I’m just glad I can have dreams about peeing without actually wetting the bed (at least so far). For years I would wake up in a panic hoping I hadn’t actually wet the bed. I was about 20 years old, and sleeping in the tractor’s bunk. The guy I worked with for years, Paul, and I had made a nutritious dinner out of Miller High Life (the champagne of beers) and cheese curls. We were somewhere in North Carolina during the summer, and were exhausted from delivering a trailer load of household goods. That was probably the worst time I ever wet the bed, because I had to explain to him why everything was wet. No, I hadn’t sweat that much.
I have finally learned how to get my earplugs in so they don’t fall out while I sleep (I put them in so tight, I am worried one morning I won’t be able to get them out). So the animals didn’t wake me up today- we have chickens and turkeys about 20 feet from where we sleep- my bladder did. I lay there and I wonder: can I hold it, or do I have to get up? So, I toss and turn in my sleeping bag, on my mat, on the cement, until my back hurts and I can’t relax. Finally it is an emergency, and then I have to get my shirt on, and get my shoes on, without bending over too much because it hurts. I run to the bathroom and…. get in line. Now I have waited so long that I have to do both, and I am 4th in line. Why can’t I figure this out, it happens every time! Each person, after finishing, then has to fill a bucket and pour it into the bowl. I haven’t kept track who owns the record, but I know my best is 8 buckets! Finally it is my turn, and I get myself situated, holding the door closed, while on the other side of the small wall someone is taking a bucket shower. So this is the start of a day in Mexico for us, and it just gets better.
After this week, I am pretty sure that I can never go home again. Sounds like a song that my sister put on a cassette (yeah, I still have a yellow sony sports walkman- it is so much easier than those dang ipods, but it is tough to find cassettes these days) for me when I was hiking the Appalachian trail. My fingers type so slow, and there is so much to tell.
Wednesday night, I drove the truck back to the village to bring them to the church service. Jeff Goins took the ride with me, so we could chat, and he also knows spanish. We got into the small village, three men were fixing the water pipe with a bicycle inner tube, and Jeff went to knock on the people’s doors while I backed the truck up the mud, once again getting stuck and having to rock the truck out of the muck hole. Then I caught up with Jeff, and almost walked right into the golden streams made by little mexican boys, as they peed out the fence. A dog ran up to me, and when I touched his nose he started howling. He just looked me in the eyes and howled. So I started howling back, and pretty soon everyone want to know what the noise was, and we waved them towards the truck. Loaded up and headed to church.
At the service, Chris T. spoke, and then we prayed for people. One man shuffled up and was holding his arm, he said his arm was ‘paralyzed’, and he was in a lot of pain. Looking in his eyes, I could see years, or a lifetime, of pain. Pain was etched in his face. Anger. Bitterness. We laid hands on him and started praying. A whole bunch of us.
Next we prayed (I basically just followed Chad around, you know, go where God is working, and I can see God using Chad, so it is a pretty easy decision) for a 13 year old boy. This boy is the man of the house. What a strong boy, but too young to be The Man. So many boys in the world with no dad, so many boys losing their child hood, because another man also never had a dad. Generation after generation, these boys have no one showing them ‘the ropes’, holding them, helping them, protecting them, teaching them, initiating them. So Chad, Eric, and I took turns just hugging him, strong masculine hugs. The boy just cried and hugged, and yesterday he said he just wants to stay with us forever. How can we live in our Mc Mansions while all around the world, (yeah, even in your church) children have never been loved. Especially by a father figure?
Later I had to drive the truck again, and I could feel the truck was too heavy. When we unloaded, we counted how many people were in the back. We had 26 people in the back of the tiny pick up. We definitely won’t be doing that again.
Yesterday, Linnea had an incredible experience, read her blog.
We also went to another home group, at the man with the crippled arm’s house. He moved his arm for the first time in 7 years yesterday. Then he told his story, of being in prison, of a vision that God called him to be a preacher, but when he got out of prison, he disobeyed. He studied psychology instead. Then he had a stroke. He said he hardly ever speaks, but last night he started preaching again. He said he would live the rest of his life as a preacher. The pain in his eyes, the pain in his face was gone. There was new hope, and he even made eye contact with us as he spoke. No one down here makes eye contact as they shake hands or speak, I am guessing it is not just a cultural thing, but this is what happens when people live with out love.
As I sit and type, I ache all over, but it is a good ache, as I spent hours yesterday playing with the kids. Lifting them and twirling and tickling and hugging. I love this stuff!
(Again this blog was written around the same time as Truck Driver and Linnea´s Spit the Devil out blogs)
