washing the feet of the shoe shiners

We started a shoe shiner bible study a few months back and usually ten or so shoe shiners show up. Ali, David, and I will be leaving our ministries and friends here and coming back to America in three days. Last night was our last bible study with our shoe shiner friends.
David has been shoe shining consistently with these guys for most of his time down here and he was the featured speaker last night. He made a video that talked about shoe shining, but then talked about how Jesus washed his disciples feet. And after 6 months of having our feet cleaned by our friends, the shoe shiners, we followed the instructions of Jesus and washed their feet.

mud shacks

I used be of the philosophy, like most, that we will have mansions in heaven. This week I visited a small, isolated, jungle village and stayed in a mud shack and my philosophy is beginning to change.

We hiked away from La Paz for two and a half days and arrived in a mountain jungle town named Chulumani. There we caught a minibus that carried us turbulently over thousand-foot-cliffs for three hours. We got to our destination town just after the sun set. We opened the thin metal door of the dusty house. It was made of mud bricks, roofed in by metal sheeting. Magno (a shoe shiner in La Paz) had brought us here because he wanted to show us his life living in the jungle.

That night we all cut up carrots and peeled peas to help Magno make a simple soup for us. It was delicious and nutritious to my stomach and my heart. As we helped Magno fix dinner, ate together, talked and went to bed so close together, I thought, this is what we lack in American homes. Mom’s cooking dinner in the kitchen while the kids are watching TV in the TV room, and dad is in his car listening to talk radio on the way home in time for hopefully a quick dinner together. We hardly ever have an excuse to be working and living so close to each other like a house with only one room provides.

The next day we got on sandals (made of cut up tires stapled together) and hiked three hours more up into the hillsides of the jungle. They had cleared away the trees in places and terraced the land to plant crops like coca, cotton, coffee, oranges, manderines, bananas, and they harvested a lot of it every year. We cut off a big bunch of bananas, and plucked our backpacks full of mandarins and oranges and hiked up to another mud shack built into the hillside to cook lunch. We stoked the fire under the clay stove as we peeled the bananas, potatoes, and peas for lunch. Magno cooked up the soup and we ate our fill, courtesy of the land. Then we squeezed the oranges and mandarins into delicious juice before taking a nap in the sun.

The hike up was hard: thin air, slipping rocks and blistered feet. But there were moments when we got to a clearing and could see how far we’d come, from the river in the deep valley cutting through the massive mountains. And then we’d turn and realize we were among orange trees that held out their ripe fruit to freely pluck as we walked by and Aloe Vera plants waiting for us to spread their ointments on our sun-kissed skin. Cotton trees held out their buds bursting with celestial gauze for our blisters. This mountain had everything we would need, and it had it in abundance.

Ever since I had the dream where my mom told me she didn’t know if she liked heaven that much yet, I have begun to gaze upward in search of a new metaphor.

Do you think, my friend, that perhaps heaven is a challenging hike that takes us higher and higher? Maybe, each day we get closer to being like God, and getting blisters and acclimatizing to the thin air is part of the training? I think in order for people to always be able to be generous in heaven, the resources must be limitless. When we need it, God holds out all the fruit that we need for new energy, the cotton to help in the toughening process for our feet, and the ointment to heal our skin, not quite ready for the intensity of His light.

Perhaps it is a steep, narrow path but when the trees open up and we can see how far we’ve come, how much bigger and grander the view is, and how small we are in comparison, we will realize that we are getting closer and closer to the heart of our creator. And that we are becoming more like him as we strive on.

Lessons at Bolivian roadblocks- part 1

Part 1
When the robbers wanted my money last summer they squeezed off the flow of blood to my head. In Bolivia when someone wants something they cut off the roads until the country begs mercy. I was the only gringo on the bus on its way to Cochabamba when the Bolivian Coca farmers (the key ingredient to cocaine) decided to strangle their country for some reason.
I looked out of the windshield. Ahead of us they were picnicking in the middle of the road, having piled big rocks in lines across both lanes. After an hour or so I got off, driven by hunger, and walked between the burning tires and protest banners. About the time I should have turned back to make sure my bus was still there, a kind but desperate looking woman waddled by me carrying very bulky cargo, “Please, can you help?”
“Of course I can help,” I said and took her huge bucket of street glue (street glue?). I propped it on my shoulder and began the hike. About a mile into the roadblock I set the bucket down where she told me to. I turned around and began to run back. I knew that it was possible that my bus had turned around and gone back to La Paz with my backpack safe onboard but me neither being safe nor on board.
Reader, tell me this. If my bus has left without me, was it still a good decision to help the woman?
I peeked around the big Bolivian protest banner as I peaked the last hill. It appeared my bus driver was kindly returning my backpack to La Paz but they had left me. I sat down on the side of the patient road.
Was it still a good decision to help the woman? I guess it depends on what type of life I live. Perhaps I could look at this as a problem that I should have avoided. Or perhaps I could look at it as God, writing a new adventure and challenge into my life for the sake of teaching me something and making life richer. Not easier, but richer.
After a few minutes I saw a cloud of dust rising in the distant desert. A bus was at the front of it and there was a chance it was mine. It would be a long run again, almost another half mile carrying my jacket under my arm, to meet up with where it would intersect with the highway. If I didn’t get there in time, it may hit the main road and head back to La Paz full speed without even noticing I’m in very cold pursuit.
When I finally got there on time and climbed onto the bus, it seemed the whole front quarter of the passengers were in the aisle or standing waiting to hear what happened to me. First in line was the woman I had been sitting next to. I had shared a cookie with her earlier in the trip and I guess that had instantly won her over because after hearing a bit of my story (I had also found out she was quite deaf so she may not have heard any of it) she helped me into my seat, gave me a cough drop for my coughing, told me I should take my jacket off, eat this bread, told me how much she had looked for me before the bus left, and she said I cannot get out of my seat again until we get to Cochabamba. It was really a quite warm welcome, like she were my own mother, though quite embarrassing. She kept on asking why I had gone so far away from the bus. I kept on answering but apparently she was deafer than I had thought.
I had helped a woman and kind of gained a new mom. This is rich living.

Lessons at a Bolivian roadblock- part 2

We had been waiting at the roadblock for another 45 minutes or so when they said, everybody get off the bus and walk the mile or two to the end of the roadblock. We’ll meet you at the other side. So we piled off and began to walk. My new deaf mother was old enough that they said she could stay on the bus but she was very concerned that I was taken care of. She told an 18 year old young man to hold my hand walk with me so I didn’t get lost. We looked at each other and chuckled, but I had found a new friend. Out of the whole line of buses and trucks that were forging the alternate route through the rough desert, our bus was the first to make it to the other side. As the reached the road they said, “Get on quick! The Coca farmers are coming!” We all rushed onto the bus and pedaled out of there.
The next time we stopped was a false alarm, just a small traffic jam.
The third time we stopped, they told us to take our things and walk across this road block and over the bridge where other transportation would be waiting to take us the rest of the way in. My deaf mother and I trekked down the hill waiting to come upon a bridge (not without stopping once for her to drop her trunks and pee behind a tire once right there on the road). We once again walked by the Coca farmer picnics and burning tires. The sun was going down and I lowered my hat because I thought if they really wanted to make a political statement it would be easy by singling out the gringo.
We walked by police sitting on the bridge.
The group of people got to the other side of the bridge and when they saw minivans waiting there, a mad rush ensued. We luckily crammed ourselves into the front seat of a minibus but after a few meters our headlights hit a solid wall of big trucks completely blocking the road. There were kids running around and yelling everywhere, wanting to get on a bus. One of them yelled, “Go up that dirt road there!” And so we tried. But we were too heavy and I could smell the clutch burning out as we tried. He told people to get off and they did until he got up the steep part. We piled back on and the kids were now were begging us to take them with us. The bus driver said, just one. The boys ran around to the doors and looked in as if they were all going to pour in. but hardly one would fit. I looked one of them in the eye for a moment and thought, “Should I do the moral thing or the easy one.” I was confused. Did these boys even want to go to Cochabamba? I didn’t know how my deaf mother would fend if I left her by herself, and she wouldn’t let me get off to help the bus up the steep road so how would she react now? I reached down and shamefully locked the door.
We headed up and down over the rollercoaster dirt road having to stop on the shoulders to let big rock carrying trucks by us. We came a split in the road and a voice from somewhere out of the minivan said, stay to the left. We went left. We kept descending and found ourselves in a tiny town. As we passed, I saw and heard a little kid throw a handful of dirt at us. We bumped over holes and little creeks and came to a bigger creek with large branches cut and laid across the road on the other side. We forged it and paid the boy at the other side. They moved the branches aside and we passed. We found ourselves at the edge of impassible river in the headlights of huge trucks coming at us through the river. Our driver hollered at a young man standing outside our window. He came over and my deaf mother friend leaned over our minivan driver and cried mercy in so many words. “For the love of God, we’ve been traveling all day, trying to get to Cochabamba! Help us!” I’m guessing she didn’t know how pathetic and senile it sounded (or maybe just panicking Bolivian it sounded). The man said, “Where did you say you’re trying to go?”
Our driver said, “Cochabamba.”
“You are way off. You should have turned way back there. You’ll never get there from here!” Ugghs spread through the passengers. We turned around and got ready to go through the tree branch road block again. Now, ahead of us were a group of arguing men.
I seriously was thinking, we are at the total mercy of these men. I suppose they could rob us and leave us to freeze the night away (it gets cold here) here in this desolate forest by the river.
We convinced someone that we had already paid and they let us through again. We forged the creek again and headed back over bumps and holes through the town. This time the kids weren’t throwing dirt. They had made a roadblock of their own. Smaller rocks and branches were spread across the road we had just come down. Our driver got out and said something like, “Look here, guys. Nice try but we really need to pass.” And he, with another person from our van moved the rocks aside and we continued on.
When we got back to the original paved road it had cleared and we made it to Cochabamba within a couple hours. People were grateful and joking around, though we continued to pass stranded people trying to hail a ride. We passed them because we were already completely full, and the gas tank that was on empty throughout the whole ordeal made me more thankful we couldn’t pick up any more people.

Slashed apart Hector

We were walking through La Paz at night when a man came up to us and gave us an intricate story why he needed money. Randy offered to buy him some bread but when we got close to a bread shop he said, “You can just give me the money and it will be easier for you.” Randy said, “No, we’re only going to buy you food.” The guy said forget it and walked away, throwing insults back at us.

A few minutes later a kid came up to us and started to tell us what street we were on for some reason. We looked over and saw something was wrong with his face. As we walked under each dirty light pole we saw the blood crusted on his face, hands and shirt that had seeped out of the many slashes across his face. It looked as if someone had held him down and slashed him ten times across his face.

We asked him what had happened and he said it was a fight. He continued to mumble to us what street we were on and what street was going to intersect it. We finally stopped him and tried to get things straightened out. His name was Hector. He was drunk… or I suppose he could have been in shock too. He had gotten in a fight and gotten his face all slashed up with nails and he said something about getting stabbed in the leg.

We started asking people about hospitals in the area and found out there was a clinic up the street, but he said he didn’t want to go because they treat his type of people differently. I told him, “We will go with you. I will stay with you the whole time. I will make sure they give you the best of care.” He finally agreed to go.

Randy, Keith (Randy’s visiting friend), Hector and I got in a taxi and went to the clinic. As the doctor got ready to dig in I went to him and said, “Please give him the best service possible. We will pay, whatever the price.” I stayed in the operating room as they stitched up his face for the next forty five minutes. Sometimes he would begin to squirm or ask where I was and I would say, “Hector, I’m still here.” They checked out the wound on his leg and it was big and swollen. They told me it must have happened a couple weeks ago. The opening was about half the size of a quarter, but his thighs were full of similar scars. This must not be rare to him.

When they finished we went and bought him the prescription for pain and scheduled a time to meet up a few days later at the hospital to get the stitches out. We asked where he lives and he said he is homeless but lives up by the river. We bought him a drink and left him on the Prado, as he walked home.

I gave it a 50% chance that he would show that Saturday to get the stitches out. I waited at the clinic for about an hour and he didn’t show up. I asked how much getting stitches out would cost, and then left twice that for whatever need he might have if he showed up and I left.

I thought of the good samaritan several times that night and was glad this story looked similar to what had just happened. “But a Samaritan, as he traveled, came where the man was; and when he saw him he took pity on him. He went to him and bandaged his wounds, pouring on oil and wine. Then he put the man on his own donkey, took him to an inn and took care of him. The next day he took out two silver coins and gave them to the innkeeper. ‘Look after him,’ he said, ‘and when I return, I will reimburse you for any extra expense you may have.

The most inspiring thing I heard at the Youth For Christ conference in Caracas, Venezuela

Let's plunder hell to populate heaven.

Coffee with Danielle

Danielle is a beautiful, caring friend of mine that loves God very much. I got to share coffee with her as she told me the recent events that have brought her to one of the most pivotal moments in her life.

She works for a man named Greg hurst, who runs an organization that helps a lot of needy people. She is struggling through a very unfulfilling business degree while she does business paperwork behind a desk for Greg. Her passion is to work face to face with street kids and prostitutes. She has always told Greg that as soon as she finishes her school she is going to look for a different job where she can interact with the needy people face to face. Lately she has begun to feel that there should also be a way she can help them in a more permanent way.

She had just gotten back from a conference for an organization that ministers to street kids and prostitutes. She reluctantly had found herself in business seminars at the conference and then talking to people who were very excited to be doing business stuff for this organization. It got her thinking. She went for a long walk. She thought. She prayed. Ideas began flowing. Ideas to use business to give them a brighter future, more permanently. But one idea grew bigger and bigger about the present. A voice said, "Greg is looking for one person and you are it." She argued, "but I have always told myself, I don't want to, I can't, and I won't work like that for Greg." She walked more. She prayed and cried more. Finally she said, "Lord, for what you desire, I am willing."

When she returned and talked to Greg he told her, "Danielle, I have to tell you. I know you've always told me you don't want to, you can't, and you won't work like that for me, but I am looking for one person to run all the ministries. I prayed about it and I think you are it. I think you will want to do it, you are able to do it and you will do it, if you choose to."

He continued with passion, "I have a vision of how things could change. I think that any street kid, or prostitute no matter how dirty or sinful, is just as important as the person in charge of the whole program." Danielle, with tears in her eyes told him, "I had a vision too, that even the dirtiest and littlest should be able to sit down and pour out his heart to the one in charge."

I was so happy for her. Tears seem like such a strange form of joy, but that's the way it works in me. I was so happy to see our great God showing His love to her. She wiped her tears away and said, "sorry I've been talking about me this whole time." And she made me take my turn. I told her about the exciting revelations I had recieved in the spiritual battle for Juan's heart.

It might sound weird that we cry over sharing such simple stories with each other. I think the closest I can come to putting my finger on the reason for this good joy that brings us to tears has something to do with this: sincere friends realizing they share in the same big love of the same big creator.

Mom tells me about Heaven

My mom died almost two years ago. A couple weeks ago I had a dream about her that was more vivid than any I’ve had since she died. I have some ideas about it but if you have any ideas what it means, please share them with me!

We were in a room on the day before my little brother was to get married (he doesn’t even have a girlfriend yet). I cried and hugged her over and over, but she seemed rather detached. She told me about the after life. She said, “I’m not sure I like it that much yet. It’s like a carpenter shop. Just remember carpenter, Ross. But we get breaks. It’s also like a heart with circulation.”

She was so unemotional about seeing her family again, about meeting Nicky’s future wife, about being in the world again. But she did get a carefree smile and looked very content when she told me she saw her life as “making a lot of lunches, helping dad out, and doing laundry for her family.”

I thought to myself, finally I’ve talked to someone on the other side and know that there is something on the other side of life. I can stop searching and wondering. Then I woke up and realized, it's not supposed to be that easy for me. I'm ok with that. I'll keep searching out my creator.

I met a Canadian in the airport a couple days ago. I asked him what he does. He said he is a carpenter. When I asked about his job I found out we would call his job construction. He was going to build houses almost completely from the cement to the drywall.

"Just remember carpenter, Ross."

Joh 14:2 "In My Father's house are many dwelling places; if it were not so, I would have told you; for I go to prepare a place for you."

Hans is a shaman

Hans was the guy who had approached our group one night, completely drunk and/or high telling his story how his own people had robbed him that day- "My own people!" He lied that he was homeless and then failed to meet up with me a few months ago and I hadn't seen him since.

I was walking on the Prado the other day and someone patted me on shoulder. I turned around and there he was. He had something white painted on his cheeks and big dark glasses. The writing on his shirt looked like swollen veins were growing out of his shirt and was the name of a death metal band.

We went and drank a pop together. He has a ritual when he drinks a pop. He pulled out a tiny treasure chest, turned away from me to open it. He pulled a pill out, put it into his mouth, stared at the sky for about ten seconds, and drank the whole pop in one lift. I asked him why, and he said it was his ritual to protect him and give him power.

He asked me if I still had the pendant he had given me on the first night. I said, 'yes, it is in my drawer at home.' He mentioned it several times and insisted that I do not lose it. Why would that pendant be so important? What if that pendant brings some sort of curse or something. I don't know the realities or power of that stuff but, I need to be prepared in case there is some witchcraft. If I am going to deal with it, I am looking forward to learning the strategies of the enemy and learning how to fight it.

Maybe the devil tempts in many ways, and on many fronts because someday he will break us. But what if we use those times to turn them for good. For example, I can use this pendant for something good. The first time Juan gave it to me, I told him, this symbolizes our friendship. I need to do more to use it for good. I like the idea that if I keep taking the attacks of the devil and turning them into good, he will stop attacking me, because he is just giving me opportunities to do good.

A few days after I ran into Juan, I invited him to the pizza party we had for our English class. He showed up with two friends. I thought I smelled alcohol on them but all the same I invited them to share with us. We had the final exam in the English class and then we all had pizza. Soon after they said they were leaving and they took their pizza and pop and left. But Juan was very slow in leaving, saying goodbye to everybody and then stopping to talk to me some more. He eventually left.

He reappeared a couple minutes later. I greeted him happily and we talked a little more. He said goodbye and slowly left again.

He reappeared a couple minutes later. This happened about 4 times. He would leave, come back and talk and then slowly leave again. I don't know what it was that kept drawing him back. Was it something desperate inside of him being drawn to some sort of hope he sees in us? Or maybe something evil trying to break us down.

Somehow it came out that we both like to write. He said, I’ll tell you a story. My girlfriend was murdered. She was running and the person she was running with left her. He looked at me, held up a fist with a tremendously tortured look on his face, fear and anger overflowing. “They found her dead,” he motioned that they had slit her throat and wrists. A tear dropped to his pant leg.

Another time when he came back he said that we should go to Sorata. He added, you will feel the energy there. My friend, he pointed to the friend that came with him, is from Sorata. Then Juan told me he is a "Chaman". Finally I figured out this meant he was a Shaman, or like a witchdoctor.

During this time when Juan was talking to me, Fernando was talking to his friends. In reality, we were in Fernando’s church and I was a bit afraid to have brought drunks and shamans into his church. I think those are the people who we should welcome there the most, but Fernando was kindly letting us host our English classes there and I didn’t want to insult him. Later I found out that Fernando was trying to talk to Juan's friends about ways he could help them. He was just as concerned about them as I was, and like me, wanted to help them.

Last week at church I caught something that I’ve heard many times but this time it stuck. The Word of God is our sword in spiritual battle. I started to memorize scripture this week to be ready to pull out during this battle. I don’t know yet how to swing the Bible as a sword but I am going to be swinging in the dark until I hit something. And hopefully slowly I will learn and get good at hitting my target.

Eventually Juan and his friends really left, just before the rest of us left. That night our little family prayed for him and his friends. I see that this battle is too big for me to win. All I can do is take instructions and fight my heart out and be ready for God to take the victory.

The life of William Wallace

I got to talk to a good friend of ours on Friday, a shoe shiner named William. He calls himself William Wallace. He shared his story with me.

He told me how his family had prayed so hard that his father wouldn’t lose his job as a taxi driver after he got in an accident. Well, he did lose his job but two days later he got one that paid twice as much. William said, “We always pray when we have problems but we forget God when the good things happen.”

His brother had a lot of problems with drinking and in their eyes he was ruining his life. His family was praying for him. Then he met a girl and she invited him to church. His life changed completely and now he is successful and has a family.

He told me how his father had gone to live with another woman. He left his wife and kids with only a note saying that it wasn't working out with his mom. Eventually he came back and said it didn’t work out with the other woman and he just told his wife to accept him back. So they went back to the way it was before, hitting his wife and treating her badly. William loves his mom so much for all the troubles she’s gone through and he talked to his dad very sternly and told him not to treat her that way. It got better, at least when William is around he doesn’t hit her. William tries so hard to accept his dad but his brother has given up and lives separately with anger against his dad.

William’s mom got sick and had to go to the hospital. He thinks it is because all the emotional beating she has taken in her life. She was very depressed. He loves her so much. He says that sometimes it is so hard to not lose hope but he tells his mom, it’s all we have. Someday it will get better.

William tries so hard at college so that his life will be better but it came to a point in his life where he had to take a break from college and try to work instead. He wanted to make enough money to rent a place in the city so he could be close to school and also he wanted to buy his mother a small street corner kiosk where she could sell things and have something good in her life.

That was six months ago that he had quit school to work. He says he had given up going out with his friends and buying the things that he wanted because he had to work so hard. And after six months he looks at what he has saved and sees that he’s not getting anywhere.

There a lot of people in need here. Some of them do it to themselves. Some of them are trying very hard to help themselves. William is one of those. He gives me hope in humanity again. Even though his dad has been so bad to them William has committed to accepting him. And he loves his mom so much that he would work so hard and give up a lot of pleasures to help her out.
I am planning on asking if I can spend an evening with them to get to know William’s family a little better. And then I want to offer to go with them to buy his mother the things needed for her little street corner kiosk. William said that if he had saved just 90 dollars it would be enough to buy it for her. I have 90 dollars. I could be the something better he had been trying so hard not to lose hope in.