God's timing is amazing to me.
This morning in our elementary chapel, it was as if the speaker had read my journal entry written the night before. I sat listening to him walking through exactly what I needed to hear, and I sat stunned.
While he discussed what to do when we're faced with impossible circumstances...I retraced the steps God led me on a year ago. As he explained from the Bible what to do, I realized, that was exactly what I had done when I knew God was wanting me in Portugal for the first time.
1)Pray--when you don't know what to do...we turn our eyes to You.
2)Powerless--admit your own inability to accomplish or do anything
3)Praise--thank the Lord for how he will answer, and recall who He is
4)Proclamation--when the Lord answers, point everyone to Him
I remember very vividly my journey through each one of these steps as God lead me to come here. I remember telling the Lord that I knew He wanted me here, but I had no idea how He was going to get me here, and that I absolutely could not wait to see Him answer. I remember writing in my journal, "Lord, thank you. Thank you for the way you are going to provide. I know it's going to amaze me. Just let it be some way that would show everybody how amazing You are." And He did.
As I sat behind my students listening to our speaker, my eyes filled with tears. God reminded me, that if He leads me to full-time missions, He's the same God. And just because the process is harder and the numbers get bigger...He's not intimidated. And He's not sitting up in heaven crunching the numbers and worrying about how He's going to provide for me. He doesn't have to create a new line in his budget for me...or wait for another missionary to "retire" before he can add me in...God could blow me away again. If it's what He wants...
It was just the reminder I needed.
I'm glad I serve a big God. And I'm thankful I serve a big, PATIENT God.
Friday, March 25, 2011
Thursday, March 24, 2011
The log in mine own eye...
I am the biggest hypocrite.
I have seen, watched, and stood in awe as the Lord provided for me time after time. From my first missions trip (when I thought raising $1,300 was virtually impossible) to two summers ago when I learned 75% of total cost ($2000) was in my account before I even knew I could go on the trip. Then came the big one: two years worth of funds to live in a foreign country. And yet, God brought it in. All of it... and in the most meaningful and unexpected ways.
So here I sit, in my bedroom in Portugal (provided by the hand of God), and I'm questioning. What if?
What if God leads?
What if I sense the burden?
What if He leads me again...forever?
And as I sit here, I'm terrified. I should know. I should understand. I should comprehend the magnitude of my God. I should have faith...
But deep in my heart, I'm so afraid of the process that is missions. At this point I have no idea if this is what He has. But I know regardless of what conclusion I come to, it can't be dictated by fear.
I hate that I struggle with this. I hate that I can't seem to learn.
I feel like an Israelite that doesn't trust God to bring manna tomorrow...even though I've tasted and lived abundantly from His daily supply for months. I know it's ridiculous... and I'm trying to get the Sycamore out of my eye.
I have seen, watched, and stood in awe as the Lord provided for me time after time. From my first missions trip (when I thought raising $1,300 was virtually impossible) to two summers ago when I learned 75% of total cost ($2000) was in my account before I even knew I could go on the trip. Then came the big one: two years worth of funds to live in a foreign country. And yet, God brought it in. All of it... and in the most meaningful and unexpected ways.
So here I sit, in my bedroom in Portugal (provided by the hand of God), and I'm questioning. What if?
What if God leads?
What if I sense the burden?
What if He leads me again...forever?
And as I sit here, I'm terrified. I should know. I should understand. I should comprehend the magnitude of my God. I should have faith...
But deep in my heart, I'm so afraid of the process that is missions. At this point I have no idea if this is what He has. But I know regardless of what conclusion I come to, it can't be dictated by fear.
I hate that I struggle with this. I hate that I can't seem to learn.
I feel like an Israelite that doesn't trust God to bring manna tomorrow...even though I've tasted and lived abundantly from His daily supply for months. I know it's ridiculous... and I'm trying to get the Sycamore out of my eye.
Wednesday, March 23, 2011
A few of my favorites...
Love, love, love these kids... and Krisanna. :) And I think she just may need to do an extension with her student teaching...either that...or I'm not letting her go back.
"Can we do a crazy one?" :)
And just for fun...
Flat, Krisanna, and I posing pretty early in the morning. You can see it the tiredness in Flat's eyes... :) Ok, maybe just in mine.
"Can we do a crazy one?" :)
And just for fun...
Flat, Krisanna, and I posing pretty early in the morning. You can see it the tiredness in Flat's eyes... :) Ok, maybe just in mine.
Tuesday, March 22, 2011
Cultural Adjustment #185
I want you to imagine with me for a moment the following scenario:
Church has concluded. People are sharing prayer requests. In the midst of prayer requests, a woman you've never seen before in your church stands and asks for prayer regarding her newborn. As she explains that her three-day old baby has been hospitalized, your pastor invites her to come forward so the congregation can pray for her and the baby. As she comes forward, your pastor asks for her name. After she states her name, your pastor says, "And are you a believer?" to which she honestly replies, "No, not yet..."
Is it just me, or would you cringe too?
I'm amazed because time after time when I witness this, no one else seems bothered. To everyone else (everyone except the Americans) this seems as non-threatening as, "Did you eat breakfast this morning?"
I've watched with amazement as my pastor prays BY NAME for the salvation of people sitting in the congregation. I've listened in astonishment and questioned my understanding of Portuguese as I hear him calmly, lovingly, and softly say, "Well, we know you aren't a believer, but we hope one day you will make the choice to follow God."
What brazen boldness. Shouldn't people be offended? Won't they walk out and never come back? Won't they think the church is mean and rude? Yet... no one bats an eye. And even though it makes no sense to me, it works. It fits. And it seems... completely acceptable.
There is no wondering about visitors. Nope. Regardless of who they are, after a few minutes we usually have a pretty clear understanding of a visitor's eternal destination.
It's amazing to me. I've tried to picture this same scenario in Iowa. Personally, I feel like people would all answer yes, regardless of whether or not they really were believers. Either that, or they would be highly offended.
But that's just my guess...
It's eye opening to see how another Bible-believing, God-fearing church and congregation do things. Business meetings, worship, communion, fellowship... the differences are tremendous. But I love it. I love stepping outside of the box of what I've known and the methods I've become accustomed to. I think it's healthy. So many things that I think of as "normal" and "right" I realize have absolutely no Biblical basis. They are just habits.
I love my church. I love listening to my pastor. And I've decided...he must be one tremendous speaker to hold my attention in a foreign language. I'm grateful for his boldness... not for the sake of being bold...but out of genuine love, care, and concern for the spiritual destiny of each person that enters the door.
Church has concluded. People are sharing prayer requests. In the midst of prayer requests, a woman you've never seen before in your church stands and asks for prayer regarding her newborn. As she explains that her three-day old baby has been hospitalized, your pastor invites her to come forward so the congregation can pray for her and the baby. As she comes forward, your pastor asks for her name. After she states her name, your pastor says, "And are you a believer?" to which she honestly replies, "No, not yet..."
Is it just me, or would you cringe too?
I'm amazed because time after time when I witness this, no one else seems bothered. To everyone else (everyone except the Americans) this seems as non-threatening as, "Did you eat breakfast this morning?"
I've watched with amazement as my pastor prays BY NAME for the salvation of people sitting in the congregation. I've listened in astonishment and questioned my understanding of Portuguese as I hear him calmly, lovingly, and softly say, "Well, we know you aren't a believer, but we hope one day you will make the choice to follow God."
What brazen boldness. Shouldn't people be offended? Won't they walk out and never come back? Won't they think the church is mean and rude? Yet... no one bats an eye. And even though it makes no sense to me, it works. It fits. And it seems... completely acceptable.
There is no wondering about visitors. Nope. Regardless of who they are, after a few minutes we usually have a pretty clear understanding of a visitor's eternal destination.
It's amazing to me. I've tried to picture this same scenario in Iowa. Personally, I feel like people would all answer yes, regardless of whether or not they really were believers. Either that, or they would be highly offended.
But that's just my guess...
It's eye opening to see how another Bible-believing, God-fearing church and congregation do things. Business meetings, worship, communion, fellowship... the differences are tremendous. But I love it. I love stepping outside of the box of what I've known and the methods I've become accustomed to. I think it's healthy. So many things that I think of as "normal" and "right" I realize have absolutely no Biblical basis. They are just habits.
I love my church. I love listening to my pastor. And I've decided...he must be one tremendous speaker to hold my attention in a foreign language. I'm grateful for his boldness... not for the sake of being bold...but out of genuine love, care, and concern for the spiritual destiny of each person that enters the door.
Friday, March 18, 2011
An Ode to Quick Trip...
Now this is a story all about how....("my life got tripped-turned upside down, now I'd like to take a minute--just sit right there..." Sorry... couldn't resist, threw me back to my childhood...) Sorry, back to the story...
This is a story about why I long, ache, and yearn for...
Quick Trip.
Two days ago I needed gasoline. Normally, I go with my roommates and we fill up. Laura and I tag-team. She gets the pump ready while I go in and recite the pump number, type of gas, and amount of money I want to use. I decided that we'd gone enough times together so, therefore, I'd be fine on my own.
I left school and drove down the hill to get gas. As soon as I pulled in, I realized this was going to take a lot longer than I'd planned. The cars were backed up, and because of the poor design of the gas station, traffic doesn't flow smoothly through (I could dedicate an entire blog post on the ridiculousness of the design of the gas station...but then, I'd officially become my father...I'll spare you.) As I sat in my car, I started daydreaming of better days...days when I remember seeing gas pump upon gas pump...days when I could easily pull in and take my pick...days when I could slide my magic card and begin pumping my gas...then, before I knew it...I saw Big Gulps...and Dr. Pepper... and fountain drinks that are 32 ounces for only 50 cents. I reminded myself that sometimes, missionaries are called to suffer. :)
I snapped from my daydream when I realized it was finally my turn to pull forward. I got out of my car and entered the store. It was quickly apparent that not only would half my day be spent waiting outside, but that the other half would be spent waiting inside. After the sun had nearly set (yes, I am being a wee bit melodramatic), I ran back to my car and realized the cars were backed up behind me even further. I knew that if they were anything like me... they were irritated as well.
Quickly I tried to release the pump. I tried unsuccessfully for five minutes to try to pull the gas pump to my tank. I glanced behind me and saw the disapproving glares of what felt like 40 pairs of Portuguese eyes. And I'm pretty positive I heard the collective whisper of, "Stupid American girl..."
I decided I would have to go back inside and tell them I needed my money back because I couldn't get the gas pump to reach my tank. But I knew I really needed gasoline... and I would then have to drive out, back around, and wait in line again. The thought of doing this made hot liquid start to fill my eyes. As if I wasn't emotional and upset enough...all the sudden I realized...I didn't know any of those words in Portuguese. How do I say, "I accidentally pulled in wrong, and I can't get the pump to reach my tank, and I'd like my 30 euros back because I'm a stupid girl who can't figure out your machines."
Mentally I started panicking. The gentleman in front of me leaned back and said something in Portuguese (I'm guessing he was complaining about the long lines). I looked at him with tear-filled eyes and said, "Do you speak any English?" He didn't. He saw my eyes beginning to get watery... and turned to everyone around him to see if there was anyone who could help me. No one spoke English. Finally I thought if I could explain it to Cal over the phone, maybe he could say what I needed in Portuguese.
I called Cal. Sometimes I wonder if all dads receive the same training. There is always that same tone of voice that communicates, "I hear what you're saying... but I think the problem is not with ____(the pump)_____, it's with you trying to do ________(the pumping)_______." So I listened to the tone... and tried again. By this time, men started getting out of their vehicles to see what on earth was taking this American girl so long. Two of them helped me get the pump released. Finally, I thought I'd be able to get my gas and go. (Note.. it has now been about 20 minutes...)
As I started to pump, nothing happened. The men asked me if I was certain I had paid (I'm not that stupid...) and I showed them my receipt. We put the pump back, and yanked it out again. Still nothing. Repeat. Nothing.
At this point I would like to say that I responded calmly...but instead... I looked at the two men with sheer desperation. They shrugged their shoulders. Just when I about lost it, an employee came running out waving her arms while shouting in Portuguese. I looked around and realized I was not alone in my frustration. Apparently there was a problem with the system, and a malfunction had occurred. The men waited with me until we got the all clear. I then began pumping again.
As I watched the gasoline fill the tank... I breathed a sigh of relief. The nightmare was almost over...I was almost done... and the now 80 pairs of Portuguese eyes boring holes through my back would be able to turn their frustrations upon someone else.
All of the sudden, I heard the pump click. I looked up and realized my tank only received 20 euros of gasoline... and I had paid 30. I tried my best to ask the small crowd now gathered around my vehicle what I should do. All the sudden, I realized what had happened. I turned to the driver of the vehicle behind me and asked, "Quanto pagei?" which I hoped meant, "How much did you pay?"
Sure enough. She answered, "Vinte." Twenty. I had stolen her 20 euros of gas... and my thirty euros were lost in the oblivion.
She looked at me...and then looked at the counter that said, "20"...and then she ran inside. I started running behind her, hoping the whole mess was not my fault.
I watched in horror as people started yelling back and forth, pointing at me, and shouting, "Falta, falta, falta" which sounds an awful lot like, "fault." After much arguing and pointing of fingers.... I gathered that they were going to give me ten more euros of gas, and resolve the other issue of me accidentally stealing the gas from the vehicle behind me.
As I walked back to my vehicle AGAIN... one of the men smiled at me and asked if I needed more gas. I nodded. He motioned for me not to touch anything. He picked up the pump and kept me far from the vehicle as he pumped the rest of the gas. I'm positive that, although he was genuinely probably trying to help me, he also wanted to ensure that I would not mess anything else up.
As I said "Thank you, I'm sorry, and thank you again" to my small crowd of new-found friends... I mentally vowed I would never, ever, ever, take Quick Trip for granted again.
NOTE: I did learn "falta" was not them accusing me of causing the problem. Apparently it means "missed" or "missing." They were shouting back and forth about my "missing money."
This is a story about why I long, ache, and yearn for...
Quick Trip.
Two days ago I needed gasoline. Normally, I go with my roommates and we fill up. Laura and I tag-team. She gets the pump ready while I go in and recite the pump number, type of gas, and amount of money I want to use. I decided that we'd gone enough times together so, therefore, I'd be fine on my own.
I left school and drove down the hill to get gas. As soon as I pulled in, I realized this was going to take a lot longer than I'd planned. The cars were backed up, and because of the poor design of the gas station, traffic doesn't flow smoothly through (I could dedicate an entire blog post on the ridiculousness of the design of the gas station...but then, I'd officially become my father...I'll spare you.) As I sat in my car, I started daydreaming of better days...days when I remember seeing gas pump upon gas pump...days when I could easily pull in and take my pick...days when I could slide my magic card and begin pumping my gas...then, before I knew it...I saw Big Gulps...and Dr. Pepper... and fountain drinks that are 32 ounces for only 50 cents. I reminded myself that sometimes, missionaries are called to suffer. :)
I snapped from my daydream when I realized it was finally my turn to pull forward. I got out of my car and entered the store. It was quickly apparent that not only would half my day be spent waiting outside, but that the other half would be spent waiting inside. After the sun had nearly set (yes, I am being a wee bit melodramatic), I ran back to my car and realized the cars were backed up behind me even further. I knew that if they were anything like me... they were irritated as well.
Quickly I tried to release the pump. I tried unsuccessfully for five minutes to try to pull the gas pump to my tank. I glanced behind me and saw the disapproving glares of what felt like 40 pairs of Portuguese eyes. And I'm pretty positive I heard the collective whisper of, "Stupid American girl..."
I decided I would have to go back inside and tell them I needed my money back because I couldn't get the gas pump to reach my tank. But I knew I really needed gasoline... and I would then have to drive out, back around, and wait in line again. The thought of doing this made hot liquid start to fill my eyes. As if I wasn't emotional and upset enough...all the sudden I realized...I didn't know any of those words in Portuguese. How do I say, "I accidentally pulled in wrong, and I can't get the pump to reach my tank, and I'd like my 30 euros back because I'm a stupid girl who can't figure out your machines."
Mentally I started panicking. The gentleman in front of me leaned back and said something in Portuguese (I'm guessing he was complaining about the long lines). I looked at him with tear-filled eyes and said, "Do you speak any English?" He didn't. He saw my eyes beginning to get watery... and turned to everyone around him to see if there was anyone who could help me. No one spoke English. Finally I thought if I could explain it to Cal over the phone, maybe he could say what I needed in Portuguese.
I called Cal. Sometimes I wonder if all dads receive the same training. There is always that same tone of voice that communicates, "I hear what you're saying... but I think the problem is not with ____(the pump)_____, it's with you trying to do ________(the pumping)_______." So I listened to the tone... and tried again. By this time, men started getting out of their vehicles to see what on earth was taking this American girl so long. Two of them helped me get the pump released. Finally, I thought I'd be able to get my gas and go. (Note.. it has now been about 20 minutes...)
As I started to pump, nothing happened. The men asked me if I was certain I had paid (I'm not that stupid...) and I showed them my receipt. We put the pump back, and yanked it out again. Still nothing. Repeat. Nothing.
At this point I would like to say that I responded calmly...but instead... I looked at the two men with sheer desperation. They shrugged their shoulders. Just when I about lost it, an employee came running out waving her arms while shouting in Portuguese. I looked around and realized I was not alone in my frustration. Apparently there was a problem with the system, and a malfunction had occurred. The men waited with me until we got the all clear. I then began pumping again.
As I watched the gasoline fill the tank... I breathed a sigh of relief. The nightmare was almost over...I was almost done... and the now 80 pairs of Portuguese eyes boring holes through my back would be able to turn their frustrations upon someone else.
All of the sudden, I heard the pump click. I looked up and realized my tank only received 20 euros of gasoline... and I had paid 30. I tried my best to ask the small crowd now gathered around my vehicle what I should do. All the sudden, I realized what had happened. I turned to the driver of the vehicle behind me and asked, "Quanto pagei?" which I hoped meant, "How much did you pay?"
Sure enough. She answered, "Vinte." Twenty. I had stolen her 20 euros of gas... and my thirty euros were lost in the oblivion.
She looked at me...and then looked at the counter that said, "20"...and then she ran inside. I started running behind her, hoping the whole mess was not my fault.
I watched in horror as people started yelling back and forth, pointing at me, and shouting, "Falta, falta, falta" which sounds an awful lot like, "fault." After much arguing and pointing of fingers.... I gathered that they were going to give me ten more euros of gas, and resolve the other issue of me accidentally stealing the gas from the vehicle behind me.
As I walked back to my vehicle AGAIN... one of the men smiled at me and asked if I needed more gas. I nodded. He motioned for me not to touch anything. He picked up the pump and kept me far from the vehicle as he pumped the rest of the gas. I'm positive that, although he was genuinely probably trying to help me, he also wanted to ensure that I would not mess anything else up.
As I said "Thank you, I'm sorry, and thank you again" to my small crowd of new-found friends... I mentally vowed I would never, ever, ever, take Quick Trip for granted again.
NOTE: I did learn "falta" was not them accusing me of causing the problem. Apparently it means "missed" or "missing." They were shouting back and forth about my "missing money."
Thursday, March 17, 2011
Top Ten Signs You No Longer Teach in America
10. Your students bring hand-written notes from their parents...and then they have to interpret them for you while you try to make sure (or at least pretend you are making sure) it says what they're telling you it says...
9. You become a living Guesstures game... "Miss Wahlstrom, what is 'swoop'... 'flail'...'dive'?" (Insert mental image of me acting those out.)
8. Your students ask, "Miss Wahlstrom, the math book says he spent two quarters. What's a quarter?"
7. Your students become highly offended that you don't know their national anthem. (I'm learning... "As armas....as armas..." That's all I know right now.)
6. While completing a spelling assignment your students ask, "Who's Rudy Iceland? And why do we have to know how to spell his name?" and realize they are pointing to Rhode Island... and then still have to explain what Rhode Island is.
5. You help your students with English grammar homework... and then they help you with your Portuguese grammar homework.
4. While teaching "American" history... you study Portugal, Canada, and Brazil so your students will care, understand, and maintain interest.
3. You realize how little history you know about Portugal, Canada, and Brazil...
2. You begin to hate the complexities of the English language...and realize that your students are just as frustrated with tenses of English verbs as you are with tenses of Portuguese verbs. I really feel like all languages should just maintain ONE spelling for verbs... and then we could insert the clues as to the time of the action, rather than having to memorize multiple conjugations of verbs.
For example:
"He be funny. Yesterday, he be funny. Tomorrow, he be funny. He be funny for fourteen days. He no be funny anymore."
I feel like this would make my life easier in so many ways.
Oh wait, maybe I should have said, "I feel like this make my life easier in so many ways..." See... we no need all those extra words and crazy spellings. :)
1. As a student tells a story or asks a question and can't remember an English word, your class becomes one giant game of BLURT as they collectively try to help the student figure out the word he or she wants. During this game any number of languages may be used to help the student...and usually, an argument or two might happen as students debate the word for which the student is searching. Instead of disciplining students for blurting out, you begin to also participate in the game... because you have been in those shoes and understand how incredibly frustrating it is to desperately want or need to communicate, and not have the word you need. Then... then you realize... you no longer teach in the U.S. of A.
9. You become a living Guesstures game... "Miss Wahlstrom, what is 'swoop'... 'flail'...'dive'?" (Insert mental image of me acting those out.)
8. Your students ask, "Miss Wahlstrom, the math book says he spent two quarters. What's a quarter?"
7. Your students become highly offended that you don't know their national anthem. (I'm learning... "As armas....as armas..." That's all I know right now.)
6. While completing a spelling assignment your students ask, "Who's Rudy Iceland? And why do we have to know how to spell his name?" and realize they are pointing to Rhode Island... and then still have to explain what Rhode Island is.
5. You help your students with English grammar homework... and then they help you with your Portuguese grammar homework.
4. While teaching "American" history... you study Portugal, Canada, and Brazil so your students will care, understand, and maintain interest.
3. You realize how little history you know about Portugal, Canada, and Brazil...
2. You begin to hate the complexities of the English language...and realize that your students are just as frustrated with tenses of English verbs as you are with tenses of Portuguese verbs. I really feel like all languages should just maintain ONE spelling for verbs... and then we could insert the clues as to the time of the action, rather than having to memorize multiple conjugations of verbs.
For example:
"He be funny. Yesterday, he be funny. Tomorrow, he be funny. He be funny for fourteen days. He no be funny anymore."
I feel like this would make my life easier in so many ways.
Oh wait, maybe I should have said, "I feel like this make my life easier in so many ways..." See... we no need all those extra words and crazy spellings. :)
1. As a student tells a story or asks a question and can't remember an English word, your class becomes one giant game of BLURT as they collectively try to help the student figure out the word he or she wants. During this game any number of languages may be used to help the student...and usually, an argument or two might happen as students debate the word for which the student is searching. Instead of disciplining students for blurting out, you begin to also participate in the game... because you have been in those shoes and understand how incredibly frustrating it is to desperately want or need to communicate, and not have the word you need. Then... then you realize... you no longer teach in the U.S. of A.
Tuesday, March 15, 2011
Tall Man at the Gale...
I've been waiting for it to come.
You know how you can see someone trying to figure you out? Yeah, I'd watched him trying to figure out me, as well as the multiple number of friends I'd brought into his cafe.
After this Sunday though, I knew it was coming.
I walked in with Krisanna and said my hello to him. As Krisanna and I held our Bibles and waited in line, I saw him listening and watching intently. Both of us had a song from church stuck in our heads and were randomly singing a few of the lines we knew the lyrics to. I watched him turn his head when he heard the line, "There is no other God..." and I knew it was a matter of time.
Today, I got it...
I walked in and sat down with my Bible and journal. He came and took my order. By the time he returned with my coffee, I was lost in Philippians and didn't notice him peering over my shoulder. He set the coffee down and said in Portuguese, "That's a good book. What religion are you?"
I was so nervous that I about choked on my words. It's an intimidating thing to be responsible to be a bearer of truth in one's own language... but in one I can barely speak, well... it's far more frightening. I just gulped and prayed for the right words. And prayed that somehow I wouldn't use an inappropriate word or misrepresent God's Word because of my limited knowledge of Portuguese.
I strained for every word I could think of that would tell him that I had a personal relationship with Christ. He nodded...and said, "So what religion is that?" I tried to explain more (bear in mind I function at about a two year old's level in Portuguese...). Finally he looked as if he understood me.
I asked him what he was... and I didn't really understand the response. I asked him to help me understand, and he gave me a few more details.
Regardless of what he said, I've watched him. He needs Christ, and it is evident by what I have seen him do. I don't know his name, but pray for him... I just call him "Tall Man at the Gale."
:)
You know how you can see someone trying to figure you out? Yeah, I'd watched him trying to figure out me, as well as the multiple number of friends I'd brought into his cafe.
After this Sunday though, I knew it was coming.
I walked in with Krisanna and said my hello to him. As Krisanna and I held our Bibles and waited in line, I saw him listening and watching intently. Both of us had a song from church stuck in our heads and were randomly singing a few of the lines we knew the lyrics to. I watched him turn his head when he heard the line, "There is no other God..." and I knew it was a matter of time.
Today, I got it...
I walked in and sat down with my Bible and journal. He came and took my order. By the time he returned with my coffee, I was lost in Philippians and didn't notice him peering over my shoulder. He set the coffee down and said in Portuguese, "That's a good book. What religion are you?"
I was so nervous that I about choked on my words. It's an intimidating thing to be responsible to be a bearer of truth in one's own language... but in one I can barely speak, well... it's far more frightening. I just gulped and prayed for the right words. And prayed that somehow I wouldn't use an inappropriate word or misrepresent God's Word because of my limited knowledge of Portuguese.
I strained for every word I could think of that would tell him that I had a personal relationship with Christ. He nodded...and said, "So what religion is that?" I tried to explain more (bear in mind I function at about a two year old's level in Portuguese...). Finally he looked as if he understood me.
I asked him what he was... and I didn't really understand the response. I asked him to help me understand, and he gave me a few more details.
Regardless of what he said, I've watched him. He needs Christ, and it is evident by what I have seen him do. I don't know his name, but pray for him... I just call him "Tall Man at the Gale."
:)
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)