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| It wasn't quite this bad! (Google Images) |
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Author's Note: This story came up in a Bible study I was leading this week, so I decided to post it on the blog today.)
A single candle flickered in the room, threatening to leave us in
darkness as we prepared for bed. Chilling drafts crept in through cracks
in the wall, the roof, and the partially opened door. Rain pounded down
outside.
I lay shivering on a straw-filled mattress. What we had come to this
community to do was not going to be easy. Fear and superstition in rural
Colombia, South America made it difficult to explain the Gospel. How
could an inexperienced team of Bible students break through years of
deep-seated tradition?
It was during summer vacation in 1978, and I doing children’s ministry
with some of my students from our Bible Institute. We had planned to
offer the program in six churches—three in Medellin, a highly
industrialized city of over a million people, and then three more in our
rural churches.
My coworker Maria and I—plus Gustavo, our lone male team member, and two
other students, headed out to a farming community about an hour outside
of Medellin. Once we got off the main highway, the going got very
rough. The path was filled with craters and jagged rocks that seemed
destined to rip something vital off the bottom of my small car. We
finally decided to get out and walk, leaving Maria to drive, in the
hopes of lightening the load and avoiding any major damage.
When the path ran out, we were still some distance from the home where
we would hold our program. Maria parked the car by a small schoolhouse
on a hill just off the path. The school yard was about 10 feet above
where the road ended. The car was out of sight. I was sure it would be
safe enough parked away from the embankment with the doors locked and
the brake on.
Our hostess Guillermina and her husband Efrain were poor tenant farmers.
They entertained us royally with what little they had and they were so
excited that we had come to tell their friends and neighbors about God’s
love and forgiveness.
That afternoon we rounded up children from the neighboring farms and
began our first kid’s meeting. It was late when we escorted them back to
their homes. A house meeting was planned for the evening. The church
people began to drift in one by one. Some had walked a long way. Because
it was beginning to rain, the return trip home promised to be a wet
one.
By the light of gas lanterns and with every bed and bench occupied,
Gustavo delivered a stirring message from the Bible. Outside, the storm
grew worse.
After the meeting, all us girls were glad to climb into our beds to
escape the cold. The bedroom door wouldn’t shut, so I propped it closed
with a box to keep out the worst of the draft. At last, Maria blew out
the flickering candle and we settled in, seeking a little warmth against
the dampness of the night.
I could hear someone talking on the porch outside. Suddenly the door flew open, sending the box crashing against the wall.
“Señoritas, señoritas!” Guillermina cried hysterically as she burst into
the room and threw herself at the foot of the bed. “Forgive us!” It
took some to get her calmed down enough to find out what we were
supposed to forgive her for.
On the way back to their homes after the meeting, the Christians had
found my car upside down in the middle of the path. Two tires had been
slashed. The other two were flat. The gas line had been ripped out and
some damage attempted to the motor. Earlier Gustavo had offered to sleep
in the car for the sake of security, but it was too late for that now.
What will we do? I wondered.
“Señorita,” our hostess continued, “we know who did this. Efrain is going out with his machete to punish them.”
Efrain, a new Christian, had once been notorious for his temper. Once
again, anger had taken control. As our avenging angel he was now
prepared to do battle.
“No”, I begged, “tell him to stay here. Murder is not God’s way of
dealing with this.” Guillermina scurried out of the room after her
husband.
Voices rose and fell outside the door. The four of us prayed that
somehow God would prevent Efrain from this evil mission. Gustavo talked
and prayed with him all through the night and our prayers were answered.
I shook uncontrollably as questions raced through my mind. How bad was
the damage? How will we get back to Medellin? Why did this happen on the
first night of six weeks of ministry? How will we do all the other
clubs without the car? Was there worse to come?
Just hours before, I had congratulated myself that we had gotten the car this far without any damage. Now it was ruined.
As I lay there, God began to minister to me. Verses of His care and
protection flashed through my mind. He reminded me that where the Spirit
of God is, there is no room for fear, for “the angel of the Lord
encamps around those who fear him, and he delivers them” (
Psalm 34:7).
There on that prickly mattress, peace returned. The car was His. Hadn’t
I given it back to him when He first provided it? It was no longer
mine, but HIS to do with as He pleased.
I fell asleep, thanking God and asking His forgiveness for my worry and fear.
The next morning, before we went back up the road to see the car, we had
devotions together as a team. We prayed that God would glorify Himself
through this situation. By the time we reached the school yard, a small
crowd had already gathered. News travels fast, even in the remote,
telephone-less hills of Colombia.
We answered the questions of all who passed, telling them about God and
explaining to them why we had come here in the first place.
Our efforts at getting the car on its “feet” and back to town,
accomplished with the help of La Unión’s battered fire truck, were
closely watched and reported. As a team we resolved that we would stay,
finish out our week, and not only talk about God’s love and forgiveness
but prove it.
The meeting that night gave us the first glimpse of what the Lord was
doing with His car. We were invited to hold our service in the home of a
neighbor who wasn’t a believer. Strangers appeared at the door and the
house was full to the rafters with people who had never heard the Gospel
before. Curiosity had overcome fear. This amazing blessing would repeat
itself every night during that week.
Colombians are very careful with their cars. Damage is swiftly repaired
and keeping the car looking good is a “must”. But even after we returned
to the city, I was reluctant to fix the car. Apart from the tires and
the damage to the motor, both passenger and driver’s sides were crushed
from being rolled down the embankment. This external damage provided us
with endless opportunities to witness. At gas stations, stop signs and
parking spots, people always asked what had happened. And when they
asked, they received far more than just a “tale of a missionary car.”
With my limited understanding, I thought of the car as only a means of
transportation from one place to another. But in God’s hands the car was
to become an invaluable part of the missionary team, proving once again
that He is always creative, always right and always faithful.
