Memorial Day Reflections

This morning, I did something I had never done before. I headed over to Highland Burial Park to attend a special Memorial Day Service. Hosted by the Dorothea Henry Chapter of the Daughters of the American Revolution, this annual event was a time for remembering all of the 1.2 million Americans throughout our 230-plus year history that have died preserving and defending our freedoms on the field of battle. As one DAR speaker noted, “It is the soldier, not the reporter, who has given us the freedom of the press. It is the soldier, not the poet who has given us the freedom of speech. It is the soldier, not the agitator, who has given us the freedom to protest. It is the soldier who salutes the flag, serves beneath the flag, and whose coffin is draped by the flag.”

I never served in the military. In fact, I’m part of a small group of American males that never even registered for selective service. You may or may not know it, but there was a brief five-year window in our history—between April 1, 1975 (3 days before my 18th birthday) and 1980, when draft registration was suspended altogether. This was, no doubt, a careless overreaction to the Vietnam War. After all, it’s one thing to suspend having an active peacetime draft. It’s quite another thing to not even have a registry of potential draftees should a national emergency suddenly arise. By 1980, our national leaders corrected this potentially dangerous oversight.

Although I never served in the military, I’ve always had the highest respect for those that have. Two of my great-great grand grandfathers—my Grandmother Davis’s two granddads—both served in the Civil War. One fought for the Union, the other for the Confederacy. I don’t know how often those two old vets crossed paths, but it sure must have been quite interesting at the wedding of their children! I somehow imagine the family of the bride seated on one side the church all dressed up in Yankee blue and the family of the groom on the other side all decked out in Rebel gray!

My grandfather was a veteran of World War I. In my home, I have on display the American flag that draped his coffin at his 1961 funeral as well as the letter from President John F. Kennedy to my grandmother memorializing his passing.

My Uncle Paul fought in Europe during the Second World War. My father-in-law, Tom Early, served in the Pacific Theater of War, ultimately stationed with the American occupational forces that served in Japan following its surrender in 1945. Both of these men were part of what Tom Brokaw has dubbed “The Greatest Generation.” Typical of the quiet, stoic heroes of the era, neither spoke about the horrors of war they had witnessed as young men. (I often marvel at that amazing generation of young Americans that—in the 1940s—valiantly rose up from their simple everyday lives as small town shopkeepers & simple farm boys to engage in a life & death global struggle for freedom. In the process, they stifled & defeated an evil Nazi war machine bent on worldwide conquest. Truly, we owe them more than we can ever repay!)

When I was a teenager, my 20-something-year-old neighbor from just across the street had his life snuffed out by a sniper’s bullet in Vietnam. It was a sorrowful moment in my small hometown in Kentucky. Later on in life, when I became a father, my own son never served in the military, but a number of his peers did. And I remember how we prayed for & corresponded with one of Jordan’s very best friends—a Marine & a frequent guest in our home—when he went off to serve two tours of dangerous duty in Iraq.

A couple of years ago, a pastoral colleague of mine in Florida—Rev. Felix Ramirez—tragically lost a son in Iraq. An immigrant from Mexico, who served as the pastor of a Hispanic congregation not far from my church, Pastor Felix was a proud & patriotic American. After his son was killed in combat, I wrote President Bush to share with him the story of the Ramirez family. Months later, Pastor Felix & his wife were invited by the White House to Arlington National Cemetery for a special Veteran’s Day ceremony whereby they met and were personally comforted by the president himself. Pastor Felix—proud of the sacrifice that his son made on behalf of freedom for the Iraqi people—continues to have a deep & abiding love for his adopted country.

Over the years as a pastor—both here and in other communities where I’ve served—I have stood & offered numerous words of condolence & remembrance over the flag-draped coffins of many a deceased veteran. Every time I conduct such a funeral, I think of the sacrifice they made for their country, and for the freedoms that you & I enjoy today. Freedoms that we must not take for granted.

How does one appropriately commemorate Memorial Day? First, if possible, express your personal appreciation to a vet. Then, say a prayer of thanks to God for those generations of brave Americans that gave what Lincoln at Gettysburg called “the last full measure of devotion.” And, then, don’t forget to continue to pray for, support & encourage our soldiers serving on the front lines of battle today...in Iraq, Afghanistan & in other difficult outposts.

Sometimes, on Memorial Day, I’ve done something as simple as watching an inspiring, patriotic movie as a way to focus in on the meaning of the day. May I recommend two of my all-time favorites to you? Gettysburg, released in 1993, is an epic retelling of the dramatic story of the Civil War’s greatest battle. It is filled with many emotionally-riveting sequences of human drama and personal courage. And Sergeant York, a truly classic 1940 biopic starring Gary Cooper as real life American hero Sgt. Alvin C. York of Tennessee, a devout Christian & one of the most decorated soldiers of World War I. (My grandfather actually met Sgt. York.) Neither of these films will disappoint you. They represent American heroism at its best.

Regardless of the means by which you choose to remember those that have served (& are serving) our country, the most important thing is that you do remember them. And be thankful for their sacrifice. Remember, you can eat hot dogs & apple pie, enjoy a baseball game, or go swimming with your kids or grandkids today, all because of someone else that can't.

Pastor Danny

BEE-uty is in the EYE of the BEE-holder

“Float like a butterfly, sting like a bee” —former heavyweight boxing champ Muhammad Ali

Since moving back to the climate of Southside Virginia, I’ve wanted to find a local beekeeper from which to buy some home-grown honey. After all, as you may know, the honey produced by local bees is supposed to serve as a natural preventative against regional allergens. I learned this many years ago from a doctor in my hometown. He was a full-time physician and part-time beekeeper. Interestingly, that same doctor also claimed that getting stung by a honey bee was a good antidote against arthritis. And he periodically would allow his bees to sting him on the arm to relieve his arthritic pain. Well, whatever floats your boat!

Anyway, Anacin King—yes, that’s his real name, for those that don’t know him—came by the church office last Monday afternoon to take me to meet a local beekeeper who lived just a few miles from the church. (By the way, Anacin’s a great guy, but—untrue to his pain reliever name—I wound up with a splitting headache by the time our big honey-seeking adventure was over.)

It was a bee-utiful day. The birds were singing. The sun was shining. And—unbeknownst to me—the bees were buzzing. The beekeeper was a very nice Christian gentleman who, interestingly enough, never gets stung by his own bees. But he was very protective of Anacin and me. We got to observe his operation but carefully maintained, at his insistence, a safe distance from his hives.

But just as we were about to make our way to his house, suddenly, this one, solitary bee came flying out of nowhere. He made a beeline—what else would a bee do?—right for me. It was as if he were on a kamikaze suicide mission. He flew straight at me and—somehow maneuvering himself under my eyeglasses—hit me dead square in my left eye, planting a painful sting right on my eyelid. Ouch! I really didn’t want the other guys to know that I had gotten stung—I was too embarrassed to admit it—but the sting hurt so bad there was no way I could fake it. After all, it’s hard to act nonchalant when you’ve got what feels like a hot poker sticking you in the eye. Anacin and the beekeeper both felt terrible. The beekeeper immediately pulled the stinger out, and we went into his house and put some ice on the sensitive area. Anacin felt so bad about it that he bought my honey for me, refusing to let me pay for it. When we drove back to the church office, Karen Haley took one look at my red and watery eye and exclaimed, “Anacin, what on earth have done to our preacher?” We’d only been gone 30 minutes and she knew that I seemed to be fine before we left. Immediately, she got me some Benadryl. Then Karen told Anacin she wasn’t going to let him carry me off on any more misadventures and get me injured.

Minutes later, I put on my sunglasses and drove on home. The area around my eye kept swelling by the minute. By late that evening, the whole left side of my face had ballooned out, and my left eye was almost completely swollen shut. I sort of resembled the creature from the black lagoon, that squinty-eyed man-serpent of 1950s horror flicks fame. Or, better yet, a badly battered boxer, kind of like Sylvester Stallone in his final fight scene from Rocky I. You know the image. His eyes were so badly swollen that he told Mick his trainer to cut the area so he could see and continue the fight. That’s kind of how I looked…and felt. When I looked in the mirror at my bloated prize fighter face, I found myself—again like Rocky Balboa —instinctively calling for my wife. “Adrienne, Adrienne!” …or in my case… “Sandy, Sandy!”

A night’s sleep did nothing to lessen the swelling. So, the next morning, Sandy drove me to see Dr. Abiose Lasaki, who at first assumed that Sandy must have been the culprit, hauling off and belting me in the eye the night before. When we finally convinced her that I was actually the victim of a sting operation, the good doctor gave me a couple of shots and some prescription meds to try to bring the swelling down.

Anyway, when we got back home, the first thing I had to do was eat some of my newly-purchased honey. With all that I had endured to get it, I needed to see if it was really worth it. Well, the honey was delicious. But, honestly, the sweetness of the honey wasn’t quite worth the pain of the sting. So I think the next time I’m in need of honey, I’ll just ask Anacin to go on alone and get it for me.

By the way, do you remember all the hype and hysteria back in the 1970s about the South American killer bees that supposedly were slowly making their way to the United States? Back then, the original cast of NBC’s Saturday Night Live did an ongoing spoof on the whole killer bee thing. Cigar-chomping, rifle-toting John Belushi, outfitted like a paunchy Poncho Villa in a striped bumble-bee suit—complete with antennae and stinger and thick Spanish accent—portrayed the tough-talking leader of a rowdy gang of bee banditos.

Last Monday afternoon, I thought for a moment that the very first killer bee had finally reached our shores. And that I, of all people, had been singled out as the first victim in the great onslaught. Fortunately, that proved not to be the case. But I still wonder about the origin of that fuzzy little assassin that zeroed in on me. After all, I didn’t have time to check his passport or visa. Although you would think that I would have gotten a good look at him! Oh, I guess sometimes we can’t see the forest for the…bees. Hmm.

Anyway, that’s the latest buzz from around here. 48 hours later, the swelling has largely subsided and life is returning to normal. But what’s the moral of this story? Well, if you plan on visiting a local beekeeper anytime soon, please don’t ask me to go with you. Just take my advice: Please BEE careful, and—most importantly—keep your eyes closed!

Pastor Danny

Mount Hermon Youth: Mission Danville & Beyond

Recently, I got to work with our youth during one of their periodic Mission Danville projects. This latest effort involved assisting the U.S. Postal Service in the collection canned goods and other food items for God’s Storehouse. Several of our teens went out on the mail delivery routes on Saturday morning and helped pick up the donated goods that postal patrons had left out for their letter carriers. Then, Saturday afternoon, we all gathered at the main Post Office where our teens worked on the loading dock, assisting in organizing the food items as they came in from the various routes. All of the crates of food were then loaded onto big trucks for delivery to God’s Storehouse.

I wasn’t able to be there for the whole day, but I did get to join our youth for the afternoon effort. It was a good time of fellowship & ministry as we worked together for a great cause.

I am so proud of our youth and the many things they do throughout our community. For example, did you know that some weeks ago, a group of our teenagers spent the day planting potatoes that later in the year will be harvested to help feed the hungry? And did you realize that a number of our teens (as well as adults) periodically assist with serving meals through the feeding ministry at Moffett Memorial Baptist Church? These are just a couple of recent examples of Mission Danville projects.

This whole effort is to encourage our young people to be more directly engaged in hands-on ministry right here in our local community. In other words, you don’t have to go around the world to do missions. But by the same token, doing missions at home does not exempt us from taking the love of Christ to other places. Mission opportunities are everywhere. And that’s an important lesson that I feel we are communicating to our youth. (And it’s certainly one that needs to be understood, embraced and practiced by Christians of all ages.)

This year in particular, we are boldly moving out in missions on a variety of levels, paralleling the levels of missions Jesus talked about in the Great Commission when He said that we were to be His witnesses “in Jerusalem, in all of Judea, in Samaria, and to the uttermost part of the earth.” (Acts 1:8)

Our Mission Danville projects are an effort to minister right here in our own local "Jerusalem"—Danville and Pittsylvania County. But, beyond our local area, this summer our teens are taking a mission trip to Baltimore, Maryland. Baltimore represents for us both our “Judea” (beyond the borders of our immediate area, in the bigger context of our country at large) and our “Samaria” (ministering to people that are not necessarily that far away but are nonetheless different from us). The Baltimore trip will be great. 23 teens & adults will be assisting a Southern Baptist church planter as part of our North American Mission Board’s PowerPlant ministry. But that’s not all our youth are doing! 46 youth & adults (including yours truly) are going to Thessaloniki, Greece as part of our International Mission Board’s WorldChangers ministry. There, our teens will be walking in the footsteps of the Apostle Paul, who first took the Gospel to the ancient city of Thessalonica in the First Century AD. Guess what? Twenty centuries later, there are still people in that city and region who need Christ. The Greece trip is a wonderful ministry opportunity. And Greece for us represents taking the Gospel to “the uttermost part of the earth.”

As you can see, our youth group will be practicing Acts 1:8 in full in 2007. Although our youth ministry has an exceptional history of missions involvement, this without question will be the biggest collective effort we’ve ever made. In that regard, I want to give a special word of commendation to our Interim Youth Minister, Michael Ovack. Michael—a part-time staff member while also a full-time seminary student (as well as a full-time husband and dad)—has done a truly incredible job (with God’s help) of planning and preparing for all of these mission efforts. Thanks, Michael. I don’t know that anyone fully realizes the scope of all you have accomplished in a part-time role. Not many full-timers could have pulled this off.

Next time you think youth ministry is just about fun and games, come and check out what’s going on with our Mount Hermon youth. They have a growing heart for God, a growing heart for other people and a growing heart for the world. I’m really proud to be their pastor. And I can’t wait to see all that God is going to do in their lives this summer.

Please pray for them and especially for the two big trips they will be embarking upon in the coming weeks.

Pastor Danny

While My Wife Was in Asia, My Stomach Visited Italy

A lot of people have been worried about me while Sandy has been in the Far East. Most seem to be concerned about my ability to survive on my own. (What has my wife been telling them about me?) Actually, the truth be known, I’ve been so busy this past week that I haven’t had time to be lonely. And I’ve had so many meal offers that I haven’t had time to be hungry. In fact, rather than wasting away in my wife's absence, I probably will have gained several pounds by the time she returns home.

This past Thursday, for example, one of our Sunday School classes thoughtfully invited me out to dinner with them at a local restaurant. I was delighted to join them, but I made the big mistake of going out and eating a large lunch that same day. I went to an Italian place—Corrini’s, which has become one of my favorite restaurants in town—and I ordered the Stromboli—which is delicious but about as large as a catcher’s mitt. I ate the whole thing. (I was really hungry.) But even worse than overdoing it at lunch was my failure to realize in advance that I would be eating Italian cuisine again later that same evening.

At 6:00 PM, when my car pulled into the parking lot of The Flying Tomato—I erroneously referred to it as The Thrown Tomato when talking to the church staff the next day—it only then occurred to me this new restaurant in town was also Italian. Mama Mia! When I sat down with our group to order I decided that, after eating that big catcher’s mitt earlier in the day, I needed something "lighter" that didn’t involve a tomato-based sauce. So, I opted for the Fettuccine Alfredo, a tasty dish that some dieticians and nutritionists lovingly refer to as “heart attack on a plate.” They brought me a huge bowl of it, enough for two people, which I virtually emptied. My taste buds were thrilled, but my arteries were not.

So, as you can see, I’m not starving. By the way, what is it about Danville and Italian food? I mean, is that what attracted Jefferson Davis here when he decided to relocate the Confederate government to Danville back in 1865? And was the infamous wreck of the Old ’97 really caused by the fact that the railroad engineer was in too big a hurry to get to Danville for some baked ziti and calzones? Mmm, I wonder. But for whatever reason, there are Italian restaurants all over town! And they all seem to be doing quite well. (Danville must have been secretly settled by Italian immigrants more than 200 years ago!)

Anyway, the day after my Italian adventure, J. Landrum—whose wife Lydia is also in Southeast Asia— called me up to go out and get some lunch. “Where do you want to eat?,” he asked. “Anywhere but Italian,” I said. I had forgotten that J. hates Italian. It’s probably the only thing in the whole world he doesn’t like. So, Italian food wasn’t even on his personal radar screen. But obviously, my response made him happy. He then took me to a fried chicken eating establishment where the two of us promptly ordered fried fish. Go figure!

Then I went to a big dance recital at the George Washington High School Auditorium that evening. It was the second of 3 successive nights of the same performance. After seeing the huge crowd of reserved seat ticket holders as well as the large number of performers on stage, I decided that dancing is even bigger in Danville than Italian food! Several very talented young ladies in our church are involved in dance. It’s a wonderful talent that many of them use to honor the Lord through our excellent Creative Arts Team ministry. The recital was a great event. But, admittedly, I couldn’t survive the whole 3 ½ hours. Thankfully, however, no food was served at that event!

The next morning, which was Saturday, I drove up to Chatham to see church member Suzanne Stowe honored as Mother of the Year in a special ceremony on Main Street. Her daughter Marlena—one of the young widow’s six children—wrote a beautiful letter to the Chatham Star-Tribune in tribute to her mother. That letter proved to be the winning entry in a countywide competition. That afternoon, I worked a few hours with our youth in their Mission Danville Project, before heading out to a Honduras mission team reunion dinner. (More food!) I hurriedly stopped by my good friend Mary’s on the way (as in Diner) and picked up some mashed potatoes and gravy (more low-cal health food) as my contribution to the potluck meal.

Then, on Mothers Day, I was invited to eat with one family for lunch and another family for dinner. Wow. Never in my life had I been so honored on Mothers Day! It’s rather ironic, actually. Here I am, being feted like royalty while my wife—who is the one who actually gave birth to our son—is halfway around the world eating rice, bamboo shoots and bean sprouts.

In the midst of all this flurry of activity, I also found time on Friday to go down to the Circuit Court Clerk’s Office in Danville to make sure that I was properly bonded to do weddings in the Commonweath of Virginia. (I have some weddings coming up soon and I didn’t want them to slip up on me.) In some states where I’ve lived—Florida and North Carolina, for example—you didn’t have to register with any government entity in order to do weddings in the state. Some years ago in Kentucky, however, you actually had to go before the county's highest elected offical in order to receive authorization to do weddings. As part of that process, I had to swear an oath that was administered to me by the county judge/ executive. Part of that oath—similar to the archaic Kentucky governor’s oath that is still part of the outdated state constitution—required me to solemnly swear that I “have not fought a duel with deadly weapons within this state, nor out of it, nor have I sent or accepted a challenge to fight a duel with deadly weapons, nor have I acted as second in carrying a challenge, nor aided or assisted any person thus offending, so help me God.” Hmm. What do these people think we pastors do with our spare time?

Anyway, here in Virginia, I was happy to learn that I didn’t have to worry about the matter of dueling. And, fortunately, a nice lady at the Clerk’s Office was able to research my information and see that I was still on the books from where I had originally registered back in 1985. Thus, rather than having to pay the normal $10 fee, I only had to pay 50 cents for a photocopy of my original information. Wow, just think, I saved $9.50! That’s enough for me to go out and get a tasty Italian meal somewhere. Or, at the very least—and perhaps more appropriately—some Italian wedding cookies. But I think I’d better do that before Sandy gets back in the States. By the way—guess what—I’m scheduled to be a dinner guest at someone else’s home this Tuesday night. I'm not sure, but I think we’re having lasagna.

Pastor Danny

The Macedonian Call

During the night Paul had a vision of a man of Macedonia standing and begging him, "Come over to Macedonia and help us." After Paul had seen the vision, we got ready at once to leave for Macedonia, concluding that God had called us to preach the gospel to them. -- Acts 16:9-10

Centuries ago, the Apostle Paul heard the call of a man of Macedonia asking for help. Two months ago, at Mount Hermon, we heard something of a similar call. It did not come through a dream, however, but through an email. A man of Southeast Asia said, “Come and help us” and immediately we responded.

That “man of Southeast Asia” was none other than our church’s own native son, a wonderful Christian brother we all know affectionately as “Woody”. I’ve known Woody for over twenty years. We first met back in 1985. I had just arrived in Danville—still wet behind the ears—as the new pastor of Melville Avenue Baptist Church. Our local Baptist association was hosting an event called Evangelistic Focus ’85 which was being held—of all places—at Mount Hermon Baptist Church. I met Woody that week and learned that he had a popular contemporary vocal trio that sang in churches throughout the area. A few weeks later, that trio—Woody, Dale Hilliard and Eddie Cassada—came and sang for us at Melville Avenue. (They were great, by the way, and I still have fond memories of that concert.)

In 1988, after 3 ½ years in Danville, Sandy and I moved on to my second pastorate in rural Northeastern North Carolina. Sometime thereafter, we learned that Woody had relocated to the Norfolk/ Virginia Beach area (about an hour from our new home) and had set up his optometry practice there. I think he also was attending seminary at the time. Anyway, Sandy and I went to Dr. Woody’s office, received our eye exams, and were fitted for glasses/ contact lenses. That was about 1989 or 1990, and it was the last time we saw Woody.

Now, let’s fast forward to September 2006. I’m coming to Danville in view of a call as the prospective new pastor of Mount Hermon Baptist Church. Interestingly, as the providence of God would have it, Woody—now serving overseas—is at the tail end of a furlough in the States. In fact, his family has already returned to their home in Southeast Asia, but—because of illness—Woody found it necessary to stay in Danville just a bit longer. So, as the Lord would have it, Woody was there for my big weekend at Mount Hermon. And, as only God could orchestrate it, the two of us got to sit side by side at the same table during the Keenagers Luncheon. (He, Sandy and I were the youngsters in attendance.)

It was wonderful to renew our old acquaintance from years gone by. Over lunch that day, I talked with Woody about my vision for the church—to become a global missions outreach center—as well as one of the big reasons that Mount Hermon had become interested in me—my local church experience in establishing direct, hands-on missions partnerships. I told Woody that, were I to come to Mount Hermon, and as Mount Hermon subsequently began to explore partnership opportunities in global missions, it was a “no-brainer” that we would start out by prayerfully considering how we could assist him. Then I told him, “I don’t want us to come just for the sake of coming, but if you really need us—if there’s something we can do—please don’t hesitate to let us know. We want to come and help you. And, as your home church, we need to do that.” Woody was pleased. And both of us hoped that someday this vision would become a reality.

Four months later, when Woody’s call came, it was one of urgency. Another group had planned to come and do VBS for the MKs during their parents’ annual retreat. But something unexpected arose that caused that group to cancel. A substitute team was needed on very short notice.

Believing this was a divine invitation, I quickly presented the challenge to our church. Within a matter of days, several people had responded. And, almost immediately, God provided all the funding. Ultimately, six persons were able to make the trip. Passports were secured, reservations were made, tickets were purchased, materials were ordered, lessons were prepared, vaccinations were received (ouch!) and—within just a few weeks—our team was all set to go. Wow! Half a dozen Mount Hermon members were dropping everything and going halfway around the world with only two months notice!

Interestingly, when Woody and I had our original conversation back in September, I thought it probably would be a couple of years before we would be able to get anything going. But God clearly had other things in mind, jumpstarting us right into this partnership without any further delay. This truly is an historic endeavor for our church, taking us to a whole new level of mission involvement. Although I’m not going personally, I’m absolutely thrilled for those that are. We have a great team that I believe have been uniquely chosen for this important opportunity. Thanks for going, Ryan, Sandy, Gary, Lydia, Patti and Marie. We’re proud of you. Our thoughts and prayers are with you. God bless and Godspeed!

Pastor Danny

Reflections on Honduras, Part 2

The work done by our Friends of Barnabas mission team was a ministry of healing—both physical and spiritual. Our group primarily was engaged in medical work. Over the course of five days, we served a total of 1,702 patients from several remote villages. Our team consisted of 14 doctors, nurses and other helpers. A half dozen or so Honduran nationals worked alongside us. As the team's pastor, I got to preach and share messages of hope with the people, pray for their needs (both physical and spiritual), and present God’s plan of salvation to them, leading many to personal faith in Jesus Christ. A number of helpful translators assisted me throughout the week, including some wonderful Honduran believers like Oscar (above left) and Deborah (above right).

One method we used for presenting the Gospel was through the distribution of “wordless” bracelets. (Several hundred had been made for us by Betty Dillon along with our Mount Hermon Acteens group.) The different colored beads of the bracelet represent God’s plan of salvation. (BLACK = our sin; RED = the blood of Christ; WHITE = how Christ makes us clean; GREEN = our new life and our spiritual growth in Christ; BLUE = the waters of baptism; and YELLOW = the streets of gold in Heaven, the believer’s ultimate home.) Each day at the clinics, I would present the story of the bracelets through a translator. Then I would invite people to pray with me and accept Christ as Savior. Afterward, each one was delighted to receive a bracelet as a reminder of Christ’s forgiveness for their sins and their personal commitment to Him.

One day we were short-handed when it came to translators. My Spanish is very limited, so I desperately needed some help. A little girl named Ana came to my rescue. I gave her a card that explained the meaning of the bracelets in Spanish. Rather than me fumbling through it, mispronouncing important words, I thought it would be better to have a Spanish-speaking person read it. This sweet little 9-year-old with a servant's heart couldn’t speak a word of English, but she was an excellent reader in her native language. She read through the presentation several times, to different groups of people. At the conclusion, she also led them through the prayer of faith and repentance. Ultimately, through her Gospel presentations, she wound up leading a number of people to faith in Christ. Wow, what a humbling experience that was! It reminded me of Isaiah 11:6, which says “…and a little child shall lead them.”

The Honduran people who came to our daylong medical clinics were generally a very humble and thankful people. Many patiently stood in long lines for hours in the hot climate awaiting their turn to be seen by a doctor or nurse. We saw numerous women and children, including many expectant mothers. Some young mothers had walked for miles carrying their infants in their arms for the chance to receive free medical care. The men who came were fewer in number, and most of them were older, weather-beaten cowboys. Some even arrived on horseback. During a break in the action, our Honduran nurse, Pascuala—herself quite a comedian—decided to take a quick spin on a horse that wasn’t being used at the moment.

There are many touching stories I could share with you. One particularly meaningful aspect of our medical care was an eye clinic. It was such a blessing to observe individuals exiting the eye clinic with brand new corrective lenses, able to see clearly for the first time in years. And then, the very first thing they received after being fitted with their new glasses was a brand new copy of the Bible in Spanish. I can't describe for you how heartwarming it was to see individuals immediately going and finding a spot somewhere under a shade tree where they could sit down and, with the help of their new glasses, read their own personal copy of the Word of God. People were so delighted to get those Bibles. In fact, one lady walked four miles to one of our clinics. She was in good health and did not even want to a see a doctor. She simply walked that far because she heard we were distributing free Bibles and she wanted to get her own copy of the Word of God. Wow!

Another interesting thing I encountered (for the first time) in Honduras was a superstitious belief called (in Spanish) “mal de ojo” (“the evil eye”), which seemed to be quite prevalent among the rural mountain people. This is the belief that certain individuals possess the power to gaze intently upon another person—especially a tiny baby—with a look either of envy or malice—and actually bring physical harm to that person. I have long been familiar with the term “evil eye”, but it was never anything that I had taken seriously. I always thought the “evil eye” was that unmistakable look my wife Sandy used to give our son Jordan from the choir loft when he was sitting on the front pew acting up during his daddy’s sermon! And, believe me, that look indeed was often the precursor to physical harm!

Most of the mothers, continuing a long tradition passed on from their mothers and grandmothers, would either place a red woven hat on their baby’s head (even though this could be quite uncomfortable due to the intense Honduran heat) or, more often, a tiny red bracelet around their wrist. This was to ward off the curse of the evil eye.

When I found out about this superstition, I began to question the mothers about it. Some were Christians, some were not. To those that were not, I presented the Gospel. To those that were already Christians, I reminded them that they needed to trust God alone for protection, not some manmade item. I told them that God would watch over their child. One woman wept when I said this to her. Immediately she removed the red bracelet from her baby, and repeatedly through her tears said “Gracias! Gracias!” She simply needed to know the Truth. And the Truth set her free!

Oh, on an unrelated note, we had one really famous patient who was seen in the eye clinic one day and fitted for glasses. His name was Fidel Castro. For real! Wow, talk about a patient with an evil eye!

One of our real heroes of the week was a precious young girl named Maria. Maria's malady was a cockroach stuck in her ear! The ugly little invader had crawled into her ear canal and died. It had been lodged in there for several weeks by the time our medical team saw her. This brave and trusting young lady was so patient as our team probed and examined her ear in seeking how best to proceed with the delicate and tedious work of extracting the dead insect. Finally, after much effort, and a few tears, the unwelcome inhabitant was disinterred from his tomb. And with the help of antibiotics to clear up the accompanying infection that had set in, courageous Maria should make a full recovery. Incidents like this reminded me how much we take for granted our easy access to quality medical care here in the United States.

All in all, this trip to Honduras was an extremely rewarding experience. If you're interested in sharing the love of Christ through medical missions, you might want to check out the opportunities available through the Friends of Barnabas Foundation. (www.fobf.org) They're definitely doing a good work.

Pastor Danny