Peru: That "Deep Dark Secret" Look

      Barbara has been working on me a long time. My spiritual life was not what it should be. I had this problem, for many years. I looked at many fellow church attenders who seemed hypocritical to me. Some seemed to pray long, very elegant prayers. I didn't feel God required that kind of elegance in order to talk to him. If not God, then who were they trying to impress? Others were in their church position to further business interests, obviously. And some “strong Christians” appeared to be that only on Sunday. See them later in the week, and it was a different story.

      Collectively, Barbara, Michael Holloway, and that trip to Peru affected me in such a way that I begin to realize that everyone around me, and I, was a sinner. My relationship with God had nothing to do with other people around me. They had their own spiritual life to work out.

      I returned to Peru, several years later. My motives were now much more pure. This time I was in a small village on the outskirts of Cusco.

      When we got to the village, I discovered that my bag was not in the car. We finally figured out it went to another group, to another village, a long way off. The pastor who was with us at the time said he would take me to that village, so we started out in his car. Right after we left the church, we passed a house with a pretty girl, about 18, in the front yard. She looked at us, and she flushed. I saw a certain look pass between them, that look that passes between two people who share a dark secret. I saw that look many years ago, when we lived in another city, pass between the songleader at our church and a lady in the front row, a teacher. Barbara had seen it too, and later, we discussed it. We thought surely, we had misread it. Both of these church members had spouses and a family. A couple of weeks later, they ran off together, and never came back. I hope I misread this new look, too, but I doubt it. This pastor had a large family.

      When we got to the village where my bag now resided, One of the mission trip members, also with grey hair, was leading a funeral procession up the mountain, about to preach a funeral. Like I said before, If you are old, and you go on a mission trip, you best be prepared for anything. At least, he WAS a preacher.

      The people were much the same, except now we cooked a very large meal each day, the college kids went out in the poor neighborhoods and brought the kids in like pied pipers, each child with a bowl and a spoon, ready to eat. I was somewhat officially in charge of my group this time, and I was determined to prevent my kids and I from getting that horrible stomach bug. I treated all the water personally with chemicals, I watched over what we all ate, and they did, like a hawk, and when we were flying home, I had the satisfaction of realizing, It was successful. No one in my group had gotten the bug. Pride goeth before the fall. When I stepped off the plane, it hit me, and hit me hard.

      My gray hair, thinner and grayer now, still caused me some guilt attacks. A ceremony was set up, one night at a small village, for me to officially present a soccer ball, one I had no roll in bringing along in the first place, to the city fathers for the benefit of the children of the village. The main pastor's wife made a very long and elegant speech one night, thanking me for all the great work I had done for the children of Peru, over the years. I had been in Peru, in my life, maybe a total of a dozen days. But, I accepted her misplaced praise with great dignity, as one with hair such as mine should do.

      The last day, with everyone else headed for Machu Picchu, I begged off. I hired a car and driver, an interpreter, and headed out to my old village, to see my friends. That did not cost as much as it sounds, probably about what a car alone would have cost me at home. The little Indian preacher, now my dear friend, Pastor Cirro, went along. He and I have never exchanged an understandable word between us, but we communicated easily with smiles, handshakes, gestures, laughter, and love. He told me, through the interpreter, that he had a picture of me hanging on his wall. Funny. I have a picture of him on my wall.

      I had been trying to trace my God children all week. Seems the oldest girl, now nearly grown, was in Cusco for awhile, then the trail went cold. The rest of the family was harder to trace, but I hoped to find them at or near our old village. Turned out, when reaching the village, they had moved on. But I did find Lenore, the church mother, busily cooking corn over an open fire in her hut near the church. I gave her several more pair of reading glasses I had brought for her. Her father was there, now totally blind with cataracts. Where is my friend the eye surgeon, Frank Teed, when I need him? She sat us down to a meal of mostly corn on the cob. The corn grains in Peru are huge, four could make up a golf ball. We just pull them off, and eat them one at a time. I now realize, that was the one place I messed up, in guarding against the bug. But what could I do? Just tell sweet Lenore I wouldn't eat her corn? Afterwords, I found several of my children, now nearly grown. I was wearing my trademark hat and the same white coat, and they recognized me. My family, Lenore told me, had moved to a village farther away, but she would see them at a festival later. I gave her an envelope containing all the money I could spare, and asked her to give it to them. .Indians have nothing. That small amount would make them rich.

      Lenore told me her son was working, some distance away, but he could be sent for. I really didn't know who her son was, and time was getting short, so I said, “No, we've got to go.” We were nearly back to Cusco when it hit me. Her son was Aqua Amigo! My “water friend!” I had missed my last chance to see Aqua Amigo! My eyes filled with tears, and overflowed..

Peru: The Chick Magnet

       Machu Picchu is one of the wonders of the world. An Inca village was once built on the very top of a very tall, very steep mountain. It was so steep, one would have to be a skilled mountain climber to reach the top. This location provided them a measure of protection from their enemies. The Incas were the most skilled rock builders of all time. I saw one large rock, in one of their structures, that had 27 different angles cut into it. All the adjoining rocks fit so perfectly to it, that one could not stick a toothpick into the joints. Those Inca ruins were lost to the world for many centuries, until discovered, cleaned up, and made into one of the great destinations of the world. That was a breathtaking trip.

      The Inca empire, one of the largest and most powerful civilizations ever, was brought down by 187 Spaniards. How this came about involves a number of factors. The Indians looked upon the Spanish, in their metal suits and hats, riding great animals, as Gods. Many of the Indians were disabled by various diseases the Spanish brought with them, which spread like wildfire because they had absolutely no resistance to them. The Inca empire was totally ruled from the top, with orders passed down by sub leaders.

      187 Spaniards marched to a camp containing 40,000 Indian warriors. The Inca King went out to the Spaniards, in a gesture of welcoming these Gods. The Spanish captured him, and cut his head off right in front of the Indians. The Indians were like a snake with its head cut off. Nobody was there, once the king was dead, to issue orders. The Spanish easily took over, and quickly brought down the entire civilization.

Cusco is a mixture of Spanish and Indians, but there appeared to me to be very little mixing of the bloods over the centuries, because the Spanish one sees there look just like the Spanish one would see in Madrid. They are very beautiful people. I did see one tall, slim, very beautiful Spanish woman with a very short, heavy, unattractive Indian husband. The children varied. Some looked like her, some like him. It appeared to me that was the exception rather than the rule.

      We flew home. I arrived 10 pounds lighter. Like I said before, I was changed, and that has been permanent. But there was something else going on with me, that puzzled me. If you have read my writing, I am sure you have picked up on the fact that I have been the insecure, shy, retiring type around most women, except Barbara. And she has brought a change in that aspect of me, to a certain extent. But I arrived home with different feelings. Something unexplainable.

      We were headed out for a short vacation with Barbara's sister's family, upon my arrival home. As we toured around, I began to put my finger on it. I was feeling like I was a true chick magnet! I felt like every pretty woman we were around had eyes only for me. I even felt sorry for the young, muscular, handsome men they were with, because I knew their women were thinking only of me. This was a total and complete 180 degree change in my thinking. Barbara was so lucky to have me, and I was sure all the other women around were green with envy.

By the time we got home, that feeling was beginning to fade. I looked up my chemist friend, and asked, “How far is the juice of the Coca plant from being Cocaine?” He looked at me, puzzled, then said, “It's right there.”

      All I could figure out was, I was getting a super concentrated dose of Coca juice by substituting it for chewing tobacco, nothing like the much watered down Coca tea. I never felt like I could fly, but who wants to fly when you can be a full blown chick magnet!

 

My four children in Peru

      That night, we showed the Jesus movie, in their language. Water Amigo held my hand the whole time. Then, we put on a little drama the college kids had worked up. They really didn't know what to do with me, so I was given the roll of the soldier who beat on Jesus while he carried the cross. I was told to just continue to lash the Jesus actor with an imaginary whip until the music stops. I started lashing; the music dragged on. More lashes, more music. The altitude was hitting me hard now. But that music just wouldn't stop. I think the Indians were making bets about who would get beaten down first, me or the Jesus actor.

      The next morning, we walked a mile or two to a small village to talk to some more people. We split up. I followed my guides and interpreter up to the high country. I was to speak to a group of people up there, and they were getting their cattle ready to take out to graze. A young husband and wife team led us, and she had her 17 day old baby on her back. Well, that young woman, 17 days out of childbirth, just walked circles around me at that altitude. I think I did a pretty good job, for me, witnessing to that group, and we headed down.

      They knew how I had struggled on the way up, and the husband guide ran ahead and found a donkey for me to ride down. Well, that was a major guilt trip, getting me a donkey to ride, just like they did for Jesus in the old day! Bad as I felt, they had the donkey, and there was just no way around it. I straddled the little donkey, my feet were touching the ground, and that pore' little donkey started swaying, then slowly falling over to one side! I had to walk down, but I felt better about it.

      Our guide couple just really took a liking to me, and I could tell that they were putting a lot more stock in me than I deserved. At the bottom of the hill, they called the interpreter over, and made a long speech. The interpreter said they wanted me to be their children's-- she struggled for the right word-- godfather. They wanted me to do a dedication ceremony with each of their four children. I thanked them, told them that was a very great honor for me, and that I could arrange it. We left them there and went back to our village.

      It wasn't long before they and their children showed up. They were all dressed up in their very best. I told them I would go get the little preacher to do the ceremony. The dad waved that off. No, he wanted me to do it.

I had no idea what a dedication ceremony should be like, but the principals were all dressed up and lined up, waiting. I just turned slightly away from the interpreter, so she couldn't hear what I said. One at a time, I put my hand on their head, raised the other arm, and began. I remember I had the child's name, the lord's prayer, portions of the 23^rd psalm, and some other biblical statements in there.

      If you are old, and go on a mission trip, you best be prepared for anything, I learned.     continued

 ___________________________________________________________________________

    We went to Barbara's family reunion last weekend. When Barbara and I just got married, the floor of her parent's house was soon covered with crawling babies. Now, 45 years later, the floor is even more covered with crawling babies and toddlers,  her great-great nephews and nieces. Sport and Verla Mae's family is now 130 strong. Supposed to multiply and populate the Earth, but not necessarily alone.

      I got myself in a pickle. Agreed to read a little thing about Sport I had written. Then, several of the sisters read something they had written, even more sappy than mine. Guess who bawled like a baby? That would be me.

You would have thought those strong Dunnahoe women had just read a happy little story.  But, strength comes in different forms. Guess who was called on, when another toddler threw up in a big pile on my grandson's new toy, and he was screaming his head off? That would be me. I'm just glad to have some strength, in any form. I've always been the family dirty mess man. I don't even have any competition.  Thank you, dear readers,  for reading.

 

 

  

Peru: Things Begin to go Bad - -

      One of the members of our team, slightly over college age and from a northern city, had brought a trunk just totally filled with teddy bears and other soft toys. He started passing them out to the children, and they went totally wild with joy. Many ran to show their family. The word spread like wildfire. Many, many mothers came running with their children. Along about that time, someone brought us the word that the Mayor had been very, very drunk from the festival yesterday, but he was now awake and sending a truck to haul us across the village to “city hall,” a large building that at least had wood floors for us to sleep on. Well, we were beginning to worry that the toys might run out, as more women and children, and now some men, showed up.

      About that time, the truck arrived. We quickly loaded our gear on the back, and as we started loading the trunk, with very few toys now, the mothers were tearing at our arms. Pointing to their children, they screamed, “My baby! No toy! The last of the toys were in sight, yet more and more Indians just poured out of their huts. We finally all got on the truck, and started out, with dozens of Indians running behind. The men were now at the front of the pack.

      About half way to city hall, we saw we were going to meet another large truck on that very narrow street. The trucks just kept coming, and the mirrors on both trucks fell off in the road. The drivers just got out, looked at their mirrors lying in the road, shrugged their shoulders, got back in, and drove on. Now, in America, we would have soon had two police cars on the scene, and two lawsuits would have been in the works. Life is just more laid back and simple, with the Indians, at altitude.

      We reached city hall, with a short lead on the Indians, got everything inside, and locked the door. But the back was a problem. There was a high mud fence around the compound, with a gate, no lock.

Alright. Now I am back in the jam I was in when I started this story. As luck, or more likely God, would have it, right at that time the late little Indian preacher from Cusco, Pastor Cirro, showed up. He talked to the parents a long time, then came and talked to us. He told us, through an interpreter, that we must never pass out gifts with abandon, like that, to people who have nothing. Gifts must be given to the church, and would be slowly passed out later in an orderly fashion. He also told us the people had settled down, and that he didn't think this was going to damage our mission here.

      I've thought a lot about that situation, and knew that somehow, I should have had the wisdom to handle that situation before it got out of hand. After all, I AM the one with gray hair here, now a little grayer. All I could figure was, to just prevent the toy “pass out” before it got started. Once it got going like it did, and without being able to talk to them, about the only option I could see on the table was what we did. Just run. Gray hair and wisdom don't ALWAYS go hand in hand, you know. “ Dumb young” usually transfers into “dumb old.”

      That night, The preacher was there, the church was full. Their little benches were about six inches high, and I couldn't hang with that, so I just hung out in the back, Aqua Amigo at my side as usual, and leaned against the wall. The little preacher saw my situation, and sent me a stool, which I gratefully sat down on. I put my index finger tip on the end of my chopped off thumb, and flashed him the “OK” sign. His smile faded. Seems that little signal has a whole nother' meaning in Peru.

        The next day, the Indian Christians were to meet us at noon. We planned to go to every house, witnessing. They finally showed up, and hour late, and then said we needed to brew up and drink some Coca tea first. Seems at altitude, things just move more slowly. A way of life. Things went well, talking to the people. Seems the people who were trying to tear my arms out of their sockets yesterday just loved us today.

     Then we were about to head up on the hill overlooking the village, to talk to the people up there. Our college girls were hesitant to go, and they didn't want to talk about it. Finally, one told me that when they went to the toilet, just a few bushes remember, a group of little old men on the hill tended to gather and try to watch. They really did not want to talk to them face to face.

  

Peru: The Festival of Guinea Pig Racing

      I had proudly worn my Indiana Jones hat to Peru, thinking if I was going to be like him, I should look the part. But as it turned out, every Indian woman in the village had one on just like it. That sorta dulled the luster on my hat some.

      After we had gotten settled and talked to the Indians awhile, we found out that today was a big celebration day in the village, celebrating the day it was first built. It was all taking place at the soccer field, and we went. The mayor and elders all sat in chairs along the edge of the field, and everyone else sat in the grass behind. Well, the Mayor took one look at my gray hair, told one of the elders to go sit in the grass, and with much fanfare escorted me down to his seat. Another guilt attack.

      They were having Guinea Pig races, with each girl having a string attached to hers, and a little switch to spur him on. I had doubts about how fair these races were, because usually, the winner just dragged hers the last few feet.

      Guinea Pigs were, I found out, in a class with Llamas, etc. in that they did well at high altitude. They just ran free in their houses, a pet, until, one fateful day, there was a need, and they became a meal.

      At church that night, the little Indian preacher from Cusco, Pastor Cirro, who was supposed to meet us there and preach, just did not show up. We sang a few hymns, then all the Indians turned and looked at me. After a couple of minutes, Lenore, the “mother” of the church, suggested we sing some more hymns. Then, they all turned and looked at me again. It finally hit me, they were expecting me to preach! Well, I had no sermon prepared, and I was, really, no sort of preacher. Not even a bad one. Witnessing to a small group was one thing, but I had not even thought to ask God to make me a preacher. That went back and forth awhile, then me and a student or two got up and told them how much we appreciated their hospitality, etc. We said a prayer, and they headed home.

      The girls were to sleep in the church, which was right next to Lenore's house. The ground was rock hard, and had bumps the size of a baseball all over it, but those girls just took that all in stride, even the toilet in that part of town, which consisted of a few bushes out by the creek. Ever since I really got to know these OBU kids, I was just totally blown away by them. I felt honored to be on this trip with them.

      A man in the village donated his house to us men as sleeping quarters. The ground was just as hard and uneven, and there was a bed in there, but we all figured that was where the Guinea Pigs would wind up, and we just spread our bags on the floor. When we got settled, and turned out our flashlights, we began to hear tiny feet scurrying about. We never could spot one, so we were never sure if they were Guinea Pigs or not.

Like I said earlier, I was deeply affected and changed greatly by this trip. I got to thinking about the terrible living conditions of these people, how eager they were to hear us speak God's word, what a sweet nature the children had, and how delighted they were to get these tiny bibles we passed out. That change started that night, as I lay awake all night long, with tears pretty much my constant bedfellows. It would be the third night before I slept a minute, after the whole team prayed for sleep for me, and someone dug out a sleeping pill from their bag.

      The next morning, we did craft things with the kids we had brought along, played and laughed a lot with them. They were totally delightful. A couple of young girls just could not accept the fact that I could not understand a lick of Spanish. “No Comprende” became my constant answer. The little girls felt that if they could just take my cheeks in their two hands, hold my face still so I was looking right into their eyes, then said the words very slowly and clearly, a light would just come on in my head, and I would understand. “No comprende.”

      One of the Indian boys stuck a piece of metal almost through his foot. A man picked him up. I asked the man if he would be OK. He looked at me, very seriously, and shook his head no. Seeing none of the Indians with any means of first aid, we dug our kit out, I washed the mud out of it as best I could, covered it with disinfectant, then wrapped it up good. His mother was very appreciative, and carried him home. We prayed for him. I never saw him again.       Continued     Thank you for your attention, and your time.

  

Post 74: Gobi

     I decided to tell you about a very special friend today. I'll get back to my Peru story next post. Hope you don't mind.

      Gobi was an international student at Henderson State University, majoring in Business Administration.

      Barbara and I had just begun attending a small, new church in Arkadelphia, which is today Fellowship Church. Gobi was from another country, and he was not raised a Christian. He became friends with an instructor who was a leader in our church, and along the way he began reading the Bible.

      One day, Gobi just showed up at our church. He became a regular. He told us, "When I was reading the Bible, I just could not get past the cross." Gobi was the first person baptized in our young church. Gobi had a full head of curly black hair, and was a very friendly and personable young man, liked by everyone.

      He was only weeks away from receiving his Master's degree. He became ill, was having trouble breathing. He was soon diagnosed with cancer. A very large tumor was found in his chest. The doctor told Gobi he needed regular chemotherapy treatments at Hot Springs, 35 miles away, for a long time. Gobi was alone in America, had no car. He had a job he had been walking to, but he became too weak to do that. Kinley, our daughter, set up a schedule for our church members to drive Gobi to Hot Springs. Kinley's family soon moved to Little Rock, and Barbara took over the scheduling, and much of the driving. Many of the treatments lasted six hours, so it was a half day committment to do that.

      His beautiful hair soon became thin and ragged, and he and Barbara visited a barber, got it all cut off. We never saw Gobi with hair again. He became very weak at times, and during those hard times, he stayed with us. Sometimes, he became so weak from a treatment, that Barbara had to help him get dressed so that he could go to yet another treatment. Barbara took over his laundry.

      When the scheduled chemotherapy treatments ended, tests showed the tumor had shrunk, but not enough. The doctor told him he needed to go to M. D. Anderson Hospital in Houston to continue treatments. It was not clear what further treatments involved, possibly surgery, or radiation, or maybe both. Gobi did not want to go. He was asked why, with his life hanging in the balance, he would not go. "I do not want to face surgery, and risk dying alone, so far from home," he replied. Barbara and I assured him, if surgery came up, he would not be alone.

      Barbara stood up in our tiny church that Sunday, and said, "Gobi needs to go to Houston, and I need $2000. by Friday." On Friday, she had $2000. and a plane ticket.

      When Gobi got to Houston, surgery was soon ruled out. He began an intensive treatment with radiation.Someone from church had booked him a nice hotel. Gobi changed that to a bare bones hotel, so as not to waste other people's money, living better than he felt necessary.

      When we talked to Gobi, he said he was doing fine, eating out of Target next door. "Target?" Barbara said. "Who eats out of Target?" Barb and I left for Houston. Turned out, that Target had a very large grocery, and a deli.

Gobi finished his treatments, and he returned to Arkadelphia. HSU allowed him to live in the International House, for free, while he recovered. HSU friends gathered around him and helped.

      Gobi's brother-in-law, Raj, the head of Gobi's family, flew to Arkadelphia to see about him, and ask about the possibilities of taking him home. Gobi emphasized to us, never speak to Raj about religion. He would wait for the right moment.

We had Gobi and Raj over for dinner, and took them on an outing to Hot Springs. Raj had a big laugh about the size of drinks at Wendy's. The doctor emphasized to Raj, It would be very risky for Gobi to leave his doctors, and travel home, now.

      Raj prepared to return home. The last night, he lay awake in his bed, a long time. He said to Gobi, "Where does this kind of love come from? These strangers treat you like family. I have never seen this kind of love." Gobi's "right moment" had arrived, and he made the most of it.

      Money for Gobi to live on was raised, by means of a few letters written to key people. He was pronounced free of cancer, and he finished up his degree.

      Gobi was ready to return home. The scene at the airport was tramatic. He and Barbara hugged, cried, and Gobi started for the plane. He came back, they hugged and cried some more. Finally, he was on his way home.

      Gobi left behind a pretty hefty bill at M. D. Anderson that his insurance did not pay for. He could have easily skipped out on that bill, leaving the country and all. But he insisted that the bills be forwarded to him. Out of his small income at the time, he paid every cent of that bill. He told Barbara, "How do you not pay people who saved your life?" Thats just Gobi for you.

      Gobi is now a professor, has a beautiful wife, Poova, and a wonderful child, Hiranya.

      A few days ago, daughter Kinley made a nice little post on facebook about her parent's love. A comment immediately popped up from a world away. "I know all about that love. It saved my life."

Barbara and I had a good cry.

      Last names, and home country, were left out of this post for a reason. If you know Gobi, and comment on facebook, please honor that. Cancer carries a stigma in some parts of the world.

     Thank you for your attention, and your time.

Peru: The Summit Conference and Coca Tea

      I knew I had to get into shape, if I was going to keep up with these kids on a backpacking trip at high altitude. Or at any altitude, for that matter. I put a heavy backpack on and walked the steepest and longest hills in Arkadelphia, daily. As it turned out, I was put into a group going to a village that could be driven to, and we only backpacked through the airport. But I was in shape, mostly, except for the knee I nearly ruined getting into shape.

      We arrived in Lima early in the morning, and loaded on a smaller plane for the flight to Cusco. This city is at 12,000 ft. altitude, and planes only go out and in during the morning. Has to do with thin air. Not enough lift. Well, If I'm going to fly over these mountains, I sure do want some lift!

      A group of young women from Peru got on our plane at Lima, and I was totally relieved to see that they spoke perfectly good English. We had been told a lot about the language barrier problem, and it worried me a lot, but listening to them made me feel better. “Hey, guys! These Peru people speak great English!” One of our kids rolled his eyes. “Uh, Pat, they're our interpreters.”

      We had been told, in pre-trip planning, that these Indians who live at high altitude prevent altitude sickness by drinking Coca tea every day. Well, since Cocaine is made from that plant, we had quite a discussion about using that at all. After all, this WAS and OBU trip. Finally, our nurse who was going along just said, “I've done it both ways. Without Coca tea, I got very sick. With it, I was fine. This is NOT Cocaine. It has to be refined, refined, and refined to get to that point.” We drank Coca tea.

      That first day in Cusco, we just took it easy, to make the altitude adjustment, and drank Coca tea.

      The next morning, we headed out to our Indian village, a couple of hours out. We traveled in a hired taxi, a van. All our stuff, mountains of it, was piled on top, and the driver found a little short piece of rope on the ground, and tied it down with that. I don't know how he did it, but he made it all stay on, over some of the roughest mountain roads I had ever seen. I'd heard the story of Jesus stretching the loaves and the fishes, and I think God must have stretched that rope a LOT to handle the job that little piece of rope handled. The country was totally beautiful, with green fields sloping up to great mountain tops, speckled with fields of corn and potatoes, and villages of little mud houses with thorn fences around them, keeping the animals in. Herds of Llamas and goats wandered about, driven by women who wore hats just like my Indiana Jones hat.

      Halfway out to our village, There was a major landslide across the road. A little path told us at least someone else had crossed it, so we followed. At the peak, we met another van. No way to pass, and nobody was anxious to back down. The driver, and the taxi owner, got out. A couple of men from the other van got out. They held a true SUMMIT conference, concerning which van was on the most important mission. Finally, our driver told them he was carrying a great team of missionaries, who came all the way from America. He pointed out that big man with gray hair, and I felt my first guilt attack. The other men could not argue with that, and they slowly backed down the landslide. Being “big” and gray headed, I began to learn, carried a lot of weight with the Indians, because they were very small, up to my chest, and very few of them lived long enough to get gray hair. I felt like the fake I was the whole time I was there, because I got a lot more respect, God knows, than I ever deserved, having impure motives for even starting this trip in the first place.

      When we arrived at the village, we unloaded our gear, and stashed it in the church. I t had been built years ago by another missionary group, and was a small wood and mud structure with very short benches inside, and with its two doors open, it was mostly being used now as a place for hogs and chickens to lounge in. One of my first chores was to filter a lot of drinking water with a hand operated pump. Although we did have access to one of the few faucets in the village, the water had lots of specks in it, and, we were told earlier, 30% of us, at least, were destined to lose a lot of weight the quick and hard way, when their terrible stomach bug hit. A young boy, about eight, quickly latched onto me and was a great help in filtering water. I showed off some of my four or five Spanish words I had learned over the last 3 weeks by naming him, “Aqua Amigo.” My water friend.

      Sure enough, when I got in front of a small group of Indians, with my two interpreters ready, (first into Spanish, which the kids understood, then into Quechua, the only language the older Indians knew)

God and Jeremiah came through for me, and the words just poured out. I had lots of time to think up the next paragraph, while the interpreters did their thing. I think God just had it planned out that way, because it took every spare second to think up the next line.