House-to-House, Door-to-Door, in Jalaca

Our whole family was excited to volunteer for this mission trip to Honduras. It was to be our last significant milestone as a family before our firstborn, Zach, would head off to Wofford College in the fall. I had visions of how our trip was going to be: working with teachers, sorting supplies given by the church, delivering pajamas to the sweet children, visiting in the schools, helping in the library, working at the feeding brigade, hugging on the orphans, helping anybody do anything. Except… I just really did not want to walk door-to-door, house-to-house in Jalaca.

I know, I know – this mission is all about God. But, honestly, inside, I just knew it would feel so awkward. No hablo espanol! I didn’t even know the language.

Well, on the first full morning of the trip, our Feeding Brigade team was given our first assignment. Sort supplies? No. Package food? No. Our first assignment was, you guessed it – walking door-to-door, house-to-house to tell people about Jesus.

I looked closely at my group, counting. Several women, a few teenage girls, a man, a Spanish interpreter and a guide. Maybe I wouldn’t have to talk too much…

We filled our backpacks – water bottles, sunscreen, insect repellant, a snack or two, pencils and paper. Usually, the feeding brigade people carried special slips of paper during their village visits. That paper would be exchanged later in the week for a whole bag of food. But, due to the power outage our first night, the papers had not yet been made. Thank goodness that the Bost’s had made some beautiful colored Bible verses written in Spanish about Jesus being the Bread of Life. We were set.

I took a deep breath as we began walking up the drive to the main road, turning right. The road looked more like a muddy driveway – ruddy, full of potholes and mud puddles. “Walking to town” sounded like it would be a stretch. Besides, I saw mostly trees around me, looking pretty rural. We crossed over a rushing stream and turned to the right again. The driveway was now starting to look more like a dirt path.

All of a sudden though, those trees opened up to reveal house upon house. Unbelievably, we were there – town, already! The houses were made of adobe, concrete, scrap metal – some even of sticks. Many of them were accented in bright colors – purples and greens, oranges and reds. You could tell immediately where some of the homes started. Their properties were clearly delineated by their gates.

Yet, the yards were even more bright and colorful with foliage galore. Huge, beautiful blossoms; fragrant bushes, towering flowers. I was humbled by the beauty around me. Chickens were everywhere – just wandering around. And dogs – oh, poor, skinny dogs, lolling around. As we continued walking up the path, village children began skipping along behind us, following and watching.

Some of the yards looked different. A few had an outdoor bath area next to the road, complete with shower stall, outside sink and clothesline. The outdoor oven (looking more like a huge mound) came next. Wandering dogs, chickens and pigs lay around the perimeter. All the homes – and homeowners - were welcoming though.

When we walked up, these people dropped everything they were doing to welcome us. Most motioned for us to come right inside; a few greeted us on their porch. Many of the homes in this village had no windows or doors – not like our homes at all. They just had holes – wide open to the elements. Some of them had fabric dropped down over the opening. Most of the floors, too, were dirt - swept clean. A few had concrete or even tile.

Wherever we were though – inside or out, on dirt or concrete, the homeowners scurried from room to room, collecting plastic stacking chairs so that each of us could have a seat. How gracious they were!

And how nervous I was! Our first homeowner had just lost her husband several weeks earlier. What do you say to someone whose whole life has just turned upside down? “Oh, we were just coming through town and wanted to stop and visit…” I listened closely to our eloquent adults chat kindly and share the purpose for our visit - just in case I needed to mimic them later.

We were so blessed to have Daniela, our young interpreter with us. Sweet seventeen-year-old, wise beyond her years, Daniela! She smiled often, listened thoughtfully and interpreted ceaselessly. I noticed, too, as we went that neither Daniela nor our guide had brought a thing with them. No water, no snack, nothing. Humbling. Once the chatting slowed down, someone would say, “We come from the United States to share with you about Jesus. Do you know and love this Jesus?” Daniela would quietly pass along our words in Spanish.

“Si!” Nodding of heads and crinkling of smiles showed on those that knew Jesus. Their bright faces showed His presence in their lives. Some villagers wanted to know more about Him. So, we shared more about Jesus – how He lived and how He died for them. We presented the plan of Salvation. A few totally rejected Jesus.

One of those who did – I will never forget her. Maria. She lived at the top of a hill, up a path that was barely wide enough for a horse to ride along. Her home seemed stark, compared to some of the blooming walls we had just passed. She had no smile on her face as she told us she would never ask Jesus in her life. “Why?” we couldn’t help gasping and questioning. Even though she allowed Ken to share with her about Jesus, her eyes turned away at times. Throughout his words though, his testimony of Jesus, her hands shook… and shook… and shook. Something very powerful was working on her. Remarkably, she allowed us to pray for her. You can bet all our hearts and voices lifted up prayers for this woman to have another chance, to have someone else come along. It was so disheartening, so depressing, so sad to turn and leave her there – with no hope, no faith, no Jesus. It literally hurt.

Sweet people, humble lives, kindness abounded. I’ll never forget the little lady who chatted amiably until we got ready to pray. For her to come to the throne of God, she took off her apron. So respectful. Another greeted us in skirt and high heels, moving quickly to get chairs, smiling and chatting. When we looked down though, we saw that her foot was disfigured and deformed. The pain from any shoes – much less, high heels – must have been unbearable. But, she only looked happy.

The men were memorable, too. The little man with the outside bath and kitchen, pig and dogs smiled heartily as he welcomed us into his home. He had some health issues – as many did. But, he had been praising God for the last sixteen years. I looked in his eyes and knew he would praise God for as long as he lived. What an example he must be to that village.

Juan Raymond made us all wiser and more thoughtful people as well. He didn’t even live in the town of Jalaca. He lived in the next village over. (If a Honduran says that Juan Raymond came a long way, it must have been an unbelievably-long way. They think nothing of walking miles!) But, Juan Raymond had heard that we were coming to town. So, he walked m-i-l-e-s for us to see him. He just wanted us to pray for him.

Suddenly, the shyness I felt – and the awkwardness – and the fact that I didn’t know any Spanish, it really didn’t matter at all. If a man walks MILES to hear our halting, stuttering, English prayers prayed over him, then halting and stuttering, I would do. Halting and stuttering, I could certainly do! We later met him on the road as he headed back to his hometown, smiling and waving. It’s amazing how a few hours in a foreign country can change a perspective that you’ve held your whole life long! Each of us on the team took turns talking with the villagers and praying over them. We halted and stuttered, murmured and muttered; but, God heard some beautiful prayers that day.

The whole morning was like that – one unbelievable occurrence after another. One humbling reminder after another that God was indeed in control – and honestly, here, now, all I had to do was show up and be faithful. A woman accepted Jesus and was saved – and promised to share the Good News with her children and grandchildren. Other promises for people to think about this Good News we were bringing. Some weren’t quite ready to ask Jesus into their hearts; they couldn’t stop doing some of the things they were doing. They did not want to come to Jesus until they lived like they felt they should. Yes, humbling.

No matter the situation, no matter their response – they all wanted us to pray for them. All of them. Interestingly enough, when we talked about Jesus, Daniela interpreted our message word-for-word. But, when we prayed, they prayed, too. Yes, even at the same time. How surprising for us to hear English and Spanish all mixed up – calls for help and words of thanksgiving. Heaven must sound like that.

Towards the end of our morning, we walked up to a house with a cross painted on the doorway. A sweet grandmother lived here. Children were everywhere – peeking into the main room from behind the fabric-draped doorways. We chatted.

When I asked her was there anything special that she would like us to pray about, she put her hand up and walked over to a doorway. She leaned over and scooped up a sleeping little boy to bring back to me. To me. She wanted us to pray for her grandson.

You see, little Anderson was sick – very sick. He’d been sick for two weeks. No medicine, no help from the clinic. A knot rose in my throat. This experience was surreal – people brought sick children to Jesus, to the disciples, to people who prayed convincingly. But, this godly lady was bringing her baby to me!

I placed my hand on his head. His little head was matted with sweat. My hand moved down his little neck, back and arm. His skin was clammy. I looked at that little body, drooped in her arms. Listless.

Thank God that when I am weak, He is strong.

Thank God that when I am speechless, He gives me the words to say.

Thank God for the humbling, unbelievable lessons I learned that day about my calling, our calling, to be His people wherever we may go.

Thank God that my visionary church, Spring Valley Baptist Church, commissioned 40 missionaries – some of us scared, awkward, speechless, and humbled - to share the Love of Jesus house-to-house, door-to-door with the people in a small Honduran village of Jalaca.

For my prayers have changed – and I am changed.

(Much of this entry was written in Honduras – as I was preparing my testimony to share with the congregation the following Sunday.)

* Photos Courtesy of Maria Owens