PASTORVON.com (E.G. von Trutzschler) » ABOUT PASTOR VON » STORIES FROM MY JOURNALS


HOME » ABOUT PASTOR VON » STORIES FROM MY JOURNALS » BOOK 07 APPRECIATION: "Hey, von." Juan was on the phone. "I thought you might like to know this. I was going with our family to the movies. As we were going in, others were coming out. I heard someone calling to me from the crowd. Spectrum! Spectrum! Hey Juan, where are Aaron and von?" It was a Mexican teenager excited and all smiles. It seems the teenager had met us while he was in the jail and was excited to see Juan again. "We really appreciated you guys coming to the CMI (jail) and teaching us." They talked for a few moments and went their separate ways. We appreciate those unexpected bright spots. HARD TO LOVE: Some kids, like this cute little girl, are so easy to love. Then there are the hard to love kind of kid like "Lemon"! We've known "Lemon" since he was about ten. He has spent most of his life in jail. He is greedy and loud and belligerent. "Lemon" is now sixteen and on his way to a life in the penitentiary. He reached his hand and arm out of his cell bars yesterday to say hi and shake my hand. I gave him a smile and shook his hand noting about eight scars along his wrist. Why is it so hard to express God's love to a kid who doesn't even love himself? That's one reason we work at the CMI. GRAFFITI OF LOVE: When our vans get dirty, and they often do, they too become candidates for the graffiti of a given neighborhood. Fortunately, most of the kids use their fingers and instead of paint. Graffiti says a lot of things if you know the local language. It's basically a message that means this is our property, this belongs to us or this is my name. This is for all to see! I had never thought of graffiti as being encouraging until I looked at the rear of my dirty, dusty, SUV this morning. The sides of my car posted the usual unintelligible little hand and finger markings, but on the top of my dirty rear window the fingers printed out a graffiti message that was clear and encouraging. I immediately grabbed my camera and took this photo. In English it reads ... "Thank you uncle von for all you do for us!" I don't know who. I don't know where. But God has His ways of encouraging us, doesn't He? LITTLE CINDERELLA DIES: Working with thousands of kids and hundreds of families in our seven areas of the poor in Tijuana, it isn't a shock for us to be drawn into another tragedy. Hortensia asked me some time ago, what she should do with this thin little six year old girl who was so full of bruises. It was pretty noticeable as the child took a shower with the rest of the girls on our Wednesday work day. The little girl wouldn't say anything about the obvious black and blue marks covering her body. I advised Hortensia, "Let's wait and talk with her parents and maybe we can find out what's happening." Something of this nature is always very tricky, especially for us as Americanos. I guess we all make mistakes; I gave the wrong call. It was too late. Our little Cinderella was cruelly beaten to death by her stepmother last week. We first read about it in the newspaper. Rosalina, only six, was washing clothes on a scrub board. Her stepmother got mad about something and flew into a rage. She pounded and beat the little girl, and then threw her across the room. After that she insisted that Rosalina hang out the wash, the girl obediently did this with what little strength she had left. The next morning Rosalina could not get out of bed. Soon after she went into convulsions, her parents took her to the general hospital where she died a few hours later. The police were called. Mother and father were quickly arrested and put into prison leaving her little brother and sisters alone in the family's small shack for three days. This is where Hortensia enters the picture. She located the kids in their little shack in the canyon and took them home with her. They were scared and very hungry. Rosalina's sisters, Yolanda, 12, and Maria, 10, and her little brother, Fernando, 8, had witnessed the cruel explosion of abuse that, only day's before, had taken their sister's life. Will they ever be able to forget? Hortensia saw to it that the Yolanda, Maria, and Fernando were placed into Emmanuel orphanage. I might add that the children's father has sent word that he intends to kill Hortensia, when he's released from prison for taking his kids away. This is Mexico and we've seen this type of vengeance played out more than once. A TIME TO TICKLE: It was around nine o'clock Saturday night in Emmanuel orphanage and we had just finished our teaching session. The last group of kids, dressed in their P.J's, headed down the darkened hallway and slowly disappeared into their small rooms. A little later on my way out, I walked down the hallway toward the big door and the stairs. The thirty-five boys were quiet at last. I decided to drop into one of the darkened rooms. Leaning over the middle bunk I said "Hi" to this twelve year old boy laying there. He turned my way and said, "Hi von." I put my hand on his head and ruffled his hair, quietly asking him about his family......his mom and dad. He said he had no mother, but he has a father and younger brother and sister, and said he was doing good in school. I grabbed his lower leg and started tickling his foot. He giggled and laughed as he pulled his foot up. That's when I noticed a foot come down from the top bunk and another little foot coming up from the lower bunk. Three neat kids that deserve homes, love and fathers that could tickle their feet. (Yes, those three kids in that room were sufficiently tickled that night.) On my way out, I continued down the hallway and on down the stairs. I can still hear several of the kids in hushed voices calling to me from their rooms, "Hey, von come in here." NO MORE MOTHER: Monday I was driving to our dormitory in Tijuana when Hortensia phoned me. "Von I have a couple of boys who want to talk to you." Soon, Alex, 8, and Miguel Angel, 9, were jabbering away on the cell phone. In a few minutes Hortensia rescued the phone. I'm bringing the boys and their baby sister to our meeting at the dormitory; I need to talk with you. Somehow, I knew what that meant. When I got to the dormitory Hortensia was holding the little baby and the two boys were standing there, looking up at me. "Von", Hortensia said, "you know Alex (their father) is in prison." Yes, I knew that. "Von, his girlfriend (the mother) just died of AIDS". "Her little baby girl has AIDS, too". "What's her name?" I asked. "She has no name", Hortensia replied. Grandma, old and on drugs, can't care for the baby and she can't control the boys. The rest of the family --- father, uncles, aunts and cousins --- are in prison, leaving these two cute little rug-rats running the streets. They're tough and undisciplined. "I'll make a few calls" I told Hortensia. Thursday afternoon Alex and Miguil enthusiastically bounced into my car with their little bag of clothing. Wow! A ride in von's car! We were off to Casa de Emmanuel orphanage with one short stop in Trinchi to say good-by to their young uncle who just got out of prison. Arriving at the orphanage was rather scary but they had each other and four others from their neighborhood. They will have to sleep a few nights on the floor until we can get some beds and mattresses. Will these boys stay or will they run? If they run, what then? COPS AND ROBBERS: With just a 30 minute drive from my house I easily slip across the line into another nation. Tijuana looks different because it is different, it's in another nation, it's Mexico. The colorful city center is filled with tourists from all over, but the rest of the city of two million is shrouded in gray. Creating much of that gray is the ugly mix of drugs, theft and violence. In these letters I often ask you to pray for our safety. Believe me, it's an honest request. As we drive and work in this gray zone it's comforting to know we have people praying for our safety. Saturday night as I was preparing to leave Casa de Emmanuel boys home we actually witnessed a squealing cops 'n robbers shootout. I counted eight different cop cars in the action. No sirens or red lights just squealing tires and gunshots. I decided to hold off leaving until the dust cleared. That decision didn't come hard. I was reminded once again that we were in the large barrio of Grupo Mexico that has a reputation for selling any kind of weapon, including anti-tank and air-to-air missiles. To be honest, Grupo Mexico can be a little intimidating and a little scary at night. Our ministry takes us into areas a Gringo shouldn't be. People here in Mexico often fear the police as much as the criminal. Because several of the teens we know have graduated into the police department we hear some inside stories that aren't too comforting. Tension is mounting along the border between the lords of crime. Competition is growing and intense. Human trafficking used to be the Mexican Mafia's business but now the Cartel is muscling in. The Cartel and the Mafia fight it out at the border. It looks like the Mafia will have to be content with prostitution, gambling and stealing. Woe unto the little independent criminals trying to get in on some of the action. Several miles south of here in the tourist city of Ensanada kidnapping is making the headlines. Often we are held up in police check lines with police from both Tijuana and Mexico City. Everyone is checking on everyone and the jails and prisons are always full. Thanks for praying for our safety. WHERE'S MY FATHER?: While seated in my car, waiting in line to cross the border into the USA, I noticed what appeared to be a father and his young son walking together down the sidewalk. The father walking with his arm on the shoulder of his little son. Suddenly, the boy reached high and placed his hand on his father's shoulder. The boy then let go, dropped behind and started following his father, grabbing at his waist then moved into lock-stepping with his father. Just a father being a father and a boy being a boy following his dad. Something good, healthy and normal was happening between father and son. Some time ago jogging along the bay here in San Diego, I noticed something quite similar - a father and his small son laying on a grassy knoll looking up at the sky, the boy lay in the exact position of his father with his arms in back of his head and his legs crossed. Indeed, like father like son. Last week, I talked with a young inmate sitting in the office waiting to see a counselor. His left wrist had five nasty scars on it. On Mondays, we're at the children's jail. This time while doing a little political work, I saw Felix and had a chance to ask him a few personal questions. I found that he was in for violent robbery and that he was on drugs at the time. When I asked him about his father he looked up at me and said, "I have no father." Four words I hate to hear. Unfortunately, Felix isn't the exception but more the rule in the barrios in which we work. Our mandate here is to share God's love, to share the fact that God our father loves His children. Yet, in my world, I rarely use the term father because "Father" is the non-existent one, the one who abandoned them or became angry while drunk and beat up "Mother" In fact, even the term "love" seems perverted and out of place. In many cases we find demonstrating our love to be more effective than preaching about God's love. Unfortunately a good percentage of the kids we work with are bastards. Such an ugly word! When a boy realizes he is a bastard, it cuts the heart right out of him and he starts to hate the very thing he is going to be. Indeed we have a critical place in many of the lives of these boys. I don't know if you ever thought of it that way. Please pray with us that we might be the right examples and find the right words and methods to connect God the Father's love with these hurting and unloved kids. CHRISTMAS TIME IN TRINCHI: I've climbed up and down my share of tire-and-dirt stairs while working in Mexico; however, I'm a lot more careful now as I get older. I left the road in barrio Trinchi, slowly finding my way down the five tire stairs and onto a dirt path leading to a small shack sitting on the hillside where Hortensia was waiting for me. This very small home was not unusual for the area, being slapped together with off-size sheets of plywood and cardboard. Rocks and boards were added to the roof to keep it from blowing away. The floor was dirt. There were two beds covered with blankets and clothing. A pot of cold beans and a few dirty dishes were sitting on the small stove. Looking around, I couldn't help wondering where everyone slept. Nine people live in here! Wow! Hortensia introduced me to several members of the Rodrigus family. Only a few of the seven kids were there. Mr. Rodrigus was working on a small construction project further down the canyon. Slowly the situation revealed itself. Mr. Rodrigus, a proud man, is a terminally ill alcoholic but pushes himself to work whenever he can. He then becomes discouraged and drinks away the money. He refuses to see a doctor. Mrs. Rodrigus sees the handwriting on the wall and asked for our help. When asked what she needs the most, the reply was slow and thoughtful, "Food, shoes, blankets and a tarp for the roof." Fortunately, thanks to many of you, we can quickly move on this. As I stood there in the dark room looking at these kids, my mind went to Thanksgiving and the coming Holidays. America and the Holidays seem so far away from this struggling family. Bright decorations, toys for the little ones, a big meal and even a warm home just don't fit the picture. America and its Christmas is a world away! There will be no Christmas unless we change the picture. Even more frustrating is the fact that this is just one of thousands of poor families trying to exist south of our border in Tijuana. Merry Christmas? I don't think so. THROUGH SIX LOCKS: Our ministry to the 300 kids in the CMI, or children's jail, is both rewarding and at times depressing as we briefly enter their lives. We have to go through six locked doors to enter their concrete, steel and barbed wire world. The rewarding times are when we teach 25 or 30 boys in the dining hall. Filing in, in their grey jumpsuits with hands behind their backs seating themselves on long metal benches. That's when they really do listen, and they do. Each week, only twenty-five boys out of three hundred are allowed to come hear us. It's a shame but these are the rules at CMI. Maybe prayer will prevail. The depressing times are when we visit them in their cells. There are always hands reaching out between the bars to shake our hands. Beyond this wall of bars we hear their stories and talk with them. This is always the heavy part, the hurting part, the part that stays with you as you leave. These are just kids! Indeed many of them are dangerous little fools pumped on crystal. But they're still kids; Kids who take us seriously. I remember Carlos. He was the only one in the holding tank. It's a small dark cement block room about 10 feet by 15 feet with wire mesh front. There was one bunk bed in the room and he was laying on the lower bed. Carlos, about thirteen years old, was thin, scared and poorly dressed. The kids in the main area said he was full of sores, so I asked to see him. This was his first time in jail and he'd been there just two days. The guard unlocked the metal door and I entered the cell. Slowly, Carlos got up, looked at me, and then showed me the sores covering his thin and dirty body. He had scabies as well as other bacterial infections. His world had been a dirty one. He was taking oral antibiotics and the last remaining tablet was scotch taped to a small piece of paper. He would have to ask the guard for water. Carefully, I applied what little topical ointment I had over his sores. "What are you in for, Carlos?", I asked him. "I was stealing a pair of shoes", he replied. He lived in "The Line", an area near the Tijuana border entrance. When I asked about his mother and father, he replied that he had no mother or father, he lived with some relatives. His biggest concern was how long he'd be kept at the CMI for stealing a pair of shoes. I haven't seen him since. As I was walking down the corridor of cells I stopped at the last cell. Luis, about 16, stood between the two bunk beds in his cell. He's a good looking boy with a half dozen tattoos. Tattoos tell a story. This young Mexican boy had been around. He stood looking at me. In broken English, he asked me a surprising question. "Von, would you adopt me?" I have worked with thousands of kids and I have never been asked that question. The rest of my time with Luis as spent explaining why this would be impossible. Afterward, as I turned to go, he called me back. "Von, I would like to have a Bible, could you get me one?" DRIVING IN TIJUANA: Driving in Mexico? Throw away the rule book! Don't even get into it if you haven't got the guts and a responsive car. May I try to describe this experience? Why? To share with you the driving experience in the country next door and more important, to express our thanks for your prayers for our safety. The other afternoon, I was driving toward my challenging short cut to get to Casa de Emmanuel orphanage, It's an every Monday afternoon kind of thing. I'm always a little apprehensive about cutting across these three lines of heavy traffic. I sit there alert, waiting with a couple of other cars for our chance to dig into the passing traffic then cut across. Waiting for a free spot in the closest lane, the fast lane. Eighteen wheelers are the most intimidating but also most easily intimidated. Busses are a little tougher but the taxis ... wow! They are insanely good drivers but show no fear and don't give an inch. To start across you have to choose your approaching vehicle and opening quickly and carefully, then give it all you've got. Now quickly stop at the next lane. It's times like this that you understand why the Catholic drivers in Tijuana have their protective saints standing firmly on their dashboards. If you look closely you might even see sweat on their brow. This cut-across is something a lot of us have to do. It's like the times we have to drive up one-way streets a few blocks in the wrong direction just because it's the only way to get there and everyone does it. At first I was apprehensive but now it's a normal maneuver, just like this cut-across. Fortunately, most of the drivers on this rushing freeway sort of expect this kind of crossing. Once you are into the fast lane they will stop. Boy, those 18 wheeler radiators are sure impressive as seen through my right hand window! One has to proceed cautiously into the middle lane. Again the traffic stops, at least it always has! The slow lane holds it's own challenges with it's share of big trucks and buses moving a little slower. Once across the freeway it's a quick left turn and a jump into the narrow dirt lane parallel to the freeway and on fifty more yards to the right turn that constitutes the short cut to Casa Orphanage.

HOME » ABOUT PASTOR VON » STORIES FROM MY JOURNALS » BOOK 07

APPRECIATION: "Hey, von." Juan was on the phone. "I thought you might like to know this. I was going with our family to the movies. As we were going in, others were coming out. I heard someone calling to me from the crowd. Spectrum! Spectrum! Hey Juan, where are Aaron and von?" It was a Mexican teenager excited and all smiles. It seems the teenager had met us while he was in the jail and was excited to see Juan again. "We really appreciated you guys coming to the CMI (jail) and teaching us." They talked for a few moments and went their separate ways. We appreciate those unexpected bright spots.

HARD TO LOVE: Some kids, like this cute little girl, are so easy to love. Then there are the hard to love kind of kid like "Lemon"! We've known "Lemon" since he was about ten. He has spent most of his life in jail. He is greedy and loud and belligerent. "Lemon" is now sixteen and on his way to a life in the penitentiary. He reached his hand and arm out of his cell bars yesterday to say hi and shake my hand. I gave him a smile and shook his hand noting about eight scars along his wrist. Why is it so hard to express God's love to a kid who doesn't even love himself? That's one reason we work at the CMI.

GRAFFITI OF LOVE: When our vans get dirty, and they often do, they too become candidates for the graffiti of a given neighborhood. Fortunately, most of the kids use their fingers and instead of paint.

Graffiti says a lot of things if you know the local language. It's basically a message that means this is our property, this belongs to us or this is my name. This is for all to see!

I had never thought of graffiti as being encouraging until I looked at the rear of my dirty, dusty, SUV this morning. The sides of my car posted the usual unintelligible little hand and finger markings, but on the top of my dirty rear window the fingers printed out a graffiti message that was clear and encouraging. I immediately grabbed my camera and took this photo.

In English it reads ... "Thank you uncle von for all you do for us!"

I don't know who. I don't know where. But God has His ways of encouraging us, doesn't He?

LITTLE CINDERELLA DIES: Working with thousands of kids and hundreds of families in our seven areas of the poor in Tijuana, it isn't a shock for us to be drawn into another tragedy. Hortensia asked me some time ago, what she should do with this thin little six year old girl who was so full of bruises. It was pretty noticeable as the child took a shower with the rest of the girls on our Wednesday work day. The little girl wouldn't say anything about the obvious black and blue marks covering her body. I advised Hortensia, "Let's wait and talk with her parents and maybe we can find out what's happening." Something of this nature is always very tricky, especially for us as Americanos.

I guess we all make mistakes; I gave the wrong call.

It was too late.

Our little Cinderella was cruelly beaten to death by her stepmother last week. We first read about it in the newspaper. Rosalina, only six, was washing clothes on a scrub board. Her stepmother got mad about something and flew into a rage. She pounded and beat the little girl, and then threw her across the room. After that she insisted that Rosalina hang out the wash, the girl obediently did this with what little strength she had left.

The next morning Rosalina could not get out of bed. Soon after she went into convulsions, her parents took her to the general hospital where she died a few hours later. The police were called.

Mother and father were quickly arrested and put into prison leaving her little brother and sisters alone in the family's small shack for three days. This is where Hortensia enters the picture. She located the kids in their little shack in the canyon and took them home with her.

They were scared and very hungry. Rosalina's sisters, Yolanda, 12, and Maria, 10, and her little brother, Fernando, 8, had witnessed the cruel explosion of abuse that, only day's before, had taken their sister's life. Will they ever be able to forget? Hortensia saw to it that the Yolanda, Maria, and Fernando were placed into Emmanuel orphanage. I might add that the children's father has sent word that he intends to kill Hortensia, when he's released from prison for taking his kids away. This is Mexico and we've seen this type of vengeance played out more than once.

A TIME TO TICKLE: It was around nine o'clock Saturday night in Emmanuel orphanage and we had just finished our teaching session. The last group of kids, dressed in their P.J's, headed down the darkened hallway and slowly disappeared into their small rooms.

A little later on my way out, I walked down the hallway toward the big door and the stairs. The thirty-five boys were quiet at last. I decided to drop into one of the darkened rooms. Leaning over the middle bunk I said "Hi" to this twelve year old boy laying there. He turned my way and said, "Hi von." I put my hand on his head and ruffled his hair, quietly asking him about his family......his mom and dad. He said he had no mother, but he has a father and younger brother and sister, and said he was doing good in school. I grabbed his lower leg and started tickling his foot. He giggled and laughed as he pulled his foot up. That's when I noticed a foot come down from the top bunk and another little foot coming up from the lower bunk. Three neat kids that deserve homes, love and fathers that could tickle their feet. (Yes, those three kids in that room were sufficiently tickled that night.) On my way out, I continued down the hallway and on down the stairs. I can still hear several of the kids in hushed voices calling to me from their rooms, "Hey, von come in here."

NO MORE MOTHER: Monday I was driving to our dormitory in Tijuana when Hortensia phoned me. "Von I have a couple of boys who want to talk to you." Soon, Alex, 8, and Miguel Angel, 9, were jabbering away on the cell phone. In a few minutes Hortensia rescued the phone. I'm bringing the boys and their baby sister to our meeting at the dormitory; I need to talk with you. Somehow, I knew what that meant.

When I got to the dormitory Hortensia was holding the little baby and the two boys were standing there, looking up at me. "Von", Hortensia said, "you know Alex (their father) is in prison." Yes, I knew that. "Von, his girlfriend (the mother) just died of AIDS". "Her little baby girl has AIDS, too". "What's her name?" I asked. "She has no name", Hortensia replied. Grandma, old and on drugs, can't care for the baby and she can't control the boys. The rest of the family --- father, uncles, aunts and cousins --- are in prison, leaving these two cute little rug-rats running the streets. They're tough and undisciplined.

"I'll make a few calls" I told Hortensia.

Thursday afternoon Alex and Miguil enthusiastically bounced into my car with their little bag of clothing. Wow! A ride in von's car! We were off to Casa de Emmanuel orphanage with one short stop in Trinchi to say good-by to their young uncle who just got out of prison. Arriving at the orphanage was rather scary but they had each other and four others from their neighborhood.

They will have to sleep a few nights on the floor until we can get some beds and mattresses. Will these boys stay or will they run? If they run, what then?

COPS AND ROBBERS: With just a 30 minute drive from my house I easily slip across the line into another nation. Tijuana looks different because it is different, it's in another nation, it's Mexico. The colorful city center is filled with tourists from all over, but the rest of the city of two million is shrouded in gray. Creating much of that gray is the ugly mix of drugs, theft and violence.

In these letters I often ask you to pray for our safety. Believe me, it's an honest request. As we drive and work in this gray zone it's comforting to know we have people praying for our safety.

Saturday night as I was preparing to leave Casa de Emmanuel boys home we actually witnessed a squealing cops 'n robbers shootout. I counted eight different cop cars in the action. No sirens or red lights just squealing tires and gunshots. I decided to hold off leaving until the dust cleared. That decision didn't come hard.

I was reminded once again that we were in the large barrio of Grupo Mexico that has a reputation for selling any kind of weapon, including anti-tank and air-to-air missiles. To be honest, Grupo Mexico can be a little intimidating and a little scary at night. Our ministry takes us into areas a Gringo shouldn't be.

People here in Mexico often fear the police as much as the criminal.

Because several of the teens we know have graduated into the police department we hear some inside stories that aren't too comforting.

Tension is mounting along the border between the lords of crime. Competition is growing and intense. Human trafficking used to be the Mexican Mafia's business but now the Cartel is muscling in. The Cartel and the Mafia fight it out at the border. It looks like the Mafia will have to be content with prostitution, gambling and stealing. Woe unto the little independent criminals trying to get in on some of the action.

Several miles south of here in the tourist city of Ensanada kidnapping is making the headlines.

Often we are held up in police check lines with police from both Tijuana and Mexico City. Everyone is checking on everyone and the jails and prisons are always full. Thanks for praying for our safety.

WHERE'S MY FATHER?: While seated in my car, waiting in line to cross the border into the USA, I noticed what appeared to be a father and his young son walking together down the sidewalk. The father walking with his arm on the shoulder of his little son. Suddenly, the boy reached high and placed his hand on his father's shoulder. The boy then let go, dropped behind and started following his father, grabbing at his waist then moved into lock-stepping with his father. Just a father being a father and a boy being a boy following his dad. Something good, healthy and normal was happening between father and son.

Some time ago jogging along the bay here in San Diego, I noticed something quite similar - a father and his small son laying on a grassy knoll looking up at the sky, the boy lay in the exact position of his father with his arms in back of his head and his legs crossed. Indeed, like father like son.

Last week, I talked with a young inmate sitting in the office waiting to see a counselor. His left wrist had five nasty scars on it. On Mondays, we're at the children's jail. This time while doing a little political work, I saw Felix and had a chance to ask him a few personal questions. I found that he was in for violent robbery and that he was on drugs at the time. When I asked him about his father he looked up at me and said, "I have no father." Four words I hate to hear. Unfortunately, Felix isn't the exception but more the rule in the barrios in which we work.

Our mandate here is to share God's love, to share the fact that God our father loves His children. Yet, in my world, I rarely use the term father because "Father" is the non-existent one, the one who abandoned them or became angry while drunk and beat up "Mother"

In fact, even the term "love" seems perverted and out of place. In many cases we find demonstrating our love to be more effective than preaching about God's love.

Unfortunately a good percentage of the kids we work with are bastards. Such an ugly word! When a boy realizes he is a bastard, it cuts the heart right out of him and he starts to hate the very thing he is going to be. Indeed we have a critical place in many of the lives of these boys.

I don't know if you ever thought of it that way. Please pray with us that we might be the right examples and find the right words and methods to connect God the Father's love with these hurting and unloved kids.

CHRISTMAS TIME IN TRINCHI: I've climbed up and down my share of tire-and-dirt stairs while working in Mexico; however, I'm a lot more careful now as I get older. I left the road in barrio Trinchi, slowly finding my way down the five tire stairs and onto a dirt path leading to a small shack sitting on the hillside where Hortensia was waiting for me. This very small home was not unusual for the area, being slapped together with off-size sheets of plywood and cardboard. Rocks and boards were added to the roof to keep it from blowing away. The floor was dirt. There were two beds covered with blankets and clothing. A pot of cold beans and a few dirty dishes were sitting on the small stove. Looking around, I couldn't help wondering where everyone slept. Nine people live in here! Wow!

Hortensia introduced me to several members of the Rodrigus family. Only a few of the seven kids were there. Mr. Rodrigus was working on a small construction project further down the canyon.

Slowly the situation revealed itself. Mr. Rodrigus, a proud man, is a terminally ill alcoholic but pushes himself to work whenever he can. He then becomes discouraged and drinks away the money. He refuses to see a doctor. Mrs. Rodrigus sees the handwriting on the wall and asked for our help. When asked what she needs the most, the reply was slow and thoughtful, "Food, shoes, blankets and a tarp for the roof." Fortunately, thanks to many of you, we can quickly move on this.

As I stood there in the dark room looking at these kids, my mind went to Thanksgiving and the coming Holidays. America and the Holidays seem so far away from this struggling family. Bright decorations, toys for the little ones, a big meal and even a warm home just don't fit the picture. America and its Christmas is a world away! There will be no Christmas unless we change the picture.

Even more frustrating is the fact that this is just one of thousands of poor families trying to exist south of our border in Tijuana.

Merry Christmas? I don't think so.

THROUGH SIX LOCKS: Our ministry to the 300 kids in the CMI, or children's jail, is both rewarding and at times depressing as we briefly enter their lives. We have to go through six locked doors to enter their concrete, steel and barbed wire world.

The rewarding times are when we teach 25 or 30 boys in the dining hall. Filing in, in their grey jumpsuits with hands behind their backs seating themselves on long metal benches. That's when they really do listen, and they do. Each week, only twenty-five boys out of three hundred are allowed to come hear us. It's a shame but these are the rules at CMI. Maybe prayer will prevail.

The depressing times are when we visit them in their cells. There are always hands reaching out between the bars to shake our hands. Beyond this wall of bars we hear their stories and talk with them. This is always the heavy part, the hurting part, the part that stays with you as you leave. These are just kids! Indeed many of them are dangerous little fools pumped on crystal. But they're still kids; Kids who take us seriously.

I remember Carlos. He was the only one in the holding tank. It's a small dark cement block room about 10 feet by 15 feet with wire mesh front. There was one bunk bed in the room and he was laying on the lower bed. Carlos, about thirteen years old, was thin, scared and poorly dressed. The kids in the main area said he was full of sores, so I asked to see him. This was his first time in jail and he'd been there just two days.

The guard unlocked the metal door and I entered the cell. Slowly, Carlos got up, looked at me, and then showed me the sores covering his thin and dirty body. He had scabies as well as other bacterial infections. His world had been a dirty one.

He was taking oral antibiotics and the last remaining tablet was scotch taped to a small piece of paper. He would have to ask the guard for water. Carefully, I applied what little topical ointment I had over his sores.

"What are you in for, Carlos?", I asked him. "I was stealing a pair of shoes", he replied. He lived in "The Line", an area near the Tijuana border entrance. When I asked about his mother and father, he replied that he had no mother or father, he lived with some relatives.

His biggest concern was how long he'd be kept at the CMI for stealing a pair of shoes.

I haven't seen him since.

As I was walking down the corridor of cells I stopped at the last cell. Luis, about 16, stood between the two bunk beds in his cell. He's a good looking boy with a half dozen tattoos. Tattoos tell a story. This young Mexican boy had been around. He stood looking at me. In broken English, he asked me a surprising question. "Von, would you adopt me?" I have worked with thousands of kids and I have never been asked that question. The rest of my time with Luis as spent explaining why this would be impossible. Afterward, as I turned to go, he called me back. "Von, I would like to have a Bible, could you get me one?"

DRIVING IN TIJUANA: Driving in Mexico? Throw away the rule book! Don't even get into it if you haven't got the guts and a responsive car. May I try to describe this experience? Why? To share with you the driving experience in the country next door and more important, to express our thanks for your prayers for our safety.

The other afternoon, I was driving toward my challenging short cut to get to Casa de Emmanuel orphanage, It's an every Monday afternoon kind of thing. I'm always a little apprehensive about cutting across these three lines of heavy traffic. I sit there alert, waiting with a couple of other cars for our chance to dig into the passing traffic then cut across. Waiting for a free spot in the closest lane, the fast lane. Eighteen wheelers are the most intimidating but also most easily intimidated. Busses are a little tougher but the taxis ... wow! They are insanely good drivers but show no fear and don't give an inch. To start across you have to choose your approaching vehicle and opening quickly and carefully, then give it all you've got. Now quickly stop at the next lane.

It's times like this that you understand why the Catholic drivers in Tijuana have their protective saints standing firmly on their dashboards. If you look closely you might even see sweat on their brow.

This cut-across is something a lot of us have to do. It's like the times we have to drive up one-way streets a few blocks in the wrong direction just because it's the only way to get there and everyone does it. At first I was apprehensive but now it's a normal maneuver, just like this cut-across.

Fortunately, most of the drivers on this rushing freeway sort of expect this kind of crossing. Once you are into the fast lane they will stop. Boy, those 18 wheeler radiators are sure impressive as seen through my right hand window! One has to proceed cautiously into the middle lane. Again the traffic stops, at least it always has!

The slow lane holds it's own challenges with it's share of big trucks and buses moving a little slower. Once across the freeway it's a quick left turn and a jump into the narrow dirt lane parallel to the freeway and on fifty more yards to the right turn that constitutes the short cut to Casa Orphanage.