mountain movie magic

At a recent outreach, we showed some movies.


It was a village of about 100 families; Day 1 of our return trip to Chos Malal.

At these events (well, most events we show movies at), the two and a half hour JESUS film is often times too long. The kids usually don't make it past a half an hour - any more and they will begin to wander off. The Torchlighters series work well in these situations, especially since we have many other activities going on and a program to follow. The movies are evangelistic, animated, and only 30 minutes in duration - very kid friendly. A nice fit after the kids (and watching adults) have sung, played, heard the Good News, and had a snack.


the garage, lent to us from a family in the village, converted into a makeshift movie theatre



setting up the projector





aren't they adorable?!?





notice our make shift projector stand: a rusty barrel, an old rack, and some planks 



Fun stuff. Hard work. Worth it.

the not Mother's Day post

{written Mother's Day... finally finishing up and adding pics four days later...}

I am sitting in bed blogging on my laptop. What a treat - Wifi!

My boy found a random open Wifi signal here in the 'hood. It beats sitting hunched over at the regular computer. We don't have Wifi here at our house, I don't know why. Life is just more complicated here. So much so that you just shrug when they finally come to install your internet after six weeks only to discover that Wifi isn't part of the package, so you learn to live without: one of the many first world luxuries we live without. But it is a luxury, and no one has ever been known to die without Wifi. I mean, really.

We are going on eight months here in Argentina. Soon it will be a year. It feels like a lifetime. I remember my old life in the States as a vague recollection of hazy mental snapshots accompanied with feelings of warm fuzzies. I do remember that it was clean and neat and organized, predictable and boring and I had a lot of control over it. That I remember.

It is the EXACT OPPOSITE here.

Normal now is so vastly different than what it used to be.

Now normal is no TV (well, we have a TV, just no reception), no landline, no dishwasher, no (working) microwave, no dryer (whine), dogs that bark incessantly ev.er.y.where, bars on our windows to keep out the bad people, a water filter on our tap to keep out the bad critters, only one car, and little money.

Normal is seeing babies (or entire families) on motorcycles.


Today we went to visit a rural church plant south of here, out in the middle of the desert. Today was Mother's Day in the US. I only knew that because of Facebook. {Thank you, Facebook. Whatever would I do without you? Oh yeah, probably have a cleaner bathroom and all the clothes would be folded so, no loss there.}

This is not a Mother's Day post, because I have nothing deep or though-provoking to say about today. Every day is Mother's Day to me. And Christmas, and birthdays... we should celebrate every day. But I read quite a few Mother's Day posts; this was my favorite, I guess because I agree with her sentiments pretty much exactly.

I spent my Mother's Day getting dirty. It was a day like any other here.

When we arrived in time for lunch at the rural church (meat on the grill), my daughter took one look and said to me [fortunately in English], "Ew. I am not eating that meat. Do you see all the flies on it?".

I did.

I have never seen so many flies in all my life (this is not an exaggeration). Fortunately, there were only a few on the meat. The other thousands were swarming nearby.

We ended up eating it, of course. It was fantastic and delicious. It's hard to get a bad piece of meat in Argentina. The smoke and heat from the fire eventually scared the flies off so they were at least no longer sitting on the grilling meat, just hovering and buzzing nearby. Hundreds of them hung out on the hood of our car, where it sat warm in the autumn sun.

the bathroom

When nature called and it could no longer be ignored, I asked where the bathroom was. I was not surprised when they indicated the outhouse behind the tiny house. I took my toddler's hand and we headed back there, and continued walking right on past the outhouse, down the country lane. With all those flies outside, I felt a flicker of momentary missionary weakness and just didn't feel like braving the inside. Some days I opt out of roughing it. In this case, there was a more appealing second option. The Great Outdoors.

We found a few waist high desert bushes and squatted there. I am teaching my girls how to properly pee outside - something previously unknown to them. The prep and logistics are a learned skill, after all. So far they think it's funny and get a kick out of seeing me demonstrate. I have actual "after" pictures of me with my pants unzipped because I often forget to close my fly. Squatting and unzipped pants are the norm now. I have also relaxed to the point where I don't care too very much if a car zooming past several hundred yards away happens to see my bare white butt gleaming in the desert sun. Oh well, sorry, hope you enjoyed the view.

My kids got filthy today, as usual. Sometimes it bothers me, sometimes I handle it just fine. Today it bothered me. Sometimes I just get so tired of all the dirt. It's inside my house, it's outside, it gets dumped in the car, on the seats, and on the bathroom floor. It brings out the dirt inside of me, too. Because I HATE DIRT!



unzipped fly at potty break on field trip somewhere in the desert


Recently we went on a field trip (the one above. Dino museum and excavation in the middle of the desert - pretty neat). When I had my kids fill out a one page Field Trip Report because I'm such a slave-driving homeschooling mother, my daughter put this as the answer to one of the things she saw and learned about on the trip,

"Dirt and dirt and dirt and dirt."

Later, as I threw the kids' thoroughly soiled sneakers and clothes into my small washer, and as I washed the dirt and sand out of my socks and rinsed it off my battered and worn Mary Janes, I thought of Jesus.

He washed the dirty, dusty feet of His followers. He kneeled before them and washed filthy feet. Desert dust encrusted feet. He washed them.

And He said,

"Now that I, your Lord and Teacher, have washed your feet, you also should wash one another’s feet. ¹⁵ I have set you an example that you should do as I have done for you."

Sometimes I wonder if I do this - wash feet the way Jesus did. Wash them at all. As we drove home, I felt like the day had been a failure, mostly pointless. Like, what good did it do, us being there in this rural, dirty place full of really great, humble people? More humble than I am, for sure... What good did it do, me being there? In situations like today's, I am just babysitting - following my adventurous three year old around, keeping her from stepping on rusty nails, in dog poop, and playing with trash. Probably looking like an overly-preoccupied mother who just needs to sit down and let her kid wander around unsupervised like everyone else does. But I can't. I'm just not like them. I never will be. And it shows more than I like it to. It exhausts me, and I feel like I just take up space at times, helping no one, reaching no one, unable to finish conversations, and what's the point? Tony is able to sit at the table and talk, but I rarely sit in these situations. After several hours in places like this, I just want to leave.  

Oftentimes I find out later that it really was a good day. God did show up, in spite of my shortcomings (many) and my personal feelings on how the day went. This little church plant of new believers, very humble country folk, needs visitors. The pastor works mostly alone. He's doing a great job, but I'm sure he could use some help. He asked for it in a certain way. He actually told Tony that it would be great if he could come back and disciple the youth there. 

It's hard to say no to something like that, and I don't know that Tony will. He loved it there. I can't see him saying no. But we are getting to the point now that we have to actually pray for wisdom to know what to start saying no to. There is just so much to do here and so much that we are already doing, we have to begin to put on the brakes and really seek God as to where to focus. I can see us spreading ourselves very thin, then burning out.

Every little thing we do counts. In spite of fickle emotions that may fluctuate on any given day, the ups and downs of being here, the hard things, the dirt, I have to remember that in all labor there is profit. What I have to offer may not be much, and even on days like this when I may even feel that I don't do it well, that it's pointless, I have to remember that God is working out his purposes.

the church - an old, abandoned trailer



grilling behind the church building



inside the church - this is as big as it is



Isaiah 60:1

 

José and Daniela

 

their daughter Luzmila



“Arise, shine, for your light has come”   ~Isaiah 60:1

beautiful

living here

Living here is like living on an emotional, daily, roller coaster. One minute we are flying high because we see God is so in this, the very next we are thrown down deep into a pit because of something that has happened. Third World missions, especially when your focus is the unreached poor, is really tough stuff. Believe me.

Most days we know why we are here, and we believe in what we are doing. We know that it is GOD who has called us here, not we ourselves.

But other days we wonder out loud, "Lord, Why did you bring us here?!". To think that we could be living the good life in America - man!

I mean, seriously, I miss my dryer. I miss my dishwasher. I miss my big, comfy house and tranquil life. I miss my culture. Yeah, isn't that weird? My culture. The one that doesn't expect me to explain myself because it already understands me. I miss my family. It hurts me when my kids ask, "When are we going to see Mom-mom again?", and all I can say is, "Well, God knows when we'll be able to go back and see her."

We miss snow. Tony misses the organization and safety in the US. Me, too. It is not easy for us to live here. It is a sacrifice in every way. In every way.

Tonight we were talking at the table, a late dinner, 9 o'clock or so.


Bam!

Did you hear that?

Yeah, I heard somethin'.

Sounded like a gunshot.

Nah.... I don't know. I think it was a firecracker.

Hm (head cocked, listening).

Bam!

There it is again!

Firecracker.

Yeah. Firecracker.

Well... that's good, then.

(conversation resumes)


It's hard not being able to talk to anyone here about things we find to be strange or difficult. Sharing our difficulties with our native friends, we run the risk of offending them or making them feel as if we are criticizing their home country. So we don't, because we aren't. We like it here in many ways; it's just difficult on a lot of fronts.

Gunshots, or even the possibility of gunshots, are not normal for us.

And shouldn't be.

In a perfect world.

But, at the end of the day, it's the small things that make it worth it - living here: the people we are reaching. The ones who have never heard before. Yes, that makes it worth it. I don't worry about the nuances of the future - will they get saved, will there be anyone to disciple them, is there a church in their location they can attend. I really don't worry about that sort of thing. God is faithful. This is His Business. The details are for Him to work out. Mostly, I'm just trying to get through today.

I find it hard enough to be faithful today.

I know God is able to not only save Camila, but He is also able to send help her way. Maybe we're it, maybe we're not. I do know He promises to give us the wisdom to know what to do if we ask.

He sends us the Holy Spirit at salvation to teach us all things. He promises to send her a Comforter, too. I often remember getting saved at my kitchen table in downtown Buenos Aires, all alone. I was lucky if I got to church a half a dozen times that first year. And yet, here I am. God has kept me.

He will keep the work of His hands.

I have no doubt about that.

So no, I'm not worried about Camila. God's got His eye on her. She is a sweet, sincere little girl that has a genuine hunger for God. I consider it a privilege and a pleasure to sit and read with her, explaining and helping her to understand God's Word. Even if her little brothers are climbing all over piles of scrap wood, pulling down their pants to pee as the urge dictates, who chase my own son with scraps of wood nailed into makeshift play swords.

I'm not worried at all. Mostly I stand in awe that we are here at all and God would chose to use us at all.

Lord, you are Good.

"not willing that any should perish, but that all should come to repentance." -2 Peter 3:9



Camila, and my favorite picture of all time

I think this is my all-time favorite picture taken in Patagonia. Ever.

"I want to read the Bible, but I can't understand it. I need someone to help me. Can you help me?" she said.

Camila is one of our little friends. She lives deep in the slums. She is nine years old. She lives in a wood slat house with a dirt floor. Her dad is a drug addict and former pai de santo. But she wants to read the Bible. She wants to learn about it, but doesn't know how to begin. So she asked Tony.

And you know you don't have to ask us twice.

:)

what is to become of those bricks

Marcela and Ceferino are rebuilding. This will be their new house.






I got to see on Saturday how it's coming along. The brick walls have now been raised as high as my hip.

Those bricks will come in handy as the night temperatures drop into 50s, soon into the 40s. [EDIT: Now 30s...]. Freezing. Right now they are sleeping in a temporary wood-slat house with only three walls and a tarp for a roof. Brrrrr.

"He that hath pity upon the poor lendeth unto the LORD..." ~Proverbs 19:17



The Big 4-0!

^3-6 It is only when we obey God’s laws that we can be quite sure that we really know him. The man who claims to know God but does not obey his laws is not only a liar but lives in self-delusion. In practice, the more a man learns to obey God’s laws the more truly and fully does he express his love for him. Obedience is the test of whether we really live “in God” or not. The life of a man who professes to be living in God must bear the stamp of Christ. ~1 John 2:3-6 



Marcela's house





I recently became a member of the 40 Club. Officially Over the Hill. It should be easy from here on out, since it's all downhill from now on, right? I should rejoice that I'm still alive - and that I still fit into my jeans from High School (ha, don't hate). These are both miracles.

For my birthday weekend I wanted breakfast in bed, and to not wash a single dish or pick up a single toy. I'm really not that hard to please, really. I mean, really. How hard is that? You don't even have to spend money on me! I also wanted to go visit our friends in the slums, then visit our little friends in the children's home. Somewhere in between there my daughter and I tried to catch a meteor shower. We laid out under the stars in lawn chairs {in our winter jackets and scarves, boots, and gloves} well after midnight in search of shooting stars. It was partially cloudy, so we didn't see any of this spectacular meteor shower they had told us about. Tony came out for a bit and we searched the skies for the Southern Cross and the Three Mary's [aka Orion's Belt].

Good memories.

It was a birthday I will always remember. We spent most of it visiting: Saturday, the slums. Sunday, the children's home.

I don't like birthday parties. I just don't. Don't ask me why, I still haven't figured that out. I don't like going to them, I don't like throwing them, and I don't want one on my birthday. I prefer the quiet life, I guess - or to do something that is actually fun, instead of standing around small talking over cake. I'm not anti-social, just selectively social. B-day parties are not my gig... although I always get sucked into about a dozen a year or so.

So I managed to keep my birthday fairly secret, and off we went. I am often amazed how open people are to the gospel here. This weekend was no exception. When we arrived up in the slums, I sat in the car waiting for the okay to get out. We have a little thing we do: Tony pulls up, looks around, gets out, and says hi. He goes in, chats, and gets a feel for whether it is safe and whether we are welcome. As we pulled up Saturday, Cefe and his brother-in-law were just walking back to their shack. They were returning from buying beer. Tony talked with them for a bit, saw that they weren't drunk or on drugs at the moment, and then waved that it was okay to come in. We spilled out of the van, locked it, and went it.

It really is depressing how they live. It was chilly outside when we walked into their one room shack. The heat and claustrophobia hit me as I ducked in the place where the door should have been. It was so crowded with people and kids and animals that I couldn't even fully come inside. Tony said good thing I had a cold because it smelled like rotten food and animals. Little Sophia was sitting on the dirt floor in her filthy bare feet, her older brother Mishel was only in his underwear at the little table, Marcela and Cefe were there with her niece, her brother, and three or four of her kids, plus one nephew, several cats, and a dog. In a one-room shack. The wood stove was inches from the kids, blasting heat. Marcela says it get very cold at night when the stove burns out. I'm sure - it's getting down into the 30s right now at night. Brrrr...

Since I could barely stand in there, I went outside to watch the kids. Marcela's kids' bare feet are calloused over and they miraculously don't get cut up, but my kids, even with shoes, always seem to get hurt somehow. Marcela followed me out and we stood in her small, dirt front yard, just a patch of desert sand littered with trash and fruit peels and scrap metal and wood with nails sticking out of it. We talked. I really like Marcela, she is very friendly, warm,  and open with me. She began telling me how she can no longer take her brother and niece living with them, her husband's drug addiction, the kids home all day with her, or this emptiness in her heart. I told her it was normal to want to have some privacy, all families should have their own space. I shared how Tony and I used to have problems, big problems, in our marriage. She looked at me in disbelief with that, "Oh, not you" look. Oh, yes, me. I have a quite colorful past. There's a lot I don't tell people. Been there, done that. When she talks to Tony she thinks, "How does he do it? How is he okay all the time? Where does this peace come from that he seems to have?".

It's only God. That's all. That's the only difference.

I was able to share with her that that peace we have comes only from Jesus. We have just as many problems as they do, just different ones perhaps. I told her my story, I told her Tony's story. It was a blessed moment. A holy moment. God was there with us in the slums. Right there with us. She just looked at me. Like she understood. Like she wants that, too.

We talked for a while. She said she doesn't find purpose in life, no reason to get out of bed in the morning, she thinks of suicide often. No, don't do it, I said. Think of your kids. If Cefe has a drug problem, who would take care of them if she killed herself? I reminded her that Tony is more than willing to come up and help them finish raising the walls of their new house. Winter is coming. It's already very cold at night. Once the house is up, she could move into it with her own family, leaving the shack to her relatives. Think of how nice that would be! She's too depressed though it seems to find the motivation to raise the walls herself. I understand that. I probably would be too if I were her, living in that place, with no Hope. We left, telling her we are praying for her and will see her soon.

The next day, my birthday, we headed down to the children's home.




cakes!

 I don't like cake that much and I never want cake for my birthday, I even get somewhat annoyed if anyone wastes money on one I don't want to eat anyway (I know, such a party pooper. Tony says 'no fun'.). So I thought if we took my cake, the one I didn't want anyway but they always seem to buy no matter what, down to the kids' home, it would make the useless cake okay. Kids like cake. Our kids like cake. I like the children's home, but don't like cake. Problem solved.

We met some of the youth at church (they brought more cake), all piled into our van, and headed downtown. Played soccer, ate cake, talked to and hugged the kids. The kids all sang happy birthday to me. To me? I brought my cake for them, not for me. It was the sweetest. What a birthday present, these kids singing to me... it's so sad to think that their parents don't want them, or can't take care of them, or abused them. One of the girls ended up crying in a corner by herself. When we asked her what was wrong, she said she feels invisible. No one comes to visit her, no one loves her, she's so sad. It made me cry, too. My daughter came over and asked what was wrong. They know each other outside of the home - they both go to the same gym class (sports are free here in the city - one of God's many blessings). I explained to my daughter why her friend was crying, that she doesn't have a mom or dad that love her or take care of her. She looked at me like she didn't even understand that concept - no mom or dad, no love?? So, honey, Why don't you hug her and tell her you love her and you are her friend?

So she did. And we all cried some more.

Even though our time was up and we were supposed to leave, we continued talking to her, reminding her of God's promise, "When my father and my mother forsake me, then the LORD will take me up." Psalm 27:10.

We shared the good news of God's love for her, and explained that although He does love her, God is gentleman. He wants to make her happy and to give her everything, but He will wait until she is ready, until she accepts what He wants to give her. We talked some more, and then she said she was ready. Keren prayed, she repeated. It was hard for her to get the words out, but she did it.


"...we are not to save souls, but to disciple them. Salvation and sanctification are the work of God’s sovereign grace" ~ Oswald Chambers

sunset on the way home from the children's home

 Whoever claims to live in him must live as Jesus did. -1 John 2:6 NIV

A blessed birthday weekend. In more ways than one.



living the dream

Living the Dream Part I

Saturday night my boyz showed the JESUS film and a few Torchlighters movies in the rough neighborhood next door (this one). I am so proud of them. We're actually doing what we set out to do. God has really brought it to pass. I feel like Francis Chan who said, upon leaving the States to pursue missions in the third world, "Living the dream!".

Setting up. The screen hung on a wire between two posts of a soccer goal.

 Tony with some of the neighborhood kids

 The boy in the camoflage shirt's dad is in prison for double homicide. It's that kind of neighborhood.

 watching a Torchlighters movie

the JESUS film

Some of the kids scoffed at the movies to be shown, saying they had better movies at home. Action movies, horror movies. Some threatened to go home and watch their movies which were "better". They were riveted, of course, watching the Torchlighters series. Everybody always is. They later didn't want to leave and asked when we were coming back to show more movies.

Living the Dream Part II

In other somewhat selfish news, I finally started zampoÑa [sahm-pohn-nyah] lessons. [My computer is being weird about ALT commands - they're not working for me here. The least of my problems.]. I finally made it to the weekly practice of a group of Christian guys that play Andean music. It was heaven. It was even more wonderful because my kids didn't come with me. Translation: it was relaxing. I almost felt young again: childless, able to finish adult conversations, glorious. If God is merciful, maybe I'll even learn to play.

Miguel teaching me how to play the zampoÑa

Living the Dream: The Flip Side

But, life isn't all rosey here. Not at all. There is another side (as another soldier on the forefront has noted) - "the inevitable spiritual attack that meets the coming of the Kingdom". It is ever present. We have had bad dreams, nightmares, all of us, since we've been here, often. Impatience, tension, pressures, trials, misunderstandings, criticism, fightings, tears.

But there is grace, the same grace that we all have access to through Christ. The same grace that upholds us who hope and believe in Him. Being here, fighting dirt, has brought all our dirt to the surface like nothing else. Missions is messy. Daily we come face to face with our failings, our weakness, our filth. It's ugly. The only thing that separates us from those we are trying to reach is forgiveness, nothing else. Because of Christ, we are forgiven. Because of the forgiveness he has extended to us, we are able to extend forgiveness, be forgiven. So we forgive, we kiss and make up and hug and talk, and we move on, praying we get it someday. Sometimes limping, sometimes swiftly and with strength, daily reminded that we are not qualified for this. For any of this.

Which is exactly why we are qualified for this.

back in the slums

Since we've been back from our weekend way away, I've been playing catch up: washing mountians of clothes, homeschooling, cleaning for our Wednesday Bible study, and begging Tony to pleeeeease not invite anyone over for a while or accept any invitations. I'm feeling oversocialized (is that a word?) and overwhelmed, and need to catch up and catch my breath. Moving and living here is a lot to process sometimes.

We no sooner got home, than Tony went back to the slums.



The first day he went to visit Marcela and Ceferino, he found the kids alone and the parents unavailable. So he sat down with our little friends in the dirt, glanced over, and saw one of the tracts we had given them a while back in the trash. He picked it up, dusted it off, and then began to read it, walking them through a kids' version of the gospel. He's so good that way, always so naturally sharing the gospel. He does it all the time... so easily talks about God. Even when we were leaving the Observatory, he witnessed to one of the people walking out with us about how amazing God is, and isn't it incredible that he created all these stars and planets, and Do you believe in God?

When he was done explaining to the kids about God and how we can know him, Camila looked up and said, "I would like a Bible. I don't have a Bible to read and I would like to read it."

Bibles are expensive and hard to come by here, but God always sends a few our way at just the right time.





{Photos: a house in the slums, rebuilding after the fire}

"In all labor there is profit..." ~ Proverbs 14:23

 "He that hath mercy on the poor, happy is he." ~Proverbs 14:21

"The poor is hated even of his own neighbor: but the rich hath many friends." ~Proverbs 14:20

my little friends

I'm so behind on this blog. I feel like we have so, so many things to post and write about, but just no time. So, so many pictures to share, but no time to upload them.

The other night we were visiting with fellow missionary friends and I was commenting on the fact that I have, it seems, no free time. I used to have free time. I know this because I used to read. I used to have time to read. I rarely read anymore, I just don't have time. It's been an adjustment for me, because I love to read. But all my free time now, once eaten up by a deliciously good book (or some other selfish pleasure), is eaten up by socializing. Or cleaning. I have never cleaned so much in my entire life. My kids are always filthy, and so is my house. I have never seen so much dirt in all my blessed life. I can't keep up. With the dirt. Or the people. We're too busy being with them to have time for much else. Argentines are very social people. And that is, in fact, how you reach people. You have to actually spend time with them.

(duh)

So here is a picture of my new little friends.

Marcela's kids. I love them.

Marcela came to church yesterday for the first time. I sat next to her and helped her find her way through the Bible as the pastor preached. She got teary-eyed and went forward for prayer at the end. Her two sweet daughters, Camila (9) and Sofia (2), came with her to church. They kept looking shyly at me all throughout the service. So, of course, I fed them cookies. Later Camila took off with the 6-12 year olds on a three-day camp retreat with the kids from church. Just like that. She is there now, learning about God and Jesus and the Bible.

Today we went up to the slums to visit Marcela and her family. As we were heading out at 6pm, I thought of how many times our plans had changed in just one day. The morning started with Tony doing our taxes. Then he was going to fix our van (it's broken - radiator and power steering leaks), and then head out an hour south to continue work on a new church plant bathroom. But that fell through - post-poned until tomorrow - so it was off to the slums. But, wait, Juan was going to come over for a Bible study at 5 - what to do? So we called Juan to reschedule. No problem, Juan would go with us to the slums instead. Okay. But when the time came to go, no one could get a hold of Juan. So on the way out, we took a major detour and stopped by Juan's house. He was there. We all piled in the church's pickup and headed out.

Not two months ago this would have driven me crazy. Annoyed me at the very least. I barely noticed today. This is life here. Make plans, but roll with it. You never know how a day will unfold. And after we came home and stripped our dirty clothes for much needed baths, leaving piles of desert sand on the bathroom floor, the kids seemed to think dinner at 9:30 at night was perfectly normal, as well. I don't hear much of a peep out of them anymore over it (well, except the high-maintenance one, we always hear a peep or two or a trillion from her). They had too much fun running through dry river gorges up in the desert mesa with their new little friends. Throwing rocks at tin cans, kicking a ball around, and avoiding scorpions. Oh yes, scorpions. (No pictures, Denise, I promised.). Marcela said they've found them in their bed and crawling up the kids' legs. But no worries, the sting is nothing, she assured me. Her kids have been stung - "no big deal"....

Trip to Bariloche

I've tried writing something about our recent mini-mission trip to Bariloche, but I can't seem to get anything out. Homesickness and sadness hit me hard this past week from completely out of the blue, and I just can't get myself together. I'm teary, weepy, sad, feeling sorry for myself, unmotivated, convinced at the moment that perhaps we are either stupid, crazy, or both for doing this missionary thing. What were were thinking?? Maybe it's just hormones and homesickness talking, but I'm wondering if we've completely ruined our kids' lives by bringing them here. Sigh. Sadness sucks.

Well, anyway, not to go on about that, and don't worry about us too much (but you can pray, we need that). For now, here are a few pictures from our trip six hours southwest to the mountains.



the church/community building where we stayed in Bariloche (back view)



the new church they are building down the hill

 After I saw a huge black spider in the bathroom, I was like, "Hey kids, let's pop the tent open inside and sleep there!" My suggestion was met with delighted squeals.

Me and my girls zipped up safe in there, while the boys slept out in the van.

how I heated the building when we got up in the morning - it's chilly in the mountains in summer
{in the forefront is one of the trash bags of clothing and supplies we brought}
and we finally used our carseat. Roadtrippin' is a good time for safety.



the wood stove I didn't know how to work - it sure did put out a lot of heat, though, when our friends lit it!



the kitchen
we had to use water collected in buckets to wash dishes, our hosts graciously provided us with bottled drinking water
(volcanic ash is in the water system and carries dangerous heavy metals making it unsafe to drink, at least that's what they told us)



the view from the kitchen - spectacular

that's snow-capped Mt. Tronador on the left, it lies on the Argentina/Chile border

talking in front of the church (on the right) with missionaries Enzo and Sandra, who live and work in the neighborhood
Sandra is holding a soccer ball we were able to give them to work with the kids (they were so happy about that ~ thanks, Hughes'!)

Incidentally, there was volcanic ash EVERYWHERE. You can see it in this photo, it's the white stuff that covers everything. After we packed up to leave, I swept the church floor. I regret not taking a picture of the amazing amount of grit and sand and ash (all from the volcano) I collected. It was another reason we slept in the tent. There was just no way around all that grit.

the soccer field where they play and do outreach with the neighborhood kids
(that is not sand or dirt, it's all ash)



more of the neighborhood

Enzo and Sandra have been living in this neighborhood (located at Km 23, for those in the Bariloche know) for ten years. They are two of the few Christians of the about 500 families that live here. They are working for the most part alone, but receive construction teams from the church here in Neuquen from time to time, and visitors (like us) who take them supplies, and hopefully encouragement, from time to time.

They are self-supporting local artists and native missionaries. 

They make mates out of gourds and sell them at fairs throughout the region. They scrape by, but it's an artist's life. (And missions isn't easy either.)

When they're not doing that, Sandra is teaching literacy classes in the church building. They have to teach the residents of the barrio how to read, before they can teach them to read the Bible. They also hold a weekly Happy Hour (kid's Bible study and craft) and play soccer with the kids. It's slow work. Their obstacles are many. I don't know how they do it, I really don't. They did say that that is why visitors are so important. They couldn't do it alone.