A few weeks ago, a few of us drove with Steve and Sandi to their property close to a place called Latacunga.  It was a startlingly clear day (which is odd for this country), and from their property we could see several snow-capped volcanoes on the horizon, including Chimborazo (the top of which is actually further from the center of the earth than any other place in the world, including Mt. Everest).  The view from Latacunga was one of the most beautiful I have ever seen, and it struck me hard when Steve said “this is one of the poorest areas in Ecuador.”  It is profound to me that one of the most utterly beautiful places in the world is inhabited by some of the most utterly poor people of Ecuador.  My natural inclination as a fallen being is to blind myself to that which makes me feel uncomfortable, like poverty.  In the Bible, God’s absolutely passionate heart for the poor, oppressed, and immigrant people of the world is undeniable (especially in light of passages like Is. 58:6-12).

When I remember Latacunga, I don’t want to think about the poverty that exists there.  When I think about the beauty of Ecuador, I don’t want to think about the masses starving for a relationship with Jesus.  When I tell people about my home, the Coachella valley, I skip telling them about the homeless people I regularly ignore on freeway onramps.  When I remember my friends from high school, it pains me to recall that more than half of them had parents that had been divorced.  When I think about the world and the status of the Great Commission, I don’t like to consider the 1,400,000,000 (yes, ten digits) or so people that have never heard the name of Jesus and face eternity without him. 

I’m sure most Christ-followers who read this will sympathize with me in some way, and I’m also sure that they will recognize the passion that comes from the redeemed part of our hearts when we hear things like this.  There’s something in our hearts from God that seems to say: “Get up and make your life about this, do something!” 

Since I’ve been here, I’ve literally had the time of my life.  I’ve gotten to swim in a river in the jungle (which is just plain cool), become able to at least functionally speak Spanish, jump off a bridge with nothing but a couple of rock-climbing ropes harnessed on to me, live with and learn from an Ecuadorian family (who treat me like one of their own), connect to God’s heart for the people of Ecuador, and build an invaluable foundation in God’s Word. 

I have also seen poverty and desperation for Christ.  Old Quichua women bend over double carrying loads too big for some Navy SEALS, people fear the Shamans in the jungle, people worship Mary in the churches, in the masses here there generally seems to be a big question-mark over the face of Jesus as people don’t know what to believe, and men drink beer every night until they’re too drunk to care about how they are perpetuating the cycle with their sons.  All of these things have begged the question of me: what will my life be about?

In 1910 Samuel Zwemer, a long-serving missionary in the Middle East, wrote: “There are hundreds of Christian college men who expect to spend life practicing law or in some trade for a livelihood, yet who have strength and talent enough to enter these [mission] fields…They are making a living; they might be making a life.”  I’m not so naïve to say that I know what my life has for me, what career I’ll have, or even that I know how Jesus will use me for his Kingdom mission.  But I can say with certainty that I refuse to simply “make a living”.  I refuse to make my life about pursuing the American dream.  Rather, I plan to “make a life”, spending my heart in those places and for those people that arouse the God-given passions inside of me. 

Also, I love you mom.