Thoughts on language

I have never considered myself much of a Bible reader, probably because I feel like I ought to be and it then becomes a sort of task in my mind.  So I end up running from it.  Sometime recently, I realized that the Bible is the best sort of literature in that it is lovely and uplifting and full of truth.  I have spent many days this summer fumbling around in a language that isn't my own, one that comes off of my tongue awkward and heavy and usually not quite how I want it to.  I have fully appreciated how God blessed us with words and with the goodness of language to express how much he loves us.  And as I write this, I am just beginning to understand that although he sometimes uses language to speak to us and so we may speak to each other,  he also takes it away so that he may speak through us in the silence.   All of this to say, that I wanted to share some of the verses through which God has spoken to me this summer when things got tough.

"The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want
He makes me lie down in green pastures,

he leads me beside quiet waters,

he restores my soul."

-Psalm 23:1-3

"We also rejoice in our sufferings, because we know that suffering produces perseverance; perseverance, character; and character, hope.  And hope does not disappoint us, because God has poured out his love into our hearts by the Holy Spirit, whom he has given us." -Romans 5:3-5

"Therefore, since we are surrounded by such a great cloud of witnesses, let us throw off everything that hinders and the sin that so easily entangles, and let us run with perseverance the race marked out for us." -Hebrews 12:1

"And surely I am with you always, to the very end of the age." -Matthew 28:20

Tough

I’ve always thought that I was pretty tough.  When I was a little girl, my brothers and I joined co-ed rec soccer teams every spring and fall and spent many sunny Saturday mornings at the Blue Ridge Park.  I was a bony little kid swallowed by my jersey and outsized by most of the other kids, but a real fighter on the field, especially if someone fouled me.  My mom (and my soccer coach for many years) would always say that she secretly hoped I got knocked down early in the game because I would get up with a fire in me.  Mom was constantly telling people, “Watch out for Leigh Anne, she’s a feisty one” and I felt like the toughest kid out there.  I can still remember one soccer game when I must have been about seven and, after several falls, a referee asked me to leave the field because he was afraid I would get hurt.  I huffed off the field, with scraped knees and a hot throat.  Mom, always quick to defend her children, puffed up with anger and told me something like, "You just keep playing the way you always do."  To this day, whenever someone calls me feisty, I take real pride in it just as I did as a kid on the soccer field.

Yet it is through experiences like this summer that I realize I am not tough at all – not compared to the people I have met these past two months.  I think of Lidiannet and Carlos, who work tirelessly in the strawberry fields, yet never seem to miss a sermon or a prayer meeting.  I think of their daughter, Andrea, who works at the Poas Volcano Lodge six and a half days a week washing dishes, yet comes to English class two nights a week so that when her English is better, she can get a job as a telemarketer.  I think of Sandra and Gabi, two of the high school students who have to walk a twisting mountain road an hour from the main road, and then a 10-minute van ride just to get to school.  I think of Eugenia, living in temporary housing after the earthquake and taking care of her 14-year-old sister, who just had a baby and whose husband isn’t in the picture.  These people are tough.

I pray that I would live with utmost simplicity for these, some of the feistiest and truest and best people that I know.  And also for Jesus who calls us to give up everything we have and follow him.  I often try to twist this explicit command from him to suit my lifestyle or justify the ways I am not giving.  But I think he meant exactly what he said and he calls us to give all energy, time, money, and even comfort to follow him.  In this call, Jesus sounds extreme, maybe even unfair, but he also offers us these words as well:

“But those who hope in the Lord will renew their strength. They will soar on wings like eagles; they will run and not grow weary, they will walk and not be faint.”

“Surely I am with you always, even to the end of the age.”

 “Whoever lives and believes in me will never die. Do you believe this?”

He offers us strength, his own presence, and even eternal life if we will only have faith and then turns to us and asks, “Do you believe this?”  I can see his face, gentle but sincere, as he places that question before me, not just once, but again and again as something to wrestle with for the rest of my life.

Lists

With less than two weeks to go, I think I am ready to go home.  I think the weather (something like Blacksburg in early November) has worn me down, and my latest project of starting a bilingual community newspaper, although exciting, has drained most of my energy.  So I thought I would take a moment to list the things that I will miss most and the things I am most looking forward to

What I will love about being home:

·      Milkshakes

·      Showers with steady heat

·      Being warm

·      A dryer instead of a clothesline

·      Seeing the stars at night (it’s too cloudy here most nights)

·      Hamburgers, Chik-Fil-A, lemonade

·      Smooth roads and driving again

·      Going barefoot and wearing shorts

And the things I will miss:

·      People I work with and who have been a sort of family

·      The kids at school who have become some of my dearest friends

·      Speaking in Spanish

·      Watching “Doug” (everyone’s favorite childhood show) with housemates

·      The Pooh Bear blanket on my bed

·      All of the green scenery

·      Seeing Poás Volcano from the window every morning

·      Watching the two kittens romp around and pounce on each other

·      Kiku and Ashes, the two puppies

·      The faithfulness and the whole-hearted worship of the church

·      People who have brought me into their homes and fed me

·      The home-made bread

·      Being a part of an organization that works tirelessly

·      Living simply

After making these two lists, I’m a little surprised to realize how many things that I will miss about this place.  And I’m also surprised that the first list is mostly full of small comforts and satisfactions – first world luxuries.  I know being home will make me think about my own richness and the richness of my country and although I feel ready to reflect on all of this, I am also afraid to face it.

Thoughts on Coming Home

I haven’t written recently partly because I’ve been busy researching how to start up a local newspaper for the community and partly because I would rather watch an old episode of Doug with Jacqueline or play with the kittens, letting them mew and cling to my sweater. But I woke up at 6:00 A.M. with the morning still and untouched except by yellow light and I had nothing else to do because the Internet was out.  So now I’m sitting in the top of my bunk bed (Lauren moved in to my room when the new intern, Jacqueline came), stretching my toes in their wool socks, and thinking of how to tell you all that’s been going on with my life in the past couple weeks.

Yesterday in our meeting, Lindsey asked me if, with three weeks to go, if I felt ready to go home.  I have asked myself this same question every so often in the past two months and it’s usually the same wishy-washy, “Sometimes yes, sometimes no.”  I came into this internship envisioning a place that was perhaps a little warmer and myself, in a pair of shorts, within some grand adventure.  Although my time here has panned out differently than I would have expected, it has been fulfilling in that it has challenged and humbled me.  When I think of being dropped off at the airport to go home, my heart lifts inside my chest in excitement at the thought of home and comfort and food other than beans, and then sinks in something that feels like terror at the thought of leaving these friends behind.

I hate thinking that soon, I won’t wake up in the same room as Lauren or hear Jacqueline blow-drying her body (yes, it’s that cold.)  I hate knowing that I won’t be able to throw my arm around Daniela, and worse, that I might never see her or some of the other students again.  These people – interns, staff, students, and neighbors – have shown me an incredible love.  I hope that I can come back some day to visit and see how much Fabian’s English has improved and how tall Nadia has grown to be and how the community, too, has grown.

Looking back on leaving Ecuador, I was sad to leave several very dear American friends and a lifestyle of travel, independence, and adventure.  This time, I will still leave friends, but I will also leave behind a community of people, from Pastor Carlos who plays a mean bass, to the shy little girl in Sunday school who never says much to me but insists on holding my hand.  I don’t know what else to say about these people or how to describe their goodness so I’ll just say this: they have been Christ to me and Christ to each other.  I can think of no higher compliment.

Since I’m on a sentimental sort of track, I want to say thank you to everyone has prayed for me or wished me well.  It has been an adventure, a very different sort than I ever thought, but one that will bring me home full and reflective and, maybe more than anything, grateful.  You all have done more than enough for me but I have one more request.  I ask that you pray that I have the strength to work hard and enjoy these last couple weeks to their utmost.  And please lift up the people of Vara Blanca and San Rafael, some of the strongest, most encouraging, lively folks I have known.  Thank you so much, friends!

Stillness, Joy, Fullness

This summer, I have sat with God and he Has been in the stillness, or rather He was the stillness itself.  He could not be separated from the flowing stream in our yard or from the fearsome splendor of Volcano Poás.  In everything, I felt Stillness.  And I soon found another name for this Stillness, something that C.S. Lewis calls Joy.  Joy was what settled and spread within me, a bit like cinnamon hot cocoa but everlasting, as I was looking through the wooden frame of the church window.  A simple butterfly caught my eye, its blue wings flitting away towards the road.  There was another, yellow this time, and it followed the first.  I couldn’t tell you why, but those two tiny-winged butterflies unearthed a memory that overwhelmed me, not unpleasantly, but the way a large wave lifts you unexpectedly. 

It was of my last Sunday at Forest Hills and there in the wood and the soft light and the pleasant bustle of the chapel right before a service, were some of the people that I loved dearest in the world.  I was sitting on a high bench between two of my best friends, Josh and Audrey, and could look out to see the Moores off to the side and towards the back, Mom, Dad and Grandma sitting beside Mike and Margie.  I don’t remember what we all sang or what we all said that day, but I remember crying.  Part of it was knowing I only had a handful of days left in the U.S. and part of it was knowing that I wouldn’t see Audrey for a year.  But the time when I cried the hardest was when we were called up to paint our hand green and make a leaf on the canvas where James had drawn a tree.  Suddenly, I walked out of the chapel, ran downstairs and outside and sat on a curb and wept.  It was like I had to get away and be still and let it all catch up with me.  I couldn’t stop weeping and couldn’t trace it to anything but Joy.  There were pieces of sadness, too, thinking of being away and pieces of confusion at my own tears and I wish that I could explain it all better than that.  But I know I have never felt more surrounded by God or so completely Full as I did then, sitting on the curb in a parking lot with my hands in my face. 

I don’t think anyone ever saw my tears, except little Sara, who asked me later if I was all right and why I had been crying.  I think I told her they were happy tears, and although that is true in part, I realized I could never explain the joy and the fullness of it in a way that made any real sense.  And I didn’t tell anyone else because I felt that out of all of us, maybe a little girl understood the Fullness the best.

A day in Heredia

Last weekend, the three of us interns woke up at 6:00 A.M. and even as grumpy as we were, couldn't help but be cheered by the bright morning.  Angeley, who grew up in Costa Rica and then moved to New York when she was a young girl, had plans to meet her cousin and the rest of his family so Lauren and I decided to tag along to explore a new city.  We had been told that the bus comes anytime between 7:00 and 7:30, so we rushed around, chomping Corn Flakes and grabbing coffee.  Then we waited outside the little red gate at the bottom of the driveway and I sat in the gravel as we talked.  Then, just as Lauren had gone inside for more coffee, the bus started pulling up the hill.  As planned, Angeley yelled, "Bus!" to me, who was planted in the yard so I could yell, "Bus!" to Lauren (and then "Coo-WEE!" like some wild bird just for the fun of it.  Lauren came tearing out of the house with her coffee (sugar but no milk), and the three of us jumped on the bus.

We wound through the neighboring town of Cartagos, down, down the mountain past houses painted yellow or blue or papaya, down where the sun hit each clothesline hanging in the yards.  We all began to feel nausea creeping into our stomachs and Lauren and I stopped talking almost instantly in order to mentally focus on not being sick.  About an hour and a half later, we stumbled off, rather eagerly, and then made a call to Angeley's cousin at a little flower shop.  He came to pick her up, a lanky guy with a easy-coming smile and a smooth Carribean accent who kindly showed Lauren and I the bus stop home and bought us all Granizados.  (I think I'll take the time to describe the Granizado because it is something like a soon-to-be Seventh Wonder of the World.  You choose between any three flavors of slurpee flavors, then pick bananas, papayas, watermelon or all three, then powdered milk, condensed milk and, just when you thought the cup couldn't hold more, you pick a flavor of ice cream for the top.)  Feeling adventurous, even at 9:00 in the morning, I asked for everything.  It was almost sickly sweet as you can imagine and I wished I'd avoided the powdered milk, but I was glad I got to try it because it's a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity because I think your system can only handle one in your lifetime.

Lauren and I split from Angeley and her cousin and began to explore Heredia.  We knew that we were the very picture of tourist, two girls in Chacos with funny shoulder bags, but we didn't mind.  We were happy to be out of Vara Blanca for the day and in weather that was almost uncomfortably muggy, the way summer ought to be.  Fueled, and a little sickened, by Granizado, we picked our way down the sidewalk, slipping into boutique shops stuffed with sheer blouses and trendy dresses we could never afford.  In one dark, retro store, I found a pair of delicate earrings with painted summery flowers for 1000 colones ($2) and bought them for Lauren's 20th birthday, which was only a couple days away.  Even though neither of us are big shoppers, it was fun to window shop all the same.

We made our way back to the central park and ate lunch in a little sandwich shop which looked out on the white church in the plaza.  No one came in during that whole hour, so we were free to talk about our different traveling adventures and mission trips and study abroad without anyone staring at us for our English.  After taking a couple touristy shots by the fountain and the church, we headed to the bus stop, knowing it would come sometime between 12:45 and 1:30.  It came at 1:35 and one bus stop down, a stone's throw from where Lauren and I had been sitting on concrete steps.  The next bus to Vara Blanca wasn't until 5:00, so we tore down the street, yelling, "Run!  Run!" to each other, looking like two ridiculous Americans (which we were), and caught the bus just in time.  We spent the first five minutes laughing like crazy and the last seventy or so sleeping.

That night we had a sort of slumber party back home under our roof in the steady rain of Vara Blanca.  We watched "Ocean's Twelve" followed by "Gilmore Girls" and ate chips and a spicy dip until our lips stung.  I went to bed exhausted, belly full of Tostitos but happy, and with a little sun on my cheeks for the first time in weeks.

Something like homesickness

This morning I was walking along to the elementary school in my fleece jacket, picking my way down the cracked road.  It was warm but tiny lines rain (which they call "pelito de gato" or "little cat hairs") fell all around my face and everything was still, the way the country always is.  When I got to the school, a girl in my sixth grade class was unlocking the gate for a younger girl with a white bow on her head, so I slipped in.  The older girl led me to the director's office, where I was told that my class had been canceled for the day.

So I walked home with the stray dog, a thick-bodied lab who usually lies in the rocks outside the pulpería (the convenience store.)  I was in a good mood, kicking up rocks and left completely to myself.  I think it was the roughness of the pavement, the gaping potholes, that made me remember the smoothness of I-81 in Virginia.  This of course evoked images of America, of all the cars driving on roads with paved lines and guard rails, which seems both comforting and a little mad in its organization.  I could feel myself missing the roads (a silly thing to miss, I suppose), but I think the roads were some sort of symbol for everything about the U.S. that I feel homesick for.  Most of the time I don't think about it because I live in a house of people who speak to each other in English and who have recently lived in the states.  But I miss the roads I've always driven on: 340 and Old Liberty and Patton Farm.  How is it a chunk of crumbling road can make me miss home?  I don't even feel homesick until I let myself feel it.  And it almost feels good to sit in homesickness and swish it around a bit, the way I do in a bath.  Because, just like hot water, it makes you think of pleasant memories and familiar places.  But, just like a bath, the water becomes lukewarm and cloudy after a while and then you have to get out.

Sitting here upstairs on the bench in the high-ceiling wooden house, I'm brought back into this summer internship as I listen as downstairs Tomás excitedly talks about a project.  I remember my cold toes.  I feel like I have to write down this moment just as it is to ground myself and to so that when I sit in my bedroom at home, I can remember how I sat here in a grey day as Frances poured something into a pan.  I hear sizzling, just for a moment, and then everything falls back into a familiar hush.