Certainly God can raise the dead, but I’m thinking a town full of roosters could do the same. This early morning rousal doesn’t take into account the cemetery on the edge of town.

Hum. More to ponder.

It felt good to offer an orientation tour of town and our previous building sites to to the 4 other missionaries making their first trip to Telica. “We built this house, and that house, last time we were here.” “I’m told we built this one, and that one, too.” Indeed, our church’s mission had accomplished much in eight previous missions.

I was feeling pretty smug.

It didn’t take long. Soon the neighborhood sprang to life. While I was admiring buildings, people poured out of their homes to greet us. Most remembered me. I am the Pastore. I was soon making introductions every 3 steps.

Introductions, hugs, and smiles are the polite, expected thing to do. But soon we were drawn into friends homes, presented new babies, shown how much junior had grown in the past two years, and had flower gardens proudly displayed. We were led through a maze of paths and hidden back fence passage ways from one family to another.

One husband and wife pulled out a machete and quickly brought down a branch of plantains, hacking away perilously close to low hanging wires. As we left, we were presented with 5 bags of their wonderful tropical fruit. No expectations that they’d be paid. It was a generous gift between friends.

Humbling.

Poverty is about what you don’t have. Yet, wealth isn’t about what you possess. Five bags of plantains are a symbol to me that wealth is about what you give away; your time, your money, your heart, God’s love.

Yes, we are here to accomplish a goal packed agenda. But more importantly, we’re here to give it all away, make and keep friends, all for the glory of God.

Our two week visit to Telica was coming to an end.

Vacation Bible School (VBS) had been a big hit. Each of the three hundred children who attended received a roll, something to drink, and a dose of the Good News every day. It is painful for me to contemplate the fact that, for some, this may have been their only meal. Nicaragua is the second poorest nation in the hemisphere. At least every child knew they were loved by God and their new friends from the north.

The three houses the other members of our team had been working on were turning out pretty good. Concrete had been mixed on the ground, poured into shallow footers, and cinder block walls had risen to give shape to new houses.  Even a 12 foot deep bano had been dug out back of each, covered by a properly secured one-holer. The women and children who would become the new home owners need some sort of protection when they have to use the bathroom in the middle of the night.

Distributing clothing and medical supplies had been gratifying, but not nearly as fun as hosting a baseball tournament for all the kids in town and buying each of the players boiled, under-sized hot dogs from a local vendor.

I was tired and I wasn’t going to miss the hard cane bed I had been sleeping on each night.

Our team of 20 North American teachers and builders assembled our final evening at the three newly constructed houses as I put on my liturgical game face. We dedicated each house to the glory of God and handed over the keys to each new home owner.

Well, to be honest, the keys were metaphorical, since the doors were still to be built. The roofs would also have to be installed after we left. But each house was close enough in my book to go ahead with the dedication.

After the celebration was completed and the neighborhood crowds had dispersed, Beemer sought me out and pulled me aside. There was a frantic look in her eyes as she held up a paper for my inspection.

Remember, this Gringo no hablo Espanol!

It looked like a past due electric bill and Beemer owed … Let me see. I did some quick calculations in my head. Carried the two, multiplied by the exchange rate, and rounded up for safe measure. It looked like Beemer was hitting me up for about 6 bucks. Six bucks!

Sure, I thought to myself, having yet to read “When Helping Hurts” by Steve Corbett and Brian Fikkert. I pealed out the foreign bills without a moments hesitation. Instead of joy, I saw Beemers countenance fall, even as she forced a smile, thanked me, and turned and walked away.

I failed to understand. At the same time, I assumed something wasn’t right.

Right before turning in, most of us were sitting in front of the house in cheep plastic chairs watching kids playing foot ball in the street. Families had come to say good bye to us, thank us for our efforts, and giving us their blessings. We were headed out first thing in the morning. Emotions were raw and many eyes were filled with tears.

“You see Beemer this evening?” I overheard one ask another.

“Yeah. She was asking me to pay her electric bill.”

“She was?” I piped in, even though it wasn’t my conversation or place to speak. “She asked me the same thing.” I felt anger begin to bubble up, as if I had been played for a fool. I assumed I’d been scammed. How could I have been so dumb?

“Yeah. It was her electric bill five months in arrears. She owed thirty bucks, but she’d only take twenty-four.”

The universe stood still. Comprehension was slow, but coming.

I deserved this hard mat bed, I later thought to myself in the dark, when no one else could see my eyes filled with tears. This is what I get for making assumptions and being so wrong, so very wrong.

I assumed Beemer was scamming me. She wasn’t. I assumed the bill was for one month; it was for five. I jumped to the conclusion that Beemer was dishonest; yet, she was so honest that she only accepted that which she owed, nothing more.

And, oh. By the way, some of those Dollar Store extension cords in Beemers house were supplying electricity to her neighbors as well.

Poverty isn’t about money or wealth. Here I found myself broken and poor, deeply in need of repair, desperately seeking God’s redemption. I had sinned against the maternal voice of the neighborhood, the tamale baker of Telica.

Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy on me, a sinner.

Early the next morning, Beemer showed up to see us off. Her gold teeth glittered as she smiled. She gave me a bear hug, turned, and disappeared as she walked away.

I made a friend and her name is Beemer. Well, not actually. Her real name is that of an other expensive European sports car, but from where she is from, it’s doubtful she will ever take a ride in her namesake.

Beemer is my friend and she lives in Telica, Nicaragua.

She is a mother of many (unknown to me), living with other women in the family. There are no men around. “Speak no English” is a helpful phrase that keeps me from delving into conversations I have no right to enter.

Beemer has a mouth full of gold, reflective of the dentistry techniques of the local provider. Living on dollars a month, I have no idea how this works out, but the gold covers over rotted and malnourished teeth, and gives her a glint in her smile. I can only imagine how much it must ache to chew with those teeth.

Beemer is contagiously happy!

Maybe this is one reason I like her so much. She had met many of my other team members on our short term mission trip, since many of them are repeat missionaries. Many of our companions have built friendships with numerous local families and children. Some have even sponsored youth through trade schools or paid their college tuition.

Beemer flung her arms in the air and ran to greet us when we appeared at her gate. She had been cooking tamales with other, younger women, in a large pot over an open fire. The women of the family earn their money by selling tamales on the streets to the people of Telica.

She was introduced to me, she smiled, glittered, and gave me a big hug, as if I was some kind of long lost uncle.  Okay, then; “when in Rome,” I thought to myself.

Beemer was so proud of her house, one that our team had build on a previous visit. She insisted on giving us a tour. Pointing out a door frame that needed repair, she led us into the interior darkness, even while we were still swimming in the 95 heat and humidity.

The place was a magnet for Dollar Store extension cords, hanging from the roof, each (under)powering various appliances. The walls were adorned with blurry photographs, presumably members of her family, each dressed in a graduation gown, holding a diploma. Graduation is a big deal in Telica.

Beemer was so proud to point out improvements she had made to her house since it was built. She conversed with Spanish speaking members of our group, pointing up, down, over here, and over there. I stood in the background, arms folded, grateful to be invited into this woman’s home.

As the group filed out, Beemer pulled on my pant leg to stay behind. She turned and put an index finger in front of her lips. She wanted to show the new pastor from New York something. Through a nearly invisible passageway, Beemer led me behind a black plastic wall to a small bedroom in the back. Following was one of the many small children who belonged to Beemer’s household.

Lying on the bed was an infant baby, asleep, breathing shallowly, gnats flying around.

Beemer showed her golden smile as I sat on the edge of the bed and cupped my hand upon the child’s head, offering a humble blessing. She was beautiful; obviously a grand-daughter or great grand-daughter. It’s impossible for me to tell. What I can tell you, is that love filled the space; the love of a grandmother for a child, a universal love that so many of us share across boarders and cultures, across time and space.

All love comes from God, who first gives it. Each of us are so blessed to be recipients of God’s love. Church people, like myself, call this grace. We are even more blessed when we receive love that was freely given, and, in turn, freely give it away.

It is easy to love family. If I am willing to get over myself, put myself out there, and show a willingness to make new friends, I’ve found that it is just as easy to love new friends, too.

How about you?

The appointment to my new parish was confirmed with a confident handshake and the statement “and of course, you’ll be going with us to Nicaragua in January.”

“Of course,” I said, hoping no one would notice the sweat starting to form on the top of my lip. The contents of my gastro-intestinal tract were quickly becoming a swelling, stewing, stoking sign of fear.

Other than heights and eating bugs, not many things scare me. But the thought of going to a Central American country on a mission trip was starting to take hold of my deepest fears. After all, who hadn’t heard of Iran-Contra, Daniel Ortega, and the Communist influence in Central American civil wars?

My goodness, 24-hour news channels over the years had painted a picture in my mind of Nicaragua as an Iron Curtain, goose stepping kind of place, filled with mindless soldiers wielding Kalashnikovs, where everyone thumbed their nose at the Imperialist United States.

I was scared.

And I was wrong.

I’m learning that people are people all around the world. People get up before dawn, make breakfast, get their children off to school. People work hard, multiple jobs, six or seven days a week, just trying to feed their family and put cloths on their backs. People look up to the stars and ask, “Is this all there is? or is there more?”

Babies are born out of pain, tragedy strikes like lightening, the elderly quietly suffer in loneliness. Drops of Holy Water are splayed in the sign of the cross by those who enter sacred spaces. Children jump rope, squeal with delight over a wand from a jar of bubbles, and squeeze themselves in line to take a turn at wacking a pinata with a stick. Coffee brews, carts of shaved ice circle the village park, and older men tip back in their chairs while talking quietly and watching before them a game of pick up foot ball in the street.

International Christian ministries are about people, not politics.

The fear that gripped me began to fade away as I look out the window of the Delta flight and saw the poverty that surrounded the single landing strip airfield. Some old 50’s era military helicopters off to the side looked sad, tired, and rusted; like they hadn’t flown in years. Cooking fire smoke drifted up from Managua homes into the sky like there was some connection to heaven.  Even the gruff looking customs inspector at the airport looked like he was compensating for something. He couldn’t fool me.

I could feel the grace of God seeping into my consciousness like water drawn to a sponge. Smiles and waves and warm Hola’s were signs that people just want to be friends.

Being scared is natural, yet it also reveals within me a lack of confidence in my own faith. I know that God is in control. This is God’s world. There is no reason to fear. I’m human; which means, like you, I am a work in progress, flawed, bent, and brittle. Yet, despite it all, making new friends is God’s way of overcoming my fears and drawing me towards Christian perfection.

Scared? Not enough to keep me from going back.

How about you?

But I’ll call him Dino.

The 13 year old who stood before me begging for my watch had quite a reputation.

Other short-term missionaries who had been to our rural Nicaraguan village numerous times in the past had seen Dino grow up from a small child. They reported:

Dad; not in the picture.

Mom; did unspeakable things to earn or steal money, and who place her concerns before either of her two children.

Little sister; hanging on for dear life. Dino watched out for her and shared his spoils.

Dino, begged, borrowed, or stole everything. He popped up anywhere, everywhere, and at any time throughout the village, often when least expected. He knew all the secrets of every family in town. His classroom disruptions were legendary. One of our team told me “he’s got a little devil in him.” He was tolerated by all, but dismissed like a three minute tropical rain storm, without a second thought.

Dino was sensitive. His feelings were easily hurt, and from his body language, he was carrying a life time of disappointments on his under nourished shoulders.

Dino came to vacation Bible school, the week-long effort our team hosted at the local elementary school. In a crowd of 300 children, Dino hung out amongst the fringes. Older kids picked on him. Younger kids kept their distance. Yet, as regular as a jeweler’s personal time piece, Dino would show up every day for opening exercises and class.

Dino showed up in my class of senior high youth. He was breaking new ground. Yet, he yearned for acceptance so bad it was painful. He was playing the part of the village idiot as if he had a life time of rehearsing for the part. My English was translated to localized Spanish and I could see his brows furrow and tears well up in his eyes when I said, “Dino, either you’re going to work in our class, or you can sit quietly on the side.”

Dino chose neither.

He breathed hard, got up, and stormed out.

That noon at lunch, the chit-chat over the events of the morning turned to Dino. “Yes,” I said. “True to form, he got angry and blew out of my classroom.” Everyone shook their head as if we all understood. Turns out none, but one, did.

… except for one teacher, who had younger elementary children in her class. She understood. “Did you know,” she began slowly, “that midway through my class this morning, Dino popped in, and asked me if there was any way he could help?” For the rest of the class (and for the rest of the week), Dino assisted in the classroom by being a very successful teacher’s aide, teaching vacation Bible school.

Later in the week, in the evening, prior to retiring for the night, I sat on a chair watching the neighborhood kids swarming us in the street, playing some pick up street football, and just hanging with us odd North American visitors.  Dino came up to me smiling. We didn’t share the same language.

“You become a Padre some day?” I asked, holding my index finger like a clerical collar. After a few attempts at translation, I could see understanding descend upon him like a veil. Dino laughed, and giggled, shook his head and pointed at me, then turned and disappeared into the dusk.

Twice in one day I wondered about this question. Physically exhausted carrying building supplies and making home visits to local families in the high altitudes of Mayan lands, the first request came from a Hands of Jesus team member who heard a 4 year old girl was very ill and the family requested we come and pray for her. I brought up the tail as the group descended down a mountainous trail into a maze of homes and alleyways. I fell behind and found myself alone on the trail. I looked down and wondered if I could go on. The eyes of numerous children were upon this heavily breathing Gringo.

No. This isn’t a reflection on the video game I so enjoyed years ago. This is a second take on serving God’s kingdom in the high altitudes of Mayan Guatemala.

A retired colleague of mine, who has been coming to Guatemala for decades, replied that when ever he was here and experienced an earthquake that it stirred imagery of creation.

I was marked. Seeing the mark on my hand made me think of the marks Jesus obtained by his crucifixion.

My mark came from the ink identifying wheelchair size. 18 stands for eighteen inches in width. While working with others to obtain a good fit for one of fifty people from Guatemala City in need of a wheelchair, my grasp transferred the ink to my palm.

Guatemala, I am told, is a geologically active region that rings the Pacific. Volcanoes are everywhere. Earthquakes are frequent. Apparently we’d been experiencing earthquakes nearly every day on our mission trip this past August. I hadn’t felt one of them.

I’ve always wanted to, but I did not want to experience an earthquake so large that people or property would be hurt. So I am picky about geological events, as if I had one ounce of control.

On one of the last days in Guatemala, I felt my first earthquake. Sitting in a third story dinning room, it gently rolled the floor and rocked the pictures hanging on the walls. How cool!