Ruben

RUBEN

As we neared the small, isolated pueblo of Villa de Progreso, we spotted an elderly-looking man, a haggard figure, dressed in torn clothes and an old cowboy hat, with several weeks growth of unkempt beard on his face, walking beside the dusty road.

“Brother Steve, pull over! I think that’s him!” Ruben’s voice trembled slightly as he spoke.

We pulled over, and Ruben jumped out of the van. This was the man we had traveled almost 200 miles to find. This was the man Ruben had prayed and fasted for, the one for whose salvation his heart burned. a little unsure of how to begin, Ruben cautiously approached the old farmer.

“Excuse me sir, could you tell me your name?”

“My name is Sidronio Castillo Sanchez. And yours?”

“My name is Ruben Castillo Vega. You are my father.”

“Ruben?” It took a few seconds to realize that this handsome young man standing before him was the eight-year-old boy that haunted his memories. A closer look into his face dispelled all doubt.

Tears began to well up in the man’s eyes as he blurted out, “Ruben! My son!”

The moment is too sacred to describe. The young Baptist preacher embraced the father he had not laid eyes on for over 12 years. Until this moment, Ruben’s family was just another statistic - another home destroyed by the evils of alcohol. But from this moment on, the story is forever changed. Because of the grace of Jesus Christ, a father and son are reconciled!

Ruben had suffered. He had watched his mother sweep streets to provide for her children. He had seen his brother leave home to move to America in search of work. He himself had gone to work as a small child, selling donuts on the street corners to help put food on the table. He had grown up without a Dad. But instead of bitterly demanding some kind of explanation or compensation for the void his father left in his life so long ago, Ruben arrived with a heart overflowing with love and a message of hope.

I left the pair and spent the rest of the day in a nearby town. The rest of their day was spent strolling through the cornfield, looking over the cattle and the fighting roosters, talking about all that had transpired in the years they had missed. Finally, Ruben got around to the real purpose of his visit.

“Papa, I came here to talk to you about something very important. I received Jesus Christ as my Saviour last year, and I have given my life to serve Him. I am studying now to be a pastor. I came to tell you how you can know Him, too, and how you can be 100% sure of spending eternity with Him when you die.”

Then he took the Bible and sat down with his father to tell him the Good News of our Lord Jesus Christ. After about an hour, Sidronio humbly bowed before the Lord and recieved Eternal Life!

Truly, today was a day that both father and son will remember for time and eternity!

It is amazing how much more love will accomplish than anger. Some people seem to hold onto anger with a desperate passion, as if letting it go would rob them of their spirit. It fuels their energy and motivates them to achievement. What they never seem to realize is that it is the same energy that motivates them, eventually destroys them and those they love.

“I will restore the years that the locust hath eaten...” so says the Lord through the prophet Joel. I believe what I saw that day in the embrace of father and son was the restoration of years lost to sin and shame. It reminds me that anyone can forgive with the grace of God, and that such forgiveness opens the door to God’s power of restoration.

Today, Ruben is a missionary in the Ivory Coast, West Africa. To the best of our knowledge, he is the first evangelical Mexican missionary to be established there. After the writing of this letter, Ruben finished Bible college and worked as an assistant pastor for two years. During this time, he studied French in a language school in Mexico City before spending two years traveling and raising support for his missionary endeavors through Mexican churches. These two years of travel had a tremendous impact in the churches where he ministered.

Ruben's monthly newsletters may be read at his mission agency’s website, at www.mabmi.org.mx

Lorenza

LORENZA

Lorenza, in all her 69 years, never learned to read beyond primary level. She never even dominated civilized Spanish well enough to be easily undertood. The tonal accent of her Indian dialect and the mispronounced words were delivered in a sweet childlike voice that caused many to smile and nod sympathetically as if in agreement, though quite unsure of what they were agreeing to.

In spite of her limitations, she was good at memorization, especially loving to quote the Psalms. And how she loved to pray! In the hospital, the doctors were distraught when she decided to climb down from her bed and kneel in prayer - yanking out her I.V. and bleeding everywhere in the process. Her husband told me of the night he awoke to find her absent from the bed. He went to look for her, and found her on her feeble old knees beside the bed, where she had knelt some time earlier and been unable to rise.

Now her life on earth has passed, and the world never missed a beat. The societies of high finance, advanced science, and world politics would hardly consider her worthy of a respectful nod. Yet as I conducted her funeral, her simple casket was surrounded by people whose lives were changed forever by her influence. One after another, they gave the greatest tribute to Lorenza’s life that one could possibly give:

“This woman led me to Christ!”

Ever concerned for the salvation of souls, Lorenza literally loved many of her family and friends into the Kingdom. The elderly Indian woman will always stand as an example to me of what a Christian should be.

Does it seem I write too much about dying and funerals? Perhaps that is because I know a person who has gone to be with the Lord has finished his course and will not turn aside after you read about his testimony.

Or maybe it is because when I stand next to a casket I seem to feel a breeze from the open portals of Heaven as my friends and loved ones enter ahead of me.

In a way, from my standpoint here on the mission field, it is as if my work is finished in at least one more person.

Lorenza is another treasure laid up in Heaven.

Alberto

ALBERTO

Alberto came to our church from one of the Sunday school bus routes. He was small for his age and could have passed for a couple of years younger than his age 11. A scar, reaching from his right ear to just under his eye, betrayed a life filled with pain that was almost concealed by his easy laugh and impish grin.

Alberto had seen many men come and go from his mother’s life, and the one she told him was his father had given him the facial scar with a length of coiled wire when he was six or seven.

Soon afterward, his grandmother told Alberto and his brothers she was taking them to a birthday party. When they arrived at the “party,” it turned out to be an orphanage. They were dropped off among strangers and watched their grandmother drive away. It wasn’t long before they ran away from the orphanage and found their way back to Cuajimalpa. His father had gone away, and they were once again received into their mother’s home.

One of our workers found the family while on visitation and began to bring them to church. The boys did well for a time, especially Alberto, who seemed to thrive on the love and attention he received in our congregation. But one day, I found him and his younger brother sitting on a curb sniffing paint thinner. One of their mother’s lovers was living in the house and had beat them, so they had run away.

Paint thinner, in addition to producing a euphoric high, kills the appetite, making it a favorite of street children. I told them to come with me to the house so I could get them something to eat, but they refused and asked for money instead. So I picked up Alberto, slung him over my shoulder, and carried him a couple of blocks to my house. We kept them for a week or so and tried to locate their mother, who had moved. When they heard I was trying to locate her, they stole a few dollars they found on the dining room table and ran away again.

They stopped coming to church but we saw them occasionally. Always high on drugs, often digging through trash piles for food, and often in trouble with the law, Alberto always greeted us and promised to come back to church. He took it humbly when I rebuked him for his way of life and listened patiently as I pleaded with him to let me help.

I saw him last month. We were moving and he stopped by to ask for money. I told him to help with the moving and I would pay him. As he started toward the house, I noticed the modeling glue in his pocket and told him he would have to leave it outside. He carefully placed it under a bush and went in, whereupon I picked it up and threw it away where he couldn’t find it. Maybe I couldn’t keep him off drugs, but I would not just stand by and watch him! He followed me around for the next hour, pitifully begging for his glue.

A week later I saw him on the street and he asked for it again, as if he actually thought I would be carrying it around with me. I wondered if there were any chance at all for a young man who insisted on wasting his life. I hated to give up, and tried to invent in my own mind some glimmer of hope to hold onto.

It seemed nobody cared about Alberto - not even Alberto himself.

Last Tuesday, they found Alberto’s body in the Rio Borracho, a filthy, polluted stream that runs just north of Cuajimalpa. He had been murdered at 16 years of age. His mother stoically related the news to me yesterday afternoon on the street. As I stood in the street and wept, she seemed unaffected and even relieved that he was gone. His life on this earth is over. A chapter in my own life is closed. A young life has been wasted, and so few people even seem sorry.

What mark did Alberto leave? Maybe a dozen photos exist as proof that he lived. What part could he have possibly played in the designs of divine providence? It almost seems that even a life of notorious villainy would have been more meaningful than the utter mediocrity of his brief existence.

I, for one, have determined to allow his story to touch my heart. I remember it as a motivator to reach out to others who would otherwise be forgotten by the world.

Does Alberto represent a failure in my life and ministry? Only if I allow that failure to be permanent. I suppose that could be said of every failed attempt at something good. It is only true failure if it causes us to admit defeat.

Otherwise, it is only a stepping stone to victory.

Jasiel

JASIEL

Christmas Eve morning in Mexico City was cloudy and overcast, threatening rain. It made the sadness of the funeral even more profound.

“Why?” was the question on everyone’s mind. Hushed whispers accused any number of suspects. When a one-year-old baby dies suddenly, it can’t be the baby’s fault. There must be someone we can blame! It seems somehow, that we would feel better if there were someone at which we could point a finger.

• Was God punishing the unwed mother for her sin of adultery committed almost two years ago?

• Maybe it was the carelessness of the illiterate grandmother for leaving the bottle of aspirin on the table?

• Could the doctors be to blame? There was a Christmas party the night the boy slipped from coma to death, and all the doctors were drunk.

• The agonizingly slow system of a third world, socialist republic? The results of the blood test took three days to retrieve. The baby had already been dead for hours when they were finally brought in.

• Maybe it was the church? Perhaps God didn’t hear our prayers for healing - though we prayed unceasingly throughout the night and were still praying when the news of his death arrived.

Emotions slide between bitterness, anger, bewilderment, disbelief, frustration, and finally...resignation. It has all happened before. It is the way things are.

I have been on the mission field for nine years, and one of the most difficult adjustments for me to deal with has always been the high infant mortality rate. Probably, most other missionaries in third world countries would concur.

A burial plot could not be secured until Friday, so the body was kept Thursday night in the tiny casket on a table in the small house. We offered to keep it at the church, but Mexican families just feel they are being neglectful if they don’t keep the body at the house overnight. It seems to be their way of dealing with the reality of death. Being a Christian family, there was no burning of candles, or incense. But there are still certain customs to be observed, and guests poured in from all around, at all hours.

We had services at 4:00 p.m., 8:00 p.m. 10:00 pm. and 12:00 a.m. A number of people were saved, thank God. The Christians in the family worshipped the Lord together and received comfort from God’s Word.

We buried the baby on Friday afternoon. I led the funeral procession and helped carry the casket as we trudged the two blocks from the parking area to the front gate of the cemetery.

Then we picked our way through the mounds of dirt until we found the hole that had been dug. We sat the casket on the ground beside the grave and I read from 1 Corinthians 15, as always.

Then I read from Romans chapter eight. Romans 8 is the chapter that my pastor says to read when you don’t know where to look for the answer. It has never failed me, and it didn’t this time.

Who shall separate us from the love of Christ? Shall tribulation, or distress, or persecution, or famine, or nakedness, or peril, or sword? As it is written, For thy sake we are killed all the day long; we are accounted as sheep for the slaughter. Nay, in all these things we are more than conquerors through him that loved us. For I am persuaded, that neither death, nor life, nor angels, nor principalities, nor powers, nor things present, nor things to come, Nor height, nor depth, nor any other creature, shall be able to separate us from the love of God, which is in Christ Jesus our Lord (Romans 8:35-38).

There is the answer, my brother. We don’t have to understand what happens. Knowing that nothing can separate us from the love of our God is enough. Everything He allows is filtered through that love. He never gives us anything that will harm us, never withholds anything we need. He knows what He is doing, and He always does right.

I don’t know about you, but that is enough for this young missionary. It sure got me through a tough Christmas Eve this year.

Beauty from Ashes

BEAUTY FROM THE ASHES

Yesterday, on my way to our daily staff meeting, a young woman almost jumped in front of the car. She held a bundle in her arms and motioned for me to stop. “She has probably mistaken me for someone else,” I thought to myself as I pulled over, but then she opened the passenger side door and said, “Sir! Please take me to the hospital! MY BABY IS DYING!”

She and another woman got in the car, and I began to rush toward the hospital only about 3/4 of a mile away. The young mother looked to be about 18 or 20 years old. She was hysterical with worry. “Oh, please breath, my son! BREATHE!” she wailed. I stopped the car. “The baby isn’t breathing? Give him here!” My mind raced as I wondered if I would be able to remember my CPR training and wishing I had taken those refresher courses.

I need not have worried. When she handed me the baby, who I later learned was exactly 40 days old, I could see immediately that it was too late. Her baby was not dying, but was already quite dead.

I sat there for a moment with this tiny baby in my hands, the body warm from his mother’s embrace, the eyes glazed over and the tiny mouth open, no heartbeat and his miniature members already beginning to stiffen. His lips were chalky and his skin had a purplish hue.

I handed the baby back to her and whispered, “We’d better get to the hospital.” In a few minutes we were there, and the women sprang from the car and rushed into the emergency room.

I sat there behind the wheel for a few minutes, stunned, trying to organize my thoughts. Finally, I decided to go on to the staff meeting and bring back Elizabeth, our school supervisor, and Juanita, an elderly retired woman who works full-time at the church.

The three of us went back to the hospital to find the girl. The other woman, a neighbor of hers, had gone. The girl sat alone - so very, very alone - in the doctor’s office, pitifully clutching her dead son’s body to her breast, with her face buried in the blankets, sobbing.

Because my morning schedule was full of appointments, I could not stay with her for longer than about 20 minutes, so I left the ladies in charge, giving them what little money I had in my pockets for the girl and instructing them not to leave her until she was with her family and everything was in hand. They spent the rest of the day with her, accompanying her to her mother’s house where the wake was to be held, helping to dress the baby, trying to make themselves useful and being a comfort to the family.

The priest was called, who offered no words of consolation but rather sharply scolded the young mother because she had neglected to have her baby properly christened. Then he took a glass of tap water and made a little wet cross on the baby’s forehead with his index finger. The mother was deeply distressed because she was not sure if tap water was valid for such things - the angry priest had not even remembered to bless it first.

The priest left, and Elizabeth took out her Bible and began to read the ninety-first Psalm. A calm settled upon the room of family members who had gathered around the child’s body. Then she proceeded to lead the girl, her mother, and the baby’s father to a saving knowledge of Jesus Christ!

When a nosy neighbor rebuked the young girl, telling her, “You should be ashamed for listening to these ‘Protestants!’ You were born a Catholic, and you must die a Catholic!” The grieving young mother shook her head and, brushing away the tears, quietly replied, “No, it is better to follow Christ!” And then she bowed her head to ask Him into her heart.

One secret to a joyful life is finding a glimmer of light in the darkest of our midnights and seeing the good that results from our deepest tragedies. Isaiah called it beauty from ashes. I have long believed that if one soul is drawn closer to God, it is worth whatever price paid, whatever pain suffered.

Nothing makes an apparently meaningless death more significant than someone finding eternal life in Christ through it. And nothing makes Heaven seem sweeter than envisioning ourselves walking with Christ and our loved ones together forever in it’s perfect paradise.

Martin

MARTIN

“I’M DEAD!”

A voice screamed inside Martin’s mind as he lay on the street in a pool of blood. Terror gripped him as someone covered his head with a sheet. “Why am I here?” “Why can’t I move?” He forced himself to think, and tried to remember what had happened.

Martin had been riding his bicycle for exercise when a car had turned the corner and hit him. He was thrown face first into the windshield of the car. When his face struck the glass, the bones around his left eye were crushed.

Martin could taste the blood in his mouth and feel it draining down his throat. He could smell and feel the blood flowing from his nose. He seemed to be bleeding everywhere. It struck him as odd that he could be conscious of all this if he were dead.

“In a few moments I will be standing before the Lord! What will I say to Him? I have no fruit to bring Him! I have been disobedient to His calling! I meant to serve the Lord, but now it is too late!”

Can you imagine, for just a moment, the dread that our poor brother must have felt? He has tried to describe it to me, but words fail him. He really believed he was dead and that he was about to be whisked away by angels to stand before the Lord and give an account of his life.

Sometimes it requires such a modern-day whale to grab the attention of a wayward Jonah who is on the run from God and his will. Though the remedy seems harsh, it is far better than the alternative - a life that is lived without meaning and without eternal fruit.

Rolas

EL ROLAS

Since his salvation, Martin has had a burden for the salvation of a man they call “El Rolas.”

Rolas, whose real name is Raul, is the leader of the “Rolas” gang, to which Martin belonged before becoming a Christian. Martin had been one of the “inner-circle” of Raul’s close associates. Their wives and children were also friends, and Martin felt that beneath Raul’s tough exterior, he was searching for Truth.

Frankly, most people fee that Rolas is a little bit insane. An evidently intelligent young man, he occasionally goes berserk and starts shooting at people from his roof, for no apparent reason. He has murdered several of his rivals. The gang has far-reaching influence, claiming to involve in their activities a number of federal police officers and high-ranking politicians.

Martin and I went to visit Rolas. My heart broke as I watched Martin plead, with tears in his eyes, for Rolas to give his heart to Christ. Can you believe his argument? He contended that he was “no worse a sinner than anyone else.” His illegal activities were just his effort to feed his family. He seemed to feel a need to say that, even though I had not alluded to it at all. He gave generously to his church (Roman Catholic). He went to mass. He prayed and occasionally even read the Bible. The Blessed Virgin would plead for him, and he was fairly sure he would go to Heaven when he died.

I learned years ago that people are often like parrots, mindlessly repeating the same tired, old and illogical excuses that Satan whispers in their ear. Still, it was a bit of a shocker to hear that one from the notorious “Rolas!”

Martin and I, along with others in the church, began to pray for Rolas’ salvation. Our hopes were high because of Rolas’ brother and bodyguard, “Rabbit,” who seemed to be under conviction. Rabbit would go to Martin’s house and spend hours asking him questions about God and the Bible. He kept putting off salvation, but we all felt confident that Rabbit would get saved soon.

We were wrong. Rabbit went to Hell.

In a fatal confrontation with some members of the “Bogart” gang, the big, sad-faced gangster’s fate was sealed forever in a blast of gunfire.

The Rolas gang met and decided what the retaliation would be. The wife and children of Rabbit’s killer would be kidnapped, tortured, and murdered. That would cause the killer more pain than if it were done to him personally.

You know something? You just never can tell what is in a person’s heart. Sometimes, you try to reason with them and they seem to reject everything you are saying. But when you leave, the Holy Spirit stays behind and continues to work. Then, all of a sudden, the person finds himself up against something that causes him to feel his need for God like never before. That is when you are sent for to tell him about God all over again!

And so, sick with grief, wild with confusion and anger, and numb with shock, Rolas sent for brother Martin.

Only this time, he was ready to listen. The tragedy of his brother’s death had convinced Raul that his arguments were powerless before the grim face of reality. Long into the night they talked, until finally the light of the glorious gospel of Christ broke out of darkness and shone in the heart of the sinner brought to his knees at last by the power of God!

A soul was saved, and a killer’s wife and children were spared a horrible death.

Cathy

CATHY (1996)

Cathy’s world was a dark underworld of drug addicts, prostitutes, gangs, and violence. Her neighborhood, Santa Fe, was notorious for its poverty, filth, and crime. Being in a gang was, to Cathy’s thinking, more a matter of survival than just a fad because of the security a gang offered. So she and her friends decided to form their own gang. She was 11 years old.

The gang, dubbed “Los Panchitos,” earned notoriety by its murderous lust for violence. A movie was produced about them in the seventies, romanticizing gang life. Embarrassed by the popularity brought to the gang by the movie, riot police stepped in and broke up “Los Panchitos.” Some of the leaders were killed, others were jailed, and the members were scattered. Many went on to more lucrative enterprises.

Years later, an older and more thoughtful Cathy begins to contemplate the path she has followed. Her husband, Martin, is a member of the locally feared “Rolas” gang. The money he makes from drug-running gives them a comfortable living, but it is a life constantly filled with fear and apprehension. She loves to dance, but every venture into a public gathering carries the risk of deadly confrontation with rival gang members. Drugs and alcohol seem to be her only escape from the prison she has made for herself. “Is this all there is to life?” “Why am I even here?” She has many questions, but gets no answers.

One day last April, I was out soul winning when I met a man jogging down the street. He wore the telltale paraphernalia of the street gangs – crew cut, goatee beard, tattoos, and the two small earrings in his right ear that identified him locally as a “Rolas” member.

I stopped him and began to witness to him. I was surprised to find him very humble and open to the Gospel. Soon he bowed his head, repented of his sin, and trusted Christ as his Saviour! The man was Martin, Cathy’s husband!

The couple came to church with their children. Soon the whole family was saved and baptized. A dramatic transformation began to take place!

Martin now uses his old drug-running van for a Sunday school bus route. He and Cathy go soul winning every week, and regularly have their converts in church and baptized. Their converts are often from the old crowd - the dregs of society that many people would like to pretend don’t even exist. Harlots, drug addicts, drunks and criminals have come to Christ through Martin and Cathy’s labor and testimony.

What a far cry from the angry frightened, confused little girl that helped start of Mexico City’s most famous street gangs all those years ago!

Carmen

CARMEN (1996)

People pass by the young woman in the wheelchair with hardly a glance. They have seen plenty of crippled beggars on the streets of Mexico City. Some feel pity for a woman so young and otherwise healthy with no legs. They secretly wonder if she will ever experience the joys of marriage and motherhood. They wonder what kind of life she leads, what kind of house she lives in. Others, to ease the pain of guilt, tell themselves she probably makes more money than they do. They wonder how much the wheelchair must have cost. They wonder if she is really crippled, or if she is just sitting on her feet.

A young man rushes by toward the subway and holds out a peso to the young woman, but she just gives a cheerful laugh. “I’m not a beggar,” she chuckles. “Oh, of course,” the young man replies with a knowing smile. “How much are your little booklets? I’ll buy one from you.”

“But these are not for sale. These little booklets are portions of the Bible. I am giving them away for free! They tell you how to be saved and go to Heaven!”

He takes one of the Scripture portions and goes on his way, shaking his head in bewilderment. It just does not seem logical that this young woman, obviously of a lower social class than he - and crippled besides - instead of asking him for money actually gave him a gift! This was one booklet he would have to read!

Carmen Garnica lost her legs to a debilitating illness as a child when her mother, a Massagua Indian, could not obtain enough money to afford proper medical care. An attractive young girl, she married a young man named Apolonio while still in her early teens and bore him two strong boys, Moises and Antonio. The family was very poor, living in a leaky plywood shack with a dirt floor, but was exceptionally close and loving.

On Sunday afternoon the family was strolling through the downtown park when the saw one of our street preachers preaching in the open air. They stopped to listen and were approached by one of our personal workers. The whole family received the gift of salvation by faith! Now they are actively involved in the same ministry through which they met Christ!

At first, Carmen was limited to just handing out literature, but now she has learned to personally win souls, and the Lord uses her mightily. She is an encouragement to our whole church family by her undaunted courage and zeal for souls. She has an easy laugh and a sense of humor. I sometimes tease her that she has an unfair advantage in that she can hold more Gospel tracts than anyone else, because she piles them up on her lap.

One time a thoughtless so-called Christian actually scolded her while she was on the street winning souls to Jesus. “If you were really right with God, you would not be in that wheelchair!” To which Carmen wisely and cheerfully replied, “The sin that God saved me from was much worse than this wheelchair!”

Our God does indeed use the foolish things of the world to confound the wise, and the weak things of the world to confound the mighty!

Sometimes churches become so eager to add to their membership the young and strong, the independently wealthy, the influential and the brilliant that we forget the command to “go out into the highways and hedges, and bring forth the blind, the halt, and the maimed.”

And it seems that every time this happens, His power is overlooked in the church’s rush to advance in worldly power and prestige. When that happens, everyone suffers - the church, the lost souls that are neglected, and the broken heart of Christ.

Andres

ANDRES (1995)

Somewhere, sometime during Holy Week, someone gave a copy of John and Romans to a group of young men who had been drinking quite a bit. About four thousand copies of John and Romans were passed out that week, but this one had a special destiny.

Later, this same group of young men was walking down the street and passed an elderly, one-legged man sitting in front of his small dry goods store. One of the men handed him the booklet, and they all took off running. Later, as an afterthought, the young man returned to ask the storekeeper if he had enjoyed the book. At his affirmative reply, the drunk charged the storekeeper a peso for the booklet!

The storekeeper was interested and began to read the little booklet. As he read, he became overwhelmed with a sense of dread and conviction, and called the telephone number on the church stamp to ask for some guidance. Our assistant pastor, Jorge Martinez took the call, and he and I went to visit the man that evening.

When we arrived at the little store, which was operated in a front room of his house, we met Mr. Andres Martinez. He smiled a big, toothless grin when he saw us approaching, and called to his wife to tend the store while he took us to the living room to talk there, he first seated us and then sat down with his cowboy hat in his lap and his hands folded in front of him.

“Never in my life have I read even a part of the Bible before this week,” he told us as he related the story. For about 45 minutes, he sat listening, with cowboy hat in lap and hands folded in front of him, quietly responding to each Gospel truth presented to him. At 8:11 p.m. on April 20th, 1995, Andres bowed his head and humbly called on the Lord.

When Jorge asked him afterward where he would be going when he died, he just smiled that big toothless smile and replied, with a finger pointed skyward, “In Heaven, with the Lord!” The following Sunday he accompanied us to our church and publicly confessed Jesus Christ as his Saviour!

Often, people will burn our tracts and Scripture portions, or tear them to shreds and throw them into the street. Even though that drunkard was dishonest in selling a Scripture portion that was intended for free distribution, we must say with Paul, “What then? notwithstanding, every way, whether in pretence, or in truth, Christ is preached; and I therein do rejoice, yea and will rejoice (Philippians 1:18).”

I rejoice that God used such an unlikely messenger to deliver the gospel message to Andres Martinez so that he could be saved! It convinces me more than ever that the Lord must have a sense of humor.

Evelyn

EVELYN (1994)

It is Monday, and the first day back to school after summer vacation. The teacher stands before the class of 4th graders and begins roll call. As each child stands at his name being called, he is warmly greeted by the teacher. “Welcome back, Juanito!” “Good to see you, Lupita!” says the smiling teacher.

“...Evelyn Perez.” Evelyn quietly stands as her name is called and sees the smile fade from the teacher’s face. “Oh, it’s you,” is the bland greeting given to Evelyn. Blushing, and painfully aware of the eyes of the class upon her, she takes her seat and prepares for another year like the last one.

Two years ago, Evelyn joyfully received Christ as her Saviour and was baptized, along with her parents, Isidro and Virginia, her sister Araceli, and her brother, Jorge Alberto. She was so thrilled at what Jesus had done for her and her family! Mommy and Daddy weren’t talking about divorce any more. The whole family began doing things together. She and her brother and sister found a new love and fellowship, and their new friends at church were so different from the ones they’d had before!

Conflict arose immediately in school. Evelyn’s teacher threatened to withhold her report card because she would not bow and cross herself before a picture of the virgin Guadalupe. She was ridiculed by the teacher in class because she did not receive “first communion” in the Catholic church along with the rest of the students.

Evelyn never complained. She took little homemade tracts with hand-drawn pictures and handwritten Bible verses to everyone at school, including the teacher. At Christmas, she made cards for everyone, always with the plan of salvation. At recess, she witnessed to her friends. Of course, she was severely reprimanded for all of this, threatened, and ordered to stop. But not before she was able to win several of her schoolmates, and even a teacher to Christ!

The negative attitude of the teacher was picked up by the students, of course. One girl announced to a group of friends that Evelyn goes to church “in a big circus tent - like a bunch of monkeys in a cage!” Some of the children told Evelyn that they were not allowed to play with her. They just couldn’t understand that Evelyn loved Jesus, the Bible, and her church (even if it does meet in a circus tent!)

The teacher closes the roll book. “Now class, let’s all stand and offer a prayer to the Blessed Virgin.” As the other children repeat the teacher’s prayer, Evelyn bows her head and quietly asks the Lord Jesus to give her the strength to be faithful.

Last Sunday night during memory verse time (the first Sunday after this incident), Evelyn stood and quoted John 15:18-19 “If the world hate you, ye know that it hated me before it hated you. If you were of the world, the world would love it’s own: But because you are not of the world, but I have chosen you out of the world, therefore the world hateth you.”

While it is unthinkable for an adult to persecute a child for his faith, and any kind of religious persecution is inexcusable, we can see that such difficult circumstances give an opportunity for heroism to be displayed.
May we be faithful to pray for Evelyn, her family, and Christian children around the world who go through this every day! May we learn from the example of this courageous little girl and her love for God!