Jon ward father

An early morning mist lay low on the ground as I climbed up into a clutch of rocks about 6 feet high. I sat silent, pondering these words, praying them silently in my mind. Birdsong echoed in the distance, from the direction of the lake a few hundred yards to my right. Over my left shoulder stood a mountain cloaked in fog and cloud.

Jon ward journalist wife

It was I was 15 years old, in a foreign country, with a bunch of strangers, and far from home, without any friends or family. As I read the Psalms, I felt a nearness, a realness. Was this God? It must be. I worked the words over in my mind, and I felt comforted, strengthened, reassured. I walked back to the low-slung buildings in the compound where I was staying, an hour outside Santiago, the capital of Chile.

I went to my bunk and began to change into a clown costume, made out of nylon and all the colors of the rainbow. Then I applied white makeup to my face, drawing a red circle around one eye and more colorful makeup around my mouth. But my trip to South America was memorable in part because of the way it transported me physically to another continent, while keeping me locked tight inside the cultural bubble of conservative evangelicalism.

It was a closed system that it would later take me years to emerge from and understand. We were in Chile because of a guy named Ron Luce, whose most distinguishing characteristic was his aggressive mullet.