Friday, January 27, 2006

Why Me Lord?

After showing a picture of our shower head to my brother Derek, an electrician, he emphatically told me that if he ever lived in Bolivia, he would never place himself under one. You only need elementary education to know that water and electricity typically don´t mix well. Perhaps that´s why these elements get called widow-makers. Hot water is produced when the water passes over electrical coils all contained in a plastic cylinder directly above one´s head. I have experienced my fair share of buzzes and shocks in certain showers, but until this morning, I had never faced the full fury of the widow -maker.

A week ago, I was in the shower, battling the rather aggressive shower curtain, when an odour other than the smell of my shampoo entered my nose. Looking up, I noted that the electrical tape and plastic wires connecting the breaker to the shower head were smoking and bubbling...end of shower. After a quick exit, I informed Davíd that we had a problem with the shower. He assured me that there was no danger.

For some reason, I just didn´t trust the assurances of Davíd. Still, I continued to shower and to pray that God would protect me from premature death. Early this morning, I had just rinsed off the soap when a bright flash appeared above me. A flame had erupted from where the tape held the wires together, followed by a firework of sparks, followed by a descent of ashes, followed by an extremely startled Marcée falling out of the shower, smashing into the toilet, grabbing and destroying the cheeky curtain on the way down. Needless to say, I made the recommendation that everyone else stave off showering for another day.

Presently, I sport a bruise on one leg to match the dog bite on the other and my back hurts from the crashing into the can. Still, I think it´s a great story and will delight in telling it from time to time. In the future, I will look for a shower head that delivers the water without the drama of sparks and ashes.

Tuesday, January 24, 2006

A Fragile Fabric

I would like to reneg on my previous declaration to learn something from the world of dogs. In fact, I would like to create a T-shirt that says, "Dogs are stupid. Throw rocks at them". The graphic on the back will be of a stick man with a stick dog lying on the ground. The dog will have X´s for eyes and a black dot will lie near it´s head. Below, in fine print, I will write a disclaimer to prevent animal rights activists from throwing rocks at me.

The night before I left for Santa Cruz, a street dog bit me on the leg. Two people sat on a corner and watched as the mutt took it´s bad day out on me. Immediately we went to a health centre and had it checked and cleaned, but it took two weeks and a lot of running around to line up the anti-rabies vaccine. Meanwhile, all information indicates that once a person contracts the virus, death is imminent.

This animal could have given me a killer virus, but what really bugs me is that it left me with a strange and unwanted companion: fear. I used to walk without care or concern amongst the dogs. I trusted them not to attack me. Now, I´m jumpy and nervous whenever I traverse the streets. My heart leaps to my throat and my heart pulsates in a panic if a dog makes a move or noise near me. These are foreign feelings for me.

Some of you think I´m being slightly dramatic. A friend of mine lived in a country home where hundreds of bats were using the attic as an apartment, rent-free. For years, she and her family lived in harmony with the winged rats. One day, a fanged rodent bit my friend. It shattered her confidence and left her uncomfortable in her own home. I thought she was over reacting, but now I know better.

Trust is a fragile fabric. When torn, fear weaves it´s thread through the tear. My sense of security was pulled apart at the seams when that canine chomped down on my calf.

What happened that night between the dog and I, can occur at any time between the people we are in relationship with. Some set a pattern by which we know not to trust them. Far worse is when we are betrayed by one with whom we´ve been most vulnerable; by someone in whom we´ve confided in a profound manner. This is true pain, pain that can turn viral if not vaccinated with forgiveness. Once trust is broken, it´s hard to mend and once mended, it´s easily broken again. A patched knee is not as resistent to ripping as it once was.

I suppose I want to render some advice to the reader and to myself. First, be a person worthy of the trust that we all desire. Second, there is a trustworthy One. His name is YahWeh, Jehovah, God, Creator, and Lord. When you are afraid, trust in Him. Trust in God, do not be afraid. What can mortal men (or rabid dogs) do to you? Remembering this, I walk on...but, when it comes to the dogs, I´ll be brandishing a big stick and a fistfull of rocks.


Sunday, January 22, 2006

Highway in my Heart

A little more than a month ago, Bolivia was contemplating a political fork in the road. Who was going to be the new president? As many of you know, Evo Morales, the first ever indigenous leader was chosen by an overwhelming majority. Yesterday, I sat down with Mamita and watched two hours of ceremonies, festivities that started Friday and continued all weekend. The broadcast that I saw took place in Tiwanaku, an ancient Andean temple ruin. From the door of the sun, I listened as Evo gave thanks to Mother Earth, the god of Bolivia. I witnessed as a variety of indigenous groups from dozens of other countries presented gifts bearing tremendous spiritual significance, promising their support and that of their gods. I couldn´t help but reminded of the little horn, from the book of Daniel, that was raised up amongst the other ones, speaking boastfully and waging war against the saints. It started small and grew in power in all directions. I´m no doomsday prophet, but I know that God can not bless a man who sets his sights on a pagan path and places his strength in the dust from which he is made.

Whoever you are reading this, I have no idea what road you´ve chosen, but Tom had it right when he introduced "Life is a Highway" into our lives. Psalm 84 confirms this in verse 5:

Blessed are those whose strength is in You, who have set their hearts on pilgramage.

Each person, you, me, Evo, Mamitá, sets their heart in a direction. The power to head in that direction can come from within or without. The power to stay the course lies in the choices we make when we face the forks. If one wants to be blessed in their travels, he/she is wise to fill up on the strength of Christ. To set your heart on a pilgramage is to make your heart a highway, a road for God to travel on. It could be that there are other travellers making their way through your heart besides God, but trust me, God has His thumb out and He´s died to cruise your inner avenues. There was a distance between us and Him, a misunderstanding once, but now we can look it in the eye. There´s no road He can´t hold, the roads so rough I know, but He´ll be there when the light comes in, in Christ, we are more than survivors. Fellow pilgrims, may your hearts be wide and open for the One who wants to take a trip inside of you.

Tuesday, January 17, 2006

The Whole of Life

There are days in Cochabamba where the sun shines so brightly on one part of the mountain and rain drenches another. The contrasts are sharp and startling. Depending on where you fix your sights, there exists a panorama of perspectives. This is the whole of life, clarity and obscurity abiding in the same space...a beautiful thing.

From my past blog, one would think that I live in a somber and serious place...and I do spend time there. However, even my periods of meloncholy are interrupted by bursts of unbound joy and moments of sacred appreciation for life. I have learned the secret of being content at all times.

I just spent eight days in Santa Cruz, where I´ll be moving in about a month...eight days being reminded that life is grander than me. I made my bed in a place called Hogar Nacer...one of four homes being run for street kids and orphans. It means "Home To Be Born"...and that is it´s intent...to birth new creations in Christ.

As I looked through a window at the gardens and stables of the home, I saw dozens of boys digging dirt, feeding animals, and baking bread. A handful were taking advantage of the director´s absence and were competing with chin-ups on a low hanging tree branch. The scene was serene and soothing. It was hard for me to imagine that the hands of these young men had taken life, their arms had been punctured with needles, and their bodies had been savaged by unnatural and premature sex. These boys, from age eight to twenty, pestered me like little brothers do but demonstrated such affection too. Behind the jokes, lie stories of painful pasts and parents who have abused and then abandoned.

My last night at the home, we gathered in the library to sing and share a devotional. Arriving a little late, one of the guys ushered me to a front bench. Juan Carlos coaxed the chords from his guitar and the group began to sing the familiar tunes of praise. Instead of singing, I absorbed the impact of their joined voices. It was as if the combined force of their singing was one powerful breath against my back, like a playful push from a passing friend. The volume of their voices increased. It wasn´t the quality of their singing that moved me, but their passion. Be it singing for singing´s sake or a true love of God that inspired them, a beloved emotion surged within me and caused the corners of my mouth to lift in pure pleasure...God was at work.

Inside of each these boys exists consciences that battle saintly and sinful desires. They need one moment of sincere surrender to a Saviour who will never abuse or abandon them...they will learn the secret...they will see the sunshine and rain, but for the first time they will appreciate the beauty of it all.

Saturday, January 07, 2006

What We Hope For

A bird perceives the light and sings just before the dawn.

I´m not normally up at first light, but sometimes I am awake. I lay in my bed and listen to choirs of birds chortle in melodic chaos as they serenade the rising sun. One bird sits on a near-by branch, garbling in anticipation as dawn´s fingers grasp the edge of the horizon. The sun pulls itself up and the brightness of it´s body sends the winged wonder into full-out praise. It has huddled in the darkness of night but has not lost sight of what is to come. It is sure of what it hopes for and certain of what it does not see.

Like my feathered friend, I´ve been huddling in the darkness, living in the shadows. At first, it felt safe and comforting. Now, it just feels clammy and claustrophobic. I am eager to be in the light of day again. On a hot, sunny day, the shadow of a tree is refreshing and a relief. When the days are cold and crisp, you want to be in the sun absorbing as much of it´s warmth as possible. Switchfoot sings, "The shadow proves the sunshine". Living in the shadows tells me that were times when I skipped under, over, and through rays of sunshine. Shadows exist because light creates them and defines their contours.

The sun is behind my back, I can feel it´s warmth, but I´ve been looking at my shadow smeared across the ground. It´s all I could see. It´s time to distinguish who I am from the grey, expressionless frame in front of me. Lord, give me the strength and the desire to make the turn and redirect my gaze....to You! Breath of heaven, light in my darkness, pour over me Your holiness, for You are holy, breath of heaven.

Wednesday, January 04, 2006

Cheeky Monkey!

Before I share a story about a very cheeky monkey, here are three of my favourite pick-up lines from some rather cheeky taxi drivers:
1. "Are you married? Would you like to be married?" (In other words, "I want to get myself to Canada and you just may be the answer to my greencard dreams!"

2. A man hanging out of the final car in a funeral procession, "Hey sweety, want to come to a funeral with me?" (In other words, "This gringa probably doesn´t understand Spanish anyway, so why not make an idiot of myself?")

3. My personal favourite, after learning that I was on my way to Spanish classes, the driver leans over the seat and says, "You want to learn Spanish? I can teach you Spanish. Give me your mouth to kiss for but a moment and I will teach you the language of Latinos!" (In other words,...well, I just got out of the car quickly before he attempted any type of lesson).

The primate behaviour of a handful of cab drivers has amused me somewhat, but no so much as this story that mamita shared with me from her childhood.

Mamita grew up in the hot, swarmy region of Trinidad. She spent a lot of time with one of her aunts who was known for having parrots and monkeys. One of her parrots was a community legend. This tropical bird would sit on it´s perch and as people would pass he would say, "Stand to your feet for the Bolivian national anthem!" With tremendous gusto, this patriot would then break into the full version of the song, which has a least ten verses! (Interesting to note that the Spanish word for "anthem" is himno!)

Returning one day from who knows where, Mamita and her relatives discovered the patriotic parrot naked and shivering on the ground. Perhaps jealous of it´s star status, one of the monkeys had plucked every feather from the body of this oversized parakeet. The cheeky moneky sat in a nearby tree, feathers clinging to it´s furry self bearing a smug, self-satisfied grin on it´s face. The parrot? It died in disgrace, pink and plucked, never to sing the anthem ever again.