Lessons from Peruvians

On Sunday afternoon we bid a melancholy farewell to the Elliots, and found ourselves back en route to Los Estados Unidos; Home sweet home.

*sigh!*

It's always sad to leave new friends and new places that you feel as if you've just begun to know and love!

Each time I travel to a new place, I try to pray that the Lord will teach me something from

the people or places I go. This time I think the lesson He wanted me to learn was on servanthood. A lesson from Sylvia, Isabel, and Rafael (among other beautiful people I met but did not know as well).

Rafael comes nearly every day to assist Mr. Elliot--who is somewhat slow and unsteady on his feet-- with a walk. It's not because he has nothing else to do or because he's the spryest man in the church himself. A handsome fellow who bears a constant smile and moves with alacrity to help anywhere he feels he might be needed, he reminded me (in a positive way) of a volleyball player who constantly runs to hit the ball even though it's outside his space! Except Rafael is not hitting volleyballs.. he's jumping off his chair to grab a cup of coffee for someone (even though someone else might be closer to the coffee pot) or cheerily moving to grab Mr. Elliot's cane for him before it's even asked for. I looked forward to seeing Rafael every morning, hearing his bright "Buenos Dias, Daniella!" and receiving his peck on the cheek. :) I was challenged deeply by the joy with which he served the Elliots and the eagerness to lighten the load.

You met Sylvia in an earlier post, but this gal continued to amaze me! After observing her for a few days, I figured that she must have made a deal with the Elliots: she'd live at their house for a few months of furlough in exchange for cooking, cleaning, and serving them their meals--being around to help them in general. She was always the first one to leave the table and begin washing dishes... she came in each afternoon to the living room to ask what she could make us for dinner... in general, she acted more like the household help than a young woman on vacation. Last week I asked Mrs. Elliot about it. "Did Sylvia agree to work around the house for you so she could live with you while on furlough?" Mrs. Elliot laughed. "Oh, no... that's just Sylvia. I keep telling her that she's on vacation and she needs to take it easy, but she says she loves to help and she insists on cooking and cleaning for us."

I don't have all the statistics on the Elliots; exactly how many years they've been there, how many churches they've planted, how many souls won for the Kingdom, how many lives saved in primitive jungle areas through their medical work. Even if I did have all those facts, I don't think they'd be particularly thrilled with my listing them here. A few times when I began to try to express about how amazed I was by their work, how honored to meet them, etc. etc., I sensed them beginning to grow uncomfortable. they didn't need or want to be reminded of their missionary accomplishments; they were just being faithful. One afternoon as we were singing around the piano, I asked Mrs. Elliot what her favorite hymn is. Without hesitation she said "To God Be The Glory; 'My Tribute'. I want that song sung at my funeral. Oh, I know they're all gonna want to talk about how many churches we planted and this and that... but I don't want all that. I just want them to remember, through my life, To GOD Be The Glory."

Nearly every morning the bell at the front gate would ring and we'd say "There's Isabel!" I wasn't always sure why she popped in, but she normally ended up bustling about sweeping the porch, cleaning off the breakfast table, or running a few shopping errands for the Elliots before she left. Most afternoons the gate-bell would ring again, and in she'd come armed with lotions and oils. She kneels down and gently massages the tired, aged feet and legs of Mr. and Mrs. Elliot, chattering and grinning while she works. This was not something she was asked to do. She just does it because she loves them and wants to serve them. "We aren't the only ones Isabel serves like this," Mrs. Elliot told me one afternoon. "She's forever trotting off to other folks' houses, doing things for them and helping them out. It's just because she loves to serve." Twice a week she rises early so she can cook her own family's meal (she has several grown children still at home), and then heads off via bus and taxi to the prison outside of town. There she teaches a few young women who are interested in the Bible and sits with them unhurriedly for the majority of the afternoon, chatting, exhorting, being a friend to the lonely girls. Serving and loving others is her life. "Oh Isabel," I said last Thursday as we left the prison gates and trudged the dusty path back to the main road, "You have such a good heart." She looked at me, puzzled, since she doesn't speak English, and I patted my chest, pointed to her and said in my broken Spanish, "Su corazon es bueno..."

She understood, smiled softly, and pointing to heaven said, "Gracias, Dios."