So, here I am, approximately 11 days before I leave the Philippines (choke out small, controlled sob here), and getting some good rest after our 9-day concert evangelism. Now, this has always been an interesting thing for me to do from the get-go, but I have to say, this has been one of the most amazing experiences I’ve had while here… minus the tribal trip we made. Nothing can compare to that.  But I am going to forego stories from that week to talk about something else more important.

For me, talking about my spiritual growth is very tough to do in an open stage, where anyone can sit and see when I am struggling to describe and understand myself. It’s very nerve-racking and I don’t like it; on the other hand, I would very much like to share what I am learning, because I feel it is the most priceless thing I possess, and to share it would be the best gift I may have to contribute. 

Soooo, *deep breath*.

I am, by nature, a very faithless person, really. You might believe quite the contrary about me, based on what you have known in my life. And that is true, I have lived my life very largely in faith-based things, but that has not come to me from my own manner. Rather, it has been a constant edging against my own proclivity, and has pushed into my experiences the knowledge of the trueness of faith. And what do I mean by that? Well, I suppose it means that from the very beginning of my life, I have been divinely or universally placed (however you may see it, wink wink) into an experience of the spiritual, and an experience of the tangibility of faith. Due to those things, I was able from a young age to be softened to the idea of what faith means, of what God means, and not be entirely overcome to my natural disposition to be critical of the idea.

However, despite growing up in it, I still have always fought back and forth with the logic of the world I see, know and experience, and the logic of the spiritual world I also saw, knew and experienced. I fought back and forth with how to reconcile the two truths I knew, or whether I even could reconcile the two seemingly disposed ideas, or instead if I just had to choose one side or the other. If I stepped into my book understanding of things, I would be fully immersed in that approach of viewing the world. If I was immersed in a spiritual surrounding, I could see the world viewed in that understanding, and it made just as much sense to me, if not more, because it involved the deeper parts of me. I guess more of me. But my brain was not reconciled. Thus, I felt more of a lean to understand things spiritually, but I began to search to find ways to fit these spiritual leanings into my head, because I felt it was not all falling into closure for me. Don’t get me wrong, I knew God and I loved God. But I felt that division in my heart, and it just wasn’t enough. Not yet. 

Slowly, as I became more and more academic in my study of God and the spiritual things of the world, the more I saw its cavernous gaps in their grasp of truths I knew to be true by personal experience..and I just could not reconcile books with experience. All the theological/philosophical mapping of God did not match the God that I spoke with and knew in my heart. Something didn’t add up. I was at a loss for reconciliation and just felt listless about my search of understanding the world and of finding God’s truths.

The interesting thing is, one must eventually decide what they will believe in order to experience it. If you have decided in your mind that God does not exist, even if you have an experience with God, you will not see it that way, because your mind has decided it was something else. Your mind is the vision, and if you have decided to see something in a certain way, that is exactly how you will see it. I thought that if I was searching, I had cleared my mind of that. But I was wrong, because I was searching with the idea that I had the capacity to understand God if I came across him in these books. Maybe I didn’t know that at the time. But that’s probably because I didn’t want to look at it that way. 

So how on earth can we possibly approach belief, and find truth?

The excellent thing about God and His truth, I have discovered, is His intrinsic simplicity in regards to you and I. We enjoy making things complicated, perhaps because we only believe something deep & incredible if it also incredibly difficult to understand from all its wirey, ecstatically awesome complications. GOD = INSANITY OF THE UNIVERSE THEREFORE I AM AMAZING IF I CAN UNDERSTAND GOD BWAHAHAHAHAHA (CACKLE OF SPIRITUAL GENIUS)

And yet sometimes, when we don’t make something intellectual, we miss things. Sometimes we may miss the excellent beauty of something, because we haven’t studied how intricate it is… you know what I mean. Like studying plant biology in 8th grade, and suddenly realizing how incredibly beautiful a simple organism can be.

However, tackling God with intellect is a biiiiiiiiit bigger than that. But I believe this approach does something truly great for the earnest searcher who is looking for God’s reality. I believe it makes the simplicity of His love even more beautiful, more astounding, and more awe-inspiring: for the absolute foolishness of their dragging along spiritual laboratories and schematics did absolutely nothing for their discovery. It was just the way they needed to go until their heart could be opened enough to get one sliver of simple truth in there:

God would do absolutely anything to just be with you and I.

His love, His immaculate, unending love, is so astounding, that it would seem like nothing short of a really, really big mistake….if it weren’t for the fact that it is you and I who are receiving such an astounding love. This love is so palpable, so real, and so incredible, that once you’ve discovered it, breathed it, had it enter deep into your soul, there is absolutely nothing in your MIND, heart or soul that can refute it, bedraggle it through the grates of doubt or tear it up into logical essays. There is nothing. It is stood fast in the very nest of you who you are, because you finally have centered exactly on the target of what you were searching for, and there is nothing within you that makes you want to move from that very spot. It is the final destination for the beginning of The Journey.

Finding this truth while here has been the catapult for an entirely refreshed vision and journey in my heart. I have no division in my mind or spirit, the two have been fused into a lovely working relationship. I have not let either slip out of my hands, and that has always been my desire, because I saw both as beautiful gifts from God. Now, as I look through things with this utterly simple and yet crucial belief about God, that He would do and HAS DONE everything to be with me, just to BE WITH ME and LOVE me, then suddenly my vision was willing to see things with wonderful clarity and depth. I’ve begun to read the Bible with voracious hunger, and I’m constantly seeing this truth repeat itself into every facet of the chapters I read, (even in Leviticus for cryin’ out loud). This may seem so elementary to you, and maybe I would have felt the same way, but holding a brick in your hands brings a whole new sensation of its heaviness than it did when you were looking at it on the ground.

I confess. I am one of God’s “special kids” (you know, the kind that rode the short yellow bus to Sunday school), because I have been the slowest learner EVER on this. Like, oOOOoohh my gosh, how long have I been teeter tottering on my faith issues? How long have I known God so intimately, but still wouldn’t give it up to say, yeah, you’re it? I mean…. I’m like the hall of fame doubting Thomas (who, by the way, is one of my favorite characters of the disciples, and I could write a whole book on that).

I had seen incredible miracles. Heck, experienced incredible miracles. But those things DID NOT MATTER IF WHAT MY MIND WANTED TO BELIEVE WAS DIFFERENT THAN WHAT THE REALITY WAS. You could, of course, argue the opposite, but what I would like to know is how someone would argue with a finger pointed like it could wrap around a corner suddenly being straightened out like an arrow. Or, a blind man being able to see. Or, a woman’s broken bone moving around under my hands until it came into place and she could move her wrist again. Or, a woman whose leg was 4 inches shorter than the other growing out to be exactly equal with the other. Oh, and not having chest pains anymore. Oh, and the tumor in her neck disappearing. Oh, and…it goes on and on.

And that’s where the issue of the heart & mind is stood. Do you really want to believe the truth, no matter what it is, or do you merely want to believe what you want to believe, because it’s safe and doesn’t make you challenged into an incredibly new territory? Comfort is one of our basic human cravings. Stability. Security. Believing something like this won’t give you any of the above, so unless you’re willing to be incredibly risky, you won’t find the truth I’m talking about.

There is no pride in the earnest search for God. That is the thing that will take you far, far away from the truth of God.

GOD JUST WANTS TO BE WITH YOU IN YOUR LIFE IN AS BIG OF A SPACE AS YOU WILL GIVE HIM

So take it, this celestial folly of immaculate love. 

On this journey, don’t take a backpack filled with crap that just weighs you down and makes it harder for you to take the journey. Take a flashlight to keep your way clear to you, an umbrella for when the rains come to discourage your spirit, and a spiral notebook and pen for writing down all the things God whispers to your heart as you go. The best thing you can bring along with you, though, beyond those things, is to bring a friend who has gone there before and knows the way.

Many reading this won’t need to. I’m writing this for the one person who may…and I’m writing it because it’s a story of a cripple who was healed. And that cripple was me.

Well, to be uber fast for a Becky update, this month has been pretty kick-back in terms of travelling, and we’ve stayed in the area of Cebu almost the whole time. Just this last week, though, Marcy and Paul treated me to a couple days in Bohol, an island famous for its tourism. It really has a lot of cool stuff to see, so we hopped on a motorcycle and travelled about for a couple days while stayed with the Bajau tribe at night, which was also super fun. This Bajau tribe (sea gipsy tribe) actually had the more traditional houses built over the water, and had an incredibly precarious boardwalk constructed over the water that basically consisted of loose, broken planks tied or nailed into a “walk”. There are huge gaps in between the boards, bouncey boards, splintered and other pretty shady boards used as part of the walk shinnanigins, so really as I’m walking along the 5″ wide bouncey board over the water I’m just telling myself….Becky….you are a gymnist…..you. are. a. gymnist. You are graceful, and have a superb sense of balance…… Yeah, you get the idea. Anyway, the first time crossing it was the hardest since it was in the dark and I had a huge backpack on. Hahaha. Anyhoo, they caught a giant squid in the morning and made us an amazing breakfast spread from it—tooootally awesome.

So we got to see a bunch of fun stuff in Bohol, including a huge 27-foot python and a butterfly conservatory and then ended by hanging out at a SPECTACULARIFFIC beach resort that surpasses all tropical understanding. Really, it was wonderful. I want to take everyone I know there. Heck, I wanna get married there. I don’t even care that I don’t know anyone to get married to; I’m just sayin’, I wanna get married there.

Anyway, we got back at like 4 in the morning last Friday night, and Saturday we got to pick up Pastor Jill and Mama Luz, who are the head couple of the ministry I’m working for, so it was really really good to see them, as they have been travelling around everywhere since I’ve been here. 

Right, so, we’ll be starting the evangelism concert crusade this next week, from October 5th to October 13th. If you are a prayer person, I would really appreciate your support especially in that time, as we will be working long days and having a lot of things to take care of. Also, after the crusade we’ll be doing a lot of travelling, so I might be a smidge MIA during the month of October in terms of emailing as regularly as I’ve been able to this last month. But, as I’ll be coming home at the beginning of November, I would say it’s best I’m busy with things here and soaking up all that I can, and giving you the updates once I’m back in the States.

Thanks everyone, cheers from the Other Hemisphere

We headed out the door, my pack bulging at the seams and everything big or bulgy tied on or around it, making me look fit for a horse saddle more than anything else. We piled into a jeepney, banging our crap against the ceiling and our cramming our knees against each other…appropriately beginning our long trip that would eventually take us to the Bajau, a sea gypsy tribe in the Philippines, and the Bitok mountain tribe, on the island of Palawan.

We made it to the airport, where we met up with a ministering pastor of indigenous tribes, particularly the Bajau, named Pastor Jelon. He was a humble, young man in his thirties that had been in the ministry for about 11 years doing work in the tribes. The Bajau are a group of people that are highly disdained by the overall community in the Philippines, and certainly disregarded by most everyone. As complete social outcasts and bottom dwellers of the social food chain, to be a pastor who would live and breathe among them and learn their language was absolutely unheard of. And yet that is exactly what Pastor Jelon did, and does, throughout the tribes found across the country.

As Marcy had gone with him on a trip to the Bajau a few years back, they were acquainted, and we met with him at the airport so he could accompany us on our trip throughout the week. Together we flew to Palawan (an entire hour long plane ride, by the way) and made it to the Bajau by the time it was dark. As the tricycle carrying the three of us bumbled up through the bamboo huts lifted on stilts, a crowd of people began to gather around, and as soon as they saw it was Pastor Jelon inside, they shouted and cheered for happiness to see him, and actually began clapping. It was their personal celebrity, and it was pure joy for them to be receiving him. That is something that spoke novels to me about the love he showed them, more than any description of his ministry among them could depict. It was beautiful.

They ushered us into the chieftain’s hut, and after I had clumsily navigated the stick ladder to climb up into the hut (it is not easy to do), we sat down in their one big room (smaller than the size of my bedroom in the states), and they served us coffee and crackers. The whole group of Bajau waiting outside took shifts coming in and out to take turns looking at the American visitors (and Filipino husband, mind you), standing around with inquisitive smiles. The excitement was palpable. And then something wonderful happened. They brought in a casio (a casio! last thing I imagined in here), and a young man sat down to play, and another young man sat next to him, and sang, chanting in his own tribe’s language, a beautiful song in this incredible, beautiful, exotic, enchanting voice. He sang as though he were in love with the song’s formation, loving the way it came from his heart and into the room. I don’t know else to describe it, but it was beautiful. Afterwards, Pastor Jelon played some songs on the piano as well, and being a typical filipino pastor played incredibly well and had just “picked it up”, not having ever been taught. Oh, and he also plays incredible guitar and can speak 10 languages. Yeah. I know.

Luckily, the chieftain’s hut had electricity, that had just been installed only about a year or so before, so we had light to get ready for bed and get our things. Of course, since you’re sleeping in a room with 8 or so adults and who knooows however many more kids scattered about, there’s no privacy to change or anything like that. So you just engage in i’m-changing-in-the-car  tactics, with pulling over and careful use of your sarong, etc etc. And most of the family had given up their normal floor space in order for us to stay there, and they took the floor of the kitchen area at the front of the hut. Nonetheless, the sleeping arrangements were tight, with me, then marcy, paul, jelon, a couple old ladies, a mom, about 5 toddlers and a few older kids sleeping around the room. Our group of four certainly became rather snug by the end of our time together, ha!

Our first night there was a quick one, as in the morning we were to leave for the Bitok tribe in the mountain. So, in the morning I gathered the kids’ attention and we played a whole lot of games that involved running and me getting so sweaty I could veritably have showered that morning. I finally tuckered out on a bamboo bench somewhere and just kinda let the kids stare and stand around me…  Almost all of the little ones were entirely naked, up to probably about 8 years old. It was very dirty, of course, and all the ground was dirt, and since they had no bathroom or running water, bathing seemed…well, a non-reality. They were on the beach’s shore (oftentimes Bajau build their huts in the water, so that their houses are directly over the water), so the kids would always be swimming or playing in the sea water, but that’s about as close as it got. The first night we were there, our bathroom was the darkness of night, peeing on the beach shore. Hehe, if that’s tmi, go ahead and strike from memory. Hehe.

Oh, as an fyi, if you ever find yourself staying with the Bajau, be careful where you brush your teeth. See, I was brushing my teeth outside and figured I could spit anywhere since I see them peeing just about anywhere, anytime. Don’t let this way-of-the-urinary-wind betray you, however, as there are still rules. So, ya know, I was brushing my teeth, la di da, and meandered over to the big tree near by, and spit out my toothpaste. Rinse, repeat. Rinse, repeat. Ta-da! Fresh. Except, uh, woops….apparently they worship this tree, and I just spit at its roots. Whooooopsies! Good thing I made friends already. He he.

That, by the way, is the great things about kids: there is no need for words to show them that you are their friend.

So we left to meet with a second pastor who had ministered with the Bitok (not Bajau, Bitok–the mountain tribe) many times, Pastor Martinez, and who would guide us to where they lived in the mountains. The pastor who was the first missionary to the Bitok people ten years ago, and who had actually renovated their life with sharing Christ and creating a community for them (Pastor Jojo), was not there at the time, so we were lucky to have Pastor Martinez be able to go with us.

After a bus ride or two, we hopped off, the happy group of five that we were, and headed on the road of 7 miles or so to get to the Bitok. After crossing a river 18 times, myself attempting flip-flops then deserting them to the more reliable bare of foot, we traversed the beauties of the green, green jungle that dripped leaves and ferns and oozed crickets and cawing through the cracks of space offered to any live object… it was spacious, crammed with life, delightful, entirely new and yet so old. Wonderful.

We got to the top. There were the same bamboo huts, and then to my total surprise we turned a corner and there was a basketball court and a finely-built, new building that turned out to be the school. Apparently Pastor Jojo had been busy, and had really taken an entirely scattered, impovershed indigenous group and had created a veritable town. Pretty awesome. AAaaaannd, they had a CR (bathroom). Um, shall the Lord be praised? Yes, yes He shall.

We dropped our packs, and as Marcy, Paul and the pastors sorta meandered around or rested, pretty much immediately I was harassing the children that were shyly gathered about and we began a good old-fashioned game of chase. We ran up the path, down the path, across the basketball court and through the huts…over the wagon and under the wagon, around the flagpole and through the church. Some of the kids here, since many or most were in the school, could speak a few words of English, which was AWESOME. Actually, there was a very tangible difference between the children of the Bitok and the Bajau kids, as not ONE of the Bajau children were in school or had ever gone. The Bitok was definitely a much more prosperous place, on many levels.

So in the morning we woke up to do devotions at the school, and at this point I am literally trembling from the insane itchiness resulting from the numerous bug bites on my body (I counted the big ones to about 80 ish). Cort-aid was a godsend, let me tell you.

Pastor Jojo’s wife Nancy was the teacher of the school, and a really incredible minister to the people as well. Later that day, a mother came to Marcy and I with her infant child, just a few weeks old, who was crying incessantly. In her gaspy cries, you could hear congestion rolling in her chest, keeping her from a full gasp of breath. She was exploding with frustration in her yelps for air, and as Marcy held her and prayed over her, a realization came upon me like a creeping mist: this child is dying. This little child, who is exerting itself with every fiber of its being to live, is dying.

The mother and family had been smoking, both during pregnancy and after, and despite warning and pleas from the pastor and his wife, they continued. And the little one was born with bad lungs, and now was dying.

The pastor’s wife took some money and told them to go to the hospital. I saw them walk by at full speed to make the trip down the mountain and find a doctor. Without understanding why, I ran after them, caught up to them and took the little one’s head to my lips, and I gave her a kiss, whispering for her to be ok. Then I went back, and they continued their road. Later that day, they had come back. The child had passed away, not strong enough to make the trip.

There was going to be a funeral service that night for the baby, and a burial the next morning, after which we would be leaving.

In the service that night, I took the mother in my arms and held her close, as if to tell her, she is forgiven, she is loved, there is no condemnation tonight….God is here. The little one is gone, but there is no harm in the place she rests.

The smell of death lay in the small hut…a smell I had never smelt before, but knew as soon as I breathed it. Even death is a cosmetic experience where I am from, but it is not so here.

In the morning, the burial procession went through a jungle path across the river and through the woods, literally being hacked clear by machete-bearers in front. It felt very bizarre and foreign, more than any other time of my stay here. So we walked to a very remote place, a site that seemed so random to me but obviously visited times before, as I could see from the small stick crosses in the ground. They were slowly being encroached upon by the constantly growing ferns. Pastor Martinez spoke words over the ceremony after a hole had been dug, and the people gathered around. It began to rain. The words continued, though I could not understand them. Then the little casket, such a tiny one, was lifted, and lowered into the little hole. The wails of the mother and her little daughters rose up, crying with the rain…and my heart turned into rain with them, feeling their pain, seeing their loss being buried beneath us. And so, after it was done, the people took the dirt and tossed it on top of the grave, laying flowers they had picked on top, and we began to proceed back, everyone much the same as they had been before. Everyone, except, the sisters of the little one, and their broken-hearted mother.

Things are done and made and taken away for reasons I’ll never understand. But in the power of life, the power of death makes everything sharpened. Realizations, dreams, hopes and love. So I learn over and over again what it is to see life for what it is: precious, precarious, and passing. And so, as I move forward, I remember and keep these things in my heart.

Our time was spent there, for our full day there, in playing basketball with the kids, teaching them songs and games, talking with the Pastora about the ways of the people and the things she and her husband are trying to teach them and bring to their world. We ask her in what ways we can help, and we discuss a second trip in October. It is an incredibly impovershed group still, but things are, without a doubt, growing. Only so far as the dedication of God’s people reaches is as far as it will grow, and fortunately, the dedication of Pastor Jojo and Nancy his wife is pretty amazing. So the Bitok people are blessed, and I am blessed by their example, and hope their resources expand continually so that simple things like medical care, continuous food supply and job income are a part of their daily lives.

We hike back down the trial, much without incident except for me losing one flip-flop and so hiking back barefoot once again, at least until we crossed the river for the last time and I could slip on my running shoes. We arrived to a small store, bought 4 big litros of Coke and some crackers, and sat down to feast. Nothing has ever been so wonderful, or have I ever felt so good. A bit crusty, but so good.

We then went back to the Bajau tribe, and we spent more time with them. This particular tribe has very few Christians in it, and since Pastor Jelon had first been there to share the truth of God’s love to them, the pastor who was left to care for them had been frequently gone for as much as 6 months at a time, and thus the population was not strongly affected by the goodness of God’s love. And so, that Sunday, we managed to rustle up as much of the community as possible and Marcy shared with them the love of Christ. We prayed for them, and blessed them, and we were blessed to know that Pastor Jelon’s nephews were living with them and planning to stay.

After church was the time for fun. The Bajau are, as I said before, sea gypsies, so their main trade is, as you would guess, fishing. So, Sunday was the day for us climbing onto their super cool boats and being taken to a lovely island where we could relax and walk around, and they could spear fish for our lunch. Heck yeah. So the “boys” stayed on the boat and spear-fished while Marcy, myself, pastora Nancy and Angel (ladies from the Bitok tribe who had climbed down the mountain with us) went snorkeling in the incredible tropical waters that held a really amazing display of corrals and tropical fish. It was my first time snorkeling, and it was pretty freakin awesome. It was a gorgeous island and I can’t fully emphasize how stunned I was that my Windows tropical sea desktop picture actually existed.

So, after the boat’s engine died and we couldnt’ get back and were stuck on the tropical island (oh, the misery), we toodled around and got a bit sunburned and enjoyed ourselves ’til the boat was finally fixed and we were on our way back to the tribe. Somehow the tribe had heard the boat had broken down, but had heard a slightly different version, and that there had been an accident. They were totally scared that we had been sunk and/or had died or what not….very dramatic homecoming, at all costs. But also a little funny. Anyway.

That night we stayed with neighbors of the Bajau, and sort of ministered to them there as well, actually. They were two young ladies in charge of the store that was mainly supported by business with the Bajau. One of the girls had actually gone to Bible school to be a missionary, but she was not ministering to the Bajau at all, and if anything, stood with strained ties between themselves and the Bajau. They really acted as disdainful of them as the regular population did. As Marcy and I listened to both sides of the dilemma, we both felt moved by the lack of compassion and care on the store owners’ part, and tried as well as we could to speak truth to them, that God’s love will be seen or not seen, depending on how they treat the Bajau in their actions to them. So, we hope and pray that perhaps this can be something that will grow into a prospering relationship, really blessed by God.

In the morning, we said our goodbyes and made our way to the airport. But before we took our flight, we HAD to make one stop: Crocodile farm. Yeah, that’s right. A crocodile farm. And seriously, farming means business there. We took a tour through a warehouse of crocodiles, where literally piles of live crocodiles are hanging out in these large bin/pool things, and you just walk around these bins. If you so cared to be entirely idiotic, it wouldn’t take much for you to just drop your hand a bit into the bin and see if it got chomped off or not by the shiney baby (or not so baby) crocodile teeth. It was insane. I mean there were thousands of crocodiles in that one room…not to mention the 75 foot long crocodile skeleton on display. Or mentioning the dozens of FULL-grown crocodiles in outside exhibits/living areas or whatever you call ‘em. Apparently this crocodile breeding/raising ground is the source of almost all of the world’s crocodiles for zoos or other crocodile farms, though I was a little hazy about why was needed…I dunno I probably wasn’t paying attention, though I didn’t pick up on any comments involving “shoes” or “belts” or anything, sooo…I guess there’s just a big need out there for crocodiles. Yeah. Anyway, the place was a pretty cool visit, all that is to say, if you care to see a pile of teeth and reptile flesh. Not a bad way to pass an afternoon if you’re feeling a bit dull.

By the way, I don’t have any pictures of the Bajau (except the boat ride) or of the crocodile farm and stuff like that because my camera has kinda sorta pooped out. It miraculously worked for the Bitok tribe, but it’s super off and on, so I apologize for the lack of digital supply, because there were so many great things I wish I could show you… but where I lack pictures, I am bountiful with words…bahaha….much to your chagrin, I’m sure. Ha! Oh well! …moving on….

So after the crocodiles we rode about 5 jillion jeepneys more until we arrived at the city for our plane ride, where as we waited around, we were able to meet up with Pastor Jojo of the Bitok for a few minutes since our plane travels crossed paths. Then we continued to wait around even more. We come to find out our flight had been cancelled, and they are so very sorry, would you mind staying a high-class hotel nearby free of charge? Food? No problem, we’ll cover that too, and anything else you’ll be needing. So very sorry about the inconvenience, you’ll be flying out tomorrow morning!

Turns out to be quite a nice hotel, as we’re greeted with a fresh iced tea at the front desk and led to our very own spacious rooms. Two beds! To myself! Ha! Since we had been sleeping on crowded bamboo floors for the last week with (at best) scattered bathing opportunities, it seemed like the presidential suite of a Ritz. Running heated water? Check. Big, soft bed? Check. Cable and air conditioning? Check check check! Oh yes, running WARM water. You know what THAT means. That means I took out all my dirty, damp clothes from our trip and washed them in the sink and hung them to dry on the shower curtain rod. I felt a little like what a homeless person would be doing in a hotel, and as soon as the thought crossed my mind it was as quickly discarded with catching site of the air conditioning unit in the corner. Um, SCORE! Then I remembered I hadn’t taken a hot shower since I got to the Philippines, and that I was a smidge fresh myself, so decided it wouldn’t be bad if I took a wash myself.

So our misfortune offered us an extra day of winding down and relaxing, with free food, great dining and cable at our fingertips. I was totally refreshed as we made our flight the next day, toootally showered and felt as pampered as an Indian princess. We had a smooth and happy return home, to our own beds and fresh, clean clothes. Ahhh. The sigh eased itself across the room as we crossed our doorstep, our minds filled with a sense of accomplished adventure, and bodies with the happy weariness fit only for the sweetest of homecomings.

So, ya know how every once in a while you go to a friend’s house and you have to sleep on the couch, and it’s just not super comfortable, so you sleep like crap and just can’t wait to get back into your own bed?

It’s interesting how that totally goes to the crappers once you’re on the mission field. Actually, to be frank, I think missionaries were born to either a.) sleep well anywhere or b.) learn to not need sleep. If you cannot adapt to one or the other, you end up packin’ it homewards inside of a month. Though actually you can’t just adapt to one—you really do need at least a pinch of both ingredients in order to stew up the strength of longstanding survival. Not to say you need a HUGE dose of both—but at least a smidge.

Aaaall that is to say, this may be why the good Lord saw that, indeed, it was good to divinely appoint me with the gift of Sleeping. Yeah! People usually skip it, but it’s there, right along with a list of speaking in tongues, prophecy, hospitality, sleeping….  So, ya know, I may not be an apostle or anything, but I can out-sleep any missionary I know.

I feel a story coming on. Indeed, a snapshot!

So. This last week Paul, Marcy & I have been travelling around the island of Leyte and its neighbor Samar to meet with pastors and present to them the simple vision and purpose of church planting. The format that the CMC has for church planting is so insanely simple it really boggles my mind, and its work is so genuinely motivated that I feel refreshed every time I listen to the presentation (and seriously, I have heard it like ten gajillion times, and it still reminds me of the goodness behind it).  

Anyway, so it’s kind of a crazy job with really…uhh…intense travel requirements, since we’re mostly trying to reach groups of pastors that are working in the barangays (small towns) out in the countryside. So, ya know, being the less populated areas, they tend to be ever-so-slightly overlooked in the whole “upkeep” work for areas under government responsibility (case in point, roads & transportation), beyond the fact that are very geographically distant from every conceivable place we would be under normal circumstances.

So our week goes a little something like this. Sunday: leave for boat at 5pm. Boat leaves 8pm. Arrive in Leyte 4 am. Continue to sleep on boat until a more reasonable hour (6am). Depart boat, and look for coffee. May the gods be praised, their nectar is discovered and we drink deeply from its juices at a local sidewalk café. Next: acquire passage to meeting point with Pastor Boy, who is going to drive us around everywhere. Passage acquired, and in typical Filipino style, we wait around for 2 more hours until it leaves, making us several hours late for Pastor Boy. Three-hour van ride later, we hope in the back of Pastor Boy’s multi-cab.

Multi-cab (mole-tee-cab: noun, m.): a truck-like device with a large back area made specifically for the Filipino passenger, usually small in stature and unparticular about transportation circumstances. Two benches are usually found running along the sides, and the back area has walls, a roof and a back door, similar to transportation used for prisoners. Generally highly-disfavored by foreigners, particularly large ones.

Five hours or so later, we spritz on some perfume and hop out of the prison car multi-cab and shake hands with the pastors enthusiastically greeting us. Assuming the same posture, we smile, make small talk and groom ourselves for something akin to energy, and get ready for the presentation. Marcy, Paul and Pastor Boy pull this off much better than I at this point, but as each day passes I learn from them and copy their rock-solid example.

The excitement that Filipinos experience in hosting foreigners is beyond anything I can possibly compare. Stretch your imagine to its wildest when imagining how happy they are to see your American face, falling short of nothing except, perhaps, discovering that you are single. Anyway, so the energy it takes to meet theirs when you meet them for the first time is considerable, and there is little to no (more like no) sympathy for the fact that you have been travelling straight for about 15 hours…so if you happen to even seem rude, it really is very offensive and hurtful to them, even if you are exhausted. Knowing this, it really motivates you to be kind & ready for conversation-making, and once my self-pitying mindset was clicked off, everything got easy.

We give them our presentation, eat with them afterwards, and about 3.5 hours later we hop back into the multi-cab to go to our next presentation. However many hours later, we arrive, give the presentation again, leave about 2 hours later (no meal this time) and get back into the multi-cab for the 3 or 4 or 5 hours (you start losing count—you just know that every time you get into that cell you are not leaving for quite some time) that it will take to get us to where we will spend the night.

We arrive at the Bible College and they set us up in the rooms we had stayed in on our last trip to the island, which coincidentally, was in a boys’ dorm room, haha. It’s actually one of the nicest places that we have stayed, and since we have a mattress, running water and our own bathroom, it’s pretty much heaven.  We get a good nights’ sleep, and won’t have to leave until 6 am. The next day is spent much the same, and then we come back to the bible college, getting ready that night for our next day’s trip to the island of Samar.

So we wake up 2:45 am so we can make it in time for the 10am presentation we have planned for that morning. We travel all day, make 3 presentations (that are about 6 hours apart from each other, so at one point the three of us separated to make 2 presentations at once, then meet up again at the last one), and then come to the very important realization that the next place for a presentation is a 15 hour drive away, and is scheduled for the next day. What to do, what to do…. Well, Pastor Boy being the hard-core man of action that he is, he piles us into his multi-cab and drives us through all the live-long night, trading off with one of the other pastors for a bit, but seeing that his companion’s driving sends his sleeping passengers flying up into the air and back down again, takes matters of night-driving back into his own hands, and the other pastor drives during the day.

Sleeping arrangements go a bit like this (see if you detect the Gift I was speaking of earlier): Paul and Marcy share a bench to lay on, which is certainly not long enough for the two of to stretch out, so they sort of half curl-up, half fall off the bench…which, by the way, is probably about 9 inches wide or so, being generous of guess. One of the pastors lies on the other bench (back problems—really should have the whole thing, as it’s not really comfortable even with that), and I find myself on the anything-but-immaculately-clean-and-even floor. The bottom is like any truck bed floor, where the slates alternate between a ridged high and low, except instead of that hard, plastic-y surface, it’s hard metal. Metal metal metal. Doesn’t get more metal kind of metal. So anyway, I curl up on the floor since it has more room, anyway, and on more than one occasion I feel my entire body fly up into the air, hover for a moment like a bad UFO, and land down again with a WHAM that drew the concern of Pastor Boy for my well-being… and resulting in a tender hip the next morning. However, it did not disturb me in the least at the time, as I went right back to sleep, jealously grasping my REM cycle back into position before it slipped away and left me awake and cranky from the meager 3 hours of sleep from the night before.

You see, the jostling was a bit more eccentuated on this venture, as the roads were in truly breathtaking condition. ‘Bad’ cannot possibly wrap its insufficient meaning around the state of it… really, I have no words. And you know that it must be bad if I’m left speechless to describe it. Anyway, so you get the idea. Driving across these roads is ‘bad’. Very bad indeed. Sleeping across them is, perhaps, a feat only for the strong of back and padded of butt.

Now I know why the Lord put extra cushion in my seat. He knew.

Anyway, so we did actually get some sleep, and in the morning found a place to eat where they miraculously, and unusually so, had a place to bathe as well. This means that their CR (bathroom) has a small open area next to the toilet with a spigot, large bucket and a small bucket with a handle. You fill the large bucket, and scoop out the water to pour over yourself with the smaller bucket/cup thingie, and voila! The bathing is done.

Bathed and fed, we get in the cab for another 2 hours or so and make it to our fateful presentation. It goes very well, and we drive back to the Bible school (yes, it still a long drive back) for a good night’s rest in an actual bed. We sleep for a full 8 hours on a real bed (words can’t describe the wonder, the glory, the greatness of it all), and wake up to come home today….and yes, that meant riding a multi-cab, bus, boat and taxi to get here…but somehow, though it sounds so intense, it felt so normal, and so…. could it be? easy! It’s strange, but yes, easy! I’m exhausted, mind you, but not exhausted in mind. And really, there lies most of the obstacle. If you let yourself be tired and strained, then so you will feel. But just accepting things as they are in order to accomplish what you set out to do, well, then it’s just taking it one bit at a time, nothing more.

On our way back from the very last presentation, pastor Boy stopped for our dinner. Happy to at least be stopping for food, but starting to get very sick of just plain rice with some chicken on top, I prayed, “God, could you just make it something different tonight? Anything will do, just… different.” It was my first prayer of the like, and my answer came not in a pizza, hamburger or Chinese barbeque… but in going to perhaps the most beautiful restaurant I have ever seen in my entire life. It was set in the midst of gardens, still waters with water lilies, fountains and gazebos, bushes lit up with fireflies and lines of paths amongst the gardens that are bordered by beautiful lamps and the occasional sitting gazebo….  I literally cannot compare it to any place I have been before, except perhaps the prettiest of the richest, most expensive restaurants I’ve seen in the states… but none of them had the setting of this one.

It sat with open walls, so that you could see everything around you and enjoy the delicious tropical night air. It was decorated with fine artwork,  bordered with woodwork of the famous Filipino carvings that are admired worldwide, and best of all, furnished with the most incredible food EVER.

Yeah, so, all that is to say, it was a really great dining experience.

As a side note, the full dish that covered everything from the main dish to your drink, appetizer and dessert cost about 5 bucks. And it’s like, gourmet food. Yeah. I know. Blows the mind, doesn’t it—especially when you find yourself dropping five bucks at jack-in-the-crack.

So, God is good. The work is good. The travelling is hilariously wonderful, and really an amazing opportunity to see all of the best sites of the country that you normally would never see from any other travelling. It’s harder on the butt, but definitely easy on the eyes. There are beaaaaautiful hillsides, waterfalls, mountains, sunrises, seasides, houses, people, buffalos, rice fields, bridges, streams….its endless. Really incredible, and unforgettable.

Right, so, I’ve gone on and on, and you seriously get three cheers and a few kudos for getting through it (if you really did that is, and didn’t just skip through to the end to see if I had a point. As you can see, I don’t, so don’t you feel silly for just skipping through like that).  

Also, as a side note to explain, I am usually, during these presentations, called upon to do a “special number” where I’ll sing & play guitar, but I also help share information and such, since there is a lot of information to share.  Most importantly though, at least in my opinion, I’ve put in my two cents to coach Marcy & Paul in perfecting their already-good presentation skills, helping to make their presentation a clearer and stronger one. But really my favorite part is sharing my heart with the pastors, and getting the opportunity to share with them the incredible vision this work entails. I can also be the random technology helper by doing the power point slides for the speaker, and writing out slides for new information, explaining logistics to pastors, helping answer questions about the organization, etc etc etc.

So I thank you again for your prayers and all your support, and send my love. As it is now almost 11pm of the very day I have come back telling you this, I am now going to bed. Goodnight, and much love.

I have been phenomenally lax in doing blogs for the one and only saggy reason of: slow, slow, slow internet. Like, ohhh, MY God, slow. It’s slow enough that waiting for the “reply” box to load for e-mails is enough to try your sanctification if you are not so relaxed that you are barely conscious. Languid consciousness is what I like to call it. But then everyone looks at me weird, and says, What does languid mean?

Anyway, so, the problem has been fixed TUH-DAY, as we just installed broadband wireless internet in the apartment, and I’m wagging my internet tail like an excited puppy going out on a cyber walk. I’ve already checked all my email accounts like 3 times, visited news sites and was actually able to upload the articles (!) — though not the videos; but it’s ok, you can’t build rome in a day—and to inaugurate this first session of electronic speed and virtue, I’ve embarked upon a long-abandoned journey of blogging. Yes! I have come back. And I am here to blog.

It’s difficult to wind yourself up to talk about something that is SOO HUGE, because the daunting task of it all weighs on your mind, and you think, this is going to take way too long. I’ll do it tomorrow.

So I’ve decided I shan’t put the pressure upon myself–no no, I shall merely recount a tale that has been looked back upon with fondness by mine heart, and hope that thou can experience the same. Some of ye good persons have heard it before, but I shall tell it yet again, in hopes that ye shall find a fuller tale to be brought to the firesides yonder in the West…. (Yeah…so that’s a mix of King James and pirate talk…I dunno).

In the Philippines, there are areas known as “squatter areas” that are, essentially, exactly as they sound: a bunch of people squatting on the land. They become a community of sorts, and generally are home to violence, drugs, alcohol, or any number of other things. Because they are home to families with very low incomes, the parents are both working and are not around to look after the kids. Thus, a group of street kids are formed, and they become each other’s family in a sense. They are not homeless—they have a family and they have a place to go sleep, but oftentimes they don’t, and they stay out on the street. In many cases, the two options aren’t very different from each other.

So let’s back up. Pastor Jill is the head of the organization I’m working with, and he and his wife just bought a house in an area next to a community of squatters way back in the hills. As is usual for Filipinos, Pastor Jill’s house is home to several other members, including Merivic the amazing cook and Juno the singing rock star, two people I met during my first trip in April.

Merivic and another lady in the house began a ministry with the kids in the area by doing a “feeding”, which is a double whamy of a bible study and then food feeding afterwards. It’s a group of kids that maybe numbers around 18, depending on who’s coming or what not.

I had my first experience with the group on the Saturday following my arrival, where I was invited to come and share a Bible story with the kids. None of them have heard anything from the Bible before this group was begun, and everything is entirely new to them. So I shared the story of the Good Samaritan, and from then on, if we were not travelling, we went to the feeding every Saturday.

A few weeks back, the kids all piled into the one little car and made the ride to our house on a Sunday morning, where we then all went on our way to church. It was a pretty fun day, with a pile of 18 kids + adults (equaling about 25 people) fitting into two normal-sized vehicles and going to church. This is where the intense gratitude for small Filipino stature comes in waves, and curses for your own immensity comes in droves. Anyway, so we went to church and had a great time, then stopped off and got some food for everyone and ate at our house. They were all just brimming with excitement to be, first off, riding in cars, and secondly, to be in a new house. A new house where, *gasp*,  Americans live, exclamation point.

As the meal is being concluded, sly looks and knowing glances are exchanged between adults. There is something to be done—something very important.

About two weeks before, Merivic had taken a group of the kids to the supermarket. This was their first trip ever to a supermarket, and when they arrived, there it was: a moving staircase. They were like stairs, but… the impossible of impossible… they mooooved, up, all on their own. Huge eyes glazed with amazement, first stared, then slowly longed to approach and ride upon the magical staircase. And so they did. They approached, they rode, and they conquered. And they were never the same.

Sooo, the need was obvious. Let’s blow their minds with a trip to the magical, as yet unvisited, kingdom of the Mall in a place known as the City. So we did. We piled our small (and big, depending…) butts on top of each other to squeeze into our two little cars again and drove away to the far, far kingdom of Cebu City.

Once arrived, eyes grew THREE TIMES THE SIZE (a la grinch) as they attempted to drink in all that there was to see. And to be clear, the mall in Cebu City is a very serious affair that shames most Los Angeles malls. It has 4 (5?) stories, houses grocery stores, movie theaters, blah blah blah it’s got everything. Very midwest mall, actually. So imagine it being your first trip to a store with an escalator, blasted into the world of mass marketing lights, cameras, ACTION CONSUMERISM!

It’s seriously intense. Anyway, the kids were adorable, and since they were grouped to about 3 kids per adult, they barely ever let your hand drop to your side without their hand being in it. They clung to the adults like baby quail, while trying cotton candy for the first time, walking into such “fancy” stores where everything, the young girls pointed out, was “not affordable”. They almost refused to eat the candy I bought them, as they thought it was too expensive to buy.

The day carried on with much of the same, until we finally ended it at JolliBee, the Filipino equivalent of McDonald’s. They got to get their first taste of something they had as yet only dreamed of, and went into a PLAY AREA!, and despite only having had a small hamburger and drink of their own, almost all of them had a share of it to bring home to their families.

Anyway, I dont know if this story impresses you as much as it did me living it, but somehow it was like watching a life being born… a new chapter of their lives arising, and them having such incredible joy painted on their faces, and you were able to be a part of it. Really, that’s what joy is. That’s what life is.

So thank you to all of you who support me in any way, because you helped make that day possible not only for them, but for me… So thank you. Salamat, and God Bless

A gecko scampers across the wall and a jeepney’s motor bumbles across the highway noise, and everything feels natural as oatmeal in the morning. Except we don’t have oatmeal in the morning… but whatever. You get the idea. Chocolate rice and instant coffee works, too.

I’ve been here just one day over a week. Undoubtedly, however, it feels an eternity has passed, and I wonder how it could only have been such a short time. I am now used to flushing the toilet with a bucket from a bin of water always found next to the toilet bowl, and calling the bathroom the CR (“comfort room”), and sleeping without covers (there really is no need). I’ve also taken to eating with the fork and spoon like a good Filipino: the spoon in your right hand, the fork only used to shovel food into it, using the back of it… a food crane of sorts for the Filipino appetite, which is always ready. So the spoons are always rather large. And you are never, ever going to be without rice on your plate if you’re eating in the Philippines, as a rule.

I am also used to the instant coffee, which is really the only thing you will find in the Philippines, and actually I don’t really mind it so long as I have it for my morning lows. You know what I’m talking about if you’re a coffee drinker. Like any other drug, anything will do to replace it if it’s been taken from you, even smack that’s mostly composed of laundry detergent. Instant coffee is just the same.

I remember to give a handshake to the men instead of a hug, and try not to think it’s too hilarious that everyone gapes, stares and often waves with a big huge Filipino smile wherever you go—like a constant parade of American celebrity. It’s very good-natured, and the Filipinos are such friendly people that it’s more endearing than it is embarrassing, though it does take a bit of getting used to.

I’ve decided that learning Cebuano will be very difficult, since there seems to be no word-for-word translation in anything, but you can learn it phrase-by-phrase. So far, I have your common greetings down and a few other scattered words… plus any random words I (by default) know because of their Spanish roots. However, it’s difficult for this to feel like a huge obstacle, since almost everyone we converse with also speaks English very well, if not fluently. Filipinos are disgustingly good with languages, and it’s almost unusual if they are not fluent in three of them. I find this very irritating, since it’s mildly impressive to be bi-lingual in the States, and here it’s like, So, you only know two?

I think the funniest part about being me in the Philippines is being of gargantuan human proportion. I am not woman. I am giant white woman warrior-queen of baby-size brown Filipino people. Hear me roar, and bang my head on low-doorways, swearing softly to myself in indiscernible grunts. Marcy & Paul have now learned to warn me as I come up behind them if there are any particularly low ceilings or doorways of sorts.

I’ve settled into a happy groove while travelling. I sit with my head practically hanging out of the window, gulping in all the glories of the Filipino world flashing before my eager eyes. I think my very favorite thing that I have seen, that will forever make me laugh, is a billboard I saw in Cebu city. It was alluding to some particular cock-fight or another, but it was this close-up picture of the head of a rooster staring you down at you with fierce, well, cockiness, larger than rooster life.  So glorious. This is only second to driving by a place with a sign over the entrance: Cock Derby. I mean you just don’t see crap like that anywhere else.

There are stray dogs and, of course, chickens that run around everywhere in the rural areas, and even in the city you’ll frequently see a man walking down the street with a rooster in his hand, sitting perfectly still, the most natural thing in the world. In the ruralest of rural areas, though, you’ll see a bunch of chickens, foliage and bamboo stick houses and every other rustic thing in the universe, completed by someone sitting in front of the hut holding a cell phone, texting.  

Caribou are the working animals of the Philippines, so you’ll see those in the fields more than anything else… maybe a skinny cow or two, but really never any horses.  Sometimes you’ll see someone riding on the back of a caribou, or walking one down the street with a rope lead… something so obviously normal in their lives. It’s wonderfully different, yet so the same, if you just changed out the palms and ferns for rolling wheat fields and the caribou for a jersey cow.

The driving here is a marvelous understanding of this basic truce: my only obligation to you is to let you know that I’m here. Thus, the horn is probably the most important car part to keep in working order, or else you’re entirely lost. Since there are anything from tricycles (a bike with a seat on the side—a slow moving cab, if you will) to buses to cars to motorcycles to pedestrians, there is no average speed of traffic  or any kind of sustainably expected motor behavior on anyone’s part: except that this is totally expected and understood. I actually really like it, though it never ceases to shock me that I don’t see horrible accidents everywhere we go. The motorcycles, too, crack me up, because you’l l see one drive by with a family of 5 riding on it, little kids smashed in between the adults like a slip of paper in a book.

Today, we rode on a jeepney to get back from Cebu City to our town, and it stopped by another truck on the side of the road to fill up its gas. That’s right. There was a large tank in the back bed of the regular-sized truck with hoses and a ticker installed , and a man filled us up from his truck bed. Glorious.

Also, to explain: the jeepney is a marvelous creation of Filipino culture, a moving motor of art and advertisement. It’s basically a miniature bus (and I say miniature, because it really is miniature) with your favorite disco colors swathed across in various displays of stunning fluorescence… and it never ceases to be varied in its chosen decoration, no matter how many jeepneys you may see or ride in (or upon). There is also no need to sit down in a jeepney if you don’t feel so inclined, you may just jump on the back of one and hold on, and that would work just fine, too.

So my first week here of the four months I’ll be staying has been spent well, and as this is a long enough orientation to my cultural discoveries, I’ll waylay my actual work stories of the ministry we’re a part of for another post. Just remember, don’t get yourself caught in a cock-fight, because we all know that gambling is a vice and it’s better just to keep your money safe.

This is an e-mail I received from one of the American missionaries named Marcy Babor who has lived in the Philippines for (I believe) 3 years now, is married to a Filipino and in full-time mission work there. She has been my liaison, so to speak, and has helped me very much not only while I was there in April, but also in my getting ready to be there for these next few months. This e-mail is a wonderful sample of why they are doing the work they do, and why I am so excited to be a part of it:

Our Friends and Family,
 
We are so blessed here in the Philippines. The last six months have been more than I had dreamed! Thanks so much for your prayers and support as we continue the work of this church planting movement and evangelistic/healing concerts.
 
Here is a brief overview of the impact so far this year.
 
 The evangelistic/healing concerts “Jesus for Cebu”  
 
From Jan- Dec 2007 Jesus for Cebu crusade has had the following long-term impact since last year:
326 cell groups (Bible Studies) continue today
1,556 new believers have been baptized
38 new churches have been started
From Jan-June 2008 Jesus for Cebu crusade has had the following initial impact:
51,000 people have heard the gospel
35,000 people came forward to receive Christ as their Savior
24,000 people received prayer for various sicknesses and problems, many where healed by the power of God
514 new Bible studies were started
 
 Church Multiplication Coalition (CMC) church planting movement is now partnering with 72 networks or groups of pastors throughout the country. (this amounts to over 1,000 pastors who have agreed to work together in unity to plant new churches where there are no Bible believing churches!)
 
From Jan-June 2008 CMC networks of pastors have accomplished the following by the grace of God:
Over 120 new churches have been pioneered. This is counting only the groups who have been able to report so far!
4 networks have completed a disciplship training to raise up new church planters.
4 additional networks are presently conducting training to raise up new church planters.
2 networks are in planning stages to conduct training.
*Note* I had estimated that there may be as many as 100 churches planted by the end of this year, but within only 6 months this number has already been easily passed.
These pioneering pastors could really use some help in some simple ways. We have been providing them with new Bibles in the local language to give to new believers and we are also trying to help them by giving small amounts of money for them to put up simple roofing so they have a shelter to meet under while they are saving for their church building. Some pastors are requesting help to simply buy a tarp to keep them from the sun and rain during their church services.
 
If you would like to help these pastors as they step out in faith, you can follow the instructions below and also please pray for continued softened hearts as we are experiencing a great blessing of harvest here.
 
Many Blessings to You!
 
Marcy Babor: )
–
To help pioneering pastors:
Please make checks out to
Resurrection Life Church
1420 W.13th St.
Cadillac MI. 49601
Please add a separate note including “Marcy Babor in the Philippines” and also your intention for CMC church planters.
Thank you.

I always appreciated when churches made their finances entirely visible to anyone who wanted to see them, and so I’ve decided to update my blog page regularly with the state of my finances and what was involved, etc etc.

So, out of the $4800 needed ALTOGETHER (not including the plane ticket cost, which was so generously covered at $1490): 

Cleaning house fundraiser led by Claire–raised $375

Car wash fundraiser set for the 28th— $118 (total with donations from Canyon Breeze members as of 6/29/08 — $228 )

Private donation — $200 (pledged $1000 altogether)

Private donation — $500

Private donation — $100

Private donation —$500

Private donation — $50

Private donation —$80

Private donation— $100

Private donation —$100

Private donation — $100 (7/13/2008 )

Private donation—$100 (7/13/2008 )

Private donation–$100 (7/13/2008 )

Private donation–$40 (7/13/2008 )

Private donation–$500 (7/14/2008)

Private donation–$500 (pledged $1000 altogether)

Private donation–$20 (8/5/2008)

As of 8/5/2008,

The current total is at: $3593 (including pledges, total is: $4893)

It truly humbles me and encourages me to see the encouragement of these numbers. It means so much to me that the vision of this amazing work is being shared by so many.

Thanks a bunches. (That’s right. A bunches.)

So, I had never been to the Philippines before my trip in April, so I didn’t exactly know what to expect from it. My dad had asked me many months before if I would be interested in going, and I was enthusiastic about the idea right away. Going new places? Mission work? Adventure? The unknown? I’M THERE! 

So we arrived at the airport (approximately 8 months after we first talked about it) with a group of smiling Filipinos, ready with hugs, cars and hands to help carry our luggage.  It was wonderful, and bode well for the trip ahead. So we piled in a bunch of cars, luggage and jet lag in tow, and headed off to… well, we didn’t know exactly where. But after a couple hours’ ride, I found it. Paradise. No, seriously…. PARADISE. Bamboo sticks erected over clear, warm ocean water with ferns, flowers, and food waiting…. I’m not sure I could have possibly dreamed of anything better.

So we settled for a while, then went to our first crusade only a few hours later. Now, here is where I could get uber detailed and make everyone suffer through the blow-by-blow of the trip. But I’m not gonna do that… as much as I may like to. Suffice it to say, every single night had extraordinary events take place. I’ll highlight my top ten favorite moments (in no particular order):

1. Watching my mom pray for a lady with a huuuuge sist on her arm, and the sist disappearing.

2. At our very first crusade, there was a super bad power-outage, which would have shut down the whole thing completely. After about 20 minutes of the techs frantically working to get it back online, my mom finally walks up and prays over the generator, and about 1 minute later the stupid thing revs up and gets online, working flawlessly the rest of the night. So great. 

3. I ate a baby chicken. Well, actually, it was so baby, that it hadn’t been hatched yet. Yet being the operative word there…. but it almost had. I think it was either 6 or 8 weeks’ developed, and this Filipino delicacey (yes, delicacey) is the pride of the country–so don’t hate. It’s called balut, and actually isn’t so bad. Tastes like chicken. The way you eat it, however, should be devised in a slightly better manner than us balut-virgins go about it (cracking open and laying out on plate), and thus would prevent any potential upchuck reflex that you may or may not have upon viewing it. The key is, I was told later, to “eat it in the dark.” A-ha. Would’ve been good to know. Well, I ate it in full and uncompromising light, and still managed… So what you’re suppoooosed to do is, crack the top of the egg and suck out the juices, then crack open a bit more and suck out/eat the chicken. God, this sounds disgusting writing it out–it really does. But it’s not that bad. Really. Even feeling the little bones in your mouth doesn’t throw you off too much.

4. Playing with the kids every night. This is my TOP top top memory of it all. Those kids were sooo freakin wonderful. I showed them every trick you could possibly think of, and remembered games I hadn’t thought about since before I had begun learning fractions in Mrs. Thomas’ class. At one point, I had totally run out of ideas, and they were all sitting there with faces like, What’s Next? So I did Pilates. That’s right. I showed them Pilates and was like, Can you do this?  Haha. Well, the kids were impressed, anyway–who cares whether the people around were debating on my mental stability or not.

5. Being with the awesome team we had. John and Betsy were such incredible workers in all they were doing–I was blessed by John’s amazing flexibility, willingness and spirit. Every time Betsy got on stage to share or speak, I was blown away at her extraordinary natural ability as a speaker, as I had never seen her in that arena before. Plus, rooming with Betsy was such a freakin’ blast–I seriously wish I could kidnap her and bring her to do it again for another couple months( ……..maybe I will….) And it certainly would not be complete without mentioning the incredible tools that my mom and dad were on the trip–and from a selfish point of view, my trip would certainly have not been possible without my mom and dad making it a reality. And, of course, my favorite mum moment was after one of the guys pounded on the floor of our bamboo floor, and my mom, startled, looks at him and blurts out, “DON’T YOU KNOW WE’RE LIVING ON STICKS???”

6. Praying over a girl with a broken wrist and feeling the bone move underneath my hands, then afterwards watching her be able to move it and bend it without any pain… just an expression of shock.

7. Watching the riiiiiiiidiculously talented band play. Ridiculously talented. So cool.

8. Driving in the Philippines. Like nothing I’ve ever known, and makes driving in Mexico look like a polite little tea party. Freakin awesome!

9. THE MANGOES!

10. the people.

So, of course, that doesn’t give a fully in-depth look at our time, but a surface scratch never hurt anyone, anyway. If you’d like to hear more about it, please just e-mail me and I’d love to share more stories. As it is, we’ll wait for more to come in the next few months…..