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The cardinal rule for most missionaries in foreign countries is "be flexible." That was definitely my rule of thumb serving in Colombia, South America. However, my first trip to an area of the Andes mountains known as San Juan stretched that rule to a ridiculous degree.

Zach Deal, veteran missionary, was preparing to retire. He was "passing the torch" of his San Juan visits to the only other field missionary in Medellin, Colombia—me.

Zach and I boarded a small plane for a 30-minute trip to Urrao, a small Colombian pueblo where we spent the night. Early the next morning we got on a bus for another 45 minutes.

Then we mounted a mule and a horse and rode for three hours through pouring rain. We arrived at a small mountain cabin well after dark. I was so wet and stiff, it took two men to get me out of the saddle.

I couldn't help feeling sorry for myself. After all, I had sacrificed a lot to get here.

Then I met the people in San Juan. One elderly man arrived whose feet were like leather. He had never worn shoes in his life. Another man had walked five hours to get to the cabin.

I get the message, Lord, I thought to myself. I hadn't sacrificed at all.

The more I learned about the people, the more I fell in love with them and their simple way of life. They grew sugar cane for a living. In the village, there was no electricity or inside plumbing. Everyone bathed in a nearby mountain stream.

It was a refreshing change from the hustle and bustle of Medellin, the city of 3.5 million people where I lived. I gladly accepted the invitation of returning to this remote mountain area every four months.

A serious seeker
On one visit I had just finished preaching when there was a commotion at the back of the group. A late night visitor had arrived.

The young man named Jacobo looked like he had been in a fight with a grizzly bear. He was dirty, disheveled, and covered with scratches. He sat down and began his story.

A few weeks earlier, Jacobo had come down with a deadly fever. His neighbors, knowing that Jacobo might die, gathered to comfort Jacobo and his wife.

"As I was lying in bed, I started to realize that my religion was not doing me any good," Jacobo explained. "I remembered I had picked up a small piece of paper in town that had talked of a God of Love."

Jacobo spoke earnestly to this unfamiliar God. "God of Love, I don't know you, but I want to. Help me, please!"

Jacobo's wife couldn't understand it. Neither could the neighbors. But slowly, the fever began to break. Within several hours Jacobo was completely healed.

Soon after, Jacobo heard that someone in the mountains was telling people about a God of Love.

"I am going down to the valley to find out about the God of Love," Jacobo told his wife. It was dark, but he had a flashlight. Only a short distance from his cabin, the light began to flicker. Jacobo didn't turn back. He was on a quest to find the God of Love. A few minutes later the flashlight's batteries died.

Willing to pay the price
"What did you do?" I asked. I knew from experience how dark it was in the mountains at night. You can't even see your hand in front of your face. Most people would have turned back. Jacobo was not like most people.

"I got down on my hands and knees, feeling the path with my fingers. Inch by inch, I crawled down the mountain," Jacobo said.

I was astounded. I breathed a quick prayer of thanks that we had not turned out the lantern for the night. Jacobo saw the light in the distance.

"Weren't you scared?" I would have been terrified, I thought to myself.

"Oh, yes!" Jacobo answered. "There are snakes that come out at night. I never knew from one moment to the next if one of them would bite me. But I had to find the God of Love!"

	"What keeps me from being baptized now?" — Jacobo's question was the same one an Ethiopian had asked two thousand years ago.

Standing before me was a young man who had crawled down a mountain, willing to risk being bitten by poisonous snakes, to learn about a God of Love. I had never met a person who had such a compelling desire to know him. Humbly, I listened.

"Can you tell me about a God of Love?" Jacobo asked hopefully.

"Oh, yes!" I replied. We talked into the early hours of the following morning. I told him about a God who loved him so much that he sent his Son, Jesus, to this earth. Jesus loved Jacobo so much that he died on the cross, taking his sins upon him. This Jesus came back to life.

"That's him!" Jacobo exclaimed excitedly. "That's the God of Love!" That night, Jacobo prayed again. He asked this God of Love to forgive him for his sins, to come into his life, and to be his Savior.

The following night was the last evening of services. Jacobo told everyone how he had finally found the God of Love. This God was now his personal Savior. The others rejoiced with him.

"When I return in four months we'll have a baptismal service," I told Jacobo.

"I don't understand," the new believer said.

"What don't you understand?" I thought I had adequately explained that baptism was symbolic of his new birth in Christ.

"What keeps me from being baptized now?" Jacobo's question was the same one an Ethiopian had asked Philip almost two thousand years ago. That scene in the book of Acts took on a whole new meaning for me.

"I have to leave very early tomorrow morning," I replied. I had a three-hour horseback ride to the road and I didn't want to be late for the only bus.

"Then we can get up even earlier for the baptism!" The young mountaineer beamed.

I couldn't refuse such an enthusiastic request. At daybreak Jacobo and I cleared debris in a mountain stream. A small group of mountaineers gathered to witness this event. There, in the coldest water I have ever been in, I baptized Jacobo in the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit.

Afterwards, I mounted a horse and rode off, leaving behind a new believer to tell others about a God of Love.

God's timing was evident. Because of Communist infiltration in the area, I never returned to the San Juan mountains. But before the doors closed to the gospel, I had been able to introduce one man to the God of Love.

A Christian Reader original article.

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