Recently I went with a Bel Air team to Brazil intending to work on a Medical Boat traveling up the Amazon River giving aid to the native villagers. Unfortunately, Brazil kicked me out.
On the 4th of July, our team flew from Los Angeles to Panama and then to the city of Manaus, Brazil. While going through customs, the Federal Police informed me there was a fine on my passport from an earlier trip – which turned out to be a clerical error. I offered to pay the fine, but it was no use. The Federal Police forced me on to the plane going back to Panama. I waved goodbye to my shocked team. I was going home. I knew that even if I could work things out to return, the odds of finding my team in the middle of the Amazon were slim to none.
As my flight to LA didn’t leave from Panama until the next day, I convinced the airline to put me up in a hotel for the night. They begrudgingly agreed, but inexplicably put me up in a hotel twenty-five miles from the airport. Traveling in a taxicab through the foreign county at night, I realized not only did I not know anyone within a thousand miles, but also no one knew where I was. I was on my own. Upon arrival, I received an email message from fellow team member Kyle Collier. He sent me phone numbers for Pastor Dejard, our Brazilian contact. When I called, he told me to work out the fine with the Brazilian Consulate in Panama, get back to Manaus, and he would somehow get me to the medical boat. As it was now midnight, and my ride to the airport leaving the next morning at eight thirty, this plan was ludicrous. But after a little investigating, I discovered the Brazilian Consulate was literally three blocks away from my hotel!
I now had a choice to make. Go back to LA, or attempt the most insane Hail Mary pass of my life and try to get back to my team. After much prayer that night, I decided to go for it. The next morning, the Consulate gave me the necessary paperwork so I could fly back to Brazil. I quickly hailed a cab and raced to the airport. Late for my flight, the airline Attendant ran me through the airport security and we made gate just as they were closing. Once on the plane, I knew I needed a Portuguese translator. I turned to the gentleman behind me, told my story, and told me that he and his newly wed wife not only knew Pastor Dejard, but they went to his church. By this point, I knew God was behind this.
After working things out with immigration, the newlywed couple drove me to the church office where I met pastor Dejard. He figured I had exactly one shot at meeting with the team. The next day I journeyed with a Brazilian guide, who didn’t speak a word of English or Spanish, 200 kilometers up the river. We took a ferry to a taxicab that drove for 2 ½ hours on a lone road through the jungle. Arriving at the river, my guide pointed to a speedboat, waved goodbye, and drove off. I got into a speedboat with a cross-eyed driver and we journeyed up the river for the next hour and a half.
Being on that glassy river, with the setting sun and brilliant cloudscapes, was one of the greatest moments of my life: a moment of experiencing God in all his beauty and providence. We finally came to the village and the driver pointed to a small chapel up on a hill. I took my guitar and walked into the back of this chapel to looks of disbelief from my team. I thought this stuff only happened in movies. After 48 hours and 2,000 miles, my journey had come to a close. I stood there realizing that God had worked in a real specific way in my life. Also, that I should have studied more Portuguese.
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