January 31, 2017 - My Friends Take Me to the Mountains

January 31, 2017

My Friends Take Me to the Mountains

It enters your heart and becomes part of you.  That is what I have been reminded of returning to Bolivia in July of 2016.  It is part of me.  I love it so much that at times I can’t imagine living anywhere else on the planet.  I tried, unsuccessfully, to explain that to my foreign exchange student, Artur, for more than a year when he lived with me.  Now that I am back, it is part of who I am.

After a hot morning in September, I found myself in the back of a car, with new friends, Fernando and Mariela, and their daughter, Michaela.  Little did I know that these two people would become so dear to my heart.  They invited me to spend the weekend at their home in the mountains; to Samaipata, the last outpost of the Incas in the East.

Also going were Inoshka and Martha, two of the SCCLC’s Spanish teachers, and Shirley, a lady volunteering at the school this year.  At the last moment, they invited Rebecca, and her boys Matias and Marcos.

We drove down the highway to Fernando and Mariela’s house in La Guardia, a little town just west of Santa Cruz, where we changed into jeans and t-shirts.  We bought some snacks at the market, then drove another 20 minutes down the same highway to El Torno, where Rebecca lives.  It was the spur of the moment for her to go with us, so she packed and grabbed her two boys.  Marcos was sitting with me in the back seat.  About half of the way he slept, but the other half he told stories about where he had been, including places he could never have been to.  He is only four, so has a vivid imagination.

The flat, hot lands of Santa Cruz, quickly gave way to the hills on the farthest eastern edge of the Andes.  Past the toll station, the highway changed into a twisting and winding adventure through the hills.  The temperature dropped as we got higher and higher.  It rained for much of the drive and the rain washed the smoke out of the sky.  Santa Cruz in September is covered in smoke from fires in the countryside, and the city sometimes, trying to burn debris of fields so they can start growing new crops.  Soon the smoke was behind us as we were washed clean by the rain.

We arrived at the little town of Samaipata, a quaint town of some 4000 residents.  Samaipata is a small town that looks very colonial.  Everything is old.  Flowers are blooming everywhere.  The climate is perfect.   It rarely gets above the mid-80s and rarely freezes.  Nights are cold and days are comfortable.  The weather makes it the perfect place to grow flowers, vegetables, fruit trees, and grape vines. 

Fernando and Mariela’s house is beautiful.  They have plans for its future, including renting out space for the weekends, and a few other ideas when they decide to retire.  It is a very typical Bolivian house of the past, with a garden in the middle, an open-air living area, and several bedrooms and bathrooms on the other side of the garden.  Yes, my bedroom was across the garden, meaning I had to walk outside to go from the kitchen to my bedroom.  I love that little house!

We had a simple meal, walked around the plaza in the rain, and bought an ice cream.  When we came back we had a time of prayer and sharing.  These three ladies, Mariela, Martha, and Inoshka, believe in prayer.  They prayed for each other, the SCCLC, and the new teachers struggling to learn the culture and language of Bolivia.  They asked me to give my testimony of how I came to Bolivia.  I did not know it would make me cry, but the Holy Spirit was present.  When He is there, things happen you don’t expect. 

Fernando, who drove in the heat all day, fell asleep early, as did the kids, but the rest of us stayed awake till 1:00.  Well, at least I stayed awake until 1:00.  I later found out that some of the ladies were up till 2:30. What did we do all that time?  We told stories, we laughed, we tried to figure out Martha’s middle name.  It is a beautiful name, but I promised I would not say it (hint: read my novel, Mojón con Cara, because it is hidden there).  I laughed so much.  I felt at home with my family.

Our mouths were filled with laughter and our tongues with joyful songs.  The Lord has done spectacular things for us.  We are overjoyed!  Psalm 126.

I have other blogs to follow about the beautiful town of Samaipata.  I have been back once before I returned to Texas in December.  If I can swing it, I will be back in February.  I know I will be back often. 

Let me quote a line of a song to explain to you what Bolivia, especially Santa Cruz, has done to me, and would do to you, if you learn to love it like me.

“Viva Santa Cruz, bella tierra de mi Corazon.” (Long live Santa Cruz, beautiful land of my heart)

Santa Cruz enters your heart.  Bolivia becomes part of you.  Yes, this poverty stricken little country that will never be great in the eyes of the world, changes your heart.  Bolivia, you will ever be in my heart.  Thank you, God, for choosing me to be sent here.

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January 30, 2017 - An Evening Walk

January 30, 2017

An Evening Walk

The morning was so beautiful, with the breeze blowing in my room, making it cool inside.  I didn’t want to get out of bed.  Wrapped in the covers, reading my Bible, checking Facebook and Instagram, I wanted to stay just where I was.  But I was looking at school starting back in a week and I really hadn’t done anything in my classroom, so I finally forced myself to get out of bed, though the bed kept saying, “Come back.  I love you, Mark!”  Hard to leave when it is like that.

I had some things to do at the school, but just didn’t feel like working.  I stayed only a little while and came home to work on somethings at my computer.

 

Around 5:00 I convinced myself to stay inside and just read because it was so hot.  But I still needed to get some supplies for my classroom.  About 8 blocks away, just two from the Plaza is a very good papeleria.  The -eria ending means store, so washateria means washing store. A papeleria means paper store, but think office supply.  It took a while to let the lady clerk to understand what I wanted, but I walked away with scissors, stapler, hole punch, notebooks, notebook paper, white board markers, and etc.

The walk restored my energy, so since I was just two blocks from the Plaza, why not get a Nicecream? The Nicecream store is the most different ice cream place I have ever encountered.  They make the ice cream while you wait.  It takes only about 3 minutes because they use liquid nitrogen to freeze it.  The process looks like a crazy mad scientist experiment.  The guy needs to branch out and open on in Ennis or Kaufman.

By 7:00, the Plaza was crowded and the temperature was perfect, in the low 70s with a nice breeze.  Families had poured in.  Kids were running around playing with toys or blowing bubbles.  Teens were smooching.  Old friends had met to enjoy the cool evening.  It was the place to be.

A funny looking lady sat down next to me.  She was dressed in baggy pants, a suit top three sizes too big, a frilly shirt, and bows on her head.  She wasn’t one of those crazy street people who don’t usually smell too good.  She just dressed differently.  She started complaining to me that it was too hot to drink coffee.  I told her that was why I was eating ice cream.  She saw someone across the Plaza and said she needed to talk to that person.  As she was leaving, she said she’d be right back.  Well, I didn’t wait for her.  She was a bit crazy.

By 9:00, my bed was calling to me again.  I crawled under the covers and enjoyed the breeze, as my bed said, “Welcome back.”

The man and his wife heard the sound of the LORD God as He was walking in the garden in the cool of the day.  Genesis 3:8

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January 29, 2017 - A Caesarea Moment

January 2017

Having a Caesarea Moment

About 2000 years ago, Peter had a Caesarea moment.  He was visiting friends on the coast, sitting on the roof, hungrily waiting for lunch.  An angel visited him and offered him food that no self-respecting Orthodox Jew would touch, let alone eat.  Repeatedly, the angel told him to eat, and repeatedly, he told the angel he would not eat those unclean things.  But God had a different plan.  God wanted the church to be prepared because it would soon be full of Gentiles.

God kept his promise to send the message of salvation to His people, the Jews, first.  He promised this with every prophet and fulfilled His promise in the Book of Acts.  He has never abandoned His people, but He always intended to bring His message to all the world.  Peter was just the first that was asked to do it.

So, what is a Caesarea moment?  This is when a person is forced out of his cultural comfort zone, so God can use him for something greater than he ever imagined.  Peter was comfortable sharing the gospel with his fellow Jews.  But what about the many other cultures surrounding Israel during his day?  Culturally they were very different from his own culture.  They ate differently.  They spoke a different language.  They dressed different.  They talked about different things.  They played different sports.  They probably smelled differently because they had different bathing traditions.  Peter didn’t care about them.  God did care.  God wanted Peter to share the gospel with others too, even though they were different.  According to church tradition, Peter died far from home, in the very culturally different city of Rome.

I remember my Caesarea moment.  I was a young Christian, on my first mission trip to Mexico.  For a year, I had been planning on going to Mexico on a mission trip and suddenly I found myself in Mexico City.  My first day there I was in shock.  It was rainy and cold, and smog filled the air.  The traffic was so bad, we barely moved.  During our first church service, I realized my Spanish was so bad I couldn’t even say hello, let alone understand the endless church service.  As I went to bed the first night in Mexico, looking out the window on an endless gray city, I wondered what I had done.  Why was I there?  How was I going to survive the seven days there?

That was Saturday.  On Monday, I was assigned to pass out tracts inviting people to our meeting that night.  I was with Rebeca Ochoa, a dear lady from my church, a local teen-aged girl, and a local boy about twelve years old.  We walked up and down a dozen streets.  I saw poverty unlike any I could imagine, but also saw beauty I had never seen before.  These houses, that were smaller than an average American living room, were painted in bright colors and overflowing with brilliantly colored flowers.  What impressed me the most were the number of people who invited us in for a glass of water or a soda.  I fell in love with Mexico that day.  The last day there that same twelve-year old boy bought me some delicious street food after church.  He couldn’t afford it, but wanted to say thank you to me for coming to his city.  At the end of the week I was determined I would be a missionary one day.

Today I was watching a movie about a little boy in India who got lost from his family and was later adopted by an Australian family.  When I watch a movie like this I quickly get swept into the cultural differences, wondering about why they think the way they think, or why they do the things they do.  These movies become my favorite movies.  That is why I like traveling.  I wonder why people live the way they do, eat what they eat, and enjoy life without the things we take for granted in the United States.

A Caesarea moment is when we are forced out of our cultural comfort zone and face the fact that the world is not like us.  Most of us in America think we know what the rest of the world is like, because we watch TV, movies, and surf the Internet.  The world is not like us.  Not being like us does not mean we are right or good and they are wrong or bad.  It means they are different. 

I have had several Caesarea moments.  Some made me cry, but all made me grow.  Like when Virginia Swartzendruber dropped me off at Siete Calles, without me knowing I lived a few blocks away.  I learned a lot about Santa Cruz that day.  Or when I returned from Bolivia in 1989 and went looking for toothpaste in the grocery store.  After five years of no choices in Bolivia, I understood the enormity of wealth before me as an American, looking at dozens of choices for a simple item like toothpaste.  Or when I visited Romania, with a suitcase full of two weeks’ worth of clothes, only to realize my Romanian friend, Marius, had less clothes in his closet than I had in my suitcase. 

A Caesarea moment is a good thing.  Are we not commanded to share the good news of Jesus to people all over the world; in Jerusalem, Judea, and the uttermost parts of the world?  Sharing Jesus is not the same as sharing our culture.   If we were to be time transported back to the Jerusalem of Jesus, we would be shocked.  Nothing would be familiar to us.  We need to be out of our cultural comfort zone if we want to reach people. 

To this day, people who know me, know I still love Mexico.  And I love Bolivia.  Sometimes it is so alien.  But sometimes I walk the streets and feel such love for these people.  So ultimately, a Caesarea moment helps us see the world the way Christ sees the world, and to love it the way Christ did.

John 3:16 For God so loved the world that He gave His one and only son, that whoever believes in Him shall not perish, but have eternal life.

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January 28, 2017 - Orange Juice

January 28, 2017

Orange Juice

On a warm tropical morning, there is nothing better than fresh squeezed orange juice.  On many street corners of downtown Santa Cruz, you can find a lady making freshly squeezed orange juice.  I thought I would show you how it is done here in Santa Cruz.  So one day, I went looking for the right lady, so I could take some pictures to share with you.

I remember getting a nice orange juice from a lady outside the Capilla Jesus Nazareno, Chapel of Jesus the Nazarene, so that is where I decided to go.  While she made me an orange juice and I took pictures, I asked how she was doing. 

“Life is hard,” she said.  Mostly her problems centered on how people treat her poorly.  I left a little extra from my $0.50 orange juice.  It was just a few cents more, but I thought she would cry.  It takes so little to make someone feel good.  It doesn’t have to be money, but a kind word and a thank you will do it too.

So here is how she made the fresh orange juice.  First, she used a hand-operated machine that peals the orange.  All her oranges had just been peeled before I took pictures, so I have no pictures of the oranges getting peeled.  Then she cut four oranges in half.  One at a time, she put a half in the press and squeezed out the delicious goodness.  You could smell it as it is being squeezed!

The finished product is delicious, fresh squeezed orange juice for about $0.50.

I could go to the market and buy a bottle of OJ, but the experience is so much richer.

So, whether you eat or drink, or whatever you do, do all for the glory of God.  1 Corinthians 10:31

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January 27, 2017 - Getting a Work Visa

January 27, 2017 – Getting a Work Visa

Being allowed to legally stay for an extended period in a foreign country is a lengthy process.  I originally wrote this in three separate blogs, because it took many time-consuming days.  I’ve decided to condense it.  I wish I could have condensed the many days getting my visa!

In mid-July, I got an email from Jeff, at the SCCLC, to start working on my work visa.  Most of the work had to be done through an immigration attorney, so I got the phone number and address of the one the school uses.  That would be Dr. Zabala.    It turns out that his office is 5 blocks away, on the other side of the stadium.  So is the immigration office.    

Around 4:00 that afternoon, I walked over to his office.  His office was smaller than my kitchen.  He talked a mile a minute, and I understood maybe half.  I got the cost for 1, 2, or 3 years of a work visa, plus information on what I need to do next.  Seriously, I only knew what I would do Monday morning: have pictures taken and sign papers at Interpol.

A few weeks later, Tabitha called me.  She is a girl working at another mission that was dragged around town, with me, to take care of Interpol on my last visa day.  She was wondering what was happening with her visa so she called the lawyer.  He told her they were waiting on a paper to be taken care of at the Palacio de Justicia (Hall of Justice).  The lawyer told her my paper had been taken care of.  So she called me to ask about the paper.  I had no idea what she was talking about.

Since Dr. Zabala’s office is close, I walked there Friday afternoon and he wasn’t open.  I went again Saturday morning and he wasn’t opened.  On Monday, I called his office and talked with him.  He told me I was missing that paper too, but should have received it; but I know I didn’t.  At 2:45 I walked over to his office.  He showed me the paper I was supposed to have gotten stamped and signed.  I said I never received it from him and explained that this was the same that Tabitha was missing.  He called his wife on the phone and they discussed it, deciding something went wrong on their part.  I agreed to come back the following morning.

I came back the following morning, expecting to stay all day.  The paper that Dr. Zabala showed me on Monday was taken care of by him and his wife before I arrived.  Dr. Zabala’s wife took photocopies of my passport and then took me across the street to Migración.  As is usual at many places, we stood in line for 20 minutes.  This was to get our ticket.  The problem is that people break in line or don’t understand how the line works.  If you do the right thing and wait, someone else will not.  I know the culture is different, but that seems wrong to me.

Once you have the ticket you wait for your ticket to be called.  The seats are narrower than those in airplanes.  Someone as big as me is crowded.  My friend Alma is the perfect size for those seats, but if you are bigger than her, which most of the world is, you are crowded.  Again, people broke in line.  But it wasn’t long until we were waited on.  I got my passport stamped.  That was it for the day.  It only took about an hour total. 

A month later, it was time for another fun day at Immigration.  I came early, even before Dr. Zabala was there.  That was a good thing, because I was in for a long day.  I bought breakfast on a nearby corner. 

Dr. Zabala’s wife gave me some papers and put me in a taxi to go to SEGIP headquarters on the north side of town.  SEGIP stands for Seguridad General de Identidad Personal (General Security of Personal Identity).  I found the office on the second floor.  There were no signs about what to do, but about 20 people seated near the door looking at me strangely.  The desk at the door was not occupied, but soon a man arrives and tells me to take a seat. 

A few minutes later he fussed at all of us seated there.  We were supposed to be in a line, though there are four rows.  One person moves, and everyone else moves, zigzagging their way to the front. It seems to work, except there were people who broke in line, or went to his desk insisting to be waited upon.  A young blonde girl did this and gave a dirty look to everyone seated and waiting.  He made her sit, which made her angry.

I finally got his desk and found him to be polite and helpful.  He stamped my papers, unstapled others, and stapled them back.  Finally, he handed me some papers and said I must get my picture taken on the other side of the room.  He said I can come back at 11:00 because they won’t get to me before then.  It was 8:50. The room was not so crowded, so I decide to take my chance.

I could have gone to the zoo!  It was close by.  There were three clerks taking care of the pictures.  After an hour, I started timing them.  It took them about 20 minutes per person.  As usual, people tried to break in line.  That same blonde girl came in, after being gone for an hour, and demanded to be taken care of next.  The man she made the demand to calmly told her to sit down, be quiet, wait her turn, or she would have to start all over tomorrow.

Around 11:00 the people I was sitting with at the start of the day were being waited on.  I was feeling like I would get out before lunch, except there was a surprise visit from a family from Japan.  They invaded all three desks and just kept insisting they did not speak Spanish.  The three clerks stopped what they were doing and waited on them.  That took almost 45 minutes.

It was 12:15 when my name was called.  I was asked a few questions, not the least if I am related to Harry Potter.  I was fingerprinted and my picture was taken.  My 20 minutes with the clerk passed and I was finished.  I was given a card that said to return on Monday the 31^st of October.

As I was leaving, I noticed that the blonde girl had still not been waited on and now there were only a handful of people left.  She scowled at me, as if I had broken in line.  Oh well, we won’t be going out for dinner, I assume.

I went back on the 31^st, prepared with a lunch in my backpack, in case I was there for the entire day.  But 30 minutes later, I was handed my carnet (the equivalent of a green card).  Finally, after three and a half months, I was finished.

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January 26, 2017 - The Madre India

January 26, 2017 - The Madre India

One of my favorite statues in Santa Cruz is the Madre India.  To me it looks like a giant waking up with her child in her arms and suddenly seeing the raging traffic of Santa Cruz.  It is so fittingly placed!

With a little research, I found the story behind this fascinating statue.  There are really two stories.

In 1812, while much of Latin America was in a war of independence against the King of Spain.  General Goyeneche assumed he had defeated the rebels in Cochabamba, but did not know that the women of Cochabamba had gathered on San Sebastian Hill in a last-ditched defense of their homes.  They were armed with sticks, saucepans, and small weapons; nothing compared to the horses, matchlock guns, and swords of the Spanish army.  They were slaughtered; women, children, and the elderly.

Bolivia celebrates the day, May 27^th, as Mother’s Day. 

The Santa Cruz mayor, Fernando Sattori, in 1978 decided to pay homage to these women by commissioning a statue.  A young sculptor, David Paz Ramos, was commissioned to complete the statue.  But he was not sure how to express the emotions of the women defending their homes.

One day he was riding his noisy motorcycle past the Cathedral.  Lately Ayore migrants had been living along the side of the Cathedral, unable to find any other place to live.  As he sped by, he noticed one woman, protectively, and angrily, holding her child who was scared by the noise of the unfamiliar motorcycle.  She would fight to the death to protect her child.  The image shocked the sculptor, but he realized this was his statue.

Four months later, the image was unveiled on the intersection of the Second Ring and Avenida Argentina.

She is still there and still protecting her child.

Isaiah 49: 15, 16 – Can a mother forget the baby at her breast and have no compassion on the child she has borne?  Though she may forget, I will not forget you!  See, I have engraved you on the palms of my hands.

 

 

January 25, 2017 - The Poor You Will Have with You Always

January 25, 2017

The Poor You Will Have with You Always

I was chatting on Instagram with a friend from Germany.  She was telling me how much she liked my pictures and how beautiful Bolivia was.  I told her there is poverty here and a lot of it.  My pictures have not been telling that story. 

I am retired.  I have retirement money to live off of.  The school wanted me to come as a missionary through one of the sending organizations.  I had two problems with that.  First, I am getting money through the State of Texas, that I earned as a teacher for nearly 30 years.  I don’t have a lot of money, but I have more than enough to live on here.  Second, if I went through a missionary organization, and I sent my retirement money through them, the organization would take some of the money.  Well, there is a third problem too.  I can’t ask people for money when I am getting a monthly check.

That said, I chose to live in a nice part of town.  I am a bit far from the school, but there is transportation.  Many of the missionaries live closer to the school in places a bit cheaper and surrounded by the real Bolivia.  I did that when I lived here in the 80s.  I have enough money that I don’t have to do that now.

Here are some facts about Bolivia to make you think a bit: 60% of the population live in poverty, 37% extreme poverty, while 80% have running water and electricity, only 50% have sewage connections.  The government is now paying $29 a year to encourage kids to continue school past 6th grade.  The government now gives $258 a year to the elderly. 

Americans truly don’t understand poverty.  The average income in Bolivia is under $3000 a year.  That average takes into account many on the high end of the scale.  Many people never see $1000 a year.  Imagine living on just one of your incomes.  I say this because most American families have two steady incomes.  Now imagine your family just living on one month of that for an entire year.

It is true that I am taking nice pictures, because there is so much beauty here.  And I live in a nice neighborhood.  I have water, electricity, gas, and air conditioning when I want it.  I have food on my table, usually too much.  There are restaurants around that I can enjoy with friends.  But it only takes a few minutes to walk into a different world.

Now about the title.  Christ did say that.  He wasn’t minimizing the need of the poor.  He was emphasizing that He comes first.  If we decide to live like Jesus did, then we don’t ignore the poor.  He surrounded himself by them every day.

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January 24, 2017 - On Taking Pictures

January 24, 2017

On Taking Pictures

I love taking pictures.  Easily I have several thousands of pictures on Facebook and Instagram.  Some of my favorite trips in the last few years have filled up Facebook: Brazil, Nicaragua, California, Lithuania, Barcelona, Germany, and Bolivia.  Plus, there are plenty of my beloved Dallas and zoos all over Texas.

I am not a picture expert; but I do love to take pictures.  The last few years I have learned some things about photography from my friend, Denise, and by studying other photographers on Instagram.  By the way, Instagram was created for photographers to share their photos, not teens to share selfies.  I mostly follow photographers on Instagram and have encountered some that have turned into friends.

So here are some things I have learned or figured out on my own.

Don’t focus on a central object.  Always making the focus of the picture in the center of the frame looks boring.  Try it to the side and see what happens.  I read once about dividing the frame into 3 equal parts and putting the subject on one of the two sides makes it more interesting.  If the subject is facing left, put the subject on the right side.  Of course, there are times that putting the subject in the center is just fine.

Move around until you get the picture right.  There is a tendency of many to snap a picture and run.  Instead look for a place where it looks good.  That might mean crossing the street, or standing directly under the subject. 

Don’t worry about other people.  In the past, I used to be worried about what people think of me taking a picture.  Now I think, “Who cares?”  Am I going to see these people again?  Probably not.  Am I going to have this awesome picture again in the future?  Maybe not.  Forget about the woman looking at you like you are crazy and get that awesome picture.

Framing the picture is good.  I love big beautiful skyscrapers, but to be honest, pictures of them can be boring.  So why not look for a way to frame the picture with trees or something else?  It makes it more interesting.

Sometimes you must get close.  I have taken a lot of pictures of paintings in museums.  I learned that standing back and getting the picture with the frame and wall is boring.  Get closer!  You can see the amazing painting that hangs on the wall of that museum.

Be willing to take a picture anywhere you might be.  You never know the amazing photograph you might have at any moment. 

The last is look around.  Even look at reflections in other buildings.  You might see the perfect picture.

Coming home for the holidays, I was greeted by a package from my dear friend Renee.  She lived here a few years ago, and has since moved to the Carolinas.  Her package was a gift of two cameras.  I am going to choose one and send the other back to her.  So maybe in the future I will have some interesting photos from that camera. 

My advice for you is to get out of your house and take a picture.  Well you can stay in your house and take a picture, I guess, but just go take a picture.

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January 23, 2017 - My Local Grocery Store

January 23, 2017

Thoughts on My Local Grocery Store.

I admit I am glad these grocery stores exist in Bolivia now.  In the 80s there were very few really good places to buy food.  Most of my food was bought in the open- air markets, like Siete Calles or Ramada.  When I needed to buy meat, I would go to a butcher shop.  They were not usually air conditioned, so that meant they smelled pretty bad. 

Today Fidalga is across the street.  It is a jam-packed little market that has fresh, frozen, boxed, and canned foods.  It is pretty much like our grocery stores though the aisles are not as wide, so it feels more crowded.  They even have a small buffet, so I can buy lunch there when I don’t feel like cooking.  Because it is 500 steps from my apartment, I really don’t see a reason to buy food in Siete Calles or Ramada, the open-air markets near me.

It is like a small Wal-Mart.  Besides groceries, you can buy dishes, clothes, toys, gifts, and many other things here.  I don’t have to go far to get the things I need.

There is one thing about the store that I love; the kids who sack the groceries.  That is mostly because of one boy, Elian.  I had bought a little too much and was going to leave something behind and come back for it.  This box boy, Elian, said he’d carry it out for me.  I said I lived a block away.  He shrugged his shoulders like he didn’t care and grabbed all the heaviest bags.  We walked to my apartment, up the elevator, and to my door.  He would have unpacked for me if I had let him.  All the other boys have been that courteous.

I have no idea what to tip them.

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January 22, 2017 - A Typical Sunday

January 22, 2017

A Typical Sunday

Today I woke up several times in the night.  The wind was fierce.  I could see my curtains blowing.  I have no need of a nightlight in my new apartment.  The streets are lit and Downtown is just outside my window.  There is always enough light to see and I could see my curtains blowing at 90 degrees.  I debated closing the window, but I like nothing better than to be wrapped up in blankets.  Besides, it won’t be winter here forever.

But I couldn’t go back to sleep after 5:00, so I read my bible a bit.  I have two reading plans on my iPad, the New Testament Epistles and one on praise.  That is good for a Sunday morning.  For breakfast, I had a couple of cuñapé and a left-over piece of chicken.  But as I was getting ready for church, I discovered my bathroom sink was clogged.  Hmm?  That means I would have to go find a plunger now or draino, if they have it here.

Last week I took a radio taxi to church, one from the barrio of the church, so they would know shortcuts.  But that won’t help me know how to get there by myself.  Since I had a general idea of how to find the church, so I grabbed the first taxi I saw. 

“I have to go past kilometer 6,” I told the driver.  The first part is easy.  Santa Cruz is built around consecutive rings, encircling the center of the city.  I live just past the 1st Ring, Primer Anillo.   In the taxi I was counting, “1, 2, 3, 4, and 5.”  Five rings each about a kilometer from each other.  After the Sixth Ring, I was looking for a pedestrian bridge, because I know a little past that is the gas station, where we take a right.  About five blocks later is the church.  It usually costs 20 Bs. (7 Bolivianos = 1 dollar), but today he wanted 30 Bs.

I managed to make it about fifteen minutes before church started.  I was greeted by Debbie and one of the worship leaders, a lady named Erika.  She wants to learn English, so we made a deal that she would speak to me in English and I would speak to her in Spanish.  I then met Debbie’s oldest daughter, Hosanna, who was visiting from college and who just completed a mission outreach to Thailand.

I don’t know a lot of people in the church, but most are friendly and greet me.  The men will shake hands, then pat you on the back, and shake hands again – love it.  A few hug.  One of the worship leaders, Noel, hugs me. 

The worship here is beautiful.  It starts with vigorous praise songs, a lot of clapping, and a few of the more spirited youths bounce a lot. But it always is followed by some worship songs, more like love songs to God.  I have to tell you, that always moves me, often to tears.  I truly forgot how much I loved the worship here in Bolivia, being at home in the United States for so long.  I truly need this.

Pastor Percy preached a good sermon.  His emphasis was on the Church of Laodicea in Revelation 3, but he talked about all seven of the Revelation churches.  We read all of Revelation 2 and 3.  Here are some the points that stood out for me.  "Consider how much you have fallen” in chapter 2.  We as believers often become complacent after we have been believers for many years.  It clearly says here this is sin in our lives.  In chapter 3 it talks about the Philadelphian Church being open to what God wanted.  This is our primary role as Christians to be open to God.  It is not our plans that matter, but His.  And lastly, the Church of Laodicea always makes me think of America because we are so rich that we don’t see how spiritually poor we are.  This will offend many people, but our churches are not alive like I see here in Bolivia.  I want to be Philadelphian, not Laodicean.

I decided to go home differently.  I walked to the end of the street, about 5 blocks to the Doble Via la Guardia.  That is the same main road I took this morning.  It took ten minutes to walk the five blocks.  I crossed the road, carefully, because cars won’t stop for you. On the other side I looked for a micro (small bus) that would go to the Ramada Market, which is close to where I live.  The bus was crowded and I had to stand.  It was not six feet high inside, so it was uncomfortable, but at the Fifth Ring, about a quarter of the passengers got off, so I could sit.  By the time we got to the Ramada, I figured I could walk, since the traffic was slower than walking.  That ride only cost me 2 Bs. (remember 7 = 1 dollar).

The market was crowded, but soon I was on Iralá and almost home.  The wind was very strong.  I’m not kidding about this wind being strong.  I am a big guy and was almost blown over! 

The trip from church took a little under one hour.  Taxis are faster, so in the future, I will probably take taxis more often.  They are cheap and give me the chance to meet and talk to someone.

I’m sorry this was not the most exciting blog.  Some at home wanted to know what a typical day is like.  So that is the purpose of this; to let you know what a Sunday morning is like.

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