Michael's Learns a Lesson the Hard Way

- Ede, Netherlands. February 13, 2003. Last night, during our weekly outreach to the Red Light District in Amsterdam, Michael got separated from the group and somehow wound up in the wrong alley. A group of guys, probably Moroccan locals speaking Dutch (not tourists) jumped him.

We didn’t know where he went, so we searched everywhere and finally assumed he got lost and took the train back to Ede. But when we got to our base house, he wasn’t there either.

Around 3 in the morning, the house phone rang. It was a very shaken Michael, and just as he was explaining where he was, his battery died.

Early that morning, we met up with Mikey at the hospital BovenIJ Zeikenhuis in Amsterdam, after getting a call from his attending nurse. When we arrived, we had to show our IDs to the authorities in the “Victims’ Trauma Ward”. Michael was laying in a special bed, bent over on his stomach.

“What happened? Are you okay?” We rushed to his side. Luke took Michael’s hand.

“Um, yeeeah,” Michael said, almost with too much vigor. “The doctors say I’m going to be fine. Just need a little time to heal.”

I asked him what happened. Did he get hit by a car? Fall in a canal?

“Well,” Michael muttered, “I got lost and tried to take a shortcut back to the group through an alley, and some guys jumped me. They knocked me down, and I tried to give them my money. They knocked it out of my hand and… then…” he paused to breathe, struggling to get out the next few words. “…then, then they broke off a broom handle inside of me.”

“WHAT???? Are you serious?” Luke and I laughed for a second, until we realized he was telling the truth.

We noticed his knuckles were not swollen or scratched, his forearms unbruised and pasty white. He clearly exhibited no signs of defensive wounds.

“I’m sorry, guys.” Michael said, staring straight down to the floor, laying on his belly on the curved bed.

“Don’t apologize! You didn’t do anything to deserve this,” we tried to comfort him, patting his shoulders.

“Yes, I did. I wondered away from the team. I went down an alley. I think I needed to be humbled in this way.”

We insisted that was nonsense. But really, in our heart of hearts, we thought maybe he was right. Still, this was too brutal for any kind of lesson in humility! This went from humility to humiliation! And it put him in the hospital!

UPDATE: February 16, 2003

Michael has been released from the hospital and is now recuperating at our base in Ede. He is in fairly good spirits, considering. He seems a little older somehow, and a little distant.

The shawl he drapes around his boney frame. His pointed granny glasses. His 1,000 mile stare. The rubber donut on the seat of his rocking chair.

Michael led our Bible study tonight. 18 Dutch college students, 7 high schoolers, a few on our team. His thesis: Never leave your flock. He prayed. He cried. We all held hands in silence for a few minutes. It's going to be okay. He'll heal. Time will help. And eventually, he'll share his story with a woman he loves.

INDIA: Homeward Bound!

Vizakhapatnam, India

Day 8

The blazing heat doesn't seem so bad anymore. My body has adjusted to the temperature (somewhat).

The odors don't seem as foreign anymore. My nose has grown accustomed to the smell (somewhat).

The food doesn't seem so spicy. My palate has adjusted to the diet (somewhat).

The sights don't seem as shocking anymore. My emotions have grown accustomed to the scene (somewhat).

And now it is my last day. Learned a lot being here. Seen and experienced crazy things. Fallen in love with the precious people here.

Still, SO READY to head home!

Don't get me wrong; I love India.

But sleeping on the cement floor of a rooftop, in a cloud of thirsty mosquitos, waking with the morning sun, having a sunburn by 6:15am, having the same meal breakfast/lunch/dinner (curry-soaked rice with meat/fat-chunk/hair-still-stuck-to-it bits), rummaging through a suitcase full of rancid garments with no hope of a washing machine, not showering and only having an occasional bucket sponge bath...wanting to help so many people but being able to do nearly nothing...wanting to share God's love with so many people but not having a translator or the means to do so anywhere...teetering on the brink of dysentery and dehydration...

I'm ready to go HOME!

Ooooooo Hoooome Sweet HOOOOOME! Hot showers! Privacy! Air Conditioning! Toilets I can sit on! All manner of FOOD! Subway, Pizza Hut, Ponderosa! Solid bowel movements! Downy fresh garments! Family! Fat people!

Still, something tells me I'll miss it here once I'm gone. But maybe not. :O Does that make me a bad young missionary? Or, just honest?

INDIA: The Crusade

Vizakhapatnum, India: DAY 6

March 26, 2000

Today, we participated in the largest outdoor gathering I've ever seen. Thousands & thousands of Indians arrived, swarming around hastily erected lights and speakers that reached back the length of a football field or two.

We arrived after dark, and the heat was far more bearable. A breeze even blew through the crowded field. Refreshing!

On the platform, 50 little Indians in suits and mustaches buzzed around, setting up chairs, while five or six others "tested" the microphones.

Thousands of people stuck their fingers in their ears as the large sound system cracked, distorted, and whistled. Funny how even big ministries sometimes don't grasp the principles of feedback.

The meeting started with an abnormally lengthy but passionate prayer in Telegu, the local dialect, lasting 8 or 9 minutes. The preacher's eyes were squinted shut so tight, and his fist pumped in every direction as he made his petition.

Finally, the music started with a really cool drum beat. I'd never heard drums like that before. They made noises and tones that slid up and down the musical scale. The drums appeared to have typical drum skin on top, with rubber circles in the middle. A beat on the drum, followed by a slide of the palm's heal on the rubber, makes a sound I just love!

In fact, I think I smiled through the entire music, forgiving the shrill singing for the sheer pleasure of hearing those crazy cool drums with their cartoonish tones.

The field smelled like dust & diesel exhaust from the large generator behind the platform. The thousands of Indians, some who had walked for a couple days to be here, stood or sat patiently through the service.

After the very loud praying, very loud music, and very loud preaching, a call to respond was given.

"Jesus as your God, and Jesus as your only God!"

Indians have over 3 million gods, and many will accept Jesus as simply one among many. However, the preacher made it clear that night that all other gods were false, powerless creations of men.

"With one batch of cement, you form a god that you worship, and lay a sidewalk you walk on! With the same piece of wood, you carve an idol to whom you pray, and throw the other half in the fire for fuel! See, we have been deceived -- we worship creation rather than the Creator, but the Creator is merciful and waiting for you to recognize Him. His name is Jesus, and only He can hear you; only He can save you; and He wants to tonight!" the Preacher pleaded.

Across the field, weeping broke out. I saw several men prostrate on the ground, clenching the orange dust with their fists, tears pooling below their heads.

"Jesus, Creator, Savior," our translator said they were crying.

Indian women sat by the hundreds, tearful eyes closed and heads tilted sideways, silently mouthing prayers, hands lifted high.

I've never seen anything like it. It was a holy moment.

There was an occasional scream and some excitement in various corners of the field; I wasn't quite sure what was happening. Later this evening, some pastors explained a man regained vision in his eyes, and one who was lame since birth with a muscle-less leg gained pounds of new muscle as the leg "inflated like a balloon".

Miracles like that are like UFO sightings - not saying I don't believe in them-- it's just I never see them for myself. Maybe one of these days!

Indian ministers made their way through the crowd, collecting information to follow up and plant churches near new converts.

We were asked to pray God's blessings over people, and did so gladly. In spite of their abject poverty, as I laid my hands on their tiny heads & silky black hair, I like I was blessing royalty. And I suppose I was -- new brothers and sisters, children of the King.

I was humbled, honored, and felt utterly unworthy. But then I felt something like electricity, the power of God, the blessing from above, flowing through me into these precious people! What a rush!

As my friends and I laid hands on them, some smiled almost bigger than their cheeks would allow, some jumped high like pogo sticks, some grabbed our hands and fell forward, overwhelmed. Some simply stood in what looked like perfect peace, saying, "thank you, thank you Jesus, thank you." The elderly leaned into me, some so bony all I could feel was skeleton, and hugged me. It went on and on. Some who I think were sick grabbed my hands and put them on the afflicted parts of their bodies -- they were not shy! They (the entire crowd) were thankful, grateful, brimming with new life.

A small pile of trinkets, idols, and fetishes grew towards the rear of the field. These cheap god-immitations formed quite a mound, and I noticed before too long, it was on fire. As the crowd began to dissipate back into the night, returning to their villages, many tossed these small necklaces and pocket idols into the fire as they walked past. Afterwards, each person breathed a sigh of relief -- as though they were releasing a weight they'd been carrying a long time.

All in all, it was a great night. Could this be a little what it was like after Jesus preached to multitudes? If this is just a glimpse of what missions could be, I could get used to it. Change some things, sure. But tonight, I feel so alive and want to do it all again... maybe not so loud next time.

God, bless those church planters, and bless India!

INDIA: Dark Miracle Tricks

(but really, not so dark, and not so miraculous)

Vizakhapatnum, India: DAY 5

March 25, 2000

The past few days have been a whirlwind of activity. Every day we've been to a new village farther into the interior.

In most places the kids come to us and touch our skin, and play with our hair, because we are the first white people they've seen.

We're going strong 1950's mission-style: A semi-portable electric sound system, complete with huge electric batteries, that weighs a ton. It's hilarious watching the middle-aged guys who think it's so important lug it around. With their brown braided belts, tucked-in polo shirts, and mismatched neckerchiefs (soiled bandanas), they look the part banging the huge system against their legs and guts all the way to every makeshift stage. If it were necessary, that would be one thing. But the crowds are seldom more than 200 people, negating the need for an amplified microphone. Guess it's a lot like some churches in the States in that respect: sound system set up for a group of 25. Odd. But if it makes the preachers feel better, it's all goooood.

Yesterday we came upon a village center, buzzing full of wide-eyed Indians. A makeshift tent with booths underneath was set up. Stark white sheets lined the ground, and every patch held two or three brown men, also clothed in white clothes. Some had beards, some had had no hair, some had their jet black hair died frizzy red. And people were crowded around by the dozens.

Our driver told us through an interpreter that it was "holy week" in that village, and all the local holy men had arrived to sell blessings, offer good fortunes, and perform various "impossible" feats.

The more superstitious on our team immediately began a torrent of praying in tongues, apparently convinced that was the only way to prevent a demon from entering them. It was annoying because then the rest of us couldn't speak to each other or hardly even think. When a few people get into a prayer frenzy such as that (which, from my understanding, would be far more appropriate in their personal prayer closet), it seems like others can't help but join in the mass hysteria themselves, piping in, too. Somehow, it just doesn't sit well with me when believers chit-chat back and forth with each other in tongues, and I wonder why none of the leaders have brought loving correction. Every once in a while, I feel myself not so much a charismatic, if this is what it means to be a charismatic.

Thankfully, (or not thankfully) one of the girls on our team got hit with a sudden need to use a toilet. RIGHT THEN. So we stopped and were able to walk around. I was the first off the bus, camera out & ready.

As I meandered a little farther than what I was supposed to, I saw:

- Several (very typical in this area, I've seen) swami-looking guys with baskets with, yes, cobras inside of them.

- Gurus sat contorting their bodies until they looked like backwards Ken dolls with their legs wrapped around the back of their heads.

- One man with a shaved head, no eyebrows, and a long white beard pounded nails through his ears and shoved curved spikes through his cheeks. There was barely any blood. He had a crowd.

- A very fat Indian (a rarity here) was taking food offered by eager villagers, blessing it and taking a small portions for himself. He "blessed" the food this by patting his head and bare belly with the it. It made me feel icky.

-A younger guy, very skinny, had strings and a bucket attached to hooks pierced through his lips. In the bucket there was a little water and a lot of eels or long fish. His lips were stretched LONG, and no, he didn't look happy. Every time he blew a kiss at the bucket, one of the black, long fishes would pop straight out of the water and "kiss" his stretched out lips. Then, he'd spit out what looked like a baby black fish into the water. That made me feel ickier.

- The only woman there, a rotund Buddha-esque looking woman with an abnormally large red dot dark dot on her forehead, was shrieking like a banshee. In between shrieks, she frowned, collected vegetables from people with various deformities standing in line. Then she shrieked again and....GOBBLED UP THE RAW VEGETABLES....PRACTICALLY INHALING THEM....THEN BURPED THEM UP IN what looked like DEEP FRIED NUGGETS into small brass pots. I immediately gagged, and everyone around me including the Indians were gagging, too, some even spitting into the dusty earth to alleviate their nausea. I nearly lost it when she sprinkled some yellow powder into the pots, and offered a pot to whoever left the appropriate fee in a larger brass pot. Gosh darn it, I don't know what they did with the pots (and the contents) they hurriedly scampered away with. This made me feel ickiest of all.

Well, we didn't get to do any ministry there since our time was so short, but I wish we could have a prayer booth or something set up there next time. People would listen! Next time, I'll ask that we get in on opportunities like that.

I certainly appreciated this glimpse into the culture. Something I'll never forget. Wacky. Wild. India.

INDIA: Face of Death

Vizakhapatnum, India: DAY 2

March 22, 2000

Horrible!

Today, after loading onto the crowded bus that would take us to the village, I realized I forgot my camera. I ran back towards the building we were staying at, and along the way saw a woman lying in the red dust by the side of the road. Two dark, bare feet poked from under a bright red and green sari.

It's normal to see people doing anything along the side of a road, including sleeping, but her feet were an angle too unnatural for her to be resting. She was laying on her stomach.

I bent down to see if she needed help, and as I rolled her over, it was horrible.

Her silky black hair gave way to a bloody skeleton for a face. I didn't understand what I was seeing. Attached to the other side of her head was a folded mess of blood and skin; clearly in the middle of it was a nose.

I let go of her and fell back onto the seat of my pants. "HELP!" I yelled, barely able to get it out right the first time. "HELP ME!... SOMEBODY HELP THIS LADY!"

Dozens of people were passing by on the other side of the crowded street. Vehicles were flying past. One middle-aged Indian man came jogging over, looking more angry than concerned.

"She's DEAD. Hit by CAR," he said in typical Indian accent, waving his hands downward as he finished, "leave her alone."

I was sweating and worried and my mind was racing. "We need to call the police!" What a horrible sight, I thought. Poor, poor lady, I thought.

"What for?" he asked, genuinely curious why we should do that.

"She has a family. They need to know what happened!" I was now standing looking to flag down any official vehicle.

"No, no. They will find her. Look," he hastily grabbed some cement chunks lying nearby and put them around her body, as if to protect her from traffic and passersby. "They will come looking for her, and they will find her. Go on, go on your way. This happens regularly." He again waved his hands, this time for me to get going.

So I did. But with one last glimpse at this poor, unrecognizable lady. When will her family come to search for her? Will they look in the right place? Will they know this is her? How could they know for sure? What will it be like for them when they see her? How could such a horrible accident happen?

And just as I asked that question to myself, a medium-sized lorry (cargo truck) flew past me -- it's hard metal mirror nicking my ear. I crouched to the ground, my heart racing. That must have been what hit her.

So, quickly I moved to the other side of the road, forgot about my camera, and got back into our bus.

God, help that woman's family. God, thanks for keeping me safe so far. God, please help India. Let this trip make a difference.

INDIA: Hot as Heck & Cornucopia of Conflicting Odors

VIZAKHAPATNUM, INDIA: DAY 1

March 21, 2000

Just got back to India. It's my second trip here.

When I stepped off the plane -- the moment I passed through the door -- it was like I walked into a wall of heat. It's so hot and humid here that it feels like I'm swimming in sunshine soup. Immediately, before taking a step further, my mind automatically began counting down the days left on the trip.

Somehow, I had forgotten how brutally oppressive the weather in India is.

After I collected my bags and stepped out of the airport, another series of blasts rattled my system: The Indian Carousel of Strong Scents. Every few seconds, rapidly rotating shots of conflicting odors fill my nostrils. One second, I smell delicious curry being cooked, the next second the smell of an open sewer, and still the next the hint of flowers and herbs. My nose is constantly doing double- or triple-takes: vexed, pleased, repulsed, appeased. In India, my beak is in constant overdrive.

India is indeed a land of stark contrasts.

Within a minute of driving toward our "motel", we pass a garbage dump, a fenced mansion with lush vegetation, and a strip of one-room stores lined by dry, barren earth. Men walk down the dusty street in suits, or in robes, or in loin cloths. Animals roam about freely: fat (holy) cows adorned with ornate jewelry; a skinny water buffalo bowed low, a horn tied to a leg. All this complicates the chaotic traffic pattern.

And everywhere I look, one of these creatures (man & beast alike) are going to the bathroom very publicly. Images and smells burned into my brain forever.

The conflicting sights of rich & poor, order and disorder, combined with the cornucopia of aromas wafting past my nose, always help focus my attention to what really matters: Scouting opportunities to serve those most in need, and encouraging & equipping local ministry workers.

I'm at my lodging for the next few days: An old mattress on a flat rooftop, surrounded by 15 other friends prepping their makeshift beds as well. Looking forward to sunset and more bearable temperatures.

This trip better be worth it. With what is scheduled for tomorrow, I trust it will be!

Now, to find a bath, shower, or at least a bucket! More to post tomorrow...

AIDS Monkey’s 7 Star Bombshell Shocker

JANUARY 28, 2007

The most interesting and disturbing conversation I’ve ever had just took place.

After a grueling follow-up journey focusing on our ongoing Pakistani earthquake relief, our small team was grateful to have a day layover in the Middle Eastern oasis of Dubai. It’s always a shock to the senses to go from the squalor of Pakistan’s remote regions to the opulence of UAE’s most visited city.

Settled in a baking, barren desert with daytime temperatures in excess of 110 degrees F (44C), this oil-rich nation drips with man-made, lush luxury. The world’s biggest indoor ski slope is set nearby a shopping area where giant subterranean turbines blow air-conditioned coolness across the outdoors.

Looking for a souvenir that won’t soon be forgotten? Vending machines sell (non-edible) gold bars by the ounce. Luxury automobiles can be purchased in under five minutes with a credit card swipe and a few signatures – and delivered to your driveway anywhere in the world within a day.

We enjoyed a superb meal in an underground restaurant, walked about the city for some hours, taking in some sights, and even stopping to pray in the name of Jesus for the only cripple we came across. Refreshed, we finally made our way back to the airport.

Breezing up to our check-in counter came an older gentleman with quite an entourage. They all wore turbans and sunglasses, with what appeared to be very expensive robes or suits. Beside their ostrich & silver-studded suitcases stood a fairly large, aluminum egg-shaped cage on wheels.

In no time at all, they were off to the gate, and as they whisked past us, through the only opening in the cage (a circular glass window with a vent above it) I could see what looked like a robed ape sitting in a small recliner.

We laughed and wondered what that was all about.

Thankfully, those men were on board our oversold flight. Two of us were upgraded to first class. The chrome dome cage was buckled in at the very front row, and the faint odor of cigarette (or marijuana???) smoke leaked from a hose connected to an overhead vent. Was the monkey smoking?

I sat next to the youngest man of the entourage, probably a teenager, who was all too excited to practice his English with me.

I told him of our work in Pakistan, helping families displaced by earthquakes (and the occasional, unfortunate misguided American bomb) to be resettled in semi-permanent housing, his eyes lit up.

“So… You are the GOOD AMERICAN… yes?”

“Yes,” I replied, ready to give an answer for the reason we share such love and hope.

When I asked him what his group was, and if he was related to the older gentleman or if he worked for him, his reply was, “both.”

And what he told me next was part of the most interesting and disturbing conversation I’ve ever had. He settled into his chair and leaned closer to me, lowering his voice.

“You are a good man, no? I think I can trust you." He waived his hand dismissively. "Our private jet is under repair, so here we are. You see the animal in the cage up there?"

He pointed. I nodded.

"It is the AIDS Monkey. You know, the monkey who started the AIDS virus. Until last week, only 8 or 11 of the world’s richest men knew where he was.

“For the past 29 years, that monkey has been kept in a 7-Star hotel room in Qatar, but now, the secret is out. So we are on to move to a more secure location.”

“Are you serious?” I asked in disbelief.

“Yes. And he is quite a character! Through the battery of tests required to find a cure, we must do our best to keep this animal alive. He is given the best food in the world, sleeps in the most comfortable of beds, and is afforded every luxury necessary to stay relaxed and entertained.”

He went on, “But he is SPOILED. Very hard to keep up with his ever-changing appetites and needs. He is very, very difficult! A prima donna, as you say!"

His eyes squinted, and he whispered the next part. "He is recluse, and party animal... I'm not sure how it started, but he is addicted to filterless cigarettes and wheat [I think he meant weed], and some pills... and not just any kind, only the best... One day he eats the rarest specialty-prepared sashimi and the next day he wants premium French cat food. If we try to give him something else, he throws a fit!

“Everyone caters to him now. Most of us live in fear; afraid if we make the wrong move he will either fire us or throw his feces at us. We bring in what is almost a parade of lesser monkeys, one or two at a time, and he either accepts or rejects them. Those he accepts are dead within weeks-- battered to death with sores everywhere. And then there are those few businessmen who underwrite everything. They come and go, too, often with similar wounds.

“So we just do what the Monkey wants, keeping him happy and alive, and once a year a team of doctors test him to find a cure.”

He breathed a sigh of exhaustion. "Now, to the next home. The next den of iniquity. How to arrange everything-- the food, the monkeys, I do not know yet. But, I think we shall manage."

I sat with my mouth open the whole flight. Hoping to catch another glimpse of this odd creature. Too many emotions. I would have loved to kill that animal myself, but...BUT for a cure, I did not.

Before I knew it, the flight was over, and I watched as a special team of agents helped escort this group off the plane and to some 7-Star hotel, or castle, or mansion who-knows-where.

An unusual, if not divine appointment. And a sign to continue praying for a Cure.