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| Jed & Liz transitting in Chicago |
Our trip to the Wild
West! By now we’re well and truly American. We enter the airport half-dressed
in baggy clothes, carry-ons weighing double the permitted weight (saving us
cash because now, amongst American airline carriers, there is an EFTPOS system
attached to every part of your travelling experience: $20 per bag, $10 per
snack, $2 per polite gesture from flight attendants, etc.), and not so much as
a wave to our great friend Shane, who graciously drove us to the airport.
We made a smooth
transition in Chicago, with only one hour on the ground. We arrived in San
Francisco full of excitement and anticipating wondrous things. Our hostess? No
where to be seen. But, she was to be the magical bride, and probably bore one
thousand tricks on her pre-wedding to-do-list, and so we forgave her tardiness.
Of course, Liz and I
separated, thinking we could, with our some 50 years of combined travelling
experience, track our radiant little marshmallow gal down in this San Francisco
flying world. Liz scooted back to the arrivals gate and I just sat with my
friends, the baggage, down by carousel number 5.
In she flurried, our
great friend Abigail Dickson. We chatted and laughed for most of the drive home,
reminiscing about the good times of Mexico and listening to the many family
wedding drama stories.
Liz and I eloped. We
didn’t have an exceptionally beautiful wedding day with all the pomp, flair and
ceremony. It’s always fascinating to watch the comedy, the tragedy, the spectacle,
the glam, the ugliness, the value, the expense, the honesty, superficiality,
loyalties, gossip, hard work, boredom, things being pushed up and people being
put down. ‘Tis really a mixed bag of wonder and horror, all bundled up into
one, hopefully not raining, day.
The very same
evening we went to Enterprise Rent-a-car and got ourselves a top-of-the-line,
compact car. I always find it humorous when I go to hire the cheapest, most
economical car, because I’m usually offered an upgrade. This offer is nearly
always at my own expense, even though it should be clear that I elected of free
will to hire the cheapest, most economical vehicle. “No thanks, it’s better for
the environment,” I responded. “Who’s environment? Yours?” I heard the sales
associate mutter under her breath.
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| Jed in his beloved Compact Car |
Now from the moment
I arrived in Frisco, until the moment I left, I was freezing. We weren’t
there in the autumn, we weren’t there in the winter, we weren’t there in the spring,
WE WERE THERE IN THE SUMMER! And to my complete surprise, everywhere we went the
droll of air cooling machines could be heard, rather than heating systems. “It doesn’t take long to become accustomed to
tropical weather” I decided.
The very next morning
we trundled off down the freeway towards sunny San Jose. Our first appointment
was at 9am, with the lead pastors of the Bethel Church. We left Nutty Creek at
7:30am, yet only just managed to make it to our appointment on time.
We walked into the church
building and were instantly excited by what we saw. This house of God was
pumping, with people frantically buzzing this way and that, clearly very busy
with the Lord’s work and the icing on the cake? Everybody appeared to be
perfectly charming – You have got to LOVE California...
We sat and waited
for Pastor Allan, the head honcho. Pastor Allan had brought his wife to the
meeting, and I sensed that this duo were quite the dyno-team (dynamic, not
jurassic. They looked to be around 50 years old).
To date, we had only
presented before Church congregations. Yet on this auspicious occasion, we were
presenting to just two people in an office, but two important people of one of
the largest churches in the Bay area.
Pastor Allan and his
wife listened graciously half smiling as Liz and I stuttered, spoke over each other,
became trapped in nonsensical, never ending monologues (having to ask them what
our original point was halfway through) and generally made ourselves out to be complete
loons, of Austin Power proportions.
They offered their
generous thoughts, that we have a great mission and we seem to be great people,
but the relationship would have to be put “on hold” until we became
credentialed with the Assemblies of God in America. This was probably never
going to happen, and so we accepted our fate and continued to listen to Pastor
Allan, sort of zoning in and out all the while.
Pastor Allan, who I
believe inherited the Church from his father (don’t you just love hearing about
families who have Christianity in their blood for generation upon generation?
My parents were Churched, but on one side it stopped there – who knows how far
it went back on the other side… Couldn’t have been too far, seeings my family
line originates from around Sydney, formerly a British penal colony), shared
that his Church spends a million buckaroos on missions per year, and that they
really take quite seriously the call of God to reach their world.
Of course, Liz had
now fallen over backwards and had her feet sailing in the air (inappropriate
behavior if you ask me, but I judge not…), whilst I furiously wiped the saliva
from around my face. He continued, they had put into place a system whereby
they work tirelessly on blessing and evangelising their community within a
mile’s radius of their “house.”
Now I don’t know
about you, but this kind of talk is exciting to me – sad that it’s revelation
to some. I’ve been to stax of Churches throughout the US, many of them having a
bazillion missionaries or more. In most instances people are thrilled to tell
you about all of the missionaries they support. However when you ask for some
of the missionaries’ names, and in which countries these people labour, the
person you’ve been talking to often scrambles and scratches, only perhaps
remembering one missionary’s name, in perhaps the incorrect country where another
unnamed missionary works.
It also got me to
thinking about what we do. For many of the missionaries we know in Nicaragua,
they have offices, and important roles, they have workers and meetings. But it
seems, very often, that communities are compartmentalised into “this program”
or that “group,” with responsibility for reaching the lost being catergorised
away into some non-existent, imaginary filing cabinet.
It’s rare to meet a
work that’s going for every person they come into contact with, around their
house, from the supermarket clerk, to the plumber, to the people alongside in
Church. “Ooooh, that nutbag-loco-amigo Jed? Yeah, I go to youth group at his
house on Friday nights.” These are the sorts of feedback we’ve received from friends
after conversing with moto-taxi drivers somewhere between Managua and our house.
Not a moment to brag, but a very real example of making every day moments count
for the Kingdom.
And in an American
urban context, that’s precisely what the Bethel Church does – they care,
practically, about everyone in their community, from kids and their school
needs, to bikers and their brass bits needing repair, to Dad and Mum who want
to get rid of their spring cleaning junk. They’re after one, EVERY one in their
community.
Isn’t that what
Church is about? God centered community? God centered love? So that together we
can reach the World with something we already have?
Well, I stuffed my
half eaten muffin into my pocket and we did our don’t call us, we’ll call you
handshake, ear-tug and nose tap routine, then flew out the door with tremendous
speed like we were actually important people going somewhere.
Of course, once out
of their office and having landed down the stairs in a gigantic heap in the company of
“only” reception people and cleaning staff, the charade was over and we were
able to be ourselves again. We asked in cockney, not queen’s English for directions
to the lavatories and joked about our foolish faux-pas.
We danced around the
building like kids having had too much red cordial and then crammed our elbows
back into our pockets, with feet up our noses, so that we could fit into our
environmentally friendly vehicle. That clean air you’re breathing, it’s BECAUSE
OF US!!!
Californian roads
are a lot like Canberra roads, and so I should never be surprised but I always
am… Circles. Round-abouts. Bridges that go over without exit or entry! It can
be very frustrating for us aliens. However, thank Heavens for Satellite
Navigation! You barely need to drive. Barely, of course, unless you’ve thrown
the equipment out the window on account of the irritating, condescending voice
that tells you things already painfully obvious like “you’re going the wrong
way.”
Of course we arrived
on time, with just minutes to spare, and Liz confessed she needed a few moments
to reapply her make-up after our very tense transition from the beach and bay
clad climate of casual San Jose, to the East Bay valley city of hob-nobbing-it
Alamo.
We didn’t want to be
prideful or showy about our punctuality (we’re actually NEVER on-time, so it
was a weird feeling for us to not be driving up curbs or talking heatedly to
other cars, etc.), it’s just not in our nature to push ourselves forward, and
so we sat in the car waiting until about 5 minutes before our scheduled
appointment – is that what punctual people do?
We exited the car
with the style and glam of two model-like celebrities (not even dislodging any
bones from their sockets on account of our compact car) and almost skipped and
twirled in the heatless sun on approach to the mirrored front doors of the
building.
“It says ‘push’ Liz”
I giggled a tad too humouredly after watching Liz almost kiss her own
reflection on account of a stubborn door not pulling towards her. I pushed the door and
nearly knocked myself into unconsciousness due to my head butting the door, and
HARD. “The sign says ‘closed’ Jed” Liz laughed as I swiped away little tweety
birds and stars which encircled my head.
We both peered
through the mirrored wall, trying not to cause suction between our lips and the
glass, and nearly had the fright of our lives when we noticed a delightful
looking little cleaning lady on the other side, who was gesturing
wildly towards a service schedule sign. I dare say she was a little nervous/shaken
too on account of such stylish yet suicidal, aggressive but punctual
Australian/European types making complete fools of themselves on the “outside.”
The bump must have
cured my amnesia because in that very moment I remembered that Pastor Gary had
told me the Church offices were actually not in the Church building, rather in
the beautiful, historic town of San Ramon. “Where?” I wondered… “Where, where,
where, where, WHERE???”
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| Lizzie lost in San Francisco |
Liz ran to the car,
looking a tad bewildered and not at all glamerous anymore, retrieving the
all-important diary. AHA! She had entered the address into her diary and how
very clever of her! She would never let me live this down. We zipped along in
the car, and upon remembering that Americans drive on the right hand side of
the road, merged alongside cars who were progressing in the same direction –
how orderly, how American!
After speaking with
a petrol station console operator, who didn’t speak even a lick of English, and
after chasing down an old lady in a motorised wheel chair and stopping a homeless drunk
who was pilfering through old food wrappers in a rubbish bin, we finally found
our way to New Life Church, and only ended up being nearly half an hour late.
But boy was it worth it! The business park was very ooh-lah-lah, and Pastor Gary,
what a handsome, kind, generous fellow (reminded me of my favourite pastor in
New York, Pastor Mark)…
Pastor Gary reeked
of love, like he’d been stewing in some kind of Jesus sauté sauce or something
equally delicious. He was also extremely cool, handing me an envelope like a
dude and looking as though he was about to jump over the hood of his car, Dukes
of Hazard style.
We were going
somewhere… In Pastor Gary’s car. “What do you feel like eating?” Pastor Gary
asked whimsically, flashing his warm Californian smile at us, whilst simultaneously dressing
his face with some snazzy sunnies.
We arrived at our gourmet
diner in the nick of speed. Liz and I had been so conscious of our q’s and p’s
we’d almost forgotten who we were. Pastor Gary had mentioned in our car ride
over that the video link we’d sent him had shown something unique, something
different, something laid back. Our video link was hardly a production, just a
mish-mash of everything we do, all from a budget point-and-shoot, mixed
together over the course of an evening with some gallo pinto and old episodes
of Frasier – but it was us, it represented who we are.
Pastor Gary had open
body language, asked great questions. He laughed at everything we said, even
when we weren’t joking. But unfortunately we just couldn’t relax. We were here
for the sale, going in for the kill, taking no prisoners! We knew who we needed
to be, in spite of who we actually are and who Pastor Gary wanted to meet with
(I knew he wanted the real us, but Liz and I just struggled to relax). We felt
we needed to present a certain image to Pastor Gary, an American image,
something wholesome, good, a vision he could lay before his board.
We ate our lunch and
began to relax. Pastor Gary shared with passion the story of his Church and his
plans for missions. He invited us to share in April of the following year, with
the people of his Church, our story and our ministry in Nicaragua. Our meeting
with Pastor Gary was simply phenomenal – he’s a TOP bloke and I cannot wait to
see where God takes our friendship.
God wants us to be
who HE created us to be, all the time, with everyone we’re with, and pooh to
those who don’t like us. If you’re feeling judged and misunderstood, then
perhaps you’ve done something wrong, or made a mistake – or, perhaps your “judge”
(other people) has taken issue with your design…
One requires an
apology, the other is not your problem. As has been said in Australia, “build a
bridge and get over it…” There’s just NOT enough time to waste on people who
don’t see in you what God has always planned to be there… Run into the arms of
those who love you, leave behind the naysayers, meanies and cynics, however
nice they may appear to be…
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