I think the lack of writing stems from what’s been going on in my life lately (more poignantly: what hasn’t been going on). I went through about a month of spiritual dryness that left me without inspiration, without passion, and without direction. I had nothing flowing through me, and it mostly stemmed from the fact that God had been trying to tell me something for about a month before that, repeatedly, and I’d been calling His voice that of the enemy, blocking it out and actively praying against it (trust me, the irony is not lost on me). Eventually, I guess God decided that since I wasn’t listening (and therefore, I wasn’t obeying), He would cease speaking to and through me. My prayer life was dead. My Bible reading diminished. My relationships around the house were all stressed. My health suffered. Eventually, I got a ton of people to start praying over me and something amazing happened. The thing God had been telling me to do was the first thing I heard in my head. I broke down, sobbing, recognized it as the voice of God, and immediately repented and obeyed. That was the easy part.

That obedience brought about a huge change in my personal life and lead to an outpouring of all that I’d been missing spiritually, which lead to a completely different outlook on our ministries, my time in Mexico, and all the people in my life (two thirds of that is still going strong). That obedience further led to more commands and understanding of things I was doing wrong, which led to more obedience and more outpouring. Now that I’ve confused anyone reading this, I can honestly say that my heart hurts. The problem with obeying, learning, worshiping, etc. for me is that I want everyone else to experience what I’m experiencing, and I try to do the Holy Spirit’s work for Him instead of being faithful and trusting.

Now, I look back on the past few days of judging and being frustrated, and I wonder why I wonder why I feel alienated and alone. How could I not expect that to happen? Today, I spent most of the day fuming over relationships in the house and pitying myself, only to go off to worship practice at my Mexican church (by the way, I joined the worship team, only I’m currently not really doing anything except running the sound board for practice) and sit at the sound board in the back, not talking to anyone for three and a half hours except occasionally being yelled at to change something (which I mostly didn’t understand anyway). Occasionally, I heard people asking the worship leader what my name was so they could yell at me too. How could I expect to feel fellowship when i sit around complaining and grumbling, then go someplace where I’m further isolated by the language barrier and don’t attempt to talk to anyone?

I currently have no direction. I’ve been sticking to my guns about being called to be a college pastor and then a senior pastor, but I’m realizing more and more that those are just things I felt would fit very well. The only true callings I’ve ever genuinely heard or felt were to go do missions in Holland and that being second in command in a church is in my future. I have no idea what I’m doing right now, but I feel more and more like God has something in store for me that I’m not expecting. Normally, that excites me. Right now, it drives me crazy.

I’m also feeling useless right now. Most of my strengths lie in discipleship, counseling, speaking, and singing. Guess what four things I don’t get to do here? You’d expect some of that from the language barrier, but I feel it in the house more and more. For the most part, people don’t want to hear what I have to say. I see it in meetings, in daily life, in ministries, everywhere. When I pipe up, someone else either talks over me or people just roll their eyes. Usually, I have one person who consistently listens to me, but the ratio is just overwhelming. (Note: this is about students. I feel like most of the time our leaders do a very good job of listening to everyone).

I suppose that’s enough complaining for one night.

On the bright side, our ministries are flourishing, my prayer life is improved beyond belief, and my passion for the people of Mexico is greater than it has ever been. I want so badly to see people all across the world accept the hope and promise that comes with a relationship with Jesus Christ. I want to be a part of that, and that’s something I’ve never really had this same passion for. I guess I’m finally understanding the way God feels on this level.

If anyone reading this could pray for direction, wisdom, and peace in my life, I would greatly appreciate it. If you could pray for unity in our house and for Jesus to be shown through our actions, words, and our hearts, I think I’d appreciate that even more. Finances are also extremely low for me, but that’s normal at this point.

Yes, that sums it up nicely, I think. The last point to me is the most poignant, and the most frustrating. We’ve been on that campus for four months in a controlled environment with a captive audience of international students and professors and we simply don’t have the fruit to show for it that we should have. Perhaps that’s because we only started seriously considering it a mission field over the last month, not really praying for the campus or the students or the professors until recently. Perhaps it’s because we didn’t invest fully into the lives of other students there until the last month or so. Either way, we’re fixing both and we won’t be forgetting.

Loree (one of my housemates) has a beautiful vision for a revival to break out on the giant plaza on the campus, shown below. I’ve been playing soccer with international students twice a week and I get to continue doing that for quite some time, thankfully. Other students are joining the theater club, volleyball, and playing ultimate frisbee. We have several students coming over to our house for the Superbowl this weekend, as well. We’re building relationships, casting vision, and praying fervently and frequently for everything about this place.

Not a big update tonight, and not exactly prose, but I just wanted to mark the end of this time as a transition, rather than with a mark of finality.

Panorama shot of UAG

“Like a dog that returns to his vomit is a fool who repeats his folly”(Proverbs 26:11 ESV) is the first. The Jamieson-Fausset-Brown Bible Commentary comments: “11. returneth . folly-Though disgusting to others, the fool delights in his folly.”

“What the true proverb says has happened to them: ‘The dog returns to its own vomit, and the sow, after washing herself, returns to wallow in the mire.’”(2 Peter 2:22 ESV) is the second.

I couldn’t help but think of these references today as I returned from a visit to El Colli. Our favorite (I know, I know, we shouldn’t have favorites) family from the neighborhood is a mom (who babysits Seth during the week) and her six daughters, and she had just moved back into the neighborhood. You’d expect us to be excited to have her back, right? Wrong. She should have stayed three hours away in Aguascalientes with her parents, where we helped move her several months ago. This woman has run away from her drunk, abusive, deadbeat husband more times than she can actually remember, and she keeps crawling back. Why? Why does she do it?

“My daughters miss their dad” was the excuse she gave this time, as the two oldest girls rolled their eyes and shook their heads behind her back. The oldest is now 17, with a baby boy of her own and a deadbeat runaway boyfriend to match. The second oldest is 13 and has recently started to recognize and vocalize the ridiculous decisions her mother is making, but without any guidance is doing so destructively and disrespectfully. I glanced around the sparsely decorated one-room shack, smelling the dust mixed with the odor of an overfull outhouse, feeling the pocked and pitched, broken concrete beneath my feet, leaning upon the bunkbed which slept six girls and a baby boy, soaking in the chill of the open doorways and the symphony of torrential rain on the aluminum roof. My eyes wandered back to “Mom.” She was currently explaining how her husband was “actually changing this time.” How she “could hear it in his voice.” She rambled on about how “even though he’s said all of these things before,” she “knew he wouldn’t hit [her] anymore…certainly not in front of the girls.”

We had helped this sow remove herself from the mire (I don’t mean to call her a pig; I love this woman and think she has a heart of gold, but that’s the biblical example I’ve got to work with so I’ll use it.) and wash herself clean, giving her a new start in a new city free of her old problems. True to form, she then promptly returned to wallow, taking her litter with her. We feel so powerless to help her, because she won’t help herself. The true pain, though, lies with the girls. What are those girls learning about strength, about love, about role models, about respect? What will the impact be on their future relationships with guys?

There is so much work to be done here, and so much we are powerless to do. I am so thankful that we can rely on Christ Jesus to transform hearts, minds, and lives; to redeem the enslaved, to heal the broken, and to encourage and strengthen the weak. I’m praying for this family and this neighborhood, and I would be honored if you would join me in that prayer.

After spending a year abroad there are literally countless stories and experiences I could relate to anyone interested enough to hear them, however few were as poignant as those I had while traveling in Nepal. I may or may not have had a chance to share much with you about my recent trip through the Himalayas aside from photos, but of all the experiences and stories the trip sent home with me there is one in particular I feel compelled to express.

On the 16th day of the hike we were making our way from a village called Tatopani to another named Ghorepani, a distance of 9.9 miles and elevation gain of 3,756 feet. Traversing along the trail, through river valleys that would make Paul Bunyan proud and beside mountains that invoke a small dizzy spell when your eye attempts to find their peaks, we passed numerous smaller villages. The inhabitants of these villages were ever busy using handheld scythes and hoes to harvest their small patches of terraced farmland, spreading grain to dry on flat areas they were able to claim from the slopes, herding mules which carried regional fruits and resources to neighboring districts, and catering to the occasional tourist who would stroll through awe-stricken at the natural beauty and simplistic lifestyle surrounding him or her.

Though much of the low mountain population have spent the length of their years living in villages just like these, there is a hint that the same may not always be true. Along the trail bounce bright eyed and energetic youngsters dressed in skirts and blouses for the girls, and shirts and ties for the boys. Happily they are making their way to school, playing and laughing. For these students school is no less than one hour’s walk up the same steep slopes foreigners pay thousands of dollars to prove their cardiovascular prowess on. I would occasionally walk to school when I was a child, yet only while watching these children did I appreciate not having to dodge trains of mules trotting down my path, as well as the odiferous presents they so indifferently leave behind. The oil spots and sidewalk cracks I used to hop over seemed to pale in comparison.

About half way up a particularly steep portion of the trail, devoured by winding rock steps, we stopped to take a water break and enjoy the visual fruits of the effort we had just put in. As we sat for a minute to gaze across the valley and note the technique of the nearby woman rhythmically cutting her grain stalks from their roots, two groups of children came to my attention. The first was made up of about 20 or 30 boys and girls rushing up nature’s Stairmaster with plastic chairs hooked through their arms like an additional backpack. Curious why they had chairs, I inquired, at which point our guide explained that today was exam day, and that they took their own chairs in order to make sure everyone had a place to sit. Just so we’re clear, these kids were hiking, not walking, an hour to school, dodging mules and mule feces, and carrying their own chairs so that they could take a test. You can believe my children will someday hear this story on test day.

I almost didn’t notice the second group, this one made up of three girls standing off the trail just to the side of a small teahouse where the mountain had allowed another small flat space to rest. These girls stood and watched the other children passing by them; they were not on their way to school. Instead of neatly folded uniforms they had weather worn clothes, the reds and browns stained by dirt. Their backpacks were replaced by baskets, half as tall as they were and filled with fruit and firewood, which they carried with a sole strap hiding their hairlines. Their demeanor was not one of excitement like the other kids. It was one of fatigue. They were a short distance from their destination, home was just up the hill, but they remained immobile and looked on as the other children elevated toward their scholastic endeavors. Looking in their eyes it was plain to see that they desperately wanted to follow and to attend school that day. Again curious, I asked why they were not included in the procession of students. Our guide politely informed us that there were still those who did not allow their daughters to go to school because they were just that, daughters and not sons. Instead the parents keep them at home to labor in the fields. As I turned my attention back to these three girls a remarkable thing happened. Though he phrased it more delicately than I, our guide’s words hit me with a force I didn’t expect, and although we spoke different languages no words needed to be exchanged in order for me to now understand every ounce of what these girls felt. Their longing gazes brought a sadness over me, and as we strapped on our backpacks to follow the last of the chair toting school kids up the hill my steps turned to autopilot and I became lost to the world.

One of the things I love about hiking is the opportunity for reflection it provides. I find nothing more relaxing or enlightening than walking silently through nature, and as we walked the remaining miles to Ghorepani, I thought. The sadness transformed to anger, (How arbitrary! Can’t they see their daughter’s faces?!) which over a length of time I can’t estimate evolved again into concerned inquisitiveness (Why do these parents think that’s okay? Why do I not? Who or what could do the work in their place?).

Ironically enough, the majority of us learned in school about children who don’t have the opportunity for education. Witnessing it in person, however, brought a different poignancy. It makes me feel profoundly fortunate to live in a place like America where opportunity abounds by comparison, however it also drives me to believe that simply ‘feeling’ fortunate is not enough. As my tread repeatedly left its print on the earth behind me my thoughts gradually clarified. I certainly would not argue that a life farming and laboring cannot find happiness, far from it, but imagine the tremendous obstacles these girls will have to overcome to pursue something different in life if they so choose. If they do want something different, how limited are their choices because of something as uncontrollable as gender? How many like them have little choice but to resign and accept the constraints of a reality they feel they cannot alter?

Have you ever met someone who has an amazing talent or opportunity and throws it down the drain? It makes you a little bit angry, doesn’t it? If you had that talent, or that opportunity, well you would certainly be making the most of it. Wouldn’t you?

Are you?

Opportunities for growth and betterment are literally everywhere, for ourselves, but perhaps even more importantly for others. Consider for a second what you’ve been given. The opportunities you started out with the day you were borne. They may be few or they may be many, but I’d be willing to bet they are more numerous than someone who is not given the right to an education because of their gender, and is thereby forced into a life of labor looking forward to an arranged marriage, which is still very common in Nepal. Regardless of your circumstances, you are more fortunate than someone. Regardless of your circumstances, you have more opportunities than someone. And regardless of your circumstances, you have the ability to prove your worth to everyone. It is the role of the powerful to protect the weak, not control them. It is the role of the fortunate to help the underprivileged, not pity them.

I will never forget the looks on the faces of those three girls. It was pain, it was jealousy, and it was desire. It is all too often moments like these, which pass in only a minute or two, that can strike a chord deep within you or can be forgotten in the buzz of the world around them.

A life spent in contemplation does little benefit without action to support it. Likewise, action without forethought can do more damage than good. I would challenge you who may read this to reflect on your own role; the role of the fortunate, the role of the powerful; and to summon the courage to act on your conclusions. May we all be blessed and strive toward the better we know is out there.

I had all my junior high boys lined up behind me that entire week, following me wherever I went and doing whatever I did. They spoke how I spoke, they laughed how I laugh, and now, they evangelize like I evangelize.

This week I’ve had three reports back from disciples I had in Yakima who are doing big things.

One is evangelizing at work constantly, being a witness to those around him of the healing power of God and of His overwhelmingly generous provision.

Another is starting a prayer group focusing on the unreached parts of the world. He said he wants me to be involved with one of the many wonderful internet chat options (I’ll probably be using Skype, as that’s the only one I use regularly). He’s also getting others in our church and town involved, as well as a few people from his travels across the country.

The third is a funny story. Here’s a kid who, as long as I’ve known him, has a passion for Mormons. Seriously, this kid’s goal in life is to save Mormons. I, on the other hand, have a soft spot for atheists, as many of you know I spent most of my life claiming to be one.

Today, I had our guys Bible study in the middle of a mall food court. We were interrupted by a couple of white Mormon missionaries who honestly just seemed like they needed some company. They have no friends here in Mexico. They don’t speak Spanish. They miss their families and friends back home. One even SAID “I’m just a lost guy in Mexico, man.” We befriended them, exchanged numbers, and I expect to be spending some time with them when we get back from the December break. I was thinking of my little duckling all day after that. Thinking of his heart for them and how it’s a beautiful and clear reflection of God’s heart.

What do you suppose he did today? He stirred the pot, of course. He took on some atheists and did exactly what Jesus would do: he loved them by challenging them. Now, he’s still learning how to facilitate those conversations tactfully and purposefully, but he’s bold enough to engage in them. I could not fully describe how much I was beaming when I found out. My little duckling is flying today. Flying with purpose and with boldness.

Afterward, I pulled him aside (aka I messaged him on facebook) and we talked about how it went. We talked about how each conversation has eternal effects and each word spoken, including the tone and placement, has eternal consequences. We talked about purposely and intently forming our rebuttals and our statements of faith, as well as delicately and tactfully forming our controversial arguments. It was awesome.

To say that I needed to hear those reports would be an incredible understatement. Because of my passions and my strengths, I often feel inadequate here in Mexico. This isn’t to say I’m useless. Rather, the ministry I invest the most into and that I’m most drawn to is that of personal development and spiritual maturity. Usually, the only people I can communicate that with are the Engage students and, frankly, they’re tired of hearing old man Jongejan blabber on about “maturity” this and “eternal consequences” that and “representatives of Christ wherever we go” blah blah blah blah blah. I don’t yet have the Spanish vocabulary or comfort level to challenge our Mexican Nationals, and our students no longer (I’m not sure many of them did to begin with) respond to my prodding, so I often simply resort to plodding along with everyone else doing stuff that doesn’t necessarily speak to my heart.

God’s provision is a funny thing. We often think of financial provision only, but He is our provider of so much more. He covers ALL of our needs, every day. He provides the breath in our lungs, the food in our bellies, the sun on our faces, and yes, He provides the reminders that our hard work has produced fruit. Fly, my wee ducklings. Fly.

For the Halloween weekend, we completely transmogrified (thank you, Calvin & Hobbes) our youth center into the set for a 5 act drama, wherein we depicted the errant life of a Mexican teenage boy who, instead of going to church, goes to a party, gets crunk, crashes his car, dies, goes to judgment, and is sent to Hell. The storyline also included a funeral, but that obviously didn’t have our main character doing anything. The set took hours upon hours, over a week to set up and we ended up opening late our first night so we could finish everything last minute.

My role was originally going to change each night, but due to unforeseen scheduling complications and the fact that Brittany simply doesn’t make a passable silhouette for God, I was a party participant and God every single night. Because there were two very short scenes between the long party scene and long judgment scene, I had to run out of the party and around the entire youth center to get to my position before the group came in. A couple times, I didn’t make it in time, which ended up being pretty comical.

We had a great many hiccups throughout the weekend, which to me signifies that the enemy didn’t like what we were doing. Instead of getting down and broken, though, our entire team managed to keep spirits up, devise quick solutions, and laugh about everything.

hiccups:
The curtain hiding God (and also showing His silhouette) fell. Repeatedly. Every day except the last.
The lights going out on the Judgment scene.
Music/ipods missing, starting at the wrong times, playing the wrong tracks. Every night.
Not being in place on time.
Bottles breaking in the party scene.
Lightbulbs breaking all the time.
The power went out one night.
Rowdy kids.
Hannah got egged at the entrance door. Also, she’s slightly crippled right now and had to be the bouncer.
Physical, mental, and spiritual exhaustion.

Solutions:
We bought tape. We bought other tape. We finally drilled to nails into the ceiling and strung up the curtain. One night, there was no taping it, so we wrapped me in it for every group after I ran in from the party scene. This was by far the most ridiculous hiccup.
We figured out that it was just going to keep happening, since the only place we could plug in the lights was poorly placed. I just plugged it back in after each scene, but the first one was a scramble.
We laughed. What else could you do?
Samesies here.
Played it off like it was a real party and gave the person a hard time, then swept it up between groups.
We gathered up all the broken lightbulb glass and put it at the car crash. Nice touch.
There was no power on the whole block, so we prayed for God to reveal His power and that we needed no light aside from His, that if we had to change our story to whatever story He wrote for us, we would be willing and happy to do so. We then started preparing to do the night without power, but when Matt and Mike went home to get all the backup supplies, the power company showed up and made it happen.
Hannah is straight up a champion. I have no idea how she did it, but she kept kids from stampeding, killing each other, or killing her, all the while yelling and singing and entertaining them in Spanish for four nights. She was amazing.
Prayer.

We had a ton of friends throughout the city helping us out on various nights. Jensen played Satan one night, Isai supplied us with party music he made, Adrian stuck it out with us all four nights in the party room and in post-Hell prayer, Uriel helped with partying and prayer, Alina was a guide for a couple nights and the sister of the main character two other nights, Brittany helped us party, pastors showed up to help with prayer, even one of our Spanish teachers showed up one night. Oh yeah, and God kinda helped us out I guess.

Some of the most entertaining moments were due to groups interacting with us at the party scene and, from what I heard, in Hell with our demons and Satan. However, the best moments for me were during setup and prayer each night. We came together as a group, many of us not initially believing this would be successful, and threw our full support and our whole hearts into the project. We knew that if even one person over the four nights was reached and transformed and came to know God intimately through a new relationship with Jesus Christ, then our efforts were well worth it.

Setup and makeup for the demons cracked me up every single night. Initially, Loree was our only makeup artist. As the second night drew near to the opening, we discovered that there was yet much to be done. What happened at that point? Oh yes, you guessed correctly. I joined the makeup crew. Here’s a little-known (I usually like to keep it that way, but this is worth spilling here) secret about my past: my sister and I went through modeling classes, including makeup application, lighting, commercial spots, and runway stuff when we were kids. I managed to retain all of that information and, coupling it with what I learned in theater in high school (where I was the only straight guy who could do both my own and other guys’ makeup), I set to work making Mike terrifyingly beautiful. He looked like Heath Ledger’s Joker, no joke. This guy looked terrifying every night. On the second night, I put a hole in the middle of his throat –complete with dripping blood– on top of the cheek scars and generally horrific demon look. On our final night, Loree was getting frustrated and was exhausted, so I ended up finishing everyone’s makeup after she got the base stuff on them all. I have been trying not to boast lately, but they looked fantastic. Rachel, Jen, and Justin all looked awesome (HUGE assist from Stacia, Rachel, and Katlyn on making Justin into an incredibly stunning Satan), but Mike was my pride and joy. I slit his neck with makeup. No joke, it looked like someone had slit his neck and let it scab over, but that it had opened up and dripped in a few spots. I think this is the best art I’ve ever done, oddly.

I just spent over 1100 words not telling you the most important parts of the Hell House (La Casa del Terror) experience, so here’s the good stuff. I expected maybe 20 kids a night. We had 106, 102, 106, and 126 people on four nights. I didn’t know if anyone would give their lives to Christ. Our count showed 294 people praying for their salvation over the weekend. We handed out 400 Spanish Bibles to a neighborhood in desperate need of hope. When we heard the final tallies, I broke down. I was blowing snot bubbles while tears streamed down my face, and all the while, I laughed. The Lord filled me with such joy that He would be so gracious as to use us in such a way. I, a sinner for sure, was no more deserving of His grace and mercy than any of the people I met that weekend, yet He used me to reach them and establish His relationship with them, expanding His Kingdom.

After those four nights, after the previous two weeks, we were dead tired. And yet, as much as we all wanted to go home and sleep for a week, we knew the hard work had just begun. The Great Commission of Matthew 28:18b-20a says “All authority in heaven and on earth has been given to me. Go therefore and make disciples of all nations, baptizing them in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit, teaching them to observe all that I have commanded you.” It doesn’t say “get people to say a simple prayer and then return to living exactly as they have.” Jesus tells us to make disciples, to baptize, to teach. That means that our work is just beginning, and that we have an incredible task ahead of us. It’s time to get to work.

My entire life, I’ve been passionate about running. The burn in your lungs, the pangs of exhaustion in your legs, the steady pounding tempo of feet on pavement, the sweet aroma of exhaust and body odor, the heat of your body using every ounce of energy it has, the reliable rivers of sweat seeping from your every pore. There truly is nothing like it. I ran the Nike 10k on Saturday morning, which was reportedly the largest race that has ever been held (calling it “The Human Race,” Nike hosted simultaneous 10k races in major cities across the world) and I finished. This was approximately twice as long as I’ve ever run, because I’ve always been passionate about running.

I joined the cross country team in middle school one year so I could train for soccer. I was never very good, because I was a bit of a chunk and, as previously-stated, I was passionate about running. I generally came in towards the back of the pack, but I finished all the same. I was never a boost in the standings and I usually felt like an outsider, as I was basically the fat, slow, asthmatic kid on the cross country team, just like on the soccer team. However, I stuck it out, even though I was passionate about running.

In high school, I was relegated to the C-Team even though I was considerably more talented than at least half of the Junior Varsity. Why? Because I was the hefty, slowish, out of shape kid. Why? Because I was passionate about running, of course.

Since my first step into Guadalajara, this city has taken my breath away. Actually, as cliche as that sounds, it’s been absolutely true. Being 7,000ish feet in the air makes it really hard to breathe sometimes, especially when one is running (which, in case you’d forgotten, I’m quite passionate about). Here, everyone and their dog and their friend and their cockroach is a runner. (Ok, so maybe not the friend, but at least everyone and their dog and their cockroach.) Two weekends ago, two of our leaders ran and finished a marathon. That’s intense. Those people are passionate about their running. A week and a half ago, I decided to sign up for The Human Race. (Yes, that’s as hilarious to me as it might be to one or two of you. I had to sign up and pay a fee to be part of The Human Race. This is why Nike pays advertisers so much money.) Having never run that far, I figured I could do it no problem. Little did I know, my passionate hatred of running would make this one of the worst and best mornings of my life.

For my entire life, I’ve hated running. I mean passionately hated. There has never been anything I like less. I don’t mean all forms of running, though. Put a ball out there and I’m going to run fast and love it. Throw a frisbee out in front of me and I’ll sprint after it gleefully and lay out fully-horizontal to catch it. Give me someone to cover in a pickup game of football and I’m going to laugh while running stride for stride with them. But suggest to me running for exercise or running for the sheer joy of it, and you will see a look of shock, disdain, disgust, and distaste. That is simply not my idea of a good time. It’s boring, it hurts, there’s nothing even remotely fun about it, I get sweaty and stinky, and my body is built entirely not for that. I’m passionate about running.

For the first three miles, I was doing pretty well. I was taking my time, but still moving steadily. After that, my body decided to remind me that I’d never run further than that before, and it sincerely didn’t want to this particular morning either. I gave in. I walked sporadically over the last three miles, but only walked for a few minutes total in the entire race and, most importantly, I finished. My target finishing time was 1 hour flat, but I came in around 2.5 minutes over that, which I decided to be 100% content with. Yes, I said content. When I crossed that finish line and picked up my medal, I was excited. When I got my first hugs from people who could not have cared any less about my disgustingly sweaty body because they were just so proud of me and excited for me, I felt accomplished.

It’s funny what happens when you push through pain and disdain and passionate hatred. People are proud of you. You claim victory over the adversary. Your passions change. I can’t wait to do a 5k in a couple weeks. I’m looking forward to doing another 10k in January. Next year, I’m going to try to do a half-marathon here in Guadalajara. You know why?

Because I’m passionate about running.

I’ve been humbled and corrected. The week of “El Colli Boot Camp” was spurred by our total neglect towards preparation, both in physical work and spiritual, for El Colli practice and “game day.” We showed up to Thursday’s practice with terrible attitudes, completely unprepared to teach everyone our roles and parts for Saturday’s ministry. Because of this, that Saturday ended up being rather underwhelming. This all sets up what we experienced over that week.

On Monday night after our meeting, we were handed rules for the week. These rules dictated two pairs of clothing for the entire week, including socks, shoes, underwear, etc. No electricity use except for homework. No computer use except for homework. No shaving. No toiletries except for one bar of soap per bathroom and a toothbrush and toothpaste. No using the dryer. No hot water. Spending limit of 20 pesos for the week. Most importantly: no complaining.

That night (Monday) we slept on the floor at Matt and Angie’s house. Guys in one room, girls in another. The next morning, we were given 1.5 hours to get everyone showered, using no hot water or electricity, still in the dark. Since “everyone” included 13 people, this was quite a task. We also divvied up 6 granola bars, 6 apples, and a box of cheerios between everyone. For the cheerios, there were only cups, no bowls, and no spoons. Also, we had one box of milk that was not cold. The morning was surprisingly smooth and we all got out the door and off to classes in plenty of time. That might have been the last smooth part of the week.

Tuesday day was not too terrible. We’ve all gone a day without a shower, right? We felt fine. Shoot, some of us were downright chipper. Tuesday night after La Fusion was a different story. We’d been stuck in a hot sweaty room with a bunch of kids (whom we dearly love) who were driving us crazy, we were hungry, we were sticky, and we weren’t allowed to use the microwave to heat up our dinner, or use the lights even though they function perfectly, or allowed to take a shower. That was a rough night’s sleep.

Wednesday we were allowed to take bucket showers. If you’ve never heard of a bucket shower, you don’t have to be a genius to figure out what it means. There’s a bucket. It has cold water. You give yourself a “shower” with a cup or sponge in the bucket. Simple, right? Actually, yes. The bucket showers were a lot less brutally frigid than the 2 minute shower at Matt and Angie’s, but since it isn’t hot water you still don’t quite feel clean. Wednesday mornings are worship devotionals, so Carolyn led us in a bunch of songs a capella. This turned out so much better than I had expected it to and we all drew close to God. We concluded with some heartfelt prayer and headed off to school, where we all felt self-conscious about wearing the same clothes as the day before. Wednesday is generally a pretty slow day for ministry, so we didn’t have to do much after school except study for our other classes and hang out with each other. (One awesome little aside about Wednesday is that Kim Crannell, a great friend since Mr. Bono’s Pre-Algebra class in 6th grade, sent me three pairs of brand new shorts in the mail, since all of mine had ripped and had to be discarded. They arrived on Wednesday and they all fit perfectly and Kim has earned my love forever, although she already had it)

Thursday was back to normal cold showers (still only in the morning. For everyone else, this is normal. For me, I’ve been a night shower person since I was about 7 years old when my sister started Kindergarten. Showers slow me down and put me to sleep, so this was of particular annoyance to me, and I had to repent of my frustration at the end of the week when I realized what was going on), but they weren’t nearly as bad as the first ones because, again, we had time to do it carefully. The quirk for Thursday was twofold: Thursdays are “Dia de Español” and we were not allowed to use silverware for the day. Dia de Español means that, outside of meetings, we are only allowed to speak in Spanish for the entire day, from the conclusion of morning devotions until dinner commences in the evening. This is easier for some of us, but with sleep deprivation, stench, discomfort, and general discontent stemming from living with people for a month and a half, we were all approaching a breaking point that day.

Friday was the zenith of the experience. We were allowed showers on Thursday night (still cold) and I took mine right around 11pm, figuring that would be the best timing for the water to be the warmest (in Mexico, potable water is kept in tanks on the roof, so the water is being warmed by the sun all day). I was right. That shower felt absolutely amazing. We were also allowed to change into our second pair of clothes on Friday morning, so we felt refreshed throughout the day. That night, we opened up the youth center and spent hours playing with kids from both Arenales (the youth center neighborhood) and from Casa Hogar (a home for abandoned/orphaned boys). We also attempted to get them to watch Shrek 3 in Spanish, but that didn’t last long. It did last long enough for them to consume inordinate proportions of Coca Cola and Jiffy Pop, though, which they loved.

After sending all of our munchkins off for the night, we headed over to El Colli to split up into two groups and walk around the neighborhood observing just what happens. I cannot stress this enough: that was a dangerous thing to do. The violence in this neighborhood isn’t something we couldn’t handle, since there really aren’t guns or things like that, but the spiritual oppression and the perversion of this place is not only palpable, it’s so thick in the air that it feels like you’re wading through a bog of sin, fetid with the stench of decay and rife with the whispered lies in the shadows. I stayed close to our girls, ready to do anything necessary to protect their innocence, their comfort, and their bodies. After the walk, we met back up at the van and discussed all that we had seen, felt, heard, smelled, and sensed. At the end of the night, we came home for dinner, which was eaten hurriedly and with much loud complaining about the week.

At the conclusion of dinner, Angie commented on how little it sounded like we had learned based on our conversation and complaining, going so far as to mention that the week could be extended if necessary. Angie drilled home the point of the week: “You’re supposed to be learning what it’s like to live in El Colli, not that that is possible living in an amazing house with a real bed and fans and going to two colleges at the same time, but you’re supposed to be gaining an understanding, be it ever so minute and limited, about the kids you’re serving. It doesn’t sound like you guys learned anything. I want you to take a moment to think about this week, then every person is going to explain what they’ve learned.”

That ring around the table was one of the most passion-filled, compassionate, heart-breaking conversations I’ve ever had the pleasure and the honor to take part in. Each of us spilled out intimate heartcries for the rest of the group to hear and each of us broke down at one point or another. For my part, I spoke of my brief stint as a homeless person in college, which almost nobody knows about. I related it to this and said that even that was becoming a source of pride, that the enemy was lying to me about my supposedly superior experiences and my supposedly superior wisdom and that I had been listening to and putting credence in those lies. In truth, I have more to learn than I could have ever thought possible, and I am now even slower to learn it because I spent so much time thinking I already knew it. I repented and asked for forgiveness from the group for my arrogance and my pride.

The next day was El Colli, but I stayed home. Normally, this is not allowed. On this week, I have no idea why it was allowed, except that I had almost no responsibility at the ministry that day and I had to get a ton of homework done so I could go to a retreat with the youth group at my church (Esmirna) that night, where I ended up making a ton of friends, building relationships like a madman, got asked by the youth pastor to lead worship some time in English, and discovered that I now have at least one Mexicana who has a crush on me. That last part is the least exciting, by far.

When we got home on Sunday, we went straight to the finish line of the Guadalajara Marathon to watch Angela Tiffany (not Matt’s Angie) and Matt finish their race. Unfortunately, we were on Mexican time (I’m not sure why they even say time in that phrase, since Mexicans both have no concept of it and don’t keep track of it), which meant we were about 30 minutes late to see the finish. They both finished, however, and I am so proud of both of them.

On the way home from the marathon, I did something crazy. I signed up for a 10k this weekend. Oy vey. This could turn out to be a very bad decision.

I want to hear an album written and recorded during which the band got saved (committed their lives to Christ). I want to hear the entire album put out that includes songs done before that transition and has all the stuff written throughout the whole period. I think that would be the most interesting project ever, but there is of course no way to plan it.

If anyone knows of such an album, please comment here or send me an email.