Plane Coffee Mom

Chatting about Mission Aviation over coffee

Tag: #Venezuela

Prophets & Prayers

I’m currently reading through a Chronological Bible in everyday language. I have no idea why I’ve never done this before, because it is amazing! I am currently reading through the kings and the prophets. With a better understanding of the context I have a totally different understanding of Jeremiah, the weeping prophet. And maybe beyond the context of understanding Israel’s situation, I am deeply affected by the Reality in Venezuela these days. It’s a good mix.

Jeremiah was called by God to preach truth to a nation that was worshiping idols, a nation that was full of greed and evil and injustice. God warned Jeremiah that the people would not listen, but still he was to preach. Jeremiah preached in the temple and at the city gates, and the reward he earned for his preaching was imprisonment. This morning I read about Jeremiah meeting with the Rekabites and offering them wine, which they refused. And why? Because their ancestor had passed down the laws of God to them and taught them and they had obeyed. Because of their obedience they were blessed.

And though this is not a clear parallel with what is happening in Venezuela, there are similarities. There are clear indications that leaders of this country have turned from God and injustice is rampant. Yet, like the Rekabites in Judah of old, there is a remnant that is strong and growing stronger. Prayer, specifically intercessory prayer, is on the rise in Venezuela. The church is a high point in many areas, and children particularly are coming to faith. The Gospel is falling on good ground in many people’s hearts.

And for those of us outside the chaos and turmoil, there is real opportunity to invest in eternity. Food, medicine, nor clothing get us to heaven, but where the church ministers these things in the name of Jesus, it is blessed. In fact, we are promised that what we do for the least of these we do for Him.

Memories from Home

I was tired, too tired to get up. We had stayed up late playing Shanghai then the boys and I talked while we listened to our parents snore in their bedroom. I wanted to sleep, but the fear that plagued me urged me out of bed, the endless curiosity wouldn’t let me sleep.
“Too bad,” I muttered as I threw on a pair of jeans and a t-shirt and rushed down the wooden stairs, letting the door slam behind me as I dashed to the outhouse.
IMG_4897My mom’s “good morning” reached me halfway out the door, but I couldn’t stop. And I certainly wasn’t going to answer when I needed to get all the air I could between the house and the outhouse. I had it timed to take a huge breath just before I opened the outhouse door and was assaulted with the worst of the smell. If I was quick, I wouldn’t need to breathe til I was done and back in the fresh air.
Outside the outhouse I took a deep breath of the fresh, cool air, knowing it wouldn’t be cool for long. In fact, it was already reflecting hard off the tin on the house, doubling the bright sunshine and making me smile.
I finished and dashed back to the house. “What’s happening?” I asked my mom as though there might be something exciting going on that I had missed. It was, after all, one of my greatest fears, missing something exciting like the Yanomamo bringing fresh meat or honey, early morning pranks by the tribal kids, or a medical emergency.
“Nothing yet, Dolly,” she replied, happily oblivious to how much this relieved me.
The oatmeal and brown sugar were on the table and the powdered milk had already been mixed for breakfast. I grabbed a cup from the metal cupboard, noticing a few more rust spots. By now my brothers were coming down the stairs, and soon we were all sitting at the big round table, thanking God for the food then scooping raw oatmeal and brown sugar into our bowls before drowning it with warm milk.
“Curtis, you can wet the floor this morning and Cynthia will wash the dishes. Jonathan, you rinse for Cynthia and dry if there isn’t room in the drainer. Dad is going to study for a couple hours this morning. It’s my week to do medical, and there’s a flu going around. I want to review my verbs, so try to give dad and I some quiet this morning,” Mom announced as we downed our cereal.
“Ah-hem” greeted us from outside the screen window, and my parents looked at each other. Who would take care of this one?
There wasn’t really a greeting, just a beginning to the conversation. The man wanted to trade an arrowhead for a piece of soap, so my dad examined the arrowhead and explained how much soap that would buy. They reached an agreement and my dad cut a slice of soap off the large blue bar on the counter, then finished his breakfast.
By the time we were done eating there was a row of people outside, simply watching through the screen window and discussing each of us. “She’s ugly,” they commented on me. “But maybe she can cut her hair, that would make her look better.”
“Yeah, and the foreigners have knives. They could cut it.”
“Foreigner, I could marry your daughter if you’d cut her hair,” one man said. We laughed. At 12 I didn’t feel like marriage material, but by local standards I was quickly becoming an old maid.
They soon tired of discussing my marital prospects and the conversation turned to how we sat at the table, how we ate, and how strange our food looked.
Breakfast finished, Dad headed to his office on the other side of the curtain that served as a wall and Curtis filled a bucket with water to sprinkle on the dirt floor to keep the dust down. The water was already heating on the stove, so I filled two dishpans with hot water, one soapy and one with a capful of vinegar. Chores were soon done and the boys headed out with their friends who had arrived, toting their bows and arrows and boasting about what they’d kill today.
I grabbed a recipe book and sat down at the table, happy to be able to do some baking. There was propane in the bottle, and Mom said that if I filled the oven twice, I could bake. But what would it be? Cookies, cake, or granola?

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