From the Field

part three

{On Saturday I send out a “Saturday Story.” This is simply a break from the regular Scripture-based daily devotional. Sometimes there is a moral to the story, sometimes it's just a story. I’ll mostly leave that to you to decide. Today is a continuation from previous weeks. You can go back and read the previous Saturday Stories for the full context. I hope you enjoy it and your weekend.}

We arrived in the small mountain city early in the evening. It is hard to pick one part of the trip to be a favorite, but this was definitely up there on my list. The weather was perfect. We found a small hotel and got a room for the night.

The missionary suggested that we could go in separate directions, exploring the town, praying, and seeing what kind of opportunities presented themselves. Without any kind of map or way to know exactly how we would divide up, we each just pointed and said, “I will go that way.”

We prayed together and then went our separate ways, intending to meet up again in the room later that night. I began wandering about, observing the people, their homes, and their way of life as much as possible by merely watching.

About an hour into my walk-about, I came across a soccer field where a game was being played. There was a small stone wall, about thirty inches high, surrounding the field. A large crowd had gathered and were watching the boys play, cheering them on. I decided to join the crowd and sat down on the wall with other spectators.

I wasn’t there long until a group of about ten young boys approached. They were nervous about speaking to me. I smiled at them. They stood close, shoulder to shoulder as if it would protect them from the strange white man who randomly appeared in their town that night. One of them was pushed from behind by the others and thrust forward as the official spokesman for the group.

“You English?” he asked me.

“I am an American, but yes, I speak English,” I answered. “Do you know English?”

“Some. We are trying to learn. Can we talk to you? It would be good practice.”

“Of course,” I said. “It sounds like you are doing very well. Your English is good.”

The boys laughed nervously.

“We have a school close. We live there. Would you like to come and see where we live?”

“Sure,” I answered.

“Come. Follow.”

I got up and stepped over the wall and onto the street and we began our trek. They were taking me along back alleys and side roads and I began wondering if I had made a mistake. But soon we arrived at a small thatched roof, concrete block structure. The wooden plank door, held shut with a rope, was opened and they excitedly waved me in.

I stepped into the small room that consisted of nothing more than a set of bunks lining the walls to accommodate all those boys. On top of one of the bunks in the corner was a monkey. It had a rope around its neck with the other end of the rope tied to the bedpost.

“You have a monkey?” I exclaimed.

“Yes, it is our pet! You want to hold him?”

“No, I don’t think I should,” I replied, thinking that a monkey biting me would not be the best thing to have happened at that moment.

They told me about their school for boys. Most of them were orphans. They were learning English in anticipation of getting jobs someday in a hotel or on a cruise ship. I shared the gospel. They seemed to understand.

I decided my friends might start to worry about me if I didn’t get back soon. I asked for, and they provided, one of the boys to guide me back to where we had started. The soccer game was over when we got back. The crowds were gone. I thanked the young boy and found my way back to our hotel.

Tom and the missionary were there waiting for me.

“Where have you been?” they asked.

“Planting seeds.”

I pray they sprouted.

a pet monkey