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There's a certain kind of pain that doesn't scream. It whispers. It creeps up unexpectedly, like a gentle breeze that turns into a storm—and before you know it, you're standing in the wreckage, wondering how it all happened. That's where I am this week. I write this blog not from a place of polished strength, but from raw humility. I've hesitated even to share it—because it hurts and I feel embarrassed. But I know that silence helps no one. So I'm laying it bare—not for pity but for perspective. Maybe this will be a needed warning for someone reading today.
Three weeks ago, I hired a local carpenter here in El Salvador—a man about 40 years old with a gentle voice and warm eyes. I needed a bookshelf and two tables. We shook hands and signed a small contract. I paid him upfront, and he promised me he'd begin right away. His words seemed sincere—his demeanor calm, professional, trustworthy. I've lived and served in ministry long enough to know when something feels off. God has given me a good sense of discernment. But this time…I missed it.
Days passed. Then weeks. Every time I followed up, I got a new excuse: "I couldn't buy the wood." "My car broke down." "My saw broke." "I'm still looking for a new one." And finally, the most heartfelt of all—"Family emergency." I listened patiently. I gave grace. And then—silence. No answers. Eventually, I discovered what I didn't want to believe: he had blocked me completely. Gone. With the money. And with him, a piece of my heart went too.
Not because of the lost furniture—but because I felt responsible. That money wasn't mine. It came from generous, God-fearing people across the United States—supporters who love this ministry and trust me to use their donations wisely. Some had recently sent funds to help furnish my home here in El Salvador, to give me a place to rest between all the spiritual battles. And now a little of that money is gone. It's God's money that was misused. And I feel it in my gut.
I've wrestled with regret. I've replayed the scenario over and over. What did I miss? Why didn't I see it sooner? Then, the deeper realization hit: if I, a man with good discernment and years of missionary experience, can be deceived, how many others are walking through life and being taken advantage of right now? Perhaps you, my reader, are unknowingly stepping into a trap. I pray this blog is a timely warning that spares you the heartache I've felt.
Here's the truth: sometimes the kindest smile can hide the deepest deception.
And not everyone who speaks softly walks in truth.
This was a hard lesson, but one I believe the Lord allowed to sharpen me again. Ministry isn't just about preaching, rescuing souls, and serving the needy. It's also about making daily decisions that honor the resources God places in our hands. It's about walking in wisdom, not just warmth.
Jesus warned us about wolves in sheep's clothing. He told us to be "wise as serpents, and harmless as doves" (Matthew 10:16). But how often do we let kindness override our spiritual senses? How often do we allow ourselves to be flattered, impressed, or distracted—when God is quietly saying, "Look closer"?
Friend, trust is sacred. Don't give it away cheaply. Be generous, but cautious. Be loving, but alert. Don't ignore the gut feeling that something isn't right. And if you've already been taken advantage of, don't let it harden you. Let it hone you.
I still believe in people. I still believe in second chances. That's why I'm praying for Antonio (Carlos)—yes, the man who stole from me. I'm asking the Lord to reach his heart, to shake his conscience, and to bring him to repentance. I don't hate him. I hurt for him. Because the real tragedy isn't what was taken from me—it's what's happening inside him, to get to a place where deceiving others becomes just another day's work.
So please—pray with me. Not just for Antonio (Carlos), but for all of us. That integrity would rise up in our hearts like a mighty flowing spring. That we would be people of our word. That our yea would be yea, and our nay, nay. That we would walk in truth, even when no one is watching.
And if you've recently been lied to, betrayed, or taken advantage of—I feel for you. I understand. And I want you to know that even when people fail you, God never will. He sees everything. He weighs every heart. And He will restore what the locusts have eaten.
Down here in El Salvador, the sun rises early and sets fast. Life is raw. Real. Beautiful. But also broken. Every day is a test, not just of faith, but of focus. Will I keep trusting? Will I stay tender? Will I love, even when it's risky? I pray the answer is always yes.
This journey isn't easy, but it's worth every tear, every loss, and every lesson. Thank you for walking it with me.
RETURN TO ALL BLOGS
Three weeks ago, I hired a local carpenter here in El Salvador—a man about 40 years old with a gentle voice and warm eyes. I needed a bookshelf and two tables. We shook hands and signed a small contract. I paid him upfront, and he promised me he'd begin right away. His words seemed sincere—his demeanor calm, professional, trustworthy. I've lived and served in ministry long enough to know when something feels off. God has given me a good sense of discernment. But this time…I missed it.
Days passed. Then weeks. Every time I followed up, I got a new excuse: "I couldn't buy the wood." "My car broke down." "My saw broke." "I'm still looking for a new one." And finally, the most heartfelt of all—"Family emergency." I listened patiently. I gave grace. And then—silence. No answers. Eventually, I discovered what I didn't want to believe: he had blocked me completely. Gone. With the money. And with him, a piece of my heart went too.
Not because of the lost furniture—but because I felt responsible. That money wasn't mine. It came from generous, God-fearing people across the United States—supporters who love this ministry and trust me to use their donations wisely. Some had recently sent funds to help furnish my home here in El Salvador, to give me a place to rest between all the spiritual battles. And now a little of that money is gone. It's God's money that was misused. And I feel it in my gut.
I've wrestled with regret. I've replayed the scenario over and over. What did I miss? Why didn't I see it sooner? Then, the deeper realization hit: if I, a man with good discernment and years of missionary experience, can be deceived, how many others are walking through life and being taken advantage of right now? Perhaps you, my reader, are unknowingly stepping into a trap. I pray this blog is a timely warning that spares you the heartache I've felt.
Here's the truth: sometimes the kindest smile can hide the deepest deception.
And not everyone who speaks softly walks in truth.
This was a hard lesson, but one I believe the Lord allowed to sharpen me again. Ministry isn't just about preaching, rescuing souls, and serving the needy. It's also about making daily decisions that honor the resources God places in our hands. It's about walking in wisdom, not just warmth.
Jesus warned us about wolves in sheep's clothing. He told us to be "wise as serpents, and harmless as doves" (Matthew 10:16). But how often do we let kindness override our spiritual senses? How often do we allow ourselves to be flattered, impressed, or distracted—when God is quietly saying, "Look closer"?
Friend, trust is sacred. Don't give it away cheaply. Be generous, but cautious. Be loving, but alert. Don't ignore the gut feeling that something isn't right. And if you've already been taken advantage of, don't let it harden you. Let it hone you.
I still believe in people. I still believe in second chances. That's why I'm praying for Antonio (Carlos)—yes, the man who stole from me. I'm asking the Lord to reach his heart, to shake his conscience, and to bring him to repentance. I don't hate him. I hurt for him. Because the real tragedy isn't what was taken from me—it's what's happening inside him, to get to a place where deceiving others becomes just another day's work.
So please—pray with me. Not just for Antonio (Carlos), but for all of us. That integrity would rise up in our hearts like a mighty flowing spring. That we would be people of our word. That our yea would be yea, and our nay, nay. That we would walk in truth, even when no one is watching.
And if you've recently been lied to, betrayed, or taken advantage of—I feel for you. I understand. And I want you to know that even when people fail you, God never will. He sees everything. He weighs every heart. And He will restore what the locusts have eaten.
Down here in El Salvador, the sun rises early and sets fast. Life is raw. Real. Beautiful. But also broken. Every day is a test, not just of faith, but of focus. Will I keep trusting? Will I stay tender? Will I love, even when it's risky? I pray the answer is always yes.
This journey isn't easy, but it's worth every tear, every loss, and every lesson. Thank you for walking it with me.
RETURN TO ALL BLOGS
