Rejoice with those who rejoice, and weep with those who weep. Romans 12:15

Forty-one hours of travel, and approximately seven hours of sleep. But the day we arrive in Paute, we hit the ground running.

Monday night, we meet with our youth group. While there hasn’t been a gathering at SIP 91 in months, those same teens & young adults have been faithful to continue the meetings. Anywhere from 12 to 20 youth read, study, and even memorize the Word of God every single week at Iglesia Renacer.

On nights like these, we thank God that it’s still legal to join together and worship in Ecuador. That our meetings aren’t held in secret, that our afflictions are few and our blessings are many.

Around 7:00pm, we are reunited at the church. Big hugs, bright smiles, and loud laughter. How has it been five months already? How will I leave them in four short weeks?

We jump into the back of Hermano Santiago’s pickup truck and drive to the top of La Loma de Paute, the highest point in our village. This is where Jenni’s family lives, miles from the school, market, and church. They make the climb down the mountain every day, like so many others in our community.

“Jenni hasn’t been to a Bible meeting in weeks,” Santiago explains. “Her family is discouraged. Their grandmother’s health is failing – fast.”

Jenni’s mother meets us at the door. She looks completely exhausted, but she beckons us inside. Some of us sit on the wooden furniture, others stand against the walls. We are quiet & still.

Cancer. They discovered it three months ago, but it was already much too late. No medicine, no treatment, no physician could make a difference now. Now it is up to God.

Everyone in the room is visibly shaken. Jenni’s grandmother is approaching eternity with each shallow breath. Our bright smiles and loud laughs are absent now. We surround the sick bed & pour out our hearts.

The LORD is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit. Psalms 34:18

We do not pretend to understand, because very few of us have lost a family member. Our human empathy does not scratch the surface of their pain. But what we cannot understand, God does.

So we begin to pray. Our voices quake, our cheeks glisten with tears.

May God comfort you.

May God strengthen you.

May God give you peace.

I can’t count the hours I’ve spent debating with these guys, who constantly leaf through their pages of highlights & scribbled notes, who constantly quote the scriptures. I can’t count the times I’ve heard their pray requests – asking each other to go to God on their behalf.

But I have never seen them like this. I have never witnessed such complete and utter vulnerability.

We are learning to rejoice with those who rejoice & weep with those who weep.

So All May Know,

Madeline Studebaker

“What’s the strangest thing you’ve eaten?”

“Are there many active volcanoes in Ecuador?”

“Does the government allow you to preach the Gospel?”

This makes the third year my family’s been able to video chat with Ms. Gail and the kids at Canal Lake Bible Camp. I look forward to talking with them. They always have such great questions about our host country and our ministries. Some questions I wish adults asked more frequently.

Towards the end of our interaction with the kids, one little boy introduces himself, takes a deep breath, and launches into his mission-related curiosities. About the food, the attire, the climate. And then,

“What’s the hardest thing about living in Ecuador? What’s your biggest struggle?”

We’re asked this question every year, and every year I give the same answer. It looks like I’m giving it thought, but it’s an automatic response. “I get homesick a lot. And boy, do I miss speaking English!”

But there are bigger struggles than the language. Struggles that I can’t explain in five minutes. Not to an elementary-schooler. Not to anyone my age. Not even to an adult, no matter how interested or sympathetic they are.

So I tell them, I tell you, that it’s homesickness. That it’s speaking Spanish.

I don’t mention that I still don’t feel accepted as a part of the community here in Paute.

That I’m shunned by most of the girls, and I question every guy’s motives for friendliness.

That I’m painfully conscious of everything I say and do, because it’s a reflection on missionaries, Americans, and Christians everywhere.

I don’t mention the hurt I experience by being forgotten by my peers in the States.

That I feel the need to live up to a certain image when I’m back on missionary furlough.

That I feel completely detached and isolated from the American culture, and I have no idea what its expectations are for me.

The misgivings, the doubts, the battles I’m fighting, they aren’t things I often share.

Because when I do, most of you can’t relate.

And it’s frustrating.

You can’t relate to years of having jokes made about you, in front of your face, in a language you can’t understand.

You can’t relate to someone trying to barter a few acres of land for your hand in marriage… when you’re thirteen.

You can’t relate to being ostracized by an entire town who wants nothing to do with you or your God.

So I’ll tell you that my struggle is with the language, and it will just be easier for both of us.

[Read Part 1 of Our Return to Puca-Chikta here: https://soallmayknow.org/our-return-to-puca-chikta-part-1/]
We sit on a bench in front of her home — a hut, really — and catch up while I paint faces.

“You were so young when you first visited our village,” Evelin says. “You’ve changed a lot.”
I have changed. Our family had just moved to Ecuador when we visited Puca-Chikta for the first time. [I actually wrote about the experience here: https://soallmayknow.org/voy-un-paso-mas-im-going-one-step-further/]
“You’ve changed too,” I remind her. “Viejita, you’re old now.” She’s thirteen… in a few years, she’ll be old enough to get married here.

Our little conversation continues, and I debate inwardly on whether I should ask about school.
“So, Evelin, how’s school?” I probe.
Her eyes shift away from me.
“School?” I ask again.
She won’t look at me. She won’t answer.

There she goes, breaking my heart into a million pieces.
I assure her that it’s fine, and I change the subject as fast as possible.
But inside? I’m screaming.
Children receive such little education in remote villages like this one. Government funding is minimal, and the teachers aren’t equipped to do their jobs. Many of them haven’t been well educated either.
And now it appears that Evelin’s not getting any of it. None of the classroom learning at all.

It’s not fair.
And it’s not just the school thing — it’s everything.
It’s not fair that Evelin’s family of seven is living in a tiny, three-walled, dirt floor shanty.
It’s not fair that her little brothers’ teeth are rotting away, because the can’t see a dentist to figure out what’s the matter.
It’s not fair that her little sisters have worms eating away at the insides of their eyes, and they can’t see a real doctor.

Evelin wakes up to either unbearable heat and stench, or rain soaking her through the roof. She goes to sleep at night with an empty stomach and an unsaved soul.

Evelin lives a simple life. It’s filled with many horrible things, and it’s missing the most important thing. That’s a harsh reality I have to face. And I can try to imagine… but I will never understand.

I don’t claim to understand just because it’s simple.
I’m aware of her great needs, small hopes, and no idea of the world outside her village. But I don’t dare claim to understand her life until I’ve endured the same impoverishment and affliction.

She has nothing. Pray that she accepts Christ.
Because then she will have everything.

So All May Know,
Madeline Studebaker