THE LAW OF HARVEST

2007 was the year of the harvest for the church in Santiago de Chile. The law of the harvest teaches us that whatever we sow, we will harvest. It’s a law that cannot be broken, like the law of gravity.

During the year, I made several comments concerning the harvest. One of them was that you will always harvest in its kind. As an example: if you sow oranges, you will harvest oranges and not tomatoes. Likewise, if you sow love, you will harvest love. I added that if you sow time, you will harvest time.

I did not think too much about that last statement until some days later when I received an email from someone who heard it and with much sarcasm he was questioning my words. One of the things that he questioned was about sowing time and harvesting of its kind. “Will I get days of more than 24 hours?” was his question, mocking me. He ended his email accusing me by saying I would do whatever I could to get a larger offering. I did not dignify his comments with an answer.

Some days ago, going thru some old pictures, I found one of Manuel Rodriguez (see picture). So many years have gone by, but I cannot forget his story.

One day he showed up in the church in Las Palmas, Grand Canary, Spain. I do not remember how he found us but soon he received the Lord as his personal savior and became one of the faithful members, never missing a service. He never spoke about his past, but he sure was enjoying his present. He was up in years and not well when he arrived to the church.

I was not surprised when now and then he had to spend a few days in a hospital. We all knew that sooner or later it was going to happen: his health took a turn for the worst and he was rushed back to the hospital. We all knew that this was not going to be like other times. This was going to be his last visit. I visited him several times a week, as not only was I his pastor: I was also his friend. Every time I went to visit him, he was alone. I asked him about his family and he told me he had two sons, one lived in the mainland and the other lived close by the hospital but never visited him. I went searching for him to speak to him about his father’s health. When I spoke to him, he got very upset.

With bitterness he told me his story. He told me how Manuel one day walked away from the family. How he abandoned his wife and two sons and had no TIME for them. His words followed me until today.

“He had no TIME for us. Now, he wants us to be near him, but we have no TIME to be with him.” I tried several times to explain that his father was a different man, but it was too late.

Early one morning I received a call from the hospital. Manuel had died and they wanted to know if I would take care of the body as no one in the family wanted to do it. I remember his funeral as the saddest I have ever ministered. No more than 5 were present when we laid his body to rest, and no one from his family was present.

Yes, my dear sarcastic friend, if you sow time, you will harvest time. Manuel did not sow time with his family and when harvest came, he had nothing to show.

THE BUBBLEGUM

Some fifty years ago, along with my sister Erica and my parents, I lived in the city of Santa Cruz de la Sierra, Bolivia. At that time, the city was in a process of evolution, trying to win the battle against the jungle, the climate and the millions of bugs.

My parent’s life was not an easy one, as it was difficult for the others that were trying to progress in the city. My childhood memories are happy ones. If we had any need, I never noticed. Even though my toys were not the most sophisticated ones, they were always the ones I wanted. The love of my parents and the brethren, made my sister and I strong in our childhood.

Remembering those days, it came to my memory the time my dad had to go to Brazil. We knew he was going to bring a special gift, as he always did when he traveled. This time, among other things, he brought bubblegum back from Brazil. Maybe you are thinking: what is so great with bubblegum? What kind of a gift is that? How can that be an important gift? You must understand: it was not any bubblegum. It was BAZOOKA bubblegum. There is and there will never be a bubblegum like it.

How can you explain what a 7-year-old boy feels when he has a stick of Bazooka bubblegum in his mouth? The fragrance, the flavor, the feel. Also, in those days it was almost impossible to find it in the stores in Santa Cruz and this one came from Brazil and it was still soft.

Erica and I planned how we were going to enjoy the gum to the max. We chewed all day long and then at night, you cannot go to sleep with it in your mouth: you will swallow it, so I placed mine in my closet. Early in the morning, I put it in my mouth and let it get soft before I started chewing it again.

Three days later, one starts to get creative. I remember that that night I suggested to my sister that the best place to keep the gum would be in … her eye! Just like a pirate’s patch. Said and done. She took her gum and made a nice eye patch. I took my gum and spread it all over her hair. We were both laughing and being silly until she tried to take the eye patch off. The gum had hardened and when she tried to take it off, she tore off her eyelids and eyebrows. Not only that but when she tried to take off the gum from her hair, it was impossible to get it out. I still remember the look on my mom’s face when she saw her daughter with no eyebrows or eyelids and with a big gunk of the best bubblegum in the entire world in her hair.

I don’t remember what happened afterwards. For several weeks my sister went thru life without eyebrows or eyelids and with her head totally shaved. I don’t remember what punishment I received. What I do know is that my dad never again gave me bubblegum when he came back from a trip.

THE DAY I GOT DRUNK

Some years ago my parents came to Chile to visit us. Their idea was to show me the city of San Carlos de Bariloche, in Argentina, where I was born. I was 20 days old when they moved and I had never been back.

We drove from Santiago de Chile, visiting different places along the road. When night came, we were in Neuquen, Argentina. Dad knew of a good restaurant and so we decided to have supper and spend the night there and get into Bariloche early in the morning. It was a typical restaurant, where they served exotic meats like deer, wild pig and some other meat.

We all ate to our heart’s content and then we checked into the hotel for a good night sleep. Everyone but me. I spent the night in the floor, hugging the toilet, sick to my stomach like never before in my life, praying for God to either take me or to heal me.

Early in the morning, Dad announced it was time to continue to Bariloche. We arrived so early that no restaurant was open yet. The only place open for breakfast was at the railroad station restaurant.

Sharon and my parents asked for a big breakfast, while all I wanted was to lay down somewhere. The waiter asked what was wrong with me. They explained my situation and he said: “I have the perfect cure for him” and served me a glass of some dark green mysterious liquid. I was so desperate I drunk the whole glass in one gulp. The waiter looked at me and said: “incredible!” That liquid burned all the way down and then, in a matter of seconds, it went to my head and I got drunk for the first and only time in my life. I had no idea that liquid was liquor made out of artichokes.

Drunk, I demanded to be taken to my hotel room. Dad refused, telling me that the best thing for me was to walk it out. Against my will, I was taken outside for a walk.

My dad crossed over to the other sidewalk, so not to be seen with me. Sharon and my mom walked several yards behind me, both of them laughing at me and giggling like young high school girls. I was trying to keep my balance leaning on walls, light posts and trees.

I remember thinking: “at least no one knows me here.” I didn’t finish that thought when some one yelled: “pastor Italo, pastor Italo.” My dad crossed the street running to intercept them. Sharon and mom run up to talk to that young couple that was in Bariloche for their honeymoon, while I was trying to keep my balance and composure, leaning on a light post and smiling real big.

The picture included in this blog was taken by my wife.

THE WORLD´S MOST DANGEROUS ROAD

Many believe that this road is the most dangerous in the world. It takes you from the city of La Paz, Bolivia, to the valley of the Yungas. You’ve got to have hair on your chest to drive this road and make it back home in one piece. It is such a dangerous road because of the constant drop offs, which are thousands of feet deep.

I have driven this road many times. Once, my dear friend Rocky Grams and his newly married wife, Sherry, came to Bolivia to visit us, many years ago. Rocky and I have been close friends since our childhood, and we did things together, ministered together. They ended up being the directors of the Bible School in Rio de la Plata, Argentina and we were at that time missionaries in Bolivia.

We decided to drive down to Coroico, to a place that Rocky and I have gone several times before and enjoy the pool in a hotel we knew. Said and done. We packed our suitcases and we drove down that road, thru small towns, like Puente Villa among others. You have to cross the mountains before you go down into the valley.

Coroico was at that time a small town with an incredible weather all year round. The first few days were very restful, as expected. However, Sherry started to feel sick because of the food that she was not familiar with, so we decided to return to La Paz so she could see a doctor.

The way back home started out with no incidents. We laughed, told stories, stopped to take pictures of the incredible views and water falls such as “el velo de la novia”.

We started the road down, the most difficult part of the trip. The Toyota jeep had not given us any trouble, until I started to smell something burning. The brakes! I looked in the rearview mirror and with horror saw the smoke coming out of the back wheel. The brake pedal was getting softer and I was gaining speed fast. I did not want to scare my passengers and did not tell them what was going on.

Rocky guessed we were having brake problems when I took a curve at higher speed than normal and almost ran into a truck that was coming the other way and had to get really close to the precipice, so much so that I suspect one of our wheels was in the air for a split second. Now they knew what was going on and we all started to sweat, even though it was cold outside.

Finally we reached a place in the road that was flat and with the help of the transmission I was able to finally stop the jeep. We were close to a brook of cold waters that came down from one of the glaciers and we were able to cool down the brakes and keep on driving, very slowly, until we made it home safe and sound.

I AM A LEGEND

I clearly remember that summer Sunday in Santa Cruz, Bolivia. The church building was in Charcas 227 and was full of people listening to my dad’s sermon. The heat was unbearable, close to noon that Sunday. I think that was the reason I stepped outside the door. I just turned 9 years old.

I remember the streets in Santa Cruz at that time. They were dirt, sand and mud. When it rained, it was almost impossible for the few cars that were available to drive. In fact, a cart pulled by two bulls was the most common mean of transportation, as well as riding horses. That Sunday, nobody was out in the streets, with the exception of a catholic priest that slowly was walking toward me. In those days, priests dressed long gowns, all the way to the floor.

I imagine that it was because of the heat, this priest was wearing a long white gown, with a white hat and some magenta details and he was slowly walking leaning on a cane. At that moment, I felt as he was daring me.

In those days, the persecution against the evangelicals was wide open and constant. I remember kids at school looking at me as if I was demon possessed or the “son of Satan,” like some called me. They said I had goat tails in my back and that we, the evangelicals, ate babies and they went on saying other things. So, when I saw that priest walking toward me, on the same sidewalk where the church was located, I felt as he was daring me.

He arrived to where I was standing and did not even
look at me. He kept on walking leaning on his cane. Temptation was stronger than my sanctification and I do not know where I got the voice, but I said: “priest that does not heal anyone” (cura que no cura a nadie, in Spanish) and I stepped inside the church thinking that I was safe in there and that a priest would never walk into an evangelical church and contaminate himself.

Great was my surprise and horror when I realized he was right behind me, with his cane in the air, interrupting my dad’s sermon. I ran down the center isle to refuge myself behind my dad and pastor who was trying to figure out what in the world was going on. For some minutes, the priest gave a speech about all the faults of the evangelicals and the lack of reverence and respect for the holy man of God, as it was so clearly illustrated when I told him he was no good. Wishing all the curses of hell over the congregation and especially over that “son of the devil” of a boy, he left the church.

That was the end of the service for that Sunday. My parents invited me to share my side of the story in the privacy of our living room while and having a hard time keeping from laughing, they proceeded to apply a punishment that would assure them that a service would never again be disrupted by an angry priest.

If you ever go to an Assembly of God church in Santa Cruz, Bolivia, and ask about me, they will tell you this story.

I AM A LEGEND!!!

HORSE FACE

Many years ago, when I was much younger, my dad received an urgent call from one of the churches outside the city of Santa Cruz, Bolivia. Seem like a member of the church donated the money to purchase half of the roof for the building.

Years later, this man got upset with the pastor and threatened to leave the church and take with him half the roof. In vain the pastor apologized and tried to convince the brother not to leave the church and take the roof with him. In desperation, they called for my father.

The meeting was held in the church building and the congregation was present, as well as all the leaders of the church and the man in question, as well as the pastor and my dad. They presented my dad with all the details of what had happened and several members expressed their concern. Finally, my dad was allowed to speak. His first words were: “where is the horse face that wants to leave the house of God without a roof?” No one expected a pastor to express himself with such strong words.

The silence was finally broken when the culprit stood up, sobbing, asking God to forgive him, as well as asking forgiveness from the brethren and the pastor and promised neither to leave the church nor to take the roof.

My dad has a way with words.

MERRY CHRISTMAS

I don’t know why, but every Christmas I get melancholic. I do not remember having ever a “bad Christmas”; nevertheless, I cannot help it but feel melancholic at Christmas.

I have been remembering Christmases of my childhood, especially those spent in Italy, when I was 10 years old or so, when I lived with my grandmother Aurora.

At that time, she lived in a big 4 story house known as “villa Aurora”, in Brénnero St. number 11, in the city of Sondrio, in the north of Italy. I remember the huge garden and the snow coming down thick in such a way that it produced an unusual silence.

When the gifts were given, as she usually did, she gave me books! I considered that an improper gift for Christmas. All my friends got toys and interesting gifts, all I got was books. Year after year it was the same. I remember feeling cheated. Who gives books for Christmas to a 10, 11 years old boy? Only my grandmother would have such a “brilliant” idea!

As the years went by, I understood the strategy of that wonderful and intelligent woman. With her Christmas gifts, I was able to travel 20.000 leagues under water; I went to the center of the earth; traveled from the Alps to the Andes. I met wonderful people like King Arthur; Ivanhoe; the count of Montecristo; Robinson Crusoe and many others.

Her gifts started a passion in me for reading. I cannot go thru a day without reading a few pages from a favorite book that will take me to the next level that will make my imagination travel faster than light, that which will inspire me.

Thank you, Grandma Aurora for giving me a Christmas gift that never quits. The toys my friends received are all gone by now, but your gift lasts thru the years.

MERRY CHRISTMAS