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There is a poverty in Jamaica that is unmistakable. It is palpable and touchable. It hangs in the air, heavy and weighted, like a type of humidity all its own. Yes; there is a poverty. But, it is set to the rear, backdropped, by the beauty of the gently drifting and rippling blue waves.   It's hidden, almost, by the lush fullness, the thick and curling heaviness of the tropical greenery that hangs all around the island like garnish. It's almost hidden, tucked away, but it can be seen all the same.

It is seen all along the roadsides, in the juxtapositioning of the looming views of the mega-luxury hotels against that of the rickety, crumbling shacks that line and lean along the roadsides from Montego Bay to Ocho Rios. Yes; you can see it there. And you can see it in the faces, in the expectations, in the sometimes resentful and almost stilted rhythms of the people of the island. But, that's where the warriors come in. That's why the warriors came in.

Our hosts, Fred and Regna McClurkin, (pictured left) have brought in, have called in, have drummed in the warriors, from all over the island. Youth workers and pastors and leaders and parents...caretakers from all over Jamaica, who are ready to take it back. Who are ready to reclaim the hope; ready to reclaim the riches that are present, that are residing, just waiting in the fertile soil of this place. They are ready to reclaim the birthrights that are God-given to this place; the birthrights that are inherent and native to this place.

Though it rained during Vertical Leap weekend -- rained like heavy sheets of metal, like ball-bearings coming down and weighing down -- they still came. Over 120 warriors came.  They were multi-colored, multi-sized -- and of all of them were of different shapes and ages -- from the teens to the 60s. And they were all armed; armed with different weapons and different gifts.

There was Yashen and Marion and Teko and Rosalie -- the Youth With a Mission crew, armed and gifted with their unbridled energy and their pure, servant hearts. There was Charlette, with her seeing eyes and strong spirit of sensitivity.  There was Kala, and Brie and Elizabeth and Bruce and Primla -- in position, ready and dedicated. Though it rained, rained like sheets of heavy metal, like ball-bearings pouring down, they had come as they said they would.

Most attended the Train-the-Trainer event, and so, the warriors, all of them, are now well-trained. Well-equipped. They will be dispatching out, moving out, to take Al and Hattie Hollingsworth's BOSS The Movement principles into corners and crevices of Jamaica that we can only just imagine. As trainers, they will be transforming an island of people, helping to raise up "a global generation trained to win the world for Jesus Christ through Kingdom economics." They will be claiming, clutching, grabbing back the children -- catching them, reaching them -- before their hope becomes hopelessness, before their beautiful smiles fade and disappear.

As I look back, the breakthroughs from the second Vertical Leap Jamaica event were dramatic. And there were many. There was Evun, the lady who, on Friday, had slept on the floor in her ramshackle home with no working appliances and no food in her cupboards. At the prompting of her daughter, she had hitched a ride into Ocho Rios to attend the Vertical Leap.

She had probably thought the event would be a distraction, a getaway, from her problems at home. Instead, she was delivered a breakthrough (see her pictured below left with braids) in the "arms out" exercise that Coach Al Hollingsworth did to help participants begin to identify which voice they are listening to -- the voice of good (or God), or the voice of "not so good" (the enemy).

In that exercise, Evun learned to listen to voice of God and to be strengthened by it -- and as she pressed through, to keep her arms up despite her physical discomfort, she was bolstered up by the prayers, the encouraging outcries of the more than 100 other voices, other participants, all around her. She told me later, "I needed that breakthrough. I needed that win!" She felt that it was the Lord's way of telling her that He had a way of fixing all the broken things, the non-working things in her life -- and that He was with her.

There was also young Dowesha, 15-year-old Dowesha, who had come into the Vertical Leap from one of the roughest girls homes in Jamaica. She had come in wearing the attitude, the uniform, the badge of toughness that was required in the girls home. It spoke to us, this uniform, this badge of toughness: "You can't touch me. You can't hurt me. YOU CAN'T REACH ME!"

In Dowesha, the first day, there was no smile, no softness; just the stare, the challenge. The challenge that would go out from her eyes, greeting everyone, warding off everyone, acting as her official and always present representative.

But on the second day, in worship, Dowesha had received a breakthrough. She had been feeling herself wanting to lift up her arms, wanting to sing out to the Lord, but she kept feeling the constraint, she kept feeling the press down. She couldn't do it! "I felt as if I couldn't lift up my hands," she said. She was feeling like she would look stupid. Like everyone would be looking at her if she did so. But, somehow, the Lord had moved on Regna McClurkin to reach out to her during worship. And in that process of coming alongside, of spiritual-mama mentoring, with Regna speaking into her, encouraging her, Dowesha had received a breakthrough. She had felt a lifting! She had felt a release!

It had all happened in the back of the room, while everyone was in their own quiet places with the Lord. But in that moment, Dowesha had been freed enough, built up enough, to ask if she could go before everyone and sing a song. She wanted to come from the back of the room, now to the front of the room to lead the group in worship! Coach granted her request -- and we were treated to watching her transformation as she led us in worship, her beautiful voice lifting up into the atmosphere.

In just one session of worship, hard-eyed, dull-eyed Dowesha had become a maiden. She had become soft-eyed, doe-eyed Dowesha, the beauty who sang us a praise song, a beautiful praise song, as she moved her body to and fro, having broken free from the bondage of her be-cause, from the bondage of her failures...from the bondage of her past.   She told me later, "Where I am from, where I live, the girls there try to pull you down. If they see you trying to get up, they pull you right down!" But, oh, how Dowesha had flown on Sunday! Like a beautiful, sailing bird. she had flown. She had not been pulled down, pressed down, she had been lifted up -- and she brought all of us with her.

And, oh, the people...The people from Ocho Rios, and from the other parishes that surrounded us, were so beautiful. They were so beautiful; so unforgettable. Their stories, told to us through their actions, through their movements, through their silent petitions, were simply unforgettable.

Like Julienne, the flower girl in the bathroom. She was there to work, to clean, at the hotel. She did not get a chance to attend the Vertical Leap, but she had managed to touch all of us.   She was a bathroom attendant, who was responsible for cleaning and laying down fresh flowers, fresh blooms in the bathrooms. But it was how she sang as she went about her work. Oh, how she sang! She would lay down a colorful bloom, gently, with her long fingers, and then look up into the mirror at you, singing out into the air, smiling her big smile: "Tenderly, tenderly, Jesus is calling. Calling all sinners, to come on home!" Her voice was like an angel. She was; she is an angel. An angel who sings, sings into the mirror, as she goes about her work in the bathroom. None of us will forget Julienne, with her washbucket and her soft blue uniform. With her basket of flowers, her basket of Jamaica blooms. None of us will forget her song:   "Tenderly, tenderly. Jesus is calling. Calling all sinners, to come on home..." (See Julienne above.)

And there was Cedric, the young man from Scotchy's Jerk Chicken Center who was so impacted by a kind word spoken to him that he left his post at the counter and followed us out into the parking lot like a lost puppy. He had stood there waving goodbye to us, waving, and then just standing, with his arms folded tightly across his chest, like he was doing everything he could to keep his arms down, to keep his long, skinny legs from running after us. As we drove off, he almost did. He almost did run after us, he almost did just run away with us. He rushed up to the moving van, moving perilously close along side of it, to lovingly close the door handle as we backed out of the dirt lot.

All that had been said to him, all that "Doc" Ms. Watson had "spoken into him" was that she liked his smile, that she had never seen such a beautiful smile. While he had stoically chopped up her order of chicken with a purposeful machete, she had said it to him until he believed it; until it became a blessing to him. She had spoken it until he had let go of the dull grimace and opened up the beautiful rows and rows of perfect white teeth. Once he had believed her, once her words had become his blessing, that once buried smile had crept up and it had kept on resurfacing. He had glowed.

We had all seen the glow that exuded from him while he chopped the the jerk chicken with the machete. In looking at him, and in watching the quiet smile that surprised even him, I couldn't help but wonder about the eight dollars a day minimum wage that he earned. How often did that wage afford him the opportunity to eat the jerk chicken that he cooked, and chopped and prepared and served for us so expertly. How many people were being fed at home from his wages? He was so skinny, Cedric was. And I just wondered. (See a pic of the team at Scotchy's Jerk House where Cedric works, to the right.)

When I looked back from the road, as we were driving off, Cedric was still standing under the makeshift wooden poles of the jerk chicken center, waving and watching us go.

And there were our drivers, Leibert and Gregory and Collin. Entrepreneurs and hard workers; quiet men, but ready with a word of wisdom, ready with a story if you asked.

From Collin, we heard of the brother who had been chopped up, macheted down on Vertical Leap Sunday, by a "mob group" of incensed neighbors, when he had dared to try and steal a goat for food. The police had looked the other way, Collin had explained. As he drove near the spot where it had happened, he told us: "Here, you don't mess with someone's goat," he said. "They chopped him down for doing it."

Many of the locals there raise and sell chickens, or goats, and they grow their own food, boil their own soup in great iron pots that are sat down on fires in their front yards.  Eight dollars a day minimum wage for the workers here?   Oh, yes; the entrepreneurs in Ocho Rios are serious. No; there, you don't mess with someone's goat. You don't mess with someone's livelihood.

So, family, these are just a few reflections. Just a few reflections from the battlefield. And here is one more. Just one more reflection from the battlefield. It came from Brother Matthew, the gentle warrior sent to travel with us, who came armed with his baritone arrow, always ready to lift up a song, and watching, always watching, and readying and protecting. He said something that is "a telling," a telling of things to come for Jamaica. And for this great work that God is doing here, tilling in here, through the planting of the BOSS The Movement curriculum for youth. He said, "This has never happened to me before. I have never seen this. I have never been at the ground floor of a VOLCANO before it explodes. Something big is happening here! Something huge is happening."

Yes; a volcano, before it explodes... KEEP A LOOK OUT FAMILY; KEEP ON WATCH WITH ME, FOR THE EXPLOSIONS, FOR THE BUBBLINGS-UP TO COME!

Written by Tami L. Outterbridge

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