Christmas in Paraguay passed much differently than any I’ve experienced before. Since the holiday takes place in the middle of summer and vacations, the fiesta turned out to be like a strange mix between the Fourth of July, Mardi Gras, and perhaps a little Christmas, too.
Our festivities began on Monday, Christmas Eve. We worked only half a day on the school construction, and then took off the rest of the afternoon to celebrate our Savior’s birth. Eric, Joel, and I took a bus to Mercado Cuatro, a shopping bonanza of clothing, artisan, electronic, jewelry, juice, and Paraguayan shops. The place was crowded and still open even at four in the afternoon on Christmas Eve; our bus line, too, would go until its normally-scheduled final 8 o’clock round. The area was crowded, as usual, but the celebrations for Christmas seemed to already have begun. Corner eateries with grilled sausages and roasted chickens and boiled mandioca and fresh juice and cold beer were full of merry revelers, drinking and eating to celebrate the human birth of God. Strangely enough, people weren’t rushing about buying gifts. Paraguayans give their gifts on January 6th, the day that tradition celebrates the arrival of the three wise men to the Nativity scene, with perhaps a more biblical foundation for gift-giving than the Santa Clause myth in North American countries.
Anyways, being North Americans and feeling like we had to buy something in the rush and bustle of Christmas Eve, we picked up some gifts for family and friends at home then went back to Lambare. Early evening, Eric and I had the chance to visit another church for their Christmas Eve service. Since Christmas Eve is usually celebrated with so much family and church services are usually so poorly attended on La Noche Buena, the Apostolic Church in Lambare gave up on Christmas Eve services a few years back. Thankfully, we found another church with a full service and thus remembered the Lord’s birth in grand liturgical style.
The later evening we passed with Ben, Vivi, and Joel at their place. We enjoyed a few rounds of cards, then had a full 10:30 pm meal of stuffed chicken, mashed potatoes, bean salad, chipa guazu, tomato-cucumber salad, and plenty of soda. Ben even made a celebratory cheesecake with cream cheese brought down straight from the U.S.. In the end, it was a perfect mix between the hot Christmas dinners of cold North America and the cool Navidad suppers of hot South America.
Around 11:45 the Paraguayans really started to celebrate Christmas. Fireworks started going off all around us, breaking up the night with the loud bangs of firecrackers and screaming whistles of bottle rockets. The neighborhood sounded off like a battle zone, with the noises of sharp fighting nearby and more muffled conflict in the distance. The blasts were loudest at midnight, when it seemed as if every Paraguayan household was suddenly setting off its entire arsenal of gunpowder in a moving salute to Jesus’ birth. The Nativity was celebrated with much noise and great joy, a fantastic show of Paraguayan social and religious unity in Christmas tradition.
After enjoying a bottle of traditional Paraguayan champagne-like cider, we all headed very-tired to bed at around 2:00 in the morning. It was the latest, and certainly most lively, Christmas I’ve ever enjoyed. Although many Paraguayans spend the holiday in excessive revelry, I think I learned a new colorful way to celebrate Christmas and found something good to hold on to for a lifetime.
Wednesday, December 26, 2007
Yep, Still a Doofy American
The time was running out. My visa only had a few more of its 90 days left before it would expire-- a few more precious days of legal residency in Paraguay before I’d become an illegal alien and open to all sorts of problems. In my irresponsible procrastination I’d put off renewing my visa until the last minute, and when I finally went to the migration office, I realized the documents I needed would take longer to procure than my short time allowed. I decided to take a drastic measure and go to Argentina, hoping and praying that on my return to Paraguay I’d get another stamp on my multiple-entry-visa that would allow me to stay for a longer time.
The trip lasted an afternoon, and made me realize I’m still much more of a foreigner than a resident in Paraguay. I got to the central bus station all right – a short trip from Lambare on a single bus. At the station, though, I found an amazing array of bus companies, each offering various trips to destinations all over South America. I was hoping to go to Clorinda, the first major city in Argentina beyond the Paraguayan border, and began asking in earnest at every company’s line whether they had buses that went that way. The Paraguayan workers, perhaps afraid to offend me with a simple answer of “there are no bus lines to Clorinda,” kept pointing me on to other companies with promises of my final destination. After trying four or five companies, though, I realized that mine was a lost cause. Clorinda was too close (about an hour drive) and not an important enough destination for any bus line to have a route there. I finally asked a police man how I could get there, and he pointed out a place where shared vans were supposed to pick up passengers and take them to the Argentine border.
Waiting for half an hour and not seeing one official-looking vehicle, though, I became quite discouraged. Finally, I saw a decrepit old van with a young 20-something driver and asked him if he could take me to the border. Come to find out, he had just dropped off a load of people coming back from Argentina and was looking for more passengers back that way. He was going to be returning to the border anyways, but had the courtesy, you might say, to charge me 50 mil guaranies- about ten extravagant dollars- for the trip. Desperate to get to Argentina, though, I paid.
The ride was bumpy and rough. The steering wheel on the van kept turning all around even though the vehicle itself miraculously went forward in a straight line. The wooden floorboards nearly burned through the bottoms of my sandaled feet as the heat came up from Heaven-knows-what overused mechanical parts underneath. One consolation of the ride, though, was that my driver loved 80s American music. In my desire to please him as much as possible (as my life really was in his hands), I tried translating for him the songs “Red, Red Wine” and “We Don’t Need No Education.” It didn’t work out well.
After an hour ride we arrived at the desolate border, a crossing point in the middle of nowhere. There were a host of people and buses and trucks crossing, though, as three- days-before-Christmas seemed to be a popular time to travel. My driver told me that I’d need to change my money over to Argentine pesos before crossing, and kindly arranged for a friend to do the job. I gave him 100 mil Paraguayan guaranies, and got back 50 Argentinean pesos. After the exchange, I paid my driver for the trip, at which point he also told me that I still needed to pay him 50 mil more guaranies for my 50 Argentinean pesos. Not knowing the exchange rate (Oh, fool that I was!) and trusting the man (he had told me that he used to go to a Pentecostal church, after all), I obliged him, said goodbye, and headed to cross the border with another of his friends who would help arrange things for my crossing. I’m not sure how this new guy, who had one bloody and broken eye that looked like it’d been sling-shotted out and only spoke Spanish like everyone else, was supposed to help me cross over, but somehow I felt a little more comfortable being accompanied by the acquaintance of a stranger I’d known in a foreign country for only a very short while.
Providentially, though, I got out of Paraguay and into Argentina all right with my right hand man who lacked a working right eye and arrived at a small coke, smoke, and empanada joint on the other side. I learned the trip to Clorinda was further and more expensive than I wanted, so I decided to turn straight back around again for Paraguay. Luckily, the immigrations officials coming back into Paraguay were different people in a different location from the ones I’d just seen (I had told them all I was planning on going to Clorinda, which was true at the time, but then I changed my mind), so there should have been no problem upon my reentry.
It seemed that I hit a snag, though, when I spoke with the Paraguayan migrations official. After looking at my passport and visa, he invited me back into his nice air-conditioned office for a privileged conservation with. A kind grandfatherly figure with a huge gut, the immigrations official asked me if I new my visa was soon to expire. I told him that I did, and that’s why I had gone to Argentina and come back to buy some more time. He gently lectured me and told me this wasn’t allowed, then offered to give me ninety days more time if I’d pay him a certain amount. Not having the money on me a suspecting it was a bribe, I kindly thanked him and asked for a shorter, but-free-of-cost, stamp on my visa. He ended up giving me a month’s more time in his country – a kind Christmas present, he told me, and certainly enough time to get my official documents in order.
I left with my prized month-long stamp and, accompanied once again and hurried on by my one-eyed friend, I came back to the money changers. Not needing my 50 pesos anymore, a money-changer took my Argentinean currency and gave me back 60 mil guaranies. Not thinking, I dumbly accepted and continued on. Thus, in my two money exchanges, I went from 150 mil guaranies, to 50 pesos, to 60 mil guaranies, and didn’t buy a single thing. Somewhere in the process, I lost some 90 mil guaranies (about 17 dollars) and got screwed over.
I arrived back to the van loading area and got on with the same fellow who had driven me the first time. Now, however, the 7-passenger van looked completely different, packed as it was with some 15 people. I dropped my cycloptic friend a two-dollar tip, then boarded for Asuncion. Miraculously, I made it back home after a long day of being taken advantage of like some ignorant foreigner in a strange land. Indeed, though, I really was an ignorant foreigner in a strange land who learned a good lesson that procrastination doesn’t pay. The cost of this adventure was far too high for me, and from now I’ll be doing to best to keep everything legitimate and on time.
The trip lasted an afternoon, and made me realize I’m still much more of a foreigner than a resident in Paraguay. I got to the central bus station all right – a short trip from Lambare on a single bus. At the station, though, I found an amazing array of bus companies, each offering various trips to destinations all over South America. I was hoping to go to Clorinda, the first major city in Argentina beyond the Paraguayan border, and began asking in earnest at every company’s line whether they had buses that went that way. The Paraguayan workers, perhaps afraid to offend me with a simple answer of “there are no bus lines to Clorinda,” kept pointing me on to other companies with promises of my final destination. After trying four or five companies, though, I realized that mine was a lost cause. Clorinda was too close (about an hour drive) and not an important enough destination for any bus line to have a route there. I finally asked a police man how I could get there, and he pointed out a place where shared vans were supposed to pick up passengers and take them to the Argentine border.
Waiting for half an hour and not seeing one official-looking vehicle, though, I became quite discouraged. Finally, I saw a decrepit old van with a young 20-something driver and asked him if he could take me to the border. Come to find out, he had just dropped off a load of people coming back from Argentina and was looking for more passengers back that way. He was going to be returning to the border anyways, but had the courtesy, you might say, to charge me 50 mil guaranies- about ten extravagant dollars- for the trip. Desperate to get to Argentina, though, I paid.
The ride was bumpy and rough. The steering wheel on the van kept turning all around even though the vehicle itself miraculously went forward in a straight line. The wooden floorboards nearly burned through the bottoms of my sandaled feet as the heat came up from Heaven-knows-what overused mechanical parts underneath. One consolation of the ride, though, was that my driver loved 80s American music. In my desire to please him as much as possible (as my life really was in his hands), I tried translating for him the songs “Red, Red Wine” and “We Don’t Need No Education.” It didn’t work out well.
After an hour ride we arrived at the desolate border, a crossing point in the middle of nowhere. There were a host of people and buses and trucks crossing, though, as three- days-before-Christmas seemed to be a popular time to travel. My driver told me that I’d need to change my money over to Argentine pesos before crossing, and kindly arranged for a friend to do the job. I gave him 100 mil Paraguayan guaranies, and got back 50 Argentinean pesos. After the exchange, I paid my driver for the trip, at which point he also told me that I still needed to pay him 50 mil more guaranies for my 50 Argentinean pesos. Not knowing the exchange rate (Oh, fool that I was!) and trusting the man (he had told me that he used to go to a Pentecostal church, after all), I obliged him, said goodbye, and headed to cross the border with another of his friends who would help arrange things for my crossing. I’m not sure how this new guy, who had one bloody and broken eye that looked like it’d been sling-shotted out and only spoke Spanish like everyone else, was supposed to help me cross over, but somehow I felt a little more comfortable being accompanied by the acquaintance of a stranger I’d known in a foreign country for only a very short while.
Providentially, though, I got out of Paraguay and into Argentina all right with my right hand man who lacked a working right eye and arrived at a small coke, smoke, and empanada joint on the other side. I learned the trip to Clorinda was further and more expensive than I wanted, so I decided to turn straight back around again for Paraguay. Luckily, the immigrations officials coming back into Paraguay were different people in a different location from the ones I’d just seen (I had told them all I was planning on going to Clorinda, which was true at the time, but then I changed my mind), so there should have been no problem upon my reentry.
It seemed that I hit a snag, though, when I spoke with the Paraguayan migrations official. After looking at my passport and visa, he invited me back into his nice air-conditioned office for a privileged conservation with. A kind grandfatherly figure with a huge gut, the immigrations official asked me if I new my visa was soon to expire. I told him that I did, and that’s why I had gone to Argentina and come back to buy some more time. He gently lectured me and told me this wasn’t allowed, then offered to give me ninety days more time if I’d pay him a certain amount. Not having the money on me a suspecting it was a bribe, I kindly thanked him and asked for a shorter, but-free-of-cost, stamp on my visa. He ended up giving me a month’s more time in his country – a kind Christmas present, he told me, and certainly enough time to get my official documents in order.
I left with my prized month-long stamp and, accompanied once again and hurried on by my one-eyed friend, I came back to the money changers. Not needing my 50 pesos anymore, a money-changer took my Argentinean currency and gave me back 60 mil guaranies. Not thinking, I dumbly accepted and continued on. Thus, in my two money exchanges, I went from 150 mil guaranies, to 50 pesos, to 60 mil guaranies, and didn’t buy a single thing. Somewhere in the process, I lost some 90 mil guaranies (about 17 dollars) and got screwed over.
I arrived back to the van loading area and got on with the same fellow who had driven me the first time. Now, however, the 7-passenger van looked completely different, packed as it was with some 15 people. I dropped my cycloptic friend a two-dollar tip, then boarded for Asuncion. Miraculously, I made it back home after a long day of being taken advantage of like some ignorant foreigner in a strange land. Indeed, though, I really was an ignorant foreigner in a strange land who learned a good lesson that procrastination doesn’t pay. The cost of this adventure was far too high for me, and from now I’ll be doing to best to keep everything legitimate and on time.
Thursday, December 20, 2007
Update
Hi friends,
A quick update- our friend and brother Adam for the time being seems to have lost the fight against his addiction, and left the church for his mother´s house on the other side of the country. Please say a pray for his recovery and well-being today.
A quick update- our friend and brother Adam for the time being seems to have lost the fight against his addiction, and left the church for his mother´s house on the other side of the country. Please say a pray for his recovery and well-being today.
Monday, December 17, 2007
But the Greatest Is Love
His name is Adam* and he’s more than just a regular member at our church. Yes, he’s much more. The 22-year old’s larger-than-life testimony about the power of God precedes him everywhere he goes, and he practically lives in the sanctuary of the church (his small room is actually behind the baptismal, past the hallway). He’s always around, inviting everyone to church with big hugs and enthusiastic “hah-lay-lou-yahhs.” The kids from the school and community all know him well, and he often takes the time to play with and look after some of the younger ones.
Adam became an official part of the church a couple years ago when he was released from prison after spending most of his adolescent years behind bars. He was a hardened criminal back then, raised by thieves and mentored by murderers. His life was marked by constant danger, his experiences shaped by hardship and hatred. Today, his lower torso bears a foot-long scar from the time he was slit open from behind with a crude knife. The weapon pierced him completely from one side to the other and, if you ask him, he’ll show you where it nearly missed his kidneys. He can also show you how he used to defend himself from attackers with kung-fu like moves, probably learned from bad American movies. While in jail he became a master at Jackie-Chan knifework and Churck Norris karate, spending all of his time refining and refining even more his precise skills. He must have been pretty dedicated and learned pretty well, because he managed to kill two other inmates with his own hands before he left.
Also before he left prison, though, he came to know Jesus Christ as his Lord and Savior through a prison ministry. His soul was changed by the encounter, and finally he was given a hope and vision for his life. He learned how to be a Christian and, in the carefully-structured and closely-guided environment of the jail ministry, grew much in his faith and new way of life. He became a new man with a new religion and a new reason to live. His was the type of miraculous turn-around and tremendous testimony of faith that has the power to lead many others to the healing and cleansing streams of blood flowing from Christ’s own pierced side.
A year and a half after leaving prison, however, things have become more complicated for Adam. The fire-like vibrancy of new-found faith has left him, and he now faces the shadows and coldness of his past along with all the spirits of substance abuse that have returned full-force to haunt him.
Adam hasn’t been Adam the past few weeks. He’s been inhaling terrible things to send him on short trips of self-destructive pleasure. He’s become an ashamed introvert, shying away from human community and real life for the false high of a chemical-induced state. And everyone at the church can see it, too. Just as before when his testimony of faith was in the spotlight, so now his great fall and serious sin, too, is apparent to all. He always has a dazed look on his face, and his breath smells like industrial-strength solvents. The church yard, too, testifies to his problem -- used emapanada bags smeared with shoe polish litter the ground outside. It’s a real problem, and people are really scared.
So far, the pastors haven’t been able to do much. They’ve tried to exhort Adam and pray with when he’s in his right mind, but the power of addiction holds strong and his times of clarity are fewer and fewer in between. They’ve talked, too, with the more-qualified head of the prison ministry about the situation, but even he says that sometimes saved criminals have to fall really far before they finally come back to the church and Christ again. There is also a certain fear among the church in general of kicking Adam out his room in the church. He might, they think, come back some time for revenge in a much worse state of mind and with many bad intentions.
Perhaps most importantly, though, the church’s sense of Christian charity recognizes that, were he forced to leave, Adam has no where else to go in the world; he has no family or any community except for this body of believers in Lambare (and it’s a good thing that he has them, too). The church here is committed to caring for and loving Adam, even to the point of putting in dangerous jeopardy its Christian testimony before the community and putting in danger, too, those around this young man with judgment clouded by so many unnatural and unhealthy chemicals.
The situation is exceedingly difficult. It certainly raises far more questions than anyone here is capable of answering, and it’s showing in great relief just how human a church and its leadership can be. No one knows what to do, least of all the pastors and those in authority who ought to be doing something.
And yet, through it all, it seems that something very important remains. This Paraguayan church, rooted and established in Christ’s own love, desires to love and reach out to Adam, too. The church can see that he is a broken man, ruined by his own sin and hopelessly lost in his own self-destruction. Where he is unable to have the faith that he can change, though, the church does for him. Where he can’t see the hope in his situation, there are many praying for and trusting in his redemption. Where he hates himself and can only see the evil in his soul, the church loves him with Christ-like compassion and welcomes him even as he is. So we see now in this church that “faith, hope, and love abide, these three; but the greatest is love.”
Finally, I can see here a church that really is being Jesus Christ to someone who represents the lost and dying world; even to someone who, though now causing great hurt and shame to the congregation, is still considered, cherished, and also grieved over as one of their own. It is painful and tiring and dangerous work for the congregation, yet it is work that incarnates and demonstrates the power of a living God. It is no easy fix, magic remedy, or quick conversion, but it is good and ultimately will abide, like the God upon which the work is founded, forever.
*I changed the fellow´s name, but it´s close enough
Adam became an official part of the church a couple years ago when he was released from prison after spending most of his adolescent years behind bars. He was a hardened criminal back then, raised by thieves and mentored by murderers. His life was marked by constant danger, his experiences shaped by hardship and hatred. Today, his lower torso bears a foot-long scar from the time he was slit open from behind with a crude knife. The weapon pierced him completely from one side to the other and, if you ask him, he’ll show you where it nearly missed his kidneys. He can also show you how he used to defend himself from attackers with kung-fu like moves, probably learned from bad American movies. While in jail he became a master at Jackie-Chan knifework and Churck Norris karate, spending all of his time refining and refining even more his precise skills. He must have been pretty dedicated and learned pretty well, because he managed to kill two other inmates with his own hands before he left.
Also before he left prison, though, he came to know Jesus Christ as his Lord and Savior through a prison ministry. His soul was changed by the encounter, and finally he was given a hope and vision for his life. He learned how to be a Christian and, in the carefully-structured and closely-guided environment of the jail ministry, grew much in his faith and new way of life. He became a new man with a new religion and a new reason to live. His was the type of miraculous turn-around and tremendous testimony of faith that has the power to lead many others to the healing and cleansing streams of blood flowing from Christ’s own pierced side.
A year and a half after leaving prison, however, things have become more complicated for Adam. The fire-like vibrancy of new-found faith has left him, and he now faces the shadows and coldness of his past along with all the spirits of substance abuse that have returned full-force to haunt him.
Adam hasn’t been Adam the past few weeks. He’s been inhaling terrible things to send him on short trips of self-destructive pleasure. He’s become an ashamed introvert, shying away from human community and real life for the false high of a chemical-induced state. And everyone at the church can see it, too. Just as before when his testimony of faith was in the spotlight, so now his great fall and serious sin, too, is apparent to all. He always has a dazed look on his face, and his breath smells like industrial-strength solvents. The church yard, too, testifies to his problem -- used emapanada bags smeared with shoe polish litter the ground outside. It’s a real problem, and people are really scared.
So far, the pastors haven’t been able to do much. They’ve tried to exhort Adam and pray with when he’s in his right mind, but the power of addiction holds strong and his times of clarity are fewer and fewer in between. They’ve talked, too, with the more-qualified head of the prison ministry about the situation, but even he says that sometimes saved criminals have to fall really far before they finally come back to the church and Christ again. There is also a certain fear among the church in general of kicking Adam out his room in the church. He might, they think, come back some time for revenge in a much worse state of mind and with many bad intentions.
Perhaps most importantly, though, the church’s sense of Christian charity recognizes that, were he forced to leave, Adam has no where else to go in the world; he has no family or any community except for this body of believers in Lambare (and it’s a good thing that he has them, too). The church here is committed to caring for and loving Adam, even to the point of putting in dangerous jeopardy its Christian testimony before the community and putting in danger, too, those around this young man with judgment clouded by so many unnatural and unhealthy chemicals.
The situation is exceedingly difficult. It certainly raises far more questions than anyone here is capable of answering, and it’s showing in great relief just how human a church and its leadership can be. No one knows what to do, least of all the pastors and those in authority who ought to be doing something.
And yet, through it all, it seems that something very important remains. This Paraguayan church, rooted and established in Christ’s own love, desires to love and reach out to Adam, too. The church can see that he is a broken man, ruined by his own sin and hopelessly lost in his own self-destruction. Where he is unable to have the faith that he can change, though, the church does for him. Where he can’t see the hope in his situation, there are many praying for and trusting in his redemption. Where he hates himself and can only see the evil in his soul, the church loves him with Christ-like compassion and welcomes him even as he is. So we see now in this church that “faith, hope, and love abide, these three; but the greatest is love.”
Finally, I can see here a church that really is being Jesus Christ to someone who represents the lost and dying world; even to someone who, though now causing great hurt and shame to the congregation, is still considered, cherished, and also grieved over as one of their own. It is painful and tiring and dangerous work for the congregation, yet it is work that incarnates and demonstrates the power of a living God. It is no easy fix, magic remedy, or quick conversion, but it is good and ultimately will abide, like the God upon which the work is founded, forever.
*I changed the fellow´s name, but it´s close enough
Travel Wish List
A blog lacking in inspiration, but a window into where I’m at right now:
A list of things I’ve asked for from the States, traveling with my cousin who arrives on Tuesday:
-Peanut Butter- There’s no American peanut butter to be found here. Apparently, Paraguayan moms aren’t so choosy as American moms, because JIF is nowhere to be found on supermarket shelves. Instead, there’s a more oily, grainy, and expensive substitute that they call peanut butter, which is much sweeter than it’s American cousin butter but completely lacking in saltiness. Paraguayans are very much against mixing salty and sweet foods together. There are clear distinctions: traditionally sweet food shouldn’t taste so salty, and traditionally salty food shouldn’t taste sweet, either.
-A GRE Study Guide- There’s not really a big book market here, and I really miss the Barnes and Nobleses from up North. That said, I’ve got to be doing some prep work for taking the GRE test, a pre-requisite exam to being accepted into many masters and doctoral university programs for continuing my studies. I don’t think college administrators will take my stay in Paraguay as an excuse for doing poorly on the exam, so I need it sent down. Don’t worry, mom, I plan to return next year and keep on going with my education. I’m not sure where or what I’ll be studying yet, but I’ve got plenty of time to figure it all out.
-A Nice Candle- All the candles for sale here are pretty crummy devotional ones for putting in front of loved ones’ graves or on the altars before Mary, other saints, and perhaps God, too. Because they’re made from some cheap petroleo material, they’re quite disposable and burn really dirtily. Thus, I asked Mom and Dad to send me down a nice-smelling and clean burning candle to enjoy.
-The Office, Season Three- The Office is pretty much the funniest tv show out right now. I didn’t watch it often when I was in the States, and I don’t really miss tv right now, but it is a good reminder of American culture and humor and something that’ll be good in lifting my spirits up and to share with others.
-Some Good Coffee- Dang it, it’s South America- I thought they grew good coffee everywhere here. I suspected it would be cheap, fresh, and delicious, like the pictures of Brazil and Columbia and Argentina on so many coffee containers. And I was wrong. Not many folks here drink real coffee, and when they do, it’s of the instant variety. I asked Mom and Dad to send me some real stuff to fill up my lonely French Press.
Good Sugar-Free Gum- There’s plenty of gum here, even sugar-free gum, and it’s cheap, too. The problem is, it loses it’s flavor really quickly. So, I’m asking for some good Orbits or Dentyne Ice or something like that.
Mink oil- My deck shoes and leather sandals are drying out, and I can only find sticky shoe polish in the store. A little mink oil from those Northern minks ought to do the trick.
A list of things I’ve asked for from the States, traveling with my cousin who arrives on Tuesday:
-Peanut Butter- There’s no American peanut butter to be found here. Apparently, Paraguayan moms aren’t so choosy as American moms, because JIF is nowhere to be found on supermarket shelves. Instead, there’s a more oily, grainy, and expensive substitute that they call peanut butter, which is much sweeter than it’s American cousin butter but completely lacking in saltiness. Paraguayans are very much against mixing salty and sweet foods together. There are clear distinctions: traditionally sweet food shouldn’t taste so salty, and traditionally salty food shouldn’t taste sweet, either.
-A GRE Study Guide- There’s not really a big book market here, and I really miss the Barnes and Nobleses from up North. That said, I’ve got to be doing some prep work for taking the GRE test, a pre-requisite exam to being accepted into many masters and doctoral university programs for continuing my studies. I don’t think college administrators will take my stay in Paraguay as an excuse for doing poorly on the exam, so I need it sent down. Don’t worry, mom, I plan to return next year and keep on going with my education. I’m not sure where or what I’ll be studying yet, but I’ve got plenty of time to figure it all out.
-A Nice Candle- All the candles for sale here are pretty crummy devotional ones for putting in front of loved ones’ graves or on the altars before Mary, other saints, and perhaps God, too. Because they’re made from some cheap petroleo material, they’re quite disposable and burn really dirtily. Thus, I asked Mom and Dad to send me down a nice-smelling and clean burning candle to enjoy.
-The Office, Season Three- The Office is pretty much the funniest tv show out right now. I didn’t watch it often when I was in the States, and I don’t really miss tv right now, but it is a good reminder of American culture and humor and something that’ll be good in lifting my spirits up and to share with others.
-Some Good Coffee- Dang it, it’s South America- I thought they grew good coffee everywhere here. I suspected it would be cheap, fresh, and delicious, like the pictures of Brazil and Columbia and Argentina on so many coffee containers. And I was wrong. Not many folks here drink real coffee, and when they do, it’s of the instant variety. I asked Mom and Dad to send me some real stuff to fill up my lonely French Press.
Good Sugar-Free Gum- There’s plenty of gum here, even sugar-free gum, and it’s cheap, too. The problem is, it loses it’s flavor really quickly. So, I’m asking for some good Orbits or Dentyne Ice or something like that.
Mink oil- My deck shoes and leather sandals are drying out, and I can only find sticky shoe polish in the store. A little mink oil from those Northern minks ought to do the trick.
Friday, December 14, 2007
Yep, I´m getting old
The rebel look just doesn’t float for Paraguayan ACers. Tattoos in general and long hair along with pierced ears for guys specifically are complete taboo. Church discipline often-times requires that interior spiritual change be accompanied by very physical outward changes in appearance, too. In order to become a member, you’ve got to cut your hair like everyone else and stop being a wannabe radical by taking out your earrings. I suspect there are now at least two Christian youth in the church who have yet to be baptized and become members because they don’t want to bend their knees to the pastors’ authority. They like long hair and pony tails and tattoos and piercings.
Although I’ve never had any part of my body pierced (except for one time when a pair of pruning shears fell on my right foot and left me with a permanent stigmata-looking mark), I have indeed grown out my hair pretty long before and tattoos… well, I’ll leave that one up to your imagination. The point is, though, that the church here condemns many things that are accepted by me and what you might call more culturally progressive churches in North America. It seems as if the congregation in Ansuncion is about ten years behind the trends of my home church in Akron, Ohio, where today nearly everything modest in outward appearance is acceptable. There, about a decade ago, several folks very strongly condemned a young man – my middle school Bible study leader and mentor at the time- for the scandal of his shiny earring. Since that time ten years ago, though, a lot has changed. Today, for example, the church has a head pastor who used to have very long hair in his public ministry and also has a leader on the missionary board with a tattoo.
So, which church system is right? They represent two very different standards of outward appearance and conformity to church discipline: the one requires a somewhat strict, legal code of dress and style, while the other permits very many culturally-popular and what are sometimes-perceived as rebellious fashions.
Part of me (the wrong, sinful man) wants to condemn the Paraguayan Church leadership for its legalism and focus on outward appearance. How can the pastors be so backwards as to only be concerned with exterior looks? How can they let their youth, who are foregoing real commitment and real service to the body of Christ, slip right through their hands because of the rules some old fuddy-duddies have made up? In my own experience, after all, I’ve known believers who sometimes looked strange or dressed funny to the world, but were actually far-better suited in their hearts for service to God: people who, although they didn’t look like they had everything together on the outside with their well-worn sweat pants and dirty hoodies and crappy shoes, had everything together on the inside with divine creativity and passion for the truth and the warmth of God’s own love.
On the other hand, though, I have also known people who looked good on the outside to the church (even myself sometimes with a short haircut, plaid, khakis, and Bible in hand), but on the inside were all messed up by many hidden sins (even myself sometimes with lust and pride and selfishness). Our Savior knew the hypocrites when he saw them, too, saying that the Pharisees were like white-washed tombs: nice-looking and clean in appearance before men, but ultimately lost with hearts full of stagnant death before God. Hence, we can see for sure from both scripture and experience that outward appearance matters nothing to God.
The truth of the matter, though, is far more complex. We must also take into account why Paraguayan youth, or perhaps any youth, dress so strangely in the first place. Where are they coming from, and is it possible that they might be sinning in the way they present themselves?
The answer, I think, is a strong “yes.” This is not, though, because I believe there is something inherently wrong with masculine pony tales or shiny metal adornments or permament unnatural body markings or anything else in outward appearance. Christian scriptures, after all, can be interpreted in many ways to defend any particular viewpoint on style and dress; even, I might add, to defend progressive, culturally-edgy styles (for example, I’ve heard tattoo proponents say that Christian tattoos are all right because Jesus has one on his thigh when he returns in glory – Rev. 19:16). No, there certainly are no biblical Christian mandates or certainties regarding cultural norms of dress. Instead, I think outward appearance ultimately is a matter of the heart and can be an important reflection of inward spiritual realities. Why, we must ask ourselves and others, do people (or perhaps we ourselves) want to look different from the rest of society?
In the church community here, rebellious dress is one very big and important way for someone to say, “No, I will not submit myself to your authority, and I will not go by your rules. I shall dress and adorn myself as I please, no matter how goofy or perhaps socially defiant I may seem.” Outward appearance can be the most practical and perhaps simplest form of disobedience to parents and society. I think of the ease with which a youth can pierce his own ear in the back of the bus to surprise and offend his loved ones, or how quickly and easy (although certainly not painless) a trip to the tattoo parlor can be to receive some permanent form of society-forsaking self-expression. The outgrowths of these simple actions, though, when stemming from the roots of rebellion in the heart, are definitively wrong. When a culture of parents and pastors with authority given from God Himself tells us that we need to dress or appear more conservatively, then we had best better do it if we want to live good Christian lives of obedience. We must submit ourselves to the norms of culture and outward appearance when those into whose care we’ve been entrusted require it. We must give ourselves wholly over to God and forsake entirely our own rebellion and independence, even if it means looking like a Mormon or a Baptist or even a Paraguayan Apostolic.
So, which church and mode of outward appearance is ultimately right? I’m afraid I’ve got to conclude in a terrible post-modern way and say that both can be healthy and good systems to dress by. In the end it is all a matter of the heart: in a culture where looking like a rebel doesn’t buck church or parental authority, go for it—dress like James Dean or Fabio or even Ozzi Osbourne. On the other hand, where God-ordained systems of authority say that a Leave-it-to-Beaver look is more appropriate, then by all means, put on your brown corduroy pants, spin-top hat, and button-up shirt. Cut your hair and take out your earring, cover up your tattoos and put a smile on your face. You might feel and look goofy, but in the end you’ll learn humility and obedience and, finally, how to be more like Jesus, too.
Although I’ve never had any part of my body pierced (except for one time when a pair of pruning shears fell on my right foot and left me with a permanent stigmata-looking mark), I have indeed grown out my hair pretty long before and tattoos… well, I’ll leave that one up to your imagination. The point is, though, that the church here condemns many things that are accepted by me and what you might call more culturally progressive churches in North America. It seems as if the congregation in Ansuncion is about ten years behind the trends of my home church in Akron, Ohio, where today nearly everything modest in outward appearance is acceptable. There, about a decade ago, several folks very strongly condemned a young man – my middle school Bible study leader and mentor at the time- for the scandal of his shiny earring. Since that time ten years ago, though, a lot has changed. Today, for example, the church has a head pastor who used to have very long hair in his public ministry and also has a leader on the missionary board with a tattoo.
So, which church system is right? They represent two very different standards of outward appearance and conformity to church discipline: the one requires a somewhat strict, legal code of dress and style, while the other permits very many culturally-popular and what are sometimes-perceived as rebellious fashions.
Part of me (the wrong, sinful man) wants to condemn the Paraguayan Church leadership for its legalism and focus on outward appearance. How can the pastors be so backwards as to only be concerned with exterior looks? How can they let their youth, who are foregoing real commitment and real service to the body of Christ, slip right through their hands because of the rules some old fuddy-duddies have made up? In my own experience, after all, I’ve known believers who sometimes looked strange or dressed funny to the world, but were actually far-better suited in their hearts for service to God: people who, although they didn’t look like they had everything together on the outside with their well-worn sweat pants and dirty hoodies and crappy shoes, had everything together on the inside with divine creativity and passion for the truth and the warmth of God’s own love.
On the other hand, though, I have also known people who looked good on the outside to the church (even myself sometimes with a short haircut, plaid, khakis, and Bible in hand), but on the inside were all messed up by many hidden sins (even myself sometimes with lust and pride and selfishness). Our Savior knew the hypocrites when he saw them, too, saying that the Pharisees were like white-washed tombs: nice-looking and clean in appearance before men, but ultimately lost with hearts full of stagnant death before God. Hence, we can see for sure from both scripture and experience that outward appearance matters nothing to God.
The truth of the matter, though, is far more complex. We must also take into account why Paraguayan youth, or perhaps any youth, dress so strangely in the first place. Where are they coming from, and is it possible that they might be sinning in the way they present themselves?
The answer, I think, is a strong “yes.” This is not, though, because I believe there is something inherently wrong with masculine pony tales or shiny metal adornments or permament unnatural body markings or anything else in outward appearance. Christian scriptures, after all, can be interpreted in many ways to defend any particular viewpoint on style and dress; even, I might add, to defend progressive, culturally-edgy styles (for example, I’ve heard tattoo proponents say that Christian tattoos are all right because Jesus has one on his thigh when he returns in glory – Rev. 19:16). No, there certainly are no biblical Christian mandates or certainties regarding cultural norms of dress. Instead, I think outward appearance ultimately is a matter of the heart and can be an important reflection of inward spiritual realities. Why, we must ask ourselves and others, do people (or perhaps we ourselves) want to look different from the rest of society?
In the church community here, rebellious dress is one very big and important way for someone to say, “No, I will not submit myself to your authority, and I will not go by your rules. I shall dress and adorn myself as I please, no matter how goofy or perhaps socially defiant I may seem.” Outward appearance can be the most practical and perhaps simplest form of disobedience to parents and society. I think of the ease with which a youth can pierce his own ear in the back of the bus to surprise and offend his loved ones, or how quickly and easy (although certainly not painless) a trip to the tattoo parlor can be to receive some permanent form of society-forsaking self-expression. The outgrowths of these simple actions, though, when stemming from the roots of rebellion in the heart, are definitively wrong. When a culture of parents and pastors with authority given from God Himself tells us that we need to dress or appear more conservatively, then we had best better do it if we want to live good Christian lives of obedience. We must submit ourselves to the norms of culture and outward appearance when those into whose care we’ve been entrusted require it. We must give ourselves wholly over to God and forsake entirely our own rebellion and independence, even if it means looking like a Mormon or a Baptist or even a Paraguayan Apostolic.
So, which church and mode of outward appearance is ultimately right? I’m afraid I’ve got to conclude in a terrible post-modern way and say that both can be healthy and good systems to dress by. In the end it is all a matter of the heart: in a culture where looking like a rebel doesn’t buck church or parental authority, go for it—dress like James Dean or Fabio or even Ozzi Osbourne. On the other hand, where God-ordained systems of authority say that a Leave-it-to-Beaver look is more appropriate, then by all means, put on your brown corduroy pants, spin-top hat, and button-up shirt. Cut your hair and take out your earring, cover up your tattoos and put a smile on your face. You might feel and look goofy, but in the end you’ll learn humility and obedience and, finally, how to be more like Jesus, too.
Tuesday, December 11, 2007
Searching for Green Peace
I’ve said before that Paraguay is like a Paradise, a tropical oasis of exotic smelling fruit trees and golden sunshine and gentle rolling hills. All this is true and even more, sometimes. The red sandy dirt feels softer than in the States, for example, and the water from the faucet, too, tastes sweeter than I’ve ever had.
The problem, though, is that it’s a terribly polluted paradise. It seems that Paraguayans, in their carefree lifestyle of ease and anything-goes, care very little for the environment and rarely think of the impact their trash will have on the earth and, ultimately, their neighbors and themselves, too.
For example, yesterday a young man at church -- a member in good standing who plays in the praise band – finished off a pack of cookies. What was the natural thing for him to do when he was done? He threw the plastic container on the ground in the middle of the church playground, expecting it blow away sometime and perhaps become someone else’s problem. And the strange thing is that this small act of selfishness, even from an upstanding member of the church, isn’t so strange here. Everyone throws all their garbage on the ground or out the window or into the river, dumping junk where they can and leaving trash where it’s convenient. For this reason, the tropical paradise is in many places a tropical garbage bin, littered with blowing bags and pocked with used plastic bottles.
The streambeds are where you can see pollution at its worst. Heavy rains may do their best to clean the streets of garbage, but it all collects in the drain basins and eventually the waterways. Here, huge-ton-piles of assorted trash ferment in massive gob-balls of filth, like so many mutant monsters birthed from landfills nursing on humanity’s worst muck. The effect is altogether discouraging, if not depressing, for a North American who prefers tropical paradise to tropical ruin.
Not only does the landscape look bad because of the trash, though, but many waters are also ruined because of it and other pollutions. The Caballero home is close to the Rio Paraguayo, but only the most-daring would think of swimming or fishing in its murky waters. Two weeks ago we had the chance to visit the largest interior lake in Paraguay- a beautiful body of water surrounded by hills and at one time by hotels and resorts, too. The trouble is, the past few years the lake has become so polluted that it’s no longer safe to go swimming in it. The tourists are leaving, the resorts are closing, and the beaches are dying. The water looks and smells like black sewer, and even crusts over in some places with oily residue. The lake is an amazing refuge completely spoiled, pure delight blighted with the diseases of human progress and ruined by the selfish exploitations of an easy-does-it society.
In Paraguay, it’s easy to imagine how creation was supposed to be: a tropical fruit garden with sunny skies and crisp clear waters; a place where it pleased God to walk side-by-side with men. Unfortunately, the effects of the Fall are also clear here. There’s trash everywhere, the lakes stink, and somehow everything’s become dirty. Something’s gone wrong – very wrong -- in the garden, and we can hardly recognize the way things were originally created to be. There’s plenty of suffering to go around because of it, too, as creation itself seems to groan under the weight of humanity’s filthiness. The earth desperately needs and cries out for Health, for a Savior; for Emmanuel, for God-with-us. Ultimately, it cries out for His eternal life and for his final redemption, “Come, Lord Jesus, come!”
The problem, though, is that it’s a terribly polluted paradise. It seems that Paraguayans, in their carefree lifestyle of ease and anything-goes, care very little for the environment and rarely think of the impact their trash will have on the earth and, ultimately, their neighbors and themselves, too.
For example, yesterday a young man at church -- a member in good standing who plays in the praise band – finished off a pack of cookies. What was the natural thing for him to do when he was done? He threw the plastic container on the ground in the middle of the church playground, expecting it blow away sometime and perhaps become someone else’s problem. And the strange thing is that this small act of selfishness, even from an upstanding member of the church, isn’t so strange here. Everyone throws all their garbage on the ground or out the window or into the river, dumping junk where they can and leaving trash where it’s convenient. For this reason, the tropical paradise is in many places a tropical garbage bin, littered with blowing bags and pocked with used plastic bottles.
The streambeds are where you can see pollution at its worst. Heavy rains may do their best to clean the streets of garbage, but it all collects in the drain basins and eventually the waterways. Here, huge-ton-piles of assorted trash ferment in massive gob-balls of filth, like so many mutant monsters birthed from landfills nursing on humanity’s worst muck. The effect is altogether discouraging, if not depressing, for a North American who prefers tropical paradise to tropical ruin.
Not only does the landscape look bad because of the trash, though, but many waters are also ruined because of it and other pollutions. The Caballero home is close to the Rio Paraguayo, but only the most-daring would think of swimming or fishing in its murky waters. Two weeks ago we had the chance to visit the largest interior lake in Paraguay- a beautiful body of water surrounded by hills and at one time by hotels and resorts, too. The trouble is, the past few years the lake has become so polluted that it’s no longer safe to go swimming in it. The tourists are leaving, the resorts are closing, and the beaches are dying. The water looks and smells like black sewer, and even crusts over in some places with oily residue. The lake is an amazing refuge completely spoiled, pure delight blighted with the diseases of human progress and ruined by the selfish exploitations of an easy-does-it society.
In Paraguay, it’s easy to imagine how creation was supposed to be: a tropical fruit garden with sunny skies and crisp clear waters; a place where it pleased God to walk side-by-side with men. Unfortunately, the effects of the Fall are also clear here. There’s trash everywhere, the lakes stink, and somehow everything’s become dirty. Something’s gone wrong – very wrong -- in the garden, and we can hardly recognize the way things were originally created to be. There’s plenty of suffering to go around because of it, too, as creation itself seems to groan under the weight of humanity’s filthiness. The earth desperately needs and cries out for Health, for a Savior; for Emmanuel, for God-with-us. Ultimately, it cries out for His eternal life and for his final redemption, “Come, Lord Jesus, come!”
Monday, December 10, 2007
Best Wishes
Ellen headed back to Canada Tuesday. She was the English teacher/missionary this past year in the church and school, and also the one who trained me most in the ways of Paraguay since I got here. She introduced me to the joys and sorrows of being a first-time missionary a year ago when I first started reading her blog, and last March she was the one who invited me to come take her place as a teacher. Basically, God’s work through her is the reason I’ve arrived where I am.
Now that Ellen’s gotten me all ready to live and teach on my own, though, her work seems complete. A full year-long circle with a trained replacement and all, Ellen’s leaving a well-finished time in the southern tropics for more and new Christian service in the colder North. Her legacy in the church and school is rich in relationship, love, and charisma, and the shoes that she leaves behind for me to fill seem overwhelmingly large. I know I’ll have my own ministries and ways of doing things here, but Ellen has really been a God-given example of faithfulness to the church, His ministries, and Christian service in general.
Seeing her leave brings me mixed emotions. On the one hand, I’m really jealous of her: the fact that she’ll get to spend Christmas with her family, be reunited with her North American church and friends, and get to live at home in a culture that she recognizes and knows. Right now, the idea of spending time with my loved ones on a cold, snowy, winter day inside and in front of a warm fire with sweaters and hot cocoa and football games and a real Christmas tree sounds like a dream come true. On the other hand, though, I recognize really how blessed Ellen has been to spend a year learning another culture and language and making an entirely new spiritual family in South America. The experiences that she’s had, and those that I’m having and am going to have this next year, are invaluable as life and faith lessons-learned. Seeing all the things I’ve learned in only two months and all the new ways I’ve had to trust God more, I can only imagine how much a different, and more spiritually mature, person Ellen is now after a full year. For us short term missionaries in Paraguay, I really think the spiritual environment is much like the physical environment: with plenty of sunny and sometimes uncomfortable heat, enough humidity and rain to stifle or drown even the best-accustomed Ohioan, and the richest, most colorfully fertile soil I’ve ever seen, it seems as if, by the grace of God, our souls can’t help but grow lush and green and be more productive like so many mango trees and hibiscus flowers and banana fruits. Life, spiritual and otherwise, is abundant in all forms here. It’s not always easy, either, but it’s very good.
And so, my prayer for Ellen is that, like a mango tree miraculously transplanted and sustained in the middle of the Albertan winter plain, she might stand out and continue to bear many new spiritual fruits when she returns home. I’m certain, too, that she’ll bring along with her all the sunshine of her God-given gifts, personality, and everything that she’s learned in order to share with so many more. I’ve seen that her “delight is in the law of the Lord,” and for this reason I trust that wherever she goes, Ellen will be like “a tree planted by streams of water that yields its fruit in season, and its leaf does not wither. In all that (she) does, (she) prospers.”
Now that Ellen’s gotten me all ready to live and teach on my own, though, her work seems complete. A full year-long circle with a trained replacement and all, Ellen’s leaving a well-finished time in the southern tropics for more and new Christian service in the colder North. Her legacy in the church and school is rich in relationship, love, and charisma, and the shoes that she leaves behind for me to fill seem overwhelmingly large. I know I’ll have my own ministries and ways of doing things here, but Ellen has really been a God-given example of faithfulness to the church, His ministries, and Christian service in general.
Seeing her leave brings me mixed emotions. On the one hand, I’m really jealous of her: the fact that she’ll get to spend Christmas with her family, be reunited with her North American church and friends, and get to live at home in a culture that she recognizes and knows. Right now, the idea of spending time with my loved ones on a cold, snowy, winter day inside and in front of a warm fire with sweaters and hot cocoa and football games and a real Christmas tree sounds like a dream come true. On the other hand, though, I recognize really how blessed Ellen has been to spend a year learning another culture and language and making an entirely new spiritual family in South America. The experiences that she’s had, and those that I’m having and am going to have this next year, are invaluable as life and faith lessons-learned. Seeing all the things I’ve learned in only two months and all the new ways I’ve had to trust God more, I can only imagine how much a different, and more spiritually mature, person Ellen is now after a full year. For us short term missionaries in Paraguay, I really think the spiritual environment is much like the physical environment: with plenty of sunny and sometimes uncomfortable heat, enough humidity and rain to stifle or drown even the best-accustomed Ohioan, and the richest, most colorfully fertile soil I’ve ever seen, it seems as if, by the grace of God, our souls can’t help but grow lush and green and be more productive like so many mango trees and hibiscus flowers and banana fruits. Life, spiritual and otherwise, is abundant in all forms here. It’s not always easy, either, but it’s very good.
And so, my prayer for Ellen is that, like a mango tree miraculously transplanted and sustained in the middle of the Albertan winter plain, she might stand out and continue to bear many new spiritual fruits when she returns home. I’m certain, too, that she’ll bring along with her all the sunshine of her God-given gifts, personality, and everything that she’s learned in order to share with so many more. I’ve seen that her “delight is in the law of the Lord,” and for this reason I trust that wherever she goes, Ellen will be like “a tree planted by streams of water that yields its fruit in season, and its leaf does not wither. In all that (she) does, (she) prospers.”
Saturday, December 08, 2007
Sorry
Hi all,
Sorry I havent posted in a while- I´ve misplaced my pen drive, so I´ll get something up as soon as I find it or buy another one. I´ve a few written, though, so don´t worry. All is well here, please pray for some of the folks I´ve left behind in the States.
Best, Jason
Sorry I havent posted in a while- I´ve misplaced my pen drive, so I´ll get something up as soon as I find it or buy another one. I´ve a few written, though, so don´t worry. All is well here, please pray for some of the folks I´ve left behind in the States.
Best, Jason
Thursday, November 29, 2007
A Shameless Plug
Here in Paraguay, there are plenty of signs that summertime is at hand. The mango trees seem to be weeping under the heavy loads of their Christmas-colored fruit, and the students at Collegio Privado Adonai, too, appear burdened down in the late-springtime heat with all their books and final exams and end-of-the-year stresses. Behind the scenes of the school, however, preparations are already being made for next year. Ben’s wife, Vivi, has been appointed next year’s directora, or principal, for the primary grades. I’ve received my own marching orders for teaching English, too – all six classes of 3rd, 4th, 5th, and 6th graders will be my responsbility, along with an hour of conversation each week with the 7th, 8th, and 9th graders. The foundations for the new addition to accommodate next year’s inaugural 11th grade have also been laid, waiting like a tilled concrete garden with iron beam sprouts for work teams and additional donations to be completed this summer (while God has blessed the school with a plethora of the workers from the North, we’re still waiting on and intensely praying for God to provide the funds).
Along with all these preparations for next year’s academics and ministries also comes another responsibility for Ben and I: facilitating and distributing the scholarships for needy students in the community. We have the privilege and duty of visiting families to decide whose children are most in need of tuition funds and, perhaps by extension, to also decide who will or will not be able to attend the Christian school. For most of the kids who receive the becas, the funding is perhaps the only chance they have to receive a decent education. Standards in public schools here can be abysmally low, so the Collegio Privado Adonai fulfills a very-real need for the children who attend, all within the safety and care of a Christ-centered, church-supported environment.
The scholarships given to children from the community also open doors of opportunity for their families to get involved in the school and church. There are countless parents and relatives of children from the school who are now attending the church as well, revealing the ultimate purpose of Collegio Privado Adonai and the church here – to reach out in service to a lost and dying world with the Gospel of Jesus Christ. This school has a real spiritual impact on lives.
So, how can you get involved in this God-grown ministry? I’d offer to you the Adopt-A-Student program, which gives North American friends the opportunity to sponsor a specific child here by donating the money necessary for tuition their costs. It costs $500 a year to send a Paraguayan child to Colegio Privado Adonai, but this investment in the lives of students and their families undoubtedly yields eternally significant and spiritually weighty dividends. Adopting-A-Student is an awesome chance to have a practical impact in the Kingdom of Heaven through blessing the life of a student and their family.
If you’re interested in helping out, send me an email at jbroredman@gmail.com. I’m more than happy to answer any questions you might have and help facilitate your participation in what God’s doing in Paraguay.
Along with all these preparations for next year’s academics and ministries also comes another responsibility for Ben and I: facilitating and distributing the scholarships for needy students in the community. We have the privilege and duty of visiting families to decide whose children are most in need of tuition funds and, perhaps by extension, to also decide who will or will not be able to attend the Christian school. For most of the kids who receive the becas, the funding is perhaps the only chance they have to receive a decent education. Standards in public schools here can be abysmally low, so the Collegio Privado Adonai fulfills a very-real need for the children who attend, all within the safety and care of a Christ-centered, church-supported environment.
The scholarships given to children from the community also open doors of opportunity for their families to get involved in the school and church. There are countless parents and relatives of children from the school who are now attending the church as well, revealing the ultimate purpose of Collegio Privado Adonai and the church here – to reach out in service to a lost and dying world with the Gospel of Jesus Christ. This school has a real spiritual impact on lives.
So, how can you get involved in this God-grown ministry? I’d offer to you the Adopt-A-Student program, which gives North American friends the opportunity to sponsor a specific child here by donating the money necessary for tuition their costs. It costs $500 a year to send a Paraguayan child to Colegio Privado Adonai, but this investment in the lives of students and their families undoubtedly yields eternally significant and spiritually weighty dividends. Adopting-A-Student is an awesome chance to have a practical impact in the Kingdom of Heaven through blessing the life of a student and their family.
If you’re interested in helping out, send me an email at jbroredman@gmail.com. I’m more than happy to answer any questions you might have and help facilitate your participation in what God’s doing in Paraguay.
Saturday, November 24, 2007
Thanksgiving in Paraguay
It’s Thanksgiving in Paraguay. The sun’s out and shining with all it’s golden strength while the soft scent of Jasmine floats gently and amiably through the backyard. Oscar’s outdoor thermometer, although perhaps giving an embellished reading because it sits in the light, reads some 110 degrees. It’s probably much cooler than that-- about 95. I’m sitting inside with the lights off and fan on, doing my best to imagine a cold and rainy November day in Ohio. The English Christmas carols I’m listening to sure do their best to set the sound of the season, but they do little in the way of driving away the reality of a hot day.
In reality, though I may wish for the comforting cold of home, I’ve got a world to be thankful for, especially as far as the weather goes. I’m living in a veritable tropical paradise, very similar to Hawaii, from what I’ve heard, and I’ve got a lot of people who care for me. This Thanksgiving, I’ll be celebrating with Oscar and Karen and their family, Ben and Vivi, and Pilar, a friend from Georgetown also serving in Asuncion, and two of her friends.
While the weather today has been hot and peaceful outside, Karen has been cooking up a storm inside with all the traditional Thanksgiving bells and whistles: a turkey, some mashed potatoes, sweet corn, and even some sweet-stuffed-squash. The turkey here is what is most precious. One pastor I spoke with had never tried it in all his life, and the other had a faint memory tasting the giant bird perhaps a couple decades before, although he couldn’t remember the taste. Needless to say, we’re privileged to have such a feast and American celebration in a place so from home.
And I am thankful, too: thankful that I’ve got an opportunity to serve in a foreign country for a year and to experience Thanksgiving away from home in Paraguay; thankful for all the hospitality that the Paraguayan church, and especially Oscar and Karen and their family, have shown me; thankful for everyone back home, too, who is thinking of and praying for me while I’m down here- I know there’s a lot of people who care incredibly much; thankful for God’s own strength, protection, consolation, and many other graces as I’ve adjusted to the culture here; and thankful that, ultimately, I know my destiny is in His hands and that He cares for me far more than any one else does and knows what’s best for me far more than I do.
And so,
Now thank we all our God
With hearts and hands and voices
Who doeth wondrous things
In us and in all places
Who from out mother’s arms
And from our childhood’s way
Hath showered us with gifts
And blesseth us today.
In reality, though I may wish for the comforting cold of home, I’ve got a world to be thankful for, especially as far as the weather goes. I’m living in a veritable tropical paradise, very similar to Hawaii, from what I’ve heard, and I’ve got a lot of people who care for me. This Thanksgiving, I’ll be celebrating with Oscar and Karen and their family, Ben and Vivi, and Pilar, a friend from Georgetown also serving in Asuncion, and two of her friends.
While the weather today has been hot and peaceful outside, Karen has been cooking up a storm inside with all the traditional Thanksgiving bells and whistles: a turkey, some mashed potatoes, sweet corn, and even some sweet-stuffed-squash. The turkey here is what is most precious. One pastor I spoke with had never tried it in all his life, and the other had a faint memory tasting the giant bird perhaps a couple decades before, although he couldn’t remember the taste. Needless to say, we’re privileged to have such a feast and American celebration in a place so from home.
And I am thankful, too: thankful that I’ve got an opportunity to serve in a foreign country for a year and to experience Thanksgiving away from home in Paraguay; thankful for all the hospitality that the Paraguayan church, and especially Oscar and Karen and their family, have shown me; thankful for everyone back home, too, who is thinking of and praying for me while I’m down here- I know there’s a lot of people who care incredibly much; thankful for God’s own strength, protection, consolation, and many other graces as I’ve adjusted to the culture here; and thankful that, ultimately, I know my destiny is in His hands and that He cares for me far more than any one else does and knows what’s best for me far more than I do.
And so,
Now thank we all our God
With hearts and hands and voices
Who doeth wondrous things
In us and in all places
Who from out mother’s arms
And from our childhood’s way
Hath showered us with gifts
And blesseth us today.
Wednesday, November 21, 2007
Tuesday, November 20, 2007
A Bloody Ritual
It’s three o’clock in the morning and I’m wide awake. Outside, a tropical thunderstorm pierces the night’s dark quietude with intense flashes of lightning and booming drumrolls of thunder. Because of the storm, the electricity’s gone out and the fan that usually propels me back to sleep is suddenly and helplessly dead in the corner of the room.
It’s not the heat that bothers me this morning, though. No, it’s the cult of seemingly invisible mosquitoes swarming around my head that prevents my sweet repose once again; mosquitoes that, under normal circumstances, would be expeditiously exorcised by the fan’s firm and reassuring breeze.
The only sensible evidence of the disease-carriers’ despicable presence is a soft low buzzing next to my ear, eerily reminiscent to the sound of a dentist’s drill. Making matters even worse, I can neither see nor feel the pests until it’s too late to object and they’ve sucked my life right out of me, like so many tiny demons drawing the blood from a helpless sacrifice. They fly an evil and complicated dance around my head for what seems like hours as I, with body hastily covered by the protection of my light cotton sheets, frantically pray for them to go away. Occasionally, I madly but vainly protest their diabolical ritual with a wild and desperate flailing of arms.
Under these hallowing circumstances and in the daze of half-sleep, I ponder the import of an eternally significant, yet so often neglected, question: why don’t Paraguayans use screens in their windows?
It’s not the heat that bothers me this morning, though. No, it’s the cult of seemingly invisible mosquitoes swarming around my head that prevents my sweet repose once again; mosquitoes that, under normal circumstances, would be expeditiously exorcised by the fan’s firm and reassuring breeze.
The only sensible evidence of the disease-carriers’ despicable presence is a soft low buzzing next to my ear, eerily reminiscent to the sound of a dentist’s drill. Making matters even worse, I can neither see nor feel the pests until it’s too late to object and they’ve sucked my life right out of me, like so many tiny demons drawing the blood from a helpless sacrifice. They fly an evil and complicated dance around my head for what seems like hours as I, with body hastily covered by the protection of my light cotton sheets, frantically pray for them to go away. Occasionally, I madly but vainly protest their diabolical ritual with a wild and desperate flailing of arms.
Under these hallowing circumstances and in the daze of half-sleep, I ponder the import of an eternally significant, yet so often neglected, question: why don’t Paraguayans use screens in their windows?
Saturday, November 17, 2007
A Touch of Romance
“There are people praying for you, Jason,” my friend told me solemnly and honestly. I wondered for a moment why people here would be praying for me in such a serious way. Maybe they thought I was a little edgy for them, a little too secular, a little too North American. Then I wondered if they thought my soul was in danger, perhaps because I listen to Garth Brooks sometimes and have an Anglican prayerbook on my shelf. After thinking some of these things out loud, my friend clarified what she had said, and this time there was no wondering about the meaning of her words. “No, they’re praying for you. Te quiere, literally, they want you – they like you .”
The words hit me like a ton of bricks. “Oh,” I mumbled, much like one mumbles when he is not watching where he is going and walks straight into a wall or corner and there is no where else to go. They want me. They’re praying for me. For a husband. For their husband.
What to think… what to think… what to think… There are a lot of things that come to mind when the idea of marriage, and specifically the idea of my marriage, pops up. And trust me, my being in Paraguay only makes me even more confused and even more uncertain as to what the future holds. Some things I know for sure, though:
1-It’s way too early in my time here to even be worrying about these things.
2-I didn’t come to Paraguay to find a wife. I came to serve God, Opa (Guarani for “it’s finished”), end of story.
3-I appear to most people up North and here, too, to be the perfect eligible bachelor missionary. Not only am I good looking, but I look holy, too.
4- Number 3 is mostly true- I’m eligible, a bachelor, and a missionary. But I’m not so holy or perfect as I act around other people.
5- When I finally get around to dating a girl, it will probably be after a long and serious friendship with her.
6- Be that as it may, number 5 comes only after a lot of prayer and fasting and seeking God’s will.
7-Whoever the girl is will know for sure what my intentions are. If I haven’t said anything to her officially, there’s nothing officially or importantly there.
8-I don’t want to break anyone’s heart -- mine, any girl’s, or God’s.
Casual dating isn’t an option for me in general or in the church here specifically. When people decide to become novio and novia, “boyfriend” and “girlfriend”, in the Paraguayan church, they make a prompt and public social and spiritual commitment to marry each other sometime. Considering the culture, it’s not ironic that in Spanish, novio and novia also mean “groom” and “bride.” Whatever these relationships are, then, they are very quickly announced in front of the church and the plans for a wedding are very soon in the making. It may seem strange, but relationships go from friendships to engagements in one quick and giant (and perhaps sometimes too careless) jump. Dating relationships/engagements are only broken off with much pain and public demonstrations of remorse, and I know already a couple people my age who have had to go through such a well-known and difficult ordeal.
So, I’m certainly in no hurry to jump on the marriage wagon, especially here in Paraguay. I’m waiting on God and doing my best, as the Song of Songs suggests, to leave the passions of my love all alone in peaceful and unaware slumber until the mightily right day when comes the time to awaken and stir them up to life. Until that day, though, I’m an eligible bachelor missionary doing my best not to trample over anyone’s soft and precious heart. I’m treading softly and trying not to show too much interest in any one girl particularly, all the while learning a new language and culture and making new friends and so much more. It seems to me to be a big and dangerous undertaking, so I’d ask you to please pray for me. Just please, I ask you with all my heart, don’t pray for me.
The words hit me like a ton of bricks. “Oh,” I mumbled, much like one mumbles when he is not watching where he is going and walks straight into a wall or corner and there is no where else to go. They want me. They’re praying for me. For a husband. For their husband.
What to think… what to think… what to think… There are a lot of things that come to mind when the idea of marriage, and specifically the idea of my marriage, pops up. And trust me, my being in Paraguay only makes me even more confused and even more uncertain as to what the future holds. Some things I know for sure, though:
1-It’s way too early in my time here to even be worrying about these things.
2-I didn’t come to Paraguay to find a wife. I came to serve God, Opa (Guarani for “it’s finished”), end of story.
3-I appear to most people up North and here, too, to be the perfect eligible bachelor missionary. Not only am I good looking, but I look holy, too.
4- Number 3 is mostly true- I’m eligible, a bachelor, and a missionary. But I’m not so holy or perfect as I act around other people.
5- When I finally get around to dating a girl, it will probably be after a long and serious friendship with her.
6- Be that as it may, number 5 comes only after a lot of prayer and fasting and seeking God’s will.
7-Whoever the girl is will know for sure what my intentions are. If I haven’t said anything to her officially, there’s nothing officially or importantly there.
8-I don’t want to break anyone’s heart -- mine, any girl’s, or God’s.
Casual dating isn’t an option for me in general or in the church here specifically. When people decide to become novio and novia, “boyfriend” and “girlfriend”, in the Paraguayan church, they make a prompt and public social and spiritual commitment to marry each other sometime. Considering the culture, it’s not ironic that in Spanish, novio and novia also mean “groom” and “bride.” Whatever these relationships are, then, they are very quickly announced in front of the church and the plans for a wedding are very soon in the making. It may seem strange, but relationships go from friendships to engagements in one quick and giant (and perhaps sometimes too careless) jump. Dating relationships/engagements are only broken off with much pain and public demonstrations of remorse, and I know already a couple people my age who have had to go through such a well-known and difficult ordeal.
So, I’m certainly in no hurry to jump on the marriage wagon, especially here in Paraguay. I’m waiting on God and doing my best, as the Song of Songs suggests, to leave the passions of my love all alone in peaceful and unaware slumber until the mightily right day when comes the time to awaken and stir them up to life. Until that day, though, I’m an eligible bachelor missionary doing my best not to trample over anyone’s soft and precious heart. I’m treading softly and trying not to show too much interest in any one girl particularly, all the while learning a new language and culture and making new friends and so much more. It seems to me to be a big and dangerous undertaking, so I’d ask you to please pray for me. Just please, I ask you with all my heart, don’t pray for me.
Monday, November 12, 2007
A Paraguayan Funeral
I arrived at the small, rusty brick house under the cover of darkness with a large, hasty group of church members, like so many troopers storming an enemy stronghold in the middle of the night. We came to visit the home straight from Wednesday night services with a dual purpose: to offer our emotional support and physical company as a sort condolence for the bereaved immediate and evangelical family; and also, by our presence, to prevent the complex mourning and death rituals of the extended Catholic family.
The main person of interest at the meeting was the recently departed, an older gentleman who had also recently joined our Anabaptist church. Following in the spiritual footsteps of his wife and daughter, he had been accepted as a full member of the church and was baptized again on his death bed only the Thursday previous. Now it was the following Wednesday night, and he was dead. I heard he had been suffering from cancer or some other ailment for some time and had come home to die in the comfort of his home.
The home did its best job in preparing itself to honor the patriarch’s death. The front room, visible from the street, had cleared itself of all furniture and in the center, elevated like some magic floating platform, was a rented sterling silver coffin holding the body of the deceased with his feet facing the road. He was wearing a comfortable new brown sweat suit and, while I don’t think his family intended this, looked like a Franciscan monk lying in repose. In the background of this mourning scene, at the head of the coffin, was a massive crucifix lit up by Las-Vegas style neon-purple lights, along with a serious-looking six-foot silver candelabra whose one light bulb three-over from the right burnt out. To the left of the coffin was a plastic wreath-sign almost as big as the room that advertised for the funeral company. A glass of holy water under the coffin was left to ward away evil spirits.
You could feel the tension in the air just as much as you could feel the warm Paraguayan night. On one side of the front lawn sat the Catholic extended family, seemingly un-welcomed from the front room of the house once the Protestants arrived. They appeared to be moping about and waiting for us all to leave, and I noticed more than once on their faces irritated expressions of mistrust and doubt. Most of the immediate family, including the widow, daughter, a son, and some grandchildren, met with the newcomers inside.
Here, dividing the two factions by only a few physical feet, loomed the immense spiritual and ideological chasm that wholly separated the evangelical and Catholic churches and cultures of Paraguay. On one side were those who had come to build an altar of candles and say rosaries and pray ancient prayers to God on behalf the departed. On the other side were those who had come to sing songs with a guitar and preach a sermon and pray an unscripted prayer for all the family members left behind. Two worlds collided at one poor Paraguayan man’s funeral. One world that wanted to say evening masses for nine days in an elaborate ceremony to rescue the departed’s soul from hot Purgatory, and the other that wanted to reach out to the community through a gesture of inviting faith in cool contemporary form.
In the end, the evangelicals seemed to win the turf war over the dead man’s house. At the request of the widow, daughter, and some friends, evangelical preachers came every night for more than a week to prevent a Catholic mass from being said. I’m not sure how the Catholics were able to finally express their grief, but I’m fairly certain the immediate family was pleased by the reaction and support shown by the evangelical church.
And as for the welfare of the dearly departed man’s soul? I can’t say for sure where he’s at or what he’s doing, but I can say for sure that he knows now better than any of the rest of us just who is right and who is wrong in this mixed-up church business. I can also say for sure, though, that he’s not going to share his secret with me or a single living soul.
The main person of interest at the meeting was the recently departed, an older gentleman who had also recently joined our Anabaptist church. Following in the spiritual footsteps of his wife and daughter, he had been accepted as a full member of the church and was baptized again on his death bed only the Thursday previous. Now it was the following Wednesday night, and he was dead. I heard he had been suffering from cancer or some other ailment for some time and had come home to die in the comfort of his home.
The home did its best job in preparing itself to honor the patriarch’s death. The front room, visible from the street, had cleared itself of all furniture and in the center, elevated like some magic floating platform, was a rented sterling silver coffin holding the body of the deceased with his feet facing the road. He was wearing a comfortable new brown sweat suit and, while I don’t think his family intended this, looked like a Franciscan monk lying in repose. In the background of this mourning scene, at the head of the coffin, was a massive crucifix lit up by Las-Vegas style neon-purple lights, along with a serious-looking six-foot silver candelabra whose one light bulb three-over from the right burnt out. To the left of the coffin was a plastic wreath-sign almost as big as the room that advertised for the funeral company. A glass of holy water under the coffin was left to ward away evil spirits.
You could feel the tension in the air just as much as you could feel the warm Paraguayan night. On one side of the front lawn sat the Catholic extended family, seemingly un-welcomed from the front room of the house once the Protestants arrived. They appeared to be moping about and waiting for us all to leave, and I noticed more than once on their faces irritated expressions of mistrust and doubt. Most of the immediate family, including the widow, daughter, a son, and some grandchildren, met with the newcomers inside.
Here, dividing the two factions by only a few physical feet, loomed the immense spiritual and ideological chasm that wholly separated the evangelical and Catholic churches and cultures of Paraguay. On one side were those who had come to build an altar of candles and say rosaries and pray ancient prayers to God on behalf the departed. On the other side were those who had come to sing songs with a guitar and preach a sermon and pray an unscripted prayer for all the family members left behind. Two worlds collided at one poor Paraguayan man’s funeral. One world that wanted to say evening masses for nine days in an elaborate ceremony to rescue the departed’s soul from hot Purgatory, and the other that wanted to reach out to the community through a gesture of inviting faith in cool contemporary form.
In the end, the evangelicals seemed to win the turf war over the dead man’s house. At the request of the widow, daughter, and some friends, evangelical preachers came every night for more than a week to prevent a Catholic mass from being said. I’m not sure how the Catholics were able to finally express their grief, but I’m fairly certain the immediate family was pleased by the reaction and support shown by the evangelical church.
And as for the welfare of the dearly departed man’s soul? I can’t say for sure where he’s at or what he’s doing, but I can say for sure that he knows now better than any of the rest of us just who is right and who is wrong in this mixed-up church business. I can also say for sure, though, that he’s not going to share his secret with me or a single living soul.
Monday, November 05, 2007
Long Weekend Trip
Last weekend I had the chance to see a little more of Paraguay and get a better taste for her culture and form. The 9th and 10th grades went on a two and a half day trip to see several sights in areas of the country about six hours east of Asuncion. I was privileged to go along on the secure but tiring excursion with all the excited youth.
We left around midnight last Thursday. Lucky for me, the sickness I felt in my stomach from a bad lunch of tepid fruit-smoothie was no indication of how the rest of the weekend would end up. We boarded our bus, which to my grand surprise was a huge air-conditioned Brazilian affair with twice the space for reclining than any of the airlines I traveled on to get here. With my pillow in hand and ear plugs in ears, I drifted off to sleep.
Around 5:30 in the morning I was awakened to breakfast time. Our bus was stopping at one of the most-famous Chiparrias in Paraguay to enjoy an early morning bite to eat. Chipa, one of the national foods here, is a bagel-like snack whose dough is baked warm with cheese and is sold everywhere. Women with chipa baskets on their hips or heads enter public buses all the time to sell it, and countless roadside stands feed weary travelers with it.
We stopped at a place that was supposed to sell the best chipa in all of Paraguay. There was a bathroom there, too, that had a guard posted outside who carried what looked like an elephant gun. I felt much better knowing that we were all safe from stampeding herds of giant mammals as we ate fresh chipa and drank hot cocido, a drink like sweet creamy coffee made from charred yerba mate.
Along with the guard were several middle-aged ladies selling chipa at this most famous chipa stand. They wore robin-egg blue form-fitting outfits and reminded me of airline stewardesses. From what I heard, the chipa vendor has a coveted job here, selling a flavor of national culinary pride and making good business while doing it. I thought the stop was a delicious piece of Paraguayan cultural pie.
We traveled some more and I slept another two hours all the way to Brazil, where we stopped at Tres Fronteras. The tourist spot, called Three Frontiers in English, is the place where Argentina, Brazil, and Paraguay all three meet in a grand panorama and where can be seen two rivers flowing into one another with an ancient embrace. It was exciting because it was the first real photo opportunity, and I learned there that Paraguayans have a little jingle they sing when they want or are having a picture taken. It goes something like this: “FOH-toh, FOH-toh, FOH-toh.” All through the trip, I took plenty of FOH-tohs.
By mid-morning we’d reached Iguazu Falls. I’m pretty sure these falls are, water quantity-wise, the largest in the world. Even in a time of drought like now, their size supposedly dwarfs Niagara Falls (although, in my own mind, they were no more impressive than their North American counterparts. The nice thing about Iguazu that is different than Niagara, however, is that the former is set in the midst of a largely unspoiled jungle. The Brazilian government has set up just enough amenities and tourist huts to make the visit comfortable for the foreigner, but not enough to spoil the natural serenity or beauty of the surrounding tropical landscape). I’m not sure how I could have come to any other conclusion than to say that they were really beautiful, really big, and pretty impressive.
One thing I remember more distinctly than the waterfalls were the millipedes – giant South American ones the size of your face – crawling everywhere on the footpaths. People naturally stepped all over the path and the millipedes, smooshing the creatures into the ground. I could tell the ones that had died recently, as they were still round and fleshly, apart from the ones that had died much earlier, which were only skeletons and dried out. At some point the dead ones seem to have become part of the cement walkway, leaving their imprints like very ancient fossils.
For lunch on Friday we visited a Brazilian buffet. The food was abundant and, in my opinion, very tasty. There were savory gobs of various meats, served fresh off of long roasting rods, along with plenty of South American salads and treats. We washed it all down with Coca Cola, the drink de force of the weekend and of good times in Paraguay.
Friday afternoon we visited Itapu, the site of the world’s largest man-made dam. Built under a Paraguayan dictator a few decades ago with Brazilian financing, the dam is a testament to man’s ability to harness nature’s forces. Nearly a dozen and a half giant turbines slowly let filter through the great waters of the now stopped-up Parana, the fourth largest river flow in the world, creating enough electricity in just one and a half turbines to supply all of Paraguay’s needs. The rest is sent to Brazil. Money from the dam is used in building projects and public services all over Paraguay, with a large part of it also going into the private coffers of high-ranking political officials and friends of the state.
Friday night we stayed at a beautiful campground on the shores of the great lake created by Itapu Dam. The stay was completely free for our school group, financed as a gift and pacifier to the Paraguayan people by the dam proprietors and government. It was a scenic paradise where we had the chance to enjoy a ride through the jungle in horse-drawn carriage in the daytime and see the massive ginger moon rise up out of the dark waters in the nighttime. The perfect setting, along with a massive grilled meat dinner served by the school’s director and pastor, made our stay entirely wonderful and a highlight of the trip.
Saturday we woke bright and early to enjoy some more of the campground. We left mid-morning for Ciudad del Este, a shopper’s paradise filled with the newest and cheapest electronic goods, the most fashionable and imitated sports gear, and the most impressive and blackest of all markets I’ve ever seen. It was a dream-come-true of materialistic sensationalism, with shop after shop and seller after seller pawning their worldly wares. I was completely overwhelmed by the scene and unable to process anything. With all the frenzied purchasing activity going on around me and my own explainable fears of losing everything in my pockets, I was glad we only had an hour to stay. Even though I needed an alarm clock, I decided not to purchase anything in this great “City of the East” (Ciudad del Este) and left with my pockets still burdened by Paraguayan cash.
Saturday afternoon, we visited another waterfall and then spent the remainder of the day at the AC Church outside of Ciudad del Este playing bocce ball and eating roast chicken. We returned in the evening to Itapu, where we saw an over-hyped light and sound show as the dam slowly and un-dramatically turned on its fluorescent nightlights. After another stop at the church, we headed back to our air-conditioned bus for a night trip back to Asuncion. All in all, the excursion was a grand adventure in the safety of a school field trip and gave us all the chance to see, hear, and smell some of Paraguay’s greatest secret treasures.
We left around midnight last Thursday. Lucky for me, the sickness I felt in my stomach from a bad lunch of tepid fruit-smoothie was no indication of how the rest of the weekend would end up. We boarded our bus, which to my grand surprise was a huge air-conditioned Brazilian affair with twice the space for reclining than any of the airlines I traveled on to get here. With my pillow in hand and ear plugs in ears, I drifted off to sleep.
Around 5:30 in the morning I was awakened to breakfast time. Our bus was stopping at one of the most-famous Chiparrias in Paraguay to enjoy an early morning bite to eat. Chipa, one of the national foods here, is a bagel-like snack whose dough is baked warm with cheese and is sold everywhere. Women with chipa baskets on their hips or heads enter public buses all the time to sell it, and countless roadside stands feed weary travelers with it.
We stopped at a place that was supposed to sell the best chipa in all of Paraguay. There was a bathroom there, too, that had a guard posted outside who carried what looked like an elephant gun. I felt much better knowing that we were all safe from stampeding herds of giant mammals as we ate fresh chipa and drank hot cocido, a drink like sweet creamy coffee made from charred yerba mate.
Along with the guard were several middle-aged ladies selling chipa at this most famous chipa stand. They wore robin-egg blue form-fitting outfits and reminded me of airline stewardesses. From what I heard, the chipa vendor has a coveted job here, selling a flavor of national culinary pride and making good business while doing it. I thought the stop was a delicious piece of Paraguayan cultural pie.
We traveled some more and I slept another two hours all the way to Brazil, where we stopped at Tres Fronteras. The tourist spot, called Three Frontiers in English, is the place where Argentina, Brazil, and Paraguay all three meet in a grand panorama and where can be seen two rivers flowing into one another with an ancient embrace. It was exciting because it was the first real photo opportunity, and I learned there that Paraguayans have a little jingle they sing when they want or are having a picture taken. It goes something like this: “FOH-toh, FOH-toh, FOH-toh.” All through the trip, I took plenty of FOH-tohs.
By mid-morning we’d reached Iguazu Falls. I’m pretty sure these falls are, water quantity-wise, the largest in the world. Even in a time of drought like now, their size supposedly dwarfs Niagara Falls (although, in my own mind, they were no more impressive than their North American counterparts. The nice thing about Iguazu that is different than Niagara, however, is that the former is set in the midst of a largely unspoiled jungle. The Brazilian government has set up just enough amenities and tourist huts to make the visit comfortable for the foreigner, but not enough to spoil the natural serenity or beauty of the surrounding tropical landscape). I’m not sure how I could have come to any other conclusion than to say that they were really beautiful, really big, and pretty impressive.
One thing I remember more distinctly than the waterfalls were the millipedes – giant South American ones the size of your face – crawling everywhere on the footpaths. People naturally stepped all over the path and the millipedes, smooshing the creatures into the ground. I could tell the ones that had died recently, as they were still round and fleshly, apart from the ones that had died much earlier, which were only skeletons and dried out. At some point the dead ones seem to have become part of the cement walkway, leaving their imprints like very ancient fossils.
For lunch on Friday we visited a Brazilian buffet. The food was abundant and, in my opinion, very tasty. There were savory gobs of various meats, served fresh off of long roasting rods, along with plenty of South American salads and treats. We washed it all down with Coca Cola, the drink de force of the weekend and of good times in Paraguay.
Friday afternoon we visited Itapu, the site of the world’s largest man-made dam. Built under a Paraguayan dictator a few decades ago with Brazilian financing, the dam is a testament to man’s ability to harness nature’s forces. Nearly a dozen and a half giant turbines slowly let filter through the great waters of the now stopped-up Parana, the fourth largest river flow in the world, creating enough electricity in just one and a half turbines to supply all of Paraguay’s needs. The rest is sent to Brazil. Money from the dam is used in building projects and public services all over Paraguay, with a large part of it also going into the private coffers of high-ranking political officials and friends of the state.
Friday night we stayed at a beautiful campground on the shores of the great lake created by Itapu Dam. The stay was completely free for our school group, financed as a gift and pacifier to the Paraguayan people by the dam proprietors and government. It was a scenic paradise where we had the chance to enjoy a ride through the jungle in horse-drawn carriage in the daytime and see the massive ginger moon rise up out of the dark waters in the nighttime. The perfect setting, along with a massive grilled meat dinner served by the school’s director and pastor, made our stay entirely wonderful and a highlight of the trip.
Saturday we woke bright and early to enjoy some more of the campground. We left mid-morning for Ciudad del Este, a shopper’s paradise filled with the newest and cheapest electronic goods, the most fashionable and imitated sports gear, and the most impressive and blackest of all markets I’ve ever seen. It was a dream-come-true of materialistic sensationalism, with shop after shop and seller after seller pawning their worldly wares. I was completely overwhelmed by the scene and unable to process anything. With all the frenzied purchasing activity going on around me and my own explainable fears of losing everything in my pockets, I was glad we only had an hour to stay. Even though I needed an alarm clock, I decided not to purchase anything in this great “City of the East” (Ciudad del Este) and left with my pockets still burdened by Paraguayan cash.
Saturday afternoon, we visited another waterfall and then spent the remainder of the day at the AC Church outside of Ciudad del Este playing bocce ball and eating roast chicken. We returned in the evening to Itapu, where we saw an over-hyped light and sound show as the dam slowly and un-dramatically turned on its fluorescent nightlights. After another stop at the church, we headed back to our air-conditioned bus for a night trip back to Asuncion. All in all, the excursion was a grand adventure in the safety of a school field trip and gave us all the chance to see, hear, and smell some of Paraguay’s greatest secret treasures.
Wednesday, October 31, 2007
Costumes and Candy Corn
Today is October 31st. If I were in the States, I’d probably go to a costume party wearing some sort of clever outfit and eat way more candy corn than is healthy for any one person to eat in the course of a decade. Last year, for example, I dressed up as a Republican who’d been badly beaten up by an angry electorate and ate probably three pounds of the white-yellow-orange card-board tasting pyramidal treats. I had a grand time celebrating with folks dressed up as ghouls and even went on a tour of haunted houses in Old Town Alexandria, Virginia. As a child, Halloween candy was an important part of my autumn diet and someday I’ll probably take my own kids trick-or-treating, too. I think it can be a healthy, human, and good thing to confront the realities of death with a sense of humor and a touch of spook. For the Christian believer, after all, the grave will never win any permanent victory nor will death have any lasting sting.
Here in Paraguay, though, Halloween is different. Christian believers take the holiday as a time of very real spiritual danger. This past month, the pastors at church have been preparing us all for October 31st, a day on which they believe satanic forces are much more at work than the rest of the year. In the school and church, October was proclaimed a month of spiritual warfare and the Devil’s forces were battled with much prayer and fasting, for some kinds of demons “cannot be driven out by anything but prayer and fasting.”
Thus, I won’t be celebrating anything related to Halloween this year. I’ve hung up my ideas for clever costumes in the closet of my mind for another place and time, and I’ve even shied away from glancing at the candy corn displays in the supermarket. And what’s all this for?
The rational part of me wants to say that the Paraguayan church is superstitious, believing in ghosts and spiritual forces that the rest of the modern world has given-up on. How many people do I know, for example, who have been demon-possessed in the U.S.? I definitely heard of one person once, but even then my skeptical mind attributed her demons to mental illnesses and her exorcism to an act of social readjustment.
Yet here, people do believe in satanic forces and demon possession and evil powers and they do believe in it strongly. Many from the church, for example, have told me of ritualistic demonic sacrifices on Cerro Lamabare, the same hill just a few miles away where we were mugged just a week ago. Other believers have told me of extended family members who have made pacts with Bombero, an ancient demon firmly established in pre-Christian mythology and the Paraguayan mind. At a funeral vigil I attended last week, there was a cup of water placed under the coffin to ward away evil spirits. For better or worse, the Paraguayan people and the church here have strong beliefs in the world of spirits.
This Halloween, I’m giving up my so-called reason and American point-of-view and embracing the attitude of Paraguayan believers. The belief in invisible spiritual powers is, after all, thoroughly Christian and biblical. I want to believe in spiritual realities, both good and bad that I cannot see, because I know scripture teaches so much about “cosmic powers” and “spiritual forces.” Our own Lord Jesus Christ cast out evil demons while on earth, and is now seated in Heaven with all “angels, authorities, and powers having been subjected to him.” When Jesus Christ himself saw and understood spiritual forces and is described as the Lord and ruler over every one, it would require no small amount of hubris on my part to claim that, intellectually, I’ve moved beyond a belief in other-worldly powers. Oftentimes my faulty reason is a hindrance to true biblical and Christian faith and too often I quickly abandon very important aspects of belief in favor of a modern, rational interpretation.
Hence, this Halloween I’m trying to give up some of that prideful and wrong thinking. I’m fasting from Halloween candy and costumes and praying for God’s protection over the church. I’m paying closer attention to what my brothers and sisters in Christ say about spiritual realities and truths, and doing my best to leave my unchristian modernist ideas at home in America. I’m slowly learning about things I cannot see and doing my best not to jump to conclusions. While I think I may be starving for lack of candy corn, I trust that the harvest of faith I reap in its place will be longer-lasting and more satisfying anyways.
Here in Paraguay, though, Halloween is different. Christian believers take the holiday as a time of very real spiritual danger. This past month, the pastors at church have been preparing us all for October 31st, a day on which they believe satanic forces are much more at work than the rest of the year. In the school and church, October was proclaimed a month of spiritual warfare and the Devil’s forces were battled with much prayer and fasting, for some kinds of demons “cannot be driven out by anything but prayer and fasting.”
Thus, I won’t be celebrating anything related to Halloween this year. I’ve hung up my ideas for clever costumes in the closet of my mind for another place and time, and I’ve even shied away from glancing at the candy corn displays in the supermarket. And what’s all this for?
The rational part of me wants to say that the Paraguayan church is superstitious, believing in ghosts and spiritual forces that the rest of the modern world has given-up on. How many people do I know, for example, who have been demon-possessed in the U.S.? I definitely heard of one person once, but even then my skeptical mind attributed her demons to mental illnesses and her exorcism to an act of social readjustment.
Yet here, people do believe in satanic forces and demon possession and evil powers and they do believe in it strongly. Many from the church, for example, have told me of ritualistic demonic sacrifices on Cerro Lamabare, the same hill just a few miles away where we were mugged just a week ago. Other believers have told me of extended family members who have made pacts with Bombero, an ancient demon firmly established in pre-Christian mythology and the Paraguayan mind. At a funeral vigil I attended last week, there was a cup of water placed under the coffin to ward away evil spirits. For better or worse, the Paraguayan people and the church here have strong beliefs in the world of spirits.
This Halloween, I’m giving up my so-called reason and American point-of-view and embracing the attitude of Paraguayan believers. The belief in invisible spiritual powers is, after all, thoroughly Christian and biblical. I want to believe in spiritual realities, both good and bad that I cannot see, because I know scripture teaches so much about “cosmic powers” and “spiritual forces.” Our own Lord Jesus Christ cast out evil demons while on earth, and is now seated in Heaven with all “angels, authorities, and powers having been subjected to him.” When Jesus Christ himself saw and understood spiritual forces and is described as the Lord and ruler over every one, it would require no small amount of hubris on my part to claim that, intellectually, I’ve moved beyond a belief in other-worldly powers. Oftentimes my faulty reason is a hindrance to true biblical and Christian faith and too often I quickly abandon very important aspects of belief in favor of a modern, rational interpretation.
Hence, this Halloween I’m trying to give up some of that prideful and wrong thinking. I’m fasting from Halloween candy and costumes and praying for God’s protection over the church. I’m paying closer attention to what my brothers and sisters in Christ say about spiritual realities and truths, and doing my best to leave my unchristian modernist ideas at home in America. I’m slowly learning about things I cannot see and doing my best not to jump to conclusions. While I think I may be starving for lack of candy corn, I trust that the harvest of faith I reap in its place will be longer-lasting and more satisfying anyways.
Thursday, October 25, 2007
Que Paso (What Happened)
With the exception of strong rain in the morning, Sunday started off as normal as any day I’ve seen here. I got up around 6:30, went to church at 8:30, and then talked with friends afterwards until about 10:30. I was looking forward to an afternoon of visiting Cerro Lambare, a tall hill overlooking the River Paraguay and much of
We walked to the Cerro Lamabare by way of Cacique Lambare, which is the main road through plain-old Lambare (the suburb of
About halfway up the Cerro, our group decided to spilt up. Unbeknownst to us, this choice sealed the fate of our trip. The three Paraguayan guys and Peter decided to go straight up the mountain, cutting through the woods and climbing up at a steep angle. This left the two Canadian ladies, Emmy, and I to take the winding and paved road up the hill.
Emmy and I were in a lively chat about Saint Roeca, a martyred Paraguayan Jesuit, when I saw something move behind my back. Having traveled the world and considered myself a safe tourist, I quickly glanced behind as a precautionary measure to make sure no one was following us. Nothing could have prepared me for what I saw a few steps back.
There quickly catching up to us was a sixteen year old youth in a brown shirt with a pistol in his right hand. I did a double-take to make sure I wasn’t seeing things, and then announced to the group that there was a man with a gun following us. We all four turned around just as quickly as I mentioned it. Facing our pursuer and forming a semi-circle around him as he came up to meet us, the youth pointed his gun at all our fragile frames and began demanding cell phones.
The next couple minutes are a complete blur in my mind, but I do remember a few things distinctly. Being the only brave man in the group, I did the best thing that I could to help the situation. Promptly losing all control of bodily and mental function, I passed a gas that was entirely uncalled for and indecent in such mixed company. I then proceeded, in as cowardly and terrified a voice as I could muster, to beg for our lives in strained and broken (yet incredibly fervent) por favors. My voice, in utter terror, sounded like that of a small child who, fearing for his life, runs away from a giant farm animal chasing him in the pasture. It kind of sounded like “eeaaauuhhhhhhh.”
Our assaulter then went to each one of us, demanding once again our cell phones and cash with all the authority he had in his pistol. Since he didn’t believe us when we told him that we had none (three North Americans without cell phones? Come on, give me a break), he promptly groped us to make sure we were telling the truth. In the course of the assault, we did as much as we could to please the thief and pacify his gun-wielding self. To prove to him that I had no cell phone and in an attempt to make him happy, I began taking off my shirt and pants and offering them to him. He didn’t want my clothes, though, and I ended buttoning my pants back up only after the ladies told me I was undressing unnecessarily.
The ladies, by the way, were calm the entire time. Emmy was more afraid that I had lost my mind than she was of the robber, so she did her best to keep me quiet and controlled. I’m pretty sure her calming words of “tranquilo, Jason, tranquilo” to me during the ordeal were the only things that kept me from getting us all shot.
In the end, I offered the crook all my cash (about $6) and my watch, a cheap $5 WalMart timekeeper that he didn’t even have to ask for. Larissa lost the most in the mugging when Ellen offered the crook her backpack which held Larissa’s camera, Larissa’s $300, and Larissa’s credit and bank cards. Be that as it may, the gift seemed to appease our criminal. He took it and then, with a flurry of Spanish and Guarani words, cursed me as a cowardly American man, pointed the gun at my head, and then inexplicably left just as quickly as he arrived.
The entire time, I thought for sure I was going to die. To my shame, I didn’t even think to pray. Unreasonable impulse took over, and the only thing I could think of was how sad and senseless my death would be on this Heaven-forsaken mountain in
Afterwards, we ran up the hill and met with the other guys. A motorcycle club picnicking there saw our plight and promptly went out riding in search of the assailant. He wasn’t anywhere to be found. Fifteen minutes later the Paraguayan police came by and gave us all a ride in the back of their truck to the police station, where we signed our names on a piece of used, wrinkly paper. I’m pretty sure, though, that it was just a formality. The police had no idea how to even contact the Canadian Embassy, and I’m certain our cause and justice’s cause was lost from the moment we were robbed. What we lost was lost for good, swallowed by an ocean of poverty and crime.
Still, though, I consider us all very lucky to have even survived (and without being shot once, a miracle!). In spite of my best efforts to make the situation turn out badly, God’s protection over us all trumped all. There must have been an army of angels with us that day, as our safety through the robbery seems to defy all logic. I call it a miracle that I’m still here after staring into the barrel of my assailaint’s gun, and can only thank God that I’ve got more time to serve Him here on Earth.
Monday, October 22, 2007
Just Gotta Wait
I’ve got a blog entry in the making that is quite a story. So, to get you excited about it ahead of time, I’m offering some possible titles for the tale as a sneak preview:
1. The Worst Idea Ever: A Paraguayan Travel No-No
2. The Incredible Adventure of Jason and the Three Ladies
3. Where’d that Drunk with a Pistol Come from?
4. Why Don’t They Teach You the Word “Assault” in High School Spanish?
5. I Wish I Had Thought of This ahead of Time
6. Yes, Junior, People Really Do Lose Control of Bodily Functions in Terrifying Situations
7. Staring Down the Gun Barrel
8. My Own Personal Portal to Glory
9. At Least I Thought I Was Ready to Go
10. Someone’s Prayin’, Lord
11. Yes, Sir, Please Take My Pants, Too
12. American Cowardice
13. If I Were a Cat, I’d Have 8 More Lives
14. Angels Watchin’ Over Me, My Lord
15. Every Day Now Is a Gift
I bet you can’t wait to hear what happened. For me, it’s still kind of fresh, so it may take a few days for me to process everything and write about it.
1. The Worst Idea Ever: A Paraguayan Travel No-No
2. The Incredible Adventure of Jason and the Three Ladies
3. Where’d that Drunk with a Pistol Come from?
4. Why Don’t They Teach You the Word “Assault” in High School Spanish?
5. I Wish I Had Thought of This ahead of Time
6. Yes, Junior, People Really Do Lose Control of Bodily Functions in Terrifying Situations
7. Staring Down the Gun Barrel
8. My Own Personal Portal to Glory
9. At Least I Thought I Was Ready to Go
10. Someone’s Prayin’, Lord
11. Yes, Sir, Please Take My Pants, Too
12. American Cowardice
13. If I Were a Cat, I’d Have 8 More Lives
14. Angels Watchin’ Over Me, My Lord
15. Every Day Now Is a Gift
I bet you can’t wait to hear what happened. For me, it’s still kind of fresh, so it may take a few days for me to process everything and write about it.
Straight Talk
Being in a foreign country makes me feel very fragile, helpless, and human. For someone who’s been told all his life that he can do anything he puts his mind to, it’s a good but tough lesson to learn that I have my limits. I’m being humbled very much.
For instance, when I try to converse in Spanish, I’m sure I sound to native speakers more like a crazed pagan with Turretts than a sane and healthy Christian. Because of the all too-slowly dissolving language barrier, I’m holding on to many un-communicated thoughts in my mind like my dad holds on to the oversized and unwanted zucchinis in his August garden.
I often feel like a helpless fool, tripping over pronouns and conjugated verbs and my very own tongue (who seems to have gained some measure of independence in this foreign land). No longer does my tongue listen obediently when I try to say something smart. Instead, he now squeaks and squabbles and hobbles and does his best to make a fool out of me. I’m certain my tongue is not Spanish. Rather, he’s got to be Hungarian, German, or Irish just like me, because he’s very stubborn and is obstinately taking his time in adapting to the new life here.
Already, I’ve said plenty of things in Spanish that I look forward to laughing about in a few years. When I was in the first grade class sharing about my favorite food, for example, I told them I like ensalada taco, taco salad. Unfortunately for the Paraguayan pupils, they were unfamiliar with the Mexican taco tradition and thought I meant shoe heels salad, the literal translation of ensalada taco. They got a good laugh from it.
Another Spanish-blooper moment, shared with a young lady from the church in a much more serious conversation, was also a much more embarrassing mistake. She asked how my transition to life and to the church here was going, and I responded as best I could that the church was amazing and welcoming me with open arms. The trouble was that I accidentally substituted the Spanish word for “legs” when I meant to say “arms.” I very quickly realized my mistake and profusely apologized for what I said. She understood that I was a bit confused with my words and was very gracious in correcting me, but it still didn’t help the embarrassment of the whole thing.
Here, I am no longer the eloquent and intelligent fellow that I am in English-speaking lands. My trendy idol of speech, built from flashy smart words and large clever turns of phrase, has been smashed to smithereens by the blunt and often traumatic force of this new language. I know neither the tongues of men nor angels in Spanish, but praise God that, as 1 Corinthians 13 suggests, this isn’t the most important thing. Although my speech in Spanish isn’t worth anything, I am getting to know better the privilege and opportunity of sharing in the love of God, which is worth everything. It’s a love that I’ve felt through all the awkward times when I stand alone, when my tongue fails me and I can no longer speak. Wonderfully, it’s a love that is stable and strong and persists. When all my showy plastic English words cease in silence, this life-giving love springs from within and speaks something different and true. For me, el amor de Dios, the love of God, gives the grace to “bear all things, believe all things, hope all things, (and) endure all things,” even when my words cannot.
For instance, when I try to converse in Spanish, I’m sure I sound to native speakers more like a crazed pagan with Turretts than a sane and healthy Christian. Because of the all too-slowly dissolving language barrier, I’m holding on to many un-communicated thoughts in my mind like my dad holds on to the oversized and unwanted zucchinis in his August garden.
I often feel like a helpless fool, tripping over pronouns and conjugated verbs and my very own tongue (who seems to have gained some measure of independence in this foreign land). No longer does my tongue listen obediently when I try to say something smart. Instead, he now squeaks and squabbles and hobbles and does his best to make a fool out of me. I’m certain my tongue is not Spanish. Rather, he’s got to be Hungarian, German, or Irish just like me, because he’s very stubborn and is obstinately taking his time in adapting to the new life here.
Already, I’ve said plenty of things in Spanish that I look forward to laughing about in a few years. When I was in the first grade class sharing about my favorite food, for example, I told them I like ensalada taco, taco salad. Unfortunately for the Paraguayan pupils, they were unfamiliar with the Mexican taco tradition and thought I meant shoe heels salad, the literal translation of ensalada taco. They got a good laugh from it.
Another Spanish-blooper moment, shared with a young lady from the church in a much more serious conversation, was also a much more embarrassing mistake. She asked how my transition to life and to the church here was going, and I responded as best I could that the church was amazing and welcoming me with open arms. The trouble was that I accidentally substituted the Spanish word for “legs” when I meant to say “arms.” I very quickly realized my mistake and profusely apologized for what I said. She understood that I was a bit confused with my words and was very gracious in correcting me, but it still didn’t help the embarrassment of the whole thing.
Here, I am no longer the eloquent and intelligent fellow that I am in English-speaking lands. My trendy idol of speech, built from flashy smart words and large clever turns of phrase, has been smashed to smithereens by the blunt and often traumatic force of this new language. I know neither the tongues of men nor angels in Spanish, but praise God that, as 1 Corinthians 13 suggests, this isn’t the most important thing. Although my speech in Spanish isn’t worth anything, I am getting to know better the privilege and opportunity of sharing in the love of God, which is worth everything. It’s a love that I’ve felt through all the awkward times when I stand alone, when my tongue fails me and I can no longer speak. Wonderfully, it’s a love that is stable and strong and persists. When all my showy plastic English words cease in silence, this life-giving love springs from within and speaks something different and true. For me, el amor de Dios, the love of God, gives the grace to “bear all things, believe all things, hope all things, (and) endure all things,” even when my words cannot.
Friday, October 19, 2007
Good Times
I can’t imagine I’m ever going to get sick again. My immune system will be stronger than the strongest steel, faster to react than the quickest cat, and be more knowledgeable about various germs than the largest germ database in the world. And why? Because I’m living in Paraguay. I’ve been meeting dozens upon dozens of new people, and have been sharing just as many straws and cups and utensils with every one of them.
Folks in Paraguay are not squeamish about sharing anything related to food and drink. The most important cultural and culinary example here is the phenomenon of yerba mate. It’s a sort of green tea, grown and made famous in Paraguay and shipped all over the world. Enjoyed everywhere from the dark and dense tropical forests of traditional Brazil to the light and airy coffee shops of trendy California, yerba mate is a powerfully energizing and healthy antioxidant drink that finds its origin among the Paraguayan people.
Yerba mate can be had with hot or cold water. The former, sipped slowly and carefully in the mornings or during cold weather, is the steamy mate. The latter, a warmer-weather and afternoon/evening drink, is the frigid terrere. No matter the weather or time, every fourth or fifth person carries around a thermos for mate or a jug for terrere. Whenever there is a break in the day or any sort of socializing, out comes the giant thermos or jug alongside a small cup filled with the yerba mate.
From what I’ve learned so far, etiquette teaches that the youngest person in the group ought to be the one who fills up the communal cup. From my experience, though, it’s most often been the owner of the jug of water who fills the cup and then passes it around. Inside the prized cultural chalice, yerba mate floats freely and mixes with the water, which is then sipped through a filtered straw. The cup holds enough water for about two sips, the second of which is the most enjoyable because the tea mixes with the air and makes playful mate bubbles.
The cup is passed from person to person, each one taking their two sips through a shared straw and then passing it back to water-jug-holder. The mate or terrere continues as long as there is water, and it’s not uncommon on a summer night to refill a water jug several times in the course of an evening. From after-church activities to lunch-time breaks from work, yerba mate touches every part of Paraguayan life and provides a common shared drink and experience.
And the germs? I’d imagine they’re passed along with the cup and straw, too. In the name of friendship and hospitality, however, no one cares. Community takes precedent over individual well-being or illness. If everyone is fine, everyone is fine together. If someone has a bug, everyone may get it and that’s just the way it is. This is, perhaps, the great blessing of living and sharing life together. The shared cup brings Paraguayans to a place where they can know very intimately the health or sickness, the joy or pain of their neighbors and friends. It very practically requires a participation in the rejoicing or weeping of everyone taking sips from the cup, and unites all together in a grand spirit of Christian empathy.
Folks in Paraguay are not squeamish about sharing anything related to food and drink. The most important cultural and culinary example here is the phenomenon of yerba mate. It’s a sort of green tea, grown and made famous in Paraguay and shipped all over the world. Enjoyed everywhere from the dark and dense tropical forests of traditional Brazil to the light and airy coffee shops of trendy California, yerba mate is a powerfully energizing and healthy antioxidant drink that finds its origin among the Paraguayan people.
Yerba mate can be had with hot or cold water. The former, sipped slowly and carefully in the mornings or during cold weather, is the steamy mate. The latter, a warmer-weather and afternoon/evening drink, is the frigid terrere. No matter the weather or time, every fourth or fifth person carries around a thermos for mate or a jug for terrere. Whenever there is a break in the day or any sort of socializing, out comes the giant thermos or jug alongside a small cup filled with the yerba mate.
From what I’ve learned so far, etiquette teaches that the youngest person in the group ought to be the one who fills up the communal cup. From my experience, though, it’s most often been the owner of the jug of water who fills the cup and then passes it around. Inside the prized cultural chalice, yerba mate floats freely and mixes with the water, which is then sipped through a filtered straw. The cup holds enough water for about two sips, the second of which is the most enjoyable because the tea mixes with the air and makes playful mate bubbles.
The cup is passed from person to person, each one taking their two sips through a shared straw and then passing it back to water-jug-holder. The mate or terrere continues as long as there is water, and it’s not uncommon on a summer night to refill a water jug several times in the course of an evening. From after-church activities to lunch-time breaks from work, yerba mate touches every part of Paraguayan life and provides a common shared drink and experience.
And the germs? I’d imagine they’re passed along with the cup and straw, too. In the name of friendship and hospitality, however, no one cares. Community takes precedent over individual well-being or illness. If everyone is fine, everyone is fine together. If someone has a bug, everyone may get it and that’s just the way it is. This is, perhaps, the great blessing of living and sharing life together. The shared cup brings Paraguayans to a place where they can know very intimately the health or sickness, the joy or pain of their neighbors and friends. It very practically requires a participation in the rejoicing or weeping of everyone taking sips from the cup, and unites all together in a grand spirit of Christian empathy.
Monday, October 15, 2007
Myth Busters
“… Jai-saun, nuestro misionero.”
I only caught the words because they mentioned my name. Sitting in a classroom observing a Paraguayan teacher teach, my mind was completely somewhere else where the thoughts were English and disinterested in the outside world. Then I heard the words, “Jai-saun, nuestro misionero.” “Jason, our missionary.”
The phrase wasn’t addressed to me. Instead, I was being used as an example for the children’s lesson. I was something special -- a model for them to look up to, somehow related to the Bible story being taught. A missionary.
Being in Paraguay generally, and hearing my name in the classroom specifically, has gotten me thinking much about what being a misionero means. What’s the significance of being known as a missionary? What does it mean for me to actually be a missionary?
There are many gratifying elements to being labeled a misionero, although not all are quite so spiritually edifying. Before I left home, for example, I heard so many people tell me just how brave I was to go to a foreign country. They thought out loud about how they could never do it and how it must require some special sort of person to travel half a hemisphere away. And my pride grew a little. Then there were the admiring looks from the Christian girls, who (and I may be/probably am just imagining this) were thinking, “Wow, what a special, very handsome, Christian missionary guy.” And my ego grew a little, too.
There are also some elements to being labeled a missionary, though, that don’t feed my ego or make me feel great. It seems as if I’m under many microscopes and am having most every aspect of my life inspected for narrowly-defined and culturally-conservative orthopraxy. In some ways this is good, as it helps me to stop being a hypocrite and to “keep my conduct among the Gentiles honorable, so that when they speak evil against me as an evildoer, they may see my good deeds and glorify God.” In other ways this is bad, though, as Satan often uses it in my life to intensify my already strong, and wrong, desire to please men. I become less concerned with what my Heavenly Father thinks, and more concerned with what people think. I fear those who can kill my reputation and talk badly about me, but never “Him who can destroy both body and soul in Hell.”
The good and bad elements of being labeled a misionero, however, all seem to point in one direction: missionaries are different, somehow special, and completely unlike everyone else. There is a high standard, some grand calling, and perhaps even an extraordinary manifestation of God’s holiness in the misionero’s life.
Unfortunately for everyone else’s expectations but fortunately for my own sanity and good sense of Christian humility, most of the stereotypes I’ve been carrying around of what a misionero ought to be (that often feel heavier than the luggage I brought to Paraguay) don’t always fit the reality of my life.
For example, I am a sinner. I have let down God and other believers countless times in the past, I will surely do it today, and, for as long as God allows, I’ll be a sinner tomorrow, too. I have constantly left undone those things I ought to have done, and have done those things which I ought not to have done; and there is no health in me. According to Old Testament law, I should have been stoned several times by now -- and that’s just under the statute of cursing parents. Christ’s teaching in the Sermon on the Mount confirms my guilt: I am a murderer and an adulterer in my heart, wholly deserving eternal punishment in the fires of Hell. I am a fallen person, my attempts at right living being dirtier than filthy rags and my trespasses against a Holy God completely damning.
Yes, friends, I am a sinner misionero. I am wholly dependent on the grace of God for my righteousness, and anything positive that comes from my life – any manifestation of love or character or fruit of the Spirit – is completely foreign to me and is entirely a result of God’s mercy through Jesus Christ. I fail my friends, family, church, and God, but thankfully that same God never will fail them or me. I fall apart spiritually and some day soon my body will fall apart, too, but the God who knows my body and spirit together never will.
Thus, the misionero stereotypes just aren’t true of me. I’m not especially holy or strong, but am especially sinful and broken and messed up. It is only by the grace of God that I continue on and am able to doing anything of value, my own resources being of no worth and altogether consumed by weaknesses. So, please don’t look to Jai-saun, nuestro misionero, or put any faith in his so-called abilities. The missionary will fail you. Rather, if you’re looking for the Good and the True that never will disappoint, keep your sight set on God. Then, when my weaknesses are so plain to you (or even if they’re not and I’ve got you fooled into thinking I’ve got it all together), you won’t see me any more but instead the awesome God Who’s grace is sufficient for you and me and whose power is made perfect in weakness.
I only caught the words because they mentioned my name. Sitting in a classroom observing a Paraguayan teacher teach, my mind was completely somewhere else where the thoughts were English and disinterested in the outside world. Then I heard the words, “Jai-saun, nuestro misionero.” “Jason, our missionary.”
The phrase wasn’t addressed to me. Instead, I was being used as an example for the children’s lesson. I was something special -- a model for them to look up to, somehow related to the Bible story being taught. A missionary.
Being in Paraguay generally, and hearing my name in the classroom specifically, has gotten me thinking much about what being a misionero means. What’s the significance of being known as a missionary? What does it mean for me to actually be a missionary?
There are many gratifying elements to being labeled a misionero, although not all are quite so spiritually edifying. Before I left home, for example, I heard so many people tell me just how brave I was to go to a foreign country. They thought out loud about how they could never do it and how it must require some special sort of person to travel half a hemisphere away. And my pride grew a little. Then there were the admiring looks from the Christian girls, who (and I may be/probably am just imagining this) were thinking, “Wow, what a special, very handsome, Christian missionary guy.” And my ego grew a little, too.
There are also some elements to being labeled a missionary, though, that don’t feed my ego or make me feel great. It seems as if I’m under many microscopes and am having most every aspect of my life inspected for narrowly-defined and culturally-conservative orthopraxy. In some ways this is good, as it helps me to stop being a hypocrite and to “keep my conduct among the Gentiles honorable, so that when they speak evil against me as an evildoer, they may see my good deeds and glorify God.” In other ways this is bad, though, as Satan often uses it in my life to intensify my already strong, and wrong, desire to please men. I become less concerned with what my Heavenly Father thinks, and more concerned with what people think. I fear those who can kill my reputation and talk badly about me, but never “Him who can destroy both body and soul in Hell.”
The good and bad elements of being labeled a misionero, however, all seem to point in one direction: missionaries are different, somehow special, and completely unlike everyone else. There is a high standard, some grand calling, and perhaps even an extraordinary manifestation of God’s holiness in the misionero’s life.
Unfortunately for everyone else’s expectations but fortunately for my own sanity and good sense of Christian humility, most of the stereotypes I’ve been carrying around of what a misionero ought to be (that often feel heavier than the luggage I brought to Paraguay) don’t always fit the reality of my life.
For example, I am a sinner. I have let down God and other believers countless times in the past, I will surely do it today, and, for as long as God allows, I’ll be a sinner tomorrow, too. I have constantly left undone those things I ought to have done, and have done those things which I ought not to have done; and there is no health in me. According to Old Testament law, I should have been stoned several times by now -- and that’s just under the statute of cursing parents. Christ’s teaching in the Sermon on the Mount confirms my guilt: I am a murderer and an adulterer in my heart, wholly deserving eternal punishment in the fires of Hell. I am a fallen person, my attempts at right living being dirtier than filthy rags and my trespasses against a Holy God completely damning.
Yes, friends, I am a sinner misionero. I am wholly dependent on the grace of God for my righteousness, and anything positive that comes from my life – any manifestation of love or character or fruit of the Spirit – is completely foreign to me and is entirely a result of God’s mercy through Jesus Christ. I fail my friends, family, church, and God, but thankfully that same God never will fail them or me. I fall apart spiritually and some day soon my body will fall apart, too, but the God who knows my body and spirit together never will.
Thus, the misionero stereotypes just aren’t true of me. I’m not especially holy or strong, but am especially sinful and broken and messed up. It is only by the grace of God that I continue on and am able to doing anything of value, my own resources being of no worth and altogether consumed by weaknesses. So, please don’t look to Jai-saun, nuestro misionero, or put any faith in his so-called abilities. The missionary will fail you. Rather, if you’re looking for the Good and the True that never will disappoint, keep your sight set on God. Then, when my weaknesses are so plain to you (or even if they’re not and I’ve got you fooled into thinking I’ve got it all together), you won’t see me any more but instead the awesome God Who’s grace is sufficient for you and me and whose power is made perfect in weakness.
Wednesday, October 10, 2007
A Day in the Life
I’ve been in Paraguay for past two weeks now, and praise God things are starting to have some sense of familiarity. The time I’ve spent here has been jam-packed with so much: from a wedding I got to attend a week and half ago to campamento -- a youth camp that Ben and Vivi led through the church, I’ve had plenty of experiences to share in learning about Paraguayan culture.
Before I talk about these extra ordinary experiences, though, I’ll let you know how typical life goes. I’m staying with the Caballeros right now, so much of my day is shared with them and normal family activities. I get up around 5:00 every weekday morning to roosters crowing and exotic birds singing outside my window. There are no screens here, so everything sounds and feels as if it’s very close and very real. I look out my window to Oscar’s magnificent backyard, enjoying the happy purple orchids growing in the trees, the magnificent perennial hibiscus, and other plants that I’ve never seen before.
Around 5:30 I get to take part in breakfast with the Caballeros, which many times includes a fresh savory sort of pancake made with mandioca (a very starchy plaintuber) flour and cheese. After morning family devotions, we get into the car at 6:00 and head to school. 6:30 finds me at Colegio Privado Adonai with the other teachers, administrators, and directors for a pre-school devotion. I try to listen and pray along as best I can, but most of the time I only understand what’s going on when I can read along with the morning’s scripture in my bilingual Bible.
Classes begin at 7, and that’s when the real school day starts. Right now, I’m mostly helping Ellen, the Canadian teaching most of the lower grades, and Monica, a Paraguayan-taught-English-by-a-Texan, who’s teaching the higher grades. I generally just smile at the kids and act like I know what they’re saying while working on becoming their friend even before I know how to talk to them. I also get to work with the kids one-on-one with individual classwork, tutoring first graders with the English names of animals and the older kids with points of grammar that I hardly understand.
There’s a recess break around 8:30 when I grab a snack -- if I’m feeling skinny a fried empanada (like perogies, only with fried, flaky dough and most-often meat fillings) or, if I’m feeling healthy, a vegetable (with egg salad, too) sandwich. Lunch is an hour at noon, then, and several teachers stick around to eat together. I’ve only stayed twice for lunch, but everyone is friendly to share what they have. I wish I could have brought a little to share, too, but I’m just getting used to the culture of sharing everything.
Afternoons are much like the mornings, although this week I’ll begin tutoring sessions with two students at a time for half an hour each. The largest number of kids from any one class comes from 7th grade. I’m not sure if they especially need the extra help, but the class has a bunch of teenage girls who like to giggle and smile at me. I don’t especially mind, though, because it’s much easier to practice talking to someone in broken Spanish if you know they already like you.
Around three I hop in the Caballero car for the ride home. We arrive to a wonderful meal that Karen cooks every day and devour it very expeditiously. After dinner devotions and helping clean up, it’s time for a siesta and break from the day. Wednesday, Friday, Saturday, and Sunday nights find us back at the church (which, very conveniently, is connected to the school), and other nights find Brandon and Gabby (the Caballero boys) doing homework and me reading about culture or studying Spanish.
All in all, I’ve found another family and church family here in Paraguay. I’ve jumped right into Lamabare life and have been safely caught by a whole community of wonderful folks. I’m committed here, and so many here have also already committed to me. And through it all, I bless the name of God. As the Lord says to this Asuncion Church and the Caballero home, “Truly, I say to you, as you did it to one of the least of these my brothers, you did it to me.”
Before I talk about these extra ordinary experiences, though, I’ll let you know how typical life goes. I’m staying with the Caballeros right now, so much of my day is shared with them and normal family activities. I get up around 5:00 every weekday morning to roosters crowing and exotic birds singing outside my window. There are no screens here, so everything sounds and feels as if it’s very close and very real. I look out my window to Oscar’s magnificent backyard, enjoying the happy purple orchids growing in the trees, the magnificent perennial hibiscus, and other plants that I’ve never seen before.
Around 5:30 I get to take part in breakfast with the Caballeros, which many times includes a fresh savory sort of pancake made with mandioca (a very starchy plaintuber) flour and cheese. After morning family devotions, we get into the car at 6:00 and head to school. 6:30 finds me at Colegio Privado Adonai with the other teachers, administrators, and directors for a pre-school devotion. I try to listen and pray along as best I can, but most of the time I only understand what’s going on when I can read along with the morning’s scripture in my bilingual Bible.
Classes begin at 7, and that’s when the real school day starts. Right now, I’m mostly helping Ellen, the Canadian teaching most of the lower grades, and Monica, a Paraguayan-taught-English-by-a-Texan, who’s teaching the higher grades. I generally just smile at the kids and act like I know what they’re saying while working on becoming their friend even before I know how to talk to them. I also get to work with the kids one-on-one with individual classwork, tutoring first graders with the English names of animals and the older kids with points of grammar that I hardly understand.
There’s a recess break around 8:30 when I grab a snack -- if I’m feeling skinny a fried empanada (like perogies, only with fried, flaky dough and most-often meat fillings) or, if I’m feeling healthy, a vegetable (with egg salad, too) sandwich. Lunch is an hour at noon, then, and several teachers stick around to eat together. I’ve only stayed twice for lunch, but everyone is friendly to share what they have. I wish I could have brought a little to share, too, but I’m just getting used to the culture of sharing everything.
Afternoons are much like the mornings, although this week I’ll begin tutoring sessions with two students at a time for half an hour each. The largest number of kids from any one class comes from 7th grade. I’m not sure if they especially need the extra help, but the class has a bunch of teenage girls who like to giggle and smile at me. I don’t especially mind, though, because it’s much easier to practice talking to someone in broken Spanish if you know they already like you.
Around three I hop in the Caballero car for the ride home. We arrive to a wonderful meal that Karen cooks every day and devour it very expeditiously. After dinner devotions and helping clean up, it’s time for a siesta and break from the day. Wednesday, Friday, Saturday, and Sunday nights find us back at the church (which, very conveniently, is connected to the school), and other nights find Brandon and Gabby (the Caballero boys) doing homework and me reading about culture or studying Spanish.
All in all, I’ve found another family and church family here in Paraguay. I’ve jumped right into Lamabare life and have been safely caught by a whole community of wonderful folks. I’m committed here, and so many here have also already committed to me. And through it all, I bless the name of God. As the Lord says to this Asuncion Church and the Caballero home, “Truly, I say to you, as you did it to one of the least of these my brothers, you did it to me.”
Sunday, October 07, 2007
Where to Start
My first experience of Paraguay began after Oscar, Karen, and Ellen picked me up from the airport. Oscar calmly drove me and all my luggage back to the Caballero homestead while I, with frozen, ghost-white knuckles and clenched jaw, clung to the armrest of the car. You see, driving in Paraguay is much different than driving in the States. There are few traffic signals and no speed limits that count for anything. When you add to this general lack of law a grand array (or disarray, as it were) of transportation ranging from new, high-speed BMWs to ancient horse-drawn carriages and nimble, European scooters to giant clumsy buses, the newcomer’s experience of Paraguayan traffic can be awfully overwhelming. Cars and buses and carts and motorcycles dart in and out of non-existing lanes, often passing one another with greatly different velocities but always doing so with the smallest hair’s width of room. Friendly horns seem to take the place of turning signals, and a real organic, flowing humanity the place of ordered, sterile law.
After a while in the car, my sensory perception of the new country mixed into a grand whirling haze of bright colors and sudden movements, probably most like the boat ride scene in Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. Just like Willy Wonka, though, Oscar guided the car through the mayhem to safety. After the trip I wondered if the crazy driving wasn’t some secret test of new missionaries to see if they really are Christians and pray to God. If that were the case, I think I passed with flying colors. I also think it was quite an easy test to pass, since even an atheist would probably pray during such a harrowing trip.
***I’ve come to find out (unless there have been many prayer tests since that first day) that Oscar’s driving was and is pretty typical of Paraguay. Although the traffic patterns go against logic and order, I haven’t seen any road rage here and everyone, no matter how fast or slow they like to travel, seems to be pretty laid back and easy-going. Somehow it all seems to work out.
After a while in the car, my sensory perception of the new country mixed into a grand whirling haze of bright colors and sudden movements, probably most like the boat ride scene in Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. Just like Willy Wonka, though, Oscar guided the car through the mayhem to safety. After the trip I wondered if the crazy driving wasn’t some secret test of new missionaries to see if they really are Christians and pray to God. If that were the case, I think I passed with flying colors. I also think it was quite an easy test to pass, since even an atheist would probably pray during such a harrowing trip.
***I’ve come to find out (unless there have been many prayer tests since that first day) that Oscar’s driving was and is pretty typical of Paraguay. Although the traffic patterns go against logic and order, I haven’t seen any road rage here and everyone, no matter how fast or slow they like to travel, seems to be pretty laid back and easy-going. Somehow it all seems to work out.
Tuesday, October 02, 2007
Yes, Junior, the Toilets Flush Differently Here
I left DC and home at 6 in the morning on Tuesday, the 25th. My shuttle van picked me up like a fresh, scared soldier on his way to boot camp and took me to BWI airport, where I boarded my first of what seemed like many interminable flights. My first destination was LaGuardia in NYC, where I had to pick up my luggage (containing all 140 lbs of my life in a couple bags) and then move it somehow to JFK airport on the other side of Queens. For the rest of the eight hours in between my NYC flights, I had the grand opportunity of lugging everything I own around with me. I learned quite well the metaphor of “carrying baggage,” and I prayed to God I wouldn’t bring too much spiritual or emotional baggage with me to Paraguay, any future job, or (Lord willing and with many needed mercies) my future marriage.
My flight then from JFK to Brazil required ten more precious hours, but I arrived safe and sound in Sao Paolo on the morning of the 26th. My sleep during the night was difficult at best, but I did manage to squeeze in a few winks of shuteye. When I arrived in Brazil the morning after the long night, my hemisphere and whole world had changed.
My final flight was to Asuncion, Paraguay, and it was a short, pleasant affair with great Brazilian food and friendly hostesses. As the plane came in for its landing, I looked out the window in great anticipation to see my new home for a year. The land was unlike any I had ever seen before from the air. There were no large plots of cultivated land like in the Midwest, but small, irregularly shaped plots and homesteads. There were no neat lines of pavement marking highways like on the East Coast, but instead rusty roads of red dirt. When we finally landed at ASU airport, we quickly passed a small building which I assumed was a building for storage or perhaps airport maintenance crews. When our airplane slowed down and turned around, though, I realized the building was the terminal. Cows grazed in pastures just a hundred yards from the runway.
I picked up my baggage and was met (and I thank God for this) by Oscar, Karen, and Ellen. I was whisked away to start again in Paraguay, surrounded by all new intriguing and beautiful people and places and things. I said a quick prayer, “Lord, please give me the grace to serve you here. I need you so very much.”
***I had been worried I wouldn’t have enough things to write or think about here, but my fears have now passed. There’s such a richness of culture and life here that I could go on for a very long time. The direction that water goes down the toilet isn’t the only thing that’s different.
My flight then from JFK to Brazil required ten more precious hours, but I arrived safe and sound in Sao Paolo on the morning of the 26th. My sleep during the night was difficult at best, but I did manage to squeeze in a few winks of shuteye. When I arrived in Brazil the morning after the long night, my hemisphere and whole world had changed.
My final flight was to Asuncion, Paraguay, and it was a short, pleasant affair with great Brazilian food and friendly hostesses. As the plane came in for its landing, I looked out the window in great anticipation to see my new home for a year. The land was unlike any I had ever seen before from the air. There were no large plots of cultivated land like in the Midwest, but small, irregularly shaped plots and homesteads. There were no neat lines of pavement marking highways like on the East Coast, but instead rusty roads of red dirt. When we finally landed at ASU airport, we quickly passed a small building which I assumed was a building for storage or perhaps airport maintenance crews. When our airplane slowed down and turned around, though, I realized the building was the terminal. Cows grazed in pastures just a hundred yards from the runway.
I picked up my baggage and was met (and I thank God for this) by Oscar, Karen, and Ellen. I was whisked away to start again in Paraguay, surrounded by all new intriguing and beautiful people and places and things. I said a quick prayer, “Lord, please give me the grace to serve you here. I need you so very much.”
***I had been worried I wouldn’t have enough things to write or think about here, but my fears have now passed. There’s such a richness of culture and life here that I could go on for a very long time. The direction that water goes down the toilet isn’t the only thing that’s different.
Going, Going, Gone
What a wonder technology is. In the course of 24 hours, I’ll have traveled from one hemisphere to the next, flown over perhaps a dozen nations, and done most of it while remaining in touch with home via the internet. Right now, I’m sitting in New York’s JFK Airport listening to works by Cluadio Monteverdi, completely oblivious to the chaos and stress of the travel around me. I breathe a deep sigh of relief. I’ve made it through the first and only major day of travel, and am ready to board my flight to another world.
The past few weeks before leaving for Paraguay have been everything I could have wished for and more. It’s amazing to think of all the gifts, many unexpected, that God has given out of his abundant mercy and grace. It should have been much harder to leave, but God’s hand has been guiding and providing all the way.
At VLBF, some wonderful mothers from the church put on a fundraising lunch for me. Early in September, I worried that my procrastination in raising support would force me to take out loans to support the trip. I prayed about it and, as He so often does, God answered in a very concrete and amazing way through some of my spiritual parents. They organized a lunch for me so that, on the day that I shared with the congregation about my desire and plan to serve in Paraguay, God worked a miracle to demonstrate His great love through VLBF. A prayer of commission and blessing along with countless dozens of encouragements caused me to praise God for His awesome provision.
The Tuesday before I left, my aunts prepared a grand Thanksgiving dinner for me and my family. Since I won’t be home for the holidays this year, they made sure that I would have a meal to remember for just as long. It was a splendid time to visit with them, and I’m pretty sure I’m still working off the calories from all the holiday trimmings. For dessert, cousins and uncles and aunts also arrived, and once again God overwhelmed me with His Goodness.
I also received countless other gifts and meals and gifts of meals at home. My last week in Ohio was an incredible blessing as I got to visit with so many. If those days and the encouragement I received were any indication, I’ve got an army of folks up North who care tremendously for me and are interceding before God for me even now.
After leaving Ohio, I spent a few days in Washington, D.C. visiting old friends and seeing old sights. I stayed with some InterVarsity fellas in Georgetown, and once again God provided for all my needs. I also celebrated my dear friend Stephanie’s birthday, and had plenty of opportunities to hang out with Eric and Matt, my closest confidants from college. At Georgetown Baptist, my brothers and sisters and mothers and fathers in Christ surrounded me too with much love, sending me off with prayer, a gift, and all the tenderness of God’s very own family. It was a good weekend filled with so many visits and marked once again by so much of God’s provision.
Thank you to all who have contributed to my physical, spiritual, and emotional needs. Your care does not go unnoticed either by me or by God. I trust that “He who supplies seed to the sower and bread for food will supply and multiply your seed for sowing and increase the harvest of your righteousness,” and I know that “You will be enriched in every for all your generosity, which through us will produce thanksgiving to God.”
The past few weeks before leaving for Paraguay have been everything I could have wished for and more. It’s amazing to think of all the gifts, many unexpected, that God has given out of his abundant mercy and grace. It should have been much harder to leave, but God’s hand has been guiding and providing all the way.
At VLBF, some wonderful mothers from the church put on a fundraising lunch for me. Early in September, I worried that my procrastination in raising support would force me to take out loans to support the trip. I prayed about it and, as He so often does, God answered in a very concrete and amazing way through some of my spiritual parents. They organized a lunch for me so that, on the day that I shared with the congregation about my desire and plan to serve in Paraguay, God worked a miracle to demonstrate His great love through VLBF. A prayer of commission and blessing along with countless dozens of encouragements caused me to praise God for His awesome provision.
The Tuesday before I left, my aunts prepared a grand Thanksgiving dinner for me and my family. Since I won’t be home for the holidays this year, they made sure that I would have a meal to remember for just as long. It was a splendid time to visit with them, and I’m pretty sure I’m still working off the calories from all the holiday trimmings. For dessert, cousins and uncles and aunts also arrived, and once again God overwhelmed me with His Goodness.
I also received countless other gifts and meals and gifts of meals at home. My last week in Ohio was an incredible blessing as I got to visit with so many. If those days and the encouragement I received were any indication, I’ve got an army of folks up North who care tremendously for me and are interceding before God for me even now.
After leaving Ohio, I spent a few days in Washington, D.C. visiting old friends and seeing old sights. I stayed with some InterVarsity fellas in Georgetown, and once again God provided for all my needs. I also celebrated my dear friend Stephanie’s birthday, and had plenty of opportunities to hang out with Eric and Matt, my closest confidants from college. At Georgetown Baptist, my brothers and sisters and mothers and fathers in Christ surrounded me too with much love, sending me off with prayer, a gift, and all the tenderness of God’s very own family. It was a good weekend filled with so many visits and marked once again by so much of God’s provision.
Thank you to all who have contributed to my physical, spiritual, and emotional needs. Your care does not go unnoticed either by me or by God. I trust that “He who supplies seed to the sower and bread for food will supply and multiply your seed for sowing and increase the harvest of your righteousness,” and I know that “You will be enriched in every for all your generosity, which through us will produce thanksgiving to God.”
Thursday, September 13, 2007
It's a Long Way to Paraguay
The call to missions for me was clear enough. I felt confident that, after graduation, I’d go for a year or two to some foreign place in the world and share in the work of the Church there. My problem, though, was that the world felt like a very big place. With so many nations and states and nation-states and churches and denominations and sending-agencies and so on, I felt like I was swimming in an ocean of possibilities.
Hence, last fall I wondered how I could even begin to narrow down the search for a place to go. For starters, I decided to go to Urbana, InterVarsity Christian Fellowship (and my own campus ministry)’s tri-annual missions conference in St. Louis. I thought perhaps something there would strike my fancy or, if I were lucky, some lightning bolt from Heaven might shock me into going somewhere specific.
Needless to say, that lightning bolt never came. I was overwhelmed by the conference and its grand hall of missions agencies representing hundreds of worldwide ministries, dozens of denominations, and a broad range of fields ripe with harvest. I went up to most of the booths and, when asked by a kind mission representative what I was looking for, responded, "I’d like to serve God overseas for a couple years after college." When they asked me where I’d like to go (anywhere from China to Chile, Austria to Australia) or what sort of ministry I was interested in (new people groups, teaching English, medical missions, tent-making, friendship evangelism, undercover witnessing, etc), I again responded inelegantly, "I’d like to serve God overseas for a couple years after college." They must have thought I was born on another planet -- a planet where Christians have no idea about the complexities of choosing a mission.
Urbana did manage to turn my thoughts, though, to a specific area of the world. During time in prayer and thinking at the conference, the idea of Latin America came up again and again. I spent four years of high school and a semester of college studying Spanish, so the language would be much easier to learn in a Hispanic country. Georgetown got me interested in Catholicism and its dialogue with and relationship to Evangelical Protestantism, so going to a predominantly Catholic, Spanish-speaking country made even better sense. Plus, Central or South America is much closer to home than Asia or Africa.
My next decision centered on whether to go with a specific denomination or an interdenominational group. My college years were spent with InterVarsity, an interdenominational ministry, so at the time I leaned toward going abroad with a similar group whose mixture of church backgrounds could offer many points of view on theologies and doctrines. I never want to close my mind to learning, so being in a mixed community of Christian faith seemed like a good idea. The problem in my mind, however, was that I’d have to raise all the support on my own without any one church’s backing.
The other alternative, of course, was going with a specific denomination. In DC, I fell in love with the people and church of Georgetown Baptist, which had affiliations with both the American Baptist and Southern Baptist Conventions. The Southern Baptists offered the Journeyman program, a two year, all-expenses paid missions program for recent graduates of Southern Baptist orientation. I wasn’t sure, though, about whether I was able or ready to commit to Southern Baptist ideals. It seemed a dilemma to me – committing to a denomination I wasn’t sure of and having all my financial needs taken care of, or going to an inner-denominational organization where I would have to do my fundraising independently. Throughout it all, I was confident God would take care of my needs, but the details worried me.
And so, I wrote an email to Ellen Sabo, a friend of a friend serving as an English teacher with the Apostolic Christian Church in Paraguay. Since she was a new missionary, I had been reading her blog and studying her reactions to a new culture in preparation for my own departure. I asked her about what it was like serving with a specific church. My question was broad and about missions in general, but her response was very definite and sure: ""Will you come and take my place teaching English and serving with the church after I leave?"
I was really surprised by her open invitation, and thought serving with the AC church in Paraguay probably was not for me. The idea, however, began to make good sense. I now had two friends serving there, so I could get to know the people and culture through them before I arrived. Plus, the mission was through the church that I knew and grew up in.
Still with many questions, though, I asked Ellen for details about the Paraguayan Apostolic Christian Church. I heard back that it is a church on fire for God. There is a passion to share the Gospel of Jesus Christ, and a desire to serve and transform the Paraguayan nation. Paraguay is a place where God is at work and where I’d be able to work, too, for the Kingdom of Heaven. After spending much time in prayer, I committed to serving there.
Thus, I’ll be helping out at the Colegio Privado Adonai, a private Christian school of about 250 students that the church administrates and uses as a tool to reach out to the community. Arriving in September, I’ll be in the classroom with Ellen to learn how to teach before school lets out in November. Then, I’ll spend the summer months of November, December, and January learning Spanish, getting acquainted with Paraguayan culture, and serving with the church. Come February, I’ll have classrooms of my own and plenty of opportunities to share Christ’s love.
***Special thanks to Mrs. Simon from VLBF who is hosting on her blog a video of me sharing my testimony at church. It can be found on the Sept. 9 post at www.xanga.com/anut4dan .
Hence, last fall I wondered how I could even begin to narrow down the search for a place to go. For starters, I decided to go to Urbana, InterVarsity Christian Fellowship (and my own campus ministry)’s tri-annual missions conference in St. Louis. I thought perhaps something there would strike my fancy or, if I were lucky, some lightning bolt from Heaven might shock me into going somewhere specific.
Needless to say, that lightning bolt never came. I was overwhelmed by the conference and its grand hall of missions agencies representing hundreds of worldwide ministries, dozens of denominations, and a broad range of fields ripe with harvest. I went up to most of the booths and, when asked by a kind mission representative what I was looking for, responded, "I’d like to serve God overseas for a couple years after college." When they asked me where I’d like to go (anywhere from China to Chile, Austria to Australia) or what sort of ministry I was interested in (new people groups, teaching English, medical missions, tent-making, friendship evangelism, undercover witnessing, etc), I again responded inelegantly, "I’d like to serve God overseas for a couple years after college." They must have thought I was born on another planet -- a planet where Christians have no idea about the complexities of choosing a mission.
Urbana did manage to turn my thoughts, though, to a specific area of the world. During time in prayer and thinking at the conference, the idea of Latin America came up again and again. I spent four years of high school and a semester of college studying Spanish, so the language would be much easier to learn in a Hispanic country. Georgetown got me interested in Catholicism and its dialogue with and relationship to Evangelical Protestantism, so going to a predominantly Catholic, Spanish-speaking country made even better sense. Plus, Central or South America is much closer to home than Asia or Africa.
My next decision centered on whether to go with a specific denomination or an interdenominational group. My college years were spent with InterVarsity, an interdenominational ministry, so at the time I leaned toward going abroad with a similar group whose mixture of church backgrounds could offer many points of view on theologies and doctrines. I never want to close my mind to learning, so being in a mixed community of Christian faith seemed like a good idea. The problem in my mind, however, was that I’d have to raise all the support on my own without any one church’s backing.
The other alternative, of course, was going with a specific denomination. In DC, I fell in love with the people and church of Georgetown Baptist, which had affiliations with both the American Baptist and Southern Baptist Conventions. The Southern Baptists offered the Journeyman program, a two year, all-expenses paid missions program for recent graduates of Southern Baptist orientation. I wasn’t sure, though, about whether I was able or ready to commit to Southern Baptist ideals. It seemed a dilemma to me – committing to a denomination I wasn’t sure of and having all my financial needs taken care of, or going to an inner-denominational organization where I would have to do my fundraising independently. Throughout it all, I was confident God would take care of my needs, but the details worried me.
And so, I wrote an email to Ellen Sabo, a friend of a friend serving as an English teacher with the Apostolic Christian Church in Paraguay. Since she was a new missionary, I had been reading her blog and studying her reactions to a new culture in preparation for my own departure. I asked her about what it was like serving with a specific church. My question was broad and about missions in general, but her response was very definite and sure: ""Will you come and take my place teaching English and serving with the church after I leave?"
I was really surprised by her open invitation, and thought serving with the AC church in Paraguay probably was not for me. The idea, however, began to make good sense. I now had two friends serving there, so I could get to know the people and culture through them before I arrived. Plus, the mission was through the church that I knew and grew up in.
Still with many questions, though, I asked Ellen for details about the Paraguayan Apostolic Christian Church. I heard back that it is a church on fire for God. There is a passion to share the Gospel of Jesus Christ, and a desire to serve and transform the Paraguayan nation. Paraguay is a place where God is at work and where I’d be able to work, too, for the Kingdom of Heaven. After spending much time in prayer, I committed to serving there.
Thus, I’ll be helping out at the Colegio Privado Adonai, a private Christian school of about 250 students that the church administrates and uses as a tool to reach out to the community. Arriving in September, I’ll be in the classroom with Ellen to learn how to teach before school lets out in November. Then, I’ll spend the summer months of November, December, and January learning Spanish, getting acquainted with Paraguayan culture, and serving with the church. Come February, I’ll have classrooms of my own and plenty of opportunities to share Christ’s love.
***Special thanks to Mrs. Simon from VLBF who is hosting on her blog a video of me sharing my testimony at church. It can be found on the Sept. 9 post at www.xanga.com/anut4dan .
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)