Signs Along The Way
Signs are important if you want to go somewhere.
Most cultures in this world place a high value on signs, but the types of signs used vary from place to place.
In the United States, we have Big, Colorful, Brightly Lit signs on the freeways directing us to our destination. Once we get off the freeways, streets are marked with observable signs, and each house or mailbox is clearly marked with a number that indicates some sort of ascending order on the street. You can generally find a location from its street address.
It’s not the same in Central America.
Highway signs are often non-existent. Street signs here are often not prominently located and observable, and houses are randomly numbered in no apparent order. Many streets in La Ceiba have a commonly used name that is different from the official name. And most people don’t use street names when giving directions anyway. As a result, unless you call ahead to get directions, you will have a difficult time finding your destination.
Our address here in Honduras is a perfect example.
Formally it is: Casa #1349, Barrio Solares Nuevas, La Ceiba, Atlantida.
From this information you could find the city of La Ceiba, in the state of Atlantida, on the north coast of Honduras, but you would have an extremely difficult time locating our house. The address we give to anyone who is looking for us is: “La casa verde brillante enfrente del Correo Nacional en la calle D’antoni “—the bright green house across from the post office on the street that runs from D’antoni Hospital. It’s a bit complicated but it works.
When I was in the Navy, I never had to worry about where I was going—the Navy decided that for me. They directed my schedule and the geographical location of my person. In seven years I went “under orders” from Ohio to Virginia to Florida to Texas to California to Washington, back numerous times to California, then on to the Philippines, Japan, Korea, Hong Kong, Australia, Singapore and points between.
In 1979, I had the choice to opt for 13 more years of this, or freedom . . . freedom to choose where I was going, what I was going to do, how long I was going to grow my hair.
Freedom. That’s what the ’60s and ’70s were all about anyway, wasn’t it? Blind Faith sang a song “Do What You Like.” It was one of my favorites. The Who sang “I’m Free”—another one that received a lot of air time on my stereo. As I considered this decision, part of me said, “Job security, structure, career,” but another part of me shouted, “Freedom! Long Hair! Travel! No Uniform! Music!” (I was a serious guitar player at that point.)
I chose freedom, resigned from the Navy, and went to Vail with Joe. We had total freedom—at least until our bank account balances got low. But even with having to work, I still set my own course and made my own way. I was my own boss.
But in 1981 something changed. . . .
I came into relationship with the Creator—a personal relationship. A relationship which He defined long ago: I am His adopted son, He is my heavenly Father and Lord.
The word “Lord” conjures up many images: Old guys in antique costumes with feathered hats marching out of the Parliament building in London; a knight sitting in his castle with all his vassals gathered around.
In the Greek language, the English word we use as “lord” is “kurios.” That is the word slaves used to address their masters. When Kurios was capitalized, it meant “the Lord,” which meant, for those first century people, the Roman Caesar. He was the Man—the Maximum Leader. We are told in the New Testament that Jesus is Lord. He is the Maximum Leader. That is one element of the relationship that we have with Him.
I understood this concept. In 1979, as a lieutenant in the Navy, President Jimmy Carter was my Maximum Leader. He was Commander-in-Chief of the Armed Forces. I took my orders from him or officers to whom he had delegated that responsibility. In 1981, I accepted Jesus as my Maximum Leader. Once again, after three years of freedom and just as I had done in 1973 when I accepted my commission as an officer in the Navy, I placed myself “under orders.” The day I was baptized, in a private conference with my Maximum Leader while floating on my back off shore of Wailea Beach, I reaffirmed my allegiance to Him and my willingness to serve Him wherever and however He chose. All I needed were some signs directing me to my assignment.
When we are looking for signs of God’s direction for our life, we are on the freeway looking for those Big, Colorful, Brightly Lit signs. We like and are used to the American system. Unfortunately it seems like God sometimes uses the Central American system. We know the ultimate destination is to be with Him and be like Him. However the route there, the turns and the stops along the way are uncertain. The signs He gives often seem obscure and are sometimes misinterpreted. Many times we are not sure where we are going or how we are to get there.
What’s the difference in Him using one system over the other? It may have something to do with the importance of the “mission.” It could be a manner of developing our perseverance or testing our desire to follow Him and know His voice. I know that here in Honduras, when I have a strong desire to find a place, I don’t let obscure street signs dissuade me from finding my way.
Or it could have a lot to do with the ability of the person to receive and properly interpret the signs.
For my mission to Honduras, God began by using the U.S. system. He gave me a Big, Colorful, Brightly Lit sign: A free ride from Los Angeles to Honduras.
But then He switched to a combination of Central American and U.S. style signs.
It all started at the Maui airport. While waiting for my flight, I decided to call Craig to say goodbye. I knew that it was only going to be a two week trip, but I had the time to call and a quarter. His number was busy, but when I hung the pay phone up, I heard a big “Shuclunck” in the coin return hole. I tried to open the door to get my quarter, but I couldn’t because of all the coins blocking my way. I hit the jackpot! There was over $4.00 in coins!
On the flight to Los Angeles, I sat next to two ladies returning from a visit to New Zealand. During a six-hour flight you can become well acquainted with the people sitting at your elbows. They asked me where I was going and why, and I told them. That started a long conversation. After dinner and the movie, the lady next to me handed me a folded bill and quietly said, “This is for your trip.” I was surprised, and even more so when I unfolded the bill and saw Ben Franklin staring me in the face!
“I don’t need this,” I said. “I’m only going to be gone for two weeks. I have my ticket and expenses paid for, and I’ve got a couple hundred dollars in the bank for when I get back.”
“No,” she insisted. “You are going to need this.”
Later, her friend handed me a check for $50. I gratefully accepted both, wondering what they knew that I didn’t.
I met the team at the Los Angeles airport on Thanksgiving Day. Besides Fred and myself, there were 21 others on the team—people from various churches on the West Coast. I was initially impressed with the size and diversity of this group. The first leg of our flight took us to Houston, where we arrived at 9:00 p.m. Since our flight to Honduras left at 11:30 a.m. the next day, we checked into a motel for the night. The relief cargo had left California two days earlier and was headed, by truck, to Houston. At the team briefing at the motel, Fred told us that a C-130 Hercules transport plane was scheduled to land that evening in Houston, pick up the cargo, and head on to Tegucigalpa. We would arrive the next day, pick up the cargo, and head out by plane to the refugee villages. There we would distribute the cargo, and leave a team of three to construct a building and await further cargo. I was impressed with this plan, and retired to my room for a good night’s sleep.
Just as I dropped off to dreamland, there was a knock on my door. “Everybody up, dressed, and downstairs.” said a voice. I looked bleary eyed at my watch—it looked like it said “2:00 a.m.” I turned the light on. It was.
I arrived downstairs to a room full of sleepy team members. Fred told us that the truck with the cargo had arrived, but unfortunately the C-130 hadn’t, and wasn’t going to. The impressive plan was out the window. The new plan was to unload the truck into a storage area—which happened to be on the third floor vacant wing of a nearby hospital.
We were immediately loaded onto the motel’s shuttle bus for the trip to the hospital. When we arrived, the semi truck was backed up close to a door, and we began carrying armfuls of individual shoe boxes and bigger boxes from the truck, into the lobby, to the elevator, up to the third floor, and into vacant rooms. It was quite a scene. Like a group of ants, the 23 team members formed a continuous line, walking back and forth from the truck to the third floor, to the amazed stares of the hospitals employees. Eventually, we commandeered some unused gurneys to load the boxes and roll them into the elevator.
By dawn, we had taken the last of 37,000 lbs of cargo off the truck and into the hospital. Fred ordered us to keep some of the shoe boxes, and we loaded those into about 20 empty suitcases. Were we still going to Honduras with no cargo to distribute?
At breakfast Fred told us Yes. The cargo distribution team had become a “survey team.” Our mission now was to go to Honduras and assess the needs of these refugees. We had one doctor along, some medicine, and the 20 odd suitcases of shoe boxes that we could distribute. I began to wonder about the value of 23 of us going to “survey.”
We boarded our plane, and two and a half hours later arrived in Tegucigalpa. Fred knew a taxi driver there, and we went with him and four other taxis to our “hotel.”
I have traveled to many places on this planet, stayed in many different types of hotels. Nothing I had experienced quite compared to the hotel that Fred selected for us.
It was dark, dingy, and the owner crammed three beds into a room with space for one. There were “bath rooms,” but none of the toilets had seats. My first thought was, “Oh no! Honduras doesn’t have toilet seats.” The street outside looked safe enough, but still I was glad that one of my roommates was a former Navy Seal.
I went with Fred to exchange money. Surprisingly, we went to a supermarket instead of a bank. “We get a better exchange rate here,” said Fred.
The next day we all went to the airport, to a local flying service where we would charter a DC-3 to fly us to the place known by the Hondurans as “La Mosquitia,” by the Nicaraguans as “Costa Atlantico,” and by the English as “The Mosquito Coast” (named after the bug—not the Miskito Indians who live there). After a visit of a friend from Australia who continually referred to the area as “Miskitia” (where the “Miskitos” live), I adopted that name as the most appropriate for the entire region—Honduran and Nicaraguan.
I went with Fred into the airline office to make arrangements for the flight. The pilot was smiling and courteous, especially when Fred took out $4,300 to pay for the flight. The price for this “survey team” was getting higher all the time.
We loaded our bags, our 20 suitcases of cargo, and ourselves on to the venerable “Gooney Bird.” With smoke belching out of the exhausts, oil dripping from the engines, and rattles coming from all sides, this old bird seemed more vulnerable than venerable.
As we taxied out to take off, Fred stood up and said urgently, “Pray that the tower will release us and give us take-off clearance. We are flying into a war zone.”
Flying into a war zone? Now it was getting interesting. I was glad that I had my Seal friend sitting beside me. We all began intense prayers, and amazingly, the pilot taxied onto the runway and took off. Our destination was a place called Rus Rus. That sounded to me like a name out of a Bogart movie.
An hour and a half later, we landed on a grass runway surrounded by pine trees. There were no buildings anywhere in sight. This was Rus Rus? Fred said that the main village was about eight miles to the west. We unloaded, and the Gooney Bird cranked up and took off. I was apprehensive seeing the plane disappear over the trees. Fred told us to make ourselves comfortable over in the pine trees. That’s where we rigged our mosquito nets and spent the night. Fortunately it didn’t rain.
Fred made connections with our hosts who turned out to be the Miskito armed resistance political organization. They provided us with a truck, a driver and a translator named Truman.
We spent the next seven days traveling by truck, foot, and dugout canoe, visiting villages of Miskitos—Honduran “nativos” and Nicaraguan refugees—along the Kruta River. It was hard to tell the difference between the two groups—all these Indians lived in bamboo or rough cut wooden houses on poles, with leaf roofs. They all appeared to be in the same state of severe poverty. There were many skinny children and adults. Rice, beans and bananas were the food staples, and it seemed that everybody had at least some food.
Over 9,000 refugees lived in this border area. Another 30,000 lived to the west in the United Nations refugee camps around Mocoron. Our doctor held clinic, and I took lots of pictures—over 30 rolls in that week. I was extremely sorry that we had virtually no relief supplies to give these needy people.
As the “survey trip” neared its completion, we decided to establish our base in a village called Auka, which was situated where the grassland meets the Kruta River. Auka is eight miles from the Coco River (Nicaraguan frontier) and this low lying jungle/swamp between the Kruta and the Coco was where many refugees lived. Auka has an airstrip, and we needed this to bring in the relief supplies.
My Seal friend Dan, a mountain climber from Wyoming named Ron, and our Miskito guide Truman remained in Auka when we boarded the truck for the drive back to Rus Rus. Their job was to construct a building and prepare to distribute the cargo.
As we returned to Tegucigalpa on the same venerable Gooney Bird, I kept thinking about all the relief supplies in Houston. I also remembered a few times on Maui earlier that summer when I told different groups at different churches that I would ensure that “this cargo would not end up rotting in some warehouse.”
While in Tegucigalpa, I asked Fred about his plan for getting the cargo to Honduras. He had none. I began thinking about my friend from Vail, Joe, who had recently been hired by NASA as a research pilot, and who had moved to Houston earlier that year from Colorado. On the flight back to Houston, I told Fred and his assistant John, whom I had come to know well on this trip, that instead of returning directly to Hawaii, I could stop in Houston for a few days to investigate the possibility of getting this cargo to Honduras. They agreed, and encouraged me to do so.
We arrived in Houston on December 2nd. The rest of the team went on to LAX, and I went to Joe’s and Martha’s house in Clear Lake City. I was immediately hit with a strong attack of malaria, and spent a few days shivering and sweating in bed. When I was able, I began to call around to different transport companies to get a price on shipping a container to Honduras. The average price was around $18,000, and there were many documents required to get the cargo moved and into Honduras, plus a standard import duty that had to be paid. I called Fred with this information and was told simply “there is no money to move the cargo.”
Suddenly I was at a dead end. It looked like unless something extraordinary happened, this cargo was going to sit in a warehouse for quite a while.
The next night, a stranger called Joe’s house asking for me. He identified himself as a missionary from Houston, who was getting ready to move to Honduras. He wanted to know what we were doing there, and if there was any chance to “co-labor” with his project. In our conversation, I found out that he was going to work in the western part of Honduras— the Miskitos lived in the extreme eastern part. So much for “co-laboring.”
At the end of the conversation though, I suddenly asked him if he was shipping anything down to Honduras. “Yes,” he answered. “How?” was my question.
His reply:
“There is a missionary here who had a connection with the fruit company. They allow him to send supplies to Honduras free in their empty banana containers. He’s shipping my stuff down next month.” The light went on! “Could you give me his name and telephone number?” I asked. He did.
I excitedly hung up the phone. I immediately called the number, and talked to the missionary, a former banker named Alan. I identified myself, told Alan what I was doing, the situation with our cargo, and asked him if there was any way that he could help us move it. He replied that the fruit company allows him one container every month. He had his December and January shipments already arranged, but he could move our cargo in February.
“What would the cost be?” I asked.
“Nothing,” he replied. “You just be here to help me load the container.”
“What about customs in Honduras?” I asked.
“I have a friend there who I work with who has an arrangement with the government to import relief and missionary supplies duty free.”
“What do I have to do?” I asked.
Alan replied, “Just be here the first week of February.”
Wow! Suddenly the $18,000 transportation fee and the import duties had been taken care of. It was that simple. I called Fred’s office with the news, and John (Fred’s assistant) and Jo Ellen (Fred’s secretary) were ecstatic.
But February was two months away. What could I do until then? After a moment’s thought, I realized that I hadn’t spent Christmas with my parents in over 10 years. They lived in central Florida, which was a $90 airfare away. Now I remembered the $100 bill that the lady on the flight from Hawaii had given me and her words “You are going to need this.”
Soon I was on a Continental flight to Orlando.
The first Sunday I spent in Vero Beach, I went with my folks to their church— Central Assembly. It so happened that the guest speaker that week was Jack—a missionary from Haiti. My mother knew Jack and his organization because she sponsored one of their school kids in Haiti. After the service she introduced me to him. Jack invited me down to his office in Fort Pierce to talk about our project in Honduras. His organization also operated a ship which regularly delivered mission supplies to Haiti. My mother also introduced me to the pastor of Central Assembly, Buddy Tipton. Buddy was very warm and interested in what we were doing.
The following week I went to Jack’s office. While there, I met the captain and first mate from another missionary ship—the La Gracia. Keith and Bob were part of a ministry from Massachusetts which had a Bible school and missionaries all over the world. They had made a trip to Haiti, and were planning further trips to the Caribbean. They were interested in making a trip to Honduras. Keith offered to carry some cargo for us. Interesting . . . something was happening here. We talked for a long time and I gave them my number and told them we would talk later.
Later that week, I received a call from Massachusetts. Neil was a pilot for Eastern Airlines, who was a member of the same ministry as the captain and first mate. He was calling to inform me that he was planning to fly his personal twin-engine Piper Seneca airplane to Honduras in February to do some missions work. He had one question: “Is there anything that I can do to help you?”
I almost dropped the phone.
“Well, Neil,” I thought, “since you asked, actually you are just what the doctor ordered, since we have to move a lot of cargo into a remote area where there are no roads and need an airplane to do it.”
Instead, I replied calmly, “As a matter of fact, you can” and went on to explain the situation. We agreed on a rendezvous date of the third week in February in Tegucigalpa.
I called Fred’s office with the news. I talked a length with Fred’s assistant, John, about this plan to move the cargo. He told me that there was a dental team from Washington preparing to go to Honduras with him in late February. This was perfect. I called Neil and he agreed to fly out the team to Auka, with as much of the cargo that he could.
We felt something big happening. There was only one obstacle—the cargo in Houston had been moved from the hospital into a storage warehouse, and it was accruing substantial storage costs. By February the bill would be up to about $8,000. We needed the money to get the cargo out of that warehouse. John and the staff at Fred’s office had decided that they were going to fast and pray for $15,000—an amount they calculated would cover all transportation costs and provide some funds for tools, seeds, and medicines for these refugees.
In late January, I decided to visit my brother Randy and his family in North Carolina. He was interested in the Miskito project and set up a slide show for me at a local church. I was happy to present the plight of these Miskito refugees wherever I could, and, armed with over 600 slides I had taken on the trip, I was well-prepared. I presented a program, but there was no great response as I had hoped there might be. I returned to Florida, and Randy’s wife Suzanne soon called and told me of the possibility of a donation from a local Realtor. It sounded like a big “maybe,” and no amount was mentioned. I mentally filed this message in the “Remote Possibility” category.
As I made preparations for the trip to Houston a few days later, John called me to tell me that they had received a check of slightly over $15,000 from a realtor in North Carolina! This man, Lloyd, had heard about the Miskito project from my slide show and had given us a 5 percent tithe off a piece of property that he had just sold! That amount was exactly what we had been praying for!
Was something happening here?
I arrived in Houston in early February and met Alan. He was a tremendous help. I received a check from Fred’s office and paid the storage bills. Then, with the help of my friend Joe (from Vail) and a few others, we loaded all the cargo into the container which was scheduled to leave for Honduras within a few days.
The following week, John and the dental team arrived in Houston, and we flew together to Tegucigalpa. That night we met Neil, his co-pilot, and mechanic at the mission house. We also met Joe Walters, Alan’s friend who had the government connections.
As I stood there that night surrounded by dentists, pilots, local missionaries and visiting missionaries, I was awestruck. Only a few months before, the possibility of getting our cargo delivered in a timely fashion to Miskitia seemed remote. The logistical, legal, and financial obstacles were overwhelming. The cargo I had promised to friends in Hawaii that I would deliver was stuck in a warehouse in Houston building up storage charges. We had no money, no transportation and no connections.
It turns out, though, that we did have a connection . . . A Big Connection. One who is connected to and controls all the events in this world.
Yes, something was definitely happening here.
God was moving and teaching me along the way.
The natural man in me told me at the beginning that delivering this cargo to the refugees was going to be a formidable task. But my inner spiritual man hoped to see God move in a great way to overcome all the obstacles.
And He did move in a great way when you consider what He arranged:
· Free transportation of 37,000 pounds of cargo from Houston to Honduras;
· Duty-free importation of a container of cargo;
· Free in-country transportation—including the free use of our own private aircraft; and
· A $15,000 donation to cover storage expenses.
Besides the obvious accomplishments, these were Big, Brightly Lit U.S. style signs for guiding me. However, He also used plenty of vague and obscure Central American style signs to get me and keep me pointed in the right direction. This experience was a great lesson for me in knowing God’s voice and navigation through God’s will for your life.
Another lesson: We look for the Big Bright signs, but sometimes these signs can be misleading. God often wants us alert enough and walking with enough faith that we will see the small, obscure signs. The key is knowing God’s will and His voice.
I also realized that night, with this group gathered in Tegucigalpa, two things:
(1) My earlier stereotype of a missionary (an older guy who was nice but probably couldn’t hold a job in the states) did not apply with this group—all of these men were professionals who turned to missionary work after being successful in their own fields; and
(2) That God had been controlling the events around me for the past three months just to make this all happen. The result of His work was amazing.
Now the cargo was out of the warehouse and en route to Honduras. Joe was taking care of the entry permits. Neil was standing by ready to begin his flights. John had brought a dental team ready to go to work. Keith and Bob were planning a trip with the La Gracia to Honduras in May. What had I done? Nothing really, except be available. I felt like a switchboard operator in the middle of all this, just answering the phones and letting the Lord use me to make the connections.
That night I was content, feeling that the mission was soon to be completed, and I would be able to return soon to the photography business in Hawaii.
That, however, was not in my Maximum Leader’s plans. Instead, I was about to embark on the first of a series of battles against the one opposing Him and all members of His family.
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