Thursday
I had planned to do some laundry. The machine is broken. What do I do with all the soapy water and clothes? Should I start washing by hand? Michael specifically asked me to do some writing. So, I shall write.
Wednesday
Nathanael is having a bad day. He's temperamental. Abigail is moody. Julia is pouting because she feels left out and Chloe says no to every command. I'm boiling.
"Everyone be happy! " I command (without a hint of cheer).
Later, Abigail is crying. Her eyes are red. She sits on the corner of my bed and confesses a list of everything that's wrong with her life. Each thing, strangely enough, is something that is actually wrong with someone else in her life: Julia Noel is bossy and pouty, Chloe Joy is destroying her tent, Nathanael won't stay out of her room. Everyone else needs to change: "If they would all do the right thing, I would be such a delightful person." But until then... she is justified to moan and make her family know how they have not only destroyed her tent and her mood-- they are robbing her of the ability to be a delightful person.
Then Julia is forlorn. She stands in front of me with a long, miserable face and announces woefully, "I did the experiment. For 20 minutes, I set aside my own plans. I decided that I was going to serve Abigail. I wrote out my plan, my hypothesis and an empty space for the results. When the timer went off, it had been a horrible 20-minute-experience, so I sat in the corner of my room and cried."
"Why? I thought you were going to spend 20 minutes serving Abigail, making life great for her."
"She didn't want my service. She didn't want my plans for her. I told her that I was serving her."
"Is that how you serve someone?"
"What do you mean? I gave her that whole 20 minutes, and she rejected me. The experiment failed."
"You were not serving her. To serve her is to fit into her world, her plans. To join in with what she's already working on and make it sweeter for her. You ask her what she needs, or even just anticipate it. Serving doesn't make demands. You don't do what you want, how you want to, and call that serving. That's bossing. That's why she's mad at you to begin with."
"But I told her I was going to serve her."
"Then you proceeded to demand how and when?"
"But if I live like this, who will serve me? I'll be doing all the work and all the 'fitting-in'."
Such a good question...
Even as I'm rebuking her, I'm uncomfortable, feeling the weight of my hypocrisy. I look at her, wincing, and admit, "Julia, I'm demanding something from you that I am not doing myself," I begin.
Abigail enters, and interrupts,"Yes, that makes you a hypocrite."
Can she read my thoughts?
"True."
Julia's eyes light up, "What are some other ways you're a hypocrite?"
"I tell you to rejoice in the Lord in your every circumstance, but when I'm bothered with you, instead of praising God, or calling out to Him, sometimes I go and pout, too."
They are clearly both very satisfied upon hearing this confession, leaning in a little closer. I continue, "Abigail wants Julia to stop being the boss and pouting when she's not, but she demands this of Julia, while pouting herself."
"Amen," says Julia.
"And your idea of service is really for your own gain, Julia," I continue. She smiles uncomfortably, knowingly.
While I long for my children to motivated to serve each other out of love, I often serve them out of duty with joylessness. When they act like I do, my own choices become painfully obvious.
I suppose Julia's question is more important than I realized: Is a life of praising God and serving others cheerfully REALLY worth it? In her words, Who will take care of me? If I'm so busy serving others, who will serve me?
We talk awhile longer, realizing that none of us is the innocent party. We are confronted later, when Michael is reading to us:
"...but whoever wishes to become great among you shall be your servant, and
whoever wishes to be first among you shall be your slave;
just as the Son of Man did not come to be served,
but to serve, and
to give His life a ransom for many."
Matthew 20: 27-28
Therein lies the Gospel, in all it's fullness, as it applies to bad moods and disagreements and everything else that finds it's way into a normal day...
Thursday, April 1, 2010
Thursday, February 25, 2010
Day Off
Thursday
February 25
From my bedroom window on the top floor, I am staring at green tin roofing. It's encircled in rolls of razor-wire along the top of the neighbor's fence, and beneath the wire is some graffiti- the same three silver letters I've admired from this window for these last 7 months. Above the wire, the sky is white and gray. It feels like a Friday...
But it's Thursday, and there is time to rest. The grammar tests are stacked on our teacher's desks. Our notes are set aside, and my bed, which is usually covered in these notes, reference books, verb conjugations, construction-paper note cards and a Spanish-English dictionary, is empty. It will be a three-day weekend, and this time-- there is no homework. I take a deep breath, and continue to stare at the silver graffiti.
Friday afternoon
February 26
Abigail and Julia are with me. We're walking with our vegetable bags in-tow, but they're empty. The narrow curb we're following into Desamparados is laden with trash and broken glass. The cement is uneven and cracked, making it important to watch where we step. There are deep holes stuffed with bottles and wrappers and something rancid.
We cross a bridge over brown water and admire tin houses built above the river. Some are painted turquoise, some are copper. Drying t-shirts hang just barely above adobe-potted red geraniums. The geraniums are stunning against peeling turquoise paint. We stop on the bridge while Abigail drops a leaf and watches it float slowly into the brown river. Julia is interested in the fact that the leaf follows invisible zig-zags before finally touching the water, carried along by the current. We think about the people who live in the tin houses. We admire those tin houses and the flowers and the laundry, and we keep walking.
The thrift store I anticipated seeing when we turned the corner is completely gutted. Instead, there are men on extended ladders painting the ceiling of the warehouse. "This is the right street, isn't it?" I muse under my breath, tracing my steps.
There on the corner are braids of onion and garlic hanging from the yellow awnings. Stacks and stacks of bananas and plantains line the corner. Fresh melons are cut into different shapes. I know this is the right corner-- where is the right store?
Julia is tense: "You don't know where you're at, do you? Are we lost?"
"No, and no."
We trace our steps back to a church on the corner. Just across the street is another thrift store. We settle for that one. We walk in and hand our empty bags to the lady who stores them behind the check-out counter and gives us a wooden number in exchange.
The music is loud and there is a smiling woman speaking very rapidly into a microphone attached to a karaoke machine. I listen carefully, and decide she's announced that there are 15 minutes left to gather blouses from the front rack where they are 2 for 1,000 colones. This means they're about a dollar each. Julia races to the section where fancy bathrobes and old-fashioned dresses hang.
"Oh, Abigail, I actually had a dream where I was wearing this dress!"
"I'll buy it for you," boasts Abigail, who never leaves home without her coin purse. She's sifting through her heaviest yellow coins. We each disappear into different aisles, lost in the tightly packed rows of skirts and blouses and dress-up clothes.
When it's time to leave, we hand the smiling karaoke lady our wooden number, and she hands us our bags, where we stuff our treasures. Julia's most happy about a scarf she's found that is the exact bright, clear red of the geraniums at the tin house. Abigail's found a layered silver party dress. Neither one of these things are needed: red scarfs are not necessary in the tropics, nor are party dresses for the jungle, but we couldn't be any more delighted, until we smell the bread bakery, nearing our house.
Instead of going straight, we turn, and quicken our steps toward the smell of hot bread. We load a little red tray with buns for dinner and Abigail adds a loaf of cheese bread insisting that if I don't want to pay for it, she can.
We turn the corner to see our front gate, long after we've heard Nathanael's grunts and cheers. He and Miguel are playing soccer on the tile behind the gate and race to to find the gate key when they see we have yellow bags with bread.
Instead of saving the bread, we all gather around the table after Nathanael hollers, "We're having a bread party for everyone who wants some bread!" He's the first to tear a piece from the cheese loaf, and we all agree that the hot loaf tasted much better than it would've with dinner.
Saturday
February 27
Miguel has the troops down at the baseball field. Since rainy season is over, the field is no longer a lake. Neighborhood children and men throw and chase balls, preparing even the youngest to join the team.
I am home, taking advantage of the fact that we have water right now. I race through the kitchen chopping radishes and cilantro with celery, green onion and almonds for tuna wraps. I bake oatmeal bars preparing for the time we will spend tomorrow with baby Rebeca, at the cafecito. All the while, I am washing as many dishes as possible and turning over as many loads of laundry as the machine will allow, before there is no water again.
Late Afternoon
February 27
The house is dark and silent and everyone sleeps for now. Oatmeal bars are iced with a vanilla cream, waiting in the refrigerator for tomorrow. I am reading through John 15 both in Spanish and in English over and over, for nothing ever sinks in the first time.
In this moment, I am rejoicing in my freedom: God's Spirit lives in me, directing my thoughts, my words, each choice, as I call out to Him. He is lovingly directing each small detail of my small life, so that I can join Him, the Creator of all that lives and moves and has being, in His huge plan for the nations.
February 25
From my bedroom window on the top floor, I am staring at green tin roofing. It's encircled in rolls of razor-wire along the top of the neighbor's fence, and beneath the wire is some graffiti- the same three silver letters I've admired from this window for these last 7 months. Above the wire, the sky is white and gray. It feels like a Friday...
But it's Thursday, and there is time to rest. The grammar tests are stacked on our teacher's desks. Our notes are set aside, and my bed, which is usually covered in these notes, reference books, verb conjugations, construction-paper note cards and a Spanish-English dictionary, is empty. It will be a three-day weekend, and this time-- there is no homework. I take a deep breath, and continue to stare at the silver graffiti.
Friday afternoon
February 26
Abigail and Julia are with me. We're walking with our vegetable bags in-tow, but they're empty. The narrow curb we're following into Desamparados is laden with trash and broken glass. The cement is uneven and cracked, making it important to watch where we step. There are deep holes stuffed with bottles and wrappers and something rancid.
We cross a bridge over brown water and admire tin houses built above the river. Some are painted turquoise, some are copper. Drying t-shirts hang just barely above adobe-potted red geraniums. The geraniums are stunning against peeling turquoise paint. We stop on the bridge while Abigail drops a leaf and watches it float slowly into the brown river. Julia is interested in the fact that the leaf follows invisible zig-zags before finally touching the water, carried along by the current. We think about the people who live in the tin houses. We admire those tin houses and the flowers and the laundry, and we keep walking.
The thrift store I anticipated seeing when we turned the corner is completely gutted. Instead, there are men on extended ladders painting the ceiling of the warehouse. "This is the right street, isn't it?" I muse under my breath, tracing my steps.
There on the corner are braids of onion and garlic hanging from the yellow awnings. Stacks and stacks of bananas and plantains line the corner. Fresh melons are cut into different shapes. I know this is the right corner-- where is the right store?
Julia is tense: "You don't know where you're at, do you? Are we lost?"
"No, and no."
We trace our steps back to a church on the corner. Just across the street is another thrift store. We settle for that one. We walk in and hand our empty bags to the lady who stores them behind the check-out counter and gives us a wooden number in exchange.
The music is loud and there is a smiling woman speaking very rapidly into a microphone attached to a karaoke machine. I listen carefully, and decide she's announced that there are 15 minutes left to gather blouses from the front rack where they are 2 for 1,000 colones. This means they're about a dollar each. Julia races to the section where fancy bathrobes and old-fashioned dresses hang.
"Oh, Abigail, I actually had a dream where I was wearing this dress!"
"I'll buy it for you," boasts Abigail, who never leaves home without her coin purse. She's sifting through her heaviest yellow coins. We each disappear into different aisles, lost in the tightly packed rows of skirts and blouses and dress-up clothes.
When it's time to leave, we hand the smiling karaoke lady our wooden number, and she hands us our bags, where we stuff our treasures. Julia's most happy about a scarf she's found that is the exact bright, clear red of the geraniums at the tin house. Abigail's found a layered silver party dress. Neither one of these things are needed: red scarfs are not necessary in the tropics, nor are party dresses for the jungle, but we couldn't be any more delighted, until we smell the bread bakery, nearing our house.
Instead of going straight, we turn, and quicken our steps toward the smell of hot bread. We load a little red tray with buns for dinner and Abigail adds a loaf of cheese bread insisting that if I don't want to pay for it, she can.
We turn the corner to see our front gate, long after we've heard Nathanael's grunts and cheers. He and Miguel are playing soccer on the tile behind the gate and race to to find the gate key when they see we have yellow bags with bread.
Instead of saving the bread, we all gather around the table after Nathanael hollers, "We're having a bread party for everyone who wants some bread!" He's the first to tear a piece from the cheese loaf, and we all agree that the hot loaf tasted much better than it would've with dinner.
Saturday
February 27
Miguel has the troops down at the baseball field. Since rainy season is over, the field is no longer a lake. Neighborhood children and men throw and chase balls, preparing even the youngest to join the team.
I am home, taking advantage of the fact that we have water right now. I race through the kitchen chopping radishes and cilantro with celery, green onion and almonds for tuna wraps. I bake oatmeal bars preparing for the time we will spend tomorrow with baby Rebeca, at the cafecito. All the while, I am washing as many dishes as possible and turning over as many loads of laundry as the machine will allow, before there is no water again.
Late Afternoon
February 27
The house is dark and silent and everyone sleeps for now. Oatmeal bars are iced with a vanilla cream, waiting in the refrigerator for tomorrow. I am reading through John 15 both in Spanish and in English over and over, for nothing ever sinks in the first time.
In this moment, I am rejoicing in my freedom: God's Spirit lives in me, directing my thoughts, my words, each choice, as I call out to Him. He is lovingly directing each small detail of my small life, so that I can join Him, the Creator of all that lives and moves and has being, in His huge plan for the nations.
Thursday, December 31, 2009
Christmas in Puntarenas
Black, silty sand. Bodysurfing the warm Pacific by moonlight. Plates full of rice and beans and fresh mahi mahi. A grass fire Miguel fought in sandals with both water from the pool and the ocean. Marshmallows roasted on crude driftwood found along the shore. Late game nights with ice-less tea. Drying sheets along a concrete wall while large, iguana-like lizards scamper over the fresh laundry. Sunburned, freckled children—content to sleep and wake in the same swimsuit. Bus rides from one station to another crowded with sweating travelers. Christmas in Puntarenas.
Finals are finished, grades are in and our intensive Bible-Storying conference is over. Now that 12 piles of laundry are folded and stacked, we grab full backpacks and wind through the streets of downtown San Jose to a crowded bus station, with our blue tickets. The autobus sways alongside seas of coffee beans and wild fruit. When the bus stops, we follow Michael through the backstreets of a small, barb-wired community, to our home for the next week: an ancient, white house settled in a palm grove along the waterfront. Christmas in Puntarenas.
Here, I learn how to peel and de-vein fresh shrimp. My legs swell up like stuffed sausages, and the skin blisters and cracks after falling asleep under the tropical sun. Michael braves furious waves under a midnight sky, until some large sea creature brushes up against his legs. Chloe falls into the pool necessitating a rescue effort which renders Michael with a bruised collarbone and sore, beaten knees, while part of my leg: purple, yellow, and red covers a lump which makes sleeping painful.
There’s a fire to the left of our lot, whose flames leap across the wire fencing until Michael and the boy who lives there, armed with 3-gallon drinking water bottles, begin to drench the property. When the fire truck arrives, shovels full of the black sand are used to extinguish flames. Nearly empty beer bottles under the hot sun fueled the afternoon venture. The pool has a fine layer of ash, and our rooms smell smoky. No one is burned. Christmas in Puntarenas.
Meanwhile, the ladies in the kitchen teach me which vegetables they finely chop to boil into black beans, and how orange achiote paste makes especially delicious arroz con pollo. They stuff boiled, yellow potatoes with ham and cheese, and layer the platter with green beans from the market.
After Christmas Eve dinner, we gather with 3 other families and our Costa Rican hosts, for worship. We eat cake. We sing and listen and laugh. Much of it is in Spanish. Four months ago, I would've been completely lost. But tonight, we understand many things. We can even pray in Spanish together. Tonight is a time to rejoice: It's quite extraordinary, really, to learn to hear and speak another language. This is something God is accomplishing on our behalf, and we are celebrating this Christmas in Puntarenas.
To check out photos from our adventure, check out the link below:
http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=46585&id=1334529821&l=9e6bdb354f
Finals are finished, grades are in and our intensive Bible-Storying conference is over. Now that 12 piles of laundry are folded and stacked, we grab full backpacks and wind through the streets of downtown San Jose to a crowded bus station, with our blue tickets. The autobus sways alongside seas of coffee beans and wild fruit. When the bus stops, we follow Michael through the backstreets of a small, barb-wired community, to our home for the next week: an ancient, white house settled in a palm grove along the waterfront. Christmas in Puntarenas.
Here, I learn how to peel and de-vein fresh shrimp. My legs swell up like stuffed sausages, and the skin blisters and cracks after falling asleep under the tropical sun. Michael braves furious waves under a midnight sky, until some large sea creature brushes up against his legs. Chloe falls into the pool necessitating a rescue effort which renders Michael with a bruised collarbone and sore, beaten knees, while part of my leg: purple, yellow, and red covers a lump which makes sleeping painful.
There’s a fire to the left of our lot, whose flames leap across the wire fencing until Michael and the boy who lives there, armed with 3-gallon drinking water bottles, begin to drench the property. When the fire truck arrives, shovels full of the black sand are used to extinguish flames. Nearly empty beer bottles under the hot sun fueled the afternoon venture. The pool has a fine layer of ash, and our rooms smell smoky. No one is burned. Christmas in Puntarenas.
Meanwhile, the ladies in the kitchen teach me which vegetables they finely chop to boil into black beans, and how orange achiote paste makes especially delicious arroz con pollo. They stuff boiled, yellow potatoes with ham and cheese, and layer the platter with green beans from the market.
After Christmas Eve dinner, we gather with 3 other families and our Costa Rican hosts, for worship. We eat cake. We sing and listen and laugh. Much of it is in Spanish. Four months ago, I would've been completely lost. But tonight, we understand many things. We can even pray in Spanish together. Tonight is a time to rejoice: It's quite extraordinary, really, to learn to hear and speak another language. This is something God is accomplishing on our behalf, and we are celebrating this Christmas in Puntarenas.
To check out photos from our adventure, check out the link below:
http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=46585&id=1334529821&l=9e6bdb354f
Thursday, November 26, 2009
Learning Love
Gauze-like clouds sit atop the green mountains, surrounded by a sea of sky. Slight wind is soft and warm, while I'm sitting against the wall on the speckled-like-a-bird-egg floor in the mint room. This little "closet" is tucked away in the library whose door you can shut. There is a big window which overlooks the street beyond the white lace curtains, blown by the warm wind.
Enough reviewing reflexive verbs. I am sitting on the speckled-like-a-bird-egg floor enjoying the wind, when I could be sitting in the wind. I stuff what remains of my hastily-scribbled paper piles into the backpack and race down the stairs and out the door, to find a flimsy, plastic green chair.
I sit down. I close my eyes. The sun is warm on my face. I pull out my favorite white notebook, the one I just stuffed with loose papers, and flip to the tab that contains daily musings, for I want to capture the moment in the white book. But to do so, will mean I forfeit the moment, for I will have to write, and I want nothing but to sit beside this cluster of lavender flowers and absorb everything I'm surrounded by. The white book remains open in my lap. Untouched.
Today is Thanksgiving. I'm only half-conscious of this fact because the sun absorbs most every thought... until the bell rings. It is time for Fonetica with Dona Gabi. We will mimic her like adoring little parrots repeating each phrase after her and being repeatedly corrected until our accents aren't so thick.
There are four of us in our little cluster which herds from room to room for each different class.
Ruth the valiant, who just scuba dived and nearly drowned last weekend: Adventurous mother of four, venturing to Venezuela next summer. Ruth invents things: Like ingenious ways to carry an over-sized umbrella, by turning it into what looks like a weapon, slung across her back. Ruth is from Texas. She bakes these sensational little cinnamon-sugar cookies for her neighbors and anyone else who might enjoy them. She's an athlete: the one whose always at the ping pong table during breaks, competing with ease. The one who can hop on a bus and find her way to wherever she wants to go with little care for the fact that she never really knows where she's going.
Then there's Rebecca, the overcomer, who was orphaned in Colombia as a small child, and later adopted into a family in Minnesota. An artist and musician with wide brown eyes and a conquering spirit, Rebecca has Lupus. Last month, Rebecca contracted an infection in her hand which crept into her bloodstream, nearly claiming her life until she was hospitalized. When we went to visit her, she looked fragile and weak-- her eyes heavy with concern--how would the hospital bill be paid?-- but her Bible was beside her bed, and she, though alone, was not without hope. She was still laughing. Rebecca had three different hand surgeries, and is now back in class. She does not quit. Rebecca the overcomer.
Susan is the Detailed one. Mother of two, beautiful teenaged daughters, whose family is on their way to Peru. Verb conjugations pour out of Susan like water from a pitcher. One afternoon, when Dona Alejandra handed back our tests, my heart was bursting with pride when I held in my hands that which I assumed to be the best grade in the class, only to have Dona Alejandra apologize and hand the test to Susan. It was hers. And it was her piercing blue eyes which met me outside of class one afternoon with a bag stacked with delicious food for my family. She noted my exhaustion and that I had been sniffling. She knew Miguel felt poorly, too. So there she was smiling with dinner in her hand while she whispered, "Look in the bag, there's a little something just for you." That's Susan, anticipating needs, and rising to meet them with whole-hearted attention to detail. During our last grammar test, it was Susan who was walking around to each desk placing a few candy corns. She knew we could all use a little taste of home.
These are my co-learners and my teachers. I listen to them with awe: How did Susan manage to get that out so quickly? My, Ruth reads in Spanish with the voice of a radio announcer. And Rebecca pieces everything together verbally without a hint of accent...
We watch each other and laugh. We listen to one another's mistakes and giggle. It's like being a child again in so many ways only this time it's different. We're grown-ups. Time is wasted when I want to be better than my amigas. This time we know that if we have not love, we are nothing.
Though I speak with the tongues of men and of angels,
but have not love,
I have become sounding brass or a clanging cymbal.
And though I have the gift of prophecy, and
understand all mysteries and all knowledge, and
though I have all faith, so that I could remove mountains,
but have not love,
I am nothing.
And though I bestow all my goods to feed the poor, and
though I give my body to be burned,
but have not love,
it profits me nothing.
(1 Corinthians 13:1-3)
Enough reviewing reflexive verbs. I am sitting on the speckled-like-a-bird-egg floor enjoying the wind, when I could be sitting in the wind. I stuff what remains of my hastily-scribbled paper piles into the backpack and race down the stairs and out the door, to find a flimsy, plastic green chair.
I sit down. I close my eyes. The sun is warm on my face. I pull out my favorite white notebook, the one I just stuffed with loose papers, and flip to the tab that contains daily musings, for I want to capture the moment in the white book. But to do so, will mean I forfeit the moment, for I will have to write, and I want nothing but to sit beside this cluster of lavender flowers and absorb everything I'm surrounded by. The white book remains open in my lap. Untouched.
Today is Thanksgiving. I'm only half-conscious of this fact because the sun absorbs most every thought... until the bell rings. It is time for Fonetica with Dona Gabi. We will mimic her like adoring little parrots repeating each phrase after her and being repeatedly corrected until our accents aren't so thick.
There are four of us in our little cluster which herds from room to room for each different class.
Ruth the valiant, who just scuba dived and nearly drowned last weekend: Adventurous mother of four, venturing to Venezuela next summer. Ruth invents things: Like ingenious ways to carry an over-sized umbrella, by turning it into what looks like a weapon, slung across her back. Ruth is from Texas. She bakes these sensational little cinnamon-sugar cookies for her neighbors and anyone else who might enjoy them. She's an athlete: the one whose always at the ping pong table during breaks, competing with ease. The one who can hop on a bus and find her way to wherever she wants to go with little care for the fact that she never really knows where she's going.
Then there's Rebecca, the overcomer, who was orphaned in Colombia as a small child, and later adopted into a family in Minnesota. An artist and musician with wide brown eyes and a conquering spirit, Rebecca has Lupus. Last month, Rebecca contracted an infection in her hand which crept into her bloodstream, nearly claiming her life until she was hospitalized. When we went to visit her, she looked fragile and weak-- her eyes heavy with concern--how would the hospital bill be paid?-- but her Bible was beside her bed, and she, though alone, was not without hope. She was still laughing. Rebecca had three different hand surgeries, and is now back in class. She does not quit. Rebecca the overcomer.
Susan is the Detailed one. Mother of two, beautiful teenaged daughters, whose family is on their way to Peru. Verb conjugations pour out of Susan like water from a pitcher. One afternoon, when Dona Alejandra handed back our tests, my heart was bursting with pride when I held in my hands that which I assumed to be the best grade in the class, only to have Dona Alejandra apologize and hand the test to Susan. It was hers. And it was her piercing blue eyes which met me outside of class one afternoon with a bag stacked with delicious food for my family. She noted my exhaustion and that I had been sniffling. She knew Miguel felt poorly, too. So there she was smiling with dinner in her hand while she whispered, "Look in the bag, there's a little something just for you." That's Susan, anticipating needs, and rising to meet them with whole-hearted attention to detail. During our last grammar test, it was Susan who was walking around to each desk placing a few candy corns. She knew we could all use a little taste of home.
These are my co-learners and my teachers. I listen to them with awe: How did Susan manage to get that out so quickly? My, Ruth reads in Spanish with the voice of a radio announcer. And Rebecca pieces everything together verbally without a hint of accent...
We watch each other and laugh. We listen to one another's mistakes and giggle. It's like being a child again in so many ways only this time it's different. We're grown-ups. Time is wasted when I want to be better than my amigas. This time we know that if we have not love, we are nothing.
Though I speak with the tongues of men and of angels,
but have not love,
I have become sounding brass or a clanging cymbal.
And though I have the gift of prophecy, and
understand all mysteries and all knowledge, and
though I have all faith, so that I could remove mountains,
but have not love,
I am nothing.
And though I bestow all my goods to feed the poor, and
though I give my body to be burned,
but have not love,
it profits me nothing.
(1 Corinthians 13:1-3)
Saturday, October 31, 2009
Without Fall
Painting Coconuts, Hanging Spiders
Julia is painting coconuts. Pumpkins weren't an option. However, one smart mom brought a pumpkin cookie cutter from the states in her suitcase, and we all enjoyed the fruit of her foresight: delighted third graders spread homemade, orange frosting on those pumpkin-cut sugar cookies. Crowned with dried cranberries and chocolate chips... It was like stepping into fall for an afternoon, in that lively little classroom, complete with a couch, floral curtains, and layers of Miss V's creativity.
Life Without Fall
Alas! There is no Fall. Living a bit closer to the equator means living without the change of seasons. Gladly though, missing one thing always means embracing another. Shortly after classes were underway, Christmas lights began to sparkle in store fronts, and now the department-type stores have their window displays in full glory: trees dripping with tinsel and adornments of turquoise and gold and red and lime green. It's truly sensational. Without harvest festivities or Thanksgiving to enjoy, it is only reasonable to begin preparing for Christmas.
So as if Fall was only for a sweet afternoon with Miss V, and with our first 8 weeks at the Language Institute behind us, we've started a new quarter with reviews for Miguel and I, report cards for the little ones, and a frosted pumpkin cookie to share. We've managed to slip into the weekend almost smelling roasted pumpkin seeds...
It is true that though seasons are not as I've known them, and this October I'm not walking into my Mom's kitchen smelling her pumpkin, cream cheese roll being lifted from the oven... there is a steady flow of God's goodness in unfamiliar places with unfamiliar sights and smells. I'm growing comfortable with unfamiliarity and finding in it a cause for rejoicing.
Julia is painting coconuts. Pumpkins weren't an option. However, one smart mom brought a pumpkin cookie cutter from the states in her suitcase, and we all enjoyed the fruit of her foresight: delighted third graders spread homemade, orange frosting on those pumpkin-cut sugar cookies. Crowned with dried cranberries and chocolate chips... It was like stepping into fall for an afternoon, in that lively little classroom, complete with a couch, floral curtains, and layers of Miss V's creativity.
Life Without Fall
Alas! There is no Fall. Living a bit closer to the equator means living without the change of seasons. Gladly though, missing one thing always means embracing another. Shortly after classes were underway, Christmas lights began to sparkle in store fronts, and now the department-type stores have their window displays in full glory: trees dripping with tinsel and adornments of turquoise and gold and red and lime green. It's truly sensational. Without harvest festivities or Thanksgiving to enjoy, it is only reasonable to begin preparing for Christmas.
So as if Fall was only for a sweet afternoon with Miss V, and with our first 8 weeks at the Language Institute behind us, we've started a new quarter with reviews for Miguel and I, report cards for the little ones, and a frosted pumpkin cookie to share. We've managed to slip into the weekend almost smelling roasted pumpkin seeds...
It is true that though seasons are not as I've known them, and this October I'm not walking into my Mom's kitchen smelling her pumpkin, cream cheese roll being lifted from the oven... there is a steady flow of God's goodness in unfamiliar places with unfamiliar sights and smells. I'm growing comfortable with unfamiliarity and finding in it a cause for rejoicing.
Friday, September 25, 2009
Lettuce Leaves, Uninvited Guests and Grammar
Lettuce Leaves
I am waiting for Miguel to return with the lettuce. The sky is dark and the rain does not relent, and somewhere between our casa and the Jumbo supermercado, he and Nathanael are braving the storm to bring home lettuce and eggs and laundry detergent.
When he does return, the lettuce is a warm, wilted mass. Being that they have braved the downpour on foot, I decide not to question the wilt-factor. Instead, I let the offering soak in the sink. The water is clean and cold, and I am hand-leafing through the layers.
Next, Julia Noel and Abby Gracie and I are shaking cold water from green leaves in the laundry room and laying them over the top of the clothesline. Hours later, when the lettuce is dry and crisp and ready for a grilled chicken tomato salad, the wilting is forgotten.
Uninvited Guests
Each time we open our pantry, a small cupboard above the stove, I'm noticing a seige of tiny cockroaches racing from the light. Large ones have been easy to spot and easy to say goodbye to. However, their offspring are great in number. Though not as quick as their parents, they seem to prefer communal living. Opening the cupboard always provides great amusement to everyone 8 and under. And so, for now, every bit of food is ordered into neat stacks in the darkness of a cold, sealed refrigerator.
Grammar
And so the weeks have slipped by, one after the other, until today, when they seemed to stand still.
I am sitting in our warm, quiet classroom. Our desks, forming a half circle, show only the tops of my classmate's heads. Our grammar exams are before us. I look around the room and pray for each dear friend to think clearly... then I look at my own paper.
I look, yet it's as if there is nothing familiar there. I blink. Thinking, perhaps, if I turn the fan on, things will improve, I get up for a moment. I sit back down again. I can feel my clothes starting to stick to me. Then my forehead is wet. I am seized with a deep, maddening sense of exhaustion.
I look at the articles and the demonstrative adjectives. I glance through the perifrases, searching for somewhere to begin, but this time, I don't know where to begin. So I start writing my sentences using particular verbs in their particular places, until I re-read the instructions, only to learn I'm not following them, and while I am waiting for Eddie to tap me on the shoulder and say it's my turn for the oral part of the exam, I realize I am paralyzed.
I make it through and express my sincerest apologies for my lack of presence of mind, to the most excellent Dona Alejandra. She is gracious. I walk across the way to Language and slump into my seat. Not long thereafter, I am looking at the white board, then my professor. His face is kind.
"I can not speak. I wrote wrong answers. I studied so hard. I'm studying with my children for their Spanish tests and their other tests, too, and I'm so exhausted," and with that, I lifted my notebook in front of my face and wept.
I don't recall weeping in a class before. I suppose I could've excused myself. But I didn't. I just sat there and cried.
It's a strange thing to be empty. No ideas. No words. No recollection. I studied. I was prepared. I was even relaxed. And then, I was exhausted.
In my weakness, God's Spirit is mighty. He has brought me low. He has humbled me, that I might exalt Him. Jesus' death, burial and resurrection has secured my every victory. But victories do not always appear as I might expect them to.
Today, my most fervent efforts have been reduced to crumbs. I humbly offer those crumbs to Him with my whole heart.
I am waiting for Miguel to return with the lettuce. The sky is dark and the rain does not relent, and somewhere between our casa and the Jumbo supermercado, he and Nathanael are braving the storm to bring home lettuce and eggs and laundry detergent.
When he does return, the lettuce is a warm, wilted mass. Being that they have braved the downpour on foot, I decide not to question the wilt-factor. Instead, I let the offering soak in the sink. The water is clean and cold, and I am hand-leafing through the layers.
Next, Julia Noel and Abby Gracie and I are shaking cold water from green leaves in the laundry room and laying them over the top of the clothesline. Hours later, when the lettuce is dry and crisp and ready for a grilled chicken tomato salad, the wilting is forgotten.
Uninvited Guests
Each time we open our pantry, a small cupboard above the stove, I'm noticing a seige of tiny cockroaches racing from the light. Large ones have been easy to spot and easy to say goodbye to. However, their offspring are great in number. Though not as quick as their parents, they seem to prefer communal living. Opening the cupboard always provides great amusement to everyone 8 and under. And so, for now, every bit of food is ordered into neat stacks in the darkness of a cold, sealed refrigerator.
Grammar
And so the weeks have slipped by, one after the other, until today, when they seemed to stand still.
I am sitting in our warm, quiet classroom. Our desks, forming a half circle, show only the tops of my classmate's heads. Our grammar exams are before us. I look around the room and pray for each dear friend to think clearly... then I look at my own paper.
I look, yet it's as if there is nothing familiar there. I blink. Thinking, perhaps, if I turn the fan on, things will improve, I get up for a moment. I sit back down again. I can feel my clothes starting to stick to me. Then my forehead is wet. I am seized with a deep, maddening sense of exhaustion.
I look at the articles and the demonstrative adjectives. I glance through the perifrases, searching for somewhere to begin, but this time, I don't know where to begin. So I start writing my sentences using particular verbs in their particular places, until I re-read the instructions, only to learn I'm not following them, and while I am waiting for Eddie to tap me on the shoulder and say it's my turn for the oral part of the exam, I realize I am paralyzed.
I make it through and express my sincerest apologies for my lack of presence of mind, to the most excellent Dona Alejandra. She is gracious. I walk across the way to Language and slump into my seat. Not long thereafter, I am looking at the white board, then my professor. His face is kind.
"I can not speak. I wrote wrong answers. I studied so hard. I'm studying with my children for their Spanish tests and their other tests, too, and I'm so exhausted," and with that, I lifted my notebook in front of my face and wept.
I don't recall weeping in a class before. I suppose I could've excused myself. But I didn't. I just sat there and cried.
It's a strange thing to be empty. No ideas. No words. No recollection. I studied. I was prepared. I was even relaxed. And then, I was exhausted.
In my weakness, God's Spirit is mighty. He has brought me low. He has humbled me, that I might exalt Him. Jesus' death, burial and resurrection has secured my every victory. But victories do not always appear as I might expect them to.
Today, my most fervent efforts have been reduced to crumbs. I humbly offer those crumbs to Him with my whole heart.
Saturday, September 12, 2009
Odds and Ends
The Newspaper
Most mornings I'm waking up before the man on the motocicleta throws La Nacion between the bars. So he remembers where to deliver, Manolo has a clever system of spray painting an N on the sidewalk in front of each La Nacion house. He also paints a white arrow on the ashpalt. This way, in early morning darkness, the newspaper's sure to land beyond the right bars.
Trash
When it's time to throw trash away, there are no trashcans, though a very robust system, nonetheless. We place our crude piles of various multi-colored bags in a heap on the sidewalk, grass, or even in the street. Anyone who'd like to sift through the trash is welcome to. Men ride on the back of those familiar trucks, and haul away whatever is left curbside. I'm always delighted by the lack of restrictions. I can place anything out there! There's a possibility it will appeal to someone, but if it doesn't, it will be gone when the truck comes.
Rain
Last week, I was walking up the hill with Nathanael and Chloe after school. The clouds grew heavy and dark. Then there was gentle rain, and we were glad to have an umbrella. As we reached the top of the slight hill to turn right onto our la calle, we looked beside us, hearing steady, thumping. Chloe and Nathanael stared in sheer bewilderment. On our left hand side, a violent downpour erupted out of those groaning clouds. Nearly 100 meters across the street, the rain was furiously climbing the hill, and before we could brace ourselves, it was our turn to experience her fury, which mostly collapsed our umbrellas.
I stood at the gate desperate to get the right key in the right place and thrust the porton open for some relief, but my key would not open the gate. I laid the useless umbrella down. Hardly able to see the keyhole through the rain and the wind, I continued to struggle, until mastering the right manipulation and within seconds, we were under the second story of our home, laughingly watching the water pour.
This week, however, it didn't rain. The sky was blue and the wind was warm, and our classrooms whose window slats were open, were full of warm light... This alternative was amusing, for throughout the day and into the nights, electricity would come and go. Our street guard, German, (Air-maun) lamented over our desperate need for rain since we receive power through a hydro-electric system...
Without Water
Last weekend, there was a time without water. Turning the faucet on yielded only a spitting noise. So I had been especially grateful for our big brother family, whose foresight left us with a stash of water gallons (saved for such a time as this) in our utility room.
I used one gallon to disinfect vegetables from the market, and the rest was off limits until a real necessity came up. After a bit, the water was back on again, and what came trickling, then busting out of the faucet resembled rust. Intrigued, we filled our glasses.
"Look at this! It's water," Julia was enamored.
"No, it's clearly mud," Abby Gracie insisted.
"It's awesome," said Nathanael-- resolving the dilemma.
The Library
Miguel and I start each school with LIBRE (freedom)! Our first hour at school is a study period. He enjoys sitting on the terraza working through conjugations with the boys. I go to the library and sit beside an open window, whose gauzy, white sheers blow with the wind. The smell of old books and journals, anthropological findings and yellowed missionary biographies is perfect. I lay out my pages of construction paper conjugations and definitions, and begin sifting through the lists with hushed, forced pronunciations, saying them over and over again...
Carrot Cake
Carrots in La Feria (Saturday morning market) are stunning. Brilliant in color and giant in size, we've become accustomed to finely shredding them into messy heap, then throwing them into our carrot sheet cake batter. Each child helps, one at a time, with food prep. There is much of it. Their favorite is always with carrot shredding, making orange batter. Generally, we have everything for the cake part, and nothing for the frosting part. So we eat our cake without frosting.
Saturday Morning
September 12
Abigail, Nathanael and I land on a marvelous, tiny Pulperia. Located on a neighborhood corner and painted mustard yellow, we stop in this little haven after our trip to La Feria. I love it at once.
From the ceiling to the floor, every shelf is loaded with stacks of different now-familiar groceries and housekeeping supplies. They even have a bar of cheddar cheese. One end cap has plastic bags stuffed with spices, and another aisle is fully stocked with little flour packages and pasta bags and beans and rice.
In my meager Spanish, I asked what to do with the things I want to buy. The gracious owner insists I load things on the narrow counter space before her. We do. Finding each supply on our list, my helpers put their discoveries excitedly on the counter, like little scavengers on a hunt. When finished, we loaded them into our bags from home, and are off to follow the smell of roasting chicken on the fire.
Eventually, we find a store front whose giant open oven has massive tree branches for the fire, spinning golden rotisserie chickens, dripping with juice. We fit one into our bag...
Now the bags are weighted with produce, supplies and chicken, and there is still much walking before we are home. I take a deep breath and prepare for the final laps, all before the afternoon rain pours. When it does, we are listening to her beat the tin roof, safely home.
Most mornings I'm waking up before the man on the motocicleta throws La Nacion between the bars. So he remembers where to deliver, Manolo has a clever system of spray painting an N on the sidewalk in front of each La Nacion house. He also paints a white arrow on the ashpalt. This way, in early morning darkness, the newspaper's sure to land beyond the right bars.
Trash
When it's time to throw trash away, there are no trashcans, though a very robust system, nonetheless. We place our crude piles of various multi-colored bags in a heap on the sidewalk, grass, or even in the street. Anyone who'd like to sift through the trash is welcome to. Men ride on the back of those familiar trucks, and haul away whatever is left curbside. I'm always delighted by the lack of restrictions. I can place anything out there! There's a possibility it will appeal to someone, but if it doesn't, it will be gone when the truck comes.
Rain
Last week, I was walking up the hill with Nathanael and Chloe after school. The clouds grew heavy and dark. Then there was gentle rain, and we were glad to have an umbrella. As we reached the top of the slight hill to turn right onto our la calle, we looked beside us, hearing steady, thumping. Chloe and Nathanael stared in sheer bewilderment. On our left hand side, a violent downpour erupted out of those groaning clouds. Nearly 100 meters across the street, the rain was furiously climbing the hill, and before we could brace ourselves, it was our turn to experience her fury, which mostly collapsed our umbrellas.
I stood at the gate desperate to get the right key in the right place and thrust the porton open for some relief, but my key would not open the gate. I laid the useless umbrella down. Hardly able to see the keyhole through the rain and the wind, I continued to struggle, until mastering the right manipulation and within seconds, we were under the second story of our home, laughingly watching the water pour.
This week, however, it didn't rain. The sky was blue and the wind was warm, and our classrooms whose window slats were open, were full of warm light... This alternative was amusing, for throughout the day and into the nights, electricity would come and go. Our street guard, German, (Air-maun) lamented over our desperate need for rain since we receive power through a hydro-electric system...
Without Water
Last weekend, there was a time without water. Turning the faucet on yielded only a spitting noise. So I had been especially grateful for our big brother family, whose foresight left us with a stash of water gallons (saved for such a time as this) in our utility room.
I used one gallon to disinfect vegetables from the market, and the rest was off limits until a real necessity came up. After a bit, the water was back on again, and what came trickling, then busting out of the faucet resembled rust. Intrigued, we filled our glasses.
"Look at this! It's water," Julia was enamored.
"No, it's clearly mud," Abby Gracie insisted.
"It's awesome," said Nathanael-- resolving the dilemma.
The Library
Miguel and I start each school with LIBRE (freedom)! Our first hour at school is a study period. He enjoys sitting on the terraza working through conjugations with the boys. I go to the library and sit beside an open window, whose gauzy, white sheers blow with the wind. The smell of old books and journals, anthropological findings and yellowed missionary biographies is perfect. I lay out my pages of construction paper conjugations and definitions, and begin sifting through the lists with hushed, forced pronunciations, saying them over and over again...
Carrot Cake
Carrots in La Feria (Saturday morning market) are stunning. Brilliant in color and giant in size, we've become accustomed to finely shredding them into messy heap, then throwing them into our carrot sheet cake batter. Each child helps, one at a time, with food prep. There is much of it. Their favorite is always with carrot shredding, making orange batter. Generally, we have everything for the cake part, and nothing for the frosting part. So we eat our cake without frosting.
Saturday Morning
September 12
Abigail, Nathanael and I land on a marvelous, tiny Pulperia. Located on a neighborhood corner and painted mustard yellow, we stop in this little haven after our trip to La Feria. I love it at once.
From the ceiling to the floor, every shelf is loaded with stacks of different now-familiar groceries and housekeeping supplies. They even have a bar of cheddar cheese. One end cap has plastic bags stuffed with spices, and another aisle is fully stocked with little flour packages and pasta bags and beans and rice.
In my meager Spanish, I asked what to do with the things I want to buy. The gracious owner insists I load things on the narrow counter space before her. We do. Finding each supply on our list, my helpers put their discoveries excitedly on the counter, like little scavengers on a hunt. When finished, we loaded them into our bags from home, and are off to follow the smell of roasting chicken on the fire.
Eventually, we find a store front whose giant open oven has massive tree branches for the fire, spinning golden rotisserie chickens, dripping with juice. We fit one into our bag...
Now the bags are weighted with produce, supplies and chicken, and there is still much walking before we are home. I take a deep breath and prepare for the final laps, all before the afternoon rain pours. When it does, we are listening to her beat the tin roof, safely home.
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