Friday, November 8, 2013

O Lamb Of God For Sinners Slain

A request just before the AMEN conference this year for a song led to this... A mixture of old lyrics and new, of ancient love and fresh wonder. Best appreciated in context of the stirring message it followed.


O Lamb of God
(click link to listen or download)

__

O Lamb of God for sinners slain
I plead with thee my suit to gain
I plead what Thou has done, to make me one,
And bring me to Your side again...
Didst thou not die the death for me?
Jesus, remember Calvary
And break my heart of stone, it is Thy throne
My days are Yours from start to end.

O Lamb of God for sinners slain,
Yours was the loss, and mine the gain
Let me remember, burn as an ember
And love as You ordain...

O let Thy Spirit shed abroad
The love, the perfect love of God
In this cold heart of mine, let warm sun shine.
And light the earth with faith and love
O might He now descend and rest
And dwell forever in my breast,
That I might faithful be, that He might see
And satisfy His soul's request...

Take the dear purchase of Thy blood
My Friend, and Advocate with God
My Ransom and my Peace, my Sweet Release
My Helper, Healer, Guidance, Stay
Surely Who all my debt hast paid
For all my sins, atonement made

The Lord, my Righteousness
All Holiness
Perfect in Faithfulness
And Graciousness
The Strong and Sinless One
For me undone
That I might live to see
His Majesty--


O Lamb of God for sinners slain,
Yours was the loss, and mine the gain
Let me remember, burn as an ember
And love as You ordain...


Lyrics: Seán Nebblett
(Adapted and Expanded from early 1800s hymn by Charles Wesley)






Wednesday, October 2, 2013

Love This Work


I walk through the cut fence, step over debris scattered everywhere from the crumpled car ahead. There’s this pile of coats, and a little bandaged face protruding from beneath them. The firefighter glances up at me approaching, lying on the cold ground as he is, and with short sleeves even in the cutting wind and drizzle. He gave his coat to cover this little one who’s cervical spine he’s been holding for a good 45 minutes. 

“This is Jimmy, he’s four years old*...” He runs down the litany of injuries and past medical history. 

“Jimmy? How are you buddy?” My heart sinks as I look at the face, nearly colorless from shock. Triaged to critical condition. Lacerations to the head, neck injuries, in and out of consciousness.

Oh dear God, please... 

I don’t have mind to finish the prayer. Why does this world have to be so full of this awful tragedy, in a moments notice? Why does innocence like this lying on the ground before me have to know pain? 

“Talk to me, Jimmy. What do you like?” From somewhere deep down the child’s face stirs, winces. Eyelids press, and his mouth opens, revealing two rows of tiny, perfect teeth. The sight squeezes my heart. Everything in me begs for him not to die. Not this child. Not today... 

He talks to us, but barely. And as he talks we move, rapid and automatic. Within moments that firefighter and my brother are following me back across the damp, uneven earth, carrying the tiny form now packaged up and immobilized. 

We get in the back of the rig. It feels like a sauna, heat blasting out of every vent. But that heat works wonders behind my back as I push through the cabinet for the pedi blood pressure cuff...

“I can open both my eyes!” Wonder and relief ring out in the little voice, sweetest music to my ears. I turn around, and those two little chocolate eyes are open, tracking me. I bend over him, smile down. His little hand reaches up. “That’s wonderful, Jimmy.” You don’t know how wonderful...

When we hand him off later, and I watch his little form being carried away, my heart sighs relief and satisfaction. You know what, I do love this work. I have plenty hope he’ll see his next birthday. And please God, many more after that... 

And he’s carried out of my life, as quickly as he came in. 

***

Later, I walk in the cutting cold, tired, aching, emotionally exhausted. My legs cramp so sometimes I can scarcely stand. My list is unaccomplished. And this day seems entirely gone wrong. 

I feel like that little tyke we picked up this morning, that’s what. Cut to the head, cut to the heart. Tumbled around and flung to the ground. Down on this cold world and wind whipping over my soul and why does this have to be this way? 

And worst! I know enough to know better than all this. The provision is there. There’s no reason to live less than triumphant Christianity. I know it. I’ve experienced it. So I should know better than to let the circumstances of a day tumble me like this. I know better than to be here. 

I feel half ashamed to lift my eyes to my Rescuer. How is it that You have patience to come to save me... Over, and over, and over? Lord... have mercy on me... 

His gentle whisper arrests my attention.   

Don’t you know, child - I gladly come in the cold and the rain to hold you? Don’t you know I gladly take off my robes and put them on you, to protect you from a tragic world? Don’t you know your pain squeezes my heart, and in the depths of My heart I intercede for you - “Father, not this child. Not today”? Don’t you know I carry you, across damp and broken earth, to bring you to safety? Don’t you know that your voice, speaking to Me, is music to my ears, that your hand reaching for Me is wonderful - you don’t know how wonderful? Don’t you know that the hope of your eternal life is utmost satisfaction for Me?

And don’t you know why? Because I do love this work...

***

I see it. I know how that feels. 

And I let Him come.



Know this: your God loves to rescue. 


And if you love His happiness, never deny Him the opportunity. 




*Not his real name or age. 

Monday, September 23, 2013

One Year and Counting...

We remember it as though it were yesterday. 
And all the emotions that came with it. 

We remember the laughter, the joy all wild, the way the sun shone soft at just the right moments. We remember the tears. We remember the tingles like silver glitter all alive, rushing like a river when the trumpets played their part. We remember the throbbing thankfulness that came in the course of the moments readily recognized as God's mercies-- because we certainly could not have orchestrated any such. We remember prayer that morning; embraces that evening. We remember counting firsts. So many firsts...

We're still counting. 

Today from a mountainside in Rwanda we look across the bay, see a sliver of the country they call home almost 6 months out of the year. And we count the memories of a month brimming with happiness. We count the times we laughed over the stories before bed, howled at the rocks we'd missed in the rice, sacked out on the concrete floor mid-afternoon to get rid of some heat. We remember jungle trails, and trademark african huts and ruts and roads and mud holes. We remember the river crossing in the dugout just for the fun. We remember eating out at the premiere local village fast food destination. For 20 cents a plate. (er, banana leaf.) We remember energetic discussions between siblings five on everything from humility to legislated morality.

And we're still thanking. 

Moments tick by and hearts beat steady, and we count down hours and minutes. 9 hours and 56 minutes, from the time of this writing. I know, because I started a timer after they said "I do," and it's still running. 
They've almost made it once around the sun. 

And after a year, more than ever we are sure:
God's gifts are priceless. 

We love you, Luke & Chantée.

Happy Anniversary.












Tuesday, July 23, 2013

10 Months Today

It has been 10 months today since the Lord filled our hearts with exceeding joy at the marriage of our Luke and Chantée. Since then, our families have been blessed with many seasons of sweet fellowship that bind our hearts together in heaven-born love.

"Let my mouth be filled with Thy praise and with Thy honor all the day." Ps. 71:8

"Because Thy lovingkindness is better than life, my lips shall praise Thee." Ps. 63:3

"Let all those that seek Thee rejoice and be glad in Thee: and let such as love Thy salvation say continually, Let God be magnified." Ps. 70:4

We have experienced Your salvation, oh Lord!  Thank You for rescuing our souls from the pit of sin and selfishness and bathing our lives in love. Cause our souls to "follow hard after You" (Ps. 63:8) even in times of perplexity and grief--as hard as we are inspired to do so in these days of rejoicing.  "Strengthen, oh God, that which Thou hast wrought for us." Ps. 68:28b

"I will praise the name of God with a song, and will magnify Him with thanksgiving. The humble shall see this and be glad: and your heart shall live that seek God." P. 69:30,32


Wednesday, June 26, 2013

Love Your Master


The alarm clock rings at 4:30 am and through the cloud of sleep I hear Joshua’s voice telling Mama that is her 10 minute warning. I roll over in yet another unfamiliar bed, sleeping in this hotel room by the airport. I make her some breakfast burritos, kiss her goodbye, and moments later I’m back on my bed in a dark room after they whisk out the door.

Departures have been the main constant in my life of late, it seems. I, the girl that would love to camp out at home forever. But of the many aspects that make me dislike leaving home, one stands out above the rest - who we leave behind.

That little Christmas gift we opened in 2010, when dark eyes and blond ears peeped up through tissue paper - he took our hearts by storm. But apparently since then, we’ve taken his by storm. Because I dread seeing the desolation that comes into his face every time he sees our suitcases heading toward the door. 

It happened two and a half weeks ago. It happened a week ago again. And it happened yesterday, again. 

But this time the trip is short enough that he can stay home by himself without a trip to his kindly care takers. This evening I decide to leave him in the house where it is cool since Dad will be home in a few hours. 

Through the last minute flurry he gets more and more sad. As I’m running out the door the last time, I crouch down to his level and he buries his face against me. “It’s ok Rubee. Daddy will be home in a few hours. You stay inside.” I cup his muzzle in my hands, then stand up and walk out. He watches me with a look of sad resignation, then turns and heads for the parents bedroom to wait, for how long he doesn’t know. He’ll wait, until we come home. Sometimes that’s five hours. Sometime’s that’s five weeks. 

******

That night I kneel beside my bed. I pray, ending with a rapid and many times rehearsed “in Jesus’ name, Amen,” then I jump up from my knees and crawl into bed. And I end a conversation with God as summarily as that? 

The next moment a sad face flashes before my mind's eye. A creature so bonded to his masters that leaving their presence is grief to him. And I sometimes pray and calmly glide out of His presence so quickly, without waiting for a peep from Him. What in the world? 

Love always makes parting desolation. And we know how much we love God by how sorry we are to leave His presence.

******

Admiral
Every morning when I descend the steps from my loft bedroom he reacts the same - sleepy face, wagging tail, unbridled happiness, walking loops around me and growling out his uncontainable pleasure. And every time, crazy dog, he acts as if I had never descended those steps before, for the joy of seeing me again - seven hours of sleep later. When I come home from a trip and pick him up from the gracious neighbors he always reacts the same too - running to the end of his leash and there leaping and squirming with constant squeaks of excitement until I come and lay my hands on him. 

And every morning, every morning, Jesus’ footsteps approach my soul and His sweet voice calls for time with me. And do I jump up every time, circling around Him in unbridled happiness, calling out praise in uncontainable pleasure, even though I was with Him 7 hours of sleep ago? Do I run to the limit between the visible and invisible realm and wait in bounding pleasure for Him to come and bridge the gap and shower love on me, as much, no, more, than He did yesterday?

Love always makes reunion unutterable joy. And we know how much we love God by how happy we are to be back in His presence. 

*****

And so He has three little words for me today: 

Love your Master. 



Wednesday, June 19, 2013

Gift Given Back


And so right in the middle of a noisy music practice for an upcoming wedding, I learn that my horse's little sister and practical look-alike, my favorite since mine died on that tear-drenched November night, has the beginnings of the malady that claimed my Black Diamond's life.

Practice ends quickly, and I get into the Suburban and go there. I cannot stay away. If she dies too, it won't be because I didn't fight for her life. 

And on the way I fight the tears driving. Please, not another loss. Isn't three graves enough in the space of a year? Why do I need to stand over a fourth and look at the fresh mound of dirt blanketing a treasure?

I get there and see her, and she reminds me of my horse - her older sister - and all the pain and struggle when 800 pounds of velvet covered muscle lost the battle for life. And even as I watch this beauty hurt, I can't help but think of my beauty that lies buried only a couple hundred yards away. 

Hours later the vet takes her away with him. And I? I go home, hot, sticky, and tired, and wash the sweat away but the memories remain with me. And when darkness falls and during family worship I pray for the life of that beautiful horse, it is as if I am back in November again, with sweat pouring though the night is well below freezing, the guest cabin flood light illuminating loss lying still on the lawn. 

But even then my thoughts find themselves arrested in their track.

Loss? Actually, loss? Didn't I kneel on that lawn and give her back to the Giver?  Is it really loss when you give a gift? 

When I get up to my room, my journal and my pen find each other, even while tears stream down my face - 

"What You've taken I have not lost. Because I gave her to You willingly, a gift given back."

***

Two days later I stand above the fourth grave in an eventful year. Look at the mound, stand beside the girl that is just like a little sister to me, and it’s been only six months and she has buried her treasure, who was a little sister to mine. I think of how my brother said she was as pretty as a flower when he returned from helping bury her, even after her struggle. We cry together, because they meant exactly the same thing to us. I know how she feels. She knows how I do.  

We crouch in silence, one mound on one side, the other mound on the other side. Between her sister and the fence is buried the other half of the dream. 


These graves are mysteries to me. 

But they are not lost - not the treasures, not the dream. 

Nothing is lost if it is a gift given back...



Thursday, May 16, 2013

Impossible Dream



“You mean to tell me that she is the only Adventist living in her entire country?!” 

“That the church knows of, yes.”

I turn and look incredulously across the way at this girl who is barely older than me. I have absolutely no clue experientially what that is like, but my imagination runs wild. The only one that we know of. 

A few hours later I have the privilege of sitting across from her over dinner and hearing her talk. I watch her tears stream down as she talks about her country. Not one church.  Not one... 

Her dream is bringing the gospel to her country. But she says there is no way her dream is possible.  

We object. Yes, the dream is possible. Nothing is impossible with God! 

Sounds nice, coming from our mouths. Our mouths, who have never gone hungry for Christ. Our souls, who have never seen devastation and destitution and death like she has. Us - the ones who have never been the only one. 

“God doesn’t need me here. You already have everything. So many preachers and resources. I’m learning more in a month here than I could at home in three years. But...

But... she knows the magnitude, the size, the impossibility (??) of the dream. 

As her passion and pain intensify I’m struggling to understand what she is saying through her accented, broken English. Someone who knows her better turns to me and clarifies matter-of-factly, “She’s saying no one wants to go over there unless it is safe. And it isn’t safe.”

She’ll gladly go. But right now she’s trapped out of her country as the borders closed down since she left on this trip. She’s willing to die - and likely she will. Spreading the gospel can mean death over there, but she doesn’t care. But... besides her, she hasn’t met anyone, not anyone, that is willing to go too.  

I feel like saying I’m willing to go. I sure feel willing right now. But I analyze what that will sound like to her. Comfortable, relaxed, American me. It’s obvious... I have no clue what I’m talking about. She does. 

And she’s been interacting with these privileged, blessed, spiritually wealthy Christians. (Or are they so wealthy after all?) And in all her months of interacting with us, she hasn’t met one, not one, that would be willing to go to her country to spread the gospel.  
  
Her words haunt me. 

-----------------

Several days later we sit around the living room floor at the neighbor’s house celebrating Joshua’s birthday. We gear up for joy; we are going to play missionary together. 

I glance over the map, and these countries catch my eye. These countries where to spread the gospel can often mean deportation or death. I announce it loud: that’s where I’m going. I’m going to plant the gospel there. 

An hour passes and I’ve had no success, and believe me, I’ve tried. Some of my dear neighbors around the circle are trying too. China, North Korea, Pakistan, Iran, Tibet, Saudi Arabia, India... And we’re deported, imprisoned, martyred, deported, and deported again. The story is the same. And my frustration and determination climb.

Another half an hour - every other country on the map has been all but forgotten; but the game is also almost over. Everyone is spending every chance to go abroad on those lands. The last move of the game comes. “I’m going to Saudi. Who wants to come with me?” Every hand around the living room flies up. And what’s the real benefit? Nothing, except the chance to go. And we all go... And we all get deported again. And the game is over. And those countries are untouched. 

Maybe it’s the conversation I had a few days ago with a girl that is the only one from her country in the 10-40 Window... Maybe this is a game, but I’m devastated. Devastated that I didn’t go. Not even in a game.

Everyone else doesn’t like it either. So we decide to keep playing until we get in. And the very next player gets to go, and we all go with, and in a matter of seconds the gospel was “planted” in Iraq. A cheer goes up. But at the same time I want to cry. “How is it,” I demand of my friends, “that we try and try and only after the game is over and it doesn’t matter anymore, we get into one of those countries?!”

We go running then, and only after a mile and a half are behind me have I spilled out enough pent up passion to calm down. Sean tells me this: That’s just the point - that’s the way it is. Only when we have poured out, and poured out, and poured out, do we get returns. Only when we are gone and over will success ever come. The pouring out is the gift. The giving is the receiving. 

I think back to the last 45 minutes of the game, and see a parallel to what must be. You’re going? I am too. If you are deported, I’ll try next. Who will over there where much can be lost and chances of success seem small? Count me in. 

Those places won’t ever be won until that is the spirit. Always. 

-----------------

But of course, that was only a game. My mind comes back to the here and now. 

That girl... She says her dream is impossible. But her life testifies to a contrary belief deep down. She’s going back when the boarders reopen. 

And we? We say it is possible. But our lives testify to a contrary belief deep down. We say it’s possible, and we stay right here.

I don’t know about you... But when the stars come out at night and I see the work of His fingers; when my Bible rests on my lap and I read that the Sovereign serves His servants; when I remember the exploits of Divinity in ages past and set my confidence in the fact that He never changes, and He will do it again... 

I burn for the impossible dream. 

“Then said I, Here am I; send me...” 

...To my neighbor, and throughout my country, and across the world. 





*The gender of the individual mentioned in the post may or may not have been changed for the purpose of maintaining anonymity. 

Friday, May 10, 2013

The Tale of Two Stones


The house finch warbles from downstairs- it’s 12:00. I flip shut Cost Accounting, grab my journal and another book and head for a spot of prayer. 

After some time I open the book. The last few paragraphs of the last chapter, parable style, arrest my attention:

“A story is told of Jesus and His disciples walking one day along a stony road. Jesus asked each of them to choose a stone to carry for Him. John, it is said, chose a large one, while Peter chose the smallest. 

“Jesus led them then to the top of a mountain and commanded that the stones be made bread. Each disciple, by this time tired and hungry, was allowed to eat the bread he held in his hand, but of course Peter’s was not sufficient to satisfy his hunger. John gave him some of his.”

Tch tch tch- I saw this one coming. You should have taken a larger stone. My mind flashes out commentary on Peter’s plight as the story unfolds.

“Some time later Jesus again asked the disciples to pick up a stone to carry.”

My mind rushes wildly again. Remember, man, I thought, the small stone’s worth wasn’t even enough to satisfy your own hunger...

But of course it makes sense. John had enough of the blessing for himself AND a brother, and maybe more still. Peter, because of his shortcut on commitment, came up shy, and would have gone hungry. This is going to be another 10-virgins-and-their-lamps story, right? Right...

“This time Peter chose the largest of all.”

I knew he would. Honestly. I would have too.

“Taking them to a river, Jesus told them to cast the stones into the water. They did so, but looked at one another in bewilderment.”

Of course!.. Something told me this still wasn’t going to work out. Jesus is about to pull out some poignant lesson for poor old Pete.

“For whom,” asked Jesus, “did you carry the stone?”

End of story. End of book. Silence. 

Soooo, you mean... I mean... it wasn’t about the bread??

No. It was about Jesus.

Tears well. I was caught in the crossfire. Guilty.

Peter chose his first stone for comfort, and his second for bread. John chose both for Jesus. 

What size stones are you carrying? 




Wednesday, March 6, 2013

Jesus Only

Walking down the road late afternoon from El Sauce to Samaipata, my brothers, a friend, and I, discuss the strange events that have recently taken place... The meteor that fell over Russia with the force of 30 Hiroshima bombs, and the fireballs reportedly seen over California and Cuba.

“Some strange things are happening in the world these days,” my friend comments. 

“Yeah... It’s true. It’s a sign that Jesus is coming back,” I reply.

She responds in beautiful simplicity, with the air of a child who has waited with waning patience all afternoon for its beloved father to return from work and sees him at last at the end of the lane. 

“Yes, finally.”

My heart leaps. And my lips echo scarcely above a whisper,

“Yes... Finally.”

----

I take my Bible and pick up reading where I left off yesterday morning -- the familiar story of the Transfiguration. At the end of that remarkable moment comes a line that for years has gripped my heart as one of the most beautiful statements in the Scriptures, and I stop again to marvel:  

“And when they had lifted up their eyes, they saw no man, save Jesus only.” 

Jesus only... At the end of the whole matter, after the glory and the Voice and the dazzling light, they saw Jesus only.  

I learn slowly, but I learn. This Merciful and Mighty One, He walks in the dust of our experience and always greets with a smile. And at the end of the whole matter it’s not the glory we need; not present ease, not future distinction, not prosperity, not a good life, not a quiet retirement, not the dazzle of dramatic miracle. What we passionately long for is not the things He has, but Him. Not the things He can do, but who He is. 

----

And so I walk down the dusty road, let my eyes drift off to the blue haze of distant mountain ranges. I could wish He’d come for a lot of reasons. Wish He’d fix this. Wish He’d put an end to that. Wish the glory would arrive. But as my eyes scan the horizon of this desperately destitute country, I know I wish He’d come for one reason most of all. 

I miss Jesus. I want to see Him. 

Only. 

Finally.   


Even so, come, Lord Jesus... 



Matt. 17:8, Rev. 22:21

Monday, February 25, 2013

Cerenid


After a long day of travel (2/15/13), we trudged into the campus of Cerenid shortly before supper, and were greeted with shouts from all corners! Our German friends, who volunteer at Cerenid, had aquatinted the boys with our family prior to our arrival. There was a general fuss as boys clung to one and then another saying, “jon? yoshua? natacha?”... (the parents were detained in Santa Cruz securing vaccination records and arrived a couple of hours later) There was general disappointment when they realized the 6th “Nebblett” was not going to be showing up. [You were missed Chantée! :)]

Our weekend at Cerenid was a joy. The boys here are not all truly orphans. This is a home for street kids- boys from Santa Cruz and other urban centers that were brought in off the streets. The youngest is 6 and the oldest 14. Each one has his story. They certainly have their rough edges, but they soak up love and affection. 

We shared several messages at the little church on campus the next day. In the evening just before sunset we climbed up one of the mountains overlooking Cerenid [pictured] and walked back by torch light. It was refreshing to get some good exercise after days of intense but sedentary speaking and travel. 

Since that weekend we have had a few unique changes of plans. We had planned to volunteer at Cerenid for the remainder of our time in Bolivia. However, the “orphanage” is in a time of uncertainty, and had to make a sudden move from its home of over 15 years. We helped them pack up and moved with them up the mountain chain to the town of Samaipata. Here, another orphanage agreed to house the boys temporarily, and we found a charming little house on the outskirts of town to rent for the remaining 17 days of our stay. We have spent many hours at the orphanage helping with the boys and other children. 

Our days are filled with Spanish learning, volunteering at the orphanage, and writing. The quiet of our quaint domicile has proved a great blessing as we work on the family writing project. 


Sabbath Breakfast at Cerenid

Josue, Misael, Jaron

A little friend

View of Cerenid and village from hill


Sean playing with a few of the boys

Updates of our present arrangements to come.


Tuesday, February 19, 2013

Villa Tunari


2/14/13

From Cochabamba we descended into the jungle to spend two nights at the orphanage in Villa Tunari. It is the largest of the three orphanages with 70-some children. We enjoyed the privilege of sharing messages with the house parents and children in the one full day that we had. We had speaking appointments at the orphanage in Cerenid on Sabbath, and 7 hours of taxi ride to get there, so we soaked in the humid surroundings and packed up all too soon. 

While in transit on the roads, any time the taxi or bus came to a checkpoint or toll booth, vendors pressed around the windows offering their goods. Once we bought 5 softball sized avocados for $1.30.

The fruits around here are amazing! It seems that almost every day another fruit surfaces that we’ve never seen or tasted before. Some are definitely now on the favorites list. 

One of the new favorites is Chirimoya- a custard-like fruit. This particular type grows only in this region of jungle. Mom was sure we should go through the hassle of paperwork through US customs to bring some of these seeds home, but then these fruits will surely only grow where one can swim through the air anyway. 

Our time in the jungle drew to a close and we caught a taxi for the 7 hour trip to Santa Cruz and on to Cerenid. 

Leaving Cochabamba

Sleep while you can. Bus ride to Villa Tunari

Chirimoya

A mighty jungle man


Sean and José

Speaking at the orphanage 

Riverfront view

José




Monday, February 18, 2013

Cochabamba Campmeeting


Upon leaving our little hotel room in Cochabamba, we were driven to a local church where we boarded a bus with fellow brethren headed for the camp. On this ride every passenger had a seat- a rare thing with any means of transport here. [side note: It’s amazing  how it’s permissible to pile as many people as one cares into a taxi or bus, or how the bed of every truck is as liable to have passengers as not. Here you can sit on top, hang off the sides, or do just about anything else you care to, in the middle of the city or on country roads- no one objects.]

The campmeeting was a baptism (in more ways than one). Blessings did abound for all of us. The camp timekeeper faithfully had everyone out of their rooms with the familiar sound of his persistent whistle and in the amphitheater singing by 5:45 in the morning. One thing’s for sure; our Bolivian friends gave the North Americans present a new understanding of the word earnestness. :) It was a joy to forge new friendships and strengthen old ones. 

One of the highlights here was witnessing a new birth by baptism on Sabbath afternoon. 

From Cochabamba we took a 4 hour bus ride to the jungle orphanage in Villa Tunari, but I will pick up from here in a forthcoming blog post. (probably weekend coming) The camera battery is dead, and I foolishly left the charger in my suitcase at the orphanage- a 45 minute drive down this mountain valley. We’ll wait to post when we have access to the accompanying pictures...

 Bus ride to the camp

Walking to church

A view along the way

Church

The amphitheater 

New friends!



Practicing for a special music

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