Thursday, September 19, 2013

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. 

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