A Love for Souls

The Story of Saltan

by Gene Easley  

    The missionary is sometimes made to realize his humanity to an extent that often he would rather not know.  But the more we are made to realize the frailty of our flesh, the more we know our need for God's help.  It was our trip to Saltan that taught me some valuable lessons that I hope never to forget on my humanity and on the love of God.  

    The trip to Saltan took about three hours from our home in Guatemala City.  It was only about fifty-five miles in distance, but the roads were such that we averaged less than twenty miles per hour.  The first twenty miles were paved.  Although the pavement was in great need of repair, and the winding, hilly road and the little towns along the route kept us moving ever so slowly, it was much better to travel than the last thirty-five miles of dirt road!  

    Few people traveled to Saltan—even the bus system of Guatemala only provided one bus a day to this remote town.  It was a trip up and down hills over a road that kept you wide awake until, if indeed, you ever arrived at the little town.  

    We had been invited by a young pastor to come for three days of meetings.  We were scheduled to preach Friday night at Saltan, then Saturday at another village called "Los Pozos," and we were to have a baptismal service Sunday morning at a near-by river.  It was then back to Saltan Sunday night.  

    We arrived in Saltan early Friday afternoon.  Another pastor from Guatemala City went with us on the trip.  He had been to Saltan before and knew the way.  We parked in an alley just off the main street in Saltan where pastor Esby lived.  He was a single young man, and this was his first pastorate.  He was eager to serve the Lord and make whatever sacrifices necessary, which, in this place, were many.  

    The little hilly town was full of poverty as was the small church Brother Esby pastored.  The people for some reason seemed very cold toward these two foreigners who had arrived in their secluded area.  As we would walk down the street in Saltan, we felt a sense of rejection—not the usual reception from most Guatemalans.  

    Brother Esby took us to see his church where we would be ministering that night.  It was a small, dirt floor, bamboo church that despite its primitive appearance sat in a nice location of town.  The pastor's income from the church was not enough to live on, so he went to the houses of different members of his congregation at mealtime to eat.  This was all that many were able to give.  So, while we were with Brother Esby, we found ourselves eating at a different house each meal.  Of course, always foremost in our minds as we sat at the tables of those who were, obviously, extremely poor was the fact that as they shared a meal with us, it meant someone would have to do without later.  They lived on a day-by-day basis.  Having guests at their tables was a true sacrifice for many of them.  

     I found myself having a battle on our trip to Saltan.  There was a struggle going on in my own heart.  I realized my need for more grace and long-suffering, but it seemed not easy to obtain.  I was having a problem having a love for souls.  Some people think that missionaries walk around with angels' wings always smiling and always happy to suffer and sacrifice.  

    The missionary is sometimes portrayed as a person with automatic victory over the carnal man who never has a problem praying "without ceasing."  The true picture, of course, is quite different.  Someone said that a missionary is required to leave many things behind—houses, lands, loved ones, close friends—and for the American missionary it means leaving behind a lifestyle of comfort and ease not to be found anywhere else.  At the same time, there is one thing that a missionary cannot leave behind. That is "self."  Self goes with us with all of its demands.  It will stop us from putting God and His work first any time it can.  

    On the trip to Saltan there was a battle with self, which troubled my mind.  It wasn't that I didn't realize there was a problem.  It was just that I didn't know the answer.  It seemed that everything on the trip irritated the flesh.  It was mostly little things—things that we had been through many times before and had no real problem dealing with.  In Saltan, it was different. 

    The Friday night service in the small bamboo church was good, but not exceptional.  Our trip Saturday morning was a new adventure.  We traveled about five miles to a farmhouse along the main road to Saltan.  At the farmhouse we were able to park our car to be picked up again Sunday morning on our way back.  The pastor from Los Pozos was with us, and he felt confident that the farmer would protect our vehicle from harm.  So we felt safe in leaving it in his hands, something seldom done in Guatemala.  

    We then began the hour's walk down to the village of Los Pozos at the bottom of the mountain.  We wound our way down that mountain carrying our luggage and pure water.  The beauty of the lush countryside made the journey a little more pleasant, but, nevertheless, we were exhausted by the time we arrived at the pastor's home.  

    Brother Clemente, pastor at Los Pozos, had once made a trip to Guatemala City to visit relatives.  At the time he knew nothing about the Gospel.  There were no churches in his village, and Los Pozos remained un-evangelized by the message of Christ.  While visiting his relatives, he received an invitation to attend their church, and God worked a miracle.  As the Gospel message penetrated his heart, Brother Clemente had a wonderful experience of salvation and totally surrendered his life to Christ.  When he returned home, he decided that he must reach his village with the Gospel.  

    Bro. Clemente owned several acres of farmland.  About two hundred feet from his house sat a plot of land—perfect for a church.  So Brother Clemente and his sons went to work.  He bought cement and blocks and started construction on a church.  He invited friends and neighbors to come to the services, and Brother Clemente became the pastor.  

    Our trip to Los Pozos was like going back a hundred years in time.  There was no electricity, and outdoor toilets were still the norm.  They did have a well for fresh water.  Brother Clemente's house was located in a very tropical setting…surrounded by banana, papaya, orange, and other tropical trees.  Though the setting was primitive, it was also pleasant.  

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