The only thing that counts is faith expressing itself through love. (Galatians 6:6)
Savoring the last few hours before we rode back down into the heat of Mexico from the mountains in Obregon, I gazed into the fields of corn and bananas clinging to the sides of the steep hills disappearing into the fog below. Returning from the last few days from one of the most amazing places we’ve been on the Race while living with people I won’t forget for a long time, I perched on the top of our van negotiating the windy dirt roads sticking to the side of the mountain that provided a distant and fragile link to the rest of the world. It was the last four days loving and being loved by these people that finally answered a question that I asked ten months ago back when we started the World Race in the Philippines.
Since the Philippines, we’ve been so many different people, have been asked to fill so many roles. We’ve constructed concrete roads and buildings and taught and shared Jesus with abandoned boys in the Philippines. All over East Africa, our teams prayed for spiritual and physical healing, visited homes to share Christ, and preached in churches and open-air events. In India and Nepal, we consistently prayed for Buddhist monasteries and Hindu temples, inviting God to break spiritual strongholds. We spent time playing with children in Romania, sharing Christ in Croatia and Bosnia, and praying for sick and dying people all over the world – why!? So often I have asked, “Am I making a difference? What are we doing? Am I doing enough? Are we focusing our efforts where we are supposed to?”
The village of Obregon refreshingly perches in the coolness of the Mexican mountains among wild coffee and plantains and fields of cultivated maízand beans. Most of the residents can understand a little bit of Spanish, but Chol is the language of choice here. Pastor Carlos, originally from Tijuana, Mexico, quickly introduced us shortly after we arrived to his community – a small cluster of families living in wood homes with tin roofs, many of whom were members of his church. The red dirt yards were filled with dogs, pigs, chickens and turkeys. And every home had a concrete pad to dry and “thresh” the main staple of black beans.
Walking up the path to the people who would be our family for the next few days, we were smothered with smiling children running up to hug and bring us great joy. We were soon led to the kitchen to be treated to a freshly killed and cooked chicken, the most amazing fresh corn tortillas and black beans I’ve ever tasted, and home roasted and ground coffee, all cooked over the open-flame wood stove.
