After the Chaco

After expriencing the Chaco, I feel that I have left a titch of myself there. The scenery is variations of greenery, palm trees, and this odd tree, with a middle swollen from absrbed rain, appears incongruously among the graceful rest.

Parrots and other similarly vocal air fowls make music among the tree tops, and one can hardly be angry at them for providing alarm-clock service! After three months of darkness and rain in Puerto Montt, the warm sun shining brightly pumps energy and hope into one's spirit at a surprising rate. I would love to return to the Chaco.
Our hosts there were Gabor and Katherina. Gabor is Hungarian/Croatian, and Katherina is German. They have brought many seeds from the Mediterranean area, which they planted in their gardens, mures in the Chaco, such as cooking for the prince of Saudi Arabia, who had come to hunt jaguars. We spent thaking every meal a feast for all the senses. Gabor regaled us with stories of his childhood in Europe, and adventree days with them, hugely enjoying the differences in culture and geography. Here in Paragauy there are huge German/Menonite colonies where you come across many people who only speak German, and this creates such an interesting conglomeration, when mixed with all the localities.
Right now we are in Gabor's daughter's house, back in Asuncion. Her name in Christine, her husband is Tomas, and they have two children, ages 7 and 5. Vic and Chris are having a ball with them, and Mom and I are enjoying Christine. She is exceedingly young at heart. We are leaving Sunday, and Dad is out right now, getting car parts, which he will take back to the car, which is in a little mechanic shop in the Argentine countryside.
I now shall go and sit in the sun, allowing Paraguay to work its charm on this girl.

On our way to Paraguay

As I deam this trip to be a lifetime adventure, I also deem it worthy of note on this blog.

We planned the ginormous trip about one week before departure. It was pretty cut and dry: pack for a week; drive three days; spend five days in the capital of Paraguay, Asuncion, for the World Mennonite Conference Assembly; drive home, stopping in Bariloche, Argentina to visit friends. It's averaging 70 degrees in Asuncion, a definite incentive to make the long trek: escape freezing, rainy Puerto Montt. This was going to be so great!

Right now I'm sitting in a little hotel lobby in Eduardo Castex, in the middle of the Argentine pampa. The day was cold, but the sun shone brightly. It's exceptionally dry in this area, and my face feels tight, regardless of how much lotion I apply. The cars whiz by on the highway outside the window. Last night, we ourselves were whizzing through when the car's motor made a frighting bang and stopped. Dad steered us off the highway onto the grassy shoulder, and the rest of us put on our shoes and prepared to jump. Dad examined the engine and determined a serious problem had occurred. We gathered together and prayed the car would start, so we could drive back to the last town. A miracle took place as the engine sputtered to life, and we slowly made our way backwards. We arrived safetly to the little town, and a service station never looked so wonderful! After settling in at a lovely hotel behind the service station, we went out walking, searching for some Argentine steak. At the restaurant, a mechanic was waiting, and he and Dad talked about the car.

After a wonderful rest, the morning dawned gloriously and the day seemed full of hope. Dad stayed with the car, and the rest of us lounged in the hotel lobby. At lunch time, Dad gave us the lowdown: the car is out for at least a week. We will continue our journey by bus and will leave tonight at 9:30 pm.

In the afternoon, we visisted a park that has life-sized statues of dinosuars, watched TV and read at the hotel, and walked two miles further into the town where Dad and Mom bought bus tickets and Dad checked out the car's insurance. We children hung out in the quiet plaza watching folks zoom around on bycycles and motor bikes.

Life in God's will is good.

Cleaning my Glasses

Why did Jesus take His disciples to the Mt. of Olives, knowing Judas was leading the temple guards there to arrest Him? Why did He re-fasten the sliced-off ear of a servant who was party to his arrest? How could Peter thrice betray Jesus, mere hours after he swore to follow Him even unto death?

Having been familiar with the oft-told sequence leading up to the Passion of Christ, none of these questions have crossed my mind for years, if ever. It just happened that way: it was God's plan for man's redemption, and Jesus was the consummately obedient Son. Sure it was hard; His sweat fell like drops of blood as He considered His near future.... but we all know how it ends.

Spending an hour every Monday night reading a chapter of John, with people who know the story only from the movies (and movies are nothing like the book), brings a new dimension to Jesus' life. What He did for us, and bears in us now even though we know better, is the same picture painted with a different color. I'm falling in love with my Savior all over again as I discover Him again through the eyes of those who have never heard of His goodness. He knows me better than anyone. I call out His Name, and He is already by my side. He is my personal friend. And I can see it all now clearer than ever.

VDM '09

(The view from our window one afternoon.)


A "Verano de Misiones" (VDM) is a week-long camp provided by some Youth With A Mission (YWAM) bases where teens can get a week-long taste of missions. It involves teachings on Teamwork and Intercession (among many other things), choreography and skit workshops, and team games that illustrate the teachings. Street evangelism is always interjected sometime during the week.

I participated in one such camp three years ago in Pichilemu (up north), and just this past week joined my friend and attended a VDM on the big island of Chiloe (in the south). Both were a wonderful time.

Lessens I learned from this one past: God can reach you through people with a different theological background than yours, He use you when you are doing something you don't believe works, and He is always anxious to reach you, even when you acting as an observer. Important things to keep in mind.




(Riding a bus into Castro.)


(Catching a snack after some fearsome skits and evangelism.)

..... and a Happy New Year

There is no place like home. No matter if you've just spent the last seven months in the Land of Plenty. No matter if you're thousands of miles away from family. No matter if you've left a pretty good life for one in a developing country. No place is like home.
We moved into our rambling old house when I was about two years old, and have spent the last fifteen years making into a comfortable abode full of good memories. Our city has grown, modernized, is constantly altered with bottles of grafitti spray paint, and confirms the theory that the world is faithfully degenerating in the never-ending downward spiral. Never the less, there is no geographical location that I know better or feel more comfortable in. As dad walked up the creaking stairs to his bedroom, he called across to my mother, "Oh, I love our house!"; only a verbalization of what I've been exalting in.
The first day of the new year was celebrated with a lamb and beef cookout in the bright summer sunshine, and the air breathed into my ear, "Home".