Daily Life

Top: Indian family.

Bottom: Vaughn preaching in one of his first services (1985).

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Mission work with Indians was quite different than the work done in the cities. For one thing, the villages were spread out over large areas and many of them were remotely located in the mountain ranges of the Sierra Madres. This fact made it impossible for the church to "consolidate" in one location. Another reason was the abject poverty of the people. Many couldn't even afford to take a bus to a nearby town to buy groceries, much less to attend church once a week. This meant that the church had to come to them.

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Vaughn's schedule was like this: Work every day of the month with one day off...period! (He visited a different village every day and still was unable to visit all the churches each month. Many churches only received bi-monthy or quarterly visits from a missionary, according to the difficulty in reaching their location.) Each day Vaughn would get up at 6:00 a.m. for prayer. Then, he would spend time studying his sermon (as his Spanish was still in the learning process). After that, he would eat breakfast and work out. Next, he would work on his truck for about an hour, tightening bolts that had loosened up on the previous trip. (The roads were so rutted that the truck would literally shake to pieces if you didn't maintain it daily.) Finally, he would eat his lunch and leave around noon. After he was gone, I would be alone until somewhere between midnight and 2 a.m. I never went to bed until he came home. Because the food was usually so horrible in the villages, I would make his dinner when he got home, no matter what time it was. The meal was usually some sort of meat and potatoes or an omelette and potatoes.

***

During the time that Vaughn was gone to service, I usually did housework. There was no automation, so I had to do everything by hand. I washed the dishes, swept and mopped the floors, cleaned the bathrooms, washed the clothes and hung them to dry. Meanwhile, I also had to tend to Andrew (he was only 2 months old when we moved to Mexico). He was quite the handful. Every time I turned around, he was getting into something. Vaughn and I bought him a little "walker" so he usually trailed around behind me like a shadow, bumping into the back of my legs every time I came to a halt. I always had bruises on the back of my legs from this little guy's surveillance activities.

***

For several months, I didn't get to go to any services because of my health issues. It was extremely difficult for me because I was anxious to get out there and meet the people. Finally, the day came when I got to ride along to one of the services. It was a small village and the people were extremely friendly. It was quite a thrill, while also being a shock! I felt like a giant, white freak amongst the tiny, dark Indians. When I sat down on one of the old wooden benches with Andrew in my lap, the women and children would creep up to us and touch our hair and skin. I felt like a museum exhibit. A couple of brave little girls came up to me and blabbed something in Nauatl, then began to braid my hair. I just let them have their way, because I didn't want to offend anyone. When they were done, they smiled widely and giggled at me.

***

After a few hours of basically sitting in the heat and staring at the bamboo walls of their hut, we were invited in for dinner. Several of the Indian ladies said something to me in their native Nauatl. One of the brothers, who could speak Spanish, informed me that they would hold Andrew while I ate. I felt VERY nervous about relinquishing my child to strangers, however, I consented. I entered the hut and sat down on an old board that was balanced on top of two plastic buckets. Soon, a bowl of something odd was placed in front of me. The bowl contained large, squares of fat floating in some kind of red liquid. Thick veins ran through the fat and stuck out in the most gruesome fashion. Also, I quickly found out that I was to eat the soup without any utensils. I was given a small stack of hand-made corn tortillas. The tortillas were delicious, but the moment the red broth touched my lips, I felt sure that I would have a heart-attack. It was HOT! The broth was made from pure ground chilies. Seconds after the broth touched my lips, a series of blisters popped up on my skin. Realising that I was not going to be able to eat the food, Vaughn and another missionary divided my food between them and ate it. I nibbled painfully on a few tortillas and drank a scalding hot cup of coffee before I was able to dismiss myself.

***

As I left the hut, my first thought was 'Where is my child?' I eventually found him in the arms of a middle-aged Indian woman. But, what I saw nearly caused me to pass out. She had been unable to calm him so she had taken it upon herself to breast-feed him! I was speechless. She smiled at me when she saw me, covered herself up, and handed Andrew back to me. I quickly returned to Vaughn and told him what had happened. The other missionary explained to me that the Indian women shared breast-feeding responsibilites within the village, especially amonst families. It was normal! I relaxed a bit, but it still seemed really weird.

***

Later, the service started with a group of three men singing and playing their respective instruments. They called this type of group a "trio". The music was crude but extremely heart-felt and entertaining. They were actually quite talented. After the music, Vaughn and the other missionary gave their sermons. I noticed that many of the men had nodded off (I was informed that they worked all day in the bean fields). The women sat in the back nursing their babies and running off stray dogs, chickens, and piglets. The children walked around or sat near their mothers feet on the ground. After the messages where done, the trio played a few more songs, and then one of them dismissed the meeting in prayer.

***

We hung around for about ten more minutes before piling into the truck for the ride home. I was exhausted. My mouth was still on fire and throbbing from the chili juice. I felt like I was going to throw up as the fat chunks seemed to have expanded in my stomach like a sponge. The trip was hot, long, and extremely bumpy.

***

Yet, as bad as it had been, it was that night that I realized just what it meant to be a missionary. I was much more sympathetic to my husband's delayed absences. And, most importantly, I realized just how desperate these Indian people needed our help. I never looked back after that night.

The Market Experience

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(Left: Me in the Vegetatable Market; Right: The Meat Market)

When I first arrived in Mexico, my Spanish was very rudimentary. It was like listening to a two year old who has just learned to speak. My brain would tell me what to say, but my mouth just wouldn't cooperate. While in language school, I amassed a fairly good vocabulary. The only problem was that this vocabulary didn't take into account local colloquialisms. (This is when a word in a specific community may carry a completely different meaning that it was meant to have.)

My first trip to the market was in Benito Juarez, Veracruz. It was a small village and they only held market in the town square on Fridays. I went to the market with another missionary, Michelle Edgerton. She was showing me the ropes. The market basically consisted of an enormous group of locals and outside vendors with their wares laid ou on tables, crates, and tarps. I was extremely nervous. I wanted Michelle to do it for me, but she made me use what Spanish I had. I did fairly well until I came to the egg stand. I approached the egg vendor and told him that I wanted "un kilo de huevos". This is the correct usage of the word for egg. Immediately, Michelle interjected to the man, "Quiere decir 'blanquillos'. Then, she informed me that the local word for eggs was 'blanquillos' because the local word 'huevos' meant 'testicles'. Of course, I never wanted to speak Spanish again after asking an egg vendor for a kilo of testicles!

Cooking in Mexico was extremely difficult, especially in the village. If you didn't get your groceries on market day, you were out of luck. There were a few local 'shops' where you could buy the basics. But, otherwise, you HAD to buy everything on market day. Later, we moved to an actual town and it became a bit easier to make purchases.

Although the purchases became easier in the townships, the cooking itself remained a real chore. Here in America, we take for granted the boxed and canned foods that make life so easy and handy. Everything that I made in Mexico was from 'scratch'. If my family wanted a cake, I had to actually get flour, shortening, baking powder, eggs, and the other ingredients; mix it all up, and bake it. Of course, there was the difficulty of finding baking powder! When you did find it, the jungle humidity made it a bit flat and the cake had a heaviness about it...if it rose at all!

Then there was the meat! The first time I went to the meat market, I thought I was going to pass out. Huge sides of beef were hanging from hooks along with the entire contents of it's internal organs. Dead chickens were strung up by their feet, with heads and a few remaining feathers sticking out to remind you that it was freshly killed. Pig meat was laid out on counters with the poor unfortunate animals head staring back at you. Fish and shellfish was laid out on beds of ice or in coolers. It was a daily massacre! When you finally decided which kind of meat you wanted, you would request it by the kilo and the butcher would begin to carve it out of a larger chunk of meat. The meat itself was usually tough, as the animals were either local or from a nearby farm and 'range-fed'.

The vegetable market was colorful and a bit less nauseating. There were the normal items; onions, potatoes, zucchini, carrots, etc... Then, there was the unusual; nopales (cactus), chayote, jicama, chiles of every size and shape, chili paste in large plastic bags, freshly dried herbs (oregano, manzanilla (chamomille), cumin, thyme. There were strange gadgets like tortilla presses and lemon squeezers. There were thousands of brightly colored plastic items; from dinner bowls to tables and chairs. Cheaply made clothing with strange iron-on decals were available to those that were desperate for apparel. Handmade leather sandals and plastic shoes were lined up on tables.

The final part of the market was the prepared food vendors. You could buy Tacos al Pastor, boiled corn on a stick with mayonaisse and chili smeared all over it, fried bananas, churros, pan dulce, tortas, and fried masa with a variety of toppings. If you ventured into the permanent areas of the marketplace, there were small restaraunts, juice and liquado stands, and a variety of shoe, clothing, and phamacy shops. Then there was always the 'Papelaria'. This is the place to buy paper, notebooks, pencils, and textbooks for the local schoolkids.

I actually miss the market experience. It became a daily part of my life for over fifteen years. I miss the freshness of the meat and vegetables. I miss the exotic smells and big smiling faces of friends and neighbors as we met in the streets. Right before we left Mexico, Walmart had begun to move into town. McDonalds and Kentucky Fried Chicken were available to the masses. It made me a bit sad, but I guess that's progress.

Spinal Menengitis

Me, Andrew, and the Williamson kids

We had only been in Mexico for a few months before things started to go terribly wrong for me physically. I don't know where or how I got it, but I developed a severe ear infection in both of my ears. Without medical treatment or a divine healing, this particular ailment was only going to get worse.

After several weeks of battling with this infection, my body took a turn for the worse. My ears began to ooze green pus and I couldn't move my head without excruciating spasms of pain in my head, neck, and down my spine. By the end of the month, I was completely bedridden and delirious.

The group that we were working for had a very important trip arranged to scout a new area of the jungle. This was important to us because this was where we were planning to live and work (along with another couple, the Edgertons). Vaughn came to me and told me that he would be gone a few days and I would stay in the care of another family, the Gammills. I agreed and he dropped me off at their home.

At first, I felt as I always did...terrible. But then, I took a sudden turn for the worse. The pain and agony that I began to experience cannot be described in words. I felt shooting pains in my spine and kidneys. I found myself holding my breath because each time I breathed it caused a spasm of agony. After several hours of this, I began to realize that my organs were shutting down. My kidneys were dying. The infection had most likely spread to my spine and my brain was swollen, which caused horrific head pain.

When I realized I was not going to make it through the night, I began to feel a variety of things. The first thing that happened was I felt profound sadness as I looked over at my six month old baby, Andrew, and realized I would never see him again. I realized he would grow up without a mother. That was the hardest thing for me to face. Then, I began to think about my husband and my family back home. I thought about how devastated they would be if I died. I wondered if Vaughn would continue to preach the Gospel to the Indians or if he would give up. I thought about the Indians without any hope of salvation if the devil continued to destroy the lives of the missionaries that were willing to work there. Despite the pain, I began to cry. Not for myself, but everyone around me.

In my despair, I began to pray and beg for healing. It was while speaking those repetitious words that I realized there was nothing that I could do to save myself. I was more aware of my humanity than I had ever been before.

As I felt that wave of helplessness spread, God reminded me of a scripture that I had memorized as a teen. It was found in the third chapter of Mark. It told the story of the crippled man who was lowered through the roof to see Jesus. Jesus looked at the man and said, "Thy sins be forgiven thee." The pharisees immediately thought to themselves, "Who is this man that he claims to forgive sins?" Jesus perceived their thoughts and replied, "So that you will know that the Son of Man has power to forgive sins..." Looking at the crippled man, he said, "Take up your bed and walk." And immediately, the man stood, rolled up his bed, and walked.

Then, I heard the voice of God speak to me. He asked me a simple question, "Do you believe that I can forgive your sins?" I lay in that bed and really did a thorough soul-searching. Did I believe that Jesus Christ was the Son of God? Could he save me from my sins? Finally, I felt the faith rise up in me. I answered, "Yes." Then, I heard God speak again. He asked, "Do you trust me to do the right thing by you?" Again, I hesitated. To trust the final decision into God's hand meant relinquishing total control of the outcome. What if God wanted me to die? What if it was my time? I really didn't want to go from this Earth so early in my life. I had barely begun to live! After another soul-searching, I finally realized that no matter what, it was all in his hands anyway. I finally realized that it had been in his hands all along, with or without my faith or permission. I finally responded. I said, "God, I put my fate into your hands. I want you to make the final decision of whether I live or die. I'm not saying another word."

After this, I began to relax. Although I didn't know what the outcome would be, I was having complete faith in God. Because I was not sure if I would die, I began to pray for my child, my husband, and my family. I prayed that they would survive my passing and find the strength to move forward. I prayed that God would send my son a good mother to replace me, someone that would love him as his own. It was the hardest thing I'd ever done. Once I had thoroughly prayed for my loved ones, I looked up to the heavens and said, "God, I'm going to sleep now. When I awake, I fully expect to be healed or in Heaven. No more pain. No more suffering. You decide." I'm not sure how long I slept, but when I woke up I was completely and totally healed. The pain was gone. The pus had dried up. I even had the strength to get out of bed and ask for something to eat (I hadn't eaten or slept in about a week).

Allowing God to make that final "life or death" decision for me was the hardest thing I have ever done! I had to dig deep and find the faith to believe that God was a merciful and loving father. I had to remind myself that he only wanted what was best for me and my family. It was during those crucial moments that my faith in God was sealed forever. I've been mad at him since then for things that have happened to me. But, in all these years, I've never doubted his existence or his power over mankind.

Our First House

Benito Juarez, Veracruz, Mexico 1985

After finishing up language school, Vaughn and I finally moved to Mexico. Our first child, Andrew, had been born only two months earlier. It was a tough move for me. Besides being a new mother, the trip to the small village where we would be living was a grueling two-day trip. At the border, we were forced to pay nearly $200 in bribes to get our tourist papers. This was very common back in the 80's (before they passed laws prohibiting Mexican immigration to harass and bribe visiting foreigners.)

When we got to our little house, I found that it was not quite finished. It had a roof and a door, but the windows were still uninstalled. So, basically, we had open holes in the walls. This was very uncomfortable because of the mosquitoes. I must've been bit a thousand times. After a week or two, Vaughn bought some mesh fabric and covered the openings to keep out the insects. Although the windows were now covered, I still had a batch of baby tree frogs hatch in my kitchen shelves. There must've been a hundred of the little critters bouncing around my floor. It was quite memorable.

While living in this first house, I learned alot about discomfort. Besides being excruciatingly hot, our water ran through a "pila" or cement holding tank on the roof. At some poin, the water became contaminated with frog eggs. Eventually, when I turned on the faucet, tadpoles came out along with the water. It was gross!

One night, while Vaughn was at a service, I went into the kitchen to get something and found a huge tarantula sitting in the middle of the floor. It had to have been ten inches in diameter. At first I, was petrified. I basically stood there with a broom in my hand for an hour trying to get the courage to sweep it out the door. When I finally got the nerve, I swished it across the floor, but it didn't cooperate. Instead of going to the door, it skittered down the hall. In a state of shock, I leaped over it and cut it off (it was heading towards my baby's room). I began to pummel it with the broom. When I finally stopped the attack, I found the spider crumpled into a ball. I was relieved, but not for long. After a few seconds, it unfurled it's legs and began to move again. I swept it back into the kitchen and basically kept an eye on it until Vaughn got home (this took hours). He killed it and swept it outside. It was not a fun night.

Another day, I was looking out the back window while cooking dinner and I noticed a snake slithering up the hill behind the house. I immediately screamed for Vaughn. He identified the snake as a Mauaquiti (or a fur d'lance). I later found out that this is the most poisonous snake in North and South America, killing it's victims within an hour of contact with it's venom. I'm glad I didn't know this tidbit of information at the time!

The only word I could use to describe Benito Juarez is "nightmarish". Besides all the strange critters, the intense heat, the lonliness, and the inability to speak the language properly, I also became deathly ill with spinal menengitis. I will leave this story for my next blog entry as it is a bit long.

Overall, my first few months on the mission field were quite memorable. Although it was tough and miserable, I knew that I was doing something important. I was doing something that mattered. This was the driving force that kept me plodding forward through the hardships and difficulties of living on a foreign mission field.