The Road to Emmaus

Luke 24 holds the account of two disciples who forgot Jesus’ face even as he physically walked with them and the reminder that He gave of his life to us all. In my own story here, I needed to realize that even in the bible the disciples lost track of Jesus’ face and his hope. A few weeks ago, I told another YAV that I didn’t find it very easy to see God working in my Guatemalan journey. I did inexplicably know that I didn’t think my time was up here. I am not yet supposed to go home even though I often think that would be the easiest solution to my struggles here. When our minds take over and we can’t see God, perhaps our hearts still burn within us as the men on the road to Emmaus experienced. When we listen to our hearts as they are on fire even in hard times, maybe that’s when we can see Jesus. The disciples fully recognized their savior not when he walked them through the story of His life on earth, but when they broke bread. In the replaying of some of the most difficult moments of their lives, when their Savior’s body was broken for us, they recognized Jesus. I know that I cried my way through two days with my PSF community, and now that they are safely home in Nashville, I can see that God sent them to remind me of his face, to bring me hope and renewed strength to continue forward in my YAV year. Seeing some of my church family was my opportunity to break bread, to recognize in my hard times, God is here. Yesterday, I believe, I was able to recognize what might be the next little circle of light. And that, in this moment and in this place, is a miracle. 

The Great Commissioning

In devotional with the PSF group from Nashville, we used the text of the great commissioning on the first of the two nights I was so blessed to be with them. That night, I was reminded of my purpose here as they were reminded that they are commissioned not only to come, but return home with new eyes.

He commissioned us to check in with each other, to take care of each other, to refuse to pass judgment over someone else’s or our own hardship, and most importantly, to cultivate relationships so everyone feels heard. God doesn’t miss it when a child cries over a lost toy, when a family struggles to eat, when homesickness and loneliness settle in, when a test in college is hard, when there is a cultural misunderstanding, or when a father leaves to go to the US to work. He sees it all. It might seem strange that the juxtaposition of the struggles of my Vanderbilt community and the struggles of my Guatemalan community was clear enough for me to remember a valuable lesson. I really needed to remember that all people have pain no matter their situation in the world. None of that pain goes unseen by God.

I think that living in Guatemala, I have started to numb myself to the pain I see around me. In the first few months, I clearly saw and was moved by the way people suffer here in Guatemala. It is so different than the how we suffer in the states that I came to the assumption that my pain was not as significant. I could see that reading with the kids in the library, though it didn’t serve any long-term solution, brought the students life. I could see that good relationships were a healing source and I worked hard at these little things even through my broken Spanish. But, I pushed aside my homesickness, my lack of exercise, and my loneliness. However, as the year progressed, I think I did exactly what we do in our own cultures. I started to take things for granted. I let my unacknowledged pain wear me down. The shock of the situation faded and it was easier to turn a blind eye when my energy was running low. I think this is exactly how we can ignore when a friend who clearly needs to talk or how we justify speeding past the man on the corner selling the Contributor (homeless newspaper in Nashville). It doesn’t matter where we are or what the problem is, God commissioned us support each other in our pain. 

Reminders

Almost two years ago, I shared my story with my friends in PSF. I described some of the hurt, physical, mental, and spiritual that I had battled in my first two years of college. The conclusion I drew referred to a friend who was worried that his extreme mission trip experiences apart from his girlfriend would draw a hole in the relationship. I told him that I knew that God doesn’t allow that—not in relationships based in Christ.

This I knew to be true, but I needed to be reminded of my own words. Last week was as if God knew of my memory loss.

Both the Vanderbilt group and I had an eventful week leading up to our reunion. I cannot put into words how much I miss the Presbyterian Fellowship and its leaders. Christ calls us to community. We NEED community. In being called to care for and support others, we are called to need each other—community defined.  

On Thursday, when I was able to finally join the group in Chimaltenango, I couldn’t stop crying. I was overcome with so many emotions positive and otherwise. I find it ironic, looking back, that I finally managed to encounter my PSF family during a visit to an organization of women called Corazón de Mujeres (The Heart of Women). They are a remarkable group of Mayan women intensely affected by the Guatemalan civil war. These women came together to support each other in all aspects of life by developing a weaving cooperative. Together they encourage women’s rights, self-confidence, education, and most importantly community.

Sitting between two of my most important college mentors, Bob and Jennifer, I couldn’t get a grasp on my emotions. (Something I continued to struggle with for the following two days.) As many tears as I have shed in my six and a half months here, these were the most meaningful…and most abundant. I didn’t feel silly crying. I didn’t regret that I was crying. I wasn’t embarrassed. These were tears I NEEDED to share with my community.  I wasn’t crying over a specific situation or a certain emotion. I was crying because I had become overwhelmed with seemingly no release. I often feel that I don’t know where to look for the community I need here in Guatemala. As a result I have tried several times to just shut off my feelings, and shut off my real needs.

 It isn’t EVER possible to handle a struggle on your own. We grow up hearing we are to be reliant on God—that we are never alone, God is with us. And while I believe this to be perfectly true, I think God also says, “Look, I have called you to community—to love one another, so that you can rely on me. You are not alone. I am here. I am with you always. I am in your community.” I needed to cry with my community. I needed them to see everything I have been through. Not just the bad. I needed them to see my excitement, but also my exasperation. We are in this together. This life is ours together. When we separate ourselves or allow others to separate themselves we have ignored a call from God. I find that when I ignore God, emotion, tension, and discomfort build up only to boil over later.

It was such a blessing to talk and to listen to the PSF group. They may not have really understood or known what I was dealing with as I cannot the full extent of their hardships, but it was so good to know that we can support and encourage each other in our stories.

So I believe that the two days I was so blessed to have with my PSF family were not only a gift from God, but a reminder that, yes, Torren, exactly as I concluded two years ago…

PSF has shown me love. I have learned that love fills those holes that we can’t explain. That those experiences in life that are too out there to explain in words, that you just have to experience yourself aren’t separating. It may sound cheesy, but it’s really true—great relationships and great love can fill any hole so far as I am concerned.

Change Continued...

I have decided to leave the library where I have been working. The Open Windows Foundation is a wonderful organization. The children are Amazing and I will miss them dearly. I am impressed by all the work the teachers, the director, and the board do for the children and adults that visit the library. But, right now, for me, I am choosing to seek God and a new circle of light in another location. My coordinator, Marcia, and I are researching and meeting with various other organizations in Guatemala. I had my official last day with the library on Thursday, March first and am looking forward to what God has planned next. For the time being, I am working two days a week at an organic farm near Antigua and using the other three days of the week for research, meetings, and family time. I would ask that you hold the library, my host family, Marcia, and me in your prayers during this process. Thank you for your continuing support. 

Not Exactly Writers Block

I suppose I could claim that I have had writers block. Or I could say that Latin time suites me well. And while both of these are feasible excuses, especially the later, they are not—either one—the truth.

The plain and simple truth is that I am experiencing change. Some people claim to like change or to manage it well, but the truth is change, even little changes aren’t easy. I don’t know how we ever forget that or brush it off, but the truth is Change or Adjustment take intentional time, effort, and flexibility.

Time, Effort, and Flexibility; like Change and Adjustment, are three concepts I find that we (Americans) claim to have or be good at, but don’t actually know what they are (with the possible exception of extreme effort to succeed).

Time fades along with Flexibility when we over schedule or strive to over-achieve. Effort takes on the opposite role. I have found that at some point, it might have been better to put in no effort than develop stress lines on my forehead.

Two things I find that help with coping with change are reflection and exercise. Reflection calms and allows for processing (which I didn’t fully comprehend until about a month ago). Making the space for reflection brings the peace and calmness of thought to allow awareness and resilience in daily life. Exercise frees the mind by keeping the body feeling good. Not to ignore the benefit of endorphins.

Sometime around the beginning of December, I forgot intentionality in my time, effort, and flexibility. I lost energy. I forgot the positives and could only think about the fact that I wasn’t home for Thanksgiving, and Christmas without my family was coming whether I liked it or not.

I lost patience with Spanish and Guatemalan culture, never on a grand scale, just day to day in small moments. But, small moments in changes like uprooting myself from college, independence, gyms, music, church, family by my own will, very easily turn into BIG emotions which in turn create more not so small moments of discomfort and homesickness.

I cannot even begin to recount all the amazing things I have experienced in the last two months to you all. It would take years of writing and explanations. And I probably won’t ever be able to fully explain the emotions I have felt in the different stages of this adaption process to anyone else. But today I know that I am changing in my experience of change. I am changing for the better. I can feel my mind and my perspective expanding. 

Though it might take some time for the stretch marks to heal, my experience of Guatemala, a land of extremes, has been and continues to be extreme.

A few things you all have missed in the last 2 months (not in any particular order):

•           A Guatemalan Christmas. Tamales and Hugs at midnight!
•           A herd of cows walking down the street in the middle of my town.                There’s no grass on that street.
•           A Guatemalan New Years. Ponchas and Hugs at midnight!
•           Inventory at the library. No kids. Just organizing and counting books.
•           My first birthday party. For a 5 year old (and there was a Piñata!)
•           I started working on an Organic Farm on Mondays and Fridays.
•           Christmas YAV retreat
•           I climbed a volcano.
•           I decided to run a half marathon in May.
•           I cracked my first joke in Spanish.
•           I went to the beach.
•           I went to visit another YAV near Xela. We got to visit the natural                  sauna!
•           Mango season started.
•           I got invited to a wedding.
•           I had a freakish cough that lasted for about 5 weeks.
•           I went to a Posada!
•           I made chuchitos.
•           I made cow patties (No Bake Cookies) for my host family.
•           I went to a cocktail party to raise money for Ventanas Abiertas.
•           I went to Panajachel with the Ventanas Abiertas teachers.
•           I walked in part of a procession for the saint of my town.
•           I went to Guatemala City to receive the most treasured Christmas                  packages from my family I think I will ever have.
•           I gained weight.
•           My Spanish got better (some days).
•           I lived a wonderful life. How about you?      

Pie Crusts (on Latin Time)

This year my Thanksgiving (only about 4 weeks before I managed to publish this post) revolved around pie crust. I find this to be an interesting fact since before this year, I had never made a pie crust. I always thought that they must be utterly impossible since everyone I know (except maybe my cousin Jennie) makes pie crust in the checkout line of the local grocery store.

I decided that I needed to do something to celebrate Thanksgiving with my family to try to share just a little part of my culture since they have so graciously shared all of theirs. I began with the idea of a standard pumpkin pie. Can you guess what the problem was? For any of you out there who don’t cook (like me), you might not realize that 95% of pumpkin pies in the US are made with pumpkin out of a can. Not only does pumpkin pie from a cannot exist in Guatemala, pumpkin as we know it doesn’t either.

I tamed my fear of making the pumpkin filling from scratch only to be told several times that making pumpkin pie from a vegetable resembling a squat, green pumpkin wouldn’t taste very good. It was suggested that I try sweet potato pie. I jumped right to that idea without any hesitation because not only does pumpkin pie need pumpkin from a can, most recipes also call for condensed milk (from a can). I remembered that I had decided on Day of the Dead that sweet potato is the closest translation for the vegetable kamote. It’s not quite as orange, but the flavor is about the same.

On Saturday morning after Thanksgiving, I went into Antigua with two other volunteers,  two of us looking for American pie materials on market day. We waded through the people, squeezed through small halls jammed with people, vegetables and meat hanging from the ceiling trying to find courage to barter and buy kamote. We came to a more open section of the market where you could see more than the head of the person in front of you and the vendor next to you. There I purchased close to 6 pounds of sweet potato. I didn’t want to be lacking when I got home and I don’t know how to pick out only 2 pounds! We bought cinnamon and flour that were transferred from their giant bags to our little plastic ones. After a quick rest over chocolate milk at a small tourist restaurant Saberico, after our market day adventures, we boarded the chicken bus with our overflowing bags. We, tall, white, and light brown-haired girls, squeezed into the chicken bus with bags full of kamote. I can only imagine that we were an entertaining sight for the other bus riders (as usual).  

It’s a good thing that I have two wonderful American grandparents who take care of me so well here in San Miguel Dueñas. Tom showed me how he makes pie crust on Wednesday before my big trial on Sunday night. They also lent me tools like a rolling pin and a musher thing (I clearly don’t ever bake in the States) that are rather important in the pie process. On Sunday night, I began my pies. Pie crusts are frustrating. They like to break and tear and stick to the rolling pin. But after a pretty close fight, I came out a little whiter for the flour, but a champion. My pie crusts weren’t beautiful, but they were certainly functional.

With the help of my family to beat eggs and mush up cooked and skinned kamote, all by hand, the pies were ready to be transported to the oven. I say transported, because the oven in my house doesn’t work. Guatemalans don’t really use ovens, but fortunately for me, my host aunt two houses over likes to make cakes. Tom, Elizabeth, and Cousin Jennie will be proud of me because I even remembered to cover the pie crust rim for the first 40 minutes of the 60 minutes the pies were in the oven! I didn’t burn it (or myself)!

On Monday night, the whole family came over my host aunt and three of her sons, another host aunt, my host grandmother, and all 6 people of my family and I were all present. Marta, my host mom, bought tostadas to eat with the pie. My Guatemalan thanksgiving with tostadas, coffee, and sweet potato pie refreshed me. It brought me comfort in knowing that, yes in fact, I have built relationships here. I do have a wonderful and loving family. Even though I didn’t understand 90 percent of what was said around the table that night, I felt loved, welcomed, and thankful. Is this not what Thanksgiving is all about?

The Zoo!

On Friday, November 18^th, I went to the zoo with a bus full of teachers and kids. It was one of the colorful chicken buses, except that we had rented the whole thing just for us—for the whole day! The kids that came with us ranged in age from about 7 to 17. The older kids were paired with a teacher to help lead a group of 7 to 10 younger kids. Most of the kids had never been to the zoo before. Even one of the oldest students had never visited.

Needless to say, we were all excited. We had bread ham and ketchup sandwiches and orange juice packed for the morning snack, we were getting on our very own bus (still crowded), the kids were screaming different cheers, and all the teachers were with us leaving the library closed for the day!

It took about an hour by bus to reach the zoo. It was beautiful. There was grass—a rare occasion here if you live in any sort of town. Within a few minutes of finishing our snacks in the opening of the zoo, I saw a scene I might never forget—the waterfowl display. There were mallard ducks and flamingos among about 12 or 14 other types of water fowl from about 3, maybe four different continents in the same enclosure!  I couldn’t believe my eyes. I think I remained hung up on this image (as the number of pictures in my camera show) until I reached the snake house.  In stateside zoos, I remember, oftentimes there being one way glass in the reptile houses. But, that was certainly not the case here. I could see the snakes, and the snakes could see me. Even with the special glass, the different snakes give me chill bumps and yet I felt I was being pulled in for a closer look.

As I was leaving, I had a brief moment of panic when I stopped to try to read a sign. I misunderstood. At first, I understood the sign to be warning me of what to do if a snake should get loose—through the two way glass. A few minutes later, after I slowed my mind and my nerves, I realized that it was just an educational sign about what to do if you ever meet a snake in your path. At least, that is what I am telling myself it said.

Later on, I stood entranced, as if I was one of the kids, watching two monkeys fight. They screamed and swung by their tails. They tackled each other and raced round and round the cage among the 6 or 7 other monkeys. All the monkeys were tense. It brought to mind the scene from the movie, Mean Girls, where Lindsay Lohan acknowledges the difference in problem resolution between the animal kingdom and girl world. In her mind the antagonist simply dives across the table to tackle the others girls starting chaos in a high school cafeteria.

This monkey disagreement also reminded me of our human ability to take on too much and the way that makes us feel crazy inside. Crazy like this monkey fight—thoughts running around chasing each other tackling each other and screaming retorts and exclamations about inadequacy. All this monkey business passes in between our ears.

This moment, standing outside the cage watching my thoughts running around, jumping, and swinging dizzily somehow reminded me the beauty of not taking on too much, of refusing to be overloaded as our society might expect us to be. It reminded me to live simply, to rejoice in the beauty of life that God gave us, and to love one another as we should love ourselves, and to remember the power of the simple word “no.”