(copied from my now very dusty journal)
I’m sitting in Zapotillo writing by candlelight. Over my head is a thatched roof, handwoven by one of the villagers. Above that is the most brilliant sky of stars I’ve ever seen. The Big Dipper is upside down here. Pastor Daniel and Rafael just gave me some fish because “it’s missionary food,” and I’m a future missionary. I peed in a hole earlier- without complaining.
I gave a talk about purity and at least two girls accepted Christ. I spent the majority of the afternoon barefoot and hauled water up from a well, hand over hand, inch-by-inch. I ate a fresh cherimoya for dinner. While sitting on a crudely hewn wooden bench, table somewhere near my neck.
By the time they lit the fogata (bonfire), our team was at the end of ourselves. We were tired, sick, hungry, and dirty. Several people were arguing about petty things. We considered skipping the drama, but decided it was important. We performed in the tiny church, nearly flawlessly. Tears poured down our faces as four young people came forward to be saved for the first time. When we had reached the end of ourselves, God began to work.