POST by FRAN: Fun in the Sun, having a RUN and getting a LOT done..

Scarleth and Julissa are sisters. They live by the local church that we attend. Scarleth has curly hair and is 18 years old. She is short for her age and she is really fun. Julissa also has curly hair and she is 14 years old. They go to a different church though, so they invited us to go to their youth group.
 

At midday on Thursday Lorenzy and I went with Scarleth to her house to hang out until it was time to go to youth group at 6:30. Julissa suggested on going on a walk, so we got a water bottle and some candy and set off on our wild adventure!

We went walking through an area that had obviously been burning earlier that day. The ash was still burning hot when I hovered my foot over the ash like a UFO might hover over a foreign alien planet.

After the field of hot ash, we passed through a field which was filled with cattle. I could tell that my amigas were getting scared when everyone started running and screaming! Julissa was the first one to reach the other side of the field, because she is the fastest out of all of us.

We reached a beautiful, green hill. Lorenzy and Julissa immediately started a race to the top of the hill to get a view of Managua, but Scarleth and I walked calmly to soak in all the greenness and to enjoy the cool breeze.

When Scarleth and I finally reached the top, we pulled out our phones to take pictures for facebook. Lorenzy and Julissa had already done so. At first the pictures were of the landscape but then we started making profile pictures, and took pictures of ourselves in funny poses.

My legs started hurting and Julissa suggested we sit under a tree or something. (she always has good ideas!) We started down the hill in single file, still taking pictures as we went. We reached a field with a lot of blueberries. We each grabbed a few blueberries as we walked through.

Scarleth said that we should sit under the mango tree that was on the other side of the field. We picked a bunch of mangoes and  sat down to rest and eat. When we were tired of resting we made some make-believe "instruments" with wood and with those "instruments" we sang the song " La Bamba".

The wood was cut in long, thin blocks. In our band we had a guitar, drums, piano and at some point there was also a violin and saxophone. It was really fun! I looked at Scarleth's phone and it was 5 o'clock, and Scarleth said that we should go back and eat and then go to youth group.

We started walking back the hill, when we heard a chain saw start up! We freaked out and started running. We only stopped when we reached the burning, hot, ash. it was still really hot from when we had passed earlier.

We eventually got to Scarleth's house and ate and then went to youth group. When youth group was over we went home and conversed about all the fun we had that day.

POST by RAFFY: The Brien's Puppies

One day Fran, Billy and I were going to sunday school. The First thing we do in sunday school is we listen to pastors in a little church, the second thing we do is to go outside with our chars and when sunday school finished we went home but I went to the Perez' s house.  in a few few hours I went to Oliver and Brien house and when I gist past through the door we have new puppys.

POST by JED: Tell me Lies, Tell me Sweet Little Lies...

I'm not a liar, but I have told lies.

I grew up as a pastor's kid in Sydney's plush southern, seaside suburbs. If I had have known how posh my environment was at the time, I would definitely have morphed into a YUPPY (young unmarried professional) snob, possessing 3 friends, a corvette, a chronic addiction to therapy sessions and an intolerance of people like you... However, although snootiness could have potentially blossomed, it would have been a while in coming, and due to circumstances outside of my control, it never did.

My parents earnt, and I am remembering stories-of-old and could be completely incorrect (I'm hazarding a guess now...), $170 per month. Now whilst this sounds like a gastronomical amount to you, in a 70s Sydney waterfront  suburb, this amount was a pittance - I mean, most of our neighbours wouldn't have even crossed the boulevarde to pick up wads of cash amounting to more than my parents monthly stipend.

Now whilst I never  tried to burn down our house in order to help with the wintertime heating issues, actually, no wait - I did do that... My mother recalls a time when her reading glasses broke. She was devastated. She knew, at that time, that she would never be able to afford another pair of glasses. Her intellectually stimulating Women's Weekly days were to be no more...

In any case, I digress... And so it was... Thanks to our dear, sweet Lord, my parents heeded a calling to Australia's Capital, Canberra, to work with the World's largest missionary organisation, Youth With A Mission (YWAM). What a thrill! We packed up all of our belongings into our sky-blue Holden, Sedan Tank, said goodbye to the neighbours who had, up until this point, been my only friends in the entire World, and made-out on our 5 hour trek up into the heart of the Snowy Mountains. Brrr!!!

Now Canberra is known as the "Bush Capital" because it's in the "Bush". I know, I should have been a teacher - I have knack for explainerising important facts to the unedumacated. I think I've elucidated this "Bush Capital" concept in other blogs, but due to my boredom today, you're in for quite the treat! I'll explain it again for your reading pleasure. (and so those from overseas can understand and visualise my home that I don't live in anymore and probably never will live in)

The "Outback", in Australia, is the dessert. The "Bush" is everything between the cities and the Outback that isn't farm. (though this point would be up for a debate in some regions) Canberra has very few high rise buildings and is sparsely populated. The emphasis on green would put "Green Peace" to shame. (Though ironically, because of the emphasis on green and space and privacy and so-forth, every Canberra resident is forced to own a car or 2, pushing pollution levels to the brink)

Canberra City really is in the "Bush", with the next closest "City" being Sydney, which is a speedy 3 hour drive away. (Now, but when I was a kid it was a 5 hour drive - another reason I should have been a teacher, I'm so good with subtle reinforcement of boring facts that have already been adequately explicarised)

My life at YWAM were some of the happiest and hardest years of my life. I absorbed every friendship, ran riot over the massive 15 acre campus, and enjoyed many aspects of the community based living. (Every one of my birthday parties involved 100 people singing happy birthday to me. The funny thing is, I remember how special this momentous occasion always made me feel. In reality, they were probably dying to get out and see the latest episode of Night Rider, as I always was when I was singing for them.)

The hard bits were having other people feel that they could "discipline" you (which, apparently, I needed a lot of...), not living in the "real World", and losing some of the normalness of family life. (We bathed in communal bathrooms, which meant my parents were in a sense cut-off from my hygiene habits at a very early age, but just by way of example... Awkward moment... Moving on...)

Another hard bit was that on one side of our building was a drive-in theatre, and so my brother and I saw many an adult image through our curtainless windows when trying to get to sleep at night. On the other side of our building was an amusement park, and as our bedtime was 8:30pm and they closed closer to midnight (on weekends), we were often kept awake byyyyyyyyeeeaaaaaaaaaaaaaAAAAAAAAAAAAAAaaaaaaaaaaa, the gentle squeals of roller coaster riders...

During my time at YWAM I went from schooling at a Christian School, to being educated at YWAM in the International Christian School that my Dad started, to being trained at home by my darling mother. Now whilst I do completely agree with homeschooling now, I didn't at the time.

As a primary school teacher I have seen the harmful effects of throwing 20-30 same-age kids into a single room, for 7 hours, with one adult supervisor. I love chatting with people who think this is socialisation. They should be around when it is realised that primary school aged kids want to commit suicide because other children persistently tell them they are fat, ugly, smell, are too poor, too tall, that their nose is too big, arms are too small, that their Dad works for the wrong political party, they live in the wrong house, in the wrong street, in the wrong city, in the wrong country, etc.

And so I was home-schooled. The actual act of home-schooling was terrific for me. I loathed my brother entirely, but don't understand why now. He wanted to work, didn't bug me, was fun to be with, etc. That's just brothers I guess, you're meant to hate each other's guts when you become a tad bit bored. (...and of course boredom, my father would often remind me, is a choice that I had made. Well, why couldn't he take that choice away from me and make my life fun again? You know, like he'd make me tidy my room, or wash the clothes, or brush my teeth of an evening...)

My Mum did her darndest to make home-schooling a hoot, but there were deficiencies there too. Why classical music in the background? Why not some of the cool, groovin, 80s distinctive pop music that I now love to dance around the house to, semi-naked, when getting ready in the wee hours of the morn??? She had AAAALL the answers. "Studies show that this music makes you sma..." I'm sorry, I don't remember the end to that sentence, boredom I spose...

The thing that really got-my-goat about home-schooling was the fact that I didn't know what grade I was in. There were no socialisation problems, as I lived in a community and had a ready supply of playmates. This all changed of course, when my parents left YWAM and moved into the suburbs of Canberra and we joined a home Church, as opposed to the Church of Christ Church we had attended in Tuggeranong. (a town in Canberra)

Now my life began to hurt. I began to work at McDonald's, my first ever job. I LOVED it. However, I studied less-and-less. I saw no point in studying. I didn't know what grade I was in and didn't know what I'd be doing in the future, and saw no connection between where I was at the time and where I wanted to be (...because I didn't know where I wanted to be. I just existed... To serve my drive-thru public... Big Macs... Yummo...)

And so the day eventually came when I left McDonald's. I had worked there for three and a half years, which is an eternity when you are 17. I, unilaterally, had decided to study at College. (The final years of high school in my city, the Bush Capital, Canberra) I went with my father, who was very displeased as I feel he felt that I felt he didn't feel. But he did, or I did, or we did. Not sure which...

We registered my person into college together, and although my Dad was polite, I could tell he was mad as all-get-out! I tried to make the odd joke, but it kept getting stuck in my throat and so I was humiliated as I choked on every second sentence.

My first day of classes arrived and I was very excited. I was studying Mathematics, English, Sociology, Psychology, History, Legal Studies and Chess. "How salubrious", I thought to myself. I went into my first class, which was English. The girl next to me smiled knowingly. I had never received that sort of "smile" before, and began to blush. I shifted the weight in my seat from side-to-side-to-side-to-side. I was out of my element.

She asked me "Are you new?" I cleared my throat "Yes... I am... Are you?" She looked at me and giggled - a rather sexual, seductive, 16 year old flirtatious, lip biting kind of laugh, that made me rethink my seating posture for the 46th time in the same minute.

"Where are you from?" she asked. "Here" I answered. Another titillatingly intense chortle emanated from her feline facial fixtures. "This girl just isn't going to leave me alone" I said to myself. "Does she even care that the teacher is trying to teach us and is using words like 'hopelessness' and 'helplessness', whilst peering over her Granny-like glasses.  I mean, surely I should be getting all of this down, this stuff is clearly going to be in our exam. 

The bell rang whilst Gran was mid-sentence, and without even waiting for her to finish, the class whisked themselves through the overly bright and rather patronisingly purple doorway. I listened to the teacher who went from communicating through a whisper to competing with screams for any remaining attention that might have been wafting around the room.

I introduced myself to the teacher, who had taken off her Gran-voice and granted my wish for an introduction - whilst at all times taking steps towards me and hence, pushing me through the very same hideous purple passageway.

I entered the maths room and sat through 50 minutes of who-knows-what. I started in the smartest class at the beginning of the week, and ended up in maths for dummies by Friday. Clearly, homeschooling had not helped me to reach my potential in this department.

Another bell, another class. This time it was sociology with Marcia. Now this woman I loved. She was older (I think they call that "mature" these days), warm, and used words like "ethnocentric". I loved her. However, she took an instant dislike to my Christian heritage, which was, I had thought, my best asset in moving forward.

I was asked by Marcia to give a presentation, in order to make up some missing assessment pieces which had been completed by my peers prior to my enrolment in the class. I was permitted to present on any topic I desired, but it needed to hold some sociological significance to my classmates.

I  wish I knew then what I know now. I waltzed into class with my Advanced Training Institute of America, Basic Life Principles, multiple-choice questionnaire photocopies in-hand. The little tiny hairs on the back of my neck still lift at the thought of this hour-long trial-by-fury.

There were Catholics who had rejected God when they had gotten pregnant after "just one time". There were atheists who had rejected God when parents had divorced. There were former Pentecostal preacher's kids who had rejected God when their Mum had announced that she was a lesbian. There were left-wing students who were... Well... LEFT WING!!! It was a bloodbath...

I had questions in my beloved questionnaire asking things like "Are you a good steward of your God-given resources?" and "Do you tithe faithfully?" You can just imagine the kind of hilarity that ensued. I didn't know if they were laughing with me or at me... I sure as heck know now.

My teacher, Marcia-fine, asked me in her droll voice if I had tithed on all my earnings, especially as she saw me in a red-hot sports car. (Which, might I add, I had saved for, and being a Mitsubishi Cordia Turbo, was probably a pressie from God himself, not requiring tithes or any other offering, as to do so would cheapen God's experience in giving to me. For, after all, it's better to give than to receive???)

Question time was over and we went back to watching a Brave New World - I definitely did NOT feel like the Alpha on this occasion, I definitely felt like the useless Epsilon...

And onwards I tottered. Chess. Check-mate, nuff said. Boring game which I LOATHE enTIRELY...

And then I arrived in Psychology class. My teacher, who was wearing a mini-skirt, but who wasn't herself "mini" and who was possibly too old to wear "minis", even when "minis" were first introduced as fashionable apparel in the 60s? This lady of instruction was voluptuous, saucy and reeked of desperation. Unfortunately, I like her too...

In my first psychology class I nearly died. In my first class we were discussing something to do with heightened states of awareness. A marijuana plant was brought in and a student explained the physical effects marijuana has on the body when consumed. The teacher played a sexually explicit R-rated movie and talked about how all of the boys' eyes were dilated. Just another cause and effect phenomena in relation to these chassis we parade around in. My eyes were definitely dilated that day - had never experienced so many extreme circumstances, and all in a day at Phillip College.

I progressed to my last class of the day - legal studies. I sat down, kind of a little, very much exhausted. The chick who had sat next to me in my very first class swooned into the room and parked her carcass on the seat next to mine. "You're sitting in my seat" she said. "Oh, am I? I'm so sorry... Where should I sit?" She winked at me. I started to want to swallow but knew that if I did it would sound overbearingly loud and that my Adam's Apple would almost smack the poor lass down.

"So" she said seductively, batting her 16 year-old eye lids at me, "you're from here, but you're new in the school?"  I realised quick-as-a-jiffy where this was going. I had been in uncomfortable situations like this before. Homeschooling in America, during the early 90s, was starting to pick up speed. In Australia, I didn't know too many people who homeschooled, and I definitely didn't want to hang-out with most of the ones I did know.

I had once gone into the Commonwealth and Education Scheme Centre (CES?) and had applied to receive "Austudy", a social security payment for students. I had waited patiently in line as the large woman, in her 50s, had talked on and on to her friend in another government department about how stupid the Federal Government was and how useless they were in helping people.

After 10 minutes she got off the phone and offered to help me. I explained that I was applying to receive "Austudy". She asked me what I meant by "Institution: Homeschool?" She advised me that she wasn't as dumb as she looked (and now that I think about it, she did look pretty dumb) and that I should either get a job or go to school.

I lied. I told her I was enrolled in a correspondence school, called The Advanced Training Institute of America. It wasn't a complete lie, because I was enrolled with this organisation, but it wasn't a correspondence school, it was a homeschooling support organisation, headed by Bill Gothard. (I'd be lying if I said this man was my fav... He had me in tears at the age of 16, because I had said that I didn't want to get married and so hadn't ticked the "agreement for courtship" box when applying to live at their campus in Indianna)

"Oh" she said. "Well why didn't you just say that?" I began to relax, a broad smile spreading across my face "We don't support correspondence students, you should enrol in a real school", she declared... BALDERDASH!

"I'm living here, but I'm from America. I come from Indianapolis (where I had just been for training). I used to go to the Advanced Training Institute of America." I lied to get myself out of the embarrassing situation of being categorised as a complete social retard, a homeschooler. Many of my friends rejected me, or I felt rejected, when they left the International Christian School at the end of 6th grade, to attend the local Christian School. Really, I'd had enough of the freak-show. I felt held back, I felt shame. I felt abnormal.

The horrid truth is, that lies, even those from a seat of good intention, tend to spread through our lives like cancer and affect everything we are. "Wow" she said... "I'm Canadian!" I started to wink uncontrollably at her. "Thaaaat's increeeedible" I said. "Grrr..." I reprimanded myself "I can't even do an American accent!" I left school that day feeling like I'd been half molested, run-over by a bus, interrogated by the FBI (Canadian Version), and stripped of every bit of dignity that clang to my person.

The following Sunday I went to a new Church with my good friend Mary. This friend had been a faithful friend for many, MANY years, completely trustworthy and as wise as an owl. Mary is also a Canadian. But, who should I meet at the front door of this Church, than my very good new friend from school. My "other" Canadian friend. "Well howdy" I hollered. Mary looked at me "is the boy ill?" I imagined her to be thinking. That night I was introduced to EVERY person in the congregation as the boy from Indianapolis.

It was a humiliating few months for me. I had told one little lie to get me out of a potentially devastating social situation and now I was well-and-truly being bitten on the proverbial behind...  I loved the Church that I had begun to attend and made some great friendships. However, it was all to be short lived. One day I broke down and confessed the story to my mother.

Now my Mum is a well humoured woman, but she didn't laugh, and nor did she smile. She talked to me about the power of our words and may have even slipped in the story about the boy who cried wolf. I hadn't cried wolf, I'd SCREAMED it at the top of my lungs, for very many months. It had been exhausting, but at this point, thank GOD, it was all over.

Today I am keenly aware of the power of the tongue, because as James says in the Word of God " The tongue also is a fire, a world of evil among the parts of the body. It corrupts the whole person, sets the whole course of his life on fire, and is itself set on fire by hell."

Today I am still embarrassed by some of the things I have done and said in my life. But now I am excited to be using my words to bring healing, comfort and love to those in my small community near Cedro Galan, in Nicaragua. "The hearts of the wise make their mouths prudent, and their lips promote instruction.  Gracious words are a honeycomb, sweet to the soul and healing to the bones." Proverbs 16

My local Church, near Cedro Galan in Nicaragua, is currently battling with many a-varying issue. The Church is not producing "fruit" and the body is bound up in tradition and law.

We have, on this last Sunday, issued a strong warning to the people in our congregation to love the people around them, as Christ instructed us to do. Forgive, as that was the greatest message Christ brought to this Earth. And let's not "throw stones", because who amongst us are without sins?

And so we march on... Believing, praying, hoping, loving, sharing, and using our tongues to encourage those around us into the arms of an everlasting God made from 100% love. That's the truth - and the truth will set you free...

Norlan says Thank You!

POST by SEZ: Baby Choyos, Buying Houses and Biting Pizza!

On Wednesday we were having friends, named Jealisa and Scarlet, over to our house. They came over to give us a Chocoyo. A chocoyo is a type of bird which is green and very little . Jealisa and Scarlet have curly hair. They are almost five feet tall .                                 

We were going to have a kickball game. Kickball is a game like baseball, but you play with your feet. We had seven outs and five homes. Renzy and I lost and Jealisa and Scarlet won because they had more points. I don't really like kickball.

When it was one thirty we had to go to TaeKwondo. When we got there we couldn't get in because we were late. Dad had already left and we wanted to stay out of the TaeKwondo hall,  and so I sat and did nothing. I felt sick and hungry.

When dad came back he had bought the house. To celebrate dad took us out for pizza. When we were at  the restaurant we got sprite and coca cola to drink. After twenty minutes ago we got pizza and it was yummy. When we were done we went home.

POST by RENZY: Friday Night Fever

Every Friday in the afternoon until ten at night, we have people from the community come over to play games and sports and do a little devotion. The Friday before last Friday, we played capture the flag with everyone. Capture the flag is a game were you have to hide a flag and find the other teams flag and whichever team finds the other team's flag first wins.

We played in the other paddock and put hay barrels all over the place. We had two groups, the first group was from ages five to eleven and the second group was from ages twelve to eighteen. It was fun because they really got into it especially the second group. I think it was more fun when the second group came because first of all, I knew more people because of Church and second of all because of what happened. opportunity

I was with Yader (not our security guard, a friend from church. He plays the bongos and has half of a finger missing. It is so cool. We call him la bruja because he laughs like a witch.), Marcelo( the youth pastor's youngest son), and Jorge (the son of our Church's piano player, Angelita). It was our job to hide the flag so we went all the way to the back because there is a tree back there which has a bunch of leaves so you would not be able to see it that well.

We put it in that tree and started walking away. Then Yader went back to the tree, got the flag, and put it in his pocket to put it somewhere else. As soon as it was in his pocket they announced that the game had started. A guy from the other side ran to the tree and climbed up it. He was up there for a while and then he got back down and someone took him to jail.

The funny thing was that the jail was right under that same tree. It was good we took it out of the tree because otherwise we would have lost straight away. Since they were older, they were a lot tougher than the littler kids. I was  walking to where I saw Yader, Marcelo, and Jorge. I was almost to where they were when I felt someone grab me tightly from behind. I looked and saw that it was Yader (our security guard). He had grabbed me to take me to jail because I realised that I had crossed over to the enemy's side.

I told him that I was not playing so that he would let me go but he did not believe me. It took me a few minutes until I finally convinced him and he let me go. I walked over to where they were and we started to talk with each other. We were talking when all of a sudden we all heard a big crash like someone was playing American football with no gear and crashed into each other really hard.

We looked to were the crash had come from and we saw someone lying on the ground. Someone picked him up like a baby and walked to the house with some people following from behind. It looked like he had fainted. After, when everyone had gone, my Dad said that what had happened with the guy was so cool and that they had had a great time. I just laughed to myself and went to bed.

POST by JED: A Day in Hell (Could I please have fries with that?)

Ever been to hell? I have...

Have heard a gazillion Christian speakers in my time. Some have been appalling, some terrible, some poor... Still others have been average, okay, better than day-time telly... However, then there have been the good, the exciting, the exceptional,  the drag you out-of-your-seat and spank you with revelation types. I don't know about you, but I just love a good spanking with revelation...

So in terms of my sermon consumption... Well, in English I tend to be right up there, digesting every comment, side-thought, scripture, and gesture, whilst in Espanol... Well, everyone around me can be experiencing something rather mind-blowing, eye-opening, even death-defying, whilst I'm feeling like I could munch on a Snickers bar... Never get old, do they? Snickers... Really satisfy.

In any case, on this night, God was moving and there was just no denying it. I was a teensy weensy bit taken aback by all the razzmatazz, but knew that God was in it so continued to worship the Lord in my "own way", whilst also taking the occasional peek-a-boo at all the doo-dallies around the place (of which there were many... An Australian insane asylum would have shut our operation down within 30 seconds).

After the service our youth pastor, Eduardo, told me that the mighty man-of-God visiting speaker, a twenty-something-year-old Nica-fella, was coming back to our place for a night-time snack and some scintillating chit-chat. It's funny how the Nica-peeps who work for you can sometimes TELL you what is about to happen, rather than ask. But anyone who knows me also knows that I do love to indulge in the periodic boutique soirée, so there was to be no backyard brawl in this instance.

 

The bloke comes to our house, with his friend trailing behind, and it turns out that this lad used to be in prison with our youth pastor. (At this point Liz begins to race around our house, unashamedly hiding all our family heirlooms, expensive jewelry and excess cash that us missionary types tend to have on hand)

"Well, how supremely wonderful!", I say out loud. "Now, how do I get this pack of lying thieves out of my house?" I think to myself... Within moments I'm signed up to visit Tipitapa Prison with this ragamuffin bunch and we're hugging and praying, and trying to achieve personal space (me), whilst being excitedly spat upon through very loud Spanish speech, and all with Bette Midler's "Bugle Boy" playing raucously in the background... Truly, you couldn't write a more interesting script for my life...

The alarm clock goes off and I want to kill. After spending years in an industry where mornings are part-and-parcel of the profession, that blasted waking at hours prior to sunlight still kills me. I leap out of bed (hit snooze button 13 times, then toss-and-turn a further 18 times, before finally slithering off to the shower where I spend another 20 minutes humming and harring about the benefits of early rising. Surely those Proverbs that talk about rising early were misplaced...) The hot water runs out. And so, it would seem, my missionary work requires me to be up early, and half-washed..

I grab a towel and get on with the usual morning routine. My "youth pastor" arrives and we sink a couple of cups of coffee and head off to our amigo's house, in order to depart for Tipitapa Prison on-time. Of course, my youth pastor's wife' s Dad is also in prison and so she, Valeria, is joining us. I'm kind of miffed and kind of relieved, as Valeria will not tell me what her Dad is in prison for. He's already served some 20 years and has a few more years left. I know he isn't "in" for robbing lollies from tiny babies! But what could it be? I push and prod, but nothing, she just won't give...

We are practically flying through the streets of Managua because we are late. Now I know what you're thinking, it's not possible to be late in Latin America. But we are late... We're very late... Eduardo, before working with Capital on the Edge, worked in the Mercado Oriental. He's a bit of a crazy dude, and the benefit of his lunacy on this occasion is his knowledge of every twist and turn of the city's intricate transportation system, and also his appreciation of my loco driving. He loves my driving!!!

Eduardo's wife is in the back of our great big white car, being flung from side to side, and trying not to look at anything. The poor lass is terrified. The make-up case is no place to be seen, the girl's only desire is to get out of our automobile alive...

We arrive at the lead pastor's house, Maxy! Now Max is 27 years old and married to a beautiful Nicaraguan Mujere of a similar age. They welcome us warmly into their house.

Max and his family live near Carretera Norte, near the airport, on the "wrong" side of town. The area is chronically poor, hot, brimming with crime, and very dirty. Max's house is well lit, tastefully decorated and endearing. This family have sufficient  funds to afford flooring for the main room of their house, which is partitioned into a living room (which they really do live in) and 2 bedrooms (Max has 3 boys aged between 4 and 13 years of age). I adore Max's house, you can feel the love of God.

 

People come and go, come and go. I'm Western and although very laid back, I even wonder what the dickens is going on. Two hours pass and nothing. More people in and more people out. Everyone is finely dressed, which is not an unusual feature of Nica culture, and excited to be amongst people who are passionate for a worthwhile cause.

Maxy has been in and out also, but in this sudden moment, his forehead tells me that the winds of change are blowing. He marches past me and beckons everyone within ear-shot. He briefly rallies us to war and then the prayers ensue. I step inside the circle of pastors and inmate family members. The feeling is sensational, like I'm in the middle of a cyclone. The prayers are powerful, determined, heart-felt, purposeful. I have butterflies in my stomach - I am with some of the most Spiritually Sensitive and bold believers I have ever come across. It's an honour to be with this group, I want the moment to last forever. And that's it, we're off...

Actually first I need to visit the lavatory if you please... "Compromiso... Necesito usar el baño por favor", I request of Maxy's hospitable wife. She points me towards the backdoor, which, had I been left to my own devices, I would have found to be the doorway to all good things, as this door was the only door to the outside World. (besides of course the front door)

Good-golly-gosh! I look around... There in the backyard (4m x 4m) is a washing machine, lots of boxes and odd ends, cleaning products, children's toys, etc... And all on a nice clean dirt floor. This is very confronting to me. The couple are gorgeous and dress so well. Once again I am reminded that poverty is not selective, and that most Nicaraguans, regardless of who they are as people, live in a World that is very different to the World I grew up in.

To my left there are two more doorways, partitioned solely by what looks to be curtain fabric. I choose doorway number one and BINGO, I have found the toily. I stand over the perfectly clean bowl and lower my trousers. To my horror, I feel dampness on my inner thigh! What could it be? Well... It's the dog!!! YIKES, is there no privacy, no etiquette, no decorum??? I finish my business and march out with a similar power that Maxy had worn prior to the prayer session. I've had my initiation, let's go to PRISON!!!

We head south past the airport, along the southern reaches of Lake Managua, past many-an-interesting sight, to Tipitapa. Now this small city is possibly the hottest city in all of Nicaragua. Please also keep in mind that Managua is the 2nd hottest capital city in the entire World. (second only to New Delhi in India) The city is beautiful, but hot, even at this time of year.

We arrive and are greeted by a handicapped fellow, who is accompanied by several local youths. He rattles off something in Spanish, but I don't really take it in. I am confronted by the starkness of this scenario. Tipitapa Prison is on the edge of Tipitapa, the urban converging upon the rural. It's haunting. Birds circle above the prison. Dust swirls along the extensive road. Poverty lingers in the air. It's oh so quiet... (Yes Bjork, I need you right now!)

The cars containing the other pastors and family members of inmates arrive. Everyone jumps out of their respective vehicles and the atmosphere immediately becomes alive with anticipation. We form another circle, similar to how we had positioned ourselves in Maxy's home. Again we're praying. Thunderous, roaring prayers, which quicken the breath inside of me. I'm in love with a group of prayers - people who take the things of God seriously and who love to love, just as Christ had during his time on this Earth...

I want to take the camera in but I am not allowed. I imagine all sorts of circumstances, contemplating every possible passage. But I am haulted by the Chinese looking Nica, who threatens me with 4 months in prison if I take one more step forward whilst still clutching my beloved camera. I briefly consider my options and return to the car. I can see the relief in the eyes of my companions, though at this stage some of them also look a bit frustrated.

 

I enter the "departures hall". (for lack of a better term) It is like an aircraft hanger, only filled with very sad spouses, who seem to be waiting an eternity for their five minutes with husband/father/brother/boyfriend, or whomever the lucky chappy is. We drift through the crowds of women and find ourselves at the front of the queue. The security personnel at this check-point seem to be lacking a sense of humour and so I decide at this moment that I will leave my alter ego, Nutbag Ned, outside on the curb.

I am frisked, scanned, padded and questioned. They seem happy with my responses and I am let through. We walk in two lines, women in one line and men in the other. We reach another check-point.

My newfound friends seem to find everything hilarious. I hear my name over and over again "Jed Breen" this, and "Jed Breen" that. They're continuously looking at me and laughing. I join in, knowing that I could well be laughing at myself, the hilarious joke that I am.

I understand nothing, I am very nervous. At this point we have walked several hundred metres and seem to be both on the inside of the prison and on the outside. Barbed wire is featured regularly  at this auspicious institution. It's in front of me, behind me, to my left and right, even above me. I feel completely safe and totally clostrophobic, all at the same time.

We enter the check-point and are stopped again. There is more laughter, and this time the guards even have a chuckle. Who knows what we're laughing about but it sure is funny...

We pass many quarters which seem to be reserved for visitors, less-than-naughty inmates, guards, etc. We round the bend and pass through a space that looks like it's trying to be a garden, but which isn't really succeeding. We enter through many gates and start to hear the roar.

I look up. There is a three story building in front of me. We enter into the lower floor and to my left and right are two wings of the prison. The roar is deafening now, like the roar of a Boeing 747. Smells like dog feces and urine fill my senses. It's overpowering. I lift my t-shirt over my nose. (which, ironically, makes me look like a new prisoner who hasn't yet received his Nica-prison-attire:  a shirtless chest, pair of very white undies, plus jeans that sit too low on my botty)

We walk through the building and enter a second three-storey building. The same roar deafens me again, though this time I look up to the higher tiers of cells. Each wing possibly contains 200 or more cells. There are men everywhere. They are not wearing much clothing and all attention is on our party, for we have approximately 8 women with us. "Poor ladies", I think to myself. "They really are risking everything to be here".

We enter the third building. I am shocked by the men. They're clearly people of the prison world, with big attitudes, prison haircuts and jail fashion, plus you can feel the deviance surrounding these characters. It's as though everything is continuously being assessed, scrutinised, summed up. The men are not smiling and all eyes are once again on us.

We form two lines again. This time the men will go first, followed by the women. I step back. I cannot enter. A sudden hesitation falls upon my physical being and I become limp. I saunter backwards hoping I won't be noticed. The ladies march forward, into the sea of prison manliness. "NO! Those poor women... What's going to happen to them?" I scream at myself. The catcalls are loud. The women keep their eyes on the heels of the person in front of them and continue marching forward. Brave soldiers they are...

I suddenly feel a hand on my shoulder. Max has found me and foiled my attempts to slip out unnoticed. He pushes me forward and we too enter the "sea". To my horror, I receive ten times the attention that the women had received. It's because I'm "white".

"Hey  Chele" they scream. Lots of catcalls and the fellas come right up to my face and contort their features. I really feel at this time as though I am staring into the eyes of demons. My heart is pounding and I am petrified. This is by far the most intensely terrifying experience of my life. And then I hear it, the sounds of angels...

In a matter of seconds I am thrust into the "chapel", which is just like a great big prison cell. Water is gushing from the walls and I don't know why. I don't think to ask either. I suddenly wonder about the recent hellish demise of more than 300 prisoners in a Honduran prison. A fire had started and the majority of inmates were burnt alive. How? It seems to me that prisons consist mostly of concrete and steel. 

I scan the "room". Prisoners are freely worshiping God. It's kind of an odd moment, because I'm used to seeing people worship God in a Church building, or park, or some type of hall, but not in jail. I'm in a prison, and we're not in the middle of a Church service. Surreal.

Nothing is really going on. Yet the men in this chapel are worshiping God. There are only about twenty prisoners around me, but the steady flow into the chapel is increasing the numbers by the second.

Catholic graffiti is on the wall, and a young, well dressed Nica-man is playing the piano. And then it begins. For the next few hours I will be subject to the intense sounds emanating from the massive speakers. The sounds of evangelism.

The pastors don't start with a well intentioned joke, followed by a welcome and so-forth. No. It's straight into the heart of God. Tears flow and people kneel, jump, cry, laugh, raise their hands, scream out - It's intense! However... God is here. Prisoners are here. I am here. How cool is it to witness the outpouring of love from a higher being, into the hearts and souls of these destitute lads...

12 young Nica-men gave their hearts to Jesus today. These men have raped, murdered, stolen, abused, beaten, cheated, and  drugged their way into prison. Life here at Tipitapa is not at all easy. But there is hope for those men who turn from their sins and embrace the love of an almighty God.

Today, 12 men have made the choice to  walk away from a life of darkness and to accept a calling from God in Heaven, to confess their need of Him, to confess their sins to Him, and to invite Him into their lives, exchanging a life of putridity for a life of hope in Jesus Christ.

Today I walked fearfully into hell and experienced the intense love that God has for each one of us. I'm blessed to have friends all over the World. I'm lucky to have a family who cares for me. But the best part is, belonging to love, almighty love. Love from above, love deep inside of me, love ever-present...

POST by LIZ: Oso Watching Over Me

Although my flubbery-jubbery bits don´t proclaim it, I really love to exercise.  I often wrestle with my tennis shoes, after I´ve squeezed into my bargain-gained purple Nike workout top, and slathered on the lycra leggings. Finally, I pick up two large cans of tomato soup and put heel to dirt and walk. 

Sometimes Jed or a beloved offspring will join me; we walk at a good speed while talking about this or that.  Other times it´s just Oso and me daring to venture out on the dusty, winding roads. 

Oso knows when I´m off on my butt-tightening, calf-straining mission. He hears the front door open, the jangle of the choker-chain and he´s by my side in seconds.     

As soon as we pass through the heavy metal gate and protected walls we are both on a mission: me to work up a sweat and get my heart pumping. Oso to fight off any threat I might encounter while completing my mission.  

The loyalty to our family comes from the Retriever side, the instinct to protect by attacking first, and ask no questions later, comes from the Belgian Sheepdog side.

I remember early days when Oso showed his protective nature.

We were having a Sunday afternoon family moment at a park in Mexico. The kids were having a wonderful time sliding down the rusty slide, twirling on the imbalanced roundabout, and hanging from the towering monkey bars.

Oso was behaving himself so we decided to reward him with some freedom.  We loosened the extended chain and allowed him to roam. 

Immediately he joined in on the fun.  Pushing Raf on the swing with his nose, playing tag with Sez on the fort, and enjoying Francesca and Lorenzy´s failed attempts to teach him how to fetch.   

Suddenly he sensed danger, and as quick as a flash he sprang into action. 

To our horror he attacked the front wheel of an oncoming bicycle and sent the 14 year-old rider flying over the handle-bars.  He then chased off three skateboarders while we Briens madly dashed after him.  In Oso´s mind the park belonged to the Briens and no one else was invited to play.

When we walk, he has the same mentality.  The road belongs to us and it is his duty to keep the road clear of anything or anyone who thinks otherwise. 

Riders on malnourished, beaten down horses, ox-driven carts over-stacked with firewood and moto taxis, which are half putt-putt (aka: a very slow motorcycle in the UK), half rickshaw and glued together with political propaganda - are sent veering off the road.

Men, women and children are forced to the edge of the ditches to make way for me to pass. Stray dogs rummaging through trash, dogs protecting their owner´s shacks, and worm-hunting chickens are attacked if they dare come too close.

Falling branches, swaying trees and moving grass are all snipped at, eradicating any potential, disguised threat. 

Even the air-circling dust caused by vehicles passing by is confronted.  

As Oso, the bodyguard, moves in all directions around me, I am able to keep a steady pace and permit my power working arms, with tomato soup cans attached, to mechanically move with no hitches.

With Oso busy fighting evil, I am at liberty to appreciate the beauty of this rural setting. 

As I pass ancient trees with their strong roots exposed, I imagine my father´s didactic voice.  

We would often go for family walks at Snuff Mills, Blaise Castle, or Westbury on Trym and enjoy the beautiful English country side.

My Dad would ponder on prehistoric foliage with visible roots that firmly grasped the dirt.  He´d confide in me how this image metaphorically represented his spiritual life and he´d encourage me to cling to my Creator like the roots clung to the ground, and actively live a life that was rooted in God.   

I am brought back to the present by the smells of my local community. 

I wave hello to Freddy, a sixteen-year-old local, droving his father´s cattle. I protect my lungs as I pass the blue smoking spot fires burning toxic waste. I smile at the crowded bus spewing pore-sweat-drenched bodies out of its windows and doors, and I nod my head politely at the pulperìa vendors who are arranging the packaged bread for the day.        

When we return from our workout, we both dive into the pool and cool off.  Although I check off “daily workout” from my mental checklist and relax in the surrounding waters, Oso is always watching and willing to protect as he swims close by.  

Psalm 91

¹ Whoever dwells in the shelter of the Most High
will rest in the shadow of the Almighty.^[a]
2 I will say of the LORD, “He is my refuge and my fortress,
my God, in whom I trust.”

³ Surely he will save you
from the fowler’s snare
and from the deadly pestilence.
⁴ He will cover you with his feathers,
and under his wings you will find refuge;
his faithfulness will be your shield and rampart.
⁵ You will not fear the terror of night,
nor the arrow that flies by day,
⁶ nor the pestilence that stalks in the darkness,
nor the plague that destroys at midday.
⁷ A thousand may fall at your side,
ten thousand at your right hand,
but it will not come near you.
⁸ You will only observe with your eyes
and see the punishment of the wicked.

⁹ If you say, “The LORD is my refuge,”
and you make the Most High your dwelling,
¹⁰ no harm will overtake you,
no disaster will come near your tent.
¹¹ For he will command his angels concerning you
to guard you in all your ways;
¹² they will lift you up in their hands,
so that you will not strike your foot against a stone.
¹³ You will tread on the lion and the cobra;
you will trample the great lion and the serpent.

¹⁴ “Because he loves me,” says the LORD, “I will rescue him;
I will protect him, for he acknowledges my name.
¹⁵ He will call on me, and I will answer him;
I will be with him in trouble,
I will deliver him and honor him.
¹⁶ With long life I will satisfy him
and show him my salvation.”

POST by FRAN: Is Visiting the Clinic Compatible with Shopping? Ask My MUM!

Today started as a normal, boring day. The only weird thing was that I woke up with a red circle under my arm! That´s how our exciting adventure started... With a red circle under my arm…

I showed mum the red circle under my arm when she got home from work at 3 and she thought that the red circle is a ring worm so we went to the clinic at four o’clock and showed the woman who worked there and she also thought it was a ring worm. So we brought a bacterial cream that is yellow and gooey and it smelt horrible.

I jumped into the car and smeared the yellow goo on the red circle or the ring worm and put the tube down on the seat. Mum turned out on to the main street and heads for the ferreteria (or the hardware store). We go past itby just a little and park in front of a new second hand clothes store.

We get out of the car and walk to the ferreteria. Mum asked to see the red paint and told me it was for Sezni´s (my brother's) bedroom. She bought the red paint, which really looked pink, a bolt for the guard´s coffee and cookies, so that little hands don't go eating the cookies, and two paint brushes.

When we were paying for all the hardware items, a lady, who was dressed in a gold t-shirt, approached us and asked us to move our car away from the front of the second hand clothes store. Mum told the woman calmly that we were going to go to their store once we were finished at the ferreteria. The only thing the woman said was ¨oh¨ in a very snobby or fresa way.

With plastic bags in hand, Mum took them to the car and almost said ¨don’t worry, I won´t take long…¨ She shut the door again and them almost ran into the second hand clothes store.

She was so excited and straight away asked what the prices were. A tall Nicaraguan woman replied ¨150 cords for jeans, 100 cords for shirts, and 60 for swim suits¨ As soon as mum heard the prices she was off looking here, there, and everywhere! She had a bundle of clothes and all I had was two pairs of swim suits! How does this woman do it?   

Mum was so excited about all the clothes that she had clothes that wouldn't even fit me in her hand, she told me that she probably would only fit the t shirts! She asked the tall Nicaraguan ¨where are the vestidorios? (changing rooms)

The woman led us down a dark stair case that was missing most of the steps and turned on a dim light when we reached the bottom. She pointed to a little room with a mirror which didn’t have a door or anything! it was very awkward. It was dark in there, but without the door there was more light. The woman said that she would wait upstairs.

We were left in a dark basement . So mum tried on her pants and she was right! None of them fit her! We tried to pull up one pair of jeans and they ripped!! We finished trying on our clothes and went upstairs. Mum and I went to the cashier and added everything up.

We pulled out all of our money and counted it at least three times. Mum ran to the car to see if there was any money in the car and she got stuck there talking to Yaser, the older brother of a friend from school). He was waiting for the bus.

Mum came back with my little brother´s wallet and pulled out all the money. We were short 10 cords but we promised that we would advertise their shop and come back and shop more.

We jumped in the car and Yaser was still waiting for his bus. Mum yelled out the window ¨do you want a ride?¨  The response was yes like most people would say. So he jumped in to the car.

Mum started driving down the road toward the Nicaraguan Christian Academy. Mum and I tell Yeser that we were going to get something from Mum´s class room. When we reached the class room I grabbed the t-shirt that I went to get and then returned to the car.

The car was filled with friendly conversation and as we were turning the corner, a friend of mine walked up to the car and surprised us. His name is Moises and he is 19 years old and he recently started driving a motor taxi. He just said ¨hi¨ and then he went back to work. We reached Yaser´s house and dropped him off and said our goodbyes and took off home.

We saw Moises on the way home in his little taxi but he  had someone with him so we kept going. We finally reached home and laughed about all that had happened in that one short hour!