I grew up on different farms in middle Tennessee. I have told you over and over that, I was the hillbilly redneck. That means many things ordinary people, city folk, need help understanding when they consider my context and life.

We ate whatever we raised on the farm. My dad loved to boast to those sitting at a dinner or supper table that everything on the table came straight from the farm except the salt, sugar, tea, pepper, etc. 

The farm meant we ate well. We ate fish from one of our ponds or caught in a creek, river, or lake nearby. Each year, dad would butcher a beef steer, five grown hogs, and at least 50 chickens for our family. Dad and mom often fed the preacher's family also from their farm. 

When I went to college, as I have already stated, I had never eaten seafood, pizza, ethnic foods, or anything that wasn't just plain ole country food. 

Now we are about to end up in Mexico and later in Peru. The foods were so different. As a kid at our family table, if you said you didn't like a dish, meat, or vegetable, they added more of the same to your plate. You would eat it all and not complain, or you wouldn't get up till you had eaten every bit of it. I never remember being asked what I wanted to eat. I would have never said that I was a picky eater, but I was.

My father-in-law took us to a fancy restaurant on the coast. He said I could order anything, so I ordered a steak. He told me I was on the beach and could try something new. So before we talk about me eating foods in other countries, remember that I had offended my inlaws by not being willing to try shrimp, scallops, flounder, etc. 

I said I didn't like seafood. My father-in-law asked if I had ever tried it. Betty sat there embarrassed of her hick husband, but I was afraid if he ordered me a plate of something I didn't like, I would have to eat it or go hungry. 

The first time he fixed me a steak on the grill at his house, he asked me how I wanted it cooked. That is not a question you asked on the farm at the Gardner house back then. My answer was that I still wanted my steak well done, of course.

He told me that if I knew anything about eating steak, I would know better than to order steak like that. No one who knows steak ever cooks it to more than medium. I said ok. I will take mine "well done." 

Can you imagine my "poor new family" living with me and realizing that Betty had married this hopeless redneck? But that was life till God called us to be missionaries.

I knew I couldn't offend people by rejecting their food in Mexico. Whenever I visited my friend Alberto to learn Spanish, I bought cold coca colas and Hershey chocolate bars. 

One day my friend came walking in with their lunch. They ate at about 2 pm. I had already eaten. My friend asked if I wanted to try their food. I said sure; I would try it. I felt macho and terrified at the same time. I had to eat it or offend him.

He handed me a corn tortilla with something inside of it. I asked what it was. He said it was "menudo." Our communication was still minimal, but I repeated the word back to him. I then asked what was "menudo." He said it had "intestinos" in it. I was shocked. I thought I could hear that he was saying intestines, so I pointed at my stomach and said, "intestinos?" He laughed and laughed and said yes. 

I ate it. The taste was fine, but the consistency was very chewy and crunchy. My friend and mentor asked what I thought, and I lied and said that it was good. I know that he knew I was lying.

Since we spent so much time together every week, this same story was bound to repeat itself many times over. One Saturday, we were at the "rancho," or farm outside the city, where my friend preached each week. 

One Saturday in particular, Alberto and I were invited to stay and eat supper with the farm's owner. Everyone else left, and so it was Alberto and me. I was honored but terrified. We entered a small mud adobe brick home. A fire, like a campfire, was built in the middle of the floor in the room. There was no stove, no chimney, and no electricity. There were animals outside and in the house. Now I was country, but it was a different country than that.

They brought us something to drink. When the drink came, it was coffee. I am not a coffee drinker, but I was glad to be drinking coffee. I knew that if I drank the water, I could get amoebas or worms or something, and I could get sick and maybe even die, but I didn't have a choice.

I figured it had to be heated, so maybe it killed a few parasites. Now please remember that Alberto is training and teaching me. He knows what is happening to me and in me, but I do not yet realize how smart and wise he is.

They brought us something to eat. I looked down through the smoky, dingy light and saw some flat noodles, sauce, and some sort of meat. It was just the two of us at the table.

What kind of meat might it be? So when no one could hear but my friend, I asked him what it was. He tells me it is "guajolote." I am still determining what that is. In Peru and other countries, it was simply "pavo," turkey. My buddy knew that word, but he wouldn't be able to torture me so well with it if he gave up the word so quickly.

I knew the word "pavo." It was in the textbooks, but we are going with "guajolote." I looked at my friend, and with sign language like the deaf world uses but more like a drunkard and my Spanish, I tried to figure out what "guajolote" was. I held my hand above the dirt floor and asked if it was an animal this tall. He said no, that It was taller and not an animal.

I thought, well, something is wrong here, so I tried to ask if it was a sheep or goat with mimicking sounds, signs, and wonders, and he laughed and said no. I asked if it was a cow, a horse, or something bigger he said no. 

He was truly enjoying my struggles. I knew it wasn't a chicken, goat, sheep, cow, or horse, so I was confused. Now back on the farm, we never ate even venison. Daddy had no time for hunting. There was always work to do. So I had yet to learn what deer meat tasted like. 

Could this be some wild animal I was eating? The room was full of smoke down to about our waists. The dirt floor, the unknown, the hillbilly being where no hillbilly had gone before was suffering.

Finally, my friend laughed and said, "pavo." I looked at him in disbelief. Was it just turkey? Could I be afraid of eating turkey and noodles with a Mexican family? 

The fear of the unknown had paralyzed me. I was afraid of what I was eating and what might happen to me. My friend was enjoying teaching me to stop being such a baby and love people. He always just loved people. 

The Mexicans always had different words that were harder for me, as the gringo, hillbilly redneck. Instead of "pavo" for turkey, they used "guajolote." Instead of "mani" for peanut, they used "cacahuate." Well, you get the picture, don't you? Living with the people and loving them is the key to ministry. It is not about language, culture, or people; it is about Jesus loving others through us.

That brings me to several lessons that I would like you to consider. 

You must read all the books you can on learning culture and living cross-culturally before going to the mission field to visit or work. It would be best if you studied what Paul said about the matter. You need to see how Jesus and Paul practiced living and loving cross-culturally.

You need to realize that your background is just one of many, and they are not right or wrong. When I married Betty, life changed. Now I would never want a steak that was well done. I learned from my father-in-law. I learned to try new foods. I learned to enjoy more where I was.

I found out that there were many foods that I would like if I got out of my comfort zone and tried some things. 

I learned that people are all the same if you just peel them. Not trying to sound crude here, but the skin color is a minor difference. We all bleed red. 

As a young man in our churches, I heard missionaries say all sorts of things that were not true. They tried to convince me that certain nationalities didn't love their children, but I would later visit those countries and learn how foolish those statements had been. 

When God called you to be a missionary, He called you to take up a cross and die. It is not about you. It is not about your comfort. It is actually about us forgetting and thinking of them. If we love them enough, we can reach them with the gospel message of Jesus Christ.

Here is another lesson that bears repeating over and over. You must learn the language. You will never love people you can't talk to. 

You must learn to accept their culture unless it clearly violates a Biblical principle. Jesus lived with the Jews for over 30 years. He was perfect, but He adapted to them.

One last lesson but super important. A missionary mentor and friend in Peru taught me this. To reject the food is to reject the culture. To reject the culture is to reject the people. So you must learn to eat and love. 

I have prayed many times, Lord; if you help me keep it down, I will put it down. Learn some lessons from these little stories that will help you love others more so that more will hear and believe the gospel.