a day in the life of one full squad serving together on the field
Someone’s alarm is going off. No reason to try figuring out whose it is; there are thirty or so tents pitched within a hundred yard radius of mine. It’s better just to turn up the volume on my iPod and readjust on my narrow Exped sleeping pad to try to catch a few more minutes of sleep. Key word there is TRY of course, but no such luck. Between the cacophonous sound of semi-trucks rolling up the hill at full push, the gentle hum of rain on my tent and the now blaring Anita/Exira tracks, I’m wide awake. It’s still not quite time to leave my sleeping bag, so I snuggle in a little deeper and open my eyes. The ceiling of my tent is turning into a patchwork of half-memorized Bible verses and small, fuzzy feathers spun out from my sleeping bag during the night.
Breathe in. Breathe out.
Breathe in. Breathe out.
Okay, let’s go. I spend the next ten minutes tidying up my cozy two-person tent, lovingly dubbed my “summer home”. This includes brushing the grass and dirt out the tent flap (no broom required), wiping the floor with a baby wipe (no mop either), and setting my bed to rights. There are moments when I’m jealous of Dan’s air mattress, but generally speaking, I’m sleeping pretty well here.
Since there are fifty-four B-Squaders (plus three siblings travelling from California to Argentina in a sweet tricked out mini-van that reminds me of the one I drove to my first high school in—shout out to the Walls family!!!–) sharing the bathroom, I’ve learned to improvise. I do a quick wash-up, brush my teeth and change clothes inside my tent, then grab a handful of stuff I’ll need for the day and head for the main house. The building itself is painted bright blue and yellow. Once upon a time, it was the most famous bar in Honduras, infamous for being a place where you could get anything you wanted. I smile as I see my squad leader, Mike, leading the morning devotional under an awning. My team leader, Thomas, is among the group. I promise myself that tomorrow I’ll get up earlier and go.
Inside, I pack away the electronics in my big backpack and lock it. Our ministry contact at Zion’s Gate, Tony, has warned us against creating a temptation for the boys living here. All of them are from a particularly dangerous part of Tegucigalpa called “Los Pinos”, and most have some history with gangs or the Honduran drug of choice: paint thinner.
I spend the next hour trying to have quiet time with the LORD, no easy task with fifty-four people living on limited space. Thomas comes by with breakfast: refried bean and cheese tortillas that are fried and topped with more cheese and “special sauce”. The team leaders have been assigned the task of getting meals to their teams so that we don’t all overwhelm the ladies who cook for us in their small kitchen.
One of the other teams is on dish duty, so someone comes around looking for plates. I hand mine over and go to find the rest of Kaleo. The six of us group together in a typical huddle, shoulder-to-shoulder. We pray over the day’s ministry and each other, then climb on the bus with Team Freedom and Team Spittin’ Image to head to Los Pinos. Other teams have already left for their ministries with local churches or are preparing for the day camp going on at the Zion’s Gate property.
Our morning is full of preparing for the afternoon’s English classes. We’re prepped for three age groups and I feel pretty good about the lessons we’ve planned to teach the numbers 1-20. Pastor Nicholas, the pastor at Ministerio Restauracion, wants us to walk around Los Pinos and hand out flyers telling people about the church. My group makes it through the first house, then climbs several flights of tire stairs—literally tires shoved into the side of the hill and filled with cement to stabilize them—to get to the next house. Inside, Team Freedom is already praying and singing over a paralyzed woman.
Her name is Kaytie and her back was broken when the car she was driving collapsed along with the bridge it was on. I know there’s no way that she’s left this house since her accident. Her wheelchair is a white, plastic lawnchair on wheels. I think longingly about the wheelchairs we built last month and how Ilse would handle a situation like this.
I’m on my knees the first time Kaytie tries to stand. I can’t see the result, but I hear her laugh and come closer into the room. She tries twice more while we’re there, each time with a little less help. My voice hurts from singing, but can’t make myself stop. The joy in the room is staggering. It’s not of us, but pours from the Hondurans in the room, all who continue to sing, “Alleluja! Allejua! Gloria Senor! Gloria de tu nombre Jesus! Alleluja!” Where we are serious, they leap to praise.
We could learn something from this culture I think.
Ist Thessalonians 2:8 “We loved you so much that we shared with you not only God’s Good News but our own lives too.”
