When the team arrived in the village, my fears seemed to be realized immediately. The work involved mixing concrete by hand and carrying heavy cinder blocks up a hill. The young men on the team jumped in with enthusiasm, their muscles working hard in the heat. I tried to help, but I quickly realized I couldn't keep up physically. I felt useless, sitting on a bench wiping sweat from my forehead while everyone else worked. But then, I noticed something. The village was full of elderly residents who were sitting on their porches, watching the construction. They were the matriarchs and patriarchs of the community, and they weren't interacting with the teenage volunteers, who didn't know how to approach them. I decided to walk over. I didn't speak their dialect, and they didn't speak English, but I sat with them. I showed them pictures of my grandkids; they showed me pictures of theirs. We bonded over the universal aches and pains of aging, communicating through smiles and gestures.
I realized that in this culture, age was honored, and my presence carried a weight of authority that the teenagers didn't have. I spent the week praying with them, holding their hands, and listening to their stories. By the end of the trip, the village elders embraced me as a brother. While the young people built the walls of the school, I had built the bridges to the community's heart. I came home exhausted, yes, but I realized that God didn't need my muscles; He needed my availability. He showed me that you are never too old to be used by Him.
