I recently visited our southern neighbor to meet and train about 100 twenty-somethings who’ve committed their summer to short-term missions. Most were Americans, some Canadians and a handful from locales as far away as Australia and New Zealand. That’s right — an American, training an Australian, working alongside Canadians, to minister to Hispanics — a multiculturalists grand slam.

Most were college students on summer break, having passed over resume-enhancing internships at law firms and engineering companies or jobs as headset-wearing clothing “associates,” to come to a world very different from their own to build homes, host visiting youth groups from the U.S. and share the gospel message with anyone who will listen on the streets of Tijuana and Ensenada.

“They come hoping to make a difference, but the real change happens in them. Whether it’s the exposure to such despair and poverty, or the long hours of giving or simply just getting out of their comfort zone and peer group and being plopped down in an unknown world, or all of those things, they change."

These young adventurers had smiles way too big for people with so little water pressure. They listened intently as I shared with them how to make the most of their time with the high school students — 1,500 of them — who over the course of the summer would each spend a week with them in Mexico, getting a taste of the mission field.

Sheila was a bright, cheery 20 year old who took notes with the intensity of a student prepping for the MCAT. She, like the others, took this calling seriously and wanted to be the absolute best missionary the Gospel has ever seen.

“I just couldn’t see myself spending another summer working at (a very famous trendy clothing store),” she told me. “I wanted to do something that makes a difference. I mean, I could use the money of a regular job, don’t get me wrong. But I guess I just wanted to help out, give something back.”

Her refreshing outlook was common among her co-missionaries, none of whom were paid. Room and board was provided, but that’s it. And while las cucarachas muy grande were kept mostly at bay, this was no resort getaway. The blessed trifecta of twenty-something life — lattes, e-mail and air-conditioning — were nowhere in sight. The location was on the beach, but contaminated water made swimming out of the question, and shard glass and metal made barefoot beach walks a tetanus obstacle course.

Not that there was any time for swimming or strolling. Days there started early. Most of the students were up having their “quiet time” before 7:30 breakfast, going all day without breaks, training youth groups in street drama or puppets or some other witnessing tool, or assisting in building one of 150 homes that were being constructed for those who can’t afford their own. Somehow they squeezed in lunch and dinner, spent the evenings hanging out with the youth groups, and finally collapsed in their beds at 10 or 11:00 at night. Twenty-one year old Sam was the sound engineer and quasi-security guard for the outdoor meeting area, a huge stage full of guitars, drums and microphones surrounded by 150 plastic chairs. Although "the base" was fairly secure with its high walls and gates locked tight, Sam and a handful of the musicians slept next to the stage every single night to discourage wall-climbing bongo burglars.

“It’s either that or take it all down every night, lock it in a room, then set it all back up the next morning,” Sam explained. “We decided it would be easier to just sleep out here with it. It’ll be like an entire summer of camping out.”

I discovered Sam and his security team when I went to retrieve some notes I had left in the meeting area the night before. I jumped on the stage to grab my folder and four heads popped out of sleeping bags like gophers on patrol. Once they realized it was just the speaker who’d wandered into the minefield, they returned to their guitar-guarding slumber. Had I actually been a threat they would have tackled me and escorted me out, but not before asking if I wanted to pray to receive Christ.

Jim was one of the summer program’s leaders. He’s an American (Texan) who lived and worked at the base for three or four years and now splits his time between Ensenada and the main office in San Diego. He speaks fluent Spanish, has a deep love for God and for the people of Ensenada, and has turned the search for the best taco into an art form. He took me to one of his favorite taco stands, and we talked about his exceptional staff.

“I am continually amazed at the quality of staff that come here summer after summer,” he said as we watched the taco meat sizzle on the wood-fired barbecue grill. “I know you hear and read about how twenty-somethings are self-centered, passionless and all about money, but that’s not been my experience with our summer staff.”

“Don’t you think that’s because there is a built-in filter that keeps those you’re describing from ever filling out an application?” I asked. “I mean, if I’m selfish, this is the last job I’m trying to get, right?”

“Oh, yeah. No question. But if you ask any of our staff, they probably wouldn’t describe themselves as ‘Mother Theresa’s’ by any stretch of the imagination. They would say they struggle with selfishness just like anybody else. They just decided to take the leap and let this be an experience that stretches them.”

Our tacos were assembled with fresh guacamole, grilled onions and a dripping, mountainous pile of beef. Jim chatted back and forth in Spanish with Miguel, the owner, and they laughed and looked at me. I suspect I was the brunt of some secretly coded joke. El gringo muerto de hambre. The starving foreigner.

“Here’s what every staff member over the summers has said, without exception,” Jim continued. “They come hoping to make a difference, but the real change happens in them. Whether it’s the exposure to such despair and poverty, or the long hours of giving or simply just getting out of their comfort zone and peer group and being plopped down in an unknown world, or all of those things, they change. Their perspective on their lives, on their worldview, it all changes, and in their minds, for the better.”

We returned to the mission and some male staff were enjoying the last few days of training before the real work begins; they had found a little time to kick around a hacky sack. They asked me to jump in and I balked, knowing I'd need a good 30 minutes of stretching or risk pulling a hamstring.

“I’ll just watch, thanks. Let me ask you something, do you guys have any idea what you’ve gotten yourselves into this summer?”

Eric The Dreadlocked said he’s praying that God would use him in whatever way He wanted to. He hopes to build some relationships with the kids who’ll come through the program and maybe help any who are going through some of the things he went through just a few years before as a teenager.

“My parents (kick, kick) divorced when (kick) I was (kick, kick, kick) in junior high,” he said, passing the hacky sack to someone else. “It was tough, and I wish I would have had someone to help me, you know, uh, process some of that. I figure they’ll be some kids come through this summer going through similar stuff. I don’t know. Maybe I can help.”

Others shared similar hopes, all with the same theme: service. They wanted to serve, to give their time and talents in whatever way they could to make a difference this summer. They hardly seemed bothered by the trickling-water showers, the long hours, the heat, and no text messaging.

“I guess whatever we’re missing by being here will still be there for us when the summer’s over,” Eric said. “I don’t think I’ll miss it that much. Plus you can’t get these tacos anywhere back home. Have you had one yet?”

After three days of leading the staff training, I said my goodbyes and flew home, my hope renewed in the hungry years generation. Having been inundated with gloomy statistics and media messages that theirs is a self-absorbed, comfort-addicted generation, my perception was biased against them. After meeting these hundred or so twenty-somethings in Mexico, I’ve been forced to reconsider. I realize they don’t speak for their entire generation, but at least for this group this summer, significance is in, selfishness out. This is my tribute to them.