As I prepare to leave to go live overseas in just under a month, I've been reflecting back to some of my past adventues in other countries. I truly beleive God used these cultural experiences to increase my passion to reach the nations with His love. I wrote the following in my journal about my first trip to an Indian village:

There is no way to accurately describe what it is like to live in a brick factory. It’s hard enough working all day in the factory, but to live in a brick hut with no door, no electricity, running water or an actual bed is unimaginable. Yet, I was overwhelmed with the way I was welcomed into the families of the brick factory workers. I could never fully understand the lives of the five families I prayed over that evening. They had never even seen Americans, but because they looked at us as guests, they brought out their makeshift cots and insisted we sit down to rest. One family even brought us tea and soda.

We sat down and got to know these families with the help of our translator. We introduced ourselves, asking about their every-day routines and what they needed prayer for in their lives. Prayers for physical healing was most common. I asked one of the boys in the brick factory family what he wanted to be when he grew up. He said he wanted to build schools in his village and it made my heart so happy to hear because I dream of doing the same thing one day. American college students and an outcasted Indian. Two very different cultures, but both have the same dreams. I would soon see how love has no cultural or ethnic boundaries.

As we began the Compassion Kit Party that night, we were pushed up to the front to sit in plastic chairs as everyone else chose the hard ground covered with a tarp. They were all staring at us, their eyes never lost contact. All they wanted was for us to simply acknowledge them. Whether it was a smile, a wave, a head nod, they wanted to feel loved by us. We had not even uttered the first words to them. The service began with several prayers by the pastor, praise songs led to the beat of a hand drum and tambourine, and shouts of “Hallelujah”, from the youngest of boys to the oldest of women. Finally, it was our turn to share. They never took our eyes off of us as our message was translated in their own language. I don’t know if it was because they were so interested in our words as they were our very presence. They wished for us to touch them and pray over them individually for healing.

It was amazing how we spoke completely different languages, yet they still wished us to pray over them. It’s beautiful when the body of Christ knows no language barriers because we all pray to the same one true God who hears our cries. I prayed individually for over a dozen women and children that night. It was just the beginning. We were given a meal, afterwards, by the brick factory family. By the time I got back to the host home, I was so worn. All I wanted was rest. At the same time, I was even more exhilarated with excitement because I knew God was speaking and moving through us. I was humbled.

My trip to Inida was one of the most stretching weeks of my life. It was more emotionally, phyiscally and spiritually draining than I thought it would be. But, it was by far, the most rewarding week. God taught me to rely on Him even more. It's only through Him that I was able to be in the places I visited, ministering to people who had never heard the Gospel. It was a trip of a life-time. It changed my life.

May I continue to proclaim the praises of Him who has called me out of darkness into His marvelous light as I journey where He leads.