Monthly Archives: November 2016

Answers to Illegal Immigration to U.S. Borders, Central America, Child/Youth Leadershp, Community Life, Family, God At Work Among Us, Information About the Mission, Living Waters Ranch Secondary School, Marriage, Personal Reflection, Teaching

Bringing in Lost Sheep: The Dangerous Duo Hits the Streets

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“Don’t make me do this again.” I shook my head back and forth slowly as I repressed a smile. Had it really come to this again?

I looked across the nearly bare living room in the cinderblock house at the young man slouched in the torn-up armchair. He was put-off and determined not to register for school next year.

Despite our attempts to encourage him he had dropped out of our yearend two-week intensive academic catch-up program and was embarrassed to come back again next school year only to repeat 7th grade.

This was now my third visit to this young man’s house in a very short time, and this time I had brought Miss Ligia, our worldly-lawyer-turned-Christian-teacher with me as backup. It was registration day, and he had pulled a no-show, as expected.

Having heard this 15-year-old young man’s testimony of faith in Christ on various occasions and having seen first-hand the beginning stages of a very real transformation in his character as he had been involved all year with us in Bible study, prayer groups, Christian Leadership and other faith-building activities in addition to daily academic classes, we refused to allow him to simply ‘disappear’ into the multitudes of lost young men who wander the streets in our rural neighborhood and eventually fall into a life of crime.

This unexpected onslaught of rebellion and negative attitudes he had been experiencing in the last few weeks was surely an attack from the enemy, and we – as God’s hands and feet (and voice) on earth, had to intervene with the truth, bring him back into the fold.

So Miss Ligia and I left the rest of the team behind at the Living Waters Ranch as they continued receiving new and old students for registration day, and we hopped in our old Toyota pickup and headed down that long gravel road in search of that same young man who is becoming infamous for his disappearing act.

So when we arrived at the young man’s home, he – not surprisingly – was nowhere to be found. His mom received us with a big, warm hug at the little front gate made of twigs and barbed wire, and quickly let us inside. (Each time I arrive unannounced at their home, the greeting gets warmer and I am allowed farther into their home.)

We quickly devised a plan to hide behind the front door to scare the daylights out of the young man as he would likely come strolling home at any moment. (And if he didn’t return home soon? Well, we would be waiting for quite some time…)

After all, traditional butt-chewings are falling out of style (due to their ineffectiveness), and new, crazier approaches are in.

One of his family members, a female student who had already gone earlier that day with her mom to register with us for next school year, got in on the plan and was set to give us the cue when she saw him coming up the dirt path.

Miss Ligia and I – wedged like two sardines behind the open front door – began giggling uncontrollably. The student’s father – who had not been present during my previous rendezvous to convince his son to keep studying – just stared at us oddly, undoubtedly concerned why two adult women – his son’s teachers! – were laughing like little girls (and poking each other) while hiding behind his front door. Why on earth had his wife let us inside?

A few minutes later our student sure enough came home. His young female relative gave us two quick knocks on the door to cue us, and we began in a loud, spooky voice, “Sta-a-a-n-le-yyyy, Co-o-o-o-ome ba-a-a-a-a-ck tooooo the Raaaaanch!”

He jumped back and began laughing for an instant as we came tumbling out from behind the door, but once his mom pulled out the little wooden stools for us to sit on and talk cold turkey, he turned cold (turkey).

After a couple minutes of utterly useless communication – his mom chewing his butt and him slouching even lower in the ratty armchair, refusing to look us in the eyes – I said, dead serious, “Don’t make me do this again.”

His mom continued, undeterred, “If this boy doesn’t go back to school, what’s he gonna do? He’ll go straight to the street, I know it. Just goes to the street every time to wander around and get into trouble. The street –“

I interrupted her tirade rather boldly, and said, “Well, if he goes to the street, you can bet that I’ll be right there waiting for him. In the street. Dancing. Let’s go, Miss Ligia!”

I grabbed the 29-year-old lawyer with her beautiful flat-ironed long black hair and fake fingernails and before you could say “Footloose” we were both out the front door and in the gravel street.

This time my dancing was accompanied by loud proclamations that I’m sure the entire neighborhood could hear (and that was the point). Miss Ligia began some rather creative steps and arm combinations as we both spun about on the narrow street. The neighbors from the wooden-plank house across the way all came out to watch:

“Hello everybody! Good afternoon ladies and gentlemen! We’re here because this young man, Stanley Rafael Torres, does not want to study! Yup; that’s right! He just wants to wander the streets, but we’re here because we really like this kid and want the best for him! If you’re with us and want Stanley to study and seek God’s will for his life, shout ‘Yeah!’”

No one but Miss Ligia shouted “Yeah!,” not even the middle-aged man who happened to be strolling by. (He avoided all eye contact with us despite my best efforts.)

Miss Ligia continued her contemporary dancing as I did mine, her complementing my steps as I admired hers. We refused to be denied.

“We’re just gonna keep on dancing until this precious young man – did I mention his name is Stanley Rafael Torres? – decides to get his butt back in school!” My voice projected itself all around as our footwork just kept getting fancier. “God has a plan for his life, and we’re here to make sure it gets carried to completion! If you agree that Stanley should go back to school, shout ‘Yeah!’”

Again, no one shouted. This time a teen boy passed by not three feet from us. I looked him in the eyes and repeated, “If you’re with us, shout ‘Yeah!’”, hoping to get some crowd support.

He began walking faster. Away from us.

Soon enough Stanley – our stubborn run-away student – had whipped out his cellphone as was filming our antics as he sat watching us on his tiny front lawn.

Several minutes of rather aerobic dancing (think Billy Blanks in a floral blouse and skinny jeans) passed before I teetered over to the twine hammock in their front yard and collapsed under the heat of the Honduran sun. Miss Ligia and I panted dramatically before getting up again and continuing onward, determined not to leave the street until we had collected the prize. We were committed and there was no turning back.

His mom suddenly appeared from behind the front door curtain with two little pink plastic cups of cold water for us. She wanted us to continue!

We glugged down the water, sweat pouring down our temples and large earrings swinging to and fro with our rhythmic dancing until I suddenly heard Miss Ligia say, “He said ‘yes’!”

I looked up, snapped out of the intense focus required to choreograph an original interpretive dance, and Stanley, still video-taping us, smiled big. He agreed to come back!

I continued dancing a little bit more – this time out of joy rather than as a tool of persuasion – as he went inside to change.

“Careful he doesn’t slip out the back door! Somebody get an eye on the kid!” We laughed and waited for him as I continued my two-step in the street, Miss Ligia and I drenched in sweat, bathed in victory.

The moment he appeared out the front door with his mom, we threw him in the car and headed straight back up the road to the Ranch. We had other scheduled stops (other run-away students) on our agenda after him, but we couldn’t risk that he would change his mind or jump out of the car. So off we went!

Sure enough, we arrived safe and sound (and he only jumped out of the car once, but continued walking in the right direction, following the car rather than bolting away) and he registered again for 7th grade, which he will begin at the end of January when all of our students return. God’s love: 1. Shame: 0.

As we finished the very quick registration process, Miss Ligia and I with Stanley and his mom jumped back into our old Toyota pickup along with four of our other returning students and someone’s little sister. We headed back into our rural town to drop them off and continue onward with the rest of our scheduled rescue missions.

Charlie, a very precious 13-year-old student who likewise had not passed our 7th grade program due to immaturity and many absences, was next on our list. Stanley, with a very happy grin on his face as he sat in the car’s backseat, promised to show us the way to Charlie’s house (it would be Charlie’s first house-call.)

Everything was going fine as we were a couple minutes into our very short drive when somebody shouted, “There he is!”

My attention snapped to the left, seeing a small dark speck along a far-off gravel path that had been identified to be Charlie. I felt paralyzed – what to do? If we drop off Stanley and his mom first, Charlie might keep on walking (where was he going?) and we would lose all chance of finding him. I had to act fast!

In a split-second decision, I glanced over at Stanley and his mom and blurted, “You okay with participating in this rescue mission?” and, before they could reply, I swerved the car to the left and began rather quickly bouncing up that rocky path.

Nearing the small boy in tattered clothes and dirty flip-flops, I forced the car into park in the middle of the road, put on my flashers and hopped out of the vehicle. This had to be a surprise attack, otherwise he would surely run.

I sprinted around the far side of the vehicle and came upon him as I said, panting, “Charlie! Come back. We love you. Today is registration day, and we’ve been waiting for you.”

As expected, he wouldn’t look me in the eyes and was very mopey, on the verge of some kind of extreme self-pity attack. Was ashamed and discouraged, had no plan, no desire. He was on his way to the river, the favorite pastime of the dozens of lost youth in our neighborhood who have no daily commitments. No school; no work; just wandering around gravel roads aimlessly and wasting their lives away at the river before eventually turning to crime and vice.

Soon enough Stanley’s mom – who is in no way related to Charlie – hopped out of the passenger’s seat of the car and began participating in the rescue attempt. Miss Ligia came out, too, and several of Charlie’s old classmates formed a large cloud of loving witnesses in the truckbed.

Seeing as we were getting nowhere – all of our well-intentioned persuasive techniques only seemed to propel him further down the well of despair – I clapped my hands vigorously and called upon my sidekick, “Miss Ligia! You know what we’ve gotta do!”

My sweat-stains growing exponentially in my nice floral blouse, I turned in a wide circle and announced as loud as I could (and that’s pretty darn loud), “Okay! Charlie Anthony “Tony” Rodriguez doesn’t want to study, so his teacher and I are gonna start dancing to convince him to continue trusting in God’s good plan for his life! This is all for Charlie Anthony “Tony” Rodriguez! Gosh we love this kid, and God loves him more! Hit it, Miss Ligia!”

So we began Act II of the Dancing Rescue Mission (within a yard of hell) as we began prancing about on that very rocky road in the middle of nowhere surrounded by rural homesteads steeped in poverty. Stone-cold Charlie broke down almost instantly and began laughing. His classmates – who had not been present for Act I and had no idea that Miss Ligia and I were such talented dancers – began cheering as everyone looked at little Charlie expectantly. Would such an extravagant display of love convince him to return?

After a bit more dancing and a few more loving words of encouragement, he hopped in the truckbed and we zipped him off to registration day.

With Charlie in the backseat, I turned as I was driving to look at him: “Charlie, you know that this is not about you being our ‘student’. If you are in 7th grade or 8th grade, that makes no difference. This is about the work that God has already begun in your life, and we want to be able to continue to walk with you day after day after year as He continues to teach and transform you according to His love.”

He smiled shyly, as you do when you’re completely convinced of what someone is telling you.

I added, wanting to make sure he understood that we do not see him merely as some poor teen or sub-par student, “Charlie, you decided to get baptized last month. In Christ we’re family.”

He spoke up for the first time, visibly content. “I know,” he smiled big and glanced up at me after having had his eyes trained on the floorboards.

That afternoon – several hours after the rescue mission with Miss Ligia – my husband Darwin and I and the 8 kids/teens the Lord has placed in our family had arrived at the local park for an afternoon of play. As we hopped out of the car, Darwin began dancing in a very silly fashion and making up nonsense songs to get the kids to laugh. He extended an arm toward me to include me in the goofy routine, but I sighed wearily and said, “Oh, I’ve had enough dancing for one day…”

Darwin and the kids looked at me, perplexed – had I not spent the day just as everyone else, signing up students and stapling paperwork? – and I began telling them the story…

Amen! Glory to God!

Answers to Illegal Immigration to U.S. Borders, Child/Youth Leadershp, Community Life, Discipline Techniques, God At Work Among Us, Homeschool, Information About the Mission, Living Waters Ranch Secondary School, Personal Reflection

Hello, My Name is ‘Ashamed.’

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“It is so nice to meet you!” I extended a long arm toward the hunched-over young man in front of me, eager to make him feel genuinely welcome. He looked to be about 15 or 16 years old and sat motionless on one of the concrete benches in our front yard, staring at the soil at his feet.

An awkward moment passed, my open hand lingering in mid-air, waiting to be received in his. He finally extended his limp hand toward mine without ever lifting his eyes from the soil.

My husband Darwin and I stood under the shade of a large tree talking with a middle-aged woman who had come up to our rural property with three of her teenage children, hoping to enroll them in our homeschool-style high school beginning next school year. They had heard about the program though a neighbor who has her son enrolled with us.

The mother was very kind and alert, commenting to us that she wants her children to be instructed according to God’s Word — which does not happen in the local public high school where chaos generally reigns. Her sons, however, did not match her enthusiasm. They seemed depressed or entirely uninterested.

After Darwin and I had given her the information about registration day (when we will be meeting/evaluating possible new students), I then turned to the young man on the bench — the one who had very reluctantly shook my hand — and I asked with great sincerity, “What is your name?” I believe my tone of voice soared even higher than it should have in an attempt to counteract his attitude of total apathy.

Another moment or two passed as he remained unresponsive. I began opening my mouth to reiterate the same question when he finally blurted his full name at the ground.

Somewhat caught off guard with the force with which he spat his name and entirely unable to understand him due to the way he murmured, I asked again, love spewing out of my voice: “Could you look me in the eyes and tell me your name again?”

Everyone present seemed to be caught off guard by my loving insistence, as bad manners such as the ones he was displaying are often accepted as normal in our area. I continued to stare at the top of his head as his eyes remained glued to the soil at his feet. I insisted. Waited.

He finally raised his eyes if only for a split second to meet mine before immediately glancing downward again, again murmuring his full name without me being able to understand him.

His mother, very well-meaning, immediately interjected with a slight laugh, ready to explain her nearly-adult son’s strange behavior, “Oh, he’s ashamed.”

She said so with the tone of voice that you would use to answer, “He’s cold” if asked why your son was wearing a scarf and mittens.

The next morning I spoke on the phone with my own mother about the prior day’s event with the ‘ashamed’ young man, and she commented very accurately, “People [in Latin American culture] use ‘shame’ as a way of naming people. Like, ‘It’s a boy’ or ‘It’s a girl.’ ‘He’s ashamed.'”

So, in this culture where many people from birth carry the stamp “Ashamed” across their forehead (and all well-meaning family members defend their right to carry it), an interaction such as the one we had yesterday is not something new to us. How many of our local students or live-ins, upon arrival, actually looked us in the eyes, were not ‘ashamed’? Very few.

So when this young man’s mother wanted to come to her boy’s rescue, defending his debilitating sense of ‘shame’ as if it were a genetic condition or acceptable form of behavior, I laughed in a very kind way and said, “Oh, there’s no place for shame here.”

I glanced over at one of the other benches a few yards away where Brayan and Arlen sat. These two precious teenage students of ours had just finished participating in a very intense Round 5 of rock-hauling, endless push-ups and frog-jumps as part of their character-formation process. They were beet red and had waterfalls of sweat pouring down their faces as their white school uniform shirts were heavily stained with dirt. I addressed them for the first time in a rather loud voice, “Is there any reason to have shame, boys?”

They both sat, exhausted to the bone, staring me in the eyes, and shook their heads ‘no’ as they confirmed verbally, “Nope.”

I threw my head back and laughed in victory. Yes! Had we not just spent over an hour with these young men along with several other of their classmates, hauling rocks across our large yard and hurling them over the fence? Had we not been loudly proclaiming truth over them as they did so —

“Let’s go, boys! Our life on earth is but a breath! There is no time to waste; submit yourselves to God’s will because He is good and faithful! You have been made in God’s image and redeemed by Christ’s blood! God loves you enough to have sent Christ to die for you, and He wants to adopt us as His sons and daughters! Your life is infinitely valuable, and there is a bright future ahead of you, but you must take hold of it in faith! Haul those rocks!”

I continued yelling out one edifying comment after another, allowing godly instruction to flow from my mouth non-stop as the youth ran back and forth all around me, sweating, bending over, lifting and throwing rocks. Suddenly I realized that many of the themes and Bible verses we’ve been studying together all year were being proclaimed over these young people as they engaged in the very difficult activity of manual labor:

“God desires to raise you up to be fully equipped workers — disciples of Christ! — who are ready and willing for any good work! We know that the harvest is plenty but the workers are few! May YOU be the workers God is seeking; take hold of this moment as training for your future! God has an entire Kingdom prepared for those who love and obey Him, but we must persevere until the end! So persevere even now, hauling these rocks, even though it is difficult! You are doing such a great job! God’s Word says that even in difficulties, God desires that we remain rooted in His perfect joy — so even now find Christ in this moment of pain, even now be joyful! Run!”

By the end of the activity my throat was sore and raspy and the kids were dog-tired. So, when I glanced over at 15-year-olds Arlen and Brayan, both of which we’ve known and been closely involved with nearly three years (they were the first local youth we met shortly after moving here) and both of which struggled mightily in the beginning with looking you in the eyes, telling the truth, maintaining focus, receiving God’s Word, etc, I felt inundated with new hope for this slouched-over young man who all his life had been taught it acceptable to call himself “Ashamed.”

And so I laughed. I laughed right there under that shady tree because I know God is still in the business of redemption, that He has a big eraser in His hand to rub off “Ashamed” from this young man’s forehead and replace it with a giant stamp that reads “Loved.”

And while my own thoughts warned me, “This kid is bad news. What kind of influence will he be on the others?,” my heart rejoiced because I know that this is exactly the kind of young man God wants to call home, wants to renew.

And so, a couple days after our encounter with the ‘ashamed’ young man, I found myself coaching our two developmentally-challenged kiddos, Gaby and Josue (both age 8) as they worked together to haul several big plastic buckets full of dirty clothes to our outdoor washing area that lies a good walk from our front door.

They were both struggling to do so as their faces scrunched up in concentration and their little fingers sought to get the best grip on the buckets’ handles. Gaby grunted in exertion and Josue teetered back and forth as he sought to keep pace with Gaby. The buckets were heavy, and they were wondering if they actually had the strength (and coordination, teamwork, etc) to get the job done.

Seeing as we engage in this character-forming activity with these two little ones every Monday morning, I began encouraging them as usual. As we crossed our large grassy front lawn — me a couple paces in front of them — I began calling out: “Let’s go, Josue! You got it, Gaby! Let’s use your strength to serve God; utilize your bodies as instruments of justice! You can do this! We must work as unto Him and not for men!”

They inched across our front yard, each little one supporting one side of the bucket (and there were three more buckets waiting for them when they finished with the first!), each showing several visible signs of exertion but almost no reaction to all of my verbal encouragement and instruction. I continued:

“God is with us and He loves us, so there is no reason to be afraid — ”

Gaby suddenly piped up, interrupting me, and added, “or ashamed!”

She caught me entirely off guard, as she generally displays almost no understanding of God’s Word despite participating in numerous Bible studies and other Christian activities each week. Is this little person with a big-girl body but little-girl mind possibly absorbing — and understanding! — more than we had thought?

She continued, as if to erase all doubt from my mind: “We don’t have to be ashamed because God loves us! Gotta work for Him and not for men. Jesus died and came back to life!”

As we passed the small high school building and neared the kitchen with still quite a long distance between us and our final destination, Gaby and Josue all the while hauling the bucket one step at a time as a towering pile of dirty clothes rocked about perilously between them, I felt as though our Father allowed me to see them in a new light, to understand His love for us in a new way.

These two children who have been abused and neglected, who are not very attractive physically and have numerous behavioral issues, Josue who wears diapers, Gaby who mispronounces words, both of whom are lightyears behind their peers developmentally and socially — these kids who the whole world probably looks at with pity, who would give them every reason to be ‘ashamed’! — are learning the secret of freedom from all shame, all fear: God’s love. If the Creator of the universe loves you and longs to include you in His family, His kingdom, what on earth is there to be ashamed of? No shame; only gratitude. Joy.

Amen! Glory to God!

Bible study, Child/Youth Leadershp, God At Work Among Us, Homeschool, Information About the Mission, Living Waters Ranch Primary School, Living Waters Ranch Secondary School, Personal Reflection, Teaching

Glue Sandwiches: The Definition of a Chaotic Life

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Recently 8-year-old Gabriela (who is about 4 years old developmentally and is prone to being quite off-the-wall in her general speech and re-telling of daily events) commented to me across our large dining room table as several of our other kids were arriving home from school, her face all scrunched up and her arms waving about wildly:

“Ma! Isn’t that right that this morning you grabbed that piece of bread and poured glue all over it?” Her stubby, uncoordinated hands mimicked the action of pouring glue all over an imaginary slice of bread as she smiled big.

12-year-old Gleny walked through the dining room door in her school uniform and too-full backpack in tow, overhearing her little sister’s odd comment. She glanced over at me and rolled her eyes in response to the little one’s crazy tale. Glue on a sandwich?

Gabriela continued, unaware that anyone else was listening to her: “And Ma! You – you grabbed that bread and put…put…what’s that called? What’d you put all over it?” Her enthusiasm grew with each passing moment.

I glanced up from where I was folding the clothes, a little grin growing on my face, and I helped her out: “Deodorant.”

“Dodorat! Yeah! And then! And then – you, Ma, you picked up the bread and you poured hydrada – what’s it called?”

I continued folding clothes and smiling. I knew Gleny was staring at me in disbelief, but I didn’t look at her. “Hydrogen peroxide. ”

“Hydraden peroside! Yeah. You poured it all over the bread, and then you asked who wanted to eat it!” She wagged a short finger back and forth and said, “Not me!” Her giggle grew and overtook her small frame as her body shook with delight. She repeated, “Not me! Nobody wanted to eat it!”

A moment passed as little Gabriela paused to recall other details.

Her eyes lit up. “And then, Ma, you stomped on the cellphone and broke it! I saw you!”

Gleny, who had grabbed her lunch from the kitchen and began making her way toward Gabriela and I at the table, had the strangest expression on her face as she wondered why on earth I was encouraging little Gabriela in her odd fantasy. She glanced at me again, and I just smiled innocently without interrupting Gabriela nor defending her.

What Gleny didn’t know was that her oddball little sister who has a very real struggle with lying and tends to ‘stretch’ the truth may not have been as off-the-mark this time as she might have thought…

Earlier that morning in our twice-weekly Bible study time with all of our students and Christian laborers (Gleny and two of our other children were not present because this year they have been attending a local private school) I had wanted to make a point. I knew that many of our students and laborers were growing in the truth of God’s Word due to distinct character transformations we’ve seen and sincere comments of faith people have shared with me, but I felt frustrated that frequently as we came together on Tuesday and Thursday mornings the majority of the people seemed to have ‘forgotten’ what we had learned together in the prior meeting. Nearly every Tuesday and Thursday as I enthusiastically asked what they remembered from the prior Bible Study, I was frequently met with blank stares and discouraging shrugs as our students would murmur, “I don’t remember.”

You don’t remember? You don’t remember that just two days ago we talked extensively about the joy-filled life, that God expects us to live day by day giving Him thanks and rejoicing in Him – even in the midst of difficulties — because in Him we have a hope that cannot be altered, an Eternal Father who has invited us to share His entire Kingdom with Him, and He Himself has paid our entrance with His Son’s own blood? Must we start again from ground zero, say it all again because you’ve ‘forgotten’?

So I got a bit creative and entered our Bible study time with some special supplies. As we finished our time of praise and worship, Darwin leading us on the keyboard, I took my place along one of the long wooden benches in our rustic dining room and informed everyone very plainly, “Okay, go ahead and open up your Bibles to the book of Philipians. We’re gonna keep reading chapters two and four about the importance of rejoicing in the Lord at all times.”

I grabbed a children’s book and held it upside down in my hands, very seriously searching the contents for Philippians chapters two and four.

As my brow furrowed in concentration and my fingers flipped through the upside-down pages, the atmosphere in our concrete-floored dining room suddenly fell awkward as several silent moments passed.

Then, two or three brave souls began to giggle. Then, everyone.

I looked up, an utterly surprised expression plastered across my face, and asked, “Well what on earth are you laughing at? Open up your Bibles!”

Someone said, “Uh…that’s not a Bible.” More giggles sprinkled about.

I pretended to be taken aback. I turned the book around and began investigating the cover carefully, “Well, how on earth do you know that?” I squinted my eyes and searched for clear evidence among the large drawings and bold font on the bookcover.

“Well, you people, I certainly didn’t tell you just now that this wasn’t a Bible? You mean, at some point in your life someone taught you what a Bible looks like, and, based on that knowledge, you were able to decifer just now – without any problems whatsoever – that this, in fact, is not a Bible?”

Everyone around the circle nodded slowly as they stared at me, slightly confused. Man, she’s talkin’ weird.

“Dang!” I sighed, impressed by their extremely accurate use of past knowledge, and closed the book. I took one last good look at it as I turned it upside down, inspecting it one more time. “And you mean, you didn’t forget? I mean, I imagine they taught you quite a while ago, or was it just this morning that someone reminded you what a Bible looks like?”

The majority of the roughly 30 people in attendance just stared with a couple verbally affirming that, yes, in fact, they were taught long ago what a Bible is and isn’t and that they had not forgotten the valuable piece of information since then.

I put the book to one side, shaking my head in amazement, and I continued onward, murmuring to myself, “Wow. They didn’t forget. Man, they’ve got a good memory…”

I suddenly changed the topic.

“Look, I’m real sorry, but I didn’t have time to eat breakfast before Bible Study and I’m really hungry, so if you don’t mind I’m gonna go ahead and eat real quick.” I pulled out a couple pieces of wheat bread and placed them on a bright blue plastic plate in my lap as I looked at all the blank faces around the oblong rectangle, seeking everyone’s approval.

Everyone just stared at me, somewhat confused – was this truly the appropriate time to be eating breakfast? – but no one protested.

I opened the two slices of bread as if I were about to prepare a sandwich and began applying the ingredients little Gabriela had quite accurately recalled – glue, deodorant, hydrogen peroxide. (She forgot to mention the q-tips that I sprinkled in between), and then I cut the gooey sandwhich into four pieces with a pair of scissors. Anybody want a slice?

Nearly everyone pulled their head back in disgust, voicing the absurdity of my offer. “Gross! No!”

My jaw dropped open. “W-what? You don’t want a slice? I mean, I’ll share it with you. C’mon.”

“No way! You put glue all over it! And…deodorant!” A riot was breaking out as many voices chimed in at once. Who on earth would voluntarily eat a sandwich like that?

“Well, now what do you mean you don’t want to eat glue or q-tips? Why not? I don’t get it.” I threw my hands up in frustration, looking around the circle for someone who would want to share my sandwich with me. No one?

“Glue’s not meant to be eatin’! You could die!” A cacophony of voices rose from all around.

“Well, what on earth is it for?” I sighed dramatically, determined to find answers.

“For…sticking things together!”

I put my hands on my hips, my mouth still slightly agape with brow furrowed. “And how do you know that? I mean, I certainly didn’t teach you guys that just now. Gosh, you people seem to know so many things.”

The kids began catching on. This was a game. Their eyes twinkled with mischief as they shouted: “Someone taught us when we were younger!”

“Ohhh. Someone taught you at some point in your life that glue is not meant for bread?”

Everyone in unison, exasperated: “Yes!”

“And you mean you haven’t, like, forgotten?”

Dozens of voices crescendoed: “No!”

“Because, I mean, you probably learned it for the first time like a long, long time ago. Or was it just last Tuesday?”

“It was a long time ago! But we haven’t forgotten!”

“And, you mean you’ve put into practice this knowledge of glue-is-for-sticking-things-together-and-not-for-eating ever since then with positive results?”

Everyone at once: “Yes!”

I sat back, resting slightly against the cinderblock wall behind me. “Ahhh. I see. You learned.”

I let my statement hang in the air a few moments. A few eyes lit up. They were getting it.

We continued onward.

Socks on my hands. Skirt on my head. Household appliances wrapped in sticky laminate paper. ‘Drinking’ my bottle of water by pouring it on my knee. Trying to open a pillow with my keys.

“Gosh, I just – ah, excuse me. This dang cellphone of mine just keeps on buzzing. I mean, I just… I just can’t stand this phone. Everyone’s always calling me. I think I’m gonna just go ahead and turn it off so I can get a bit of peace and quiet for once.”

Everyone’s eyes were trained on me as I grabbed the little black cellphone that looked exactly like my own (no ‘Smart’ cellphone by any stretch of the imagination) and threw it violently on the ground at my feet before emphatically stamping it under my heel repeatedly, my sandaled feet crushing the small device before I picked it up quite calmly and broke it completely in two, my tone of voice remaining utterly even: “Whew. I’m so glad I turned my cellphone off.”

Several mouths gaped open, as they were convinced I had, in fact, completely destroyed my actual cellphone. (What they didn’t know is that it was an old cellphone that no longer worked.) No she’s really gone overboard.

“That’s not how you turn off a cellphone! You completely ruined it! To turn it off you’ve just gotta press the little button!” Many students were seriously worried.

My mouth dropped open in shock. “What? What do you mean that’s not how you turn a cellphone off? How dare you say that?”

Everyone in unison: “Someone taught us!”

“Oh, you mean a family member or friend taught you once that that’s not how you turn a cellphone off, and since then you’ve actually been able to remember that information?”

“Yes!”

“But…surely you were taught that valuable piece of information long ago, right? Or was it like last Thursday? I mean, it’s hard to remember things from like two or three days ago, right?”

“They taught us a long time ago, but we haven’t forgotten!”

I sat back again, impressed by their ability to remember important information. “Lookie there. And, putting into practice this information has been useful to you in daily life, or have you daily tried to destroy your cellphone as I just did?”

Everybody laughed as mental lightbulbs began doing off. Ah. There’s a lot of things we’ve learned – maybe we were only taught once, maybe even by mere observation – and that knowledge has stuck with us. What’s more, we’ve relied on that information to make daily decisions about how to live, what’s important to us, how to lead a successful life. Why, then, are we so easily content with saying we’ve ‘forgotten’ a lesson on the truth that we’ve learned but two days ago (or ten minutes ago)? Is this not a grave problem that must be confronted?

Is this not one of the Satan’s invisible strongholds in our lives — that we have become a people ready and able to learn anything and everything — how to operate complicated technology, how to drive a car (or bicycle, motorcycle, plane!), how to store countless trivia and academic information in our minds — yet we fail to learn the truth, are slow to grasp what can actually save us? We are experts in the details of life that, in the end, have zero effect on our relationship with our Creator. Begin talking to us about eternal matters — about life and death, sin and justice, truth and lie — and people’s minds shut off. Sure; I read the entire manual for my new SmartPhone or tablet and can now adeptly maneuver every button, every screen, every app with perfect execution and confidence, but what was that again that so-and-so shared with me — or that I read personally, that I’ve heard dozens of times over and over again in different ways! — about the truth, about a loving God who goes beyond this world, who holds the keys to death and Hell? I don’t remember.

Holding the destroyed cellphone in my hands, I continued, “I’ve gotta ask. If someone lives ‘forgetting’ all they are taught, failing to put into practice what they know – pouring glue on sandwiches and destroying cellphones in a misguided attempt to turn them off – what kind of life is that?”

A short silence engulfed the room as everyone thought about the question. After a couple moments, a soft voice from across the circle said, “…a chaotic life.”

“A chaotic life!” My finger enthusiastically pointed at the person with the prize answer.

They’re with me. I dared onward into the real territory, the actual lesson of the morning. “And a life that is spent receiving God’s Word in one ear and letting it fall right out the other, a life that never actually puts into practice what God’s Word teaches?” I continued, putting it into the specific context of the lesson we had been learning for several weeks – “A life spent ‘forgetting’ to rejoice in the Lord always, a life spent rather complaining, gossiping, and murmuring, never content? A life spent refusing to embrace the goodness of God, ‘forgetting’ to give thanks in all occasions and never experiencing the joy found in Christ? What kind of life would that be?”

Two or three youth answered together as I believe many others, too, found the answer silently in their minds: “…A chaotic life.”

I bent forward, my voice even, serious. “We musn’t forget. Just as in daily life we cannot afford to forget that 2+2 is four – or have to learn it over and over again every day for years – we cannot forget that we are all in need of a Savior. Even as we’ve just become angry with another person, Jesus says we’re no different than a murderer. Just as we cannot afford to ‘forget’ that a toothbrush is for teeth and not for brushing our hair, even moreso – infinitely more so! – we absolutely cannot forget every Word of truth, every word of hope, of eternal instruction that we have been learning here together twice a week for this entire year.”

I continued, “So many people see the simple act of ‘forgetting’ what we’ve learned about God as an innocent act of negligence, but the Psalms say that those who ‘forget’ about God are wicked. Can you think why?”

Someone from across the room spoke: “Because…apart from union with Christ, we’re all wicked. So…if we forget the One who saves us from our wickedness — who grants us His own justice, then we’re right back in the same boat with the wicked.”

Another teen spoke up, “If we forget God, then…we’re back in the group with Adam and Eve. Without Christ’s power over sin and death. Satan wins.”

“Yes! And so, kids, every Tuesday and Thursday that we meet here — and every other time that you go to church with your family or are exposed to God’s Word in other contexts — I do not want you to lazily shrug and say that you ‘forgot’ what it is we’re learning together. This is serious business. I want to be able to run into you guys in town in 20 or 40 years and be able to talk about things we’ve learned together this year. This is so absolutely important. We cannot forget. Forgetting the truth is the equivalent of rejecting the truth – never putting it into practice – and living a life of chaos, a life that doesn’t make sense, a life that is full of suffering and, in the end, leads to destruction.”

Serious, listening faces stared back at me. We had gone from a hoot-and-holler cellphone-destroying riot to touching the heart of God’s desire for us – to remember Him in all that we do, to heed His Word and put into practice every single one of His teachings so that we would not be like the foolish man who built his house on the sand.

May our Father empower us to remember every word He has spoken to us, and may He defend us against the thief who desires only to steal, kill and destroy the truth that has been planted in us!

Amen! Glory to God!

Bible study, Child/Youth Leadershp, Discipline Techniques, God At Work Among Us, Homeschool, Information About the Mission, Living Waters Ranch Secondary School, Personal Reflection, Teaching

Forming Character The Old-Fashioned Way: One Rock at a Time

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“Snake! Snake! It nearly bit me!” Cristian, a very shy, gangly 12-year-old student who has been a shining star in our intensive two-week program, shrieked as he pulled his hand back.

His five male classmates and I immediately arrived on the scene, intrigued by the snake sighting.

The young men had obediently commenced that morning’s character-forming project bending over, grabbing rocks of all sizes and then pitching them over the chain-link fence (the fenced-in area around the four little buildings that constitute the Living Waters Ranch has rocks everywhere you step, so I’ve taken it on as my personal project to move them to the open pasture where they’re out from underfoot). As the boys began crouching and hauling, unearthing and slinging, I had casually warned my teenage comrades, “Be careful, boys. There’s a boa that lives somewhere around here. Hopefully the rock you grab doesn’t happen to be his favorite hiding place.”

They had looked at me, dumbstruck, several of them with a smirk on their face as they assumed I was kidding.

[Seeing as I participated rather enthusiastically in competitive basketball teams and year-round athletic training from second grade until my high school graduation, I have taken these two weeks with our students as a bootcamp of sorts. (And I’ve had a little too much fun managing that bootcamp.)

Two days prior, as we neared thirty minutes or so of doing the rather demanding activity of launching rocks, everyone drenched in sweat under the hot Honduran sun, I clapped my hands vigorously and barked out orders, “That’s it! You’ve done great! Now hustle up – we’re gonna go around to the other side of the fence where you’ve just thrown all the rocks, and we’re gonna pick ‘em up and throw ‘em back on this side!”

They had all frozen and swiveled to look at me – the first time they had actually shown any recognition of all the noise I had been making – and their jaws dropped open. One of the boys expressed everyone’s thoughts, “That’s a crazy person’s work! No way!”

I had bent backward, thrown my head back and let out a belly laugh before recovering my rigid coaching tone of voice, “I’m just joking, kids! Now get your butts inside and we’re gonna continue reading more chapters of Proverbs and work out the kinks of long-division! You’ve done a phenomenal job! Hustle up now! Teamwork on three!”]

So this morning I laughed as I looked at their faces, unsure whether I was joking or not about the boa. (Our 13-year-old daughter Jackeline was standing by giggling and nodding her head in agreement, for she knew we had seen the boa several times and, thus, my warning was legitimate.)

“Nope, this one’s for real, boys. Good luck, and keep a tight watch on your fingers. I’d hate for anybody to lose one.”

They gaped and protested. I laughed. “No need to worry, boys. It’s not venomous. The only thing to fear is its long fangs. Just a slight sting, nothing more. Now fling those rocks! Let’s put everything you’re learning from the book of Proverbs into practice and form you into wise, hard-working young men for God’s glory! Hurl!”

As I stood right there on the sideline, shouting incessant verbal instruction and lavishing on praise, my throat started to ache due to my extreme coaching style. Not a moment passed that I wasn’t yelling some edifying comment or specific instruction to those young soldiers-in-training.

“That’s it, Exson! Keep it going, boys! We’re developing a good work ethic in you guys so that one day you will be useful instruments in God’s hands! Great job, Charlie! What great strength, Arnold! Wow, you guys have great perseverance! Keep slinging ‘em one after the other!”

Arms extended backward like catapults as rocks soared one after the other high over the fence. Fingernails turned black with dirt and muscles were put to the test as larger stones were taken on one by one and heaved over the precipice with great exertion.

“You need to run from Point A to Point B! Have a sense of urgency, boys! You don’t walk; you run! Show me that you deserve to pass seventh grade! Let’s go, boys! Use your strength to serve God; dedicate your bodies to serve justice!”

As the young men picked up their pace, heeding my verbal instruction to run from one rock to another rather than taking an easy stroll, sweat pouring mightily down their temples, I continued in my edifying verbal barrage: “May God form hard workers out of you, young men! You’re doing such a fantastic job! Keep it up, so that some day you can serve God, be responsibly married and provide for your family with the sweat of your brow! Remember that no good woman wants to marry a lazy man!”

A couple of the young men who had shown no prior interest in any of my many loud verbal proclamations until my last comment, stopped in their tracks, stared at me, and then let out a slight laugh before they kept on running.

All of our students are very familiar with the book of Hosea (the prophet whom God instructed to marry an unfaithful prostitute so that Hosea — and all those who would then come to know his story henceforth — would know how God, forever faithful, feels with unfaithful humanity who is constantly wandering off to prostitute itself to Satan). Making the connection between my comment about their future wives and the Scripture that we’ve been studying for months, Arlen, a 15-year-old student who ran past me with a rather large rock cradled in his hands, glanced up at me and asked with a tricky grin, “But we’re not gonna have a wife like Hosea’s, right?”

I laughed and praised God in my heart for all these young men are learning about His Word.

So, in these first four days of intensive work with those students who throughout the year had become notorious for playing hooky, not turning in homework on time and generally displaying rather irresponsible behavior day after day, we have enlisted them in a military-style boot camp founded on God’s Word in a very intentional attempt to form these young men (and woman) into disciplined, wise youth who are rooted in the truth. (And we’ve loved every minute of it even if they haven’t!)

With tears nearly welling up in my eyes, we’ve seen lazy, unmotivated young men begin to be transformed into hardworking, positive young men who leave all excuses aside, roll up their sleeves and get to work diligently. Now that there are less students to manage (the academically solid students are already on vacation), we can address and correct bad work habits individually, take the time to go over basics that they should have learned years ago, and go at a pace that they can understand and take hold of. Heck, I think these four days of intensive small-group military-style training have been more helpful to them than perhaps the entire school year in the normal classroom environment with all the other students and general distractions.

So when skinny Cristian with his Mohawk and wide eyes jumped back and set off the snake alarm, we all immediately showed up on the scene. Undoubtedly their thought was: Heck! She wasn’t kidding!

As we all drew near, Exson, the oldest student in our program who turned 18 this year, took the lead and grabbed a stick. He valiantly began removing rock after rock as his young friend informed him: “Right there! It disappeared into the dirt right there!”

Exson poked the stick about as we all bent over, faces forming an elevated circle above the suspected snake location while we all held our breath. It has almost bitten Cristian.

A moment or two passed as our hearts beat faster. Suddenly two eyes and a small head burst upward from the soil with lightning speed as I instinctively let out a blood-curdling scream and pulled my head up and away.

Not only did it almost bite Cristian; now it’s gonna bite all of us! The boa wants vengeance! If, in fact, it actually is the non-venomous boa and not one of the many poisonous snakes that are also found on this mountainside! Who can tell the difference anyway? Everybody run for your life!

My hands flew up to cover my face as if that would protect my ankles from the attacking fangs. The boys, too, had jumped back in surprise and let out similar gasps.

Everything happened in a half-second blur of terror and adrenaline before it registered in my mind: Wait, that wasn’t a snake. It was a gecko.

A gecko. 

We all began laughing hysterically as Cristian, who is typically very reserved, grabbed his chest in relief and sighed in very dramatic fashion.

After the boys had a good laugh at my squealy reaction, I resumed by coach-like authority and commanded, “Alright, back to work. Twenty more minutes of intense labor until recess, and I must warn you to watch out for the geckos. They are, after all, the most dangerous of all animals. More dangerous than a shark, more menacing than a lion, the gecko, young men, is to be feared above all other creatures. Now sling those rocks over the fence and watch out for gecko fangs!”

Amen! Glory to God!

Child/Youth Leadershp, Community Life, God At Work Among Us, Homeschool, Information About the Mission, Living Waters Ranch Secondary School, Personal Reflection, Teaching

A Most Unusual Butt-Chewing

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Yesterday morning something rather peculiar happened on a lone side street in our rural neighborhood.

Yesterday (Monday) was the first day of an intensive two-week academic catch-up program for our high school students who, even after nearly a year of being under our care, are still experiencing the effects of the incredibly weak academic foundation they brought with them from their experiences in the local public elementary schools.

My husband and I have felt a lot of hype building up to these two weeks of intensive tutoring sessions for our weakest students as we are excited to be able to focus exclusively on those who are in most dire need of help. (Our six academically sound students who passed our 7th-grade program with no problems began their school vacation as of yesterday while the seven who need additional help will be coming for the next two weeks.)

Darwin would be teaching classes on Monday while Miss Ligia, the official 7th grade teacher, would be helping paint the entryway and bathroom of our little high school building. Everyday we would be taking turns between Darwin, Miss Ligia and myself.

Well, 7:00am rolled around and Darwin took attendance (which is extremely easy to do when the group is so small and you intimately know each person!). One of our teenage boys (the one whom I wrote about in the previous blog who shared his testimony in the Christian Leadership class) wasn’t present. I asked the other students if they knew why he hadn’t shown up – please tell me he’s on his deathbed or got an emergency call from China to travel on business! – as one of our other boys shrugged and said he had seen his classmate moping around his family’s porch that morning while the rest of the students began their walk up that long gravel road to our home.

I was alarmed that our M.I.A. student decided to play hookie on such an important day – their performance (and most importantly attendance!) during this two-week intensive program would determine whether or not they passed 7th grade! I thought he had matured quite a bit. Well, I mean, he definitely had. But why would he pull a no-show on the first day? How many times do I need to be reminded that the process of transformation is just that – a process. Everything takes time.

I felt disappointed, as I had sincerely been rooting for the kid to make a big, last-minute redemption of the school year and finish strong.

I shook it off and continued getting all the household business in order before I could leave in our old truck to spend the day in town working on the computer and running errands.

About an hour later as everything was finally in place and I rolled out the front gate, I felt God calling me to pass by our rogue student’s home and see what had happened, why he wasn’t in class. This certainly wouldn’t be the first time we’ve made a house call to go chase down run-away students (See: By God’s Design: Zebras in Honduras), but in my heart I felt as though I shouldn’t have to do so, that by golly he should have just pulled himself up by the bootstraps and gotten his little bum to class on time just like everyone else.

As I rumbled down that rocky road that passes through the little neighborhood where the majority of our students live, I finally gave in and turned the steering wheel down the narrow side road that leads to his home. Yes; God’s will is always greater than my own, and, yes, this young man was going to receive a loving house-call even though he probably didn’t deserve it because we’ve all received a free salvation that we most definitely don’t deserve.

I pulled to a stop a couple paces in front of his house and, suddenly experiencing an unexpected surge of energy and God-given joy, hopped out of the car as several neighbors whom I don’t know observed me carefully from a distance. I threw up my arm in a generous wave and sent them enthusiastic verbal greetings through a big smile, which threw them off as they, in turn, decided to greet me warmly.

I approached the small gate to our student’s home and called a general good-morning greeting through the thin curtain that hung in the front doorway.

Very quickly our student’s older sister, who happens to be the mother of another one of our students, came out to greet me with a big smile and, of course, she immediately knew why I was there. She began rattling off all that had happened that morning – the misunderstandings, the bad attitudes, the self-pity – and that, despite her incessant scolding of her younger brother as she tried to get his butt up and off to school, he wouldn’t budge. He was discouraged and had decided that it wasn’t worth going.

In a culture/neighborhood that is steeped in very low self-esteem and almost zero perseverance, a story such as this one is no longer surprising to me. What is surprising is that God is granting me a healthy dose of compassion for these youth who I used to think just needed a swift kick in the rear and a thorough butt-chewing.

I smiled genuinely as I listened to his very well-intentioned sister. When she started to lose a bit of steam, I asked if I could talk with her brother. He is, after all, 15 years old and should very well be present if and when any butt-chewing should occur.

I caught her off guard when I asked to speak face-to-face with the culprit (aren’t we all used to just getting riled up and gossiping without reaching any kind of actual conclusion?), and she immediately called her little brother’s name three times (really loudly) before he finally appeared from behind the front door’s curtain.

I smiled big when I saw him (He came out! He didn’t hide and refuse to show his face! Let’s count that as a victory! Atta boy!), and he returned the smile, although it was obviously tainted with a bit of shame for having skipped out on a very important responsibility that we are both directly involved in.

I spent a moment or two saying with great sincerity things that have been said to this precious young man dozens of times before: “You can do this. Don’t give up. We truly love and treasure you and are committed to doing everything possible to see you succeed, but you’ve also got to do your part. We love you and really do miss you when you don’t show up.”

In our first couple years of this ministry to broken youth, I thought it absurd and entirely unnecessary that we found ourselves saying the same things over and over to the same people day after day. Can you say ‘broken record’? Can you say ‘broken record’? How many times do we have to reiterate that we love the person, that we believe God has a plan for their life? How many times do we have to give the same advice to someone before they actually believe us, before they put it into action?

My thought on this has changed drastically over the last couple months as the Lord has revealed to me that I, too, have heard the same things over and over for years, and I am still slow to believe. How many times have I read, heard – preached! – that God is love and that He truly loves each one of us enough to have sent Christ to reconcile us with Himself, adopt us as His very own sons and daughters, heirs to an eternal Kingdom brimming with life, justice and joy, and even so in my heart I doubt, think Surely His love is for others, but not for me. It’s too good to be true. Oh, truly I am just like this immature young man, for I must hear the same things over and over again for years, and even so I struggle to receive, to rest in the truth.

And so, before much more time passed, I layed out my ultimatum with intense eyes and joy permeating my voice: “Look, if you don’t go get your butt ready to go to school, I’m gonna start dancing right here in the middle of the street until you get really embarrassed and decide to get ready.”

I had no idea where that came from (I’ve definitely never said anything like that before), and his older sister, very enthusiastic to support any butt-chewing I might be handing out, let out an immediate, “Yeah! You heard her!” before her face contorted oddly, finally realizing the absurdity of what I had said. Huh?

They suddenly both looked at me, eyes ablaze with wonder – was this tall, gangly white woman who is crazy about telling others about God really about to start dancing in public? It couldn’t be so.

To erase any doubt from their minds, I bowed low in a dramatic, silly curtsy and began thrusting my long arms to one side and the other, an undoubtedly awkward mixture of ‘groovy’ and ‘ridiculous.’

I spun in large circles and began some strange combination of fancy footwork that in no way kept the same beat as my wild arm motions.

A small boy on a bicycle rode by me on the street and nearly fell off as his eyes widened and his head swiveled around, unable to believe what he was seeing.

The neighbor ladies who had carefully observed and then greeted me only minutes prior also watched from a distance, alerted by the extremely joyful behavior being displayed. Who on earth would dance so freely – and so terribly! – on their street, especially in the face of such circumstances that typically provoke despair? Why, I must be crazy (or have a hope for this young man that goes beyond the despair of this world.)

My smile grew wider and wider as I informed our beloved student: “You see, I’m gonna keep dancing until you go get ready for school. Yup, I’m gonna keep on embarrassing you…”

Both our student and his adult sister laughed out loud, their eyes aglow with wonder – what an incredibly unusual butt-chewing! – as they watched me from but a couple yards away in their desolate front yard.

I only had to dance another ten seconds or so before he finally nodded his head, fully convinced that I would gladly continue my uncoordinated interpretive dancing until he really did get his butt ready for school.

I gave his sister another big, warm hug and laughed all the way to the car as I then continued on with my errands as planned.

That evening as my husband – who had been the one to give classes that morning while I had been away running errands – and I were talking over dinner, I asked him if our no-show student had arrived after all for his classes. He confirmed that he certainly did arrive and had a fabulous attitude throughout the day.

As Darwin continued to talk to me about that morning’s events in the classroom, he mentioned that it was curious that when the young man arrived late for class, he came through the front door not angry or ashamed but rather with a very innocent grin on his face. Why would that be?

I bit my lip and asked, “…Did he tell you how I convinced him to come to school…?”

Amen! Glory to God!

Bible study, Child/Youth Leadershp, Community Life, God At Work Among Us, Homeschool, Information About the Mission, Living Waters Ranch Primary School, Living Waters Ranch Secondary School, Marriage, Personal Reflection, Prayer Requests, Teaching

My Efforts (In Vain) to Move the Rescue Shop Farther from Hell

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A few days ago my husband and I travelled to three of the public elementary schools in our rural town to announce in the sixth grade classrooms (the last grade in elementary school according to the Honduran educational system) the opportunity to study in our discipleship-based high school on the 7th-grade level.

Last November was our first time to travel to local schools making the general invitation as we groped around in the dark, seeking God’s will in an extremely new endeavor and rather daringly inviting others to follow as we designed a new homeschool-style high school for a small group of local students.

Having roughly a year of experience under our belts (and many, many trip-ups and lessons learned the hard way), this time we began making the rounds at the local elementary schools with a sense of familiarity. Many of the students at the schools we would be going to are younger siblings of the teenagers who are currently in our program.

As we parked our old Toyota pickup truck (which is becoming quite well-known in our small town) in front of each of the schools, asked permission from the watchman to enter the front gate, and walked across dirt playgrounds teeming with children to visit overpopulated open-air classrooms, certain thoughts streamed uninvited through our minds as we observed our surroundings:

In these public elementary schools, so many of the students don’t learn anything. Look! There are kids wandering aimlessly about everywhere. Do they ever receive actual classes?  It seems like they are always canceling class because the teachers don’t show up. Over there! Pre-teens holding hands inappropriately; young men rubbing up against young women; teachers sitting around doing nothing. Kids in deep poverty tapping away on expensive cell phones; trash littered everywhere.

A sense of despair almost palpable (moreso in certain public schools than in others), our thoughts next wandered to our own experiences…

How many of the students who study in our home who came to us from these same public schools got up to fifth, sixth, seventh grade without having learned basic math and writing skills? Oh, the struggles we’ve had with our students this year of breaking all the bad habits they brought with them! How grueling the war has been that we’ve waged so that 15- and 17-year-old students might learn the multiplication tables, something they should have learned years ago!  Oh, our students who came to us with devastatingly low self-esteem and an immaturity that’s off the charts! Teenagers who haven’t learned to look you in the eyes; young lives already heavily tainted by lies, theft and a consuming sense of despair. 15-year-olds who behave like 6-year-olds! Everything’s upside down! Many of our 7th-grade students arrived at our home in February on about a second- or third-grade academic level… 

And now we’re out here in the educational wilderness looking for more to add to the growing bunch…

I sighed. Please, God, send us good students this year. (Or at least students who have a concept of the times tables and have enough self-discipline to arrive at school everyday…) The difficult ones are just too much work!

As Darwin and I passed by classroom after classroom, we peered inside to see children standing up, hitting one another, or altogether leaving the classroom without permission. I glanced overhead and saw a hand-decorated poster that seemed to be a bright spot in the midst of the chaos: the honor roll. The poster had a small handful of students’ names written in perfectly-cut stars that had then been glued onto the clean poster board.

A sense of dread filling in my chest at the possibility of receiving a whole new batch of woefully behind, undisciplined students at the start of our new school year in February (the Honduran educational calendar finishes in November and begins again in February), I laughed sarcastically and elbowed my husband: “Hey, we should jot down the names of the honor roll kids and then invite only them into our program!”

Immediately as the words escaped my mouth, I repented of having fallen once more into the trap of yearning for ‘easy’ and ‘nice,’ of essentially turning our back on those who most desperately need the loving, edifying environment that our home offers; the message of salvation that is daily proclaimed.

Jesus came not for the well, but for the sick; not for the ‘good’ people, but for the ‘bad.’ He spent time with the prostitutes, thieves and sinners! Who am I to want to hide out with the healthy people — the nice ones, the pretty ones! — who’ve got it all together? Oh, Lord, forgive me once more.

How many times has our Father confirmed that our home is not to be a hide-out for ‘good’ people but rather a daring rescue mission within a yard of hell? Thank You for stationing us here within a yard of the flames even though so many times in my selfishness I’d like to move this rescue shop a little bit farther into safe territory. A rescue shop within a hundred miles of hell sounds a bit more appealing, or better yet within a yard of heaven.

Oh, but the ‘bad youth’ are the ones He’s specifically chosen to find Him through us! This is our cross to bear.

My mind immediately snapped into focus as I remembered last Tuesday afternoon when we had our last Christian Leadership class of the year.

For one last time (until February when the new school year starts up again) each person passed to the front of the class to share a personal testimony — something the Lord is doing in their lives, something they’ve learned recently from Scripture, etc. We began implementing this activity into the weekly class as a way of truly developing the participants into active leaders who are always prepared to explain the hope that they have in Christ.

One by one each person passed up to the front with a maturity, a dignity that had not been present but a few months ago. A sense of God’s presence fell over our little classroom as each person assumed a vulnerability that had not yet been expressed.

A 15-year-old young man in our 7th-grade program — the same young man whom in my heart I had scoffed at when I realized he had signed up for a Christian Leadership course! (See: Unlikely Disciples) — took his turn at the front. Sure enough, he had not dropped out of the intensive course but had faithfully attended since July along with the rest of this ragtag band of disciples that surely any ‘wise’ person would not have chosen for a leadership class.

He passed up to the front, the rest of us seated in the students’ desks. He shifted his weight from one leg to the other and adjusted his white uniform’s collar. I could tell he was nervous, but it wasn’t due to the fact that he had to speak in front of the group. We had all been speaking in front of one another in this way, giving testimonies and teaching Scripture together for many months. I sensed he was nervous because what he was about to share would be extremely personal, a little too close to home.

He began, and he went way over the at-least-a-minute-or-two time suggestion as his voice softly trembled, his words carefully chosen and said with great sincerity. His large, wide eyes were alert and joyful. He began sharing with us — in his own words — the transformation that I believe everyone around him had already noticed.

“Before I began studying here, I was…so disrespectful. My mom would talk to me and tell me to stay at home, and I would just thrown up my arm and storm out, going to the river or just wandering around the neighborhood aimlessly, day after day…”

I remembered, for his story is always very present in my thoughts. His parents had kicked him out of the home the year prior, had sent him off to another town to live with his uncle and do manual work after he had dropped out of the public high school and got mixed up with the wrong crowd.

“But this year, I’ve learned about Christ. I feel that I’ve learned so much, and, what He wants from me –”

His eyes light up even more and a big smile overtakes his face: ” — is that I follow Him.”

He continued onward as everyone else remained in a respectful silence, eyes locked on his (another triumph that has been fiercely battled for and won among rogue, undisciplined youth!)

He confessed that at the beginning of this school year he had been so disrespectful of his teacher, Miss Ligia. He stopped suddenly, smiled shyly and glanced across the room at her. She returned the smile, for she, too, was about to share a testimony of God’s transformative power in her own life.

This brave young man with his rockin’ teenagery haircut in his daily school uniform continued, as he laughed and said, “I mean, at the beginning of the school year I didn’t even know the times tables. Someone could ask me 3 X 4, and I wouldn’t know the answer. And, I mean, that’s the easiest one! All throughout elementary school when I was younger I was so undisciplined, and I didn’t want to learn anything. I would just go around bullying everyone and messing around…”

He continued onward, talking easily about the impact our twice-weekly Bible studies have had in his life as he’s come to learn about God’s will, His perfect love. He spoke also of his participation in Miss Isis’ prayer group.

As his very sincere, powerful confession of God’s grace in his life came to an apparent close, he hesitated. It was as if a part of the story was missing, but he wasn’t sure if it was too dangerous to share. He looked at me, and I sensed I knew what he was going to say.

Seeing as no one had yet to make fun of him for his daring testimony in this roomful of ‘sick’ people who’ve come to be healed by the Savior, he took the risk. “There’s…one more thing. Last year.”

The room suddenly felt heavy. I definitely knew what he was going to say. “Last year…when some of my friends and I came up to the Living Waters Ranch…to steal. I was involved, so I was guilty too. The cops came and took us to the station in La Ceiba. And…Darwin arrived and he gave me really pivotal advice, told me to seek God. And…now I truly feel that God is transforming me. I’m not the same anymore.”

Many in the room probably had no idea what he was talking about while others knew too well as he continued valiantly talking about his participation in the robbery that happened last August on my birthday. (See: Justice in a Lawless Land)

My heart felt heavy with joy as the young man before us finished his testimony and sat down quietly. Before I knew it another one was standing up, sharing a strikingly similar testimony of salvation and life — life abundant! joy! — found in Christ. Here. In our midst, in these little melon-colored houses at the end of that long gravel road.

Lord, please forgive me for wanting ‘easy,’ for wanting to surround myself with polished people, with those who have it all together. Thank You for bringing these broken, lost young men to our home, to learn of You and to be transformed.  And thank You for transforming me in the process, for renewing this hardened hart of mine and for utilizing me in the midst of this great rescue mission You are performing all around the globe. Lord, may You continue to be glorified in and through us, and may You grant us the strength to remain faithful to the calling You’ve given us.

Amen! Glory to God!