Jennifer and Alex Cabezon

I sit today in surroundings far different from “home”.   Outside I can hear the sound of my dad cutting firewood with the chainsaw.   It’s a crisp fall afternoon in Oregon, a great day for picking wild black berries, a day for my daughters to play with cousins, and have some apple cider and sweet corn. Our minds stray often to our little house in Panama, our Wounaan neighbors, and our hopes for the months ahead.   It’s also been a great time to reflect back on the months since moving to Chepo and the time we have shared with the Wounaan there. One of my favorite things has been getting to share in the lives of the families there. As I have shared with the women who make up the congregation, gotten to know the children, as Alex has shared with the men and seen up close the challenges facing   the young people, our vision has grown greatly for what God wants to do among the Wounaan. I love to come to church a Sunday morning and find all the children dresse...

In less than two weeks we will be on an airplane, traveling to the US for the first time in two years.  Going home.  Even though I have been in Panama for almost 14 years now, and my parents have sold the house I grew up in, Oregon is still home.  The smell of the pine trees, the fresh breeze, the blue skies, even the rain, it all says home. Yet, as many missionaries and other world travelers have found out, coming home is not always what it's cracked up to be.  The first time can often be the hardest.  A young missionary has just finished their first months or years on the "mission feild" and is ready to return for some needed rest. They dream of the foods they want to eat, the stores they will visit, long for hot showers and convesation with family. Yet when they arrive home everything seems overwelming.  Their own home seems so much nicer than they remember.  The plenty of food that they dreamed of just the week before suddenly seems like too mu...

  I sat on the wooden bench, my two year old on my lap.  The rough cement church was packed full, every seat taken, and many standing.  The heat was heavy on us, but the biting flies had mercifully gone elsewhere. What I was watching was filling my eyes with tears, which I fought back. Three young men stood at the front of the church.  Our friend Einer, a fellow missionary, was calling all the parents to come up, embrace their young adult children, and speak words of affirmation to them.  That in itself is pretty unheard of among the Wounaan, but that touching sight wasn't what caused my tears. The three young men stood huddled together. No one had come up to claim them, embrace them.  No one had come up because their adoptive father had been killed short months ago in the land conflict their community has been locked in.  Einer put his hand on one of the boy's shoulder, and asked who would come up. Would anyone commit to give these boys a go...

After saying goodbye to a great team from Oral Roberts University, we have seen the doors opening more than ever for ministry. We celebrated with the girl's soccer team from Shaday church, who won the local championship. We sponsored a dinner for them and had a great time sharing with them about making good decisions. There is so much potential in these Wounaan young ladies! The women's bible study is growing and the ladies are full of vision. They are already planning on a Christmas outreach for children, and thinking about how include more women. This coming Saturday we are going to make rice "bollos" to sell, and use the money so that all the women from the church can attend an upcoming workshop that will be held at another church. We have been blessed by how the Wounaan have opened their lives and hearts to us. Alex has had numerous opportunties to council people and to act as a mediator with conflicts within the church, thankfully ending in reconciliation...

I sat in a tiny house in the community of Yaviza.   The small, one room house was home to seven children and two adults.   One child, the oldest, was confined to bed because of severe arthritis.   The youngest, about two months old, lay sleeping in a hammock. The girls and I had just as many after four days in the area, so my heart went out to the poor thing.   Those bites really itch.   So I sat down and began rubbing her legs.   I thought she might be frightened of me, but the relief from the bites must have been greater than any fear.   She quieted down at once as I rubbed her legs and spoke to her in a soothing voice.   Suddenly, in that moment, all that was wrong in the community of Yaviza seemed to have focused in that child.   All of the poverty, the forgotten children, the lost youth, the lack of sanitation, and the hunger, was there before me in the face of that child. Just one child, crying, with no one to respond....

We are in the middle of a sudden rainstorm that came out of nowhere on a sunny morning.   I was just peeling my mid morning mango when it started. The large, green mangos from our neighbors tree are now ripe, and a few days ago our neighbor's son picked us a laundry basket full of them.   So I have at least two or three a day.   I figure they must be pretty good for us, though I am not sure what they contain other than vitamin C.   Either way, we have been enjoying them. It's been a quiet day at home for the girls and I.   Abigail is building a tower out of Mega Blocks with our neighbor's daughter, Sarai.   I just noticed that Carolyn has gone into the bathroom and is "washing" some of her toys in the bathroom sink.   That girl just loves water.   Our washing machine is not totally hooked up, so when we run it, we drain the water into a bucket and her favorite thing is to get into the bucket of sudsy water and play. Alex i...

The large kitchen of our host's house was full to overflowing .   Children ran back and forth across the rough wood floor.   Women sat near sleeping babies, fanning the constantly with a shirt or piece of material.   Others used these to fan themselves, cooling the steady evening and chasing away the swarms of gnats threatening to drive one crazy.   Most of those around   me were dressed in long pants and shirts, despite the trickles of sweat running down each neck. I was in the community of Platanares, a Wounaan village along the Pacific coast.   Next to me sat Steve Ganz.   He was halfway through telling the story of Job, and my voice felt woefully inadequate to reach   over the squabbling children, barking of dogs, and the flapping of shirts against the legs. As I struggled to translate his message faithfully, I was struck in a new way by his story.   While all of Job's friends tried to explain why tragedy has fallen on him, ...