But, here we are at Harvard…Nebraska, that is.  This little town of about 1000 inhabitants has an interesting history that includes being selected as the home of an airbase for B-17 bombers in World War 2.  In fact, on the northeast edge of this burg there sits an area containing the remnants of military housing erected more than 60 years ago for the airmen and their crews.  ”The Courts” is what the area is called today, and it is inhabited mostly by Hispanic folks that work in either Hastings or Grand Island, larger communities to the west and north.

We’ve not had much difficulty meeting our anglo neighbors, but making contact with the folks in The Courts has been a bit more difficult.  The answer, perhaps, is establishing friendships with the children.

Every day between 3 and 4 pm I see them as they make a leisurely retreat from school to their homes.  I wave and smile, and earlier this week I was able to talk with three boys.  Luana and I had just returned from purchasing a new bicycle for her, and were unloading it from the back of the pickup.

“Hey, what are you gonna do with that bike,” one of them asked as they rode up on two bicycles.  The boy who spoke was straddling the rear wheel, standing behind his friend on the footpegs of the kid’s BMX model.

“Well, we just bought it,” I said.  ”You could give it to me,” he replied.  ”Don’t you have a bike?” I asked.  ”No,” he said.

A kid without a bike, I thought.  That’s tough.

“What’s your name?” I asked.  ”Angel,” he said.  ”And, what about this guy?” I pointed to the kid in the front.  ”Steve,” Angel replied.  There was another boy, smaller than the first two, who was riding alone on his unit.  ”What about you, what’s your name?” I queried.  ”Brian,” he answered.

The next day I was working in front of the garage, building a couple of bookcases for my office, when the three amigos appeared once again.  Only, this time they were all riding bikes.

“Is that your bike?” I asked the one who’d ridden as a passenger the day before.  ”Yes,” Brian said.  ”I thought you said you didn’t have one.”  ”Well, it’s my Grandpa’s.  He lets me ride it.”  ”He only lets him ride it to school and back,” volunteered Steve, who was riding a different bike than the BMX.  ”I like to pretend it’s mine, that’s why I said that,” Angel admitted.

“Do you live here?” Steve asked me.  ”Yes, we have this new house.  Oh, I guess it’s not new.  We’re doing some things to it.”  ”It’s nice,” said Steve.  ”It looks old, man,” Brian opined in his delicious Spanish inflected English.  I laughed.

When Angel had told me he didn’t have a bike, I thought immediately about the old Trek 800 Luana had been riding – the one that didn’t fit her correctly and that caused her to lean forward on her wrists as she pedaled.  That, in fact, was the whole reason for the new Giant Sedona we bought.  That Trek would be perfect for a kid like Angel.  But, I didn’t want to give it to him in front of his friends.

They all rode north to The Courts.

Next day, school out, kids coming past the house.  This time Steve and Brian showed up, accompanied by a kid named Santiago, but who went by the moniker of “Junior.”

“Hi, Mr. Bancampen,” Brian shouted as they rounded the corner of 7th and N Kearney.  ”Hi guys,” I called back.  ”You can call me pastor, if you want.”  I pointed to the Catholic church building across the street.  ”I’m sort of like a “father,” I said.  ”A Protestant “‘father.’”  They looked at me blankly.

“Um, you got anything in the house I could drink?  Something cold, a pop or something?”  This from 8 year-old Brian.  I could see where this could lead, should I acquiesce.  ”I have some water.”  ”Water?  Is that all you got?” Brian replied.  Santiago, aka Junior, punched Brian on the arm.  ”They’re old, man,” he spoke in a tone the whole neighborhood could probably hear, “they can’t have that much sugar!”

I laughed loud and long.  I laughed as I reached out and tousled each head of black hair.  I laughed as I said, “You guys are funny.”  I still laugh when I think about it, and when I say to Luana, “We’re old, man, we can’t have that much sugar!”

“Where’s Angel?” I asked.  They thought he was still at school, and as Brian and Junior made their way northward, Steve pedaled back in the direction from which they’d come.

About ten minutes later, here he came.  ”Well,” I called out, “did you find him?”  As he drifted up on his bike, Steve said simply and to the point, “He puked and went home early.”

I saved my laughter until he’d ridden a couple of blocks towards home.  Ah, the unvarnished truth from lips of a child – no matter the ethnic background.  But, I have to admit the explanation sounded almost lyrical from this English-speaking Mexican lad.

I made it a point to be outside the next day when the horde was dismissed from educational incarceration.  After Steve, Brian (with his “Hi, Mr Bancampen – forgetting all about the “pastor” option I’d given him), Junior, and Daniel had disappeared up the street, here came Angel, riding his grandfather’s old department store ATB.

“Hey, Angel, I missed you yesterday,” I said.  ”I was sick,” he answered.  ”I know – Steve told me you ‘puked and went home early.’  Come here a minute, there’s something I want to talk with you about.”  I went into the garage and wheeled out the Trek.  ”I want to give you this bike,” I said.  ”It’s an extra one we have, and I think it might work for you.  What do you think?”

“It looks like it would work,” he said, eyeing the bicycle.  I adjusted the seat down to its lowest point.  ”Try that,” I said.  ”See if it fits.”  It was a little tall for him, but then, so was his grandfather’s rig.  He rode out on the street and back to me.  ”It works ok,” he said.

“OK, here’s the deal.  You take your grandpa’s bicycle home, and then come back to get this.  I’m going to lean it against this big tree here – you come back and get it.”

“Um, Mr Bancampen,” Angel said, “sometimes people lean the bikes against the tree, and somebody else comes and takes it first.”  ”OK, I’ll park it up in front of my truck by the garage.”

He thought a minute.  ”Um, do you think I could take it with me?  I can ride it and pull my grandpa’s bike.”

“Well, if you think you can do that,” I said.  ”But first, here’s the deal.  I’m giving you this bike for a trade.  I want you to help me learn to speak Spanish better.  I know a little bit, but I want to learn more.  Will you do that?”  ”Yes,” he said, ” I can do that.”

That fourth grader mounted the Trek, I brought his grandpa’s bike alongside, and off he went, slowly pedaling toward The Courts.  ”You’re welcome,” I called after him.  ”Thank you,” was the reply that floated back from his retreating form.  This time I just smiled.

Next day, here he came…on the Trek.  He stopped and said, “Mr Bancampen, my mother says ‘Thank you’ for the bike.’”  ”Why don’t you tell your mom to stop by and see me?” I asked.  He said he would.

And right there by the curb at the end of my driveway, my young Mexican Harvard Spanish instructor gave me my first lesson!

I also have used my middle name all my life because, well, because my parents decided to call me Frank instead of Arthur.  Hence, I have signed my name A. Frank for years.  I guess that’s why my bank knows me simply as A.  I have begun using Arthur F or Arthur Frank on all important documents, such as health insurance cards, to avoid confusion.  But, I didn’t begin doing that until recently.  If I were Pennsylvania Dutch (German), I would probably say, Too soon old, too late schmart.

Over the years I have acquired a number of AKAs:  A.F. Van Campen, A Campen, A. Frank VanCampen, and Arthur F. Van Campen are a few.

The one constant is the very last part of my surname – Campen.  I received it, along with the Van that precedes it, from Arthur Henry, who received it from Robert Frank, who received it from Amzi Decker, who received it from…well, I won’t bore you further; but the surname comes down from one Gerrit Janzen, a Dutch man who came to America in 1650 to New Amsterdam.  He married a woman named Machthelt Stoffels (also Dutch), and they founded a family in the New World that includes me and my children, among many, many others.  Perhaps thousands, in fact.  Many, if not all, of the Van Camps and the Van Campens in the USA trace their lineage to this man.

Gerrit Janzen was from Campen, Netherlands.  Today it is spelled with a K, but it is the same city.  In his day it may have been a village, but it was a village that was founded at least 400 years before he was born.

How do I know this?  Well, today Luana and I took an 80 mile one-way trip by train to that place.  No, we didn’t discover any long lost relatives.  But we did find the people of Kampen to be genuinely warm and friendly – especially when they learned my last name and my story.  The streets were narrow, bricked, and lined with shops and houses.  And many of the buildings were very old.

We ate a piece of apple pie (Luana said it was like a kuken) and drank a great cup of strong coffee that the proprietor of d Olde Vismark, Alex VandenBosch, and I agreed most Americans wouldn’t tolerate. d Olde Vismark means “the old fishmarket,” and it is the site of that establishment from antiquity.  In more recent times the market was removed from that location because of the smell.  Alex’s restaurant is a really neat place with fine furnishings and a great welcome.

We strolled down the narrow street that was home to most of the shops of the town, and we weren’t the only ones on the cobblestones.  Scores, if not hundreds, of folks were out on this pedestrian-only road at the end of which we encountered a monstrous church building.

This facility, named Bovenkerk, was built in the early 1200s as a Roman Catholic structure; but the man I spoke to inside the assured me this was not “catolic,” but a Reformed church.  It was a massive building, with the floor composed of large, flat stones that also served as coverings for the graves of the faithful beneath.  I read names inscribed on the floor, names of folks that had died as far back as the time of my ancestor.  The pipes for the organ occupy one end of the large hall, the roof of which is supported by gigantic pillars.  The whole thing was awe-inspiring, and I wondered how many of those who fill it every Sunday personally know the God whom it honors.

At the very least, the time we spent inside Bovenkerk was cathartic, far removed as it was from the spiritual squalor we’d observed yesterday in downtown Amsterdam.

In fact, more than once we received indication from the inhabitants of Kampen that they are not pleased with either the goings on or the reputation the chief city of their tiny nation has acquired.  This, of course, does not mean that Kampen is a righteous stronghold of committed believers in Jesus.  There are needs there too, I am certain.

As we made our way back through town, we encountered a parade of ancient, horse-drawn vehicles – carriages and farm wagons dating back at least 150 years.  Many were drawn by jet-black animals.  Frieslands, we were told – from that area of the Netherlands.  Hairy fetlocks and proud demeanors.  A few teams of Haflings, small horses from Italy, were in evidence.  And, at the end of the whole line was a large farm wagon drawn by two stunning pairs of roan Belgians.  More about these equines in a moment.

The parade of buggy and beasts was sort of the equivalent of a parade of classic cars in our country.  Those in the wagons and buggies were dressed in period costume.  They had driven their animals from 30K outside the city, and the parade halted in that narrow street as the mayor recognized each entry.

We had a great time talking with the folks in the carriages.  Indeed, that’s how we learned about the horses.  And, that’s how we received our first taste of mare’s  milk.

That’s right.  You read correctly.  The Belgians were all mares, and at least the left front one had a colt or a filly back home.  The man that was driving them actually milked that mare into a small paper cup and handed it to any in the crowd that would take it.

Yeah, I took it, and Luana and I both agree that warm mare’s milk tastes a good deal like cow’s milk, skimmed – not nearly the butter fat of a Holstein, let alone a Brown Swiss.

My Van Campen name, I, and the woman that shares it, found our way back to the train (Kampen is at the end of the line, east of Zwolle, if you care to know), and eventually back to our hotel.

It was a tiring but delightful day for old A.F.V.C. and his bride.

Tomorrow morning we fly for home at 8 o’clock.  It will be another long day.

Global South doesn’t have a corner on spiritual darkness.  Backwards as it is in some ways, bound as it is by a religion presided over by millions of gods, it may not be exhibit A of what it means to be dominated by the Dark King.

There are actually many places around this globe we all call home that might vie for that distinction.  And, in my book, Amsterdam deserves consideration.

We three couples, the Walkers, the Wetzigs, and we Van Campens, took a canal tour of this city today.  This place must rival Venice, Italy for waterways that crisscross the metropolis.  Boats, boats, and more boats.

And bicycles, bicycles, and more bicycles.  900,000 bicycles ridden in and into the city every day.  There’s actually not enough space to store and park the two-wheelers.

But it isn’t the preponderance of water, boats, or bicycles that makes this a very spiritually dark place.

In the Jordaan district, an area of the city that was built in the early 1600s to house very poor people, and that today has become the artsy part of town, we encountered a huge Protestant church building – Westerkerk, where Rembrandt is buried.  That’s the only designation I could discover.  Not Lutheran, Methodist, or Baptist.  And not even Dutch Reformed.  Just Protestant.  The young woman behind the desk in one entry to the edifice told me, To me they’re pretty much all the same.

On the north side of this largest Protestant church building in Holland, built in the 1600s, several large tents had been put up in an open area along the canal.  It seemed that they were even on the church property.  A couple of large and graphic phalluses adorned two of these, along with lewd titles.  One of the tents was called a church, and the flier attached to the wall advertized a variety of sexually perverse events scheduled for the week – much like the message board of a “real” church.

The flags flying over the bridge across the canal said it all, “Gay Pride – We are proud.”

I was nearly sick to my stomach.  It was as if that subculture was giving God an obscene gesture.  The tents stood in mockery of both the church building, the spire of which pointed heavenward, and the God about whom that building silently spoke.

This was just one evidence of the spiritual decadence of the land of my forbears.  Another is the Red Light District, of which the citizens here are so proud that it is advertised as a “must see” attraction.  One man, after reading my last blog, wrote a comment that the Holland I am now in is not the land of my ancestors.  He is correct.  This place, I believe, rivals ancient Sodom and Gomorrah for perversion and decadence.

Global South was, at times, oppressive.  But this place is its equal, if not superior.  Believe me when I say it’s just as spiritually dark in the West as it is in Global South.

We flew over Afghanistan, over the Caspian Sea, and over Moscow, landing briefly in Helsinki to change planes, before landing in this land of my ancestors.

Either tomorrow or the next day Luana and I will visit Campen, Overstillel, Netherlands, the land from which my paternal ancestor came to New Amsterdam back in 1650.  I don’t know what, if anything, we will find there.  I do know, in this land of windmills, canals, dikes, and tulips, that the clerk at this hotel, upon reading my obviously Dutch name on my USA passport, did not say, “Welcome home.”

Oh well.

It’s good to be back in the West.

Pastor D’s courage and boldness drained out along with all of the water.  He quit praying for the sick.  He stopped visiting and doing ministry.  He began to focus on temporal needs.  And, his wife was justifiably concerned.

As I sat with the group of guys I’d come to know and love from my first experience in Global South, I gave them opportunity share with me what God is doing in their respective ministries.  Several stories were forthcoming.  Then, because I know what happens in group dynamics in such situations where reports are positive, I encouraged them to tell me about discouragements and disappointments.

No one spoke for a  while.  Then Pastor S told about his bride of 2 years who was writing the exam for nurses’ training graduation that very moment.  She was “carrying,” and the 2 month-old child was not developing properly.

Then, silence.

Then Pastor P shared that he had a recurring pain in his chest and back.  I’m no doctor, but as he explained the symptoms it seemed to me he may have had pleurisy, or something like this.

More silence.

I prayed about these concerns.  And then our time was up.

Immediately Pastor D was at my side.  And, almost immediately his wife, P, joined him.  He began to explain certain things that were troubling him in his ministry, “problems” is the way he put it.  But he did not mention the loss of courage.

His dear wife did.  In earnest tones she told me about the incident, and with fist closed and pumping, gave me to understand that her man needed to regain his zeal and his boldness.  She cut right to the chase in bold tones of her own.

We bowed together, the three of us, and I asked our powerful God to lift the spirits of his servant.  I asked that his boldness be returned to him.  I asked that he continue to courageously fish for men, casting the net into the darkness around him to draw people out of the kingdom of darkness and into the light.  I asked for Satan to be defeated, and for God to be glorified in and through Pastor D.

Will you also pray for the man who lost his courage?

What if I were born with very dark skin so dark that others, for a lifetime, would think of me as less than an equal?  (No, I’m not referring to my own country; I’m referring to Global South.)

What if my father arranged a marriage for me to an old guy who merely wanted a live-in servant?

What if I had t make every meal from scratch, even though I may be dead-tired, over a wood fire or the equivalent of a camp stove?

What if I had to eat rice three times each day with very little protein, let alone variety in the menu?

What if I had to do my laundry with a small bowl of water and a rock on which to beat the clothes?

What if the small  building out behind my dwelling is little more than a privy – dank, dark, and unpleasant?

What if I had a kitchen separate from my house – small, very small, and dark, resembling the miniscule pantry in a house I once called home?

What if there were no sink or running water in my house, let alone hot water?

What if I had to trust God completely for every mouthful of food, every garment on the shelf, every cent required to buy the books and uniforms for my children’s schooling?  Absolutely everything?

What if I never had a cent to call my own?

What if I could never go anywhere on my own in a vehicle that is provided for my use?

What if my mother-in-law was resident in my home, telling me at every turn what to do?

What if medical care were many miles away and economically prohibitive except in cases of absolutely dire necessity?

What if my neighbors resented my presence because I am “different” and thus represent some sort of threat?

What if?  What if?

Then, I asked myself “Would I?” if these “What ifs” were true for me.

Would I have a heart of rejoicing every day?

Would I wait patiently for answers to prayer?

Would I serve my husband and children with a thankful heart for what God provided?

Would I be able to truly love my neighbors as myself?

Would I be resentful that the education I’d worked so hard to attain did not seem to be useful at all?

Would I have a passion to continue doing God’s work, in God’s way, and with joyful zeal?

Good and probing questions.

Pastor K recently had the joy of uniting in marriage a couple that had been adherents of the local, multi-god religion.  Both recently believed in Jesus, and made that commitment know as the good pastor immersed them in the waters of baptism.

Pastor B had occasion to pray over a woman that was possessed by a demon.  As a result of her possession, she did not recognize her baby, nor desire to feed it.  After the good pastor prayed, the demon departed, and the mother immediately took up her baby to nurse.

Pastor K and Pastor M had visited a certain village with the rest of the pastors in their district, but that village repudiated them and told them to be gone.  Later a couple in that village had a baby that was born with some sort of physical deformity or malady that caused the little one not to be able to swallow milk.  The milk would come back out the baby’s nose.  The poor parents had gone from pillar to post, seeking help from all the local, multi-god religious holy men; but none could help.  The baby’s cradle ceremony, a ritual in which infants receive their names, was approaching.  The desperate parents called the two above-mentioned pastors to come.  Those two good men prayed over the afflicted little one.  Within five days they received a call from the parents that the baby had been healed.  That village is now open to listen to the Gospel.

Pastor VJK has planted four churches and has recruited two lay pastors.  The churches are self-supporting.  In addition, he and his wife have taken in 30 orphans, caring for them and readying them for public school.  His goal is to train 30 pastors from among the boys to plant more churches in three districts of this state.

Pastor D had targeted 20 villages, beginning a small children’s school.  The government school asked him to teach, and because of this the villagers began to accept him.  He then started a medical center, and two women gave their hearts to Jesus.  They asked him to help them start a business center, and as a result of this several more ladies have believed.  A lady with boils on her face was befriended by this good pastor’s wife, who challenged her to come to church for prayer.  Her face was healed, and she came to faith.

Another pastor saw a woman trust in Jesus in a village.  Services were held in her home, but her husband, who was a high priest of the local, multi-god religion was being pressured by others in his village not to let the meetings continue.  But he saw the power of God demonstrated through a series of events, and he also came to believe in the one true God and His Son Messiah Jesus.  Two of his children have also come to faith.

“Where the rubber of commitment meets the road of reality in Global South.”  Yeah!

We’ve often wondered what it was like “out in the weeds,” so to speak.  We have always seen our brothers and sisters and their offspring in a rather artificial environment in their Sunday-go-to-meeting attire.  Oh, we’re in their country, and in a city in their state; but we’ve never seen what it’s like where they actually live and work.

Today we were able to observe a few of them in their own environs, and believe me that what we saw was a far cry from “the good life” most of us enjoy back in the States.

We had to make the airport by 3:30 pm, and the first stop in our provincial tour was 90K away – about 56 miles.  Doesn’t seem like a lot, does it?  But it took 2 hours.  Our vehicle was comfortable enough – for maybe 6 people.  But we had 8 jammed in there.  Fortunately enough we had AC, or it would have been very nasty for all concerned.

Why should I complain about the ride?  The pastors we visited possessed, at best, a small motorcycle on which to balance four or five family members.  At worst, they had only a bicycle, or “Shank’s mare” –  a reference to one’s legs and feet, for your information.

The four-lane highway yielded to a wide paved road that became narrower and bumpier as we proceeded.  This ultimately degenerated into a single width, pothole-filled, muddy lane.  We didn’t go far enough to experience the inevitable footpath, but we did disembark from our taxi to walk through a portion of a village to see a church building under construction.

Wide-eyed and mischievous kids watched us from a distance.  A woman flogged her wet clothing on a large rock.  Houses (we might call them huts) with coconut leaf thatched roofs crowded close to each other on either side of our primitive, muddy sidewalk.  And, leading us along, was Pastor A…..m.  He has planted three churches and leads several life groups.

The new church building is totally unlike any similar structure under construction in our country.  In my first pastorate, a church-planting operation, we laid a basement foundation for an edifice 24 feet by 48 feet.  The one I saw here had no basement – only 5” by 5” steel reinforced posts on each corner and in the middle of each wall as well as in the center of the room.

That’s actually what this was going to be, a room with a roof, and not a very big room at that.  I’d guess it to be about 12, maybe 14, feet by perhaps 20 feet.  Smaller, I am sure, than the wood shop I plan to build on my own property back home.  The property itself could only have consisted of maybe 6 to 700 square feet.

They are building this structure as the money comes in, and total cost for land and building will amount to approximately $5,000.  That’s not much, you might say.  Truly it isn’t – not for those of us that live in a country where building projects run into the hundreds of thousands, even millions.  Much, however, when one considers that these pastors are living on $250 or less each month, and that many of their people are existing at a level below even that.  But again, not much to a God whose resources are limitless, as is the case with our Heavenly Daddy.

And, this is where some, maybe many of you come into the picture.  Needs like the one this pastor faces can be multiplied many times over in Global South.  They include health issues and health care, transportation, education for their families, and ministry equipment and expenses.  In some cases, to earn extra income, wives are considering taking up sewing, if, that is, a machine can be purchased.

Why don’t you take some time to pray right now about how you might be involved in the lives of these folks.  I will share more later, perhaps in person, about how this can become a reality as the Berean Fellowships in this land become more and more independent.

But, back to our excursion into the country. 

As we pried ourselves out of the vehicle at our second stop, we heard a Christian call to prayer over a loudspeaker.  At least, the voice of a young boy singing might be construed that way.  Children in the village were being notified that Sunday school was about to begin.  His daddy, Pastor V, was preaching at another location (he has planted 3 churches also, along with 5 cell groups), but rode up on his motorcycle in a few minutes.  We examined the church building and the two room family residence with outdoor toilet, after which a man who is an elder in the church cut the top off of green coconuts to give us all a refreshing drink.

After prayer with the family we crammed ourselves back into the vehicle, reversing our direction to the next stop where Pastor A…..m again awaited us.  It was one of his other congregations that met here in a rented house, and a little more than 2 dozen folks greeted us.  We ducked under a rustic awning to a sort of covered plaza (use this term loosely).  I appreciated our diminutive guide’s protective hand as I narrowly missed a protruding piece of pipe with my hairless dome.  (All I need is another blow to the head, another cut, another scab.  But God is good.)  Several folks were brought forward for prayer concerning physical needs:  a thyroid problem or two (this ailment seems to be common in Global South, along with “sugar disease,” or diabetes) and severe headaches, possibly related to a tumor.

For some reason, the prayers of a righteous and pale man from America seem to avail more than those of the average run of the mill indigenous pastor over here.  At least it seems that way.  But I know differently.

After leaving these needy folks behind, we traversed an even muddier lane to another village and the site of the church building in which meets the church family led by Pastor A…s.  Worship was in progress, and that progress was blaring through the village from a large outdoor speaker on a pole.  (Even though the church buildings are almost what we might term miniscule, a sound system seems to be a necessity, if nothing else to let the community hear the Gospel.  If the village won’t come to them, then they will go to the village.)

At this stop Tom was asked to dedicate a baby boy, which he did; but we had to leave before offering any prayers for suffering souls because our time was rapidly slipping away.  In fact, we had to call and cancel our last stop in order to make our flight south.

I’ve thought a lot about what we saw.  No large and luxurious kitchens here.  No granite countertops in a land that exports huge amounts of that commodity to our country.  No flush toilets.  No living rooms that don’t double as bedrooms.  Certainly no family rooms.  And, where we talk of an abode of 1,000 square feet as being small, theirs can’t exceed 400.  At least the ones we saw.  In addition, in most cases only a bicycle for transportation.

That’s what it’s like “out in the weeds,” where the rubber of commitment meets the road of reality in Global South.

Today I stood before a group of children with eyes spilling over with life.  They sang a song about Jesus being their hero as if they could barely contain their excitement.  As they passed me on the veranda or the steps, I looked into their eyes to see a smile, as small fists reached to touch mine in a special greeting.  How thankful I am for these precious children who are learning the truth from parents who are walking in the light.

Just days ago I sat in a small, dark house facing a group of folks who looked out of eyes that were completely void of life and hope.  Usually I can look at a child in Global South and with a warm smile receive a smile in return.  The children in that room didn’t even display a flicker of a response, even the littlest ones.

Two girls, about 6 and 8 years old, with neatly combed hair, wearing, no doubt, their best clothing to meet the white people from the USA, sat with their old woman at the end of the room.  Our host had told us that both of their parents were dead.  They were living with their grandmother, and she was desperately poor.

I smiled many times at them, but they looked at me with vacant eyes.

When we rose to leave, I motioned for them to follow me through the door.  As they stood before me on the path outside, I cupped my hand under each chin and looked into what I hoped was a listening soul.  My friend J translated as I told them they were beautiful.  I told them that Jesus loves them and cares about them.  They chattered back in their tongue, telling me their parents had died.  Tears ran down their cheeks.  I know, I said, and I am so sorry.  Just remember, and keep it in your hearts, that Jesus loves you.  I will pray for you.  I touched each cheek and then had to climb into the waiting van.  Would that I could give every child eyes shining with hope and joy. I have to leave these two in God’s hands.

Their dark eyes are etched into my memory.

This has all come about because an earnest young graduate of our 300in3 Project has caught the vision of planting churches that will plant churches ad infinitum to reach Global South and beyond for Jesus.  This individual (we’ll call him RR) has recruited three other qualified men to assist him in the training that results in a Bachelor of Theology for those completing the curriculum.  The college utilizes rented buildings in a town of more than 500,000 souls.

This is exciting stuff.  He has multiplied himself 16 times already, and his goal is 1,000 church planters.

And, to be honest, now I also “get it” as to why I had to come here once again.  God wanted to show me what he is doing, that he is indeed at work through faithful men.