This is definitely the most unique place I have ever blogged in. I’m sitting in my host family’s small but hospitable house. Every few minutes the three year old napping beside me in a hammock, stirs then begins breathing rhythmically again. Juana and Astrick, our hosts, are working in the kitchen, making tortillas over the fire, doing our laundry and taking care of our group in sweet, generous ways. We haven’t been allowed to want for anything since being here.
On Wednesday Abraham our host and ministry contact, took us to San Juan a village about two hours away. Our project was to lead a children’s time and two adult church services. Afterwards we would spend the night in the village.
Abraham held his tiny volleyball sized bag and each of our group member’s lugged large backpacks as we
hopped into the back of a passing truck. After half and hour of curvy roads we turned off onto a pothole filled dirt path and continued bouncing along for another hour, progressing deeper into the jungle.
San Juan was a tiny village nestled between huge green mountains. It felt like a dream, or some fictional location, not reality. Lush jungle plants everywhere, a bright turquoise river with small brown skinned kids swinging from vines into the river, and a huge rickety suspension bridge (Check out the “Cool Pictures” link for a lot more photos.) The entire village turned out to see their
first missionaries ever sing “Padre Abraham” and dance around like idiots. I wouldn’t be surprised if we were the first gringos to ever spend the night there.
After the services the girls decided to go on an adventure hike to the
bathroom. In my years of mission work I’ve had lots of unpleasant restroom experiences, but this was one of the most unique. The village women led us on a path deep into the dark jungle. Eventually we arrived at a small outhouse with a porcelain toilet surrounded by huge banana trees. As we waited for each other to go some horrible creature decided it would be fun to eat at my feet under the Choco straps.
By the time we got back to the Migel, the pastors, home I threw my sandals off as quickly as possible and begin furiously scratching at my feet. I was so thankful when he got out a bottle of rubbing alcohol and begin treating my bytes. He poured a small amount into his hands and rubbed each of my feet, dirt, sweat, Choco stink and all. Abraham, made a joke that Migel was like Jesus when he washed the disciples feet.
The joke hit me hard. Here was Migel, the pastor of 12 churches bending down and washing my feet. He was literally following Jesus’ instructions in John 13:14, “Now that I, your Lord and Teacher, have washed our feet, you also should wash one another’s feet.” It was hard to take. I wanted to be the one washing his feet, helping him, not letting him serve me.
All the people here have insisted on lovingly giving our group everything they possibly can. My prayer is that somewhere between the children’s services, preaching, teaching, words and smiles, I can return even a fraction of what’s been given to me.
