The concert was actually the worship part of an evening church service. A drummer, guitar player, keyboard player, bassist and singer were….well, they weren’t in time, in tune, or in any particular key, but they were passionately worshiping God. And they were LOUD! Nicaraguans like their worship music loud enough to literally hear it from heaven. So we arrive at the church concert and slowly test our wobbly truck-bed legs on solid ground. Grabbing our gear, we move into the back of the church and pile everything up along the back wall. That’s when I first felt the intense stare of hundreds of eyeballs. Not only was every single soul in the church staring at us, but apparently we had drawn quite a crowd during our short jaunt down main street. Acting as if nothing was out of the ordinary, we moved forward to an empty pew and reluctantly sat down yet again. The band played a few more songs, only this time they cranked it up a notch. Seemingly on rotation, each song required a new lead singer from the audience. With that many singers, you’d think just one of them could actually sing. Nope!
Once the service was over, every single person in that church came by to shake our hands and welcome us to their village. They were all so friendly and excited by that fact that we came all the way from America just to attend their church for the weekend. During one of the house visits that we did the next day, one older lady even commented how touched she was that we would leave our lives behind to come and visit with her in her house in rural Nicaragua. So after all the handshakes were complete, Cristobal and some other church members led us down the road to the house where we would stay during our time in Rosario. Walking down the road at night was a risky undertaking. Without illumination from streetlights, the road was home to mud and mud puddles, as wel
l as pooh from several species of animals including horses, pigs, and chickens. Gregorio and his wife graciously welcomed us into their house and showed us our rooms. The house was in the shape of a horseshoe, the front facing the road and housing their general store/sewing shop. The left side was home to the kitchen and the right side had several small bedrooms. In the middle of the horseshoe was the multi-purpose backyard. I say multi-purpose because not only did it serve as the pig pen and chicken coup, but that is also where kitchen sink, shower stall, and outhouse were located. Trust me when I say that, from the smell of it, there was absolutely no doubt which small shack was the outhouse. I’m still not sure if the holes in the walls and door were for ventilation purposes or for the amusement of those watching the poor soul forced to spend time under it’s roof.
Gregorio’s wife immediately offers us plates full of chicken, scrambled eggs, and rice and beans. After a quick prayer of thanks and a blessing over the food, we cleaned our plates and hit the sack. Everyone except Pamela – she was up puking all night. One meal and Orlando’s ominous prediction is already coming true. The next morning we set out with the local pastor in Rosario, to whose name I still cannot even venture an attempt, to visit some houses in the village. We visited several houses that morning, one belonging to a young mother and her infant. She said that she was a member of the Catholic church and “they wouldn’t let her attend another church.” The fact that Rosario doesn’t even have a Catholic church isn’t what upsets me the most. This poor young mother, living in a 12’x12′ house (not room, house), needs Jesus. She needs the hope and reassurance that the Savior of the World knows her, loves her, and has her best interests in mind at all times. She needs a personal relationship with Jesus. And yet here she was, a prisoner to the intimidating legalism of the Catholic church and very visibly miserable. At each house of a non-Church going member that we visited, we were met with the same reserved, apprehensive spirit. I even noticed it during the actual church services; people would come and watch through the window, but they wouldn’t set foot inside the building. In a country where the president’s wife is a self-proclaimed practicing witch, I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. Christianity and voodoo have switched roles in Nicaragua.
The remainder of Saturday was spent resting up and preparing a children’s program for the following day. There had been about 25-30 kids showing up at the services on a regular basis, ranging in age from about 5-13 years old. In Nicaragua, everyone shows up about an hour late – it’s just how their culture works. Wanting to get started around 2 p.m., we announced in church that the program would begin at 1 p.m. At about 1:10 on Sunday afternoon, one of the church members came to tell us that the children were already at the church, waiting for the program to start. Sure enough, as we approached the church we saw some children already standing out front in the street…
