Only Believe

The sisters were surprised to learn that I was no novice atpreparing Mexican food.Through the pages of this JOURNAL, 1 would like tointroduce you to some new-found members of our universalfamily.It was past noon when George and I left San Luis Potosi.We had packed, and repacked our luggage, eliminatingeverything which we did not consider to be essential. Extrafilm was purchased for the cameras, a just-in-case precaution.We knew that after we left the city, many of the amenities wetake for granted would not be found in the places we plannedto visit. Four hours to the east, Brother Murillo waited todirect us to the village of La Colonia Piloto.We had just spent an incredible 3 days in San Luis at aconvention sponsored by the local assembly of Believers. Thepastor, Brother John Bibiano, had invited George and I, alongwith Brother Donny Reagan of Kentucky and BrotherDouglas McHughes and Brother Earl Williams of Arizona tojoin with the nearly 350 people who had assembled for theFriday, Saturday, and Sunday services. An empty buildingacross the street from the church had been rented and turnedinto a kitchen/dining room where 3 meals a day were preparedand served by the local sisters.After Brother Donny, Brother Doug, and Brother Earleach had an opportunity to speak (with George translating forthem), they agreed that the people’s enthusiastic response tothe Word certainly was an inspiration to a speaker. Theaudience couldn’t seem to hear enough, and, as BrotherDonny found out, they have a way of just not letting you go.After Brother Donny finished speaking Sunday morning,which was supposed to be the final service of the convention,Brother John rose to dismiss the congregation. But no onewould go! So he turned toBrother Donny and saidsoberly, “We’ll go across thestreet and have lunch, thenyou can preach ‘Part II’.”Brother Donny accepted theinevitable with much grace.The sisters in the kitchenworked from 5 in themorning till late every night.One evening, after service, Iwent into the kitchen area and asked if I could help. “Do youknow how to fry tortillas?” they ask skeptically.I assured them that I could, and a real riot ensued. After Iproved that I could fry tortillas, next I had to show the sistersthat I could grind chiles, mash beans, and even wash dishes!“But you’re so white!” (meaning ‘so American’), they toldme. “We didn’t think you could do these things.”Evidently, Americans aren’t the only ones to havepreconceived ideas concerning their neighbors.George and I were anxious to show the brothers from theStates a bit of the local color and customs before they left forhome, so early Monday morning we headed for the Catholicchurch.Nowhere else in the western world is religious dedicationso manifested as it is in Mexico. A common sight is to seepeople of all ages drop to their knees and crawl laboriously(sometimes for blocks) towards the gold encrusted altar of thechurch. They have been taught to do this as a penance for sinscommitted, or as a gesture of thanksgiving for an answeredprayer.Inside the enormous churches, the people stop to praybefore the many statues of bloodied and suffering saints. Thestatue of Mary is always given a predominant position and isoften dressed, doll-like, in elaborate and expensive costumeswhich are changed for different occasions and for traveling tothe outlying communities. In front of each statue stands a boxto receive the offerings of those who wish to pray there.Portrayed everywhere is the pain, suffering and death that thepeople believe they must become a part of before they canpartake of the Life of Christ, which, according to Catholicdogma, only comes in the hereafter. The people are crippledwith guilt, and the church offers them no joy in this life.Within the sanctuary of one church, we were shocked tosee a store where rosaries, medals, and candles were beingsold. Sister Bibiano pointed out to us how that the candleswere first sold, then collected from the altar when the buyerleft the church, and re-sold again and again. She also told usthat another very common practice is for young brides tosacrifice their long hair to the Virgin Mary for what the priestpromises will be a happy marriage. She herself had crudelyhacked off her waist-length hair on her wedding day andplaced it on the altar. This abundance of cut hair is then soldby the church to wigmakers, and the money is sent to Rome.Needless to say, this is not the picture of Catholicism wenormally see portrayed in the U.S., butin Mexico some of the mask has beenremoved and the true evil exposed. Iwish that every Believer could have anopportunity to see this very real face ofthe Catholic church, for I believe itwould help us all to recognize these slyspirits as they try to slip in amongst us.George translated for BrotherDonny Reagan for the Sundayservices.

George decided that after the San Luis meetings wouldbe a good time for us to visit some of the Believers livingnear the east coast. We had heard that there were remotevillages in this area where there was a need for theMessage to be translated from Spanish into Indian dialects,and George felt there might be some way he could assist inthis endeavor.Brother Roberto Murillo, an evangelist from CiudadJuarez, Mexico, suggested that we visit two isolatedvillages which he knew of. They were both in very remoteareas, and were desiring fellowship and translatedmaterials. Concerning our planned 2nd stop, the village ofOctojub, Brother Murillo warned us, “It is a bit difficult toget to, and conditions there are somewhat primitive.” Buteven though George and I are not the rough-and-readytypes, we felt that if there was a chance of us helping thesepeople then the end would more than justify the means. ByTuesday morning we were on the highway heading east tomeet Brother Murillo for the trip to La Colonia Piloto, ourfirst stop.In a land filled with extremes, Mexican roadways arenot an exception. The fine divided road near San Luisquickly turned to a narrow, winding 2-lane as we headedthrough the mountains. Even if you are only a passenger, itis nearly impossible to sleep when traveling by car inMexico. You might miss something exciting, like roundinga curve at 60 mph and suddenly there is a herd of sheep onthe road, or a donkey cart, or even a slow-moving, overloaded vehicle. Decorated roadside crosses, which havebeen placed by bereaved families, mark the scene offrequent highway tragedies.Brother Murillo and Brother Arturo were waiting for usat the point where we left the paved road for the 1 hourdrive to La Colonia. Brother Arturo was the proprietor of asmall community grocery story in La Colonia, and it was inhis home that the local Believers held church services. Wewould be spending 2 nights with him and his family, and,we were told, there would be a fiesta in our honor. Theyplanned to ‘kill the fatted calf’.Back in San Luis, Brother Doug had joked about a fewof the pot-holes that he called Volkswagen size’, and fromthen on all rough roads were judged accordingly. Our cardid make it over the mud and rock road to La ColoniaPiloto, but a large percentage of the way was scattered withholes which we deemed to be ‘2 Volkswagen size’.By the time we reached Brother Arturo’s home, thepeople had already started to gather for the evening service.The living room furniture was quickly rearranged toaccommodate benches, and the pulpit was placed in frontof photographs of Hoffman’s ‘Christ at 33’ and the Halopicture, which hung on the wall. About 25 people werepresent, and they all enjoyed the personal testimony whichGeorge shared with them.Afterwards, we scooped up chicken and rice withtortillas - no silverware needed. If you’ve never tried it,you can’t imagine what fun you’ve missed!I already knew about the planned fiesta, but was a bittaken aback when Brother Arturo ask if I would please gopick out a calf to be slaughtered. When I declined, theysomehow took that to mean that I didn’t eat meat.Everyone was looking very worried, until Georgeexplained that I just wasn’t accustomed to watching theslaughtering process. Since we were very tired, he toldthem, maybe we would just go on to bed.We slept in a curtained-off area of the living room,which did nothing to mask the sounds which continueduntil 2:30 AM as the calf was killed and cut up less than 10feet from where we lay. It was a memorable night.Early the next morning, the sisters began preparing thespecial tank in which the beef was cooked with chiles andgarlic. The fire under it was kept going all day, and by 6PM when the people gathered for the evening service, theevents of the night before were completely erased from mymind by the delicious smells that filled the air.George spoke to the people about the work being doneby Voice of God Recordings, and afterwards BrotherMurillo preached a wonderful message.After the service, the chairs and tables were carriedoutside as we prepared to eat the fatted calf. It was a joyousoccasion. One of the brothers went to a neighbor andborrowed a small electronic keyboard for me to play (notvery skillfully, I’m afraid).Before leaving home, I had assembled a small photoalbum of pictures relating to my father’s life and ministry,and George had typed Spanish captions for each photo. Atthe fiesta, the album was passed around, but even with thecaptions, everyone wanted to know more details about eachpicture. When told that we had no copies of the pictures toleave with them, one brother sat down with a pencil andpaper and meticulously sketched each photo.For several months, we have been working on a photoalbum in English which will contain over 250 captionedphotos of Brother Branham and the places which are wellknown through his ministry. After seeing how very muchthis small album was appreciated by the people in Mexico,we have decided to print a multi-language edition of thelarger album-Spanish/ German/ French - for the Believersoverseas.Later in the evening, as I sat talking with the sisters,they began to comment on how brave I was to be going toOctojub.“Brave?” I asked.“Oh yes, it is a very difficult climb. The last time anyFront row: Doug McHughes, Earl Williams & Roberto Murillo. Backrow: Walter Walls, John Bibiano, Donny Reagan & George Smith.

Believer went there to visit was 3 years ago.I stood in the back of the truck, against the cab, so that Icouldoperate the video camera. From my vantage point,It was too late for me to back out of the trip, and I feltthe narrow rutted road looked to be not much more than athere was nothing I could do but reassure the sisters that Ipath through the jungle.could make it, no problem. I must have sounded muchmore sure of myself than I really felt, because immediatelyWe were constantly climbing, and the dense vegetationBrother Arturo’s wife said, “I think I’ll go too!”on either side of the road was only broken by occasionaldwellings or small cultivated plots of corn.Although they were not able to leave with us thefollowing morning, we agreed that Brother Arturo and hiswife would meet us in Temapaz, and we would all walkWe stopped several times to pick up and let offtogether to Octojub. Meanwhile, we went to pick up ourpassengers, who would then quickly disappear down one ofHuasteco translator, Brother Liborio.the almost invisible paths whichAs we traveled toward thewe saw leading into the jungle.small town of Aquismon, whereAfter more than an hour ofBrother Liborio and his familytraveling, we were joined bylive, we were moving intoBrother Isidro, the pastor fromterritory familiar to George.Octojub, who had been sittingThirty years ago, when he wasbeside the road for hours, waitingliving in Mexico, he and hisfor us. Although it is estimatedparents were the frequent gueststhat Indian blood flows in theof Mr. and Mrs. Ray Larson,veins of at least 90 percent ofWycliffe Bible Translators whoMexico’s people, it was obviouslived and worked near Aquismon.that none save Indians wereThe Larsons had spent manyancestors of this slight man withyears translating the Newthe dark, angular face.Testament for the very people weAfter 2 hours of jolts andwere now on our way to visit, thebumps, suddenly we were out ofHuasteco Indians.the jungle and it was a shock toIn the quaint town offeel smooth pavement under ourAquismon, we had dinner atwheels. A short stretch ofBrother Liborio’s home -3 roomsconcrete roadway extended inwhich were shared by he and hisfront of us for about 150 feet,wife, 6 children and grandmother.then ended at a park in the centerAs we ate, Brother Murillo andof a small town square. It lookedBrother Liborio mentioned to uslike we had reached the top of thehow that day they each had eatenworld.10 cloves of garlic and 5 limes inTemepaz (3 general stores andFelipe & Agustina in front of theirorder to ward off bug bites during1Catholicchurch) appeared to behome in Octojubour trip to the mountain. Iperched on the top of a rough seadecided that I would just makeof green waves. There was a 360do with the 2 bottles of insectdegree picture postcard view, andrepellent which were packed inthe Huasteco women with theirour duffel bag.brightly wrapped head coverings,By the time we were ready towho were sitting on the churchleave for Temapaz the next morning, Sister Liborio,steps, appeared to have walked right out of the pages ofGrandmother, and 3 of the children had decided that theyNational Geographic. Three men came forward to greet usalso wanted to go along with us. Grandmother (a Huasteco) as we climbed down from the truck, brothers from Octojubcould remember walking to Octojub many years ago, andwho were to help us carry our baggage up the mountain.she was such a spry little thing that I felt she probably hadGeorge and I had congratulated ourselves on doing aa better chance of making it to the top of the mountain than good job of packing light. We had 2 sleeping bags, 2I did!changes of clothing, insect repellent, flashlight, and ourWe left our car parked in Brother Liborio’s front yard,photo album in a duffel bag, plus 2 camera cases. Inand all 9 of us crowded into a rickety cab for the 30 minute contrast, the local people traveling with us had packedride to where we could get a truck which would take us thecanned milk, cooking oil, wool blankets, straw sleeping2 hour drive up the mountain to Temapaz.mats and matches.When Brother Arturo and his wife arrived, to thisGeorge made a deal with the driver of the sturdiestassortment of goods he also added a butane tank, weighinglooking pick-up truck we could find, and we loaded ourapproximately 150 pounds, as a gift for the church. Thegear on board and climbed in for what turned out to be oneHuasteco brothers appeared undaunted, and quicklyof the most incredible rides of my life.gathered up most of the gear and started down a path

leading away from the town. They would return later forthe tank and other items they couldn’t carry on this trip.Single file, we fell in line behind the brothers. There were14 of us, including the children.The trail was wide and downhill as we left the town, butI could see up ahead that it quickly narrowed to meet aribbon of roughly placed rock steps which continuedstraight up the mountainside and disappeared into thejungle beyond.We climbed through the dense vegetation, being carefulwhere we placed our feet on the smooth, slick stones, and,Isidro’s thatch and bamboo home. From that moment, theentire trip became worthwhile.We were introduced to Brother Isidro’s family andseveral other Believers who live nearby. Benches werebrought from the church for us to sit on, and they gave usfreshly cut sugar cane to chew. The Huasteco women werevery shy, but very curious. When we dared to look directlyat them, they would quickly turn away, or even try to moveout of our sight.While we were still munching on the sweet sugar cane,Brother Murillo came to George and I to say that theEven though it was written in a language not his own,how Felipe treasured that little New Testament.at times, using our hands to help pull ourselves over aparticularly difficult stretch. Several times our party had tostep off the trail in order to allow local people to pass us.They would always stop for a moment of conversation mainly, I believe, in order to have a better look at mytennis shoes.The majority of the Huastecos were barefooted, andthey maneuvered amongst the rocks with obvious ease.When they saw my shoes, it was plain that they wonderedhow in the world I walked at all with such awkward thingscovering my feet.I deliberately started on the trail ahead of Grandmother,and several times I found a good resting place and satdown to catch my breath for a few minutes. But whenGrandmother would catch up with me, I knew it was timeto get going again. After all, I didn’t want a lady of 72years beating me to the top of the mountain.The air was warm, and very, very humid. We passedthrough dense groves of coffee plants, taller than our headsand heavy with green and red berries. Sister Liboriobecame excited when she spotted a plant she called soyo,and she stopped to pick as many of the leaves from thedark green vine as her apron would hold. “They’redelicious when you cook them in beans,” she told me, “andthey give you strength.”I quickly picked and ate all I could find.After a particularly difficult climb, we had all stoppedfor a ‘breather’ when from behind us on the trail I saw aman approaching at a steady gait. Strapped to his back wasthe 150 pound butane tank. It was Brother Isidro, thepastor, and he had already been to the top of the mountainwith our duffel bag,returned to Temapaz, and was nowmaking his second trip up the mountain! “Not muchfurther”, he called out cheerfully as he went by.More than an hour later we found ourselves in aclearing surrounded by banana trees. There was a littlewhitewashed church building, and next to it, BrotherHuastecos now would like to wash our feet. This was not apart of a communion service, but a traditional form ofwelcome.Brother Felipe washed the men’s feet, and his wife,Sister Agustina, washed the ladies’ feet. As they knelt infront of us with the big wooden bowls of water, I couldn’thelp but notice their feet. Thickly callused, you could tellthat they had never worn shoes in their lives. I don’tbelieve I’ve ever been welcomed anywhere more warmlyor more Scripturally.Next, tables were brought and a meal was served to us black beans cooked with soyo, scrambled eggs, chayote(squash), tortillas, and a black bucket of coffee. After westarted to eat, Brother Isidro brought out a gunney sackwhich held a bottle of soda pop for each of the visitors. Itwas warm, but to me soda had never tasted better than this.The children were fascinated by the bottle caps.By the time dinner was finished, several more peoplehad arrived for the evening service. The lamp, newly fittedatop the butane tank, was lit, and the benches were returnedto the church. There were 30 people (plus children)gathered in the small building, and many of them hadwalked for miles over the mountain paths to be there.George spoke in Spanish, and Brother Liboriotranslated into the Huastecan language. The people sat veryquietly as they heard the story of Isaac, Rebekah, andEliezer. Very few of the people are familiar with the OldTestament stories, as only the New Testament has beentranslated into their own language.After the service, the church was converted intosleeping quarters for the 14 visitors. Wide boards wereplaced across the low, backless benches so that wewouldn’t have to sleep directly on the concrete floor.Without a tent, sleeping outside was out of the questionbecause of the heavy dew which fell every night.On our first evening in Octojub, there hadn’t beenenough time before dark to see the inside of the pastor’shome, but early the next morning I was awakened by thecrowing of the rooster and the rhythmic slapping sound oftortillas being shaped between palms. Inside the one room

home, which was both kitchen and sleeping quarters for thefamily of 8, I found several of the sisters busy grinding thecorn and preparing the breakfast of chilaquilles and coffee.I watched the smoke from the kitchen fires filter outthrough the bamboo walls and made a mental note to asklater just how the family managed to stay warm when coldwinter weather came to the mountain.While we were eating, several people came to visit andto drink coffee from the black bucket which boiledcontinuously on the fire. I was surprised upon tasting it tofind that it was a weak brew, tasting almost like tea.Perhaps this is because they do not grind the coffee beans,but roast them on the griddle and then crush them onlyslightly before boiling them. Everyone drinks coffee, eventhe small children.The people wanted to have a morning service, so we allgathered in the church and Brother Murillo spoke asBrother Liborio translated. I couldn’t help but watchBrother Felipe as we stood together for the Scripturereading. I was remembering the barefooted man that myfather prayed for at the meeting in Mexico City 32 yearsearlier.Brother Felipe had a small, Spanish New Testament,and when the first Scripture was read from Luke, I watchedas he opened his Bible and followed along. The secondScripture reading was in Genesis, but once again I noticedthat he opened his New Testament and appeared to followalong. Then I realized that he couldn’t read. Even though itwas written in a language not his own, how he treasuredthat little New Testament. I don’t believe that I will ever beable to open my own Bible again without thinking ofBrother Felipe and his New Testament.Of the 28 Believers in Octojub, only Brother Isidro hasa copy of the New Testament in the Huastecan language.Of the adults, only he and one other man can read. Thechildren are learning to read and to speak Spanish at theschool they attend, which is a 30 minute walk furtheraround the mountain. It will be many years, though, beforethey become fluent enough to read the Message books orthe Bible in that language. However, we were pleased tofind that several of the adult men can understand Spanishwhen it is spoken, even though they cannot converse in thelanguage.The Huastecos have a traditional meal which they callmolin. It is comprised of corn meal mush (masa) which isspread on a layer of banana leaves. Meat, which has beendipped in chile paste, is added, and the leaves are folded upand tied tightly into a bundle which is then steamed forhours. In a manner of speaking, it is an enlarged version ofthe traditional Mexican tamale.For several hours after the morning service, the sisterswere busy killing a turkey and a chicken and grinding theseveral buckets of soaked corn into masa. Sister Agustinaand I walked into the jungle to pick the tiny peppers thatwere to be ground for the hot chile paste. The sisters werefar more relaxed on the second day, and Sister Agustinawas very talkative as we worked to

with Brother Donny Reagan of Kentucky and Brother Douglas McHughes and Brother Earl Williams of Arizona to join with the nearly 350 people who had assembled for the Friday, Saturday, and Sunday services. An empty building across the street from the church had been rented and turned int