My First Week on

The Mission Field

Bringing That World to You!

by Ken Dornhecker

      I hugged my family good-by at DFW International Airport and walked toward the gate leading to the Lufthansa 747 bound for Frankfurt, West Germany. It was January 2, 1984. I was twenty-one years old and had never lived away from home before. I was going six thousand miles away for a two-year commitment to a country where I didn’t know one person. I handed the gate attendant my ticket and started down the jet-way. Ironically, my parents later said I looked petrified. I absolutely can say though, I remember no fear walking down that ramp. Rather, I was filled with anticipation and excitement. More than anything else I remember the promise of Jesus resounding loudly in my heart: Therefore go and make disciples of all nations...and lo, I am with you always, even to the end of the world!

      Once I boarded and sat down all alone in the huge interior of the aircraft, lots of fears did begin to assault me as reality began to settle upon me like a cold, uncomfortable wind. "What in the world was I getting myself into?" I spent the rest of the ten-hour flight keeping my mind very occupied with various activities, like writing in my journal, just to keep the fearful thoughts at bay.

 

January 2, 1984! The Lufthansa 747 broke through the clouds less than one thousand feet above Frankfurt, West Germany. I peered through the window, straining to see with my natural eyes this land God had called me to. Through the misty gray sky, I saw green fields, houses, and narrow streets like none I’d seen before. Finally, what I had longed for for so long was there right in front of me. In those few minutes before landing at Frankfurt Main Airport, I thought about all God had done to bring me to this place. Joy like I had never felt flooded my soul, and I knew I would never be the same!

      The pilot’s voice over the loud speaker snapped me back to reality, "Welcome to Germany! It’s currently a crisp eleven degrees in Frankfurt." That was quite a shock, since it was in the seventies when I had left Texas ten hours ago.

      Once on the ground, I worked my way through the new experience of customs and immigration, which in West Germany was easier than finding the baggage claim area. As I passed through a maze towards what I hoped was the exit, the thought kept pounding my exhausted mind, "What if there is no one to pick me up?" I didn’t have a clue what I would do; I didn’t so much as know how to use a telephone. I assured myself that this was ridiculous, they would be here, they had promised.

I proceeded out the automatic sliding glass doors and glanced around at the gallery of eagerly awaiting people, hoping for a small sign saying "Teen Challenge" and a friendly face. Neither appeared and I stood there paralyzed, not knowing quite what to do. I didn’t want to move along and get out of the obvious exit area, but others were coming through the gate behind me into the waiting arms of loved ones and I was apparently blocking traffic in the small reception area. I tried to appear conspicuous and confused so whoever had come to retrieve me would have no doubt that I was the naive, lost American they were looking for. I waited for two hours... no it was only fifteen minutes that seemed like two hours. No one appeared! I was seriously trying to figure out plan B when I heard a voice speaking English, "Are you Ken?" A large, friendly man with a bearded face approached me. I remained dignified outwardly, but inwardly I wanted to grab him and hug him. "I’m Jack" he said. "Sorry I was not here to greet you, but your flight was late and I had to go and put more money in the parking meter." "That’s all right," I said "it wasn’t a big deal."

      It took us well over an hour to drive the normally forty-minute drive to my new home- Wiesbaden. We were right in the middle of rush-hour traffic, but this gave me more time to take in my surroundings. It was gray and cold, and I stared intently at every detail of the landscape- buildings, cars, and people- as if for some unexplainable reason I had to memorize all of it.

      Finally, Jack pulled the VW van into a narrow tunnel right through a five-story building. It was so narrow, I expected to hear the sides of the van scrape the brick walls on each side, but we uneventfully wound up in a courtyard surrounded by tall buildings on all four sides. "This is Sedanplatz," Jack said cheerfully, "This is where you will be staying." He helped me carry in my two suitcases, and introduced me to Liz. Jack then said, "I have to get back to the Center. She will get you settled."

      We trudged up seemingly endless flights of stairs as Liz gave me a kind of tour of our Teen Challenge living quarters. She was American, and I studied her with the same curious eyes I was seeing everything else through. She couldn’t have been much out of her twenties, but for some reason she appeared twice that old. She had deep, dark circles under her eyes and she was un-naturally thin. It seemed even walking was a great labor to her. I asked her how long she had been there. "A little over a year," she replied. She told me that she was sick this day, as she often was. "It happens to a lot of the Americans," she said. "Something here in Wiesbaden affects their blood pressure and they get so weak they can hardly function." Was I doomed to this fate as well? Inwardly, I was again fighting off that persistent question, "What have I gotten myself into?" I wondered if I would look like Liz after my first year. (I realized later, most everyone else was strong and robust, but I didn’t know this at the time.)

      The room I would share with three other brothers was very narrow, like almost everything else in Europe. The bathrooms were literally three by three closets in the stairwell of each floor, and were freezing cold. They featured some odd contraption that looked like a water tank with a pull chain near the ceiling. It was not what I was used to, needless to say.

      I was so tired I could hardly keep my eyes open. For me, it was near midnight, and I had had quite a journey. The problem was, it was only five in the afternoon here in Germany, and certainly not yet bedtime. Jetlag! It was made clear to me that to get over it, I shouldn’t even think about bed till ten that night.

      Fortunately, I was as hungry as I was tired. I could fill this extra time with some good German food and exploring. Unfortunately, I only had American money. Liz explained to me that the banks were closed and that McDonalds was the only place that would take my American dollars. She gave me a rough idea which direction to start and I launched out solo to find McDonalds in the middle of this large German city. After my Big Mac, I wandered around the "Fub ganger Zone" (a central pedestrian shopping district) all evening. It was like a wonderland to me and a great peace from Jesus settled deep in my heart. I never experienced "culture shock" in Germany; it was like home to me from that first evening walk alone.

      The next few days were a blur of training sessions at Eurasia Teen Challenge Training Center. Our class of 28 consisted of brothers and sisters in Christ from the far-flung corners of the world. This cross-cultural fellowship was one of the richest experiences of my life.

      Finally, after the first week, I was about to get my first taste of ministering the Gospel to German people. Our class was split into two groups and half were assigned to a coffeehouse ministry in Wiesbaden, and our group was sent across the Rhein River to the city of Mainz. Getting there was a glorious adventure in itself. We had to take a local train and none of us had as much as a clue of how to get to Mainz. But, there was no fear. We were a jubilant herd of "lost" sheep, learning as we went.

      We eventually made it to the Mainz Hauptbahnhof (main train station). From there we walked only a couple blocks to try to find "Der Fels, Teestube" which meant "The Rock, Coffeehouse." We knew it was located in a church by the same name, somewhere in this area, but where was it? Then we spotted a small sandwich board sign strapped to a light pole on a busy sidewalk. But there was no church building anywhere to be found. The sign did have an arrow pointing towards a large doorway through a group of tall buildings. We followed the corridor about thirty feet to an open courtyard, like the floor of a canyon in the midst of dingy, brick buildings. A door at one end of the enclosure had the same sign affixed that we had seen out on the sidewalk. We opened the door and immediately stared down a steep flight of stairs to a basement below. It was dimly lit and when we arrived at the landing beneath, we were in what appeared to look like a bomb shelter. The walls were made of stone, painted white, and curved upward to form a tube-like ceiling, similar to a Quonset hut. Although the architecture seemed strange to me, the atmosphere was warm and inviting. There were Christians everywhere, engaged in jubilant conversation in various languages. We proceeded to a room, probably 20’ x 30’ but with the same tube-like shape. There, we found tables and chairs arranged cozily along the walls with little candles burning brightly at each one.

      After a few minutes, a strong Dutch accent brought the meeting to a start. His name was Jan (pronounced-Yawn). I didn’t know it at the time but over the next few years this simple Dutch pastor would win my love and immeasurable respect. We started with a time of worship. Rather than a few accomplished musicians leading everything from the front (like I was used to at home), it seemed everyone produced all manner of instruments. There was a small electric piano, lots of guitars, flutes, tambourines galore, bongos, gourds, and even wooden sticks and blocks of wood. There was total participation by all present. But the effect was glorious as the small stone room was filled with sweet, spontaneous, contagious praise to Jesus. Finally, after a word of exhortation, Jan began to pair us "rookies" with the experienced coffeehouse team. He asked each of us our name and where we were from. When my turn came, I replied accordingly. He squinted with one eye and surveyed the available workers, scratched the top of his nose briskly and said, "Na goot, Texas Kin, you go wit Holgar to da Bahnhof." I looked across at my new comrade and nodded. He was thin with shoulder-length blond hair and glasses. He had a smile that appeared to cover most of his face.

      After prayer, Jan sent us out. Holgar bee-lined up to me, grinned even bigger, and erupted with joyful conversation: "Praise JESUSS bruzzer, I love you! Let’s go tell some peoples about JESUS!!!" I’d never met quite such an infectiously joyful person. He was overwhelming, but absolutely not phony. It seemed every cell of his body was exuding pure, fresh gladness. We stuffed our coat pockets with tracts and invitations to the coffeehouse, and Holgar bounded up the steps and out the door with me in tow as if he had been fired from a gun.

      We covered the few blocks to the train station in no time. The first person who crossed our path found himself pounced upon with an exuberant flurry of scriptures, testimonies, and overwhelming admonish-ments to receive forgiveness and salvation in Jesus! I was chiefly a bystander. I could follow the conversation reasonably well, but had trouble adding anything of much value. It seemed my arsenal of German language skills, obtained in three years of High School German, always seemed to be spent about ten seconds into each pathetic attempt at conversation. But Holgar remained unfazed and had no trouble carrying the conversation. We spent a couple of hours covering the blocks in and around the train station- always at this same pace and witnessing to everything that moved.

      We eventually wound up in a very narrow seedy-looking back street. On the sidewalk outside of a bar, we happened upon another street team engaged in intense conversation with an inebriated patron. Holgar joined in liked the "Charge of the Light Brigade!" I was freezing and a little uneasy because I was completely lost and kind of wondered if we would ever make our way back to "Der Fels." After a long time, Holgar looked at his watch and said "Ve must get beck to da Teestube," and we made our way back. I was thrilled and excited, although I wasn’t sure why. But it just seemed like it had gone well. Once inside we were given something hot to drink and cookies. We rounded the corner to the main room and there to my utter astonishment and delight, I recognized several people who we had accosted on the street. They had actually found their way back to the coffeehouse and were sitting there at the cozy tables. Each one was engaged in quiet, serious conversation with one of the workers, who with their Bibles open, were testifying of the Gospel of Christ.

      Thus ended my first week on the mission field. It was only the beginning of many weeks of training and working in the fields that Jesus called "white unto harvest." This style of ministry was to become my life for the next nineteen months.

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