Of Humpty Dumpty, Horses, Men, and God
Nutie saw me struggling. I was working really hard and hadn’t any time to write. She said, “We should escape someplace where nobody knows you. Take the entire month of October and finish your book.”
We went to Matagalpa, a town in the coffee-covered mountains on the Pacific side, and rented a little apartment on a hill. Our street address there was H Bermudez, 3CS, 1CE, MCN, MCO, MCN, which was Nicaraguan code for, From the Hotel Bermudez, you go 3 blocks South, 1 block East, half block North, half block West, and half block North. Even if someone came to Matagalpa looking for me, they wouldn’t be able to find it.
Then I ran into Melvin Mendez at the supermarket. “Why don’t you come teach a class on cross-cultural mission at the institute,” he said. “And while we’re at it, I want you to preach next Sunday.”
Social and Spiritual Security
Holy Collusion! A Personal Account of My Trip Downriver With Ukrainian-American Missionaries, Known as The Russians
Whizzing along with just enough velocity to pass a couple of men floating downriver in a raft, we reached the first milestone on our way to Sawa long after our projected ETA. Someone got the idea of throwing little bags of candy at the women and children washing clothes and bathing at the water’s edge. Pretty soon, the sky was raining candy and the whole village—grannies and old men with staffs—were scrambling down the embankment and diving into the water to recover small treasures before the current swept them away. Nothing like this had ever happened there before. The glee that overcame givers and receivers alike was magical. We repeated this spontaneous action in the other villages also, announcing our arrival in a way that set the stage for so much more.