Friday afternoon
August 28
We're on foot, crossing through the rotunda-- a considerable sea of traffic whose rip tide we're waiting to ride across the highway to safety on the other side. There, a long line at the police station will greet us. It's just Miguel and me, and we're getting fingerprinted again. This time, we're applying for student visas.
In line, I see people I look just like, whose language I do not speak. There are Germans, French and other North American missionaries. We take turns observing one another when we think the other doesn't notice. Our differences provide intrigue, yet so do our similarities, so the waiting is full of amusement.
Miguel has already done the math, so I'm the scribe while he presents our height in meters and our weight in kilos. Next is the address line-- only there are no street names, so it's appropriate to describe our address by:
-noting a landmark (ours is the hardware store)
-whether we're to the north or south and how many meters
-including the side of the street, color of house and whether or not it's single story
...So that takes a bit of time, as I'm translating my weak English directions into weaker Spanish ones.
At this point, I've resigned myself to reality. I am like a helpless, fond puppy following my benevolent Master here and there. In my previous California life, I felt reasonably confident. Run to the store to pick up a few things for dinner? Simple. I would jump in a dependable car, which I may or may not lock as it waited patiently for me in a smoothly paved parking lot. Groceries in tow, I would push a button, whereby the car would automatically unlock, graciously awaiting my groceries.
Now: Hmmm... there are a few things I need for dinner. Where are comfortable shoes? Will I be back before dark, when the safety factor is sketchy. Who will I take to help carry the items? Which route will be smartest for street crossing? Do I really need these things or can I make something creative with what's on hand... while my mind is weighing the factors, I hear myself calling out, "Don Miguel, are you up for a trip...?" whereby he is out the door, personal bags in tow, now considering all these things on my behalf, my benevolent master. He knows my thoughts.
A grateful heart renders her benevolent master to be her most precious gift. An ungrateful one finds something to be dissatisfied with. I confess to days of choosing the latter.
After the Police Station
We're street-crossing again, fingerprints bagged, I question:
"Why are you the one who is so competent, and I am like a helpless puppy? I can't think fast enough, or listen carefully enough and when I cross the street, my heart is beating so loud, I can hear it in my head, and it makes my head hurt. And why do you know exactly what to buy and all the best prices at the most reasonable places, taking the most prudent route...before I've even finished a list? Why are all these things unclear to me and so clear to you? I think slowly. I talk slowly. I move slowly. You do these things with such ease."
"Crystal, Tengo que vivir la vida," He squeezes my hand, guiding me through a narrow place in the street. I am anxious because of my purse. I never carry a purse anymore, but one is necessary today. He puts his hand on my shoulder, "Your neck is tense. Stop worrying about the purse." How does he know I'm thinking about the purse?
"I don't get tense. Remember, I'm the carefree one. I'm the one between the two of us who likes adventure," I insist.
"Tengo que vivir la vida," He repeats, " You have to live your life." I know what he's trying to say. "Que sera sera. Whatever will be, will be."
He knows I am the nervous chihuahua: shaking, tediously looking about me back and forth back and forth... scanning, scannning, scanning... he is alert, as well, but somehow, when we get home, he's jovially playing with the children, and I'm nearly passed out on the bed, exhausted, head aching, falling asleep before he realizes I'm gone.
Darkness
So now, I'm thinking about the possibility of something really great. It will take deliberate effort until I'm well-trained, and this could take some time. I've decided that I want to be a good listener. I want to be a good listener and a happy follower.
If I'm going to acknowledge the reality: cross-cultural living is taking some time for me to adjust to; therefore, I'm somewhat like a timid pup, then it follows that what I am defines how I act. This being the case, I've decided to be the pup that listens carefully. Instead of anxiously looking about, I'd like to listen, then believe. What command does my benevolent master speak?
"Do you think I'm not protecting you every step of the way? Do I not have what is best for you in mind?" He says, as we're safe on the sidewalk again. Anxiousness is failing to trust my master. When he assures me of his nurturing protection, I will listen. I will seek to understand. Then understanding, I will believe, thus changing my responses without ever really trying. He speaks. I'm listening, for I am cared for by one who seeks my very best in all things.
I don't have to try to be happy. Cheer flows spontaneously from the heart that listens to, understands, then believes her master. Happy following takes little effort for the devoted pup who delights in her master's every command. She knows these commands flow from the heart that bursts with love for her.
I remember learning in college that the word worship is derived from a word that means to adore, like a little pup at the feet of her master, bounding gleefully back and forth, as pleasing and delightful as a little companion could possibly be. It's helpful to me to understand that
happily following Miguel is like chasing after my Daddy in Heaven-- my ultimate, benevolent Master, whose every command flows from a heart bursting with love for me. Instead of complaining and asking why, I have the opportunity to shamelessly trust the One whose nurturing protection includes legions of angels surrounding me, when I call for help. I jump at his heels, begging for another opportunity to obey a command and receive a reward. I am eager to please: listening, understanding, believing... then happily following.
This is worship.
Being a helpless, fond pup isn't so bad after all.
Thursday, August 27, 2009
Tuesday, August 25, 2009
Goodbye Summer
Saturday
Late Night
August 22
Laundry hangs on the clothesline. Some is in the dryer-- we have a dryer! The house is still. The dogs do not howl. Even the motorcycles do not take our beaten path tonight. It's quiet. This is unusual.
Generally, on La Ferreteria, shortly after my head hits the pillow, I'm asleep. I sleep through huge parties at the corner house and the horn section playing Salsa. The dogs do not often wake me. More often than not, however, it is 5 year old Nathanael's hot breath that begins to burn my eyes, as he mutters different woes requiring comfort. He never fails to lure one of us out of precious sleep. Boyish strength bottled in a being so full of so many things. I anticipate seeing him in a few short hours.
Tuesday
August 25
At Parque Okayama, Chloe is swinging brazenly, trying to make her toes touch the trees overhead. Nathanael effortlessly glides across monkey bars, sleek and agile. We watch with admiration-- "He didn't get that from me," Miguel notes. "Nor from me..." I agree. Abigail is toiling with the possibility of a flip on some swinging rings, but finally acknowledges aloud to herself,"I'm not made to do this flip deal. Forget about it." She storms off looking for a friend to make. Julia settles next to me on a swing, thinking aloud, "I'm not sure what I was made to do. I'm still looking for my place in this world," She watches us watch Nathanael. She laughs at Chloe's self-impressed glee, she marvels at Abigail's uncanny ability to engage strangers. All the while, she is wondering what it is that makes her shine. Miguel starts listing things. I throw in a few shiny somethings, too. We sit together, and I hold her.
The clouds grow dark and heavy. Our stomachs are empty. Rain jackets on, we follow Miguel across the street to Ortero's pizza, complete with the big movie screens and order the usual: one extra grande half Americana (honoring our homeland), half suprema,(celebrating all that is to come)
...and a two liter Coca Cola. It doesn't quite taste like we remember Coke tasting, yet the logo alone makes us happy.
Ortero's is dimly lit with sturdy wooden tables and stools. Movie posters cover every inch of wall space, ceiling included. Some of the advertisements are in Spanish. Some are in English, but the whole place is like stepping into another world for a tiny window of time. Julia Noel is smiling.
Dinner is over. We follow a pathway between two long buildings, whose walls are covered in fabulous graffiti. The colors are brilliant and Nathanael is impressed, stating: "These people are really good in art." We all agree. POPS is the next stop. The closest thing here to Ben and Jerry's Brownie Batter ice cream is sitting on my cone-in-hand, and we're weaving through traffic, dodging a long line of commuters, just offloading the bus back over a narrow bridge, and through the neighborhood. We are silent, anticipating what tomorrow will be like...
Tonight is goodbye to summer. Goodbye with Ortero's and POPS (popes)-- with the cool night air and a lingering walk through San Francisco de Dos Rios. Good-bye summer. Tomorrow each of us becomes a full-time student, and orientation commences a whole year in Language School. Not all goodbyes are sad.
Goodbye summer.
Late Night
August 22
Laundry hangs on the clothesline. Some is in the dryer-- we have a dryer! The house is still. The dogs do not howl. Even the motorcycles do not take our beaten path tonight. It's quiet. This is unusual.
Generally, on La Ferreteria, shortly after my head hits the pillow, I'm asleep. I sleep through huge parties at the corner house and the horn section playing Salsa. The dogs do not often wake me. More often than not, however, it is 5 year old Nathanael's hot breath that begins to burn my eyes, as he mutters different woes requiring comfort. He never fails to lure one of us out of precious sleep. Boyish strength bottled in a being so full of so many things. I anticipate seeing him in a few short hours.
Tuesday
August 25
At Parque Okayama, Chloe is swinging brazenly, trying to make her toes touch the trees overhead. Nathanael effortlessly glides across monkey bars, sleek and agile. We watch with admiration-- "He didn't get that from me," Miguel notes. "Nor from me..." I agree. Abigail is toiling with the possibility of a flip on some swinging rings, but finally acknowledges aloud to herself,"I'm not made to do this flip deal. Forget about it." She storms off looking for a friend to make. Julia settles next to me on a swing, thinking aloud, "I'm not sure what I was made to do. I'm still looking for my place in this world," She watches us watch Nathanael. She laughs at Chloe's self-impressed glee, she marvels at Abigail's uncanny ability to engage strangers. All the while, she is wondering what it is that makes her shine. Miguel starts listing things. I throw in a few shiny somethings, too. We sit together, and I hold her.
The clouds grow dark and heavy. Our stomachs are empty. Rain jackets on, we follow Miguel across the street to Ortero's pizza, complete with the big movie screens and order the usual: one extra grande half Americana (honoring our homeland), half suprema,(celebrating all that is to come)
...and a two liter Coca Cola. It doesn't quite taste like we remember Coke tasting, yet the logo alone makes us happy.
Ortero's is dimly lit with sturdy wooden tables and stools. Movie posters cover every inch of wall space, ceiling included. Some of the advertisements are in Spanish. Some are in English, but the whole place is like stepping into another world for a tiny window of time. Julia Noel is smiling.
Dinner is over. We follow a pathway between two long buildings, whose walls are covered in fabulous graffiti. The colors are brilliant and Nathanael is impressed, stating: "These people are really good in art." We all agree. POPS is the next stop. The closest thing here to Ben and Jerry's Brownie Batter ice cream is sitting on my cone-in-hand, and we're weaving through traffic, dodging a long line of commuters, just offloading the bus back over a narrow bridge, and through the neighborhood. We are silent, anticipating what tomorrow will be like...
Tonight is goodbye to summer. Goodbye with Ortero's and POPS (popes)-- with the cool night air and a lingering walk through San Francisco de Dos Rios. Good-bye summer. Tomorrow each of us becomes a full-time student, and orientation commences a whole year in Language School. Not all goodbyes are sad.
Goodbye summer.
Monday, August 17, 2009
Living Water
We live between two rivers in San Francisco de Dos Rios. These muddied water trails host plastic grocery bags carried along by a faithful current of milk boxes, soda cans, and yogurt bottles all tempted to clump along the river bed. Somehow it is still beautiful. Giant bamboo shoots jut out from hillsides like a vigilant guardian.
I am walking along a mossy bridge which carries me over the river. It is hot. My thirst is great. I long for water, but there is only the river. I can not drink. I must find a trusted source. Other options ultimately lead to harm. So it is with my thirsting heart.
Jesus is living water, poured out freely, scandalously, without end...I will give of the fountain of the water of life freely to him who thirsts (Revelation 21:6b).
And let him who thirsts come. Whoever desires, let him take the water of life freely (Rev 22:17).
He shows no restraint in giving, and demands the same of the thirsty one: Delight in abundance! It can not run short. It is not temporary. It's pleasure can not wane. Drink. Let your soul delight itself! Everyone who thirsts, come to the waters... Let your soul delight itself in abundance (Isaiah 55:1,2b). It is trusted.
Living water never stops being sweet. It is always pure. For it mercifully flows:...a pure river of water of life, clear as crystal proceeding from the throne of God and of the Lamb (Rev 22:1).
His lavish giving does not stop at the river. I am not required to make a pilgrimage to a drinking spot every time I thirst. He causes this living water to burst from inside of me, for rivers of living water gush out of me, as I believe. If anyone thirsts, let him come to me and drink. He who believes in Me, as the Scripture has said, out of his heart will flow rivers of living water (John 7:37).
Oh! To drink deeply of that which God Almighty made to flow out of me: The river of His Spirit. It dwells in me when I believe the death, burial and resurrection of Jesus was accomplished on my behalf. This finished work, this river, quenches my thirst one choice at a time.
I am walking along a mossy bridge which carries me over the river. It is hot. My thirst is great. I long for water, but there is only the river. I can not drink. I must find a trusted source. Other options ultimately lead to harm. So it is with my thirsting heart.
Jesus is living water, poured out freely, scandalously, without end...I will give of the fountain of the water of life freely to him who thirsts (Revelation 21:6b).
And let him who thirsts come. Whoever desires, let him take the water of life freely (Rev 22:17).
He shows no restraint in giving, and demands the same of the thirsty one: Delight in abundance! It can not run short. It is not temporary. It's pleasure can not wane. Drink. Let your soul delight itself! Everyone who thirsts, come to the waters... Let your soul delight itself in abundance (Isaiah 55:1,2b). It is trusted.
Living water never stops being sweet. It is always pure. For it mercifully flows:...a pure river of water of life, clear as crystal proceeding from the throne of God and of the Lamb (Rev 22:1).
His lavish giving does not stop at the river. I am not required to make a pilgrimage to a drinking spot every time I thirst. He causes this living water to burst from inside of me, for rivers of living water gush out of me, as I believe. If anyone thirsts, let him come to me and drink. He who believes in Me, as the Scripture has said, out of his heart will flow rivers of living water (John 7:37).
Oh! To drink deeply of that which God Almighty made to flow out of me: The river of His Spirit. It dwells in me when I believe the death, burial and resurrection of Jesus was accomplished on my behalf. This finished work, this river, quenches my thirst one choice at a time.
Sunday, August 2, 2009
Barefooting
Sunday Night
August 2
Sitting on a starchy, bright orange-sheeted bed following uninterrupted silence with homemade salsa and chips. Tomorrow is Monday, commencing week 2 of Barefooting, a style of total immersion into a host culture, whereby we sit with the flawlessly forbearing Dona Olga in morning hours listening, then practicing. She assigns us a task-- a communication hurdle to overcome and we are off into the city-- hurdling: What is this in Spanish? What does it cost? I am a student in Costa Rica... con mucho gusto... . We take buses and taxis, and ambitiously make our way through a maze of nameless streets 350 meters from this Parque De Bosque-- or beside that red Pan Por Kilo corner stop... This is Barefooting. We drink coffee and tea, feel the sunshine on our backs, or listen to pelting rain against the lemon and tangerine trees while Dona Olga opens Pura Vida, the Tico world to us, armed with slow, articulate Spanish, amusing charades and a host of adventures mapped out in her notebook. Barefooting.
Four family units from Virginia's Learning Center now circle up, straining to decode words spoken faster than they are deciphered. Our heads are aching. Miguel is our translator. His 5 previous years of Spanish trudge a mucky path through knee deep mud of unfamiliarity. We step where his feet once did, following at an inconvenient distance.
Oh, give thanks to the God of Heaven... who remembered us in our lowly state, for His mercy endures forever. Psalm 136:23
Speaking messily mangled, mismatched words can be painful. I fail to insert verbs in their rightful location. Mis-conjugating them in one sentence, then fumbling for a preposition in the next. Often, I'm flipping furiously through my pocket notebook, straining to pair unknown words with ones I recognize.
Monday Morning with Dona Olga
August 3
"What is she asking me?" We take turns whispering, pleadingly looking Miguel's way. During week one, I find this to be a great asset. Being married to the star student has its advantages; However, this is day one of week 2, and I become irritated. Miguel appears antsy-- overly eager to assist. Dona Olga patiently waits. Miguel corrects me in his gentle, low voice. I am deeply agitated. I return his correction with a hushed one of my own.
Class is over. I march home stoically, and collapse onto the orange sheets.
Tuesday Night
August 4
Dominoes. Abigail is exposed for illegal plays. Miguel hoists Nathanael up the stairs for bedtime routines, and I'm peeking through the oven window, watching banana cake slowly lift from the sides of the pan. After UNO and tiny block forts, children are dragging into bed, delirious from contented chaos. Soon, they are piled one on top of the other, insistent that they must all sleep together tonight... the soft, steady rhythm of tummies rising and falling means Miguel and I have one plate, two forks, and gooey deliciousness drenched in brown sugar frosting. It's a date.
I am no longer agitated. Accepting correction as a gift, rather than a battle wound seems the more prudent path.
Wednesday
August 5
"It's time. Go talk to her now," Miguel urges. We are at La Parque de Infantil under a grey sky, enjoying teeter-totters. Chloe is squealing over a "white, puffy doggie" nipping at a young mother's heels. A little girl beside her is bike-riding in circles. "Talk to her," He repeats, steadily watching my hesitancy...
Now Chloe is holding the white, puffy doggie. Abigail is practicing Spanish with 5 year old Carolena, Nathanael is riding Carolena's bike in circles, and I'm talking in Spanish with Tanya! I'm actually having a conversation; not practicing vocabulary or irregular conjugations, but talking! I say what I can, and she graciously coaxes me along, just as my Miguel.
Barefooting.
Talking with people. I make little sense, but I do not quit.
Barefooting.
Delighting in another person and their world.
Barefooting.
This is how I will learn Spanish, I resolve. It will not necessarily be my study habits or my devotion to notecards that seal the deal. It will be Barefooting.
I never liked wearing shoes anyway.
August 2
Sitting on a starchy, bright orange-sheeted bed following uninterrupted silence with homemade salsa and chips. Tomorrow is Monday, commencing week 2 of Barefooting, a style of total immersion into a host culture, whereby we sit with the flawlessly forbearing Dona Olga in morning hours listening, then practicing. She assigns us a task-- a communication hurdle to overcome and we are off into the city-- hurdling: What is this in Spanish? What does it cost? I am a student in Costa Rica... con mucho gusto... . We take buses and taxis, and ambitiously make our way through a maze of nameless streets 350 meters from this Parque De Bosque-- or beside that red Pan Por Kilo corner stop... This is Barefooting. We drink coffee and tea, feel the sunshine on our backs, or listen to pelting rain against the lemon and tangerine trees while Dona Olga opens Pura Vida, the Tico world to us, armed with slow, articulate Spanish, amusing charades and a host of adventures mapped out in her notebook. Barefooting.
Four family units from Virginia's Learning Center now circle up, straining to decode words spoken faster than they are deciphered. Our heads are aching. Miguel is our translator. His 5 previous years of Spanish trudge a mucky path through knee deep mud of unfamiliarity. We step where his feet once did, following at an inconvenient distance.
Oh, give thanks to the God of Heaven... who remembered us in our lowly state, for His mercy endures forever. Psalm 136:23
Speaking messily mangled, mismatched words can be painful. I fail to insert verbs in their rightful location. Mis-conjugating them in one sentence, then fumbling for a preposition in the next. Often, I'm flipping furiously through my pocket notebook, straining to pair unknown words with ones I recognize.
Monday Morning with Dona Olga
August 3
"What is she asking me?" We take turns whispering, pleadingly looking Miguel's way. During week one, I find this to be a great asset. Being married to the star student has its advantages; However, this is day one of week 2, and I become irritated. Miguel appears antsy-- overly eager to assist. Dona Olga patiently waits. Miguel corrects me in his gentle, low voice. I am deeply agitated. I return his correction with a hushed one of my own.
Class is over. I march home stoically, and collapse onto the orange sheets.
Tuesday Night
August 4
Dominoes. Abigail is exposed for illegal plays. Miguel hoists Nathanael up the stairs for bedtime routines, and I'm peeking through the oven window, watching banana cake slowly lift from the sides of the pan. After UNO and tiny block forts, children are dragging into bed, delirious from contented chaos. Soon, they are piled one on top of the other, insistent that they must all sleep together tonight... the soft, steady rhythm of tummies rising and falling means Miguel and I have one plate, two forks, and gooey deliciousness drenched in brown sugar frosting. It's a date.
I am no longer agitated. Accepting correction as a gift, rather than a battle wound seems the more prudent path.
Wednesday
August 5
"It's time. Go talk to her now," Miguel urges. We are at La Parque de Infantil under a grey sky, enjoying teeter-totters. Chloe is squealing over a "white, puffy doggie" nipping at a young mother's heels. A little girl beside her is bike-riding in circles. "Talk to her," He repeats, steadily watching my hesitancy...
Now Chloe is holding the white, puffy doggie. Abigail is practicing Spanish with 5 year old Carolena, Nathanael is riding Carolena's bike in circles, and I'm talking in Spanish with Tanya! I'm actually having a conversation; not practicing vocabulary or irregular conjugations, but talking! I say what I can, and she graciously coaxes me along, just as my Miguel.
Barefooting.
Talking with people. I make little sense, but I do not quit.
Barefooting.
Delighting in another person and their world.
Barefooting.
This is how I will learn Spanish, I resolve. It will not necessarily be my study habits or my devotion to notecards that seal the deal. It will be Barefooting.
I never liked wearing shoes anyway.
Monday, July 27, 2009
No Such Thing as a Free Lunch?
Disclaimer: I want to let everyone know up front that this is not a post from Crystal so if you are looking for "beautiful words" and "I feel like I was there", no need to read further. I do edit Crystal's post though so I feel I can take some grammatical credit for her posts (I found dog spelled bog in the last post). I felt compelled to write my first blog entry because of an experience I had tonight; here goes nothing...
We've been in Costa Rica for only four days and have already been asked for money twice. Each time a middle-aged man has stopped by our gate and told a sad story of a mother or wife in the hospital that has cancer or a heart problem. They seem very sincere and just don't have enough money to pay medical bills or get a taxi to go to the hospital.
The problem is, I am generally a skeptical person. I hear a voice in my head that says "they're lying and just want to bum money off a seemingly rich gringo" or "this story sounds similar to the last one, did they collaborate?". The first guy even had his story printed out on little sheets of paper so he could let me read it (good practice for reading in Spanish). Maybe both of them really needed financial help and would use the money for medical purposes, but we have decided to offer food to people who come asking for assistance.
Even handing out food is a big step for me because I have the nagging feeling I am being lied to, but that isn't my responsibility to find out, so each time I've gone back in the house and Crystal and I have prepared a small bag of food with some apples, oranges, bread, etc. I must admit that while filling the bag earlier today I thought "I need to lock myself in the house so I stop getting asked every other day!". I also wondered if we were going to get to eat any of the oranges that Crystal bought. Not the best attitude...I know.
Another one of my vices is being frugal; my siblings would say I'm cheap. This just compounds the problem of giving freely to those in need, but also has led to extra trips to the grocery store as I have been trying to keep our grocery bill low but inevitably we need/want more stuff. One of those extra trips occurred tonight and I had to make the 10 minute walk to "Jumbo" (pronounced something like "hum-bow") as it was getting dark outside. This was my first venture out of the house at dusk and Crystal was just praying I didn't get mugged.
Don't worry, I wasn't mugged although it would make for a great blog entry too! I got to the store and did my good ole frugal shopping for the things on Crystal's list then uncharacteristically splurged on a few extras (lunch meat, juice packets, even gum!). After a long battle of figuring out the best prices, I made my way to the checkout counter and the line straight in front had someone almost finished so I started to go there, but I noticed one lane with no one in it; my lucky day! I unload my stuff and after she finishes ringing up the goods some sign on her screen lights up and she starts saying something to me with a big smile. I'm not sure what is going on at this point, but the checker in the next stand comes over and pats me on the back and comes to watch as a bell goes off and they tell me I am the winner and all my groceries were free! I did my best to communicate what I could in Spanish and managed to blurt out "debo comprar mas" (I should buy more) and "gane" (I won!) along with a few other things about not being able to speak much Spanish and I am new here in Costa Rica.
I kept thinking this must be one of those episodes of Candid Camera where someone is going to say they were supposed to win and yell at me, but it was real...I really won! As I walked home, the generosity of God overwhelmed me as I realized that I had given up so little in handing out a couple bags of food and had been so richly blessed with four wonderful kids and a beautiful wife who is becoming famous in the blogosphere. God can even give me free groceries as He desires! I shouldn't sweat the little bags of food; just make sure I have a smile on my face and a cheerful heart as I share the love of Jesus.
We've been in Costa Rica for only four days and have already been asked for money twice. Each time a middle-aged man has stopped by our gate and told a sad story of a mother or wife in the hospital that has cancer or a heart problem. They seem very sincere and just don't have enough money to pay medical bills or get a taxi to go to the hospital.
The problem is, I am generally a skeptical person. I hear a voice in my head that says "they're lying and just want to bum money off a seemingly rich gringo" or "this story sounds similar to the last one, did they collaborate?". The first guy even had his story printed out on little sheets of paper so he could let me read it (good practice for reading in Spanish). Maybe both of them really needed financial help and would use the money for medical purposes, but we have decided to offer food to people who come asking for assistance.
Even handing out food is a big step for me because I have the nagging feeling I am being lied to, but that isn't my responsibility to find out, so each time I've gone back in the house and Crystal and I have prepared a small bag of food with some apples, oranges, bread, etc. I must admit that while filling the bag earlier today I thought "I need to lock myself in the house so I stop getting asked every other day!". I also wondered if we were going to get to eat any of the oranges that Crystal bought. Not the best attitude...I know.
Another one of my vices is being frugal; my siblings would say I'm cheap. This just compounds the problem of giving freely to those in need, but also has led to extra trips to the grocery store as I have been trying to keep our grocery bill low but inevitably we need/want more stuff. One of those extra trips occurred tonight and I had to make the 10 minute walk to "Jumbo" (pronounced something like "hum-bow") as it was getting dark outside. This was my first venture out of the house at dusk and Crystal was just praying I didn't get mugged.
Don't worry, I wasn't mugged although it would make for a great blog entry too! I got to the store and did my good ole frugal shopping for the things on Crystal's list then uncharacteristically splurged on a few extras (lunch meat, juice packets, even gum!). After a long battle of figuring out the best prices, I made my way to the checkout counter and the line straight in front had someone almost finished so I started to go there, but I noticed one lane with no one in it; my lucky day! I unload my stuff and after she finishes ringing up the goods some sign on her screen lights up and she starts saying something to me with a big smile. I'm not sure what is going on at this point, but the checker in the next stand comes over and pats me on the back and comes to watch as a bell goes off and they tell me I am the winner and all my groceries were free! I did my best to communicate what I could in Spanish and managed to blurt out "debo comprar mas" (I should buy more) and "gane" (I won!) along with a few other things about not being able to speak much Spanish and I am new here in Costa Rica.
I kept thinking this must be one of those episodes of Candid Camera where someone is going to say they were supposed to win and yell at me, but it was real...I really won! As I walked home, the generosity of God overwhelmed me as I realized that I had given up so little in handing out a couple bags of food and had been so richly blessed with four wonderful kids and a beautiful wife who is becoming famous in the blogosphere. God can even give me free groceries as He desires! I shouldn't sweat the little bags of food; just make sure I have a smile on my face and a cheerful heart as I share the love of Jesus.
Sunday, July 26, 2009
Costa Rican Cookies
Morning: I wake up to the screeching of a monkey I assume;
(Uncle B assures us it's a gecko, not a monkey, and that geckos sing like birds). The sun is bright and glaring from water on the tin roof across the street. I tip toe down stairs while the house is quiet, for it is 5 am, and I want to be part of this hushed morning stillness. I open the curtains, warm sun on my face(already!), sitting in the provided couch from which Chloe pulled someone's bungee cord, toy screwdriver and yarn yesterday. My mind begins to suppose that I could cover this couch... wait, I am not organizing or scheming or upholstering right now. I open my Bible to Proverbs because Miguel has been in Proverbs much lately. I'm looking for a new passage to memorize while we transition into a diffferent life.
6:15am: Time to start the morning routine. Miguel's making his famous peanut butter, banana oatmeal. His troops are readying for morning worship over breakfast. Abigail and Nathanael are on a team-- UCLA Yellow Canaries; Julia and Chloe are on a team-- God's Beautiful Feet . The reader on each team is now going through Proverbs, praying with and for each other, and preparing to lead the rest of us in an acapella sing-along. They choose one verse that leaps out at them, explaining why. Chloe is often twisting under the table, standing on someone's lap kissing their face and whispering unrelated tales of reptiles or dogs, while Julia is trying to gain composure and control for the God's Beautiful Feet team(first born deal, Miguel insists)...
9:15am: Three families are walking down the neighborhood greeting each neighorhood guard while walking the necessary 10 blocks to Primera Iglesia Bautista. Straight down the street for a few blocks. Left turn. Right turn at the narrow bridge over a muddy, littered river tangled in jungle. The path beside a busy street is wide enough for one adult and a small child. Chloe and Nathanael see chickens along the river bed. The walk is long, but there is no complaining today.
Block 10. We follow a smiling woman to the children's classes. They are all in Spanish, and our three families of children file in effortlessly. Next is our turn to file into the little class for ages 18-35, where casually visiting friends stop to greet us. They are studying Marcos 7 and I pick up bits and pieces, requiring devoted labor. Next is another service when our children join us for part of the next two-ish hours.
1:00pm: We stop in at Giovanni's pizza, elated to see printed on the door: We Speak English. We watch the masters lift and spin dough into the air, littering the white floured surface with chile dulce and a host of other fresh vegetables. Full and happy, we are now crossing the street--a valiant effort: Two families readied for Frogger, and alas-- there's a clearing! CHARGE! We are laughing, hands held tightly, hoisting our children to safety at the supermercado, where nearly everything seems to be about double what it was in the states.
3:00pm: There are just enough groceries. We manage carrying them home in cheerful, red Jumbo bags without hassle. I am anticipating kneading chocolate chip cookie dough between my fingers for a taste of home. My red bags contain everything I will need, and I'm planning my list of who they will all go to: the guard at end of the block, the man who comes digging through our trash, drinking the last bits of peach nectar from the box...
4:00pm: I am pulling the cookies out of the oven after wrapping extra dough to refrigerate. The townhouse is silent. Everyone is exhausted and piled onto the bed in Julia and Abigail's "apartment" (They are proud to man the secret bathroom under the staircase) where heavy drapes block out all traces of light. I sit at the table to enjoy the first cookie and am sorely disappointed. It tastes nothing like home. Every bit of it is dry, even powdery-- save those chocolate chips we splurged on. For now, home cannot be tasted.
6:00pm: Upon sampling my taste of home, Miguel resolves that we focus on Costa Rica's precious offerings: the sweet vegetables and fruit at the Saturday morning market.
Darkness: The children are in the gated, front courtyard creating parchment script with Skylar and Sydney (quadmates from training now studying language with us). They are rubbing notebook paper rapidly against the tile, "to give it delicate age", Skylar insists, announcing they have found scrolls from 2000BC. The sounds of the night unfold: car alarms, barking dogs, motorcycles... and the children are talking about Sunday School leisurely:
"I didn't understand a thing," confesses Abigail.
"Neither did I," Julia Noel agrees. They happily recall Oreos, the David and Goliath computer video, and games they joined by copying what their classmates did. They anticipate next week, and I am in awe.
His divine power has granted to us EVERYTHING pertaining to life...
2 Peter 1:3a
(Uncle B assures us it's a gecko, not a monkey, and that geckos sing like birds). The sun is bright and glaring from water on the tin roof across the street. I tip toe down stairs while the house is quiet, for it is 5 am, and I want to be part of this hushed morning stillness. I open the curtains, warm sun on my face(already!), sitting in the provided couch from which Chloe pulled someone's bungee cord, toy screwdriver and yarn yesterday. My mind begins to suppose that I could cover this couch... wait, I am not organizing or scheming or upholstering right now. I open my Bible to Proverbs because Miguel has been in Proverbs much lately. I'm looking for a new passage to memorize while we transition into a diffferent life.
6:15am: Time to start the morning routine. Miguel's making his famous peanut butter, banana oatmeal. His troops are readying for morning worship over breakfast. Abigail and Nathanael are on a team-- UCLA Yellow Canaries; Julia and Chloe are on a team-- God's Beautiful Feet . The reader on each team is now going through Proverbs, praying with and for each other, and preparing to lead the rest of us in an acapella sing-along. They choose one verse that leaps out at them, explaining why. Chloe is often twisting under the table, standing on someone's lap kissing their face and whispering unrelated tales of reptiles or dogs, while Julia is trying to gain composure and control for the God's Beautiful Feet team(first born deal, Miguel insists)...
9:15am: Three families are walking down the neighborhood greeting each neighorhood guard while walking the necessary 10 blocks to Primera Iglesia Bautista. Straight down the street for a few blocks. Left turn. Right turn at the narrow bridge over a muddy, littered river tangled in jungle. The path beside a busy street is wide enough for one adult and a small child. Chloe and Nathanael see chickens along the river bed. The walk is long, but there is no complaining today.
Block 10. We follow a smiling woman to the children's classes. They are all in Spanish, and our three families of children file in effortlessly. Next is our turn to file into the little class for ages 18-35, where casually visiting friends stop to greet us. They are studying Marcos 7 and I pick up bits and pieces, requiring devoted labor. Next is another service when our children join us for part of the next two-ish hours.
1:00pm: We stop in at Giovanni's pizza, elated to see printed on the door: We Speak English. We watch the masters lift and spin dough into the air, littering the white floured surface with chile dulce and a host of other fresh vegetables. Full and happy, we are now crossing the street--a valiant effort: Two families readied for Frogger, and alas-- there's a clearing! CHARGE! We are laughing, hands held tightly, hoisting our children to safety at the supermercado, where nearly everything seems to be about double what it was in the states.
3:00pm: There are just enough groceries. We manage carrying them home in cheerful, red Jumbo bags without hassle. I am anticipating kneading chocolate chip cookie dough between my fingers for a taste of home. My red bags contain everything I will need, and I'm planning my list of who they will all go to: the guard at end of the block, the man who comes digging through our trash, drinking the last bits of peach nectar from the box...
4:00pm: I am pulling the cookies out of the oven after wrapping extra dough to refrigerate. The townhouse is silent. Everyone is exhausted and piled onto the bed in Julia and Abigail's "apartment" (They are proud to man the secret bathroom under the staircase) where heavy drapes block out all traces of light. I sit at the table to enjoy the first cookie and am sorely disappointed. It tastes nothing like home. Every bit of it is dry, even powdery-- save those chocolate chips we splurged on. For now, home cannot be tasted.
6:00pm: Upon sampling my taste of home, Miguel resolves that we focus on Costa Rica's precious offerings: the sweet vegetables and fruit at the Saturday morning market.
Darkness: The children are in the gated, front courtyard creating parchment script with Skylar and Sydney (quadmates from training now studying language with us). They are rubbing notebook paper rapidly against the tile, "to give it delicate age", Skylar insists, announcing they have found scrolls from 2000BC. The sounds of the night unfold: car alarms, barking dogs, motorcycles... and the children are talking about Sunday School leisurely:
"I didn't understand a thing," confesses Abigail.
"Neither did I," Julia Noel agrees. They happily recall Oreos, the David and Goliath computer video, and games they joined by copying what their classmates did. They anticipate next week, and I am in awe.
His divine power has granted to us EVERYTHING pertaining to life...
2 Peter 1:3a
Saturday, July 25, 2009
Costa Rica
July 24
Morning: Make sure you tie your knots loosely in all trash bags-- that way when people go through your trash, they will not tear the whole thing apart, says our Big brother family, the one that placed a Costa Rican chicken pot pie in our freezer, and familiar foods in the refrigerator when we arrived in the middle of the night--the family that has carted us along beside them through marketing and banking and such things that make up life. Loose ties in trash bags.
No purses--they are too easily snatched.
Always lock all gate layers behind you as you go in and as you go out.
When turning knobs, be gentle.
Eager to fill a bucket with water for mopping, I tug on a stubborn valve only to rip the aluminum (?) pipe in two followed by furious, bursting water from the exposed line. I grab a 13 gallon trash bin, full in seconds, and watch cold water spurn the laundry courtyard, the kitchen, the bathroom...
"Miguel! Miguel, I'm having an issue..." I call.
"What kind of issue?"
"The kind you'd be interested to see."
He reaches the bottom stair, stepping into water that does not relent. He disappears, searching for the water main. No success. Next, he's fumbling with locks, trying to unlock the gates to call for help. Success. Maybe our next door neighbor, Big brother, will know where to turn the water off. Lord, we do not know what to do. Help.
Our landlord is driving down the street and sees flustered gringos, his new renters, out front. He pulls over. Within minutes, he shuts off the valve hidden underneath a plastic tube in the sidewalk, and the pipe stops rushing. He walks inside to survey the scene, which is only slightly problematic, due to tile flooring. Gingerly detailing his future return to repair the valve, He leaves moments later, our broken microwave under his arm, about as contented as one could possibly be. We are uncertain as to when he'll return, or when there will be water again.
Noon: Miguel is walking to get some fish, chicken and pork chops for a neighborly lunch with new missionary families, while I muse through bags, looking for toothpaste, which seems to have hidden itself since the Travelodge in LA. Lunch is delicious, families are adjusting and the peach nectar is a fast favorite.
Darkness: The duffle bags, rescued from the morning flood, are drying out in the laundry courtyard. The floor is dry. My eyes are bleary red. I sprawl out across our cold-sheeted bed and scratch three words into my notebook: believing, thankful dependency.
Believing, thankful dependency.
Morning: Make sure you tie your knots loosely in all trash bags-- that way when people go through your trash, they will not tear the whole thing apart, says our Big brother family, the one that placed a Costa Rican chicken pot pie in our freezer, and familiar foods in the refrigerator when we arrived in the middle of the night--the family that has carted us along beside them through marketing and banking and such things that make up life. Loose ties in trash bags.
No purses--they are too easily snatched.
Always lock all gate layers behind you as you go in and as you go out.
When turning knobs, be gentle.
Eager to fill a bucket with water for mopping, I tug on a stubborn valve only to rip the aluminum (?) pipe in two followed by furious, bursting water from the exposed line. I grab a 13 gallon trash bin, full in seconds, and watch cold water spurn the laundry courtyard, the kitchen, the bathroom...
"Miguel! Miguel, I'm having an issue..." I call.
"What kind of issue?"
"The kind you'd be interested to see."
He reaches the bottom stair, stepping into water that does not relent. He disappears, searching for the water main. No success. Next, he's fumbling with locks, trying to unlock the gates to call for help. Success. Maybe our next door neighbor, Big brother, will know where to turn the water off. Lord, we do not know what to do. Help.
Our landlord is driving down the street and sees flustered gringos, his new renters, out front. He pulls over. Within minutes, he shuts off the valve hidden underneath a plastic tube in the sidewalk, and the pipe stops rushing. He walks inside to survey the scene, which is only slightly problematic, due to tile flooring. Gingerly detailing his future return to repair the valve, He leaves moments later, our broken microwave under his arm, about as contented as one could possibly be. We are uncertain as to when he'll return, or when there will be water again.
Noon: Miguel is walking to get some fish, chicken and pork chops for a neighborly lunch with new missionary families, while I muse through bags, looking for toothpaste, which seems to have hidden itself since the Travelodge in LA. Lunch is delicious, families are adjusting and the peach nectar is a fast favorite.
Darkness: The duffle bags, rescued from the morning flood, are drying out in the laundry courtyard. The floor is dry. My eyes are bleary red. I sprawl out across our cold-sheeted bed and scratch three words into my notebook: believing, thankful dependency.
Believing, thankful dependency.
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