Last night about 9:30PM, Robbie was watching a Kentucky basketball game and I was absorbed in a crossword puzzle when we heard gunshots down the street. The sound of gunfire doesn’t usually draw our attention anymore, because the guards here are known to routinely fire shots into the air. But something was different this time. The shots came too close together; they couldn’t have been from the same gun. Then we heard screams.

A vehicle came speeding by, and we looked at each other with alarm. What had happened? The screams and cries continued, and we knew: someone had just been murdered.

Robbie locked Claire and me up in the house and went down to the street to see if he could help. After what seemed like forever, he returned shaking his head. “It’s Nico.” My heart sank.

Nicodemo and Dana are our neighbors and good friends. He was born in Jerusalem, but had married and settled down here in Honduras. He owned an open-air restaurant downtown called Las Tejas; it was one of our favorite spots. He and Robbie had gone on a four-wheeling trek up into the mountains together once. I had always enjoyed talking to his wife Dana; we had gotten together a few times for coffee while Claire and Jacobo, their four year-old son played together. They were a sweet couple.

We had invited them to church countless times. Nico called Robbie one night, asking him to come by and talk. He got right to the point, “How do you know the meaning of life?” he wondered. Robbie was able to share the gospel with him, but Nico did not make a decision.

Then Sunday before last, Nico and Dana finally came to church. Robbie preached a clear gospel message from Galatians, and they listened attentively. Afterwards, one of our church men asked Nicodemo if he enjoyed the message. “Yes, it was great…but I wanted to hear more!” He assured us they would be back.

As I walked down the road last night, just a block from our house, I saw bullet casings, a watch, and finally Nico’s lifeless body, bleeding in the road. Dana was doubled over on the ground, wailing and begging someone to get a doctor. “Take him to the hospital! Please!” she screamed. I tried to comfort her, but I don’t even think she knew me; she was out of her mind with grief. She vomited and fainted a few times before a family member finally dragged her to the house. She had watched her husband gunned down for his vehicle. I silently thanked the Lord that Jacobo had not been with them; he was with his grandmother, asleep in the house.

We need your prayers this morning. Please pray for Dana and Jacobo. Pray for Robbie and me to be a help and comfort to this precious family. Pray for our team; to be perfectly honest, acts of violence that strike so close to home always shake us up. We are not immune to fear, even after being on the field for five years. We find ourselves solemnly asking if we really do believe in the Lord’s protection; those aren’t just words to us anymore.

I will both lay me down in peace, and sleep: for thou, LORD, only makest me dwell in safety. –Psalm 4:8

Yesterday afternoon, like any Saturday in Honduras, we headed to church to General Visitation. After meeting at church and sending the kids to the nursery, nineteen of us piled into two vehicles and drove to a nearby neighborhood. As we headed down the road, I glanced out the window and saw a disturbing sight. A man was hiding behind the corner of a building; he was carrying a large rifle and peering around the corner. I pointed him out as we passed, and everyone sighed in resignation. "Oh no, another thief...I hope no one gets hurt." It's amazing to me what becomes "normal" in a third-world country.

We had a great time of knocking doors, and although no one trusted Christ, we found several who were interested and would be good prospects for follow-up visits. Once again we piled into our vehicles and headed back toward church to pick up the kids. But as we neared the paved road that led back to church, we saw a large crowd of people and many parked vehicles. I immediately remembered the armed man we had seen on the way to church and prayed no one had been killed. As we neared the bridge that led back to church, we stopped beside the road to ask what was going on.

"Protesters have taken control of the bridge. A lady in this neighborhood is planning on putting up a cellular phone tower on her property and the protesters don't want her to. Everyone is afraid of getting cancer from the tower."

In dismay, we stopped our vehicle on the edge of the dirt road and talked about what to do. Over half of us lived on this side of the blockade, but many of us had children at the church. I had to find a way to get to Claire. And the only way across was this bridge. No one knew how long the protesters would maintain control of the bridge, and it starting to get dark.


Robbie had to stay with part of the group and the vehicles; I had to go get Claire. He sent Oscar, an older teenage boy from our church, to walk with me and a couple of other ladies who lived on the other side of the bridge. We weaved through cars and bystanders, nearing the bridge cautiously. As we approached, we saw that the protesters had used large rocks to block the bridge, and no one was passing, not even on foot. I looked down at the swirling waters of the brown river below. I could cross easily to get to Claire, but was unsure of how I could manage on the way back, if I were holding her. Lord, please help us cross!

I decided to look confident and continue toward the blockade. No one looked very hostile, and I doubted they would stop a foreigner accompanied by a body guard (Oscar had shoved his hands into the front of his shirt to look like he was carrying a gun).

As I got within ten feet of the blockade, the police officers made their move. We froze in place, waiting to see what would happen. They grabbed the rocks and moved them to the sidewalks lining the bridge. A few delayed motorcyclists, frustrated with the blockade, assisted them. Some of the protesters grabbed rocks and raised them in defiance, threatening to throw them at the police. Thankfully, they eventually lowered them and moved to the road's edge to sulk.

We passed through without incident and arrived safely at the church. I took Claire in my arms and began the trek back to the vehicles. By the time we reached the bridge this time, all that was left of the incident was a long line of traffic (about an hour's wait on both sides). Robbie's face melted with relief as he spotted us turning up the street where the van was parked. We headed home with prayers on our lips and gratefulness in our hearts.

I wondered on the way home how many of our friends and supporters back in the States said a routine prayer for our safety that day, never knowing how the Lord would answer. Thank you to each of you that calls out our names to God each day; I know we are on many prayer lists. Please know that a simple prayer of "Lord, please keep the Ellis family safe," means the world to our family. We can cross barricades and face danger with confidence and peace in our hearts, knowing Who is in control.

We turn on the television or glance at the newspaper in Honduras, and we are immediately confronted with violence. Although we have been here for four and a half years now, I am still shocked by some of the images I see on a daily basis. In this country, there are no laws about displaying pictures or video of the dead, still lying in their own blood. When we pass fatal accidents on the road, there is no rush to cover up the bodies with a sheet as there is in the States. We are constantly bombarded by haunting images of the victims of third-world violence.

After Claire was born, I began to realize the impact these images could have on her. When I see a beaten, naked alcoholic staggering down the road, I quickly try to point out the birds on the power line or the cows in the field. We don’t turn on Honduran news when Claire is in the room—it is simply too graphic. Last week, we learned that someone we know (I am not allowed to give his identity for safety reasons) has been kidnapped; his release is still in negotiation. I know we won’t be able to shelter Claire forever; this is just life in Honduras. But I am very determined to preserve her innocence as long as I can.

Childhood innocence is a precious gift that no one gets twice. Claire will certainly face “the real world” at some point, but for now, she still lives in a world of make-believe. She sets out her Cinderella dress-up gown each night “so the mice can come clean and sew it.” We make up stories about Gary the Gecko that lives above the air-conditioning unit in her room and comes out to play with her toys as soon as she leaves.

A couple of weeks ago we arrived home late from an unexpected call. It was nearly bedtime, but we had not yet eaten supper. As I hurriedly made sandwiches for dinner, I heard a slightly whiny voice proclaim, “But I don’t WANT sandwiches for supper!”

My impatient response was: “Well, when you start making your own supper, you can decide what to have!” The rule in our house is “If you don’t eat what Momma fixes, you don’t eat at all,” and I was sticking by my guns.

However, my heart softened a few moments later when I heard a little clatter and found Claire filling up a pot with water from the dispenser. “What are you doing, sweetie?”

“I’m making pizza!” she declared, her eyes brimming with excitement. She carefully placed the pot of water on the stove and informed me that it would be ready “in just a few minutes.” Then she headed off to the living room to play.

I showed Robbie what she had been up to, and he grinned, “You should let her think she really made something.” As luck would have it, I happened to have a few slices of leftover pizza in the fridge. I quickly warmed one up in the microwave, dumped the water from the pot into the sink, and replaced it with the slice of pepperoni. I scooted her kitchen stool in front of her “creation” in preparation for her return.

Her satisfaction at the finished pizza was well worth breaking the rules for once! She put the slice onto her plate and headed to the table to proudly enjoy the supper “she made.”

Let’s not be too quick to let our children leave the world of make-believe and charge full-steam ahead toward reality. There is something beautiful about these early years of wonder that can never be regained. We’ve decided to relish every moment!

Now you’ll have to excuse me. Claire says Gary the Gecko has put in an order for some graham crackers and milk—his favorite snack (and hers, too!).