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November 11, 2005
Success in the Field
posted by Tim
I must say that I never in a million years thought that I would have come to the mission field under the guise of doing business. I always believed that for a missionary to be in the field meant a life of privation and sacrifice to be a “successful” missionary.
To be sure whether you live with a large or small budget in a foreign country as a missionary you are definately an outsider, or feel like one anyway. Language barriers, different customs, and norms of living are only a few things that can give you that longing for a familiar surrounding. But praise be to God, going out in the field is a glorious endeavor!
He is providing for all the needs we have by using many of the believing brothers and sisters in the community. In a place like this as a foreigner, it is almost like a coming home because, as Jesus said when told his blood mother and brothers were looking for him, “ My mother and My brothers are these who hear the word of God and do it.” A place and time like this forces you to look past yourself and your own spiritual feeding, to be the Word you know as a witness to all those watching, and there are many.
We have seen two of our employees say Yes to the grace and life of Jesus! German is a young man who works as an assistant to the carpenters and our leather craftsman, and Erika is our very gifted administrative assistant. From our perspective, these came about largely through the ministry of our morning devotions, where we sing to the Lord and study scripture in a short lesson led by our pastor, Pepe, or myself or one of the other brothers who works here. Not only is it a great joy to see the salvation of Erika and German ourselves, but we have received confirmation from others, including unbelievers, the work is real...
German’s family are local business owners and somewhat critical about their son’s character and ability. His dad came to Armando, one of the Mexican men who works with us, and wanted to know what was going on here because his son is not the same kid he has known—he’s much more diligent, well-mannered, and respectful. Armando replied that it is nothing that we have done but simply the work of Jesus. Erika has found peace and comfort since her salvation, and the lift in her spirit is clear. She’s hungry for the Word and is being encouraged and instructed regularly, thanks be to God. I don’t remember ever working in such a place.
This is only a sampling of the blessings here. We remember regularly that our place is to do God's biding in this business. Many times His biding is contrary to "normal" business function and, by His grace, we have been successful to that end.
November 02, 2005
Peace in Mexico
posted by Madeleine
When David, Jesse and I visited Mexico in April, I was culture-shocked for days. Traveling I'd done before, contact I'd had with Mexicans or Mexican Americans, what little Spanish I'd learned—none of it insulated me from the "otherness" I felt. It seemed I was in another atmosphere, air I didn't know how to breathe. I did not understand the lives of those who lived here, let alone their language.
We've been here four months. I still don't know the language; I still have a hard time entering into and understanding the lives of the Mexicans in this small town, so different from any life I have ever lived. But I am loving being here.
We wake in our little house and open the doors to the courtyard; the tangerines are heavy on the tree, and turning orange. I strap Jesse into his baby-backpack and we walk into town to buy groceries; women touch his cheek and smile, tell me how handsome ('guapo') he is. With Jesse strapped on, we make a white-skinned two-headed unit that disconcerts the children and dogs. Even the adults stare, but (usually) quickly respond to my smile. "Buenos dias." "Buenos dias." Parrots wheel and screech overhead. Our white clothes on the line are being bleached by the strong Mexican sun, but the nights are cool and the crickets sing. Opposite our house through the trees we barely glimpse pale gold pastures, and the blue Sierra Madres.
On Wednesdays, Rosie comes to help me in the house and cook a few meals—she's in her early forties, has lived in the tiny neighboring town of Palmillas all her life. My kitchen fills with delicious smells. I often start sentences I can't finish but she's quick to understand my attempts, quick to clarify that she sauteés the onions and garlic before she puts them in with the tomatillos, that she adds a few peppercorns to the ground beef for sabor. We falter our way through conversations about her granddaughter—who at eleven months is bigger than my seventeen-month-old son. She talks to Jesse and chuckles at his attempt at her name—it's clear that my intention he call her "Doña Rosie" has failed and "Woshie" it is. I put music on and she agrees that it's different than Mexican music, but adds that she likes it, that it's easy to work to.
Some of the Price kids wander over to play with Jesse, pattering in and out of the house. "Can I have a glass of water?" "Jesse just said 'Nank you'!" Jesse and I walk down into the valley, to the riverbed where the water runs clear. Foraging cows look sideways at us. After nine the taco stand on the corner opens and David and I buy the best tacos in the world: corn tortillas, grilled beef and onions, cilantro, tangy green tomatillo salsa.
Mexican towns are not still, but under the loud mariachi music, the braying of donkeys and yipping of dogs, peeping and crowing of chickens, I experience a deep quiet. I am away from the blare and sophisticated complication of United States life, and my ignorance of the language protects me from much knowledge of the blare of life in Mexico. That ignorance won't last, but I hope by the time it's gone the quiet I'm experiencing now will have sunk so deep that nothing can root it out. At night, I sit silent in the clear cold air and watch the stars—the stars that are so visible here in this little town.