Flexibility - by Sam Werner

 

It’s hard to be a missionary and not be flexible.  Being a missionary means your plans can change like the wind.  Our mindset in the west is to be exact.  We need time, dates, length of stay, address, how to prepare, and the list goes on.  In the mission field, you get these things too, but they change drastically.  You may have a meeting at this address at 3pm, but an hour before the meeting,  the address changes.  This especially applies to things like church and gatherings.  You show up on time and everyone else shows up 2 hours later.  You’re expecting the meeting to be over at a certain time and it goes way over.  This runs into your sleeping time, overlapping into the next day making you feel tired.  But, you have to be flexible.  It’s the only way.  Part of it is being understanding to the culture and people.  It’s honoring.

This also applied to hearing from God.  We hear God and think it’s absolute.  We obey and things change.  We start to hear another thing.  We think, “Did I hear from God right?”  You did.  It’s just God continues to speak.  Like an onion you pull back one layer to reveal the next.  You obey the first time and it brings you to a place where God can lead to another place, a place He may have initially intended.

I have to remind myself that being flexible is in my job description.  It’s something I have to expect.  It’s something I have to take into consideration when I make arrangements with people.  I have to expect that they’ll cancel, come early, or come late.  With that in mind, I block off a few extra hours so I know how to manage my day.  Transition has to be part in your character.  If it is not, you’ll learn awfully quick.



Bio on Author

Sam Werner has been in and out of the mission field for over 10 years and is currently serving in Calcutta, India. He's served in many different organizations in several ways ranging from children's ministry to information technology. His heart is to serve God with his life and spread the gift of Jesus Christ in any way that may look. He shares his experiences on his website, www.missionsmanual.com.

Rotten Salmon - by Monte Edwards

A great evening of fellowship and worship with our host church in Jos, Nigeria was wrapped around our evening meal. The concrete walls of the church trapped a blanket of stagnate, humid air that made my clothes wet with perspiration and tested the strength of my deodorant. Nigerians, on the other hand, typically did not concern themselves with such trivialities.  

While standing in line for dinner a particularly pungent odor burned my nose – one that reminded me of the rotting salmon that lined the banks of the Kenai River near my childhood home in Alaska.  A glance to the left and then the right cast suspicion on the Nigerian Pastor standing next to me.

A couple more steps in line brought me to a bowl of slimy green paste. As I plopped a spoonful on my plate, to my horror and embarrassment, I realized this was the smell – my dinner. I grabbed a big pile of bread and some salad in hopes of diluting the flavor.

With the back of my throat closed off to block my nose, I mustered my best manufactured smile and ate the paste with the greatest haste I could muster - only once did I have to choke back a gag that nearly revealed my disgust. 

I was back in Alaska a few years ago and took a walk down to where Soldotna Creek dumps into the Kenai River. The familiar smells ignited a flood of childhood memories that, now also included a swarthy evening, a plate of slimy green paste and a slightly repulsive ache in my stomach.

I just like to take pictures of my feet - By Monte Edwards

                                            Setta, Uganda

                                         Port au Prince, Haiti

                                                Rome, Italy

 

                                         Caye Caulker, Belize

Simple Things - by Shawn Strannigan

We hadn’t even been in Mexico for a week when I got myself in trouble . . . all because of one little vowel.

My husband, three young daughters and I were on the outreach phase of a Discipleship Training School (DTS) with YWAM.  Our leaders had chosen south-central Mexico as our mission destination, using the YWAM house in Tepic, Nayarit as our base of operations.  Somehow, even with my dubious culinary skills, I ended up as the team cook.

Actually, my girls and I had a blast, hailing the brightly-hued, beat-up Mexican taxis to take us to the Supermercado, where we learned valuable life-lessons.  Like the fact that peanut butter was more expensive than steak and canned tuna fish was about all our team could afford.

My husband, Greg, knew enough Spanish to get around, but I was mostly clueless in the language department.  Believe me, I tried—but when I tried to tell the locals I was the cook for our group, they stared at me like my hair was on fire, wondering why this silly gringo was calling herself a little pig.

We’d only been in Tepic for a few days when I met our next-door neighbor, a nice-looking man in his 40’s.  I was hauling bags of groceries into the house when he passed by, dressed for a night on the town.

“Buenos Naches, Senor!” I confidently exclaimed.

The man stopped in his tracks and glared at me.  Then he shook his finger at me, as if scolding a small child, and said:  “Buenos noches, Senora!  Buenos noches!”

He stomped away, leaving me crestfallen.  It wasn’t until I was at the market the next day, getting hamburger fixings, that I understood the gravity of my verbal error.

Naches is the Spanish word for buns . . .

I managed not to tell anyone else they had good buns on our outreach, but the impact of that one little vowel made an impression on me.

Sometimes those little things really do matter J

Life and Death and Apple Empanadas - Monte Edwards

It was my turn to make the Mata. All eyes were on me as I attempted to replicate the precisely ordered routine of Mata, sugar and water.  I’d watched it being prepared for the least several days and assumed I had the necessary skills. My first attempt mixed too much Mata with too little sugar creating a bitter aftertaste that everyone seemed to find quite amusing.  The evening ritual always found me on center stage trying and trying again to find the correct combination for a palatable cup of Mata.  Each night I endured the comical encouragements of my hosts as I struggled with the subtle variations of the formula. Only the last few days of the trip found me creating a tasty beverage that found the respect and appreciation of my Argentinean family.

Since the living room of our host family’s home was converted into a small store that provided dry goods to the local neighborhood, the kitchen was the center of the household – a vortex through which all the comings and goings and gatherings took place. Decorated with a distinctly Italian flavor, pans and pictures covered flowered wall paper.  The tiled countertops recorded the cuts and scrape deposited by a family well served.  

The days found us at the church – a neighborhood across town in the barrio. The drab grey concrete was tagged, here and there, by weathered designs of an abstract artist. Our VBS class started at 10:00am, the kids started showing up at 11:00am. On the first day a couple in our group panicked – wondering if the event might be a flop. With an easy assurance based on experience, I assured them the kids where coming. By the end of the week the kids where waiting at the door when we got there. Our daily fellowship with these wonderful children filled me with a simple spirit of joy that made me happy.

At the end of the day the kitchen greeted us with a warm fellowship that simmered like the pot of soup on the stove.  Our bantering was loud and alive and felt like family. As folks stowed their coats and packages, the kitchen filled as we gathered around the small marble table that filled the center of the room. We communicated in two languages – a little Spanish here, a little English there, punctuated with flailing of hands, carving the air like a sculpture - and the hum would grow. The addition of each additional person mixed a new conversation into a swirling jumble.

Sometimes the table was focused on one conversation – a great debate of theology or the nature of life and death -our interpreter would have to moderate many of the deeper thoughts – my Spanish cannot handle those types of details.  Sometime our silly bantering focused on nothing at all except the joyous interaction of kindred spirits. When the apple empanadas came out, every night about 8:00pm, the subtle praises of smacking lips and moans of delight would diminish, for a moment, our conversation.  With gratitude we relished the caramel flavored concoction that felt like a reward for a faithful day of service. 

The great moments of life are lived in these ways – in joyous fellowship, around a common table, tumbling together through life. The warm presence of easy community is at the heart of my desire for missions. It touches the center of my soul and propels my praise to a great Creator who designed me for times like these – who also rejoices with me in fulfilling the greatest of commandment to “Love the Lord your God with your heart and to love your neighbor as yourself.”

The Highest Place - by Monte Edwards

GOD SIGHTING

We were six hours into our second day, working our way up through the alpine country to the top of Wonder Pass in the Assiniboine Provincial Park, Canada. The previous 10 miles had been a glorious experience in suffering. From our morning camp, in the thick air of a tree lined lake, we moved upward through long canyons and steep ravines. Since my backpack had not yet found a comfortable position, the frequent jostling of my shoulder straps helped diminish the growing stiffness in my shoulders. I could feel in my legs the 2500 vertical feet we had climbed – a dull ache burned my quads as we worked our way up the last 800 feet on to the top of the ridge.

The trail is not as steep as before, the miles of steady switchbacks have given way an easier grade that meanders upward to where a line separates the sky from the earth. The terrain is open now; we lost the last few trees, coming up over a lower ridge, about an hour ago. The overwhelming beauty of this country touches my soul like nothing else in my life. It is a simple feeling of joy that elevates my spirit to a simple, easy place

My throttle is nearly wide open as I fight the pull of gravity and the thinning air. With the hypnotic rhythm of boots striking earth, I negotiate the steadily rising trail. Smooth, full, draws of air fill my lungs only to be expelled, a couple of seconds later, with a rhythmic, whooshing release through parsed lips.  My hard exertion is offset by a quiet mind that produces a balance so intoxicating that its pursuit motivates most of my great adventures. 

The final steps to the top of the ridge are greeted by a magnificent view of the Assiniboine Plateau, a thousand feet below. Stretching out miles before us is a classic sub alpine wilderness ringed with mountains from the golden heart of the Canadian Rockies. All my imaginations of Heaven have the same resemblance of glory.  A scattering blanket of altostratus clouds framed the top half of the vista.

My pack makes a thud as I dropped it to the ground. In that moment I could fly – the sudden release of weight makes my body happy – a soothing 55 degree breeze, sweeping in from the east, blows right through me. My body rejoiced in its lovely caress – I open my jackets’ pit zippers, raise my hands to the sky and soar in a gentle arch through the valley below.

And of friendship and shared adventure - in the company of my kindred spirits – a band of four, eager to face the challenges of the wild places . My boy is there  –  Bryan, 22 yrs. We’ve been all over the place together, Argentina, Alaska, Africa – I trust him to take care of me if I go down. Jim is my best buddy. Our resume of adventures goes back almost 25 years now - big mule deer in Eastern Oregon, snowboarding in Whistler, mountain climbing and more backpacking trips then I can count. My good old friend from high school, Clark is there too. Our adventures in Alaska forged my great affection for the wild places. We lost touch for a few years but found a renewed friendship in middle age.

I trade high fives and exclamations of delight with my guys. We rejoice together in our great privilege to stand – for a moment, in such a place. Our shared experiences of friendship and adventure forge a bond greatly cherished – that lays a cornerstone to my life.

My mind races to the Creator – at times like these I always consider his influence. In easy prayer, I release myself; eager to know He is there. Like the pleasant cooling breeze the Spirit dances- through me, around me, rejoicing in the creation of such a magnificent thing. Happy for a moment to share His presence with me, unfettered by the cares of a cluttered mind– for a moment to consider the nature of all things -eyes renewed by the touch of God and the purity of an honest day’s work in the high country.

Keep close to Nature's heart... and break clear away, once in a while, and climb a mountain or spend a week in the woods. Wash your spirit clean.  John Muir

Wisdom of the Ages

"What's your dream and to what corner of the missions world will it take you?" — Eleanor Roat,missions mobilizer

"We can reach our world, if we will. The greatest lack today is not people or funds. The greatest need is prayer." — Wesley Duewel, head of OMS International

"Love is the root of missions; sacrifice is the fruit of missions" — Roderick Davis

"Missionary zeal does not grow out of intellectual beliefs, nor out of theological arguments, but out of love" — Roland Allen

"I have but one passion: It is He, it is He alone. The world is the field and the field is the world; and henceforth that country shall be my home where I can be most used in winning souls for Christ." — Count Nicolaus Ludwig von Zinzendorf

Espresso - Napoli Style

One of the simple pleasures of life

A Great Book Recommendation - from Brittany Cetti

Whether you are a believer of short-term missions or you aren’t, I think you’ll enjoy this next story. It reminded me of the lasting impact that short-term missions can have.

I recently read a book called Kisses from Katie: A story of Relentless Love and Redemption. It’s about a young girl who leaves her privileged life behind to follow God into the lives of some of the neediest people in Uganda. It’s a beautiful story of surrender on her part and of how the love of God can be shared by providing meals, schooling, and health care. 

Heres a link below to her blog and her ministry’s website: 

www.amazima.org

kissesfromkatie.blogspot.com

Katie’s book is titled Kisses From Katie. By Katie Davis with Beth Clark. 

The In Between Place - by Monte Edwards

I am slightly anxious. A small swirl of adrenalin spins in my stomach. It is 3pm and no one has shown up.

A couple of months earlier I was standing in front of 75 people in my Sunday school class, trying to encourage them to action. I have always felt like the local church should look like the community it lives in – it should be a melting pot of cultures and languages. The town I live in is predominantly Caucasian and Hispanic, with a few Ukrainians. People like to congregate within their own community – it’s just the way of thing. It takes a special effort to bring folks together.

I’ve heard it said the United States is never more segregated then on Sunday morning – that doesn’t seem right to me. For several years I have been trying to bring that vision to life – helping out at English as a second language (ESL) classes on Tuesday evening; attending a local Hispanic church once a month or so; and trying to learn the language.

Now the vision was a little bigger. A Cinco de Mayo celebration at a local apartment complex will take 20 or so people to pull off – some from my church, and some form our Hispanic church partners. It’s taken me quite a while to set this thing up. There’s food, fixtures, permission, and logistics that must be arranged. My friends at La Vida Nueva Church said folks from the apartment complex would probably come – some times the do, sometimes they don’t.

Our simple goal is to bring the communities together – to encourage fellowship that brake down the walls that separate us.  

A car-load of Hispanic guys drive by our tables – they crane their necks to see what’s going on as they speed buy. The stakes are high – I can see my church folks looking at me wondering if they had committed their Saturday afternoon for nothing. A failure would damage my credibility, and surely inhibit my ability to address the church in the same way, in the future.

And so… I find myself in familiar territory once again – the “In between place.” My gift of administration has brought all the pieces together, arranged everything that I could – now it was time to pass the ball and wait on the Lord – my final hope for success lies squarely in His hands. I have no choice. I have to live by faith.

I like this “In between place” – I am drawn to it. It’s like traversing an icy ridge on the way to the summit – it scares and excites me both. In the sheltered windless coves, where the coast line is steady, and always in sight, it’s hard for me to see the Lord.  He hides himself in the shadows of routine and ritual. But in the “In between place” I can feel the breeze as he passes by me. His gentle touch is revealed in the evidence of circumstances and outcomes… but still I am nervous.

Before long, the first family shows up – a young couple with two kids. Then a few more, and by 4 o’clock the place is rocking. I see my friend Jorge who comes to my ESL class. He speaks English like I speak Spanish… Más o menos. Our playful bantering communicates more than language. Friendships are built in this way. The easy roar of warm fellowship swirls from table to table as a gentle, easy breeze sweeps through the park.

I feel easy and happy.

And so the gamble pays off this time – it doesn’t always. Crashing and burning a few times has granted me both wisdom and experience. But, not this time – not today. This journey to the “In between place” finds the fullness of God’s mighty purpose.

In my life the true blessing of God are found in these places. Where a faith mines the substance that propels me along my journey – where my eager spirit can finds the passion that drives my life.

Building Hope in Haiti

Hard work and great fellowship in Port-au-Prince, Haiti - was stinkin hot too.

The people of Haiti

     

Adventures in Ministry - Gelato Style

Some of the most amazing opportunities to share the Gospel message come spontaneously - Naples, Italy, gelato and gospel music.

Going Native - by Shawn Strannigan

On August 29, 1991, my family and I became honorary members of T--k, a small Athabaskan village in rural Alaska.  Frail and pasty, we embraced our brown-skinned friends and rejoiced in the gift of belonging.

Two years earlier, while Greg was serving at a church in Anchorage, we’d received a plea for help from T---k’s chief.  Emil was dying of cancer, but he was more concerned about the fact that his village was slowly dying as well—from suicide, alcoholism, domestic violence and sexual abuse.  

So he invited us into his village, a place that even other Alaskan Natives avoided because of its dark reputation.  Lyle, a seasoned pilot at our church who’d grown up in a village, agreed to fly a small team in every weekend that weather allowed.  Emil granted us the use of the Tribal Center—we could sleep on the floor, use the kitchen to cook the food we brought with us, and invite the village kids into the meeting room for fun and games and Bible stories.

So we prayed and planned and prepared for our first trip into T---k.  I’d never been around other cultures—or on a mission trip—and was excited/terrified for the weekend to arrive.

We’d heard rumors of plane tires being slashed by not-so-friendly residents. Lyle—and others—warned us not to take our girls into the village—it wasn’t a safe place for children!  But Greg and I felt that God wanted to use us as a family—to model healthy relationships—in a place where the family model was breaking down.  So, one sunny weekend in June of 1989, we loaded up our three young daughters and our gear into Lyle’s small plane and embarked on a new adventure.

I held my breath as our plane touched down on the gravel runway.  I could feel the oppression even before we landed—darkness shrouded the village even as the sun shone brightly.  We received mostly glares from the adults we passed as we lugged our stuff to the tribal center.  But before we got situated in our new digs, the village kids began to show up.

Like most rural villages, T---k didn’t have a lot to offer children on the weekends.  Except for a run-down playground at the elementary school, there wasn’t anything to do.  No malls, theaters, arcades—or even a fast-food joint.  So when a small plane-load of white folks showed up one bright Saturday, they all headed to the Tribal Center to check us out.

We asked the kids to give us a tour of their village, and they did so with pride.  It didn’t take long to take in the sights—they pointed out their homes, their school, the cemetery, the Russian Orthodox church on the hill, the road to fish camp and more.   The adults stayed out of our way, in fact, the only words spoken to us that first day were colorful curses!

Our girls were the big hit.  The kids liked the Bible stories and games, too, but hanging out with our daughters—and eating the junk food we brought just for them—were the top draws, for sure.  And the girls loved our village trips, too.

Something unexpected happened to me during our first visit to T---k.  I “went Native.”  All my fears vanished as I stepped out of the plane on to village soil.  I felt like I’d come home!  T---k felt like my village in a way I could never explain.  I loved the people as if they were my kin.  I embraced their culture with all my heart and thanked God for the supernatural joy I experienced in the village.

The first summer, we mostly worked with the children, making the short trip across

Cook Inlet whenever we could.  The weather turned bad early that winter, so we didn’t make it over for months at a time.  Emil’s condition continued to deteriorate, so he moved to Anchorage to be closer to the hospital.  We visited Emil shortly before he died, and prayed for his healing.  But on Dec. 20^th, Emil lost his battle with cancer and met Jesus face to face. 

Even though we weren’t invited, our family attended the Russian Orthodox funeral back in T---k and weaseled our way into the pot latch afterward.  We feasted on salmon fixed a hundred different ways and had our first taste of muktuk (pickled whale blubber).  The villagers were friendlier than they’d been over the summer, and it was great to reconnect with the kids.  A few folks even asked if we’d be coming back!

And we did go back, as soon as the weather cleared up that spring.  Miraculously, we were greeted by open arms by both adults and children this time!  People stopped by the Tribal center and asked us to pray for them to overcome their addictions or for their families.  Ladies invited me and the girls into their homes for coffee and salmon jerky.  But the biggest surprise of all was discovering that Emil’s son and nephew had given their lives to Jesus after his death.  Both men were leaders in the village and their newfound faith had a deep impact on the entire community.

As the summer wore on, the guys who’d once cussed Greg out were taking him fishing.  Friendship developed as we heard their stories and they got to know us.

One day, while Greg was out fishing for silvers with Virgil (Emil’s nephew), a boat with some anglers from Anchorage drifted by.

“Ah, more white guys taking our fish!” Virgil muttered as they passed.

Amused, Greg asked, “So, what am I?”

Virgil grinned and replied, “You guys are the Christians--you are my friend.”

By the end of summer, we’d responded to God’s call to full-time missions.  We’d been accepted by a YWAM base in northern California, had sold most of our earthly belongings and were getting ready to make the long trek down the AlCan.  Greg preached one last sermon at our church the day before we left Alaska, and we were tickled to see several of our friends from T---k there.

When the sermon ended, Virgil and pals walked shyly up on stage and asked for our family to come forward.  Then they presented us each with a T---k Chiefs t-shirt and announced that we were officially members of that tribe.  They prayed over us, sending us out with God’s blessing.  We prayed over them, asking God’s favor on the village and for the bond between us to remain strong—and it has!

I wore my t-shirt until it finally fell apart, but the blessing and honor of that gift will always be tucked away in my heart . . . and no matter where the Lord leads me, Alaska will always be my home.

The guy with the cold water - by Brittany Cetti

It was hot. Every day we sat in our sweat as our team preached the gospel in western Thailand. Every day we sang and danced with kids, shared the gospel with their parents, and swatted away gigantic bugs.

Thankfully it was night as we headed out to a neighboring village where we’d do the same thing we had been doing for over a month now. Like always, we were all hot, tired, and surrounded by kids. 

While one of our team members spoke, a friend and I sat on the tailgate of the truck containing our music equipment. Our legs and feet were hanging over the side. It was nice to be away from the heat of the lights that drew an oppressive swarm of bugs. As we sat there we saw someone coming towards us from a nearby building. He looked old, he had weathered skin and heavy, tired eyes. 

Culturally in Thailand, the head is considered the most sacred part of the body, and the feet the lowest. When you walk through a room of people sitting on the floor, you have to crouch so you don’t appear to be “above them.” The most offensive thing you could do to a Thai person is to show them the bottom of your foot.  Knowing this made what happened next so interesting...

As the man approached, we could see he was carrying a container of water and two plastic cups. We noticed that there was condensation on the outside of the container. That could only mean one thing: -- really cold water. As he got closer, he took off his slipper-like shoes, and knelt before us. We became VERY aware of the fact that our feet were dangling over his head. What was this man doing? 

He opened the container of ice-cold water and poured it into the cups he had brought. My friend and I looked at each other. Without saying a word, we knew what each of us were thinking: We can’t take water from a stranger... what if it’s not purified... we’ll get sick... but we can’t NOT accept it from him... it’d be worse than getting sick. With some hesitation we took our cups said a prayer, and took a drink. 

It was the tastiest water ever. 

The man stayed, crouching now like all Thai people “sit.” He turned his attention to the gospel that was being shared. We started to pray... and he accepted Christ.

To this day I don’t know why he did what he did. Maybe it was God inspired. Maybe he was just being hospitable. But, I do know I’ll never forget that little old man with the cold water.