Bleach Blond Hair and a Bucket Toilet: Our Puerto Rican Welcome

Bleach Blond Hair and a Bucket Toilet: 

Our Puerto Rican Welcome

If you know anything about church culture in Puerto Rico, you likely have a certain image in your mind when you picture a pastor. Well-groomed, always in a suit, exuding a specific, practiced persona – it's a look deeply ingrained in the hierarchical structure prevalent in many Puerto Rican churches. The higher up you are, the more respect and honor you receive, often to an unhealthy degree (but that's a topic for another time!). Suffice it to say, there's a distinct "pastor look."

And that "look" was precisely what my wife and I were subconsciously expecting when we landed in San Juan.

Stepping off the plane and into the humid embrace of the tropical air, we navigated the familiar route to baggage claim. The San Juan airport has a unique setup – those waiting for arrivals must stay outside the luggage area. As we exited, scanning the crowd, we anticipated spotting an obviously "pastoral" figure. We stood there, our luggage beside us, watching as the stream of passengers dwindled until it was just us and… two other people.

A nervous glance passed between my wife and me. Surely not. There was absolutely no way that couple was who we were waiting for.

Leaning casually against a parking garage pillar was a young man, light-skinned with long, flowing bleach-blond hair. He was dressed in jeans, flip-flops, and a well-worn t-shirt. Beside him stood a striking woman with long, jet-black hair and a more refined look. My wife and I exchanged another bewildered look. Could it be?

Taking a leap of faith, I walked towards them and hesitantly asked, "Pastor Jack?"

"John?" he replied, a warm smile spreading across his face.

My wife and I were speechless. This was him. This was the pastor, and the beautiful woman beside him was his wife. This unexpected encounter was just the first taste of the wonderfully unpredictable week that lay ahead.

Trusting the Lord, as we always had, we piled into their aging sedan, and Jack started the engine. Little did we know, the drive to Cabo Rojo, their home, was a winding two-and-a-half-hour journey from the airport. We traversed mountain roads, and skirted the stunning coastline where the Atlantic met the Caribbean Sea, our eyes wide with a mixture of awe and a touch of apprehension. We had never ventured to this part of the island before, and the unfamiliar landscape blurred past our windows.

Up until this point, our knowledge was limited. We knew Jack was a pastor at a church called "Church Without Walls," and that he and his wife, Dama, had some land they envisioned turning into a camping space. We were prepared to pitch our tent, as they hadn't mentioned having room in their home for us (yes, we packed our tent!). That was the extent of our expectations. What we were about to experience was, well, different.

Finally arriving at Jack and Dama's property, we unloaded the car, ready to set up our temporary shelter. But our hosts had other ideas. Following Jack across the yard, we approached a humble shed. This, we were informed, would be our accommodations. Jack and Dama had transformed their shed into a makeshift room, complete with an air mattress, small tables, a desk, and… a toilet. Well, a five-gallon bucket topped with a toilet seat. Showers were to be taken in the outdoor shower they had fashioned behind the shed. It was, in its own way, the Taj Mahal of sheds – a truly kind gesture. However, two crucial elements had been overlooked: the relentless tropical heat and the ever-present bugs.

That first night was far from a five-star experience. We spent hours tossing and turning in the stifling heat, eventually waking up covered in itchy red ant bites. Yet, we were filled with gratitude for the provision the Lord had made, and we didn't breathe a word of complaint. After all, wasn't this part of the missionary experience?

The next morning, after getting dressed, we joined Jack and Dama at their house for coffee and a quick bite. With no concrete plans for the day (relying entirely on Jack for transportation), we were unsure of what to expect. That's when Jack casually tossed me the keys to his old, white, manual transmission

Ford Ranger. He explained it was an extra vehicle and we were welcome to use it for the duration of our stay on the island.

This simple act of generosity was a significant blessing, a game-changer that would reshape everything we thought this trip would be. It was a tangible reminder that God's plans often look nothing like our own, and that sometimes, the most profound experiences come wrapped in the most unexpected packages – and without the expected suit. The adventure had truly begun.

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