ivided almost evenly down the middle by the equator, the archipelago was a place of dreams and fantasies come to life. Coral reefs illumined the turquoise waters of the South Pacific. Dugouts and flying fish soared above the sea of glass with the precision and grace of an orchestra of concert violinists. Emerald, mountainous terrain stretched up out of the warm waters like mighty hands reaching upward from the deep and grasping for the stars. Earth's ground was still hot and smoky with sulfur from the volcanic eruption just 10 months earlier. Indeed, it was a place of majesty, mystery and magnificence.

Departing from Jakarta, we boarded an enormous ferry without even leaving our bus. Tractor-trailers, buses and vehicles of all shapes and sizes drove into the hull of the sea-going giant. Surrounded by countless automobiles and the smell of burning diesel, glass, metal and florescent lights were the only things visible to us from behind our windowpane. We sailed across the Java Sea, rocking gently side to side and tossing up and back with the waves of the sea.

Awaiting us on the other side were the southernmost shores of Sumatra and a 14-hour journey through rugged mountains, dreadful roadways, roaming lions and small Asian elephants. Our resting point of Medan, North Sumatra, was a welcome site.

We would remain in Medan for a couple of days, visiting fellow believers who met in one of the brother's homes. They called it the "taxi church." Comprised mostly of taxi drivers, this group would fill the small dwelling and crowd around the simple house overflowing into the yard and reaching almost to the street in order to hear the teaching of God's Word.

Once our visit to Medan had accomplished its intentions, we boarded a seven-passenger box plane built during WWII. We were informed that the planes had been "built to crash" - as if that should fill us with comfort.

The flight to the island of Nias was stunningly beautiful with the one exception of Jay's need to use the airsickness bag - which happened to be clear plastic, thanks to the design of the Indonesian airline. Apparently the WWII technology was still in force.

We would sleep in a small hotel in the capital city of Gunung Sitoli that night. Early the next morning we would meet for breakfast just before beginning our winding hike through the deep jungles of Nias to visit pockets of Christians scattered throughout the island's numerous villages.

Somewhere into the far reaches of nowhere, a small village appeared before us. People greeted us in groups and with enormous smiles and obvious joy. Gary Soehner was a spiritual hero to these people. Having been a missionary in Indonesia for nearly 20 years, he planted the 17 churches that grew on that little island. Gary was honored as their spiritual father. We considered it a great privilege to have been invited to join him on one of his many annual trips to the island to visit and encourage the brothers there.

Noticeably different, stood a wooden hut in the midst of the village - noticeable only because it was built of new lumber and larger than the rest of the village huts. Exiting from the door of the shiny new hut was a 15-year-old boy name Tomato. The eldest brother of 12 siblings, Tomato was the "man of the house."

Just one and a half years prior, Tomato's father was traveling the one road on the island, riding atop a large dump truck filled with a load of rocks. Brother Waruwuw sat on top of the pile of rocks to make his journey through the rainstorm to his village path. Sadly, his destination would terminate at the bottom of a ravine, as the truck would run off the road and tumble over a cliff to its stopping place. Brother Waruwuw tumbled down the mountainside to his death, being pummeled by large stones and finally being buried beneath them in a rocky grave.

Tomato's father was the minister to his village. He was deeply loved and well respected among his people. Less than a year after the tragic death of his father, Tomato would lose his mother to illness, leaving him to raise and care for his 11 younger siblings.

His smile was electric and his eyes, oddly enough, filled with peace. Separated by language, 10,000 miles of culture and centuries of civilization, the connection we shared as Christian brothers could not be mistaken. Unimaginable pressure, unthinkable sorrow and a burden of responsibility that most of us could never conceive, rested on the shoulders of a 15-year-old boy in the middle of a jungle perched upon the equator of Southeast Asia in a small village absent of running water or electricity.

I was grateful that the church had come together to build a new house for Tomato and his siblings. The entire house was probably less than 400 square feet and was made from rough-hewn 1x4s and 1x6s. Slightly elevated off the ground on stilts for ventilation and cooling, the house was strong and well made. By American standards, it was little more than an uninsulated shack. To this family of children with no mother and father, it was an expression of love and compassion, a safe place to be and something to call their own after having lost everything.

My thoughts have often transported my mind back to Nias with Tomato and his family. If he survived the tsunami and 6.9 earthquake of 2005, he would be about 31 years old today. I would inquire about them from my friend, Gary, the spiritual father to all these churches; however, he died a few short months after our trip together to Nias that same year. Gary had traveled back to Nias for another arduous journey. Sadly, he died in his sleep after a 55-mile hike through the island's villages.

As a result of Gary's mission work and his death, the church in Nias grew from 17 to 34 congregations in just a few short years. The following inscription is etched onto his headstone, which lies beneath a palm tree in the jungles of Nias: "Mati satu, datang sepuluh; mati sepulu, datang seratus" ("If one dies, 10 will come; if 10 die, 100 will come.")

Regardless of life's situations, no matter how dire and extreme, our confidence must remain in the one who set the boundaries of the oceans and filled the volcanic mountains with liquid fire. God is faithful, even if we are not. God is faithful whether we live or die. Our confidence remains in the God of the invisible. Our hope rests on the King who reigns over the unseen world; our anticipated final destination.

Whether Tomato and his family survived the tsunami and quake is not the most important thing. The most important thing is that Tomato had a faith instilled in him that allowed him to rest assured and live in peace knowing that God keeps his promises and cares for his children in life and in death.