Category Archives: Non-fiction writing

The Pen is Mightier than the Sword

Wicher Hendrik Bredenhof (1922-2010)

Christians are word people — we’re such because God has given us a book of written revelation.  Christians ought to be those who see the power of the written word, both in terms of reading and writing.  On both fronts, consumption and production, I sometimes wonder whether we’re heading into a dark era.  Where are the readers?  Where are the writers?  There are some, to be sure, but I wonder:  why not more?

I love to read and write.  I especially want to reflect for a moment on the latter love — also in the interests of stirring up the same affection in others.  How did I come to love writing?

Curiously, it was the same way through which I came to love reading.  It wasn’t because of a teacher.  It wasn’t because of my parents.  It was my late grandfather, my Opa Bredenhof.  I was 7 years old.  We were living in the Canadian Arctic, but went down south for the summer to visit Opa and Oma and the rest of the Bredenhof clan.  While I was there, Opa took me to a sort of book store being run out of someone’s house.  I’m thinking it was Albert VanderHeide, but I could be wrong.  From this store, Opa bought me several books, including this one:

It was Scout: The Secret of the Swamp by Piet Prins.  This pile of books got me into a lifetime of reading.

Opa loved to read and he wanted to pass that on to me.  Opa also loved to write.  Even though English wasn’t his first language, he tried valiantly.  As a member of the Mission Aid Committee, he wrote articles for the Mission News.  Later, he wrote not just one book, but two — including The Gospel Under the Southern Cross, the first book about mission in the Canadian Reformed Churches.  His writing needed the help of a native English editor, but that never stymied him from the effort.

And Opa loved to write letters.  I know because I received scads of them.

Sometimes I struggled to read them and I think you can see why!  Despite his penmanship, Opa was bound and determined to write to his far-off grandson and I almost always wrote him back.

Opa also encouraged me to see the power and value of writing.  One adage he’d often repeat:  “The pen is mightier than the sword.”  Imagine that being said in a heavy Dutch accent and you can hear how it still echoes in my ears.  Opa didn’t come up with it — it apparently originates with English author Edward Bulwer-Lytton.  But Opa repeated it often to his young grandson and it stuck.  I sometimes wonder if it resonated with Opa because of his work as a courier in the Dutch underground during the Nazi occupation.  That work sometimes involved circulating illegal newspapers.  The Nazis hated the written word because of its power to change minds.

When I was in high school, I had zero aspirations to be a pastor.  I had no intentions of making any career of working with words.  My only dream was to turn and burn in a CF-18.  I wanted to be a fighter pilot.  I still enjoyed reading — especially about aviation.  When I had to write for school, I enjoyed it and had some proficiency at it.  But my goal was to “slip the surly bonds of earth.”

God put that goal out of reach by giving me a near-sighted right eye.  That realization sent me into a period of spiritual and existential crisis.  It was just as well — I saw the Air Force as the ticket out of my churchly upbringing.  Instead, through a series of providential circumstances, God graciously brought me to a firm commitment to Christ and living for him.  I really became enthralled with the gospel and with Reformed theology.  How could I share my excitement with others?

Around that time, there was a Canadian Reformed magazine for young people called In Holy Array.

In the May 1991 issue, Rev. Eric Kampen issued a challenge for young people to get off their duff and start writing.  He was realistic about what it would involve:

How do you know if something is being read?  By readers’ response!  That might come orally, in the form of compliment.  That is always encouraging.  But, more often the way one finds out if what has been written is indeed read by someone else is in the form of reactions.  That is one of the “hazards” of writing: someone might disagree with you!  If you never say anything, then you never will get any reactions.  Sometimes people react and strongly disagree, and will let it be known personally, but do not dare to go public.  Others feel compelled to write a letter to the editor.  Others yet will take the time to write an article in response…

…You shouldn’t be afraid to express your sentiments.  It is often surprising how many thoughts and problems you have are shared by others, but no one ever puts them on paper.  We mentioned the “hazards” of writing.  You can’t get around that!  But perhaps, you might help someone else, or you might be helped yourself, in that you find answers to your questions, even if you have to be corrected in some parts of your thinking.  We should also be open to correction, from Scripture of course.

Those words hit the target with me.  Combined with my Opa’s adage, I was ready to start writing.

So I did.  My first article was published in the January 1992 issue of In Holy Array.  It was entitled, “Women in Office: Is It Possible?”  I wrote many more articles for In Holy Array, and then eventually branched out to other magazines such as Clarion and Reformed Perspective.  In the early 2000s, I became aware of this phenomenon known as a “blog” and by 2007 most of my writing was happening via this medium.

I’ve seen that Opa was right about writing:  it is a powerful tool.  It can be harnessed for good purposes, including both edification and entertainment.  Eric Kampen was right too:  sometimes writing can be “hazardous” — but that does keep it interesting!  At least you know people are reading and thinking about what you’ve said.

I want to encourage readers to become writers.  You start by starting.  You learn by doing.  You learn the craft of writing by doing, but also learn heaps more about your subject matter.  I often think of Augustine’s words, quoted by Calvin in his preface to the Institutes:  “I count myself one of the number of those who write as they learn and learn as they write.”  I look forward to reading what you’re writing and learning!


A Day in the Dry Hills of Sabu

The pin shows the location of Sabu between Sumba and Timor. Australia is in the lower right-hand corner.

Our church in Launceston is privileged to support the spread of the gospel in Sabu.  I was asked to go there and represent our church at the ordination of two men to the ministry of the gospel.  Sabu is a small Indonesian island, wedged between the larger islands of Sumba and Timor.  Being in the south of the Indonesian archipelago, it’s physically not that far from the northern reaches of Australia.  Yet, culturally, it may as well be on the other side of the world.

It’s a typical, warm, dry morning as we make our way through the hilly arid landscape up to the church at Taka.  Rocks outnumber trees and the dry, brown dust says this is a tough place to earn a living off the land.  Compared to my current home in Tasmania, the bird and animal life is scarce.

We arrive at the church and already a few dozen people have gathered.  Eventually, they’ll total 150-200 people, filling the building and spilling out the back under a tent that’s been erected for the joyous occasion.  Many attendees are wearing the traditional Sabunese ikat, a woven garment with graphic designs unique to each clan.  They greet each other – and me – by rubbing noses.  As they smile, many mouths and teeth are visibly stained red.  This comes from the habit of chewing betel nuts – which gives a mild stimulant effect.

Amos and Yohanes, newly ordained Reformed ministers in Sabu.

The ordination service itself is familiar to a Reformed believer from anywhere.  It follows the standard Reformed liturgy.  Almost all the singing is from the Psalms, sung to Genevan tunes.  The Form for Ordination seems to be the form used everywhere else.  The men, Amos and Yohanes, are asked a series of questions.  They answer, “I do.”  Then follows the laying on of hands and I’m asked to participate in this, along with all the other pastors present.  Amos and Yohanes kneel on two pillows at the front of the church.  The pastors present (about 8 of us) gather around and we don’t actually place our hands on the brothers, but over them.  Then presiding pastor Pila says (in Indonesian, of course):

God, our heavenly Father, who has called you to this holy office, enlighten you with his Spirit and so govern you in your ministry that you may fulfil it obediently and that it may bear fruit to the honour of his name and the expansion of the kingdom of his Son Jesus Christ. Amen.

After the service ends, a number of people speak a few words.  I’m also given the opportunity to extend greetings on behalf of our church and its mission committee.  I present a gift to each of the newly minted pastors:  Richard Pratt’s He Gave Them Stories (in Indonesian).

We proceed to a house a short way down the dusty road for a celebratory feast.  The ladies have prepared an enormous amount of food to share for lunch.  Besides the obligatory rice, there’s also chicken, some goat, and liver, though I’m not sure from which animal.  For me, the highlight was a savoury pork heart stew with a vinegary sauce.

Joining me as I enjoy this feast are Pastor Windi and Elder Max.  They’re from another Reformed church on the island (Gurijara) and they both speak English fairly well.  Once we’re done eating, they invite me to travel with them to see some more of the island and its Reformed churches.  I hop on the back of Max’s motorbike and away we go.  With me weighing it down, the poor motorbike struggles to get much beyond 40 Km/h.

Elder Max and yours truly.

Max is a high school teacher and his English is good.  He’s quite talkative, even as we’re driving.  Because of his work, he seems to be well-known to many people in Sabu.  Almost every person he passes gets a little beep of the horn and sometimes a greeting or comment.  Before long, we’re at the church building in Gurijara.  This is the largest Reformed church on the island – I’m told it’s about 180 members.  They show me around the simple building and explain how they hope to eventually build a replacement next door.

Before we continue from Gurijara, I have to pause.  By this time the tropical sun is high and intense.  There’s hardly a cloud in sight.  Sunburn threatens and I’ve forgot to bring sunblock from home.  I went to every toko in the town of Seba but no one stocked sunblock.  The closest I could get was some hand and face lotion that included some sunscreen.  I apply that and even if I don’t get much sun protection, at least I smell flowery.

New Reformed church building under construction in Sabu Timor.

Our next stop is Sabu Timor.  We tour the new Reformed church under construction there – it’s going to be a large building once it’s completed.  The foundations are poured and supporting pillars are in place.  The next step is to build the walls, but progress is slow and no one is sure when it’ll be done.  There’s a store next to the construction site, owned by a church member.  We enjoy some water and Max gets some extra air pumped into his tires.  Yeah, it’s not exactly a feathery local riding with him.  But at least I smell nice.

Max and Windi offer to show me the old building in Sabu Timor.  We drive down the road a short ways and then we cut off onto a narrow track.  We drive past the veranda of a home, around the back, and then we’re there.  There are some church members waiting for us. They warmly greet us and we all rub noses.  We sit in some blue plastic chairs and take in the view out of the church and over the nearby ocean.  A refreshing breeze is blowing off the water and it’s a comfortable spot to relax.  Before long, the ladies are bringing in iced tea and a small meal of rice, cabbage, and omelette.

Max points out the most elderly member of the church.  She’s 83 years old and the matriarch of the village.  Everyone in the church is related to her, many of them are her children and grandchildren.  She’s blind in one eye, a little slow in her movement, but otherwise still seems quite alert.  Dressed in her traditional ikat, she quietly strikes a dignified poise.

One of the elders brings his guitar and serenades us with some strumming.  Max asks if I like singing and I say, “Sure, but not everyone likes my singing.”  He suggests we sing, “Silent Night” and we do, and it goes okay — in other words, no one runs away.  Then Windi says we should sing “How Great Thou Art.”  The guitarist first strums out the chorus and then we launch into the first verse.  We get to the chorus and just as we hit the high note at the end of the first line (“Then sings my soul…”), a village dog wanders in and starts howling along.  We all start laughing – all except the village matriarch.  She leaps out of her chair and goes at the poor musical dog.  She chases him out of the church and then, for good measure, takes a small plastic water bottle and hucks it at him.  You can hear the poor dog whimpering off into the shadows.  You don’t mess with the village matriarch when she’s enjoying her music!

From Sabu Timor, we head back to the main town of Seba.  I get dropped off at the homestay and Max heads back to his home in the nearby hills.  Seeing some of Sabu was interesting, enjoying some of the food was tantalizing, but the best thing of all was the reward of meeting God’s people.  It was awesome to share in their joy at the ordination of Amos and Yohanes.  And also getting a glimpse into their lives in this unique place was something that far transcends what you’d experience as an ordinary tourist.


Bizarre Foods of CDO

I went to the Philippines to preach and teach.  And I did.  But those who know me know I had other motives besides.  I enjoy travelling, and when I travel, I explore new food vistas.  I’m one of those adventurous sorts usually up to trying the “bizarre foods” of the world.

So I found myself once again in Cagayan de Oro or ‘CDO’ as the locals call it.  CDO is a city of about 600,000 in the northern part of Mindanao.  Mindanao is a Filipino island often in the news because of its large Muslim population.  Most recently, Muslim terrorists captured the city of Marawi until the Filipino army moved in.  There are certain parts of Mindanao that are no-go zones for guys like me.  But not CDO.

CDO is not in a Muslim part of Mindanao, so it’s relatively safe. This was my third time there and it’s gotten safer – I’m told the new President Rodrigo Duterte gets the credit. As a Westerner, you can certainly walk around most parts of CDO day or night without any worries.  So I did.

My teaching schedule was heavy – for a few of the days I was going for six or seven hours.  But there were breaks, especially a long one over the dinner hour.  On one of these breaks, I slipped out and scouted.  The place where I was teaching was in the heart of CDO.  It was not difficult to find the new experience I was after.

Before coming, I’d made a list of the new foods I wanted to try.  There was dinuguan – a savoury stew made from pork blood.  There was sisig – a sizzling dish made from pig face, assorted spices, and an egg cracked over top right before serving.  Crispy pata – deep fried pig feet.  Except for the last one (which I’d get later), I’d knocked all these items off my list.  One of my favourites, balut (duck egg with the embryo) was something I’d already had several times.  Now I was searching for something else, but I didn’t even know what it was.

I wandered the narrow streets in the downtown.  I danced with the jeepneys, tricycles, motorbikes, cars, and people.  Somehow nobody gets hurt.  I guess Filipinos know how to figure this all out.  They also love their food and down almost every street there’s something.  Some of it is relatively tame and uninteresting, like fried chicken skins or pork rinds.  But then something colourful caught my eye and I knew I wanted to try it.

But I also didn’t want to get sick.  During my last visit to the Philippines I tried a coconut wine advertised as a “cleanser.”  There is truth in Filipino advertising.  Whoever sold me that definitely had shares in toilet paper.

So I scouted the location and then went back to the teaching venue.  The next day I asked if a couple of Filipinos would join me, just to guide me and make sure I don’t eat something I’d regret.  Jim and Samboo – two old friends of mine from Marawi – volunteered to help.  Take a right, take a left down the first street, take the second right and walk about half a block down.  They didn’t know where we were going, but I sure did.  I showed them the grill station that got my attention.

It was a small shopfront with a large grill out front where skewers of meat were being cooked over hardwood coals.  Sadly, I can’t smell much anymore – I had an undiagnosed neurological problem in 2015 that made me lose most of my smell.  But I can imagine that, if one could smell, this would be a delightful aroma.  It was certainly an amazing sight – on one side the grill, on the other all the meats you could choose from to be grilled.  About halfway through the grilling process, the meat would be slathered with a dark red sauce.  I was ready to go all in.  Jim and Samboo gave me the green safety light.

The worst job I’ve ever had was at a chicken processing plant in Edmonton.  I worked on the line eviscerating chickens – a.k.a. gutting them.  Some entrails were saved:  the gizzard, the heart, the liver.  But, as far as I know, the rest was discarded.

Here at this CDO grill station, I spotted skewers of chicken gizzard, heart, and liver.  There were other skewers with little balls of chorizo sausage and still others with the more conventional cuts of chicken.  But there were also skewers with long worm-like organs – chicken intestine.  Now that’s something new!

Jim ordered several of these skewers and then we sat inside and waited for them to cook.  Before long, we had them in front of us.  I tried them all, including the intestine.  It was okay, and I would eat it again, but I wouldn’t rank it up there with the best foods I’ve tried in the Philippines.  There’s a reason why these kinds of foods are sold on the street for just a few pesos – there are plenty of low-income Filipinos relying on these cheaper cuts for their protein.  Not everyone in the world can afford chicken breast.

I appreciate the fact that Filipinos don’t waste what they take from creation.  If a pig gets slaughtered, most of that pig will get consumed.  Same even with the chickens.  While it might be by virtue of necessity, this stewardship is commendable.

Later I was speaking with Kit, our volunteer driver.  I soon found out he was also a foodie – he loves to cook and eat.  During one of our conversations he said, “There’s this guy on TV, he says, ‘If it looks good…’”  Then I finished his sentence, “Eat it!”  Turns out we’re both big fans of Andrew Zimmern, the host of Bizarre Foods.  Zimmern has a couple of episodes about the Philippines, but I don’t think he’s ever ventured down to Mindanao.  So with my CDO grill station experience, I think I may even have one over him.  And no, I didn’t get sick.


Attending a Babine Funeral

I often still think about my few years as a missionary in Fort Babine, British Columbia.  It was an incredible experience, one that has left a mark on me.  To give you an idea of some of what we saw and heard, the following is an excerpt from my 2011 book, The Gospel Under the Northern Lights: A Missionary Memoir.  The events described here took place just a couple of months after we arrived in Fort Babine in October 2000.

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Attending a Funeral

Another interesting person we came to know and love was William Duncan.  He was an older single man who lived by himself in an immaculate house.  He had been a fishing guide and still had a passion for fishing, although his health didn’t always allow him to indulge.  When I first met him, he was 67.  He was comfortable talking about the fact that he was a hereditary chief from the Caribou clan.  His hereditary name was We Heh.  He had a lot of insight to give into the culture and history of the area.  He told me Fort Babine used to have one feast hall for each of the four clans, but they slowly deteriorated and disappeared.  Eventually, all the potlatch feasts would be held only in Burns Lake.  As a hereditary chief, Willie tried to attend all the feasts he could and he invited me to join him sometime.  One day I did.

Ted Lowley was a resident of the Lake Babine Nation reserve in Burns Lake and had recently passed away.  His funeral and the associated potlatch were held on December 9, 2000.  Willie was ready when I stopped by at his place at 8:00 in the morning and, together with Fred William, we set off for Burns Lake, via Smithers.  Along the way, we chatted and I discovered from Fred that the current population of Fort Babine was about ninety people living in twenty-six houses.  I also learned there was a lot of animosity between the people of Fort Babine and those of Burns Lake.  There was a strong feeling of alienation and that had to do with the history and the amalgamation process back in 1957.

We arrived in Smithers in good time, filled up with gas, and then headed over to the “Babine Bus Depot.”  That was what a lot of people called the Super Valu grocery store and its tiny mall.  There we had some breakfast together and met up with Adam George, who decided to come with us to Burns Lake.  We were in Burns by noon and went straight to the Roman Catholic Church there for the funeral service.  Approximately five or six hundred people were there for that, mostly native.

After the funeral mass, the coffin was taken to the cemetery.  After a few words from the priest and some sprinkling of “holy” water, the body was lowered into the grave.  As was typical for First Nations funerals, the family was expressive in their grief.  It’s certainly not what someone growing up in a Dutch immigrant community is used to.  It’s not bad; it’s just different and that’s fine.  Later on, all the immediate family members took a turn shovelling dirt onto the coffin.

From the cemetery we went over to the Woyenne feast hall.  Willie had been told that the funeral feast would start right away.  However, there was no one there.  By this time we were getting hungry, so Willie took us out for lunch to a local Chinese restaurant.  Afterwards, we headed back to the feast hall, but there was still hardly anybody there.  We took a tour around the Woyenne Lake Babine Nation reserve, including a look at the local Taj Mahal – the LBN band office.  There were a lot of new houses on the reserve, paved roads, good water and sewer, and a nearby hospital.

Finally, at around 4:00 we went back to the hall and more people were beginning to arrive.  There was lots of standing and sitting around and socializing.  The feast itself didn’t get started until around 7:00.  It began with prayer and then food was served.  We had bannock, soup, and platefuls of all kinds of other good stuff.   While we ate, people were busy making contributions to pay for the cost of the funeral.  There is some reciprocity involved with this aspect of the potlatch – in other words, a person would make a contribution knowing that eventually it would somehow get paid back.  But there were also many instances where people would make contributions with “no-return,” meaning they didn’t want to get paid back.  That was motivated more by generosity than by reciprocity.  The giving of gifts would go on for several hours, but we had to leave early because I wanted to be home by midnight.  The next day was Sunday and we would be up early to make the trip back into Smithers to attend church.  So that was the second time I attended a potlatch.  It helped me to understand more about First Nations culture in this part of BC.

A few days later, we traded in the big blue Suburban for a smaller vehicle, a Chevy Tahoe.  Our days of providing bus service between Smithers and Fort Babine were over.  With our family of four in the vehicle, there was only room for one more person.  The Tahoe was great to drive, although like with every vehicle we had up there, we ended up stuck in the snow and ice more times than I care to remember.  I also became an expert in changing flat tires – in short order I was able to do it in well under 15 minutes.

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Interested in reading more?  The Gospel Under the Northern Lights is available here.


The Streets of Brazil

My wife and I are on the tail end of a two-week stay in Brazil — my fourth time and her first.  The occasion was the invitation for me to speak at a couple of conferences on the topic of evangelism.  We’ve flown a lot of miles over this vast land, but have also driven a fair bit.  Driving on Brazilian roads is full of surprises.  Let me describe some of what we saw.  To clarify, I was never the one driving.  In most of the following, Rev. Ken Wieske was our chauffeur, a missionary with 17 years of driving experience on the streets of Brazil.

We started our Brazilian adventure in the capital city, Brasília.  The capital was designed from scratch and founded in 1960.  It’s comparable to Canberra in Australia — another planned capital.  This is the neatest and safest Brazilian city I’ve visited.  Perhaps Brazil wants to make a good impression on the foreign diplomats who reside there.  Traffic in this city is fairly tame, at least from what we witnessed.  However, we did spot a motorcyclist laying on the road, having just been hit by a van.  He appeared lifeless — was he merely unconscious or dead?  We couldn’t stop and didn’t find out.

As safe as Brasília is, there are areas in the metropolitan region that can be sketchy.  On our way to and from a speaking engagement at the Reformed church there, we travelled through one such area.  Like in other large Brazilian cities, at night you do not stop for red lights.  If you stop for a red light after dark, you’re inviting trouble — perhaps a car-jacking, maybe a simple robbery at gunpoint, or worse.

Our next stop was the city of Belém, way up north near the mouth of the Amazon River.  Apart from some congestion, we didn’t witness anything out of the ordinary in this city.  One thing that was extra-ordinary was the change in the weather from the first time that I visited in 2012.  In 2012, I spoke at the Reformed Conference hosted by the Central Presbyterian Church of Pará.  Then, five years ago, you could depend on the tropical rains to arrive every day at about the same time:  4:00 PM.  People would even make social arrangements before or after “the rain.”  Today I’m told that doesn’t happen anymore.  When (or if) the rain comes, it comes after dark.  I’m told that this is the result of deforestation in the Amazon rain forest.

After enjoying the wonderful hospitality of the brethren in Belém, it was down south to Recife.  We flew to the northeast of Brazil, and then drove down the coast.  Along the way south to the beach town of Maragogi, we passed through a police checkpoint where drivers are often stopped for bribes.  This time they had already nabbed some poor schmuck on a motorbike and so we got past.  Maragogi was the location of the 26th annual Puritan Project Conference.  As in Belém, I spoke here on the topic of evangelism, along with a bunch of other speakers.  It was a super time of fellowship with old and new friends and also a great opportunity to foster the growth of the Reformed faith in this country — people had come to this event from almost every state in Brazil.  There were even some attendees who’d flown in from Portugal.

The drive home on Friday was, let’s say, interesting.  The distance from Maragogi to Recife is approximately 133 km.  Normally, it should take about 2.5 hours.  We left Maragogi around 3:00, but didn’t arrive at our accommodations until past 10.  The first three-quarters of the drive was smooth enough.  But then about 40 km out of Recife we hit a massive traffic jam.  It had been raining for about two days and some of the streets in Recife were flooded.  This backed up traffic to about 40 km out of the city.  We were trapped in the world’s largest parking lot.  Escape options were few and questionable.  Google Maps suggested alternative routes, but Google never tells you what those alternative roads are really like:  are they dirt roads littered with flooded pot-holes or do they take you through a favela?  We stayed on the main route.

As we were moving slowly along, guys were on foot wandering amongst the cars, trucks, and buses, selling water and popcorn.  We were behind a bus when we suddenly heard what sounded like a gunshot.  I know what a gun sounds like and that was very similar.  When it happened, the bus seemed suddenly to drive erratically.  However, as it turned out, it wasn’t a gunshot, just somebody’s car back-firing and the bus just happened to be jockeying for a faster lane.  Some time afterwards (was it an hour?  Two?  Time stood still), a fellow on a motorbike was weaving his way through the vehicles and bounced between the one Rose was travelling in and their neighbour.  He just kept going.

On our last Saturday, we attended a 40th wedding anniversary celebration for some Brazilian friends, Manoel and Telma Canuto.  This was in Boa Viagem, a Recife neighbourhood.  On our way there, we saw a bus stopped by the side of the road with several police cars parked around it.  Three guys were up against the wall with their hands interlocked over their heads.  In 2017 so far, there have been over two thousand (2000!) hold ups on Recife city buses.  In the past week, there was a 24 hour period when there were 13 such incidents.  It’s not unusual for shots to be fired in these incidents and for people to be injured or die.  Life is cheap here.  In this instance, the evildoers were somehow stopped and apprehended.

The streets of Australia and Canada are incomparably safer — and for that we ought always to be thankful.  However, streets all over the world have one thing in common.   Wherever you go in the world, you see countless people on the streets and they’re all traveling somewhere.  They’re also going somewhere in the spiritual sense.  All are either on a broad road leading to destruction or on a narrow road leading to life.  One road is congested and full of traffic, the other is comparatively less-traveled.  Whether in Australia, Canada, Brazil (or wherever), we’re living on a mission field.  Our calling is to be God’s instrument to direct traffic off the broad road and onto the narrow road.  I’m glad that work continues to be done in Brazil and seeing it done here makes me even more intent on seeing it done where God has placed me too.