A great multitude, from every nation, before the Lamb

On Monday the work began; on Thursday we bade farewell to Tekax, our part in their mission completed. In between, lay many hours of grueling, back-breaking work: the hardest work that I, at least, had ever done in my life, and I know many others would agree with me. Our work during those hours can be summed up succinctly - pouring concrete for the church floor and pastors parking and painting the interior walls - and yet, at the same time, no words can adequately describe the hard work and persistence that lay behind the finished product.

When we first arrived each morning, we gathered across the way to hear the tentative plan for the day, then crossed the street to the church. There was something beautiful about it, unfinished as it was, and it wasn't just the shade it provided from the sun. The building was one large room, light and airy, and the enormous, arched windows made it almost part of the outside. And from the lofty roof echoed the sounds of work.

First was the rattling roar of the cement mixer from outside, and all the accompanying noises: shovels scooping sand and gravel into buckets, heavy bags of cement mix being lifted and set down, and finally, the clattering, clamor as buckets were poured in. Now the buckets of cement were being filled. Invariably, the cry of "buckets" preceded their appearance at the side entrance, passed hand to hand. Then each bucket was poured into place. The empty buckets were then passed back long another line to be washed and used once more.

Once the concrete was finished, which took longer than many of us would have liked, there was painting to be done, with long rollers and tall ladders and precarious perches fifteen feet off the floor. Cards had to be written and VBS supplies prepared and the rest benches and chairs cleaned.

At the end of Thursday work day, we were simply exhausted. Everyone was hurting. Everyone was tired. Most of us had blisters or soars or torn up arms and knees. Concrete was in our wounds and paint clung to our hair.

And yet...

On that final day, when we had been pushed beyond our limits, and exhausted beyond measure, the people of the church we had helped came to give us one final goodbye. I was tired. I was hot. I was, frankly grumpy. And yet when we had gathered in a circle, standing on the floor we had so painstakingly poured, surrounded and shaded by the walls we had painted - then it all, the blisters, sores, exhaustion, heat - it all took second place.

These were the people we had worked for. This was what we had slaved for in the hot sun: brothers and sisters in Jesus Christ, gathered together in his name to praise God. I stood between two girls I had gotten to know, Karen and Karime, and joined hands in the circle. I barely spoke Spanish; there English was not much better. And yet - and yet we were friends. We had exchanged gifts, cards, addresses. Even though we had only known each other for a few days, even though we hardly spoke each other's languages, we were united by something stronger, something greater than this world. We were sisters in Christ.

As we stood there in that circle, prayed, exchanged thanks, I was overwhelmed by what God had done. And then when we joined hands and sang a hymn to our Lord, two different languages, cultures, peoples, united in praise of our God - then I understood the wonder of Revelation 7:9:

"... and behold, a great multitude that no one could number, from every nation, from all tribes, and peoples, and languages, standing before the throne and before the Lamb, clothed in white robes, with palm branches in their hands and crying out with a loud voice, "Salvation belongs to our God, who sits on the throne, and to the Lamb!"

Gweny Musgrove