In our Pueblo, there is a group of middle aged/older women who are always blessing us with gifts and taking care of us—Miguel and I call them our “moms.” As they were coming in to the room, I quickly covered myself with a sheet (I had close to nothing on as I was burning up with fever). They took their turns reprimanding me for…
As I proceeded to describe why we have a prayer station at our clinic I said, “Jesús le importa sobre nuestras vidas y quiere ayudar.” Which means, “Jesus cares about our lives and he wants to help.” I could tell something flashed in her eyes, like a small little flicker of hope rose up for a moment.
As the week began, I wondered: is my faith deep enough to live the life of a missionary? Do I love the poor enough? Do I love Jesus enough to lay it all down: my career, house, activities, stuff for Him? Would I be willing to answer the door whenever someone knocks? Can I take having dirty feet all the time? Can I learn another language well enough to give people comfort and hope? Can I tolerate cold missionary showers… forever?!
María de Jesús introduced us to Cipriano, the ninety-something man who was taken in from an early age by the family across the street. They had hired him as their farm-hand and he apparently did that for the rest of his life. I was somewhat disturbed by how disproportionately large his hands were in relation to his body, as well as his unkempt, thick, inch-long fingernails.