Father's Day at the Squatter's Community, Shell, Ecuador

At 4pm on Father's Day, a truck taxi picked us up at our hostal.  We had arrived in Shell, Ecuador in the Amazon Basin just that morning. Earlier at church, we re-connected with a young Dr. and his family who serve at the HCJB hospital (www.hcjb.org), and they asked us if we wanted to join a small group from the church and go to a Squatter's Community that afternoon and then join them for dinner that night in their home.   Of course, we did!  The Squatter's Community is just that - Indians who have come in from different areas of the jungle, settled on the land and built houses. They have come in to the edge of town either to work or to let their children attend the public school.  We wore our hiking boots.  Everyone else wore high rubber boots. We soon found out why.  We waded through strips of black, oily mud to reach a large covered, dirt-floor pavillion.  Children began to pour in and take their seats on the plank-like benches, joining those who had followed us along the muddy path, pointing out the most efficient way to walk a tree branches or the small planks that served as steppingstones.  They were bare-footed.  And dirty.  And smiling.  

The Dr. played the guitar and his wife, Amy, led the singing while a church member held up the paper with the Spanish words to the songs.  The children sang in unison.  We struggled to pronounce in Spanish, but finally, gave up and sang the choruses we knew so well in English:  "Open the eyes of my heart, Lord, Open the eyes of my heart, I want to see Jesus...."  Next, the Nazarene pastor's Mother, shared the story of the Prodigal Son.  She spoke with great expression and the children watched as she enthusiastically showed the prodigal's demands and, eventually, his return.

These children were engaged because someone cared to engage them.  The music and story had been planned, the activities and snacks were prepared ahead of time.  They sensed that someone cared, and that was all it took.  These children have nothing.  Their homes don't have running water or electricity.  The families wash their clothes, take their baths, and brush their teeth in a nearby stream. Their hands and feet and faces are smeared with mud from the days' activities.  They leaned into us, held our hands, and sandwiched us between them on the benches.  Our broken Spanish and their efforts at activities in English filled that pavillion with laughter and shouting.  They are little squatters, living a hard life, but the church faithfully brings a little light into their lives every Sunday afternoon by selfless members who lead very busy lives themselves.  

It was worth it.  The mud, the mosquitoes, the jungle heat.  Hearing the gospel is just one part of the harvest process.  "...It will not return to me empty, but will accomplish what I desire and achieve the purpose for which I sent it."   We watched those with few earthly possessions hear the gospel that enriches with blessings that money can't buy anyway.  It was a good day - a good Father's Day!

Keep Looking Up and we will, too!  Jim and Linda