Contrasts

Two weeks ago I was driving to the small city of El Bolson nestled in the Andes Mountains.  The terrain looks much like the place of my father's birth in an area called "Mist" in northwestern Oregon where his father, William Frank Hiatt, homesteaded in the mid 1800s.  

It is late fall here in Argentina and wild rose hips line the highway.  (Click on pictures to enlarge.)

Pastor Fernando Reyes and his lovely family welcomed me to eat at their table in their tiny home that he has built on a steep mountain slope at the edge of a gravel road.  

Unable to maintain the rent of a small civic hall two years ago, he traded his car for a little plot of land next to the river and built a temporary shelter for his small congregation.  They hang sheets on the walls to help keep the cold night wind from blowing through the cracks between the rough log siding. (below)

One has to honor their faithfulness.  Fernando works as a plumber to support his family while at the same time attempting to build up a congregation.  29 people, including the pastor and family showed up on a very cold Friday night.  I count little kids and babies!  Why not?  I think Jesus would.

Now, 14 days later, here I am surrounded by opulence as I sit at my office computer in my comfortable home in Modesto, California... and already feeling an aching inside to go back soon.  I manage to get myself out of Argentina, but I can't seem to get Argentina out of me.

Ralph