POST by JED: Things that Make You Go Mmmm...

We were in the market for 6 hours. Every penny counts now. We’ve stepped out in faith and it’s been 4 months on our own. (… though with the faithful support of our Church, family and many friends – we´re only “on our own” in the sense that we´re far from many of the people who matter so much to us…) So far, so good! The money is tight, but that just leaves more room for God to move – do I hear an Amen?

Liz has the guy pressed up against the congas. The stall is dark, smells of instruments, and is cluttered with many musical machines. His jeans are too tight, and the buttons on his shirt are about to pop off and kill someone. He has crocadilly shoes on and a Catholic neck adornment. He’s fair, but Liz is out for a bargain, so he’s not going to get out alive, unless he gives in. He won’t and neither will she.

Now Nicaraguans, I have learnt (though Liz hasn’t quite, or won´t allow herself to), just don’t like to bargain. They don’t get it. They think we’re rude. (and clearly we are) As soon as you mention a price that is lower than theirs, they look away - a bit disgusted. They start muttering to themselves.

I tend to turn haggling into a bit of a circus and try to get them laughing. (which trust me, with Nicas isn’t hard) Usually I´m in such a giggly mood by the time I´m done with them that I´ve talked their price up, instead of down. Liz likes to talk it through. It takes a while, but she gets results.

And so on this occasion, I start to spin, uncomfortable with Liz’s directness. “Oh, how delightful… A lampshade made from used mop strings. Yes thanks, I´ll have 5 of the delightful little treasures.” Elizabeth seals the deal, and we have ourselves a new sound system, and 5 horrendous light fixtures.

Raffy has sweat beads on his forehead and I´m ready to strangle Sez with my new interior décor due to his incessant requests for a DS, X-box, or Apple I-Touch (I really have NO idea what any of those things are, the names of these objects are stored in my brain for witty moments like these).

Eduardo, our youth pastor, introduces us to an evangelist and his side-kick (they do that here… It´s kind of Mormonish but I´m used to it now). I learn that they will be talking at our Church tonight. I look them up and down. They are in their early twenties, strong young Nicas, of light complexion and fairly handsome. It´s unusual for our local Church´s “branding”. We usually get older types who tend to like the sound of their own voice.

“Good”, I think to myself. They´re young and look green. The service will be over in as quick-as-a-flash and I can get home for the ever-impending to-do-list.

I shake their hands and start pushing Sez along the 6 inch wide aisle, which leads to an 8 inch wide aisle, and then a 10 inch aisle. Of course, this whole time there are 2 lanes of traffic, which are heading in both directions.

I find myself continuously apologising for my unruly elbow/hands/feet/etc., and for touching the parts of other human beings that are not customary to touch, unless of course you´re married, or related in a parental/offspring sense, or you´re a doctor, or something. My face is usually beetroot coloured by the time we return to our car.      

Liz is marching through the Mercado Oriental, followed by Raffy who is striding and finally myself and Sez, who are sooking, sad, struggling, and so-forth. It´s quite the brigade. We reach our automobile empowered, satisfied and desperate. Liz could go on to the next market, Raf would prefer McDonald´s and Sez & I are ready to slouch on the catch whilst watching WWE. (We take notes for our next adventure in the Oriental.)

We head out for some Nica-Cuisine (Gallo Pinto, bistec, platanos, coleslawless coleslaw, etc. It´s delish…). For this entire day we´ve been escorted by our new Youth Pastor, Eduardo, his gorgeous wife and their son who, in my opinion, is JUST an angel (Matthew 19:26 … with God all things are possible).

We´re fed and satisfied, it´s time to head home.

Yes we had another 500 things to do, but we throw all of that in the proverbial trash and head off to our primordial Church. The singing we can hear from our house. The dogs can also hear it and hooooooooowl. It´s going to be a BIG night, you can hear it in the parishioners voices.

We jump in the car, with bongos and drums to-boot. The car is brimming with all of our equipment. There is only enough room for our foster children. Our bios (as I like to call them) hang-on to the side of the car. I burl along and pick up more people heading in the same direction. We round the bend and our Church comes into view.

We are the only people who bring a car to services. The back-half of the Church building are always looking at us when we arrive. They feel energised by the unique Brien-contribution, and smiles are instantly pasted across many-a-face.

We enter the building. We´re only 20 minutes late, which is early for Nicas (on average), but late for the members of our small, local, rural Church. We totter along, all 9 of us, and like something out of a magic show, the exiting of our car never stops... 13 Church folk, 7 Brien children, 11 drumming pieces, 3 bongo bits, a music folder thingy-majig and of course dear, sweet, adorable Liz.

Our knees instantly start bobbing to the rhythms. We can´t help ourselves. Our children clap along and sing, because they know the words.

I am still very much struggling with the Spanish language. I have resigned myself to the fact that I will probably always struggle with Espanola. It´s just not in any way easy for me to learn. And so I clap and click, hum and whistle, but not a single word comes from my mouth (except for “Alleluia”, “Gloria a Dios”, and “Christo”).

Sez is alive on the drums, though at times he does go to “another place” and I have to subtly wave wildly or scream out something in English (and try to make it sound like I´m screaming to God as a part of my worship… For example “Gloria, Alleluia – we praise you Jesus” becomes “Gloria, son look at me – if you don´t start drumming again I´ll be smacking your bot-bot when we get home, AMEN!”). Tonight he was a tad bit distracted. But let me tell you, tonight he had plenty to be distracted about.

We get up on the stage and perform our “special”. Tonight we´re singing “I Will Exalt You”, which is one of my favourite worship songs.

As we´re singing, the young “Mormons” arrive on their motorcycle. Their hair is slick. They have clean all-white shirts on. (Very unusual for our denomination – we just LOVE checkered shirts and jeans… EEEEeeeek! It´s like I´m trapped in some kind of third-world bush/barn dance!!!) They´re wearing trendy shoes and it looks like they´ve paid a fortune for teeth whitening. (They haven´t, it´s just the contrast with their olive complexion)

They step into the Church, arrive at the front row and kneel on the ground with their faces planted into the ergonomically sensational, plastically gorgeous chairs. (Which I swear were bought in the 70s (like so many things Nica) and never traded in.)

We leave the stage. The applause is deafening. We´re getting used to it. Really, the Nica Churches generally don´t have heaps of talent in the singing department. They´re by and large musically brilliant (instruments and rhythm), but God just didn´t don them with beautifully timbered voices. We have sing-in-the-shower voices. We love to sing, but we´re not your up-the-front-of-the-Church types. They think we´re like the Jackson 5 or something, we´re not willing (quite yet) to let them know the truth. A message to friends who can actually sing: STAY AWAY, THEY´RE OURS, AAALL OOOURS!!!

We resume our posts in the second row (another anomaly for us. We´ve always been back-row people. In Australia, the US, and the UK, when we were late, the only seats free were at the back of the Church building. However, in Latin countries, the back rows are taken first and people file forward… And so, we´re always humiliated as we walk down the middle of our small Church building to our designated seats in the second row).

The young lads are introduced. They jump up onto the stage and don´t wait for a second before they begin. It´s not like in Australia, where they´ll try and warm up the crowd with a joke and a compliment. They´ll stretch a bit to make sure they´re relaxed and maybe take a sip as a kind of reverse-reverse-reverse psychology (I´m comfy, I´m cool…) Noooooooooooh! They get straight into the turn-or-burn talk.

I tire of it actually. It´s one of those things - I don´t know if it´s a cultural objection or a spiritual loathing. Our Church of God Church tends to be a little negative. I experienced a couple of years, in our early married life, of solid “grace and mercy” teaching. Without it, I would not be where I am today. Anyway, they tend to be a bit negative, and love us, cause we keep pumping positive, positive, positive… “You mean, you can be a Christian and have fun in your life?” Yes…

The guy is going for it. The other chap has started walking around the Church praying out loud. They´re extremely self-assured. “Oh boy”, I think to myself. “This is going to be a loooooooong night.”

(At this stage I´d like to apologise for sounding overly downbeat. It´s just that, REALLY, it is not uncommon to sit through a 5 hour service. Our children also have to sit through these services. We do not permit them to leave, colour in a book, read, get a drink of water, or anything… They have to be attentive and show “interest” in what´s going on. Now whilst this may sound like child abuse to some, you have to understand that we are seen to be the “Harringtons” of our Barrio - rich, influential people (I loathe it. Others may be offended by this, but unfortunately it´s true. We have white skin, we come from afar, and we drive a car. We´re the richest people they have ever, and probably will ever meet))

The sermon is long, and broken up only by the volume of this lad´s voice. One moment he´s quiet and whispery, like he´s putting his new born son to bed, whilst at other moments he´s hot and bothered, shouting with a gravelly voice. It´s awesome to witness, young Nica-men, completely in love with Jesus and absolutely going for it.

The pianist returns to her post and begins to play. Sez, seemingly grateful for physical freedom, straps himself to the beast and starts pounding out a beat. The drums start to slide on the tiled stage, and so I move near to him. He smiles at me and then stares at my clicking fingers with his mouth wide open. He has gone to that “other” place, yet again.

I myself go to lah-lah land when I am rudely interrupted by Sez´s sudden nodding. His mouth is trying not to smile, but it simply cannot resist. I peer around – the young single Mum is dancing in the Spirit. I look at her, a bit mesmerised. Her dancing in the Spirit is beautiful, but she is also knocking over a quarter of the Church´s chairs, and her two year old daughter is a tad distressed.

I look back at Sez and give him a wink. He´s comfortable that everything is okay and goes back to that “other” place. However, in less than a second he comes out of that other “place” and starts nodding towards somebody else. Corr, blimey!

I twist my neck – it´s Ivania and Valeria. (my Principal and Youth Leader´s wife) They´re also dancing rather violently. My gaze lasts for quite some time. I look at Sez and then look back at the young ladies. Hands are wild and feet sure are moving. Dancing is generally forbidden in their Pentecostal culture, but when it´s for the Lord they give it everything they´ve got!

I return my eyes to Sez and he is now well-and-truly awake. He´s already gesturing to yet a fourth person. It´s one of the youth. She has tears streaming down her cheeks. Her hands are up and she´s clearly lost in adoration for her Lord. And then the youth start coming out one-by-one. Lorenzy, Francesca, they´re all down the front, being drenched in the Holy Spirit.

The young man who had been strolling around the Church grabs the mike and begins to sing. He´s praying for everyone as he belts out a melody. His hands don´t stop and neither does his mouth. Actually, both of these fellas have good voices, and it´s a pleasure to hear them sing. Either that, or I´m now slain in the spirit and cannot tell the difference.

The pianist looks like she´s about to blow a fuse. Her chubby little face is red and those cheeks are going in and out like nobody´s business. She´s huffing and puffing and I´m beginning to wonder if she might blow the whole house down. Sez starts to drain. I can see it all over his small body. I push him on, “come on Sez, keep going”. He does. But starts to lose the beat. I grab one of the sticks from him and start bashing the high hat myself. Sez keeps the foot pedal pumping and continues to bang on the drum.

I look around. They´re now bringing a young lady forward, Fran´s friend, Scarleth. “Oh God”, I quickly pray. Now I had made a promise to this girl, saying that the service would be brief (under 2 hours), and that she was welcome to come back to our house for pancakes and a movie. It´ll be a scintillating evening filled with cavorting and festivities. Eeek! She is reluctant. The guy begins to scream into the mike, sounds like I´ve never even heard before. Sounds like helicopters, and tribal chants, etc. Quite bazaar to my Western, pop cultured ears. (Could we possibly pop a Hillsongs cd on in the background instead of all this who-har?)

Scarleth begins to bawl like a baby. “Oh good”, I say to myself. I look at her younger sister, who is understandably looking rather concerned, and she is also on the verge of tears. They offer for her to go forward as well. “Oh no” I think to myself. “She´ll make a bolt for the door and her parents will never leave her in my care again!” The lass heads to the front.

Within moments it seems as if everyone is crying. I look to the young lad who spoke, and he´s already looking at me. He grins at me and winks as if to say “having fun?” and I smile, shrug my shoulders, and continue to drum. (Sez is now nearly paralysed on the ground, cramps flowing through every muscle group in the young boy´s body. Clearly he is experiencing something quite different to the rest of the Chuch.)

The pregnant woman is now fluttering around like a butterfly. Her arms are making great, gigantic sized swooping motions. Her mascara is running so that she looks like some kind of weird Balinese-Circus clown combo.

Fran is now weeping uncontrollably. Fran once told me “the NCA Youth Group is really, REALLY good. People cry!” Her face is full of peace and love. She starts to pray out loud in English and I see one of the older ladies nodding, “ah yes, she´s speaking in tongues” I imagine her to be saying.

And then, when things can´t get any crazier, the young Mormon-twin-man ends the service with a prayer, everyone yells out a “Gloria-a-Dios”, they stack their chairs and leave.

The truth is, I am blown away by the people of this local, rural Church. The move of the Holy Spirit is not dedicated to the Church in the West. The move of the Holy Spirit belongs to the souls of every true believer, who opens their hearts to the rhythm and voice of God himself.

This week I venture with my new best friends, the Men in White, to Tipitapa Prison, the most notorious prison in Nicaragua. Pray for hearts… Pray for souls… Pray for His Will to be done in Nicaragua, a land with blossoming potential in the Kingdom of God…