Since returning to the United States on August 9, I have gone through more valleys, high mountains, big storms, hellish waters, calm waters, and beautiful fields where peace has indeed overcome my soul. With such differing circumstances, you can imagine my emotions have exceeded what one might classify as an "emotional limit," if such a thing exists. I've cried for hours on end, only to be followed by very happy times, whether spent with Christ Himself, family and friends, or just experiencing something new and being blessed in that.
Here are a few things that I've been astounded by over the last three(ish) months:
1. Soon after returning, I received a car loan from a ministry in Jonesboro, GA that gives cars to missionaries on furlough. I get to keep this car for about three months (ie, my time with the Nissan is coming to an end). It's been such a blessing to have a cheap car for such a time as this.
*Prayer request: I am going to need a car after I give this one up (there is a waiting list; believe me, I've checked to see if I can extend).
2. The International Mission Board kept paying me. There is a reason they keep the paychecks comin': I had zero desire to work once I got back, mainly because I couldn't figure out all my emotions and what was going on around me. So it's been nice to live off of what they (ie, Southern Baptists) have been giving me.
*Prayer request: I need a job. Yes, I've applied to a lot of things. Yes, I've interviewed with several of those things. Nothing has come of it. This job hunting thing pretty much sucks, but I'm confident God knows what is happening and something will come in time.....[PLEASE GOD, let it be time soon!!!]
3. I have been able to travel some and visit good friends. I've been to Greenville, SC, Raleigh/Durham, NC, Memphis, TN, Nashville, TN, Moultrie, GA, Athens, GA and Macon, GA. If I could, I would have hit up FL, TX and KY. Those are on the to-do list.
4. A kind lady named Brenda in Nashville counseled me. She was the first person who was willing to sit down with me and just listen. I cried more than anything, but she was okay with that. I debriefed with her, her husband, and some friends in Nashville and spent time on her farm, which is one of the most peaceful places in the world. And I grew to love Nashville (and Brenda) in that time. So thanks, God.
5. I spoke to Jesus. I mean, I'm still speaking to Jesus. I've spoken with Him in the past, but never like when I got back here. I had an encounter with Him like I've never had in my entire life, and a healing process started because of that encounter, for which I'll be forever grateful. I'm relearning a lot of things and discovering new ones. Praise God for He is good. Beyond good...Great...Enough.
6. I have gotten to talk to my parents. Some things have been revealed to me through observation and conversation, and God has moved in incredible ways--restoration, understanding, and maturity have come.
*Prayer request: Keep it comin'!
7. My sister Cristina has been someone to lean on. Praise God.
8. I met a lady at Starbucks the other day. I was listening to her conversation (yes, eavesdropping is bad, I know). But this was a God thing. I ran after her once she was done counseling a couple to ask where she goes to church. One thing led to another and she asked to meet with me and hear my story. We went to her church to chat (a really big one around here, that I like--it's just so BIG) and she sat with me during the singles/college worship deal and introduced me to some people. We'll see if God does anything with that. Regardless, the sole fact that I met her, and that she was such an encouragement to me and willing to help--that was enough.
9. God sent me someone right before I met Karen, the Starbucks lady. Jason was another Starbucks guy (I go to Starbucks a lot). I knew he was going to be in town; he works with the IMB as a Hispanic Mobilizer and he wanted to meet with me. Despite me showing up on one day and him showing up on another, we eventually connected twice during his time in Atlanta. I had no clue what this guy was going to say. In the end, though, he was a God-send. He too wanted to know my story and ended up listening and working through some things (mainly forgiveness issues) with me. So thanks, God. And thanks, Jason--a new friend who calls me "mija" ('my daughter') and prays for me.
10. Some might already know that I went to San Francisco for a visit. I went with the purpose of visiting a seminary (Golden Gate Baptist Theological). I came back with new friends and a newfound interest in being in the Western United States. I loved the school, the people, everything--there exists such passion among Christians there to see people around them come to Christ. It was refreshing to be out of the Bible Belt and see the need for Christ IN OUR OWN COUNTRY.
*Prayer request: For San Francisco, the whole Western US, to come to the Lord; that people in the Bible Belt would get up and move and see that this area of the country can stand to lose a few Christians to go be missionaries to North Americans in California, Oregon, Arizona, Washington, etc.
And finally, the big one: I would like to move out there as well. I would like to go to seminary. I would like to devote my time to walking with Christ in purposeful ministry while studying the Word in a formal context. Ask me about my goals, I have a lot of them that come along with moving out there.
The point of my "Top Ten Cool Blessings/Miracles" if you will is this: I may be continuing to walk through the waters, but God is walking with me. Sometimes (a lot of times), He even picks me up and carries me. I see that now. He did it in Peru, too.
My life isn't all about crying right now. Yes, there are some very hard days. But through my grieving and through lament and sorrow and pain and not understanding, Christ Jesus has blessed me immensely, even in the last few months. I just wanted to share it with y'all.
Much love to you.
31.10.10
Northern Adventures: Part 3
I don’t want to leave this place, but Julia and I are hungry. Our intended hippie-jewelry browsing is apparently not going to happen, as we catch up with Sandro, who offers to take us to one of the best restaurants in Mancora, of which I forget the name. Just take my advice: When you arrive in Mancora, walk towards the center, and this restaurant will be on your right with a wooden patio in the front.
Walking through Mancora, I realize quickly just how ‘cholo’ (redneck) it is. But this town has its charm, manifested purely in the hippie presence. We find this ‘spectacular’ café (per Sandro) and Julia and I order to-die-for sandwiches and Maracuya drinks. It’s at this dinner that we start to get to know Sandro better. Not because he is drinking (though he wants to, and reassures the waitress that he would except that he is our chaffeur); instead, he opens up to us about his life in Peru:
Sandro, fifty years of age, knows everyone in this town. I really think he must be famous. He wears shirts unbuttoned one-button-too-many. He is divorced, a pituco from Lima who claims to actually be more Italian than Peruvian. He tells us stories about people he has gotten drunk with. It’s a running list, including former President Toledo, current President Garcia, and maybe even, as Julia and I conjecture later, ex-lover Jaime Bayly, pundit extraordinaire and my favorite Peruvian, next to Gian Marco, of course.
We love every semi-truthful claim Sandro makes. We believe him because he is our friend in this moment and because the Pisco from our Maracuya sours is making us laugh more than usual.
After dinner Sandro suggests a drive through the “better” beaches: Vichayito, Las Pocitas, and others. We agree and he drives like he owns the private properties and hotels that we enter, using the excuse that we are interested in a stay, when in reality, we are exploring solely for the sake of exploration. All I know, in this moment, is that we’ve left the “big lights” of Mancora for untouched darknes, and incredible stars, accompany my growing desire to move to this place. My stargazing lasts the whole ride home as Julia and Sandro tell stories and I half-listen, stumbling out of the car and moving away from the few lights illuminating the bungalows so I can take in the peace being imparted into my heart from each star. They are the fingertips of God.
The next morning Sandro takes us to a taxi stop to get a ride to Tumbes. He is chatty today—saying he knows the guy clearing that piece of land, that those cows used to graze on his property, etc, etc. He knows everyone, including cows, apparently. On the way to Tumbes, the landscape overwhelms me. Green takes over brown to my right, and the ocean continues, unending, to my left as we move north toward Ecuador. I can’t place the smells around me; Julia tells me it’s burning land. Rivers and inlets and waters are everywhere. A woman naps in a hammock just off the road.
Once in Puerto Pizarro, Rigoberto, Sandro’s friend (of course), approaches us. We don’t have to approach people here for help, as we do in Southern Peru—the people here are so much friendlier. I’m in love with Rigoberto and the Manglares. “Rigo” or “Berto” doesn’t wear shoes, but I notice he has flip flop tan lines, and he smiles and jokes with us and asks for English lessons. Our tour includes a Portuguese girl, which adds to the mix of tongues. English, Portuguese and Spanish float around my ears as the boat calmly penetrates through rivers and estuaries and makes ripples in the river-forest.
The estuaries cut through bushes and shrubs. Birds take over and color is everywhere, as are boats and the ubiquitous smell of fish. “No hay vago” (There isn’t a bum) here, says the man with a constant smile. I could live here, too, in this never-ending heat, this perpetual summer. They were right for once, the Peruvians—summer lingers here forever. Clouds come and go and tropical rains invade. But I like that.
We say goodbye to Rigo and leave our adventure in Tumbes, which is not an impressive city, but it overflows with happiness. We drive back and I can only think of the wave of fatigue that has rushed over me, but I can’t close my eyes, not yet, because I’ll miss something beautiful.
Our last afternoon on the beach is spent sunbathing. I am the only one on the beach, and my codependent tendencies vanish in the knowledge that My Creator is next to me. The Spirit is here, speaking and teaching; Jesus and I chat about life. It's an all around really great late afternoon. This time of day is incredible, with the wind picking up and the clouds coming in. The sunset will be spectacular. The water starts to change colors. As I sit on the sand, I observe a man paddling far out in the water, standing on a raft. My reverie is interrupted as a plethora of crabs inch closer as if they are going to attack me.
The last night in Zorritos is peaceful. That sentiment characterizes this place: Peace. It’s July 4th, but Julia nor I know it because we’re the only Americans on the beach and drunk on relaxation. I celebrate with another sunset, crabs poking out of the sand, and, later, a drink with Jaime Bayly talking on TV. I suppose if Sandro had been around, my last night would have been spent drinking with him, Jaime Bayly in the background, and hearing Sandro’s stories about their love affair.
Walking through Mancora, I realize quickly just how ‘cholo’ (redneck) it is. But this town has its charm, manifested purely in the hippie presence. We find this ‘spectacular’ café (per Sandro) and Julia and I order to-die-for sandwiches and Maracuya drinks. It’s at this dinner that we start to get to know Sandro better. Not because he is drinking (though he wants to, and reassures the waitress that he would except that he is our chaffeur); instead, he opens up to us about his life in Peru:
Sandro, fifty years of age, knows everyone in this town. I really think he must be famous. He wears shirts unbuttoned one-button-too-many. He is divorced, a pituco from Lima who claims to actually be more Italian than Peruvian. He tells us stories about people he has gotten drunk with. It’s a running list, including former President Toledo, current President Garcia, and maybe even, as Julia and I conjecture later, ex-lover Jaime Bayly, pundit extraordinaire and my favorite Peruvian, next to Gian Marco, of course.
We love every semi-truthful claim Sandro makes. We believe him because he is our friend in this moment and because the Pisco from our Maracuya sours is making us laugh more than usual.
After dinner Sandro suggests a drive through the “better” beaches: Vichayito, Las Pocitas, and others. We agree and he drives like he owns the private properties and hotels that we enter, using the excuse that we are interested in a stay, when in reality, we are exploring solely for the sake of exploration. All I know, in this moment, is that we’ve left the “big lights” of Mancora for untouched darknes, and incredible stars, accompany my growing desire to move to this place. My stargazing lasts the whole ride home as Julia and Sandro tell stories and I half-listen, stumbling out of the car and moving away from the few lights illuminating the bungalows so I can take in the peace being imparted into my heart from each star. They are the fingertips of God.
The next morning Sandro takes us to a taxi stop to get a ride to Tumbes. He is chatty today—saying he knows the guy clearing that piece of land, that those cows used to graze on his property, etc, etc. He knows everyone, including cows, apparently. On the way to Tumbes, the landscape overwhelms me. Green takes over brown to my right, and the ocean continues, unending, to my left as we move north toward Ecuador. I can’t place the smells around me; Julia tells me it’s burning land. Rivers and inlets and waters are everywhere. A woman naps in a hammock just off the road.
Once in Puerto Pizarro, Rigoberto, Sandro’s friend (of course), approaches us. We don’t have to approach people here for help, as we do in Southern Peru—the people here are so much friendlier. I’m in love with Rigoberto and the Manglares. “Rigo” or “Berto” doesn’t wear shoes, but I notice he has flip flop tan lines, and he smiles and jokes with us and asks for English lessons. Our tour includes a Portuguese girl, which adds to the mix of tongues. English, Portuguese and Spanish float around my ears as the boat calmly penetrates through rivers and estuaries and makes ripples in the river-forest.
The estuaries cut through bushes and shrubs. Birds take over and color is everywhere, as are boats and the ubiquitous smell of fish. “No hay vago” (There isn’t a bum) here, says the man with a constant smile. I could live here, too, in this never-ending heat, this perpetual summer. They were right for once, the Peruvians—summer lingers here forever. Clouds come and go and tropical rains invade. But I like that.
We say goodbye to Rigo and leave our adventure in Tumbes, which is not an impressive city, but it overflows with happiness. We drive back and I can only think of the wave of fatigue that has rushed over me, but I can’t close my eyes, not yet, because I’ll miss something beautiful.
Our last afternoon on the beach is spent sunbathing. I am the only one on the beach, and my codependent tendencies vanish in the knowledge that My Creator is next to me. The Spirit is here, speaking and teaching; Jesus and I chat about life. It's an all around really great late afternoon. This time of day is incredible, with the wind picking up and the clouds coming in. The sunset will be spectacular. The water starts to change colors. As I sit on the sand, I observe a man paddling far out in the water, standing on a raft. My reverie is interrupted as a plethora of crabs inch closer as if they are going to attack me.
The last night in Zorritos is peaceful. That sentiment characterizes this place: Peace. It’s July 4th, but Julia nor I know it because we’re the only Americans on the beach and drunk on relaxation. I celebrate with another sunset, crabs poking out of the sand, and, later, a drink with Jaime Bayly talking on TV. I suppose if Sandro had been around, my last night would have been spent drinking with him, Jaime Bayly in the background, and hearing Sandro’s stories about their love affair.
26.10.10
Northern Adventures: Part 2
From my spot in the front of the bus, I finally see a small sign for our hotel. I collect a still-drugged Julia and we disembark in the middle of the highway to the bungalows that have been beckoning me since late May. Our bungalow is about 30 steps from a private, deserted beach, and I almost cry because I’m so happy.
In our relaxed state, we sink deeper into this idea of doing absolutely nothing in Zorritos. Sun and clouds mix together. No one is around, save for a couple on their honeymoon. I walk around in my swimsuit, trying to talk myself out of stipping off everything altogether. Our first future friend arrives to welcome us to Bamboo Lodge: Sandro. We don’t know he will become our friend and ‘pituco’ (snobby) Northern Peru chofer/Sugar Daddy.
Between doing nothing and getting a sunburn, Jenny the cook makes us some incredible fish and Sandro takes us into town. He plays European club music in his car. We come to find out he lives in California and has his own business there; he’s in Peru to see family and help with their business.
Zorritos is everyman’s town. I wander around, in awe of the people not wearing clothes or shoes. I’ve just come from the cold weather in Arequipa and Lima, where scarves are worn in 65 degree weather. I drink a cold, icy, glass-bottled coke and relax while the Peruvians watch me. Not many tourists get to Zorritos—most stop in Mancora, about 30 minutes south.
I leave the shack-restaurant and wander back to Sandro. No matter if he leaves, though, I could stay and live here. I’ve convinced myself of this already. And anyway, someone would certainly give me a ride or find me a ride back to the bungalow.
On the way back, Sandro stops for gas in front of a shanty-town area. Two houses with people just hanging out are the main attraction, and you know their source of income is the gasoline sold to travelers. Sandro hops out and fills up, talking to the guys outside while Julia and I take in the all-too common poverty. Sandro gets in the car and knows what we are doing, as he watches us survey the situation. He says this, in the Spanglish he has adopted for us (even though Julia and I both speak Spanish): ‘There is poverty, pero se viven felices’ (There is poverty, but they live happily). It’s true. Just from my fifteen minute adventure to town, I can see this. I wonder if tourists understand that there is more to Northern Peru than nice bed and breakfasts; that life here often means nothing and everything all at the same time. People eat together, sit outside together, wave to each other from the road. A light is in their eyes, a happiness that seems different even than the Southern North Americans that I know.
After more beach time (I literally could stay on the beach all day), I move from doing nothing on the beach to doing nothing in the hammock. Sipping coffee and listening to waves, I hear a stranger’s voice talking to Sandro.
‘Sarita, this is Pascual, the artist I was telling you about.’ This is not what you might be thinking. Sandro was not trying to set me up with Pascual as a potential love interest; rather, Pascual, ‘spelled with a ‘k’ because it’s artsy’ wants to show me his paintings. In my free-and-easy state I humor this guy as he begins to show me geometric paintings that are just okay. Geometry and I have never gotten along—this goes for book learning AND understanding the aesthetic value of shapes on a canvas: I don’t understand either.
Surprisingly, Paskual with a K opens up a breathtaking piece, and I know I have to have it. I don’t know how you are about art, but my theory is this: If it takes your breath away, it’s for you. Don’t buy something to fill a room—buy something because it was created for you and you know this in your bones.
My painting is a horizontal blue and black view of the ocean. Paskual has captured the ocean and waves perfectly, reflecting the moonlight and stars off the water—A simple and not-enough description.
I pay Paskual and find out he is coming with us into Mancora. Sandro has offered to take us because ‘we have to see Mancora, it’s fabulous.’
Julia and I pile into Sandro’s crappy car once again, this time with my new artist friend, who is chattering away about beach life. I realize I’m having a mini-adventure with the man who painted my new present-to-myself, and a smile fills my face.
We stop to take some pictures in Cancas, a port town. Its full of boats, and the smell of fish saturates your nostrils. The boats float on the calm ocean and pelicans inundate the blue ocean that conspires to float into an even bluer sky, which tonight, promises a spectacular sunset. We leave our perfect vantage point to get to Mancora on time in hopes of catching the sun disappearing underneath the water from an even more perfect vantage point.
Julia and I thank Paskual for his kindness and make our way to the ocean, pausing only long enough to tell Sandro we’ll find him later (it’s a small town, and everyone knows Sandro). It’s funny how ugly can so quickly give way to beautiful: Mediocre streets populated with people asking if you want marijuana lead to a serene beach with surfers crowding the water in a perfect, not-too-crowded way.
If you’d taken a survey of the people on the beach watching the sunset with us, you would have encountered representation from the following countries: Poland, Great Britain, Spain, Argentina, Australia, North America, Peru, Sweden, Germany, Italy and maybe a few people from France. I didn’t ask for said survey; I just know they’re there. I’ve met these people as I’ve traveled Peru—this mix of people from around the world that just leave wherever they are to take a chance at seeing things they’ll only see once or twice in their lives. I know this because I recognize this sentiment as the common bond that knits us together.
Julia and I find a spot on the small strip of sandy beach, joining a multitude of people who apparently had the same idea as us: Watching what must be a daily display of glory, magnificence showing up in the form of a massive star sinking under the ocean, painting the sky canvas a myriad of colors.
Since being in Peru, I’ve come to love sunsets even more because you’re never disappointed. As a girl who grew up on the East Coast, I would have grand aspirations of waking up early on beach vacations to catch a sunrise. However, for a girl who is not a morning person, this goal was never successful. Instead, good intentions almost always morphed into me hitting the snooze button and rolling out of bed at 10 AM.
So today I take it all in with Julia and the tourists. Fifteen minutes allows us to feast on visual pleasure that includes watching surfers live it up on wicked waves that make this beach famous.
In our relaxed state, we sink deeper into this idea of doing absolutely nothing in Zorritos. Sun and clouds mix together. No one is around, save for a couple on their honeymoon. I walk around in my swimsuit, trying to talk myself out of stipping off everything altogether. Our first future friend arrives to welcome us to Bamboo Lodge: Sandro. We don’t know he will become our friend and ‘pituco’ (snobby) Northern Peru chofer/Sugar Daddy.
Between doing nothing and getting a sunburn, Jenny the cook makes us some incredible fish and Sandro takes us into town. He plays European club music in his car. We come to find out he lives in California and has his own business there; he’s in Peru to see family and help with their business.
Zorritos is everyman’s town. I wander around, in awe of the people not wearing clothes or shoes. I’ve just come from the cold weather in Arequipa and Lima, where scarves are worn in 65 degree weather. I drink a cold, icy, glass-bottled coke and relax while the Peruvians watch me. Not many tourists get to Zorritos—most stop in Mancora, about 30 minutes south.
I leave the shack-restaurant and wander back to Sandro. No matter if he leaves, though, I could stay and live here. I’ve convinced myself of this already. And anyway, someone would certainly give me a ride or find me a ride back to the bungalow.
On the way back, Sandro stops for gas in front of a shanty-town area. Two houses with people just hanging out are the main attraction, and you know their source of income is the gasoline sold to travelers. Sandro hops out and fills up, talking to the guys outside while Julia and I take in the all-too common poverty. Sandro gets in the car and knows what we are doing, as he watches us survey the situation. He says this, in the Spanglish he has adopted for us (even though Julia and I both speak Spanish): ‘There is poverty, pero se viven felices’ (There is poverty, but they live happily). It’s true. Just from my fifteen minute adventure to town, I can see this. I wonder if tourists understand that there is more to Northern Peru than nice bed and breakfasts; that life here often means nothing and everything all at the same time. People eat together, sit outside together, wave to each other from the road. A light is in their eyes, a happiness that seems different even than the Southern North Americans that I know.
After more beach time (I literally could stay on the beach all day), I move from doing nothing on the beach to doing nothing in the hammock. Sipping coffee and listening to waves, I hear a stranger’s voice talking to Sandro.
‘Sarita, this is Pascual, the artist I was telling you about.’ This is not what you might be thinking. Sandro was not trying to set me up with Pascual as a potential love interest; rather, Pascual, ‘spelled with a ‘k’ because it’s artsy’ wants to show me his paintings. In my free-and-easy state I humor this guy as he begins to show me geometric paintings that are just okay. Geometry and I have never gotten along—this goes for book learning AND understanding the aesthetic value of shapes on a canvas: I don’t understand either.
Surprisingly, Paskual with a K opens up a breathtaking piece, and I know I have to have it. I don’t know how you are about art, but my theory is this: If it takes your breath away, it’s for you. Don’t buy something to fill a room—buy something because it was created for you and you know this in your bones.
My painting is a horizontal blue and black view of the ocean. Paskual has captured the ocean and waves perfectly, reflecting the moonlight and stars off the water—A simple and not-enough description.
I pay Paskual and find out he is coming with us into Mancora. Sandro has offered to take us because ‘we have to see Mancora, it’s fabulous.’
Julia and I pile into Sandro’s crappy car once again, this time with my new artist friend, who is chattering away about beach life. I realize I’m having a mini-adventure with the man who painted my new present-to-myself, and a smile fills my face.
We stop to take some pictures in Cancas, a port town. Its full of boats, and the smell of fish saturates your nostrils. The boats float on the calm ocean and pelicans inundate the blue ocean that conspires to float into an even bluer sky, which tonight, promises a spectacular sunset. We leave our perfect vantage point to get to Mancora on time in hopes of catching the sun disappearing underneath the water from an even more perfect vantage point.
Julia and I thank Paskual for his kindness and make our way to the ocean, pausing only long enough to tell Sandro we’ll find him later (it’s a small town, and everyone knows Sandro). It’s funny how ugly can so quickly give way to beautiful: Mediocre streets populated with people asking if you want marijuana lead to a serene beach with surfers crowding the water in a perfect, not-too-crowded way.
If you’d taken a survey of the people on the beach watching the sunset with us, you would have encountered representation from the following countries: Poland, Great Britain, Spain, Argentina, Australia, North America, Peru, Sweden, Germany, Italy and maybe a few people from France. I didn’t ask for said survey; I just know they’re there. I’ve met these people as I’ve traveled Peru—this mix of people from around the world that just leave wherever they are to take a chance at seeing things they’ll only see once or twice in their lives. I know this because I recognize this sentiment as the common bond that knits us together.
Julia and I find a spot on the small strip of sandy beach, joining a multitude of people who apparently had the same idea as us: Watching what must be a daily display of glory, magnificence showing up in the form of a massive star sinking under the ocean, painting the sky canvas a myriad of colors.
Since being in Peru, I’ve come to love sunsets even more because you’re never disappointed. As a girl who grew up on the East Coast, I would have grand aspirations of waking up early on beach vacations to catch a sunrise. However, for a girl who is not a morning person, this goal was never successful. Instead, good intentions almost always morphed into me hitting the snooze button and rolling out of bed at 10 AM.
So today I take it all in with Julia and the tourists. Fifteen minutes allows us to feast on visual pleasure that includes watching surfers live it up on wicked waves that make this beach famous.
24.10.10
Northern Adventures: Part 1
God made Northern Peru exceptionally well. I’d only been here three days, but I already knew this to be fact.
Julia and I slept in a twin bed (I hate sharing any bed, much less a twin) on a freezing Lima night, the air water-droplet laden. We slept for about 2.5 hours before dressing in our tank tops and t-shirts with heavy coats draped over us to eventually shed as the Northern heat brought us out of the miserable Peruvian winter.
We were going North, to the beaches people have called ‘divino’ (divine) and ‘increible’ (incredible).
Good Limenos know to migrate North in the winter. The beaches are known for the warm temperatures year-round and amazing surf. In comparison to the bone-chilling Lima winter months, it’s heavenly. After only a few days in Lima, I had to get out.
We make it to the airport after hailing a taxi at 1 am, always an adventure in Lima. Lima taxis are something one prays will work in his or her favor. We can only hope that the taxi driver is merciful and trustworthy as Julia and I climb in. At the airport, we decide to each take a sleeping pill. It’s approximately 2 am, our flight arrives in Piura (translation: The Desert) around 5 am, and we have to find our way about 3 hours west to the coast. We leave Lima tired but semi-alert, at least conscious. I don’t remember much after buckling my seatbelt, as the sleeping pill had completely set in with its wonderful trippy side-effects. I would later find out that our pills were higher dosages for motion sickness (a common pill sold in Peru that apparently also has the effect of knocking one out).
Our plan upon arrival is to embrace the fact that we don’t have a plan. (This is my fault, by the way—I figured I would buy our plane tickets and my responsibilities were fini.) I was unaware that my decision not to plan would cause the following to ensue.
I wake up and we are in Piura, stumbling off the plane as if we’d been drinking tequila all night. We figure that the easiest way to get to the coast is to take a van or taxi; however, at 5 am, two gringas can’t expect to receive anything easily from Peruvians, regardless of the fact that Julia and I have both lived in Peru for two years. The van wants to charge us 300 dollars. Dollars. Not soles, dollars. We’ve already spent an arm-and-a-leg to get up here from Southern Peru, so this is out of the question.
We take a taxi to the bus station and find a ride for 15 soles, about 5 dollars (score!). Julia and I know we found a deal, but as with all things cheap in Peru, it usually comes with a price: Comfort and time.
Good thing we are drugged.
The drive from the flatlands of inner Northern Peru to the coast is bumpy and winding (typical). Julia and I have seats in the back of the bus. Imagine being in the very last row on a rollercoaster as it twists right and left, leaving very little time for you to think about how sick you feel; this is the bus ride for us. The saving grace of this trip is that the roads are not one foot away from a 200 foot drop into ocean.
All I see between sleeping and being jerked awake is desert, and I start to wonder if we’re in the wrong place, maybe going to a not-so-heavenly place instead of my promised Eden. But then I start to see some green. Then the bottom breaks in two and blue is below you. It sparkles as the sun’s rays pierce it and the current, and the waves create a picture of glory.
My idea of heaven has always been wherever water meets sand.
As I revel in the knowledge that I’m almost to my destination, I look over to see that Julia is dead asleep. She’s not even asleep, she literally appears to have died. She bumps along with every uncertain movement that the bus makes, swerving around potholes, making sudden stops to avoid hitting cars or people, or just simply careening around curves so fast it seems we’ll fall over. It doesn’t phase her in the least.
After our supposed 2.5 hour journey turns into 4.5 hours, I start to worry that we’re on the wrong bus, we’ve missed a stop, etc. Living in Peru forces one to learn how to not worry and go with the flow. Be flexible. However, there comes a point when the anxiety creeps in over the suspicion that a well-intentioned Peruvian probably gave you wrong directions, suggested you eat something that is ‘clean’ when it really isn’t, or puts you on the bus to Northern Colombia instead of Zorritos, Peru.
Julia is no help, so as we leave Mancora, I start to look for our hotel in Zorritos. Peru’s beaches are so untouched that few signs exist to indicate where they are. This could also be due to the fact that no Peruvian actually knows where they are exactly. The man in front of me, however, is a local, and he gives me ‘good’ directions to our stop, and I realize we are actually getting close and I have to now tell the bus driver where to stop.
I make my way up the death-aisle, smelling every Peruvian on the bus, listening to the World Cup coverage on their radios, and being tempted by whatever foods they’re eating. Once in the drivers cabin, I awkwardly stick my head in, butt hanging out the small square contraption that resembles a doggie door. I sense every eye has miraculously opened as I passed and is now staring at my backside.
I turn on the charm for the bus driver and his faithful assistant as I ask him where we are and inform him of the impending drop-off. I’ve shamelessly learned during these two years how to get what I want by flirting. (This is a topic for another story.) A Peruvian man usually will not be ambivalent with Julia or me. While this sounds strange, you eventually (and maybe also unfortunately) get used to all the attention. Needless to say, I’ve learned the advantages that come with being a ‘gringa guapa’ (pretty gringa). In this case, I get a free ride up front with my new friends.
Julia and I slept in a twin bed (I hate sharing any bed, much less a twin) on a freezing Lima night, the air water-droplet laden. We slept for about 2.5 hours before dressing in our tank tops and t-shirts with heavy coats draped over us to eventually shed as the Northern heat brought us out of the miserable Peruvian winter.
We were going North, to the beaches people have called ‘divino’ (divine) and ‘increible’ (incredible).
Good Limenos know to migrate North in the winter. The beaches are known for the warm temperatures year-round and amazing surf. In comparison to the bone-chilling Lima winter months, it’s heavenly. After only a few days in Lima, I had to get out.
We make it to the airport after hailing a taxi at 1 am, always an adventure in Lima. Lima taxis are something one prays will work in his or her favor. We can only hope that the taxi driver is merciful and trustworthy as Julia and I climb in. At the airport, we decide to each take a sleeping pill. It’s approximately 2 am, our flight arrives in Piura (translation: The Desert) around 5 am, and we have to find our way about 3 hours west to the coast. We leave Lima tired but semi-alert, at least conscious. I don’t remember much after buckling my seatbelt, as the sleeping pill had completely set in with its wonderful trippy side-effects. I would later find out that our pills were higher dosages for motion sickness (a common pill sold in Peru that apparently also has the effect of knocking one out).
Our plan upon arrival is to embrace the fact that we don’t have a plan. (This is my fault, by the way—I figured I would buy our plane tickets and my responsibilities were fini.) I was unaware that my decision not to plan would cause the following to ensue.
I wake up and we are in Piura, stumbling off the plane as if we’d been drinking tequila all night. We figure that the easiest way to get to the coast is to take a van or taxi; however, at 5 am, two gringas can’t expect to receive anything easily from Peruvians, regardless of the fact that Julia and I have both lived in Peru for two years. The van wants to charge us 300 dollars. Dollars. Not soles, dollars. We’ve already spent an arm-and-a-leg to get up here from Southern Peru, so this is out of the question.
We take a taxi to the bus station and find a ride for 15 soles, about 5 dollars (score!). Julia and I know we found a deal, but as with all things cheap in Peru, it usually comes with a price: Comfort and time.
Good thing we are drugged.
The drive from the flatlands of inner Northern Peru to the coast is bumpy and winding (typical). Julia and I have seats in the back of the bus. Imagine being in the very last row on a rollercoaster as it twists right and left, leaving very little time for you to think about how sick you feel; this is the bus ride for us. The saving grace of this trip is that the roads are not one foot away from a 200 foot drop into ocean.
All I see between sleeping and being jerked awake is desert, and I start to wonder if we’re in the wrong place, maybe going to a not-so-heavenly place instead of my promised Eden. But then I start to see some green. Then the bottom breaks in two and blue is below you. It sparkles as the sun’s rays pierce it and the current, and the waves create a picture of glory.
My idea of heaven has always been wherever water meets sand.
As I revel in the knowledge that I’m almost to my destination, I look over to see that Julia is dead asleep. She’s not even asleep, she literally appears to have died. She bumps along with every uncertain movement that the bus makes, swerving around potholes, making sudden stops to avoid hitting cars or people, or just simply careening around curves so fast it seems we’ll fall over. It doesn’t phase her in the least.
After our supposed 2.5 hour journey turns into 4.5 hours, I start to worry that we’re on the wrong bus, we’ve missed a stop, etc. Living in Peru forces one to learn how to not worry and go with the flow. Be flexible. However, there comes a point when the anxiety creeps in over the suspicion that a well-intentioned Peruvian probably gave you wrong directions, suggested you eat something that is ‘clean’ when it really isn’t, or puts you on the bus to Northern Colombia instead of Zorritos, Peru.
Julia is no help, so as we leave Mancora, I start to look for our hotel in Zorritos. Peru’s beaches are so untouched that few signs exist to indicate where they are. This could also be due to the fact that no Peruvian actually knows where they are exactly. The man in front of me, however, is a local, and he gives me ‘good’ directions to our stop, and I realize we are actually getting close and I have to now tell the bus driver where to stop.
I make my way up the death-aisle, smelling every Peruvian on the bus, listening to the World Cup coverage on their radios, and being tempted by whatever foods they’re eating. Once in the drivers cabin, I awkwardly stick my head in, butt hanging out the small square contraption that resembles a doggie door. I sense every eye has miraculously opened as I passed and is now staring at my backside.
I turn on the charm for the bus driver and his faithful assistant as I ask him where we are and inform him of the impending drop-off. I’ve shamelessly learned during these two years how to get what I want by flirting. (This is a topic for another story.) A Peruvian man usually will not be ambivalent with Julia or me. While this sounds strange, you eventually (and maybe also unfortunately) get used to all the attention. Needless to say, I’ve learned the advantages that come with being a ‘gringa guapa’ (pretty gringa). In this case, I get a free ride up front with my new friends.
23.10.10
Jungle Inspiration
The sunset just changed. The clouds begin to open up and a peak of sun showed itself in orange and pink God-glory. The music of strange birds and jungle bugs combine with earthly musicians, the forest sounds overpowering more sweetly the tones produced by human hands.
Previously brown rain water from days earlier catches and soaks up the sky colors and begins to look not-so-murky or stagnant. Something once ugly is transformed into heaven's essence.
The sunset changes again. In a different kind of quiet, the rays disappear, the orange burst sinks down, and the shifting of the clouds create a bright jolt of light softly screaming from the fluffy covers.
"Life is always changing, every moment," I think to myself.
Let go and embrace it.
Previously brown rain water from days earlier catches and soaks up the sky colors and begins to look not-so-murky or stagnant. Something once ugly is transformed into heaven's essence.
The sunset changes again. In a different kind of quiet, the rays disappear, the orange burst sinks down, and the shifting of the clouds create a bright jolt of light softly screaming from the fluffy covers.
"Life is always changing, every moment," I think to myself.
Let go and embrace it.
1.10.10
"October Poem"
Today I want a sunset over the Pacific.
I want the lighthouse
and the stroll through curved landscape,
turning corners, hoping for the sun to
display itself in magnificence.
I miss the slowness of it-
the way it comes down, tinting
clouds pink and yellow and orange.
In loneliness, a good sunset calms a soul.
The sea below contrasts the slow setting sapphire
as it rushes into rocky beach,
sands peppered with sharp objects
that make it nearly impossible to walk barefoot.
But no mind-I miss that too.
Amongst the joy of sunset, I miss the pain inflicted
in walking on rocks, edges piercing into skin
like sharp arrows bursting into every cell of the body.
Contradiction:
Pain and enjoyment.
Visual pleasure and physical discomfort.
The beauty of life, of another day done,
overcomes the momentary hurt.
I'd do it all again.
I want the lighthouse
and the stroll through curved landscape,
turning corners, hoping for the sun to
display itself in magnificence.
I miss the slowness of it-
the way it comes down, tinting
clouds pink and yellow and orange.
In loneliness, a good sunset calms a soul.
The sea below contrasts the slow setting sapphire
as it rushes into rocky beach,
sands peppered with sharp objects
that make it nearly impossible to walk barefoot.
But no mind-I miss that too.
Amongst the joy of sunset, I miss the pain inflicted
in walking on rocks, edges piercing into skin
like sharp arrows bursting into every cell of the body.
Contradiction:
Pain and enjoyment.
Visual pleasure and physical discomfort.
The beauty of life, of another day done,
overcomes the momentary hurt.
I'd do it all again.
15.9.10
"Anatomy of Grace"
So I say I believe in Blood.
Then why doesn't Grace run in control of my mind,
down my spinal cord,
filtering into my blue veins,
dripping into them
and giving life
while finding Home.
The Grace that cleans hearts
and removes debts
and saves souls.
Then why doesn't Grace run in control of my mind,
down my spinal cord,
filtering into my blue veins,
dripping into them
and giving life
while finding Home.
The Grace that cleans hearts
and removes debts
and saves souls.
1.9.10
A Walk.
I miss walking.
So this evening in Franklin, Tennessee, I took a walk.
Step 1: Find somewhere to walk. I get a recommendation from my friend Lindsay Cade. She suggests a trail by a lake reserve that is fighting for its life from new housing developments.
Step 2: Conquer the trail off Otter Creek Road.
I set out in my jeans and sandals, not intending for this to be an intense walk. I'm off, with all the intense walkers and runners passing me by. I don't care much.
I crunch through the leaves and dirt on a small trail, getting junk in my sandals. I keep looking down, partly out of real interest as to what I might find, partly to shake the rocks out of my shoes, and partly to hide tears coming out of my almost depleted tear ducts.
I about-face when I look up to see light through the trees reflecting off water. Anytime a spec of something promising shows itself, I will get myself to a good location to watch, post-haste.
A cute little boy and his dad pass me as I speed walk toward the paved road that curves around the lake in hopes of a good view of God's handprints.
Deer are to my left grazing in a sea of green stuff, in what I can only assume is peet. I ignore the couples walking around and the kids on their bikes, and I listen to the frogs and the fish sploshing out of water. I hear bug-music and smell sweet Tennessee air and I stop: God is here.
The Creator of the Universe brought me out here and is with me, showing me His creation. I'm doing what one of my favorite Southern Literature professors told me to do for years: I am breathing in my surroundings. Calmly sitting and observing where I come from.
The colors continue to bounce off the waters. Clouds change form and a plane flies through them, creating the illusion that the world above might actually exist within the water itself. The bugs and the fish blow bubbles on the water, making it look like millions of rain droplets that are being sent down from the heavens.
My gaze shifts and I see a spider on its web. My eyes adjust to its smallness. Once adjusted, I notice more spiders scurrying around and they suddenly become larger than my surroundings as I stare them down, watching them craft their silk. I finally begin to focus on the finite movement of hurried legs spinning the web.
I'm in a trance when Spanish floods my ears. A family is walking by me, and they are taking pictures. They are from some Latin American country (if they are taking pictures of everything under-the-sun then God knows they could very well be Peruvian), but I don't ask details. I only offer to take a picture of the whole family. I so want to speak to them but I hold back.
Darkness is coming and I have to turn away from the color fading into night. As much as I want to hang around to see the finishing touches, I don't want to get locked into the park.
I drive down the lane the same way I drove in: The windows down and the music off. I want to hear anything else the would has to offer me. I pass the gigantic houses, making me think the park was a dream.
I see lightning bugs float around in their bubbles of light.
The red-to-green flicker ahead of me in the distance signals my entrance into the man-made construction of time and the real world once again.
So this evening in Franklin, Tennessee, I took a walk.
Step 1: Find somewhere to walk. I get a recommendation from my friend Lindsay Cade. She suggests a trail by a lake reserve that is fighting for its life from new housing developments.
Step 2: Conquer the trail off Otter Creek Road.
I set out in my jeans and sandals, not intending for this to be an intense walk. I'm off, with all the intense walkers and runners passing me by. I don't care much.
I crunch through the leaves and dirt on a small trail, getting junk in my sandals. I keep looking down, partly out of real interest as to what I might find, partly to shake the rocks out of my shoes, and partly to hide tears coming out of my almost depleted tear ducts.
I about-face when I look up to see light through the trees reflecting off water. Anytime a spec of something promising shows itself, I will get myself to a good location to watch, post-haste.
A cute little boy and his dad pass me as I speed walk toward the paved road that curves around the lake in hopes of a good view of God's handprints.
Deer are to my left grazing in a sea of green stuff, in what I can only assume is peet. I ignore the couples walking around and the kids on their bikes, and I listen to the frogs and the fish sploshing out of water. I hear bug-music and smell sweet Tennessee air and I stop: God is here.
The Creator of the Universe brought me out here and is with me, showing me His creation. I'm doing what one of my favorite Southern Literature professors told me to do for years: I am breathing in my surroundings. Calmly sitting and observing where I come from.
The colors continue to bounce off the waters. Clouds change form and a plane flies through them, creating the illusion that the world above might actually exist within the water itself. The bugs and the fish blow bubbles on the water, making it look like millions of rain droplets that are being sent down from the heavens.
My gaze shifts and I see a spider on its web. My eyes adjust to its smallness. Once adjusted, I notice more spiders scurrying around and they suddenly become larger than my surroundings as I stare them down, watching them craft their silk. I finally begin to focus on the finite movement of hurried legs spinning the web.
I'm in a trance when Spanish floods my ears. A family is walking by me, and they are taking pictures. They are from some Latin American country (if they are taking pictures of everything under-the-sun then God knows they could very well be Peruvian), but I don't ask details. I only offer to take a picture of the whole family. I so want to speak to them but I hold back.
Darkness is coming and I have to turn away from the color fading into night. As much as I want to hang around to see the finishing touches, I don't want to get locked into the park.
I drive down the lane the same way I drove in: The windows down and the music off. I want to hear anything else the would has to offer me. I pass the gigantic houses, making me think the park was a dream.
I see lightning bugs float around in their bubbles of light.
The red-to-green flicker ahead of me in the distance signals my entrance into the man-made construction of time and the real world once again.
26.8.10
Peru family.
One of the things God taught me about in Peru was this idea I have of family.
My idea, I have to admit, was very small. I struggled with loneliness, and I often ascribed these feelings to not being around family or friends who REALLY know me.
I left Peru last year in July trying to escape and find satisfaction in my blood-relatives. I returned to Peru with a heavy burden based on the knowledge that I was guilty of the aforementioned confession.
Through other events, God began to show me about family as he sees it:
Marta, my Peruvian friend, became my sister; her mother became a Peruvian mama. Caroline in Portugal and Susan in Africa were my soul sisters on different continents. Steph became my best friend during this time and loved me as her own family. The mother of a former roommate at UGA encouraged me and loved me from Georgia-there's a reason I always called her "Mama Freida."
Furthermore, the Americans I encountered in Peru took me into their own families, for which I am so grateful.
I was thinking about you all today, missing you. While I have my biological parents here and my girlfriends and other supporters and prayer warriors, I miss my Peru family:
I want to move back in with Rebekah and Michael and hear "Crocodinosaur" from Gabriel. I miss Jenny's laugh and John's jokes and Caleb's stories and Elijah's excitement over seeing me. I want the Rains boys's hugs and Kristi's hospitality. And I hate that I can't walk down the street to the Christy's house and have Mark climb into my lap.
While I lived away from my Stateside family and friends, you guys loved me and showed me what family is. God used you in my life and I am blessed by you. Whether you fed me, housed me, or just let me hang out with you and your kids, the time you gave me and allowed me to enter your homes was so precious, needed, and it beautifully illustrated how the body of Christ should work.
(Shout out also to Scott and Meghan Dillon, Amy and Christian Listro, and Randall and Susan Anderson and all your kids.)
Muchos abrazos y besos.
My idea, I have to admit, was very small. I struggled with loneliness, and I often ascribed these feelings to not being around family or friends who REALLY know me.
I left Peru last year in July trying to escape and find satisfaction in my blood-relatives. I returned to Peru with a heavy burden based on the knowledge that I was guilty of the aforementioned confession.
Through other events, God began to show me about family as he sees it:
Marta, my Peruvian friend, became my sister; her mother became a Peruvian mama. Caroline in Portugal and Susan in Africa were my soul sisters on different continents. Steph became my best friend during this time and loved me as her own family. The mother of a former roommate at UGA encouraged me and loved me from Georgia-there's a reason I always called her "Mama Freida."
Furthermore, the Americans I encountered in Peru took me into their own families, for which I am so grateful.
I was thinking about you all today, missing you. While I have my biological parents here and my girlfriends and other supporters and prayer warriors, I miss my Peru family:
I want to move back in with Rebekah and Michael and hear "Crocodinosaur" from Gabriel. I miss Jenny's laugh and John's jokes and Caleb's stories and Elijah's excitement over seeing me. I want the Rains boys's hugs and Kristi's hospitality. And I hate that I can't walk down the street to the Christy's house and have Mark climb into my lap.
While I lived away from my Stateside family and friends, you guys loved me and showed me what family is. God used you in my life and I am blessed by you. Whether you fed me, housed me, or just let me hang out with you and your kids, the time you gave me and allowed me to enter your homes was so precious, needed, and it beautifully illustrated how the body of Christ should work.
(Shout out also to Scott and Meghan Dillon, Amy and Christian Listro, and Randall and Susan Anderson and all your kids.)
Muchos abrazos y besos.
25.8.10
happy things.
This is a brief (or not-so-brief, whatever I feel like doing) list of things that make me happy these days. At the very least, they are attempts at making me happy.
1. Seeing my dogs and just laying with them on the floor.
2. Going on a walk and sweating so much that I detoured to an empty pool afterwards and jumped in.
3. Being blessed to have a car for a few months.
4. Visiting with old friends and telling stories and laughing a lot (or crying a lot).
5. Sitting in bookstores and reading to read.
6. Seeing old Journeyman friends. They just get it. I don't have to say much.
7. Unexpected rain showers.
8. Ray Lamontagne and David Gray live-in-concert.
9. Sitting with my sister.
10. Remembering Athens.
11. Making "The Salsa."
12. Discovering and re-discovering modern-day bards (Jon Foreman, Jorge Drexler, David Gray, Josh Ritter).
13. The late-setting sun.
1. Seeing my dogs and just laying with them on the floor.
2. Going on a walk and sweating so much that I detoured to an empty pool afterwards and jumped in.
3. Being blessed to have a car for a few months.
4. Visiting with old friends and telling stories and laughing a lot (or crying a lot).
5. Sitting in bookstores and reading to read.
6. Seeing old Journeyman friends. They just get it. I don't have to say much.
7. Unexpected rain showers.
8. Ray Lamontagne and David Gray live-in-concert.
9. Sitting with my sister.
10. Remembering Athens.
11. Making "The Salsa."
12. Discovering and re-discovering modern-day bards (Jon Foreman, Jorge Drexler, David Gray, Josh Ritter).
13. The late-setting sun.
17.8.10
A Metaphor.
I went to the wedding of two beautiful friends on Saturday: Lindsay and Noah had a worship service to celebrate their union. It was lovely.
A wedding is something God rejoices over because He created love. When two people commit to serve God together for the rest of their lives, the Son is glorified. The Father is glorified. The Spirit is glorified.
I was humbled to witness two people I deeply respect profess their love for Christ and for each other. As I sat and watched and worshipped with them, a thought came to mind that I've been wanting to write about for some time:
Christ runs after His people::
I want to be run after::
Pursued.
I'm pursued by Christ and I deserve to be pursued by a Godly man someday, just like I imagine Noah went after Lindsay; He went after her, he wanted to be wherever she was.
Ponder this:
Noah and Lindsay's wedding is a metaphor for the marriage of Christ and His people. Noah's pursuit of Lindsay is a metaphor for Christ pursuing each one of us.
Metaphors are intriguing things. You find them throughout life, sometimes screaming at you, sometimes hiding from you until you, having garnered more wisdom, unearth them.
This has happened to me. The unearthing.
I'm still digging them up, but they're mine to dig. I know others before me might have already discovered this particular metaphor; in my case, understanding has come.
A wedding is something God rejoices over because He created love. When two people commit to serve God together for the rest of their lives, the Son is glorified. The Father is glorified. The Spirit is glorified.
I was humbled to witness two people I deeply respect profess their love for Christ and for each other. As I sat and watched and worshipped with them, a thought came to mind that I've been wanting to write about for some time:
Christ runs after His people::
I want to be run after::
Pursued.
I'm pursued by Christ and I deserve to be pursued by a Godly man someday, just like I imagine Noah went after Lindsay; He went after her, he wanted to be wherever she was.
Ponder this:
Noah and Lindsay's wedding is a metaphor for the marriage of Christ and His people. Noah's pursuit of Lindsay is a metaphor for Christ pursuing each one of us.
Metaphors are intriguing things. You find them throughout life, sometimes screaming at you, sometimes hiding from you until you, having garnered more wisdom, unearth them.
This has happened to me. The unearthing.
I'm still digging them up, but they're mine to dig. I know others before me might have already discovered this particular metaphor; in my case, understanding has come.
13.8.10
Hairdressers, Quarterlife Crises, and Truth.
I went to get my haircut this week and had a lovely, albeit random, conversation with my friend Lorena, who has been making the Junco ladies look beautiful for the last nine years. She is a not-so-sassy (I would describe her as un-stereotypically chill) Latina of Mexican decent with a little girl and a husband named Carlos. They're pregnant with their second child, they work with the youth group at church, and they have been recently "discussing strongly" (I take this to mean fighting) the issue of child-rearing.
After my hair was perfectly shaped and sprayed, I hugged Lorena and we exchanged numbers, saying that I'd love to visit her church sometime (a positive thing considering I am without a church a right now). I left the salon and sat in my sister's car that I now periodically borrow (I'm without transportation currently) and came to the following realization:
My hairdresser, with the exception of my family, is the only "constant" in my life.
Let's start with a question, one I have for the masses: Is the PC term "hairdresser," "hairstylist," or "cut specialist" (or something else I am unaware of)? :)
Another question is one you might have for me: Why the extremely dramatic and semi-confusing statement about Lorena being your only "constant?" Let me explain...
People in life come and go. Friends you had when you were eight are probably not the friends you now have, except maybe in Facebook-land (which doesn't really count if you don't keep up with them), or if you grew up in a really small town.
I left college two years ago and proceeded to leave the country; I recently returned to a completely different world. My family is still around, but my friends are scattered and in different life situations (jobs, relationships, etc). I'm entering a "quarterlife crisis" that doesn't bode well for my already fragile state. (As I write the words "fragile state," I remember the Scripture that says to be "bold and courageous," and I'm trying. As I write "I'm trying," I remember that I should stop trying and just let go.)
I want to embrace the change. I'm trying to enjoy starting over because everyone tells me it's an exciting thing. But I have to admit: It's hard and it's scary. Good thing I know deep down in the part of my heart labeled "TRUTH" that God doesn't promise ease or happiness all the time.
Today I wanted to speak Spanish. I wanted to walk or take a taxi. I wanted all the white people to go away. I wanted salsa music and dancing. I can still have those things in North America, which is fine; I suppose my heart is just pulling me in various directions--North, South, East and West. I'm not sure where I'll end up, but I'm trying to remember that my home is what I make here with Christ.
I'm thankful I have Lorena as a "constant," among other people (my dentist, my doctor, and the cashier at Publix).
At least in all the movement around me, I can listen to salsa music with her, comment about how I'm tired of gringos now, and speak Spanish (although I'll have to learn Mexican slang now).
I'll make the transition in time.
After my hair was perfectly shaped and sprayed, I hugged Lorena and we exchanged numbers, saying that I'd love to visit her church sometime (a positive thing considering I am without a church a right now). I left the salon and sat in my sister's car that I now periodically borrow (I'm without transportation currently) and came to the following realization:
My hairdresser, with the exception of my family, is the only "constant" in my life.
Let's start with a question, one I have for the masses: Is the PC term "hairdresser," "hairstylist," or "cut specialist" (or something else I am unaware of)? :)
Another question is one you might have for me: Why the extremely dramatic and semi-confusing statement about Lorena being your only "constant?" Let me explain...
People in life come and go. Friends you had when you were eight are probably not the friends you now have, except maybe in Facebook-land (which doesn't really count if you don't keep up with them), or if you grew up in a really small town.
I left college two years ago and proceeded to leave the country; I recently returned to a completely different world. My family is still around, but my friends are scattered and in different life situations (jobs, relationships, etc). I'm entering a "quarterlife crisis" that doesn't bode well for my already fragile state. (As I write the words "fragile state," I remember the Scripture that says to be "bold and courageous," and I'm trying. As I write "I'm trying," I remember that I should stop trying and just let go.)
I want to embrace the change. I'm trying to enjoy starting over because everyone tells me it's an exciting thing. But I have to admit: It's hard and it's scary. Good thing I know deep down in the part of my heart labeled "TRUTH" that God doesn't promise ease or happiness all the time.
Today I wanted to speak Spanish. I wanted to walk or take a taxi. I wanted all the white people to go away. I wanted salsa music and dancing. I can still have those things in North America, which is fine; I suppose my heart is just pulling me in various directions--North, South, East and West. I'm not sure where I'll end up, but I'm trying to remember that my home is what I make here with Christ.
I'm thankful I have Lorena as a "constant," among other people (my dentist, my doctor, and the cashier at Publix).
At least in all the movement around me, I can listen to salsa music with her, comment about how I'm tired of gringos now, and speak Spanish (although I'll have to learn Mexican slang now).
I'll make the transition in time.
9.8.10
Home is wherever I'm with You.
I stepped off the plane today and the humidity blessed my dry skin with moisture that it hasn't felt in two years. The heat attacked my face in a love-punch way, one in which I might regret as more hot August days draw themselves out before the cool comes. But for today, I embraced the hostility.
I made the silly decision to take my contacts out on the plane in order to sleep without having them stick to my eyeballs. I didn't have my glasses. You can guess what this then entailed: Me, walking around blindly, trying to navigate my way out of the airport. At one point, I followed the crowd toward the restroom thinking it was Immigration. Had I not realized we were all going to the bathroom, I probably would have walked into the men's room unknowingly.
There's a metaphor in here for something, I'm sure--walking around blindly, following the crowds, etc, etc.
I saw my dad (though squinting to make out shapes) and felt my face contort even more and had this moment of "don't cry, Sarah, keep it together." I couldn't stop it. He wrapped me up and didn't let go and I didn't let go and didn't want to let go. For now, Jose Junco is the one man in this life who will protect me and love me despite my imperfections. What a picture of grace. Praise God for my dad, who loves me as God loves us.
I cried at random moments on my first day back in the Land of "You-can-have-it-all:" Hugging my mom, seeing a Latina Chic-Fil-A worker, sitting at On the Border, walking through a mall. I can't explain much right now. I just know that the "Welcome Home" and "You are back, great!" comments chalk up to more confusion for me; or perhaps, examined in another light, they provide an answer:
My earthly home isn't here. I'm not sure where it is. I think I'm learning that it's okay that I have roots and meaningful connections and pieces of my heart in various places with many people. Life is about the valleys and the mountains that God uses to refine us into the image of Christ, to have streams of living water flowing from within us. Maybe those valleys and the streams that run through them and climb into the mountain hilltops are shaped by the hand of a God who embraces vulnerability that comes with giving yourself away to others.
May my life always be about giving.
I made the silly decision to take my contacts out on the plane in order to sleep without having them stick to my eyeballs. I didn't have my glasses. You can guess what this then entailed: Me, walking around blindly, trying to navigate my way out of the airport. At one point, I followed the crowd toward the restroom thinking it was Immigration. Had I not realized we were all going to the bathroom, I probably would have walked into the men's room unknowingly.
There's a metaphor in here for something, I'm sure--walking around blindly, following the crowds, etc, etc.
I saw my dad (though squinting to make out shapes) and felt my face contort even more and had this moment of "don't cry, Sarah, keep it together." I couldn't stop it. He wrapped me up and didn't let go and I didn't let go and didn't want to let go. For now, Jose Junco is the one man in this life who will protect me and love me despite my imperfections. What a picture of grace. Praise God for my dad, who loves me as God loves us.
I cried at random moments on my first day back in the Land of "You-can-have-it-all:" Hugging my mom, seeing a Latina Chic-Fil-A worker, sitting at On the Border, walking through a mall. I can't explain much right now. I just know that the "Welcome Home" and "You are back, great!" comments chalk up to more confusion for me; or perhaps, examined in another light, they provide an answer:
My earthly home isn't here. I'm not sure where it is. I think I'm learning that it's okay that I have roots and meaningful connections and pieces of my heart in various places with many people. Life is about the valleys and the mountains that God uses to refine us into the image of Christ, to have streams of living water flowing from within us. Maybe those valleys and the streams that run through them and climb into the mountain hilltops are shaped by the hand of a God who embraces vulnerability that comes with giving yourself away to others.
May my life always be about giving.
24.7.10
flesh and dreams.
"you pulled me from the wreckage
of bitterness and blame
flung open the page
and put some flesh on
the bones of my dreams."
-David Gray, "Flesh"
-------------------------------------------
These aren't the kind of dreams had at night. They're not the kind that tell you something super spiritual that might be from the Lord. It's not a "I Have a Dream" dream like Martin Luther King, Jr. encountered and shared.
The kind of dreams I'm talking about are the things that you want so badly that can be attained if they are meant for you; they're also the kind that may just stay dreams.
When I was a child I dreamt I would one day become the President of the United States. I dreamt I would swim in the Olympics and win medals. I dreamt I would become a successful lawyer.
About fourteen years later God has given me new dreams. Some constantly change while some have stayed the same for a long time and will stay with me forever.
I dream about being a mother and a wife. I dream about traveling the world and meeting new people and having new experiences. I dream about sharing life with people in physical and spiritual need. I dream about one day looking around me and seeing all of my extended family together (whether it's my grandparents, aunts and uncles, and cousins, or whether it is my own old eyes looking out over what I have birthed).
One of my dreams is constant, and it's something that I love doing with all of my being: I have this ache within me that says "Write. Just write."
I've always loved Jo March from Little Women, who says "Wouldn't it be fun if all the castles in the air which we make could come true and we could live in them?"
I'm not creating castles in the air quite yet, but I'm hoping my pen will take me lots of places in the future (whether castles or slums). I'm getting excited about the possibilities of what is to come. I'm trying to avoid this fear I find creeping in too often. So much comes with being vulnerable: Criticism, rejection, and more criticism. If you know me at all, you know I'm not a fan of either. Then again, who is?
I'll press forward through the fear (with your help and prayers) and see what happens with this dream of mine, which started out with the stuff 7-year-old girls write. It's moving into things that I hope will be blessed by God and able to bless others.
So my pen wonders this: Wouldn't it be fun if my words come alive and move people and I can live in that?
of bitterness and blame
flung open the page
and put some flesh on
the bones of my dreams."
-David Gray, "Flesh"
-------------------------------------------
These aren't the kind of dreams had at night. They're not the kind that tell you something super spiritual that might be from the Lord. It's not a "I Have a Dream" dream like Martin Luther King, Jr. encountered and shared.
The kind of dreams I'm talking about are the things that you want so badly that can be attained if they are meant for you; they're also the kind that may just stay dreams.
When I was a child I dreamt I would one day become the President of the United States. I dreamt I would swim in the Olympics and win medals. I dreamt I would become a successful lawyer.
About fourteen years later God has given me new dreams. Some constantly change while some have stayed the same for a long time and will stay with me forever.
I dream about being a mother and a wife. I dream about traveling the world and meeting new people and having new experiences. I dream about sharing life with people in physical and spiritual need. I dream about one day looking around me and seeing all of my extended family together (whether it's my grandparents, aunts and uncles, and cousins, or whether it is my own old eyes looking out over what I have birthed).
One of my dreams is constant, and it's something that I love doing with all of my being: I have this ache within me that says "Write. Just write."
I've always loved Jo March from Little Women, who says "Wouldn't it be fun if all the castles in the air which we make could come true and we could live in them?"
I'm not creating castles in the air quite yet, but I'm hoping my pen will take me lots of places in the future (whether castles or slums). I'm getting excited about the possibilities of what is to come. I'm trying to avoid this fear I find creeping in too often. So much comes with being vulnerable: Criticism, rejection, and more criticism. If you know me at all, you know I'm not a fan of either. Then again, who is?
I'll press forward through the fear (with your help and prayers) and see what happens with this dream of mine, which started out with the stuff 7-year-old girls write. It's moving into things that I hope will be blessed by God and able to bless others.
So my pen wonders this: Wouldn't it be fun if my words come alive and move people and I can live in that?
22.7.10
unfinished (?) and untitled.
To begin,
you were never mine.
In vain were the skips that my heart made.
Thoughts and prayers sent up
Only to be returned with unwanted answers.
You were never mine.
I tried to find love in you,
But to no avail.
I wonder what I've done,
Why I gave some of my heart away.
You were never mine
And I was never yours.
But then,
bitter tastes slowly subside
like the winter winds morphing into spring breath.
Wounds healing
as the truth that 'love is a process' is believed,
stirs up the soul, and
ignites promise
like the coming of summer raindrops on a slow southern afternoon.
The love that is present around me and
the love that is not yet
wraps me up
like a worn blanket once the autumn cool has set in.
you were never mine.
In vain were the skips that my heart made.
Thoughts and prayers sent up
Only to be returned with unwanted answers.
You were never mine.
I tried to find love in you,
But to no avail.
I wonder what I've done,
Why I gave some of my heart away.
You were never mine
And I was never yours.
But then,
bitter tastes slowly subside
like the winter winds morphing into spring breath.
Wounds healing
as the truth that 'love is a process' is believed,
stirs up the soul, and
ignites promise
like the coming of summer raindrops on a slow southern afternoon.
The love that is present around me and
the love that is not yet
wraps me up
like a worn blanket once the autumn cool has set in.
18.7.10
Peru: A Narcoleptic Nation
Peruvians can sleep anywhere.
I've determined that they are not necessarily tired; in fact, they could be wide awake at one moment, and if the conditions are right, they're asleep the next.
This phenomenon has been an on-going observation during my time in Peru. It wasn't until I realized that my roommate Julia and I have semi-succumbed to it that I decided to write about it. Here's the scenario:
Julia and I were on a bus from Piura (inland Northern Peru) on our way to the coast in Zorritos a few weeks ago. We had no idea how to get to the beach once we got off the plane, so we asked around and found that the cheapest option was to take a bus called "El Dorado" to the water.
We found the bus station, bought our 15 sol ticket and braved the crappy four hour ride, all while drugged-up on sleeping pills.
We immediately fell asleep once we got on the bus. Little did we know that the four hour ride should have been a two hour ride, except that no one told us that (of course). Instead, in typical Peru-fashion, our bus decided to stop every fifteen minutes.
Good thing we were drugged.
During our comatose state, I realized while enduring constant bouncing just how bad the Panamericana Norte is. Had I been fully awake, I would have thrown up several times.
Towards the middle of the trip the bus almost fell over sideways on the desert road. I'm jerked awake and I look at Julia, who, in a very Peruvian stance, is bouncing along to the precarious turns of the bus. Her head is flopping up and down like a baby doll; when it rests, it rests forward, with the neck in a very uncomfortable strained-looking position.
I look around with sleep still in my eyes and see everyone in the same position. Some might have their heads tilted back with their mouths open (there is unfortunately some photographic evidence of me guilty of this), others are hunched forward with their heads against the seat in front of them. All of them are either snoring or drooling. It's a lovely and comical sight.
As I continue to observe the silent state around me, hearing only the sounds of the bus's junky engine, I remember other instances in which Peruvians prove that they have a knack for falling asleep whenever, wherever:
1. Combis/collectivos. If you board any type of public transportation, you're guaranteed to see ninety percent of the people asleep. If you can't find a seat, no matter--You can sleep standing up.
2. Church. Fifty percent of Peruvians will be asleep during the first five minutes of the sermon.
3. Benches in parks or plazas. When you walk around these places, don't be fooled by the people sitting up straight with their arms crossed wearing sunglasses, looking right at you. Their sunglasses hide the fact that they are dreaming about their next meal or playing in the World Cup 2014 Peru match.
4. Movies/Plays/Concerts. Any sort of entertainment, really. If they are sitting down for any length of time, I'd bet five dollars half will fall asleep relatively quickly.
I've had people fall on me while they're asleep and they don't wake up. I've seen babies stay asleep on moving buses while their mothers are changing their clothes awkwardly and kind of violently. I've had Marta come over, say "Oh, no tengo sueno" ("I'm not sleepy"), lay on my couch, and she's snoring two minutes later.
While you may think this is a country of Narcoleptics, Peruvians have this process down to a science. They know precisely when they need to wake up. There exists within them an innate ability to know when they've arrived at their bus stop or when the stewardess (whether it be bus or plane) is coming by with food/drink.
In conclusion, Peru is a sleepy country, whether it appears to be so or not (observations about work-ethic in this country will be saved for another post). Just give them two minutes of being stationary, and it's siesta-time.
I've determined that they are not necessarily tired; in fact, they could be wide awake at one moment, and if the conditions are right, they're asleep the next.
This phenomenon has been an on-going observation during my time in Peru. It wasn't until I realized that my roommate Julia and I have semi-succumbed to it that I decided to write about it. Here's the scenario:
Julia and I were on a bus from Piura (inland Northern Peru) on our way to the coast in Zorritos a few weeks ago. We had no idea how to get to the beach once we got off the plane, so we asked around and found that the cheapest option was to take a bus called "El Dorado" to the water.
We found the bus station, bought our 15 sol ticket and braved the crappy four hour ride, all while drugged-up on sleeping pills.
We immediately fell asleep once we got on the bus. Little did we know that the four hour ride should have been a two hour ride, except that no one told us that (of course). Instead, in typical Peru-fashion, our bus decided to stop every fifteen minutes.
Good thing we were drugged.
During our comatose state, I realized while enduring constant bouncing just how bad the Panamericana Norte is. Had I been fully awake, I would have thrown up several times.
Towards the middle of the trip the bus almost fell over sideways on the desert road. I'm jerked awake and I look at Julia, who, in a very Peruvian stance, is bouncing along to the precarious turns of the bus. Her head is flopping up and down like a baby doll; when it rests, it rests forward, with the neck in a very uncomfortable strained-looking position.
I look around with sleep still in my eyes and see everyone in the same position. Some might have their heads tilted back with their mouths open (there is unfortunately some photographic evidence of me guilty of this), others are hunched forward with their heads against the seat in front of them. All of them are either snoring or drooling. It's a lovely and comical sight.
As I continue to observe the silent state around me, hearing only the sounds of the bus's junky engine, I remember other instances in which Peruvians prove that they have a knack for falling asleep whenever, wherever:
1. Combis/collectivos. If you board any type of public transportation, you're guaranteed to see ninety percent of the people asleep. If you can't find a seat, no matter--You can sleep standing up.
2. Church. Fifty percent of Peruvians will be asleep during the first five minutes of the sermon.
3. Benches in parks or plazas. When you walk around these places, don't be fooled by the people sitting up straight with their arms crossed wearing sunglasses, looking right at you. Their sunglasses hide the fact that they are dreaming about their next meal or playing in the World Cup 2014 Peru match.
4. Movies/Plays/Concerts. Any sort of entertainment, really. If they are sitting down for any length of time, I'd bet five dollars half will fall asleep relatively quickly.
I've had people fall on me while they're asleep and they don't wake up. I've seen babies stay asleep on moving buses while their mothers are changing their clothes awkwardly and kind of violently. I've had Marta come over, say "Oh, no tengo sueno" ("I'm not sleepy"), lay on my couch, and she's snoring two minutes later.
While you may think this is a country of Narcoleptics, Peruvians have this process down to a science. They know precisely when they need to wake up. There exists within them an innate ability to know when they've arrived at their bus stop or when the stewardess (whether it be bus or plane) is coming by with food/drink.
In conclusion, Peru is a sleepy country, whether it appears to be so or not (observations about work-ethic in this country will be saved for another post). Just give them two minutes of being stationary, and it's siesta-time.
14.7.10
great article
My friend Joel and I were talking about our hope to write in a professional forum, and he mentioned he'd just had something published on a website. I checked out the website ("Wrecked") and also read his article, which is posted below. Both are wonderful. Carpe Diem.
http://missions.wrecked.org/?filename=god-is-not-practical-a-new-call-to-missions
http://missions.wrecked.org/?filename=god-is-not-practical-a-new-call-to-missions
13.7.10
change is coming.
August 9.
I leave Peruvian soil on the 9th of August. I hit North American soil el 9 de agosto.
My mother says I have to start over in a way, and it'll be okay. Debbie, my best friend's mentor whom I've never met says "Change is good."
I want to believe them.
I feel like I'm floating in a bubble of emotion; if something in my bubble is shifted even a little bit, it will break and all these emotions that I can't begin to explain will spill out and my "safe" bubble won't be so safe anymore and I'll have to shuffle through these aforementioned unexplainable emotions.
I'll then be wandering around in a haze, even more so than I seem to be wandering hazily as I write this.
I can't begin to tell you how I feel. A friend mentioned that the goings-on of these last years are things that God alone understands. Have you ever felt that way? Something in your spirit that you know wants to get out, but you can't get it out very well?
I've found that I can write some things down in hopes of communicating effectively, but even then, I can't promise much. People have started to ask me "How do you feel about things?" Well, I don't know. I'm emotional. That's all I know to say. I feel that it's time. I feel excitement over seeing my family. I feel scared to move into the unknown.
"What is next?" This is 'The Question" to which I don't know the answer. All I know to do is cling to the truth that God will show me in time what I'm supposed to do. My "unknown" isn't God's unknown--it's His reality. His plan will be whispered to me (or maybe it will slap me in the face, I'm not sure) on time.
The unknown is something I remember being swallowed up in during my junior year of college when I was being prompted by the Spirit to move overseas to do ministry. But He was faithful to send me here and take care of me; now, I've somehow gotten semi-comfortable in Peruvian life and I'm leaving it behind, moving into a life that holds few immediate prospects from where I sit.
God doesn't sit where I sit, though. He sits above me and has something for me. I have to remember that. I have to remember that starting over is okay. I've done it before and been blessed; I've encountered change and been blessed.
For now, the blessing is going to come when I step off the plane, hug my dad, and cry into his shoulder as I can't bring myself to let go. And then I'll just go sit with my family. I'll hopefully receive words to say. God is going to use this time to speak to me and to my family about what is next. I don't know how I know this--I just do.
Listen. Dream. Laugh. Rest. Remember. Cry. Give and get hugs. Pray.
That's what I'm doing. And among these things, even greater things are coming.
------------------------------------
Here is a cool song lyric I heard the other day. I can't remember who sings it. Find Ryan Northup, my amigo who gave me the song and ask him. :)
What's left to lose? You've done enough...
And if you fail, you fail, but not to us.
Cause these last [two] years
I know they've been hard
But now it's time to get out of the desert and into the SUN.
I leave Peruvian soil on the 9th of August. I hit North American soil el 9 de agosto.
My mother says I have to start over in a way, and it'll be okay. Debbie, my best friend's mentor whom I've never met says "Change is good."
I want to believe them.
I feel like I'm floating in a bubble of emotion; if something in my bubble is shifted even a little bit, it will break and all these emotions that I can't begin to explain will spill out and my "safe" bubble won't be so safe anymore and I'll have to shuffle through these aforementioned unexplainable emotions.
I'll then be wandering around in a haze, even more so than I seem to be wandering hazily as I write this.
I can't begin to tell you how I feel. A friend mentioned that the goings-on of these last years are things that God alone understands. Have you ever felt that way? Something in your spirit that you know wants to get out, but you can't get it out very well?
I've found that I can write some things down in hopes of communicating effectively, but even then, I can't promise much. People have started to ask me "How do you feel about things?" Well, I don't know. I'm emotional. That's all I know to say. I feel that it's time. I feel excitement over seeing my family. I feel scared to move into the unknown.
"What is next?" This is 'The Question" to which I don't know the answer. All I know to do is cling to the truth that God will show me in time what I'm supposed to do. My "unknown" isn't God's unknown--it's His reality. His plan will be whispered to me (or maybe it will slap me in the face, I'm not sure) on time.
The unknown is something I remember being swallowed up in during my junior year of college when I was being prompted by the Spirit to move overseas to do ministry. But He was faithful to send me here and take care of me; now, I've somehow gotten semi-comfortable in Peruvian life and I'm leaving it behind, moving into a life that holds few immediate prospects from where I sit.
God doesn't sit where I sit, though. He sits above me and has something for me. I have to remember that. I have to remember that starting over is okay. I've done it before and been blessed; I've encountered change and been blessed.
For now, the blessing is going to come when I step off the plane, hug my dad, and cry into his shoulder as I can't bring myself to let go. And then I'll just go sit with my family. I'll hopefully receive words to say. God is going to use this time to speak to me and to my family about what is next. I don't know how I know this--I just do.
Listen. Dream. Laugh. Rest. Remember. Cry. Give and get hugs. Pray.
That's what I'm doing. And among these things, even greater things are coming.
------------------------------------
Here is a cool song lyric I heard the other day. I can't remember who sings it. Find Ryan Northup, my amigo who gave me the song and ask him. :)
What's left to lose? You've done enough...
And if you fail, you fail, but not to us.
Cause these last [two] years
I know they've been hard
But now it's time to get out of the desert and into the SUN.
12.7.10
April 3, 2010.
This is something I came across while I was reading previous journal entries. I'm trying to remember good, and I stumbled upon this; while reading it again, I thought: "This must have come from the hand of God, not mine." It's proof to me that He still speaks to me, and I try to respond.
Day 1 of April travel adventures. I'll never forget today: Driving with Jason, Liz, and Javier down the Panamericana to Atico. Listening to "I Will Rise" by Chris Tomlin. I started to think about my time here.
1. I'm a beach girl. It apparently takes limited transportation in addition to living far from the ocean to realize this. I've been surrounded by mountains for the last two years, with few options to see my beloved water. But today I was astounded by the sea below me (incredible, breathtaking views), and I realized I'm meant to be a playera.
2. Peru truly is a beautiful country. I mean, astounding. The vistas are things that shouldn't be of this world (even as you contemplate a very easy death that is only feet away on the highway).
3. My time here has been so defined by being solitary. This has affected my ability to have a conversation. To make eye contact. To feel like my normal, social self again. My means of expression has been largely through writing, not verbal.
4. As we are driving, I have a lightbulb moment. Don't know why it's just now happening. I'm going to try to express it clearly:
God doesn't promise Christians that they follow Him and life is suddenly free of pain, sorrow, hurt, loneliness, anger, disappointment, depression. This life doesn't mean that we are free from the gamut of human emotion; we still feel, and we will feel low sometimes. We are still mortal.
But we have hope. Not only can we still live abundantly, but we have hope in this life because we walk with Christ. He is here, even in the midst of crap. He won't leave us.
What's more, our hope carries over from this world into the next. My hope is found in Christ, in spending eternity with Him. Heaven means no pain, no sorrow, nothing bad.
So while we may find ourselves in hard times, we live day to day in joy, remembering Who is on our side, and being reminded of, and clinging to, our hope in Jesus.
Day 1 of April travel adventures. I'll never forget today: Driving with Jason, Liz, and Javier down the Panamericana to Atico. Listening to "I Will Rise" by Chris Tomlin. I started to think about my time here.
1. I'm a beach girl. It apparently takes limited transportation in addition to living far from the ocean to realize this. I've been surrounded by mountains for the last two years, with few options to see my beloved water. But today I was astounded by the sea below me (incredible, breathtaking views), and I realized I'm meant to be a playera.
2. Peru truly is a beautiful country. I mean, astounding. The vistas are things that shouldn't be of this world (even as you contemplate a very easy death that is only feet away on the highway).
3. My time here has been so defined by being solitary. This has affected my ability to have a conversation. To make eye contact. To feel like my normal, social self again. My means of expression has been largely through writing, not verbal.
4. As we are driving, I have a lightbulb moment. Don't know why it's just now happening. I'm going to try to express it clearly:
God doesn't promise Christians that they follow Him and life is suddenly free of pain, sorrow, hurt, loneliness, anger, disappointment, depression. This life doesn't mean that we are free from the gamut of human emotion; we still feel, and we will feel low sometimes. We are still mortal.
But we have hope. Not only can we still live abundantly, but we have hope in this life because we walk with Christ. He is here, even in the midst of crap. He won't leave us.
What's more, our hope carries over from this world into the next. My hope is found in Christ, in spending eternity with Him. Heaven means no pain, no sorrow, nothing bad.
So while we may find ourselves in hard times, we live day to day in joy, remembering Who is on our side, and being reminded of, and clinging to, our hope in Jesus.
25.6.10
24.
My 24th birthday is one for the books. It was just a chill day, and I was surrounded by a few people I love as well as random and really sweet Peruvians who I might never see again.
I got to hear my maid sing "Happy Birthday" in English, get hugs, be loved on, teach, hear more "Happy Birthday" from some really cute kids, get Peruvian "Feliz Cumpleanos, Miss," eat good food (including to-die-for ice cream cake thanks to Steve Christy), be encouraged, laugh a lot (til my stomach hurt), dance a ton and just forget about some troubles.
It was a good day. Thanks, God. Here's praying 24 will see me continue to grow and learn, glorify the Lord Jesus, adjust to new circumstances, heal, meet new friends, reconnect with old ones, love on people, and find out where I'm supposed to be for a time.
If you know me even a little, you know about my tiny obsession with Jon Foreman of Switchfoot. The man seems to express things I feel or have felt or will feel. (I'm pretty sure now that if you google Jon, my blog is going to appear, by the way.)
Anyway, he wrote this song (so I heard) when he turned 24. Enjoy.
Twenty four oceans
Twenty four skies
Twenty four failures
Twenty four tries
Twenty four finds me
In twenty-fourth place
Twenty four drop outs
At the end of the day
Life is not what I thought it was
Twenty four hours ago
Still I'm singing Spirit take me up in arms with You
And I'm not who I thought I was twenty four hours ago
Still I'm singing Spirit take me up in arms with You
Twenty four reasons to admit that I'm wrong
With all my excuses still twenty four strong
See I'm not copping out not copping out not copping out
When You're raising the dead in me
Oh, oh I am the second man
Oh, oh I am the second man now
Oh, oh I am the second man now
And You're raising these twenty four voices
With twenty four hearts
With all of my symphonies
In twenty four parts
But I wanna to be one today
Centered and true
I'm singing Spirit take me up in arms with You
You're raising the dead in me
Oh, oh I am the second man
Oh, oh I am the second man now
Oh, oh I am the second man now
And You're raising the dead in me
I want to see miracles, see the world change
Wrestled the angel, for more than a name
For more than a feeling
For more than a cause
I'm singing Spirit take me up in arms with You
And You're raising the dead in me
Twenty four voices
With twenty four hearts
With all of my symphonies
In twenty four parts.
I'm not copping out. Not copping out....
I got to hear my maid sing "Happy Birthday" in English, get hugs, be loved on, teach, hear more "Happy Birthday" from some really cute kids, get Peruvian "Feliz Cumpleanos, Miss," eat good food (including to-die-for ice cream cake thanks to Steve Christy), be encouraged, laugh a lot (til my stomach hurt), dance a ton and just forget about some troubles.
It was a good day. Thanks, God. Here's praying 24 will see me continue to grow and learn, glorify the Lord Jesus, adjust to new circumstances, heal, meet new friends, reconnect with old ones, love on people, and find out where I'm supposed to be for a time.
If you know me even a little, you know about my tiny obsession with Jon Foreman of Switchfoot. The man seems to express things I feel or have felt or will feel. (I'm pretty sure now that if you google Jon, my blog is going to appear, by the way.)
Anyway, he wrote this song (so I heard) when he turned 24. Enjoy.
Twenty four oceans
Twenty four skies
Twenty four failures
Twenty four tries
Twenty four finds me
In twenty-fourth place
Twenty four drop outs
At the end of the day
Life is not what I thought it was
Twenty four hours ago
Still I'm singing Spirit take me up in arms with You
And I'm not who I thought I was twenty four hours ago
Still I'm singing Spirit take me up in arms with You
Twenty four reasons to admit that I'm wrong
With all my excuses still twenty four strong
See I'm not copping out not copping out not copping out
When You're raising the dead in me
Oh, oh I am the second man
Oh, oh I am the second man now
Oh, oh I am the second man now
And You're raising these twenty four voices
With twenty four hearts
With all of my symphonies
In twenty four parts
But I wanna to be one today
Centered and true
I'm singing Spirit take me up in arms with You
You're raising the dead in me
Oh, oh I am the second man
Oh, oh I am the second man now
Oh, oh I am the second man now
And You're raising the dead in me
I want to see miracles, see the world change
Wrestled the angel, for more than a name
For more than a feeling
For more than a cause
I'm singing Spirit take me up in arms with You
And You're raising the dead in me
Twenty four voices
With twenty four hearts
With all of my symphonies
In twenty four parts.
I'm not copping out. Not copping out....
23.6.10
Hincha ("Crazy") del Futbol.
Caroline, Ryan, and Ginny celebrating the USA team while holding the only red, white and blue thing I have: A "Fourth of July" sign. :) Living in South America is always an adventure.
Living in South America during the World Cup is akin to millions of thirteen-year-old girls at a Justin Bieber concert. Insanity.
And to think, Peru isn't even IN the World Cup; furthermore, I'm sure it would be even crazier if I lived in Brazil or Argentina, where the Latinos are even more hincha for their respective teams.
Thus, I give you the Top Ten Awesome/Ridiculous/Crazy World Cup Facts:
1. Life stops here during matches. You think I'm kidding. People don't go to work, if they can help it. Forget about being serious about school. The streets literally empty out during important games and you just assume that everyone is in front of a television.
2. You can hear "GOOOOOOOOLLLLLLLLLL" as you walk down the streets. You can hear it from inside your own house coming from your neighbor's house four doors down. You can hear people screaming with the television announcer. Blaring televisions proclaim what is happening; if I can't get to a television, I just listen for the murmur of the vuvuzelas from houses and know I can get a score update.
3. Location is a moot point. People gather anywhere and everywhere to listen to or watch a match: Around cars, standing on sidewalks, Menu restaurants or gas stations. (The latter two of which I am guilty of frequenting while strange Peruano men watch with me and with whom I feel momentarily bonded to just because of futbol.)
4. "La fiebre mundialista." ("World Cup Fever.") This extends to women everywhere who proudly watch the matches just for the players. There is no shame. (FYI: While I might also be semi-guilty of this, I actually do care about the game regardless of the fact that on Day 1 I posted "Futbol players are hot" as my Facebook status.)
5. "Waka Waka" is everywhere, which is testament to the fact that whatever Shakira touches (or looks at or belly dances near) is embraced with open arms.
6. Language is not a barrier. Who cares that "Waka Waka" is sung half in African, we sing the lyrics anyway. A friend of mine can't understand the lyrics to "Wave Your Flag," so he just makes up his own. He now sings "Just like a married wife, a married wife, a married wife...."
7. Money is being moved around like crazy. There is some serious plata being bet in the "pollas" (the bet or pool of money).
8. The guys at Marta's university have pulled televisions into the cafeteria. They camp out and stare at the TV and don't go to class; if they can bring themselves to move, they watch the matches on little TV's or on their phones. This includes professors.
9. I've learned that if I want to converse with certain people (mainly guys), it must be about futbol. It's all they know about, think about, and care about. A benefit of this is that I can now call offsides on my own. :)
10. Advertising is ridiculously funny and/or inspiring, even more so than in the States. I cry at commercials with little boys running around on dirt canchas displaying their hopes to become the next Kaka or Messi. (Notice I mention these players due to the fact that every South American team in each group is on top.) We're already talking about Brazil 2014, of which Peru has high hopes to attend. I'm already planning on camping out on a Brazilian beach near one of the stadiums. Vamos.
An example of the advertising we receive. Dominos paying homage to the World Cup with a full length, very involved, menu, a magnet, and a Chilean jersey photo with another oferta.
21.6.10
jars of clay.
I promise one day I'll have some 'happier' words to say on this blog. (Said lightly, though very sincerely at the same time.)
But for now, it's this: Honesty. (Thanks LC for reminding me of the importance of that.)
The book of Romans says "We can rejoice, too, when we run into problems and trials, for we know that they help us develop endurance. And endurance develops strength of character, and character strengthens our confident hope of salvation (ch 5:3-4).
Thus, I share this time with you (which I realized today is truly "light and momentary," though it seems to be more) and proclaim also that God is behind it (even though it just absolutely stinks). He is working, and it's all to His glory.
Here's a song I found that I'd forgotten about; it's by Jars of Clay, titled simply "The Valley Song."
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CvHMjILrSJ0
You have led me to the sadness
I have carried this pain
On a back bruised, nearly broken
I'm crying out to you
I will sing of Your mercy
That leads me through valleys of sorrow
To rivers of joy
When death like a Gypsy
Comes to steal what I love
I will still look to the heavens
I will still seek your face
But I fear you aren't listening
Because there are no words
Just the stillness and the hunger
For a faith that assures
Alleluia, alleluia
Alleluia, alleluia
While we wait for rescue
With our eyes tightly shut
Face to the ground using our hands
To cover the fatal cut
And though the pain is an ocean
Tossing us around, around, around
You have calmed greater waters
Higher mountains have come down
But for now, it's this: Honesty. (Thanks LC for reminding me of the importance of that.)
The book of Romans says "We can rejoice, too, when we run into problems and trials, for we know that they help us develop endurance. And endurance develops strength of character, and character strengthens our confident hope of salvation (ch 5:3-4).
Thus, I share this time with you (which I realized today is truly "light and momentary," though it seems to be more) and proclaim also that God is behind it (even though it just absolutely stinks). He is working, and it's all to His glory.
Here's a song I found that I'd forgotten about; it's by Jars of Clay, titled simply "The Valley Song."
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CvHMjILrSJ0
You have led me to the sadness
I have carried this pain
On a back bruised, nearly broken
I'm crying out to you
I will sing of Your mercy
That leads me through valleys of sorrow
To rivers of joy
When death like a Gypsy
Comes to steal what I love
I will still look to the heavens
I will still seek your face
But I fear you aren't listening
Because there are no words
Just the stillness and the hunger
For a faith that assures
Alleluia, alleluia
Alleluia, alleluia
While we wait for rescue
With our eyes tightly shut
Face to the ground using our hands
To cover the fatal cut
And though the pain is an ocean
Tossing us around, around, around
You have calmed greater waters
Higher mountains have come down
19.6.10
sabbatical.
I broke down in April.
Well, it began earlier than that. I can't pinpoint the exact day that it happened. It wasn't even one day; it was a series of days, of moments, that all eventually collided to make me realize something: I needed help.
Here's a semi-brief rundown of the events that transpired in 2010:
In January, I returned from Lima from Christmas/New Year's vacation. Marta lived with me for about a month, before we both went to Cusco in February (her for school, me for work-related purposes). I returned to life in Arequipa, lived it fairly mundanely in February and March (the highlights were a weekend beach trip and my sister's visit).
Notice I don't say much about classes/Bible studies/ministry. I was staring at the edge of a pit, about to fall in. My attitude was not where it needed to be, and concerning ministerial things, life was seemingly absolutely and utterly falling apart (code word for failing) around me.
The opportunities that I'd encountered to minister had diminished as far as teaching goes (a very long story, one I won't go into--just know it wasn't positive). I was tired of being canceled on by my friends, tired of doing things alone, and honestly, tired of making the effort for what I felt had just become a huge waste of time.
I felt so alone. More than I ever had in my life.
April came. I was able to translate on two back-to-back trips to villages in Peru. They were both incredible blessings. I have no words for those times. People surrounded me and loved on me. I learned so much and thought I was "getting on the right track." I felt busy during this time. Needed. I hadn't felt that in a long time.
After my return to Arequipa around April 18, I was left alone. I should preface this "alone" emphasis with certain information: There is a family here I relate to on my team, but I haven't worked with them much; another family who is here with the IMB works as church planters; finally, other missionaries are around in language school, who I see every now and then; and of course, I had a few Peruanos leftover who would check up on me.
Tears came every day, usually in unexpected moments. I felt like I'd been abandoned. I felt like I had no purpose. I wanted to quit, but I didn't. I honestly didn't know what I needed. I felt very far from God.
I called some people with the IMB to get things moving in the direction of "resolution."
I had this grand idea to go to Lima. It was the only thing I knew to do: There was work going on there, I could support the ESL people, I would be around my team. I needed to talk to someone who understood where I come from and who understood what I was going through.
God gave me an idea: "Stay with Rebekah and Michael Constante." I barely knew these people at the time. For some reason, I just knew I needed to be with them. I ended up staying at their home in total for about a month. I became part of their family, for which I am forever thankful.
Rebekah became a confidant, a listener, and an advisor. Her husband Michael became someone with whom to laugh with until it hurt. Jenny and John McClamb laughed and cried and counseled me; they felt for me. Both family's children were little "happy pills" that ran around on two legs--I could instantly feel better just by hearing "Tia Sarah" or getting a hug. Ginny, Jess, and Julia listened and cried with me.
I spent my time in Lima trying to heal. I spent time with the Lord, talked to people, got to hang out with Peruvians and Americans, felt like I was contributing in some way.
I left Lima in tears on May 15. I remember two times thinking very negative thoughts that I had never really had in my life concerning my own life. I pleaded with God to take me. I set foot on Arequipa soil crying. I cried in the taxi home, and I cried as Ginny opened the gate to let me into my house.
I had no idea why I was crying. I couldn't express it to her. I hugged her and held onto her, and she said this:
"It's because this place holds so much pain for you."
This statement is so true, and it's been the catalyst for me to examine a lot of things in my life. I've taken the last few weeks to reflect on myself, my time here, my character, my walk with God, my calling. I've journaled, I've talked, I've kind-of prayed. I've realized how messed up I am. There is just a lot of junk in my life that I need to confess, turn away from, and remove. I feel like a failure, which is invalid because God doesn't see me as that; I've searched for so many things to "do" and people to "please" in hopes that I would gain favor with God. There is just so much I'm realizing about myself and it hurts my heart because I see how far removed grace has become in my life.
Coming back to Arequipa twice after "Lima time" made me realize that this sabbatical, this time of "healing" is going to take a lot longer than expected. Like the events that transpired to get me to the point of rock bottom, the process of healing is going to take time as well.
Pruning hurts so much. Being in the valley for almost two years makes your body ache. Regardless of short happy times, of learning things, of seeing small delights as you walk through your trial, whatever it may be, that trial takes it's toll.
I'm willing to continue moving through this time of "sorrowful valleys." I'm also trying to move in the direction God would have me to go, which is to Himself. I think He's abandoned me when the truth is, I've abandoned Him. How ridiculously sad.
My friend Caroline wrote my heart on her blog. I read it and the floodgates opened up (I cry a lot these days--call it my whacked-out emotions, call it depression, call it being cleaned-out). Here's something profound that I can relate to:
"for the past six months, i've been noticing a change in heart: i don't "feel" much anymore. it has taken me quite a while to figure out what that means, what might have caused the change, and more-so, am i okay with it. and the truth is, i'm not. i'm tired of experiencing things on my own...i'm so sick of building friendships with people that are not emotionally responsive. i want to be able to come home to someone with whom i can feel safe to share what is really on my heart. i want to be able to trust people again. i want to feel like it's okay to pick up the phone and call friends...instead i stop myself every time, thinking that too much time and space have passed, or that i need them more than they need me.
i know that all things come from the Father's hand, but i'm having trouble coping with the fact that He removed me from community for such a long time. yes, i have learned many lessons through relying on Him more, but i never thought i would be deadening my emotional receptivity. especially these past few months, it has been harder to fight away the reminders that i have become dead inside.
the redeeming part about all of this is the reminder the Lord gave me today, after reading in John 15. i have been wondering if the deadening in my heart is something that is irreversible, like many of the people i know who just go into emotional hiding and never come out of it. but today i realized that, though i have endured drought, i became negligent in "abiding" in Him. so my soul has begun to wither, and with it my ability to relate to and invest in others. the task now becomes "remaining" in God's love, and trusting that He can restore green, abundant life through my branches. yes, i believe my heart is still green, stemming from the True Vine.
"The redeeming part about all of this." I like that part. We are God's redeemed. I am His daughter. I have to remind myself of those statements.
I will get better. Caroline and I talked, and we both agreed: God will heal us in time. I'm really trying to work through things regarding my person, my emotional state, and my spiritual state. I've realized that I need to see a counselor when I return to the States in August. It took me awhile to not be ashamed of that fact.
I need your help. My story is longer, and I wish I could tell you all of it. But for now, I ask for your prayers. I ask that God would break me and I would be on my face in search of Him, the ultimate Counselor.
Thanks for keeping up with me. I do hope that as you walk through life, I can somehow pray for you, help you in anything, or just give you a hug when you need it. I appreciate you all and love you very much.
Trying to learn to love more, get joy back, and become alive again....
Sarah
Well, it began earlier than that. I can't pinpoint the exact day that it happened. It wasn't even one day; it was a series of days, of moments, that all eventually collided to make me realize something: I needed help.
Here's a semi-brief rundown of the events that transpired in 2010:
In January, I returned from Lima from Christmas/New Year's vacation. Marta lived with me for about a month, before we both went to Cusco in February (her for school, me for work-related purposes). I returned to life in Arequipa, lived it fairly mundanely in February and March (the highlights were a weekend beach trip and my sister's visit).
Notice I don't say much about classes/Bible studies/ministry. I was staring at the edge of a pit, about to fall in. My attitude was not where it needed to be, and concerning ministerial things, life was seemingly absolutely and utterly falling apart (code word for failing) around me.
The opportunities that I'd encountered to minister had diminished as far as teaching goes (a very long story, one I won't go into--just know it wasn't positive). I was tired of being canceled on by my friends, tired of doing things alone, and honestly, tired of making the effort for what I felt had just become a huge waste of time.
I felt so alone. More than I ever had in my life.
April came. I was able to translate on two back-to-back trips to villages in Peru. They were both incredible blessings. I have no words for those times. People surrounded me and loved on me. I learned so much and thought I was "getting on the right track." I felt busy during this time. Needed. I hadn't felt that in a long time.
After my return to Arequipa around April 18, I was left alone. I should preface this "alone" emphasis with certain information: There is a family here I relate to on my team, but I haven't worked with them much; another family who is here with the IMB works as church planters; finally, other missionaries are around in language school, who I see every now and then; and of course, I had a few Peruanos leftover who would check up on me.
Tears came every day, usually in unexpected moments. I felt like I'd been abandoned. I felt like I had no purpose. I wanted to quit, but I didn't. I honestly didn't know what I needed. I felt very far from God.
I called some people with the IMB to get things moving in the direction of "resolution."
I had this grand idea to go to Lima. It was the only thing I knew to do: There was work going on there, I could support the ESL people, I would be around my team. I needed to talk to someone who understood where I come from and who understood what I was going through.
God gave me an idea: "Stay with Rebekah and Michael Constante." I barely knew these people at the time. For some reason, I just knew I needed to be with them. I ended up staying at their home in total for about a month. I became part of their family, for which I am forever thankful.
Rebekah became a confidant, a listener, and an advisor. Her husband Michael became someone with whom to laugh with until it hurt. Jenny and John McClamb laughed and cried and counseled me; they felt for me. Both family's children were little "happy pills" that ran around on two legs--I could instantly feel better just by hearing "Tia Sarah" or getting a hug. Ginny, Jess, and Julia listened and cried with me.
I spent my time in Lima trying to heal. I spent time with the Lord, talked to people, got to hang out with Peruvians and Americans, felt like I was contributing in some way.
I left Lima in tears on May 15. I remember two times thinking very negative thoughts that I had never really had in my life concerning my own life. I pleaded with God to take me. I set foot on Arequipa soil crying. I cried in the taxi home, and I cried as Ginny opened the gate to let me into my house.
I had no idea why I was crying. I couldn't express it to her. I hugged her and held onto her, and she said this:
"It's because this place holds so much pain for you."
This statement is so true, and it's been the catalyst for me to examine a lot of things in my life. I've taken the last few weeks to reflect on myself, my time here, my character, my walk with God, my calling. I've journaled, I've talked, I've kind-of prayed. I've realized how messed up I am. There is just a lot of junk in my life that I need to confess, turn away from, and remove. I feel like a failure, which is invalid because God doesn't see me as that; I've searched for so many things to "do" and people to "please" in hopes that I would gain favor with God. There is just so much I'm realizing about myself and it hurts my heart because I see how far removed grace has become in my life.
Coming back to Arequipa twice after "Lima time" made me realize that this sabbatical, this time of "healing" is going to take a lot longer than expected. Like the events that transpired to get me to the point of rock bottom, the process of healing is going to take time as well.
Pruning hurts so much. Being in the valley for almost two years makes your body ache. Regardless of short happy times, of learning things, of seeing small delights as you walk through your trial, whatever it may be, that trial takes it's toll.
I'm willing to continue moving through this time of "sorrowful valleys." I'm also trying to move in the direction God would have me to go, which is to Himself. I think He's abandoned me when the truth is, I've abandoned Him. How ridiculously sad.
My friend Caroline wrote my heart on her blog. I read it and the floodgates opened up (I cry a lot these days--call it my whacked-out emotions, call it depression, call it being cleaned-out). Here's something profound that I can relate to:
"for the past six months, i've been noticing a change in heart: i don't "feel" much anymore. it has taken me quite a while to figure out what that means, what might have caused the change, and more-so, am i okay with it. and the truth is, i'm not. i'm tired of experiencing things on my own...i'm so sick of building friendships with people that are not emotionally responsive. i want to be able to come home to someone with whom i can feel safe to share what is really on my heart. i want to be able to trust people again. i want to feel like it's okay to pick up the phone and call friends...instead i stop myself every time, thinking that too much time and space have passed, or that i need them more than they need me.
i know that all things come from the Father's hand, but i'm having trouble coping with the fact that He removed me from community for such a long time. yes, i have learned many lessons through relying on Him more, but i never thought i would be deadening my emotional receptivity. especially these past few months, it has been harder to fight away the reminders that i have become dead inside.
the redeeming part about all of this is the reminder the Lord gave me today, after reading in John 15. i have been wondering if the deadening in my heart is something that is irreversible, like many of the people i know who just go into emotional hiding and never come out of it. but today i realized that, though i have endured drought, i became negligent in "abiding" in Him. so my soul has begun to wither, and with it my ability to relate to and invest in others. the task now becomes "remaining" in God's love, and trusting that He can restore green, abundant life through my branches. yes, i believe my heart is still green, stemming from the True Vine.
"The redeeming part about all of this." I like that part. We are God's redeemed. I am His daughter. I have to remind myself of those statements.
I will get better. Caroline and I talked, and we both agreed: God will heal us in time. I'm really trying to work through things regarding my person, my emotional state, and my spiritual state. I've realized that I need to see a counselor when I return to the States in August. It took me awhile to not be ashamed of that fact.
I need your help. My story is longer, and I wish I could tell you all of it. But for now, I ask for your prayers. I ask that God would break me and I would be on my face in search of Him, the ultimate Counselor.
Thanks for keeping up with me. I do hope that as you walk through life, I can somehow pray for you, help you in anything, or just give you a hug when you need it. I appreciate you all and love you very much.
Trying to learn to love more, get joy back, and become alive again....
Sarah
10.6.10
to the wanderer.
Ernesto asked me why I don't want to live in the United States for the majority of my life (a sentiment that recently seems to come and go). I posed this question to Ginny, who made an interesting point, and I decided to journal about it. Here it is...
A broad assumption is that Americans travel as a means to an end: We look for self-fulfillment, we look to get something out of anything and anyone and we suck the life out of everything.
I would argue that travel is much more. Travel is diving into a culture. Exploring. Finding meaning. Learning. Contributing.
Europeans (and just about the rest of the world) know how to travel. They look at the world differently throughout the journey AND at the end of the journey. They have stories to tell because they not only soak up the experience, but they involve themselves in the experience itself. They soak in and pour out. They bring what they've seen back to their homeland: People's stories, heartache and joy they've shared in, customs, food, dance, life.
I believe liberation is found in this way of travel.
Hear this: I'm liberated in Christ. I don't need any more liberty. What I need is for people to see their need for liberation. If my life as a traveler, a wanderer, a nomad, could show this--if God could use me to point to His Son as the only Liberator--it would be to His glory.
My prayer is that I get to see as much of this world as possible. To enjoy God and His creation while living adventurously, whether that means exploring secret corners of South America, Europe, and Asia, or getting to know my own homeland.
William Faulkner said, "If a story is in you, it has to come out."
Wherever I go, I hope to collect stories, soak up life and give it back. Write down what I see and hear, hug people because they need love (as do I), and speak Truth.
A broad assumption is that Americans travel as a means to an end: We look for self-fulfillment, we look to get something out of anything and anyone and we suck the life out of everything.
I would argue that travel is much more. Travel is diving into a culture. Exploring. Finding meaning. Learning. Contributing.
Europeans (and just about the rest of the world) know how to travel. They look at the world differently throughout the journey AND at the end of the journey. They have stories to tell because they not only soak up the experience, but they involve themselves in the experience itself. They soak in and pour out. They bring what they've seen back to their homeland: People's stories, heartache and joy they've shared in, customs, food, dance, life.
I believe liberation is found in this way of travel.
Hear this: I'm liberated in Christ. I don't need any more liberty. What I need is for people to see their need for liberation. If my life as a traveler, a wanderer, a nomad, could show this--if God could use me to point to His Son as the only Liberator--it would be to His glory.
My prayer is that I get to see as much of this world as possible. To enjoy God and His creation while living adventurously, whether that means exploring secret corners of South America, Europe, and Asia, or getting to know my own homeland.
William Faulkner said, "If a story is in you, it has to come out."
Wherever I go, I hope to collect stories, soak up life and give it back. Write down what I see and hear, hug people because they need love (as do I), and speak Truth.
1.6.10
fighting to lay it down.
This is an email I received from our mission board today, and I happened to actually read the whole thing. This is exactly how I feel. More to come.
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Do you have a song in your heart today? You know what I’m talking about—the subliminal lyrics of a praise song you may have listened to a few days ago or a tune you find yourself humming that makes a routine task, driving to an appointment or even cleaning the house, a worship experience. It comes when you have just had a visionary planning meeting with your team, when you saw someone come to faith you had been cultivating for a long time, or when your children blurt out a comment that reveals maturing spiritual insight.
Unfortunately, there are days when the song is not there; in fact, we can lose it for extended periods of time when we are discouraged, fighting depression and counting the days, hoping to survive until stateside. I can remember losing the song in times of cultural shock and disillusionment. I thought that was unique to the second year on the field when the honeymoon was over, but found that it continued to come in cycles throughout our 23 years overseas.
You lose the song when family relations are strained, and harsh, unkind words are spoken out of anger and impatience. A misunderstanding with a colleague or seeing a disciple we have been nurturing revert to his old manner of life can rob us of the joy that is reflected in that spontaneous song reverberating in our mind.
In Ps 137 the Children of Isr*el had been carried into captivity in Babylon. There their tormentors demanded they sing the songs of Z*on, apparently for the entertainment of their captors. But they replied in verse 4, “How can we sing the L*rd’s song in a foreign land?” That’s how you may be feeling simply due to the heat and congested crowds. Or maybe you have lost the song due to struggling with a new structure and processes imposed by leaders that seem insensitive to the impact of changes being made.
How do you recover the song? How do you get back the joy, a sense of well-being, confidence that G*d is on His throne, and it’s all going to come out all right? There is an interesting verse in 2 Chron 29:27 that may offer an analogy that may be helpful. This is the occasion of restoring the temple worship. King Hezekiah gave the order to place the burnt offering on the altar. “And when the sacrifice began, the song to the L*rd also began.”
The call to an intimate relationship with the Father has always entailed sacrifice. It is a call to sacrifice our own will to be obedient to Him. J*sus makes it clear that no one is truly following Him until they take up their cross and die. Paul pleaded with us to present our bodies a living sacrifice—always putting our desires, our will, our comforts on the altar. It comes back to those prayers of relinquishment mentioned in an earlier memo.
We lose the song and the enemy robs us of joy that comes from confident faith in the Father when there is something we desire we don’t have—when our plans aren’t working out, the kids aren’t behaving or the team doesn’t respect our opinion. Maybe we aren’t receiving the recognition and affirmation we need, we are being inconvenienced or imposed on, or we are just working ourselves to the bone without seeing evident results.
In David’s confession of sin he recognized that G*d did not desire offerings and religious ritual, even hard work, as much as sacrifice. “The sacrifices of G*d are a broken spirit; a broken and contrite heart, O G*d, Thou wilt not despise.” That’s what brings us back to Him and restores the song.
If you are at the end of your rope, discouraged and disillusioned, you may be exactly where you need to be to find His grace and faithfulness. Bring that broken spirit and a contrite heart and lay it on the altar. Have you allowed self-centered concerns and personal desires to so dominate your attention that you have lost a broken heart for the lost that brought you to where you are in the first place?
We rationalize ourselves into thinking things would be fine and I would be happy if—only if—everyone would get along, we could handle finances and get our services provided more efficiently, if it weren’t so hot, if the people weren’t so obstinate, if we had a safer environment, more reliable electricity, etc. etc. Bemoaning the problems doesn’t solve them. Whatever is robbing you of the song, lay it on the altar. “When the sacrifice began, the song of the L*rd also began.”
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Do you have a song in your heart today? You know what I’m talking about—the subliminal lyrics of a praise song you may have listened to a few days ago or a tune you find yourself humming that makes a routine task, driving to an appointment or even cleaning the house, a worship experience. It comes when you have just had a visionary planning meeting with your team, when you saw someone come to faith you had been cultivating for a long time, or when your children blurt out a comment that reveals maturing spiritual insight.
Unfortunately, there are days when the song is not there; in fact, we can lose it for extended periods of time when we are discouraged, fighting depression and counting the days, hoping to survive until stateside. I can remember losing the song in times of cultural shock and disillusionment. I thought that was unique to the second year on the field when the honeymoon was over, but found that it continued to come in cycles throughout our 23 years overseas.
You lose the song when family relations are strained, and harsh, unkind words are spoken out of anger and impatience. A misunderstanding with a colleague or seeing a disciple we have been nurturing revert to his old manner of life can rob us of the joy that is reflected in that spontaneous song reverberating in our mind.
In Ps 137 the Children of Isr*el had been carried into captivity in Babylon. There their tormentors demanded they sing the songs of Z*on, apparently for the entertainment of their captors. But they replied in verse 4, “How can we sing the L*rd’s song in a foreign land?” That’s how you may be feeling simply due to the heat and congested crowds. Or maybe you have lost the song due to struggling with a new structure and processes imposed by leaders that seem insensitive to the impact of changes being made.
How do you recover the song? How do you get back the joy, a sense of well-being, confidence that G*d is on His throne, and it’s all going to come out all right? There is an interesting verse in 2 Chron 29:27 that may offer an analogy that may be helpful. This is the occasion of restoring the temple worship. King Hezekiah gave the order to place the burnt offering on the altar. “And when the sacrifice began, the song to the L*rd also began.”
The call to an intimate relationship with the Father has always entailed sacrifice. It is a call to sacrifice our own will to be obedient to Him. J*sus makes it clear that no one is truly following Him until they take up their cross and die. Paul pleaded with us to present our bodies a living sacrifice—always putting our desires, our will, our comforts on the altar. It comes back to those prayers of relinquishment mentioned in an earlier memo.
We lose the song and the enemy robs us of joy that comes from confident faith in the Father when there is something we desire we don’t have—when our plans aren’t working out, the kids aren’t behaving or the team doesn’t respect our opinion. Maybe we aren’t receiving the recognition and affirmation we need, we are being inconvenienced or imposed on, or we are just working ourselves to the bone without seeing evident results.
In David’s confession of sin he recognized that G*d did not desire offerings and religious ritual, even hard work, as much as sacrifice. “The sacrifices of G*d are a broken spirit; a broken and contrite heart, O G*d, Thou wilt not despise.” That’s what brings us back to Him and restores the song.
If you are at the end of your rope, discouraged and disillusioned, you may be exactly where you need to be to find His grace and faithfulness. Bring that broken spirit and a contrite heart and lay it on the altar. Have you allowed self-centered concerns and personal desires to so dominate your attention that you have lost a broken heart for the lost that brought you to where you are in the first place?
We rationalize ourselves into thinking things would be fine and I would be happy if—only if—everyone would get along, we could handle finances and get our services provided more efficiently, if it weren’t so hot, if the people weren’t so obstinate, if we had a safer environment, more reliable electricity, etc. etc. Bemoaning the problems doesn’t solve them. Whatever is robbing you of the song, lay it on the altar. “When the sacrifice began, the song of the L*rd also began.”
22.5.10
relevant.
this is an article i found on relevant magazine online. it addresses a lot of things i'm feeling right now. God used it to speak to me, for which i'm very thankful. check it out.
http://www.relevantmagazine.com/god/deeper-walk/blog/21596-remember-to-stop-forgetting
http://www.relevantmagazine.com/god/deeper-walk/blog/21596-remember-to-stop-forgetting
20.5.10
Sobras.
"Sobras" is Spanish for leftovers. Leftovers in Peru is a funny concept to me, and I'm still trying to grasp it. Here's a feeble attempt to explain to you what I've learned/observed so far.
I'll start with how leftovers became a popular topic in my house. When Marta lived with me in January, I was a cooking maniac (I think because I had someone to cook for). I wanted to make spaghetti, and I thought I would just use some meat that had been frozen for...some time. I can't even tell you how long. It was a long time.
"Por que no botes eso?"
Marta repeatedly told me to throw it out, that it had gone bad. But in my stubbornness, I kept it in the freezer, thinking I would use it "soon."
Well, Spaghetti Day finally rolls around and I take out the ancient meat and sure 'nuff, it was disgusting. I even thought for a moment that I could salvage it, but that would have been unkind to my Peruanita's estomago.
Soon after this incident (in which Marta reminded me over and over that she was right about the meat), I continued on my cooking tirade and made a ton of every dish I created. I mean, ridiculous amounts of food. I don't know why I have this tendency to cook more than is needed, but I do. I should work on that, especially as I continue to cook for one (pause with me as I lament this sad fact).
I made beef stew, chicken and potatoes, and all sorts of other things. We even invited other people to come over and eat. Alas, leftovers became my middle name. Marta ate them with me out of kindness, or perhaps pity...
...Until one day I pulled something out of the fridge that had been there about five days. Here's my theory: If it still smells good and looks good, then it probably tastes good and is not going to kill you.
Marta, however, looked at me in shock, asked me how long whatever-it-was had been sitting there, and refused to eat it after I revealed the horrific number.
She proceeded to tell me about Peruvian dislike of leftovers. As her papi says: "Voy a comer para que no se malogre."
Translation: "I'm going to eat everything because I'm a good poor man and don't want any of it to go to waste."
That's legitimate. I will say that in my North American Leftover Hell, I do throw away a lot of food.
Here's something to take into account though: Peruvians won't eat "old" food (a day or two) that has been stored properly in the refrigerator, but they'll leave all of it sitting out for a day on the stove/counter. Hmm.....
My Peruanos probably think I'm crazy. I feed them all the food I've prepared, but some of it is old. Here, if you give someone your leftovers of anything (basically anything you don't want anymore that you've half-used), that can be an insult.
I suppose then the multiple times I've asked some guy friends to come "clean out the fridge," they've been semi-offended as they stuff their faces with my perfectly fine leftovers.
At least this cultural difference brings a lot of laughs: Now when I offer Marta and other friends some food, they usually laugh and look at me like "how long has the gringa kept this food around?"
I tell them a lower number of days than is true, throw the food on a microwave-safe plate, type in a minute or two, and press "ON."
I'll start with how leftovers became a popular topic in my house. When Marta lived with me in January, I was a cooking maniac (I think because I had someone to cook for). I wanted to make spaghetti, and I thought I would just use some meat that had been frozen for...some time. I can't even tell you how long. It was a long time.
"Por que no botes eso?"
Marta repeatedly told me to throw it out, that it had gone bad. But in my stubbornness, I kept it in the freezer, thinking I would use it "soon."
Well, Spaghetti Day finally rolls around and I take out the ancient meat and sure 'nuff, it was disgusting. I even thought for a moment that I could salvage it, but that would have been unkind to my Peruanita's estomago.
Soon after this incident (in which Marta reminded me over and over that she was right about the meat), I continued on my cooking tirade and made a ton of every dish I created. I mean, ridiculous amounts of food. I don't know why I have this tendency to cook more than is needed, but I do. I should work on that, especially as I continue to cook for one (pause with me as I lament this sad fact).
I made beef stew, chicken and potatoes, and all sorts of other things. We even invited other people to come over and eat. Alas, leftovers became my middle name. Marta ate them with me out of kindness, or perhaps pity...
...Until one day I pulled something out of the fridge that had been there about five days. Here's my theory: If it still smells good and looks good, then it probably tastes good and is not going to kill you.
Marta, however, looked at me in shock, asked me how long whatever-it-was had been sitting there, and refused to eat it after I revealed the horrific number.
She proceeded to tell me about Peruvian dislike of leftovers. As her papi says: "Voy a comer para que no se malogre."
Translation: "I'm going to eat everything because I'm a good poor man and don't want any of it to go to waste."
That's legitimate. I will say that in my North American Leftover Hell, I do throw away a lot of food.
Here's something to take into account though: Peruvians won't eat "old" food (a day or two) that has been stored properly in the refrigerator, but they'll leave all of it sitting out for a day on the stove/counter. Hmm.....
My Peruanos probably think I'm crazy. I feed them all the food I've prepared, but some of it is old. Here, if you give someone your leftovers of anything (basically anything you don't want anymore that you've half-used), that can be an insult.
I suppose then the multiple times I've asked some guy friends to come "clean out the fridge," they've been semi-offended as they stuff their faces with my perfectly fine leftovers.
At least this cultural difference brings a lot of laughs: Now when I offer Marta and other friends some food, they usually laugh and look at me like "how long has the gringa kept this food around?"
I tell them a lower number of days than is true, throw the food on a microwave-safe plate, type in a minute or two, and press "ON."
13.5.10
my north and my south.
I'm headed home
Yeah, but I'm not so sure
That home is a place
That will ever be the same...
-Jon Foreman, "Southbound Train"
First, let me say that J.F. is a lyrical and poetical genius. I was listening to this song tonight, and I don't have much to say on it. I'll let it speak for itself.
I'm going back to Arequipa in a few days after a small and refreshing sabbatical in Lima. I then spend a couple months in the South before I head north: America.
Here we go. The countdown begins. There isn't a countdown to "what's next" still. Rather, the countdown begins on having to leave a new home for an old one.
I'm betting on not settling down quite yet. So for now, and during the upcoming transition time, my home is North and South.
6.5.10
Garden.
There's this song I like right now called "Garden" by Matt Maher. The main theme is that God is "making our heart a garden" like the Garden of Eden before the fall, where Adam and Eve walked and talked with God.
I like this idea of believer's hearts being a garden in which we commune with the Lord; however, I started to think a little more and found other imagery in the song. This idea of weeding and pruning and stirring up dirt and removing dead things ought to be profound for Christians. It is profound for me, at least. The gardener (God) fixes me up by taking the bad stuff out and planting things that are better--stuff like new flowers, healthy bulbs. They grow up out of this dirt that was sifted around--fallow ground moved about to make it a place where good things can grow beautiful.
I think that is what I need to stop and ponder in this time: My heart as a garden. There might be some weeds and other junk that need to come out. I'm being pruned right now (see John 15).
But the good news is that I have a good Gardener who has my best interest in mind. He might stir up the soil and jerk up some bad weeds, but He'll replace those things with new, good things. He knows what needs to be in there, and He does it according to His good timing in each season.
I like this idea of believer's hearts being a garden in which we commune with the Lord; however, I started to think a little more and found other imagery in the song. This idea of weeding and pruning and stirring up dirt and removing dead things ought to be profound for Christians. It is profound for me, at least. The gardener (God) fixes me up by taking the bad stuff out and planting things that are better--stuff like new flowers, healthy bulbs. They grow up out of this dirt that was sifted around--fallow ground moved about to make it a place where good things can grow beautiful.
I think that is what I need to stop and ponder in this time: My heart as a garden. There might be some weeds and other junk that need to come out. I'm being pruned right now (see John 15).
But the good news is that I have a good Gardener who has my best interest in mind. He might stir up the soil and jerk up some bad weeds, but He'll replace those things with new, good things. He knows what needs to be in there, and He does it according to His good timing in each season.
26.4.10
close your eyes and see.
There's a lot of questions floating around in my head. Do I really trust God? I say I do, but do I really allow Him to take control of my life? Do I believe God and and His promises? I want to be needed; how do I quench that desire in a selfless manner? Why don't I meet with the Lord every day? He's my first love. What is in my heart that in hindering me walking in victory with Christ, as He intends? How can I start to get the junk out of my life that is preventing an abundant life, lived to the glory of God?
As you can see, I'm being challenged. God is rocking my boat, big time.
On a positive note, in recent weeks, I've been given a few verses from Colossians that have helped the struggle surrounding my return to the US in about three months (still hard to say, but starting to roll off the tongue a little easier).
"And whatever you do, whether in word or deed, do it all in the name of the Lord Jesus, giving thanks to God the Father through him (ch. 3).
I'm preparing to work for the Lord wherever He takes me. It might be in a Lawrenceville, GA Starbucks. I will serve people their coffee in the name of Christ. Then, I'll bike home because I can't afford gas. ;)
"Whatever you do, work at it with all your heart, as working for the Lord, not for men, since you know that you will receive an inheritance from the Lord as a reward. It is the Lord Christ you are serving (ch. 3).
I've recently been struggling with some work-related stuff (PRAY over that, por favor). Anyway, I want to finish this time in Peru working with all of my heart, for God--not for any man. I think that God is using this experience to prepare me for future work/ministry situations.
"So then, just as you received Christ Jesus as Lord, continue to live in him, rooted and built up in him, strengthened in the faith as you were taught, and overflowing with thankfulness (ch 2).
Finally, may the remembrance of my salvation and what Christ did for me on the Cross consume my mind and heart and motivate me to meet with Him every day. I am so weak, but He is strong. May He build me up in Him and strengthen the faith He placed in my heart so long ago. Would that I overflow with thankfulness.
In fact, I'm going to go ahead and claim it: I thank You in advance, Lord, for the changes that You're working in me as I get soaked in hard storms and parched in deserted valleys. They're for a reason. I see Your goodness and Your faithfulness in them. Thanks for that, God. Move in me for Your name.
I give you thanks for preparing me for changes that are coming. Would you replace my fear with a joy in moving forward and seeing what is next. Give me a motivation to be active in this time and seek out what You would have me do. In the name of Jesus, I thank You.
A 'post dato,' Lord...As I prep for America, perhaps the most important prayer I could send to the heavens: Help my dad and his clingy tendencies. He's already threatening to chain me to a post in the backyard. Forever.
As you can see, I'm being challenged. God is rocking my boat, big time.
On a positive note, in recent weeks, I've been given a few verses from Colossians that have helped the struggle surrounding my return to the US in about three months (still hard to say, but starting to roll off the tongue a little easier).
"And whatever you do, whether in word or deed, do it all in the name of the Lord Jesus, giving thanks to God the Father through him (ch. 3).
I'm preparing to work for the Lord wherever He takes me. It might be in a Lawrenceville, GA Starbucks. I will serve people their coffee in the name of Christ. Then, I'll bike home because I can't afford gas. ;)
"Whatever you do, work at it with all your heart, as working for the Lord, not for men, since you know that you will receive an inheritance from the Lord as a reward. It is the Lord Christ you are serving (ch. 3).
I've recently been struggling with some work-related stuff (PRAY over that, por favor). Anyway, I want to finish this time in Peru working with all of my heart, for God--not for any man. I think that God is using this experience to prepare me for future work/ministry situations.
"So then, just as you received Christ Jesus as Lord, continue to live in him, rooted and built up in him, strengthened in the faith as you were taught, and overflowing with thankfulness (ch 2).
Finally, may the remembrance of my salvation and what Christ did for me on the Cross consume my mind and heart and motivate me to meet with Him every day. I am so weak, but He is strong. May He build me up in Him and strengthen the faith He placed in my heart so long ago. Would that I overflow with thankfulness.
In fact, I'm going to go ahead and claim it: I thank You in advance, Lord, for the changes that You're working in me as I get soaked in hard storms and parched in deserted valleys. They're for a reason. I see Your goodness and Your faithfulness in them. Thanks for that, God. Move in me for Your name.
I give you thanks for preparing me for changes that are coming. Would you replace my fear with a joy in moving forward and seeing what is next. Give me a motivation to be active in this time and seek out what You would have me do. In the name of Jesus, I thank You.
A 'post dato,' Lord...As I prep for America, perhaps the most important prayer I could send to the heavens: Help my dad and his clingy tendencies. He's already threatening to chain me to a post in the backyard. Forever.
3.4.10
time is relative.
Living in a Latin American country has its perks, its negatives, and its learning curves. I offer up to the blog world a couple ideas and some funny experiences I've had while living in Peru concerning TIME.
Time. Hours. Minutes. Seconds. Days. Weeks. Months. Our time is precious and valuable, and growing up in the United States, I was taught that being on time is important. Since coming to Peru, my being-on-time obsession has lessened, and the idea of time has become somewhat of an anomaly. I no longer wear a watch. I've become really Peruvian in saying I'll be somewhere at 3:30, but I don't show up until 4 (still only to wait 30 more minutes on the Peruvian). Church starts at 11 am, which means it's okay to stroll in around 11:19 or later--it may have started by then, but probably not. Class starts at 7 pm, but people still walk in at 8, 15 minutes before it's over.
There are certain words in Spanish to indicate when something is happening. Some examples are "ahora," "un rato," "un toque," "un minuto," etc. We have some derivatives that come from these words as well. Let me explain.
I was recently in Lima and ran into my friend Ernesto. We chat and say we're going to catch up later, after he's done with work at 8 pm. I send him a text message about an hour later (approximately 3 pm) that says "Ernesto, call me later so that we can figure out what we are going to do." The text I receive in response reads in Spanish something along the lines of "Claro, podemos hacer algo AHORA" (gringa translation: "Sure, we can do something NOW."). I, the silly gringa, call Ernesto (aka Ernie ;) and comment that I thought he was still working.
"Si, estoy trabajando." (Yeah, I'm working.)
"Ah ya....entonces hablamos mas tarde." (Ok, then, we'll talk later.)
"Ok, ciao."
Hmm....
Later that evening we get together and I ask about this "ahora" business. How is "ahora" ("now") also later? Big question, one that opens a door for a HUGE discussion on vocabulary, context, and meaning. Here are my findings:
Ahora: "Now," as in a time period over the next 12-24 hours. Or in Daniel's case, 20 days when referring to his birthday. :)
Ahorita: Also "now" (perhaps even "right now"), as in the time period over the next 2-12 hours. (Marta ALWAYS says she is leaving "ahorita." After about seven times hearing this and counting the hours that define her "ahorita " [usually 1-2], I finally started to catch on that her "ahorita" is very different from my "ahorita.")
Ahorititita: Yet again, "now." Except given the amount of "tita's" tacked on the end, this could mean any number of definitions of now. Right now in a second, in a minute, in five minutes, in 30 minutes. Who knows.
Within this word group used to define a period of time, you have the same type of guidelines with the following (once again, context and person saying these words make the meaning):
Rato, ratito: Any given time; a little time.
Toque, toquecito: Even less than "rato" or "ratito." Literally, a little touch, a little time.
Un minuto, minutito: I can't even tell you how many times "Espera un minuto" (wait a minute) has turned into an hour.
Finally, we have another interesting thing happening in Latin America. I have yet to really figure out when "good day," "good afternoon," and "good evening" begin and end. In my very North American mind, morning ends at lunchtime, if not before. The afternoon begins around lunchtime and continues until 6 pm or so, and the evening commences at this time (we'll say sundown-ish) until you're partying late into the night.
Not so in Peru. Let's address this idea of "Buenos dias," Buenas tardes," and "Buenas noches." Here's a typical week with my watcheman (pronounced "watch.e.man," which the long "e" sound in the middle :) as I'm walking in and out of the neighborhood:
Sunday, 11 am. "Buenos dias, senorita." Fine.
Monday, 11 am. "Buenos dias, senorita." Monday, 3 pm. "Buenas tardes, senorita." Fine.
Tuesday, 3 pm. "Buenos dias, senorita." Huh?
Wednesday, 5 pm. "Buenas tardes, senorita." Same day, 8 pm. "Buenas noches, senorita." Okay.
Thursday, 5 pm. "Buenas noches, senorita." Oh my gosh...
I could go on, but you see what I'm getting at. There is no definition, and I'm just plum confused. Even after a year-and-a-half. I mean, sure, I hold to what I'm thinking is the "proper" separation of time. And I obviously respond in whatever manner they want me to out of cultural respect (I may be confused, but I have learned to not try and change the norm here based solely on my confusion). The thing is, we just need to get some continuity going on here in my opinion. I've now just gotten into the habit of saying "Buenas." Punto. No mas. I don't know what time it is, nor do they, so we'll just go with the generic greeting. Plus, it makes more sense to just go with the flow instead of laughing at the woman at the bank who has now just said "Buenos dias" to me at 4 pm. Maybe she's just tired after a hard day's work.
Time. Hours. Minutes. Seconds. Days. Weeks. Months. Our time is precious and valuable, and growing up in the United States, I was taught that being on time is important. Since coming to Peru, my being-on-time obsession has lessened, and the idea of time has become somewhat of an anomaly. I no longer wear a watch. I've become really Peruvian in saying I'll be somewhere at 3:30, but I don't show up until 4 (still only to wait 30 more minutes on the Peruvian). Church starts at 11 am, which means it's okay to stroll in around 11:19 or later--it may have started by then, but probably not. Class starts at 7 pm, but people still walk in at 8, 15 minutes before it's over.
There are certain words in Spanish to indicate when something is happening. Some examples are "ahora," "un rato," "un toque," "un minuto," etc. We have some derivatives that come from these words as well. Let me explain.
I was recently in Lima and ran into my friend Ernesto. We chat and say we're going to catch up later, after he's done with work at 8 pm. I send him a text message about an hour later (approximately 3 pm) that says "Ernesto, call me later so that we can figure out what we are going to do." The text I receive in response reads in Spanish something along the lines of "Claro, podemos hacer algo AHORA" (gringa translation: "Sure, we can do something NOW."). I, the silly gringa, call Ernesto (aka Ernie ;) and comment that I thought he was still working.
"Si, estoy trabajando." (Yeah, I'm working.)
"Ah ya....entonces hablamos mas tarde." (Ok, then, we'll talk later.)
"Ok, ciao."
Hmm....
Later that evening we get together and I ask about this "ahora" business. How is "ahora" ("now") also later? Big question, one that opens a door for a HUGE discussion on vocabulary, context, and meaning. Here are my findings:
Ahora: "Now," as in a time period over the next 12-24 hours. Or in Daniel's case, 20 days when referring to his birthday. :)
Ahorita: Also "now" (perhaps even "right now"), as in the time period over the next 2-12 hours. (Marta ALWAYS says she is leaving "ahorita." After about seven times hearing this and counting the hours that define her "ahorita " [usually 1-2], I finally started to catch on that her "ahorita" is very different from my "ahorita.")
Ahorititita: Yet again, "now." Except given the amount of "tita's" tacked on the end, this could mean any number of definitions of now. Right now in a second, in a minute, in five minutes, in 30 minutes. Who knows.
Within this word group used to define a period of time, you have the same type of guidelines with the following (once again, context and person saying these words make the meaning):
Rato, ratito: Any given time; a little time.
Toque, toquecito: Even less than "rato" or "ratito." Literally, a little touch, a little time.
Un minuto, minutito: I can't even tell you how many times "Espera un minuto" (wait a minute) has turned into an hour.
Finally, we have another interesting thing happening in Latin America. I have yet to really figure out when "good day," "good afternoon," and "good evening" begin and end. In my very North American mind, morning ends at lunchtime, if not before. The afternoon begins around lunchtime and continues until 6 pm or so, and the evening commences at this time (we'll say sundown-ish) until you're partying late into the night.
Not so in Peru. Let's address this idea of "Buenos dias," Buenas tardes," and "Buenas noches." Here's a typical week with my watcheman (pronounced "watch.e.man," which the long "e" sound in the middle :) as I'm walking in and out of the neighborhood:
Sunday, 11 am. "Buenos dias, senorita." Fine.
Monday, 11 am. "Buenos dias, senorita." Monday, 3 pm. "Buenas tardes, senorita." Fine.
Tuesday, 3 pm. "Buenos dias, senorita." Huh?
Wednesday, 5 pm. "Buenas tardes, senorita." Same day, 8 pm. "Buenas noches, senorita." Okay.
Thursday, 5 pm. "Buenas noches, senorita." Oh my gosh...
I could go on, but you see what I'm getting at. There is no definition, and I'm just plum confused. Even after a year-and-a-half. I mean, sure, I hold to what I'm thinking is the "proper" separation of time. And I obviously respond in whatever manner they want me to out of cultural respect (I may be confused, but I have learned to not try and change the norm here based solely on my confusion). The thing is, we just need to get some continuity going on here in my opinion. I've now just gotten into the habit of saying "Buenas." Punto. No mas. I don't know what time it is, nor do they, so we'll just go with the generic greeting. Plus, it makes more sense to just go with the flow instead of laughing at the woman at the bank who has now just said "Buenos dias" to me at 4 pm. Maybe she's just tired after a hard day's work.
1.4.10
Pascua.
Today is Day 1 of the feriado (holiday) here. Semana Santa. Holy Thursday. Anticipation of Christ's hands and feet being beaten into a cross by hands that didn't understand who He was. A tomb being opened for Him; after suffering an excruciating death, He is lain on the ground, wrapped in cloth, without breath. We can't forget that.
But Resurrection Sunday is coming, a day in which Christians celebrate a risen Jesus Christ. It really ought to be a celebration, a party; Jesus is alive! Death came, but life overcomes, and Jesus is alive.
"...that Christ died for our sins in accordance with the Scriptures, that He was buried, that He was raised on the third day in accordance with the Scriptures, and that He appeared to Cephas, then to the twelve.
-1 Corinthians 15:3-5
Last year I walked around Arequipa during this time and pondered the traditions that define this holiday. I was astounded at the idols, the images, the money being collected, the bells and fireworks going on, the processions, the people wearing crucifixes on their necks for three days only. It reminded me of the 18 years I was in bondage.
I forgot how it can be here, this "Holy" week. For some people, it's a time to cry and to mourn; for others, a time to party and to let themselves go with alcohol.
Today I wonder how I've contributed to the Kingdom in the last year. I'm not saying this in a manner of "works." I'm speaking from the perspective of a Follower of Christ who is called to speak the Good News: The Gospel of Jesus Christ.
Perhaps in a time that could be considered a crisis of faith, I've faltered in this. That's no excuse. May my life be a living sacrifice, regardless of how I might "feel." May my life speak and demonstrate what I believe. Am I a testament to the purpose of Christ's death and resurrection?...Am I living a life worthy of Jesus, being sanctified and becoming more like my Savior every day?
"By the grace of God I am what I am, and His grace toward me was not in vain.
-1 Corinthians 15:10a
These are questions to ask myself, to meditate on as I cry out to God to cleanse my heart.
I do hope Holy Week restores your faith, wherever you are. I'm praying it does mine. Let's remember that there is no mediator other than Jesus Christ, Son of the Living God, the great I AM. Born of a virgin girl, not a saint; made man while still God; completely perfect, offering us eternal life...and we can't earn it. We can't pray enough, we can't be good enough, we can't live or die enough.
It's just faith in Jesus.
"Now faith is the assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things not seen. For by [FAITH] the people of old received their commendation. By faith we understand that the universe was created by the Word of God, so that what is seen was not made out of things that are visible.
-Hebrews 11:1-3
But Resurrection Sunday is coming, a day in which Christians celebrate a risen Jesus Christ. It really ought to be a celebration, a party; Jesus is alive! Death came, but life overcomes, and Jesus is alive.
"...that Christ died for our sins in accordance with the Scriptures, that He was buried, that He was raised on the third day in accordance with the Scriptures, and that He appeared to Cephas, then to the twelve.
-1 Corinthians 15:3-5
Last year I walked around Arequipa during this time and pondered the traditions that define this holiday. I was astounded at the idols, the images, the money being collected, the bells and fireworks going on, the processions, the people wearing crucifixes on their necks for three days only. It reminded me of the 18 years I was in bondage.
I forgot how it can be here, this "Holy" week. For some people, it's a time to cry and to mourn; for others, a time to party and to let themselves go with alcohol.
Today I wonder how I've contributed to the Kingdom in the last year. I'm not saying this in a manner of "works." I'm speaking from the perspective of a Follower of Christ who is called to speak the Good News: The Gospel of Jesus Christ.
Perhaps in a time that could be considered a crisis of faith, I've faltered in this. That's no excuse. May my life be a living sacrifice, regardless of how I might "feel." May my life speak and demonstrate what I believe. Am I a testament to the purpose of Christ's death and resurrection?...Am I living a life worthy of Jesus, being sanctified and becoming more like my Savior every day?
"By the grace of God I am what I am, and His grace toward me was not in vain.
-1 Corinthians 15:10a
These are questions to ask myself, to meditate on as I cry out to God to cleanse my heart.
I do hope Holy Week restores your faith, wherever you are. I'm praying it does mine. Let's remember that there is no mediator other than Jesus Christ, Son of the Living God, the great I AM. Born of a virgin girl, not a saint; made man while still God; completely perfect, offering us eternal life...and we can't earn it. We can't pray enough, we can't be good enough, we can't live or die enough.
It's just faith in Jesus.
"Now faith is the assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things not seen. For by [FAITH] the people of old received their commendation. By faith we understand that the universe was created by the Word of God, so that what is seen was not made out of things that are visible.
-Hebrews 11:1-3
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