Holiday Greetings from Honduras

Once a week we try to go as a family to visit the sick at the local hospital. We had started this custom three years ago while still in Syracuse. Karen was teaching English to refugees from Vietnam. Through Midas Randall, a Vietnamese Christian who was attending our church, she learned that a Vietnamese woman had been severely injured in a car accident. A sister of one of Karen’s students was the driver of the car. When we first saw the injured lady at Rosewood Heights half of her skull was missing. The vehicle had apparently hit a tree in heavy fog with the impact damaging the left side of her skull. The doctors had removed it make room for her swollen brain. At that time they didn’t expect her to make it. She couldn’t speak, the right side of her body was totally paralyzed and she would just sit and cry every time we walked in. None of the Vietnamese community would visit her. As Buddhists, they felt it was her bad karma that had led to her accident and only reincarnation would free her to try again in the next life. Her husband came faithfully every day to bring her a Vietnamese style dinner. Prior to the accident she was reported to have been one of the brightest of all the immigrants. With a sunny disposition, all loved her.

I’ve never seen my wife spontaneously express a love for any stranger as she did toward Hang. My wife is like a bulldog when she sets her mind to something. She made sure we were faithful with our visits. Slowly but surely, each Sunday we began to see faint signs of improvement. With time she would light up like a Christmas tree when we entered the room. She would laugh with us as we tried to teach her to count to ten. She would smile as the girls sang or showed her photos from magazines. Twice during the years she was rushed to the hospital for emergency care. The first time she nearly died when her shunt became infected. After one of these set backs she would cry and cry when she saw us. I believe she had recovered enough of her mental capacity to understand her condition—which was hopeless. All we could do was pray with her and hold hands. We continued to love her. Slowly she began to move her right foot, then her right leg. Soon she was able to lift her right leg up off the bed a little. Somewhere along the way the doctors replaced the missing half of her skull. Her hair grew back in. She actually began to look normal. I believe it was simple love that kept her alive and allowed her to recover as much as she did. We would read the Bible to her and pray with her during each visit. At those moments she would become quite sober, and listen intently as we read the word of God. She loved that part of the visit, as did we.

It wasn’t long before we were visiting other patients. The Lord did marvelous things. We were constantly struck by the number of people who had no other visitors but us. Oh how they loved to see our girls! One night I was up there alone. I was leaving when a man in a wheelchair came down the hall in the opposite direction. He had a black pirate’s patch over his right eye. He was drooling so profusely his shirt was soaked. When he spoke, nothing but unintelligible sounds came out. He was asking me to do something but I couldn’t understand him. With a loud sigh, he reached for a small whiteboard and black magic marker on his lap. With his left hand he wrote, “Hi, my name is Ronald!” He gestured down the hall. He was asking me to help wheel him back to his room. Once in his room he began to write again. Ronald had grown up in Auburn. Ten years earlier he had suffered two massive stokes leaving him unable to speak and blind in his right eye. However the rest of his mental faculties were fine. Soon I began to realize he suffered more than anyone there. Half the patients at Rosewood die in a given year. Many suffer from Alzheimer’s or dementia. There was nothing physically wrong with Ronald besides his vision and his speech. His body was strong, his mind as sharp as a tack. Thankfully soon the administrators realized this and he was able to move into an apartment back in Auburn. The first night we met, I read to him from the Gospel of John, Chapter 3. I wasn’t two minutes into it when he began to sob like a baby. I thought, “Oh no, what have I done?” As I continued reading, he began to write something on his whiteboard. He tapped me on the shoulder gesturing to his whiteboard. On it he had written, “For God so loved the world that He gave His only begotten son for Ronald!” It had been so long since he heard the Bible read that it made him cry tears of joy.

The first time I laid eyes on Shirley I shrunk back in horror. Her room was darkened. Her body was contorted at impossible angles. Mistakenly I thought she was asleep. All alone, I approached her bed cautiously to get a better look. Her head was turned away from me on the pillow. With a jolt she turned her head to glare at me with terror in her eyes. Fighting the urge to run out of the room screaming, I smiled softly and said, “Would you like a visitor?” She nodded yes. I began to tell her who I was and that I came every week to visit the patients on the fifth floor. I asked if I could read a portion of the scriptures to her and again she nodded yes. When I finished she whispered something so softly I couldn’t hear her. I leaned down and put my ear next to her mouth. She said, “That was beautiful.” During later visits I was able to look at her wedding picture on her dresser. As a young newlywed, she was a knockout. It is amazing how pain affects the body. She suffered quietly. Never once did I hear her complain. I grew to really look forward to praying with her. Afterwards we would just sit and hold hands in the darkness, tears streaming down her cheeks.

Yesterday we went to the local hospital here in Puerto Lempira. The place resembles a burnt out building in the ghettos. It looks more like a war zone than a hospital. Even before we entered we prayed with a young lady who was suffering from a severe kidney infection, unable to stand. Near the entrance to the main building almost always there’s a mom sitting with a baby in her arms who is hooked up to an oxygen tank. Next comes the triage room. Yesterday there was a Cobra policeman sitting on a bed with blood all around his bottom. He had been shot. He prayed to receive the Lord as savior. Next we prayed with a lady with a malignant tumor in her liver. Next we prayed for salvation with a man who was so yellow he looked surreal. Next to him we prayed with a young man with bloodstains around his left leg. He received the Lord as his savior. In the same room was a young man who had his skull cracked open in a fight. He prayed for salvation. Next we prayed for salvation with a very young Mom who sat forlornly next to her sick infant child. Finally we prayed with a male nurse who had been watching us make our rounds. He too prayed for salvation.

Karen and I feel strongly about bringing our daughters along with us. When we first took them up to Rosewood the odors and the blood blew them away. It took a short while for them to be able to see the people as human beings with needs just like theirs. None of those patients chose to end up there. Most will never leave. Why do we go?

“Then the King will say to those on His right hand, ‘Come, you blessed of My Father, inherit the kingdom prepared for you from the foundation of the world: for I was hungry, and you gave Me food; I was thirsty and you gave Me drink; I was a stranger and you took me in; I was naked and you clothed Me; I was sick and you visited Me; I was in prison and you came to Me.” (Matthew 25:34-36) Will you consider visiting someone special this Christmas?

Sincerely,
Ed Eagan

A Typical Day from Karen's Perspective

Dear family and friends,

Unfortunately, I’m not as talented a writer as my husband, and my day is not nearly as interesting as his. What follows is how I spend most days here in Puerto Lempira.

A typical day always begins with noise. Either the roosters crowing, the dogs barking, the people walking by our home talking, or a small planes taking off, are usually what awaken me each morning. It’s so nice to not hear an alarm clock, and even nicer to not have to get up and RUSH.

First thing, I make our bed. This entails straightening out a sheet and then tucking the mosquito net back under our air mattress. Ed is usually already at the table listening to Jon Courson teach through the bible. I pump some potable water from our 5-gallon jug and light the stove to make instant coffee. Then I spend as long as I like reading the Word of God. I’m reading through the bible systematically in six different books simultaneously. I’m currently in Genesis 39, Joshua 18, Psalm 90, Jeremiah 16, John 3, and will start 1 Thessalonians, having just finished Colossians. Each day a read the next chapter or more if I’m in the middle of a theme. This is one of the best times of the day. The only downside is that people here are early risers, and many a time, we’ve had visitors while still in our pajamas.

I put away last night’s dishes, get water ready in two buckets for washing and rinsing breakfast dishes, sweep through the house and do some other light house cleaning.

Next, it’s time to take a bucket shower or get dressed. We’ve become indulgent, and now heat a saucepan of cistern water for every two buckets of unheated water. This makes the water temperature perfect for bathing. Once dressed, I survey our food needs for the day and make a list.

If it’s sunny, I do Ed’s and my laundry by hand, outside the back door by the cistern. I found it’s easier to do a few things about every other day. Only so much fits on the clothesline and if it rains we have to find room to drape items all around the house. The girls do their own laundry. The sheets and towels we take to a woman who has a machine and pay her to do them.

Rarely a day goes by that I don’t walk into the market area of town to buy something we need. I can only carry so much from the shops to our house. Often I go to Gabrelino’s store for pantry items and paper products. Even though it’s further away from our home than other stores selling the same things, gringos are allowed behind the counter to pick out their merchandise. Chow’s, where I go to buy cheese (resembling a funky kind of feta cheese), ground beef and canned juice, is one of the most popular stores in town. There is always a crowd waiting inside and sitting outside of the store. Next, I see where I can get some fresh vegetables and/or fruit. If a boat hasn’t been in to the pier recently, it’s often slim pickings. I don’t always relish this daily ritual. I must speak Spanish and if the shopkeeper asks me anything out of the ordinary, I’m often lost. Also, even though we’ve been here for three months, we still draw a lot of attention from onlookers. At times it’s uncomfortable, but not unbearable. There is definitely continual low level of stress living in a place where you are always the foreigner.

Before when I left the house, I used to bring my backpack complete with hand sanitizer, water bottle, sunblock, glasses and sunglasses, toilet paper, SPF 15 chapstick, I.D., a list, and some “limps” (short for “lempiras”, the local currency). Now, I shove my list and “limps” in a pocket, whip on my sunglasses, and go. The minimalist lifestyle here is contagious.

If Ed and I head out together, I usually meet up with him after shopping at the Internet café. We send e-mails we’ve written the day before at home, downloading them from a portable hard disc. Next we down load any e-mails we’ve received onto the disc to read later at home. We do this to keep the cost down. Many times due to bad weather, the signal is lost or the power is cut off. It can be frustrating, but we’re so thankful to have this way to connect with the outside world.

Ed and I often are back by lunchtime. By now the girls are in the thick of their school day (if we have power- we had none today until 6:30 pm). Usually they have questions about their schoolwork or quizzes and tests and need help. As the designated home school teacher, I grade all their work and then record them on their respective progress reports that are to be sent in at the end of each quarter. I spend most of my time helping them study for tests and quizzes. Between the three of them, they take these exams almost daily.

When the girls no longer need me, and if I didn’t do it earlier in the day, I spend some time in prayer. It’s glorious to be able to take as much time as you want to seek the Living God and make intercession without having in the back of your head what you need to do imminently.

Sometimes I study Spanish in the afternoon, or if it’s a Tuesday or Thursday I like to join Ed as he conducts a bible study with the high school students. We use to go the Christian elementary school and help out a few days a week, but they are closed for vacation now. The schools open again in mid-Feb. On Mondays, a Cuban anesthesiologist named Sara and I, planned to meet in order to swap language skills. She’s been sick. Now she’s on call at the hospital, so we haven’t gotten together as of late. She is a Christian and we met at church. She misses her family terribly. Her stint here is for one year. She’s then able to return to Cuba for a couple months, but must return here again for an additional year. I’m not sure if she had any choice or not in coming here. It turns out the small Cuban medical group here is told not to divulge the true nature of life in Cuba to Americans. They are told we may be spies and there could be possible negative consequence for their families at home. They eagerly bemoan the misery of life in Cuba to native Hondurans though.
Chaela has developed a relationship with a poorly nourished puppy. Each day I walk her to where it lives and she feeds it chicken skin and cooked entrails. Bethany has piano practice with the worship team at church on Thursdays and Saturdays. We walk the girls everywhere. They still feel uncomfortable here. Their light hair and blue
eyes really make them stand out.

I always try to take a nap. We all seem to be more tired here. I asked Ed if it’s due to a lack of adrenaline because of low stress lifestyle. It could be the hot, humid climate. Maybe it’s a combination of both.

Dinner usually takes an hour to prepare. It’s becoming more difficult to be creative with the available ingredients. We are beginning to tire of the limited food selection. If I ask what everyone wants for dinner, they all say, “I don’t care”. When we go to Florida next week-look out! Chaela and Gabrielle are planning how to eat their way through the holidays. Chaela asked for broccoli and my homemade macaroni and cheese for Christmas. Gabrielle wants to eat mass quantities of yogurt and a wide variety of fresh fruits daily. All I want for Christmas is to go to the Cold Stone Creamery for ice cream. I’ve only been there once with our dear friends the Ottmans and long to go again. A grilled vegetable pizza sounds wonderful too.
After dinner and dishes, it’s often time for more schoolwork, leisure reading or typing e-mails. Sometimes we just stay at the table and talk for hours. On Monday nights Ed goes to a men’s bible study at church and leaves before dinnertime. The girls and I usually have pancakes and eggs or something equally not fussy. I love spending so much time with our daughters. On Wednesday nights we have a church meeting. We meet Sunday mornings too. On Friday and/or Saturday nights we try to borrow a DVD movie from our friends the Grigg’s. A favorite so far is the movie Harvey, with Jimmy Stewart. We laughed out loud throughout. We watch almost all the bonus material available on the DVD’s as well. We soak in every ounce of the limited entertainment when we have access to it. I like to watch the movies while displaying the Spanish subtitles. Then it doesn’t feel like a total waste of time. Sometimes we have to watch them with English subtitles because of the noise level around our house. I think the biggest threat to our health here is to our hearing. I’m not kidding.

Now that the Engle’s are in the States, we are dispensing the milk and formula recommended by the hospital doctors to the malnourished children and their families. They come at all times of the day. So far, so good, even with my limited knowledge of the Spanish language. Thankfully, Spanish is also the Miskito Indian’s second language. According to Ed, not many speak Spanish terribly well. That’s comforting.
For the most part, I’m still enjoying our time here. My role here is one of supporter and helper to my husband and my children. I’m thankful Ed can get right in there and be effective in the Lord. I can offer prayer support, and make our home a sanctuary for us to dwell, in the presence of the Lord, in peace. Not being fluent in the language is a definite disadvantage. When I’m out and about, any written sign or music or conversations around me are only vaguely understood. My understanding is constantly in a haze and I never quite know for sure, with any clarity, what is going on or being said around me. It’s hard to explain. I hope when we visit the States I can remember how to be thoroughly engaged in my surroundings again. To some extent, it seems like it will be overwhelming to be able to make sense of things instantly and precisely again. I’m out of practice.

I thank the Lord for allowing us to be here and learn things we could ever know or understand otherwise. I pray He can use it for His glory and to further His Kingdom.

Hallelujah!
In Christ Jesus,
Karen

A Typical Day

My good friend Joe Romano wrote asking what a typical day is like. Good question.

Evenings here are perfect. Last week during the full moon every night was glorious. I sat on the back porch with the lights out looking up at the stars. Because of the ideal temperature, I sat without shirt, shoes or socks. The stars above are not familiar. Only once a night, around three in the morning, is the silence of the night broken by the faint exhaust of a high altitude airliner. When the rain approaches it can be heard afar off. We’re not talking ordinary rain; we’re talking torrential downpours; we’re talking run to the windows before half the room is drenched. Lizards line the walls at night, waiting for a clueless moth or locust. The lizards’ screech is so loud it startles. Our bed was built high enough so as to be able to feel any breeze blowing in through the windows. About ten paces from our windows is a main road traversed by passersby at all hours of the night. It took us quite awhile to realize they weren’t right outside our windows plotting a palace coup. Many a night I’ve stood in the shadows with a hammer at the ready only to realize that the sounds that awoke me were dogs investigating our compost pile.

One of three things wakes me in the morning: sunlight pouring in the eastern window despite the brown bed sheet we’ve hung up as a curtain; a rooster crowing with all his might right outside the same window (this one wakes me up with a jolt); or Corgi barking at the top of his lungs. Make no mistake about it-roosters crow at all times of the day or night. But all roosters crow at dawn. For the uninitiated it can be a frightening cacophony. Our neighborhood stud usually starts crowing with gusto around four in the morning. To his credit, his is a robust, deep-throated crow that can be heard for miles in the stillness of the night. He’s not struggling like some of the elder roosters to attract the young chicks. Corgi, our neighborhood dog would give his left paw for some of that sex appeal. He stands about six inches above the ground. He’s about a foot long- if that. His resembles a Welsh Corgi according to Gabrielle our resident canine expert. She named him. He belongs to our landlord and neighbor Doña Digna although you’d never know it by her actions. We’ve yet to see her feed or pet him. Our affections have won him over. He sleeps on our porch, comes to the backdoor at dinnertime (along with Bethany’s cat harem) and wags his tail when he sees us. The problem is his ego doesn’t match his size. He carries himself like the Italian Stallion of Puerto Lempira. He prances when he walks resembling the famous Lipizzaner stallions. He regularly gets the snot beat out of him by the other dogs. Out of compassion, I’ve discouraged him from tagging along when we leave. It’s no use. Love has won him over—or at least the occasional scrap thrown his way.

Almost always I’m the first one up—sometime between 6:00 –6:30 am. I try to pray right away before anyone else rises. Mornings are glorious here with the walls of the thunderheads ablaze in burning hues of orange and red. Students walk unhurriedly toward school. Girls dressed in uniforms of navy blue skirts, short-sleeve white shirts, white socks and dark shoes squint as they head into the rising sun. The boys wear navy blue pants and kick empty plastic Coke bottles pretending they’re soccer balls. All carry bulging backpacks-- proof positive that good ideas and functional designs are universally appealing. Corpulent nurses, their dark skin radiant against the brilliant white of their uniforms, carrying lunches in discarded plastic grocery bags, walk with such reluctance toward the hospital it appears an invisible force holds them back. They stop at the slightest excuse to converse with friends. If you could see the hospital, you’d instantly understand their hesitation. Small foreign pickup trucks scurry by the back door heading for the airport. They carry passengers arriving down at the pier borne on dugout canoes powered by outboards. The planes, twin turboprops built in Czechoslovakia, arrive around 7:30. Anyone not yet awakened by all the other noises, will invariably emerge from under their mosquito net at this point. By that time I’ve been studying the Bible for an hour. These days I’m listening to Jon Courson out of Calvary Chapel’s Applegate Fellowship in Oregon. He is one of the finest Bible teachers I’ve heard. I have a set of CDs containing his teachings on the entire Bible.

By 9:30 I’m beginning to eat breakfast. Fresh oranges, papaya, pineapple or bananas are usually available. I follow that with cereal or oatmeal smothered with cold fresh milk in cardboard containers. I first saw milk stored in this fashion while living in London in 1977. It requires no refrigeration until opened. Bethany and I drink whole milk. Karen favors the powdered milk. The sugar, consisting of chunky, dirty white crystals (fresh from the cane), must be carefully stored. Thousands of tiny voracious ants scurry by on the wall searching for even the smallest crumb. When I’ve been a very good boy, Michaela will occasionally share one of her delicious western omelets with me. She’s become quite the cook down here. I love to read while eating breakfast and these days I’m in the middle of Theodore Rex by Edmund Morris. Life doesn’t get much better than this!

Every morning at 10:30 I teach the prisoners down at the local minimum-security prison. This is the highlight of the day for me. They’re such an eager bunch! They actually do their homework and are anxious to share with me what they’ve learned overnight. I spend at least an hour there. Afterwards I head to the internet café to download the day’s emails. The café is about half the size of my kitchen. Six computers are squeezed into that tiny space. Jorge, Pastor David’s brother-in-law, runs it. He’s a wiz with computers and never ceases to help me. I brought with me from the U.S. a tiny portable 128MB external hard drive known as a SanDisk. I simply plug it into the café’s computers, download the emails and plug it into my laptop at home. I do this so as to save money at the café. Normally it takes about 10-20 minutes to send and receive the day’s emails. It costs between $1.50 to $2.00 for that time. The normal download time is huge-it takes about one full minute to open, copy and paste one email to the SanDisk. If there’s inclement weather in the area, double that time. Ugh!

From there I’ll head to the shops to pick up groceries. These consist of open-air stalls in front of wooden huts or actual retail spaces in plaster buildings. Once you step inside everything is dark, as they don’t believe in using electricity during the day. Usually the owner of the building is also the owner of the store. There is no price competition. What you pay at the pier for jumbo shrimp is exactly what you’d pay the guy who shows up at your door with a cooler loaded with shrimp atop a wheelbarrow--$1.34/pound. Go figure. During the harvest a pound of beans goes for about 13.4 cents. Right now they’re selling for 50 cents. Yet no one stores them here. During the harvest they sell them to merchants who then ship them to giant storage facilities in La Ceiba. Nine months later they pay those same merchants to bring them back—at a markup of over 300%! (I smell a business opportunity here.) A fresh lobster dinner at the nicest local restaurant will set you back $6.70. A gallon of unleaded gasoline however will set you back $3.40! A dozen eggs costs $1.61, a quart of milk $1.07 while a box of generic Corn Flakes goes for $1.98. This month’s electrical bill came to $30.10. The rent is $200/month.

From the shops I head home. Along the way I pass the one and only bank. Without any computers to verify a balance, they must fax a copy of your bank register to La Ceiba. Next they place a call to the same office. Only after someone there confirms you have money in the account and has calculated the interest you’ve earned in the interim, does the teller give you money. On an ancient typewriter she pounds out the numbers on your account register. Teachers are paid once a month. When they are, enormous lines form at the bank for four full days. Every electrical and phone bill must be paid at the bank. If you go first thing in the morning or during lunch hour on any other day, there’s hardly a wait.

Next I pass the Catholic Church compound occupying one square city block. It’s by far the nicest complex in town replete with an arched topiary and a lawn mowed by machete. Every Sunday, strains of European music fill the air making one think he’s in a small Austrian village. Other than during a mass, I’ve never seen the priest in public. The army base, also one square city block, abuts the church property. It consists of two camouflaged shacks. In between them a common roof provides shelter for the kitchen and mess hall. The rest of the property consists of grass and mango trees. About twenty soldiers guard the base. They’re a motley crew comprised of scrawny young bucks whose faces resemble a deer caught in the headlights. When not playing soccer, they lean against the barbed wire fence talking with young ladies in waiting. Don’t ask me why they’re here in the middle of nowhere. When I asked them if Honduras had an enemy they all sort of looked at each other. Finally one soldier answered, “Nicaragua.” Heck, half the town is Nicaraguan! And the Moskito Indians have populated the coast of what is today Honduras and Nicaragua for millennia. People constantly travel back and forth between here and the closest Nicaraguan town. Because President Reagan chose to base the Nicaraguan Contras here, many people still hold a grudge against the former enemy forgetting that those same Contras soldiers now live in Nicaragua.

Across the street from the base is the hostel housing a contingent of Cuban doctors. These doctors (both male and female) leave Cuba for a two-year stint in a Central American country. It’s one of Castro’s ways of endearing his otherwise miserable government to fellow Latinos. They’re paid $20 a month! That’s why they all share one small house with six bedrooms. They deny they’re forced into this overseas assignment. One of the doctors is a friend of ours. She’s an anesthesiologist. She’ll see her husband and two sons only once in the two years she’s away. She takes English lessons from Karen and attends the same church we do. In private, she tells us no Cuban would ever speak publicly about his hatred of Castro and his government. Spies are everywhere. Dissenters are punished.

The hostel shares a corner with a tiny wooden shack which doubles as a store and a home for a family of four. The husband sits just outside the store watching a television that rests upon a shelf up in the corner of the store. Usually he’s surrounded by a contingent of neighborhood kids. His taxi is parked next to him. I can’t understand how he makes any money with his taxi since it’s always parked. How do you spell “money laundering?”

Thank God a fresh ocean breeze almost always blows across the bay from the northeast. When heading out in the morning, as soon as I turn toward downtown and the bay, that breeze nearly blows my baseball cap off. It’s just strong enough to cool down what would otherwise be insufferable heat. Once home, it’s time for a light lunch. I try to eat up the leftovers. Everyone else is seated around the kitchen table, headphones on, doing their schoolwork.

On Tuesday’s and Thursday’s I head back out to teach at the army base at 1:00. On those same days I teach a bunch of 9th graders at 4:00. I’m teaching all three groups of students the same thing--the Gospel of John. A couple of years ago I read the same seven chapters of John every day for 30 days. During the next 30 days I read the subsequent seven chapters, and so on. I came away from that experience absolutely convinced that anyone sincerely seeking to find truth will discover it by carefully reading John’s Gospel.

I’ve been teaching during the Wednesday night church services on the Book of Acts. We go through each chapter, verse by verse. At the Pastor’s request, I’m also in the midst of preparing a curriculum on the lives of the Disciples for the Monday’s night men’s study group. This is a great group of about 10 men who meet each week to study various biblical themes. Most are new believers. One distinguished looking gentleman is about sixty years old. He’s been an alcoholic most of those years. His lime green turtleneck is sullied, his pants those of a hobo. He’s been a professor in the local schools since graduating from college. His keen intellect and excellent Spanish give proof. I’ve taken a liking to him. We walk home together after the meetings. A few weeks back he shared with me it was only after watching a fellow drunk and friend die that he realized his end would be the same without Christ. He’s so disarmingly honest when he speaks of his struggle with the temptation of booze that it’s frightening. I gave him his first Bible about a month ago. He sat staring at it speechless, fighting back tears. Last week he confided in me his clothes embarrassed him now that we attending church. Two days later we met at one of the ubiquitous second-hand clothing stores. He picked out a couple of pairs of pants and a few new shirts. Would you join me in praying that the Holy Spirit (the “Promise of the Father”) would baptize him? So when I’m not teaching, I’m preparing to teach, studying the word of God, praying that He would send His Holy Spirit to guide me. It is an unspeakable privilege. It has been very humbling to sit back and watch the Holy Spirit work in the hearts of the listeners. More than ever I’m convinced of the accuracy of Paul’s words:
“For the word of God is living and powerful, and sharper than any two-edged sword, piercing even to the division of soul and spirit, and of joints and marrow, and is a discerner of the thoughts and intents of the heart.” (Hebrews 4:12)

Sincerely,
Ed Eagan