This true story is set in Latin America. It tells the unfortunate experience a young national missionary family had with some American Mennonites who stayed in their home for a one-week mission trip of some sort. I tell you as a raised-abroad ex-MK, ex-missionary, current mission board chairman, and American Mennonite Christian -- this is a must-read article for any American Christian going abroad. -Mark Roth

Plummeted From the Pedestal

Elisa deftly rinsed the mop one last time and eyed the clean wooden floor with satisfaction. Here was one positive thing to show for her trial-filled day. The heat had been oppressive, the children grouchy and trying. Baby Karelyn's heat rash seemed to be worsening. Jorge had fussed about going to bed before Daddy came home and would not give in until spanked. Elisa splashed the dirty water from the bucket onto the dusty sidewalk in front of their rented home and scanned the street for a glimpse of Miguel's familiar figure.

The cool evening air was inviting. Elisa dropped onto the wooden steps and lifted her gaze to the starlit sky. Between the waving fronds of the palm in the courtyard, thousands of tiny lights twinkled down. "Thank You, Father," Elisa whispered, tucking an unruly curl under her veiling. "Thank You for Your grace that was sufficient today. Please lead us on in this difficult time and draw us closer to You..." Elisa paused, and a tear slid down her cheek.

"What are You trying to teach us, Father?" she implored. "I want to learn, but it's so hard." Moving many hours away from their comfortable home and warm church fellowship in the city to this jungle town of Puerto two months prior had been a sacrifice, but Miguel and Elisa had gladly left all. Seeking souls had begged them to come and teach. But now, only two months later, it all seemed to be a mistake. The seekers were offended when sound teaching exposed their needs. One by one they left for more accommodating churches. When no one showed up for the Bible studies, Miguel resorted to preaching on the streets uptown in the evenings.

Most distressing of all to Elisa was her young husband's deteriorating health. Miguel's arms and legs were often swollen, and sometimes while preaching, attacks of nausea compelled him to sit down. Miguel was optimistic while Elisa feared the worst. The mental stress and uncertainty weighed on her daily, often resulting in impatience with the children. Was the Lord nudging them to move back home? Go beyond this town to tribes deep in the jungle? Or just stick it out right here?

A familiar step on the sidewalk caused Elisa to glance up. A glad light shone in her dark eyes. "You're home, honey!"

Miguel smiled as he settled beside her. "I'm back. And I picked up something at the post office that I think you'll want to see."

Elisa clutched the envelope. "A letter from Karla! Thank You, Lord!"

Had it only been a year since their search for sound literature resulted in discovering the Mennonite mission in the city? A close friendship with the pastor's family, Curt and Karla, had sprung up. But since the move to Puerto, visits were replaced with phone calls and letters.

"Oh, Miguel, listen to this! Karla says that in two weeks Eric and Sara from their church would like to come, bringing several visiting boys from the United States along. They want to stay a week to visit literature contacts and pass out tracts in our area. Oh, I can hardly wait! It was always refreshing to visit with sisters from the Mennonite church, and if we ever needed encouragement, it's now."

"You said it," Miguel agreed. "And besides encouragement, we always learn from them. I still can hardly believe we found brethren who have long held to things we just recently discovered and started practicing, like the head covering and feetwashing."

"I just hope they don't mind our humble accommodations," worried Elisa. "I doubt Americans are used to sleeping on floor beds, but that's all we can offer them."

* * * * * * *

Two weeks later found Eric and Sara at Miguel's door, armed with literature and a desire to bless. Tagging them were three youth sporting backpacks and a thirst for adventure.

"Can I help you, sister?" asked Sara, entering Elisa's kitchen. "Here's a loaf of bread I brought from home."

"Oh, thank you, sister," replied Elisa gratefully. "I'm not accustomed to hosting people, and I don't know what Americans like to eat, so maybe you'll need to help me plan meals."

Laughter and shouts erupted from the living room. Elisa caught a glimpse of a shoe flying through the air from one boy to another, while Jorge squealed in delight. Elisa frowned to herself. "I wish they'd teach my son something profitable, like reading to him. Jorge really doesn't need more rowdiness. Should I intervene, or hope Miguel is overseeing him?"

Miguel and Eric sat off to the side, already deep in discussion -- evangelism, doctrine, brotherhood -- so much to discuss in so short a time. The boys soon tired of shoe-throwing and switched to teen conversation.

"Hey, have you seen these new ear buds I just got?"

"Whew, swanky! Say, I got this new CD with really cool singing; wanna borrow it?"

"I wonder what's cooking; I'm hungry as a bear. Say, have you tried out the new Mexican restaurant back home? Their steaks are killer!"

Friday night found Elisa exhausted. Even with Sara's help, the load of meal planning, shopping, cooking, and washing was nearly overwhelming. "Give me strength for these remaining days of their visit, Lord," Elisa implored as she chopped veggies for supper. "They're Your children doing Your work, and I want to serve with a willing heart. Help me to overlook the boys' rudeness..."

Loud cries from the living room interrupted Elisa's prayer. Stepping to the door she saw Eric sorting literature, and Jorge lying beside him crying heartbrokenly. "What happened, dear?" Elisa picked him up and stroked his black curls.

Eric cleared his throat uncomfortably. "He was grabbing and mixing up the tracts. I told him not to and he didn't listen, so I disciplined him. I'm sorry; perhaps I should have just brought him to you instead."

Elisa listened incredulously. "That's fine, don't feel bad," she managed, turning quickly to hide the tears springing to her eyes.

The remaining vegetables were cut with fury and the garlic pounded with exceptional vigor, while salty tears fell into the soup. The nerve! Elisa fumed to herself. Who does he think he is anyway, disciplining my child without my consent?

Three days later found three young men boarding the plane that would carry them back to a familiar country, language, and church.

"My, this trip was a blast," sighed one contentedly, stretching out his long legs. "I hope I can come again sometime."

"Plus it was worthwhile," put in another. "We handed out thousands of tracts. I wish we had opportunities like that back home."

"For me, the best part was our time with Miguels," added the third. "To think they're from an ungodly background and came to the convictions they have by studying the Bible, well, that kinda puts us to shame."

* * * * * * *

Six months later found Miguel and Elisa settled into their city home again and enjoying a visit from Curt and Karla.

"Tell me more about your time in Puerto," invited Karla, joining Elisa on the couch. Sunday lunch was over, dishes washed, and there remained precious little time before needing to leave for the long drive home. "We couldn't communicate easily while you were there, and you never mentioned much about it in the letters you've written since you're home."

"Oh, sister," began Elisa, "thank you for asking. I was wondering if I should share with you about our experiences there and since you asked, perhaps God wants me to."

"We went to Puerto to teach others, but God taught us instead. It was one of the hardest times of my life: facing rejection by those we went to help, struggling with child-training, and worst of all, Miguel's strange symptoms and failing health. Then the visit we anticipated so much from Eric and Sara and the boys turned into a great trial for me..." Elisa paused, uncertain.

"Go on," invited Karla. "I won't be offended. I promise."

"First, I'll tell you about a dream I had shortly before their visit," Elisa continued. "In my dream, a raging fire was coming toward me, and you Mennonite brethren were in the fire. The Lord spoke to me, saying, 'Arise and serve them.' The dream seemed senseless, and I didn't spend a lot of time thinking about it; after all, how could I serve you? You have all you need, you sew your own clothes and know how to cook and bake far beyond what I've learned. What could I offer you?

"Then that group came. Oh, it was hard. We had been anticipating fellowship, and we did have some with Eric and Sara, but they and the boys talked English between themselves, and we had no idea what they were talking about. I tried to visit with the one boy who knew Spanish, but he was cool and distant.

"The boys were professing Christians, but the fruit I saw pointed otherwise. Their mannerisms were rude and uncaring. I sensed their dislike of our food, and it bothered me tremendously. When Miguel asked how they were enjoying the trip, they'd shrug and say, 'Great!' but their nonchalant ways spoke otherwise. I remembered my dream and determined to serve them as if serving Christ. But then when Eric disciplined Jorge..." Elisa stopped as sobs shook her body.

"Miguel was very matter-of-fact and told me I simply need to forgive. It was so hard! But after a long struggle, I finally found victory, and by God's grace I could greet Brother Eric warmly if I met him today.

"And the boys... well, that morning after they left without even bidding me farewell, I sat down and cried. I couldn't imagine how professing Christians could be so rude as to throw things at each other, just call us by our first names, and, worst of all, leave without bidding me farewell. Then Miguel reminded me that someday Jorge will be a youth and perhaps offend others. God forbid, but if he someday acts as rudely as those boys, we would want others to deal patiently with him." Elisa paused to blow her nose and wipe the tears from her eyes.

"I'll admit, sister, that after their visit, I was tempted to throw you all out and not have anything to do with any of you Mennonites anymore. Again, Miguel helped me see my error and the need to forgive."

Karla listened, praying for wisdom. Should I explain the thing of cold-climate versus warm-climate culture? No, perhaps that would justify ourselves.

"I'm so sorry about all those offenses while Eric and Sara and the boys were there," Karla apologized. "I do not know the boys well, so I don't know if your conclusion about them not being Christians is accurate or not. I imagine they were totally unaware of what causes offense in this culture. But you know, sister, I rejoice to see what you allowed Christ to do in your heart through that experience. We Mennonites plummeted from the high pedestal you had placed us on, and Christ replaced us there."

The kitchen door cracked open. Curt's smiling face appeared near the top of the doorway while the faces of two children peeked in near the bottom. "Ready to navigate the traffic jungles?"

Elisa was on her feet, stuffing snacks into a bag for her guests on their ride home, "This talk has done me so much good, sister. Although it's past and forgiven, sharing has been healing."

"It's been good for me too," affirmed Karla. "Let's keep Christ in His rightful spot, on the pedestal of our hearts."

© Copyright R. Martin -- published here at Anabaptists with the author's permission
You might be sure the author's first name is Robert, but it could be Roberta, you know. Or Ron instead of Rhonda. Or Ruthie, not Reggie. Look, it could even be Martin (as in Roth, Martin). Anonymous authors can get quite creative. So don't try to figure it out -- at times we have to accept that some names just are R. (Besides, don't forget this possibility: the author's actual last name could be Allan, Baer, Jones, Kropf, Young, Zelinkski, or...) And speaking of names, they have been changed in this true account. -Mark Roth