My Missionary Training

A few years ago we lived in a two bedroom apartment in a small apartment building on the main street of a small town. It was a quiet little town, but apparently Main Street had begun to attract a few interesting characters. We had interesting neighbor after interesting neighbor. Half were evicted. Half eventually moved out on their own. I mean, we had problems, but our neighbors really had problems. We wanted to move out of their pretty soon after we moved in. One day we would be able to afford to. Until then, it would be five years of missionary training.

We had all kinds in our building. One woman who moved in across the hall told me her husband had been molesting her daughter for years, so she finally left him. It was unnerving when we began to see him come around to visit her and her other two children.

The family that occupied that apartment before her were the loudest people I have ever had the displeasure to live next to in my entire life. They had 6 adult smokers crammed into a two bedroom apartment. I am sure that this was not code. Six adult smokers put out a lot of smoke. It would seep through the walls and fill the kids' room with, well, the smoke of six smokers. This would go on from September until May, when they finally took the majority of their smoking outside. Otherwise known as loitering. Our kids camped out on the living room floor for 8 months. I tried to make it fun, "Woo-hoo, kids! Let's do a camp-out!". (Fortunately it works when they are young:))

Another woman across the hall was a packrack. Most of the stuff in her apartment and on her balcony was trash. You could not walk in her apartment or on her balcony without walking on trash.

Downstairs there moved in what seemed like a fairly normal woman my age. I'll call her Jane. Then we realized Jane was a pathological liar and addicted to prescription drugs. Which she would forge the prescription for herself.

This is a felony, I learned.

Next to her were two early 30-somethings that lived in an apartment with no windows. When Jane was arrested for the umpteenth time and signed into the mentally unstable wing at the local hospital, they decided to move into Jane's apartment and take over her check book. All that happenned after I found Jane passed out half naked on her bathroom floor in a botched suicide attempt. But that is a story unto itself.

The young man that lived in Jane's apartment before she moved in was a somewhat skitsy and shady character himself. He really just had a lot of problems and didn't seem to know how to get out of them. From what he told me, he just only ever wanted his Dad to notice him. I took him to church with me once. Some girl I have never seen before in my life, and never saw again, came in and sat down next to him. They proceeded to give each other the eye, and then they left together.

Oh, boy, do I have stories.

One time Tony and I were lying in bed at about 11 o'clock one quite summer's eve. The windows were open, and we heard a "pop-pop-pop" outside. It took a minute, but then it registered that it was probably a gunshot. I think Tony called 911, something we had done several times before in these here parts. The next day we found out that the guy next door had gone to a party across the way. An altercation, a gun, and he was arrested. The police later found the gun thrown in the grass nearby. Not a smart guy.

Another time I answered a knock at the door to see a young man standing there, shaking and sweating profusely, with blood on his arm. I recognized him as a friend of several people in the building. I had handed him a tract one night out in the parking lot. He said, "Oh, my mom is always telling me the same thing." I gave one to all the kids that were standing there with him. Anyway, he said he was looking for so-and-so, and had fallen on his bike riding over, and could he have something to for his arm. He was acting funny, like he was under the influence of something. I said sure, locked the door behind me, went to get him a paper towel, unlocked to the door, and handed it to him. The next time I heard about him was in the paper. He was facing 120 years in prison for leading the police on a high speed chase through two counties for something or other. Maybe attempted murder, I don't remember.

Right below us, bless-ed are we, moved in an old, mentally and physically ill man named Bob. We came to call him "Urine Guy". Nice, I know. Real christian, right? Well, he would urinate in a pot and dump it right outside his door. His door was right below our window. Unfortunately for us, when the windows were open and the fan was on, pulling "fresher", cooler air in from the outside (at least that was the idea), it wasn't exactly fresh. The ambulance was always showing up for Bob. He was always calling 911 on himself. The EMTs told us they came over 80 times in one year. They have to come if you dial 911. Everybody knew Bob, he was famous in the (neighbor)hood.

Hospitality was not something we practiced a lot during that time. I couldn't figure out why no one would come over! You go to visit someone because of them, not because they live in a mansion with a pool out back, right? It was shocking to me that not everyone thought this way. And it hurt. It hurt that the fix-it man would come over and say, "How could you live here?". Now, what am I supposed to say to that?

I noticed that the only ones that would come over were usually our Latin friends that weren't phased in the least by these things. Or the family and friends who really cared about us.

I could go on and on and tell you about how we finally moved out of there Praise the Lord, only to move into a bigger apartment in a house with a huge yard and, it turns out - a pole-dancing neighbor. Sigh. It never ends. "Why, oh Lord, are you doing this to me?", I would moan for years. Tony always said, "This is for YOU, Chris."

Thanks, honey.

But it's true. Street smarts is not something you learn living in a comfortable bubble in white suburbia.

I am thankful for those five years we lived in that apartment. The LORD knew exactly what He was doing. I'm so glad He cares about me enough to take the time and care to teach me what I need to know, what He wants me to learn. Because it is for my good. And for others', as well.

There is not one person there at that apartment that did not hear the Gospel from us - some many, many times. Most were open, or at least listened. But some literally kicked the Bible I gave them into the dirt. The fruit is in God's hands. We were just learning what it means to be the message bearers.

Just yesterday little M said out of the blue, "Mommy, I liked our apartment."

"You mean the house, the apartment at the house, with the yard?"

"No, the apartment. You know, our old apartment. I was, like, three when we lived there. I remember it. It was great! I loved it. I mean, we shared a room and everything, but it was so peaceful. And we would go to the park all the time. It was so fun."

:)

Reverse Reverse Culture Shock and more Missionary Training

Culture shock is what happens to you when you are immersed in a new culture. Reverse culture shock is what happens to you when you return to your culture after being immersed for a long enough time in another culture. Reverse reverse culture shock is when that other culture comes to live with you in your culture.

{Okay, so I made that last part up. But it should have a name - because it's real, too.)

So I mentioned we had visitors from the southern hemisphere for five days. Reverse reverse culture shock. Totally. We had a great time. But they're gone now. And I'm enjoying not having to eat dinner at 10 o'clock anymore.

Paul says, "I am made all things to all men, that I might by all means save some." (1 Cor. 9:22)

Ah, yes, couldn't be more true when I think of Argentines. Adapt, adapt, adapt!

Key word here.

There were many instances that I came face to face with this issue this past week. I couldn't number them all, but yes, situationally being forced to eat dinner at 10 o'clock would be one. You get used to it if you live there, but we live here, and my baby and my stomach are used to eating by 6pm. Ah yes, choosing to become all things to all people in the hopes to win a few can certainly be a bit of a sacrifice. Especially when you're cranky because you're hungry, it would be offensive to eat dinner by yourself in front of your guests, and you are asked, not for the first time, in astonishment at 6pm, "Dinner? Already?? Isn't it early?". I'm now finding the five pounds I gained in five days from basically eating two dinners rather annoying.

But all for eternity, right?
Anyway, we had tons of fun with them. They are a lovely couple and were great guests. Marcelo is an old friend and co-worker from Tony's former life as a TV cameraman. I had also met his wife, Patricia, several times, but didn't have much of a chance to really get to know either one of them that well while we lived in BA 10 years ago. A great couple.

So, of course, we had to take them downtown to see the sights; but we stopped by to see our mechanic on the way...

Our mechanic is Puerto Rican and lives in the WORST neighborhood I have ever been to in my life (stateside, that is). Even our guests, who've seen their share of bad hoods in BA, were afraid to get out of the car. It's not uncommon to see drug dealers (brand new shiny cars with tinted windows, blaring rap, with a 20 year-old driver circling around at high noon), prostitutes, and many a sketchy character. I was actually laughing at them (well not at them, but at myself) in recognition, because I used to be afraid just as they were. I was laughing in part because God has done such a tremendous work in my life in this area over the years. For years I hated going down there, so would avoid it at all costs. I would get mad at Tony for making me, and upset at myself for my own feelings of fear. When I had to go, I would grip the wheel and pray frantically to just be able to get out of there alive. I used to white-knuckle the steering wheel in fear asking God, "Why are you doing this to me??" and repeating to myself, "I could never be a missionary, I could never be a missionary..." over and over again, all the while shaking my head. There came a moment in time where I just had to hand it over to God and trust I wouldn't die before my time. And neither would my kids that were always in the car with me. I'm glad for the experience now, even though I hated it at the time. I can go down there now with little problem. It is a very dangerous place, but I have to say, excellent missionary training. They need Christ, too. And Tony is always faithful to share Him with them. 

Tony has taught me a LOT about how to handle myself as a white girl in the hood. Spanish hood, that is. He always, always, always tells me that if we get separated or I get lost to SPEAK SPANISH. When I do speak (which isn't at all, if possible), the cold, steely, angry faces suddenly change into shock, then amazment, then quickly melt into a great big grin as they wave and smile. Once you've earned confidence in the hood, they'll bend over backwards to help you. There are just "codigos", Tony says. You gotta know the rules.

So here are some shots from our scenic drive...

(notice drug dealer car in background)

prostitute

 crackhouse, or maybe not - but sure looks like one, doesn't it?

And more pics...

asado (meat on the grill Argentinian style)

Yum!

all the souls in Little Italy

*all pics taken with our friends' cameras

**mental note to self: must purchase good camera

Adventures in Washington, DC

Our "fantabulous" trip to DC was quite possibly the most distastrous weekend vacation of all time. Here is what happenned, in a nutshell:

Let's see... purchased defective cell phone for trip, had to exchange said phone, so left late, forgot directions, had no time to charge or activate new phone, therefore stood-up old college roomie I was planning to see, museums swamped with entire population of East Coast, children not listening, baby screaming, baby only wanting to scoot on dirty floors/wet ground picking up old food, children whining, children running off in museum wanting to see everything all at the same time, can not discipline in public, dinner too late=migraine, check FB at hotel to send apology message to old college roomie only to find stepfather died AHH! :(, worried about mom, can not call from hotel OR cell, wake up with migraine, oh well off to zoo, entire east AND west coast at zoo, hot, children not listening, baby scooting on dusty ground picking up more food, screaming baby, hungry, thirsty, attempt to eat at restaurant on way back to hotel, baby so tired and screams entire time, bad parent stares from everyone within 50 mile radius, more migraine pain, meds not working, back to hotel, try last resort migraine medication=bad reaction, call 911, last straw for husband who begins pulling own hair and saying "What am I going to do? What am I going to do?" as he throws pillows in attempt to pack bags for unplanned ER visit, about to faint or die not sure, tongue lolling out of mouth, EMT assure me I am not dying, decide to stay at hotel, Monday pouring rain, pop only Tylenol now, smile!, bag plans and tour DC by CAR, get lost, husband forgot map of DC, me too, illegally park to get gratuitous pic of White House, attempt to leave town for home and end up in VA a little out of the way, now caught in rush hour, sigh... at least headache gone now and the kids said they had a GREAT time in DC. :)

Well, that's good, because WE didn't. Tony is still having fun doing his impersonation of me calling 911 on myself. With no help from him, I might add. We laugh about it now.

At one point during the mayhem I looked at Tony and just shook my head. He said, "Well, we'd better get used to this because we'll need to be prepared for all sorts of things allá (meaning Argentina). It'll be ten times harder than this." I know he is right. I momentarily and somewhat seriously reconsider this whole missionary thing.

There were so many great photo opps to be had, but nursing my pounding head took presidence, so we really didn't take many at all :( .

So glad to be home. The funeral was more than sad. Maybe I'll write about that a year from now, maybe not... we're all still licking our wounds and trying to recover.

"Behold, all souls are mine..." -Ezekiel 18:4

[Check out our next attempt at an enjoyable weekend in DC here]

Missions Organizations

Some of you are probably wondering if we're going to go with a missions organization.

I used to think that that's the only way to go. I don't know where I got that idea, but that's what I thought. In my research, many missions organizations require college degrees, seminary, and/or special training of some sort. Not to mention other major and minor "requirements". Although I understand where they are coming from, it "disqualifies" so many well-intentioned Christians from ever doing anything for the Lord abroad. Or at least that's what they'll come away believing. It also "disqualifies" us from ever being able to work with certain organizations.

At some point I realized that, if we were to go some day to an overseas mission field, it might not be with an organization. I let that dream die a slow, pitiful death, and actually mourned that loss for years. What would we do? I guess I was wrong, maybe we're not called. Tony did not go to college, and neither one of us have gone to seminary. We have no special training that we could put on a resumé to make us look really good. We're just ordinary people who happen to love Jesus and want to live for Him. That's all. Sigh. I guess we're not qualified either.

Peter was a lowly fisherman. Probably didn't even finish high school, the poor guy. There were tax collectors, women, soldiers, somebodies and nobodies who all followed Christ and helped to spread the Good News 2000 years ago. Yes, Paul was highly educated and well-trained... but that was Paul.

But back to missions organizations... our situation is unique in that Tony and I are already fluent in the language. We don't need to spend six months and a lot of money on language school. We don't need special visas to get into the country, we're already citizens/residents (Tony and Big A by birth, the rest of us by association). We don't need special training on how to get around, how to bridge the culture gap, how to pay the bills, or prepare the food, or really anything. God himself did a pretty good job already preparing us.

Cameron Townsend, founder Wycliffe Bible Translators

I remember wanting to go on a mission trip to a South American country once and tried to jump in on the action a little too late. I didn't end up going, but I was shocked to find out how much it cost the people who did go. We could have sent our whole family for a month on what each individual paid to go! The $1500 ticket we could have easily found for a third of the price.  And I guess that's why organizations are needed, most Americans don't know their way around the system or how to get things done the right and best way abroad, so they need that help.

We are 38 and 41 years old. We don't want to spend any more time "getting ready" or waiting until we are "prepared enough", whenever that is. It reminds me of parenting. If you wait until you are "ready" or "have enough money", you'll never have kids. The truth is, who is ever ready? and who ever has enough money?

If you want to be inspired, read a few great missionary biographies. Cameron Townsend, Gladys Aylward, George Muller, to name just a few. You'd be surprised to find out that Gladys Aylward flunked out of Bible school. Cameron Townsend, who founded Wycliffe Bible Translators, found himself in Central America at a very young age as a missionary, only to realize he had NEVER ONCE SHARED THE GOSPEL WITH ANOTHER LIVING SOUL. George Muller had faith he said was nothing special. We all have access to the same kind of faith.

Interesting how God still used a failure, a young unprepared nobody, and just some ordinary guy... Read it for yourself! :)