POST by JED: California Dreamin (Part 12)

The first few days in Davis were absolutely mind blowing, however there was one day in particular, that left me absolutely, unbelievably, totally in love with our new Northern Californian friends.

Two Churches, the Davis Christian Assembly and Vision Espiritual, joined forces to bless us with gifts and in addition, on this specific day, took us to perform our street theatre production for a middle school FULL of troubled teens.

Capital on the Edge performing for a Middle School  in Davis, California

The Brien kids and Nica-Youth gave it 1,000% and our American student audience really dove in, singing along and clapping their hands after the various scenes of the production.

Capital on the Edge performing for a Middle School  in Davis, California

We were having a wow of a time until the very end, when I gave the blessed students an option to get up and dance, which I’d never done before (nor since) and several of them actually did. Of course it wasn’t too long before a young lass hurled herself, bot-bot-over-noggin, nearly causing permanent damage to her back – CRACK!

Capital on the Edge performing for a Middle School  in Davis, California

But alas, she got up sporting a broad grin across her face and proceeded to do the Macarena utilising our Heavenly ‘Te Doy Gloria’ as accompaniment (I give you glory).

We were able to share a little about the plight of young Nicaraguans too, and the students of this Davis middle school listened attentively. After the production, scores of kids enveloped the boys and upon putting out my hand for a shake with not one, but two teachers, was grabbed and hugged tight.

The public school teachers seemed really grateful for their kids to have been exposed to genuine stories of hope prevailing, and stacks of the students said they’d show up to Davis Christian Assembly on Friday night, if the school could organise transport – which was just bazaar to me, because at that point, I didn’t even realise we were overtly advertising Church.

The evening of the same day was brilliant. Our Mexi-American friends took us out for good ol’ fashioned all-you-can-eat. The Nica-boys put the theory to the test and several were barely able to get out of their seats at the end of the night on account of gluttonously full stomachs.

The young lad serving our table seemed to consider us a curious bunch, as every time he entered the room we were either arm wrestling, having a formal devotion, designing and dressing our faces with fairy floss (cotton candy?), or laughing uncontrollably on account of all things Latino… It was a great time!

However, the most important thing to me was the love and dedication that exuded from these Latino pastors towards our valuable, eclectic, formidable troupe. Their love was unconditional and significant.

Now I know that it is generally common to hug and kiss as Latinos, but this isn’t the case in most of Nicaragua. From what I can understand, the poorer classes have been trained by missionaries in thinking that these kinds of emotional displays of affection, just aren’t Christian – inappropriate, don’t you know.

And so our boys’ faces gave away their shock and delight, when they were embraced by the teddy bear pastor, and dealt out full-on kisses, which were planted either right on their cheeks or neck. The fatherly expression of LOVE, it was great!  

Flip over the page and yet another exciting day in Davis meant a trip to the 8th most prestigious public university in the US, the University of California, Davis campus. What an honour! The fellas were well received with stax of students rallying around, and it was a significant time on account of these, future American leaders in their various fields, being ministered to by some of the world’s poorest inhabitants.

In the afternoon, we choofed off to the Farmer’s Market (ooh-laa-laa), where the boys went nuts with their dance moves, causing quite the stir. Then, back to Church for a mega-dinner, with Church people pouring in from every which-way… I am not joking when I tell you that halfway through dinner a masseur walked in with his table and gave ALL of our lads a work-over. Bah! None for me, but next time…

The masseur was the husband of one of the teachers from the middle school we had performed at. She, one of the teachers who’d hugged me, is a Columbian Catholic lady and had been so impressed with our performance she’d begged her husband to come and help our boys out. He didn’t need much persuading, and came with a great attitude to bless our boys, and the fella wasn’t even a regular Church goer. (He also knew some form of martial arts, and all of us laughed uncontrollably as he “took each one out”)

On our final “school day" in Davis we managed to visit a regular middle school, and had in mind to present a variety of dances for students enrolled in a Spanish class. Snore…

Capital on the Edge performing for a Middle School  in Davis, California

Now there’s something you just have to know about Pastor Jonathan of Davis Christian Assembly. He knows what he wants and he usually gets it. He didn’t want to perform for a single Spanish class, he wanted to perform for the entire school. And well, if they wouldn’t call a general assembly for us, then he’d do it himself…

Capital on the Edge performing for a Middle School  in Davis, California

And so, we spent some time in moments of “Oh no, this will never work. Why the ceilings are too low, the floor is too high, and the walls, well? They should be a dozen yards away from the classroom! No, let’s take this thing outside…” Eventually, they got the picture - the pastor just WOULDN'T budge… 

We went out and brought all of the other classes with us. Honestly, I think it was Pastor Jonno himself who started the rumour that Enrique Iglesias was about to perform… Eight classes were in attendance, with close to two hundred students and staff watching on.

As the story goes, I was standing at the back of the audience, watching as Liz directed and spoke, and then began to enjoy the Nica-youths performing when... an imposing figure, who I could only imagine to be a cranky school administrator, in a Pauline Hanson combo-styled pastel lemon and fuschia pant suit outfit, came storming towards us, papers in hand.

I couldn’t take my eyes off her hideousness. The fury! She was NOT happy. She promptly arrived right next to me, not once looking in my direction. Her hairy mouth twitched. I could've sworn she was about to bust up our parade and throw us all into prison. 

She made a grunting noise and then OH the hilarity – whatever had happened was side splittingly funny to her (I hadn't been watching the performance and had no idea), and she laughed until she cried, eventually looking over in my direction, nodding wildly and pointing towards our troupe – I must have looked a tad backward when my face went from concentrated stare (almost cross-eyed too) to Jim Carrey, plasticine face. Never laughed so hard in my life - and at what? To this day I have no idea…

We packed up and started moving away towards the parking lot. Elizabeth approached, “one of the boys is saying mean things to Franny,” she said. I needed not a second prompting. I approached the lad in question and asked him if he’d said the heartless comments.

He had, there was no denying it. I asked him to apologise to Fran. He refused. “Why won’t you apologise?” I whined. “Because I wasn’t talking to her, I was talking to someone else. She accidently overheard.”

Yes, yes… The logic… I instructed him, my voice fourth grade stern: “You need to apologise to Franny. It is irrelevant whether or not you meant for her to hear. She heard. It was mean. Say sorry…” He spat back “You’re crazy!” And of course, with this comment, I verily became… “You apologise immediately or there’ll be trouble!” He walked away, “NO!”

I then did a little Gerry Lewis action, running hither and dither, organising car swaps until I had the perfect concoction – The problematic punk would ride in my car, with the most helpful, obedient souls accompanying…

“You apologise, or we’ll send you straight home!” I yelled. “No! Send me home!” he squealed. Yes, I’m always so clever when I have to think under pressure. “Right, well when we return to the Church, you march straight into the pastor’s office and take yourself a seat. I will organise a flight for you, and we’ll have you on a plane by midnight!” I was confident, but I had in-fact forgotten just how stubborn this one kid could be.

He sat there with a grin from ear-to-ear. Another of our lads walked in, “Yeah, I’ll travel with home with him” he said. Wait just a minute, this problem was starting to feel like a runaway train. “You want to go home?” I asked. “Yeah, I miss my mum.” GAAAAH! I picked up the receiver and called the airline “blah, blah, blah, rah, rah, rah, you may as well buy another ticket.” The impudence! The audacity! Modern airlines and their super strict ticketing rules! There would be no return tickets, not for my naughty boy, nor his willing companion.

I hung up the phone, brain not communicating with mouth, which was already talking saying God-only-knows-what. It was then that my Nicaraguan associate became as cranky as all-get-out. We took it to the parking lot. I explained that he’d have to stay with us until the end of tour, but that he would no longer dance with the troupe.

We strode towards the youth room, our lodging/home, my pal’s words getting less and less polite, and more and more loud. We entered the room and the rest of our troupe stopped whatever it was that they were doing and fixated on our darling little Jerry Springer do-do of a moment.

He hurled himself towards me with all fury, bent on revenge. Others of our group bounded over and jump on top of him, like loco Mexican Luchadores. “Run” they all screamed. I did. I ran like a 3 year old girl, and cannot honestly remember if I did or did not let out a little “mummy!” as I propelled.

I waited in the Pastor’s office. “He wants to kill you, Jed,” said one of the boys as he hurried into my (the pastor’s) panic room (office). His face looked grim. I started, “Yeah, well… Perhaps I shou” I was interrupted. “NO! JED!  He’s got a knife and he really wants to kill you!”

And that’s the little doozie that changed everything. I pushed past my amigo and ran to the kitchen. I grabbed the knife drawer and ran back to the office. I threw the rectangular death-ridden device under the pastor’s desk (imagine the reverend’s delight when he sat down to type up his morning to-do-list, nearly skewering his foot with a butcher’s knife! This nearly happened… After our ordeal ended, I forgot to replace the drawer).

My compadre stopped me. He’s also got a baseball bat. I went to go ready the building a second time, thinking of everything that might potentially be a killing device, but realised all too quickly that the kid could take me with his bare hands in half a moment. It was to be no use. If he wanted me dead, I was TOAST!

Before long we had the pastor involved. He’s a very wise chap, our Davis Christian Assembly bloke. He sewed seeds of wisdom and put questions in our Nica-lad’s mind. However, the kid was unmoved, most likely because there wasn’t a longstanding relationship between the two – Nicaraguans don’t trust people they’ve just met, even if these people have bestowed gifts, time, resources, etc. Our kid now had the glitzy lights of Managua before him – only problem, the funds just weren’t available to send him sailing home…

I waited for the longest time, but then realised I was highly dehydrated on account of the sweat that was swilling around in my little booties. I decided to climb out of the broom closet and strolled back to the kitchen for a glass of freshly squeezed red cordial, and then noticed the most beautiful, precious, priceless thing through a tiny little window opening onto the courtyard. Liz, a valiant soldier, was speaking decisively to the dude.

Now I have to tell you – I am the hype, the fun, the vision… Liz is the details, the wisdom, the brains… She was talking to our micro-murderous-man, and not letting him get a word in edgeways (welcome to the party!).

Forgiveness flowed. We were restored! The hatchet was LITERALLY buried and the hugs, kisses and love once again shone like the hot, HOT sun...

Thank GOD for the too-hard-basket! I tell you, there are so many things in my life that I’d like to change for an easier set of circumstances, but not my will, but YOURS be DONE!

Yordy, my champion son, went on to do marvelous things whilst on tour with us in California. He wouldn’t perform publicly in the mission, but then went on to bedazzle 2 youth groups, whom I am sure are now changed forever. Yes, he would also eventually vandalise private property, threaten to punch Liz in the face and try to slug me in the guts, but he would also assist in the blessing of people running into the arms of an everlasting God. The rewards? Priceless…

The U-Turn event in Sacramento, where literally HUNDREDS of Youths Gave Their Hearts to the Lord

Today I’ve wrestled with writing this post.

A new friend of mine is scared to death for us and for the safety of our children. “Change your tactic” was the tone of his e-mail. Nicely written, and from a heart of love, you’d have to agree with this fellow if looking through the lens of Earthly Wisdom.

A pastor recently advised that we should not be so sensational with the words we speak (and I’m assuming “write”). “Americans are desensitized.” Focus on other facets of your ministry and your message, don’t share in such detail the pain and the past. Well, yes… Or, no… It’s not a huge deal to me either way, but here’s why we blog and share our testimonies:

We share our youths’ stories with you, so that our young people will have victory over their pasts… The Devil LOVES hidden sins and secrecy…

We share our youths’ stories with you, so that we have a record of how God has moved in their lives and can visually see where he has brought these kids from, and to…

We share our youths’ stories with you, to help them keep their focus on a very bright future with God, walking out of darkness and into light…

We share our youths’ stories with you, so that you can have hope – if God can do miracles in these kids’ lives, he can do miracles in your lives…

We share our youths’ stories with you, so that you can see the potential of God’s power. These young people are changing their world! YOU CAN CHANGE YOURS!!!

What’s the cost?

Christ, at God’s request, went to the Cross with his mother crying at his feet. Abraham, at God’s request, was prepared to sacrifice his son, Isaac, on an altar. Esther risked her life for God’s children. Job was handed over to the Devil to do with as he liked! It seems that anyone in the Bible who was significant in the Kingdom, had to endure and held onto a faith for the things unseen.

In my life, I find myself constantly doubting many things on any given day. But the one thing I feel firmly committed to is the discipleship of people God has placed in my way. They’re my children. They’re our Nicaraguan youths.

We’re all called to discipleship! We need to both be discipled and make disciples. But sadly, we just don’t do it (corporately, the church as a whole).

Honestly, as I reflect now on our time in Nicaragua, El Salvador, California, and after having spoken with SO MANY Church leaders across the USA, I can tell you that YES, I am disillusioned. I am disillusioned by our apathy, programs, greatness, selfishness, excuses, lack of compassion and vision… But most of all, I am disillusioned by our lack of Jesus...

I honestly feel that people just don’t understand how, but when we take a step back and look at it, the solution really is quite simple.

God is a loving God. He desires relationship. We need to surrender to His will and love him back. With the very same love he gives to us, we need to give to others. We don’t stop giving. We keep on loving, and loving, and loving and loving.

Tonight, Yordy said to me, “Jed, what do you see for my life when I am older?” I responded, “A man who wants nothing else but to love God and serve him always.” He smiled, kicked the dirt and said, “yeah, I want to be just like you.” We both laughed hard (and actually I’m not sure why… Mental note to self – I need to follow up on that one!).

The truth is, discipleship is just loving people that God puts on your path, all the time, without strings, completely and compassionately, with all that you are… Wasn’t/isn’t that Christ’s message to us?

If you would like to learn more about our ministry, please watch our latest update,CLICK HERE

If you would like to learn more about who our Nica-Youths are, or to support them, please visit their page, SUPPORT Nica-Talent

To learn more about our street theatre production, "CREATED", please visit our page,NICAVANGELISTS: "CREATED", North American Tour (2013)

If you would like to see a video of some of our Nica-Youths practicing, please CLICK HERE

We are not up to budget, and travelling with 14 people is very expensive. We need an investment from Christian people for our next evangelism tour to the Midwest. To support us or make a once off donation, please visit our page, Contemplating SUPPORTING something significant?

To learn more about Davis Christian Assembly, please CLICK HERE

POST by JED: Evangelising El Salvador - Part 3

Performing "Created", at our Baptist Church in El Salvador

Our performances at the little Baptist Church in Apopa, El Salvador, went off without the slightest glitch – except for the aforementioned issues with our triumphant handstand-walking, throat-of-Christ-clutching, break in the breakdancing routine, demon – Sezni. 

Our street theatre production, “Created”, was well received by the El Salvadorian Church folk and their invited guests, and although I wasn’t able to finish my alter call on account of too much raucous applause and hoo-haa, the wet eyes told the story of hearts having been touched. 

Performing "Created", God & Jesus Look with a Heart of Love upon Humanity

Our Nicaraguan youths were a little perplexed. They understood the theme of the production, but have practiced and practiced this thing to death, and have never visually seen their efforts. I don’t think they understood just how powerful our dramatisation of the Gospel message was to the viewer. But once they saw the people’s faces, and with the extreme gratitude that was displayed after the performance, the dots became connected and they were deeply impacted, gaining a deeper respect for the effects of their production on lives needing hope.

Pastor Mario with Some of our Troupe

Of course, at the very end of, and straight after the service, once eyes were almost dry, the competition for who could eat the most pupusas began to be organised. The pastor hadn’t even finished praying when a row of tables were swiftly set up on the new, make-shift stage.

Pupusas Eating Competition - the stars of the Show, Ericson & Jonny

I chuckled quietly. The “Amen” for the prayer was pronounced, and eyes sprung open and the congregated people leaned forward, ready for action. The fever built, though it was hushed chatter that circulated throughout the building. It felt like we were on the set of an El Salvadorian Gladiators Competition Television Shoot!

Pupusa Eating Competition - Saying "GRACE" before Commencement

“This would NEVER be done in a Nicaraguan church” I contemplated, without a drop of judgment this way or that. I’ve really learnt, in my time abroad, that I used to make too many judgments on what was Christian, or unchristian when examining individuals in other countries.

Mmmmm, Jonny, moments before he ended up with Head in Toilet Bowl...

Specifically I used to think Nicaraguans were always late, Americans were self-important, the Brits complained too much and Aussies were crass as (don’t say that too fast). I now know quite differently and a lot of what is perceived, just isn’t there – it comes down to national identity and what is truly valued.

Eating Pupusas in El Salvadorian Church Competition

If I hear the phrase “Kingdom Culture” one more time, in context of what another nationality should, or should not be doing as Christian people, I’ll knock somebodies block off (which is quite acceptable behaviour in Australian Christian Churches – so don’t judge me! Ha ha).

Tiny Ericson, the CHAMPION! 15 Pupusas in 15 Minutes!

  

After the service on Saturday, I raced to the Church’s one computer and kicked off Jonny, our Nica-youth, on account of my needing to orchestrate highly executive work, far too difficult for his uneducated brain to understand. Once facebook was loaded I whirled into action, posting this photo and that. The notifications icon lit up like a roo’s eyes caught in the glare of a car’s headlights.

Within an hour I had a hundred people commenting on our photos, and liking everything I’d posted. I noticed one comment from Camila, our good friend whose step-father is a Guatemalan evangelist based in El Salvador (who prophesied that a family from a distant land would come to our barrio - and HERE WE ARE), and whose mother is Nicaraguan – from just down our street. TOP people…

It was strange that Camila hadn’t been to our Saturday evening service. I’d embarrassed myself, once I had been introduced to the gathering in our small Baptist church and had the mike, because I’d asked if Camila was in-the-house by name. Not only did I ask for her, I didn’t accept the Pastor’s head shaking and “no” mouthing motions, I think because I truly believed that she’d want to see our creation and must have slipped into the building unnoticed... “Noooo? Not theeeeeere?” Pregnant awkward pause and then “No, not there. Let’s begin…”

Camila is the niece of Yader, our gardener. Yader welcomed God into his life, whilst living as a gang member in El Salvador and experimenting with drugs and alcohol.

Camila had introduced me to Pastor Mario via good ol’ facebook. I flicked her a quick message. She sent one back. The Church we were staying with wasn’t the Church she regularly attended. She merely knew Pastor Mario from Church functions around San Salvador.

The following morning, Pastor Mario organized for pancakes to be delivered to me in the Church building. The offer of breakfast after a hard night’s sleep was enticing, and there was also a note – “meet me outside.” I went and ate pancakes for breakfast with Pastor Mario. We sat fairly seriously, but with good humour – if that makes sense. I asked him if he minded us slightly changing our plans so that we could incorporate a trip to Camila’s Church also. He was clearly delighted by the proposal.

Posing with the Cook and her Grandson, just outside of our Baptist Church in El Salvador

I was just shoveling the last morsel of floury delight into my mouth, when Sez came walking up to me. This was not to be a pleasant exchange. Sezni had a look of frustration across his face. “Where’s my pancakes?” He asked. “Hoooh dear…” I thought to myself. “This is going to be a tough gig.” I looked at Sezni square in the face.

There aren’t any. You’re having Gallo Pinto (pancakes) for breakfast. Of course, I began to smile as I said the words, cause I knew that this would be a funny story one day, but certainly not on this day. “I ordered pancakes” he complained. This just made me laugh. Sezni, due to his Asperger’s Syndrome, is a routine boy, and quite often doesn’t realise his change of environment, if all other things are equal.

“Oh, you ordered pancakes did you?” He nodded his head, starting to see why I might find this a tad bit comical. “And just who is your waiter?” I inquired. He stomped his foot and tried not to laugh. I couldn’t help it, nor could the pastor and finally Sez couldn’t contain it either. We laughed and laughed and laughed ‘til we cried.

But time was ticking by and our day had blown-out into a scheduling nightmare. I grabbed Francesca and told everything we were going to shower (I had to take Francesca with me, as every male eye was on my little princess). I was told I couldn’t walk down the street. “Are you serious?” I implored. “The streets are just too dangerous.”

We jumped in a car which refused to start. Finally vroom, vroom, went the engine, with a billow of smoke losing itself out the rear. We chucked a “U-ey” and then turned the corner. “We’re here” hollered Pastor Mario. I looked at him in COMPLETE disbelief. We’d driven no more than 50 metres.

I jumped out of the car and straight into the shower. Rub-a-dub-dub and a bit of a shave – “all done!” I exclaimed jubilantly. I grabbed Fran by the arm and headed for the door. The beautiful little house owner called out to me “someone will be back to collect you shortly. Wait here!” I smugly replied in Spanish “don’t worry about it, we won’t tire on our trip back…” And with that we slid through the gate, shutting it briskly behind us.

We turned the corner and to our horror there were 5 army dudes, fully decked out, and holding massive guns in their hands. They prodded 5 young El Salvadorians with the ends of the guns, and pushed them up against a wall. The youths had their hands on their heads. I wondered what was the story. I asked in the Church and they said, “Oh, that’s normal here. Happens every day.”

I ran to grab my camera but the people asked me not to leave the building again. “What in the World could that be?” I wondered to myself. Apparently, gang activity in El Salvador has hit crises point and the government has issued special task forces to tackle the problem.

The people live in fear, on a daily basis, for their lives and their possessions. The gangs are mostly filled with young men and women who have been deported from the USA for criminal activity.  It seems to be a hopeless situation.  At night, in Apopa, there is not a soul on the street. I became nervous. Since I arrived, I had not once felt completely safe. Now I knew why…

Pastor Rodriguez and Camila arrived on time and with Yader’s sister too (Camila’s mother). It was like a family reunion. More hugs and kisses, more blushing Nica-youths, more chats about a whole lot of nothing – my best talent. I was, after all, a travel agent for many years. We were driven in yet another pick-up truck (dudes in the back otra vez) to Pastor Rodriguez and Camila’s beautiful, outdoor marquee Church.

Our Nicavangelists and Yader's Sister and Niece (with POWER voice)

Wow, their Church was televised. We had a tour of the facility and then there was the opportunity for me to sing with Camila. I snatched it up. We sung “How He Loves Us” and “Mighty to Save.” Camila’s voice is rich and full, and she’s such a tiny-weeney young lady!

Sitting in the Church's Studio

After the singing, the church treated us all to a mammoth sized lunch; large amounts of chicken, pupusas for all, and the staple of Central America – rice and beans. Yummo!

Singing with Camila, my Nica-El Salvadorian Friend, at the Televised Church

The boys were overjoyed when individual bottles of fizzy drink arrived, enough for one each. Fantastico! They looked like Kings (though Kings of old, for they used their fingers to eat and slurped at their drinks – we’re considering postponing lunch with HRH Queen Elizabeth the second, until after completion of finishing school).

The Pastor treated the boys with such respect and from a heart of love. I was inspired. He prayed blessings over them and challenged them to be the men of God they needed to be. This was all to be a precursor for the evening service at our little Baptist Church. Oh, the Baptists!!!

In the Baptist Church on Sunday evening I was given the opportunity of speaking – something I struggle with, but do because it needs to be done! My issue was, although I can find the words to use, we couldn’t on this occasion find a translator.

Those of you who know me well, know that I can get by in Latin America on personality, charades, a bit of bachata and the little Spanish that I have. However, I most certainly cannot talk on a deeper, more spiritual level, in Spanish.

Francesca, our regular translator, wasn’t feeling well at all. She had a serious headache, probably as a result of the bus trip, sleeping on the floor, dehydration, etc. Lorenzy, our second child, is rather timid and quite unable to speak publicly. Her eyes widened with fear when I looked at her as a possibility.

Sezni, our third child, has Asperger’s Syndrome, and the times I’ve used him as a tool for translating, well it’s been comical to say the least (think of Homer Simpson when he gets mad at Bart). Our fourth child, Rafael, could have easily translated a very basic message, though had fallen asleep on account of the 15 hour coach trip, the performances on Saturday, and the long services already attended on Sunday.

I made the difficult decision of asking Lorenzy to translate. When I asked the dear child to step up to the podium, her words started off as a whisper and built steadily to regular speech volume, and the words went simply like this “no, no, no, no, NO, NO, NO, NO!” Poor poppit, she nearly threw up on account of nerves.

I put a couple of chairs behind the pulpit so that nobody would be able to see darling Renz, and had Yordy (one of our Nica-youths) hold her hand – he has the best English comprehension but sadly, probably because he was nervous too, couldn’t understand simple words in English like “no” and “pastor” and “chocolate.”

Renz continued to protest and consequently there were a few “do it or die” looks from me. We also shared a couple of sharp verbal exchanges with hands over microphones whilst faking smiles and laughing all the way. But by-and-large, besides 5 interruptions from Pastor Mario who begged me to let another person from the congregation translate, Lorenzy performed an INCREDIBLE JOB. She seriously overcame some fear of man stuff, which kept me bound-up and useless, until I was 35 years old. I was as proud-as-punch. I JUST LOVE THAT GIRL, Renzy-roohs!

After my message on the fruit of love (don’t judge me!) and the Great Commission, there was a short intermission and then another lonoooog service. I struggle at times with some of the religiosity in Latin America, but kept my attitude in-check at all times.

The pastor organised for me to continue sitting up the front, yet had each of the boys sit by the aisle, one at the end of each row of chairs. I found this to be odd, as it looked to me like he was separating our Nica-youths (and my own children too) in some attempt at discipline - to stop them from talking? HA!

In a Latin American Church, not having people in the congregation chat is like asking the Pope not to visit Church, or the Queen not to wear her crown, or the waves not to keep rolling in, or Elizabeth not to eat chocolate – do you get it? It’s just not possible!

But still, it was a Baptist Church, and I am not overly familiar with the inner workings of the Baptists, so I didn’t question Pastor Mario on his strange, strange course of actions, especially as the boys, and my children (except for Rafael - he was still at the front of the Church snoring his head off), seemed to be rather au fait and happy with the arrangement.

The Pastor reiterated a lot of what I had just said in my message, making sure to honour me at every point (?). And then he did something that was rather breathtaking and quite unexpected. I’m sure this has been done in other Churches, and I can imagine it being done in nearly every Pentecostal church during wild 70s services - after preaching from John 13, he had his pastors and elders wash our Nicavangelist’s feet. A lump formed in my throat.

I really cannot express just how emotional I was at this point. Here were Churched people, the most respected in this community, washing the feet of my boys and girls. The lads in our program are unchurched, former child prostitutes, orphans, thieves, street-youths, the lowest class citizens in all of Nicaragua – in our attempt to integrate into Church circles here in Nicaragua, whether Gringo or Nica, we’ve experienced the turning up of several noses.

The boys’ reactions varied. Some refused at first to put their feet in the water. Others didn’t want to make a spectacle and verily plonked their feet in too heavily, causing miniature tidal waves and sending splashes to the 4 corners of the building. Some stared at me questioningly, their eyes concerned like they were thinking “are they going to ask me to take my clothes off and get in this small bucket?” And then there was Yader. He balled his eyes out like a wee-little tot.

Yader has a second grade intellect, but his spirit understood exactly what was happening. Yader’s father has several wives, and has never lived in Yader’s house. Yader is despised by his community for his sticky fingers and naughty behavior. Yet, God has sent Yader into the World, to proclaim the good news that Christ has come for all – the despised, rejected, broken hearted, etc.

Yader, a nothing, was being loved and served by a pastor, a “somebody.” Yader could not hold back the sobbing and I could still hear him much later that evening, as we lay in our separate “beds”, MANY LONG HOURS LATER, waiting to fall asleep – it was a tantalising God spectacle and I savoured every moment.

Yader was given a Bible, the first he’s ever owned (the boys have always had access to Bibles at our center, but ours are communal – for everyone to use). Inside the Bible the Pastor who had washed Yader’s feet wrote: “To Yader! Thank you for being a Missionary. Thank you for sharing the life of Christ with our World.”

Yader looked into my eyes, his own eyes extremely bloodshot from all the tears, and said “I’m a missionary?” I started to cry too. “Yes you are, Yader. You are going to other countries sharing with people who don’t know about the supreme love and hope of eternal salvation through Jesus.” He cried some more – every time I hugged him he broke down. I hugged him continuously, for the rest of the day…

Later that night, Pastor Mario requested that we go to the beach for the night. I was exhausted and not overly impressed with the idea, but Liz’s words lingered in my ears, “let them do something fun, Jed.” We went to the beach at 11pm. Invited guests included nearly half of the Church. We squeezed into a mini-van, a pick-up truck (ute) and on a motorbike. I trusted that Pastor Mario would organise the details and he did a great job.

All of our Nica-youths ended up in the water, but I lay there, deliriously exhausted, following my children with my gaze. Finally, Sez came up to me and asked. “Dad, tonight are we sleeping in a bus, or on someone’s floor, or on the sand at the beach?” I laughed uncontrollably. This is NOT the life for a kid with Asperger’s Syndrome. I looked at Sezni whose brow was furrowed and asked “Where would you like to sleep, Sezni?” He took a moment to respond. “Wherever you sleep, Dad.”

And so it was. Our very first tour abroad. What an encouragement to me and my troupe. We were originally sent by our Church in Australia (CapitalEdge.org.au) to Latin America to participate in ministry with children. I could never have imagined that someday I would preach. It’s just not me, I’m the joker.

But God has led us gently, to the point where we are working with youth (Every Church I’ve ever been in has asked me to be a leader in youth group – I’ve always declined. I have always loathed, ENRITELY, youth… I think I’m funny, but God has the supreme sense of humour hey?), taking Jesus to our World – is there any higher calling?

The Church would truly explode, I believe, if we would just follow Jesus’ example of making disciples. But we don’t. We want BIG. Big Churches, big services, big programs, big, big, big. We need to give away our desire for wealth and fame, that wasn’t the message of Christ. He loved us so much that he came and gave us his life. In the same way, we need to reach those we touch, every day, acknowledging the Lord and loving those he sends our way. It’s our calling – there’s no greater thing!

The cost of our evangelistic outreach tour to El Salvador was $2,000. If you would like to contribute to our outreach costs, and hence help us to secure our next evangelism tour, please visit our support page and make a contribution (CLICKhere) – you will be investing directly into the Christian crusade for saving souls…