More than a few years ago, I visited a friend in Puerto Rico. Spent about five or six days there, had a great time. One day, my friend was supposed to go with a monk attached to the local congregation to deliver some furniture to a poor family up in the hills. But she came down sick, so she said to me, You go. You'll enjoy Brother Javier's company, and you'll get to see the hills. So sure, I can do that.

Javier comes to pick me up, we hop in his little hatchback, and off we go. We're headed up and up and up - these are big hills, almost mountains - and Javier's explaining that we're going to have to go down an insanely steep dirt road to reach the family. "It just rained," he tells me. "The ruts will be pretty deep."

This is when it begins to sink in for me. How are we going to do this in a Ford Pinto? This thing is barely holding together on the highway. There's no way we're going into the jungle in it and coming back out.

Brother Javier just smiles. "Don't worry about it," he says. "We'll ask a farmer for some help."

"Oh? You know somebody?"

"Nah. We'll just ask whoever's around."

As we get closer to the hollow, he looks around at the houses and finds one with a Jeep out front. He says to me, "We'll ask this guy. He'll offer us some water, maybe something to eat. Then we'll talk for a little bit, and he'll give us a lift."

I nod. There's a pause as we pull into the driveway. "When he offers you the water, take it," Javier says.

We get out of the car, and the farmer saunters out. He seems fairly amused to see a white boy out here. Sure enough, he calls to his wife, tells her to bring some water and some grapes. The water is the best I've ever tasted. And after a few minutes of chit-chat, he asks if we need help with anything.

So we're off on our way down the hill. I mean straight down. We can't all fit into the Jeep with the furniture, so I'm left to hang off the side as we work our way down. That sounds like fun, except for the times it seems certain the Jeep is going to tip over and squash me like a bug.

Finally, after what seems like a month of passing by coffee bushes, we make to the shadowy bottom of the hill. There's a tin and wood shack, and a gaggle of kids watching - I kid you not - Huckleberry Hound. I do an imitation of Deputy Dawg, and they crack up. A white man! Funny!!

At one point, I pull Javier aside and say, "I thought you told me your youth group built this house? No offense, but it sure doesn't look like much."

He responds in all seriousness, "You should have seen it before. Half of it was cardboard."

While we're standing around, we hear somebody tramping through the forest. Up pops this guy with a long white beard and a double-barrel shotgun, breech open, tucked under his arm.

They seem to know this guy, but he doesn't know me. He comes sidling up with a suspicious look in his eyes and asks me my name.

"Soy Daniel," I stammer.

He looks surprised. "That's a good name," he says. "That's my name too." But he doesn't look completely convinced by me, and I'm keeping an eye on that shotgun. "You from America?" he wants to know.

"Yes, from north of Chicago."

He wrinkles his nose. "I used to live in America," he says. "I didn't like Chicago. Too cold. I liked Miami better."

Javier tells me later that Daniel's a bit off his rocker, apparently did too much cocaine in America. That makes me feel better. But apparently, I've made his day, and the kids' day too.

And all of that starts with that simple gesture of hospitality - would you like something to drink? Without everyday kindness, no good work can begin.

Now, this all sounds like a great exotic adventure, and it was to some extent. It's not every day that you get to interact with a shotgun-toting hillbilly in the jungle of a Caribbean island, after all.

But that's not to say that we can't fulfill Christ's instructions in the here and now. You certainly don't have to go abroad to do mission. Just the other day, we had Margie Menger's funeral. It felt like it was about 110 degrees in the church, and steamy. And what should I happen to see in the fellowship hall? A jug of ice water that Anita has set out for our visitors. I guess she's earned her reward. If Jesus is to be believed - and I think he is - she won't lose it.

And Kathy earned her reward pulling together the dinner. Jeff earned his waiting on the tables. Mary was in the kitchen, and so was Terri, and Don and Marie, Judy and Duane, and probably some other folks I've forgotten.

Whoever was there - on other nights, it would have been any number of other people - whoever it was, the message stays the same. It's the little things we do, the simple acts of hospitality and caretaking, that count. It's not hard to be good. It's not hard to do good. And the rewards are both immediate and out of this world, as they say.

So to all of you who helped on Friday night, thank you. To all of you who help on other nights or through the day, thank you. To all of you who offer a cup of cold water or a home-cooked meal or some old clothes or furniture, or just an ear to bend and a shoulder to cry on, I thank you and so does Jesus. Bless you all, keep up the good work. You done good, and Jesus won't forget it. Amen.