DAY 7 - REVISITATION

Day seven began similarly to the rest, and I wasn't complaining.  The thin eggy pancakes, the squeeze bag of raw honey, Tyler stockpiling the strawberry jelly packs, all were becoming a welcome and comforting routine.  I needed that little bit of comfort that morning for I knew what the coming day held.  That day was going to be take-two of the door to door evangelism thing. 

Soon we were off to what I would consider, at least in appearance, the poorest neighborhood we encountered on the trip.  To further punctuate this thought, Fabio decide to come along with us, just in case.  Upon arriving and scoping out the area, two things became apparent:  1) corrugated aluminum seemed to be the building material of choice for most of the residents and, in some cases, just leaning a few pieces together constituted a room.  2)  This particular neighborhood was just the tip of the impoverished iceberg.  For running through the valley below was what looked like a river of makeshift shanties, even worse off in appearance the homes above. 

As I stood surveying the slums below, it didn't feel real.  I felt like I was in some incredibly immersive movie.  Yet the reality persisted, as sounds of vitality rose from the rag-tag neighborhood.  A hailing neighbor, a barking dog, children shouting in play perfumed the air with glimpses of everyday life.  It's moments like this that offer perspective and ever elusive sobriety in regards to the privileged conditions in which I live.   And from that, the door to door just sort of amorphously commenced. 

With my trusty Karina at my side, we addressed our first home.  An older woman answered the door and upon hearing we were missionaries, welcomed us inside to pray over their home and her sick daughter.  The woman called for her husband and daughter to come and join us.  After introductions, I placed my hand on the daughter's shoulder and we began to pray.  As I was praying for healing over this woman, she began to sway in tight, little circles which became larger in larger as the prayer progressed.  Soon she was whipping around pretty significantly.  When I finished praying, she stopped.  It was peculiar, and I don't know what else to really say about it.  Anyway, I thanked the family for allowing us in their home and the pastor of the church we were partnered with for the day shared with them a little information about his church while Karina and I headed to the next house. 

It felt good having a door opened up to us right off the bat.  In fact, soon after, Karina and I were engaged with another homeowner just down the road.  Though he did not let us into his home, he did grace us with a good twenty minutes, or so, of conversation.  His name was Alberto and I have to say, the conversation we had was probably the first "real" feeling interaction I've had during a door to door session.  After getting over the initial wrenching of the conversation into the deep end of things, the situation really seemed to open up.  I no longer felt like I was giving some sales pitch or presenting my argument in a debate team competition, and his responses weren't drenched with staunch overtones in an attempt to politely to shoo me from his porch. 

As we talked, he wore the common shoe of the people we'd been meeting.  He was Catholic in the sense that he owned a Bible, and stuttered when asked about where he felt he'd go when he died.  I, in turn, explained to him the assurance we have in Jesus Christ --that know matter the misdeeds of our past, no matter how badly we've screwed up, our citizenship in Heaven is affirmed when we come into relationship with Jesus and acknowledge Him as our Savior.  He seemed to hear me in a very real way.  Then he asked me an interesting question that I, in some way probably due in part to my own occasional wonders, somewhat expected.  

"So, you say that Christ forgives all sins.  That no matter what you've done, you are forgiven and are going to Heaven if you accept Jesus as your Savior?"  Alberto asked.   I affirmed.  He continued,  "So, say a man, (he referenced a historical figure but I forgot the name) in his past, murdered hundreds of children, but before he died he accepted Christ as his Savior.  What happens to him?  Is he in Heaven or Hell?"

I kind of laughed at the question, applauding him for the difficulty of the premise.  You know what I told him?  Something I feel Christians don't say near enough are often too prideful to admit --I don't know. 

"I don't know," I admitted.   "There's know way I can know the condition of the man's relationship with Christ, but I will say this.  I feel that the Grace that God provides is bigger than any of us can ever fathom, or even want to fathom in some cases."   And I left it there.  I was okay with not knowing the answer.  

And in regards to the example Alberto provided, I trust that God, in his infinite wisdom and character, would judge justly, and that justice may very well look differently than we, as creatures hindered by our fallen nature and finite state, might expect.

He seemed satisfied with my admission and the conversation continued.  Talk continued to touch on the realm of salvation and at one point I asked him if he'd like to acknowledge Jesus Christ as his Savior in that moment and, consequently, have assurance of where he'd go when he died.   Again, the realness of his response was refreshing.  He explained that it is something that he'd like to think some more about.  He mentioned maybe going to a Bible Study the local church was hosting, or talking to someone in the church.  I encouraged him to do so and lauded him in his approach to a decision such as this. 

"Please, do take your time in deciding this.  This is the most important decision you will make in your life, it warrants contemplation.  Take all the time that you need, but no more than you have to."  I also explained to him that this is a personal decision that he was making, one between him and God.  He does not need to seek out a pastor or deacon in order to make this something official.  He can talk directly to Jesus Himself.

As we were saying our goodbyes, Alberto asked a question that sent a warmth throughout my entire being, "Will I see you again?" 

I smiled as I responded,  "I don't know.  I'll be back next year.  If we come to this neighborhood again, I'll look for you.  I expect great news next time I see you."  Then I added.  "You know, if you buy into this relationship with Jesus thing, then I have no doubt we will see each other again, in Heaven."

By this time, I was feeling it.  Real conversation and real good can be had with this whole door to door thing!  Who'd a thunk?  Even when we'd get the, "Go away!' from the back of the house, or the I'm-pretending-I'm-not-home-but-doing-a-bad-job-at-it-by-still-making-noise charade, my confidence was still brimming.  God was working in these interactions --door to door, done in love, and God was showing up! 

Soon, Karina and I were at the porch of a little old lady's home.  She was very sweet and greeted us through the bars of the window we hailed her from.  She apologized for not going so far as to invite us in and explained that the last time she let people claiming to be missionaries into her home, they robbed her -- a notion that I still have a hard time stomaching.  So we settled for relating across the window sill. 

Our interaction was more stereotypical of the many we experienced that trip.  Again, we found someone entrenched in religion, offering rather passive and automated responses to our inquiries.  We did get to love on her though, and pray whilst holding her boney little hands through the wrought iron.  As the conversation wrapped, she offered us some homemade popsicles.  Weary of the water source, I passed, but Karina happily obliged.  She opted for coconut, which was literally pulverized coconut frozen in an upside down cup shape, with little chunks of the hairy, brown exterior and all. 

The final interaction we had that morning was with a kid likely only a few years younger than myself.  Again, the barred window was our medium and after some initial hesitation/suspicion, he really started to open up.  His name was Leonardo and he was currently studying engineering at what I assume was the university level.  As conversation turned God-ward, he revealed that he felt that there was a distance between himself and God.  When asked who's fault he felt that was, he admitted it was probably his.  As he acknowledged this I noticed a distance in his eyes, as though that admission had struck something deep within himself. 

"You know,"  I started.  "God is always right there.  No matter how far away you think you've run, you can simply turn around and find Him standing right beside you." 

He seemed to agree with me.  Then he asked me one of my favorite questions of the trip.  "How do you pray to God?"

"Just like you are having a conversation with a friend."  I replied.  "Just like you and I are talking right now.  Be real.  Be honest.  It's not like there isn't anything he doesn't know already.  Let him know how you really feel.  Your thoughts, your fears, your anger, your doubt.  He can take it."

Again, I could feel him listening.  There was that beautiful discomfort in his face that told me God was at work.  That his very spirit was responding.  There's such a profound meaningfulness in experiences like that.  It's something that I can't describe and am really only beginning to recognize myself.

By that time the rest of the group was gathered about half a block away and motioned to me that it was time to go.  The three of us prayed together and then Karina and I headed back to the group. 

On our way back to the city, we stopped by a Chinese restaurant for lunch, at which Fabio joined us.  Much to everyone's excitement, Fabio's girlfriend agreed to meet us there as well.  She was welcomed with open arms, as Fabio beamed with pride introducing her to everyone. 

Due to the cancellation of a mural we were scheduled to paint in a local skate park, we had the afternoon free.  Being that we were leaving the next morning, many of us took the time to peruse the shops around our hotel for gift to bring back to family and friends. 

After managing to end up in a shop by myself attempting to buy four bracelets for five thousand pesos a piece and having the shop worker thinking I was trying to haggle with him, a group of us went on a quest to find Alexsa an indigenous musical instrument to bring back to the States.  As we walked to a music shop north of our hotel, we came across a rather large group of people gathered in a circle in the plaza with the large tree mentioned in a previous post.  These spectacles weren't uncommon in a city that had mostly B-grade street performers seemingly on every corner.  However the performance at the center of this particular circle was rather unsettling.  Two men had constructed a little altar on the ground with various trinkets and what appeared to be a Bible.  They proceeded to theatrically buzz about the space provided by the crowd, uttering incantations and pouring water on the ground.  The whole display really messed with me, it just felt dark.

After shaking off the uneasiness caused by such a scene, we continued on to the music store where Alexsa purchased what I would describe as a crude version of an auto-harp.  I forget what it's actually called but it had a cool, rustic look to it. 

On our way back, we came across some street vendors sitting on the corner of a high foot-traffic area and decided to check out their wares.  There were two jewelry vendors who I assumed were together based on their matching hippie exteriors/vibes.  They had a huge array of really well done bracelets, necklaces, and the like.  Lirio, being a jewelry maker herself, jumped right into conversation with the two.  Meanwhile, Janice and I decided to talk to the third, likely unrelated guy sitting down at the same corner. 

His name was Juan and he wielded a classical guitar and a love for '90s grunge music.  He asked if we knew of Nirvana, we nodded, and after explaining that he knows very little English but will attempt to sing in it anyway, began to play.  Though the name of the song escapes me, I was impressed with his rendition of it.  Firstly, because I'm impressed with anyone who can sing and play guitar at the same time, but mainly because his minimal grasp on English actually aided him in his emulation of Kirt Cobain. 

The next song on his playlist came from a genre I'm much less familiar with, Argentinian grunge.  Again, I really enjoyed the performance.  As I sat there listening to this grubby street performer, flanked by hippie jewelers in the middle of a shopping district in downtown Armenia, Colombia I had yet another one of those God-is-so-good / How-could-I-have-even-imagined-an-experience-such-as-this moments. 

After Juan finished and we applauded, he began to explain to me that he desired to go to Buenos Aires, Argentina, that as far as he was concerned, it was the hub of musical talent in South America.  I, in turn, told him about the city of Nashville having a similar accolade in the States.  This peaked his interest greatly.  The proceeding few minutes consisted of him inquiring about the so-called Music City, including how to get to said place.  His eyes glistened as I regaled with talk of talented musicians on every corner and recording studios on seemingly every street. 

As it came time for us to head back to the hotel, Juan gave me his Facebook information while the girls finalized their purchases from the assumed hippie couple.  I particularly enjoyed that interaction.  In some ways it was a slice of normalcy.  It felt like a conversation I could easily find myself in back in the U.S. 

The remainder of the night consisted of dinner at one of the larger local restaurants --at which I had a rather odd turkey sandwich swimming in an orange glaze-- along with various conversations and mulling about the hotel lobby.  An obvious undertone however, was the fact that tomorrow we were leaving to go back to the U.S., a notion that, to my complete surprise, made me rather sad.

DAY 6 - INSIGHT

Okay, Day 6.  Sunday.

We started the day by attending a service at the loft-space church (not to be confused with loft space-church) we were at the night before.  The whole experience was just really cool.  It was super similar to some small-budget church services I've experienced in the states, except in Spanish and without air conditioning.

Anyway, part way through the service, they had the children perform a choreographed dance to some sweet, kids-bop worship song.  While almost all of them, except for the obligated youth staff, one slightly more ambitious kid, and Antonio, proceeded to mull about and wobble as the music played, I still felt a warmth in my heart that affirmed the goodness of the whole experience.

Afterward, an amazingly courageous little girl sang a solo for us.  Even when the music cut out once or twice, she kept on truckin'.  It's amazing how we can unlearn such courage as we get older, and then spend a good portion of our life attempting to get back to where we essentially started.

I also enjoyed the surreal experience of the band playing "Our God is Greater," and finding myself alternating between singing in English and attempted Spanish.

Scott was slated to give the message that morning.  He taught from Ezekiel 34, about getting out of the church and into the streets, seeking the lost.  At the end of the message, he gave an illustration using a baton (a.k.a. a broom handle that he American-ily snapped across his shin in the hotel lobby.)  He spoke of how each generation of believers is like a runner in a leg of a relay.  Every other runner on the team could have run their lap well but if just one of the runners falters, or doesn't deem it necessary to run with urgency, the whole race is lost.  He then asked for those of whom were ready to run to grab on to the baton.  We prayed over them and asked for a mobilization in the body of believers in Armenia.

Afterward, Jerryl, who had been doing a live painting of a Jeepao, and gave a word to the congregation of how they are to carry the burdens of their city.

Once the service was over, be were treated to empanadas and a dixie-cup of bubble gum flavored, powdered milkshake.  All and all, the whole service was a blessing to be a part of.

Now, there is a story that basically began on Day 4 that I haven't mentioned until now.  This is partially because I kinda forgot about it when I was writing Day 4's entry, and partly because I don't know if I have the writing gumption to keep more than two story lines open at the same time.  (Remember George from Day 1 / Day 3? I thought not.)   So, back while we were at the Christian school, Jim began to not feel well.  Now, this was not uncommon given Jim's gluten influenced sensitivities, but as the day went on, he wasn't feeling any better.  In fact, this sickness he was experiencing continued for the next few days.  So, while we were at the church service that morning, Jim stayed back at the hotel.  About half way through the service, we learned that Jim was being taken to the hospital.

After a three-hospital adventure involving speaking to a receptionist through broken glass, climbing over piles of clutter to get to a room, and full-automatic toting government police, it turned out he had some type of stomach amoeba.  They gave him some meds and sent him on his way.

Soon, he met up with us at this mountain-side restaurant called El Tejar.  There we were served breathtaking vistas of the valley it overlooked, as well as portions of food sized to match the view.  Even the petrified bacon must have gone through a slicer with the thickness set to "bungee jumping cord."

I finished about 1/3 of my plate.

 

Upon "finishing", we all romped around the mountain side a bit until a snide threat from a machete wielding kid who looked like he belonged in a Colombian version of Jughead, decided it was time for us to head back.

That afternoon, we chilled in a little coffee shop called Cafe Quindio where they sell these amazing little coffee flavored cookies called Cafecitas.  Fabio, the cop that was rocked by God earlier in the week, joined us as we hung out at the cafe.  A little while into our visitation, a little kid of about 8 to 10 years old approached the table where the bulk of the group was sitting.  Though I didn't hear all that went on, I deduced that the kid was asking for money.  I think is was for his mom who was waiting outside in the square.  Either way, I remember Lirio sniffing out the ploy and told the little guy that if he was honest with them, then she would give him some money.  Soon enough, Fabio was suddenly praying with the kid for salvation.  Remember, this is the same guy who just recently began his own relationship with Christ that week!

Later that night, we had scheduled to hold a creative meeting (something we do monthly in The States) in the dining/common area of the hotel.  Throughout the week we had been inviting any creative, Christian or non, that we came across, including the vagabond musician kids we jammed with earlier.   We were hopping for, and expecting, a good turn out.

While we set everything up, Scott charged Karina and I with getting ice-cream to pass out during the meeting.  Karina (being the local ice-cream aficionado) took the lead.   We landed on a little walk-up place nestled on the corner of a strip of various eateries.

As we waited for our order to be filled, a homeless man approached us.  He sweetly asked us if we could buy him some food.  "Sure thing!" I told him.


I asked him his name and he responded with a very regal, "Dominic Hernando Jimenez." 

I replied with mine and thought for a second, "Wait, do you want ice-cream?"  He chuckled and explained that he would rather have some rice for himself and his family.  So, after we received our grocery bag of ice-cream pops, we followed the man to little shop that was basically a walk in closet lined with sundries and protected by a prison-grade, barred facade.

Approaching the ordering "window," I told Dominic to get whatever he wanted.  He settled for a humble bag of rice and two liter of Coke.  Once supplied, Dominic began showering us with thank-yous.  He explained that he asks for food specifically instead of money to show that he is not about to go off and buy drugs or alcohol.  I told him that is a very honorable and wise thing to do, and before I could begin to give credit to Whom credit is due, Dominic asked if he could pray for Karina and me.  Surprised and ecstatic at the request, we happily acquiesced.

Dominic's prayer was beautiful.  He asked that The Lord bless us with good health and long lives, that we would have and keep our jobs.  Very practical, down-home blessing kind of stuff.

After he finished, I asked him which way he was headed.  Turned out we were traveling in the same direction, so we walked and talked a bit more.  I inquired as to how he came to be a Christian.  He explained that when he was young, he began to read the Bible.  He grew up in a Catholic family, but upon reading the Bible for himself, he decided to stop attending Mass, much to the chagrin of his mom and sister.  The then proceeded to express the reasoning behind his actions.  He referred to the divine regard in which the Catholic church he attended held Mary.  "I just don't think it's right to worship idols like that," he explained.

Again, Dominic's insight was surprising, if not refreshing.  Throughout our entire stint in Colombia we saw a people generally entrenched in hollow reverence to religion.  An activated, reciprocal relationship with the person of God had been replaced with a sterile, regimented interaction with a mere image.  The Almighty God, Who gives life and breath to all living things, had been reduced a talisman used to quell fear and bring about prosperity and good fortune.

As we continued to walk, Dominic explained how he felt like God puts certain people in our path for a reason, an encouraging thought that I find to be true as well.  Our interaction that night proved fine evidence.

Once back at the hotel, Dominic prayed over Karina and me again.  Asking God to bless us with beautiful dreams.  Upon finishing, Dominic thanked us once more and asked another favor of us.  He asked for a little money in order to buy oil to cook with.  Made only a tiny bit leery by his request, and coupled with the standard I hold to about not giving money out, I had to think about it for a second.  I told him that since he showed a faith in God, a relationship with Christ that I trusted was genuine, and that I had confidence that he would use the money honestly, I would give him some money.   He promised me that he would not use the money for drugs or alcohol and ensured me that his intentions were pure.  So, I handed him a 2000 peso bill (about 1 US dollar.)

At the exact moment I was placing the bill in Dominic's hand, and as if on cue, another homeless man walked by.  Of course, his eyes locked right on to the paper and he stopped dead in his tracks.  After saying our goodbyes to Dominic, I turned back to see the other homeless man staring at me blankly with out-held hand.  I asked Karina to please explain to him that what he saw was a very special case, that I normally don't give out money and that I apologize.  He gave me a look that assured me he wasn't buying it.  I didn't know what to do.  I tried explaining to him again that I couldn't give him money.  I offered to buy him something to eat or drink, but he wasn't having it.  So, we were at a stand off.

A few minutes into our stalemate, like an answered prayer, George (the homeless man from Day 1) happened to come walking by.

"George!" I hailed.

George quickly turned to see us.  "Hey!  Hey! How's it goin'?"  He replied brightly.  "Oh, man, Alexsa around?  I want to talk to her.  Maybe see if she can buy me something to eat?"

(Now, when recalling this dialogue, for some reason I think George actually was specifically asking if Alexsa could buy him some cookies and milk.  It sound's weird, I know, but it's that very strangeness that, I think, made me remember it as such.)

"Yeah!"  I replied.  "Alexsa is upstairs in the hotel.  I can go grab her for you.  But first, can you please let this man know that I won't give him any money.  I can buy him food from a place around here, but just no money."

"Sure thing."  George said with a smile.  And proceeded to explain, in a little rougher tone albeit, to the man the options he had to choose from.  The man seemed to lighten his stance and soon agreed to let me buy him something from Q'bano, Colombia's version of Hardee's.

The group of us walked the 50 yards or so to the restaurant and I told the man to get whatever he wanted.  He said he'd just take a burger. I told him he could have more, but he didn't really seem in the mood for talking.  He also didn't want to step into the restaurant even though it was open faced, like most of places we had come across.  So, Karina and I ordered a burger and threw in some fries for good measure.  We explained that it was for the man outside standing by the lamp post and to give it to him when it's ready.  While they prepared the man's food, Karina and I asked George to stay with the man to ensure he gets his food while we ran to get Alexsa.

After apprehending Alexsa, who jumped at the chance to see George again, we returned to find George and the man still waiting for the food.  George and Alexsa greeted each other like they were old friends.  As they caught up, I notice something about George that really struck me.  His face.  It had life to it.  There was a brightness about his features that I hadn't noticed in our previous meetings.  Something had come alive within this man.  What drug abuse, isolation, and social deprivation had attempted to kill, was now beginning to thrive once more.  You could see it, right before our very eyes, this man was becoming human again.

George explained how he had been sober for two full days and was connecting with his uncle to help get checked in to a rehabilitation clinic.  He also revealed that he was able to talk to his wife and kids via Skype earlier that day.  The whole time it seemed like he was floating 2 two inches off the ground.  I wish I could adequately explain to you how striking this man's appearance and demeanor was when contrasted with the dire and soul-numbed personalities that often inhabited those of which we came across while walking the Armenian streets.  God was working in this man in a way that you could quite literally see it in his face.

At some point, conversation turned to the man still waiting on his food.  George said while we were away, he was able to coax the intentions of the man out into the light.  The man admitted that he was going to use the money to buy alcohol.

While all of this was going on, another familiar face happen to show up.  His name escapes me, but he has basically been Mr. Consistency on all of Evoke's past Colombia trips.  This man, homeless as well, was known for the amazingly fast and amazingly expressive paintings he does on little strips of cardboard he finds laying around.  It seems like every time he'd see the group walking by, he'd hand us three or four of his paintings.  So, true to his nature, he greets us with a warm salutation and politely asks if we could get him something to eat from the adjacent fried chicken restaurant, Kiss Pollo... (Your guess is as good as mine.)

After we handed off the chicken, the homeless cardboard painter showed his gratitude in his usual handful of paintings.  They really are pretty cool.  I wish I had a sample to show you.  They often involve sunsets.

By the time we had the painter dude squared away, another man came walking up to us.  He looked to be in his twenties and rather strung out.  He had a shaky shamble and noticeably distant look in his eyes.  He approached our group and sheepishly mumbled something in Spanish.  It turned out George actually knew the guy and informed us that he was a friend of his.  George translated for us, saying that the man was requesting something to eat.  So, I made my way back to Kiss Pollo and got him whatever version of a #1 they had. 

I returned to find Alexsa praying over both George and his friend.  When they finished, I supplied the man with his chicken.  He seemed to be very appreciative.  We soon said our goodbyes and recommenced our quest for George's milk and cookies.

As we turned to head towards the store that George had in mind, we noticed that the man from earlier, the one waiting on the burger, was still standing outside the restaurant.  However, he now had his bag of food in hand.  We approached him and George asked him what was up.  Apparently, the man thought that the food was for us.  We happily corrected him, letting him know that the food was in fact his.  He subtly showed his understanding and appreciation with a nod and went on his way. 

We finally arrived at the store, which bore resemblance to the shop we bought the rice from earlier in the night.  Once George had his snack, he returned with us back to the hotel front.  As we walked, Alexsa spoke up.  "You know George, we're not just here to feed your stomach.  We want to feed your soul as well."

George was quick to respond.  "I know.  But by filling my stomach, my soul is being filled as well.  I don't know what it is, but I haven't felt this way in a long time... I feel like I'm falling in love with you guys!"

It was my turn to chime in,  "George, I can relate to that feeling!  I've described it the same way.  I've only been here a handful of days, but I feel like I'm falling in love with the people of Colombia!"

We encouraged George some more and prayed for his steps toward rehab.  Before he left to go back upstairs, George revealed that he had found a way that he could get back to the States before the ten years were up.  He said he had to raise 12,000 US dollars and once he got there, could not get as much as a speeding ticket, or he would get the boot. 

Finally, we were able to make it back to the creative meeting, and much to my delight, the room was packed.  On top of the twelve or thirteen from our group, was about fifteen others who we had met over the course of the week.  Since our ice cream endeavor took about an hour longer than we had anticipated, we only caught the closing minutes of the meeting. 

After a closing prayer, all were encouraged to mingle and connect with once another.  While I initially hung with my safety net of Karina and Janice, I eventually struck up a conversation with one of the traveling gypsy band kids.  His name was Samuel and he played the cow-skin drum that I had mentioned earlier in my posts.    

Conversation with this guy was so cool.  Not only did he speak pretty solid English, but he was also about my age and seemed to share in an affinity for deep thinking. 

He shared a bit about his troop and their wanting to see the world.  Then he asked me what my group's mission was.  I explained to him that, as a group of artists, we felt called to use our gifts and talents to express the Gospel of Jesus Christ, often, but not exclusively, through creative mediums.  The whole time I was explaining our directive, he was very engaged.  I felt like he was truly listening, rather than just hearing. 

Then he asked me a question that really caught me off guard with its insightful nature.  "So, America.  It's a capitalist country, no?  Capitalist, the capital of sin?"  I chuckled as he continued.  "So, with your mission, how do you reach a people who essentially have everything they feel they need?"

I lauded him on the thoughtfulness of his inquiry.  It made me stop and think.  It really was something to ponder. 

Though I don't think I responded in this manner during this particular conversation, I do believe every human being has an inherent longing for their Creator.  A need, though not always recognized as such, for the restoration of the relationship that was broken when sin entered the world.  A need that cannot be met by anything or anyone besides God Himself.  Knowing that there is an eternal longing that surpasses any finite and temporal need, I have confidence that whenever God's love is presented, regardless of the recipient's situation, it is received at some level, even if undetected by either party. 

Anyway, Samuel and mine's conversation continued for a good half hour or so before his troop informed him that they had to get going.  I really enjoyed the time I had with Samuel.  Though culturally disparate in many ways, the areas in which we found relation allowed for an ease of conversation that was often hard to come by during the trip. 

With that, I will leave you with another thank-you for your tenacity in reading this unnecessarily drawn out saga.  And encourage you to stay tuned for Day 7! 

DAY 5 - PAINTER'S TAPE

The morning of day five was met with the usual breakfast and prayer, followed by the just as usual scramble to get everyone and everything gathered in one place in order to make it to our destination in a timely manner.  Today's routine had the added complication of finding and buying an above-ground pool's worth of paint for a mural we were scheduled to create in the adjacent town of Barcelona. 

So, George, Jim, Scott and I set out to find said paint.  After shopping around for the best price-to-paint-quality ratio, we landed on a little corner shop.  The paint vendor didn't even see it coming.  His little pencil could barely keep up as Jim and Scott railed off color after color with generous quantities attached.  The proverbial kid-in-candystore syndrome (a.k.a KICS) soon kicked in.

"Ooh, what about that color?" 
"Yes, we definitely should get some of that." 
"And this one?"  
"I dunno, why not?  Let's get two."

Soon we had amassed what was probably a weeks worth of sales for this little shop. 

While, the businessmen mulled over the totals, I involuntarily occupied my time by playing ambiguous body language charades with the local horse and cart drivers across the street who had undoubtedly notices my whiteness. 

Once the final bill was tallied, we left the shop to go gather the rest of the group, pile in the bus, and come back to fire-chain the paint into the back of the vehicle. 

We arrived in Barcelona to find a rather cool little town square.  Nice and shady.  Shady as in obstructed sun rays, not shady as in neglected upkeep and ill-intending patrons.  There were some cool little cafes and empanada shacks, clusters of interlocutors, and kids at play; an all around bustling little scene. 

Soon, we were ushered into a church sanctuary that formed part of the square's perimeter.   This was the church that was sponsoring our mural within the city.  It was one of the larger churches we encountered while over there, about 200-300 members.  After introductions we enjoyed a complementary plastic cup of Coca-cola, which was a common theme while we where there.  I don't know they were really into the Coke thing, or if they just assumed thats all American's drink.   

We then began to scope out our mural wall.  Though not the most primo surface to paint on, the location was perfect.  It was right next to the church and facing the epicenter of the town square.  Jim took charge of administering the painting instructions to the laymen painters of the group while the rest of the group helped with supplies and mingled with the church volunteers and random passers-by. 

Upon finishing my duties as paint can opener, and after taking some obligatory action shots of the painters, I noticed Jennifer sitting by herself on a planter/bench.  I walked over and asked her how she was doing.  Immediately she responds with a pent up restlessness, "Argh, I wanna do something!  Look!  There's a guy sitting by himself!  Let's go talk to him about Jesus!"  Knowing my fate was sealed, I just went with it. 

We wandered over and sat down next to the kid and asked him what he thought of the mural.  " 'ts good." He replied nonchalantly.  I started asking him some questions to get to know him better.  I found out his name was John (Juan) and that he was just passing through town, whatever that meant.  All of his answer's were rather terse.  However, it wasn't the I'm-uncomfortable, go-way-kind of terse, but more of the I'm-not-a-big-talker variety.  As we talked, I could see the restlessness bubbling up behind Jennifer's eyes again.  She breaks from her translating for a sec, "When are you gonna tell him about Jesus?!" 

"I'm gettin' there! I wanna get to know the guy first!"  I replied.

Soon enough, we did get on the subject.  Good conversation.  I felt John was hearing what I was saying.  Jennifer told him about the analogy of the parachute and I asked if he would like to pray a prayer with me to begin his relationship with Jesus.  He said yes, so we prayed.  Now, I don't how it happened, but, of course, Karina ended up being the one translating for me as I prayed with John.  When we finished, John and I shared a smile as I welcomed him to the family.  I asked him if he wanted to paint with us.  He politely declined, siting that he is not a painter.  I encouraged him, "Most of the group consists of non-painter types.  Come on, we'd love to have you!"  He eventually acquiesced.  In fact, he ended up spending about an hour and a half painting with the crew!  A notion I find particularly powerful because he will now have a physical reminder of his encounter with Jesus that day.  Not only that, he had a very important hand in painting that very reminder on a wall in the city square.

That's John, on the right!

Now, back when Karina and I were praying for John, Jennifer was approached by a woman and her family of two boys and a husband.  The woman, Liliana, requested that I pray for her and her family as well.  As I inquired about her need, she revealed to me that they had just arrived in town that day and, aside from that night, they had no place to stay or really any means of getting their feet back under them for that matter.  So, I prayed with Liliana and got her in contact with the pastor of the church we were working with. 

While Liliana and the pastor talked, I conversed with her husband, Luis.  He told me that they were expecting a third child and were hoping for a girl.  Soon, Liliana returned saying that though the pastor didn't have a solution for their housing problem, he did give them some amount of pesos.  I continued to encourage them.  Liliana was so gracious and continued thanking me over and over for the prayer.  Soon, the subject of their third baby came back up, and Liliana asked if I could give them an American name for the baby.  I flipped through my mental Rolodex for a second and decided on the name, Rachel.  I've always liked the name Rachel, and Liliana and Luis seemed to like it as well.  They asked me to write it down for them so they wouldn't forget it. 

As Karina scrounged up a piece of paper for me, she asked me why I landed on that particular name.  I explained that it's a name I've always like then asked her why she was wondering.  She showed me the inside cover of her Bible.  There, was the name of the missionary who had given Karina her first Bible upon her nascent relationship with Christ.  Rachel.  Love it when God makes connections like that.

After providing the family with the Rachel reference paper, I offered to treat them to lunch at one of the empanada shacks.  Soon, we were all hanging out in the standing space out in front of the stand, enjoying a staple diet of Postobon and empanadas.  Once we finished, and after I was though being chastised for attempting to leave the premises with the glass soda bottle in hand, (apparently they recycle them, or better yet, reuse them) we said our goodbyes and wished the family well.

It wasn't until after our interaction with Liliana and her family, that I realized I didn't exactly impart the clearest sense that the name Rachel assumes that their child will be a girl.  Oh well, the name is already an outlier to the culture, being an outlier to gender wouldn't be too much farther of a stretch. 

Once we got back to the mural side of the square, I noticed Scott and George were praying with a police officer, and it wasn't until after the trip, that I learned of the significance of this interaction.  Prompted by conversation, the man had revealed that he struggled in maintaining a relationship with God.  He found it hard to do good and seek Him.  Scott had been praying that morning that those we came across would know and find strength in their lives, so he was well equipped to speak to this man's specific need.  The man appeared to be deeply affected by this conversation, and viewed it as no accident.  You see, that day was actually scheduled to be his day off, but he call called in.  Even after being called in, he was assigned a different city entirely, plans changed last minute and he was dispatched to Barcelona.  Again, tangible, God orchestrated connections.  Love 'em.

So, eventually the mural was finished and after getting the overtly obvious stink eye from a little kid circling me on his bike, we took both some group and in-situ photos of the mural and then piled back into the bus to head to the pastor's house for lunch.

The pastor's house actually fulfilled and exceeded my mental model of a less than wealthy Colombian pastor's home.   I'll let the picture speak for itself.

I can't decide which is my favorite, the family painting or the giant plastic wrapped puppy portrait.  Maybe it's the parody between the two that is my favorite.  Either way, both of those would have easily made it up on the walls of my apartment in college. 

Our lunch started with a super-broth of potatoes and chicken parts.  Tyler, being somewhat picky when it comes to chicken bits, decided his new favorite game was Let's See What Gross Parts of the Chicken Michael Will Eat?  Much to his delight, it turned out to be all of them.  After ingesting various heart ventricles, assumed intestine parts and other various valve-laden mystery chunks, I graciously welcomed the more familiar looking and less mineral-ly tasting main course.  The main course had become a familiar one by now: currasco, rice and beans, a plantain slice and a vinegar based shredded salad.  We finished what we could of the gargantuan portions, expressed our gratitude to the pastor and his family, took some pictures with the neighbors who had never seen North Americans before, (Tyler was a regular James Dean among the neighbor girls) and saddled up for the trip back to the hotel. 

That night, we went to a local church for a night of worship.  Forgive me if I've already described this church in a previous post, but I'm too lazy and have to much recollective momentum to stop and plum the depths of my previous ramblings.   Anyway, this church was the second story of a random store in the middle of the commercial area of downtown Armenia.  It also happened to be surround by intimate apparel shops, which says something.  I'm not sure what exactly, but it does say something.  The entrance was literally a corrugated aluminum door that you lifted up like the door of a garage or loading bay.  Behind it was a dark stairwell that had a height limit of about 6ft at some points, so I had to scrape in. 

Once inside, I discovered the sanctuary to be a large, white-tiled room filled with classic white plastic chairs and a stage area with your typical youth-band spread.  Overall, it felt intimate and inviting; that simple, kids-chasing-each-other-through-the-rows-of-chairs-while-the-parents-caught-up-for-the-week type of feeling.  I liked it. 

After everyone filed in, Scott gave a few stipulations to the night.  He explained that tonight was about interacting with God; stepping into His presence, focusing on worshiping Him alone, and if anyone could not take that charge seriously, they were welcome to step outside.  In fact, if anyone was tempted to talk their friends, they should go to opposite ends of the room.  It sounded stern, but that staunchness was just what I and, most likely, many others needed to put a right focus on the night. 

I already had a laundry list of things I was prepared to pray about for that night, things I felt I was doing wrong or being distracted by, things I've seen in those around me that I know they were struggling with.  However, upon hearing the charge over the night, that pensive, anxious feeling of having to hash such things out before moving forward, suddenly fell and a new mission was set before me: just sit in the lap of the Lord who loves you;  a Father who went to unfathomable lengths to ensure you come home.  Dad. 

So, as the music began, I sequestered myself in a corner with some of the aforementioned plastic chairs and began to just worship.  Not pray about what to do about (x) or how to be better at (y),  not think about who I've met that could use prayer, not even ponder what worship should look like at the moment, I just… was.  In the presence of the Almighty; I was.  What that looked like, was up to Him. 

I remember kneeling on the tile floor and repeating words of adoration to God.  About five minutes in, I began to feel a tingling sensation come over me.  Now, my head was lowered and as I raised it, I could have been experiencing some sort of physiological response to blood flow redistributing through my head and body.  In fact, I often jump to those types of conclusions in many cases to avoid the trap of sensationalism.  However, this feeling was different than what I usually would experience in such a scenario, so I pressed in.  "Come on, God.  Come on, God."  I began to repeat.   The tingling intensified.   "I know this is You.  This has to be You."  A warmth enveloped me.  "This is You, God!  It has to be!  It has to be, You!"  Tears were now beginning to trickle down my face.  By this time it felt like my shirt was floating up off of my skin.  "This is You.  You are real, God!  Thank you, God!  Thank you, God."  I doubled over and sprawled onto the floor and began weeping;  a deep, resonate sobbing from a depth in my spirit that pinned me to the floor, cheek against the dirt laced tile.  I laid there in this state for a good while.  Any time I attempted to sit back up, I would soon be toppled back over by another wave of emotion. 

This emotion was rich in timbre, something that can't really be described without debasing it.  I will say that it rooted in a particular theme that I, and likely the entire human race for that matter, have a deep sense of relation to.  The concept of being told, "You are valuable.  You are loved.  You are my son.  You are worth it.  I am proud of you," when everything in your own head is telling you the opposite.  When you feel like you will never be or do enough, like you are a wretch no matter how hard you try.  And then all of that is shattered when the God of the Universe tells you, "You were enough before you even took your first step toward me.  When you were dead in your own sin, I still deemed you worth dying for.  I have never had an ounce of regret about choosing to create you."  Trust me, believing Him when he says these things to you can sometimes be the hardest thing in the world, but when you do, it will drastically change how you see both yourself and those around you. 
 
To further instill in me this truth, God gave me a vision as I laid there with snot and tears adhering my face to the floor.  The picture He painted was the crucifixion scene.  After the ultimate scene where Christ voiced, "It is finished." (John 19:30),  as His lifeless form was being taken down from the cross, and as Jesus' body slouched under its own weight, his lungs compressed, and the remaining breath they held was relinquished.   As it crossed His tongue and escaped His lips, it formed the syllables of my name.  It formed the sweet, soft sound of my name!  Your name!  This, again, sent me back into a fit of audible, guttural sobbing.

After, what my best guess would say, an hour had passed, the sobbing subsided.  The second hour or so took on a very different appearance.    The second half had me alternating between pacing back and forth in my little corner, and sitting with my head draped between my knees, all the while babbling in what I can only describe as tongues. 

Now, I've dabbled in tongues before and from what I understand, I view it essentially as a way of expressing what the current language I am limited to cannot adequately portray.  I see tongues as a language that more effectively and immediately expresses cries of the heart.  It engages the mouth, heart and brain in a more open manner.  Avenues usually reserved to focusing on diction and exposition, are freed up to receive information as well.  In many ways, speaking in tongues gets me out of the petty and myopic scope in which I sometimes pray and opens me up to focus on God and his Will, allowing the Spirit, rather than my limited and distracted brain, to dictate the nature of my supplication as well as more adequately express my adoration. 

Anyway, in this instance, speaking in tongues proved very effective at keeping me in the presence-of-God-first mindset, instead of slipping back into a what-to-say-next, presence-of-self-first mentality.  So, there I was, babbling like a fool.  Some times singing, other times murmuring, all in apparent gibberish.  Whenever I slowed down enough to attempt to speak in English, it felt unnatural, oddly enough.  It felt cumbersome on my tongue, like it just didn't have the horsepower to keep up with what I wanted to express. 

After about an hour of this, the music ended and the lights came on.  Everyone collected themselves, found their buddies, and began to mingle.  I, on the other hand was till essentially out of my mind.  For the next fifteen minutes or so, I continued to murmur in tongues under my breath.  I also could not stop moving.  I meandered about the colonies of people with a wild, distant look on my face.  I know of the look I wore because of a group picture we ended up taking, in which I look like I'm about 100 miles off somewhere else. 

Finally, someone addressed me and I came to a little bit, though I still walked back and forth and in circles around them as we interacted.  After sobering up a little further, I proceeded to help set up chairs for the upcoming service the following morning.  As I grabbed chairs from over where I had had my episode, I noticed a spot on the floor in which a ring of dirt had been washed aside by my snot/tears.  There was also a small pile of coins that had fallen out of my pocket as some point.  I decided to consider it an offering. 

Later, I learned that while the worship was going on, a man had walked in from off the street at some point.  He sat in the environment for about thirty minutes before Scott approached him.  Scott leaned over and asked the man what he need Jesus to do for him.  The man said he had wrecked every area of his life and he needed Jesus to save him.  Scott shared the gospel message with the man and he received it.  The man wept in Scott's arms.   I don't know how the man found his way to such an unassuming location, my guess is that he heard the sounds of worship coming from the second story windows as he passed by.  Either way, the man did not leave that room the same.   That simple act of faith, to respond to that inkling and walk up those steps, and now that man's life is very well changed forever.

That night I laid in bed with a refreshed and renewed sense of God's active relationship with me.  I understood the value in just worshiping God for God;  not so that..., or in order to…., just... because.  If we are able to get our mind off ourselves, even just for an instant, an avenue is then opened up for God to do his work in us.  That is why I think God longs for and demands our worship and love in wholeness of heart;  not for his own benefit and promotion, but for ours.  He, in his omniscience and goodness, knows that He is the single best thing for us. 

DAY 4 - PART 2

So, part two of Day 4.  Sorry it's rather belated.  Anyway, here we go!

After returning to the hotel, Lirio expressed that she wanted to go visit Carolina.  If you remember from Day 1, she was the woman under the overpass who was dying of AIDS.  Lirio and her had become quick friends the night we were feeding the homeless and Lirio wanted to see her again and bring her some new clothes.  We had an open schedule that night so we set out to see her. 

Upon arriving at the overpass, there was a noticeable difference in the atmosphere this time around.  The buzzing of activity, loving conversation and prayer that had saturated the environment on Day 1, had been replaced with an oppressive and uneasy silence, with only passing cars and the occasional scampering rat providing noise and movement.  The whole place just felt dark and deprived.

We soon came across a bed pad, lined with trash and covered with a dirty blanket, wedged up against the back wall of the overpass.  Barely even imposing on the blanket and bed pad, was Carolina; all 40-50 lbs of her.  While most of the group watched from a distance, Lirio and Alexsa approached her.  Soon enough, we heard a impressively loud, "LEERRIIOOOO!!" erupt from the pile of bedding and almost instantly Lirio was on top of Carolina, entangled in the biggest bear hug Carolina's skeletal frame could muster.  Soon they were right back where they had left off, chatting and laughing like old friends. 

While this was going on, many of the group members, including myself, where having a hard time processing the whole situation.  Most of us did not get a chance to see Carolina and her situation on Day 1, and the extreme dire physical state of this woman was unlike anything I had ever witnessed with my own eyes.  George, our organizer/translator, was particularly distraught.  "Something has to be done about this.  This woman can't just be left here to rot.  The government has to do something."  Though her situation was deeply disturbing to witness, the spark this woman still had in her spirit debunked much of the despair that would usually be associated with a scene such as this. 

As the girls chatted, Carolina politely asked if we happened to have any water.  I did so happen to have about half a bottle's worth in my back pocket.  I handed it to Alexsa who gave it to Carolina.  As I walked back to the parameter we had formed, Alexsa hailed me.  "Michael, come over!  She wants to meet you!"  As I loomed over the bed pad, eyes (as well as my nose) surveyed the depravity in detail but were soon diverted by a set of fiery, kind eyes staring back at mine.  She reached out and shook my hand with a surprisingly strong grip, and smiled.  I smiled back.  I am having the hardest time remembering what was verbally said in that moment, but more was communicated in that slight and simple exchange than could have been said in pages of dialogue.  I will never forget this woman's face.

A few of us began taking some photos of the scene.  I figure documenting something such as this is important.  Photographs help solidify and actualize testimony in a very practical way in the minds of those listening.  Plus, putting a face to poverty often helps motivate those with the resources to illicit change in that realm.  Anyway, as Lirio and Alexsa continued to talk with Carolina, she began to notice the cameras.  "Oh, I feel like a movie star!"  She said gleefully.

By this time, another homeless man had wandered over to see what all the commotion was about.  After assessing the situation, he approached some of the group members.  He revealed that he was sort of Carolina's unofficial caretaker.  He said that he changes her sheets   out and cleans her up, basically looks after her and helps her with thing she can't do; her being immobile and all.  He proceeded to tell us of how many passers by treat her like trash, some even kicking her and stealing stuff from her.  (Someone had actually stollen the Bible Lirio had given her on Day 1).  He also said that he had never seen anybody treat her the way we have.  Missions groups come through every now and then, but no one had stopped and taken the time to notice and love her the way this group had. 

As we readied to head back to the hotel, the girls prayed over Carolina.  They encouraged her and loved on her some more, and told her of the new life to come.  "You know, you are going to have a new body soon!"  One of them said.  Imagine it.  Carolina's crippled little frame, full of sores and decay, replaced with a spry, flexible, perfectly restored body,  A body of eternal youth and resiliency.  She will be running and jumping and tumbling again soon.  Her roach infested bed pad on the side of a filth and exhaust glazed street, will be exchanged for a bed of flowers in a rolling, grassy field where she can lay and let the wind kiss her freckles and the sun rays warm her soft curly hair.  She will be her, maybe for the first time in her life.

We said our goodbyes and headed back towards the hotel.  As we were leaving, not but 50 yards from where we stood conversing with Carolina, stood a man with a hood over his head.  He had been there the entire time we interacted with Carolina. I noticed him as we were walking up, actually.  Now, I'm still new to this whole seeing in terms of the Spiritual Realm thing, but this was the closest to a manifestation of a demon I think I've ever seen.  This man had been standing in the exact same spot the entire time where were there.  He was just standing out in the open, in the middle of a walking area, hunched over a little bit and with a hood on.  As we walked by, he just stared at us.  Only his eyes moved as we passed.  I glanced at his face, it was shrouded in the shadow of his hood, the parts of his face I could make out were covered in dirt.  He had a deep darkness about him that gave me chills.  However, I also carried with me the confidence of the authority Christ.  All the man/thing could do was spectate and God's love infiltrated that location.  We are praying that he light continues to shine through and overtakes the darkness that has been oppressing that area.

Now before I continue, I will go ahead and mention that a week or two after getting back to the States, one of our contacts in Colombia said that Carolina is no longer under the overpass and is essentially nowhere to be found.  We believe that she is with Jesus now, enjoying her new body and using it to worshiping her King.  I can't wait to challenge her to a footrace when we meet again.

After making it back to the hotel, a few of us went to a little open-faced restaurant that adverted all dishes being only 2500 pesos (little more than a dollar.)  I got the short ribs and fries.  I will say, for a dollar, I was impressed.  For 3-5 dollars I would have been satisfied.  For 7+ dollars I would have been upset.  After, some crazy sugary pineapple soda and the experiment of mixing said soda with Manzana Postobon, and after Jim was portrait sniped by a homeless charcoal artist, we headed back to the hotel to chill. 

In the midst of our chillin', a large black man came waltzing into the lobby.  He seemed to know George and they began conversing.  He was looking for Antonio, which was not all that surprising given Antonio's infectious personality.  He had a birthday gift for him, however Antonio was still out and about.  Finally, after about 45 minutes, Antonio returned.  The man, Fabio, greeted Antonio like a family member and presented him with a sweet Colombia themed satchel.  Fabio then proceeded to talk with a small group of team members until late into the night.  It wasn't until later on in the trip that I learned of the significance of this man showing up that night. 

So, the Sunday before Jerryl and I arrived in Colombia, Fabio was one of two local policemen that were assigned to escort the Evoke team on some of their tasks for the day.  Over the course of the day, the love for one another and for others displayed by the group seem to really have an impact on Fabio and William (the other cop).  I don't know the timeline of the whole day, but both men ended up sticking around for a church service the team was attending and both of them wound up being rocked by God.  Fabio even experienced healing in his knee. 

Fast forward to the night Fabio showed up at the hotel.  While they were conversing, Fabio revealed how God has been changing his heart and showing him things since that past Sunday.  He revealed that his brother was murdered six months ago and that he had been working on a plot to find and kill his brothers murderer.  However, after his encounter with The Lord, he no longer has that vengeance in his heart.  Praise God!

After saying bye to Fabio and seeing everyone off to their respective cabs, we turned in for the night.  As Antonio and I entered our joint bedroom, we discovered a coffee custard dessert on Antonio's pillow, placed there by the hotel staff in honor of his birthday.  We both enjoyed a spoonful or two of the room temperature custard as we read the "do not consume above 6 degrees Celsius" label on the container.  We then promptly put it in the mini fridge and went to bed.

DAY 4 - PART 1

The morning of day 4 broke the night's typical sweaty but surprisingly restful sleep with the promise of another exercise in discomfort.  This time we were going to a nascent Wesleyan church to partner with them in some door to door evangelism.  Now, the whole concept of door to door is kinda muddy for me.  I do think it can be done right, but more times than naught, I feel a message that, in it's very essence, carries absolute love and the power to change lives, quickly becomes a sterile sales pitch; a stand-and-deliver predicated on obligation rather than love, and void of any concern for the person on the other end.  There is a difference between being talked to and being talked at. 

Essentially, all the power and danger in these types of interactions lies within the intent.  Are you speaking because you need to tell this person about Jesus?  Or, are you speaking because this person needs to hear about Jesus?  Trust me, I struggled with the former for the longest time and it left me with an overwhelming sense of obligation that was impossible to satisfy; an obligation that I often attributed God's opinion of me to.  Very dangerous stuff. 

It wasn't until God changed the operative verb in how I interacted with people that I saw the subject of my sentences change from "me" to "them."   That shift in focus allowed me to begin to understand, at some depth, 1 Corinthians 13:3: "If I give all I possess to the poor and give over my body to hardship that I may boast, but do not have love, I gain nothing." (NIV) 

The message of the Gospel that we hold to as the lifeblood to all that we do HAS to be proclaimed in love, because that is the medium in which it first was delivered to us (mankind).  If we present the Gospel without the love that inseparably saturates it's entirety, we deceive those who hear it into interacting with a bastardization of the Message.  We commit a great sin.

Okay, soapbox is going back in the closet.  So, where were we?  Door to door, yes!  I will say, that my team members do a very good job at this "with love" thing.  So, I had high hopes for this instance of D2D.  That still didn't mean I wasn't nervous as crap.   

So, after touring the church/person's house that peculiarly had two kitchens, and after sipping on the coffee equivalent of Coca-Cola, with some bonus carcinogens provided by the plastic dixie cup it was in, we were off.  Right away, things were proving difficult.  Either almost the entire neighborhood was out enjoying the beautiful countryside (which, I mean, they should) or many of the residents had already acquired an admittedly justified leeriness toward a bunch of people toting Bibles and banging on doors. 

After a little while, we did manage to get some conversations going.  A sweet old lady invited us into her home and listened to what we had to say.  Though she seemed a bit on autopilot when it came to responding, I believe she did, at some level, absorb what Jim was saying.  If anything, we were able to share the truth of Christ's death and resurrection as being the sole avenue by which we come to reconciliation with the Father to a culture steeped in a "by works" mentality.

I was able to talk with some older men outside of a motorcycle repair shop while Jim talked to one of the mechanics.  Again, conversation felt awkwardly contrived.  Often, their responses either seemed out of left field or were so generic that I was left with very little in which to gauge who they were as people.  Needless to say, I was rather discouraged by the whole situation and, really the entire morning for the most part.

Once everyone regrouped, we decided to invade the local food shack for lunch.  Upon presumably exhausting their entire supply of plastic tables and chairs that weren't currently inhabited by locals, we were soon quarantined to the sidewalk in front of the restaurant.  Once the inevitable chaos of ordering subsided, I was soon handed a plate of sliced plantain, rice, beans and endearingly tough churrasco.  Considering I didn't even technically order anything, and the fact that even if I did, I probably would have received the same thing regardless, I happily dug in.  Once, everyone was finished, and after receiving the rather vindicating feeling of observing a man plop his full sized dog perpendicularly across the gas tank of his motorcycle and drive off, we soon carouselled into our taxi's and returned to base.

While I was lounging on my favorite multi-seater ottoman in the hotel lobby, I soon caught wind of something going down outside.  Turns out, some of the Evokers had met a band of traveling gypsy-kids (young adults) the night before and actually led the girl that sang with them to Christ, and now, the same band, minus the girl (I think her name was Camilla,) was outside having an impromptu jam session.  We decided to go join in. 

The band, affectionately and coincidentally comprised of Daniel, Samuel, Manuel, and… Carlos, included a large, cow skin tom drum, a nylon string guitar, a traditional, regional woodwind that I forget the name of, and a freestyle rapper.  One of the girls in our group, Alexsa, is an amazing flautist herself and was soon running to grab her bamboo flute.  In no time, we were all sitting in the middle of foot traffic just jammin' out and drawing attention.  Though I've had many moments of surreality on the trip already, this one was special.  It was like I got the peanut butter of my deeply cherished high school hangout days in the chocolate of my crazy impactful Colombia adventure.

Later that afternoon, we traveled to Cecilia, one of the poorest neighborhoods in the area.  There, after being dropped off on the wrong side of the neighborhood and parading our not-so-subtle caravan of American-ness over to the correct thatched community gazebo, we were soon knee deep in local children spanning the age gamut of a typical public educational system.

This kid kinda sums up the general response we saw from the locals as we walked by.

While many of the team members went right into talking to different pockets of the kids, I comfortably sat behind my camera and documented.  Once everyone had filed in, and after a short monologue from the community representative explaining the kid's involvement in various community projects, Scott and Jennifer took the stage.

They preceded to explain to the kids the message of hope and transformation that is the Gospel.  Some ways through, Scott used an analogy that I really think speaks to the heart of a very popular, worldwide mindset.  The mindset of knowing of Jesus is enough.  Scott equated it to jumping out of an airplane with a parachute on.  Simply knowing you have the parachute on is only good enough for peace of mind as you continue to fall and eventually hit the ground.  It isn't until you engage the parachute that it become pertinent, life-saving in fact.  The difference between knowing of Jesus, and having a relationship with Him is the same as knowing you have a parachute and actually using it.  At the end, Scott led those who wanted to engage that relationship in prayer. 

After that, we did the usual breakout sesh.  As if on cue, Karina grabs me and says, "Lets go talk to them!"  The "them" she was referring to was a group of about ten high school boys who were essentially the cultural polar opposite of high school Michael… and current, young professional Michael for that matter.  They saw my hippie-long, blondish surfer hair and affinity for post rock, ambient progressive, with barely-on snap-backs and naturally occurring swagger, and raised me a rat tail or two. 

Sensing a theme in the trip by now, I just said, "Eh, why not?" 

After silently, but mutually, acknowledging the obvious cultural dichotomy, the kids and I actually seemed to ease into conversation pretty easily.  I started by making rounds with some basic questions: What's your name? How old are you? All of them were within the classic high school age range.  When it came to names, nothing too out of the ordinary. Though when it came to the kid on my left, he said his name was Michael as well, causing a tremor of snickers throughout the group.  I had my suspicions, but I went with it. 

Then I asked them what they thought of the message they had just heard.  I received the typical half-hearted it-was-good nods.

"So, then, do you believe it?" I inquired.  Again, more nods.

I continued, "Okay, so you believe it?  Let me ask you something then.  You die.  Where do you think you'll go?  Heaven or Hell?"

Some said they didn't know, while many said very flatly, Hell.  Though surprised does not accurately describe my reaction to their answers, I was taken aback by how these kids could answer that question with such a sense of acceptance.  I challenged them.  If they said they believed the Message they had just heard, why then would some of them still believe Hell was their fate? 

"I just think I've done too much wrong…"  Michael responded, as he stared down at the floor. 

I grabbed his shoulder, and though I was speaking to the whole group, I looked a Michael as I spoke.  "Trust me, I understand that thought process.  I used to feel the same way.  I felt like I was some how un-savable.  For twenty years, I was trying to earn God's love.  Earn his acceptance.  It left me depressed and almost sent me to a mental institution."  Again, eyes locked on this kid.  "Please, believe me.  I'm implore you.  God loves you right where you stand.  There is nothing you have done nor could ever do that would somehow put you outside of His reach.  If you truly come to believe that, and accept Jesus Christ as your Lord and Savior and choose to walk with Him for the rest of your life, I have no doubt in my mind I will see you in Heaven." 

As I spoke to this kid, his deep, dark eyes would lock with mine as he listened.  I saw something in those eyes that I still can't fully describe using any type of conventional language.  This kid was getting it.  He was listening, in the deepest sense of the word.  I can't put my finger on what I saw, but God was knocking on Michael's heart.  I know it. 

I turned to the group.  "Let me explain it this way.  Jesus is God, correct?  He has all the cosmos at His command.  He can do anything he wants.  He could have come down from that Cross at any time.  There was no reason for Him to remain up there in agony…except He was missing something.  The God of the Universe was missing something.  What was He missing?  You."  I put my hand on Michael's shoulder again, "You."

I asked them again if they understood.  "Yes." They replied. 

I encouraged them.  "Press into this.  God is real.  And He will show you things you never could even dream of.  I'm proof of that.  I never thought I would be in Armenia, Colombia speaking to a group of teenagers, but here I am."

I asked them all what they wanted to do when they grew up.  After unanimously responding with, "professional fútbol player," a good majority of them revealed that they would like to work for the Colombian equivalent of the FBI.  Something, I think, that speaks to the youth's dissatisfaction with the current injustices they see played out in the government and in their  everyday lives. 

I then asked if they had any questions for me.  After some hesitation and chuckling, Karina relayed to me that they wanted to know if I had a wife.  Nope, I chuckled.  What about a fiancé? Nah.  Girlfriend? Nada.  Finally, I sighed.  "Karina, just let them know that I'm bad with the ladies."

As we were wrapping up, I asked them to join me in prayer.  I inquired about anything they'd like me to pray for, specifically.  One's grandmother had Alzheimer's, another's grandmother had cancer, another asked me to pray for his family.  Then, Michael spoke up with his request. "I would like to do something with my life," he stated.   So, we huddled and I prayed for all of them and lifted up each specific request to the Lord.

Once we disbanded, I asked Karina to let Michael know I'd like to speak with him away from the group for a second.  I ran and grabbed my Spanish/English Bible and met up with them.  I locked in on his eyes again.  "I see something in you.  You get this.  The Lord is working in you, I can see it.  Press in to this.  You said you wanted to do something with your life.  This is your chance.  God will use you do great things, things you can't even begin to imagine.  Take this seriously and God will show up.  Believe me.  Please.  Believe me." 

"Do you have a Bible?"  I asked. 

"No."

I put the Bible in his hand.  "Here, this is yours.  Read it, and I promise you God will show you things."

I asked him if he knew the Gospel story and he said, "not really."  I showed him the Four Gospels and explained to him a little bit about how they are laid out.  I also pointed him to Romans and explained its purpose.  I then asked for his Facebook information in case he had any questions or wanted to continue the conversation.  He put it in my phone. 

I then noticed he listed his first name a being Krystian.  Playing into my suspicions, I confronted him about it.  He said that everyone calls him Michael.  Still with eyebrow raised, I dropped the interrogation.  Later on I learned that he had told Lirio that his name was David.  Very guarded kid, but I know God is working His way in.

We were then asked to collect back up front in order to be presented with some super fragrant orange candles (mine was the shape of a guitar!) that managed to provide a pretty convenient nostalgic link to Colombia upon my return.  Thanks, olfactory system! 

By this time, Scott and the gang decided to reveal that they had gifts for all the kids.  To the guys, a bunch of soccer balls.  To the girls, makeup of all sorts.  And to the kids, bags and bags of candy.  It was like casting seed to pigeons trying to allocate the lollypops to the sea of grabbing hands.  One of those hands ended up being mine and was quickly appeased with a maracuyá (passion fruit) lollypop, complete with seeds and gum inside! 

After a few photo-ops with the kids and staff, we made our way to the cabs.  As a few of us exited the gazebo, we were met by a handful of  children who were asking for our autographs.  This tickled me to no end.  I obliged, chuckling at the fact that I think they were having us sign the Gospel pamphlets we handed out earlier.  We said our goodbyes, drew the per usual stares of the surround neighbors and headed back to the hotel.

Well, this seems like a good place to realize that this post will have to be a two-parter.   There is actually quite a bit more left of Day 4, but I will make it more digestible by breaking it up into two parts.  You're welcome :P.

DAY 3 - PUBLIC SPEAKING

Sorry this whole process is so slow moving.  I'm finding each blog post is taking way longer that I expected due mostly in part to rambling asides such as this. 

Anyway.

I awoke the morning of Day 3 with a peculiar sense of confidence and motivation for the day at hand.  I say peculiar because we had reached the public speaking portion of the trip.  One of our translators, Jennifer, had arranged for our group to speak to the high schoolers at the school she teaches at.  Each one of us were to share our testimony, (i.e. our past, how Jesus showed up, the radical change that ensued, and how we now use the individual artistic gifts we've been given to glorify Him.)  Now, I'm not exactly petrified of public speaking, but the public aspect does prove a very effective inconvenience for my nerves.  That morning however, the scales tipped towards: "Okay, let's do this." rather than the incumbent: "Okay, I have to do this."

That morning, at breakfast, while I awaited my pancakes with honey or omelet with honey, (can't remember which I had that particular morn) my common state of preoccupation actually felt semi productive this time.  I knew my testimony. I mean, I lived it.  But I was getting stuck on how I was going to present it in a way that would resonate with these kids.  The last time I could remember speaking to and trying to relate corporately to high schoolers was when I was actually in high school myself, giving robotic orations that have had their spines mercilessly removed and replaced with topic sentences and bullet points.  I also remember the typical despondency that seems to be innate in high schoolers and how presentations tended to cause that trait to flare up.  Now, this was in fact a private Christian school, which may or may not make the latter statement even more valid.  Anyway, that was my focus during prayer that morning; how to effectively reach and relate to these kids. 

During prayer, God kept impressing on me that these kids need to hear just how much God loves them, and how important comprehending that fact is.  It was something I had the hardest time believing during my teenage years and it rendered me depressed and without a healthy sense of identity.  So, I had my entry point.  The rest would just be an outflow of my heart, letting the Holy Spirit say what He wants to say.

After a little trouble finding the school as it lay rather secluded in a sparse and somehow threatening feeling rural area, we arrived.  Upon parking we walked down a dirt road leading to the back of the K-12 school where they apparently kept the high schoolers.  Again, some odd sense of threat in the area:

We set up shop in an impressively large outdoor stage area.  Soon the high schoolers filed in, sporting their white and blue tracksuit uniforms.  As everyone got settled, we learned that these kids actually knew English pretty well, so we could speak to them directly and forgo a translator this time.

So, Scott got things started off with his lighthearted, easy-going antics. Got the kids laughing and then went into his story.  Each team member then preceded to present their testimony, all of which I've heard at least in part.  That fact does not change, however, the power that lies behind each one.  Every person who shared has had RADICAL transformation in their lives due to Jesus showing up and enacting His heart-changing truth.  Heavy, heavy situations of abandonment, drugs, abuse, rape, you name it, every person had a unique situation from which they came, but every one of us was standing there today, transformed, because of an encounter with the person of Jesus Christ.

Well, my turn comes around and by then I had realized something.  My upbringing stood in stark contrast to many of the stories I had just heard.  I grew up with a mom and a dad who were always there for me, loved me overtly, provided all the comforts of an upper middle-class income, my sister and I got along swimmingly and I didn't really have to pay for much of anything except for gas to put in the car my parents bought me.  I had every foreseeable need met, I even grew up going to church and had a relationship with Jesus, but I still managed to fall into despair.  How could something like this happen?  This is medium in which I gave my message.

I spoke of how even though I did have a relationship with Jesus growing up and understood with my head, and to many extents, my heart, the essence of His work on the Cross, my actions and state of constant fear and neurosis proved evident that I wasn't quite ready to believe it with my entire being.  That I still felt like I had to earn God's love.  That my citizenship in heaven was somehow unassured and in someway mine to lose.  I told them about my being diagnosed with of a form of OCD called Scrupulosity and my various antidepressants and trips to therapists; all of this stemming from an obsessive fear of somehow becoming unredeemable.  Then, I let them know of how God has been with me the entire time and over the last few year's I've finally come to the realization that there is absolutely no way I can outrun God's love, and that I now consider myself with upmost confidence, a citizen of the Kingdom of Heaven.   In fact, I neglected to even tell them about how I was a photographer.  I was too wrapped up in making sure these kids understood how much God is in love with them; constant, continual, perpetual love with them; regardless of circumstance or past deeds, or future deeds for that matter.  God loves them right where they stand.

After the presentations, Scott let the group in prayer and then we mingled with the kids a bit.  After paying homage to my high school days by assuming the wallflower stance, I was soon approached by a girl named Mariapaula.  She was such a sweetheart.  She thanked me for sharing and began to express her love for Jesus and how she plays in the worship band at school.  She also expressed her current dilemma of wanting to pursue music further in college, while her parents were wanting her to err on the financially safer side with a medical degree.  We conversed for a while and I imparted some encouragement and, hopefully, knowledge into her situation. 

As we talked, I learned that a while back, a pastor and his wife prophesied over her in regards to her musical ability.  Basically, while they were conversing, the pastor told Mariapaula to sing for him and his wife.  Taken aback by the abruptness of his request, she floundered a bit and explained that she would need some form of accompaniment or at least some prep time, but the pastor and his wife were insistent.  In fact, they sat on the ground until she acquiesced.  So, she sang.  When she had finished, the pastor told her that God was going to use her voice to touch the lives of many people. 

By this point the school bell had rung and most of the kids were off to their next class.  I asked if she should be getting to class, but she quickly responded by saying that she could go to class anytime, but only had this one time to talk with us.  So, after a little more conversation involving the miracles of both her and her brother even being alive. (Her brother was born at 6 months gestation and she was born without an organ [she didn't specify which one.])  she thanked me again, and made a point to go around thank every other Evoke team member.  Honestly, she was such an encouragement with the love of the Lord and overall maturity she displayed.

She's the one with the big ol', sweet earrings.  The one on the left is Amera, she break dances.

More pictures from the presentation:

Later on in the trip, Jennifer revealed to me that many of the kids felt like they could relate to my story.  (Praise God!)  You see this demographic was an outlier of sorts when compared to the rest of the groups we spoke with on the trip.  Like me, many of the them came from a rather affluent and cohesive family.  In fact, almost all of them had plans of going to college in the US. So, when I talked of having a very privileged life and still managing to find depression, it resonated.

Anyway, after some juice boxes at the school cafe and interacting with some giggly elementary schoolers while Scott made a cameo in Jennifer's 3rd grade class, we headed back to the hotel.

Later that afternoon, the girls hosted a jewelry making workshop for around 35 active prostitutes in a city government building.  This event was hosted by Evokes chief jeweler, Lirio.   Lirio has a beautiful and ever-growing line of jewelry that she crafts herself and has a heart that is specifically soft for those trapped in prostitution and sex slavery.  Though the men refrained from helping out due to the sensitivity of the situation, we did hear about the experience afterwards.   I think the girls almost unanimously agreed that it was the most trying experience they've had so far on the trip. 

Upon arriving, they were greeted by a room was hot and poorly lit and many of the women had brought their children along, adding to an already noisy and distracted atmosphere.  Though attentions were hard to hold as Lirio made her way from table to table showing each of the women how to make their own bracelet, slowly but surely, conversations were being had and hearts were starting to soften.  The women were starting to open up, and the girls were able to connect with them.  After spending time praying over the women, girls passed out some new clothes and encouraged them that God was with them and that prostitution did not have to be their life.  God will proved a way out.  

I will go ahead and say it now, there are already tangible repercussions from the girl's faithfulness that night.  We've heard that two of the women decided to leave prostitution and open up roadside stands instead.  One of them began attending the church of one of our local correspondents two Sundays ago and is being welcomed with open arms!  God is in the business of transforming hearts and lives!

Okay, so while all that goodness was going on, the guys hung out around the base of the government building in a town square type area.  We were waiting for Antonio as he had disappeared to somewhere within the bowels of the government building.  As we waited, George, the English talking homeless guy from Day 1, approached Scott.  They began to converse and seemed to be having quite the deep discussion.  On a side note, Scott wasn't involved with our first interaction with George, so he was basically meeting him for the first time.  Soon, George, Scott and Karina were off to go get food.  Scott bought George dinner, anything he wanted, and told him to get more for later.

After they returned to the rest of the group, Antonio finally emerged from the building with a huge(r than normal) smile on his face.  "You'll never believe what just happened to me!" He said.  Antonio then proceeded to explain how he came across someone while inside who took him throughout the entire building, even to areas of restricted access, and he was asked to pray over certain rooms which were described as having many devils.  They would interrupt meetings and explain that Antonio was a missionary from America and he would then pray over the room.  He even was given access to the governors office even though she was out of town, and he prayed over that.  They also had him dedicate an entire empty floor to the Lord.

Once the girls were finished, we headed back to the hotel.  On our way, we came across George again.  This time, he was the one with the huge smile.  He raved about how he hasn't felt this full in years.  He kept thanking us and going on about how much he ate.  He then began to explain how he can't get us out of his head.  He said, that the words Alexsa spoke and prayed over him have been buzzing around his mind ever since.  He said he even tried to get high the night we met and it did nothing for him, he just got sick.  Same thing with alcohol, just threw it up.  We encouraged him, letting him know that The Lord is working in his life.  He agreed.  He said he even finds himself giving advice to those in the homeless community around him.  This man was becoming human again, and even deeper than that, he was taking strides towards his identity as a child of God.

That night, we went to a pizza place sensibly titled, "Kosher Pizza."  I will say, Colombia has an unexpectedly impressive pizza scene.  Like any good Americans, we basically took over the back room of the restaurant and proceeded to bludgeon the rest of the patrons with boisterous eruptions from the back.  We even spilled over into the kids room, which was adorned with terrifying versions of Pixar characters.  I found that Colombia loves them some Pixar, 'specially Toy Story.  So much so as to make these nightmarish effigies:

After recovering from PTSD Bullseye and Jessie's soulless edifice of an expression, we managed to surprise Antonio with a pretty killer birthday cake.  I use killer homonymously in that sentence because the "candle" protruding from the cake was essentially a road flare.  Once the fire hazard was effectively extinguished and most of the cake was used for it's intended purpose, the preverbal cake fight broke out, followed by a serendipitous homeless mariachi band that we played off as being Antonio's birthday serenaders.  After leaving the restaurant (likely in shambles,) we returned to the hotel to chill and eventually sleep.