As I stood on the wooden planks that made up the floor of their church, I scanned the crowd of Warao faces. Deep in the jungle of eastern Venezuela, Warao villages dot the riverbanks of the Orinoco River and the tributaries that make up the delta.

From where I stood at the front of the meeting area, several small children crouched at my feet. A crowd of women and children covered most of the floor, and I soon found myself scanning their faces, making a mental note of those who appeared malnourished and those who looked healthy.

As I glanced down at the children at my feet, a thought crossed my mind that often does on these trips. I thought, “Why wasn’t I born here? Why was I so privileged to be raised a healthy child in the United States with parents who love me, when so many children live such a harsher reality around the globe?”

It’s a question I don’t think I’ll ever fully come to grips with, but as I struggled with the thought and looked into their faces, another thought came to mind. It’s one that I’m not exactly proud to admit, but I looked at the children and felt pity for them. I thought about all the things I’ve experienced in life, and then I started to think about what they will most likely experience in theirs, and I was almost grieved at the thought.

But as the church service came to a close, a woman stepped forward. She was sharing a testimony of how the Lord had miraculously healed her. She had been cooking when an explosion burned her face and left her unconscious. Her family members debated taking her to the witch doctor—which is common to Warao culture—but instead, they took her to the church where the Warao pastor prayed over her. As he prayed, she lay unconscious, but she had a vision. She saw a man in a luminous white robe standing before her, and he brushed his hand across her face. When she awoke to find Warao believers praying over her, her face was healed.

Then I noticed a man step forward. He was holding out his hand. As the translator explained what he was saying, I realized he’d been bitten by a poisonous snake, and the Lord had miraculously healed him. Then there was the woman who had been paralyzed, and I watched her walk.

But it didn’t end there. We got back in the boat and traveled a little further up river to the next church, where I came face to face with a woman who’d been hemorrhaging for 14 years and was now healed. And then there was the woman who’d been demon-possessed for 15 years, spending her days in the river and her nights roaming the jungle. But she sat in the Warao worship service—healed.

It didn’t take long for the feelings of pity to subside. God is making himself known among the Warao, and the pity I first felt soon turned to awe at what an amazing God we serve.

Last Friday evening, I sat at the bedside of a woman who recently lost her home in a fire. Claudia is just one of 2,000 residents of Rio das Pedras who were left homeless when a fire consumed the favella in Rio de Janeiro in August 2006. For now, Claudia lives with her husband and four children in a room a little smaller than my bedroom in a temporary shelter constructed by IMB disaster relief funds.

I sat at Claudia’s side that night as she nursed her six-month old daughter and explained, with tears running down her cheeks, how she had lost everything she owned. It wasn’t until I asked her how this tragedy had affected her view of God, that I began to feel a lump rise up in my throat. She began by saying that it was hard for her to understand why God would allow something like this to happen to her family when they were already poor. I don’t think I’ve ever broken down in an interview before, but what caused the tears to stream down my own cheeks was what she said next.

“The Bible study we have is a strength for us, especially because of everything that’s happened,” Claudia explained, “but I’m living in a different reality.”

As I sat on the bed and looked around the small room, I was struck by how vastly different her reality is from my own.

Just a few days earlier, I met a young boy living in Cidade de Deus. He couldn’t have been more than ten years old. When he approached me with a pen and piece of paper with a list of colors written out in English, I was struck by his initiative and his desire to learn.

Sadly, his reality is typified by the gunshots he hears on the streets of his neighborhood at night when the “trafficantes” or drug dealers face off against the police.

I don’t pretend to understand the problem of pain in the world, and I’d be lying if I told you I could somehow relate to these people. I feel like God is continually sobering me with experiences like these, and even though I may never understand the “whys” of this world, I just hope He will somehow use my life to make a difference.

After spending a night in Yalta to conduct some interviews along the Black Sea, our six-member media team packed back into the eight-passenger van to head to the airport. As we approached the Simferopol airport to catch a flight back to Kiev, Ukraine, we couldn’t help but notice the partially-constructed, brick dwellings dotting the horizon. When we pulled off the road beside a green army tent surrounded by several of these small brick structures, we stepped out of the van to hear the story of the Crimean Tatar people. We suddenly found ourselves standing in a small huddle, surrounded by those who inhabited the tent, and we listened as they shared with us the plight of their people.

During World War II, the Crimean Tatars were suspected of aiding the Germans and deported to central Asia and other parts of the former Soviet Union. On May 18, 1944, more than 200,000 Crimean Tatars were forced from their homes and transported by boxcar across the former Soviet Union. Many Crimean households had family members serving in the Soviet Army; and yet, the government still considered them Nazi sympathizers. Stalin’s regime confiscated their property and forced them to make a journey that nearly half did not survive. Although they were granted permission to return to their homeland in 1968, the government offered no restitution.

Standing in the midst of a group of Crimean Tatars, I listened as they explained their plans to rebuild their nation. Although the Ukrainian government officially owns the ground on which we stood, the Crimean Tatars have returned to reclaim and rebuild their homeland.

“Someday, we’ll celebrate weddings here,” one of the Crimean men explained. He went on to tell us they would soon construct a village on the property that was once rightfully theirs in the eyes of the government.

Something about this brief encounter left me wishing I could have spent more time listening to their stories. Theirs is a story that needs to be told. In my line of work, I frequently hear stories of injustice and heartache. But no matter how many tear-filled stories I listen to, or how many pained expressions I witness, I am always sobered by the encounter.

Maybe it was the cup of coffee I drank at about nine o’clock tonight, or maybe it’s simply the fact that my mind has been racing for the past hour trying to find answers to questions I can’t understand. But whether it was the caffeine or the perplexing questions isn’t really the issue. The fact is, I am sitting at my computer at 3:18am, exhausted and unable to sleep. So in an attempt to appease my audience of one or two faithful readers, I decided to post an update.

I’m sure this is one of those things I’ll only get to say once in my life, but I recently figured out that in a span of thirty days, I visited five different countries on three different continents. I’ve been able to come home for as long as nine consecutive days at one point, and as little as nine hours at another. And even though I love the feeling of stepping off the plane in a new place that I have yet to know or understand, nothing beats the feeling of coming home.

When I flew in from Moldova a few weeks ago, you have no idea how good it felt to see five friends pile out of an SUV at the terminal to welcome me back. And even though I’d been traveling for 25 consecutive hours, spending another three sitting around my dining room table drinking pomegranate juice with them was exactly what I needed. Truth be told, the friends I’ve made in south Florida have become sort of like family to me. There’s just something about spending time with a group people that share a common bond, and here in south Florida, my friends and I share the bond of our faith.

One of the most poignant memories I hold of my time in Russia and Moldova is a moment much like that evening sitting around sipping pomegranate juice. Only instead of sipping juice, we sipped borsch, and instead of crowding around my dining room table, we crowded around a small kitchen table in a flat in Ivanovo, Russia. I’ve got to be honest, I didn’t understand most of what was said around the table that day, but I remember sitting there, surrounded by Russian-speaking Ukrainians thinking, "this feels just like Christmas dinner." You see, it wasn’t only the crisp air and the warm kitchen that reminded me of the holidays, it was the feeling that I was surrounded by family. It never ceases to amaze me the bond that forms between people who share a common faith. This bond surpasses the bounds of language and culture, and somehow allows me to experience a piece of home no matter where in the world I am.

After breaking the cardinal rule of combating jetlag by taking a nap as soon as I arrived, my first day in Moscow was mostly a fog. But after spending a week in Ivanova, Russia, and returning to Moscow yesterday, my body has finally adjusted to the eight-hour time shift. Considering the full schedule of interviews I have lined up for the next three days, I’m grateful.

One of the highlights of my time in Ivanova occurred two days ago when I had the privilege of sitting down on a park bench with a 72-year-old man who recounted (in remarkable detail) the story of his father’s persecution under the Communist regime in the former Soviet Union. I was both challenged and humbled to hear the story of a believer who was imprisoned several times totaling a period of 25 years. He was beaten, exiled, and torn from his family. But without exception, each time the authorities released him, he returned to preach the Gospel.

After hearing his story I couldn’t help but consider whether I would have done the same. So many families compromised during those years. In fact, I also heard a story of another man who was imprisoned and was asked to give a statement saying he would no longer preach the gospel. Time after time, he refused to put those words on paper, but just as he was about to be separated from his family indefinitely, the officials brought him into a room where they had also brought his wife and children. They told him this was his last chance to say goodbye. They told him he might not see any of them again.

And then they handed him a piece of paper.

They told him he could simply write the words and go home with his family that night, and he chose to go home. Those who knew him said that he repented. He asked God to forgive him, but his life was never the same.

As I await my final flight from Port of Spain, Trinidad to Miami International, it’s hard to believe only two days have passed since I used a very different means of transportation to travel the rivers of Suriname’s interior.

With rainwater soaking my hair and thick droplets falling from my chin, I sat in the front seat of an Aukan canoe, crossing the Tapanahony River. My camera bag was nestled safely under the canopy of my poncho as the rain continued to fall. The Aukaners living along the Tapanahony say it’s been at least eighteen years since they’ve seen the river rise this high, and many have been forced to leave their homes as a result. The waters that are the lifeline of the Aukan people have suddenly caused widespread damage to Aukan homes and villages.

As we crossed the river in the pouring rain just a few days ago, I looked up to see a small grouping of Aukan canoes circling the center of the river. After a six-day mourning period, this group of Aukaners had just returned from burying the body of a fellow villager. In order to warn off the evil spirits of the dead, the Aukaners commonly circle the river in an attempt to scare away the spirits. Theirs is a culture of fear, and apart from Christ, they are without hope. But God is at work among the Aukan people. The Aukaners of Suriname are hearing the truth of God’s Word on a daily basis through the work of Radio Paakati: the first radio station of the Aukan people. And as the flood waters rise, causing entire villages to evacuate, Radio Paakati is bringing messages of aid and hope to flood victims.

A few short weeks ago, I walked along the boardwalk beside Ecuador’s Guyas River and climbed the numbered steps of Llas Peñas or “the boulder.” In the 1600s, Llas Peñas was the heart of Guayaquil. At the top stands a fort, formerly used to deter pirates, and a lighthouse for trade ships. Along the way to the top I found countless cafes, bars, and souvenir shops. But in the midst of Guayaquil’s primary tourist attraction, locals abound. It’s almost as if the houses and businesses are stacked one on top of the other all the way to the top. When you look at it from a distance, all you see is a huge cluster of colorful buildings. They’re painted in varying shades of pinks, yellows, and bright blues; and as I climbed the 444 steps to the top, I trekked through the backyard of the Guayaquil people.

During my time in Guayaquil, I had the unique opportunity to step into someone else’s backyard. But instead of finding colorful homes and an endless array of stairs, Jose Salazar’s backyard was mostly dirt, with the beginnings of a garden. At first glance, this view would pale in comparison to that of Llas Peñas, but this is the view that has left a lasting impression on my life.

Ten years ago, Jose Salazar asked his wife Adriana if he could bring an elderly man home to live with them. Up until this point, both Jose and Adriana had been involved in ministering to the abandoned elderly living on the streets of Guayaquil, but never before had they invited someone into their home. Within a month’s time, the Salazars had taken seven elderly people off the streets and into their home. Today, the Salazars house 45 abandoned elderly people at the Fundacion Clemencia, where they provide residents with food, shelter, and a chance to hear the gospel. Although the ministry is completely faith-based, the residents have never gone without a meal. The Salazars have seen God’s daily provision first hand as they provide for the needs of all 45 residents without a budget.

When I asked Jose how his ministry began, he told me it began years ago with dreams of walking through a garden with elderly people. Though he didn’t fully understand them at the time, Jose is now watching those dreams come true. And as their dirt-covered backyard yields new growth, Jose and Adriana Salazar move one step closer to seeing their garden, and their dreams, become a reality.