DEBORAH PAUL -- Reporter’s Notebook

Last week, I returned from a spiritual journey.

Under the auspices of Sowers International and my church, I traveled

with a team of short-term Christian missionaries to southwest Guatemala.

Working with pastors from three local churches in Quetzaltenango and

Mazatenango, team leaders Troy Jones of San Pedro and Torrance Pastor

Javier Celis paired us with Spanish-speaking households, where we became

part of their families for a week.

Our loose itinerary included conducting vacation Bible schools at

day-care centers, churches, schools and orphanages, mostly in pueblos

outside our base cities. We put on skits anddramas, sang songs, prayed,

told Bible stories and made about 700 or more beaded “wordless Bible

bracelets.” We also helped hundreds of kids press painted handprints on

T-shirts, which they kept.

What I learned most -- coming from a conservative church environment

-- is that most Americans place their religion in nice, neat little

boxes. My experience is that we avoid sharing our respective faiths

because to do so may offend someone.

Not so with the Guatemalans. The first church service and luncheon we

attended was more than five hours long. No apologies.

Their emotionally charged Pentecostal praise, singing and prayers made

me uncomfortable and somewhat scared. At the same time, I was intrigued

with their awe and passion for Christ.

Later the same day, I witnessed a bald 12-year-old girl who was going

through cancer treatments praying so sweetly and earnestly, she went into

some kind of trance, or “in the spirit,” as the Pentecostals call it.

You tell me. I don’t doubt what I saw.

Two days in the culture, and our neat little boxes began to fray at

the edges.

On one excursion, we played games with orphans and helped serve a

hearty dinner, which was the first time they had meat in a month. I

watched proudly as buffer zones against dirt and stench broke down one by

one among my team members. By now, the seams of our neat little boxes had

become unraveled.

At Retalhuleu, the most blighted section of Mazate, we attended an

evening church service that I’m sure my group will never forget.

Warned beforehand by Pastor Jairo Soberanis not to be shocked at the

poorness of his flock, we greeted his small congregation as they came

through the door. He told us that most had lived a lifetime of being told

they were worthless. Many, he said, were never treated any better that

the starving, mangy dogs that run wild all over Guatemala.

Some were toothless and wore layers of unkempt clothing. Others wore

tattered shoes and smelled like alcohol. We hugged each one. They were

genuinely eager to talk and help us with our Spanish.

As the church service began, thunderclaps rattled the makeshift

building. Rain beat on the tin roof as music engulfed the room, making us

feel as if we were shut off from the rest of the world. Shoulder to

shoulder with our Guatemalan friends, we felt safely cupped in the hands

of God. Some worshiped with their faces to the ground.

I can’t speak for others who were on the trip. Some got ill, and

others found out that the mission field in a third-world country isn’t

for them. Still others were humbled because their own hard journeys in

life never exposed them to the kind of love we received from the

Guatemalan children and indigenous missionaries.

I experienced a measure of cross-culture faith I never knew existed.

I’m glad the neat little box where I stored my personal beliefs is now

beyond recognition. I now have the freedom to seek answers to the more

profound matters of the soul without being inhibited by old barriers.

* DEBORAH PAUL is a reporter for the South Bay Weekly, the

Independent’s sister paper.