Why Cold Soup Will Never Save Souls

On a Mission Trip with YouthWorks in Vancouver, Canada's red light district, we had a lot of occasions to laugh. It was also a great opportunity for kids to see the devastating effects drugs can have on people. In Vancouver B.C., drug use is legal in a sectioned area. So as we drove towards our mission site, we actually saw people shooting up on the sidewalk in mass quantities.

It's like something out of a weird sci-fi movie, with zombies, only instead it was a community of real, and hurting people. God challenged us to see these broken, addicted men and women as humans with names, and stories, and families.

When we reached a housing and treatment center for men, we got to hear a lot of stories from those in rehab. Afterwards, we headed down for lunch to the soup kitchen, which actually had amazing food. The head chef reminded me of the Soup Nazi from Seinfeld. Really Gruff, but you could tell he cared about the men he was serving.

Finally, we were asked to prepare a chapel service that would take place before the evening meal. I was asked to give the talk. Towards the end of the message as I was wrapping things up, I heard a guy in the corner whisper loudly to his friend, "The soups getting cold."

Nobody likes cold soup, so I closed in prayer.

Donde Esta El Bano?

I only remember one phrase after taking two years of Spanish. Donde esta el bano? Which means, "where is the restroom?" For some reason, when the teacher went over this phrase and it's definition, my survival instincts told me, "this is a phrase that could come in handy some day."



Once, on a mission trip to Mexico our drive time was continually extended by extra stops along the way. Every time we we needed gas people would get get out of the van to buy something to drink, which would then require additional stops later on down the road.

After 15 minutes of driving from one particular stop, a kid in the back row, named Dan, yelled up, "I have to go to the bathroom."

Everyone groaned. "Are you kidding?"

He wasn't. Apparently, Dan started chugging his 32 oz. drink as soon as he got back into the vehicle, instead of wisely rationing his liquid intake.

We didn't stop. Even if we had wanted to, we didn't have time. All I remember is Dan frantically shouting "quick, get me another bottle!"

As the smell of urine wafted forward, others violently fought for a position near the few windows that actually opened. Needless to say we took the next exit to dispose of our trash.

As we drove into the Mexican village where we were staying, a small child waved to us with one hand, and held his pants down with the other. A stream of yellow liquid arched away from his body towards a puddle on the side of the road.

This young local quickly revealed something to me that I am still quite upset about. The phrase I had been so careful to memorized, would be of little use to me here in Mexico.