Pamelita in Peru

Feliz Navidad

2011-12-24T09:50:00.001-05:00

Christmas 2011 - my first one as a married woman. Certainly this holiday is special as my husband and I celebrate together, blending the favorite aspects of our respective families' traditions with new ones that are uniquely ours. Recently we were sharing our favorite Christmas music and why our chosen songs were meaningful to us; after reflecting on this conversation, I would like to share a piece of our hearts and our stories with you, even as we share it with each other for the first time.

Collins has a particular affinity for O Holy Night. For him the song triggers fond childhood memories of going to church on Christmas Eve and listening to a close family friend, his 'Aunt Judy,' belting this song out in her amazing soprano voice during the annual candle light service. As he grew older, however, he began to pay attention to the lyrics and one particular verse came to hold significance for him. He explained to me that the words point to the promise that is fulfilled in the birth, life, death, and resurrection of Christ - nine brief lines sum up the gospel. Here are those words:

from 'O Holy Night'

Truly He taught us to love one another,
His law is love and His gospel is peace.
Chains he shall break, for the slave is our brother.
And in his name all oppression shall cease.
Sweet hymns of joy in grateful chorus raise we,
With all our hearts we praise His holy name.
Christ is the Lord! Then ever, ever praise we,
His power and glory ever more proclaim!
His power and glory ever more proclaim!

The song that speaks to my heart most powerfully is O Little Town of Bethlehem. Though I knew it from years of childhood church services, the first time I remember taking notice of it was back in the late 80's when Amy Grant released a jazzy rendition on her holiday album. It was a favorite of mine and my college friends because it was so catchy. I didn't consciously ponder the lyrics at that time, but I'm certain God used them to penetrate my heart unknowingly. It is no coincidence that, years later, after I had given my life to Christ, my church's tradition was to sing one verse of the song each week of Advent, culminating in singing the entire carol at the midnight candle light service on Christmas Eve. During those years the words took on new meaning - one verse in particular - because it speaks to the way I came into relationship with Jesus - quietly, silently, very unassumingly:

from 'O Little Town of Bethlehem'

How silently, how silently
The wondrous gift is given!
So God imparts to human hearts
The blessings of His heaven.
No ear may hear His coming,
But in this world of sin,
Where meek souls will receive him still,
The dear Christ enters in.

As I have observed Advent with my Peruvian brothers and sisters this year, my heart has been filled to overflowing each Sunday as we sang Noche de Paz, the Spanish version of Silent Night. Throughout the past three years, I have heard many familiar tunes played and sung, but the words are always at least slightly different. Some of them are as close to a literal translation as possible, while other lyrics must be altered significantly to convey a meaning that can be understood by Spanish speakers. For me, the words always seem so much more powerful in Spanish - I attribute that to the fact that I am in love with the language, and, as a result, I hear the words with fresh ears because they are not in my native tongue. I am struck most by the simplicity of the words that are so heavily charged with implication for all of humanity:

from 'Noche de Paz' (Silent Night)

Noche de paz, noche de amor,
(Night of peace, night of love,)
Todo duerme en derredor;
(All around everyone sleeps;)
Sobre el santo niño Jesús
(Over the holy baby Jesus)
Una estrella esparce su luz,
(One star disperses its light)
Brilla sobre el Rey
(Shining over the King)
Brilla sobre el Rey.
(Shining over the King.)

And so I share a little piece of us (myself, Collins, and my Peruvian family) with you. As I read over this I am aware of how unbelievably blessed I am: first in the fact that God would choose to put on human skin and become part of finite time and space so that we may have opportunity to join Him in eternity, second that He has allowed me to marry a man who finds His life's meaning in the same place I find my own, and third that I am privileged to be welcomed into a culture that is not my own as though I were one of their own. This, my friends, is a true gift of Christmas.

Financial Security

2011-12-19T12:00:00.001-05:00

No other time of the year brings my financial insecurities and issues to the foreground like Christmas does. I'll spare you the soapbox lecture on gross consumerism, abhorrent materialism, and outright greed - all of which turn me to a most brilliant shade of florescent lime green and color me 'GRINCH.' After literally spending years getting out from under a mountain of debt, I am sensitive to even the slightest bit of economic pressure. My most recent money woes began with getting married earlier this year so that there are now two people to be considered in all matters financial instead of just one (not to mention two families to buy Christmas and birthday presents for). Then they branch out to a constantly declining foreign currency exchange rate (which means the dollar is steadily losing its value against the Peruvian Nuevo Sol and effectively destroying my budget), to a loss of donors (not a good thing when 100% of your salary is based on fundraising), to rising insurance premiums (the likes of which take a bigger bite out of my budget than any other single line item), to a basically non-existent retirement account (kissed that good-bye when I left teaching). Add it all up and it amounts to absolute panic.

I have been in 'freak-out' mode for a while now. Being the chronic worrier that I am, I seldom rest in the promise of 'manna.' Thankfully my husband remains grounded and frequently talks me down off the ledge when chaos rules my brain. He reminds me of the fact that, thanks to God's supernatural provision almost twelve years ago, I became debt-free in just six years rather than the ten years my financial advisor projected. He points out, again, the evidence of God's faithfulness in my pre-mission field fundraising, making it possible for me to move to Peru a year sooner than I originally planned. And he readjusts my point of view so that there, in plain sight, are the countless little ways God meets our every need - things like that unexpected check in the mail from someone who is not a regular donor, or the women's Bible study group whose shopping spree stocks me with a year's worth of shampoo, toothpaste, dryer sheets, and blueberry muffin mix, and the list goes on. Then I feel ashamed. Why are things like this impossible to forget when times are good, but so hard to remember when things seem bleak?

God obviously knows that I've been engaged in a spiritual struggle over finances lately. Not willing to pass up an opportunity to humble me and screw my head back on straight, He orchestrated a string of 'coincidences' that have taken my eyes off of myself and lifted my gaze up and away once again. The first proverbial smack in the face was the Holy Spirit leading me into a study of the book of James:

1:27 - Religion that God our Father accepts as pure and faultless is this: to look after orphans and widows in their distress and to keep oneself from being polluted by the world.

2:5 - Listen, my dear brothers: Has not God chosen those who are poor in the eyes of the world to be rich in faith…?

2:15-16 - Suppose a brother or sister is without clothes and daily food. If one of you says to him, 'Go, I wish you well; keep warm and well fed,' but does nothing about his physical needs, what good is it?

4:1-3 - What causes fights and quarrels among you? Don't they come from your desires that battle within you? You want something but don't get it. You kill and covet, but you cannot have what you want. You quarrel and fight. You do not have, because you do not ask God. When you ask, you do not receive, because you ask with wrong motives, that you may spend what you get on your pleasures.

4:13-14 - Now listen, you who say, 'Today or tomorrow we will go to this or that city, spend a year there, carry on business and make money.' Why, you do not even know what will happen tomorrow. What is your life? You are a mist that appears for a little while then vanishes.

5:1,3 - Now listen, you rich people, weep and wail because of the misery that is coming upon you…You have hoarded wealth in the last days.

5:16 - Therefore confess your sins to each other and pray for each other so that you may be healed. The prayer of a righteous man is powerful and effective.

WOW! The Lord skipped right over my superficial issues and went straight to the state of my soul. As a result, Collins and I have had some pretty heavy conversations about our (well, mainly MY) attitude about money and feeling the need to hoard every penny, afraid of what unexpected expenses the future might bring, when we're already living on salaries so small that were we each living alone Collins would just be getting by and I would have already been evicted. We determined that we are holding on too tight and decided that the proper course of action is to pry our fingers off of some money and give sacrificially, trusting God to meet our needs as we meet the needs of others. This is a leap of faith, folks, but we're stepping out on that limb nonetheless - and I'm a little scared. Scratch that…I'm terrified!

But God didn't stop there. Over the course of the past week I had the pleasure of spending time with some Peruvian pastor friends. We covered a variety of topics throughout our lengthy discussions, but no matter what theme we strayed to, our conversation always seemed to come back to money. It started with a discussion centered around a pastor who was angry that his gringo friends, who visit his church several times a year, were not giving him money. His perception is that they are white and North American, therefore they are wealthy (relatively speaking he is correct!). He attempted to manipulate them (the gringos) by refusing to open the church and hold services for several weeks, then threatened to abandon the church altogether. A member of his congregation dared to approach the pastor and point out the error in his thinking. This man told his minister that their duty as Christians is to look to God, not man, for provision. Now there's an idea - trust God - look to Him to meet my needs. Hmmm...

Yet another pastor, with whom I was whiling away the morning, spoke of church members who not only refuse to tithe, but will not give any amount of money to the church. Regular home visits with his congregants yields the same story; family after family informs him that if they put change in the offering plate, then they will go hungry at least that day, possibly longer. His response? He quoted Malachi 3:10 and challenged them to put God to the test . He told them that they don't know how to give and, as a result, they don't receive; if they want to be blessed, they must first be a blessing. Ok, now God really had my attention. For the people in these jungle villages, any giving is sacrificial, so who am I to refuse to dig deeper into my pockets and give until it hurts?

And just yesterday I was reading The Christian Atheist: Believing in God but Living As If He Doesn't Exist by Craig Groeschel. The chapter entitled When You Believe in God but Trust More in Money drove home the lessons God has been teaching me in recent weeks. I invite you to ponder the following statements with me:

"Instead of comparing ourselves with our neighbors, we need to compare ourselves with the rest of the world. More than half of the people on earth live on less than two dollars a day in conditions of incredible squalor and hardship. The reality is that most of us in North America are filthy rich."

"I always told myself, one day when we have a certain amount saved, then I'll feel secure. Yet each time I crossed that imaginary line of security, my line moved. What before seemed like more than enough suddenly didn't feel like close to enough. After serious prayer and reflection, I realized what I was doing. I was placing my trust in money instead of in God."

"Americans are not known for being sacrificially generous. In fact, 21 percent of consistent American church members don't give anything to their church - not a single cent. Seventy-one percent of Christians give less than 2 percent of their income. Yet the Bible is clear that Christians are called to give generously, lest they start trusting money until it becomes their god."

"Hearing that you should give a full 10 percent often induces involuntary seizures. 'What!?' people exclaim, dumbfounded. 'To give 10 percent would mean I'd have to totally rearrange my life!' Exactly! You get to rearrange your life around God!"

"The Christian Atheist justifies himself: 'Sure, I'll give…as long as it doesn't lower my standard of living.'"

And the crowning statement - the one that addresses the primary issue that drives me into 'Grinchdom' every year as the news reports millions of dollars of sales and people buy thousands of gifts for those who already have everything they could ever need or want anyway, and as I feel the financial pressure to buy those same types of gifts, spending money that, for me, is not disposable and would be better spent on things of eternal significance - is this:

"At Christmas this year…we sat down with our kids and proposed a much different plan than their usual wish lists for the latest and best toys, games, and clothes. We asked the kids if they would consider not giving or receiving presents this year. Instead, we would give what we'd normally spend to support an orphanage…After hearing about the children who have nothing, my six - who have almost everything - happily voted unanimously in favor of this decision. It was probably the best Christmas we've ever had."

It's a lot to chew on, I know. But it seems to me the choice is very simple, albeit difficult: trust God or not.

Blessings

2011-11-24T14:28:00.001-05:00

Today is just another work day in Iquitos, Peru, but back home in the U.S. you all are celebrating Thanksgiving. It's that time of year again when we pause to count those things for which we are thankful - family, friends, jobs, children, grandchildren, church families - the things we deem 'good' in our lives. But when is the last time we thanked God for our troubles? I know, I know - you think I've lost my mind. Or have I? In my recent study of the book of James, I was greeted immediately with these words from the opening chapter:

Consider it pure joy, my brothers,
whenever you face trials of many kinds,
because you know that the testing
of your faith develops perseverance.
Perseverance must finish its work
so that you may be mature and complete,
not lacking anything.

James 1:2-4

Are you kidding me? I'm supposed to be joyful in the hard times of my life? I should trust that something beneficial is being accomplished in my misery? If you're like me, you are 'thankful' to fast forward through those moments/days/seasons of life. Yet the reality of the Scriptures is that God not only allows difficulties to befall me, He goes a step further and works in those trying times to further mold me into the person He intends me to be. If trials are blessings, then the past couple of years have left me with my cup overflowing. I should be one of the most grateful people in the world; and I am.

In January 2010, my husband and I took our first steps onto the path that would eventually take us to the altar. But before we said our "I Do's," we faced many months of criticism, judgment, and outright opposition to our relationship. My character, integrity, and entire Christian walk came under scrutiny. Gossip raged about me and my life became like a specimen in a lab with numerous 'scientists' jockeying for position around the microscope to take a look at me and perhaps even poke and prod me as well. While we were loved, encouraged, supported and defended by many in our respective families, in our church family, and among our friends, those who stood against us often did so in a very public, deeply hurtful way. It was a tribulation that would tear at the very core of our beings and test our faith like nothing else ever had. Collins bore the brunt of the attacks as he was on the front lines in the U.S., while I grieved and ached from a distance here in the jungle. We shared our individual and collective pain frequently with each other, and more than once wondered, out loud, why God was leading us in this direction when it was clearly filled with so much heartache. Innumerable prayers and days of poring through the Scriptures revealed to us that the accomplishing of His good and perfect will would not be pain free, nor should it be in light of the price that was paid for our salvation.

Now, nearly two years later, we are beginning to emerge from the desolation of the desert. Every day - 'poco a poco' as we say in Spanish - we realize just how blessed we have been by the trials we faced because they drove us straight into the outstretched arms of Jesus, both as a couple and as individuals. He became the only solace for our pain and we gained a most valuable insight - that we, one man and one woman, are ultimately unable to meet the most profound, soul-level needs of the other - only God can fill those voids, satisfy those yearnings, and bring peace in the midst of turmoil. As a result, on April 16, 2011, our marriage began firmly and completely rooted in God as our foundation. It is virtually impossible not to be grateful for this truth that we could not fully grasp were it not for ' our light and momentary troubles' (II Corinthians 4:17). I invite you to join Collins and me in counting all that we encounter in our lives as blessings - the good as well as the not-so-good.

And so I leave you on this Thanksgiving day with lyrics penned by my precious friend, Laura Story:

'Blessings' - by Laura Story

We pray for blessings; we pray for peace
Comfort for family, protection while we sleep
We pray for healing, for prosperity
We pray for Your mighty hand to ease our suffering
But all the while You hear each spoken need
Yet love us way too much to give us lesser things

CHORUS
'Cause what if Your blessings come through raindrops
What if Your healing comes through tears
What if a thousand sleepless nights
Are what it takes to know You're near
What if trials of this life are Your mercies in disguise

We pray for wisdom, Your voice to hear
We cry in anger when we cannot feel You near
We doubt Your goodness; we doubt Your love
As if every promise from Your word is not enough
And all the while You hear each desperate plea
But long that we'd have faith to believe

Repeat CHORUS

When friends betray us; when darkness seems to win
We know the pain reminds this heart that this is not, this is not our home
It's not our home

'Cause what if Your blessings come through raindrops
What if Your healing comes through tears
What if a thousand sleepless nights
Are what it takes to know You're near
What if my greatest disappointments, or the aching of this life
Is the revealing of a greater thirst this world can't satisfy
And what if trials of this life: the rain, the storms, the hardest nights
Are Your mercies in disguise

***Laura Story, originally from Spartanburg, SC, is an up and coming artist on the Christian music scene. She won a Dove Award in 2008 for Inspirational Album and has since been nominated twice for Female Vocalist. You can find her music on iTunes and YouTube, or you may visit her website at laurastorymusic.com.***

Picture It…If You Can

2011-11-17T21:32:00.001-05:00

I would love to be able to supply you with photographic evidence of this, but Villa ran before I could stop laughing and get a steady enough hand to take the picture. But I think a mental image will do you just fine!

Today we have had a true 'rainy season' day. The morning consisted of intermittent showers interrupted by sunshine and extreme humidity. By around 1:30 p.m., though, the sky opened up and the torrential tropical downpour began. At first I was kicked back, enjoying the soothing effects of the rain - hanging with my pups and doing a little reading - when Villa returned from lunch. About the same time, the wind picked up and I decided I should probably make my rounds of the house to be sure none of the rooms were getting wet due to open windows. I shrieked and panicked as soon as I got to the room that serves as both the pharmacy and the Medical Missions office. I flashed back to my British Literature and caught myself quoting Samuel Taylor Coleridge's poem The Rime of the Ancient Mariner - 'water, water everywhere.' And there was water alright - LOTS of it - but the wind had nothing to do with it. It was raining down the inside of the exterior wall as well as through the ceiling rendering the accountant's computer thoroughly doused.

While I was in the house trying to do technological damage control and get the computer out of the water, wiped down, and in front of a fan to dry out (I have no idea if the computer will ever work again - and given that I'm not fond of the mix of electricity and water it won't be me who tests it), Villa scaled the roof to discover that an overabundance of leaves had clogged the gutters and the pile up left the rain nowhere to go but through the roof, soaking the ceiling tiles, thus creating a one inch pool of water in both the office and an adjoining bedroom. Villa cleaned the roof off and I began alternately soaking and wringing the mop to get the standing water taken care of (this job was way too big for a few towels).

When all was said and done we were both sopping wet. Not a problem for me - I live here and so do my clothes; Villa, however, is not so fortunate. Having been on the roof during the worst of the downpour, he looked like he'd just emerged from the Amazon after a swim. I offered to throw his clothes in the dryer, but he said he didn't have anything else to wear, so he asked for a towel and headed to the pond house to wring out his clothes before he headed home. About 15 minutes later he appeared at the back door wearing only the towel, socks, and tennis shoes (he'd gone onto the roof barefooted so these were dry), and holding his clothes in his hands saying that after he showered the clothes were just too cold and wet to put back on, wanting to know if I would give them a spin in the dryer. I said of course I would, but first I needed to get my camera to take a picture of him and I exploded laughing. As I bolted for the camera, he dropped his clothes in the doorway and, holding the towel securely in place so as not to scar me for life, took off running for the pond house again. I tried to tail him, but afraid of falling again and actually getting hurt this time I couldn't keep up with him in my flip-flops on the slick concrete and he got away. I was laughing too hard to get anything other than a blur anyway. After that he hid and wouldn't come back; he yelled from a distance, somewhere out of sight, for me to leave his dry clothes sitting on top of the dryer and he would come get them and put them on. Ordering me to go back in the house, to close the door, and to stay away from the windows he said, and I quote, "I don't trust you with that camera because you will send the picture to everybody in the U.S. and they will laugh at me." What can I say? He's got me pegged.

Did I mention that I absolutely love this life here?

Slippin' and Slidin'

2011-10-30T17:26:00.001-04:00

Life in the world of full-time foreign missions is a regular, daily exercise in intensely spiritual and emotional experiences; both the highs and the lows come with the territory and lead me into fuller, deeper communion with God - for that I am grateful. But not everything about mission work is heavy. There are everyday occurrences that require laughter as a coping mechanism (i.e. dealing with cultural and language issues), and others that are just outright hilarious.

If we had seasons here we would be entering spring, but since we are situated only about 3.5 degrees below the equator - so close we can almost touch this imaginary line - the climate here is pretty consistent year round (other areas of Peru are jealous when they are in the throes of winter). Instead we jungle people distinguish our seasons using the terms 'rainy' and 'dry' (which is subject to questioning because we often have as much rain during the 'dry' season as we do in 'rainy'). We are entering what is considered the official 'rainy season.'

Last week brought several days of torrential rain to Iquitos. On Thursday morning, during a particularly potent downpour, I was scheduled to meet with the architect in charge of the new construction here on the Jardin property at 7 a.m. Having spent so much time on this property over the past 5 years, I am well aware that the dampness and dense foliage in here produces algae, and this said algae makes itself at home on concrete surfaces. It doesn't take a rocket scientist to figure out that algae and rain make a very slick combination. Because I am aware of this, however, I was being overly cautious as Villa and I headed out the back door of the main house and across the property to the construction area. Walking gingerly, I paid close attention to the sidewalk, avoiding spots with the potential for disaster. But on this day, caution would not be enough…

The gigantic rain drops pelted me, slapping my jacket with a steady rhythm, as the fatal moment arrived. It happened so fast, yet it was as if I was moving in slow motion. Mere steps away from my destination, I placed my flip-flop clad foot down and began what can only be described as a half-split, followed by a partial back-bend and full leg extension, accompanied by a backstroke motion (ensuring that my upper back hit the concrete first), followed by the painful thud of my rear, winding down into a rocking motion, and ending with me lying flat on my back in a full stretch (arms overhead, elongated body and all). I'll allow you a break here to recover from the hysterical laughter you are now experiencing as a result of the mental picture of my crash.

In reality the fall took about 15 seconds (or less) from start to finish, but it seemed more like 5 minutes as I watched Villa reaching out for me in his unsuccessful attempt to catch me, or at least help break my fall while shouting "No, Pamelita, No, Pamelita, No Pamelita!" Perhaps the highlight of my slippin' and slidin' was lying on the algae coated concrete (my legs actually came to rest in a sopping wet pile of deteriorating leaves) in the pouring rain, most of my clothes and body now covered in muck, listening to the construction workers cheering and clapping. Evidently I delivered an award-winning performance.

Luckily my sense of humor was not injured in the least - my first reaction was to laugh. Other than a sore wrist and a still-aching tail bone, no harm was done, and three days later I chuckle heartily when I think about how I must have looked on my way down.

You'll be happy to know that business did not suffer - I picked my filthy, dirty self up, walked over to the engineer, shook his hand, and met with him as planned.

And So Goes My Life…

2011-08-29T23:04:00.002-04:00

It has been a little more than a week now since the last gringo mission team departed from Iquitos, and it feels very strange to be in the house and on the property alone after 12 weeks of guests. I'd like to be able to say that things have slowed down a bit, but so far that hasn't happened. Bringing a mission team season to a close and getting adjusted to work without gringos again is more involved than you might think.

While life here may remain busy, it is never dull, routine, or boring. Just this morning, as I was getting my day started around 7:30 a.m., I heard the dogs going berserk. Such behavior at that time of day usually indicates that some scared animal (typically a cat) has either gotten trapped and cannot get away from them, or is already in the process of an untimely demise. So out the back door I went, whistling and calling their names. As I exited the house, I saw Dolly pawing at the door of one of the storage rooms, barking ferociously with Tamy jockeying for position and a chance to illustrate the euphemism "fighting like cats and dogs." About that same time I heard "meow," and another "meow" coming from inside the storage room. But something sounded weird, unnatural about this cat. Thinking that it had already been attacked and managed to get away from the salivating beasts that roam my yard so it could pass from this world in a somewhat peaceful manner, I grabbed Dolly by the collar, dragging her away from the door while Tamy followed.

The next sound I heard was laughing; it was a very familiar, unmistakable giggle. I turned to see Villa emerging from the storage room where he had been hiding and "meowing." It seems he needed some entertainment to get the week started properly and thought the best way to achieve that was to taunt the dogs. Who does that??? He even went so far as to tell me that he plays practical jokes on the dogs all the time when I'm in the U.S. and it's just the three of them living here together. I have no idea exactly what that means and I don't want to know!

Suffice it to say that Villa continues to recover nicely from his gall bladder surgery.

I Got Married!

2011-06-12T11:59:00.003-04:00

While there are not enough pages in cyber space to recount the journey I've taken during the last 18 months, suffice it to say that a lot has been going on in my personal life - which, at least in part, accounts for the decreased number of blog posts.

In January 2010 my entire world was turned upside down. While I was in the U.S. celebrating the holidays with my family and friends, Collins McCraw informed me that after six months of prayer he was sure that I was the woman he was supposed to marry. For so many reasons this was a complete shock to me, not the least of which was that I had moved to Iquitos to start a new life and a new career here. Isn't that just like God? To interrupt my plan with His own?

Collins and I embarked on a journey that would change us, and many people around us, forever. We have faced obstacles and encountered hardships that we never imagined would come our way; and we have known joy and deep peace like no other time in our lives as well. We have learned what it means to keep our eyes focused on God and move forward one step at a time while a storm is raging around us. A number of years ago an older woman that I was in a prayer meeting with approached me and told me she had a word from the Lord for me. She held my face in her hands and looked intently, deliberately into my eyes as she spoke the simple but profound words that I have never forgotten: "The waves are crashing all around you dear one. You will feel like you are drowning. But have no fear, because you will look at Jesus and you will walk on water. Tears come at night, my love, but joy surely does come in the morning." Other than recognizing the biblical images and references in her words, I had no idea why she was speaking them to me. At that point my life was on an even keel, I was happy and content, and everything was going my way. Not too far into the future, though, the waters would become choppy and I would go back to those words repeatedly to get me through that particular moment's trial. But it wouldn't be until Collins and I began our relationship that I would understand the fullness of her prophetic phrases.

As I begin anew with my blogging efforts, parts of my story with Collins will surface as God reveals to me, one piece at a time, the purpose of that leg of the journey and how it fits into the big picture of His perfect plan for me. I have come to understand in a new way that the events of my life are not compartmentalized into personal and professional; they are not categorized into friends, family, colleagues and enemies. Rather they are all intricately woven together to create a work of art. God takes even the most severely broken pieces of my life and turns them into something stunning. The exchange of beauty for ashes is breathtaking.

God has always known the deep desire of my heart to find a soul mate and to be married; but, he also knows my tendency to lose sight of Him and to allow my priorities to become disordered. So He delivered the answer to a lifetime of prayers in such a way that He, and only He, would receive the glory. He took me down a path that would not allow Collins to become the object of my worship. I can say with absolute certainty that you would not be looking at the picture below if I had not kept my eyes fixed completely on God over the past year and a half. I know Collins would say the same.

"You will seek me and find me when you seek me with all your heart." ~ Jeremiah 29:13. My life's verse has taken on a whole new meaning for me and that is that God is present even in the darkest moments, but I can't see Him if I'm not looking for Him. While it is true that in the marriage relationship a man and woman are to pursue each other and make each other a priority, it will all be wasted energy if each is not first actively pursuing the most significant love of all in a deep and abiding relationship with the God of the universe.

I leave you today with these words:
To God be the glory for the things He has done…
A Dios sea la gloria por lo que hizo por mi…

April 16, 2011

Johnny

2011-04-01T18:41:00.002-04:00

I met Johnny two years ago on my first visit to a local AIDS Hospice House here in Iquitos called Casa Hogar - Algo Bello Para Dios, which roughly means "Home -Something Beautiful for God." At that time Johnny was HIV-positive, but had not yet developed full-blown AIDS. I do not know how Johnny contracted the deadly virus, and I didn't ask, because it was none of my business; all I know is that he had to be good medicine for the patients because he had a brilliant smile that brought light to a dark place. Johnny was a very young man, in his 20's, and appeared healthy, but he knew what the future held for him. For that reason he came to the hospice every day to help attend to those who were suffering and facing imminent death. He knew that one day, sooner than he would like, he would need that same care, and so he gave what he knew he would want to receive were it him lying in one of those beds: a smile, a kind word, a ministry of presence, in addition to help with bathing, dressing, and eating. Living in a city where access to antiretroviral medications is virtually non-existent, and being so poor that he couldn't afford them anyway, Johnny's fate was sealed. But he didn't let that stop him from loving and being loved, from helping and being helped.

I looked forward to my visits to the hospice because I knew I would see my buddy. Though I took the time to sit and chat with all the patients, I always spent a little extra time with Johnny. It made me happy to be around him. How ironic.

Throughout the two years that I knew him, I watched Johnny's health begin to deteriorate. I watched him move from being a volunteer worker at the hospice, to a patient in one of the beds. I saw his physical body change from that of a healthy young man, to a skeleton with skin. The one thing that never changed, however, was that contagious smile. The last time I saw Johnny was in December and he was bedridden, in constant pain, unable to swallow and therefore couldn't eat, and unable to talk, with his only sounds being grunts or moans. When I walked into his room, in spite of his suffering, his face lit up with that signature gigantic grin. Though he couldn't answer me, I talked to him anyway. I told him I knew he was in pain, and watched as he shook his head yes while the tears rolled out of his eyes down the side of his face. I prayed for him, told him I was going to the U.S. to be with my family for Christmas, but that I would see him when I got back to Iquitos. As I walked out that day, I knew in my heart that he wouldn't be there when I returned.

On my first visit to the hospice in 2011, I learned that Johnny slipped into eternity on New Year's Eve. Man, do I miss him. I was over there just this week and had the privilege of not only talking with the patients, but also presenting each one with a new mattress, a sheet, a pillow, a towel, a toothbrush and toothpaste, a bar of bath soap, and a package of laundry detergent. (A huge thank you to Betty Fleming's Sunday School class at Fountain Inn Presbyterian Church for their donation that enabled the purchase of these items for the AIDS patients!) It was a happy time of being able to give and enjoy watching them receive, but, for me, there was an emptiness. There will always be a gaping hole that Johnny left when he passed away.

The caskets lined up in a row along a wall down one of the halls in the hospice house are a poignant reminder that life is fleeting. It reminds me of the urgency of our call as Christians to spread the Gospel. And it has caused me to wrestle with the questions: "What exactly am I doing to really witness to others and share Jesus with them?;" "Can I do more?;" "Did I love my family, my friends, my enemies today in the way I should?;" "Will I have regrets if they are not here tomorrow?;" and "Will I be greeted with the phrase, 'Well done good and faithful servant' if I should be called home today?" If I'm honest, I'm not totally thrilled with some of my answers to these questions, which poses the ultimate question, "What am I going to do about it?"

Adios, Johnny. My life would be less today if I had never met you. You are missed.

Gratitude

2010-11-21T12:30:00.015-05:00

Where does the time go? It's hard to believe that Thanksgiving is only a few days away, that Christmas is just around the corner, and that another year is quickly drawing to a close. Yet once again it is that time of year when we pause to count our blessings. As I begin my 2010 list of thanks, I find myself pondering exactly what it means to be grateful. After looking up the word in the dictionary and tossing around ideas of how others might define it, I'm going to function from the following definition that I have crafted from my brainstorming and research:

grateful - adj. - deeply and abidingly appreciative and thankful to God for His deliverance and His blessing

God has abundantly and extravagantly blessed me:

With a biological family that loves and supports me - my parents, brother, sister-in-law, niece, aunts, uncles, cousins, and the precious grandparents who touched my life for such a very short time before they went home ahead of me. In some shape or fashion they all helped raise me in the way that I should go, then they set me free to wander, to stray, to struggle, and to return, rejoicing and suffering with me, all the while understanding that I belong to God and His plan for my life is perfect.

With a spiritual family that was in place before I ever knew I needed one or cared whether or not I had one, and remains in place, lifting me up at times and in ways of which I am totally unaware - First Presbyterian, Calvary Baptist, and First Baptist Churches, Ware Shoals, SC; the Baptist Student Union at Wofford College; Westminster Presbyterian Church, Spartanburg, SC; First Presbyterian Churches of Huntington, WV, Jefferson City, MO, and Sumter, SC, First Scots Presbyterian Church, Charleston, SC, Middle Octorara Presbyterian Church, Quarryville, PA; the Presbyterian Churches of Peru in Iquitos, Santa Clara, Nuevo Valentin, Gallito, Quistacocha, Santo Tomas, Tamshiyacu, and Santa Maria. These individual fellowships, for me, form one body that, past, present, and future, surround me with grace and mercy.

With an opportunity to work and serve on two continents, in two countries, using two languages, living in two cultures, thus multiplying both my trials and my rewards. But without the first, what good, really, is the latter?

With a foreign family - Edgardo Villa, Margarita Diaz, Ina Lopez, Maria Lopez, Maria Helmi, Jorge and Martha Foinquinos, German and Enith Rios, Clever and Reina Rengifo, Guillermo and Graciela Flores, Edward and Soila Huaman, Rony and Maria Pilco, Ricardo and Lupe Jara. These and countless other Peruvians open their hearts, homes, and respective families to me, taking me in as the lone white person among the brown people, and loving me as one of their own, proving day after day, minute by minute that genuine love is blind and in Christ we are all one.

With one man - Collins McCraw - who loves me more than I deserve to be loved by another human being. He turned my life upside down back in January and started us down a path toward unconditional love and lifetime commitment. He comes alongside me and joins me in a mutual pursuit of the God who made us and saves us. God has chosen him to be the answer to and ultimate fulfillment of thirteen years of my heart's cry for a mate. This relationship has not been easy and has come with a great price and significant sacrifice, making it all the more valuable. It is not difficult to submit myself to the man who has already, in so many ways, laid down his life for mine.

I thank God for all of this and so much more. I am especially grateful for the many trials and tribulations of this year, and 2010 has had more than its fair share of them. Yes, I know it sounds strange to make such a statement and I even find myself looking at the previous sentence and wondering who in their right mind could say that. Yet it's only in the tough times that deliverance can be experienced. I have learned so much more about who I am, but more importantly about who God is. The refiner's fire is painful, no doubt, but there is also no denying the beauty that is a result of the burn.

I have been delivered and I have been blessed, and for this I am deeply and abidingly appreciative and thankful to God.

Ladder Climbing Dog

2010-10-28T11:21:00.002-04:00

For those of you who wonder what my "normal," "day-to-day" life is like in Iquitos, here's a glimpse into my morning so far:

The municipality contacted me to tell me that the trees growing inside El Jardin are hanging over the wall on the street side, making a nice, shady canopy for those traversing the sidewalk. The problem is, they are also sitting on power lines. Obviously, because the trees originate on the Jardin property, it is our responsibility to cut them. And if we don't do so immediately we will be facing a fine and still have the responsibility to cut them. Now, that all makes perfect sense and I don't disagree - except for the fact that the previous time this happened, the municipality took care of the tree trimming because of the danger in working around the power lines. (Thus the reason I have not arranged for them to be cut; naturally I assumed it would be taken care of once again.) When I tried to explain that to the man he assured me that such a thing had NEVER happened because they do not operate that way (so now I'm crazy - which might be a legit point - and I imagined the trees being cut along with the conversation that lead to them being cut by someone that I did not hire to do so).

Anyway, rather than argue with the guy over the municipality's 'rules' (subject to change depending on who you talk to), Villa and I started scrambling to find a tree trimmer. So we find one, negotiate a price with him, and get him started working, because I sure don't want to pay a fine (which would be some ridiculous, arbitrary amount based on what someone thinks this white girl is worth). Now the tree guy is busy hacking away at branches with his machete, Villa is supervising (of course), and I sit down in front of my computer to begin catching up on the emails I was not able to send/answer yesterday due to a 5 hour power outage (a regular occurrence these days).

I'm reading and typing when something in my peripheral vision gets my attention; I turn my head to the left to see Dolly's front legs stretched out so that her paws just reach the fourth step of the tree cutter's ladder, one hind leg is extended, barely touching the first rung, and the other hind leg is firmly planted on the second step as she continues to climb in pursuit of the man and his falling branches. With visions of a broken spine and imminent euthanasia resulting from less than adequate ladder scaling skills, rather than run for my camera, I ran for the dog. With all four of her feet planted safely on solid ground again, I almost wish I'd grabbed the camera first so that you skeptics would believe this actually happened (anyone who has met Dolly does not doubt the veracity of this story).

Just another "typical" day in the jungle. Now back to work...

Close to Crisis

2010-08-30T12:11:00.002-04:00

It's all the talk around town - on the TV news, in the papers, on the streets; Iquitos is approaching a water crisis. Due to lack of significant rainfall over the past couple of months (and, I'm sure, other geological, ecological, and environmental factors that I neither know about nor understand), the rivers are essentially drying up. According to local record keepers, the rivers are the lowest they have been in 40 years.

The consequences of this are numerous. Those who fish for a living are having difficulty getting into deep enough water to be able to catch anything. The river taxis and other boats are losing business - with each passing day it is harder to get into or out of the ports, or close enough to the villages and towns along the rivers to allow passengers to disembark (this in addition to general hazards in the rivers caused by the shallowness of the water). And Sedaloreto has already begun shutting down the city water system for brief periods of time each day in an effort to conserve water; the next step will be outright water rationing (for people who own the large water tanks this isn't too dire of a problem because they can retain enough water to bathe and cook each day - the problem will come for the poorest of the poor who only have small containers in which to store water in their homes). These and a host of other problems are lurking.

Please pray for significant rain. We need more than the light 15-20 minute showers we've been getting about once a week. We need those torrential downpours, the ones that last for hours and that the jungle is famous for. Though we are not at alarm stage yet, at this point we have to begin thinking about and preparing for the future.

For those who have never been here before, the following pictures won't mean much to you, but for the rest of you, well, you're in for a surprise!

Itaya River at the Boulevard
The land here is very green and beautiful, but it is typically under water. The ground is dry and solid as it has baked in the sun for weeks now and people walk out past the trees trying to get to what is left of the river out there to get water for washing and cooking. The picture was taken standing in front of the Medical Missions property on the Malecon - where the original Iquitos Presbyterian Church was located.

Itaya River at Puerto Huequito
This is the port the mission teams typically use for river travel. Notice the houses floating in the shallow inlet, blocked from moving by the sand bar that has surfaced.

Itaya River at Puerto Huequito
Past the sewer outlet (large concrete structure in foreground) you can see grounded boats here as well. Also you can see how far out the sandbar extended as well as the size of the riverbank past the sand bar.

Bella Vista Port on the Nanay River
If you look in the upper left hand corner you'll see the white building that is the Iquitos Boat Club - looking to the right of that you will see the grounded boats sitting on dry land. The distance across the Nanay to Santo Tomas is narrowing as the river dries up.

I Slept Through an Earthquake

2010-08-23T17:09:00.002-04:00

I've always known that I was a fairly sound sleeper (and I can snore pretty well too, so I'm told, though, of course, I don't believe it), but evidently my slumber is a little deeper than I realized. The neighboring country of Ecuador recently experienced a significant earthquake - somewhere between 6.9 and 7.1 - about 100 miles southeast of the capital city of Quito, putting its epicenter fairly close to the border of Peru. Thankfully the depth of the earthquake was estimated to be 115 miles below the Earth's surface, so direct impact and damage was minimal. The quake occurred just before 7 a.m. on a Thursday morning.

A day or two later Villa asked me if I had felt the house shaking on the Thursday morning in question. Naturally I looked at him and started laughing, because I assumed he was yanking my chain, as he frequently does. He swore he was serious, but then Villa has been known to tell a fish tale a time or two. When Ina arrived I asked her if anything strange had happened at her house early that Thursday morning, and without hesitating she said, "Yes, both of my girls and I woke up because our beds were shaking and we later heard on the news that there was an earthquake in Ecuador." Ok, so Villa got to Ina earlier and she was playing along. Better to do my research elsewhere. So, as I went about my business for the day, I started asking around and, sure enough, the answers were consistent with Villa's story; people reported feeling the floors in their homes tremble or being awakened because their beds were moving. Margarita also confirmed that the tremors awakened her patients in the hospital. Not a big deal, nothing scary, no dishes crashing to the floor, no glass shattering, nothing like that, just a very noticeable, however slight, movement of the tierra. And I slept right through it.

But there's another part to this story. Around 3 a.m. on the morning of the earthquake I woke up terribly thirsty. Villa and I had shared one of our favorite dishes for dinner the previous evening - fried rice with chicken, pork, and shrimp, doused in soy sauce, and all the salt and MSG was kicking in. As I stood in the light of the open refrigerator door gulping water from my old Young Life nalgene bottle, I heard the soft patter of water hitting the ground. I thought to myself, as I walked toward the window over the kitchen sink, 'how nice, we haven't had rain in several weeks now, we need it.' But as I arrived at the sink and looked out said open window, nothing was falling from the sky and the ground was perfectly dry, but still I was hearing drops of water. I didn't have to investigate long to find out where the sound was coming from, because as soon as I stepped into the screen porch room, there in the dim illumination of the lights on the path leading to the front gate was the answer. Dolly, my now 7 month old yellow lab, was hopping and jumping and splashing, having herself a grand old time in the fountain of water spewing forth from the small pvc tube of an old irrigation line she'd managed to locate and chew holes into. Like a pig in mud, literally, she couldn't have been enjoying herself more. I had no idea how long the water had been gushing, and visions of a whirling meter sent me running straight to Villa's room to wake him up and tell him we had work to do. Thus began the clean up and repair.

It took us until 4:30 a.m. to dig up more of the pipe, cut it off, add another, new piece of pipe to the cut off part, use matches and some kind of really sticky stuff to melt and seal up the end of the tube, then bury it again, all the while trying to keep Dolly out of the huge mud puddle she'd created (she thought that our descent to our hands and knees on the ground in her pool meant we had come to play with her). At this point we were soaking wet, covered in mud ourselves, and ready to keep digging a much bigger hole to put Dolly in - well, I was; Villa found the whole deal to be quite humorous. After a quick shower and a change of clothes, I went back to bed somewhere in the vicinity of 5 a.m., thoroughly exhausted. Is it any wonder I never felt the earth move?

Missionaries and Narcs

2010-07-10T11:38:00.002-04:00

Few, if any, of the many experiences I have had in Iquitos over the past eight years compare to last week's accosting on the high seas - or the high river (well, low river right now). Anyway, we're cruising down the Amazon, headed back to Iquitos after a hard day's work in the jungle village of Gallito. A few people on the boat are conversing over the scream of the outboard motor, some are catching a few zzzz's, while others are quietly contemplating a week well-spent and marveling over God's exquisite landscaping. Out of nowhere, a boat intersects us in the middle of the river. Our driver eases off the gas, then kills the engine, and, as we float closer to the mystery boat, the outlines of automatic and semi-automatic weapons take shape as extensions of the muscular arms holding them, pointing them skyward, followed by the menacing stare of a very large, very black, very serious Shepherd breed dog.

The large yellow letters on the black vests worn over black shirts and atop black pants and black combat boots (can you feel the sense of foreboding I felt at the moment?) by the handful of stern-faced, albeit handsome, Latino men on board indicated that they were with the Peruvian National Police - narcotics agents patrolling the Amazon for drug traffic. Most people would be thinking, no problem - we aren't drug mules, so we're in the clear. But panic struck me immediately as I tried to maintain a worry-free expression for the benefit of the mission team on my boat. First, we were carrying what can only be referred to as a 'butt-load of contraband.' As several of the mission team members were medical professionals, they had been conducting a basic medical clinic in Gallito, and on our boat were two large military green duffle bags loaded down with bags of ibuprofen, acetaminophen, naproxen, cold/flu/allergy meds, antiparasitics, vitamins, antibiotics just to name a few. Granted nothing was illegal, but when you have pale skin in a foreign land, legality doesn't necessarily mean much at times. I was deathly afraid the narcs were going to ask to see the contents of the bags, at which time I was going to have to step up and try to explain.

The other fear that plagued me in the moment was that we would be petitioned for a 'propina' in order to be released and sent on our way. 'Propina' literally means tip or gratuity, but also doubles as a polite way of saying bribe money. It is not uncommon for police officers (or anyone for that matter) in Peru to solicit propinas to do the job for which they are already being paid (but I will refrain from climbing onto my soap-box and preaching a laborious sermon on the injustice of that brand of crime). I knew that, if such talks began, there was only one way for the negotiations to go - south. If they were so inclined to demand bribes, the amounts would not be small; after all, these police officers were looking at a boat full of middle-class, white North Americans who, by Peruvian standards, would be classified as very wealthy on the socio-economic scale. I all but held my breath and prayed mightily that whatever the boat driver was saying to the head-honcho on the police boat would be an adequate explanation of who we were and what we were doing, would appeal to his sense of moral integrity, and would not result in me having to talk (because stress-laden, pressure filled situations like that guarantee a total loss of my ability to communicate effectively in Spanish).

Thankfully, within a few minutes we resumed our trek to Iquitos. After the collective sigh of relief, the trepidation turned to excitement over what had just taken place. Events like this, after they are over and everything turned out ok, make the best mission team stories. And the frighteningly exhilarating thrill of it all just might be what encourages a few hesitant bystanders to take the plunge and join next year's team on their Amazon Adventure!

Happy Anniversary…To…Me!

2010-06-15T22:14:00.004-04:00

One year ago today I began my new life as a missionary in Iquitos, Peru. I cannot believe it has already been a year. My how time flies. As I reflect on the past 12 months, a lot has happened, but today I find myself thinking about the funny stuff - the humor that has made the tough days easier, the good times even better, and has ultimately made this foreigner feel like she is at home. So I'll share with you a few glimpses of the lighter moments of this last year:

Countless nights I've been unable to sleep because my German Shepherd and Yellow Lab ran a cat up a tree and decided the best course of action was to sit at the base of the tree and bark to lure it down again, totally unmoved by my 3 a.m. threats to cut their tails off if they didn't hush.
The morning I went out to feed the maccaw only to find it hanging upside down by one foot after getting its leg wrapped up in some twine; it later bit both me and Villa as we were trying to get it unwrapped - some kind of thanks for saving its life.
Learning that the word "foca" means seal, as in a sea animal, and that the word "foco" means light bulb, and being told that it is not possible to purchase a foc'a' at the hardware store.
Over all the noise from the motokars in the street, hearing a horn playing, of all things, Dixie. I felt like I was being secretly video taped for a bad episode of The Dukes of Hazzard.
Visiting with the wife of one of the pastors after she had surgery - and just in case I didn't believe that she'd actually been operated on, she called for her daughter who brought out a large jar which contained her uterus.
Consulting with Villa on his "plan of war" to catch the neighbor who insists on putting his trash in front of our house instead of his own.
Observing the high class tastes of my Yellow Lab, Dolly, as she dives in the pond behind the house to retrieve snails; she then diligently works to crack the shell and extract her very own doggy escargot.
Coming back to Iquitos after a visit to the U.S. to find my washing machine would no longer work. Further investigation by the technician revealed that a couple of mice had taken up residence inside the machine while I was gone and chewed through most of the wires.
Watching Villa make what he referred to as 'poison sandwiches' to put in the storage room to kill our pet rat.
Shining my flashlight on the pond at night to locate the orange eyes of the alligator my friend Todd put there; then, witnessing its demise as one of the elders from the church next door removed it after I promised he could take it home and have it for dinner.
Laughing uncontrollably with Villa in church the next day when the preacher used an alligator story as an illustration in his sermon.
Rescuing a toad frog after Dolly, the Yellow Lab, decided he might be a toy for her to play with and was pawing him to death.
Chasing Dolly around the yard every time mail is delivered if she gets to the gate before I do. Let's just say that when she greets the mailman, the yard is soon decorated with very small pieces of water bills and bank statements.
The day I forgot the gate was bolted and didn't have my key to open it for one of the pastors. He didn't know I could see him through the peephole and later told me he thought God was speaking out loud to him in a woman's voice when he heard me calling his name telling him to wait for me to get the key.
Getting up in the morning to find feathers all over the door mat after Tamy, my German Shepherd, decided to have a bird for breakfast.

And these are just a few of the lighter moments that have made this one of the most amazing years of my life. I wish I could put into words everything about this time that has forever changed me. Not only do I have a much greater knowledge and better understanding of my Peruvian friends, but also of myself, and especially God. My 'head knowledge' has grown, and my 'heart knowledge' has deepened. I am totally humbled by this incredible opportunity that I have been given.

Poignant Quotes

2010-06-02T21:33:00.004-04:00

Cross-cultural relationships can be tricky, even difficult, but they can also be some of the most rewarding. It doesn't matter if those relationships are established among different cultures within the U.S., or if they develop as a result of foreign missions experiences in other countries. Any time people of different cultures, ethnicities, family backgrounds (or whatever else may be the basis for the differences) come together, unless there is an effort to get to know, to respect, and to understand each other, conflict will ensue. I do think, however, that if you are traveling to another country for the purpose of mission work, disaster relief, or any other area of service to those in need, especially if you are North American, you have a responsibility to step out of yourself and see things from the perspective of the locals you've come to serve. For many years now, long before I ever moved to Peru to live and work in the foreign mission field, I've been reading everything I can get my hands on about cross-cultural ministry and relations. Not surprisingly, there are threads of similarities, common themes that run throughout the literature, and we, as North Americans in search of ways to serve humanity, would do well to heed the suggestions and warnings made by those who've both walked the path before us, and remained behind to clean up the messes we make, however unintentional those messes may have been. For it is only when we step outside of ourselves that we can truly serve.

I recently read for a second time Duane Elmer's book Cross-Cultural Servanthood, Serving the World in Christlike Humility. I will share the bibliographical information on the book at the end of this blog post, but first I want to share what I think are some of the most poignant points of the book. These statements and passages have now made me uncomfortable twice, causing me to stop, to think, to ponder, to evaluate. If you are involved in cross-cultural ministry, whether in the U.S. or abroad, I hope you, too, will take the time to consider how the following quotes might apply to you. After all, our goal is to propagate the pure Gospel. My personal goal is to do so with as little interference from me as possible.

"Many [locals] said that they valued the [foreign] missionary presence and the love they felt from them. But many said…, 'Missionaries could more effectively minister the gospel of Christ if they did not think they were so superior to us'" (15).

"You can't serve someone you do not understand. If you try to serve people without understanding them, you are more likely to be perceived as a benevolent oppressor" (20).

"We [North Americans] see them with less economic goods, less hygiene, less schooling, less housing, less infrastructure, less spiritual maturity, less knowledge, and less 'toys.' We believe that we can help them. So we set out to tell them how it ought to be done. By that, we mean how we do it in the West. This 'telling' approach…rarely works at all anywhere today. But…people see it for what it is: pride" (92).

"We [think] we don't have to get close to our hosts, even while in their culture…We'd be better off getting on with the task rather than 'wasting time' talking with people and sharing their life experiences…since we already 'know' what they need. We turn others into objects…[In doing so] we create dependent relationships. Others rely on us for goals, direction, resources, nurture and status. Such dependency eventually turns bitter because it daily robs people of their dignity" (94-95).

"Unless we too connect deeply with the people of our host culture, we will neither see nor interpret their situation accurately: their pain, their values, their structures, their social limitations, their dreams…our well-meaning help won't fit their reality. The Christ we show them will be more North American than the true Christ…" (104).

"Witness not grounded in the local cultural realities has historically led to the claim that Christianity is a 'white man's religion' or 'foreigners' religion.' Jesus fits comfortably into all cultures, but we have to learn how to express him in the local context…We must also be careful not to mistake our own cultural values with biblical truth" (109-110).

"God says that truth is available through the Scripture and through creation…That means we may learn about God as we learn about other cultures. He has not revealed all of his knowledge and wisdom to the Western cultures alone or to any one culture. But each culture can make a significant contribution to our understanding about who God is and how he works in this world" (131).

"By choosing to be a servant, we relinquish power, control, and unilateral decision making in favor of listening, learning, and understanding, and emerge with a decision that reflects the wisdom of God and his people" (172).

I love foreign missions. I am in awe of those who serve abroad, giving up country, family, home, and numerous luxuries, whether for only a few years or for a lifetime; I aspire to be like them. I think short-term mission teams are great; they have the capacity to add to the body of Christ, but also to spiritually grow believers in both the host and visiting countries. I think Christians are at their best when they are reaching out to help those in need. Unfortunately, though, we (by 'we' I mean North Americans - gringos, if you will) do assume an air of superiority, most of the time without even realizing that is what we are doing. The attitude may be wholly unintentional, yet it is entirely devastating. I've been guilty of it myself. But (as our friendly highway patrolmen like to say when pulling us over) ignorance is no excuse. If we wish to be true disciples of the Gospel, we must make a conscious effort to leave behind all of our notions of how things 'should' be done, ideas about intelligence being directly related to levels of education, preconceptions about how worship 'ought' to be conducted, and schedules that are inflexible, leaving no room for relaxing and socializing - check these things at the U.S. border; you can pick them up again when you re-enter the country. Additionally, we must let go of the fears that plague us and either keep us from going, or hinder God from working through us, such as: fear of flying, fear of spiritual inadequacy, fear of language barriers, fear of unfamiliar foods, fear of insects, fear of hot/cold weather. If God has called you to go, He will equip you. As more than one friend has told me during this first year of my service in Peru, God does not expect us to be perfect, just faithful.

May we all, like Jesus, have the heart of a servant.

Elmer, Duane. Cross-Cultural Servanthood, Serving the World in Christlike Humility.

Downer's Grove, IL: InterVaristy Press,2006.

ISBN - 10 0-8308-3378-1 or ISBN - 13 978-0-8308-3378-8

Hot Dogs

2010-04-07T14:43:00.002-04:00

It used to take a lot to get me excited, but that was before I moved to Peru.

I hate grocery shopping just as much, if not more, here in Iquitos than I did in Spartanburg. At least in the 'Burg I can enjoy one-stop shopping at my friendly neighborhood Super Wal-Mart. In Iquitos, I make my shopping lists (yes, I said lists, plural) according to the market or supermarket where the necessary items can be found. Fresh fruits and vegetables are best purchased in the open-air markets where the vendors sell their locally grown produce. Spices (the American ones I'm familiar with) are located in a specific mini-market, which is the equivalent of a gas station store in size, only with more variety and options. A tienda (small store) inside the Belen Market has the best prices on toilet paper, paper towels, and household cleaning supplies. Super Mercado Piramides is the closest thing to an American grocery store here; it is a larger store with aisles and real grocery carts to push, and is the best place to find ground beef, fish, and chicken (the locals would disagree with me on that, but I am a gringa and I like to buy such things from a nice, refrigerated display case where I don't have to see the remains lying around from the untimely deaths of said animals while flies hover over the "fresh" meat). If I want a modest selection of imported items I go to Los Portales, a smaller version of Piramides.

It was at Los Portales two weeks ago that I spied, for the first time, actual American hot dogs (as opposed to their Peruvian counterparts whose color alone encourages you to say, 'No thanks, I think I'll pass') and real hot dog buns to boot. It was all I could not to start screaming "HOT DOGS!!!" at the top of my lungs, and start running around in circles doing my best impression of Macauley Culkin in Home Alone. I promptly purchased said hot dogs and buns. Later that day I whipped up some chili, chopped up an onion, made sure I wasn't running low on mustard, and had the biggest, messiest hot dog ever. I thought I was in heaven.

Villa is a human guinea pig, or garbage disposal as the case may be. In his words, "Pamelita, you know I can't say no to food, no matter what kind it is." A couple of days ago I bought more hot dogs and buns. Upon seeing the buns on the kitchen counter, Villa inquired as to what they were for. When I explained, he wasted no time letting me know that he wanted to try an American hot dog, so yesterday we had lunch together. Suffice it to say that Villa has fallen in love with yet another gringo institution (all that's left pretty much is apple pie and Chevrolet, because he already likes baseball and we just crossed hot dogs off the list - for those of you who remember the commercial).

Though I can cook, I am not a cook; but I have often heard it said that a cook loves watching people enjoy her meal as much as she likes preparing it. I have to say, it made my heart swell with pride to see Villa eat hot dogs until he nearly made himself sick. So far his list of foreign foods includes tacos (complete with my homemade guacamole which he loves to eat straight out of the bowl with crackers), Italian style pasta salad (thanks to my mom for mailing me packages of pepperoni), and, now, hot dogs. He informed me today that I should search for a new recipe while I am in the U.S. and bring all the necessary ingredients back to Iquitos and make him a new gringo dish when I return. It is a simple thing, but it makes me happy.

Bon appétite! Oh wait, that's French. How do you say it in Spanish?

La Reina y La Princesa

2010-03-02T20:32:00.006-05:00

I am currently working on my next soul-searching, thought-provoking blog post, but more than a few of you have asked to see more pictures of the reigning Queen and Princess of El Jardin. I'm happy to report that they are finally beginning to get along, however there are still moments when the Princess aggravates the Queen just a little too much. Overall, though, they seem to like each other these days, except at meal time of course - my girls will still wage all out war over food. Nothing like a little kiss (or is it a bite?) to show some affection. Notice the potted plant in the background. Once upon a time there was taller greenery there before the tiny canine lawnmower decided to destroy it. Of course that doesn't even compare to the tree Ina potted that she planned to transfer to the yard. I liken it to a Charlie Brown Christmas tree as it is now merely a twig with a few leaves remaining on top.

Dolly follows Tamy everywhere, including into the pond for a swim. I couldn't help but laugh when my little mud-covered piglet emerged. The first time was a true Kodak moment - subsequent swims, not so funny, especially when she darted through the kitchen door and ran through the house, leaving a trail of sludge behind her.

Tamy's moment of surrender. Poor girl can't even take a nap without Dolly climbing all over her - or using her as a pillow.

I like to refer to this as "Total Relaxation." When you can roll over onto your back, legs in the air, prop yourself against a tree, and never move despite people laughing and taking pictures of you, then you really don't have a care in the world. Oh to sleep like that - well, not exactly like that (wouldn't be very lady-like)!

If only I had a camera with the ability to take pictures in rapid succession you would be able to see what happened next. After one too many nibbles on the ear with those razor-sharp puppy teeth, the Queen had reached her limit and sent the Princess running to hide behind me, yelping all the way. There's never a dull moment in the kingdom of El Jardin.

Hola, Dolly!

2010-02-05T10:41:00.003-05:00

I am a new mommy! Before anyone gets too excited, let me say that my infant has four legs, a tail, blonde fur, floppy ears, brown eyes, ferocious breath, and teeth as sharp as razors. This baby cries all night (well, she did the first 3-4 nights), whines when she can't see anyone, chews on whatever is in her path at the moment, and eats/sleeps/goes potty on a fairly regular schedule (not including her in-house accidents). Her name is Dolly and she is my six week old yellow Labrador puppy.

No, nothing happened to Tammy, my 7 year old German Shepherd. She thinks something has happened to her, like she's committed some terrible sin whose resulting punishment is the presence of the new, hyperactive, barking bundle of energy, but she is fine, save a mile-long jealous streak.

We (meaning myself and Todd Garrett - head of Medical Missions of Iquitos) made the decision to get another dog for several reasons. First, Tammy has been the watch dog of the El Jardin property for a long time now and can teach the new puppy what to do. We didn't want to wait until Tammy passed on to doggy heaven, taking all her good guardian secrets with her. Second, the property here is fairly large - two dogs can canvass it better than one. Finally, after a string of break-ins on my block from October to December, what better time could there be to install a new four-legged alarm system? I began my dog search prior to going to the U.S. for the holidays. Thanks to Villa, I was able to get in touch with the man who gave us Tammy, and, as luck would have it, he had recently bred two yellow labs and said the puppies were due to be born around Christmas.

Upon my return to Iquitos a couple of weeks ago, I got a phone call saying my puppy was ready to come to her new home. Boy, was I in for a rude awakening! The last time I had a newborn was about 17 years ago, so to say I had forgotten how much attention puppies require is a gross understatement. After two sleepless nights due to sound barrier breaking wailing and howling, trips outside every couple of hours in order to avoid unwanted clean-ups, and playing referee between the new addition and the current queen of the yard to keep one from literally killing the other, I didn't know whether to cry, scream, take her back to her canine mother, or all of the above. But now, a week later, things have settled down a bit. Tammy and Dolly are getting used to each other (though they definitely are not friends yet), Dolly is sleeping through the night on the screened porch (until she's big enough to join Tammy outdoors), and I have learned the value of grabbing an afternoon power nap (when the baby sleeps, mommy sleeps).

What's in a name? Tammy (pronounced Tommy based on the Spanish pronunciation of the letter 'a') is short for Tamshiyacu. I'm not really sure who named her, but she shares her name with the jungle town that one of our AMF sister churches is partnered with. When Todd and I first began discussing getting another dog for the property, I immediately thought about what I would name her (since I knew I would get another female). Naturally I began with a list of Latino names - and even though I really liked some of them, none really felt right. Then one night I was in the shower with music from my iPod blasting (as is my custom) when an old, well-worn tune had me tapping my foot and shampooing simultaneously. I sang along, loudly (as is also my custom - when there are no guests in the house), the familiar lyrics of Here You Come Again by none other than Dolly Parton, who just happens to be one of Todd's favorite singers (no kidding - who knew she was anybody's favorite?). And so the story goes of how Dolly (the dog) came into her name.

And now, for the moment you've all been waiting for, the pictures. I have tried to get some shots of Dolly and Tammy together, but Tammy will not be still long enough. At this point she allows Dolly about 30 seconds of aggravation time before she jumps up and runs off to hide. Hopefully in the future…

…meanwhile, it's hard to beat unconditional puppy love!

Breath of Heaven

2010-01-25T20:41:00.002-05:00

Happy New Year! Well, it's not new anymore, but as this is my first entry of 2010, can you humor me?

Way back in 2009, when Thanksgiving quickly rolled into the month of December, I began to experience my first ever bout with writer's block - a condition which has plagued me for nearly two months. For weeks now I have written and erased repeatedly, stared at a blank screen, and finally, exasperated, turned off the computer hoping for better days. I wouldn't say I'm prolific again yet, but I do have a few thoughts brewing to share with you. Here goes...

While I realize Christmas past is gone and Christmas future is literally eleven months away, I feel the need to revisit my 2009 Advent season to put the proper perspective on my 2010 blog season.

It was mid-December, less than two weeks before Christmas, and I could hardly contain myself as I approached the Plaza de Armas. To my utter delight, the lamp posts that surround the square were elegantly wrapped in white lights, a giant Christmas tree, tastefully decorated in oversized ornaments, stood majestically, shadowing the life-size nativity scene, which could not have been complete without the tribal jungle natives standing guard on either side of the Baby Jesus (next to the Magi of course), while the glass front of the lobby of the El Dorado Five Star Hotel glowed, looking like a picture from the holiday edition of Southern Living magazine. An enormous smile spread across my face and I squealed with excitement, which made my Peruvian friends laugh. The scene was so simple, yet so beautiful. I felt like a little girl again and Christmas was something special - I cannot remember the last time I felt that way.

As you might imagine, Christmas in Peru is quite different from the way we celebrate in the U.S. While U.S. stores are already stocking their Christmas paraphernalia and malls are decking their halls before the last piece of Halloween candy is eaten by a young trick-or-treater (maybe before the first piece is even purchased), you won't find any evidence of the holidays in Iquitos until after December 1, and then you only catch an occasional glimpse - the real decorating doesn't begin until December 15. (I cannot begin to explain how refreshing it was to not be sick of Christmas before Thanksgiving!) Though from time to time you will see images of the white-bearded guy in the big red suit, the myth of Santa Claus is not perpetuated here. The Peruvians, however, do believe each child should get a new toy for Christmas (notice I said toy - singular), and those who are able buy extras and give them to less fortunate friends and neighbors who cannot afford gifts for their kids. In the 2-3 days prior to Christmas, long lines form in every neighborhood and at many churches as adults ladle out steaming hot chocolate into the cups the children bring with them in events known as "chocolatadas." The markets are lined with various brands of "panetton," the fruit bread that is traditionally eaten with the holiday meal at midnight, when Christmas Eve becomes Christmas Day (those who can afford it also have another round of hot chocolate). Christmas Eve is a time of reflection, particularly for those who are spiritual; many Christians spend at least part of the day in church. Commerce ceases on Christmas Day and people emerge from their homes to hang out in the streets all day with their neighbors. It is an opportunity to be together; not a time for opening presents or running themselves ragged with a hectic schedule of meals and travel, but a time to really enjoy family and friends.

That's it. If you're like me, you're surprised by the simplicity of it all. The pace is slow (not unlike the rest of the year); there is no holiday rush. Certainly I was anxious to get back to the U.S. to be with my family and friends on Christmas, but I am glad I opted to remain in Iquitos until December 23, to experience Advent in a new, refreshing way.

This year (oops, last year) I found myself listening to one particular song over and over again, haunted by the melody while pondering its words. It is written from the perspective of the Virgin Mary as she contemplates her magnanimous role in God's ultimate plan of salvation. It occurred to me that this is not just Mary's story, but the tale of every one of us who claim to be believers. We, too, carry Jesus inside us; we have an awesome responsibility to take Him into a lost and dying world. It is a daunting task to say the least, and I (like Mary) question God's wisdom, even His sanity, when He chose me to bear witness to Him, knowing how often and how completely I would mess up. In the midst of her fear and loneliness, Mary realizes that her own strength won't get her very far. Consider the words of the song penned by Amy Grant:

I have traveled many moonless nights; cold and weary, with a babe inside.
And I wonder what I've done-
Holy Father, you have come and chosen me now, to carry your son.

I am waiting in a silent prayer; I am frightened by the load I bear.
In a world as cold as stone, must I walk this path alone?
Be with me now...
Be with me now…

Breath of heaven, hold me together; be forever near me, breath of heaven.
Breath of heaven, light in my darkness, pour over me your holiness, for you are holy,
Breath of heaven.

Do you wonder, as you watch my face, if a wiser one should have had my place? But I offer all I am for the mercy of your plan; help me be strong...
Help me be...
Help me…

Breath of heaven, hold me together; be forever near me, breath of heaven.
Breath of heaven, light in my darkness, pour over me your holiness, for you are holy,
Breath of heaven.

"Be with me now…, help me…, pour over me your holiness…" - simple words; a profound prayer. As the first month of 2010 is already drawing to a close, and as I get back into my Peruvian routine, recovering from a very hectic month of traveling, meetings, and fundraising, I want , no, I desperately need, the breath of heaven.

3 Hours, 46 Minutes, 42 Seconds…

2009-11-25T23:06:00.002-05:00

A distinct difference between Iquitos, Peru and Spartanburg, SC (or possibly the entire U.S. as far that goes) is that people here have time for each other. One of my favorite daily sights is when my neighbors come out of their homes, toting their rebar rocking chairs, and arrange themselves on the sidewalks in front of their homes to while away the afternoons/evenings talking to each other. They typically sit for hours chatting with family members and friends, and often passersby will stop as well to introduce themselves or simply to say hello. It's because of this habit that I know everyone up and down Napo Street and they know me - I am the gringa who lives on the corner of the seventh block.

Peruvians enjoy each other's company; it has taken some time for me to get accustomed to this. I'm used to being with people for a purpose: whether at work, in a meeting, at church, in Wal-Mart - wherever we are in the U.S. we always have an agenda, and much of the time we get antsy if someone in any of those locations wants to halt us for too long as we fear we will be late for the next place/event on the list, or we just plain get irritated when people stop us to talk because we want to be left alone. Even at parties or other social functions, at best our conversations are superficial, and we flit around from person to person, lest we actually have to talk about something of substance. Of course I realize that there are plenty of people who do regularly have meaningful conversations - I'm not saying it never happens - but, in general, to the outside observer, ours is a culture that is always busy being with people, but never really having time for them.

Among the things I love most about my life here is that every day, at some point, Villa and I take a break from whatever work we have going on and sit in our own rebar rocking chairs and talk. It is priceless time, because in it I deepen my friendship with the person who takes care of me literally every day, I laugh (and sometimes cry), and I learn valuable lessons about Peruvian culture and language. Perhaps more importantly, I have been granted more than a few opportunities to share my faith and my reason for being here with someone who is not particularly religious and does not go to church, but believes in the sovereign God because he says that same God is so obvious in my life (at which time I get my much needed, regular dose of humility, because I know myself well, and if Villa sees God in me it is only because He truly is there).

Then yesterday I went home with Juan. Since the deaths of their parents, his sister, Beatrice, is the only woman in the house (for all practical purposes), living with 5 of her 6 brothers, her 2 children, her husband, and occasionally the girlfriends of 2 of the brothers, as well as the kids these brothers have produced with said girlfriends. At any given time there may be 12 or more people inhabiting the 3 rooms (one of them is not a bathroom as there is no plumbing where they live) of their wooden shack (which is better than most in that they have a concrete floor (vs. dirt) and aluminum shingles (vs. thatch) for a roof). To say the least, Beatrice has a life that 26 year olds in the U.S. cannot begin to fathom, with the burden of caring for everyone in the house falling on her shoulders. On the way there I asked Juan if she would be upset that he was bringing me home with him unannounced; he looked at me like I'd lost my mind. Actually he was a little insulted and asked me why I would say such a thing. I tried to explain to him that, in the U.S., it is not polite to drop in on people without calling first - he didn't understand. So, the motokar deposited us on the edge of the paved road and off we went on foot, down the dirt road together. When we walked into the house, there were people everywhere and Beatrice was trying to tend to all of their needs (one brother was standing in front of her with a needle and thread, wanting her to stitch up his ripped shorts, another was yelling at her because he couldn't find his shoes, yet another wanted to know if she planned to make lunch that day), while simultaneously spanking her 3 year old and nursing her 5 month old baby that was nestled in the crook of her left arm. But when she saw me standing in the doorway, she broke into a huge smile, forgot about everything around her, invited me in to sit on her bed with her, and told me she knew company was coming because a butterfly had flown through her window earlier in the day. Almost immediately everyone else in the house flocked to me as well, and before I knew it, 6 of us were all piled up on the bed together talking, laughing, and playing with the baby, while the 3 year old crawled all over me as though I were playground equipment. And so went the next 3 hours. Juan stood in the corner of the room for most of the time, watching from a distance and beaming proudly, because his family was embracing me (as he already knew they would) and because I was returning the favor. Before I left I was hugged, kissed, and invited to come back any time and often. In reality (and in my mind) a similar situation in the U.S. plays out very differently (and to most anyone, myself included, who says they would react in the same manner as Beatrice, I have only this to say - liar, liar, pants on fire!). From Juan's family, I learned a lot about what it means to make a person, a total stranger and a foreigner no less, feel welcome, valued, respected, and appreciated.

In case you've been wondering about the title of this blog post, 3 hours, 46 minutes, and 42 seconds would be the length of time my brother and I talked on the phone one Saturday afternoon back in September. Anyone who knows him is reading this and thinking, "What??? I don't believe it. There is no way Brad McAbee talked that long to anyone about anything," as he is typically a man of few words. Nevertheless, I speak only the truth - we did actually talk that long. Now, nearly 3 months later, I have no idea what we talked about (and it really doesn't matter), but I have yet to forget the amount of time. In the midst of his crazy football season schedule and my tumultuous transition to foreign missionary life, for one afternoon we let the rest of the world go by and simply made time for each other.

As I count my blessings tomorrow, my list will be decorated with my family and many friends back home, and punctuated by the unmerited privilege I have been given to live here in Peru, being accepted and loved by people who have taught me more than I could ever hope to help them. And if I take nothing else from my time here, I hope I never forget the infinite value of the individual (family, friend, and/or stranger alike) and the importance of just being with them no matter what else is going on around me.

Happy Thanksgiving!

Big Juan and Little Juan

2009-11-02T18:29:00.002-05:00

On my second trip to Iquitos in 2003, I met an 18 year old kid named Juan. So handsome and charismatic, with a smile that would light up the Boulevard on the darkest of nights, and the ability to speak relatively fluent English, he easily charmed many gringos visiting Iquitos - that is until he stole from them (money, shoes, shirts, caps, whatever was within easy reach when they weren't watching), or they saw him falling down drunk (or high, or both, as the case may be). Suddenly he wasn't cute anymore, and he became more of a street thug than a dirt-poor kid down on his luck. Juan is one of 6 children born into extreme poverty to a mother who died of cancer when he was in his early teens, and a father who daily went about the business of drinking himself to death (and unfortunately did just that earlier this year) for as long as Juan can remember. For most of his life he's been roaming the streets, searching for a place to belong, and getting into trouble. He's known all over town and pretty much no one has anything good to say about him - locals and gringos alike - with the exception of those who are just like him. Now, at age 25, he seems even more troubled and more lost than he was when we first came to know each other.

Juan typically spends what little money he may have of his own for drugs and alcohol (eating is low on his list of priorities), so when I am with him it is usually in a restaurant, as it is my habit to feed him. As I sat at Ari's Burger last Friday (a popular open-air restaurant on the Plaza de Armas) watching him savor every bite of his plate of rice mixed with shrimp, chicken, and pork and a side of fried plantains, he said he'd heard I was living in Iquitos now. As you might imagine, Juan isn't known for his honesty; he tells people what they want to hear, very little of which is ever true. I have always been aware of this, but the look on his face was priceless as I recalled, out loud, all the lies I knew for certain he'd told me throughout the years. He was fuming mad at first and about to get up and leave the table when I said, "Today we start over. Whatever happens, whatever you do, no matter how bad it is, even if you think I'm going to be furious (which I probably will), you must tell me the truth." He agreed (do I think for one minute that he's going to suddenly be honest? - not on your life, but we had to start somewhere), and we began a conversation that would lead me into a mighty internal struggle for many days to come, teach me more about sharing than I've ever learned from anyone in my life, and bring me face-to-face with not only his need for a Savior, but even more so, my own.

It was almost like he was relieved when I invoked the honesty policy as he poured out the 'not-so-good' things he'd done since the last time I saw him. (By the way, the last time I had seen him was more than 2 years ago, prior to his tour of duty in the Peruvian Army, when Frank Gonda and I were taking him to a medical clinic to get the gaping hole in his forehead stitched up after one of his drunken brawls, which had also left him without his 4 beautiful, pearly white front teeth, and I was MAD.) When he finished purging, he said he didn't expect me to understand, because I'd probably never done anything really bad in my life. He also said he knew God wasn't interested in him because God doesn't have any use for people who can't change, and, no matter how hard he tried to change, he always seemed to fall back into his old ways. Raw honesty - that's what was on the table; gone were the well-rehearsed responses he'd fed to countless members of U.S. church mission teams, tickling their ears, making some of them believe they'd actually gotten through to him. There's neither space nor reason to recount all the details of our conversation, but I assured him that plenty of skeletons reside in my closet and told him if God required people to successfully change themselves before they could come to Him, then Heaven would be an empty place. He pressed me further asking what God would say if he messed up again that same night, and I told him God would say the same thing to Juan Sangama that He says to Pam McAbee when she messes up every day of her life - He would say that His mercies are new every morning and His grace abounds and He would invite Juan, just as He invites Pam and everyone else in the world, to lay our burdens on Him and let Him be about the business of saving us. He didn't believe me.

Meanwhile, a filthy, shoeless, little boy with quarter sized holes in the chest of his sleeveless t-shirt and rips in his threadbare shorts paused in front of our table (we were sitting at one of the tables closest to the street) to watch Juan eat. Without missing a beat, Juan signaled for the waitress to bring another plate, fork, and glass and, in the midst of this intense conversation, raked a pile of rice onto the plate, added a couple of slices of fried bananas, and poured the rest of his drink into the extra cup. He held up his hand to me indicating a pause in our discussion, invited the little boy, a total stranger, (also named Juan as we later found out) to sit down, put the food in front of him, and told him to eat. Little Juan told us that he is 7 years old and lives on the corner of Raymondi and Nauta streets (which means that he sleeps on the street underneath a cardboard box) and that his mom won't let him live at her house in Belen (the section of town where the poorest of the poor live) because she has too many other kids and he is old enough to take care of himself - he hasn't seen her in months and she never comes looking for him. Little Juan ate until he was full, then stood up, looked me in the eyes and said "Gracias," smiled, and walked away. Before his meal was over, Big Juan would invite yet another stranger to join us and would share his food a second time. Never have I ever been so unselfish.

Three hours later, Juan insisted on walking the 7 blocks with me to El Jardin. The last thing he wanted to know for that day was if we could get together regularly to talk now that I called the jungle my home. The answer, of course, was yes. We didn't bother to make any plans; though Iquitos is a city of nearly half a million people, it is a small, isolated place, and people aren't hard to find. All I have to do is walk up to the Plaza or Boulevard, ask anyone if they have seen him, then come back home. Later that day or the next, whenever I venture out again, he will be waiting for me. We said our 'see-you-laters,' and as the heavy iron gate slammed shut between us, I felt like I was carrying the equivalent of its weight into the house with me.

Inside, I sat on my couch for another 3 hours - just sat - pondering - things like why a 7 year old is considered old enough to fend for himself, why a 25 year old grows a little more hopeless every day, how anyone can really help in a substantial way in the face of such huge generational and cultural problems, why I am here and ultimately what good I can do, where God is in all of this, where the church is in all of this - then the tears began. I told a friend later that what I'd seen and experienced was nothing new - it is the reality of daily life here - I see it every time I leave the house. But on Friday, it was like I was seeing it all again for the very first time. In The Irresistible Revolution, Shane Claiborne says, "When we look through the eyes of Jesus, we see new things in people. In the murderers, we see our own hatred. In the addicts, we see our own addictions. In the saints, we catch a glimpse of our own holiness. We can see our own brokenness, our own violence, our own ability to destroy, and we can see our own sacredness, our own capacity to love and forgive. When we realize that we are both wretched and beautiful, we are freed up to see others the same way" (264). Maybe that's what happened. Maybe in Juan I saw everything that is good and bad about me all at the same time. Maybe for the first time I quit silently, subconsciously judging him (in the same way that others did openly, making mine a more grievous offense). Maybe I realized "No one is beyond redemption" (253). And maybe, just maybe, for one brief moment, I had the ability to love as God loves.

Ding, Dong the Alligator is Dead

2009-10-29T09:57:00.002-04:00

Once upon a time, for whatever reason, my friend Todd Garrett decided that the water in the pond here at El Jardin (the Medical Missions property where I live in Iquitos) was lonely, so he purchased a baby alligator and put it in the pond to keep the water company. Yes, I know, your minds are rambling through the same list of rhetorical questions as mine, with the primary one being: Has he lost his mind? Needless to say, since June I have been on a quest to find and remove the creature. Naturally I was not about to perform the task at hand, so several days a week for the past 5 months I have said to Villa that he needs to take care of this. He has given me one excuse after another as to why it hasn't been done: too much water in the pond (he can't get in to look), too little water in the pond (it has dried up due to lack of rain and the alligator has buried itself in the mud), too much mud (he doesn't have any boots), and my personal favorite, he hasn't seen the alligator in weeks therefore it must be dead and/or gone (you can see the logic, right?). I bought him a pair of wading boots for the purpose of getting in the pond to search; we also have a machete and any number of other tools that could be used to remedy the problem, yet the excuses continue.

Even I know that the best time to locate an alligator is at night with a flashlight, so Monday evening, just after dark, I took my little linterna and traipsed to the back of the property where the pond is located. One quick sweep across the water with the beam of light and, sure enough, there they were - 2 little orange eyes peering at me. Elder Luis and a couple of other guys were hanging out at the church next door and called out to me, asking what I was doing. I told Luis that I desperately wanted to get rid of the alligator and asked if he knew anyone who'd be willing to come get it out (since Villa is obviously as much a fraidy-cat as I am). Luis asked if I had a bat or other heavy object (which I did) and said he could take care of the problem himself. So I ran to the gate to let him in. Fifteen minutes later, after a good whack on the head with a metal rake, Luis scooped the unconscious reptile out of the water, took further measures to ensure it was dead, then picked it up by the tail and promptly carried it out the gate with him and over to the church for everyone to see. And that was that.

Of course, when Villa found out the next day, he turned on the machismo and said he would have been able to get it too if he'd been here at night (at which time I reminded him that he spent 3 weeks of nights here while I was in the U.S. in September). He just laughed that silly little giggle of his and shrugged his shoulders. So now we're on to worrying about bigger and better things, such as how to make El Jardin more secure for me after the string of break-ins on this block over the past week. How's that for a cliff hanger?

Froot Loops and a Hummer

2009-10-16T16:14:00.005-04:00

I leave Peru for a three week jaunt to the U.S. and return to find Iquitos has gone American! What??? Yesterday I finally ran out of what few imperishable food items that were left in the house prior to my trip (not to mention I've grown tired of odd combinations for meals, i.e. steamed rice and mushrooms w/soy sauce) and headed to the supermercado. As I walked into the once familiar tienda, I was greeted with sights of imported food items. There I was, surrounded by boxes of Froot Loops, cans of Hunt's Four Cheese Spaghetti Sauce, jars of Ragu Alfredo Sauce, packages of Old El Paso flour tortillas, cups of Jell-O Pudding (chocolate and vanilla), bottles of Hunt's Barbeque Sauce, bags of frozen chicken nuggets waiting to be tossed into the hot oil of a frying pan - all things I've never seen here before. I was so excited that my first urge was to grab 5 of each, whether I needed them or not; the reality around here is that just because something is in a store once, does not mean it will be there again (and there's always the possibility that it will never be there again). But I refrained, reminding myself that I have neither the money in my budget to purchase large quantities of pricey imports, nor the space in my kitchen to store such inventory. I will confess, however, that I did come home sporting Froot Loops, 2 cans of spaghetti sauce, and a jar of alfredo sauce.

While enjoying the sights and sounds of the city's streets on the motokar ride home, I was blown away yet again. There, in Iquitos, parked right in front of the El Dorado Hotel (five star that is) on the Plaza de Armas was a lustrous black Hummer with a wax job so perfect I could have used the driver's side door as a mirror. Unbelievable. To comprehend the shock value, one must have been here, or at least understand that this is a motorcycle/scooter/motokar city. In the past, only the wealthiest of people here could afford to own a car, and those were few and far between. One difference I had already begun to notice when I returned here in June after nearly a year's absence is that there are more cars on the streets than ever before. But when I say cars, I mean older model Toyotas, 70's era VW bugs, an occasional beat-up Nissan - that kind of thing. Only once or twice before have I seen what appeared to be a "newer" car here, and even so, it still was of the economy class of autos. Never a Hummer!

As I ate my lunch while watching a rerun episode of Two and a Half Men (in English with Spanish subtitles - YAY!), my previous excitement faded and my heart started to sink as I pondered my morning. Now, I know change is inevitable, and North American influence typically arrives everywhere eventually, but one of the fascinations this city holds for so many who come here is its lack of "connectedness" with the rest of the world. Iquitos is the largest city in the world that is not accessible by road; there are two ways in/out of here - plane and boat. Surrounded by rainforest, it is both difficult and expensive to ship imports here, and most major businesses find it more cost effective not to try. Evidently that is changing - rapidly. But I don't want to see a McDonald's here (what fun would there then be in getting to the Lima airport after 4 months of fish, chicken, and rice and running straight for a quarter pounder with cheese?), or an Ace Hardware, or a Gold's Gym (but say the words Target or Wal-Mart and I might be open to suggestion). I want the jungle to stay the jungle. Yes, it's hard to live life in a different culture; yes, there are times when I crave foods from home; yes, I miss the U.S.; yes, I wish I could shop in a 'regular' grocery store without making stops at 6-8 different little markets in order to get everything I need. BUT, all of these longings, these creature comforts, are part of what makes coming home for a visit so special, and the lack of these is what has always made Iquitos so mysteriously attractive to me. Here, in the middle of a city of nearly half a million people, you can feel so isolated, so far from what we gringos call civilization. Yet in some ways, there is more real life here than I have ever experienced before.

In his book Three Cups of Tea, Greg Mortenson details the many lessons he has learned while living in and adapting to the Middle Eastern Islamic culture of Pakistan. Though he does not write from a spiritual point of view, he bluntly, unapologetically repeats the exact ideas that every book I've ever read on cross-cultural missions asserts. Mortenson says, "On their warm, dry roofs, among the fruits of their successful harvest, eating, smoking, and gossiping with the same sense of leisure as Parisians on the terrace of a sidewalk café, [I] felt sure that, despite all that they lacked, the Balti still held the key to a kind of uncomplicated happiness that was disappearing in the developing world…" (120). Frustrated with Mortenson's egocentric, North American notion that his way was the best and only way, the man who came to be his Pakistani father-figure chastised him saying, "If you want to thrive in Baltistan, you must respect our ways…We may be uneducated. But we are not stupid. We have lived and survived here for a long time." Mortenson follows this up with, "We Americans think you have to accomplish everything quickly. We're the country of thirty-minute power lunches and two-minute football drills…Haji Ali taught me to…slow down and make building relationships as important as building projects. He taught me that I had more to learn from the people I work with than I could ever hope to teach them" (150). I could copy similar quotes from dozens of books; the recurring theme makes a point we would be wise to pay attention to.

Mortenson's book, the Froot Loops, the Hummer, and my life here in Peru all mesh together in an odd sort of way. While I don't want the Peruvians to be denied good and right progress, I also don't want to see U.S. culture invade the jungle. Like the Baltis, the Peruvians in the Amazon are survivors - they don't need us to tell them how they should live. Perhaps we should follow their lead in slowing down and focusing on relationships. Ironically, many of the 2009 summer mission teams were privy to unsolicited lessons in this area when inclement weather or a lack of supplies brought their projects to a screeching halt, and they were left with no option but to spend time with each other and their Peruvian friends. Nevertheless, as I attend meetings of mission boards, missions committees, and mission trip leaders, I listen as, with renewed fervor, they plan their next projects. Not that projects are bad, mind you, but said projects act as the backbones for recruiting individuals to be part of the 2010 mission teams because, without work to do (and lots of it), churches and missions organizations find it difficult to entice people to give up a week of vacation to simply come and be. But in our U.S. culture, we (myself included) can no longer find the time to sit on the porch with our grandparents, or turn off the TV (and all other electronic addictions) and play board games with our kids, or play tag football with friends then sit, sweaty and tired, for the rest of the afternoon just talking - if we can't slow down for our families and closest friends, how could we be expected to make time for relationships with those whose enlightening perspectives we desperately need? Does this make anyone sad other than me?

Funny Feeling

2009-09-14T14:20:00.002-04:00

It is 10:23 a.m. local time and I am a little better than 12 hours away from boarding my international flight to the U.S. I'll be States-side for 3 weeks doing a little visiting with family and friends, and a LOT of work for AMF. I am officially in awe of those before me who have started and maintained non-profit organizations. Doing so takes an unbelievable amount of time and even more patience (which I don't always have a surplus of). Of course, the load has felt a little less demanding since I gave up teaching and now work full time for the mission.

The biggest surprise of the morning, as I pack and mentally prepare myself for 24 hours of traveling, is the heaviness in my heart; I am a little sad today. If you've been reading my blog since June, you know that I arrived here under duress; I was already counting the weeks and days until my first visit home, as the pain of saying good-bye to my family and friends was greater than I ever dreamed it could be. Then the mission teams landed and the busyness began and I didn't have time to think about missing home. But I dreaded the day the final team left, for then I would be all by myself and real life for me in this country would begin, like it or not, and I assumed homesickness would set in and I would again be urging time to pass rapidly. Fast forward 13 weeks and the time certainly has passed rapidly, yet not at my insistence, and other than a few random moments when loneliness has gotten the best of me (though I'm not sure why because I am NEVER alone here), I "settled in" without realizing that was what was happening.

To combat today's melancholy, I keep telling myself that I'll be back in a very short time - not like the previous summers when I would arrive in early June, leave at the beginning of August, then, other than a brief 2 1/2 day jaunt in November, not return until the following June. Even Villa and the dog have been acting funny this morning. For awhile now Villa has been telling me that he would be glad when I left for the U.S. because he would finally get a day off; he says I'm a slave driver - that I forget he's Peruvian and work him like a gringo. But today, he came to work early (odd, because I can typically count on him to be at least 30 minutes late), and when I asked the reason he said, "To be here for whatever you need today since you are leaving." Tamy (my German Shepherd) has started moping too, tail between her legs, refusing to eat this morning. Villa said, "She knows in her heart you're leaving." For all practical purposes, this is home now. I put clean sheets on my bed and clean towels in my bathroom in anticipation of my early morning arrival on October 11 - I am coming back soon.

Throughout this whole process of hearing God's call, trying my best to obey, quitting my teaching job, working at fundraising, and taking the leap of faith and actually coming here to live, there has been a constant battle in my mind and heart. More than in any other situation in my life I've had to learn to stay the course regardless of how I felt (and let me assure you that my emotions have been off the chart in every conceivable direction). I've had to focus on that night in July 2008 when I absolutely, unmistakably heard God tell me, "It's time," and press on. It is a powerful experience to stand firm in the decision to trust God when your only instructions are to follow Him (nothing more, nothing less), then watch Him faithfully deliver everything you could ever need, one day at a time. It is a lesson I hope I don't forget any time soon.

A Day In The Life

2009-09-02T23:02:00.002-04:00

Boy was I wrong! I moved to Peru with the mistaken assumption that, once all the mission teams had come and gone for the summer, I would have a lot of down time - time to rest, to get settled, to think, to pray, to decide what step to take first in establishing my life here. So far that has not happened.

Of course I have my endless to-do list, written neatly on index cards, which are then paper clipped together in order of importance. I get excited when all the items on a particular card have been crossed off and I get to admire, with satisfaction, my squiggly ink lines worming their way through the list as I toss the card into the trash. Then there are the times when all but one or two items have been crossed off on several different cards; that, naturally, calls for a new card, combining the as yet unchecked tasks onto one, and deciding where the new card fits into the rotation. But I digress…

It seems that my index cards are hanging around longer than I expected them to - a phenomenon I've begun to examine. And so last Thursday, after a particularly busy day, I decided to retrace my steps to see exactly how my time had been spent. My alarm went off at 6 a.m. (yes, I know that's a ridiculously early hour given that I am no longer on a school schedule) and I hit snooze 3 times (at 5 minute intervals), at which time (6:15 a.m. to be exact) I got up. I made the rounds through the house and outside around the grounds turning off all the lights that stay on at night to alert would-be wall climbers that someone is actually living in here. I fed the dog, I fed the bird, then I fed myself. While eating breakfast and lingering over my coffee, I watched the last 15 minutes of Melrose Place (reruns in English are a beautiful thing, no matter how bad the show, when you live in a country that doesn't speak your language). At 7 a.m. I put in my exercise DVD (because I promised myself I would get healthier while living here). Midway through my workout, Villa arrived at 7:30 and sat down in the rocking chair outside to wait for me to give him his marching orders for the day. At 8 a.m. I finished the workout, grabbed a bottle of water, and plopped into the other rocking chair to make a plan with Villa. At 8:30 I showered, dressed, turned my computer on and had grand aspirations for the morning - I needed to continue working on my AMF board meeting agenda, the AMF brochure that is incomplete, and the beginnings of a missions newsletter. I also needed to reply to several emails and return a phone call to the lady at the print shop in Spartanburg who is working on some mock-ups for me of potential logos, letterheads, and business cards for AMF. By 9 a.m. I was concentrating on the task at hand when Villa appeared at my window, asking the first of many questions that would continuously interrupt my train of thought as well as my projected work schedule. By 10:30 a.m. I had gotten up from my desk and gone outside to tend to Villa's pressing needs (such as whether I thought the table he just painted needed another coat or could be fine the way it was) 4 times. At 11:00 a.m. I was on a roll because I'd now had 30 peaceful minutes at my computer; but that would end when I looked up to see Margarita standing in my doorway announcing, "I am here." Translated, that means "It's your job to come to the porch to sit and talk to me until the accountant gets here." So that's what I did - for the next 30 minutes, because Joel, the accountant, was Peruvian-style late for his meeting with Margarita. I left them to their own to work, having provided them with all the information they needed from me, and came back to my computer, where I spent a glorious 20 minutes working before I was summoned to show them how to work the printer Margarita purchased. At 12:30 p.m. I heard my name yet again - this time I learned that today was the day Margarita had designated to organize and clean out the pharmacy and that I would be helping her (this being the first I'd heard of said plans). Drenched with sweat, because Margarita was cold (it was an overcast, albeit humid day) and had forbidden me to turn on the ceiling fan while we worked, at 2:00 p.m. she pronounced us finished - for the moment. My breakfast had long since been digested, so I went for the quickest fix in terms of lunch - a ham sandwich with some fresh pineapple (yes, I bought it, yes, I cut it up) on the side. At this point I realized that I had neglected to spend time with God and combined lunch with quiet time. Villa returned at 3:00 p.m. without the supplies I gave him money for a few hours earlier; seemed he opted to go home for lunch first instead of shopping, knowing good and well that the stores would be closed for siesta time when he was through eating and would not reopen until 4:00 p.m. - so he decided he would just hang out here and wait. At this point I had two choices: I could go back to my room and try to pick up where I left off that morning (with the near 100% chance that Villa would interrupt me at least twice) or I could sit down and talk to him for the next 45 minutes; I opted for the latter in order to spare myself a stress-induced migraine. At 3:50 p.m. Villa determined the paint store would be open by the time he could walk there and told me he would see me on Friday morning, because by the time he could make his purchases and transport them to El Jardin it would be at least 4:30 p.m. and the end of his work day. Alone again at last in my house I walked back to my computer to make the phone call to the U.S. I intended to make that morning. I dialed; it rang and rang and rang, but no one answered. That's when I noticed the clock on my computer; it was not 4:10 p.m. in the U.S., it was 5:10 p.m. and business for the day was over. I said a bad word out loud. Well, at least I could try to make a little more progress on the brochure, which I did until 5:30 p.m. when it began to get dark and I needed to get up to make my rounds through the house and around the grounds turning the all-night lights back on so that my space was, once again, well illuminated and free of intruders (except for the neighbor's cat which sits on the wall for no other purpose than to torment my dog and make her bark until she is hoarse). If I hoped to eat dinner before 7:00 p.m., my work day had to draw to a close so I could begin cooking - an art I'm having to re-learn here. The absence of prepackaged, frozen, and microwave foods, the lack of a car and a drive-thru to hit even if I did have a car, and living on a budget that doesn't allow for much in the way of restaurants (and who wants to eat alone in restaurants all the time anyway?) necessitates regular cooking on my part. Fortunately, one of the previous day's activities had been to make the rounds to the 5 markets I shop regularly (each having its own special items that none of the others has), and so I had another piece of fish in the fridge, some fresh vegetables, leftover lunch pineapple, and enough rice for one more meal (then it's off to the market again). By 8:00 p.m. I'd eaten, the dishes had been washed and put away, and I was perched on the couch in front of a muted television, watching the quarterfinals of the last tennis tournament before the U.S. Open, and enjoying my nightly phone chats with my family. A little channel surfing at 9:30 p.m. encouraged me to make better use of my time reading in bed until I fell asleep, somewhere in the neighborhood of 11:00 p.m.

And that, dear friends, was my day.

A typical day.

The life I have signed up for.

It is significantly different than the previous 18 years. It is not highly structured; there are no bells, no class changes, no curriculums. But there is an odd sort of rhythm to life here. The times, activities, locations, and interruptions to my planned schedule vary from day to day. There's still laundry, and yard work, and appointments, and grocery shopping, and meetings, and a host of what I would term "normal, U.S. routines," but it's not the same, and it is difficult, maybe even impossible to explain. Many gringos would look at my day and determine that it was a total waste - that I got nothing of significance accomplished, because my schedule and list of accomplishments (refer to the aforementioned index card to-do list) didn't conform to the North American notion of productivity. I was actually feeling frustrated and unproductive myself, but my dear friend and fellow missionary, Jeni McLane-Barrantes later added her seasoned perspective to that day. She pointed out the numerous opportunities I'd been given to work on my Spanish, the all important relationship building time I'd had with two of the most important people in my life here, the new experiences I've enjoyed in learning to cook again (by new rules and recipes), and, when all was said and done, I had logged nearly 3 hours in front of my computer (a major feat by Central/South American standards). She reminded me that I wasn't in the U.S. anymore and that Latinos don't play by the same rules as North Americans. She was right - and if I detailed "a week in the life" here, you'd see exactly what she means. Perhaps Duane Elmer, in his book Cross-Cultural Servanthood - Serving the World in Christlike Humility, says it best: "Most Westerners manage their lives using PDAs, daily planners or computer pop-up reminders. Little room remains for the unexpected or the ambiguous. We work hard to avoid uncertainty and to live an ordered, predictable life. The unknown, the unexpected, is an unwelcome intrusion in our schedule. We believe it to be dangerous to the order we have built into our existence" (53). Nothing here is predictable; everything here gets interrupted. PDAs are pointless, and you might as well get used to intrusions, welcome and unwelcome alike. So much for my index cards...

Celebrating Education

2009-08-13T11:48:00.002-04:00

On Tuesday of this week I had the privilege of a trip to Tamshiyacu for the official opening ceremony of a new school for handicapped children. The SCOTA School (Special Children Of The Amazon) meets the educational needs of deaf and blind children, as well as children with significant physical and mental disabilities. A host of local celebrities, including the Governor of the Region of Loreto, and our own beloved Engineer/Architect Jorge Foinquinos, who is also a Congressman, attended the festivities. Eight students were present, along with their parents and/or other family members. From what I understand, the word has spread to the surrounding jungle villages about this school, and enrollment is expected to increase rapidly. Though both the government and educational systems in the U.S. can often be a royal pain in the behind to deal with for families with special needs children, at least there is a system that tries to provide opportunities for them. In Peru, unless a private organization provides the facilities and necessary materials, the government is generally not interested in the well-being of those who cannot speak for themselves, agreeing only to compensate (and I use that term loosely) the teachers. Regardless of my personal feelings about the Peruvian government and the total lack of importance it places on education for the masses, there was an air of excitement surrounding the festivities and I couldn't help getting caught up in it, mainly due to the attitude of the teacher who has agreed to move to Tamshiyacu (an hour away on the river - on a fast boat - a 'we'll see you whenever you manage to get there' on a slow boat/river taxi) to live in the school in order to work with these children. Her optimism, enthusiasm, and dedication are contagious; she is living her call and it is obvious.

Ironically, Monday was the first day of the 2009-2010 school year for faculty members in Spartanburg County, SC. While sitting in the screened porch, sipping my second cup of coffee, pushing away a stray strand of hair blown forward into my face by the early morning breeze and watching the sunbeams stream through the trees here at El Jardin, I pondered the opening of school. I have to admit that there was no part of me whatsoever that wanted to be rising with the alarm clock once again, heading off to brain-sapping in-service meetings, but there was a piece of my heart that felt empty. You see, I knew that I wanted to be an English teacher as a mere 11 year old in the spring of my 5th grade year at Ware Shoals Elementary. Unlike most of my classmates, whose professional ambitions changed with the wind throughout elementary, jr. high, high school, and even college, my career path never waivered. One of the most exciting days of my life was about a week into my student-teaching at Woodruff High School; I passed a student in the hall at the end of the day who said to me, "Have a good afternoon, Ms. McAbee; see you tomorrow." I walked out the door that day with the biggest smile on my face (and a glow that was still to be observed more than 30 minutes later when I got out of my car at Wofford and walked into my dorm) because I felt like I had 'arrived.' I was finally fulfilling my heart's desire; I was born to be a teacher. Until a few years ago I could never imagine myself doing anything else.

God has a sense of humor - at least He does in my relationship with Him, and He enjoyed a large chuckle at my expense on Wednesday. Many of you know that a point of frustration for me in moving to Peru has been not really knowing what my life would look like and exactly what my work would be. As this job has never existed before, it is really up to me (with the guidance and supervision of both the Medical Missions and Amazon Mission Fellowship boards) as to how it all shakes out. I've known from the beginning of this venture that I would be involved to some extent in the business of MMI and wholly in charge of the ministry of AMF, which would include working with the pastors regularly, as well as developing relationships with their wives with the prospect of becoming part of whatever women's ministries exist and eventually writing and leading some Bible studies of my own. But the Big Man upstairs threw me a curve ball that I didn't see coming. As I was going about my planned morning activities (doing laundry, studying Spanish, making sure Villa was working vs. wasting time), a banging on the gate ushered in Pastor Santiago from a church here in town that is not currently affiliated with AMF, but perhaps will be in the future. After a very brief round of small talk (abnormally short for Peruvians), he got right to the point of his visit. He'd come to ask me to consider coming to his church one day a week to teach English. Well, knock me over with a feather! In the back of my mind I'd harbored the thought that one day, when I felt very comfortable with my Spanish, I might begin tutoring some individuals in English, but never in my wildest dreams did I think the opportunity would literally knock so soon. I stuttered and stammered and searched my brain for every possible Spanish word that might be hiding there to explain why I couldn't do this. He countered all my arguments by telling me that doing this would help me with my Spanish (which it will, dang it - so much for that excuse), but more importantly, it will attract teenagers to the church first, because they want to know English and second, hopefully, for matters of a spiritual nature (holy cow - using teaching as a means of potential evangelism - meet the young people where they are and earn the right to be heard - sounds familiar!). When I told him that I taught literature and grammar to native speakers, not to second language learners, and that doing this would be very difficult he played the 'God Card' saying, "In Him all things are possible," (yeah, yeah, whatever - we all know the verse), and further drove his point home by saying that the announcement that I would be living here for 3 years was an answer to prayer, because God was providing some of the poorest people of Iquitos with another way to become educated - at least as far as learning English goes - and that might ultimately be a tool to lead them to Christ and to a church family.

I responded as a good missionary (and a good Christian for that matter) should and told him that I'd pray about it - which, in Peruvian Spanish, means "Yes, I'll do it." I had already mapped out the coming 5 weeks and set them aside for some intense Spanish studying. I informed Pastor Santiago of this and that I would be making a quick trip to the U.S. in late September/early October, but when I returned to Peru I would talk with him again and let him know what I believe God is leading me to do - which, in Peruvian Spanish, means "We'll get started as soon as I get back."

It seems education, in some shape, fashion, or form, is the theme of the week. And it seems this old teacher may not have handed in her chalk just yet. I'm not sure where this is going; I do need time to pray about it and talk it over with my trusted advisors. What is clear is that God has a plan for me here, and every day He hands me another little piece of this giant jigsaw puzzle I like to refer to as my missionary journey.

To all of the teachers around the world, particularly my friends at Spartanburg High School, thank you for living life in the trenches. Thank you for your dedication to the job that many critics believe they could do better than you (though you'll never see any of them actually giving it a try) and for sacrificing your time, money, and countless other resources in order to offer the children a fighting chance. The reality, however, is that whether we claim the field of education for our chosen professions or not, we are all teachers. This topic of many devotions throughout the mission team season here this year is that someone is always watching us, therefore we are always setting an example, good or bad, whether we know it and/or want to or not. And so this question should haunt us all: What kind of teacher am I?

Que Mas?

2009-07-20T13:10:00.002-04:00

Buenos dias! It is 8 a.m. and I have been without power for the past 5 hours - at least. The silence from the absence of my fan blowing woke me up around 3 a.m. - well, that and the shrill humming of a mosquito near my ear. I have been unable to go back to sleep without some air stirring for fear that I would most certainly be a complex case of both malaria and dengue fever by morning if I didn't constantly fan myself to keep the biting insects away. Of course anyone who has seen me recently would say that was a waste of time, because there isn't any unbitten flesh left on my arms and legs at this point, so the bugs would chalk me up as a lost cause and move on.

Before I go on, I want to first say thank you to those who have been praying for Ina. She is currently in Lima awaiting a cornea transplant. It is my understanding that she may be there for as long as 3 months to recuperate, and for the doctors to monitor her progress. I was able to join her family last week to see her off and was blessed to be able to tell her that I miss and love her. As any mother would be, she is worried, anxious, and upset by the thought of being away from her daughters for that length of time. Valerie is 11 and Maria is 6 - they are staying with Ina's sister. Please continue to lift up Ina, her children, and the rest of her family through this very difficult time.

Three weeks ago (Wow! Where has the time gone?) the first of two groups from Huntington, WV arrived, and with them my good buddy Monty Fulton. I've had the pleasure of Monty's acquaintance for better than three years now, and I am always invigorated by his passion for this mission. Lest you begin to believe Monty is a saint, let me assure you he is quite a character. When he's not flooding my email inbox with blonde jokes, he's sending me sarcastic torts questioning why I have yet to post anything about him and his team on my blog - so Monty, this is for you.

The first Huntington group ministered to the physical well-being of Gallito with the medical team seeing patients and the remainder of the team installing simple water filter systems both in the church and in homes. The hope is that the people will begin to see the value of having and using clean water, which will, in turn, go a long way toward preventing some of their most common illnesses. The aforementioned Monty was part of the water team, even with his hurt leg, which he injured by falling off a ladder the day before his departure for Peru. I offered to shoot the lame horse; Sherry, his wife, was all for the idea, but the rest of the team had second thoughts; thus, Monty is still with us. The second group began their week in a most exciting fashion with Cal Kent displaying symptoms of a stroke during dinner on Saturday night. After several hours of tests and specialists at the Ana Stahl Clinic, Cal was diagnosed as having suffered a TIA (or mini-stroke) and medicated accordingly. Both the doctor here and Cal's doctor at home recommended that he return to the U.S. immediately for further tests, but "immediately" was going to be a problem because a transportation strike was taking place in Lima and one was threatened for Iquitos. The Kents were finally able to fly home on Thursday of that week and reported back that he did not suffer from a TIA but from TGA, or trans-global amnesia which can occur when travelers have experienced sleeping and eating patterns that significantly deviate from the normal with the added factors of equatorial heat and the effects of anti-malaria medicine. He gave us quite a scare, and I am very thankful that he is ok. Additionally, the second group was truly initiated into Peruvian culture through the medium of rain. Unless you have lived here, it is difficult to understand how rain affects life in the jungle - it stops. The most likely reason for the cessation of activity is because the Peruvians travel in rickshaws or by motorcycle with no way to remain dry, or because the work to be done is outside rather than inside. Regardless, Group 2 experienced daily downpours, keeping them from the grueling Gringo schedule that the mission teams maintain, but they adapted well and learned that it is, indeed, ok to just hang out and get to know people, and that they did most admirably. While they began construction on the new Sunday School building, they also found joy in playing with the children, taking naps on church benches, and following John Stephens (the younger version of Monty Fulton) into the Amazon for a swim. I find this refreshing, because our North American lifestyles are so driven by such an insanely inhuman notion of productivity that it is ridiculous. Throughout the two weeks of West Virginians I also had the opportunity to make some new friends among their first-timers who taught me a new card game and laughed uncontrollably with me (it is the best medicine). I look forward to seeing you all again soon (even Monty) when I visit Huntington during one of my trips back to the States.

More than once since I got here I've asked the question, "What else can happen?" The big occurrences like Ina and Cal, the not-so-big ones like multiple power outages (that have always managed to happen on evenings when no mission teams are here) and no hot water, and the smaller, insignificant ones like dial-up vs. high speed, wireless internet, when all added together seem enormous. It feels like a thousand little things go wrong daily, all leading up to the big whammies; and by the time the big ones join the mountains I've made out of mole hills, the climb is nearly impossible. But then I remember the summer of 2000 in Buena Vista, Colorado when I was having a hard time hiking to the top of 13,000 ft. Mt. Chrysolite with my arthritic hip. Just when I thought I couldn't take another step and was ready to give up, I looked up to see Steve Wise coming back down the mountain for me. No matter how many times I told him to go back to the top to be with his guys, he refused to leave me. Instead, he stayed with me every step, encouraging me, pushing me, never letting me quit. I recognized back then that this experience was significant and that God was showing a piece of Himself to me through Steve, but that mental image holds even greater importance to me today. It is in this memory that I see the present; God is always with me, never leaving me, as I climb the mountain of cross-cultural living and ministry. And His capacity for closeness is much greater than Steve's, for He is in the very air I breathe.

By the way, the power is finally back on...

He Never Said It Would Be Easy

2009-06-28T15:23:00.003-04:00

To say there have been trials in these first two weeks would be a gross understatement.

I had just settled into a routine and become quiet in my spirit when it was time for the first group to arrive. My three guys from First Presbyterian, Sumter, SC came bounding in last Saturday morning, bright-eyed and bushy tailed and ready to work (well, maybe they weren't so energetic at first since they had been up all night in the Lima airport). They did a tremendous job of working with Pastor Rony in Quistacocha to begin construction of a Sunday School room behind the church. We had a lot of laughs, mostly at Jim Gee's expense (don't worry Jim, I won't publish the story about your college Spanish class here), but the week was successful both in terms of relationship building among sister churches and work projects. Jim and Robert had the bonus of a trip to the hospital with a 17 year old boy who was in excruciating pain. Initially they thought he had appendicitis, but it turned out to be a kidney stone, not that the diagnosis was any better for the poor guy.

My trials began on Monday last week. It seems there was a significant ant population living in the house, so Ina, my housekeeper, bought insecticide . She was careful and wore gloves, but failed to wash her hands once she took the gloves off. She later rubbed her eye, creating an abrasion with insecticide particles still on her hand, which penetrated her eyeball. It would be Tuesday evening before I found out this happened. I tried to talk Ina into going to the hospital, but she did not want to, explaining that she neither likes doctors, nor taking medicine. For impoverished families, such as Ina's, statements like that can often be translated into "I can't afford to go, so why bother?" By Thursday her pain was unbearable, she had lost her vision in that eye, and she finally acquiesced to getting medical attention. She has now been in the hospital for 4 days and the doctors are still uncertain about whether or nor she will be blind in her right eye, particularly since she waited so long to seek help. Her situation is also complicated by the fact that she is diabetic. Ina is not just my housekeeper; she is my friend, and I love her. She is upset and discouraged and needs to be lifted up. Please pray for her.

Meanwhile, the Sumter group was leaving, and the first of two Huntington, WV groups was arriving. Needless to say I've had to call a time-out and prepare to drop back and punt. Ina is invaluable here; she is the "jefa," or chief of the house; she makes it run. It is difficult to understand just how much she does around here until she is not here to do it. It has been challenging these past few days to figure out how to function without her, but we are managing. I am so grateful to have Sarah Beth Mulet here this week. She spent two summers here as an intern while she was in college, is the secretary of AMF, speaks fluent Spanish, and is one of my very dear friends. She arrived just in time to step in and say, "Don't worry. I'll help you, and we'll be ok."

As a knee-jerk reaction, I have found myself questioning God. Why is this happening at all? But especially why is it happening when I just got here? And why now, when I need her most? Did I completely misunderstand God about coming here? Have I done the wrong thing, quitting my job and moving to South America? Fortunately my sweet Mamacita and my beloved Collins know me better than anyone and always say the right things to talk me down off the ceiling when I am going through one of my intensely reactionary phases. They've gotten a workout recently!

At my moment of greatest discouragement, I opened Streams in the Desert and read the day's devotional, which had obviously been written for me: "'Never dread any consequence resulting from absolute obedience to His command…Dare to trust Him! Dare to follow Him! Then discover that the forces that blocked your progress and threatened your life become at His command the very materials He uses to build your street of freedom'" (F.B. Meyer, 248). What else is there to say?

So, Here I Am…

2009-06-23T11:13:00.002-04:00

I'm now one week into my tenure as a missionary in residence in Iquitos, and I'm still tired.

The past couple of weeks have been the most mentally, physically, and emotionally draining of my life. It is an experience like no other. In my wildest, most outrageous dreams, I could never have imagined the depth of the grief of leaving my family, friends, church, home, job - I can't explain it and I don't even want to try. But, once again, God has shown up in a most timely fashion. Knowing that I would need the kindness of strangers at this juncture, He gave me a sweet-spirited waitress who never said a word, but simply smiled at me with compassion in her eyes while I ate my lunch in the Miami airport last Monday, crying the whole time. He provided an understanding Peruvian immigration officer who, when I explained that I was a missionary and requested a 90 day tourist visa (typically the longest one they issue), told me it would be best if I had a 6 month visa - "just in case." He put a kind-hearted woman at the LAN airlines counter who counted my luggage as part of the group checking in beside me so I wouldn't have to pay for my extra and overweight bags to fly from Lima to Iquitos. Yet most importantly, He placed me here in this jungle port city for the past three summers to develop the relationships that I would need to sustain me during my transition - Ina, Margarita, and Villa have gone so far above what is required of them to make me comfortable and to help me begin to feel like I am at home that I can never repay their kindness.

My first major lesson has been one of focus. I admit unabashedly that upon arrival I did not want to be here. Such feelings were difficult for me as I have always had a strong attachment to this place; I did not understand myself, but what I did understand was that I wanted to be on a northbound plane, headed straight back to Sparkle City, SC. I cried all day last Tuesday as I half-heartedly unpacked, tossing things in tandem into the closet, on the chair, across the bed; and I cried myself to sleep that night. The next morning, I cried again when Margarita showed up at El Jardin to give me the "gift" of the bank debit card. Being the absolutely wonderful woman that she is, she cried with me. Her words soothed me as she said she understood that I had come here at great sacrifice, but that she loves me, that her family is my family, that she will take care of me, and that September (and my first trip home) would arrive quickly. I am not exaggerating when I say the tears dried up immediately; my snap realization was that my focus was too large. Instead of thinking about getting through one day, one week, the 7 weeks of mission teams, then my return to the U.S. for an early fall visit, I was allowing myself to be overwhelmed by the idea of 3 years here. The nation of Israel learned a similar lesson when God refused to allow them to get swept away in the big picture by providing manna one day at a time.

I'm reminded of my favorite Laura Story song - the same song she sang to/for me during Westminster's Lay Renewal back in February - whose lyrics read, "…and You answer, "My child, I love you, and as long as you're seeking My face, you'll walk in the power of My daily sufficient grace." So at this point I'm only allowing myself to focus on today - no more, no less. If you do not own the daily devotional Streams in the Desert, by L.B. Cowman, get it. June 18th's entry spoke renewed life into me this week with these words: "Pay as little attention to discouragement as possible. Plow ahead like a steamship, which moves forward whether facing rough or smooth seas, and in rain or shine. Remember, the goal is simply to carry the cargo and to make it to port."

So, here I am. My path to this point has been nothing less than spectacular. To those who have taken this walk with me thus far, thank you; and to those who are joining me now, welcome. Hold on tight. You're in for the ride of your life.

A Week Later

2008-08-04T12:00:00.002-04:00

Culture shock - the past week has redefined that term for me. Re-entering North American life has been more difficult this year than ever before. It has literally been a grieving process. I miss waking up to sunbeams on my face at 6 a.m., having coffee and quiet time in the screened porch room while absorbing the sheer beauty of the preserved jungle within the Jardin walls, running around getting the groups ready for a day with a sister church, sitting at the kitchen table updating my spreadsheets, planning dinners and going grocery shopping with Ina and Maria, sitting in my rocking chairs chatting with Villa, laying on my couch listening to the rain fall. I miss all these things and so much more about Iquitos.

So here I am, trying to adjust to a life I've always known. It feels strangely like I left home in Peru and am in a foreign place now.

Once again, I am totally dependent on God to lead me. If I am to live in Peru, He will open the doors, as He has done every step of the way for the past 6 years.

French Fries and Ketchup

2008-07-25T15:09:00.002-04:00

Whether or not we pay attention to the Peruvians, they pay attention to us. I understood this when, out of the blue, Villa asked me why gringos like 'papas fritas' so much, and then he added, 'with lots of ketchup.' I couldn't offer a reasonable explanation (I could only laugh), but he helped me by saying gringos like french fries the way Peruvians like rice. It is a legitimate comparison. How funny that he would notice such a detail. I wonder what else he and many other Peruvians have noticed but not had the nerve to ask about.

At this point I have said my good-byes and begun the process of getting back to the States. The term 'gut-wrenching' pales in comparison to what I'm feeling. When I had the last of my things packed that are actually coming home with me, I walked into the kitchen to see Villa and Maria sitting outside in my rocking chairs while Ina fussed at the children for something or other. I had taken the time to fix my hair and put on a little make-up (something I rarely do there) and the first thing Villa said was, "en ingles, 'You are beautiful.'" I immediately burst into tears, not because of the sentiment, but because he said it in English then looked away. Maria and Ina cried with me; Villa wouldn't look at me because pools were beginning to collect in his eyes, and the macho in him wouldn't actually let him shed a tear (especially after asking me a few days earlier why women cry so much - another question for which I had no reasonable explanation). Minutes later the four of us and a slew of kids stood on the street corner just outside the Jardin gate saying how much we love each other and promising that the time would go by fast and soon it would be time for me to return.

I wish I could say I was able to collect myself after the motokar pulled away, but I would be lying. Maria insisted on accompanying me to the airport, which only made walking through the security gate that much harder. The whole crowd of people just stared at us - two women sobbing almost hysterically, holding onto each other for dear life. Everything in me wanted to tear up my boarding pass, turn around, get back in the motokar with her, and go straight back to the house. But it was not to be - this time…

The plane took off and I could barely see the jungle through my tears. I was leaving home.

Now, in transit, I want to go back home - not to my house in the States, but to the home I just left. I said in an earlier blog that the fear of moving to Iquitos to live and work was gone - that feeling was reaffirmed through my departure. I left most of my possessions at the Jardin. The only things I am bringing home are clothes. Somehow it creates a tangible connection to know that my personal stuff is still there, waiting for me when I get home again for my brief visit in November. Now I begin the process of praying and waiting for God to open the final doors for my move, as I know all too well that if I try to make things happen in my time rather than His, nothing good will come of it. I pray that He will move me soon.

For now, if I can't be in the jungle, I just want to hurry up and be in S.C. again. And I look forward to hugging and kissing my mom at the end of my journey...

T-Shirt Testimony

2008-07-24T13:52:00.002-04:00

Nothing says 'gringo' like a group of white people standing on a street corner, looking both helpless and lost, yet not too lost because none of them need look very far to find another individual proudly sporting the exact same t-shirt advertising the love of God for all the Spanish-speaking world to read - in English. Does this mean I truly have become a local? Whatever it means, I couldn't help but chuckle to myself as I traversed the main thoroughfares of Iquitos running errands this morning; that's when I saw them. They stuck out like sore thumbs. Having just read a book on cross-cultural ministry (which I highly recommend in my 'Good Reads' section below) the thought occurred to me that, as Christians, we like to announce our presence, drawing as much attention to ourselves as possible, whether intentional or not. In our culture, t-shirts are cool, especially when they identify us as part of an elite group such as a sorority/fraternity, athletic organization, or, yes, a mission team. I'm certainly not bashing t-shirts, as I have been an avid collector myself in years past, but I am giving voice to a frustration I experience with greater frequency in direct proportion to the amount of time I live here that begs the question, 'Would Jesus wear a t-shirt?' Trite, I know, but valid nonetheless. Please forgive my cynicism - it is my current struggle. Have no fear, God is working it out in me in sometimes very painful ways, lest anyone would think my sarcasm is going unchecked!

Another truth that is becoming more and more apparent is that you can't really get to know people unless you can talk to them. I have been building relationships here for 7 years now and each time I return they are strengthened a little more, not by virtue of the fact that I am here, but because I have a greater ability to communicate than ever before. Learning Spanish and being able to sit down with people and have conversations without the aid of an interpreter has changed the dynamics of every relationship I have here. It has peeled away many layers of surface judgments (on both sides) to reveal the depths of the humanness of us all. For example, I went to Pastor German's house this week for what would be my final visit of the summer. Enith, her 3 daughters, and I all sat around the table laughing and talking about how we need to lose weight and how hard it is to do. At Maria's house for my farewell lunch, her husband excitedly showed me the trophy he'd received the previous weekend for winning a tournament with his, as he called it, 'old men's soccer team,' while her daughter described her agony as a mother whose 11 month old baby will be having surgery in Lima next week because she was born without bowels. At Margarita's house, during my surprise dinner last night, we laughed at her daughter talking about the boy she likes. Later I was fussed at for taking her daughter's side regarding the benefits of sleeping late, which Margarita says is just plain laziness. We take conversations like these for granted at home, because if we don't talk to people there, it's because we don't want to. But when you live in a foreign city with an unfamiliar language, you begin to realize how valuable little chats are to the process of relationship building.

I have relished the moments over this past week that I have been here alone, during which time I've been able to get outside the 'commercial district' (so to speak) of Iquitos and spend more time in the true neighborhoods, observing families going about their everyday lives. I have seen families all sitting down together at the dinner table, parents disciplining their children, little ones arguing over whose turn it is in a game of marbles on the sidewalk, and adults sitting in their rocking chairs enjoying the company of neighbors. I am eternally grateful for these opportunities, because they have been invitations into real life here, not just the practiced scenes acted out for groups of gringos (and, yes, as much as we like to think otherwise, during the one week per year that our mission teams are here, what they see are carefully rehearsed scripts which allow us, in some ways, to see what we want to see rather than what is real). But these are all things that one can't possibly begin to understand without coming here to live, minus the clock-breaking, arduous schedule the mission teams are on.

My light skin, blonde hair, and blue eyes belie the fact that I am not a native of Peru - I have no need of duplicated garments to announce my presence. And I don't ever want to yearn for or need an audience in a church to share my knowledge of and love for my Savior; I hope the simplest of my everyday words and actions indicate that my true home is not of this world. Nathan exemplifies this in his Peruvian legacy. During the course of his time as an intern here, he had a conversation with Villa and a few others in which they tried to convince him that it is acceptable to have girlfriends in addition to his wife. Without being the least bit judgmental, Nathan explained to them that he loves only one woman that way - his wife - and he is committed to her because he believes that is what God wants. It was a quick conversation with high impact; Villa has not stopped talking about it. I cannot count the number of times he has said to me, "Nathan really loves his wife." I've tried to follow that up by saying he should imitate Nathan and love his own wife to that degree. Whether he hears me or not, because I am a woman after all and naturally I would say that, he definitely heard Nathan. There was no t-shirt, no announcement that he was the gringo here to teach the ways of God to the unsuspecting locals, no showy church service - there was simply a conversation between two men in which one man set the example for the other in a non-condemning, yet convicting way. Nathan has taught me more than he realizes.

Certainly I have gained greater acceptance from the locals, because time, language, and a shared love for the culture is making me one of them. The gringo groups, however, who come here now as part of the Amazon Mission Fellowship are slowly beginning to reap the same benefits. I have watched returning individuals from all over South Carolina, West Virginia, Missouri, and Pennsylvania being embraced more openly this summer in their respective sister churches, because they are no longer participants in the 'get in, build something, get out' school of missions. Instead, they are choosing the messier, more difficult way; they are getting involved in the lives of those they seek to serve and by whom they are served. The road they are traveling now will absolutely have some rough spots - maybe more rough than smooth lengths - but aren't those stretches of unpaved, muddy, hole-laden road the ones that really teach us who we are, who those we live and work with are, and ultimately, most importantly, who God is?

No Water, a Strike, and the WPC Team

2008-07-20T08:57:00.004-04:00

Two Monday's ago, after a long, hot day, I could already feel the warm water running over me as I prepared to take a shower. It was a feeling that was not to be, however, because when I turned the faucet there was no hot water; in fact, there was no cold water either. We were waterless. I grabbed my cell phone, called Villa and told him to get over here ASAP, which he did, but the news was not good once he arrived. It was 5:30 in the afternoon and there would be no more water at El Jardin until around 7:00 the following morning. It's not unusual to have water problems here from time to time - thankfully it was a week that Nathan and I were the only people living in the house; our guests were staying at the Hotel Maranon. Being the resourceful person that I am (as well as disgustingly dirty), I decided bottled water would have to do in this crisis. One bottle for soaping up, another for rinsing, and all the important places were clean until I could take a real shower on Tuesday.

(Photo - me, Todd, and Margarita)

That Wednesday the entire city shut down - no motokars were running, no businesses were open, the whole city was frozen - we were in the midst of a strike. The Saxe-Gotha ladies, Nathan, and I had hoped to continue working in the Iquitos church in spite of the strike, but as it turned out the morning was rainy, and when it is raining, there might as well be a strike, because most Peruvians aren't going anywhere. So the group spent the morning relaxing in their hotel until lunch time when Nathan and I walked to the hotel to get them. The streets were littered with shattered glass and other debris used for road blocks to keep any renegade motokar and motorcycle drivers from being able to get through; bonfires were also built in the middle of some of the streets as the people of Peru used the strike to air their grievances against the Peruvian federal government. Being the honorable people that they are, Ina, Maria, and Villa walked great distances to and from their homes that day to make sure we gringos were taken care of; I wonder how many of us would do the same…

Saturday, July 12 brought my Westminster mission team to town. What a treat to see those familiar faces emerge from the airport. Thus began a very busy week. Daily trips to Santa Clara included some incredible team devotion time, lead by Paul each morning, helping paint the church's exterior and windows, beginning an addition to the pastor's home which will house a screened-in kitchen and dining room for feeding the congregation, Bible school, playing with the children, nature walks, classes on being Presbyterian, and another round of spiritually stirring evening devotions. It was a perfect week - until Friday. At 7:15 a.m. I was standing at the hotel desk paying the final bill of the mission season, preparing to take my home team to the airport. This has been the year for flight problems, and today would be no different. I stepped out of my motokar only to be told that the 1:30 p.m. flight had been cancelled. Alice and I stood in line for what seemed like an eternity to get the group rebooked on the 6:10 p.m. flight to Lima so they could still make their connection to the U.S. at midnight. With a stack of passports and newly issued boarding passes in my hand, I lead my crew back to El Jardin for a luggage deposit and walk back to the Plaza de Armas for some lunch at the Antica Pizzeria. Shortly after 5 p.m. I kissed, hugged, and waved good-bye to my WPC team. Exhausted, I threw myself into one more motokar, nearly falling asleep on the ride home.

The weight of five consecutive weeks of mission teams descended on me; I was beyond thankful to go to bed that night without first setting my alarm for 6 a.m. I woke up just before 9 a.m. Saturday morning with the incredible feeling of being rested - a feeling I haven't had since I left home on June 9. After a bowl of the Peruvian version of Cocoa Puffs for breakfast, I sat down at my computer to catch up on the accounting that had piled up on my desk over the course of the past week. Ina and Maria arrived and began the unenviable chore of degreasing the kitchen and the gas grill after more than a month of continuous use. What happened next caught me completely off-guard

With my spread sheets as complete as they could be for the moment, I decided to get ahead in the packing process so the coming week wouldn't be so hectic, but as I pulled the suitcase out of storage, the flood gates opened and I collapsed onto my bedroom floor sobbing inconsolably. When I could breathe enough to talk, I called my mom, but by the time she answered I was crying so hard again that she couldn't understand a word I was saying. I blabbered to her for a few minutes and thought I had gotten myself together, but when I walked outside to pay Ina and Maria for the final time this summer I fell apart again. Being the true, considerate women that they are, they cried with me, assuring me that as long as they were alive I would always have someone to take care of me here, that they would count the days until I got back in November, and that they would be praying for the day when I didn't have to leave anymore.

Now, don't get me wrong, I knew leaving was going to be emotional; however, I did not expect the emotion to kick in until closer to my departure time. I think it is probably best if I bring this blog post to an end for now, because I really need to sleep tonight without being a congested, snotty mess, which will be the case sooner than later if I continue talking about this right now. (Photo - Tammy, or Tamicita as I call her, my Peruvian pup, napping outside the kitchen door)

Crazy Weeks

2008-07-16T18:45:00.002-04:00

Life in the jungle has been extremely busy for the past two weeks. Last week's group required my constant attention and so does this week's group. Of course this week's crowd is my own WPC group and I'd much rather spend my time with them than sitting at a computer. We've had an absolutely fabulous week in Santa Clara so far. El Jardin is currently enjoying one big week-long pajama party as all the girls are living with me, while the boys reside in the hotel.

The Westminster crowd heads home on Friday afternoon, so soon I'll have more time to think, reflect, and write. There is a sadness to their leaving - not that they are leaving, though I will miss them; but, their departure is a warning bell that my time here is almost up.

Hopefully those of you who have become blog addicts will forgive me for taking so long to post again - but hang on, help is on the way this weekend!

Hasta el fin de la semana...

Day from Hell

2008-07-07T18:00:00.002-04:00

Saturday, July 5 - 5:30 a.m. I am supposed to already be on a motokar headed to the airport with the departing group to get them on their flight. Instead, I sit straight up in my bed upon hearing Nathan knocking, telling me to wake up. I won't tell you exactly what I muttered to myself when, through the fog of interrupted dreams, it registered with me that I had overslept. Not to worry, though. Nathan had already put the five people staying here at the Jardin on motokars and was headed to the hotel to get the others. I threw on some clothes, swished a little Listerine around in my mouth in an attempt to kill the worst part of my morning breath, spit it out on the ground as I went out the gate, and off to the airport I went.

Here is what was 'supposed' to happen: Nathan and I would drop off one group (wait for them to get their boarding passes and say our good-byes), then run outside to pick up the incoming group. We would deposit the 'newbies' at the hotel until lunch time and return to the Jardin for a little morning siesta ourselves.

Here is what 'actually' happened: The Huntington, WV group checked their luggage, received their boarding passes, and bid us farewell. Nathan and I watched them pass through the security gate. We went outside, awaiting the arrival of the Saxe-Gotha group from Columbia, SC (they were disembarking the plane the others were to return to Lima on). We heard the plane approaching, then we saw it pull up, circle around, and disappear; it was too foggy to land. Immediately we go back inside the airport to retrieve the group to whom we said 'adios' only moments earlier. After standing in line for what seemed like an eternity, we learned that they had been rebooked on the 9 p.m. flight. WHAT??? Tired and frustrated, we picked up their luggage, put them all on motokars, and headed back to the Jardin. All the while my anxiety level is escalating because I am worried for the four people who were supposed to get off the plane that never landed. None of them have been to Peru before and I panicked for them, hoping they would just follow the crowd once they were back in Lima, get rebooked, and make the best of an uncontrollable situation.

Meanwhile, no one has eaten breakfast and it is nearly 9:30 a.m. at this point. So most of the group headed out to a restaurant for brunch, while others opted for more sleep in any space deemed suitable for propping up at the Jardin. Ina and I began stripping the beds, collecting dirty towels, sweeping, mopping, and cleaning bathrooms. There were a million things to do and I was trying to figure out how to accomplish it all with 13 unanticipated people underfoot. Nathan and I went to the Lan Airlines office to find out what flight our Saxe-Gotha group was rescheduled on, I swung by the restaurant to pay the bill, and returned to the house to continue the day's work. Ashley, the Huntington group's translator, went back to the airport just prior to the 1 p.m. flight to try to bargain their way onto the outgoing plane. She was successful in getting one person on it. At 4:30, the rest of us return to the airport. Ashley is still bargaining and manages to get five more people on the 6 p.m. flight, leaving seven of them still here. Bill, their trip leader has my cell phone and is talking to every known American Airlines and Travelocity representative on the planet trying to get the seven of them rebooked, because they are going to miss their flight from Lima to the U.S. Nathan and I stand outside waiting for our S.C. group - only two of them emerge from the airport. As it would happen, the other two managed to get on an earlier flight, unbeknownst to us, and are already at the hotel. Nathan rides the van with the two S.C. ladies, and I stay at the airport with the final Huntington seven until it is time for them to board the plane, after which I race to the restaurant where Nathan has taken the current group for dinner. It is 9:17 p.m. After dinner, we get Tammy, Julie, Sylvia, and Ken settled for the evening, and Nathan and I finally head home. Nathan isn't feeling well, so he loads himself up with cold medicine and goes to bed. As a means of releasing some of the tension and anxiety of the day, I do a little more house cleaning, since I'm still too wound up to go to bed. The one thing I can say for the Huntington group is that they were troopers; in spite of their plans being totally interrupted, they endured the day and the constantly changing travel arrangements with grace and patience. If I had to be in limbo with anyone, I couldn't have asked for a better bunch.

Just minutes after 11 p.m. I am sitting on the edge of my bed, setting my alarm clock, when my cell phone rings. Margarita is on the other end and she is frantic. She is around the block at the Fanning house (one of our rental properties) and tells me I need to come immediately. With no time to get out of my pajamas and into regular clothes, I step into my flip-flops, grab my keys, and out the gate I go, traipsing into the middle of the raucous crowd of teenagers who hang out on the corner every night, drinking at the bodega across the street, hoping none of them decides to accost me. I round the corner past the church and see two large tree branches lying on the sidewalk. As I get closer, I can see enormous scrape marks down the front of the building and the sidewalk is further littered with chunks of stucco. As it would happen, a 15 year old kid (most likely drunk) lost control of his car and plowed into the front door of our rental property. Margarita and I stand there and talk with Mr. Meza before hopping a motokar to the police station where they've already impounded the wrecked car and arrested the driver. Let me tell you, now THAT'S an interesting place to be at midnight on a Saturday night! As for the Fanning house - I'll have to let you know after a trip to the lawyer's office.

The clock glows 1:12 a.m. as my head hits the pillow. I start laughing as I think back over the day that was doomed from the beginning. Three trips to the airport, two different groups in limbo, and a car through the front door. That's when it happened - I heard a voice speaking. In my head? Out loud? In my spirit? I don't know for sure, but it was an audible voice and I recognized it, because I've heard it before - always at major turning points in my life since I decided to follow Jesus. Two simple words were all I heard: "It's time." I've known for six years now that the Lord was calling me to serve here. When I've allowed myself to actually think about living in another country, I've become frozen with fear. Other missionaries I've talked to have always told me not to worry, because when the time was right - the Lord's time, that is - I would know and I would no longer be afraid. They were right. I still don't know the exact time table for when I will quit teaching and come to live here; it may be as soon as next summer. But the fear is gone, and I know that with the Lord's help, nothing is impossible. How ironic that my moment of clarity came at the end of a day of uncertainty, full of events that were completely and totally outside my realm of control.

Then Sings My Soul…

2008-07-01T14:21:00.005-04:00

Sunday morning was hectic trying to get everyone in this week's group and all their materials for the week's work projects ready to go to Gallito for church. I didn't want to find myself in the same place I had landed last week, so I opted to stay behind and worship on my own. With my Bible and Bible study book in tow, I perched at the table on the screened porch. From there I could be alone with God, study, and listen to the music from the service at the Iquitos church next door. I was enjoying soaking up the Word when suddenly I froze - yet another familiar tune permeated the air waves around me as the congregation on the other side of my porch sang How Great Thou Art, in Spanish, of course.

(Photo - Maria and Me)

I know I sound like a broken record, and at the risk of repeating myself for the millionth time, there is no doubt that the Spirit was moving all over the screened porch of El Jardin at that moment. Unless you've been here and heard it and felt it yourself, I cannot possibly describe to you what it is like to hear these songs. It is a moment when the hair on the back of your neck stands up (much akin to a territorial dog about to strike, only without the malice), goose bumps cover your entire body, tears well up in your eyes even though you don't have the slightest urge to cry, and all you can do is close your eyes, lift your hands, and barely mumble, "Thank you, God." Romans 8:26 says, "We do not know what we ought to pray for, but the Spirit himself intercedes for us with groans that words cannot express." Thus the line, "then sings my soul."

My soul sang again Monday when I was honored with an invitation to little Maria's birthday party. Ina, her mother, has worked with the gringo groups here for years. Ina is a very quiet, reserved woman who is not just punctual, but shows up at the Jardin at least 10 minutes early every morning. She is a hard worker, doing whatever is asked of her, and frequently going the extra mile without being asked to do so. I've worked with Ina for several years now and have always made it a point to say 'thank you' daily, as this mission surely would suffer without her, and I've tried occasionally to chat with her, showing interest in her as a person, not just someone who comes to work here. I've never really felt like I was making any progress …until now. I was sitting at the kitchen table with my computer, entering info from a pile of receipts into the appropriate spreadsheets, when she almost whispered my name. I looked up to see the color flooding her face, working its way from her neck to her scalp, and, as she blushed as though she were ashamed to be making a request of me, she invited me to share in the celebration of her daughter's birthday with her and her family. I accepted the invitation and she told me she would return at 4:00 to pick me up. I continued my day with yet another enormous lump lodged in my throat, because I understood that this private woman thought enough of me to invite me into her world.

I was welcomed with open arms by everyone into the party. We sang Happy Birthday in both English and Spanish, little Maria danced and played with her cousins while Ina, big Maria (Ina's sister) and I rattled on as only women can do, getting to know each other on a level we had never broached before. Two hours later I needed to get back to the Jardin, because I had a hungry group of gringos waiting for me to take them to dinner. Ina insisted on accompanying me, just to make sure I arrived home safely. As I stepped from the motokar, handing money to the driver, she told me she would take care of the fare; I told her it was the least I could do for the pleasure I'd been given of sharing in her child's birthday. She nodded ok and her last words to me were, "See you tomorrow. Thank you for accepting my invitation."

(Photo - Maria - Cake Face after Blowing out Her Candle)

Like a bolt of lightning, it struck me that she had been so timid when inviting me because she was afraid I would say no. In spite of her fear, this sweet, kind, gentle woman (who has no idea how much I respect her) invited me anyway. Isn't that what God calls us to do as Christians? To invite others to know Him; to risk rejection; to forget about ourselves and take a chance on someone else for a change; to get out of our boxes and to release Him from the one we've placed Him in. Oh, that we would all be more like Ina.

(Photo - Ina with her Great-Niece, Samantha)

I saw God today...

3:45 a.m.

2008-06-28T09:28:00.002-04:00

Palmetto Pride
In Iquitos

Everyone loves a prankster, right? Well, everyone loves being a prankster. Last Tuesday night I was unable to go to sleep, so I sat up working on what I hope will eventually take the form of a novel. I finally turned my computer off around 1:30 a.m. I had just settled into a deep sleep when an alarm went off. Immediately I began slapping at my clock, whose illuminated numbers read 3:45, trying to shut the obnoxious noise off, but I soon realized it wasn't my clock. Instead, it was the clock Todd left with me when he headed back to the States Tuesday afternoon. And here I thought he was being generous, but I should have known that his parting gift was literally a ticking bomb.

On Thursday, Maria Helmi, director of the SCOTA school for handicapped children, invited me, Tom and Terri Sheaffer, and Stewart Garrett to have lunch with her and the teachers from two of the SCOTA schools in town. We were treated to some local cuisine - soup made from chicken broth and cornmeal with a chicken leg floating in the middle alongside a piece of yucca, fried rice, and another interesting looking dish. The soup and fried rice were delicious; I must confess I declined to try the other dish and was later glad I had opted out once I found out that it was actually pieces of gizzard with some spices in it. They weren't in the least offended that I wouldn't eat this delicacy because my upturned nose meant more for them. What impressed me more than the food was the camaraderie among the teachers. They thoroughly enjoyed each other's company and chatted incessantly throughout the meal, laughing often. It was an occasion to celebrate the teachers having birthdays in June. Tom, Terri, and Stewart were honored for the work they have done for SCOTA, including repairing the children's playground, updating the computer lab, and teaching English classes. The SCOTA teachers and students alike have a great love for these three, and well they should. At one point during lunch I turned to Terri and said, "Now this is real life. We are being blessed to witness life as they know it every day." What an awesome opportunity to see people coming together for the common good; I can't help but wish we gringos interacted with our co-workers in the same way.

El Jardin - Front Gate

Path to the House

Inside the Gate

Screened Porch

My Favorite Room

Living and Dining Area

Kitchen

This morning I rose at 5 a.m. to get the current group to the airport and on their way home again. I encouraged Nathan to sleep in and let me handle the departures. I have been nothing less than thoroughly impressed by him as we've worked together for two weeks now. I knew from the beginning that he was the right person to fill the intern's position, but he has exceeded all of my expectations. With no apparent fear, he headed to Tamshiyacu with the group every day last week and helped the project manager coordinate their work on the new church, learning more and more Spanish with every conversation. In the evenings he can usually be found with his face in a Spanish textbook, eager to learn as much of the language as possible. His laid back morning was more than deserved. Tomorrow we both venture out to the airport at 6 a.m. to pick up the next group, which just happens to be his home church group. Having never experienced life in Iquitos from this perspective, he has no idea just how sweet it will be to see those familiar faces from home emerge with tousled hair, morning breath, and heavy luggage. I can't wait to be the outside observer watching the reunion.

My Aunt Terri emailed me earlier in the week asking for pictures of where I live while I am here. She said she had a mental image of this 'El Jardin' place she's heard about so much and would like to see if imagination and reality match. So, I've included a few photos for those who've never been here before. Notice in the first snapshot above that I brought a signature South Carolina flag with me - there's nothing like the palmetto tree and crescent moon flapping in the breeze more than 3000 miles away from home.

Overwhelmed

2008-06-23T16:54:00.003-04:00

Sunday was almost too much for me.

Todd had arrived Friday morning at 6:30 a.m. and we hit the ground running, buying new, necessary furniture for the Jardin and running a million other errands. Between the two of us, we were spending money 'muy rapido.' Our latest group landed at 6:30 Saturday morning, keeping me and Nathan hopping for about 18 hours that day. On Sunday, my day began around 5:30 a.m. when I woke up, panicking, because I had a stack of receipts from the previous two days that I had not yet entered into my computer. I'm very conscious of maintaining detailed, accurate spreadsheets for every sole I spend - both Todd and Francis have placed a great deal of trust in me to handle the money as I see fit and I want to be worthy of that trust and be a good steward. So, by 6:00 a.m. I was sitting at the kitchen table, entering data into Microsoft Excel (my greatest discovery in the past few weeks). At 7:00 a.m., enter Ina to cook breakfast for us all; at 7:30, enter Villa to help get two boat loads of us ready to go to Tamshiyacu for the morning; at 8:00, enter everyone in the house to eat breakfast; by 8:15, at least 6 people (3 of them speaking Spanish) were calling my name, wanting something from me.

I used the hour long boat ride to Tamshiyacu to try to get my brain settled and get the day's schedule set in my head, but that only lasted until the boat pulled into the port. The remainder of the day was beyond hectic, with more issues and questions than I felt like I could answer. Around 5:00 on Sunday afternoon, I made it to my room to lay down and cry. As the hot tears of frustration leaked from my eyes, burning my face before they splashed onto my pillow, it occurred to me that in the busyness of the weekend, I had not taken time to be with God and I was trying to handle everything on my own. While my Spanish has been amazing, and my adaptation to the culture even better this year, I am still a stranger in a foreign land trying to make a fledgling missions organization work. I cannot do it by myself. I cannot do it with the help of my AMF board and all the sister churches the U.S. can offer. We can only accomplish what needs to be done through God. So I prayed...

As the peace and calm washed over me, I was reminded of the fact that Jesus, Himself, had to withdraw from the crowds to be with God. He, too, got overwhelmed with everyone wanting something from Him, calling His name constantly. If He needed to be alone with God, how much more, then, do I need to.

Ina and her sister served us a delicious, home-cooked meal of grilled chicken, mashed potatoes, and green beans (all Peruvian style, of course) for dinner last night. When they departed the Jardin for the evening, I packed the cooler for today, and headed to the shower at last. A shower never feels as good as when you've been sweating all day and have grime at least an inch thick on you, sticky skin and all.

Sporting a sopping wet head and clean pajamas, I sat down with Todd to add a few hands to our 4 night gin rummy marathon (Jessica, if you're reading this, unfortunately I've only been in the lead for one of the three nights so far - if he manages to finish me off tonight, we must team up for a grudge match when I get home and down to Charleston for a visit - all that matters is that Todd loses!).

By 10:00 p.m., everyone was in bed, and a storm rolled through. In the dark, I took my pillow to the screened porch, and laid on the couch under the ceiling fan. The rain beat down on the Jardin trees, while lightning flashed in the distance, followed shortly by almost muted rolls of thunder. I thought back to the song that played on my iPod while I showered earlier and discovered the words held all the truth I needed to release the anxiety and frustration of my day.

"Whenever I call you're there, Redeemer and Friend
Cherished beyond all words, this love never ends
Morning by morning, Your mercy awakens my soul
I lift up my eyes to see, the wonders of heaven
Opening over me, Your goodness abounds
Taking my breath away with Your irresistable love."
(from Irresistable by Hillsong Australia)

Until the next time I try to do it all on my own...

Sweet Tea and Chocolate Pudding

2008-06-19T12:22:00.002-04:00

My dear friend Jessica, who has previously lived in Iquitos, shared with me the wisdom of bringing along a few comforts from home for my extended time here. I decided on Lipton tea bags, and so I made a gallon of tea yesterday. OH, MY GOODNESS! Sweet tea has never tasted so good.

Regarding another lucky find, on one of my trips to the mercado, I discovered chocolate pudding mix. Of course, my spoiled self is used to the instant kind, so I was taking a big risk in buying the kind that must be cooked. After making my beloved sweet tea, I sang out loud while dancing in front of the stove ¨constantly stirring¨my pan of chocolate powder mixed with milk. Having never cooked on a gas stove before I was sure I would probably scorch the pudding, but it actually tasted really good for dessert last night.

Nathan and I made the trek to the airport at 5:30 this morning to put Jim and Robert, our two man team from First Presbyterian, Sumter, SC, on a plane back to the States. We have been running errands all morning and have a lot to accomplish today in getting ready for the next group to arrive Saturday morning.

I know some of you have tried to post comments and have had some difficulty. You can still certainly email me at mickeymac987@hotmail.com at any time as well. Thanks to all of you who have posted comments and/or sent emails already. It is nice to hear from home.

Nos vemos...

Being Humbled

2008-06-17T13:47:00.002-04:00

When you live here for an extended time, you begin to become oblivious to, even irritated with the lifestyles and the all consuming poverty of the people. I have been guilty of this; God worked on that this morning.

Ina and I went to the Belén market to buy fresh fish, vegetables, and rice to cook for dinner. When we arrived at the market the crowd was dense and almost moving in unison. As we allowed ourselves to be swept along with the rest of the people, in every direction, as far as I could see, vendors basically accosted shoppers, desperately trying to make a sale. The good fortune of one is the misfortune of another. Suddenly I felt the urge to make our trip more complicated and only buy one item per vendor. I bought broccoli from one, corn from another, rice from yet another, pineapple from still another, and so on, spreading the wealth, so to speak. As we walked through the butchering area, the nauseating smell of recently slaughtered animals being cut into pieces for sale permeated the air. Dozens of dogs wandered the aisles, anticipating a meal of left over parts tossed to the floor - they ate hungrily. I thought of how insulated I am from scenes such as this. The nice, clean meat market at Bi-Lo makes it easy for me to make my selections without the discomfort of seeing firsthand how that meat came to be there in the first place. Fortunately we moved quickly to the fish market, which, at least for me, is much easier on the eyes and stomach.

Being the dog person that I am, the meringue on my humble pie this morning was the sight of a dog lying on the sidewalk on the way back to the house. The dog was so mangey that it had only patches of whiskers for hair, and its skin was scaly and raw from where it had bitten itself repeatedly. At that point the lump in my throat was so big that I didn´t think I could choke it back long enough for Ina and me to get back in the house so I could get to my room, close the door, and cry privately.

I have become hardened to such scenes over the past few years, but today God decided it was time to view life through the same eyes I had the first time I came here six years ago. I felt shame for my oblivion. It raises the unanswerable question once again, why did God allow me to be born into a middle class, white, North American family while these people were sentenced to life here?

The only thing I know for sure is that God is good. Beyond that, I have a lot of questions...

I Surrender All

2008-06-15T15:44:00.002-04:00

The Spanish version of I Surrender All echoed through the sanctuary of the Iquitos church this morning. I was immediately aware of how much I hold onto. Surrender is so hard. Sometimes it´s nearly impossible. Yet without it, God cannot pour His Spirit into my soul and fill me to overflowing.

In the weeks prior to coming to Peru this summer, the thing that God repeatedly impressed upon my heart was how often I pen Him up; I put Him in a box and tell Him to stay there, and when I need Him I´ll open up the box a little and let Him come out just enough to help me with whatever trouble I´m having at the time, after which I expect Him to sit quietly until another need arises. I prepared for this trip knowing that God was telling me to let Him out of the box and allow Him to be as big as He really is.

I have found myself laughing out loud several times a day during the week that I have been here, because God is showing me repeatedly that He is larger than I can imagine or hope for. Take my knowledge of Spanish, for example. I was very nervous about being here without anyone else who speaks the language to help me, but I´ve known from the beginning that I was truly on my own this time. Now, in years past I have talked about moments of possessing supernatural Spanish, but this time is different - it is not just supernatural, it is downright miraculous. I have become a sponge, soaking up vocabulary and sentence structure and verb tenses. Each time I finish a conversation (not a sentence, but an entire conversation) with Villa or Ina, I burst into laughter knowing that it was not me who just spoke; it was a tangible expression of God unleashed.

Those of you who were children/teenagers of the 80´s will be interested to know that Rod Stewart´s Young Turks is playing right now in the internet cafe. Man does this song bring back memories!

To all of you dads out there who are reading, Feliz Dia Papá! I wished my dad a Happy Father´s Day earlier in the week because I was pretty sure I would not have the chance to call home today.

I am not the least bit homesick; in fact, I´ve never felt more at home here. Nevertheless, I had my first cry last night after I talked with my brother, Brad, and my surrogate child, Collins on the phone. It´s not that I wanted to be in the States with them as much as I wished they were here with me. It is a strange range of emotions that I am experiencing. The only thing I know for sure is that, while I will be ready to come home at the end of July, leaving here is going to be excruciatingly painful.

The duo that is here this week from First Presbyterian, Sumter, SC will begin construction on a new roof for the church in Quistococha tomorrow. They have been delightful to host and very easy to accomodate.

Nathan has stepped into the role of intern like he was born for it. He and I were meant to work together. We share a love for Iquitos and the Peruvian people, and we are both motivated to see AMF get on its feet and be a meaninful ministry.

I´m trying so hard not to laugh out loud right now because the guy sitting next to me is actually singing, in English, Hall & Oates´80´s song Maneater. How funny...

For now I must go. Afterall, it is Sunday afternoon, and I firmly believe in ´siestas todos los domingos!´

Until later...

Arrival of an Intern

2008-06-12T13:15:00.002-04:00

I have no idea what condition Nathan will be in when I finally retrieve him from the airport this afternoon. I headed out to pick him up at 6 a.m. this morning, and all the way there I kept thinking to myself, ¨Man, it´s foggy.¨ Talk about prophetic! I got to the airport just in time to see many disgruntled passengers getting out of line, having heard that the plane they thought they would be boarding, also carrying Nathan, would not be arriving until 5:30 this afternoon due to dense fog. I should be a weather woman...

Meanwhile, Villa, Ina, and I continue to work our hineys off getting ready for the groups to arrive. Ina and I have scrubbed every square inch of the Jardin house - we are considering signing a commercial deal for Pine-Sol - and Villa is replacing light bulbs, copying keys, fixing the water pump, and making other necessary repairs.

It is an exciting time. I wasn´t sure I would be ok even for a few days here all by myself, but in spite of the busyness of my days I have been very peaceful. Of course it doesn´t hurt that I brought along speakers for my iPod so I have music blasting throughout the house while I am working. Nothing beats a good mix of clean rap songs accompanied by the Bee Gees and some praise and worship music. Villa and Ina don´t say anything, but it might be interesting to hear what they are thinking of my choice of tunes.

For now it´s off to the market to get some fruit to go with my sandwich for lunch.

The Lima Airport

2008-06-10T02:47:00.003-04:00

The day began with tears - saying good-bye to various friends and family, especially Mom, was a bit difficult - but the emotions passed quickly when I got on the plane at GSP and was seated beside a woman who was flying for the first time and was scared to death. Talking her through take-off and landing was a welcome diversion. Now I sit in Lima at 2 a.m., waiting for a 5 a.m. flight to Iquitos. Tired doesn't begin to describe the state I am in after having been up extremely late for two consecutive nights and having just endured more than 6 hours on a plane with a little Peruvian girl, who looked to be about 3 years old, and who was determined to scream (whether in play with her 5 brothers and sisters or in irate response to her mother) for the entire flight.

I look forward to my arrival at El Jardin; I always feel like I'm home when I get there. I also look forward to crashing for a few hours of solid sleep.

Gratefulness is what I feel when I think about all the precious people who support me in this mission. Thank you for your continuous prayers, for the many e-mails and blog comments I will receive throughout the summer, and for the smiling faces I will see when I arrive home in August.

Until later...

A Week Away

2008-06-02T23:24:00.002-04:00

This time next week I will be hanging out in the Lima airport, trying to stay awake until my 5 a.m. flight to Iquitos. I must say I am excited. As always, there is some degree of apprehension about being gone for so long. This year's anxiety is directly connected to being there totally alone for two weeks and also being completely and totally responsible for all of the mission teams that will come to Peru over the course of the summer. Unlike last year, when fear nearly paralyzed me, each time I think about the task before me and start to become overwhelmed, suddenly I'm filled with an unbelievable peace. As I smile to myself, pondering the weeks to come, I know that God is in charge. Not only is He going with me, He has already gone ahead of me, preparing the way. Oh, how I love Him, and long to see His bigness - to release Him from the box I tend to place Him in. I know that in every detail of the summer He will not let me down.