The Willem

Like a Dog Returns to His Vomit

// February 2nd, 2010 // 3 Comments » // Prayer, Reflection, Strongholds

Two times, this phrase is penned in Scripture.

“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.

Transvestite Prostitutes Need Love Too

// November 14th, 2009 // No Comments » // Goals, Prayer, Strongholds

And it’s our job to give it to them. Plaza del Sol, the closest plaza to our house, is notorious for being the major gathering place of transvestite prostitutes in Guadalajara. This is a group of men (Yes, I will forever call them men, for God intended them to be so. More on that later.) is so tortured, so bound and shackled, and yet they are untouchable in the eyes of most Christians. I hesitate to blame this upon the conservative nature of Mexican culture pertaining to homosexuality and other such perversions of God’s beautiful gift to mankind, because I feel like they are equally ignored, abandoned, and avoided in our culture. Nobody knows how to reach out to them, how to love them, and everyone seems too scared to try.

There are thousands of prostitute ministries in this world, and I salute every single one of them. Certainly, some may be approaching the field without having counted the cost or without having a faint inkling of what they’re supposed to do, but they’re trying. They’re reaching out to broken women and offering the hope and the healing that only God Almighty can provide. While not perfect and certainly not easy, clean, or simple, prostitute ministries are something our Father absolutely throws His weight behind. Why? Because it’s an attempt to step inside His will for His beautiful and beloved daughters.

Here’s where our lives in Mexico get messy. Men who have had surgeries to try to look like women are not God’s beautiful and beloved daughters. Instead, they are God’s valiant and mighty sons. They are the leaders of families. They are the strength and the backbone of society. They are the governors and warriors of the people. They are sons of Adam, hand-crafted in the image of God Almighty, the Father in Heaven we are created to worship and enter into a loving relationship with. At least that’s what they were meant to be.

Instead, they are little boys tortured and sexually abused. They are cold, twisted, black hearts. They are bound and shackled by fear, by hate, by disease, by disgust, by neglect, by loneliness, by Satan. They are confused. They are hurting. They are lost. They dwell in darkness. They prowl the streets, repeatedly entering into slavery most foul. They sell their bodies and, thereby, their destinies as mighty men, for drugs, cash, or for a sense of belonging, of being wanted. They are looked upon with scorn by people of all walks. They are mocked by homeless beggars. They are threatened. They are pressured. They are hopeless.

Check that. They are not hopeless. We have a hope for them, and we once seemed hopeless ourselves. I’m reminded of 2 Corinthians 1:9-10

^“9Indeed, we felt that we had received the sentence of death. But that was to make us^(A) rely not on ourselves^(B) but on God^(C) who raises the dead. ^10(D) He delivered us from such a deadly peril, and he will deliver us.^(E) On him we have set our hope that he will deliver us again.”

How, when we have been snatched from death (Romans teaches us that the wages of sin are death, and that we were all in sin before Christ snatched us from it with His sacrifice), though we were unworthy, how do we turn a blind eye to these tormented souls? How do we judge them? How do we condemn them? How do we determine that they, or anyone else, is beyond the hope of Christ?

Is it not our responsibility, no, our command from God Himself, to hold out hope for these men? Is it not our responsibility to hold them in prayer? Is it not our responsibility to love them at all costs? Is it not our responsibility to share the love of Jesus Christ, as well as His Good News, with them, before they are lost to the depths of Hell forever?

Of course it is. That’s not the question though, is it? We all know our responsibility. We all know our charge. What we don’t know, is how to do so. For now, it’s with a prayer-walk combined with praying at home for direction (half the group on the walk, half at home) every other Friday night. Someday, we hope to partner with a local church to physically launch this ministry (This is the Engage way. We make sure a local church is involved with our ministries so they will continue in case anything diplomatically catastrophic causes us to suddenly leave the country.), but until that point we are relegated to prayers and prayer-walking only. This is not to diminish prayer, as it is a vital part of one’s spiritual life and any ministry not covered in prayer generally serves very little, if any purpose whatsoever. However, we, as missionaries, tend to be people of action rather than people of waiting. These men are dying out there, and we want to intervene and help.

Please join us in prayers for these men, for the daily lives they lead (Who knows what that looks like? Do they have families? Day jobs? Can they even go to the store without being mocked and ridiculed?), for the nights they suffer through, for conviction and transformation, for light in their dark world, for partners in this ministry, for their safety and health, and for God to be glorified when they are redeemed by the blood of Christ. He died for them too. They just don’t know it yet.

A Week in (What’s Left Of) Their Shoes

// October 21st, 2009 // 1 Comment » // Goals, Reflection, Strongholds

Last week was the equivalent of God (through our leaders) smacking us upside the head with a 2×4 and yelling “Look around you. Look at what I have given you to work with. Look at what you come from. Look at how I have blessed you so that you may be a blessing to others. Look at those whom I have called you to serve. Look at how they live. Look at what they eat. Look at what they wear. Look at what they have. Look at what they see. Look at how they love each other. Look at how they worship me. Listen to what they hear. Listen to what they say. Listen to how they DO. NOT. EVER. COMPLAIN. Listen to their angelic voices as they sing praises to me. Now look at yourselves. Listen to yourselves. Your righteousness disgusts me. Your lukewarmness repulses me; I will vomit you out of my mouth. Repent. Cry out to me. Love those whom you serve. Come back into my will.”

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.