From The Ends Of The Earth
From the Ends of the Earth
From: Warren and Victoria Aragona
Once upon a time there existed a place called - the Island of Sixteen Thousand. Some islands had some families on it, others had whole villages, and further north lived thousands of ethnic minorities. Every year a storm or two would strike the islands and the water current would take some lives. In a bad year, a whole village can be wiped out. During the rainy seasons, sickness like malaria or dengue can hit the villagers, only the young suffer the most but an outbreak can kill anyone.
In some of these islands lived some men able to rescue and train others in times of disaster. But only a few were sent to the nearby places. Concerned citizens who had the heart provided for these rescuers and they went to close by islands. Many were saved in these privileged places where rescuers were sent. They were sent time and time again to the same places. The cause was noble. Some people were saved twice in three consecutive years... but further villages waited and hoped that some would come to their place. As time wore on, casualties among rescuers rose. Time came where the original rescuers were almost gone but a few novices dared, lived and died and were replaced by newly called helpers of the dying.
The greater tragedy actually lies on the well off islands. They have a dignified reason. They trained their own men, deployed them in their own area and provided resources for their own need. Their casualties dropped. They conducted seminars and convention on how to improve their rescue and knowledge of salvation. Others had degrees in saving lives and became experts in specific fields of preventing death while the other islands who have never heard the way of their salvation keeps on suffering the consequences of their ignorance and keep dying for it. The privileged raised funds and had some reserves. Many were benefited, in fact many times saved while the other ethnic groups waited, hoping someday that they too would have the knowledge of salvation even just once.
I met some of them, those that need to be rescued and the rescued; also some rescuers were my friends. One recipient is at the brink of being a legitimate orphan. He is thirteen years old while his younger brother is around 8. Their father died of HIV AIDS. Her mom is infected too. His small brother follows him around. We call the rescuers missionaries. They help both literally and physically. My wife, Victoria, sometimes ask “I wonder if my last patient, who was suppose to come back last week, is still alive or by now dead?”
I could talk about the glorious times where these orphan children come to the house on Sundays to worship the Lord. The Lord’s goodness on the girl who experienced an attempted rape and later came to the services up until she moved to town. Her Grandmother is a faithful comer to the house church on Sundays now. I marvel to see on how God can move on people’s lives and save their eternal soul for all eternity and see them sing songs of praises to God on Sundays at our house.
But on the other end, it’s been sometime now that I and the young church has been contemplating of moving out of our place before the monsoon rains come in June. Although we still have ten meters left away from the bank of the Mekong River, it doesn’t guarantee our safety, especially at night when the river would swell. One good torrent can eat up 12 meters in one night. Let’s leave that personal physical aspect for now ‘because I still have some time. But what about those that literally died of malaria and those rotting corpse that have been left to float in the great Mekong? Let’s set aside the thought that we drink from the Mekong River and think of the spirits swept away by the river of eternal fire.... I don’t think we could feel much about it for it is beyond our understanding even though it is a matter of fact. We don’t dig that deep but leave our feelings numbed to such reality. Have we lost the passion for the lost by now and engrossed ourselves with the current trends of life? Yes, I am liable myself. Several months ago I went to the house where they laid the body of a man, who knows what sickness he died of. I did not go up nor did I go to witness the burning of his body. I was guilty, may God forgive, we were too late in witnessing to the man but had an opportunity months before! Damage control is all that we can do, her widow now goes to the house to worship with us on Sundays. But does this absolve our responsibility for the others? Why do I have put pressure on myself or try to wrench the reader’s hearts for it is obvious that we both feel uncomfortable? I think we can all ignore this and leave this responsibility to the next generation, for anyway, it has been for some time that we have done missions together and have in a way or another worn ourselves out. But can we really? Can we sit back and relax and try to look the other way while there are literally thousands that are waiting for us?
What greatly weighs me down is that many missionaries are sent to places where the gospel has been preached while the unreached are still left to wait. No offense, all ministries are equally important. Wherever a called man is sent his work is absolutely needed. How come though, 9 out of 10 laborers are sent to places that have already heard while only one is sent to the remaining six thousand six hundred ethnic groups who have never heard the gospel. If all ministries are equally important shouldn’t there be equal distribution of workers too?
We had to go to a village. The rains had poured already and made the road impassable and mad the Mekong rapids strong. We had to go through Laos in order to reach the last village of Cambodia. We reached the place and as it had been – no church, no missionaries.
On many of these trips inside Laos, we were able to bring some leaders of privileged islands of the Philippines. They were able to smuggle some precious literatures and give it away with care. I instructed them “Take good care of it. Don’t get it wet. We don’t have much of it in their language, and it was only given by a Chinese through a Korean worker”. Doesn’t this ring a bell where back home we have thousands of tracts that remain undistributed sometimes torn or forgotten? How more precious it is though to those who have received it first time in the land of Laos and where more than 100 ethnic groups (out of 16,000 world wide) wait for their own salvation to come?
One time a villager told me “Come to my place, they are willing to hear what you are teaching.” Another said “I’ll guide you going north; there is a village there that doesn’t have a God yet.”
Writing this to you gives me the strength to move further on during the Christmas Holidays where we will be spending it by the river banks of Rumkoal and greet you Merry Christmas from a land where there is no Christmas and we hope to be in Laos at the end of the year during the New year thinking that you will be praying for us or maybe come to us... who knows, to work with us in a different place to rescue our islanders.. For we do hope that someday.... maybe just someday...these who have been waiting will hear the gospel even for just – once upon a time.
It was almost Christmas month, and I could not help looking at these deliverers give tracts and go home
while in some far flung villages, sad to say, children lost their mothers because they tried to save their families but failed.
Why are my updates wrenching my heart?
. Some previleged became experts on how to be saved, some had degrees in rescue mission while the villages continued to hope and wait, who knows, maybe someday, yes one day.. the message of salvation might reach them.
Three weeks ago, I had asked three district superintendents to come with me into communist Laos with their a team. One was to smuggle the literature and the rest will find a way to give it out to the people. At least, who knows, only eternity will tell, that they have heard the gospel of salvation.
