Being the American that I am, I smirked every time one of the UK peeps asked "What's your favorite bit?"... such a funny phrase that reminds me of puppy chow, but nevertheless an adequate question. Bit is defined as a small fraction of the whole and anything I could write about the last two weeks would be just that: a small piece of a massive life changing experience. Since I know that even my master oration skills can not do my time in Ibiza justice, here is the first of a few bits and pieces of my time in Ibiza. 

Night 2: PR worker directs us to a passed out man sleeping under the serving window of a bar. Abby and I sat him up and attempt to wake him up. After several minutes of poking pressure points and some water on the back of the neck, he opens his eyes... looks at Abby and throws up all over her, and then rolls back over. I kneel down next to him and prop him up against my knees. He is still not responding, there is bloody vomit everywhere, and his breathing is slowing. His eyes are rolling and we do not know his name or anything about him. The Spanish police stop to ask us if we need help. Through broken Spanglish, we relay the message that our newly acquired friend needs medical attention. They phone the local ambulance (not the expensive private clinic like most authorities phone). A bar owner comes out and berates us for slowing his business because of the drunk in the street. The police ask him to leave and decide to stay with us to help ward off the crowd of scoffers. A drunken group of guys walk by, identify the kid, but refuse to help us get him home or to a medical center. They run off cursing the spectacle, abandoning their friend. Abby and I carry him a block to the main street with our police escort friends. On the ground, in the recovery position, his head in my arms we waited for the ambulance to take our new friend away. He'll never remember our names, but he may remember that someone helped him when everyone else left him unconscious in the streets, and I will never forget him or the police who waited with us.

Later that night, with sick still soaking the bottom of my jeans and the smell of vomit spritzed through my hair... worship continued as we celebrated in the club until sunrise. When I remembered that I was wearing a bit of our dear friend's rough night, I couldn't help but smile because I  know Jesus was smiling too.  This is His kind of community... one that selflessly serves the masses, faithfully ministers to the few, and jubilantly celebrates the One true God.