We finally made it
to a village that knew the Lord. The Holy Spirit was in the room. The people
sang loud. The children laughed and smiled with joy. Multiple young men came to
talk with us. God was in the church.
Women in the village
were so happy to take care of us. They took us to use their bathroom, gave us
their sandals, and washed our hands for us. They wanted to feed us, give us
gifts, and share life with us.
We had actually been
driving for 6 hours that day, after being told we were only going 3 hours away.
We stopped in a random village, then picked up a guy, then stopped in town to
grab some snacks. The town we stopped in had never seen white people before, so
you can imagine the kind of stares we got there. Everyone in the town crowded
around us to see what we were doing.
I feel like a celebrity
most of the time here. Everyone takes pictures, stares, and wants to know what
you’re doing and how you’re doing it. It’s rather annoying now because it
happens everywhere we go. I can’t blame them though if they’ve never seen
another race.
When we made it to
the church filled with the Holy Spirit, we were refreshed, renewed, rejuvenated, overflowing with joy. God had finally shown up, he had made
himself known in the village.
We spent an awkward
night in the church with older Indian men and church elders around us. Courtney
and I shared a tent for privacy, but we didn’t have much because it was to hot
to put the rain fly on inside the church.
The next morning, a
sweet and dear woman named Lilly, made us homemade Chipoti bread. That is my
favorite thing here. Chipoti! I have made up many songs for it too.
God is continuing to
use us, to stretch us, to show us his glory.
I am still learning
to die to myself daily, to learn why I am here, to learn my role in my team.
I am valued here. I
am heard here. I am loved here.
