June 19, 2017 - Paradise

Paradise

At 10:00 this morning, after a drive out of the city along muddy, bumpy roads, I found myself having sonso and coffee in paradise of beautiful flowers, green trees, and a gentle breeze.

The Bible talks about Heaven being a paradise.  The Bible describes a mighty river flowing through the city with trees bearing fruit all year long.  I imagine it with blooming trees like we have in Bolivia, like the toborochis and tajibos.  I imagine a park along the bank of the river wending through palms and a vast array of flowers.  There will be birds singing in the trees, like what I was hearing today.  I can imagine this, but it will not be like this at all, but better.

“Eye has not seen, nor ear heard, nor have entered into the heart of man, the things which God has prepared for those who love him.” 

That’s why I know it will be more amazing than what I can imagine.

Today, I wanted to find a little corner of paradise, called La Rinconada.  Fabiola and Carmen took me here in March of 2016.  I have wanted to return ever since.  It was raining that day, but it was one of the prettiest places I had ever been before.  Today was cloudy too.  After several weeks of rain, I dreaded that today would be the same.  But after my shower, I looked outside to see patches of blue among the clouds.

La Rinconada is across the Pirai River, in a new city called Urubó.  It is not a close trip, but the only way I know how to get there is taxi.  A normal taxi across town would cost $3 or $4, but this one cost $11.50.  It sounds cheap in dollars, but for Santa Cruz that is steep.  Today, I had the best taxi driver ever.  His name was Jorge Rudy Sanchez – yes, he wanted me to know his full name.  I wrote in a recent blog about Bolivians loving their country.  This man loves Bolivia, especially Santa Cruz, and its food.  He chided me for ever paying 50 Bs. for a meal at the Pascana restaurant, since he said the best can be found for just 10 Bs.  He was so engaging that I asked if he’d pick me up later in the afternoon.  My only regret of the day was that I did not get his phone number to call him in the future.  Maybe God will lead him to my path again in the future.

The first thing I did at La Rinconada was have a breakfast of sonso (baked yucca with cheese) and a café con leche.  Then I sat down in a comfortable corner to write and enjoy the morning.  I settled in to write for a few hours, with an occasional stroll through the gardens or a bit of time chatting with the toucans.  I know this is not exciting, but that is basically all I did.  I think you can tell from the pictures that it is a beautiful place.

A day in Paradise!  Why don’t you come to Bolivia and visit me?  We could spend a day here too.

June 18, 2017 - OUCH!

OUCH!

The last weekend of October, I was in Samaipata.  While out to eat, I felt a slightly unfamiliar crunch.  I have a back tooth that had a filling that I lost a few years ago.  It never bothered me, except for a gross little hole at the back of my mouth.  When it would hurt, I just used a sensitive toothpaste for a few days and I was fine.  That wasn’t working this time.

As the week progressed, the pain increased.  I bought aspirin for the fever that was developing and some stuff to put on the tooth for the pain.  By Thursday, it hurt.  Friday night I did not sleep.  Saturday morning, I called my friend Sandra and asked her to recommend a dentist. 

Around 12:30, Dr. P. messaged me with a time and directions.  By 1:15 it was hot outside, mid-90s.  I learned in the 80s when I lived here before, that it is always best to walk on the shady side of the street.  It becomes habit now.  It is amazing that it can be 95 outside, but in the shade, it feels like the low 80s.  Dr. P’s office was about 8 blocks away. 

He was a nice man.  He didn’t have to see me since he doesn’t work Saturday afternoons, but he came in just for me.  That just shows what kind of man he is.  He said I need some work done and he will send me to a specialist.  He cleaned my tooth and put a temporary covering on it. 

Monday afternoon I had a second appointment at a very nice dental surgeon’s office a block from the cemetery.  The neighborhood is a little run down, but her offices are beautiful.  Three different dentists, all pretty ladies, worked on me.  It took a while before the anesthesia worked well, so for a bit I was in pain.  I wasn’t handling the pain very well.  I don’t handle pain well.  I was ready to escape.  They were patient with me, and slowly, the pain began to lesson. 

I don’t want to go into the details of the pain or the procedure.  Instead I want you in the States to realize there are very good doctors and dentists here in Bolivia, a third world country.  Something that might surprise you is the cost.  For all the work being done, it cost me just $130.  That was for three visits to the dentist and three visits to the dental surgeon. 

I remember a decade ago when I broke a tooth and had to make the decision between a root canal and extraction.  The extraction was about $500, and I think the root canal was about $3000.  I made a calculation.  If I am again living in Texas and need expensive dental work, I could fly to Bolivia, stay in a hotel, eat out all three meals of the day, and get work done on my tooth for less than $3000.  I’m not making any comments on American medicine, but really I am.  It is way too expensive!

June 17, 2017 - Luke the Historian

Luke the Historian

“Many have undertaken to draw up an account of the things that have been fulfilled among us, just as they were handed down to us by those who from the first were eyewitnesses and servants of the word.  With this in mind, since I myself have carefully investigated everything from the beginning, I too decided to write an orderly account for you, most excellent Theophilus, so that you may know the certainty of the things you have been taught.”  Luke 1:1-4

This is how the Gospel, according to Luke, begins.  What is interesting about Luke is that he does not begin his account like a Jewish writer.  Instead he introduces us to a completely different style of writing, Greco-Roman history.  Everything about the introduction, the style, the vocabulary, the rhythm, says Greco-Roman history.  He is a historian in the vein of Herodotus and Thucydides.  

Though Luke says, “many have undertaken” the writings of Jesus life and ministry and that these were handed down from those who were eyewitnesses, he does not copy the other gospels.  In fact, 50% of what is contained in Luke’s gospel narrative is unique to Luke, and almost all of Acts is unique to him.  So how did Luke do things differently than the other guys?

Greeks were more concerned with scientific proof than with matters of faith.  That is most likely why the pagan religion of the time was virtually dead.  Who believes a man in the sky throws thunderbolts?  Or who believes a woman races across the sky creating the rainbow?  By the time of Luke’s writings, there were many great men who made strides in science, such as Aristotle, Archimedes, Ptolemy, Hippocrates, and dozens more if you care to research it.  The religion of the Greeks and Romans was dead.

Luke’s works take up 25% of the New Testament, more than any other author.  He is important to our understanding of Christ and the history of the early church.

Luke sets out to trace the stories back to their source.  Many were still alive that were eyewitnesses.  It is quite possible that Mary, the mother of Jesus, was still alive, but also his brothers and sisters were young enough to still be alive.  Mary would have been around 75 at the time of Luke’s gospel.  If you look at the beginning of Luke, you would suppose that the man spent time with Jesus’ family and got their story into his gospel.  If you read between the lines of Acts 21:17 and 18, you’d see that Luke did spend time with James, the brother of Jesus.  Imagine what he told Luke about Mary pondering things in her heart, because we know that moms will talk to their sons about such things as this.  

It seems that the more Luke researched, the more information Luke discovered.  He felt compelled to write it all down for future believers.  I have no proof of this, but I think Theophilus is not an actual person.  The name means “someone who loves God.”  It is likely he wrote it to you and me, hoping that with our love for God, we will want to know more.

So, then the question begs, was Luke historically accurate?  

Sir William Ramsay, a famous atheist and archaeologist, had an agenda to disprove the Bible.  He was part of a group that believed if the Bible were not accurate, then the Jewish people could be eradicated.  Did you know this was a major desire of the educated people of a century ago?  What he ended up doing after 25 years in the Middle East was defend Luke.  He is quoted as saying,

“Luke is a historian of first rank; not merely are his statement of facts trustworthy…this author should be placed along with the very greatest of historians… Luke’s history is unsurpassed in respect of its trustworthiness.”

What are some things archaeologists have proven correct that Luke wrote about?  Here are four people thought to have been invented by Luke:

1.     Lysanius, tetrarch of Abilene – Inscription on a temple near Damascus mentions the exact man.  He was tetrarch from 14 to 37.  Luke mentions him in Luke 3:1, announcing the beginning of Jesus’ ministry.  

2.     Gallio, proconsul of Achaea – an inscription in Delphi, dated to 52 AD, mentions him by name.  In Acts 18, Paul is brought before the proconsul of Achaea.  The timing is right according to the inscription.

3.     Erastus, city treasurer of Corinth – An inscription records that he paved a road in Corinth dated to 50 AD, the time that corresponds to Paul’s time in Corinth.  

4.     Plubius, first man of the island – This is how Luke addresses the man in charge of Malta in Acts 28:7.  Historians thought it a strange title, but recent findings have indeed given him that title.

On my blog from March 26, I listed 11 confirmed facts from Acts 17 that had been listed as proof that Luke made up his material.  All of those confirmed by historians.  That is just in one chapter of Acts, but there are 24 chapters in Luke and 28 in Acts that are filled with information that has been proven by archaeology.  I am one that concludes that Luke is one of the most amazing historians in the history of the world, yet he is ignored because of his faith in Jesus Christ.  If the books Luke wrote are so accurate, might also the spiritual aspects of writings be accurate?

And as for you, will you look at the facts or ignore them?  What will you do with Jesus?

 

Sources:

The Church at Lake Mead – thecalm.org

The Christian Courier

God’s Not Dead: Evidence for God in an Age of Uncertainty by Rice Broocks

June 16, 2017 - Runner

Runner

“Try to keep up,” he said gruffly exiting the door.  Liberius laughed as we passed by him.

We left the house and trotted through the crowded streets of the Subura.  Though early morning, some of the taverns were already full with those who worked night shifts at the docks or cleaning the streets of the wealthier parts of the town.  There was a line of grouchy people outside of the latrines.  Some did not wait to get inside.  You could not run through this part of the city, because there was always a crowd and the Subura was filthy with the rubbish people threw out of their windows at night or other unmentionable filth.  The stench of the streets and the unwashed bodies surrounding us was almost unbearable.  But Timothy ignored it and ran through the crowd at a slow trot.  He never looked back, as if he did not care if I was there or not.

As we started the climb out of the Subura, up the Esquiline, the air became cleaner and the neighborhood less crowded.  There were still tenements, but also homes of the rich, public squares, imposing public buildings, and temples.  The streets were wider and there was less traffic crowding them.  Timothy began to run faster, sometimes weaving between pedestrians, but always careful not to touch anyone.

I bumped into a man as I tried to catch up, only to have him curse me.  Ahead I saw the gate.  Timothy looked back.  Smiling he said, “Don’t lose sight of me once we are out of the gate.”

That moment he looked back allowed me the chance to catch up.

“Only a fool looks back to see who is following him,” I said panting at his side.

Timothy laughed and darted ahead of me.  He was through the gate and moments later I was behind him.  I was panting.  I needed to stop to catch my breath.  But Timothy was far ahead of me.  I could not stop.

“It is for freedom, that Christ has set us free.”  Paul’s words rang in my ears.  Freedom.  Christ.  Set free.  I felt the words rise in me.  They were real.  I had only known this Christ for a few days.  The years of listening to what others said about him no longer mattered.  He was becoming real to me.  But there was one more thing I needed to do.

Timothy was ahead of me and was not looking back.  He had a good, steady pace.  Fatigue left me.  I wanted to run beside him, my new brother in Christ.  I pushed harder and felt my legs burn.

Timothy turned off the road to run through the fields of freshly harvested hay.  A horse tethered to a tree, stopped munching on the hay and stamped and snorted.  He longed to be free to race with us.  I wanted to run beside the horse too, but now I had to catch this man ahead of me.

Timothy jumped a log and seemed to soar across a small stream.  I strained to get closer.

“It is for freedom, that Christ has set us free.”  I was free.  I laughed.  I had not felt free my entire life.  I had been chained.  Chained as a captive in real chains.  Chained as a slave in Ephesus and Colossae to a good family, but still separated as a slave.  And chained by the sins of bitterness and debauchery.  Now I was free.  Christ had set me free.  Never again would the chains of slavery bind me, even if I remained a slave my entire life.  Never again would I go back to the hatred that bound me worse than chains.  Never again would I return to the debauchery that drove me into pain.  I was free.

Suddenly, I felt the chains fall off my feet.  My legs were no longer bound by my slavery.

So, I ran.

I jumped a log, just moments after Timothy.  He heard me, but this time he did not look back.  He knew I was behind him.  He was running toward a forest.

I ran seeing the trees ahead. I wanted to be in this forest.  I wanted to feel the trees speak to me.  I wanted the freedom of the forest.  

So, I ran.  Faster and stronger.  I ran.

At my side was Timothy.  I had caught up to him.  I did not turn to look at his face, but I could sense his surprise.  He laughed.  His joy was infectious.  He enjoyed running and I had caught up to him.  

“You know how to run!” he shouted.  He was running faster.

“I haven’t run since I was a child.”  I felt joy grow with every stride.

He started to push faster, straining past his normal pace, so he could pass me.  I could sense the tension growing in him.  It was not anger, but the tension of the race.

I pushed harder.  I was faster.  I was free.

I no longer had to prove to anybody that I was the fastest.  I didn’t have to race the deer or wolf.  I didn’t have to outrun the slavers.  I ran because I was free. I could run past Timothy, because I was as free as he was free.

It felt good to feel the wind in my hair.  It felt good to feel the burn in my legs.  It felt good to be free.

Timothy shouted, “Wait.  Stop.”

By the sound of his voice, I knew he was far behind.

I stopped, the forest in front of me.  I bent panting, my hands on my knees.  I was not tired, but more refreshed than I had ever been.  I could smell the forest beckoning me.  I wanted to run in this forest, but there was something more important I had to do, so I could forever be free.  I would not live another day as a slave.

“You know how to run,” Timothy repeated as he stopped beside me.

“I am free.” I said.

“What?”  He was panting and looked confused.  I am sure he thought I was about to run away.

“It is for freedom that Christ has set us free.”

“Paul taught you that?”

“Yes, Brother.”  I had never called anybody brother before.  I had no brother or sister when I was a child.  Philemon had wanted his slave to be his little brother, but he also wanted his slave to serve him.  A brother does not enslave his brother.  I had never known what it was to have a brother.  This runner standing next to me was my brother in Christ.  We both had the same father in Paul, who taught us both to be believers in Christ.

“What are you going to do, Onesimus?”  

I had been plagued with this question for weeks.  It was known I, the runaway slave, was living in Rome, in the house of Paul.  Probably Philemon knew by now.  Maybe Timothy had even told him.  Even from this far away, he could summon the authorities to take me.

“I am never going to be a slave again, Timothy.”

I had thought long about this.  I could not be a slave any longer, no matter the consequences.

“I don’t know what to say, Onesimus.”  I knew Timothy was perplexed in how to handle me.  He thought I was about to run away.

“Am I your brother, Timothy?”  He felt like a brother to me now.  We both were Christians.  We both were runners.  We both were free.

“I am not sure how to answer you.”

“Paul says repeatedly that we are all brothers in Christ if we believe.  He says there is no difference in someone being a Gentile or Jew, a Greek or Roman.  He says to me often that Christ does not look at me as a slave.  He says there is no difference between you, a Roman citizen, and me, a slave.”  Timothy bent his head and looked at the ground.  “So, I ask you, Timothy, am I your brother in Christ?”

“I cannot help you escape, Onesimus.  Philemon is my cousin.  I must do right by him.”

“I am not asking you to help me escape, Timothy.  I could run now if I wanted to.  No one would notice and no one would care, except you.  I could be far away before you could summon the authorities.”  I took a deep breath and looked around at the beautiful countryside so close to the crowded noisy city of Rome.  “But I want to know if I am your brother.”

“You are my brother in Christ.”  Timothy said it without hesitation.  “I have watched you change over the years, especially in these weeks here in Rome.  I have listened to your words.  I have heard your answers to Paul.  I believe you are a Christian, like me.  I have believed that for a very long time and that disturbed me.  How was I supposed to act toward you, my brother in Christ, who is also my cousin’s slave?  Yes, Onesimus, I believe you are my brother in Christ.”

“Then I need your help to be permanently free, my brother.”

“I told you, I won’t help you escape.”  He looked at the ground.  I knew the battle was real inside him.

I grabbed him by the shoulders, making him look at me.  “Brother, I want to go with you when you return to Ephesus, and then on to Colossae.”

“What?”  he asked confused.

“I need to return to Philemon.”  Suddenly what I needed to do made more sense than anything I had ever done in my life.  I was afraid, but I also felt at peace.  “I need to ask his forgiveness for stealing from him and running from him.”  

This is an excerpt from my newest novel, Onesimus, available on Amazon in a few days.
Link to my Amazon author page

June 15, 2017 - Choice

Choice

Many of my Christian friends might be surprised to learn that I am in favor of a women’s choice.  I believe that a woman, just like a man, may do with her body as she chooses.  Don’t be alarmed though.  I am also in favor of a baby’s right to choose.

The problem that arises with this issue is that neither side is discussing the same thing.  The choice faction wants to protect women from being saddled with an unwanted pregnancy.  To do that, they resort to redefining the term “baby to “fetus.”  They believe people who support their cause are pro-woman and those who oppose it are anti-woman or misogynistic. 

The other side takes a biblical view in defining what a baby is.  The view the baby as a person from the moment of conception and back it up with scripture, such as Jeremiah 1 that says, “Before I formed you in your mother’s womb, I knew you.”  Also, much of Psalm 139.  Because they believe the baby is a person, they believe it has rights, just like the mother, and abortion means denying the rights of one in favor of the other.  So to this group, the death of the baby through abortion equals murder.

I am not anti-woman, but I do not hold the views of the pro-choice movement.  I support the right of every child to decide whether or not to be aborted.  Half of those children are girls, future women.  In some places, like China, most that are aborted are girls.

Today, May 24, there was a march against abortion in Santa Cruz.  Several times visiting the plaza recently, I have encountered ladies reminding me of the event, and the brother of a former student has been posting reminders nearly every day this month.  I decided to go, no matter what the weather would be. 

I was told to wear white, but my one white shirt is a tad too tight, so I opted for light blue.  Arriving in the plaza, I discovered many in either white shirts or white shorts.  There were a few in white from head to toe.

The march was supposed to go from the Cristo to the Plaza, at least a twenty to thirty minute walk.  I arrived early.  Around 7:00  there were many gathered in the plaza singing worship songs.  I was surrounded by mostly believers.  It felt good.

I don’t know what the outcome for this rally will be.  I know we are in the last days because righteousness is not prevailing.  Pray for the future of babies in Bolivia.  These are beautiful people and how wonderful it will be to have more of them.

June 14, 2017 - People on the Streets

People on the Streets

When I was home recently, I was asked if I am afraid living in a third world country.  With some, like my Aunt Sara or my friend Elaine, it was an honest desire to know what it is like living here.  With others, I won’t mention any names, they have a look of terror on their faces, as if the thought of living here would mean a quick death by something worse than the horror films Hans used to make me watch.

Here is what I see walking the streets of Bolivia, whether in a big city like Santa Cruz or a small town like Samaipata.  I see kids chasing pigeons or hiding from their friends behind a statue.  I see boys in blue slacks and white shirts acting like boys while on their way to school.  I see a lady in high heels scurrying across the Plaza.  I see two old men playing chess, with a teenager studying every move.  I see an old lady sitting outside her shop, concentrating on her crocheting.  I see two teenagers in love, holding hands.  I see a young man turn and take a second look at a pretty young lady.  I see someone paying more attention to his phone than the taxi coming by.  And I see taxi drivers stressed out by traffic.

These people are too busy with their lives to worry about me.  It is true that my retirement check, half of what I earned as a teacher, is double the average income of a Bolivian.  They aren’t concerned about me.  When I walk down the street, I pass by people minding their own business.  Maybe one in twenty gives me a second look.  I know I don’t look like the average Bolivian.  I’m too fat and my eyes are blue-green.

When I first meet Bolivians, they are curious about me.  The normal questions they ask are, “Why are you here?”  “How do you like Bolivia?”  “What do you think about Trump?  “How is America different from Bolivia?”

The conversations often turn into someone telling me where I need to go in Bolivia.  These are people proud of their country.  They want me to visit the city of their birth, whether Potosi, Sucre, Cobija, or San Ignacio.  It makes them proud that I, a complete stranger, love their land.

Some people are becoming regulars in my life, like the waiters at La Pascana, Café Patrimonio, Teconté, or Starbucks; also, the lady who cuts my hair and the young men who are doormen of my building.  They ask me about where I have visited recently, or ask me about my writing.  I can assure you, not one of them is out to get me because I am a foreigner.  They smile at my bad Spanish and keep on talking!

So back to the original question.  Am I afraid living here?  No, not for a second!

June 13, 2017 - Montero

Montero

It is lunch time and I find myself sitting in a pretty little plaza in Montero, Bolivia.  I’m surprised there are no pigeons here.  Instead there are lots of pretty green birds and sparrows; also, a gorgeous bird with a yellow and black belly.  They won’t get close enough for a picture and I am regretting leaving the camera, a gift from Renee, in Bristol.

Yesterday I went on a search for trufis to Montero, so this morning it was easy finding them.  I was first in the trufi, so took the front passenger seat.  The driver said it was meant for two.  A problem with being an American is that I’m too fat to squeeze into a place in the back with two or three others.  A good thing about being an American is I can afford to pay for two seats.  That was just $2.40!  

Within five minutes the trufi was full and on its way.  Usually trufis and taxis have music blaring.  This morning was different.  Everyone in the trufi had phone calls.  I discovered the driver was Quechua or at least in part.  His conversation was an interesting mix of Spanish and Quechua.  I spent most of the journey texting mom and worrying that it was starting to rain.

In an hour we were in Montero, and one by one the passengers got out.  The driver asked if I wanted out early too, but I needed to know where the trufis leave from, so I stayed the whole trip.  It was just a block from the plaza.

I arrived in the plaza to rain.  The church was open, so I stopped there.  According to a plaque outside, it was built in 1917, so they are celebrating its centenary.  It is a beautiful little church with a distinct style, I have never seen before.  Inside are a dozen images of saints behind glass windows, each with a card beside it telling the faithful how to pray to him or her.  In the middle of them was an image of Christ, as if he were nothing more than one of the saints.

The First and Second Commandments are very clear.  You are to have no other gods, but the Lord God, and you are to bow to no one, but God.  When believers encountered angels, the angels specifically ordered them not to bow to them.  I have friends who are Catholic and good people, but once you kneel to one of these saints, you reject the power of what Christ did on the Cross and depend on someone who cannot help you.  I am not unaware of the lives these people lived.  Many of them were martyred for their faith in Christ, but that changes nothing.  They are dead and cannot help you.  I know, if they could speak to you and me, they would be appalled that people worship them.

Enough said – back to Montero.

The rain continued, so I looked for a place to have a coffee and write.  There is a nice little restaurant that served a hot café con leche.  I wrote part of a chapter in my new novel and this blog up to this point. 

Finally, the rain stopped and the sun was coming out.  So, I had the chance to walk around the plaza.  I discovered the town is named after one of the Revolutionary War heroes, Colonel Montero.  He got a town named after him.  I guess a city now, because Montero has more than 100,000 people.  There was a cute statue of a Camba girl carrying a water pitcher on her head and some murals of Camba culture.  Cambas are those who are from the lowlands of Santa Cruz.  After about 20 minutes, there was not a lot to see.

So, I went exploring.  Surely this was not all there was to see in Montero.  My phone was working well today.  For the past month, it didn’t work outside of the house, except for photos.  Today everything was working, including my map app.  I clicked on and searched.  Ten blocks away was a second plaza, so off I went.

The second plaza was more personal.  I’m not sure how to explain it.  This seemed like a park where families hang out in the evenings, rather than the more formal plaza found in every Bolivian city.  Mostly it is pretty trees, lots of benches, and some slides and swings for the kids.  But there is a statue exactly like the one on La Coronilla in Cochabamba honoring the women who defended Cochabamba against the Spanish army.  Kinda cool!

I finished off my day in Montero with lunch at the same place I had coffee.  By lunchtime it was full, but service was quick and the meal was delicious.  I will go back there soon, I hope.

Again, I had the front seat of the trufi and I paid for two!  Almost home the driver started talking to me.  They always want to know what it is like in America.  I know some people are saying that Trump has made people hate America.  That is not true.  Here the people love America and want to live there if possible.  Not one has ever acted differently to me.  

All in all, I’d say it was a good day.