Mis Propios

Inspiration is everything when it comes to writing. For that reason I am wearing my black T-shirt with red and white lettering which states in no uncertain terms, "Everyone loves a Canadian girl". In the case of this blog, the logo should read, "Everyone loves a Canadian team". And why not? The very fact that the most recent team was from my country and even my province makes them worthy of love. These nine teenagers and six adults were my own, or as we say in Spanish, "mis propios"!
Unlike the last teams, this one was not here to work on the Cristo Viene boy's home. Their objective was to get to know the guys so we paired them up with a few and sent them off to do chores. Some made bread, others cleaned bathrooms and washed the dishes of eighty odd people, but Andrew impressed me with his pig handling. Being the youngest didn't deter him from jumping at the chance to help with the swine. This particular afternoon a hog had been selected for the butcher block. An unbeknowing Andrew found himself dragging an uncooperative pig by the ears from its pen to the flatbed of a truck as it screamed in blue murder protest.

Splitting their time between the Nacer homes and another ministry, El Jordan, we found ourselves making daily trips from the country into the city and back again. On our way back to Nacer one evening, the bus made a pee pit-stop at my place. Anne, a smiley, upbeat person, entered our living/dining room and said, "Wow, you're house is so cute. How do I say 'your house is beautiful' in Spanish?" I made the translation for her where upon she turned to my blonde haired, blue eyed house mate and stammered,"Tu...casa...es...bonita!" To which Alison replied,"Thank you. I speak English."

As per norm, there were many humourous occurences. Hands down, Nick had the best Smeagol imitation I have ever seen! Sara earned the nick name 'Waxine' one evening as we hung out at the girl's home. In the midst of translating, Sara approached me with eyes as wide as saucers. She was concerned because after sharing her name with Vicki, the girl had stuck her finger in her ear and then repeated the motion with her own ear. Far from being a new form of greeting, Vicki was trying to let Sara know that her name means 'ear wax' in Spanish. Hence the nick name.

Each member contributed so much to the trip. Tim and Anne brought down their dentistry skills and spent hours doing cleanings and root canals. The whole team could sing, but Mike, Bronwyn, and Ben blessed me tons with their musical gifts. Lana touched the lives of many women with her testimony and gentle spirit.

The neatest tale comes as a result of dozens of soccer jerseys, shorts, and socks that the team brought down with them. Days before their arrival, Miguel, the director, had been at the home where I work. The girls have been training for a soccer tournament and begged Miguel for some shirts to play in. He said that they would have to ask God about that request because there was nothing he could offer them. As soon as he saw the set of 16 shiny, maroon tops, he beckoned me over and told me to tell the team how they had provided an answer to prayer. This Saturday (and Saturdays to come) our girls will proudly play in matching uniforms, remembering that God knows and grants the desires the desires of our heart. (I want to post a picture but blogger won't upload the shot!)

With so much more to tell, all I can say is thanks to 'mis propios' for being here. Thanks to Paul, whose story is book worthy, for leading and guiding the team. It was good to say 'eh' without a single reaction and wonderful to spend time with some fellow Canadians. Come back anytime, but bring cold weather and Tim Horton's with you!

Mercy Falling and Failing

The team from Oshawa Canada left this morning. I want to and will blog about them, but something more urgent presses upon my heart today. Christ's compassion crowded out my insides and pushed sorrow into my heart as I drove to the airport this morning. Some time has passed since I began living in Bolivia, this impoverished yet captivating country. Poor, struggling people pass by my eyes daily to the point that they become part of the scenery. I don't care to admit it, but there are days when the poverty doesn't even phase me because it is so rampant and typical.

Rising at dawn to bid farewell to my Canadian compatriots, the Spirit stirred up my dormant empathy and tears. Sitting behind a strange man in his taxi, an emotional outburst would have been inappropriate, so I battled the billowing sadness within. Initially I was fine, driving past the regular beggars at their regular intersections as they approached vehicles asking for money. Then we drove past a young man, leaning against a wall, looking content, but clearly a street dweller. He had no hands. His arms went as far as the nubs of his elbows. Like an unexpected wave from behind, concern and worry for his well being hit me hard. I wondered what it must be like, to be limbless in a country where even the fully limbed find it difficult to eek out an existence. As a young man, what plagued him as he pondered the future? Profoundly bothered, I fervently prayed for all those with physical losses in Bolivia.

Shortly after, in a traffic filled part of the city, surrounded by noise and mayhem, an old man sat on a curb. Arms draped over his knees and head drooping between, the sight of him crushed me. On the ground, to his left, sat a yellow box of chocolate. Those bars represented his livelihood, a life of wandering from car window to car window, trusting that some gluttonous driver or passenger would give in to their cravings. What would it be like to be elderly and reduced to selling junk food just to survive? Again, I was deeply moved and prayed again for all the aged, despairing people in Bolivia.

My heart and emotions were moved tremendously this morning, but now questions mark my meandering thoughts. Why were young and old stuck on the streets? Did the old man not remember his Creator in the days of his youth, before his hands trembled and his eyes went dim? Proverbs says that lazy hands make a man poor and diligent hands bring wealth, but what if in trying to be diligent, the hands of a young man were lost? The children of a righteous man will never go hungry, so are they suffering for the sins of their parents? Could they have been so wicked that their income was punishment instead of life? Questions shaped by ancient words of wisdom, escaping answers for eons of years.

Endless need can overwhelm one person. It would be impossible for me to help every hurting, desparate individual in Santa Cruz, let alone Bolivia. Doling out time and love to twenty-six, attention-craved teenage girls is already a consuming and demanding task. A few verses come to mind as I travel this train of thoughts: John 9:3, Romans 3:10, and Proverbs 11:25. Check them out and chew on them for awhile. Put together with the help of Holy Spirit, I am able to handle the misery and misfortune of everyday life in Bolivia, but the truth is, I'm still chewing.

Walmart World

I am about to embark on another ten day journey. The next team arrives tommorow morning and I thought to whip up a blog before I pretty much vanish for the next week and a half. With every group that comes and goes, my heart attaches and detaches, but I wouldn't trade this aspect of my work for anything. As much as I love the girls, I dare say (again) that nothing fires me up more then working with mission teams.

I actually don't have to much to offer up this time around. However, I have been thinking a lot about community and what that means and what it looks like. Last Wednesday was the first of weekly devotionals that I'll be leading at the girl's home for all of us ladies in charge. Commenting on our changing world, we all recognized that community still exists but it sure looks a whole lot different then it did fifty years ago. My parents grew up in small towns, attending one church, and hanging out with a mostly unchanging crowd through most of their years. The idea is nostalgic and comforting, like the smell of apples cooking on a fresh autumn day.

Life started out this way for me too. Now, with Internet and travel, my community is truly world wide. It's wild, vast, and overwhelming. At times I feel like a two year old in a massive Wal-mart, separated from my mom and wandering through the looming shelves of economy sized shampoo and underwear. Sometimes I grab onto a familiar looking pair of pants only to realize that the face looking down on me belongs to a stranger. "Attention customers, we have a lost girl, looking for community in aisle two, wearing a brown tank top, blue jeans, and white flip flops. Could said community claim her at the returns desk?"

As I live in this scattered, spreading global village, wholeness and a sense of personhood come from the constancy and permanency of Christ in my life. A year ago my brother, Daniel, married my third sister, Alicia. Between the ceremony and the reception, I recall feeling a strange sensation beneath my ribs, like four walls were closing in on my heart. I paced a small room at the hall, asking God to help me. I wanted to run, but being the MC kind of obligates one to stick around. The claustrophobia left me and I was able to master the ceremony and enjoy the evening immensely.

What hit me? Was it the beating realization that this union left me as the solitaire, single sibling? Maybe a little, but I think it was the ever changing back drop of life that made me choke momentarily. My community was under construction again and my emotions had to do a quick detour in order to get back to the original route.

The original route is the realization that people weave in and out of our lives, but God is the one working the thread. I thank Him for those who came in once and never returned. I praise Him for those friends who enter and re-enter from time to time. I glorify Him for the loved ones who are always with me and love me no strings attached. Most of all, I am just glad that I am my beloveds and He is mine. As a grown two year old in a Wal-mart world, my hand is held by the hand that created community. Who's holding yours?

Bless Their Hearts

The Georgians have left Bolivia.
Blogging about my unforgetable week with this good looking crew will console me in their absence. They left such a short time ago that I can still smell them. I'm not joking. Four bags of their clothes are sitting in my bedroom and the smell of their sweat, perfumes, and detergent fills the air. My house mates have to plug their noses and beg for mercy as I borrow their detergent and say sorry for the odour that is emanating from the bags. Once again, there was a lot of banter between myself, the representative Canadian, and these fifteen Americans over the English language and the proper pronounciation of certain vowels. I'm not sure if I corrected them at all, but a few of them were saying "eh" by the end of the week (don't deny it Ben!). I am most definitely saying "y'all" more often then I care to admit.

Through out the week, I was continually impressed with the godliness, perseverence, generosity and fearlessness of these men and women. They faced the ferocity of Nacer's farm animals and the unexpected appearances of Bolivian wildlife in brave and valient ways. Who can forget how Tim took down the charging ram, risking his own life to protect the ladies? Or the brave bull riding of Ben as he tamed Betsy, the bucking cow? Nothing matches the stoicness of the girls as they sifted through mounds of potatoes, risking life and limb, to find those not infested with writhing larvae in order to feed the hungry horde. Although no one witnessed the battle, Timmy tells of the time he entered the guy's cabin and a large lizard of gecko proportions fell from the ceiling and landed on his shoulder. Courageously, he fought and rid the room of the beast, saving the rest of the men from certain death.

Countless laughs and cherished memories are mine now that this group has gone home (not to mention the thoughtful gifts they gave me before departing!). I can not forget the way I felt as I watched several of you carry on conversations with the boys you were building for. Arms draped around their shoulders, you poured out your heart and told your jokes to these loveable lads. It didn't matter that it was all in English, these kids were left feeling valued and honoured. Thank you.

Thank you for all the work you did...at the home and at relationships. You played and layed bricks hard, leaving an impression that will last a long time. You raised up walls one brick at a time and laid a floor one painful stone after another. May this work last long but may the work that God has begun in you last forever. Each one of you is worthy of greater honour then the cement you poured or the beams you raised. God is not unjust; He will not forget your work and the love you have shown Him as you have helped His people and continue to help them. He is worthy of all honour for the work he does in us. May we hold to the courage and the hope of which we boast! God bless your hearts and I'll see y'all again sometime soon eh?