Pulling together the mission team

There’s a lot of background work – and a lot of waiting – that goes into pulling together a mission trip. To me it seems that we haven’t done much in weeks, and I’m getting impatient!

First, George and I invited the pastor and deacon to view George’s slides of his earlier trip to Matamoras. George wanted their blessing for our trip. This church, which consists of immigrants from Ukraine and their children and grandchildren, has never sent out a mission team. Ever. So we’d be breaking ground.

The pastor and deacon came to our house late Sunday, February 1, with their wives, looked at the pictures of Mexico and listened to George’s stories. They gave their blessing to proceed.



So that the kids would know what sort of conditions await them, George next gathered them at the church the following Saturday, February 7, and gave the slide presentation, then proposed to take up to five youth members with our family to similar conditions on a mission trip.

“You would be staying in village homes and have to be ready to sleep on the floor,” I warned. “And there will be latrines. There won’t be any showers in the villages, only basins to wash in.”

No volunteers came forward that day. Or during the next youth group meeting. By the time the week was out, I was worried that no one would join our family, or worse, that George would decide not to go at all because no youth members wanted to participate. I want to go so badly that I had a few rough nights lying awake worrying. But it’s all in God’s hands, I reminded myself, and calmed down a bit.

Finally, one 15-year-old boy stepped forward, and not one I expected. His older sister wanted to go, but she was worried about getting her period in such primitive conditions. Even though her mother assured her that woman all around the world face those same difficulties, it took her a few more days before she committed.

This past Sunday, George made an announcement at the end of the church service. First, he told the congregation that he and his family were going on a mission trip to destitute Mexican villages, delivering used clothing, school supplies, and food, as well as singing and holding church services. Then he asked all youth members who wanted to go on this trip with us to come to a room at the back of the church. The grandmother of one of the boys came to the room (her grandson attended our youth group, but a different church on Sundays), a girl who had just joined the youth group the week before (and had not been to the presentation), and a few people who were not in the youth group at all. We certainly had our five, but did we really want to take people not in the youth group?

We’re still sorting it out. I’m one who likes to get things done; my husband is more the wait-and-see kind. This waiting is a patience test, and once more, I’m starting to have trouble sleeping.

What can we do in Mexico?

I was elated when Paul called a few days later.

“We’d like to go with you and Tere on a trip to the interior like you described in your Christmas newsletter – all five of us,” I said after greetings and a brief update on our family. “And if there’s room, we’re thinking about taking some of the kids from our youth group at church where George is the youth leader.”

Paul described several options:

“There’s a pastor south of Veracruz who needs help building three houses out of cinder blocks.” (I scratched off that option immediately; a building trip was not what I had in mind.)

“Then there’s a church in Veracruz that needs help getting the building up to specs. They need to put in a tile floor to make it into a daycare center in the daytime. It’s in the center of a squatters’ camp with lots of unwed mothers all around who need to go to work, but can’t because they have no one to look after their children.” (Better because of proximity to the squatters’ camp that I’d want the kids to experience. Perhaps the girls could visit the women while the boys laid tile.)

“And then there’s this school that a pastor built in Oaxaca (pronounced wa-HA-ka). It’s an outreach point. There are indigenous tribes there. They’re extremely poor.” (My heart was beginning to race; this was more like what I’d imagined.)

“They’re about 50 miles from Veracruz in the mountains,” Paul continued. “It takes about three hours to drive there. We could help in some way. They desperately need school supplies. We could do food distribution, give out used clothing that you bring with you, George and I could preach, you could sing, and we can have prayer services for healing.”

I was sold. This was it.

“This is exactly what I had in mind!” I told Paul. I could hardly hold back my excitement. “I want our kids to experience some hardship and see how others live. We live in Disneyland here. We have everything. Our American kids have never experienced or even seen hardship. How many can you take with you?”

“Ten, besides Tere and myself.”

That’s five from our family, five from the youth group. We began to discuss details.

“It’s $30 per night for a hotel, four per room. Or you can stay with families,” Paul offered.

This was better than I’d hoped.

“Definitely with families.”

“You may have to sleep on the floor or in hammocks.”

“Fantastic!” My own children have lamented having to stay in a hotel rather than camping in the past. “The more inconvenient, the better. It’s exactly what they need, Paul.”

By the end of our conversation – I’d been scribbling on a notepad from the start – I had a rough sketch of where we’d go and what we’d do. I even had the beginning of a packing list – suntan lotion, mosquito repellant, and ship the sleeping bags in advance so we could carry more used clothing and school supplies with us.

Oh, this is going to be a great trip, and I’m so excited that I am the one organizing it. What a learning experience this will be, both for me and for my homeschoolers. And any from the youth group brave enough to accompany us.

Mission to Mexico

“If you decide to take this leap and join us on one of our trips to the interior, believe me, you will never be the same.”

Those words jumped out from the missionary’s newsletter and touched my heart. That was it: the trip I’m to take with my family this spring, a trip into the interior of Mexico. Since I’m homeschooling, we can go anytime.

When I presented this idea to my husband, he was receptive and gave me the go-ahead to contact Paul. But, God willing, it wouldn’t be just a family mission trip; we’d take some of the church youth group with us.

I had met Paul Gonzalez during a Global Expeditions youth mission trip to Matamoros, Mexico to build house for the destitute. I had gone on the trip with Jacob when he was 14. To go, I underwent training and selection, and was chosen as one of two Country Assistants (which really means go-for and assistant to the Project Directors) on the Matamoros trip, a trip that included 115 youth. Paul was the in-country missionary that we worked with. It was his vision to build the homes; we provided the materials and labor. Of course there was far more to the trip, and that spiritual aspect made the trip special. And so did Paul.

I ended up sitting with Paul and his wife Tere at dinner one evening after a day of ministry. It was the table for “extras,” in a sense, those who were not Team Leaders or youth teams or translators. That table included a Mexican pastor, and missionaries Paul and Tere. I don’t know why I was bold enough to join them. But we hit it off, and I’ve stayed in touch with Paul ever since.

When I heard Paul’s story of how he came to be a missionary living in a tiny shed-like building on a landfill among the stench of burning trash, I was awed. He’d grown up in the States, child of immigrants (like me), and bilingual (he spoke Spanish at home; I spoke Ukrainian). He lived in Texas just across the border from Matamoros and held a good job. His home was much like mine.

Then God touched his heart. He was moved to help those who could never repay him. While still working in Texas, he accompanied a pastor who visited the dump across the border. There Paul saw an elderly couple living under a tree. They had no home; theirs had burned, and they had no money with which to rebuild. Moved by their plight, Paul took money from his own savings and built them a house. Their house, like the others, was more like our shed - a 12- by 20-foot plywood structure with no plumbing or electricity - but it kept out the elements.

Paul has been building houses ever since.


















He quit his job, sold his home in America, and now lives with the poor in a tiny shack of a house just like theirs, a house with no running water, no electricity, no flushing toilet.

“I do miss showers,” he admitted to me during the course of my stay in Matamoros. “Sometimes when I visit friends in Texas, they offer me a shower.”

“I can relate to that!” I told Paul about the times our family visits Ukraine and since my in-laws’ house doesn’t have hot running water, upon invitation, the entire family trudges to my husband’s cousin’s house, towels in hand, to take baths. And it’s not considered weird to do that. The rest of the time, we bathe in a basin.

After many days of talking with Paul and photographing his ministry, the youth, the building of the homes, and the destitute that he ministers to on the dump where the garbage trucks roll in, I knew I wanted my husband to meet this man. So a few months later, I bought George a round-trip ticket for his birthday: a round-trip ticket to spend two weeks on the dump with Paul. Perhaps it’s a strange present to send your spouse to a dump, but it shows our family’s character.

Since we both know Paul, we’re willing to take the leap and be changed by another trip with Paul. I emailed Paul’s sister (Paul doesn’t have electricity much less a computer) and awaited Paul’s reply…