Thirty-four men, including several Auburn University basketball players, just returned home from serving with Forgotten Children Ministries in Honduras.

The following account is from our translator, Carlos. It's absolutely stunning. Be encouraged!

Carlos Sambula’s number was up, which wasn’t half bad, or so it seemed. Whichever Marine took the lead running surveillance through the streets of Baghdad had a consolation to look forward to a full, free day once the sun came up to do as he or she pleased. By the same token, night patrol was inherently dangerous. All it takes is one misstep to trigger an IED hidden in the sand. Sudden movement can trigger an enemy sniper’s finger to click off his gun’s safety, readying to fire. An eerie feeling went before and encamped behind each and every patrol. But this night felt different—something was off and you could feel it. Such was the setting my friend entered into. Life for Carlos was about to end and begin with a click.

In 1993, I first met “Kurt,” Carlos grinned widely, “a redneck from Mississippi.” An interesting adjective to portray his friend, I felt, albeit sweet affection shone forth through Carlos’ smile. Carlos, himself being a Honduran national, was granted US citizenship after serving three years in the military, hence his tour in Iraq.

“Bible, Bible, Bible, Kurt’s was always open. His bunk was underneath mine, and those thin pages. I can still hear those razor-thin pages brushing like reeds in the wind, sifting this way and that. The sound of which, along with a bizarre sense of conviction, drove me half crazy.”

“That book of yours, of which you are so fond, does it not command you, ‘Do not kill?’” taunted Carlos, as if Kurt knew not how to answer. “And yet you go out and kill enemy soldiers. How do you suppose?”

Kurt didn’t necessarily take the bait by arguing his point, but did recite Ecclesiastes 3:1-8 from memory.

“How can I be sure your book does indeed say as much?” Carlos questioned once more.

What Kurt did next was very peculiar, even with the benefit of hindsight. He removed a coin from his pocket with Ecclesiastes 3:1-8 inscribed on it. He insisted that Carlos keep it, put it in his pocket, over Carlos’ strong objections. Kurt was emphatic, as if he realized the coin’s significance would shortly come into play.

More oddly, Kurt was adamant, even insistent, that he take Carlos’ place as point that night. “I assumed he wanted a free day the following morning, so I was happy to oblige.”

Click.

This next part of our conversation took 30 minutes for Carlos to wrangle out as we sat on the back of a yellow bus during a men’s mission trip to Honduras. Carlos was our translator, and I wanted to hear his story while travelling back to Grace Farm. I’ve rarely witnessed such deep pain interspersed with strong adulation for another human being as this.

“Get away! Back up! Get Away! Back up!” Kurt screamed in a blood-curdling yell, realizing life was over for him. He’d stepped on an IED (Improvised Explosive Device) hidden underneath the sand. It had been triggered, meaning that as soon as his foot moved an inch, he would be blown up.

His company, or band of brothers, could be spared. But not Kurt.

Carlos was unable to cope with what had just transpired a few feet in front of his face. "My friend died that night, which made me die," Carlos muttered, voice cracking and shaky, tears trickling one by one down his cheek.

That's when heroin came calling the very next day, like a sign I saw hanging over a costly parking garage that read "Free-In, Pay Out."And so it is with opioid addiction- it's far too easy to get in, but it's treacherous getting out.

Once back in the US, he'd given up on life, marriage, fatherhood, etc. No reason to belabor the point. You get it. Grocery Cart. Homeless. Dreadlocks. Heroin served as a poor savior from sorrow over the subsequent seven years.

“I’m certain of it! I saw Carlos," a friend of the Sambulas recounted to Sayra, Carlos' wife. "I can't recall the exact location. All I can remember is it was somewhere on 46th Street in Manhattan. I'm positive it was him."

"That's impossible," Sayra could not believe her ears. Her husband had abandoned her and their two children, leaving them to fend for themselves in Miami years prior.

As Carlos shared this part of the storytelling to me, I could see the sense of shame still hovering over his soul even after all this time.

Carlos didn't go into all the specifics, but Sayra evidently drove to New York City and frantically searched up and down 46th Street until she found, or really rescued, her husband.

Every Sunday, month after month and year after year, Sayra along with her two children, Jericho (5) and Jeffrey (8), could be found towards the front of the sanctuary of Sheridan Hill Baptist Church in Ft. Lauderdale. Worship to them wasn’t a checklist, but a lifeline. They’d dreamed- continually prayed- that they might worship together as a family. But Carlos wasn’t ready, not yet.

“Come on and go with us. What can it hurt?” pleaded the family, which seemed simple enough.

Carlos responded with the same cantation he’d recited for years, a mantra from memory forever on his lips: “My friend died that night, which made me die.”

“No, my husband. Kurt gave his life so that you could live,” Sayra interjected, a truth which started to resonate after all this time.

Pastor Mark Bryan ascended the pulpit, which seemed an eternity away from where Carlos insisted his family sit. Back pews are meant to serve as a barricade for would-be converts. A place to hide and not be seen.

"Why is this Pastor staring at me? Did you tell him about me?"

Sayra chuckled, just shy of belly laughing, such that nearby worshippers turned their heads to look at the commotion. She couldn't hide it. She'd exhibited no such childlike emotions for years.

"He has no clue you're even here. That's the Holy Spirit you feel," she replied, giggling once again.

Alter calls have fallen out of favor; why, I do not know. Invitations to "come forward and publicly confess your sins and receive Jesus into your hearts" seem to me a fitting way to conclude sermons. The proof is always in the pudding, I'd like to remind all of you, my friends.

And such it was when Pastor Mark called upon sinners to "'lay aside the sin which so easily entangles you and look to Jesus, the Author and Finisher of your faith.' Our Savior Jesus is calling you, 'Come to me, all who are weary and laden, and you will find rest for your souls.'"

Like a magnetic field wooing a person nearer, "Just take one small step forward." So Carlos headed down front, step by step, then right foot and left. Not marching in formation per se as he'd done as a Marine, but a new type of orders.

The war with God was over. Adonai had won.

And oh, how wonderful it is when any family member, but fathers in particular, give allegiance to Christ. As the father goes, so goes the family, I've heard it said.

How sweet it must have been- so incredibly sweet- to feel one son grab his daddy's left hand (Jericho), and the other son grab his daddy's right (Jeffrey), both of whom Carlos had no idea where they were. Alter calls need to come back in the repertoire. I'd encourage you, church members, to prod your pastors to do so. Again, the proof is in the pudding.

You know why there's a great conclusion to this story? I've got 34 men who just returned with me from a mission trip to Forgotten Children Ministries. All 34 of us would attest that Carlos is one of the most joyful Christian men we've ever witnessed. Dancing on stage at Noah's Ark Church and singing a sonnet to Candida (who just lost one son to a gang shooting, another son who was killed in a car accident, and a husband who'd just left her), his radiance could be seen from a mile away. Click on the video at the bottom to hear Carlos singing to Candida.

The crispness of knowing Christ and Him crucified cannot be faked. When you see it, you know it's real. Carlos's was as real as real can be. When you've died spiritually and risen back to life, you can never be the same. Carlos had been transformed.

Is there a time for war, a time to weep, or mourn, or uproot, or tear down? For sure, there is, the Bible teaches as much. But it behooves all of us to always remember, there is also "a time to heal, a time to laugh, a time to embrace, a time to love, and a time for peace.

"Thank you, Carlos Sambula, for the reminder. To God alone be the Glory!

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‍Jesus said, "For those who have ears to hear, let them hear."

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