.

And as we planned for the next country, the Dominican Republic, God once again both closed doors and opened doors that I could never have opened on my own.  I had been in contact with someone from the Dominican Republic for almost two months, and spent lots of time exchanging emails, Skype calls, and messages.  However, I waited for a final confirmation for quite some time.  I was desperately trying to nail down the contact, to finalize our arrangements—knocking down the door with my own strength but getting nowhere.  Our new friends here in Puerto Rico gave us the name of a Dominican pastor and told us to call him.  After a four-minute Skype conversation, we once again had a ride from the airport, a place to stay, and ministry opportunities in Santo Domingo.  After months of communication and failing to plan anything productive, God provided everything we needed in just four minutes. 

Our time in Puerto Rico set us up very nicely for the rest of our journey.  God called us to Puerto Rico to bless others but also to bless us.  He showed me the futility of putting pressure upon myself to plan the itinerary.  God clearly designed our itinerary from the start.  All I needed to do was simply tell Him my dream, and now I get to enjoy the ride.

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.