That night—now over fifteen years ago—God did something in me. DNA-deep. Something only God can do. He both broke and filled my heart at the same time. I still don’t understand that.

Over the course of my career, I have witnessed poverty and war-torn landscapes firsthand. I’ve walked the bullet-riddled streets of Freetown, Sierra Leone, following their civil war. Men my age with no arms stood healthy and helpless with cups hanging around their necks, unable to go to the bathroom by themselves. I have been stranded—with raging amoebic dysentery—for five days in the Ivory Coast amid a riot and an airport strike. And no, I don’t speak either French or any African dialect. I have walked through an overcrowded prison in Honduras and backed up against a wall when a fight broke out, and then ambled along the docks where families live in damp cardboard and the mosquitoes swarm by the tens of thousands and coughing children just cough night after night after night. Each of those experiences challenged my calloused indifference; they cut me deeply—​especially Freetown. But it was Nicaragua and Moises that broke through the granite in me.

Let me say this directly: Indifference is the curse of this age. We need to hear that. Indifference is evil, and it could not be further from the heart of God. Don’t think so? Let me point you to the Cross. Hanging there, Jesus was anything but indifferent. Don’t think I’ve somehow got a handle on this. I don’t. I am as guilty as anyone, my rags are filthy, but lying on a cot in Moises’ house with a pig racing beneath me, with the smell of the outhouse floating on the breeze, the deep scar trailing down Las Casitas, the look on Javier’s face burned on the backside of my eyelids, the long shadows thrown from so many white crosses, the absence of food in Moises’ house, and the sound of his own whispering prayers rising up over the wall, I saw my own indifference maybe for the very first time. It shook me awake. Shattered me. It shatters me still.

And for the record, I am so very sorry.

Over the years, Moises and I have stayed in contact via e-mail. He drives forty-five minutes to an Internet cafe with a dial-up connection. I glance at my phone. I don’t speak Spanish and he doesn’t speak English, so Pauline faithfully translates. I keep promising to learn, but no hablo. I’ve been back several times. Taken friends. Taken Christy and my oldest son, Charlie. John T. and Rives are next on the list.

A year ago, I returned and rode in a truck back up Las Casitas. And yes, the tears returned as if they’d never left. They streaked down my face and, no, I didn’t wipe them off. I cried for that place, for my friends, and for myself. It felt good to cry. That night I spoke in a church by candlelight; we handed out rice, beans, oil; we prayed for some folks; we hugged a lady with no teeth and a beautiful smile that has become tender to my heart; then we rode back down with a new pig that Moises bought on sale. Standing in the back of that truck, surrounded by fifteen sun-weathered Nicaraguan men and a rather unhappy pig, many things struck me: That landscape is dotted with fruit trees, cows, wood smoke, sugarcane, plastic-wrapped dwellings, and three thousand white crosses—many now covered in weeds and vines.

But what had me thinking then and has me thinking now is this: These people, these sweating men next to me, these Children of God—they live here. Those bones beneath the crosses are their wives and children and brothers and mothers and fathers. And they never leave that image behind. Never escape that this is the reality of their lives. Me? I fly home. I smile at the attendant, stow my bag, buckle up, adjust the AC above my head, order water or coffee, check my e-mail, and…fill my mind with anything but that reality. The luxury of leaving allows my mind to drown out the deafening pain in my heart. Put it behind me. And let’s be honest, at times I have.

For Christy and me, Moises’ community has become dear to us. To our hearts. It is the place on planet Earth where the Lord challenges our notions of pretty much everything. Moises has nothing. We have everything. He prays for enough money to buy rice and beans. To feed his grandkids. I pray that the GPS in my truck gets me where I’m going in the shortest, most traffic-free way. He makes less than $2 a day. I spend that on a coffee. Without blinking. He prays for rain for his crops and cows when drought threatens his existence. I complain about our grocery bill. “Did that salmon taste fishy?” During the rainy season, his wife places buckets beneath the holes in her rusted tin roof and guards the pictures. I watch it fill the pool and frown at how it will affect the delicate balance between our chlorine and salt.

But what Moises lacks in stuff and comfort, he makes up for in faith. If God were writing Hebrews 11 today—adding names to the great Faith Hall of Fame—he’d include Moises. In a land where many have lost faith and have little hope, Moises is truly a Moses to his people.

Here’s just one recent example: A woman in his church had been bleeding for weeks and in immense pain. The community raised enough money to take her to the hospital because her husband is crippled and lives in a wheelchair. She is both breadwinner and caretaker. The biopsy proved uterine cancer. Advanced. They sent her home to die. “Sorry, can’t help you.” As she lies in bed, waiting for disease to do what the mudslide did not, Moises asks the church to fast and pray. So they do. The entire church. No food. No water. After three days, the church comes together for a praise and worship service. From there, several of the elders travel to the dying lady’s bedside, where they lay hands on her, anoint her with oil, and pray. When I ask Moises why, he points at his Bible and shrugs. As if to say, “I read it. James says do this. We do it.” So they pray. She feels a bit better. Sits up. Again, they pitch in and return her to the hospital, and the hospital gives her two liters of blood and, reluctantly, a second biopsy. The looks on their faces say, “We already sent you home once. There’s no hope for you. You’re wasting our time.” Moises and the family wait quietly for the results, which, when they return, inexplicably provide no evidence of cancer. The doctors scratch their heads. “We must have misdiagnosed you.” She’s home now. Playing with her kids. Healthy as can be. Ask Moises and he will break open his Bible, point to Luke 8, and say, “God worked miracles then. He works miracles now. Period.”

The Book of Acts says, “Signs and wonders followed those who believe.” Well, signs and wonders follow Moises. With a budget of zero, Moises has planted seven or eight churches and invests his time, encouragement, and leadership in some thirty more. He gives when he has nothing—which is all the time. He is a magnificent practical joker, smiles constantly, loves to sing, is tender with his wife, children, and grandchildren, and calls me “mi hermano.” That means “my brother.” To say I’m honored is an understatement of mythic proportions.

The contrast between us has proven this: I’m a spoiled American. I have hot water at the flick of a dial, a smartphone, a truck with AC, two televisions with a couple hundred channels each, an ice maker, cough medicine, a Tempur-Pedic mattress, deodorant, the list goes on. Yet the Lord has used this map dot twelve hundred miles south to reveal another piece of His heart to me. And most of that He’s done through the lives and words of both Moises and Pauline.

Pauline doesn’t seek the spotlight. Never has. But everywhere I’ve been in Nicaragua, she’s been there first. Checking it out. Making sure. Protecting me. She’s the window through which I’ve perceived this beautiful country and these magnificent, towering, and tender people who’ve stolen my heart. And when I’m there in that country, and Moises asks me to speak in a church, which is most every night, she is my voice. She translates me to all of them. Without her, there really isn’t a me in Nicaragua. And if you ask Moises, her name would be written in Hebrews 11 before his.