Dogs Don´t Care

Dogs don´t care what they look like nor do they care what other dogs look like. Dog don´t care if another dog has blue blood or Heinz 57 running through it´s veins. Dogs don´t care if the other is a city canine or a country runt of the litter. Dogs don´t care about age, be it in dog years or human. Dogs don´t care.

It struck me the other day as I passed a most hideous specimen of dog that this creature had no concept of it´s appearance. It lounged on the sidewalk, red eyes rolling up at me from a head that appeared to have shrunk into it´s neck. Like a train pummeling down it´s tracks, the thought went through my mind that not only did this wretch not care, but the pack down the street wouldn´t think twice about it´s looks either. It just basked in the sun, displaying it´s royal ugliness for all who would pass by.

There is a dog, Sam, who has claimed the trophy for world´s ugliest dog three years in a row. Sadly, I just discovered that he died this past November. However, his shocking mug can be found on T-shirts, mugs, and a 2006 calendar (order yours and see the horrific at samugliestdog.com) . His master coddled him as if he were the finest example of dog beauty one could ever behold.

I can`t deny that there exists the beauties and the beasts. We tend to appreciate the beautiful more than the beastly but, there is something I want to learn from the world of dogs and from Sam´s owner. How often do I dismiss someone simply because I don´t find them attractive? Have you ever met someone who didn´t appeal to you initially but once you got to know them, you found them attractive? I admit that I´ve watched gorgeous people marry not-so-gorgeous partners and thought, "How in the world did that happen?!?" Here lies the irony; I know that I should pay less attention to the outer appearance and give more of my energies to getting to know the heart, but knowledge and action are not the same. The woman who cared for Sam understood the process of moving beyond the exterior.

At this point it would be good to note that dogs also don´t care about gender or family lines. For this reason, Sam has a lot of competition in Bolivia. Dogs also don´t care what time of night it is as the Cochabamba Canine Choir continues to serenade me whilst I sleep. Still, I resolve to learn something from the domain of dogs. This year, 2006, there will be a "letting go" and an "accepting" of appearances in the life of Marcée. And that, my friends, is my final meandering for 2005. Happy New Year!

Christmas??

Another 25th of December has come and gone and I´m left swaying in the wind of time as it flies by. I´ve been asked several times what it´s like spending Christmas in Bolivia. Comments have referred to the difficulty of being far from family, the lack of white stuff and nose tingling temperatures. For some reason, it was not that painful to be here and not there. I admit to crying when I heard the pipsqueek voices of my nieces on the crackling transmission from Cochabamba to Canada, but considering everything, this weekend wrapped up as an unintended and unexpected gift from the Giver.
I was taken aback by how smoothly the celebrations went and wondered why I wasn´t more homesick and sad. I figure it has something to do with the fact that this Christmas seemed more like a fraud, an imposter, another holiday pretending to be something it was not. There were lights and music and I even whipped up a Christmas turkey dinner for my Bolivian family, but the elements that create that warm sensation within me during this festive month weren´t there. The fact that my most dear ones were absent, snow did not blanket the ground, and the temperatures only warranted a light sweater is the very reason why it was fairly painless to be here this past weekend. Their presence is the ambience of Christmas, their absence made me forget what we were actually celebrating.
I must also recognize God as true to His word; He is faithful to place the lonely in families. Thanks to Davíd, Mamíta, Julie, Ken, Glenda, and Alison, I spent the days with "family" and their company created a similar sense of ease and tradition that I crave during Christmas. My dear ones, I cherish you in my heart as Mary cherished and stored up "all things" in hers. There will be more Christmases, green ground or winter wonderland, an amazing love was recognized once again by many nations and tongues around the world. When the winds of time whip me around in 2006, I hope they will be the colder drafts of Canada. The warmer breezes of passing time in Bolivia have been pleasant, but nothing compares to being home for Christmas.

Mamíta´s Story

Slowly chewing some morsel of food and trying to focus while Mamita talked my ear off, I couldn´t help but be distracted by thoughts of what I would write if this aging, one of a kind woman were my topic. I looked down at my plate, which boasted a portion size fit for a 300 pound lumberjack, and considered all the quirky and lovable traits of Nelly de la Torre. Reaching down to pick my ear up off the floor, I dusted it off, and decided that this dear and unusual lady would be the subject of my next blog.

Carefully tucked away in an inoperative and retroactive washing machine, you will find hundreds of plastic bags. Faithfully stacked in the cupboard, one can encounter dozens of vacant styrofoam trays previously bearing meat, veggies, and other grocery type things. Resting peacefully in a cardboard coffin, lie a multitude of matches that have already served their purpose. Not so far away from this phosphorous grave, are bags of bread chunks, hard enough to knock a grown man to the ground if thrown with enough aggression.

You´re asking the same question that I and many others have asked...why?!? This question marks my mind everytime I see her eccentric collections. I have come to a conclusion. This bazaar behaviour betrays a past blotted with poverty and times of extreme desparation. I have heard of similar reactions coming from those who have lived through war times, where living off of nothing becomes a most desirable skill. Surviving periods of deprivation and indescribable hunger can lead to hoarding tendancies even when the plentitude returns and the stomachs are satisfied.

Mamita and her son, Davíd, have borne more struggles than I could experience in ten life times. Mamita was a single, unmarried mom living in a macho culture where social assistance is nonexistent and survival depends on personal persistance. Bitter and abandoned, she determined to surpass her situation and worked at the post office for what became a 23 year career. God was not a part of the equation, perhaps due to His maleness and her total snubbery of all men...except Davíd, the reason she threw herself out of bed every morning.

In an act of divine gentry, Davíd experienced the utter joy and peace of accepting Christ at the age of 15. His conversion, however, made him miss "almuerzo", the unforgivable sin in the eyes of most Bolivian mothers. In a panic, mamita went searching for her prodigal son, not realizing that he had already been truly found. In a strange twist of the parable, she saw him at a distance, down the road. Her initial rejoicing at finding her lost son turned to despise and criticism when he immediately told her about this Jesus he had met. She forbid him to speak about those "evangelios" and wondered about his mental health.

This forbidding sent Davíd into a 7 month fast from breakfast so that God would change the heart of his mom. Already a skinny kid, mamita noticed that he was losing weight and threatened to bring him to the hospital. It wasn´t until the odour of 28 weeks worth of breakfast gave away the tactics of one determined child, that mamita realized what he was doing. This only reinforced her opinions about Jesus and His followers. Friends would come to the door, desiring to pray with Davíd and his mom would beat them away with her brooms.

One Christmas, a concert was happening at a nearby church. Davíd desparately wanted to go with his mom, but she was adamant to stay home and told him not to bother either. After long intervals of praying and circling his mom´s bed, he asked her one final time...and she agreed to go...grudgingly. Everytime she tells me this story, the tears track down her wrinkly cheeks. As she entered that space, she felt the presence of a spirit quite contrary to her own. A beautiful voice sang a message of glad tidings not only for all men, but for her, a beaten, emotionally bruised women of questionable past. The Holy Spirit dropped her to the floor that night in a puddle of wet brokeness. A new born son walked home with his newly born mom that evening.

While you reflect on a another young mother, unmarried, and expecting her own timely treasure, remember too that the glory and wonder of that night transcended to a Christmas not so long ago and changed the eternity of one quirky, Bolivian mother and her boy. Merry Christmas!

Hot Potatoe

It amazes me, as I dialogue with various people, that the things I´m mulling over in my mind are making revolutions in the heads of others as well. It makes me look to the ceiling and say, "Yes, I´m normal!"....maybe.
My past blog briefly touched on some of those annoying emails that get passed around like hot potatoes in "Christian" circles. I think they get tossed around so often because the ones who receive them are as uncomfortable with them as I am. They aren`t sure what to do with them, so like a wave tossed by the wind, they drag their mouse to the forward button and "click". The emails I´m talking about are the ones that deliver flowery poems, modern parables, or "true" stories meant to challenge the reader in some way. They drip with spiritual lingo and are usually adorned with lovely graphics in pastel hues. Granted, some of them may serve well as illustrations and may hold some trace of truth. They lose ALL my respect when tacked on the end I read this:

Now that you´ve read this moving and inspiring message, send it to 15 other people, including the one who sent it to you. If you really love Jesus, you shouldn´t be ashamed to do this. If you don´t, then God will be ashamed of you. If you do this in the next half hour, you will recieve an unexpected phone call. Trust me, it works! I didn´t believe it either, but now that I´ve done it, I believe!!

Sounds like a hokey, evangelistic rally via email...the kind that I find embarassing as a Christ follower. Why do they irritate me SO much? First, because it´s blatantly superstitious. Second, is that it encourages a "works" mentality. These emails are contributing to a major misconception of right living. They are sent, and sent, and sent again out of guilt and spiritual insecurity.

What does it mean to live right? To follow Christ? To have His mind? Does living right mean sending off scraps of spirtual trite in a half-ass effort to fulfill the great commission? Yes, I wrote "half-ass", does that mean that I don´t have the mind of Christ?

One of my friends has the most astounding faith in Christ. She can testify to the provision of God in her life and ministry. The other night when she heard that the churches were making a decision regarding land that her and her husband wanted to purchase, we dropped everything to pray. This same friend, in casual conversation, can drop four letter bombs like a verbal tank. I´m not always comfortable with her linguistic explosions, but I don´t doubt her sincere love and trust in God for a second!

When you send off an email like the ones I´ve been writing about, you´re missing the point. God doesn´t care whether you send it or not. It´s easy to send off a word into a virtual world with no face, but what will you say when you come face to face with someone who really needs to hear authentic truth? What would I see if I looked into your eyes instead of looking at your email? What would you see in mine, if you were looking at them instead of reading this blog?

Right living does not consist in whether or not we forward that well intentioned email or not. It is not found in our ratio of bad language vs. prayer language. It´s not about what we do...entirely (that´s another day, another blog). David Crowder wrote his first book, Praise Habit - Finding God in Sunsets and Sushi, and I´m reading it right now. He talks about how people miss the intent of Scripture when they try to define right living in terms of how much we drink, cuss, smoke, and a variety of other dangerous activities. He comments,

"I am familiar with a copious quantity of people who do not participate in any of these activities yet walk around lifeless, as dead and intriguing as a pile of dirt."

So true. We, the essence of soil, find life in Christ, not works. When someone passes along the types of emails that I´ve been blasting, I can´t help but think that hot potatoe is a game best left to children...I´d rather get my fingers burned.

Swingset Kid

I´m a swinger. I swing from the purest peace to the deepest doubt in God´s plans for my life.

Praying the other day, God brought me to the playground. Whenever I picture a playground, I see in my mind the monkey bars, slides, and teeter-totters of my old gradeschool. That´s where He brought me.

I was this kid sitting on a splintered board, suspended between two links of chain. My knuckles were white and my fists clenched around the metal loops. Two little legs were pumping furiously, but the swing wasn´t getting too much altitude. My efforts to gain height only resulted in jerky, useless movements.

Meanwhile, the Lord was standing behind me in silence. He was watching my futile attempts to gain speed and height with an amused, but sad look on His face. His head was shaking slightly from side to side. It took me awhile before I noticed His big, capable hands resting in front of Him. I realized that they were exactly what I needed to really get going....so, I asked for a push....and that´s when things really got moving....things got exciting and fun...almost dangerous, but I screamed in delight, "Higher, higher!"

I know this sounds like a cheesy email that gets forwarded from person to person (and if you don´t forward it to at least 10 people, you surely must not be a Christian!), but this is where God brought me the other day while we were talking. He clearly wanted me to realize something, that the words, "Daddy, can you give me a push?" aren´t that hard to say...and who knows, maybe if I ask really nicely, He´ll throw in an underdog or two.

Say That Again!

There was a chicken heart floating in my soup today.

That pink, veiny, egg-shaped muscle bobbing in my soup was enough to remind me again that I´m not in Canada anymore. Now that I can speak Spanish, this previously strange world has become more familiar, but it still startles me every now and then.

Speaking two languages has opened the door to a whole new world (stop now if you´re singing any Disney theme song!). If I had known how much I would enjoy speaking a second language, I would have tried harder in French. In my opinion, the Tower of Babel wasn´t a punishment, but a gift from God!
However, stepping between two worlds comes with the danger of tripping every once and awhile. For example, there was the time when my VISA lady asked me if my family ate turkey for Christmas. I responded by saying, "Yes, but really, we prefer eating chicken and soap." (jamon = ham & jabon = soap).
Then there was the other night, I was helping a teen hang up a menu for our Café and I asked him to pass me the Tarijas. Tarija is a large Bolivian city, tarejas are scissors.
How can I forget the time when I asked the waiter three times for pizza without oil, when what I really wanted was a piece of pizza without olives. (aceite = oil & aceituna = olives)

I don´t mind being the source of much entertainment for my Bolivian friends, but it goes beyond verbal speech! Their beckoning gesture resembles what we do when we want someone to go away. Imagine, someone calls my name, "Marcée!", I move towards them, they shoo me away, I start to retreat, they call my name again, "MARCÉE!", I hesitantly step towards them, they shoo me away, and so it goes.... I don´t know whether I´m coming or going!

I´ll wrap up with an ancedote courtesy of a young boy at one of the Cafés. Little Joey asked me (in Spanish of course) , "Hermana Marcée, what does "fac oo" mean?" He repeated the word(s) a couple of times, and at first I was sure he was asking me what a "vacuum" was. This made sense to me as the common broom is still the preferred method of cleaning here. It may be obvious to some of you what this lad was trying to say, but it took a couple more repetitions for me to realize that he was asking me about a lovely phrase involving the f-bomb. Thank-you Hollywood for introducing such edifying vocabulary into other countries...you do the rest of English speakers proud.

La Cancha

Labrynth of vendors, lair for unsuspecting foreigners, la cancha is the wildest Walmart you´ll ever find! As you meander through this maze of a market, tendrils of tantalizing aromas will tickle your nose and tempt your tastebuds. Seconds later, your hand flies to your face and you try not to breath as the pleasant smells are replaced by wretched odours emanating from some cess pool of human waste and garbage. In the face of garbage scattered in every where, I still balk at the idea of dropping any trash of mine on the ground. I imagine that a big neon sign will drop down and blink, "Litterbug, litterbug" over my head. La cancha is a smorgasboard for all six senses, but someone forgot to check the "best before" date on a few selections. It´s expanse is so infinite that it can leave you lost and frustrated. Asking directions from anyone of the "vendedores" will get you no where faster. Bolivian custom dictates that one must deliver directions even if one has no idea where inquired direction may be. Still, if you want it cheap, you want it cancha....no guarantee that the purchased product will function, but that´s the price you pay when you play this market. Sitting in your multi-hued bus, you observe an over-loaded taxi bearing the bought and the buyer. Everyone is making their way through the streets like camels through the eye of a needle. The noise is constant, arising from the chatter of sales being made and lost. the colours are vibrant, beaming from all directions, from pink toilet paper to the intricate designs of hand-made Quechuan blankets. This is la cancha. Now, I could easily come up with a ton of metaphors and object lessons from this piece of prose, but this time, I´ll let your minds play with the potential significance. After all, we are living in a post-modern culture and what is written can mean anything you want it to mean right? Touche! Maybe I just want you to close your eyes and sense life. See, hear, taste, feel, and smell life....in abundance!