Hernan

He works at the local librería where one can not only buy basic school supplies, but the ever-necessary cospeles as well.

I've bought a few things there now, often for the crafts for the girls' institute. This means I usually enter with my other missionary half, Sarah. One can also send letters from this location, so we find it handy to become acquaintances. When we felt we had seen the jefe, or head honcho, enough times, we decided we could finally introduce ourselves.

"Me shamo Sah-rah," said the first (written phonetically). I followed with the typical, emphasized three syllable routine of Shuh-ray-uh (but I roll the R for good measure, even if it's not correct according to Spanish).

He smiled. "No.. Sarah es más facil. Sarah uno y Sarah dos!"

We laughed. No one else has to know that I acquiesce to a nickname, after all.

I like Hernan not only because he is patient with us, but he also always greets us with the equivalent of "Hello beautiful!" I begin to wonder if that's the reason Latin women are more comfortable in their curvy figures: they're always greeted with a kiss and called "mi amor" and "bella" everywhere they go!

We don't know very much about him as of yet. I've learned that he has a young boy, and I've noticed (not because I was trying to notice, mind you) the hair from his chest protruding from the top of his shirt. He's not greasy by any means. It's just something that caught my eye.

Noemí

I sat alone in the second floor of McDonald's. I whispered to myself, "How did I get here?"

Obviously I had walked. I woke up extra early to help shave off those extra pounds I've gained lately; to walk the 3.32 miles to the intersection of Colón and Jose Avellenida. I had arrived early, so as to visit the Disco and pull together some of the final ingredients I would need for lunch later.

But I meant the moment. It's only week two of Spanish lessons with Miss Noemí. She's a petite one, with dyed blonde hair and bright pink lips. Her English is very good, so I'm not sure why she wants to tradeoff English lessons for Spanish ones with me. I'm pretty desperate for any sort of advancement in the language though, even if it means I work harder to explain my native tongue in depth.

At this point, she had disappeared to the bathroom. She excused herself before exiting quickly, and only a few tears had escaped by that time.

"I-I-I just don't know what happened," I repeated to myself. I prayed silently for wisdom and clarity.

I had pulled together some important pronunciation guides, only 4 for now, as they are numerous. We had walked through them, practicing the "c" sound and the "w" sound--how they are affected when followed by certain vowels. We spent a few more moments on the "-ed" ending, as it can either add a syllable, sound like a /d/ or a /t/. Sometimes I don't think I fully comprehend the English language, but I remember some of the pronunciation tips for Russian and think that these are much simpler.

Afterward, I asked her what else she wanted to practice. She suggested that I just ask a few questions and she can work on saying verbs correctly. So I asked her a question about her past, to practice the simple past tense as well as the imperfect.

"When you were a young girl, what did you want to grow up to be?" I asked. I try to simplify my questions for complete comprehension. It's how I hope Spanish speakers address me while I'm still learning.

A brief moment of silence, as Noemí recollected not only her reply, but how to phrase it correctly with her limited personal English lexicon. She explained that she had at first wanted to be a missionary, but then pursued teaching so that was the end of that. For some reason, I asked her more specific questions on the former. "Why did the dream to be a missionary end?"

She explained that she wanted to be able to make money, and that after beginning schooling for teaching, it just made sense to let go of the first dream. I pondered that for a moment, then went a little further:

"May I ask," I started timidly. "What does the word 'missionary' mean to you?"

I was confused with her first answer, the one that mentioned money as being part of her decision. Noemí continued, saying that at least for the Argentinian missionaries, they all live in poverty and don't take care of their kids.

I hid my astonishment, and calmly asked, "That's interesting. What do you think the Bible's definition of a missionary is?"

She stopped. "What?" I waited. She gathered herself before continuing. This wasn't the point she started crying though, that would come soon enough. "I-I dunno. What is the definition for you?"

I tried to reiterate that this was about what the Bible said. My mind went straight to Paul (though I had to say Pablo so she understood who I was talking about), and how he was a tentmaker. It is possible for missionaries to work, with the implication of making money, too.

What's more, all of us are called to share the good news with people. At our jobs, in our schools, on the street, with whoever we meet! She agreed to this part. "So in your own job, you too are a missionary!" I smiled.

One dramatic pause. "It's just.. It's just.."

My first tinge of confusion came here. Her eyes were getting a little red.

"When I grew up, my father was a pastor. He was very strict on us. My sisters now do not go to church, and.. and.." she wiped her tears. "I'm so sorry. Excuse me!"

I've been thinking about writing a book. Just two days ago I told my friend that I want to write a book about the variety of work involved under the title "missionary." From cooking and cleaning, to speaking and encouraging, to relationships and 5 minute acquaintances. I'm not so sure it will actually happen, but this occurrence startled me. Maybe I have my chapter one?

No. I wasn't thinking this during the time in McDonald's. When Noemí returned, she apologized again and said we could talk about something else. I stopped her.

"First," I said and looked directly into her eyes. "I want to say that I'm so sorry for what you experienced."

"Thank you," she sniffled.

"Seriously, I'm very sorry that that happened to you, and I'm sorry to hear about your sisters. It's not fair."

Exhale.

"Please know too, that what you've experienced is actually quite common." I went on to explain some of the trends of the church in the south of the U.S. and how many are turned away from the legalistic approach, the condemnation and judgment for things that either aren't talked about in the Bible at all, or are things taken out of context.

I could see her entire being calming down, though still glass-eyed. I thanked God for help during that conversation, and even more for her response. She had said that she had repressed the desire to answer most of these questions about becoming a missionary because of her experience growing up.

"But I'm 43 years old now," she said. "I need to consider these questions again."

Indeed, there is no age at which one can not be a missionary.

Chechu

Chechu's real name is Sergio. He's a young man from our boys' institute that we visit each week. Chechu is very aggressive. In fact, he has the inability to control his behavior at times, and will just break out very Hulk-like, into extreme rage. I was told that one time, he had to have 4 people hold him down.

Chechu also has poor eyesight. He often has to bring things very close to his face in order to distinguish, well, anything, but mainly he looks for the color of things. Since his eyesight is so poor, he often gets frustrated and just feels for things around him in order to toss them. Or hit them. He even hit the other girl volunteer at one time, and all the other boys scolded him for hitting a chica.

I wonder very much about his life, how frustrating everything must be. No real home, such limited physical abilities. The friends around you are only your friends because they have nowhere to go either. That last part may or may not be true, but I think there's an element of truth in it. Is his main goal each day merely survival? What is his hope?

I don't know much more than I give myself credit, but this young man is now on my heart so much.

We (our team of volunteers) are currently praying for his eyesight. We are inquiring of a local eye doctor who is part of a foundation that works with cataracts and might be willing to perform surgery on Chechu's eyes for free. If this is God's will, we pray for the opportunity to swiftly approach!

Irish taxi 4

It was getting on Irish taxi number 4 that I got a glimpse of the harder side of Dublin. Ariel and I had watched some of it one Sunday evening as it was the first time we had ever seen that many older women wasted, and being pulled by (we hope) their husbands to walk straight to get home. But the morning of my departure, at the ungodly hour of 4am, revealed even more.

Wow. I just realized that I don't remember this taxi driver's name. Nonetheless, he was probably one of my favorites. He carried my luggage into the trunk while I gaped at across the street. Hundreds of taxis lined the streets where hundreds if not more teenagers and young adults were walking, stumbling, up the street.

I questioned the driver if it was true what they say, "Are there really more taxis in Dublin than in NYC?"

"Ay," was his response. "We have 28 thousand of 'em."

New York City, as I had just been there to find this number out, has 13. Ter-teen tousand, if you're Irish.

We continued on and the usual small talk ensued. But with me, it's never small talk, as some of the first questions was where I was going and why. When I explained that I was a youth worker, the driver said, "Oh! That's great. Must be a very rewarding job!"

He then proceeded to tell me about his life. One that began with the high hopes of being a professional football player. He was even drafted (is that the right term?) for the English Premier League when he was 18. When he took some time off, he ended up breaking his leg, which stopped that dream.

"But you know?" He paused. "I wouldn't be who I am today if I had played." (Oh how I wish you could hear the rhythm and intonations of my friend the taxi driver.)

"I wouldn't be married to the woman I am now. She is a wonderful woman. And I wouldn't have the kids I do. i would take this life over that one any day."

That's quite a lot coming from a taxi driver. It made me think of my summer on the couch with a torn ACL and so I told him about it. We agreed that there are a lot of things that happen not the way we planned them, but they happen for a reason. I even got to share with him my story about the loss of my cousin and the adoption of my brother, trying to make sure I explained that I knew Jesus loved me and worked out the story for His glory. I even briefly mentioned the circumstances that allowed me to go to Argentina. Some things can be heart-breaking, but we need them.

He then told me about the sickness of his father. He said he's starting to believe that God really does care about him because of the comfort his father is receiving. We arrived to the airport about this time and couldn't go on, but he said he was so grateful he got to take me to the airport. I was just as if not more grateful for him, so I gave him a nice tip.

Irish taxi 2 and 3

Colm. Pronounced call-um. Rhymes with Gollum, but no relation. Trust me.

This was our driver in Killarney to surfing at Inch Beach. Obviously, much of my thankfulness for this man was taking me to an adventure I had been anticipating for many weeks now. Nevertheless, he was also a man very proud of his part of the country, making sure we knew about the horticulture and area through which we drove. We had talked about some of the rules for Gaelic Games, and on our way back (since he also made sure to pick us up after a few hours of surfing), he showed us a Gaelic field--140 yards long!!!

What made him fun was his accent required a bit more concentration. The country folk do not always end their words, which, added to the Irish accent, can be difficult to comprehend. At the same time, he also put me to sleep with how lovely he sounded. haha. Or maybe I was tired from surfing. I dunno.

I laughed harder later that day with our taxi driver named Donal (see? no ending "d" to that name either). I noticed he had the same last name as Colm, that is, O'Donaghue. "O yes, we are related!" he proclaimed.

Earlier that day, we had asked Colm about his family and he responded that he is the youngest of brothers.

Donal, however, said "O no, I am the youngest!"

Irish taxi 1

Kieran. Pronounced kee-rahn, stressed second syllable.

This man was very kind to us. We got to talk about all sorts of things, but seemed to focus on a certain sport known only in America as soccer. The day he took us to our hotel was the day we had tickets for a futbol match, so Kieran volunteered to pick us up later that day. This was a common theme among cab drivers in Ireland--something I loved dearly.

He picked us up for the 40min drive to Tallaght Stadium. Kieran laughed at how much I couldn't pronounce the name of the stadium, so I just continued to pick on how much he couldn't pronounce my name. But then I still lost as it turned out the game, excuse me, match, began at 8 instead of 7. No worries, Kieran just drove us to a nearby mall so we could have dinner.

As if all this weren't enough, he also insisted on picking us up after the match. He had to get special permission to pick us up from a certain spot, and was impressed that we found him. On the ride home, we had a great time talking about the sport some more, and even getting to know him. I was very thankful for Kieran.

Boiling Pot

I just realized that this is probably a better title of the various people I meet in New York. I only have a couple for this blogisode.

Grimaldi's: Very obviously Brooklyn man sat next to me in the famous pizza place (think German). When the woman sitting across from him went to the bathroom, he confided in me that he was on a date. We mainly just chatted about pizza, but my favorite interaction moment was when he asked me if I was from New York.

"Do I sound like it?" I said, appalled that he would even ask.

"Well no.."

"But to answer your question, I'm from Texas," I said.

"Well I wouldn't have guessed that place either!"

Ha.

Ellis Island ferry: Jen and Richard are Christians. We got to talk about my upcoming travels and they encouraged me. The other fun tidbit is Richard works for a company that makes the ballots we vote on. I asked him a question he apparently gets asked all the time--"So whose fault was it with all the chads?"

Corner of 54th and 8th: I noticed a man reading a thick book. I was too nervous the first time I passed him, but the second time, I prayed and stopped. "Excuse me," I said. "What are you reading?"

He took pause before answering the Bible. "It's a Thai-English Bible. I study."

The man is short, dark skinned, and balding. He asked me to sit with him since he found out that I am a Christian too. "You are si-ter in Chri'," he smiled at me. "You come to Thailan' an' teach English. Help build church!"

He talked about feeling God call him to bring the Thai people in New York together. That they may stop worshipping Buddha and start serving our Lord. He said that he used to own a big water company in Thailand, but when he became a believer he felt he was supposed to leave and sell what he had.

I explained to him what I was doing. He smiled again, excited that I am young and willing to work.

"That is great. Come over to Thailan' afterward."

Hehe. He didn't give up. He even gave me his address, because he wants to write to me about what he is studying in the Bible (he's currently working on memorizing Ephesians) and make sure that I come afterward to teach. All I could think is who knows? I prayed for him before we parted ways, as he had to get back to work.

Kaleidoscope

Throughout New York, I have taken several opportunities to meet people. Unfortunately, I only got one name, but here are the plethora of experiences:

Airport: In DFW, a man introduced himself to me as he saw me putting away my Mac. He wanted to know how the computer run, because he was looking into buying one himself. Of course, I had many great things to say. I also got to learn about him, a geologist, on his way to the Arctic Circle for a cruise and hoping to see some polar bears. He shared with me his other adventures, as he and his wife enjoy taking the National Geographic tours. One of them just so happened to be to Ushaia, you know, the southernmost city in the world. In Argentina. :)

Taxi: My driver was from Punjab. But as I have run into several other Indians in NYC, I'm starting to wonder if they just give that address because it's one of the easiest to say. Any way, he had turned on NPR which was discussing the Proposition 8 issue. He scoffed. So I asked him why, and he went into a rant about his homophobia. Interesting.

Empire 1: State building that is. Rode up the elevator with a couple from Holland. They shared with me some places to go, and were shocked when I told them I was going so I could talk with people about Jesus. Unfortunately, the elevator ride ended before I could continue.

Empire 2: I got a name this time--Tajmil. I was trying to figure out where the old Woolworth building was so naturally I asked one of the workers. Little did I know that he knew everything there was to know about the buildings and their history. (Duh, he works there!) Any way, he was also very kind, and I'm thinking was wanting to meet up sometime later as he kept shoo-ing away his fellow workers who wanted something from him. Too bad he actually had to go eventually.

Flatiron: It started raining, and as the India independence party was close by, some older gentlemen asked if they could share the umbrella that went over my table. Of course! I told them, and then they continued conversing without me. It was not too big of a deal, but it was lovely to hear Hindi again, and to catch a few sounds.

Nameless

I was trying to catch her name, but her tag was covered by her scarf. She was the cashier at Victoria's Secret, a place I went to today to stock up on underwear. Plus, I had a coupon, and one should always come prepared with a coupon :)

The point is, I'm still guilty of prejudice. To break down the word for you, I'm guilty of pre-judgments. This girl was really pretty. Put together pretty. She had great makeup that wasn't too much, but really brought out her eyes. And her outfit was simple, yet perfectly accentuated by (also simple) jewelry. I was trying to think of who she reminded me of when she began a short conversation.

I explained to her that I was getting ready for a big trip, 'Certainly,' I had thought, 'she wouldn't care what kind of trip.'

"Oh? Where are you going? What's it for?"

Gulp. I explain.. certainly, she doesn't care..

"NO WAY!" she says "I've been wanting to go on one for awhile now. I almost went to Puerto Rico for Spring Break, but it didn't work out. I'm going to do my best to go soon."

"Really?" I'm shocked. I don't know why I let a pretty girl be outside of wanting to serve Jesus. Maybe it's because she works at Victoria's Secret? Then again, I'm shopping there.. me=hypocrite.

Then I remembered, she looks just like Olivia Wilde. No joke.

Carlo

Soccer can have its perks. This time I met Carlo, father of Lorenzo and Stephano (or Stefano), who saw the small group of us playing in a neighborhood park. He asked us if we were on a team together, to which I chuckled.

I may have my soccer cleats, shin guards and long soccer socks now, but don't let them fool you. Wink!

When he continued talking with us, I realized that he had a European accent of some sort. He's from Holland, but had moved to Texas with his wife just a few weeks ago. Since I'm headed off to Nether-land soon, I asked for some places I should visit, and we talked a wee bit about the World Cup (I didn't include how aggressive his team was).

The best part though, was when his two kids decided to play with us. The boys joined me and we kicked the soccer ball around. Lorenzo made me his team mate, and he was so cute each time he scored a goal. He would run with his arms outstretched and this huge grin on his face. Then he'd come give me a high five and say, "Vee are winning!!" He was very adamant about keeping score.

Then, too, when one of us would score, the goalie would toss out the ball for us to dribble in. I laughed each time the boys would catch the ball and then put it by their feet. "Geen handen!" the father would yell.

Got a chance to talk with Carlo about Corrie Ten Boom, as she is a native Dutchie. He didn't know who I was talking about, but if he comes back next week, I'm hoping to give him her book. I find it cool that I just learned about her, and got a chance to share about Christ some through her story.

Victor

I write to prolong the inevitable. The dreaded shower after a day of getting sunburned. My whole body is doing that thing where you shake and get goosebumps. Perhaps I should get some Nyquil just to put me out. Just kidding.

I played a pick up game of soccer tonight with some great folks. Even Hillary Ford and Danielle Presley were there!

Ended up scoring because of some "nice touches" between me and Victor. I had introduced myself early on because he had passed it to me and I um.. I don't remember what happened. But it was probably stupid. Er..

I told him that I'm not much of a soccer player, so I wouldn't be offended if he took the next one on his own.

But then I started getting the hang of it, and sure enough.. GOOOOAAAALLLL!!! I might have celebrated by running down the middle of the field looking like an eagle. Caw!!

During a water break, I got to chat with him some more. Turns out he went to my high school.

"When did you graduate?" I asked.

"Oh-nine."

"Oh-eight!" pause. "I mean um.. I graduated from college in oh-eight, from Lewisville in oh-four."

He was appalled that I am 24. "Yeah, I get that reaction all the time. It's twice as fun when I tell 'em I'm hispanic!"

Any way, after more chatting it also comes to the surface that Victor is from Kenya. He moved here when he was seven. Currently, he's working to become a paramedic, who happens to love the game of soccer.

"I just wish it wasn't so hot when we played."

I suggested California, and he said most likely.

So nothing too crazy about this one. It was just cool to meet a pretty great soccer player not from these parts, and to hear about his dreams (He said he wanted to be a paramedic because he wanted to help make a difference. He couldn't stand sitting back and watching).

Deborah

I just wrote a thank you note to Mrs. Debbie Blue.

I met Debbie at a conference within the Covenant Church and was simply astounded by her. She has white hair that she wears in a bun, dark chocolate skin, and the type of voice that you want reading to your children at night.

The reason for our meeting was because she was on the prayer team at the conference, and I was in need of some major prayer (who isn't? But I think you know what I mean). She listened to me--the type of listening where you know the other person cares and isn't just nodding while checking the time on his or her wristwatch. Then she prayed a passionate, and spirit-filled prayer.

Surely I was already emotional, but I like to think that the prayer was so fitting and true, that I couldn't help but cry.

She hugged me, and then I had to catch my ride home.

I ended up seeing Debbie several times afterward, as I kept going to the seminars under the Justice and Mercy theme. I was at the conference to learn more about youth ministry, but couldn't help being attracted to the immigration and racial righteousness focused ones. Her passions as well.

In other words, I got to pick her brain some more, and she offered me her email in order to stay in touch. We have been in touch since, as I am compelled to pray for her and the ministry for which she works. I was blown away that she even gave toward my ministry overseas. What a woman!

Stan

Stan I met on the first day of the mission trip. He came near the very end of the line and I had already gone around offering seconds and refills to those who had gotten their free food first. He sat down by himself, and so I just sat across from him and asked the how d'you'do? You know, the usual get-a-conversation-started type of question.

He was a messy eater. As he talked I kept seeing streaks of mayonnaise or ketchup stream from the corners of his mouth. And he would talk. At times he'd stop to ask, "Am I boring ya?"

Honestly, I was never bored, but I could imagine my face looking so as I was intrigued by all he had to say. That is, stories of all the places he'd been as a youngster. But he also went on a rant as to how I should be a flight attendant so that I could see all the places I wanted to. "You're young, and that would be the cheapest way!" He smiled.

I kept trying to get to the heart of matters for him though. He talked about how he currently works on computers which helps him get by. He doesn't have a degree, but he learns quickly, apparently. So I kept prying, trying to hear what his passion is--what he wants to do. More than just get by. You know?

But that's a tough question.

We ran out of time, but he was eager to see if I would be there next week. I told him I would be gone by that time, but that it was a pleasure to meet him.

Walter

The other man we met in Civic Center Park was 62 year old Walter. I could have sworn that he was 45, maybe, but then again, he could have sworn that I was only 16. Surprise, surprise. He says he looks so young because he used to run every day at least 10 miles or so.

Like Manny, Walter is a Vietnam War veteran. I later found out that one in every four single homeless persons is a Vietnam veteran, and that slowly, Afghanistan veterans are joining them. Vietnam veterans are so, how do I say it, popular, because the war they fought in wasn't. They already got negative flack for being in a war most of America didn't want them to fight, but then they came back to a not-so-great economy too. Two strikes against them.

The third strike was that these young men were drafted at the age they should/could have been going to college. When they came back, they had been educated in another way, and probably didn't want any more.

Walter was kind. He talked about his daily routine of hitting up a coffee shop with the change he had collected the day before, and then waiting at a street corner. He appreciated us taking the time to feed him, to talk with him and to pray for him. He returned the favor of prayer before telling us that he was going to take a nap now. I like the way he thinks!

Manny Ramirez

I can't believe it's taken me this long to write here again. Perhaps this summer will help change things.

I finally thought of a specific person to write about, but now a flood of others comes to mind as I remember the purpose of this blog. I shall start with Manny, and then hopefully I'll get around to the others.

Manny was sitting in Civic Center Park. He loves the Rockies, and was listening to the game when I and three junior high types came and offered him a sandwich. He gladly took it and then I asked if we could sit and talk with him.

"Oh no, I'm okay," he said.

"Are you sure?" I asked. "We'd love to get to know you."

He paused. "You couldn't handle me. I would just pick your brain."

"Well bring it," I responded by sitting indian style before him.

Dramatic pause. "All right then," Manny said. "Who is God?"

Dramatic pause again. I thought about what his angle might be. Was he just trying to pick a fight? Was he a hardcore atheist who knew we were church people and wanted to deflate us? Or was he truly questioning?

I admit to being afraid at this point especially because of the three kids with me. I didn't want this to get messy. I just wanted to encourage, and to show how you can get to know strangers. So I began to talk about how I believed that God made the world. I talked about the first two people on the earth and how they messed up, but that God cared so much about people that he sent Jesus to--

"Oh good," Manny interrupted. "I was just making sure you knew. I believe that too!"

Enter sigh of relief. From there the conversation was about who this man was and what life for him was like. As he wore shiny Aviators, I asked if he would take them off so we could see his eyes. They were a light brown, and his face sort of had an ape look to it. He was wiping tears from his eyes.

"Can I ask you to pray for something for me?" he asked.

"Of course," all four of us said in unison.

Manny's girlfriend had just passed away a couple months ago. Recently he's really been struggling with the loss as they had been close friends for twelve years by the point of her death. He hasn't had many he could talk to about it, and he told us that our presence meant so much to him. "You give me a chance to talk about what's been burning inside me," he said.

"I know God loves me though," he said. "A lot of hard things have happened to me lately, but God has also given me the opportunity to finally live in a home again." Manny will be living in Section 8 housing within the next couple of weeks.

Manny also talked about his few belongings. His bike was propped up against the nearby tree, and he had a backpack with a pair of clothes.

"I also carry around my Bible, the book of Mormon, and Harry Potter," he said.

My mind raced. Uh-oh.

"Why do you have the book of Mormon?" I pried.

"Oh, they come around here all the time. I have it so that they won't give me another one and won't bother me. If they think I believe the crap they do, then they leave me alone."

Sorry, but this moment definitely deserves a chuckle. Well said!

But the best moment, well, other than the fact that we prayed as a group (holding hands) not once but twice, was the time where Manny was sharing something from the Bible that he loved. He was mid-sentence when he said, "Excuse me," got up, and peed at a nearby tree. When he sat down he picked back up right where he started. That takes skill!

Any way, I met Manny Ramirez, 54, and that is my story. Pray for him as he is preparing to pull his life together after the loss of a loved one. He hopes that getting housing will help him get prepared to go back to college.

Pastor Pablo

This past week I met many, many cool people! I was driving various folks to and from the airport who were attending a conference. The conference was meant mainly for pastors, but youth pastors, church planters, and justice and mercy ministers were there too.

So as I'm waiting to take the final group to the hotel on Monday, this Hispanic guy walks in. It's just me and him for awhile so we chat it up during that time.

His name is Pablo, and he's born in L.A., raised in Santiago, Chile. I know, a little crazy in terms of coincidence with my life. So we talked about what his ministry is like back in California, as well as what my current ministry in Colorado and future ministry plans will look like. He was so cool, as he showed the Spanish hospitality by giving me his email address. He says he has lots of contacts in Argentina, one of the options for me, and that he would make sure I was in good hands were I to go.

Turns out the man is kind of a hot shot in the Spanish Covenant church. And I have his contact info. As Noah would say, "What now?!"

More importantly, so cool to meet such a kind man who's heart is all for meeting the needs of the Spanish speakers in L.A.