It was the end of the day, and we were all exhausted. We’d already done the same skit eight times that day and had to do it once more before we could call it a night.
So we put on our energetic faces and jumped up onstage one last time.
Apparently it worked. As soon as we finished, the crowd of Honduran gang members was shouting that they wanted to participate in the skit.
Before we knew it, they were dancing across the stage mimicking our storyline.
When Abbey shared the Gospel with them, they hung onto her every word.
These are rough boys.
A glance out the window serves as a reminder of where we’re working.
The house one step down in this Tegucigalpa slum—one I could hit with an apple core if I tried—is covered in red. Blood.
A nine-year-old former drug addict told me that’s where a 23-year-old girl was killed because she fell in love with the wrong guy. Around the corner of the church is where they killed the other one, he told me as if I was familiar with the story.*
Continue reading at KatieAxelson.com
