FOREWORD

DEDICATION

PROLOGUE

1. TO CALL JUST ONE
2. TRAINING IN SCHOOL
3. TRAINING IN A CHURCH
4. TRAINING IN MEXICO
5. TRAINING IN ROUGH RAPIDS
6. TRAINING IN WAITING
7. AND YET MORE TRAINING!
8. JIM BERRYHILL
9. ANOTHER NEW BEGINNING
10. LA PARAGUA
11. CONSIDERING SAN MIGUEL
12. HIS TOOL IN SAN MIGUEL--CULMINATION AND COMMENCEMENT
13. PLANTING TIME
14. PROBLEMS, PAIN AND GOD'S POWER
15. THE BEGINNING OF THE END
16. THE VOLCANO EXPLODES

EPILOGUE

AUTHOR'S UPDATE 1993

THE FINAL PHASE: COMING FULL CIRCLE

Would you have enjoyed receiving the monthly prayer letters of Hudson Taylor, or Amy Carmichael, or Adoniram Judson? The daily lives of those great soldiers of the Cross were spectacular lessons in faith and perseverance. Those testimonies, however, were for a past generation.

The experiences of Bob and Patty Nosker in present day Venezuela are equally exciting and enlightening. The Noskers live on the "cutting-edge" of the Great Commission. They are heroes of the faith whose story will encourage and challenge every dedicated Christian in this generation.

My wife and I first "met" the Noskers at Center Lake Bible Camp in northern Michigan during the summer of 1977. The camp nurse had collected all three years' supply of the Gospel Wings prayer letters and was anxious for every visiting pastor to become aware of this unique mission work.

We read each letter with fascination from the first to the last and were frustrated that we could not read on to find out what God would do next! These missionary letters were like none that we had ever seen. They read like a novel!
We have through the ensuing years continued to read and have come to know and love Bob and Patty as close personal friends. We and others have often encouraged them to set forth their experiences in book form. It is with great satisfaction that I recommend to the readers this yet unfinished chronicle of faith and courage.

Sincerely in Christ,
Joseph D. Fortna
Chairman of the Bible Dept.
Midwestern Baptist College

No work of God is ever done by one individual (excluding Christ's redemptive work of course), and the work among the Pemon is no exception. This work is dedicated to all the people who prayed and gave to make it possible, to the mission board of the Hiawatha Beach Church of Hamburg, Michigan, and to the Faith Baptist Church of Amarillo, Texas, who had faith in two men who had a vision from God. It is also dedicated to the children of Jim's family and mine, who sacrificed much to allow their parents to follow the calling of God, and to two of the greatest women in the world who faithfully and sacrificially followed their husbands' vision without murmur or complaint: Jeanne Berryhill and Patty Nosker.

Lastly, this book is dedicated to my best friend and partner, Jim Berryhill, who first caught the vision to call the Pemon Nation to Christ.

Robert Burton: "No cord or cable can draw so forcibly, or bind so fast, as love can do with a single thread" (Wallis, ed., The Treasure Chest, Harper and Row, p. 168).

Through our tears we looked down into the crying faces of our Pemon Indian friends. In any language, love finds it difficult to say good bye. What words express that tearing emotion when you leave those you have lived and learned with, laughed and cried with, and ministered to for over seven years? Tears and mutual concern for each others' future wove tenderness into that farewell.

We lifted off the jungle airstrip in San Miguel, Venezuela, and Pemon hands rose in a final, loving gesture. The dear Indian faces blurred; we made one last pass over our village home, and seven years became memories. It was July 23, 1982.

The Catholic church had won this battle. They had pressured the Venezuelan government into forcing us far from the village where so many had trusted Christ as Saviour. We left behind in San Miguel 150 new converts, a growing church, and a steadfast native pastor. We had been torn from our ministry and the friends we loved by a weak government too timid to say "no" to the Catholic church. Or ... was it Someone Else Who allowed this seeming tragedy? "Jesus has two nail-pierced hands. He lays one upon each and parts us, so--HE does the parting" (Houghton, Amy Carmichael of Dohnavur, S.P.C.K., p. 56).

There are "no second causes." God was to use our parting to make His mysterious promise of Romans 8:28 very real in this Indian village that Satan desired to sift as wheat. Our Pemon converts were out from our wings, but forever protected by the wings of our God. Could we not trust them to His care?

It began many years earlier, this love story between us and the Pemon. Even earlier began the love story between God and the Pemon, and between God and myself. What strength there is in God's love and what persistence! God will go to any length to call a people to Himself--To Call a Nation!

"How many hearts Thou mightst have had
More innocent than mine!
How many souls more worthy far
Of that sweet touch of Thine!"
(F.W. Faber, Baptist Hymnal, 1849, p. 179).

God never makes a choice based on man's merit, and I, for one, am glad of that! I was not exactly what you might call missionary material, but that persistent love of God that will go to any length to call a nation (cf. Ezek. 22:30) reaches out to just one man as well. It is never what man does, only what God does through a man. Man available: God at work--that's my story. Put your feet up for awhile and live my story with me.

"Just another kid" the newspaper could have read on May 23, 1944. I was born your ordinary, red, squalling baby. Not a single born-again Christian in my family welcomed my arrival. Not an aunt, uncle, cousin of mine knew Jesus Christ as Lord and Saviour. Not only that, but as far as I know, none of my relatives even attended a church.

As I grew up, I seldom attended church either. Why should I bother when the rest of my family didn't? It still amazes me that God stepped into a family of people pitifully ignorant of Him, laid His loving hand on my shoulder and called, "Robert!"
Until I was about fourteen I had no contact with the Gospel, but then....

It was one of those spring evenings when you can see every star that hangs in the sky (or think you can when you are a cocky, fourteen-year-old who doesn't guess that the world is larger than his immediate conception of it). I could think of better things to do than homework. I was an average student, caught up with rock and roll, not overly enthusiastic about studying. I had finally waded through my heap of homework that evening.

Somehow, that spring evening, I felt more than a little frustrated, not just with homework, but with life in general. I bombed out of the house and walked up and down my road. I stopped and looked up at the stars, and suddenly my problems seemed microscopic. I felt as awe-struck as the writer of Psalm 19, though at that time I had never read that Psalm (or any other!). I remember the words I spoke. I said, "God? God, if you are up there, I want to know You."

I walked home, feeling not so very different. I still felt frustrated, and yet there was something unusual, a feeling of expectancy. I began that night to come to Christ the same way any heathen or Indian begins to come to Him. God's witness to Himself, written in the stars, still shouts as loudly as ever (cf. Psalm 19; Rom. 1). If anyone hungers to know God, and by His grace cries out to Him, God makes Himself responsible to reveal to that one the plan of salvation.

God called me, the one, in a special way, that He might use me to call the many (cf. Acts 11:21). In all the Bibleless tribes around the world, it takes but one sinner to cry to the living God, and that cry will enter into His very ears. God was more anxious than I was for me to know Him, but I did not guess that then.

Then I met a girl. We had ridden the same school bus for many years, but neither of us had noticed the other. Suddenly we saw each other, the way boy sees girl. We began dating. Patty was fifteen; I was sixteen. I began attending Patty's church in Hamburg, Michigan, mostly so I could sit with her. Patty was a Christian. She had asked Jesus to save her from her sin when she was just a child, but she was not a committed, obedient Christian, or she would not have dated me!

I heard the Gospel often at Patty's church. The preacher explained that sin entered the human race when Adam sinned. He said that no one could ever be good enough to get to heaven, because God demands absolute perfection. That locked heaven's gate for me, and I knew it.

Patty's pastor also said that God, out of love as full as His holiness, sent His Son, Jesus, to take the punishment for the sin of every person ever born. He took the sin right into His heart and did away with it, making it possible for Him to forgive us and treat us as though we had never sinned.

All I heard was new to me. I had been punished enough, but no one had ever offered to take it for me. I learned that Jesus, God's Son, died on a cross, rose again, and went back to Heaven--securing eternal life for each one who asks Him for it! The preacher said that eternal life cannot be earned, just given. God gives it to everyone who repents of sin and trusts Jesus Christ as Saviour. What he said made sense to me, so I kept going to church. Besides, I liked sitting with Patty! (I still like sitting with Patty! She is my favorite person.)

I never rejected the Gospel, but for a long time I did nothing about what I had heard. Knowledge and agreement are far from salvation. In 1961, Jonathen, a board member at Patty's church, came to visit me at home. He took time to share Christ with me individually. I easily agreed with his words and prayed to receive Christ. Was that the point of my salvation? I am still not sure--a missionary who doesn't know when he was saved? That's right--but I do know that I am saved now!

I think many of us will be surprised in heaven when we see the date recorded for our conversion. The heart doesn't always melt at the exact moment the tongue mouths the "right" words, and it is with the heart that man believes and is saved (Rom. 10:9-10). My outward life showed no change after I professed conversion. I wanted to be different, but somehow desire never became deed. I still acted like the same old Bob Nosker.

Outward circumstances changed more quickly in my life. I didn't shed many big tears when I left the four walls of the school room on graduation day in May of 1962. I quickly joined the Air Force and went to boot camp at Lackland Air Force Base in San Antonio, Texas. Little did I know as I sweated through boot camp that my future missionary experiences were to make Air Force training look as easy as downing a root beer float on a hot August afternoon!

Overseas orders arrived in January of 1964, but who could complain about being sent to Hawaii? I could! I didn't want to go without Patty. I had to leave for Hawaii by April, so that left precious little time to win my girl. When I decide on an action I am not easily deterred. I woke up on the morning of April 11, 1964 a happy man. I was headed for Hawaii; I was almost 20, and it was my wedding day!

After our honeymoon Patty returned to her job in Chicago. I left to go overseas six weeks before she did. Even Hawaii isn't a very exciting place for a new husband whose wife is in Chicago. Finally she arrived!

Patty and I enjoyed attending church together in Hawaii. I remember especially one service on the third Sunday in June. We heard a wonderful salvation message, but instead of shouting, "Glory!" I felt a yearning emptiness. I returned with Patty to our tiny studio apartment. I looked down into her eyes.

"Patty," I said earnestly to my young wife, "I do not even know if I am saved!"

Patty looked just as earnestly up at me. "If you aren't sure, Bob, you can take care of it right now." Together we knelt beside the bed in our first home. We prayed. What was it, Salvation or just re-commitment? I gladly leave that knowledge with God. All I know is, from that point on, my outward life began changing. Gradually more of Jesus became visible in me. Now it was not just the same old Bob Nosker!

I was so hungry for God's Word. I attended an evening Bible institute. There I learned, in the words of J.A. Bengel, to "Apply thyself wholly to the text; apply the text wholly to thyself" (Custer, Tools for Preaching and Teaching the Bible, Bob Jones University Press, p. 21).

We participated in street meetings that our church held, and I learned the methods of street evangelism on the infamous Hotel Street. Sailors come there to visit bars and other places of sin when they return from their six-month cruises. A group from our church witnessed on Hotel Street every Friday night. We sang, preached fervently, and dispersed into the crowd to talk about our Lord. How I enjoyed that work!

I still didn't feel satisfied, though I was infinitely so with Jesus. This feeling of expectancy hovered over me, a nameless longing, a waiting for something unknown. I knew God wanted to do something special through me.

Others of God's workers have felt this sense of anticipation. Oswald Chambers wrote, "From my very childhood the persuasion has been that of a work, strange and great, an experience deep and peculiar-it has haunted me ever and ever" (Chambers, Oswald Chambers: His Life and Work, Marshall, Morgan and Scott, pp. 29-30).

God used friends to stir the flicker of expectancy into fireworks. Dawn and Lawrence, a missionary couple on furlough in Hawaii, quickly laid claim to our hearts. Often they spoke of their work with the Buntoc people in the Philippines. They challenged us with stories about missions, tribal peoples, and Bibleless tribes. I felt astonished and sad to learn that many tribes of people live and die without the Bible, with no way to read, "For God so loved the world, that he gave his only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in him should not perish, but have everlasting life" (John 3:16).

What better gift can friends give than a truer vision of God and His love for a perishing world? Dawn and Lawrence didn't guess then that God was using them to give me a vision that would burn so deeply into my heart it would become life to me. By God's grace I pray that the vision of a people without Christ will never cease to burden me.

That feeling of expectancy that had hovered over me for months sharpened into one clear thought: God was going to use me to reach a Bibleless tribe for Himself. How? Where? When? I didn't know the answers. All I knew was that I was to be God's own missionary, in fellowship with Him, utterly available to Him.

I began thinking, praying, talking to Patty. I did all but the one thing needful. I held back from giving God a clear yes. To think with excitement about being used of God is one thing; to actually turn your life over to be nothing but a tool in His hand is another, especially if you are an independent, strong-willed man. I had yet to learn that in God's will I would find my highest joy.

God has His ways of getting my attention. When I refuse to respond to His tender, loving whispers, He shouts. Excruciating pain began striking my body like lightning and leaving as mysteriously as it came. The doctors looked in vain for a cause. They couldn't identify my pain, but I felt it and was desperate for release. One day at church I tried to bargain with God during the altar call. "God," I pleaded, "if you will just take this pain away, I promise I will preach your Word."

I rose from my knees, contented, full of peace--and in just as much pain as ever. I knew that God wanted me to preach, and I knew I would do so. The pain continued for two more years, and now I only say of it, "Oh, blessed pain that drives a man home to God." I learned to say this little by little; it didn't come all at once!

"A readiness to believe every promise implicitly, to obey every command unhesitatingly, to 'stand perfect and complete in all the will of God,' is the only true spirit of Bible study" (Murray, The Best of Andrew Murray, Baker, p. 200).

Uncle Sam handed my life back to me when I finished my Air Force days. I meant to hold to the promise I had made to God--even if it did mean facing the school room's four walls again! I registered at the Grand Rapids School of Bible and Music in Grand Rapids, Michigan, with just a smudge of trepidation. It's not that I don't enjoy learning--it's just that I don't enjoy sitting still long enough to learn!

Contrary to my expectations, I spent three wonderful years at Bible college. It was a banquet for a man as hungry for God as I was. Picture a turkey meal with all the fixings: hot stuffing, candied, gooey sweet potatoes, white mountains of steaming mashed potatoes with hot gravy skiing down their sides, pumpkin pie cooled by huge scoops of vanilla ice cream. A banquet--right? Have I made you hungry? Oh, that God might make you hungry for His Word, that you might say, "How sweet are thy words unto my taste! Yea, sweeter than honey to my mouth" (Psalm 119:103).

"If any Christians are not well fed," wrote J.R. Miller, "it is because they will not feed" (Bryant, ed., Climbing the Heights, Zondervan, p. 160).

Those three years of Bible study were scrumptious meals of God's Word. I ate and I grew. You can't help growing when you eat. Why are we so slow to realize we can't grow without food? Who willingly goes from Sunday to Sunday without eating a single meal? Some of us think little about starving our spirits for that long. God's Word is the only food that grows a spirit!

Bible college was wonderful, yes. But easy? No! I worked a job from 4 P.M. until 2 A.M. and then I squeezed in a few hours of sleep before my 8 A.M. class. (Sleep is a poor noun choice. Something that deep is called oblivion!) Classes continued until noon, so that left me very little time to study and travel to work. I learned to use every minute and even took verses to work to study them there.

I was older than some of the students, but in my heart there still lived the boy who stood in the softness of a spring evening and cried, "God, if you are there, I want to know You!" My Bible school years were just one more word in God's sentence of reply to me, a reply that will continue through eternity, as I go on into ever deeper knowledge of Him.

During those fast-paced study years a tender joy entered our home. What is more wonderful than a first child? On December 12, 1967, Kelly Ann joined us. Her time-table totally devastated both sleep and study hours, but how we loved and enjoyed her!

During my second year of college I began to preach, often at a Grand Rapids city rescue mission. I'll never forget the first time I preached in a church, and I doubt that the people at Comstock Bible Church will either! They combined Sunday school and church and handed me two whole hours to fill. A man can sing only so long without losing his voice (not to mention the interest and patience of the congregation) but I pushed the song service as long as I dared. Singing, singing, more singing, announcements, offering and preaching everything I knew to preach filled only 45 minutes. What could I do with the rest of the two hours? I sent the people home!

I remember well a sign on the back wall of the Comstock Bible Church. It faced the pulpit I so nervously occupied, and it read, "Sir, we would see Jesus." That sign still hangs in my heart. Oh, if in my life people would see, not Robert Nosker, but Jesus Christ (John 3:30). I long to see more of Christ in myself and to reveal Him to seeking hearts. If anyone reading this book will pray for me, let him pray that.

John Skinner wrote, "The man who has truly seen God necessarily has a message to men" (Nicoll, ed., The Expositor's Bible, Sunday School Board of the Southern Baptist Convention, p. 229). To see God and to reveal Him to others--there is no higher or holier joy than this!

I finally earned the rank of senior at Grand Rapids Bible. Strange how God works in the seemingly haphazard events of our lives. During my senior year a pastor spoke to our church extension class. His church was in Butternut, Michigan, near Carson City, and was about 20 miles north, 30 miles east of the college. The pastor said, "I need an assistant. If any of you men are interested, please stay and speak with me after class."

I sure was interested! I even felt that gentle prod from the Lord that I was beginning to recognize, but I was utterly exhausted from work and school. I had only a short time to spend with my family that day and didn't feel right about cutting into that time. As the pastor closed in prayer, I dropped my very weary head on my desk and silently prayed, "Lord, if you want me to speak with this man, let him contact me at my house."

Was my prayer presumptuous? I was just trying to learn to discern God's promptings from my own. I went home to my family and ate lunch. Before I left for work the phone rang. You guessed it--it was the pastor from Butternut Bible Church. I always stand amazed at Almighty God's working, at the lengths to which He will go to get a willing man exactly where He wants him to be!

"It's never 'do, do, and you'll be' with the Lord, but Be, be, and I will do through you.' It's a case of 'hands up' and letting go, and then entire reliance on Him" (Chambers, Oswald Chambers His Life and Work, Marshall, Morgan and Scott, pp. 122-123).

When I was that teen-age boy, gazing at the stars and asking to know God, I little guessed I would ever become a pastor! The Butternut Bible Church called me in January of 1969 to be their assistant pastor. During my last six months of college I commuted from Butternut to Grand Rapids, and when I graduated in May I went full time with the church.

When the Butternut Bible Church asked me to come, Patty and I asked God for a verse, something we still do to discern His will. He spoke to us with Matthew 6:33, "But seek ye first the kingdom of God, and his righteousness; and all these things shall be added unto you." On the force of that verse, when the church board asked us how much money we needed to live on, we replied with Matthew 6:33 and the words, "We will take whatever you offer." We bravely left our finances with God.

We then went home--and not so bravely calculated how much money we did need to survive! Patty and I kept little jars to put money in: one for rent, one for the phone bill, one for lights. We decided we could live on $75.00 a week--and that is exactly what the church offered us!

After I was with Butternut Bible Church for a time the pastor left. I offered the men of the church a few suggestions on what to look for in a new pastor. "Try to find an experienced, middle-aged man with children," I urged. During the next six months the church invited several men to preach. When we had no speaker, I did the preaching.

One day the church board approached me with a request that shocked me. "Oh, no," I protested to them. "I am not pastor material. You don't want me. I am not skilled at work like this!" They had more confidence in God's ability to work through a man than I had at that young age, so they said "no" to my no!

The men smiled at me. "We don't want another man," they said. "We like the man we have."

"I want you to know one thing," I told the men. "God has called me to be a missionary. When He leads me I'll have to leave here and go to the field. If you feel content to have me on those terms, I'll be your pastor."

The Lord left me at Butternut Bible Church until May of 1971. How I loved those dear people! Whenever a missionary spoke at church my heart ached. I never lost the vision of a Bibleless tribe somewhere, waiting for God to send me to them. After each missionary spoke I said to our people, "Folks, remember, one day I'll be gone. I will be a missionary too."

I determined to expose the young people at Butternut Bible to missions work. In the summers of 1969 and 1970 we took a group of young people into Mexico to conduct Vacation Bible Schools with Rev. Zeral Brown from the Eleventh Hour Missionary Crusade. I learned much from that man of God. After the trips I longed to return to Mexico as a missionary.

At first Patty didn't share my enthusiasm to go to Mexico. Patty sometimes hesitates a little in new ventures. Some of us men who are "go-getters" need a little pulling back on the reins. The Lord sure uses my Patty to give me balance and stability. Whenever Patty is convinced that an action is God's will and not just mine, she proves an exuberant, excited companion in any work.

Patty and I prayed fervently together about missions and Mexico. I felt even more strongly during the months of united prayer that it was time to resign the pastorate and seek God's place in missions. God spoke to us through Romans 10:14-15.

I resigned from Butternut Bible Church in April of 1971. We felt deep sadness when we parted from our people. The people there did more for me than I ever did for them. They helped me, encouraged me, prayed for me, offered constructive criticism. Some churches break a young pastor so that he leaves the ministry. Churches like that will answer to God, but thank Him, Butternut Bible was not of that variety. To this day they remain faithful to us and support us in our ministry.

The same month that we severed ties with our beloved people, God brought a new love to our hearts. Kenny, our first son, was born on May 20th, 1971.

"We would all be better Christians and wiser students if we would remember this--God rarely uses periods. There is rarely a full stop in His dealing with us--it is more likely to be with the effect of a colon or a semi-colon. In most instances, what God does becomes a means toward something else that He is planning to do" (Tozer, I Call It Heresy! Christian Publications, p. 73).

Define deputation with two little ones in tow as: a venture in faith. The Lord enabled us to raise our support in six weeks, something so rare as to be unheard of. If you ask how we did it we reply, "We didn't do it! God did!" Reader, do you know what you and I can do for God? Nothing! Do you know what God can do through us? He can do the unlimited everything!

Because of deputation meetings June and July flew by like they had never been on the calendar. In September, 1971, Nosker feet touched Mexican soil and called it home. Our Lord is good beyond imagination, powerful beyond belief. When He wants to move quickly, no obstacle stands in His way.

We spent three intense months in language school in Guadalajara, once again submitting to the mental discipline of those four walls! We had been in Mexico only two weeks when I began to long to tell people about our wonderful Lord. I couldn't say much yet, but I did know how to pass out tracts.

We chose a little town outside the city, Los Pozos (the wells) as a mission venture. There we passed out tracts and invited people to a Bible study. Two weeks later we returned to Los Pozos with a young Mexican Christian who agreed to teach the Bible study. How God worked through that earnest, but fumbling, attempt of His novice missionaries!

We started a church in Los Pozos while still in language school. Today that church has its own building and remains a clear, steady light. A friend and fellow student, Weldon (and Elaine) Jones took over the work and really built it up. They are still there.

To our knowledge God didn't use our next venture in Mexico the way He did our simple effort in Los Pozos. From Guadalajara the mission asked us to move into Mexico City to gain some supervised training before we chose a place to work alone.

God never called me to city work, and God never uses a man where He has not called him to be. I think the work in Mexico City was more in me than through me. In six months we saw very little fruit. Do you remember reading how people tried unsuccessfully to squeeze Hudson Taylor, that great missionary to China, into a mold of conformity? It worked no better for me than it did for him. It is not egotism, but fact, that God does call some men to plow their own furrow.

We shouted "Glory!" in August of 1972 when the board gave us permission to strike out on our own. Patty and I took our little ones and some gear and stuffed the whole collection into a pick-up with a home-built camper. We traveled for a week, looking for a small village in a rural area. I asked God, "Give me a hard area, where few if any missionaries have ever been."

We bumped and bounced our way to the state of Chiapas, bordering Guatemala. It was not exactly an easy week of travel. Crowded, primitive conditions, combined with weariness and a one and a five-year-old tested every smile we had!

We jostled over the rutted road until it ended, and still we had not found our village. Now what? It would not be the last time the question teased my mind, "Robert, what in the world are you doing here?"

We had heard about an isolated missionary who lived beyond the end of the road, so we chartered a civilian plane to find him. What a breath-taking ride that was through the fog and mountains of Chiapas State to Tumbala. The plane left us literally in the middle of nowhere. We began questioning people about the location of the MAF base where, we had been told, the missionary lived. No one knew anything about the base. We later learned that our informant had been confused; the base we were looking for was 100 miles away.

Does a miracle ever look like anything but confusion to the one standing in the center of it as it happens? We found that we were in a Chol Indian town. Some Indians took us to a white missionary couple, part of the team of God's lovely unknowns, who had been in the village for 31 years doing Bible translation work. Staying with the couple was Lydia, a young lady from a town 50 miles back on the trail.

We told the missionaries that we were seeking God's place for us, and Lydia listened intently. She looked into my eyes and said, "You know, our village has no pastor. Years ago there was a church, but it collapsed. We have some believers in our village of Ocosingo, but we have no one to teach us. Will you come to our village?"

Was Lydia's plea also God's? We needed to find out. "We will stop in your village on our way out," I assured Lydia, "and I will speak to your parents about this."

Lydia begged, "Let me fly out with you and ride back in your truck to my village so I can show you where it is."

We said good bye to the missionaries, flew back to our rutted dirt road, and found it in no better condition than we had left it. We jolted over the now familiar ruts back 50 miles to Ocosingo, a tiny town nestled in the mountains. Less than 1,000 people lived in the village, but the Tzeltal Indians, a tribe numbering 60,000, surrounded the village in the valleys and mountains.

Pouring, torrential rain greeted us when we arrived at Lydia's home. Patty was weary, the children fretful. "You go in, Bob, and I will wait here," Patty said. I knew she wanted nothing to do with that place in the middle of nowhere, especially when she was so tired. Lydia's parents seemed thrilled at the idea of a work beginning.

I asked Lydia's parents, "If my wife and I get a trailer, may we park it here on your property?" They happily agreed.

On our way back to the Mexican border I said to Patty, "Honey, I believe this to be God's will. I think we should consider going to Ocosingo." Patty wasn't overly excited at first; what woman would be? Still, I have never said, "Patty, I am committed to this action as God's will," and had her say, "Forget it!" Patty follows, not because she has a weak will or is easily led, but simply because she wants God's way more than she wants her own.

Men have said to me, "I am called to do a work for God, but I cannot, because my wife will not go." Sometimes that is the truth; sometimes it's an excuse! Some men are by nature so indefinite that they don't express a strong commitment to an action as God's will. Who could blame a woman for feeling hesitant about following an indecisive man, who seems himself quite unsure of God's will?

Patty fears beginnings, but there is right fear and wrong fear. The right kind of fear honestly says, "Yes, I am afraid, but I still ask God to do in and through me whatever He wants to do." The wrong kind of fear says, "Because I'm afraid, I won't go!"

God doesn't look for men and women who are strong and brave; He looks for ones weak and fearful enough to look to Him to do all in and through them. When God finds people that available, step back and watch Him work!

After we arrived back at the Mexican border, Patty and I had to trust God for money for a new trailer before we could travel the 1,400 miles back to Ocosingo. God did provide. What wonderful training our time in Mexico was for the future work we would do in Venezuela.

We began the work in Ocosingo by holding services in Lydia's home. We preached, prayed, witnessed, passed out tracts--and God worked. Soon we erected a portable building, supplied by the 11th Hour Missionary Crusade.
It is people that make up any work, and certain names forever link themselves in memory to certain places. I never recall Ocosingo without thinking of Manuel Culebra. Culebra means "snake," and that man was a snake if I ever saw one!

Manuel held the dubious honor of being the town drunk. Sometimes he stayed drunk for 30 days. What tremendous problems that man caused his wife. One night Manuel ducked into a service to find shelter from a pouring rain storm. The weather served as an excellent backdrop for the film on Noah I was showing that evening, an evening to remember. Manuel responded that night to the invitation.

When a baby is born into a family it naturally shows a family likeness, but never did I see a life change like Manuel's did. I often wonder: Did God send us to Ocosingo just to serve as His channel to bring Manuel to Himself?

I baptized Manuel on Easter Sunday, just a few weeks after his conversion. He said fervently to me, "I have waited all my life to hear that Christ loves me and to believe in Him with all my heart. I know God sent you here just for me."

I began teaching Manuel the Scriptures. He took his faith home and began witnessing to friends and relatives. George MacDonald wrote, "When God comes to a man, man looks round for his neighbor" (Miller, The Every-Day of Life, Hodder and Stoughton, p. 264).

God only knows how many people Manuel has led to the Lord. It is a thrill to know Manuel and to know that one day he will shine as the stars for brightness (cf. Dan. 12:13).

"An eminent difference is discernible between biographic studies in the Bible and outside the Bible. When men write studies of the servants of God, they are apt to drop out the uncouth and the unlovely, and out of their devotion state only the elements that idealize the servant. But the Bible reveals the blunderings and the sins and the uncouthness of the servants of God, and leaves only one idea dominant--that these men were for the glory of God" (Chambers, Oswald Cambers: His Life and Work, Marshall Morgan and Scott, p.10).

Personal problems clouded our joy over God's working in Ocosingo. Are missionaries super human? Does God use only ivory saints to build His church? Dr. Tozer said that if God could use Balaam's donkey, He can speak through other imperfect servants.

Imperfect we were. What I tell you now I say in the spirit of Psalm 115:1 so you will know it is God who works through people, not people who work for God. There isn't room for hero-worship in the church of Christ. Only our Lord deserves glory. At best we are chipped vessels, or semi-clogged channels, but we have within the sweet, pure oil of the Holy Spirit.

Patty and I began having serious marital problems. It happens to more missionaries than you might guess. Why? Are missionaries special targets of Satan? Sure they are; who among God's workers isn't? Problems also come from a lack of submission to each other and to the Holy Spirit.

Something else is also involved. God cuts some men and women from velvet, some from cotton, but He cuts His missionaries from the toughest denim. Pioneer missionaries are a different breed, often out-going, headstrong, independent--adjectives that describe both Patty and me. God must melt toughness into weakness and tenderness before He can fully use us. Patty and I, who thought we could handle so much, learned we couldn't handle even our own marriage. The clashes were frequent; they were painful.

Patty and I might laugh now at the old quip, "When a man and woman marry they become one. The trouble starts when they try to decide which one." Back then, we weren't laughing. I didn't spend the time with Patty that I should have. I fell far short of being the husband God wanted me to be. I take total blame for our marriage problems of those days.

In spite of our personal difficulties God worked in the church at Ocosingo until it became self-supporting and able to call its own pastor: the goal every church planting missionary seeks.

In Ocosingo we worked with Mexicans, but I still longed to work with Indians. Often I said to Patty, "Perhaps the Lord will soon thrust us out into a tribe somewhere." I longed to work with a Bibleless tribe. When Indians came into Ocosingo I bought eggs from them and learned from them all the Indian words I could. Still, I was not yet ready for tribal work. The Lord had more dealing to do in me before He could reach a Bibleless tribe through me.

Tribal work, because of its extreme isolation, forces a husband and wife into the closest imaginable fellowship, and our marriage wasn't ready for that.

Peter Bertocci wrote, "Two married Christians do not make a Christian marriage. Their marriage is Christian only if the relationships and problems that their marriage creates are approached in the norms of Christian love" (Gangel, The Family First, His International Service, p. 29).

It wasn't easy, but Patty and I returned home in September of 1973 to work on our marriage. As soon as we arrived home we asked our supporters to stop sending us funds. Integrity demanded that action. We didn't know what field we might go to next, or even if we could ever return to the mission field as a couple.

We set ourselves to prayer. Patty and I spent a lot of time together, both knowing we had many adjustments to make. We remained committed to marriage and dependent on our Lord. God used some special meetings we attended to begin the healing process.

God also gave us shock-jolt therapy. We learned that the missionary friends we had met in Hawaii, the ones used by God to turn our heart to missions, were now divorced. They were no longer missionaries. Patty and I looked at each other with tears when we heard that news. We were too close to that ourselves, and we didn't want it to happen to us.

God taught me to be more gentle, a real man. He taught Patty a thing or two, also! Our love grew. Honesty compels the admission that human love is unstable at best. Simple things--a rainy day, a bad time at work--affect human emotions. God's love, though, is never variable, always tender, always self-giving. God's love always asks, not what can I take, but what can I give. Marriage partners need more than human love. They need God's love for each other.

If any reader feels he is losing his love for his mate, he need only ask for God's love to shine through him. Remember too that a marriage vow is based upon the will, not the emotions. With God's love as the source, marriage is a growing joy. "...Marriage is one of life's ... greatest adventures. I would keep it an adventure--an adventure in happiness" (Wallis, ed., Words of Life, Harper and Row, p. 159).

"Let God fling you out, and do not go until He does. If you select your own spot, you will prove an empty pod. If God sows you, you will bring forth fruit" (Chambers, My Utmost for His Highest, Dodd, Mead and Co., p. 71).

With our hearts joyfully re-knit by God's own hand, Patty and I continued our venture in prayer. More strongly than ever we felt called to a Bibleless tribe. Our first request was for a verse so we would know that God wanted us to minister to a tribal people. Feelings and circumstances are the great deceivers. We knew better than to build our lives, and the lives of our children, on fickle feelings--our marriage problems taught us that! Little did we know, as we prayed so earnestly for a verse, that the God-given text would more than once be the only--I mean the only--thing to keep us in Venezuela during trying years of sickness, pain and problems.

How many Christians have lost the sense of God's call? Men go to a field or a church on a circumstance and leave on a circumstance. The return rate for missionaries and the quick turnover of pastors proves this point. Go only where God impels you to go, and then stay there until He, not a circumstance, says "Go." Is God's voice so unfamiliar to His own?

Some flee a place of service too soon, never to see the victory God had prepared for the one willing to pray and patiently wait. Heed the words of H.A. Ironside, "The greatest mistake any Christian can make is to substitute his own will for the will of God" (Ironside, Ephesians, Loizeaux, p. 38).

Patty and I prayed from September to December for our verse. I worked with Roger Vandenberg, a carpenter and friend, who is also on the board of our mission. I worked with Roger in a small, barn shaped building behind his home. There among the sawdust and the clean, pungent smell of new wood, I shared my heart with Roger. I told him that I longed for God to use me to reach a Bibleless tribe. Time and again Roger and I prayed together.

Our prayers resulted in a shared thought. Why not go out as a missionary under a local church rather than under a large mission board? I am not anti-big mission board, but in some cases such boards circumnavigate the local church, taking the church's people and money, but not their insights or direction.

Why couldn't a mission board be accountable to the local church? Consider these words of A.W. Tozer, "The highest expression of the will of God in this age is the church which He purchased with His own blood. To be Scripturally valid any religious activity must be part of the church. Let it be clearly stated that there can be no service acceptable to God in this age that does not center in and spring out of the church" (Wiersbe, ed., The Best of A.W. Tozer, Baker, p. 64).

This break between church and mission board where God intended unity isn't the exclusive fault of the boards. Some parents send their children off to a Christian school and heave a sigh of relief for transferred authority, and wrongly so, for responsibility still rests with them. Just so some churches turn their men and women over to a mission board's care and abdicate all personal involvement and responsibility. Doesn't Acts 13 teach that the church should be far more directly involved with its missionaries than most are?

Roger and I kept praying. Every work is fashioned in God's heart before it is conceived in man's mind, but on the human side of eternity, my part in the work among the Pemon Indians was born in Roger's little barn. (God was also working with a man named Jim Berryhill along the same lines, but I didn't know that--or Jim--then.)

How often big things come from humble beginnings! Our Lord never despised the day of small things; should we? He takes the lowly things and uses them to call men and women to Himself, uses them to bring glory to Himself. Does your work seem insignificant, mundane, static? Keep on! Who knows what God may yet do through your "small thing?"

Patty and I kept praying for our verse. We also sent out letters to the field representatives in five South American countries. In the letter we asked:
1. Are there Indians in your country?
2. How much work is yet to be done?
3. How many tribes are there?
4. How large are the tribes?

The representatives we contacted lived in Guatemala, Columbia, Brazil, Peru and Ecuador. We should have saved our postage money. God delights in surprising us with His own ways, and so often works in seemingly chance events. God chose none of the five countries we considered.

The leading of God: What is it? Ask ten men; you'll get at least nine different answers. As long as a man's walk is right and he has no unconfessed sin, the Lord will put him back in the right way even if his steps veer away from God's chosen path. I think we fret far too much about knowing God's will. We are responsible to be careful about one thing only: to keep looking by faith to God. We can safely leave the rest to Him. God will certainly reveal His will to the honest seeker, but it will always be in His own time. God is never in as much of a hurry as we are. Sometimes we act like the fate of the universe hangs upon our speedy decisions!

The months of praying dragged on. Perhaps you have already noticed that the Noskers are quite human, so you will not be surprised to hear that during the long wait Patty and I sometimes wondered about the whole venture. Sometimes we asked each other, "Is God really in this? Is this whole idea of working with a Bibleless tribe just our own desire? Where will all this end?

Roger and I also kept bringing all the unknowns to God. "Open a door, Lord," we prayed. "You show us the right country. You show us how to get there."

The answers to our letters started coming. Most responses were negative. Many said, "If you aren't with a major mission you'll never get into this country." Some said, "Choose another country. This one is closing, and it is already difficult to get missionaries in."

What else could we do but keep praying? Patty and I knelt together at home; Roger and I knelt together in the sawdust in the little red barn, and God smiled in His forever undisturbed peace, knowing all we did not yet know. When God plans an adventure He plans it from both ends of the road. At the time we were praying, sending and receiving letters, strange things were happening with the Pemon Indians in Venezuela, the people we were to work among.

The Pemon are a sub-group of a larger tribe known as the "Carib" Indians. Many tribes in and out of Venezuela belong to the Carib tribe. Each sub-group speaks its own language. An estimated 10,000-13,000 Pemon Indians occupy the south-east corner of Venezuela.

In the southeast Venezuela borders Brazil and Guyana. There in the low land jungles and the forests live the Pemon people. Up and down the Caroni River dwell that part of the Pemon tribe which would eventually compose the village of San Miguel, where we were to minister.

About the time that Patty and I and Roger and I were praying, a Pemon man, Ramon, had a dream that resulted in a pseudo-religious movement among the tribe. In the late 1800's and early 1900's many such religious "revivals" occurred among the Pemon. These "revivals" always resulted from some new religious teaching that infiltrated the tribe.

In the late 1800's the Seventh Day Adventist people went to Guyana, where some of the Pemon people live. The Pemon listened to their teaching, and the result was typically historical. As had happened before with other new teaching, synchronization resulted. No sect or religion actually converted the Pemon, but the Pemon rejected no teaching either. The Indians just obligingly mixed the new with the old, believed the whole confusing mess, and called the resulting religion "Alleluia," or, "Chochiman," from English "Church man." Every fifteen to twenty years a new religious leader took over, accepted whatever new teaching was around at the time, mixed it with the old, and another "revival" happened.

The first Pemon woman to have religious dreams lived and taught in the late 18th, early 19th century. She told the people to incorporate dancing into their worship. When the woman died, many of her teachings died with her, but certain parts of the Pemon worship stayed the same through the years. Services always included the chants and dances, dances to assure the growing of crops, dances to appease spirit beings.

Ramon was just eighteen-years-old when the Pemon accepted him as their new religious leader. This time the Pemon revival of interest in religion was different because no outside influence triggered the new fervor.

Ramon struggled personally with deep religious feelings and a longing to know God. He involved himself in the "Alleluia" teaching and began to revive it with all night dances and chantings. Strange things happened as the people gathered in groups and drank and danced the night away. Yet, in his heart Ramon was honestly seeking God.

Did Ramon do as I had done so many years before when I looked past the stars and cried out, "God, if there is a God, I
want to know You?" Ramon later gave me reason to believe this is just what he did. God first drew Ramon's heart to seek Himself, and then God made Himself responsible to send to Ramon and the Pemon people the first true missionaries the tribe had known.

During one of the religious meetings Ramon fell into a trance that lasted two days. He dreamed that a voice said, "Gather your people together to live in a village."

The Pemon of that area rarely lived together in a village. Because they drank, fought, and mistrusted each other, they preferred living in isolated family groups.

"Clean up your lives," the voice in the dream said to Ramon. "You cannot go on living like this."

Their lives needed cleaning up all right! When Patty and I arrived some men had as many as five wives. When they drank, they often beat their women.

The voice in the dream also told Ramon, "Someday a white man with a book will come to you. Believe that man and that book."

I don't claim to understand Ramon's vision, but I do know that God used it to accomplish His own ends. I also know that Ramon had the dream at about the same time that Patty and I were fervently praying for God's leading.

At the very moment we pray, God begins to work, though we may not know it until much later. Pray! Never give up! Remember that Daniel prayed for 21 days while the forces of Satan withstood the angel of God coming with the answer to the prayer. I often wonder, had Patty and I quit praying and walked away from God's blessing, what would have happened?

December 25, 1973, stands vividly in my memory as a day of beginnings. We visited the hospital in Carson City, Michigan, to see our friends' new baby. In the waiting room I noticed a low table with books scattered on it. One book caught my eye. It was buried under some others, so I saw only the bottom half of it. Across the bottom of the book in large letters were the words: Isaiah 55.

I pointed the book out to Patty. "I wonder what Isaiah 55 says?" I asked her. I tried to recall. "Let's read that chapter when we get home, Patty," I suggested.

As I kept looking through the books I found a Gideon Bible. I opened it to Isaiah 55 and began reading. I wasn't even thinking of our prayer for a verse. My mind was full of thoughts of the holidays, of our friends' new baby, and of another Babe born so many years ago, the Saviour of mankind.

I read through Isaiah 55. Verse five grabbed me as clearly as if God had stepped into that little waiting room, laid His hand on my shoulder, and spoke the words aloud in my ear; which in the language of the Spirit is exactly what He did do.

"Behold, thou shalt call a nation that thou knowest not, and nations that knew not thee shall run unto thee because of the LORD, thy God, and for the Holy One of Israel; for he hath glorified thee" (Isa. 55:5).

To Call a Nation! That was our verse. I showed it to Patty, and she knew it too. With reverent worship we read the rest of the chapter together. Our orderly God, who delights to work in the seemingly haphazard, gave us a wonderful holiday gift there in that little waiting room. Our waiting for a verse ended that day. How our hearts smiled as we read, "For ye shall go out with joy, and be led forth with peace" (Isa. 55:12).

Back at home Patty and I knelt again together to pray about our verse, as we had done countless times before. This time the prayer was thanksgiving, not supplication. I know that God can, and often does, lead His own without a verse. We need to leave room for God to work according to His absolute creativity and not try to box Him up with our own set of rules. He works differently with different people.

Many missionaries go out by God's will and are greatly used of Him without ever having a verse to claim. Patty and I needed a verse, and we set ourselves to ask God for it until He gave it to us. Our tender Lord understood both our longing and our need. Patty and I were embarking on difficult days so severe as to make us forget both circumstantial leading and human desire. We needed a verse we could never forget. Many times we clung to our verse like drowning children, and then our troubles were swallowed up in the joy of knowing, "This is where we belong. This is where God chooses to work through us, and we can't leave until He is finished here with us."

Twice, at least, in Venezuela circumstances were such that without our verse we would have fled the country before we saw the blessing God wanted to bring about through us. Dear reader, are you discouraged in the rocky field where God has planted you? Stay there until He says to go out. Remember that the work is not yours, but His. That makes Him responsible for the results--doesn't it? A tremendous blessing may be under that next stone you call difficulty!

With our verse firmly clasped in our hands and hearts, Patty and I spoke to our pastor at Hiawatha Beach Church about our longing to minister to a Bibleless tribe. When we asked our pastor about what board he suggested, he too advised us to consider going out under the direction of our own local church.

The pastor shared our desires with the church board, and the board approached the church as a whole. They voted to send us out as their missionaries. This way has its difficulties; we have had our disagreements, but what a blessing it has been all of these years to have our own local church behind us!

Once Patty and I had our verse, the church to serve as our mission board, and a sure call of God, several things needed doing. First, we informed our previous supporters of God's call. Next, we began to raise support. We needed more money than when we went to Mexico. Inflation had taken its usual gulp. We also needed some training.

Patty and I wanted to go to Norman, Oklahoma, in June of 1974 to enter Wycliff's Summer Institute of Linguistics, known as S.I.L. Students at S.I.L. spend nine or ten intense weeks learning how to write an unwritten language and studying grammar discovery procedures. Our "chances" of being accepted at S.I.L. were slim. We still had no idea of the country to which we hoped to go, nor did we qualify academically to be accepted as students. The facts didn't discourage us.

I remember talking to an older missionary pilot. He chuckled as he reminisced, "By the mission board's standards I was too old to be accepted, and my health was too poor, but God had called me, and I knew it. So, what could I do but apply? They accepted me too!"

So, what could Patty and I do but apply? How I hope that our lives will encourage others to launch out on God! When your heart is right and you have God's call on your life, He sometimes makes exceptions to the best of rules. The months to come proved that again and again. If our God is God of the haphazard, He is also the God of the exceptional! What an adventure is the Christian life!

The requirement for acceptance at S.I.L. is a B.A. degree; I had only a graduation certificate from Grand Rapids School of Bible and Music. Patty's transcript looked even worse than mine. She had only a few courses to her credit.

We applied to S.I.L. with mingled doubt, hope and prayer. Our answer from them came quickly, "You do not qualify, but you may come." Praise God! When we walk in His way He straightens the road, makes the low places high, the high places low--He just evens out the whole thing. How I delight to watch our God at work!

"Someone once asked an athletic coach the secret of becoming a champion, and he replied, 'The ability to hold on 5 minutes longer'" (Folprecht, Write the Word, Mott Media, p. 38).

Deputation works endurance into a missionary as few other things can do. Deputation this time around taught us firsthand to understand the Webster definition of discouragement: "disheartening or deterring. Depression, pessimism."

We quickly learned that when a man spits in the face of tradition he better expect tradition to turn her back. Several of our churches did renew support immediately when we notified them of God's call to us, but many of the new churches I visited turned us away
.
From some of the churches we got only raised eyebrows, a few "ahems," and questions, questions! Question number one, voiced in deep tones, "Where exactly are you going, Robert?" I couldn't answer that, and I was fair enough to understand that most pastors find a shrug an unacceptable response to such an important question!

Question two, voiced in yet deeper pastoral tones: "What mission board are you under, Robert?" My answer to that drove already raised eyebrows even higher! Tradition vetoed the idea of a man going out under the authority of his local church. One man said, "I went to Africa years ago under the local church, but you can't do that today." Paul seemed to find it a suitable operational method, but many pastors responded to the idea with, "Hmmm. Yesss. Wellll. Ahhh. Sorry, Robert, but I don't think we'll be able to help you at this time."

Several of the men who reacted negatively are now good friends of mine. One man (now, with his wife, a dear friend and faithful supporter of the work) said, "I don't understand how you think you can go to the mission field without a big board to back you. I wonder: who do you think you are?"

Who did I think I was? Just a small vessel for our Almighty God to pour His life through in any way He chose. So many tag God's creative dealings as man's cocky ideas. God gave me grace to keep on and a handful of churches to support us. We had enough so we could go out, first to S.I.L., then on the field of His choice.

In May we met for the final time with our church mission board, called, "Gospel Wings Missionary Translation Team." I spoke with the board members after the going-away service the church held for us. "Men," I said, "perhaps this is a real good bye. From S.I.L. I believe that God will take us straight to the mission field. I don't think we'll be back here."

The board graciously declined comment on my cheerful optimism! Not until years later did they tell me how they really felt about my statement! When I called them at the conclusion of S.I.L. to say, "We know where we're going and we're on our way," they were astonished. They had not seen God work like that before, so they didn't expect it. We hadn't seen Him work like that before either!

Packing for S.I.L. took very little time; we didn't own much to pack. We piled ourselves, our suitcases, and our children into the car and left for Norman, Oklahoma in the middle of May, 1974. We camped four nights on the way, and the kids really enjoyed that.

We almost heard the angels sing the first night we camped. During family devotions at the campsite, our Kenny trusted Jesus as his personal Saviour from sin. What a thrill that was! We felt God's smile beaming on us all. Our first convert after going out under "Gospel Wings" was our own Kenny!

When we arrived in Norman we kept on camping. Tornadoes crossed the city and county on the day we arrived and set up our tent. You might say we had a flashing welcome! For several days we lived in our fragile tent as tornado warnings continued on the radio. We slept in the tent until the dorms opened in early June. Finally we registered, and classes began--solid walls at last! I never thought "those four walls" could look so good to me!

Patty and I weren't novices at language schools. Years before we had attended language school in Guadalajara for five grueling hours a day, five days a week, with a "mere" three hours of homework a night. That was tough. There is nothing like memorizing words and sounds all day and half the night to raise (or lower!) your frustration tolerance level! But that Guadalajara school was cherry pie--with ice cream on it even--compared to what we endured at S.I.L. Perhaps S.I.L. wasn't so tough for those with abundance of brain, which Patty and I never claimed to have. We felt a bit like Winnie-the-Pooh, bear of very little brain!

Patty and I sat in class, knowing full well we weren't the brightest people in the world, as we admit and our friends too readily agree! We had none of the required degrees for S.I.L., but we had B.T.'s (Been There's) in trusting God.

At S.I.L. they tested us to determine our class ratings and put Patty and me, not in the top class, but in one of the top classes. Was it a computer error? We wondered. There we sat, surrounded by people with master's degrees and even Ph. D's, and the teachers expected us to handle the same level of work the others did.

What can I tell you of those nine weeks? Without doubt, I thought then that they were the most difficult weeks I ever endured, as far as the pressure of academic studies. We attended classes morning and afternoon. We had three to four hours of homework every night. Day after day after day.... I never knew nine weeks could have so many days.

Patty and I kept searching the Bible and praying together for God's leading in the choice of a field. We shared an expectant, eager attitude and felt that any day God would reveal to us His will.

School was "two weeks down and seven to go" the day we walked through the parking lot on a 45 minute lunch break. I saw a young man with his head under the hood of a 1963 green Chevy. "Patty," I asked, "shall we go over and meet that fellow?"

We introduced ourselves. I remember his grin, and his hesitancy to offer his greasy hand for a hand-shake. "Real nice to meet you," he said. "My name is Jim Berryhill." Jim was also attending S.I.L.

We never guessed, as we shook that grease-stained hand, that we were beginning a blessed working friendship between our two families that would last many years. As we talked Patty and I told Jim of our longing to reach a Bibleless tribe for Christ. Jim stopped working on the Chevy and gave us a long, serious look.

"There isn't enough time to talk now," he said. "I want you guys to come over to my apartment when we all finish our homework tonight. I have something I want to share with you."

Patty and I were puzzled and intrigued. What did this stranger want to share with us? Did it have anything to do with God's will for us? We were learning to look for God in seemingly "chance" things, in the apparent haphazard: a half-covered book on a hospital table, a young man with grease-stained hands? Why not? God doesn't always do His work in great cathedrals with solemn organ peals. Look at the seemingly haphazard that surrounded the birth of His Son, and note how each incident wove into God's perfect pattern.

"The most trivial and the most important, the most likely and the most unlikely circumstances are made to minister to the development of God's purposes" (Mackintosh, Notes on Genesis, Loizeaux, p. 321).

Patty and I gulped lunch and returned to a grueling afternoon class. We had supper, played awhile with the kids, and tackled our homework. After bedding the kids down we walked to the Berryhill apartment where we talked with Jim and his lovely wife, Jeanne. There we heard a fascinating tale of God at work in a life--the life of Jim Berryhill. I share the story with you because from here on out Jim's story and mine, and the work among the Pemon, all blend together. Like the old song about love and marriage, "You can't have one without the other."

"Friendship is rare on earth. It means identity in thought and heart and spirit" (Chambers, My Utmost for His Highest, Dodd, Mead and Co., p. 7).

Texas gained itself a new little cowboy when Jim Berryhill entered the world on February 23, 1948, and my good friend was born, although I didn't know it then. Jim was born into a Christian home. He never knew his father, who died when Jim was just six-months-old. Jim's mother remarried when Jim was three, and his step dad loved Jim like his own son. The family attended church together in Dallas.

In his early years Jim enjoyed a stable Christian home life. He trusted Jesus as Saviour at the young age of eight. Jim enjoyed both Sunday school and church, but when he was around 12 years old, his family stopped attending services. Jim stopped going to church when his family did, and he entered his teens a rebellious young man. Of those years Jim confesses, "I had no spiritual desires at all."

Every good Texas cowboy has a horse, and what is a horse without a girl? It was at a riding competition that Jim met his Jeanne, and it didn't take him long to notice her vibrant appearance. When the competition ended the sky looked like it was brewing an ominous storm, so Jim offered to put Jeanne's horse into his trailer and to give her a ride home. She accepted, and they began dating.

Jeanne's home life was very unlike Jim's. The family struggled under financial and emotional stress. Her parents were having problems. Her dad wanted to move to California. Jeanne's father asked her, "Do you want to live with your mother or with me?"

Jeanne wanted to run. How could she choose between the parents she loved? Escape looked good to her troubled young eyes.

Jim and Jeanne planned their scheme and lied to carry it out. They married secretly in Mexico, but on the way home their car broke down, and they were discovered. Their parents insisted they remarry legally in Texas.

Jeanne soon found herself expecting a baby. As invariably happens when children assume adult responsibilities, the road ahead was long and tough for the two newly-weds. Jim's attitude complicated matters. "I'm a grown-up man now," he thought to himself. "I don't need to obey anyone, not my parents, not my teachers, not even God!"

Problems multiplied. Jeanne was the first to feel spiritual hunger. She found comfort in church, but Jim insulted the visitors from church who came to see her and even refused to let them enter the house. Rebellion ate at Jim's heart, until God began gently calling him back home. Jim says of those days, "Had it not been for God dealing with me, our marriage would have broken up for sure."

One night, when Jim was spending the usual amount of hours drinking well past bedtime, he suddenly realized, "Hey, I am utterly miserable. This is no life for me. I am running away from God and being a rotten testimony. I belong to God! What kind of Christian am I, anyway?" The next morning Jim shook Jeanne awake. "Honey," he said urgently, "get up. I want to go to church."

Jeanne was too surprised to ask questions. She got up and dressed both children. "What church should we go to?" Jim wondered. He felt too ashamed to visit the church where Jeanne had friends. He had insulted those friends and refused to allow them into his home. They visited a church where Jeanne had been saved a few years earlier. Several young couples in the church "adopted" Jim and Jeanne. Jim enjoyed their friendship and returned Sunday after Sunday. Gradually God's tender love healed the open wounds in Jim and Jeanne's marriage. Jim found himself hungering for the Word. He devoured it, was consumed by it. Soon he was not only teaching Sunday school but praying about attending Bible college.

When he began attending Bible school in 1971 Jim felt remorse for all the years he had wasted. "God, will You do something special for me?" he prayed. "Enable me to finish the four year course in three so I can gain back a little of the time I wasted."

Faith was the most important subject Jim learned in college. Each semester God stretched Jim's faith muscles a bit more. No one can take a final at Dallas Bible College unless his bill is paid. The first semester Jim and Jeanne prayed, and God provided funds for Jim's bill a whole month before finals. The next semester money came in at the last minute. The third semester Jim went to the office and sadly told them, "I can't take my exams. I don't have any money to pay my bill."

"Yes, you do!" The office girl smiled. "A gift just came in for you, and it covers the exact amount that you still owe."

The Lord sent more than one missionary to Venezuela into Jim's life while he was in Bible school. Jim felt God nudging him toward missions and decided to go to Venezuela on a summer mission's internship. He needed money for a round-trip ticket. The day he needed the money he was still $200.00 short. The money came in just in time. Over and again the Lord built faith into this man He planned to use in a special way.

Working with Indians was the last work that naturally interested Jim. He wears a grin on his voice when he remembers why, "I didn't like bugs, snakes, camping or roughing it." That summer in Venezuela Jim exposed himself to areas of mission work that did interest him: working in a Bible book store, institute work, the academy for children. He even considered church planting with one mental stipulation: "Not in the bush!"

God directed Jim's path to cross Merril and Louise Seely's. The Seelys worked with a savage tribe of Indians who were, at that time, hostile to outsiders. Merril asked Jim, "Have you ever considered work with the Indians?"

"Not me!" Jim responded firmly. He gave his logical explanation. "You see, we are afraid, not just of bugs and snakes, but of lots of other things too."

"Oh, that," Louise Seely responded calmly. "I'm afraid of all those things too." Her eyes danced with amusement, and then she laughed out loud. "I have a deathly fear of all crawly things. I even fear ants and spiders! You know, in the jungle I see far fewer creepy things than I do in my house in the city here in Venezuela. The Lord never gives me more than I can handle in His strength."

The Seelys were just too enthusiastic to ignore. They told Jim about the Pemon tribe. They had done a survey trip among them and were impressed with their hunger for spiritual things. The Seelys begged Jim, "Will you at least ask God if He wants you to work with the Pemon? The Pemon people need a missionary, and we can't be in two places at once." The Seelys even gave their own money to send Jim and Jeanne into a village situation so they could see for themselves that jungle life wasn't as awful as they imagined it to be.

How could Jim and Jeanne refuse the offered trip into the village? In the village they found a simple, plain people hungering to know of the true God. They saw pathetic striving to reach God by man-made effort. They noticed some awesome physical needs too. A voice called to Jim and Jeanne to join hearts with the Pemon people, and the voice was not just Mr. Seely's.

Seelys gave Jim and Jeanne wise advice. "If you feel God calling you to work with the Pemon, ask Him to give you another couple to work with you. It's so hard to be alone. You need someone to encourage the two of you when you're down, someone to help with the burden of translation. The work will go faster and smoother that way. In the jungle, two are better than one."

Alexander Maclaren would have agreed. He wrote, "A solitary heart is timid and weak.... Loose grains of sand are light and moved by a breath; compacted they are rock which the Atlantic beats in vain" (Maclaren, Colossians and Philemon, Hodder and Stoughton, p. 158).

Any contemplating isolated missionary work should heed these words said by Hopeful to Christian, "... Had I been here alone, I had, by sleeping, run the danger of death. I see it is true that the wise man saith, 'Two are better than one.' Hitherto hath thy company been my mercy; and thou shalt have a good reward for thy labor" (Bunyan, Pilgrim's Progress, Fleming H. Revell, p. 123).

Jim and Jeanne began earnestly praying for that couple to work with them among the Pemon.

Jim plunged into his last year of school. He would graduate in three years, even though he had to carry over twenty hours a semester to do so.

Jim graduated and went to Norman, Oklahoma, to attend S.I.L. He sat now with Jeanne in his apartment, telling Patty and me some of the story I have just shared with you.

Jim finished the story in his quiet way and then showed us his slides of the Pemon. He spoke with a full heart of the need of this tribe who had no part of the Bible in their own language. I'll never forget Jim's next words, "Bob, the work is too big for us. Will you come with us?"

Jim voiced his question quietly, but it seemed a shout to my ears--the impact was that definite. Impulsively I wanted to say "Yes!", but Patty and I had long before agreed that God's blessing requires prayer.

Patty and I wanted yet another verse. We hadn't even considered the country of Venezuela before Jim spoke to us. We needed confirmation that this country was God's choice for us.

F.B. Meyer wrote, "Do you need guidance as to your path? Do not look to impressions.... Do not seek for guidance from friends, ... but look away to Christ; throw on Him the responsibility of making you know the way you are to take; leave it to Him to make it so abundantly clear that you cannot do other than follow; even tell Him that you will stand still until He puts His arms under you, and carries you where He would have you be" (Bryant, ed., Climbing the Heights, Zondervan, p. 43).

"I can't answer you now, Jim," I told him. "I need to pray and get my answer from God." Patty and I walked home on shouting ground. Excited is an understatement of how we felt.

Our custom is to read the Bible together before sleeping. That night brought us to Psalm 118. Verse 23 startled us. "This is the Lord's doing; it is marvelous in our eyes." We read the Scofield marginal note, "This thing is from the Lord."

Neither Patty nor I retained a doubt in our minds. We fell to our knees and thanked God for His faithful leading. What a wonderful thing to trace God's hand leading us through long years and varied circumstances to bring us to this point. I feel yet that I was brought forth from the womb to be used as God's missionary to the Pemon. That night Patty and I offered ourselves to be used of God in Venezuela, not to work for Him there, but that He might there do His own work through us.

Patty and I lost no time hunting up Jim and Jeanne the next day and sharing our news with them. The four of us began praying together daily, meeting on the lawn during class breaks. We prayed about the many unknowns. Jim and Jeanne had a year of language school ahead of them and support still to raise. We didn't even know if Jim and Jeanne's mission would allow them to work with us.

We prayed fervently for the work and for each other, and God built into our foursome a wonderful friendship. I think He has knit our hearts together, not just for time, but for eternity. "There is no limit to the extent and devotion of true friendship" (Miller, The Beauty of Every Day, Thomas Y. Crowell and Co., p. 163). I think of David and Jonathan, Paul and his co-workers, and I compare our relationship with Berryhills to that. It has been a sweet, close friendship for many years.

The long summer of study felt eternal to the four of us, but it finally ended. Lo and behold, it finished before it finished us, and to our joy, we even passed our exams. Both Patty and I made B's. If you think, Hey, that guy is bragging, you are right, but I brag on God, not on us. We know we don't have what it takes to earn high grades in a place as tough as S.I.L.!

Parting time with Berryhills came all too soon. We entered into a solemn covenant with them. Our family would go, search out the land and begin the work. Berryhills would join us as soon as possible, if God led them on that way. We longed for God to join our lives and theirs in service, but we wanted then, and still do, His glory above our friendship. We prayed; we clasped hands; we parted.

"Many a thought of God has been hindered (to use the speech of earth) because two friends refused to separate. ... So few are prepared to be, like the pine on the hill top, alone in the wind for God" (Carmichael, Gold by Moonlight, S.P.C.K, p. 160).

"Though the direction be new and the way seem beset with difficulty, there is never any risk, provided we are only led of God" (Pierson, George Muller of Bristol, Zondervan, p. 149).

School days past, ready at last: Houston here we come! Jim told us that the closest Venezuelan embassy was in Houston. Patty and I had some Houston friends we hadn't seen for a long time. Outside of them, we knew no one else in the city.

A large mission saves the missionary much time and foot work; this we admit. A missionary under a board doesn't have to arrange his own visa or meet with government officials. I want to say, if you don't have to do it the way we did, then don't! We had to go under our local church board. We were obeying God's orders, though the envelope containing them was still partly sealed. Our duty was to walk at His command: His was to open doors. We left the worrying part of the work to Him--well, almost.

I climbed the stairs to the small consulate there in Houston. "May I help you?" asked a voice with a distinctively pleasant Venezuelan accent.

I introduced myself to the lady who owned the lovely voice. "We are missionaries and feel that God wants us to work with the Pemon Indians in your country. So, may I have a visa?"

The nice lady smiled tolerantly at my innocent optimism. "We do not do things quite that quickly in Venezuela," she explained gently, as to a school boy. "You will have to get your mission board to apply for a visa for you. You do not do such things yourself."

"I can't do that," I objected. "We don't have a mission board that does that."

"Well, in that case, you must ask someone down in Venezuela who knows you to apply for the visa for you."

"Ma'am!" I sounded desperate. "I don't know even one person in Venezuela. We just know that God wants us to go there. So, you see, we have to go!"

She hesitated a long moment. "In that case, there is but one thing you can do. Describe as briefly as possible what it is you want, and send a telegram to the address I will give to you. Come back to see me in three to six months, and I will have an answer for you."

Three to six months! I was raised in the land of fast foods, express check-out lanes, and instant coffee! I gulped. "But, Ma'am, we want to go now!"

"I am sorry," she said firmly. "With these--circumstances--of yours, this is the only thing you can do. I can do nothing else for you."

I obeyed her, crossed the street, and sent my telegram. What else could I do? Let me share a secret. I have a handle on this Venezuelan telegraph stuff. I have used the telegraph service in Venezuela. I have never seen a telegram arrive at its destination reading exactly as it did when it started out.

Telegraph service in Venezuela reminds me of the game of "gossip" children play, where the first child whispers a sentence to the child next to him. After the sentence travels from mouth to ear around a circle of children, it has little resemblance to the original. Worse than the distorted telegram is the telegram that never arrives. Of course, I did not know any of that back then, but God did. Looking back I consider it a miracle that my telegram not only arrived in Venezuela worded correctly, but that it reached the proper authorities once there!

Patty and I stood outside the telegraph office in Houston and just looked at each other. Now what? That "beginning to be familiar" thought flashed again in my mind. "Robert, what in the world are you doing here?"

"Now what do we do?" Patty asked.

I thought a minute for a logical answer. "Why not visit the folks in Phoenix, Patty?"

Why didn't we just head home to Michigan if I had to wait three to six months for a visa? Even a missionary struggles with pride and a masculine ego, you know. Do you remember that I told the church board we were on our way and wouldn't be back? I little relished the thought of going back and saying, "Well, hello there, folks!"

Some witty sage once commented that the true test of humility is whether you can say grace before eating crow. Not being in a crow-eating mood, we visited the folks and enjoyed them. But living out of a suitcase in someone else's home wears on your joy after a time. I began to get "antsy." People often use the word "antsy" to describe me, or they did back in those days.

After the twelfth day at my folks, the name "antsy" fit me. When I know what God wants me to do, I want to get on with it. Waiting on God is harder for most of us than working for Him, but only one who learns to wait is ready for God to work through him--a lesson I'm still learning, in case you wondered!

"Patty," I said to my wife, "I think I'll call that embassy."

Patty tried to reason with me. "Bob, they said to call in three to six months. It hasn't even been three to six weeks!"

"I know what the lady said, but I'm calling that embassy tomorrow."

You might know it--when I called the same lady with the distinctive accent answered. "Just a moment," she replied to my slightly sheepish question. I heard papers rustling on her desk.

"I cannot believe my eyes!" she exclaimed. "I have on my desk a one-year visa for you and your family. Come pick it up whenever you are ready."

Joy just about set our hearts to dancing! It was our own private miracle, a little thing to our great God, but a great thing to little us! God gave us a visa, without the backing of a major mission board, without the influence of anyone in the country who knew us. Not only that, but the permission took only thirteen days to travel from Venezuela to the United States! To my knowledge, things like that don't happen. Even the officials of Venezuela who questioned us in after-years couldn't believe it.

That visa was my green "Go!" flag. When you set strawberry shortcake, piled high with whipped cream in front of a hungry man, you don't expect him just to talk about it and admire it, do you? Straightway I offered our car for sale. The duty to get a car into Venezuela is tremendous, and besides, we needed the car money to pay for the plane tickets. The car sold in two days.

We toted our few belongings along with us on a Greyhound bus to Houston where we joyfully claimed our visas. The stamp marked our passports September 3, 1974, and we headed for Miami, once again on a bus. Did any bus ever poke along slower than that one? With two small, weary ones next to us, the ride seemed endless. With tired bodies and expectant hearts we finally checked into a motel in Miami.

We bought tickets to the city of Ciudad Bolivar, henceforth known to you as C.B. C.B. became our jumping-off point, because it is the last civilized city in Venezuela before the jungle claims back its own land.

We flew out of Miami the next day. We heard the engines roar to vibrant life, and like every missionary who leaves the United States, we thought of precious family and friends and wondered, will we ever return? It's a strange, poignant feeling to leave the shores of this great free land and to make another land "home."

Two hours and forty minutes later brought us to another world, Maiquetia, Venezuela. The date on our calendars read September 6, 1974. We had a short wait before we took the connecting flight to C.B.

At C.B. they unloaded the luggage onto a little push cart, and we watched with amusement as people pushed and shoved, fighting for their baggage right there outside, not far from the plane. We then stood and watched the plane disappear above us, heading back to Maiquetia.

Suddenly everything felt too lonely, too quiet. Again came the thought, "Robert, what in the world are you doing here?" A sudden companion thought, even more fearful, chimed in, "Robert, where in the world are you?"

We hadn't even taken the time to study maps! How patient our Lord is with His slow learners. We didn't know everything, but we did know that God can call a man, and then use that man as His channel to call a nation. By God's grace and power, I meant to be that man.

Patty and I may not have known our exact position on a map, but we knew we were exactly where God wanted us, and that is the one exactness that matters. Most comfortable Christians know exactly where they are, but they lack total assurance that they are where God wants them to be. Oh, the peace and sheer joy that comes from being where God wants and doing what He wants! I believe that men and women can endure anything in the center of God's will. When one is outside of God's will, or doubts that will, every minor frustration can be enough to cause a big headache.

The plane was gone. We were there. A voice in Spanish interrupted our thoughts. "Hi! Need a taxi?"

"We sure do!"

"What motel do you want to go to?"

"Well, now," I responded agreeable, "you tell us. We have very little money, and we know nothing about your town."

He nodded and grinned. "I know just the place for you."

"The place" didn't look like much from the outside. Come to think of it, it didn't look like much from the inside either! The room was so tiny that the four of us had to cram to fit, but it had a battered, dented, working air conditioner! Ahhh! C.B. is the second hottest town in Venezuela.

We looked at each other and matched grins. There we were, real, live missionaries, our first night in Venezuela. We thanked God for bringing us to His land.

Did your body ever feel so tired that you thought it must belong to someone else? We dragged those complaining legs out for a quick supper, hurried back, and slept deeply.

It didn't take long for culture shock to hit. That term may be an over worked cliche, but it is an apt one. When we shopped the next day we found prices a bit different than in the States. Our kids love peanut butter, but they were soon to learn to un-love it at $3.22 for a medium sized jar! A small can of vegetables cost 75 cents. Remember, this was down many steps on the inflation ladder--way back in 1974. When we bought a very used Fiat we paid $2,150. A new Ford LTD cost $13,800. Needless to say, we didn't buy many (make that any) Ford LTD's! Gas was cheap though, costing only 28 cents a gallon.

September and October are extremely hot months in C.B. Daytime temperatures average 95 with 80% humidity. Patty likes hot weather, and it's a good thing, because the day after we arrived we began house hunting in that awful, sizzling heat. The rains were about ready to end, and the dry season was almost on us. The rain seemed to make the heat worse. I felt like I had been in a hot, steamy shower with all my clothes on.

We hoped to find a cheap house fast, set up base, establish a routine, and get on with it. We walked all over town and found nothing. Renting a place in South America isn't like renting a house in Grand Rapids, Michigan. Few people hang out For Rent signs. Fewer list a place to rent in a paper. You have to know someone who knows someone who has heard of someone whose neighbor's mother might have a place to rent. As you can guess, house hunting continued for many days.

In the midst of house hunting Patty got sick, a rare thing for her. Usually I hold the dubious honor of being sick enough for the whole family. My Patty doesn't like to do anything halfway, so when she gets sick she does it up good. Her fever climbed almost immediately to 103. I stayed up all night, wiping her forehead, praying with her. All day I cared for the kids.

Missionaries don't come equipped with steel emotions. I wondered all the same things you might wonder. I had never seen my wife so sick. "What if Patty dies out here?" I asked myself. "Have I been a fool to bring my family to this place?"

As I prayed God strengthened me with His own calm thoughts. Someone has said, "We kneel, how weak; we rise, how full of power." Patty's illness was the first crisis that drove me to cling to the verse God had given us, but it wasn't the last.

Would you like to help missionaries? "Pray for us" is no pat slogan; it is our life's blood and power. You may not be able to bodily join us as a co-worker, but you can, in spirit, be our fellow-helpers of the truth. "Fear not at all," Amy Carmichael wrote. "Where your hands cannot reach and your love cannot help, His hands can reach and His love can help" (Carmichael, Mimosa, Christian Literature Crusade, p. IV). That thought argues a wonderfully strong reason for fervent prayer. Readers, pray for us!

The next morning Patty looked better, even to my tired eyes. In a few days she was fine. It was just some form of jungle fever. Satan did have his moments of grim satisfaction and unholy glee there in Venezuela, but we remember that he is only a bitter, defeated foe.

We resumed house hunting when Patty recovered. In our search we stumbled into a missionary compound. There we met John Perkins, an outgoing man who shines with love for the Lord.

John demanded, "Who are you, and how did you get in here?"

It was a rather strange welcome, I thought, but I answered his questions. "My name is Bob Nosker. I came in on a plane awhile ago."

"What do you mean you came in on a plane?" John demanded. "I mean, how did you get into the country?"

I shared with John the miracle speed with which we obtained our visas.

"Hey, that story sounds all but impossible," John objected. "This country has been closed to new missionaries for seven months. Our board has missionaries ready and waiting in the States, but they can't get into the country."

We wondered then if it was our lack of a big board's backing that got us into Venezuela. We do know that God alone opened the door. We fundamentalists need to learn not to try to put God into a box and expect Him to always act in certain ways. We should look for His actual intervention in our affairs. God is real, do we really believe that? Too often if we fail to see HOW God can do something, we refuse to believe that He CAN do it. God can open any door, and He can do it without any man's help. I challenge you to launch out and believe God. Coleridge said, "You do not believe. You only believe that you believe" (Caryle, Heroes and Hero Worship, Macmillian, p. 164).

John and his family, and the Eddings, another missionary family, took us to their hearts. The Eddings shared with us many invaluable hints and tips about the country and its people. John drove us in his car to look for an apartment. After nine costly days in a hotel we moved to La Villa Evangelica, Spanish for "a gospel mission compound." A couple of nights we hung out in hammocks with the Indians. Another few nights we spent in a house, and we waited for a home to open for us.

"How much feverish unrest we would be spared if only we would learn ... to repose our confidence in God rather than in circumstances and quietly await His time" (Morgan, An Exposition of the Whole Bible, Fleming H. Revell, p. 31).

In late September of 1974 we made the small Venezuelan village of La Paragua our home. La Paragua edges up to the Paragua River and is the last stop before the jungle; even a car can navigate no further. Just one-half hour to four or five hours away were the prizes we earnestly coveted--the Pemon Indians.

It was easy enough to hitch a ride in a dugout canoe with one of the German or American miners and make contact with Indians. Considerable mining has gone on in that area ever since men discovered diamonds there in the 1950's. A few years later we were to be accused of being diamond miners!

Do you love adventure? If so, envy me those canoe trips! River travel grows dangerous that time of year because the water level drops with the start of the dry season, resulting in many more rapids to navigate.

On our trips we canoed up-river and stopped at a settlement--usually no more than a house or two. There I met Indians, listened to them talk and learned a few more words each trip. It wasn't exactly conventional class room language study, but it worked. During the six weeks we lived in La Paragua I made many such trips, leaving Patty and the children alone for three to five days each time.

When I left in a canoe Patty had to handle the wondering part of our separation. She never knew where I was or when (or if) I would return. I confronted a different challenge. I slept where I knew no one, well aware of the danger of being robbed at night. Mining areas, where we always camped, are notorious for crudeness. Drunkenness and sudden killings are common.

Before one canoe trip I told Patty to look for my return on Thursday. Patty and the children walked down to the river Thursday morning to watch for me. News drifts along the river almost faster than the rapids run. As Patty waited for me a man approached her. "Did you hear about the foreigner who drowned upriver when his boat tipped over in the rapids?" the man asked. Patty asked the nationality of the foreigner who had drowned, but no one seemed to know.

To add to Patty's anxiety I didn't come home. I was stranded upriver for two days, because all the canoes were down-river looking for the dead man's body. Finally, one-half hour before sunset on Friday, I was able to get a ride in a canoe. Back home, Patty carried on calmly, never letting the children sense her concern for me. She just fervently prayed for my protection and for hers. A successful jungle missionary learns early that "prayer is the secret of continuance" (Meyer, Great Verses through the Bible, Zondervan, p. 334).

It's tricky enough to navigate the river in daylight, and the sun was sinking quickly. (The man who drowned attempted to canoe at night and apparently hit a rock in some rapids. He shot into the water at high speed and gashed his head apart on a rock.) I probably wouldn't have taken that evening canoe ride if I had not already been late in getting home. An Indian sat tall in the prow, guiding the man who drove the boat. I sat quietly in the middle.

The Indian pointed silently to a floating object about 100 yards away. As we drew closer we saw it was the body of the foreigner who drowned. We pulled the body into the canoe with us. The corpse reeked with death's clinging smell, so the Indian and I both sat ahead of it. The other poor man who guided the boat had to sit behind the body. He wrapped a rag around his mouth, and we proceeded down river on our now grim journey.

What a study in contrasts were the faces of Patty and the wife of the dead man when our boat arrived safely at home. I'll never forget the sorrow, the absolute despair on the wife's features when she claimed her husband's body. They had been married only a few months.

Not long after the canoe incident I met a Maquiritari Indian, called a "Mike" Indian by the Americans. I told the Indian that I wanted to go further upriver to see the villages and meet the people. "Oh, I am the one who can take you on a trip like that," he assured me. "I know the river well." The Indian told me what supplies to buy and to order, what type of boat and motor I needed, and he made a date to come back for me on October 30th.

Supply gathering didn't take long; I was so excited that I had everything ready in about two days. I often saw the Maquiritari Indian around town. I kept making short two and three day excursions upriver while I waited for October 30th. I was always trying to add to my limited supply of information like a good linguist does. I viewed each word or phrase learned as a careful treasure to be hoarded. Word gathering helped the waiting time pass a little faster.

On one canoe excursion I met a miner from Guyana, Oswaldo Williams. Oswaldo traveled the river often. Little did I guess when I met Oswaldo what an important part he was to play in my life and in the work among the Pemon Indians. It's so fascinating to watch the powerful hand of God at work in all our "chance" meetings--the God of the haphazard, as Oswald Chambers liked to say.

Oswaldo was an Arowak Indian. Because English is the national language in Guyana, Oswaldo had left his tribe to go out and learn the English language. He became a miner and drifted to Venezuela. Oswaldo was one of the class of miners who always hopes to make big bucks but never does. I liked Oswaldo, and we became good friends. Miners are often inebriated, and when Oswaldo was--and he was often--I never knew whether or not to believe him.

Oswaldo and I made several trips upriver together. On one trip he said, "Robert, I am going to make a trip way east on the Caroni River." The Caroni is the eastern-most river that flows north-south in Venezuela, and is the second largest river in the country. It flows into the Orinoco River, the eighth largest river in the world. Oswaldo hoped to cash in on the news of diamonds being found east on the Caroni.

To reach his destination Oswaldo planned to cross over all the little streams from the Paragua to the Caroni River, an extremely difficult undertaking. To do this one must be out on the river weeks at a time, not seeing anyone but Indians, perhaps seeing no one at all. It's desolate, dangerous land.

Oswaldo promised me, "Robert, I will make you a map on my trip. Then you will know for yourself all the villages where the Pemon live."

"Sounds good, Oswaldo," I told him, but I dismissed his promise from my mind before hope had a chance to latch onto it. Miners usually mean well, but as a rule, reliability isn't one of their strong points. They get too busy, or they drink too much to remember a promise very long.

I witnessed often to Oswaldo about the saving power of Christ. Oswaldo was a hell-bound sinner, and he knew it. He needed to accept Christ's death as payment for his own sin, and he knew it. Oswaldo always said, "Yeah, I know I need to accept Christ, Robert. Not just yet though, O.K.? I just gotta make it big first. Then I will do it."

Oswaldo left on his treacherous journey without asking the Lord to forgive his sin and make him ready for heaven. I hated to see my friend go, but I felt excited about my upcoming October trip into the interior.

As the days dragged on I often eyed the calendar. Finally October 30th arrived--the day for my big trip with the Mike Indian. I sat waiting with my two drums of gasoline, food, and many supplies--all purchased at no little expense. I kept waiting.

The Mike Indian never showed, and I have never seen him again. Is he dead or alive? I felt the sting of disappointment sharply, and it made me do some serious thinking.

I had been in Venezuela since early September; it was now early November. I knew very little language; we weren't settled in a village; I had done little or nothing for the cause of Christ as most people define it. (Though in reality any fruit is just His grown through us.) Satan whispered slyly, "What will the people back home think of you? You've been here all this time." Now I realize that if a missionary can settle in and begin work in six months he does very well, but I didn't know that then.

Where does a man at the jungle's edge turn when he's discouraged? He goes to the Lord, and if he is as blessed as I am, he shares with his wife. "What will we do, Honey?" I asked Patty. "We have no village, no work, no real ministry. Surely our Lord didn't bring us here just to leave us." We needed our Isaiah verse then, and we needed the refreshing reminder that the work isn't ours, but His, and that He takes the essential responsibility for its results.

A day or two later I answered a knock on my door and saw a man on a bike. In a small Venezuelan town that sight means mail, usually a telegram. The man held tightly to the telegram. He asked 10 Bolivares for it ($2.50)--a lot of money in 1974 for two missionaries who had just spent a lot on supplies for an aborted journey.

The man refused to let us see who the telegram was from, so I wasn't sure if it was worth paying for. What if it was just a hoax, a scrap of paper? As far as I knew no one in the world knew exactly where we were or how to reach us. Even the church board didn't know how to contact us at that point, because we had no mailing address at the edge of the jungle.
Curiosity won. I paid the man.

Inside of the envelope was a wrinkled, old piece of paper, scribbled on both sides. It looked like a map. It was from Oswaldo!

How in the world did Oswaldo get that to me? There were no telegraph stations anywhere in Venezuela out of La Paragua. How did the map travel one hundred miles down the Caroni River to a place where it could be sent like a telegram? Through how many hands had the wrinkled paper passed? Here was another of God's "chance" miracles. Truly God does use all the hosts of heaven and earth to accomplish His will.

Oswaldo had scribbled a note. "Here is the map I promised you, Robert. I am very tired. Been on the river many weeks. Been through many Pemon villages. Here they are, outlined for you on the map. You can see that I have circled the name of each Pemon village, and the name of the head man in each village." What a treasure I held in my hands--surely the only one like it anywhere!

Oswaldo's note continued, "I was in a village the other night on the Caroni River, way south-east of where you are, Robert. I found a new Pemon village. It is less than one year old, and the Pemon call it 'San Miguel.' I stayed there for a few days. Strange things are going on there, Robert, funny religious activities. I have never seen anything like it. The people spend most of the day singing, most of the night dancing and chanting. They drink, too, Robert, and people come out of the church and are sick to their stomachs from all the bouncing and dancing."

"It is an awful place," Oswaldo continued. "I think it is the place you should go, Robert," he concluded.

An awful place? The place we should go? Didn't the Lord assure us that the work was His and He would lead us step by step? Why did He use an unsaved, drinking miner to lead us? Who can understand the ways of the Lord? His paths are in the sea, and indiscernible to the wisest of men.

"What God has designed men for He will call them to" (Henry, The Matthew Henry Commentary, Zondervan, p. 936).

"Patty," I said, putting Oswaldo's letter aside, "I think I should go investigate this San Miguel place."

Patty drove me the three hours back to C.B. where I caught a plane to take me into the jungle. Patty then drove back to La Paragua to await my return. I jostled around in that old DC-3 mail plane that hopped like a toad through the little mining towns in the jungle. I got off the plane at Uriman, a town occupied by Indians and miners. I could speak Spanish to the Venezuelan miners there.

In Uriman I found a man with a boat and paid him to take me to San Miguel, about a two or three hour trip along a river route, made dangerous by several lethal rapids. I gazed at the white water, and in my mind I saw the gashed head of the man who had perished in similar waters. As I sat gingerly in that small canoe, I thought once again, "Robert, what in the world are you doing here?"

Here's a good recipe for the shakes: take a river boiling with rapids; add a canoe that hangs low in the water, and throw in a driver anything but sane--a half Indian doing some serious drinking. I had the shakes all right. What a mess! Yet I knew that I was safer on the river and in God's hand than anywhere else out of His hand!

It was November 7th, 3 P.M., when the drunken Indian stopped the canoe and pointed at an open path on the river bank. "Follow that path," he said. "It will take you to the village you look for."

I stood on the bank and watched the canoe glide away. I gathered my courage around myself like a small boy's security blanket and trudged up the hill, perhaps a 500 meter walk up a gentle slope. Then I saw San Miguel, a quiet little village of twenty-five or thirty small huts clustered into a unit against the jungle.

I saw no men, and the few women and children who saw me just as I saw them scattered in every direction. They had seen only a few whites--Venezuelans and Brazilians--and I looked whiter and stranger than any man they had ever seen. Indians have often been abused by miners, and though I wasn't a miner, they didn't know it. To them I looked like a strange color of trouble. No wonder they scattered.

I later learned that all the men of San Miguel were out hunting, fishing, gathering palm leaves for their houses, or collecting fire wood. I sat on a log in the empty looking village and waited. Women and children peeked at me around corners, and as their fear subsided, they began kind of laughing at me. I pulled out a book and read. I guessed that the men would soon return, and just about 6 P.M., an hour before dark, the men began to make their way up the path.

The first group of men spotted me immediately, and their leader came at me like an angry bee. He was very excited, obviously upset and angry. I didn't expect to understand him, but to my surprise, he spoke immaculate Spanish. "What are you doing here in my village?" he demanded roughly.

"Strange," I thought to myself, "that he asks me the very same question I've been asking myself!"

"I am Bob Nosker," I said to him, "and I'm an evangelical missionary." The word "evangelical" sometimes has some bad off-tones or connotations in the States, but in South America at that time it simply meant, "Gospel-preaching."

"God sent me to your village," I continued as bravely as possible, which wasn't all that bravely! "God wants me to learn your language and write the New Testament in the words of your people. I want to live here with your people and help in any way I can."

He looked shocked. "Catholic missionaries came to my country 50 years ago," he responded thoughtfully. "They are not right here in my village, but we have seen them carry a book they call the Bible. They have never written their book in the language of my people so we could read it ourselves. Why is this?"

I wasn't about to give a religious dissertation. I just explained what God had sent me to give them the New Testament, and I meant to do just that. A deep look of longing erased the sternness from his face. "You know," he said, more quietly than before, "it is true that we Indians are very ignorant about the things of God, but this is not our fault. No one ever came to tell us who God is or what He wants of us."

I will never forget those words, "Who God is and what He wants of us." They are imprinted on my heart. "That is what I will do," I promised the Pemon Indian. "I will teach you who God is and what He wants. You will not need to be ignorant about Him anymore."

Abruptly the gentleness left his voice. "We will see about that tomorrow," he said gruffly. "You hang your hammock over there." He stalked away.

Strange man, this Indian leader I was later to know as Pedro, the village captain. He was about thirty-two years old when I met him. When Pedro was six years old, his father sent him away from the tribe to be city-educated. A doctor had offered to raise Pedro, and Pedro lived with him until about the age of sixteen. Pedro later told me, "I learned Spanish so well that I completely forgot my Indian language."

When the doctor moved to Caracas, the capitol of Venezuela, he didn't want to take Pedro along. Pedro returned to his tribe and had to learn all over again how to be an Indian.

I had much to think about as I lay in my hammock that first night. All the Pemon sleep in hammocks, as do missionaries who live in low-land jungles--that is, they do until they get settled!

I spent the next four days in the village. Each morning the men greeted me briefly, and then they were gone. I spent my days alone. The word spread among the Pemon, "He is not a miner, and though he is not to be trusted, he will not likely hurt anyone."

I sat on my log that first morning, and a little girl of about twelve inched her way gingerly to where I sat. She put down a plate as quickly as she could and ran off like a frightened doe. The plate held some kind of a sweet potato, steaming hot. Boy, was that good! Since I left Patty I had been eating from cans--mostly crackers and tuna fish. With a bit of salt and pepper a steaming hot Pemon sweet potato tastes as good as a filet mignon--well, almost as good. It became my favorite Venezuelan vegetable. When I finished cleaning up my plate I put a few crackers and a piece of candy on it. I sat it down near my log.

The same doe-like girl, looking nonchalant, edged slowly closer, trying to reach my plate. She grabbed it, and off she ran. The little girl and I continued our daily exchange until I left the village.

I had fish hooks and machetes with me. These I gave to the leader, Pedro, and asked him to give them to his people. He accepted my gifts, but my talking he ignored. They don't call me "antsy" for nothing. On the fifth day I said, "Look, I have a wife and children. I know you distrust strangers, and I know why. Why not let me bring my family here to your village? You can see then that I have a wife and that I will not steal your wives. You will see that I have my own children and do not wish to rob you of your children. I know too that you have diamonds and gold in your river, but I am not interested in that. I do not care if you never even show me any diamonds."

I did see some diamonds, but only a few, while we lived in San Miguel. We kept scrupulously away from diamonds because Indians always suspect foreigners. In years to come "diamond mining" was one accusation that the Roman Catholic church would fling at us to force us to leave San Miguel.

"After you see my family," I told Pedro, "you may decide if we may live among you."

Pedro liked that idea. It was now about the 24th of November. "You come back here in two weeks," Pedro told me. I took careful note of the date and determined to return in exactly two weeks, the Lord willing, to show that a Christian is a man of his word.

Would you like to take an imaginary trip to San Miguel with me, the way we did it in those early days, so you can view the place I planned to bring my family when Pedro's two weeks were up? Meet me in Miami, and we will fly first to Caracas, then on to C.B. by jet. That was easy enough so far, wasn't it? It wasn't even a turbulent flight this time.

Now we board an old DC-3 twin engine prop and fly two-hundred miles to Uriman. This takes us one-and-one-half-hours, and we fly over thick jungle and rugged terrain. Are you praying, dear reader, for those old DC-3 engines as we navigate these mountain valleys with their sheer cliffs looming close on both sides of us? At last we bounce to a rough landing on Uriman's dirt air strip.

We will travel the next part of our journey Caroni River style. Step into our "yacht" please--a dug-out canoe (a curiara) with a motor. If the motor runs well we can hope to reach San Miguel in three hours or so. To do this we must navigate two treacherous rapids where even experienced river travelers have lost their lives.

When we reach the village, you will no doubt notice that the Pemon are friendly, though a bit reserved. The standard of living in San Miguel may take you some time to get used to. A Pemon Indian lives in a mud walled home with a leaf roof. They own few belongings--so few possessions give them trouble or demand their care. They hunt and fish for meat, have small gardens, and eat Cassava bread made from yucca root.

Cashiri is the common drink of the Pemon. No doubt you want to know its contents before you sip it? Cashiri is made by grating the bitter yucca root. The Indians mix it with grated sweet potato and then boil it many hours. After some days it ferments and becomes the "home brew" of the Pemon. Often it is the only thing the Pemon have to eat. We drink it with the people before it ferments. Before fermentation it can still be considered food; after it ferments it brews much trouble among the Pemon and breeds much sin. Because it is often their only food we don't deny it to the people, but we do teach strongly that drunkenness is not to be a part of a disciple's life.

When we first lived with the Pemon they were a very religious people. They used candles, an altar and many statues and pictures in their worship. Both Saturday and Sunday were "holy days" (the Seventh Day Adventist and Catholic influence). They held long services that included singing, praying and dancing. Sometimes they chanted non-stop for two or three hours, stomping their feet and clapping their hands the whole time. They spent six or seven hours in church every Saturday and Sunday, and one or two hours there each week day.

Do you wonder what I offered Patty for our first home among the Pemon? Our home was made with mud walls and a leaf roof, just like the Indians'. Our furniture was made from jungle materials. In the dry season we carried water 500 yards from the river, where we also did our laundry. Unlike the Pemon, we enjoyed a gas stove and refrigerator, and kerosene lamps.

I believe I hear a few questions on this imaginary jungle tour we are taking? Snakes? You better believe it! Insects? Plenty of them. Hot? Very! Wild animals? Oh, we have a few. What is jungle life without them? Mail? Not unless we go out for it, the same way we came in--and you haven't forgotten that trip already, have you? Hamburgers and fries? Ah, now we are really dreaming!

Did I seriously worry about Patty objecting to the primitive conditions and hard work of village life? It wasn't much to offer the wife I so dearly love: hard work, life in a mud hut, sickness, loneliness--and the sweet, wonderful will of God. That "wonderful will" was the clincher. I could offer to my Patty nothing better, and she agrees.

Do you know what love is? "Love is seeking the highest good in the one loved, and the highest good is the glory or manifestation of God" (Ryrie, First and Second Thessalonians, Moody, p. 58).

This I could offer Patty: a rare opportunity to be used of God for His own glory. This I offered, and this she joyfully accepted.

"The idea is not that we do work for God, but that we are so loyal to Him that He can do His work through us--'I reckon on you for extreme service, with no complaining on your part and no explanation on Mine.' God wants to use us as He used His own Son" (Chambers, My Utmost for His Highest, Dodd, Mead and Co., p. 353).

On the exact day chosen by Pedro for our return, my family and I arrived back in San Miguel. That may not astonish you, but if in South America you can do what you plan to do, you accomplish a major miracle! I felt it was vital to return when I said I would to show the Indians that I kept my word.

From the first we made it our policy never to promise anything we couldn't fulfill and to never break a promise, regardless of the sacrifice required to keep it (cf. Ps. 15:4). A missionary must never forget that his life is his best sermon--and the one he preaches most often!

Robert T. Ketcham wrote, "We pray for God's blessing on what we do. We must learn that God has not promised power on what we do. He has promised power on us. If this is our blessed experience then what we do will take care of itself" (Ketcham, God's Provision for Normal Christian Living, Moody, p. 44).

We found the Indians waiting down river for us on the day we arrived, and we came up to San Miguel in their canoe, a bigger and safer one than the canoe I first took to San Miguel. Still, the trip was an exciting one!

We felt nervous when we walked into the village. We were goods under inspection, and we knew it. The Pemon gave us a tolerable welcome. They waved no banners, marched in no parades, but their greeting was much friendlier than it had been on my first meeting with them!

The Indians pointed out a hut and said, "This is the house you will stay in. It is a big one. You hang your hammocks there, and we will talk during the days you spend here with us."

Obediently we hung our hammocks. We then gathered some rocks to form a fire pit. It was time to cook our supper. It had been raining, and all the wood was wet, but, like a good boy scout, I had kerosene along to start the fire. I stacked my wood carefully and doused it good with kerosene. The Indians stood silently, ten to twenty feet away, intently observing my every move. Such close observation quickly stretches the nerves, especially when you aren't used to it. We weren't used to it!

I kept trying to start my fire, each attempt becoming a little more desperate than the one before. The Indians' sober silence began breaking up into small chuckles that grew louder when they saw my increasing frustration.

Finally one of the Pemon stepped from the group. Gently, as you would handle a small child with impaired intelligence, he took the bottle of kerosene from my hands and set it on the ground. Next, he drew a stick from the fire wood and shaved it carefully into tiny, curling pieces. He added some dry grass and the shavings to the wood fire, lit a match, and presto--a lovely cooking fire. He stepped back silently, grinning at me as though to say, "There, you incompetent American, is your fire. Remember, it's our world out here!"

Like I told you, I arrived in San Miguel on the exact day I had promised, because I am a firm believer in the importance of a good first impression....

We cooked our food, settled into our hammocks, and spent a quiet but restless night, listening to the strangely beautiful music of jungle sounds.

Jungle days began at six A.M. for us, at 4 A.M. for most Indians. The next day was but two hours old when two distraught parents brought us their crying, kicking, ten-month-old baby. Fluid ooze from sacks on her leg where the skin was peeled back. She was the daughter of Ramon, who was the religious leader of the Pemon people in San Miguel. The infant had fallen into the fire and badly burned her upper right leg. Her parents were desperate for help. Ramon thrust his badly burned baby at us. The poor thing kicked and screamed even louder, terrified to be in a white man's arms.

Patty and I had no medical training. We quickly found our medical book (compiled by a mission board). We turned to the burn section in the book and read that there are two ways of treating burns: you may cover a burn or you may leave it uncovered. A covered burn may become a breeding place for germs. We decided to leave it uncovered and watch it as though our lives depended on it, well aware that if the baby died, the Indians would send us packing.

We had bags of black beans in our supplies, and we fed them to the baby three or four times a day to pump protein into her. Together Patty and I watched, prayed, cut off dead skin, and gave the baby antibiotics. At last the burn healed without any infection. That was our first plus mark in the eyes of the Pemon, and we knew our Lord had arranged it so.

The burn incident quickly faded, but another demanded just as much prayer. On our third day in the village an Indian woman approached us with a critically ill three month old baby in her arms. We thought the baby had pneumonia, or a heavy bronchial infection. The woman poured out a torrent of Indian words and gently placed her infant in our a