India and another village

I've been asked to update. In brief, I'm in India now. Most of my time here has been spent with believers, enjoying their company and picking their brains as to what is going on here in Northern India. Amanda, my girlfriend, is here and as you can imagine, it has been great to see her and spend time with her! I'm staying with a couple from her company.

Sunday morning I went to a small local church with Amanda and her partner Jacki. When I say small, there were maybe 15 people. Most of the worship was in Hindi, with one English song thrown in. Even though I couldn't understand the Hindi songs I recognized the word "Yeshua" or Jesus. Just knowing that these people were singing about the same Jesus I sing about filled my heart with joy and while they sang out loud, I sang and praised God in my heart and mind. The pastor opened the word to Hebrews and had some nice things to say. There is a great need for doctrinal and discipleship training for pastors here. Pray that the Lord will send people to equip national pastors and give them the training they need to effectively shepherd and grow the body in India.
After the service we all went to the pastor's home for a snack and cha (chai, spiced tea with milk and lots of sugar). Snack consisted of two large Samosa's and two cups of cha. It was a good time of talking with the pastor and members about the church and their vision for the next few years.
Around 3:30 we picked up a national pastor and went to visit a village. We left paved roads and densely populated areas for bumpy dirt roads surrounded by rice paddies and water buffalo. We came to a community filled with brick structures surrounded by thatch fences. Our first stop was a village pastor's house. We walked through an opening in the thatch fence, around the small brick building he lives in, and met him sitting on a woven bed under a Guava tree. Pastor 1 (P1) chatted w/ pastor 2(P2) in either Hindi or Punjabi - it sounds the same to me. Through the translator, P2 asked us questions and told us about his ministry in the village. He told us that there were a few other Christians in the village but they were mostly nominal Christians and don't like him because he shares his faith and tells others about Jesus. We had a cup of Cha and after being handed an unripe Guava and told to eat it, we went for a stroll through the village.
As we walked people would invite us into their courtyard or house. Most houses in the village had a small wall around the property. Within was an open courtyard area, a small stall for goats or a water buffalo, a kitchen, and one or two room areas to sleep. The first group that invited us in was a Hindu family. They were making a rug and after demonstrating how they make the rug there was some exchange in Punjabi and P1 asked one of the girls to share a story. She told a story about Jesus having power over demons and disease and that He changes lives and shared how He changed her life. She then prayed for the family and then we left. For the next 3 hours we walked through the village and went to houses that either invited us in, or that the pastor knew the people and there was an arranged meeting. We would sit down, someone would bring Cha, there would be dialogue in either Hindi or Punjabi, one of us would tell a story or a testimony of who Jesus was and how he changed our life and P1 would translate. There was always a crowd since we look quite different. The people would listen intently and rap a talkative child on the head to silence him. After the story, P1 would continue to translate as one of us prayed for the family and their needs, both physically and spiritually. They thanked us and we walked on.
During those few hours we went to about 10 homes and had way too much tea - My count by the end of time was 6 cups. In those 10 homes we visited with Sikhs, Hindus, Muslims, and Christians - only the first and last homes were Christian. As others were sharing stories I would look at individuals in the crowd of people and pray for them. I knew that I wasn't going to sit down with them and lead them to the Lord, but that maybe by our being there and them hearing a story about Jesus, He would speak to their heart. That He would put within them a desire to know Him and that they will go to their neighbor and inquire more about this man Jesus the foreigners spoke of so highly. I know that God will use our feeble attempts for His glory. I pray that stories from His word will continue to be shared in that small village and that God will strengthen and empower the believers there to continue laboring for the Kingdom.

Detained by Hindus: an evening in the village

While in Chittagong there was a large Hindu Puja (festival) going on. This involved setting up shrines, chairs, and loud speakers up all over the village where the Hindus gathered to sing, dance, eat and worship whatever the given idol of the shrine is. All day there was loud music coming from all directions as they were setting up and preparing the shrines for the evenings festivities. Before dinner, while it was still daylight, I took a walk with two of the older kids through the village to see what all the hullabaloo was about. We passed shrines with people singing, shops where people were cooking the evening's food, carpenters making furniture, along with all the usual village sights of rice paddies and their workers, with rickshaws and motorcycles cruising by, etc.
We got to a sizable Hindu temple and the monk invited us in for a tour. I was glad I had the kids with me who could speak Bangla and translate into broken English for me. We took off our shoes and he showed us some shrines, the prayer areas and also his room attached off to the side. After our tour we walked back to the orphanage.
For dinner the kids were cooking fish heads, so when presented with the option of eating with the missionaries I chose wisely. It was good to spend time with them and hear their stories of God's provision and guidance. As we ate and talked we could hear the Hindu's music from all directions. We had talked a lot about prayer and I felt moved to take a prayer walk through the village and pray for it as everyone was worshiping their idols. The missionaries said it was safe and that they wouldn't even mind me photographing the Puja. After a short prayer in my room I took a flashlight, and my camera and went for a walk.
Only a few hundred yards walk from the orphanage was the first shrine. I stood back a few yards behind a bright light hoping I wouldn't be too noticed. I prayed silently as I watched the dancing and singing. Around the human sized idol there were flowers and plants and wreaths; candles and incense were burning at its feet next to various offerings. My heart was heavy. I took a short video on my camera. I thought I would take a still photograph and be on my way. Bad idea! I thought I had changed the settings to be discreet as I took pictures but I neglected to double check the flash. I focused on the teenagers that were dancing, pushed the button and FLASH. I thought OOPS. The music stopped, everyone turned around and the dancers surrounded me instantly. They grabbed my arms and shirt and started pulling me, saying "come, come!! Come dance!!" and a few other things in Bangla that I didn't understand. I said I had to go and motioned to leave but they dragged/carried me to the area in front of the idol. The music and flashing lights started again and they were all dancing around me and I couldn't really move in any direction. I smiled and clapped my hands, not really sure what to do. They put a chair beside the DJ and motioned for me to sit...so I sat, very glad I was not being forced to dance anymore. The DJ changed tracks and the crowd got even more excited and invited me dance again. I clapped my hands and smiled some more as I slowly moved toward the edge of the crowd wondering if I would be able to simply walk away or if I would be drug back into the dance. Once I made it to the edge I stopped clapping and waved and said goodbye...and walked away unscathed.
I walked on and most all the shops I'd seen earlier in the day were closed. When I got to the next festival area with about 5 times more people, I decided to stay on the other side of the rice paddy and pray and not take any flash pictures.
All in all I think it was a good evening. Definitely an adventure to be remembered.

The Faith of a Child

Tuesday morning I took a 7 hour train (potential blog post in and of itself) to Chittagong to visit the Home of Love orphanage for two days. My time there was a good medicine to my soul.
That evening before I could even unpack and get settled I had jumped into a game of basketball with some of the kids. There are about 65 kids at the orphanage and unlike the city of Dhaka the kids have some space to run around and play within the orphanage. Since it is a Christian run orphanage there is a short devotion time at 6:30am and 6:30pm. Before the devotion time I was able to meet a dozen or so kids and somehow remember their names. After devotions is dinner. Before dinner the kids recruited me to help them roll rooti, similar to a flour tortila. The small kids have small tables and the older ones sit on benches at a bigger table. Dinner - usually one of an of innumerable combination of rice, potatoes and curry and sometimes supplemented with fish - is eaten in the traditional style: with the hands from a metal plate. After dinner is a study time and then off to bed.
Wednesday, in short, was a day of helping the kids with various tasks and lots of playing. There was no school due to a city wide Hindu holiday. There was a large quantity of basketball, badminton, cricket, pushing on the swings, monkey bars, story telling, and laughter.
Thursday was a school day so the older kids were away most of the morning and I caught up on some journaling and talked with the administrator of the orphanage who had gone unnoticed during Wednesdays "work." I was also able to spend some time playing with the younger kids. Most of the younger kids speak only Bangla but smiles and laughter are an international language, especially when there are hugs and playgrounds involved. In the afternoon there was more time spent with the older kids. At devotions I shared my testimony and a short challenge to the kids through an interpreter and thanked them for blessing my heart in my time with them. After dinner I caught a sleeper train (another potential blog post) back to Dhaka.
Reflecting on my time there I say it was a blessing and a good medicine to my soul. The staff - from South Korea, Germany, and the USA - are a picture of Christ and his love to what most of the world would call the unlovely. They could have the comforts of life and raise their family in a safe place, yet they spend their lives in a very hard place and pour their love into those kids. The kids call the Korean lady "Mother" and many familial references are made when describing others at the orphanage. The older kids play with the younger ones and help them with studies and every aspect of life as a loving older sibling. They all help out with cleaning and cooking and make the orphanage function. It is truly a Home of Love and I saw Christ there. In addition to all that, it was just plain fun. It is a good day when a precious little girl comes up from behind, grabs your hand, looks up at you with bright eyes and huge smile and leads you to a swing. Even though she can't say "push me" you know that the only thing in the world she wants at that moment is for you to love her, and spend some time with her and a swing.
As I walk the streets of Dhaka I am often approached by kids who are either orphaned or whose parents are too poor to feed them. They ask me for money and it pains my heart to know that their innocence has been robbed. Even if I give them a few taka it will probably go to a boss that has taken advantage of their innocence for his own gain. That day their boss will give them enough sustenance to barely survive. When they turn teenagers the girls are used for prostitution by these same men. If they aren't trafficked, the only life they know is begging. They have no skills to market or improve their life with. The big hope of the boys is to become a rickshaw driver and make $4 or $5 a day.


At the orphanage it made my heart smile to know that these kids were not being used for the gain of someone else. They are provided for and loved with the love of Christ. They have a hope for this life and the life to come. It is a beautiful thing to see simple faith, the faith of a child.

Brokeness

Tonight I felt my heart move. I went to a church service with some people I met last night and while there I met Jessie, a good friend of Rick and Chris who I'm staying with. He invited me over for dinner after the service and I really wanted to go home but felt that I should go meet this man's family and have dinner with them. A 24 year old Bengali named Suranjit is staying with them for a few days and I met him at the house. Suranjit spoke very broken English and was from some town in the South that I couldn't pronounce well. He wasn't too talkative so I didn't pay him much attention even though he was sitting next to me, and I chatted with Jessie and his wife. It occurred to me that I was being quite rude and that despite his limited English I should talk with him. Having seen him at church and knowing that he was staying with Jessie, I thought it a safe question to ask him if he was a Christian. He said that he was a Christian. I followed that question by asking him what his story was. The response to that question changed my evening, my trip to Asia, and probably my life.
He told me the town he lives in is mostly Hindu and that when he was a young boy his father became a Christian. He and the rest of his family of 5 became Christians and they were instantly outcasts in their town. It was dangerous for them to leave the house and they were constantly harassed and often hit and even beat up for converting to Christianity. He said that was in 1995 and now 15 years later there are 20 Christians in their town of 10,000. A few people have come to Christ but most of them left because of the persecution. He says that still are harassed and sometimes attacked. As Christians work is very scarce and sometimes he tutors, but it is not enough to sustain his family, but the Lord provides for their needs.
At missions conferences or through VOM I have heard countless stories of believers being persecuted for their faith; many of them more severe than the one I just described, and some unto death. But sitting on a couch with Suranjit, this dear brother, and hearing from his lips in his broken English, the story of God's grace in sharing His love with their family and the sustaining grace the Father has given them to endure physical, emotional, and economic persecution; this touched a very deep part of my heart. I was filled with great joy for the work of God in his life, filled with compassion for his hardships, filled with a desire to alleviate his sufferings, filled with humility for the many material blessings I have, and filled with sorrow for the 10,000 plus people in his town that are lost in darkness.
Suranjit invited me to come to his town and spend some time with his family. He held my arm and asked me to pray for him. He told me that he wants to share the love of Jesus Christ with the people of his town. In his church of 20 he is trying to start and outreach program but doesn't know how because there are so many people and it is dangerous. It probably won't work out for me to visit his town, but I would be honored to meet his family and the other 15 or so believers there. We swapped email addresses and we will keep in touch and I will continue to pray for him. Do join me in praying for Suranjit and the small family of believers in this town in southern Bangladesh. God's grace and love is at work, pray that it shines through these brothers and sisters and spreads to their Hindu town.

Slowly adjusting

I think I am getting slightly adjusted to the culture here. By that I don't mean that I love it and am ready to move here, but that the sights, sounds, and smells aren't a surprise or utterly shocking to me. As I mentioned in an earlier post, it was just too much for me to take in and process. Even after a couple days I would be riding in a rickshaw or baby taxi and just be in awe staring around me at how different everything is.
Tuesday I felt comfortable enough in my very limited Bangla and in my innate expert male sense of direction to venture out of the house, catch a rickshaw to another part of town, find a coffee shop to write and/or chat with people.
The area of town I was going is called "Golshan" so I can say that to any rickshaw wallah and he will know where to take me. Strangely when I flagged a rickshaw wallah he started talking with me in English, a nice surprise in my first solo journey into Dhaka. We chatted with his limited English until the end of the trip 15 minutes later. He said that Movenpicks (the coffee shop) was to the right, but after walking for 5 minutes I knew I'd gone the wrong way so I found my bearings and headed back the other way where I found Movenpicks. Once at the shop through a mixture of pointing and limited English I ordered some Cappuccino ice cream. I wrote in my travel journal for a little over an hour hoping someone would come in I could talk to, but the only other guests was a group of 8 Muslim women who I thought it best not to engage in conversation.
Upon leaving the shop I walked up to a group of rickshaw wallahs all eager to give the foreigner a ride and overcharge him. I said my address to the first one who looked at me funny, but the one next to him smiled and said "Yes boss, Baridarah!" I went with the one who seemed to know where I needed to go. I knew which turns he needed to make and knew I could tell him in Bangla "left, right, straight, stop" if I needed to.
While riding back to the house I realized that I was becoming acclimated to the sights around me. It was normal that there aren't really any lanes and that pedestrians, buses, rickshaws, baby taxis, cars and SUVs all share the same crowded road and that they won't (usually) collide despite the inches they come from each other at varying speeds and directions. It was normal for me to see a building project underway supplied by women carrying loads of sand or bricks on their head. I wasn't surprised or intimidated by the armed soldiers standing outside various buildings. It was odd but normal for their to be men off the side of the road relieving themselves as everyone passes by. It was normal to not really know what that smell in the air is, other than the faint smell of burning trash or exhaust from the many vehicles buzzing around. It was normal at intersections for me to be approached by beggars who stand there with their hand outstretched wanting and needing food or money. I've realized as a foreigner it is normal to be stared at, or receive the occasional "How are you" from people eager to practice their English.
This is my feeble attempt to help you see what I'm seeing. How to handle certain of these things I'm still figuring out.
Pray that the Father will show me my next step undeniably. Pray that while I am here, despite the many barriers, He will show me how to love this people like he loves them.

Blow out and bartering

Background: Rick is in Bangladesh to start a coffee roasting company. I brought a small roaster from the states so he could start test roasting some beans. That should suffice.

Saturday night we plugged in the roaster. Step 1 is to run a cycle with no beans so season the roaster and burn off any residue left from manufacturing. We plugged it in making sure to use the step-down transformer since power over here is on a 220 cycle and the roaster is an American 110 cycle machine. Neither Rick or I thought to check the wattage rating of either device. I entered the kitchen about ten minutes into the dry run and smelled smoke. The directions mentioned there may be some smoke or a smokey smell in the first couple runs so we thought nothing of it, and we were excited and fascinated at the machine. I noticed a stronger smoke smell and saw smoke, but not from the roaster, it was coming from the step-down quite voluminously. We unplugged the whole system and determined the step-down was fried. My first thought was wattage and we found the step-down was rated for 500W and we were pulling upwards of 1600W.
A step-down is quite necessary to allow Rick to roast beans so Sunday we went to the electronics market to get a new one. In the states this is a simple process; you go to Wal-mart or Radio Shack or Best Buy whichever is closer and you will pay relatively the same price. We entered one store that is relatively large with random appliances stacked in no certain order and ask if they have a 110 step-down transformer. We received a very confident yes from the salesmen who said "follow me." He led us through the store, to the door, across the street dodging rickshaws, beggars, buses and cars, into another market with booths of stacked electronics as far as I could see; reminding me of the flea market. He walked into one particular cubicle and said something in Bangla and the man behind the counter pulled out a 200W 110 step-down converter. Just what we needed! He pulled it out of the box, plugged it in, it worked and he said "7000 taka." At this point an ignorant person would hand him 7000 taka and be on his way with a new appliance. . . but that is not how it works here. Asking if this was his best price he said he could reduce it 200 taka for us to 6800. We said maybe we will buy it, but we will come back. We walked 10 feet to the next shop owner and asked for the same thing. "6000 taka for you my friend." Next shop: "5500 taka, best price. Next shop, hoping to get him down to 5000 taka he said he could do 5200. We left the market, ate lunch, had a cup of coffee, shopped for some other miscellaneous things in another nearby market and a couple hours later returned to the electronics market. We went to the original shop, within 30 feet of the other stores and bought the appliance for 5200 taka, about 25 dollars less than the originally quoted price.
All in the day of life in Bangladesh.

Neat Conversation

Today was my first full day in Dhaka. This afternoon we took a taxi to the other side of town which is a decent drive in a city of 12-15 million people. Rick knows this particular driver b/c he uses him often for trips that will take a few hours. Late in the evening on the way home we went through one intersection crowded with rickshaws, taxis, baby taxis, beggars, and tons of pedestrians all trying to get squeeze their way through. The usual intersection except for this one had a pedestrian crossing above it. On the corners one would climb steps and walk across the bridges suspended above the intersection to get to the other side. A genius way to allow both foot traffic and wheeled traffic through at the same busy time; except there were only two or 3 people on the whole bridge system. I asked our driver why no one used it. He said that Bengalis hate discipline and structure and being told what to do, so they won't use it. I thought this odd since Islam is all about discipline and structure and being told you cannot do certain things, and have to do certain other things. So I said "But isn't Islam and extremely disciplined religion?" He made some excuse about everyone not always doing right all the time. He said "lying for example. I lie all the time, no one is honest, you cannot find an honest person in this country. We cannot follow everything Islam says to do." Careful not to be boastful, the conversation continued, but I pointed out that Rick was an honest man. I asked Rick if I was an honest man and he agreed. The driver said how much he loved Rick and that he was a good man.
It wasn't a super lengthy conversation and we didn't discuss so much more that I would love to discuss, but I feel that was all the Spirit led me to say. It was something that was on top of a good relationship Rick has built, and hopefully it is something that Rick can continue to build on. I'm thankful that God is giving me some boldness, and also giving me words to say. On the first day in this city of 12-15 million people, mostly extremely poor, and mostly Muslim, my first reaction is to say nothing, just take it in and try to process it all. I'm tired and I'm in sort of a daze, taking in a sensory overload amount of new sights and smells and awkward uncomfortable experiences. I guess thats what they call culture shock.
I can feel your prayers and I'm thankful for them. Pray that I will continue to be filled with the Word, led by the spirit, and have many more good conversations.

The blessed 16 hour layover in Delhi

This is long but you should enjoy it if you've ever set foot foot in an airport, traveled, or even ever seen an airplane.

IGI, the airport in Delhi, is not what we would call by any stretch of the imagination efficient or comfortable. When we landed at 11:30pm there was so much fog/pollution in the air that the pilot couldn’t navigate to the gate. Looking out the window I couldn’t see the wing, and I was sitting on top the wing. The pilot called for a truck so we could follow it to the gate, but the truck got lost in the fog. A 747 wandering around airstrips shrouded in fog with other planes coming and going is a formula for a really good news story that I didn’t want to be featured in. We parked in a safe place and 3 hours later, after a tractor came and towed us close to arrivals. Having napped most of the way to IGI, and the 3 hours on the runway, the best part of my experience in Delhi is now over.
I entered arrivals around 2:30am and was greeted by a guard armed with an AK47 . . . that was surprising. Most people in the plane were stopping in India and headed for customs, but since I was flying on to another international destination I didn’t think I needed to go through customs so I asked an official looking person that wasn’t armed where I should go to connect to the Bangladesh flight. He confirmed that I didn’t need to go through customs and said he would show me where to go. He said in English but with a deep Indian accent, “I’ll take u where you need to go. Stay here, I’ll be right back” and then he disappeared. I thought Great, I don’t know where I am, I don’t speak Hindi, there’s a guy with a gun over there, I don’t know where I’m supposed to be going . . . at least I have 12 hours to figure it out, should be fun. Eventually that gentleman came back and led me up to "Transfers." Transfers is like limbo; it is a small place somewhere in between security and the terminals. In Transfers you don’t have a boarding pass so you can’t go into the terminal area, you just get to look at it with its little shops and restaurants and nice chairs. Transfers is a small area full of people waiting for “someone to come find them” and give them a boarding ticket because there’s no information desk or self-serve kiosks to get one, just hundreds—literally hundreds—of airport workers walking around. Transfers is a, did I mention small, place where there are two electrical plugs and when u finally get one to plug ur laptop in, you find out that there’s no wifi; despite all the signs that say ‘free wifi’ it is only accessible if you have a certain Cell phone carrier. At some point I just decided, more so hoped, that someone knew what was going on in this really confusing, stuffy, smelly place and I would simply wait for “someone to come get me” while I read a book for another 10 hours. Bad assumption. In Amsterdam I received a piece of paper labeled “boarding pass: Delhi to Dhaka.” So, one would think that I could use my “boarding pass” to get from Transfers to the actual terminal area, but upon attempting this I was told what I had was not a boarding pass despite false labeling and that someone would come to Transfers to give me my boarding pass.
Fast forward a few hours and chapters later, my plane was supposed to leave @ 12:25 out of gate 01 according to the flight schedule posted on the tv screen-important detail, remember 12:25. After not coming at the 3 times they promised me they would come to give me my boarding pass, they arrived with my pass at 11:55, gates close 15 minutes prior to take-off, giving me 30 minutes to get through security and get to my gate which was not printed on my ticket. OK, game plan: get through security, rush to gate 01 and get on the plane and finally be free of IGI. Step 1, I got through security very quickly with no problem, but before I could proceed to gate 01 I hear my name on the intercom: “Passenger Bryan Miller meet Miss Punja at security station.” Mrs. Punja was an airline worker to whom I gave my non-boarding pass marked “boarding pass” after the 2 other workers who said they would come at 10:30 and 11:15 did not come with my boarding pass. Mrs. Punja said she would go get my pass and meet me in Transfers in less than 10 minutes. When a man came 30 minutes later with my ticket, I assumed they had crossed paths at the printer…yet another bad assumption. So after I found the security station they said I had lost my boarding pass and wondered how I had gotten through security. I showed them my “boarding pass” which they said was a duplicate and they had my original boarding pass, but they would tear it up for me. I don’t know which was more frustrating: a) that my flight was leaving in 15 minutes and I wasn’t on it, or b) when I tried to get through security the first time they wouldn’t let me, or 3) that I sat in Transfers for almost 9 hours when maybe I could have been in the terminal area. All easily remedied IF SOMEONE THAT WAS SUPPOSED TO KNOW ACUTALLY KNEW WHAT WAS GOING ON! Well I walked through the small terminal area and saw gate 5, gate 4, gate 3 . . . and then the numbers stopped. Where were gates 2 and 1? I asked someone and they said downstairs. So I walked around looking for the stairs and found them hidden behind a couple hundred Iranian soldiers in full uniform. I got to gate 01 and it was now boarding for Istambul… bewildered as to why, since the screen still said Dhaka 12:15 gate 01, that at 12:05 it was boarding for Istambul. Asking the airline worker at gate 01 revealed that he didn’t know anything about a Dhaka plane, to ask at gate 02 which was boarding for Katmandu. Well I finally found someone that knew something at gate 02! The Dhaka flight had been delayed and would leave at 2:00 he said, but he didn’t know from which gate but to go ask information. There was now an information desk once you get past security into the terminal area. Back upstairs, past the Iranian soldiers, information said, looking at me like I was an ignoramus, look at the screen, it says gate 01. Laughing I pointed out that it said it was also leaving right then, but had been delayed to 2:00 which the screen had not relayed to said ignoramus. Well after going back and forth from gate 01, gate 02, information, gate10, information, and gate 05, I finally took a gamble and sat down at gate 02. Successful gamble, we finally boarded at 2:30. While lining up at gate 02 to board, I glanced at the Flight screen which still said “Dhaka Gate 01 12:25.” Finally, 16 hours later, bewildered, annoyed, thankful and relieved, I finally flew out of IGI at 3:00pm.
When I got to Dhaka everything was well made up for by near ideal airport situations. There was a short line at immigration where they didn’t ask me any questions at all and stamped my passport. I walked to baggage and my bags were among the first on the belt. With my bags on a luggage cart, I walked right out of the airport past scanners, customs declaration people, and more armed guards. At that point I was nearly attacked by “You have a ride? Do you need help? Taxi boss? Taxi? Taxi?” I asked a guard where the phones were so I could call Rick and he handed me his cell phone and walked off. I called Rick who was on his way, the guard walked back with 2 more smiling guards, and took his phone, and I met up with Rick.

Intimidation and Knowledge of the Truth

I'm sitting in Charlotte about to board the first plane of many in this trip.
I am more excited about this trip than any other trip I've taken, but also more intimidated. I'm encouraged by how the Lord has led me up to this point and worked everything from finances to contacts and visas out so smoothly. I'm excited that I might find an internship and be able to be mentored by someone who loves the Lord and loves the people of Bangladesh. I'm excited about the contacts and friends I'll make while I'm over there that may lead to future work and ministry together. At the same time, these of things that I'm so excited about also mean leaving everything I've ever known and loved and been comfortable around. That is a little intimidating.
On the other end of the spectrum, looming like the IRS is failure. What if I hate Asia and never want to go back? Or even if I like it, what if I can't find some sort of internship?
Fears like these could cripple me if I entertained them and worried about them. To fight these unhealthy fears I have to remind myself of whats true. I know that I didn't come up with the idea of traveling to Asia to do Business as Missions. God has put it in my heart because of some plan He is working. He is guiding and directing me and I know that this is the next step I'm supposed to take. I don't know what comes after this month; I have some ideas, but I dont know. I don't need to know. Sometimes He takes our path up high where we can see way out in front of us, and sometimes we can only see the next step. I'm ok with that. I know that He has good in mind for me and that as I seek Him, He won't lead me down the wrong path. So yes, I'm aware of the fears and possibilities; I'm a business-minded guy I'm supposed to look at all the angles and possible outcomes. After looking at them, I'm plowing ahead knowing that He is the one in charge.