Well, I've decided to take on the herculean task of unpacking the entirety of what was, without a doubt, one of the most significant weeks of my life. Bear with me, as these will likely be some monstrous posts. I promise you though, they are worth the read. God is alive and at work in the hearts and hands of people in Colombia!
So, if you have been in contact with me recently or have scrolled beyond this post and have any simple sense of chronology, you probably know that I have recently come back from a mission trip in Armenia, Colombia. I was there with the creative ministry I'm a part of: Evoke. It is no exaggeration that this trip has ROCKED me. I will post a reflection at the end of this episodic, but for now, I just want to get to the nuts and bolts of the trip. Of course, there will be my patented shoehorning of interjections and observation littered throughout each story, so don't worry.
And... here we go!
To say I was apprehensive going into this whole thing would be a severe understatement. As I walked down my front steps to Jerryl's Toyota Yaris, I was already counting the hours until I would be making the reciprocal journey back up the steps into the isolated comfort of my newly rented (and adorable) little home. On the ride there, any brainpower not currently employed in combating my introverted tendencies was busy calculating how I could get the most Jesus out of this experience with the least amount of discomfort and potential neurotic breaks. Though I had never experienced the immersion that is a mission trip, I had plenty of references to the stretching and all around uncomfortable experiences of proselytizing here in the States. Add the elements of never having been to Colombia, or even South America for that matter, and my 2 year old's equivalent of a Spanish vocabulary, and the fact that I will, in essence, be trapped in this environment for the next 8 day, and I was undoubtedly assuming the worst. Funny thing is, I was not really concerned about my personal safety at all. Kidnap me and threaten me with a machete, that's fine, just please don't make me talk to people!!
Anyway enough wet blanketing. I am inexpressibly happy to announce (spoiler alert) that this mentality was obliterated basically after day one!
So, after using Jerryl's employee powers to circumvent the security lines at Orlando International Airport (suckers!) we were soon on our way Ft. Lauderdale… and then on our way to Armenia Colombia, traveling aboard the KIA Rio of airlines, Spirit; who's slogan should be, "Huh, not as bad as I expected..." After quasi sleeping, half due to exhaustion and half in order to avoid talking to people for at least a little while longer, we arrived at El Eden. Basically a DMV that happens to have a plane or two land at it every once in a while. Seriously, one gate. And the line for customs overflows onto the tarmac. Actually, its probably the best view I've ever had at a security checkpoint.
Anyway, after about an hour in line, I handed my passport to the dude in the box. He scans it and then hands it to another man and motions for me to sit in a chair behind the checkpoint. The second man, realizing I don't speak Spanish (I think I just have one of those faces) does his best to explain to me that I am not in the system and basically don't exist according to Colombia. So they take my passport to a back room and I remain sitting in my time-out chair for what was likely 15-20 minutes. After a warm smile from a cleaning lady who was either motioning that she liked my hair or that everything she was saying was going over my head, the guys came back and I was free to enter the country.
After an informal greeting session with George (our coordinator) and his daughter Janice (also one of our translators) and a reunion with Jim (one of Evoke's leaders) and His son (Tyler), we were off in our spacious Colombian taxi-van.
After the harrowing adventure that is driving in Colombia, we arrived at our pretty sweet, and pretty little hotel in downtown Armenia. The hotel had good show teeth, however the rooms were very basic and lacked AC and any form of shower heads, but all around pretty nice. Super 8 could learn a thing or two.
After we dropped our things off in our rooms, and after I managed to squeeze my apparently-too-tall-for-Latin-America frame into the public bathroom/cave downstairs, George took us to his favorite coffee shop, Café Superior (which would become a theme throughout the trip). Per Janice's albeit a little attitude laced suggestion, I had a frozen coffee that tasted like dessert. I was not upset. We also had a piping hot bag or two of buñuelos, basically big ol' fluffy corn bread fritter balls. After chatting a bit and accepting the fact that my mind cannot produce anything Spanish when prompted to and thus, I essentially will have to have an adult with me wherever I go, we went back to the hotel to reconvene with the rest of the group.
After a few more introductions with various translators who will be mentioned as the story progresses, we were off to feed some homeless under an overpass.
As we walked the progressively sketchier streets toward the juncture of overpasses, I noticed a few things about the streets of this city. 1) Street vendors everywhere! Selling everything from Chiclets (don't understand the profit margin on those things) to bubble wands, to bootleg versions of Turbo (the animated Snail movie). 2) Homeless people in droves. 3) Lots of razor wire and a particularly amusing juxtaposition of a bright, tropical mural-clad wall with shards of broken glass lining the wall top.
Upon arriving at the underpass, there was already a healthy line of homeless waiting to be served their dinner. Though the view from the cement platform underneath the bridge was pretty amazing, with the sun setting and the rows of houses embedded in the mountainside, the place was rather dark; demonic graffiti scattered about the walls, rats hanging around the palm tree trunks, roaches of various sorts and denotations.
Now, when I say that I was thrown right into the ring, I mean, I didn't even get a chance to hide. As we walked up, a homeless man singled me out and began to speak in a loud voice. "Welcome to Colombia! Thank you for coming! You are such a blessing to us all!" (English equivalent, paraphrasing). He shook my hand and introduced himself as José.
Well, there went my shot at hiding behind my camera the whole time. So, immediately, we were off. "Go, start talking to people! Ask if they need prayer for anything! Share the Gospel!" I was told. So, Alexsa (a fellow Evoker) was kind enough to accompany me as a translator, which I found very comforting and kind of humorous considering she is an amazing prayer warrior and would be stuck conveying my palpably awkward and cumbersome prayers.
Anyway, those that needed prayer made themselves known without much coaxing. Right away, I was able to share the gospel with a man named Carlos (Charley as he wanted to be called) and I realized how awkward it felt, and really, how bad I was at sharing a straight Gospel message on the spot. The story of the Gospel is something I have known for some time now, and when asked to share it, I found myself jumping around and skipping over parts that I, myself, know intrinsically. I really had to slow down and think about how the message needed to be presented to someone who may very well be hearing it for the first time. So, after some amazingly uncomfortable iterations of man's fallen state, our need for redemption and God's reconciling us through His Son, I was feeling a little overwhelmed and discouraged. I remember putting my hand to the neck of a particularly dirt-covered man with two tarp bags over his shoulders and praying healing over his throat as he went on laughing and saying things that I had no chance at understanding, but were probably in ridicule of me. I was uncomfortable, but Alexsa, being Alexsa, kept cheering me on.
While all this was happening, I was encouraged and discouraged at the same time by what what going on around me. On my left, a woman was laying on the ground sobbing with one of our translators, Jennifer, embracing her and drilling into her how much God loves her and how beautiful she is. There were various pockets of breakthrough happening all around. I could hear God's word intermittently punching through the clamor and I knew God was rocking and empowering people, but I felt so ill-equipped.
After the dirty bag man, one of our team members came up to me and said that there was a man that was asking for me, specifically, to come pray for him. He wanted me to come to him, away from the main collect of people. Now, I had a camera/backpack on me, so I was immediately suspicious. I had the message relayed that he can come to me if he needs prayer. After a little back and forth and me kind of forgetting about him, he eventually came over to me. His name was also José. José was the vessel in which I feel God imparted His power and established breakthrough in me.
José and I talked for a while via my new translator Karina (this girl has an amazing story herself [will explain in a future post]). Now, I actually don't remember much of the conversation specifics. However, before I knew it, I was leading this man in a prayer to accept Jesus into his heart! I'm pretty sure this was the first time I'd ever led someone in a prayer of this nature before. It was amazing. I remember asking him to hold out his hands so that I could hold them during the prayer. He held out one, but the other remained in his pocket. Turns out his right arm was lame and a bit shriveled, but I asked to hold it anyway. So he pulled it out of his pocket with his other hand and laid it in mine.
So, I began. "Jesus, I give you my all…" and Karina would repeat it in Spanish, and José would follow, also in Spanish. After the prayer, I asked to pray for healing over his hand. He acquiesced and another Evoker, Amera, and I began to pray. I remember praying for that man's hand strengthen with such fervency. I wanted to see a healing so badly. At one point I lifted my head to the concrete above and just began to shout the name of Jesus. I kept contending for it, but didn't see any physical change in the man's hand.
Though a little disappointed, the event did not change my belief in God's ability and willingness to heal. In fact, on my drive to the hotel that day, Tyler was showing me a picture of a man who was healed at a service they had earlier that week. The man was holding his arm sling with the very arm that it once housed.
When I think about it, I feel like I was coming into this trip putting too much emphasis on seeing healing, rather than seeing hearts changed. Yes, seeing José's arm restored would have been amazing and would have bolstered my faith immensely, but to see the man's hope and heart restored, that is the stuff we ought to be after.
Anyway, the rest of the night went amazingly. I talked to a myriad of people. One group asked me how to get to America and also shared their strong opinions on the imperialistic persona my country gives off. I apologized on behalf of the entire country and shrugged off a few more possibly deserved jabs. I also remember, sometime within the conversation I was asked a very genuine question. "Why are you here?"
In that question, my perspective suffered a necessary shift. Though paraphrased, my response answered the very question that I was asking myself. "For you. " I replied. "We are called to reach those that others pass over. Christ has come even for the least of us."
That night produced story after story. For instance, there was a 13 year old heroine addict that could not look those trying to talk to her in the eyes. When they tried to lay hands on her to pray, she freaked out, so they began praying to her spirit. She calmed down enough for one of the girls to start speaking to her. She began explaining to the girl how loved she is by God and how this is not her forever. The girl suddenly sobered up and whispered in response, I don't know why, but for some reason I believe you.
There was also a woman named Carolina who was dying of AIDS. She was essentially a skeleton and unable to walk and lived under an adjacent overpass. Lirio, from our group, went over to talk to her and pray over her. They must have spent a good 45 min to and hour talking and hanging out. Carolina said she hasn't laughed like that in ages. This woman appears later on in the week, so I will refrain from details for now. Just know that she is just a light to that area, and a warrior and gives impressively strong hugs.
By the time we had to leave, Karina and I were both sitting on the filthy, roachy, concrete ground having conversations with a man who considers himself a lost sheep with no hope of return and a man who had been diagnosed with HIV. Both powerful, hearty conversations that pained me greatly when they were cut short.
There were many other stories that came out of that night, but due to my not being directly involved or not remembering them with enough clarity to recount them with accuracy, I will leave you with those above.
After a late dinner of empanadas filled with various meats and a 3 liter of Manzana Postobón, the group retired for the night. And to avoid having to come up with some witty cliff hanger to end this post, I'll just say that day 2 is up next and won't disappoint.
-- Day 1 Addendum --
So, I have an addendum to my previous post. I'll keep it short for your eyes and attention span's sake, but I feel it very important that I share it because it is a story that is threaded throughout the entirety of the trip.
After our interactions with the homeless under the bridge, we were on our way back to the hotel when we here hailed by another homeless guy from across the street. "Hey! Americans!" we heard in perfect English. We acknowledged the novelty of his tongue of choice, but were none too caught up in it. We continued walking, as did he, at parallel. As we went along, he proceeded to explain his situation. How Obama had deported him for selling drugs in the States. How his wife and kids are still in the US, and how he has to wait ten years until he can get back in. A few in the group started to engage him, and soon enough there was a small congregation listening and responding to this man and his story.
A portion of the group decided to stay and talk with this man, who revealed his name to be George. The rest decided to continue on and find food for the group. While I was in the latter group, I discovered later that George's current predicament involved heavy substance abuse, including but not limited to an addiction to crack. From what I gathered based on the others reports, they said the man was impeccably sharp; very unlike many of those who we'd met who have had their person dulled through drugs and desolation. Anyway, after about 30 min of conversation with George, Alexsa was able to pray over him and impart Godly wisdom over his life.
Little did he or us know, George's little, tongue-in-cheek quip he used to grab our attention, would impart an encounter with the Lord over the following week that would have repercussions beyond anything any of us could have anticipated.
