A week or two after we arrived on the field in 2005, I got an email that said something to the effect of, "How many are y'all running at your church now?" I gasped, chuckled a little, and showed it to Robbie. "How many are we running? Are you kidding me?" Evidently we had not explained to this particular person all that was involved in setting up a new life on the mission field.

We were starting from scratch. We arrived with no vehicle, no housing, no prospects. We didn't know where the grocery store was or where to go to change money. We had to meet with a lawyer about obtaining residency. And we needed to go back to the airport to hopefully find the eight Rubbermaid containers that had not arrived on the plane with us. It's pretty scary to condense your life down to the bare essentials only to have it go missing at JFK!

Those first few months on the mission field are unbelievably crazy, especially if you are beginning a new work in a largely unfamiliar area. And let me tell you, culture shock comes right up and slaps you in the face...

After we had finally obtained housing and a vehicle, ordered major appliances, and met with a carpenter to have some furniture made, our new home was beginning to take shape. We just had not figured on everything taking five times as long in a third-world culture.

For example, we decided one morning to tackle the next item on the to-do list: a way to send and receive mail from the States. There is no system in Honduras that delivers mail to residences; that probably has something to do with the streets not having names. So in order to get mail, we had to go downtown to rent a post office box.


I tentatively followed an employee through a padlocked metal gate into a small grimy room lit by a single dim bulb. A large, bored-looking man sat behind a desk that looked like it had survived a war only to be covered by tattered letters, ratty packages, and dried up ink pads. This is where our mail would be coming?

"Excuse me, sir, I'd like to secure a post office box, please."

"We don't have any available," he gruffly replied before returning to the soccer game on the radio.

"Excuse me?"

"They're all occupied."

This was the only post office in the whole town. Not looking good.

I glanced at the wall of small boxes stuffed full of letters. It looked like he was telling the truth. Then I spied some larger boxes on the other side of the room. "What about those?"

"Oh, those are commercial boxes. They are too expensive."

"How much?" Visions of care packages were dancing in my head.

"Nine hundred lempira for a year." I pulled out the calculator that had been glued to my hand since we arrived...about fifty dollars.

"I'll take it!"

He sighed heavily and pulled a worn receipt pad from the desk drawer. "You need to buy a lock for your box."

"Where do I get a lock?"

After he pointed me in the direction of nearest hardware store, Robbie and I set off to find it. After getting turned around and asking for directions from several suspicious bystanders, we finally found a dingy hardware store with rusty, antique-looking locks. I pulled the sample the post office worker had given me from my purse. "I need one of these." She removed a small box from a drawer, took out the lock, inspected it for a seemingly endless amount of time, then quoted me the cost. I dutifully negotiated for a deal and we finally settled on a price. I reached for the lock, but she withdrew it quickly.

"No, you go pay over there at the register first."

I waited in a "line" (literally a mass of sweaty people shoving their way to the front to hand their money through the tiny opening in the bullet-proof glass), collected my receipt, and took it back to the first lady.

"Oh no, you still need to get it stamped. Go over there to that counter first."

I was beginning to feel like a rat in a dark little maze that smelled like rust and paint remover. After another wait, I handed the frowning manager my receipt which he scanned repeatedly. I saw that the first lady had given him the the box containing my lock, which he held up next to the receipt to be sure they matched. Then he removed the lock and inserted each key, opening and closing it to show me it worked. Finally, he pulled the receipt back out and checked it one last time.

I was wondering if I was going to be asked for a blood or urine sample, when he finally handed me the bag with great flair and motioned toward the door. Finally! But as I started to leave, a large security guard stepped in front of me and held out his hand. Are you kidding me? What now?

"Receipt, please." I dug the receipt out of my purse and showed it to him. He opened the bag with my two-dollar lock and inspected it carefully. Finally satisfied that I had received exactly what I had paid for, he motioned for me to leave.

Like Jason returning with the Golden Fleece, I strode into the post office and proudly presented the gruff man with the lock. He looked it over and said, "The man who installs the locks isn't here today. You'll have to come Wednesday at noon." Install the lock? Are you serious? I looked down at the simple brass object in his hand. Give me a screwdriver!

But I held my tongue, remembering he was the one who would be handling our care packages. "Oh, well, while I'm here, can I buy some stamps?"

"We're out."

A whole morning gone and nothing had been checked off our list! And the Honduran scavenger hunt was just beginning. We were so desperate to start our ministry, but many days we felt like we were spinning our wheels!

So my dear readers, please remember, if you ever email a missionary a couple weeks after he arrives in a third-world country and ask him how many doors he's knocked, just be prepared. He might just fly back home to slap you!

Thank the Lord, after a few more weeks we were set up and ready to go! Be sure to return next week for "Looking Back Part III: The Birth of a Ministry" to read about how we got started.

This month Team Honduras celebrates an anniversary of service on the mission field. As we give thanks to the Lord for all that He has done, I have been sentimentally recalling the exciting journey we embarked on just five short years ago. I know that some of my readers are missionaries (who can relate to the story I will tell), some missionary candidates (who may learn from our experiences), and some supporters back home (who may be interested in the ins and outs of our journey to arrive on the field). Whatever category you may fall into, I pray that you will rejoice with us in how the Lord brought our team together and prepared us for the journey ahead.


Matt Goins, Dallita Clay, Christine Tippett, and Robbie Ellis (1999)

Robbie Ellis and Matt Goins became friends as freshmen at Pensacola Christian College, due to common interests in worldwide missions and Kentucky basketball. Then at Mission Prayer Band one Monday evening, they were challenged by a missionary named Brian Burkholder to pray about working as a team instead of "going solo." He cited many advantages such as accountability and encouragement. The Lord began to work in both of their hearts about forming a missions team; they began to pray for one Central American country each week. When they began seriously dating their future wives, Dallita and me, we joined in prayer and study of various countries.

The Lord used several different people and situations to lead us to Honduras. Robbie had a roommate from Honduras, who continually spoke of the need in his country. I had a close friend from Honduras, and I spent two weeks at her home one summer, teaching in a Christian school. Matt and Dallita were asked by their pastor to pray about going to Honduras, having been made aware of a need there by a Honduran he had met. It seemed that God kept bringing this small Central American country to our hearts in a variety of ways.


The Ellis and Goins Families

The Goinses graduated and were married in 2000; they then joined the staff at West Florida Baptist Church in Milton, Florida, where Matt taught sixth grade and Dallita assisted in a kindergarten class.



Robbie and I graduated in 2001, married, and joined the staff at Beacon Baptist Church in Raleigh, NC, where I had grown up. He taught third grade and I taught middle and high school English. Both families also served in various ministries at our home churches: teaching a children's class, working on a bus route, attending soul-winning visitation. Yes, we were in transition; we would not arrive on the mission field for a couple more years. But that was no excuse not to serve. We needed to train and learn from these two great churches before we arrived on the field. He who is not willing to serve at home will certainly not serve abroad. Ministry is not location; it's a lifestyle.


Saying goodbye to some of my former English students just before we headed to the field

Robbie and I met with Pastor Tim Rabon of our home church about our desire to be sent from Beacon Baptist Church to the Honduran mission field. A few months later, we prepared a presentation which we nervously presented to the Deacon Board.


Robbie and I with Pastor and Mrs. Rabon shortly before leaving for Honduras


Once we had Pastor and the board's blessing, we began contacting churches to schedule meetings. Also during this time, Robbie and Matt flew to Honduras to conduct a survey trip to help them decide where to plant the first church. I continued to teach English at RCA; Robbie worked part-time at the NC Credit Union. On the weekends we traveled to churches to present our work and hopefully be taken on for support. We slept little and logged many miles on our Ford Contour, but the Lord blessed and we were able to raise our support in just nine months.


At a missions conference in Las Vegas with the Pattersons, missionaries to Mexico


A third-grade Christian school class (RCA, Mr. Barker) gave us a going away shower of many gifts, such as luggage and our first digital camera.

Meanwhile, Matt, Dallita, and their infant son Joash had raised their support as BIMI missionaries and had headed to a year of language school in Costa Rica, where their second son Jadon was born.




Having had some previous Spanish classes, Robbie and I opted for a two-month intensive course; we joined Matt and Dallita in Costa Rica in August of 2004. The men bussed up to Honduras to conduct one last survey trip before the final semester of language school. They hit ten cities in fourteen days, talking with missionaries and national pastors to find out where the biggest need for a fundamental church was.



As soon as they returned, we plunged back into study.


My classmates and teacher at language school in San Jose

Shortly before our departure, we took our first Staff Retreat, traveling to a beautiful resort at the base of a live volcano, Arenal. Here we decided on the organization of the team (Robbie would function as the team leader) and the details of the first church plant.


The active volcano at Arenal, and the cabin where we met to plan our first-year and five-year goals.

We finished our Spanish training and arrived on the field within a few weeks of each other, Matt and Dallita just before Christmas and Robbie and I in the second week of January. Our hearts were filled with excitement, nervousness, and even some apprehension; but were were eagerly anticipating what the Lord could do through our ministry. We could never have dreamed all that lay ahead...

Be sure to check back next week to hear about one of the most exciting times in our lives--our first few months on the field!

We just celebrated an amazing Christmas...Robbie and I agreed that it's been one of the best ever. Even though we did not get to spend it with our families in the States, it was a sweet, special time with our own little family. I think what made this year so wonderful were the great opportunities we had to give. Honestly, I feel that some years it's easy for Christmas to veer out of control. Claire is the only grandchild on both sides of the family, and if we are not careful, the focus can easily become piles of gifts from our dear relatives who rarely see her. But this year we were able to be a part of quite a few projects that helped us stress to her the joy of giving.

I helped the ladies of Iglesia Bautista El Faro organize bags for needy new mothers who give birth at the public hospital. Hospitals here (even the private one where I had Claire) do not give out "freebies" like the ones in the States. You have to bring your own supplies: diapers, wipes, acetominophen, feminine products, etc. Patients at the public hospital even have to purchase their own IV bags from the pharmacy downtown. So we church ladies organized bags of supplies for the new mothers who arrive with no money to purchase what their newborn needs. It was a great privilege to present 84 bags to the maternity ward, along with a letter of encouragement from our church.

Our church people, young and old, gave toward a "Christmas Gifts for Christ" project that focused on two areas. First, they gave offerings to help build a fundamental church in El Salvador. Then, each age group was assigned a food item to bring to church for the offering. The little girls and boys brought dried rice and beans. The teens brought white and corn flour. The adults brought shortening and dried pasta. We put together fifteen large food baskets to take to needy families in our community on a special visitation, where we surprised them by singing Christmas carols outside their houses. Caroling is not a tradition in Honduras, but our people loved their first caroling experience! And Claire went right along with us, singing loudly at each house and shouting, "Feliz Navidad!" as we left.



Claire and I baked Christmas cookies into the wee hours of the morning to take to the families of our church on Christmas Eve.
We also told her she could choose one little girl in her class to buy a present for this year. She chose a sweet little girl whose mother had abandoned her when she was an infant. We took Claire to the store where she chose a beautiful baby doll dressed as a princess. I was gearing myself up for the "I want to keep her" comments, but they never came. She was truly excited about seeing Allison get her new doll. She wrapped it and placed it under the tree. When family members from the States asked Claire on the telephone how many presents she would have for Christmas, she always said, "One, the doll for Allison," thinking only of what she would be giving. I was so proud to see her little heart grow with love for others. I knew Claire would be opening her own presents, but thank the Lord, the joy of giving was taking predominance. When Claire took the doll to Allison on Christmas Eve, the little girl accepted the present then ran inside to place it under the Christmas tree; it was the only gift there. We were able to show Claire the joy of giving to someone who truly appreciated it.


Claire also chose gifts for me and Robbie. She was beside herself as I opened up a very colorful candle she had picked out--it looks like a big roll of lifesavers, but I love it because she selected it just for me. She also chose a red and white striped shirt with large, poofy sleeves because, "I want you to dress like a candy cane, Mommy!" I will wear it with pride.




I know some Christians adamantly shun gift-giving at Christmas, citing materialism and greed. But I believe gift-giving done in the right way can be a sweet, special experience; we just have to find balance.

Here on the mission field, we are surrounded by poverty and suffering. But we are also surrounded by stories of supernatural sacrifice, as new Christians who have nearly nothing scrape together what they can to buy a bag of dried beans to bring to church. One man whose flocks had grown this year tithed a sheep. No matter who we are or what we have, being a recipient of salvation necessitates sacrificial giving on our part. Our hearts compel us to give, and especially as we medidate in Christ's incarnation. I pray that the Lord will always help us to strike a balance in our family of giving. We've been blessed so much, it will be hard to keep up; but we are sure going to try!

Merry Christmas to all my Real Missions, Real Life readers and followers!

There is something about having a little one in the house at Christmas that makes the season magical again. It has been so much fun this December to celebrate traditions, bake favorite goodies, and sing old carols, because our three year-old daughter Claire is now catching the excitement. She oohed and aahed over each ornament we hung on the tree, examining them carefully with her tiny fingers. She squealed with anticipation when I pulled from the oven the freshly-baked gingerbread men that she had helped with. She belted out "Al Mundo Paz" ("Joy to the World") as she marched an endless procession of dolls past the manger scene to "visit with Baby Jesus." She carefully selected a doll for a little girl in her Sunday school class whose mommy abandoned her when she was an infant; she wrapped it, labeled it with a "C" (from Claire), and proudly placed it beneath the small tree in her room. She is eagerly awaiting Christmas Eve so that we can take it to her. And I've got to admit, I'm probably just as eager for Christmas as she is. I can't wait to eat our traditional big breakfast, read Luke 2, and see her open the gifts we chose for her. Seeing Christmas through a child's eyes has brought back a magic that I'd forgotten existed.

It reminds me of one of the most beautiful blessings of missions, one I never anticipated before arriving on the field. It came to me unexpectedly as I taught a small children's class during our first year in Honduras. Seeing quite a few more children had arrived than usual, I had asked a teen girl to assist me; she sat in the back and helped me quiet the unruly ones. But I noticed that during the story about the three Hebrew children who refused to bow to a graven image, she was listening just as intently as the children were. I explained how the wicked king ordered the men to be thrown into the fiery furnace, and a low gasp spread across the room. They leaned forward in their seats, worry on their faces, as I told how even the men who threw the Hebrews into the furnace were consumed by the flames. "But Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego were not burned!" They smiled and nodded, clearly relieved; but their smiles changed to puzzled looks when I told them, "But the king looked up at the men walking around in the fiery furnace, and realized that there were not three, but four men in the flames!" I paused dramatically, waiting for their anticipation to peak before I continued. But not everyone could stand it. The teenage girl shouted out from the back of the room, "Well, who WAS it?"

What an awesome privilege it is to tell someone a Bible story for the first time! Those stories that I had heard over and over since I was a child became new to me again, because I was telling them to people who had never heard them. I had received the unexpected blessing of a second dose child-like wonder for what God can do.

On the mission field, we definitely miss being around seasoned Christians who are mature in their faith; I sometimes ache for the church family and leadership we left in the States. I know that one day we will have people like that in our church here; they have already made leaps and bounds in their walks with the Lord.

But even as we see Christians here grow to maturity, I pray that the Lord will always allow me to have the privilege of working with new Christians as well. There is nothing like leading someone to the Lord and watching them learn in awe of what their Savior can do.

_________________________________

I grew up in Sunday school,
I memorized the Golden Rule
And how Jesus came to set the sinner free.
I know the story inside out
I can tell you all about
The path that led Him up to Calvary.
But ask me why He loves me
And I don't know what to say.
But I'll never be the same because
He changed my life when He became...

Everything to me.
He's more than a story,
More than words on a page of history.
He's the air that I breathe
The water I thirst for
And the ground beneath my feet.
He's everything, everything to me.

-Chad Cates

Christmas in Honduras! Forget the turkey, piles of presents, snow, and Santa--those are American traditions. Here we have tamales, fireworks, and of course, the usual heat! But there are some things about Christmas that are universal. As I remember the great variety of Christmases I've celebrated, both near and far, one particular memory always comes to mind.

It was Christmas 1997. I was a senior in high school, and we'd just finished our annual Christmas Concert at Raleigh Christian Academy. I'd gone with a group of friends to Miami Subs afterwards. As we finished eating, we realized we still didn't have to be home for a few hours. What should we do?

We discussed a number of pranks on teachers and fellow classmates. But then someone suggested, "Hey, since we're all dressed up, why don't we go Christmas caroling?"

We stopped off at the Dollar Tree to purchase taper candles and matches, then excitedly drove to the first house. We arranged ourselves in front of the porch steps and began to belt out: "Joy to the World!" The family hurried to the door to enjoy our repetoire of familiar carols. This was fun! What a great idea!

We stopped at house after house, some family members, some church friends, to wish them a "Merry Christmas" in song. One of our last stops was Pastor Rabon's house. As we were leaving, our curfew quickly nearing, he commented, "You know, you should go sing for Mr. and Mrs. Thiede."

"Do they still go to our church?" I had not seen them in quite awhile. Don and Audrey Thiede were an elderly couple that had been friends and neighbors of my grandparents for years, but their health had declined greatly; they didn't get out much anymore.

"Yes, they still live over there on Folger Street," Pastor said. "I think they'd really appreciate a visit."

When we got back to the car, we discussed going to their house. "But we need to be home soon!" "Isn't it too late? They probably go to bed really early." Finally, we agreed to make the Thiedes' house our final stop that night.

A few minutes later, we nervously positioned ourselves in front of the front door and began to sing, "O come, all ye faithful, joyful and triumphant!" After the first stanza, the door slowly opened, and there stood Mr. and Mrs. Thiede, arm in arm. I almost didn't recognize him. He was pale and thin from sickness. They were both beaming however, and listened eagerly to the familiar carols.

As we finished the last song, someone shyly asked, "Do you have a request?"

Mrs. Thiede replied, "Would you sing 'Silent Night'? That's my husband's favorite."

Silent night, holy night,
All is calm, all is bright,
'Round yon virgin, mother and child,
Holy Infant so tender and mild,
Sleep in heavenly peace!
Sleep in heavenly peace!

Mr. and Mrs. Thiede thanked us with tear-filled eyes, and we quietly left. How glad we were that we had stopped by! It was the perfect end to a special night.

The next morning at school, we excitedly told our classmates about our Christmas caroling adventure the night before. Then the bell rang, and we busied ourselves with English Literature. Toward the end of first period, the announcements were read over the intercom: Christmas parties, exams, special events. We began cramming our literature books into our bookbags, ready to head to second period. But the final announcement halted our hasty exit. "Please be in prayer for the family of Mr. Don Thiede, who passed away last night in his sleep. The funeral will be held...."

We looked at each other in shock. He passed away last night? But we just saw him! Our hearts were heavy for Mrs. Audrey, and we wondered how she was doing.

But as I reflected on that night's events, I was so thankful that we had gone to see him. I prayed that on his final night on earth, Mr. Thiede had truly been able to "sleep in heavenly peace" only to open his eyes in the presence of his Savior, the One Who had come as a baby for him.

Christmas at Grandma and Granddaddy Tippett's house was always a special time in our family. After eating a huge meal prepared by my Grandma, we would gather around my Granddaddy's leather recliner while he read the Christmas story from Luke 2.

Then we would begin opening the huge pile of presents under the small Christmas tree by the front window. It was one of those rare times my sister was glad to be the youngest grandchild, because she always opened the first gift. The rest of us grandchildren followed, from youngest to oldest, we girls squealing with excitement over the baby dolls Grandma had chosen for us.



Then we would scurry off to the next room to play with our toys, while the adults opened their presents. The older grandchildren were given the task of counting out all the coins Granddaddy had saved all year, and dividing them into seven piles, a gift to each grandchild.


As I think back to these long-ago Christmases in Raleigh, a face comes to mind. Mr. Robert Strickland, an older gentleman who was a friend of my grandparents, joined us for several of these celebrations. I never questioned his presence at the time, but years later asked my mother, "Was Mr. Strickland related to Grandma? Why was he always there at Christmas?" My grandmother's maiden name was Strickland; I figured he was somehow kin.



"I think maybe he was somehow distantly related," she replied. "Grandma and Granddaddy met him when he started coming to our church; when they realized he had nowhere to go at Christmas, they invited him to join us."

Mr. Strickland was a gruff old man with an abrasive personality that some found hard to tolerate. But he was always welcome at my grandparents' house and we just considered him "one of the family." There were even a few presents for him under the tree.

My grandparents, Elbert and Kathryn Tippett, had set a beautiful example for me of what Christmas is really about. So many times we think Christmas is simply about being with family.

But what about those who have no family to be with during the holidays?

In 2005, Robbie and I spent our first Christmas away from family; we had arrived in Honduras as missionaries early that year. Eager to celebrate, I bought decorations, played Christmas music, and decorated cookies; but with temperatures in the 90s, no parties to go to, and the house empty, it just didn't feel like Christmas. After a simple program at church on Christmas Eve, the Alvarado family invited us and our missionary partners the Goinses to their home. "Are you sure?" we asked them. We didn't want to impose.

The Alvarado Family


"Oh, please come!" they insisted.


As we awkardly sat down in the tiny living room with its concrete floor, we listened to the kids laughing outside the door lighting sparklers and firecrackers, a Honduran Christmas Eve tradition. We were given shredded chicken sandwiches, with apologies that it was a simple fare. "No, this is great!" we insisted. The family squeezed in among us, some perching on the arms of tattered furniture, others choosing to sit on the cold floor. We laughed and chatted easily, with small brown children and the lucky chickens that had escaped the hatchet wandering under our feet.

As I looked around the room, I finally felt that familiar warmth I had been craving. Now it feels like Christmas! This time I was Robert Strickland, an outsider who had been taken in. But Christmas is just not about being with your family. It's about celebrating our Savior's birth. As I gazed on the smiling faces of my Honduran brothers and sisters, I knew the reason we had gathered together. That tiny baby in the manger had come to save us all from our sins. Most of them were celebrating their first Christmas as believers; the joy in our hearts was the same.

And we have seen and do testify that the Father sent the Son to be the Savior of the world. -I John 4:14

A tiny newborn lay discarded among banana peels and milk cartons, struggling for breath inside a plastic bag. His mother had lost her mind and decided to kill the baby boy; she would die days later from loss of blood. His father, an orange peddler, found the infant, and took him to the woman he was currently living with so that she could care for him.



Oscar was raised in a home full of wickedness and sorrow. His father eventually left and set up a shack, squatting on a piece of land near the hospital where he would push a cart to sell oranges each day. Oscar would bike the five miles to visit his father and look for work. He was greatly disturbed by the crime and evil he saw daily: people robbed at gunpoint for cell phones and pocket change, girls beaten and raped, angry quarrels ending in bloodshed. In anger and desperation, he purchased a gun, which he hid in his room while he plotted. He decided to form a posse of teens to rid El Progreso of crime. His plan was to find thieves and gang members and kill them execution-style in order to bring safety back to the city.


One day while he was looking for work, he noticed that an American couple had moved into a house near the hospital. He inquired there about work, and the man hired him to cut the lawn one day. Although he was at first frustrated by the foreigners insistence that he pay attention to detail and leave the yard clean and neat, Oscar soon learned how to pass the “inspections” and was able to earn good pay each week. He got to know Pastor Robbie and his wife Christine; they fed him lunch and made small talk with him when he finished the yard. One day, Pastor Robbie sat down and explained to Oscar that he was a sinner and needed to trust the Lord Jesus Christ to forgive his sin and be his Savior. Oscar listened with interest. He admitted that he did indeed have a sin problem, but was not willing to trust Christ. He already had his own secret plan for justification: become a vigilante. He shook his head and told Pastor Robbie, “No, not for me.”


It took four years for Oscar to finally realize that he was as wicked as those he plotted to kill. After washing the pastor’s truck one morning, he sat down on the front porch with Robbie and talked of his need to trust Christ. He bowed his head and repented of his sins, trusting Christ alone to save him.


Excited to grow in his new faith, Oscar began taking the one-on-one discipleship course with Nathan Massey, his youth pastor. As he began to grow, he realized he needed a place to serve. He joined the church’s set-up crew, now arriving on his bike an hour before each service to arrange chairs, sound equipment, and furniture on the outdoor porch where we hold our services. After the porch is ready for service, he hops on a bus and assists the driver in maintaining order on the route. When he gets back to church, he dons his usher badge and greets people at the door as they arrive.


The baby who once lay dying in a trash heap is now a young man serving the Lord in every way he can. Oscar recently testified in a Wednesday night prayer meeting, “I thought I could change Progreso by violently ridding the city of evildoers; but then I realized the only way to change Progreso is by sharing the good news of Jesus Christ. He is the only One who can truly change a life.”



Are you thankful for what the Lord has given you? Take a tour of what has been Oscar's father's home for the past twenty years:

Oscar enters the land where his father lives as a squatter.



The make-shift shack where he keeps his belongings.








Oscar's dad's kitchen




Oscar's dad's bed