...lead me to the Rock...

Wednesday and Friday mornings, I pack a lunch and head up to the construction site at the new Center.  I spend the morning helping out with whatever needs to be done.  Sometimes it's just grunt work, and hard to feel motivated to be there because construction work isn't my passion, but it's also an opportunity to cover each brick and bucket of sand in prayer.

 

After work ends at noon, there's not enough time for me to return home for lunch, so I head up to the mountains for about two hours to eat my lunch until Center in the afternoon.  About a year ago, I found the perfect rock to sit on about 10 minutes up the river bed, surrounded by alder trees and high enough I can see a ways up the valley.

Find rest, O my soul, in God alone; my hope comes from him.

He alone is my rock and my salvation;

He is my fortress, I will not be shaken.

My salvation and my honor depend on God;

He is my mighty rock, my refuge.

view from my rock

My time on the rock has been good for my soul.  It's a quiet place where there are no distractions and I can listen to His voice that I sometimes allow to be drowned out by the noises of music, internet and the million and one things always on my mind to do.  As a ministry worker, I often feel pressure to do to go to be busy and fill time.  But that's not my primary responsibility.  My first job is to be still, to listen, and to PRAY.  Time on the rock puts it all in perspective.

  Hiking down brings more reminders.  I hike through lovely patches of wildflowers, the Andean flowers bursting with color out from the hillside.  God's beauty is so evident in creation, but a lot harder to find sometimes in the classroom, just a few minutes hike down the mountain.  I usually pick a bouquet for my kitchen table to remind me of the beauty of the mountains and to look for that same beauty in my kids.

the hike down

Hear my cry, O God;
    listen to my prayer.

 From the ends of the earth I call to you,
    I call as my heart grows faint;
    lead me to the ROCK that is higher than I.

Psalm 61:2

looking up the river valley

Dyeing Easter Eggs... the brown ones!

In Bolivia, Easter is just another day in the evangelical Christian community.  Maybe the pastor will preach on the resurrection or you'll see chocolate Easter eggs in the supermarket.  Otherwise, the day practically goes by unnoticed.  This year, I decided to be intentional in my celebration of Easter.  I picked a special Easter song set-list for Sunday and tried to teach the congregation to say "He is risen!" and respond with "He is risen, indeed!" (¡Ha recucitado! ¡Ha recucitado, amén!).  No one seemed to get what the fuss was all about.

Jhon

About a week after Easter, the neighbor kids came over so we could decorate Easter eggs.   The only trick... almost all the eggs in Bolivia are brown!  I sat the kids down and asked them about the Easter story, filling in the gaps they had.  We talked about how Jesus brings us new life and how the eggs represent new life.

Liz

When I shared about Jesus dying on the cross, I asked if they knew who Jesus died for.  They looked at each other, a little unsure, until Mayra spoke up.  "¿Para nosotros?- For us?" she asked.  I looked each little one in the eyes and said "He died for Jhon, for Mayra, for Liz, María, and for Jhonny."  Each squirmed a little under my gaze, but looked secretly moved by the thought of God's Son dying for them by name.

 Maria

Mayra

 Jhonny

The kiddos loved watching the eggs slowly turn color in the dye and each kid proudly showed off the eggs they decorated to the others, once we took them out to dry.  Jhonny, the littlest, tried to peel his egg and eat it before it was dyed, but the others took home brightly colored reminders of Christ's love for them, and the new life we can have in Him.

I was reminded of what a powerful truth Christ's death and resurrection is.  It's a reality that I certainly don't live out each day, living as a new creation, that the old has gone and the new has come.  I find myself day in and day out living in the old self, forgetting the power that I have in Christ to be new every morning, and to live as a child so deeply loved by Him that He would offer His life up for mine.

Meet 2nd grade!

I have most of the same kids from last year in my 2nd grade class this year, with two exceptions.  Here are their little faces...

 Nicole
A sweet little girl with tidy handwriting and a warm hug.
Her whole face lights up when she sees me and she's eager to
please me.  She's often the last to finish her homework, struggling
to understand numbers and letters, but her homework is neat and clean,
each letter in it's place, her pencils sharpened and lined up on her desk.

   

Norma
She wrinkles up her nose when she doesn't understand something,
tilting her head to one side and raising her voice and octave to ask
her question.  When the boys pull her braids, she turns feisty and chases
after them.  Her homework has really improved in the last year, but she
still often doesn't understand what she's writing or reading.

 Manuel
The class instigator, Manuel is rarely in his seat.  He
wanders around the classroom, fidgeting, playing, and throwing paper
airplanes made out of half-finished homework.  His voice is always cranked
up a notch, yelling everything he says.

Jose Felix
A little boy with a split personality, he can be sweet and affectionate
or sullen and angry, his face darkened with a sour scowl.  His
wordssquishtogether on the page, one word running into the next.
When I'm discouraged or frustrated, Jose Felix seems to have a radar
for my emotions and wraps his little arms around me, hugging me tight.

 Wilma
The opposite of Manuel, she speaks in whispers.  Her writing
scrawls across the page in a disorderly fashion, but she captures
numbers quickly, memorizing the multiplication table before the rest.
She still speaks in halting Spanish phrases, speaking only
Quechua at home

  

Hernan
Soft-spoken and often in his own world, when he engages,
his whole face lights up and he grins ear to ear, shouting his answer.
In second grade for the second year in a row, Hernan is still learning
Spanish, from his native Quechua.

Cristian

Mischievous and full of energy, he's a handful

when he's had too much sugar.  While others quietly work

at their desk, Crisitian spontaneously breaks into song,

belting out lyrics to the latest pop song, Christian kids song or

national anthem.  He's quick to get in trouble and equally as quick

to look chagrined and apologize.

Jovana
She's a sweet, gentle presence in the classroom.  When 
she arrives in the afternoon, she sees me and comes
running, braids flying behind her and arms outstretched.
She often wraps her little arms around me when she senses
I'm frustrated or upset and says "Profe Kati, you're beautiful."
Her handwriting is perfect and her homework equally careful
and error free.

Filemon

Another Quechua native speaker, when Filemon

forgets where he is, he rattles off in Quechua, his whole

demeanor softening and his face lighting up.  When he speaks

in Spanish, he spits his words out, often scowling and stomping

around the classroom.  His temper tantrums are like a whirlwind,

lashing out indiscriminately at anything in his path: little girls, desks,

cups of milk for snack...

Sebastian

A little man in a boy's body, Sebastian walks with a

swagger, sticking his chest out and throwing his shoulders forward.

His hand shoots up when he knows the answer and he's eager to learn.

If another kid looks at him funny, he's out of his seat in a flash,

punching and kicking with fury. His home life is rough, and he 

carries the injustice of it in his eyes.

tourist adventures in Potosí & Sucre

Salar de Uyuni, 

the bus we traveled in

Kristen, Laura, me
two good friends on the trip

jumping in the Salar!

flags on Salar

streets of Sucre

Bolivia's official capital

sightseeing 'round Sucre

local market in Sucre

snapshots of Potosí

women in Potosí, laughing at the clowns on our team who were sharing the good news of Jesus Christ through skits

opening Christmas treat bags with school supplies, hygiene items and a toy

bus we traveled in throughout Potosí

desolate altiplano where many Quechua live

 typical home in the rural villages

 

Quechua musicians who played haunting music for us during a church service in one of the church member's bedroom/meeting room

What a beautiful sight it is
      to see messengers coming with good news!
   How beautiful to see them coming down from the mountains
      with a message about peace!
   How wonderful it is when they bring the good news
      that we are saved!
   How wonderful when they say to Zion,

      "Your God rules!" 

The mountains of Potosí are filled with those waiting to hear the good news, waiting to be told of the hope of Jesus Christ, of the salvation He offers.  As Christ followers, we are called to go and share the life-giving news we have with those who have not yet heard.  "Therefore go and make disciples of all nations, baptizing them in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit, and teaching them to obey everything I have commanded you. And surely I am with you always, to the very end of the age."   Matthew 28:19-20

 

 

 

The beginning of January, I took a trip with a local Bolivian outreach mission to rural Quechua villages in Southern Bolivia, Potosí.  We visited several villages, ending in a village named Kollpa.  Due to heavy rains the night before, the road to Kollpa was impassable and we set out on a 10 km hike to get there.  There was no set trail to the village, just footpaths winding thru local potato fields, open green meadows with streams bubbling thru, and rocky mountainsides to clamber up.

After hiking several hours into the afternoon, we finally stopped for a light lunch of a few potatoes, rice, and a fried egg before climbing up and over several more hills to the village.  Over 4 hours after beginning our trek, we finally arrived in Kollpa, footsore and exhausted.  As we walked among the silent adobe houses, the village appeared deserted.  I began to wonder if we'd come in vain.  Then I heard excited voices and a Quechua woman was kissing my hand and pulling me into a hearty embrace, her excitement and gratitude for our arrival radiating out of her very being.  

Kollpa

The woman was one of only a few families of believers in Kollpa and they had gathered for our arrival, despite the fact that the rest of the village was at a community celebration for King's Day and the appointing of the new community leaders for 2012.  Persecution is strong in Kollpa and the villagers risked rejection and ridicule for leaving the community party to come meet us.  

 After sitting on the handwoven blankets lovingly placed on the ground for us and drinking a homemade herb tea, we started our program.  Our team had prepared songs for the kids with a few interactive games, and a few local believers traveling with us had brought a charrango (traditional mandolin-like instrument) and handmade guitar to sing Quechua hymns.

I knew most of the songs the locals were singing in Quechua, so the group leader asked me to go up front with the other Quechua young women and sing with them to encourage the villagers.  It was a surreal experience, standing on the mountainside of the Andes, singing "Dios Tatayman Takisaj" (to my Father God I will sing), worshiping with believers half a world away from my own.

 After worship and a short message, we moved into a time of prayer with those gathered, praying for those with physical ailments, those who were just starting out in their walk with Christ and wanted to grow stronger in Him.  I was praying for the Condori family when I heard a loud commotion.

A drunk man from the village was waving his arms, yelling, and throwing football-size rocks at us, as the other believers scattered in all directions.  We finished praying quickly and hurried back down the trail before the man went to get his drunken friends to stop us.  The man followed us for about 20 minutes down the trail, screaming, yelling and continuing to insult us, telling us he didn't want us to share the gospel, that we weren't welcome, that Christians were a curse to the village...


People in the region believe that Christians, worshiping God instead of Pachamama (the earth goddess) bring natural disasters upon their crops.  In Kollpa, two years ago, a family converted and shortly after, a severe hailstorm destroyed the community's crops.  The family was banished from the village and Kollpa has continued to be hostile towards believers ever since.

The sun was sinking behind the green hills when we left Kollpa to hike 10km back to our bus, and the darkness overtook us.  We hiked back to the bus under the stars, our path only lit when the moon peeked out from behind the clouds.  The journey was worth it.  What a privilege to have the opportunity to share hope in such a dark place!  

 How, then, can they call on the one they have not believed in? And how can they believe in the one of whom they have not heard? And how can they hear without someone preaching to them? And how can anyone preach unless they are sent? As it is written: “How beautiful are the feet of those who bring good news!”

Romans 10:14-15