Surviving: Day 924

Someone commented to me the other day that she didn't know how we--her friends and acquaintances here in Guatemala--live day to day with the extreme conditions around us.  No one had ever said this to me.  No one had ever made me think about this.  And until that moment, I hadn't thought about it.

Growing up in my family, we basically did without things unless they were a necessity.  Now, "necessity" had a very liberal definition.  We had a television, but we did not have cable.  I don't know of anyone who needs a television, but it sure helped us not get completely shunned by our classmates for being odd.  And we took family vacations every (or almost every) year, but they were road trips to interesting and educational places around the United States.  I didn't fly on a plane until I was around 15, and besides Canada (which, when you live 1 hour from the border crossing, doesn't count), I didn't leave the US until the day before my 18th birthday.  My brother bought our first video game system (an N64. You do the math.).  Our first family computer was an Apple IIe; our second family computer was a Gateway 2000.  (We may have had a Tandy in the middle, but that might have been my brother's computer.)  Basically, trips, electronics, clothes, whatever, never really happened.  One of my last Stateside memories of not spending money on something that wasn't necessary was going to a Lansing Lugnuts game with my then-boyfriend and his mother.  We got there a little bit early; so we went window shopping in the store.  I was told that if I wanted anything, that I could just ask and they'd get me a present with it being my first game and all.  I really don't know what it is to "want," and I'm still pretty clueless.  So, I politely said I didn't need anything and was just looking, and then we went to take our seats.  (There had been a hat I had been looking at and liked, but since I couldn't justify its purchase, I didn't ask for it.)  Well, from the moment we sat down, I knew I was going to have a problem.  The sun was in our eyes, I couldn't see the game, and, most important of all, it's dangerous to go to a baseball game and not be able to see...never know when a foul ball will take you out.  So, we went back and got the hat...not because I wanted it but because I needed it.

So when I came to Guatemala, I never thought about what I had or didn't have.  There is very little in the life that one actually needs.  And when we're talking about the people who live below the poverty line, those were the people who my friend was referring to when she said "extreme conditions."  People in extreme poverty live on less than $2/day. I personally live on $6.25/day. ($1 of mine goes to bus fare each day.)  I don't know what people in regular poverty live on, but I know I earn less than the minimum wage; so I think I might be in regular poverty.

So, what am I trying to say with all of this and how did I reply to my friend?  The secret to living in the midst of these "extreme conditions" is not living in the midst of them; it's becoming a part of them.  I deal with the same things my neighbors deal with.  We're all just here trying to survive one day at a time.  I feel I am a better advocate for them because I not only have the passion I came with, but I also know what it is like--as much as possible, anyway--to be one of them.  I don't only fight for a better life for each one of them, but for us as a community, as a whole.  When you truly understand who or what you're fighting for, you're better equipped to fight for it.

Happy Easter! (Day 893)

I hadn't planned on this post, but every once in a while something is said which sparks a connection in my brain.  Last night, a friend of mine was upset that he had been asked to clean up a mess which wasn't his.  It had been a long day, and he was tired.  And, perhaps most of all, he knew whose mess it was and felt they should clean it up.

Yesterday at work, I had a bottle of pop which I normally drink with my lunch.  The one time that I don't actually watch myself open my pop, it explodes.  Fortunately, none got on my light blue shirt I was wearing.  (The pop is red.)  It got on the desk.  It got on the floor...and it got on the yellow chair cushion.  A little also got on my dark gray pants, but you couldn't tell.  Well, my paid employment is at a hotel; so the yellow chair cushion having red spots in the reception area was just not possible.  The receptionist did me a favor and grabbed me a white washcloth to mop up the mess.  I did the best I could with that.  Then the cleaning lady walked in and started cleaning.  When she noticed what had happened with me, she came over and started cleaning up my mess, even to the point of putting her clean hands on the dirty mop to make sure the side of the desk wouldn't be sticky.  Later, I took the chair cushion and washcloth to her and asked her what to do because I really wasn't sure.  She simply said, "Give them here," and walked off to make sure they got washed.  I was a little embarrassed, but mostly I was humbled.  This was not her mess.  This was my mess, but I didn't know the best way to go about cleaning it up.

Those nearly 2000 years ago when Jesus died on the cross, he was cleaning up my mess.  In Matthew 5:17-18, we read, "Do not think that I have come to abolish the Law or the Prophets; I have not come to abolish them but to fulfill them.  For truly I tell you, until heaven and earth disappear, not the smallest letter, not the least stroke of a pen, will by any means disappear from the Law until everything is accomplished."  So, what is the law?  The law is about cleaning up your own messes.  In Leviticus chapter 4, we can read about the sin offering, what had to be done to atone for sin.  A person had to sacrifice a bull, a goat, or a lamb without defect in order to purify them from their sins.  But what is really "without defect?"  When has your dog eaten your homework or thrown up on your rug?  I know little about livestock, but I imagine that they're much like dogs, not perfect, defective.  So, basically, all these offerings to God just weren't cutting it. (Reference Hebrews 10; it was too long to include here, and I'd like you all to get some exercise pulling out your Bibles...or googling it.)  Which is why Jesus, a.k.a. God, had to take on a human body and have his blood poured out for our sins.  God, being the guy who sets the standards, is the only one who can be without defect.  (It's a little like "keeping up with the Joneses.")

I am not perfect. I make messes.  Often, I am not adequate to clean up my own messes.  I am humbly blessed to have Someone who cleans them up for me.  Happy Easter!  Your messes are cleaned up!

Learning to Speak (Day 884)

I don't usually ask for money directly; however, I'm searching for donations to help me learn Kaqchikel. The cost of classes here in Antigua is $250/week (6 hours per day, 5 days per week) or $200/week (3.5 hours per day, 5 days per week). The former obviously appeals to me more due to the value (hours/$). I am theoretically only looking at 1 month of intensive classes, and then using my Kaqchikel to communicate with everyone around me (who speaks it) in order to further solidify it. Anyone have $1k to help me become trilingual and better serve the people I'm here to serve?

Normalmente, no pido dinero directamente, pero estoy buscando donacions para ayudarme aprender Kaqchikel. El precio en Antigua es $250/semana (6 horas/dia, 5 dias/semana) o $200/semana (3.5 horas/dia, 5 dias/semana). El primero obviamente me parece mucho mas por el valor (horas/$). En teoria, solo estoy viendo un mes de clases intensivos y dispues usando mi Kaqchikel para comunicarme con todos (quienes lo hablan) a mi alrededor para permanecerlo en mi cerebro. Alguien tiene mil dolares para ayudarme ser trilingue y servir mejor a la gente?

Bring on the Rain (Day 882)

Yesterday was a big day for me.  Yesterday was a big day for a lot of people.

Some of you may remember Juana.  In case you don't feel like viewing the YouTube video, she's a mother of 7 (all boys) whose husband abandoned them all.  The oldest two boys--still minors--work to help support their family.  I took Juana's story back to Michigan with me, along with some of the crafts that she and her sons make.  This story, through a really strange route, made its way to a woman named Christina.  Christina is a mother of 8 whose husband is very much in the picture.  And Juana's story touched Christina's heart.  So many people want to help and don't know how, but Christina took a step and asked me what could be done.

In the year and a half since I met Juana de Leon and her family, their condition has worsened.  Their roof had significant leaks.  They had no bed. (The bed in the video is reportedly just a few elevated planks which they were sleeping on.)  They had no money to celebrate Christmas (until I returned in late November with some money from items which had been sold).  It seems as though only two of her children are in school this year. The oldest one of the five who I met on my last trip has a large open sore on one of his hands.  In fact, none of the three boys who were present at the house when we arrived yesterday seemed to have grown an inch.  (We can probably attribute that to some low-level of malnutrition.  The boys don't look malnourished, but they aren't growing.  And considering that the three who we saw were aged 13, 10, and 5, they should have grown in a year and a half.)  And, perhaps worst of all, a large crack has formed in the side of their adobe house.  (It is slightly visible in the video, but now it is pronounced on both the front and backside of the house.)

However, one thing had changed for the better: Juana de Leon had a peaceful smile on her face which didn't seem the least bit strained.  Yesterday, she received a new roof through a donation made by Christina and one of her daughters (really, in a way, the whole family).  Sadly, the donation did not quite cover an entire new roof, but that was partly due to the decisions which I ultimately made.  In Guatemala, there are two thicknesses of roof.  The thin one is cheaper, and the thick one is more expensive.  I'll give you one guess as to which one holds up longer.  (This is part of the reason that the poor stay poor.)  Luckily for us, the man who runs the only hardware store in Los Encuentros is a member of the church where Camillo (Ismael and Edgar's father) is the pastor, and he was able to sell it to us for less than he would normally.  Even so, in the end the decision was made to use two of Juana's existing roof pieces which weren't in too bad of shape to finish covering the roof.  The even better news is that we had estimated a little poorly, and we only ended up needing to use one of the existing roof pieces.

Juana had a basket which she had woven and presented it to me.  I had a loaf of bread I had baked (especially for her family using incaparina in place of 1 cup of flour) which I presented to her.  I was also able to present her with a Spanish-English New Testament which came to me in August 2012 complements of some Gideons.  (Please, bring me more Bibles!)  And if that wasn't enough, Juana's day only got better...

...And my day only got more crazy.  You see, we were slated to talk to the mayor of Solola concerning the formation of a group of artesans to travel to foreign countries.  I'm supposedly the one who is supposed to make this all happen.  Anyway, Ismael called to double check about this meeting.  We were supposed to bring the artesans to the meeting!  So, we drove around to the houses of the two other artesans in Los Encuentros and advised them to pack up a sample of their work and get to Solola (the capitol of the department of Solola...I know, confusing), and then we drove towards Solola and picked up another artesan.  Shortly thereafter started a series of meetings which lasted about 3 hours.  The main language in which these meetings were conducted was Kaqchikel, the native language in Los Encuentros, Solola; and San Antonio Aguas Calientes, Sacatepequez (where I live).  However, my neighbors don't speak anywhere near as much of it.  I don't understand Kaqchikel.  I speak about 20 words of it (11 of those being numbers).  It really is on my list of things I urgently want/need to do.  Let's just say that meetings of any length being carried out in a language you don't understand are exhausting.  I was asked to share a few opinions which I did...in Spanish.  And then I was asked to name their artesan group.  Wow.  Talk about an honor.  But no one had warned me and I was supposed to come up with a name on the spot?  So, throwing a random idea out there, I said "Artesanos de Solola Internacional."  They seemed happy with it, and it describes the group perfectly.  Then they said I needed a name.  I don't know.  I think my parents gave me a fine name.  They said I needed an organization.  So, apparently, I need to become an NGO.  I've had a day to think about it, and I think I've decided on a name; I just know nothing about becoming an NGO.

As I said, Juana's day got better.  At the first meeting, we discussed Juana's situation a little.  At the end of the day, she not only had a loaf of bread, a New Testament, and a roof, she also had 2 foam mattresses, and a (supposedly, but I think more) 10-pound bag of healthy food for herself and children.  I was also able to talk to the woman who was in charge of our first meeting and share with her about the wall at Juana's house. She explained a little about a new kind of house that some people are trying to build in the area which looks a little like an igloo.  She asked me to send her the pictures, and she'd add them to the list of cases to try to get the project funded.

Things are going to get better for Juana and her family.  This weekend I will be sending some toothpaste, antibacterial cream, perhaps another loaf of bread, and a couple toys to the family.  Sadly, I don't think I have any spare toothbrushes sitting around.  A lot of the time, we say that there is nothing to be gained in just giving to a family.  They don't gain anything because they get used to receiving.  However, Juana didn't ask her husband to leave her pregnant and with 6 boys under the age of 10.  And yet, for 6 years, she has managed to the best of her ability.  I know very little about the oldest two boys and haven't seen two of the other ones in over a year and a half, but I do know that none of the boys have ever appeared neglected or unloved.  For a woman who likely had no schooling to have to suddenly provide for so many by herself, the woman hasn't done so poorly.  She is one of the 19% in Solola who lives in extreme poverty.  If you recognize those who are willing to put in the effort and you give them a hand up to get to even ground, that's when you can see them fight a fair fight.  It's not about giving her a car and a TV and a laptop to each child.  It's about putting a roof over their heads, a meal every day to take the edge off, and a place to sleep at night.  Once they have that, they can work to get the other meal or two per day; they can work to put the boys through school, and they can mend the clothes and buy new-ish ones (and no, we're not talking Abercrombie & Fitch here).

And today, it started to rain at my house.  I think God was waiting for the roof.

"I'm Sorry. You're not Allowed in our Church." (Day 854)

First, apologies for not writing more.  My life has gone through a lot transitional things in the past month, and we'll get to those in a later post.  At the moment, I want to write about something only vaguely related to anything I do down here.

Here in Guatemala, I attend a church called Iglesia del Camino.  It's a bilingual, multicultural church which I started attending just over 2 years ago when I moved to Antigua.  It is now a half-hour commute for me to get to church on Sunday, but the people are nice and the preaching is good.  Every now and again, I miss a service due to translating or travel, and I try to see if I can get my hands on the sermon so I can read it.

There is no easy way to say what I'm about to say, no way to sugar coat it, no way to make a good story out of it.  So, to skip straight to the "punchline," I met a man.  I don't know if he started attending that church because he saw me in the street and followed me there or if he started following me because he was attending that church.  At any rate, during the course of the last 2 years, this man has been stalking me, the first five or six months without my knowledge.  During the course of the last year and a half, the church has been helping me with moral support and translation services to tell this guy to leave me alone.  (In the beginning, this man would always speak English with me, and because my Spanish was not yet what it is today, I would tell him in English to leave me alone.  That's mostly what I'm talking about with "translation services.")  And, for about the past six months, this guy has left me alone.  I deleted the giant list of numbers from which he has called me which I had stored in my phone.  I stopped watching my back.  I stopped having the closest male answer my phone for any unknown number which called, even if I had to ask some stranger.  I stopped taking extra buses so that he wouldn't realize where I lived in case he was following me to the bus station.

And then on Sunday, no more than 15 seconds after I got on the bus, he got on--I thought, "Oh no.  What are the odds that he'd have business in my town?"--and sat down next to me.  He told me that he would have talked to me at church, but I was with a friend and he didn't want to interrupt.  My friend had walked me to the bus station to take his own bus to his town.  And I sort of wish that I had gone with him and surprised his mother with another lunch guest.  However, if it weren't this week, it might have been the next week or the next week.  I know this because he told me that he had been there the Sunday before--I didn't see him--but could never get me alone to talk with me.  (Someone from my town had accompanied me to church, and someone else had offered us a ride home; so I didn't even get on the bus or go to the bus station.)  At any rate, he eventually got off the bus after I said something about "My boyfriend wouldn't like you sitting here talking to me."

I promptly called the church and talked to my contact there who has been helping me with the situation.  The last time this guy was bothering me, the solution was to simply change my phone number...because the other option is somewhat time consuming and stressful.  After what happened Sunday, and especially now that he knows roughly what town I live in, we are going with the other option.  Today I will be filing a restraining order against him.  This is not something I happily do.  Obviously this man is in need of help, and because church is somewhere where we would run into each other, it appears that church is somewhere that he will no longer be allowed to be.

And I feel bad.  And I try to tell myself "This is not your fault."  But I'm getting him barred from a church.  A church! And I call myself a missionary?

So, I'm asking for your prayers today, for me and this situation, for this man, for my peace of mind, for the ministry that God has given me here.  Thank you all for your love and support.

Sloth...and not the animal (Day 814)

Tonight I did something amazing. I won my 300^th game of Freecell (with a 100% win rate, I might add). I had a momentary feeling of “Yeah! Go me!” And then I paused a moment to wonder where I found all that time to play a computer game. Admittedly, I play about 95% of my Freecell—a solitare card game that comes standard with Windows, for those who don't know—after 9:30 pm. This is my 1-hour wind-down time before bed. It's a time when I might do a little bit of work (correspondence and such, although I try to avoid it because I get rather emotional and long-winded conversing about the populations I serve...and get geared up to solve all of the world's problems in one night), but I mostly read or sew or play computer games.

To be completely honest, I used to play a lot more computer games than I play now. I'd probably played about 250 of those Freecell games before I decided that computer games were distracting from my focus. What does that calculate to? Two hundred fifty souls who I could have told about the good news of Jesus? Two hundred fifty hurting women and children who I could have spoken words of hope? Two hundred fifty mouths I could have fed? Two hundred fifty what? Quite frankly, I'm a little embarrassed that I've hit three hundred, even though I know that I've changed my habits.

I know I'm not my job. I know I don't have to be a missionary 24/7. But I'm a missionary because it's what God called me to be, and God didn't call me to pull a 40-hour work week. I feel like I'm always “on call” so to speak. But it annoys me that people get caught up about missionaries and pastors. “Of course you're good. You're a missionary.” “Oh, I know you don't want to go to the party with us. You're a pastor. There will be alcohol there.” No, that's not who we are. It's not because we're missionaries and pastors; it's not because people scrutinize us more because of our callings. What we are are Christians, and sometimes that means going to the party because there will be alcohol. What kind of a friend, what kind of a sister am I if I let you go to that party where I know you'll be tempted? And if I can't deter you, I'd better go with you to say, “Hey, think about what you're doing. I'm here with you. Let's drink soda pop together, enjoy the music, and catch up on each other's lives.” Being a missionary (nor a pastor) isn't a 24/7 job. Being a Christian is 24/7, but it's not a job; it's a belief, a way of life, a way of being, a faith.

Who did those 250 (or even 300) games minister to? No one. For that, I'm ashamed. I know God forgave me for those games about 2000 years ago, but I'm going to try to make up for it. I know I'll never succeed, that there's nothing I can do to change my sin, but I do know that my sins have been forgiven and that I should “go and sin no more.”

Just some reflections on being a missionary (Day 794)

When you're a missionary, you live this different life in (often) a different country with different people who speak (likely) a different language than you grew up with, have different customs than yourself, and live in a different way than you're used to.  The most difficult part of the job is deciding if you're okay with "different."

The greatest gift that God gave me when preparing me for mission work was not my compassion and heart to help people.  These are the greatest gifts a humanitarian could have.  (Admittedly, my work often has a humanitarian bend.)  The greatest gift that God gives missionaries is humility.  People come to us in need of help--usually material--and thank us for it; we have to remind them that the real help does not come from us but from God who, regardless of what we suffer in this world, has something even better waiting for us.