Shopping in this country is a totally different experience than shopping in the States.  Here, whether it’s in a small sidewalk ship or a big department store, the sales people are immediately present to lend their aid - usually two or three of them.

In an effort to please, or to make a sale, they begin to haul out everything they think you may like.  This is done in such a flurry one cannot begin to take in the array of merchandize piled in front of her.

I am assured by the sales person, This will look beautiful on you, madam.  Even if it’s the wrong size and of a color I would never wear! 

I must admit that those enthusiastic clerks make me all excited about shopping.  The sales ladies at Yonkers could take a lesson!

Normally we male types don’t go in for shopping.  But this morning, because we had some time to kill, the ladies wanted to go; and they wanted the security that strong men tend to supply, so Bill and I accompanied them.

It was a large, mall-like store downtown.  And it was full of men’s and women’s clothing of all types (from hip-hugging, low slung jeans to saris and salwars for women and shirts and slacks for men) as well as all kinds of jewelry and bangles and baubles.

The ladies disappeared immediately after we entered the establishment, so Bill and I made our way around the place, taking it all in.  Very modern.  Very western (not as in Lonesome Dove, but as in East is East and West is West and never the twain shall meet - Kipling).

We wound up in the men’s department - a huge place.  And, we decided to buy shirts, or some other indigenous articles of clothing.  I was looking, with the aid of a young salesman, and trying to decide what size would fit, when Bill selected a kurta.  He went into the “trial room,” a place corresponding to our fitting rooms in the States, to put it on.

I just looked up “kurta pyjama” on the web.  It can be for either informal or formal occasions.  It’s long, coming down to or below the knees, and is worn with what’s called a pajama.

By this time the taxi driver had parked his vehicle and had joined us in the men’s shop.  I said to him, How’s he look in that?  Smart, he said.  I thought Mr. William looked like a Berean version of Bishop Tutu, but I said, Smart, Bill, smart.  You look smart.  I really wanted him to buy it and try to wear that back in the States.

In the end, better judgement (his) prevailed, and we both bought shirts, this after considerable “shopping.” 

I guess we guys do know a thing or two about this sport, but we’re rookies compared to the two women.  We had to drag them away from the jewelry counters, where they were picking out things for folks back home, in order to make it back to the hotel on time.  They could have shopped till they dropped, as Luana indicated when we settled into the taxi. 

Bill and I had had enough, with only two shirts as evidence we’d even left our rooms.  

Bill came to breakfast suffering from “black tongue disease.”  He got up this morning, Monday, and as he brushed his teeth he noticed that his tongue was black.  What would you think if that happened to you?

 He was fairly certain he’d contracted a deadly virus or something.  After breakfast he went to the computer downstairs to go on line for information.  He found that a combination of Pepto Bismol and acidophylus pills can produce a black residue on the tongue. 

He’d had dosages of both last night.

He was relieved.  And, so were we! 

But that didn’t stop us from having a lot of fun at his expense.

His tongue is pink again - partly from the scrubbing he gave it, both with the toothbrush and his napkin, and partly because there’s nothing wrong with him.

Since the Johnsons and the Wolfes were scheduled to fly out to their southern (way southern) destination late in the morning, and since we’d had our fill of taxi riding yesterday (Saturday), today we decided to worship in our hotel. 

No, we didn’t sleep in.  We had breakfast at a reasonable hour, after which the Johnsons went to tidy up the “worship center,” also known as their room.  We met for an hour to read Scripture, sing, and pray.  It was a worshipful time on this Lord’s day.

The aforementioned couples then took the taxi to the airport.

This afternoon, after resting for a couple of hours, we VCs and the Koesters walked down the busy streets to a grocery where we purchased some bananas, snacks, and boxed ingredients for two indigenous dishes requested by our son Nate.

It was an interesting stroll.  People, people, people - everywhere.  They seemed curious about the only white faces on the streets, but were very polite.  In the grocery store two helpful young women answered my questions about the price of bananas, even looking me up in another aisle after I’d selected green ones to make sure I knew I couldn’t eat them for a couple of days.  (I actually knew this, believe it or not, but thanked them anyway.)

On the way back to the hotel we bought four ripe bananas from a street vendor and strolled along like four pale monkeys eating the fruit.  We could have thrown the peels on the street - every other conceivable piece of trash was there already, but Bill opined that it would probably be that one misstep that got us foreigners arrested.

I spotted some dumpster-type receptacles across the street and went over to toss in my peel, being careful not to disturb the fellow that was relieving himself against the wall there.  Then I turned and called across to the others, Throw your peels over.  They did, one by one, and I dunked them into the bins. 

This seemed to amuse more than a few passersby.  This was probably as much that they would never think of throwing their refuse in there as it was the actions we took to do so.

It’s been a restful Lord’s Day.  Right now, as I write this post, you folks in Nebraska are rubbing the sleep out of your eyes (except for you, Preston Powers :)) and thinking about getting ready for church.  It’s 7 a.m. there, but Sunday evening here - 6:30, to be exact. 

Have a great day together.

Women are women, where ever you find them.  We all want to be loved by our husbands, to be able to have children to care for, to enjoy looking pretty, and to be warmed by the good fellowship of sisterhood.  

I watched with great interests as these traits were demonstrated by the women I’ve met in the past few days.  I saw a special glow flow across faces as young husbands brought their beautiful wives to me with the proud introduction, “This is my wife.” 

“She is beautiful,” I would say (and mean it).

Women brought their children to me, indicating that the little ones should hold out a hand for me to shake.  Beautiful children with large black eyes and dark hair.  Children dressed in their finest clothes.  The mothers so glad that I admired their little ones.

Two women came to me quietly and asked that I pray for God to give them children - children to be loved and taught and appreciated as gifts from God.  Obviously it is very important in this culture to have children.

After a couple of days I began to notice that the women were wearing different sarees.  After my shopping trip, I recognized that many of these were new.  As I sat in the back of the room watching the ladies coming in for the evening session I greatly enjoyed a new kind of fashion show, at least for me.

Such a variety of sarees, each one unique, each one beautiful.  The women, I could tell, felt beautiful in them.  These were their best and newest fineries.

I admit that the fellowship these women wenjoyed together was the best thing of all.  They sang for each other’s children, and shared what was needed.  They listened attentively as a young woman, only 21 years old, taught them.  They welcomed all of us warmly.

On our final day we, the four Americans, helped host a ladies’ luncheon.  I was able to share my story with the indigenous women, and they responded with open hearts.   At the close of our time with them, they all streamed to the area where we stood, giving us hugs and kisses.  I was genuinely sorry to say good-bye.  When I left home I prayed that I would bond with the women of this land. 

I did.

I was tired of the cuisine in this subcontinent before I arrived on its shores.  I’ve stuck with the omelettes in the morning, and whatever I can glean from the buffets at night (much later dining times than at home, by the way) that resembles “continental” faire.

But Luana - she tries a bit of everything.  And, when I say, I don’t care for that, she almost always replies, I thought it was good.  I want to experience everything I can, she says. 

Who knew?  I didn’t.  I had no idea, even after almost 42 years of marriage, that our tastes were this dissimilar. 

We’re all dining at a Pizza Hut this evening.  She probably won’t like that. 

By the way, she’s waiting for “inspiration” to write about her experiences with the women.  Keep coming back to this site - often!  And, thanks for reading.

Yesterday we flew to another city in which we will meet with another set of graduates and pastors and their families.  The hotel in which we’re ensconced is the same one Mark and I used last October when we visited Larry DeMoss and John Wilhelm.  It is very nice.

Luana and I slept about 9 hours last night - one of the best nights yet.  We hope Connie slept as well.  She came down with a cold yesterday, and felt pretty miserable last evening at supper.

That didn’t dampen her enthusiasm as we rode in the crowded taxi from the airport to the inn. 

Let me tell you about that taxi.  In the terminal Glenn visited two booths to line up transportation to the hotel.  The one offered two cars but cost 1/3 more than the other.  The other offered a large vehicle that could hold all 8 of us and our luggage.  Or so the optimistic salesman said.

Does the term “déjà vu” have any significance?  As I listened to the conversation, I was dead certain we were going to have another experience identical to what we’d encountered 3 days ago.

We did, almost.  When we arrived in the parking lot the vehicle was not in sight.  A wait of 15 minutes followed while several men gathered around and advised the fellow who’d sold us the ride what to about contacting the driver.  However, that man soon appeared - with a vehicle nearly identical to the one that didn’t work out in our earlier escapade.

Somehow, though, this time all eight luggage pieces were situated on the roof rack.  The ladies climbed into the two seats facing each other in the back, and we men crammed into the remaining spaces up front.

The women had strict instructions from the men to watch for falling suitcases as we began our trek through extremely crowded city streets.

They quickly forgot their responsibility as the urge to take pictures of whole families on motorcycles overcame them.  Not only that, two young men on their machines hove into sight and practically demanded, with sign language, to be included in the fun. 

Connie, who’s already filled her camera once or twice, was ecstatic.  Peals of laughter emanated from the rear of the vehicle.  A good time was had by both the occupants of the rear compartment and their subjects on the outside.

We made it to the hotel without losing a bag.  And, Connie is feeling much better this morning.

Bill Koester preached a charge to the graduates Tuesday evening.  Glenn Johnson preached on 6 promises from John 14 Wednesday morning.  My turn with John 15 came Wednesday evening 

You may not believe this, but folks here are actually more tardy than you are when it comes to making it to a meeting on time. 

When it’s time to begin a meeting, a fellow begins to play a keyboard, another thumps on some drums, and yet another person, either a man or a woman, begins to sing - to an empty room.  It’s almost like a Christian version of a “call to prayer.”

One or two women sauntered in.  Four or five fellows took their seats on the right side of the room.  The soloist continued her high pitched wail (perhaps the best description, without any denigration meant).  More folks arrived.  A toddler entered, totally unattended.  More folks came.  But, I was beginning to wonder if I were going to be preaching to the choir, if not just the soloist and my American peers. 

Now, don’t you folks at Malcolm dare to begin thinking like the indigenous folks here.  Let’s not make matters any worse.

Matters at this meeting seemed to become worse, from a totally human perspective.  We’d been at the Convention site all day in high heat and humidity.  We were surviving on nuts and berries, as they say (of course, out of sealed snack bags brought from the States) and a few crackers and such, because the faire served to our friends was definitely more hot and more spicy than our Western palates would tolerate.  And we were extremely tired.  (Glenn actually went to sleep behind me as I preached!)

I wondered how I was going to function after all that.  It was difficult enough with the language barrier without adding any other “negative factors” into the mix. 

Did I tell you about the general uproar that can exist while a man is preaching?  People get up, leave the room, and return, little kids play on the floor - almost right under the speaker’s feet, and men have conversations with each other in their seats.  I know this sounds a little bit like it is back home, but believe me, it’s worse here.

All of this can be unnerving enough for a guy who likes his environment somewhat controlled.  “Somewhat?!” you that know me say.  “Somewhat?!” 

Well, this uncontrolled environment degenerated even further.  About 10 minutes into my message Srinivasa, my translator, gestured to latecomers to come in and be seated.  But the empty seats were scattered through the crowd.  This necessitated more than a little moving around, so I told him I’d stop for this to take place. 

There was a general uproar.

To somewhat mask this commotion I turned to my American peers, all sitting behind me, and bade them join me to sing a song for the crowd.  They looked at me in sort of a daze, tired and hot as they were, but responded soon enough to render an a cappella version of Lord, I Lift Your Name On High.

Everyone found a seat, and the crowd settled down somewhat.  I resumed speaking, doing a quick review of what I’d said up to the point of interruption.  I waxed eloquent for about 8 more minutes before the lights went out.  It was pitch black.  But for some strange reason the sound system remained operative.  I was prepared to forge ahead, even though I couldn’t see my hand in front of my face and was using a manuscript so as to be more precise for the translator.  But as I began again, the lights came back on.

The crowd was nonplussed by all of this. 

I’d have to say that was the most chaotic environment for preaching I have ever encountered.  But (you may not believe this) it didn’t faze me a bit.  The Spirit gave me the poise, the words, and the power that all of you back home were asking for.  And, as the breakout session with the men the following morning indicated, God powerfully blessed the hearers.

However, I am not ready to surrender the rather more controlled environment we sustain at Northwest Community Church in Malcolm, Nebraska!  So, folks, don’t get any ideas.

Eight Districts of churches exist in this state.  There are 125 churches pastored by 89 men.  There are 14 graduates who will be embedded with the forces after these proceedings.  And, there are about 200 people at this Berean ILA Convention,

These come in two genders and in various sizes, ranging from small to much smaller.  Glenn, diminutive as he is, fits right in with the men, mustache and all.  On the other hand, Bill’s 6′4″ frame is highly visible in any group.  Mike and I are moderately sized American males, but here we tower above the average.  I, of course, can be easily spotted for some other obvious reason.

I’m a much smarter man than many of you may think, because I refuse to compare the sizes of our wives with theirs.

These brothers and sisters are small and beautiful people with large and lovely hearts.

And the children - the children are absolutely adorable.  (I can’t believe I actually said “adorable.”  Must be getting in touch with my feminine side?  But, “adorable” fits these tiny babies and toddlers, and it fits their older brothers and sisters too.)  They call me “uncle,” a term of respect as well as a designation of age.  They call Luana ”mother,” designating the same things.  I guess it’s better than “grandpa and grandma,” though that’s what Iwe are to them.  It’s certain that I’m getting my grandpa fix over here.

It’s been easy for us to fall in love with these indigenous brothers and sisters and their families.

We arrived, I forgot to tell you, at this location, the first of the two spots in which we will attend Berean ILA Conventions, on Tuesday afternoon after 5 p.m.  The first meeting with us present was to begin at 6, I think.

I said, “I think” because after a while here a person doesn’t really know when anything is really supposed to begin. 

The meetings are held in a Catholic compound a half an hour out of the city.  It’s a Pastoral Training Center, I think, and it contains cottages and rooms, as well as a meeting place.  Oh yes, there’s a kitchen and dining hall as well.

When we arrived at this place we thought we were going to meet with the leadership to discuss the plans for the convention.  Now, when you hear the terms “meet with the leadership to discuss the convention” you probably think like I do.  You see, at least in your mind, a room with men sitting around some tables rather calmly coming to agreement about what how things are going to unfold.  Then you probably imagine someone from that group taking charge of the whole show and getting things underway.

That didn’t happen.  There was no room with tables and chairs, and no men sat down to talk about proceedings. They stood around and discussed things much in the same manner that the matter of the transportation from the airport had been resolved.  Sort of like three indigenous men, five opinions.  Or so it seemed.

The meeting room was already filled with folks, including women sitting on one side and men sitting on the other and myriads of babies and small children filling in the space that remained. 

They were worshipping with music, loudly.  Any of you folks back home who want to complain about the decibels of the worship in your church should come here for just one meeting in these circumstances.  You really don’t know the meaning of “loud.”  Nor, perhaps unfortunately, do most of you know the meaning of “exuberant.”  Because that’s what it was.

Somehow, some way in all of this confusion a plan of attack was formulated.  Of course, it wasn’t set in stone.  It was subject to change.  Everything here is.  But the plan worked.   Even though the pastors in the field had been told not to come until Wednesday, it worked.  Even though what we thought was going to be a graduation ceremony Tuesday evening, complete with the handing out of certificates and gifts was reduced to Bill bringing a charge to the graduates, it worked.  Even though, as the meeting proceeded, it seemed apparent that the left hand and the right hand were each doing their own things, it worked.

Indigenous organization of conferences and conventions here seems to be a lot like the traffic patterns.  It looks absolutely chaotic, but it works!