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I Remember....

This has been a week full of lasts.

Last trip to the Bodegona (local grocery store).

Last coffee time with a treasured friend.

Last time to sing and play with a worship team I love.

Last time to drive through the cobblestoned streets of Antigua.

And in those lasts, it has been a time of remembering the firsts.

I remember the first weeks I spent here and how I thought I'd never, ever conquer these streets with their confusing one ways, their lack of street signs (navigating by landmarks is a must), and their oh-so-strategically placed speed bumps and cement blocks and ridiculously tight parallel parking "opportunities." I thought I'd never learn to get somewhere without being lost. And don't get me started on the offers to "watch my car" for me, the guards with shotguns. But...I did it. I conquered...or at least survived...Antigua's streets and even ventured into the No Man's Land of driving in Guatemala City.

I remember the first time I whizzed through the Bodegona in less than 10 minutes. Of course, that doesn't count the waiting in16 people deep line time. I learned to actually NOT be surprised that the rice and brown sugar were sold next to the milk, or that said milk was already past its sell-by date. I learned to celebrate when the oregano I needed was actually in stock!

I remember the first time I sang in Spanish with April (our worship leader). It was hard enough to play and sing in English...but Spanish? Gulp. How would that ever work? And now, when I hear worship songs during my visits to the States, I sing along to them in Spanish rather than English.

I remember the first time I went to the market with my friends Dayle and Tonja. I followed them through the labyrinth of booths and thought I would never, ever be able to navigate the market, much less bargain and carry my 30 plus pound bag of produce out. And now, I go every Saturday and buy amazing produce for my family and...well, ok...I don't carry it. I bring Steve to do that part, and every Saturday the ladies in the market laugh when I call him my "muchacho." But I do it.

So I'll go back to the States feeling stronger, more confident, more sure that I can do hard things. And isn't that what life is? There are so many hard things....so many good and wonderful things...but pain and hurt and just plain life all mixed in with that. And often we think we can't possibly EVER do THAT thing...but we do. We are carried from strength to strength by our faith, by our friends, by our family, by love, by grace...and we find that we can do things we never thought we could.

Thank you, Guatemala, for teaching me that I can be more than I thought I could ever be. Thank you for helping me grow up, helping me see outside of myself, helping me learn that I don't need to be afraid of the next challenge ahead.

And that I can now parallel park with the best of them.

The Big Green Bowl

I was washing dishes. Something it seems I am always doing. And side note here: why is there a magnetic attraction between a newly emptied, clean sink and newly dirtied dishes? I'm fairly sure that the Evil Dirty Dish Force is out there, whispering throughout the house, "Mom just finished all the dishes! Quick! Dirty another one! The sink must not get lonely!"

But I digress.

So, in the midst of my dish-doing, I was absentmindedly washing something I use every day. The Big Green Bowl. Now, this baby is a monster. I have no idea where I actually got it. I think it was part of some elaborate slap-on special at the Bodegona (Definition: A slap-on special is when two items which are remarkably disimilar are slapped together with tape and sold as a hey-buy-this-thing-you-need-and-get-something-you-don't-need-at-all gimmick. The best example I can give is dish soap slapped together with refried black beans). So. I have owned this bowl for the four years I've lived here, and it started out as a sink substitute. Our house had a small, single sink, so I'd wash the dishes in one and then stick them in the bowl to rinse. Then, it got promoted. It became my disinfecting bowl.

Waaaiiit...maybe I should explain, in the rare chance that not everyone has a disinfecting bowl. You see, the good news is that we can buy amazing, beautiful, inexpensive, deliciously ripe produce every week from our mercado (market). The bad news? Well, let's just say that I've seen all manner of rodent, insect and reptile crawling all over said produce in the market. One time I saw an iguana in the fruit. Yep. Not even kidding. So, because of that, and because of the fertilization used (a.k.a manure) and the less than sanitary methods of transporting the produce, there is a huge risk of parasites being transmitted. Everything we buy has to be more than just rinsed off, a la Publix. First, I use water to rinse the especially dirty things, like herbs, and then I use filtered water and some sort of liquid cleaner to soak the veggies or fruit. I've done this for 4 years, and while it might not sound like a big deal, it can make cooking dinner a challenge.

I'll spare you the details of the treks to refill the water filter, the frustration when the water goes out, the way I'll just skip a recipe if it calls for too many herbs/ingredients to disinfect, but it is fair to say that this Big Green Bowl (BGB) has heard many a word of anger and angst coming from my lips over the years. It has been filled and refilled and dropped and cleaned and had more than one unwelcome insect fished out of it.

So, in my dishwashing moment the other day, I thought..."I can FINALLY get rid of this bowl! I'll be able to go to the store and just buy something to eat and wipe it off, or rinse it off and plop it in my dinner!" I was euphoric! Visions of driving my car over BGB, burning it (does plastic burn well? nevermind), dancing around it and burying it in the depths of the trash raced through my mind! Yes. I admit I might have extraordinarily strong feelings on the matter. But. But....

I paused. Maybe...maybe....

Maybe I should keep it.

Maybe I should. Because the thing is, I don't want to forget. I want to remember how it feels to work hard for my family's dinner, to think about where the food came from and how there are people who grow it who have so much less than I.

I want to remember, as I traverse the beautifully laid out produce aisles of Trader Joe's, that there was a day when I pushed through crowds of people and walked over not clean, tiled floors, but rotting produce and trash in order to buy my food.

When a sweet friend asked me today, "What can I pray about for you, heading back to the States?" I didn't even have to stop and think about it. I knew. It was that I will remember. That my kids will remember. That we won't just slip back into the "American dream," but we will be forever humbled and grateful and changed by what we have seen.

So I think I'll keep that stupid bowl. Because with that sitting in my kitchen there is a constant, tangible reminder of the things I hope never to forget. It will look right at home next to those dirty dishes.

Goodbyes

Being a military wife for several years, I learned an art I wish I'd never had to learn:

How to say goodbye. 

When we (and yes, it is "we," because it involves the whole family!) were in the military, we knew that we would only be stationed somewhere for 2-3 years. When we met someone, one of the first questions we asked was, "How long have you been here?" If they were already a year and a half into their time at a base, we knew that there wasn't a lot of time left to get to know them. But, we learned to take the risk. To open our hearts and jump right in and make the most of whatever time we had with someone. 

I lost track of how many goodbye parties were had, of how many hugs and promises to keep in touch were given. And it never, ever got easier. 

Now, we face that dreaded word again. Living in Guatemala has reminded me of the feeling of being part of a military community. There is a fraternity of sorts among our missionary friends here.  Our missionary friends can laugh with us at the cultural differences and yes, frustrations, we face. They can cry with us through misunderstandings and miscommunications. They understand what it is to not know how much money will be in your bank account next month. They (and don't read this if you're squeamish) will sit in a public place and discuss the lab reports of your parasite tests with you. They get what it is to miss family, to miss the holidays, to make new traditions and do your best to make it just as wonderful when, really, a piece of your heart is always with your loved ones far away on those days. They GET how wonderful Starbucks is...and how being there just feels like a taste of home. No judgment at all.

It's an amazing group of people that I will hold close in my heart forever. I read a quote recently that encapsulated it perfectly: "The relationship is always worth the goodbye." (Lauraleighparker.com) These friends have made the hard days lighter and the good days richer.

And then there are our Guatemalan friends...the ones who have shown us how to get around Guatemala City...well, we still get lost. The ones who have been patient with our Spanish and only laughed politely with us when we completely messed up our words. The ones who have invited us into their homes on those holidays that were difficult for us. The ones who have spoken truth into our hearts and allowed us into theirs.

I think...no, I know...that our four years here have taught us priceless lessons and made us grow up.

 My kids don't take the little things in life for granted.

I have become an expert driver. Ok, scratch that. A reckless driver.

We have experienced what real, fresh-from-the-farm bananas taste like.

We've learned to live without our favorite TV shows and, somehow, survive! And learned to play games and take walks together.

We've learned what a luxury it is in most of the world to own a car, to have running water, to have pretty consistent electricity and internet, to own books!


We can and need to celebrate the multitude of ways in which we have changed. We want to leave with gratitude, with knowing that, despite the small ways in which we have tried to make a difference in lives here, we have been the ones changed. Rocked. Flipped Upside Down. In such a way that I hope we never recover. 

Thank you, Guatemala. We will carry you with us forever. What you have given us is worth the goodbye.

Girls Just Wanna Have Fun

I thought it would be a typical day.

Coffee. Gym. School. Errands. Except, I added in a visit to Paso a Paso...a little school in the village of San Antonio Aguas Calientes, a school where many of our missions teams have gone to help.

I rode a bumpy and completely-off-the-map ride with a group of IDC women through the town and entered the small complex.  I'm always amazed at how simple these schools are. No metal detectors. No choir rooms. No gymnasium. And no soccer field...I thought. Until a little lady, clothed in indigenous garb, began to spray down the dirt-covered common area that was smaller in size than my living room. She wet it with a hose until it wasn't as dusty, and then...then...the real business of the day began.

I had thought we were there to be thanked for all of the work our teams had done, but, in reality, we were there to be schooled. In futbol.

I joined my team of ladies who were nearly all dressed in skirts and I thought I, as a runner, would hold my own. Boy was I wrong. These ladies work hard. All day. Every day for their families. And they know how to play hard too.

I lost count of how many times my elbow hit the cement block wall or how many times my shin was kicked or how many times the ladies yelled "mano!" (hand) or argued vehemently with the referee (aka the poor man who got roped into the job) over a goal.

These ladies were all in. We laughed (I couldn't tell if they were laughing AT or WITH me), and we ultimately won, despite a few toddlers wandering onto the "field" and a few kicks into dusty corners or fragile trees.

There was no spiritual lesson, nothing I could give them. But as we played hard and then stood around afterwards and simply talked, I realized that that is all that is required. To talk. To share. To be in the moment with them. Not to think about all I COULD have been doing back at my house, but to laugh with them at the shortness of my name (most Guate women have 5 or more names...keeping their father's name and adding on), talking about how many kids we had, making jokes about our cultural differences. That was all they wanted. And all I wanted.

They didn't want a program or an extravagant, spreadsheet-laden plan. They wanted to spend the afternoon with some ladies who, despite their differences in skin color, were actually remarkably similar. Kids. Food. Exercise. Politics.

God, help me let go of my agendas and simply be present where You are working. In a village. On a dirty soccer field. Not for myself, but for the love of people and of You. Amen.

Sink or Swim

In every family, there are stories that, over the years, have grown and mushroomed into tales of near-legend which no longer bear much resemblance to actual fact. My family is no exception.

Perhaps my dad's favorite with which to regale guests at the family's B&B, church, let's face it...complete strangers is the story of his grandson's birth. I had been in labor for a mere 36 hours in a military hospital. For you civilians, this means that your doctors are garbed in camouflage and you address your doctor as Colonel. Very comforting. After much discussion and debate, a surgical delivery was decided upon. But then the committee of officers decided to discuss some more. Don't mind me. I'm just sitting here in my hospital bed in excruciating pain. After many more back-and-forths and votes and talks, my mom politely asked to speak to Dr. Colonel in the hallway and informed him (did I mention politely?) that it was time. We'd made a decision. It needed to happen. Now. Politely. And it did.

Of course, when Dad tells this story now, Mom has put a Five Star General into a chokehold and has taken siege of the hospital by the mere sound of her voice.

My older brother has inherited the embellishment gene and likes to embarrass....er....amuse my parents by informing everyone that HE learned to swim this way: my parents dropped him off at the local YMCA whereupon his captors...er...instructors simply looked him in the eye and said, "Time to swim." And then they dropped him in. Sink or swim buddy.

My mom always corrects the story with a kindler, gentler, possibly more truthful version. But my brother's story always gets the laugh.

His experience, fictional or not, has come to my mind a lot recently. Life is a strange and circuitous route of brief periods of calm, where I am simply floating, and then other stretches of Class 4 white water rapids where there is no time to catch my breath and no time to even think about how to paddle. Instinct and a lifetime of habits, good or bad, kick in. When the stretch of calm comes again, I can look back, inhale for a moment and think about how I handled that intense water. But I can't think for long, because there is always another rapid around the bend.

The last few years, with their health difficulties, cultural challenges, financial stresses and relational navigations have felt like one rapid after another. I was talking with a friend about it recently and she mentioned that she often felt guilty for being stressed over her problems when so many have it so much worse. It's true. I feel that same twinge. But the thing is, my deep waters ARE deep waters to me. And hers are deep to her. No one is given the same boat, the same river or the same passengers.


The trick comes in how to make it through those deep waters. Many days, all I want to do is survive. Swimming? Eh. Overrated. Paddling well? I'll figure that out later. It's sink or swim time.


I don't have the "Sunday School" answer for that. Many people will quote things like Romans 8:28 or say, "This too shall pass." And that might bring comfort to them. For me, I have found strength in two vastly different phrases. First, simply repeating, "This too shall be made right," a lyric repeated to me not long ago (Derek Webb song by the same name). I might not always believe it, but I say it until I mean it, and I can see the calm waters ahead. Justice. Wrongs made right. Mercy. They will all come someday. And then there's the less-spiritual-but-just-as-helpful Spanish phrase I hear a lot..."poco a poco." Little by little. Not just surviving but sticking my oar back into the water even when my arms are exhausted. Moving forward. Forward being the key word.

So I'll keep paddling and maybe, in those rare moments of calm, I'll turn to the others in my boat and say, "Let me tell you a story about these rapids I went through once." And proceed to exaggerate my way through the tale. Because what's a good story without a little embellishment.

Low Expectations

I have one New Year's resolution, and it may sound a wee bit odd.

I want to keep my expectations low.

Yep. That's it. 

Now, in the past, I would have seen that as a negative, as another chance to look at life through a cynical lens, but now...now....I see it as a gift. I learned this, as I learn most things, from my children.

On New Year's Eve, we decided to do something as a family, since we'd had a lot of time apart travelling the past few weeks. We packed everybody up in the car, swimsuits on and goggles in hand. Now, you have to understand that we are former Floridians and we loooove a good swim in the pool or the ocean. There, we used to live in a neighborhood with a community pool which, upon our arrival, quickly became a just-our-family-pool as the retiree neighbors ran away. I'll never understand why the arrival of 3 kids with noodles, squirt guns, homemade parachutes, boats and rafts would bother them. But I digress.

We also had one of the country's most beautiful beaches 10 minutes from our house, conveniently located across the street from the world's best donut shop. Needless to say, we frequented the beach....ah...frequently.

In Guatemala, we have missed the water. The beach is an hour and a half away, and while it is undeniably beautiful, the waves are rough and the sand is black, volcanic stuff that I find myself digging out of my kids' ears for days after. We enjoy it, but it takes a village to get there.

So. Back to New Year's Eve and the Great Pool Expedition. We were willing to cough up some extra quetzales and do what it took to enjoy a little sun and water. We oh-so-non-stealthily dragged ourselves, our beach bag, and our three slightly excited children into the local well-appointed, posh hotel and presented our desire to pay for the use of the pool.

Ummmm....No. Not that day. Turns out there were so many guests in town that the pool was closed to outsiders such as ourselves.

Ok...I was quite disappointed, but, having been a mom for just a few years, didn't let it show and turned to console my children...only to find that they were completely nonplussed by the whole thing. Their dad informed them that we would try another hotel, so we loaded all the children plus aforementioned gear and towels back into the car and drove to our next destination.

Ummmm.....No. Not that day. Turns out you had to purchase a lunch buffet...pay $20...blah, blah, blah.

Having been a mom for a few years, I turned to console....what?? My children were still nonplussed. Getting a little sad, but still....maintaining a ridiculously positive attitude. It's tricky when they act more mature than I do.

Finally...we ended up at a glorified cement pond near our house....and my children splashed and played like it was the most upscale, four-star pool they'd ever seen. Nobody complained, nobody whined about the fact that the water was a frigid 70 degrees (did I mention we're Floridians?? We're used to 90 degree heated pools!). We ate our PB&J's and made fantastic memories together.

Watching my kids splash around in what, for most middle-class kids, would be a boring place (no slides, no kiddie pool, no diving board), I felt prouder of them than I can describe, and more convicted to be childlike. Keeping my expectations low. I thought I'd learned that here, but I often use cynicism disguised as low expectations, and that's just plain being negative. If I am truly approaching my life as a gift, I will keep my hands open and my eyes up and look for the gifts along the way...not expecting them, but celebrating them when they happen, even when they don't look exactly the way I'd planned they would.

And they happen every day.

More Than Enough

I really, really wanted to complain tonight. I'd spent two hours in the kitchen baking bread for tomorrow and cooking dinner for tonight (this after the exhausting trip to the Bode for the ingredients, and the task of disinfecting every piece of produce and refilling the water purifier that I use for cooking and cleaning the veggies).

I really, really wanted to take advantage of the fact that my kids were outside and say some of my favorite four letter words as my non-self-lighting gas oven decided to have a mind of its own and shoot up to 400 degrees, thereby burning aforementioned bread. And just yesterday, it would barely get up to 300.

I was going to have a little pity party about how, even after spending such a long time in the kitchen, one or more of my sweet, beloved children would certainly find something in the dinner that he didn't "care for." Someone would ask, ever-so-politely-as-he-has-been-warned-to-do (sub-text: threatened with immediate bedtime or other drastic punishment), "Mom...um...how much do I have to eat??"

Before I could oh so justifiably hit the red button on my full-scale pity party, I had an inconvenient memory.

I remembered a day last summer when my family and I went to the village of Santa Maria de Jesus, just 20 minutes away from us.

I remembered watching as the women in the local church there served a hot lunch to over 100 small children, many of whom were enjoying their only hot meal in days, many of whom had brought two or more siblings along with them and were feeding them before they ate their own lunch...many of whom had orange streaks in what should have been jet-black hair, indicating severe malnutrition.


I remembered feeling like I should help cook or clean up, and going to the back of the church, to the pastor's home, only to find that these women had cooked for over 100 children with no stove. No sink. No counter. No food processor. No visible appliance of any kind. Just an open fire, backbreaking work for hours, and an intense desire to physically feed and spiritually nourish the children in their community.

There is a great accountability in knowing. Once you have seen and known, you cannot pretend that you don't know. You have a choice to forget, to shove aside what you have seen, or to remember and choose to be incredibly grateful for what you used to take for granted. After nearly four years here, there are too many things to begin to count for which I can never complain about again. And while yes, sometimes that is annoyingly inconvenient, in reality it is a gift. I don't want to be the same as before.

So, tonight, as my family sits down to (what I think is) a delicious dinner of pasta and salad and then wakes up to warm pumpkin bread, I will remember that there is a woman out there, just up the mountain, who is cooking over an open fire a very simple meal for her family. And I will choose to be grateful for my beautiful kitchen, the laughter (and yes, arguments) of my children, and the reminder that I have no need to worry about tomorrow. I have more than enough for today.

Do Re Mi

I have heard it from enough people now that I believe it is an empirically proven fact: Moms who play the piano should not actually TEACH their children to play the piano. 

Ugh. I took great pride in the fact that this could not be true for me at least....that I could certainly save our family a lot of running around and a lot of money by simply teaching my children the "Good Boys Do Fine Always" rules. And the rests. And the half notes. And the scales. 

Apparently, in this case, as in many others, I do not rise above the rules and laws of nature. I get much too distracted during their practice times when I hear a wrong note. It is much too difficult to NOT stop and correct said note. I'm sure my mother never struggled with this. After all, she just listened to me practice, blissfully unaware of what things should have been sharped and which should have been flatted. To this day, she swears she loved to hear me practice. 

There was a bit of poetic justice recently when, upon hearing me bang out some old Baptist offertory arrangements on my parents' piano (fyi the Baptists like their songs loud and full of arpeggios and glissandos...more amens that way) my youngest son commented..."Wow. I didn't know my mom could play the piano so good." 

Amen, brother. Amen. Now go practice your scales. And I'll ignore that missed note. Just this once. 

Dear Publix

Dear Publix,

I need to apologize to you. Because...oh....lo these many years I have taken you for granted. Your clean, brightly-lit wide aisles. Your ability to stock when customers are NOT in the store. Your always possessing such apparently exotic items such as sour cream. And popcorn. Your paper-or-plastic bags for which I did not have to pay. Your carrying my groceries to my car WITHOUT asking for money. Your free bagging. Your pleasantries...hello, goodbye, have a nice day.


Oh dear, sweet Publix. I will never take you for granted again. And while I acknowledge that yes, my Bodegona (aka grocery store) is far better than it was a few years ago..from what I hear, people needed to wear closed-toe shoes in the past in order to avoid feeling the rats running across their feet....I miss your generic ice-cream that rivaled Breyer's and Edy's. And I miss the helpful workers in the ugly green vests. And I miss the free balloons and cookies. Oh. Yeah. That was for my kids. I digress....

To sum up: while I miss shopping at the place where I never truly appreciated that "shopping is a pleasure," I will choose to be grateful today that my dear old Bode DID have sour cream....and DID have the eggnog that my teenage son requested....and that I DID have everything I needed to make a nutritious dinner for my family.


But next time I'm back in Florida.....Publix Moose Tracks Premium Ice Cream is at the top of my list. And I'll take it in a plastic bag. Just because I can.

Looking Back

Our family has the somewhat schmaltzy tradition of taking time, each child's birthday, to look back at the photos and videos of the day he or she was born.

Let's be clear that I instituted this tradition, and I am also the only one who tears up each time.

We recently celebrated the birthdays of Nate and Jackson, and we oohed and aahed our way through the moments they first met the world and the moments they first met their siblings and the moments where they muttered unintelligible words. Side note: I am amazed by my linguistic abilities in the past. Toddler-speak is much more difficult than Spanish!

I digress. In the weeks leading up to our move to Guatemala 3 1/2 years ago, Steve spent hours transferring our home movies and pictures to our computers. I spent hours this week going through them, and my heart simply welled up.

First, I asked myself HOW I could possibly be the parent of three such beautiful children when, inside, I still feel like I have the maturity of a 20 year old? Surely, somebody is going to knock on my door and say, "Thanks for babysitting. I'll take them home now!"

Second, nobody, and I mean noooobody looks good in the days and weeks after having a baby. Husbands and family should be required to sign an agreement that, upon punishment of death, they will photoshop said photos.

Third, and the real point here is this: sometimes I have avoided looking back at old pictures because, let's face it, life is messy. Not all memories are sweet. Some aren't even bittersweet. They're downright painful. So it's easier just to choose to ignore the memories altogether. But, when I sifted through those old photos this week, I was reminded again of what a rich and amazing life I've had so far in my 38ish years, of what laughs and antics I've performed trying to get kiddos to smile for a photo, of the tiredness and zombieness of having 3 kids under the age of 5, of the sheer joy of FINALLY getting that baby to laugh WHILE the video camera is rolling! The trips, the Christmases, the simple moments of playing in the backyard and drinking from the hose. The books we've read, the people we've come to treasure, the fashions we've thought looked good!

Life hasn't always made sense, but it has been rich in love, in family, in friendships....and it's even been adventurous at times!

God reminded his people to remember, to look back at the blessings and the miracles he'd performed. I'm sure not all of their memories were good either, but if they reminded each other of the gifts and miracles  in their lives, they could travel farther and stronger and be encouraged together.

So today I look back with a full heart. Life is never perfect, no matter what our Facebook statuses sometimes say. But we can remember how far we have come and how many new memories and photos are still ahead.

In the meantime, I have to go break up an argument in the backyard over who is winning in the Nerf battle. But maybe I'll take a photo first. Just to remember.

Grace and More Grace

I would like to think that I'm a grown-up now. But then there are weeks like this one where I realize that I am as stubborn and as heels-dug-in as a two year old.  Days when my head tells me the mature way to handle stress, the right way to respond to it, but my emotions say a resounding "lalalalalala....I can't hear you!" and then, quite promptly, take over. 

It usually takes me a few minutes to realize that I have blown it, once again. A few minutes more to realize that, because I believe in grace...scandalous, complete grace....I can choose to be forgiven and move on. And try to do it better next time!

The biggest constant in my life, in most lives..is change. And I'm fighting it hard right now. I find comfort in sameness, in routine. But when that is all blown to smithereens, as stressful and difficult as that is, it is a reminder that whatever I thought I controlled, I don't. Nope. Not even a little bit. It's humbling and reviving at the same time. And I'll probably forget it again tomorrow, but then there's that grace thing again. I want to live in it, wallow in it, love like crazy with it. 

So even if I never do feel like the grown-up I should be, at least I am certain of one thing....I will experience another challenge, another change tomorrow. Maybe tonight! And I can cling to that grace to be a little stronger this time, a little more mature....a step more than the toddler stage. Maybe even a preschooler. Grace and peace.

Grace

Sometimes you read something that slaps you upside the head, turns you upside down, and shakes you. Man. I hate it when that happens. So this is what I read the other day:

“There are two ways through life: the way of nature, and the way of Grace. You have to choose which one you’ll follow. . . .Grace doesn’t try to please itself. Accepts being slighted, forgotten, disliked. Accepts insults and injuries.  .  . .Nature only wants to please itself. Get others to please it too. Likes to lord it over them. To have its own way. It finds reasons to be unhappy when all the world is shining around it. And love is smiling through all things.” from Tree of Life


I've been reminded lately that there are approximately 82,524 reasons each day to be hurt and offended. And some days 82,525. Somebody says something that could be construed as criticism, or maybe he doesn't say something he should have said, or maybe he/she ignores me altogether. My immediate reaction is to think, "What is wrong with me? What did I do?" and, if I can't figure that out, the next logical step MUST be to assume that this person is just mean, hurtful and maybe....gasp....human. Huh.


I also read once (I think in a Beth Moore book) that if I am a person who goes through life with an empty cup, holding it out for others to fill it, I will be consistently disappointed and hurt. If I take responsibility for my own cup, filling it with the satisfaction that comes from investing in things outside of myself and my own little world, I will be able to pour out that full cup on my family, my friends, my community. And if I allow myself to be filled up with Grace, a Grace I can't possibly explain or earn, but can simply receive, then I have Grace to spare for the people I love. Or even the people I don't love so much.


Yes, I will get up tomorrow and once again be presented with countless opportunities to be hurt or offended. But I have a choice...to look at that potential offense and choose to leave it there, to not even pick it up, or to obsess and carry it around with me, clouding every interaction I have for the rest of the day. I hope I choose wisely. But, if I don't, there is Grace enough for me, too. 

Sacrifice

With all of the uproar surrounding the news of Osama Bin Laden's death, and all of the coverage that mentioned the Navy Seals who so bravely faced danger for our nation's benefit, I was reminded of something that occurred two years ago.

Our family went to a beach here in Guate for a little R&R. We were blessed by friends to stay at a lovely resort and just relax for a few days. One night, we went to the hotel's restaurant for the buffet dinner and noticed a table full of American men near us. Now. My husband graduated from the Air Force Academy and spent several years as an AF officer, so he can pretty much spot a military man or woman from 80 paces. He knew immediately that these men were military.

We didn't see them again until the day we checked out. They happened to be checking out at the same time, and Steve approached them. He made small talk and mentioned that he'd been in the Air Force. True to military form, they ribbed him and told him they were sorry he'd been in that particular branch and then told him they were in Guatemala for some training. There was more small talk, during which they revealed nothing specific about their training, and, at the end of our time in the lobby, Steve thanked them for their service to our country. It was then that one of the guys really opened up and told us that, indeed, their duty had cost them each greatly. He told us that most, if not all, of the men in his group were divorced or nearly divorced. He explained that they were gone from their families for most of the year.

It was a very sobering reminder of just how much our military sacrifices for us. And a reminder that the United States, despite all of the flaws that are constantly pointed out to us by the talking heads on TV, is a country that has always been known as a country willing to sacrifice for the greater good.

There is nothing like living in another country to give you perspective on just how unique America is. We are willing to fight for those who don't have a voice, to defend the weak, to pursue justice to its end....sometimes to a fault....and why? Because sometimes individual people sacrifice their rights and, often even their lives for the greater good.

It has taken living in a "survival-driven" society, a society in which people have been taught to look out for themselves, a society in which daily needs like food and a place to sleep are very real worries to teach me just how blessed we as Americans are.

But working for the greater good isn't merely an option or a nice choice for us:

"Don’t look out only for your own interests, but take an interest in others, too." Phil 2:4 NLT

I am so thankful for the United States, so thankful for a heritage we have of sacrificing for others. And hopeful that we will never take it for granted again.

Justice

I entered the United States Air Force in 1994 after graduating from the Air Force Academy. I was trained to think critically, to honor, to defend the weak, to promote justice. I was paid very modestly, but it didn't matter. I served with pride, my chest swelling to think I could be involved in something so incredibly intangible as the defense of our American freedoms. That whatever work I did behind the scenes as a support officer would save lives in battle.

Only a 2 hour plane ride from where I served in the military, Guatemala was in the last 2 years of a 36 year civil war. 200,000 civilians were murdered. The government committed horrible war crimes... through its military.

Tonight I came home to find a neighbor with one of his relatives waiting by my front porch with a letter in his hand. They asked if I could help them translate a letter. I was tired, hungry, and frankly, a bit annoyed to hear that the man needed it to be finished within an hour. I asked if I could eat dinner with my family and have it ready in two hours. He agreed to wait, and I agreed to help.

Here is an excerpt of the letter, with his name removed for confidentiality:

To Whom it may concern:

.... I served in the Guatemalan military during the Guatemalan Civil War, in which the military committed many crimes against humanity. On January 6^th, 1996, I deserted the military, due to direct orders contrary to my conscience, which were intended to cause harm to defenseless civilians. Specifically, we were ordered to patrol at night for unsuspecting youth, capture them, and force them into military service against their will.

On the 9^th of January, 1996, I left for the United States where I found gainful employment. On May 7^th, 2002, I crossed the border of the United States near Detroit, Michigan, and entered Canada (through Winsor) to seek refuge.

I sought refuge in Canada because I was afraid of the cruel punishment and reprisals that the Guatemalan military intended to make against me because I deserted. The reputation of the Guatemalan military was that it always hunted down and punished deserters....

Injustice. Most of the world suffers terribly from governments, politicians, or employers who oppress and take advantage of those they are supposed to serve.

However, justice is not just a right as an American or a Christian. It's a responsibility we have as human beings, to defend others who are too weak to do it for themselves. We snooze through our history classes, we chafe in the politically correct corporate training courses. We gloss over it when Jesus commands it. We become too bothered, too busy, too bored, to care.

I was almost too busy to help this man. Afterwards, he asked me how much he owed me for translating, and I was speechless. He had already paid me. He had given me an appreciation for something that I had assumed was normal, universal, my right, everyone's right. An appreciation and a reminder of something I have taken for granted for too long.

Gratitude

Instead of starting out the new year with a list of resolutions that are destined to make me feel like a failure before I turn the calendar page to February, I am resolving to live a year of gratitude, a year of being thankful for the astounding number of gifts in my life.

Gratitude for the beautiful gift of my family, from parents and siblings to the children that run down my stairs each morning with limitless energy and joy, ready to see what the day holds for them.

Gratitude for the chance to experience life in a different country. Along with its challenges and frustrations, it also gives me a new perspective and appreciation that I don't think I could obtain any other way.

Gratitude for our health, for the wealth of food in our kitchen, for the comforts of our home that we take for granted over and over again.

Gratitude for the intangible things...the way God is changing and sifting and growing my heart, giving me new desires and new dreams.

Gratitude for the chance, every now and then, to get a glimpse of lessons taking root....those things that I have taught my children, the whole time wondering if the words were even being heard.  To see the seedlings pushing their way up through the soil is perhaps the most beautiful thing I could ever witness.

Gratitude for a multitude of things. Many more things than those frustrating, and yes, let's be honest, often discouraging and disheartening things that I routinely choose to focus on. That's the key anyway. To choose. I am old enough and cynical enough to know that I will fail at that choice quite often in this new year and will throw myself one amazing pity party. But I can get up the next morning and clean up the wreck of that party and choose again.

To be grateful.




"I would maintain that thanks are the highest form of thought, and that gratitude is happiness doubled by wonder."
Gilbert K. Chesterton 

"Tortillas and Coffee as Baby Food?"

Video: ABC News Special on Malnutrition in Guatemala

Expectations

Several months ago, someone gave us very good advice. "Don't bash the country you are living in," they told us. "Especially in front of your children."
Now, this might not sound like a big deal, or might not seem that it would be difficult advice to follow. It is.
No matter where we live, we are still very American. We are American in our thinking, our way of getting things done, in our expectations, and that can cause quite a bit of stress in our daily interactions.

We expect to order something and have it arrive on time, from little things like food to big things like construction materials for team projects.

We expect to be able to go to an ATM and get out cash.

We expect to pay the same price for vegetables that the person next to us is paying.

We expect to have the customer service we'd find at say, a Target store.....things like employees offering to help find something, or opening another register instead of requiring people to wait in line for 45 minutes, or not stocking shelves in the busiest part of the day in a 3 foot wide aisle.

Difficult? You bet. There are times that we complain and whine about how things are messed up. And yet, when we stop, take a breath and remind ourselves that people are mainly trying to survive, to get through the day, it changes our perspective and gives us a bit more patience.

Now, we're not perfect at this. Far from it. I still haven't gotten used to riding the chicken bus and having my foot stepped on 14 times or being shoved out of the way in the market, but at least I don't take it personally anymore. Well, mostly.

My wish is that, one day, when we move from Guatemala, whether it's to the States or to another place, we will be able to hold onto the lessons we're learning here, that we'll never adopt a sense of entitlement or superiority, and that we'll remember to look behind the differences and see the similarities....that people are people, with the same hurts and desires and hopes, no matter where they live, that we will consciously choose to look for the good in people.

Another good friend gave us more valuable advice. She told us to remind ourselves that, "It's not wrong, it's just different." So, on those really crazy days when we are tempted to see everything in a negative light, we repeat that phrase.
 A lot.
And sometimes even out loud in the middle of that so-very-unlike-Target store. Until we can say it and mean it.

Happy Birthday, Nate!

It was the perfect fall night.
The stereotypical fall night, actually. The smell of woodsmoke, the crisp air, the changing leaves. And it was the night that I realized that my life would never be the same.

A week earlier, I had given birth to a 9 1/2 pound baby boy. Now, my whole pregnancy had progressed perfectly. No problems, no worries. Until the end, when things just started to seem "off" and I began going in more often for monitoring. This normally would not have been a huge cause for alarm bells to go off in my head, but, tragically, two of our friends had lost babies very close to their due dates, and so I began to worry. A lot. I began to obsess with getting my baby born, healthy and whole. I knew if I could just make sure he made it through delivery o.k, then I could breathe a sigh of relief and all would be back to normal.

Wow. I really had no clue what was about to become of my peaceful little in-control world.

First of all, nothing went as planned for the delivery. Nothing. I had imagined some scene out of a movie where I'd be looking spectacular, with freshly-applied lipstick and perfect hair. Perhaps my mom or Steve would be blotting my face and  bringing me sips of water. Yep. None of that really happened. I know my mom and Steve were fabulous during the whole ordeal, but I clearly did NOT look amazing and I did NOT have the storybook moment of bonding and happy-crying and holding my baby immediately. Instead, 36 hours into labor, we made the difficult decision to have a c-section, and then our son was born blue and unresponsive.

All I remember was thinking, "This is not happening. There is no way that he is not going to be ok!" I kept sending Steve over to check on him, and I know now that he was trying to comfort me, because he kept coming back to tell me that, "He's fine!" when, in fact, he wasn't.

I didn't get to hold him until that night, and although he was covered with alarms, wires and had an I.V. stuck into his little arm, he was beautiful, and I marveled at the fact that he belonged to us.
We were very blessed, because our story ended well and happy after that initial week in ICU, and I know that others don't have that happy ending.

I think it was this understanding that gripped me on that perfect fall night. We'd left Nathan home with my mom so we could take a stroll, just Steve and I. And that's when I began to panic. I'd been banking on the fact that, once he was born, I wouldn't worry about him like I had when I'd been the only person who could care for him, and now I was shocked and actually scared to realize that my heart had been laid wide open by this little person, and that we were totally, utterly responsible for him. I was scared to death.

And yet, somehow, here we are 12 years later. Miraculously, he is healthy, well, happy, strong, and one of the most amazing people I know. When I say it is by the grace of God, I don't exaggerate. We have walked (and sometimes been dragged!) through some heavy stuff, and so we don't take a thing like a birthday for granted. We celebrate like crazy people, because we know just how blessed we are to have each other.
And really, isn't this how life is? Things rarely turn out the way we envisioned....college, job, marriage, parenthood, you name it.

The challenge is whether we get stuck in the "what if's," the "I-can't-believe-this-is-my-life" pity party, or whether we believe that there is a Greater Love, a greater plan, a greater hope.
And even if there are still difficult times ahead, and even if it still doesn't turn out the way we'd wanted, we don't have to waste today worrying. We can just take a breath, enjoy, and choose to be grateful.

If I could go back and talk to that very young, very scared new mom, I'd tell her that she would not believe how ridiculously fast the years would pass, how many things she would wish she'd cherished along the way, and how, no matter what, it was all going to be o.k.

Then I'd tell her to throw her hands up, let go, and enjoy the ride.

Happy Birthday, Nathan!

El Es El Camino - He is the Way

This is the official name for the new community built for 12 of the families who lost their homes in Agatha. No less than 5 different churches have worked together to clear land, dig ditches, and build 6 homes from July through September.

We expect the remaining 6 homes to be built by the end of October, and remaining infrastructure (bathrooms, kitchens, electricity, etc.) should be completed by the end of the year. But, it's also about building relationships.

Here are a few photos of the outreach opportunities with the families impacted by the storms.

South Tulsa Baptist Church shares their morning devotions with over a dozen workers from the city of Pastores.

Pastor Ted Shares the Gospel with 10 of the 12 families who will receive houses. The mayor of Pastores is reading his copy of the Bible (one was handed to each family and worker), and Abner (Steve's co-worker) helps translate.

A Pastores worker reads his new Bible during his break.

Some of the young construction workers show their new Bibles.

The families visited their new homes (that were in the process of being built), and were also given baskets of clothes and food as a house-warming gift.

Steve with Abner and Mayor Miguel Lopez of Pastores.