broken.

Maybe I was trying to escape. Maybe I was trying to get away from all of the mediocrity in myself that was so easy to see in the states. Maybe I secretly just wanted to go away so that the things I didn't like about myself would go away. 

Maybe I really did have a true and noble purpose, but maybe I was also afraid. 

What if I didn't know how to face myself, and I thought going to a different country again would change me as much as it did the last time? What if I couldn't put my finger on the problem and so I ran as hard and as fast as I could, until I ended up in another hemisphere, with all the same problems and fears? What if I just want to change something, but the fear of mediocrity dogs me to until death?

What if there was nothing left where I was, and there was nothing I thought I could change?

What if I wasn't enough to bring the change they needed, and what if I ran away to start over, to show my best sides again, to bring to light the parts of me that I still enjoy?

What if all this running is my attempt to find Someone? Someone I am supposed to be able to find, Someone who is supposed to want to be found.

What if the biggest lie is that I am alone?

This has been a two year battle. I think I am realizing as I write this sentence the fullness of what my time in Costa Rica did to me. The things in me that broke the first time I went overseas were not all meant to be broken. My heart, yes. Sure. My heart is good for breaking. Break it for the poor, for the orphans, for the old women who don't have husbands and are treated like trash. Break it for the children who don't have parents and live literally in the streets, with infected feet, worms in their bellies, and not enough food to keep them walking. Break it for the trash in the streets of a country that has lost so much that it has forgotten how to care for itself. Break it for the teen boys in the parks who will fight and kill each other for their pride, who never once were hugged by their fathers. Break it for the men in chains whose hearts have changed but won't get a chance to change their worlds. Let it fall in pieces for the little girls who have no idea of their worth, who have been left for the men of this world who would use a child for their pleasure. Rip is with glass for the families torn by war, who have no fathers, and cannot learn to be fathers themselves. Drop it on the ground and watch it shatter. Crack it in half. A broken heart will only make me mourn for a little while, and after that, it will grow back, more full, more capable of love, more able to be broken. Softer, but more strong. 

I can deal with the things that happen when my heart is hurt.

But I think what happened in Costa Rica was more than my heart being hurt. There has been one sentence in my mind for two years. One sentence that runs and runs and runs through my head, relentlessly, and it comes back with a vengeance when people leave. 

I never thought this would be my story. I never thought I would be the typical girl with daddy problems and abandonment issues. For any of you that have either of those, I am so, so terribly sorry. I am not in any way belittling your struggle. All I am saying is that it is a common struggle, and I have never counted myself among your numbers. 

Many things happened in Costa Rica, and for those of you who don't know, our team dynamics were not...exemplary. Many times there was not much maturity in how situations were handled, and there was quite a bit of fighting. At one point, I think an argument between two of the people in charge actually came to blows. I say "I think," because I was in a different room and all I heard was a loud noise like something or someone falling over and a cry for help. However. At this point in the trip, the other member of the school decided he could no longer work with the group, because he did not believe that either Christ or the gospel were being represented well, and he couldn't, in good conscience, continue to support what the leadership was doing. The day that he decided he couldn't work with the team anymore, he left me alone. He left our team and he left me with the two fighting leaders and he left me to do the ministry on my own. 

I laid on my face on someone else's wooden library floor on the very edge of the Costa Rican jungle, not even a mile across the river from Nicaragua, and my spirit broke. It broke right in half and for four hours I laid there, crying so hard I couldn't make any noise, while a lie came in that has haunted me in every ministry I've been a part of since that day. 

Now you are truly alone.

I thought I was sad, and I thought it hurt, and I thought, "Well, this will be pretty hard." But I didn't smile for three months after I came back to the states. It took me even longer to laugh. I'd forgotten how to joke and I didn't remember the fun things I'd done freshman year. It was hard to get up in the morning and I hated myself for being rich and having an air conditioned room and a mattress. I hated myself for not wanting my education. I hated myself for eating more than I needed, but I was caught. All of the things that had broken my heart continued to break my heart, and I wanted nothing but to fix the world, to heal it from all the poverty and brokenness and pain and suffering and hatred and maldad. I was caught because, in my mind, ever since that day, I have been alone. Yes, I have been with Jesus, and I have lead ministries, and I'm in a different country, helping missionaries lead children to the Lord. 

I thought it hurt but I had no idea what the ramifications would look like. And please don't get me wrong. I have forgiven every person involved with this situation. I have forgiven them, and when old pain and anger comes up, I forgive them again. But I had no idea what would come from one man's decision in the middle of nowhere to do what he thought was right, and leave.

And so, in my mind, I am alone. There's a thick wall between the things that are me and the things that are everyone else, because I [resolved that I] would never, not ever, put myself in a situation where someone else had the power to break me like I was broken in Costa Rica, in the library at Glenda and Gonzalez' house. I don't think I even knew until just now that I had that wall. I don't think I knew, really. [[This is common for me: I'm an external processor, so I come to conclusions as I'm talking, not in thought. I don't realize what I think or believe until I'm saying it.]]

I think this is something that needs turned around, but I don't know how. There's nowhere else to run, and I'm tired. I want to be done fighting, but I am afraid.

Another thing: I am tired of being convinced that I am not doing anything worth doing, wherever I am. It doesn't matter where I go or how much I do, there is a pervasive and continuous assurance in my mind that I'm not really doing anything...that nothing I am doing is worthwhile, and that none of it will last. I think I want to be done with that as well, because I have a story to tell. I have something real to do, something powerful to say, and I'm not so sure it can't be said in the states. I'm not so sure it wouldn't be better said in the states. I'm not so sure it isn't more necessary in the states than it is here. But we will cross that bridge when we come to it. (:

For now, I must crawl into my bed, because I have to leave the house tomorrow at 7:15am. Po and I are going to Mbocayatou (I have no idea how to spell it. It's a Guarani word) again to translate for the team from Somerset, PA, so they can do a VBS type thing and spend time teaching the kids there. Please continue praying for me to know my purpose, and if you'd like to write me, please don't hesitate. My email address is llwellynmcamis@tfc.edu.

today i drank the water.

We had our staff meeting this morning at about ten. Lo and Po and I walked (read: jogged) to the HiperSeis this morning to go and get all the fried chicken for the Somerset team's lunch today, as well as the Tartes for their lunch tomorrow. I bought two liters of milk, which is incredible here. They sell milk in sealed cardboard boxes, by the liter, and it's whole. I don't know that there's a kind that isn't whole. It's not even Vitamin D Milk with the red cap that only your 50 year old uncle drinks because his wife can't convince him that skim tastes better (because that's not true, duh). It's like cream floating on the top, makes your coffee thicker, and you probably shouldn't have it with your cereal every morning whole. So. Good. 
So we got all of our things from the HiperSeis and then took a bus to the church so we could make sandwiches out of the fried chicken. We assembled thirty chicken sandwiches with mayonnaise and fresh cut pan felipe in less than ten minutes, packed them in baggies, sliced up probably 10 oranges and cleaned up after ourselves, all before the staff meeting. 
John read 1 Corinthians 13:1-8, but he read it more slowly than I think I have ever heard it read. It was so slow that I actually had a chance to process each one before he read the next one. At first, for each one, I was thinking of ways that other people in my life didn't do it well or didn't live up to the standards, but once he read, "keeps no record of wrongs," I was stuck. It was no longer everyone else's turn.
He apologized for ways that he'd talked about some people in the church in the past among the leadership (no person I knew, and no situation of which I'd heard) and called us all to a higher standard of speech. We prayed for a little while after that, and then talked logistics for about an hour and a half. After we got the week nailed down, Lo and Po and I carried Somerset's food out to John's car and he went to drop it off for them, while the three of us caught a bus home. I have seriously been sitting here in my dining room, since lunch, catching up on blog posts.
Also, we have no drinking water. So today I am drinking the tap water. Also, my coffee was made with the tap water. So we shall see what comes of that. (:
It is getting increasingly more and more difficult to write these posts in English. I know that there are quite a few of you who could still understand me if I mixed in Spanish here and there where I could no longer think of my English words, but I don't want to be rude to the rest of you. Because I like you! (: So. 
I think I shall go lay in my bed for a little while, and re-heat my coffee. WHICH, by the way, is made with whole cream instead of that powdery corn starch stuff. Po and I have made a grand discovery. Whole cream instead of milk/powder in tea and coffee. WAHHHHH! It's SO good. 
I think that is all for today. (: Tonight I am going to Lisa Sappia's house to compile the pictures from Oansa into a video, and then I am coming home and going to bed. Pretty nice as far as Mondays go.

saturday-sunday.

This weekend has been a blur. 
I have been secretly resentful of the pots and pans in the kitchen. They're Teflon (non-stick black stuff that you can't clean with a real dish scrubber). I hate Teflon. I have been resentful of the water here that comes in big blue bottles and makes my Nalgene smell like diesel exhaust when I open it. I have been resentful of the shower that's not as hot as it could be and the weather that's not as warm as it could be and the food that's not as cheap as it could be and my schedule that's not as organized as it could be. I have been festering in my mind, a week spent in rebellion of the changes that are what they are and the things that somehow, somewhere, secretly, I feel like I deserve. I feel like we've been over this already. But Saturday it took an entire shower for me to realize that things don't have to be what I want in order for me to enjoy them. I was chagrined when I realized what I had realized and how long it had taken, but I knew when I knew it that I knew it for sure. It was like a thing broke off of me, and all the sudden I was free to enjoy things that were less than I wanted them to be, and to see as a blessing things that had been taken for granted before. 
I let go of not having my own space in the kitchen. I chose to forget how much the dishes annoy me when everything I cook sticks to the bottom of the pan. I chose to be grateful for the plastic dishes we have instead of spending my time wishing I had my favorite earthenware bowl from home. And I know this is not all bad. It's not bad to want the familiar and to miss it when it's gone. It's not bad to know that my dishes at home are nicer and that my utensils work better and that my coffee from my french press is incredible. But it is bad to be resentful of everything I am offered simply because I have known something different, even something better. It is wrong when I am ill every time I cook because my food wouldn't stick to the bottom of my pan. I think you get the picture. It's okay to enjoy nice things. It's not okay to resent everything that isn't up to your standards of nice. 
Saturday I went to Oansa at a park near Mi Esperanza church, and met a whole haggle of new children. They played games for about an hour, ate a snack and heard a bible story, and then played soccer for another 45 minutes. I took pictures the whole time for Lisa Sappia so that we could later put together a video for a church that wants to support the Oansas here. 
Saturday night we came back to the church again to do iPraise, which basically means that Sylvia Harmon and Lo taught music lessons to individual kids while the other played board games with John and Po and I, along with 2 other adult helpers. For the lesson, John used his wallet to represent sin and his hands to represent God and us (and Jesus, at one point) and he did a demonstration about how Jesus takes our sin so we can be in right relationship with God. Just at the peak moment, when everyone was staring in rapt attention and John was almost whispering, a man, about 24, screeched the door open and came shambling in the room. And, true to Paraguayan style, everyone greeted him as he made his way to the table in the middle of the room. His name is Milcherd, and he's currently the worship leader for Mi Esperanza. He was there to have practice for the next morning's service. I had to laugh. 
After that, I spent about 45 minutes chasing the younger kids around and tickling them, during which I made best friend with a girl named Tara. She's about 9, and loves to be chased. I don't know if she was learning an instrument or not, but she was there for the whole night. It was so cold that we ended up hugging for a very long time. 
The next morning in Church, the short-term team from Somerset, PA was introduced to the congregation. They'd arrived about 4am and they left soon after their introduction to go and be introduced to another church. John preached on Ephesians, where it says that women should submit to their husbands, but also that husbands should love their wives like Christ loved the church, even laying down their lives for their wives. This is a completely foreign concept to most Paraguayans. Men don't sacrifice anything for women, certainly not in order to love or cherish. But John made it perfectly clear that the Lord's intent here was for the men to give love and the women to give respect. It was something I knew well, and was familiar with it from the book by Emerson Eggerichs called "Love and Respect," but it was all new to the congregation, from what it sounded like to me.
After church, Po and I went home with one of the ladies from her ESL class. Her name was Adriana, and we rode to her house in a taxi. I had never ridden in a taxi before (except that one time in Vegas at 4:30am when my whole family was leaving Nevada after visiting cousins in Reno and staying at the Four Queens was the cheapest thing to do) and it was very strange. He actually drove us all the way to her house, which I didn't expect since it was so far out into the cobblestone/dirt roads. We sat there with her eating Bijou (like chipa, only flat with parmesan cheese on the outside) and drinking Maté and watching The Disney Channel in Spanish for 
about 40 minutes while her mother and brother finished making lunch. For lunch, we 
had spaghetti and chicken, both in red sauces I'd never tasted, but were SO good. We also had
salad (tomatoes, green bell peppers, shredded carrots, and onions, on a bed of shredded 
cabbage, sprinkled with salt, lemon juice, and olive oil) and Sopa. Sopa, the word that means 
"soup," also means a kind of cornbread made with onions and spices, and very thick. We had 
the cornbread kind of Sopa, which is actually called Sopa Paraguayi. I ate as slowly as I could, but they still ate more slowly than me, and so the mother got up immediately and put more chicken on my plate. I stifled a groan. The food was so good, but I couldn't eat anymore! I finished all but the smallest bite of my chicken, enough so I ate it respectfully and not to waste, but also with enough left that she wouldn't give me more food. She still passed me the salad and the Parmesan cheese, in case there was anything else I wanted, but I tried as gratefully as I could to say "no," and "thank you," at the same time. It's a difficult combination. 
When everyone was finished eating, the family began cleaning the table of all the plates and food, and Po and I felt fairly useless. I was mentally preparing to say our goodbyes and find a taxi or walk to the nearest bus stop when Adriana came back in the room and asked whether we would prefer Maté or Cocido. Po and I both said, "Cocido!" with big grins, but our grins faded as Adriana smilingly put on her coat and rainboots to walk two houses down and get some Cocido for her mother to make. How are we ever to know which thing they have and which they don't, when they offer both?! I get frustrated about that, but I think frustration probably isn't necessary. There's no way to know which is which, and they're not going to stop offering. So let's just all be friends. (: 
Po and I, after Cocido, a half hour more of Disney Cartoons, a visit to one of Adriana's friend's houses to make a veterinary call about a cat that needed castrated, and more Maté, finally made our way to a bus stop, back towards home. We probably looked like Mennonites, wearing full length skirts and dresses, with white skin, riding a bus on a Sunday afternoon. Neither of us could feel our toes, and our feet were red with the mud from the streets around Adriana's house, but we had to go to the HiperSeis before we walked home (the HiperSeis is at the bus stop where we get off to go home. Down our street, home, to the right, or left to cross the street and go to HiperSeis) since the only thing I had in the fridge were six eggs. So we waltzed into the HiperSeis with tired and freezing legs, bought all the things I needed, and walked home. 
One of the things I needed was ground beef, which they don't just have in a cooler in the store. You have to go get in the meat line and take a little paper and they call your number and then tell them what you want. "Medio kilo de carne molido." A half a kilo is about 45g more than a pound. Anyway, my first time in the meat line, Yay! (:
Then Sunday night, Po and I took a bus to the Schell's house to meet the Somerset, PA team and have pizza with them, and also to hear the orientation class from Forest, since I hadn't heard it yet at that point. We had to wait for a bus, though, and so with walking and bussing and waiting, we didn't make it there until 5:30. 
After all of the formalities were over and when dinner was well underway, I finally worked up the social courage to talk to more new people that I didn't know, who would be leaving my life in less than 7 days, and try to make some kind of connection with at least a few of them. I managed to find a girl who went to Cedarville (where I have friends and had relatives), a woman whose sister's friend works at TFC, and a guy who works at a truck dispatch that sends people to Akron, Ohio all the time. So there. I did it. (: Then I escaped to the children's rooms to chase them around and threaten their lives and livelihoods with the looming curse of kisses. They have dubbed me the kissy monster, and the only words that keep them at bay are, "ya no mas, ya no mas," with an imperial wag of the finger. I love them. AND. The Sappia's youngest son, Caleb, actually chased me around to get a kiss from me. I was so surprised. He's not a very social boy, and he doesn't do well in social situations, but he was perfectly okay with chasing me around yelling, "kiss me, kiss me!" It was a happy night for me. (:

i don't think i have any more toes.

Friday morning, Po and I had to get to the orphanage a half hour early so that we could leave a half hour early, since we were scheduled to have lunch with the Sappia family, the family of the lead pastor of Mi Esperanza. It takes almost an hour to get to the orphanage from our house. There are 15 minutes of walking from my house to the bus stop, 0-20 minutes waiting for the bus, anywhere from 10-30 minutes on the bus, and about 20 minutes of walking from the bus stop to the orphanage. We left the house at 8 am and didn't get to the orphanage until about 9. The bus ride was much less chaotic this time, and there was room for everyone to breathe. Breathing was nice. (:

When we got to the orphanage, Po and I went to our same respective rooms as last time, and I was glad that I already kind of knew the names of the kids in my room and the workers I would be with. It seemed much less difficult since I knew what was expected of the children and what semblance of a schedule we would attempt to hold. 

The workers recognized me and said hello when I came in the room, and one of the girls, whose name I couldn't get out of anyone, came running up to me, saying, "Tia, Tia, Tia, Tia!" I was so happy that they remembered me. My cuddler, Daniel, found me quickly as well, and spent more than half the class in my lap, handing plastic puzzle pieces to me to put together and then taking them apart once he had them back in his hands. He and another girl, Tati, traded me back and forth fairly often. Halfway through the morning, we took the boys to the bathroom, and went through almost the same procedure as last time. The difference this time was that we had them brush their teeth, and we didn't put diapers on them. I guess these kids are little enough that it's not a big deal that they don't wear underwear, but it still came as a shock that no one really minded leaving them without. Po said later that they might have been doing a form of potty training in which the ones who peed in their pants just had to live with the wet/cold, but the kids were taken as group to the bathroom. So there wasn't really any opportunity for them to choose between going to the bathroom early or peeing in their pants.
We fed them sweet rice with sausage for breakfast, and they played in the play room together until it was time to take naps. Po and I had to leave during nap time, because we were scheduled to be waiting at the church for Lisa Sappia (the pastor's wife) to pick us up at 11:45. [[By the by, I am slowly mastering the bus. I discovered this morning (Monday) on the way home from staff meeting, that it's all in the hips. If you plant your feet about shoulder-width apart and hold on tight to whichever greasy piece of bus-metal that you're currently holding, then your center of gravity is fluid enough that it can move with the momentum of the bus and you don't necessarily have to fall into the very-good-smelling guy with wonderful hair who is holding the bar in front of you. But that is another story: Latin men smell wonderful.]]
Lunch with the Sappia family was exactly what I needed. John gave us sheets of paper with all kinds of responsibilities, and we talked almost all the way through the lists before the tears began. I was doing a really really good job of keeping them in, until John said, "Now, Lula, I don't know you. Are you alright? I feel like you're shutting down on me, but I don't know you yet. How are you doing?" Firstly, I was amazed that he stopped what he was doing to address my partial emotional deterioration. Secondly, I was shocked that he cared that I was stressed out (about--you guessed it--the home visits). Thirdly and finally, it didn't make sense to me that it was okay for me to be stressed out as long as I was still committed to challenging myself and to getting the most out of my time here relationship-wise. But. All of those things were true. John told me that they weren't having Po and I do home visits because they couldn't do them or didn't want to. They (both John and Forest) wanted Po and I to be doing home visits so that we would be in the lives of the people we were working with. In Latin American countries in general, relationships are the most important things that anyone can have, and home visits are one of the ways that the missionaries here connect with the people to become parts of their everyday lives, so that the church is more like a body than a gathering. John and Forest want Po and I to be a part of that relationship link so that (in John's words) we don't leave here and say, "Oh, yes. Paraguay. That was nice. They had pretty good food," but instead that, when it comes time for us to leave, we have people to say goodbye to and relationships to miss. So that we know that we have built something in the time we were here. 
At the end of this meeting/lunch/conversation, John asked if we had any questions, and at first, I didn't. But I thought for a moment about why I felt so overwhelmed and I realized that since I had arrived, I had been given lists of tasks and appointments, but never had I caught on to the vision that the missionaries here were working towards. This was due to many things, one of which being that the Orientation class that interns/short term workers here normally take their first or second day had been postponed for me so many times that I had been here a week before I had an idea of why. It wasn't anyone's fault, but it was a problem for me. So I asked John what he saw the Lord doing here, and what their purpose in ministry was, and what end goal they were working towards. 
John told me about two miraculous healings that had occurred in the church, one last month(ish) and one five or six months ago. He told me about a man that had finally, after being in the church more than 8 years, accepted Christ as both his king and his redeemer. He told me about kids who loved the children's ministry so much that they were attracting other family members to the congregation. He told me how the children who come to Oansa (Awana, on Saturday mornings) and the teens who attend iPraise (guitar/keyboard lessons combined with youth group-like atmosphere and a bible lesson on Saturday nights) have no other Godly influence in their lives, and almost certainly no positive father figure. 
(Sunday night) I learned how the war that Paraguay had with Uruguay, Brazil, and Argentina in the 1800's took the lives of 8 out of every 10 men of fighting age, destroyed the institution and cultural importance of marriage, and created a matriarchal family structure. I learned that Machis (manliness) is characterized by having multiple sexual relationships outside of marriage, abusing those under your power, being able to handle large amounts of alcohol, and being unpredictable. Marianis (femininity) means being soft and gentle, a virgin, submissive to every man, strong, the spiritual leader of your family, and reliable, since you'll have to run just about everything in your house.
John told me that their purpose is to raise up a new generation and to disciple the ones who are already adults. They want to foster Godly attitudes and character in a culture that calls them weak and useless. When I caught wind of what the Lord is doing here in Paraguay, all my tasks made sense. They all had meaning. I understand how each is important, and I know what I'm working towards. 
I am still praying about what the Lord's purpose is in me specifically being here, and what he'd like to teach me in my life through this experience, but I have caught the other vision, the long term one. When I told John why I asked what I asked, and about how I'd been given all tasks and no vision, He wrote on his paper to remind him, "Vision before tasks." After some of the experiences I've had in my life, it's incredible to be under the leadership of people who want to work with each other, to forgive each other, to talk about problems, out loud, together, and to fix what they can and forgive what they can't.

After lunch, Po and I an Lo went with the Schell's to one of Sarah's friend's houses for dinner, and we were there until almost 11pm. It was wonderful to be in the presence of all english-speakers, and to understand each other's jokes, and to play board games together and (for Forest and I) to win! (: Also, there was a fireplace in this lady's house. And for the first time in about a week, I felt my toes. 

it has been a day full of thinking.

**Sometimes I go on side rants/points. Bunny trails, if you will. Those will be in double brackets. You can skip them if you want, and the rest will still make sense. Also, comments seem to not be working, and I don't know what to do about that. If you'd like to talk to me about something I said or brought up, or even to say that you're praying for me, I'm all over facebook and my email address is llwellynmcamis@tfc.edu. Thank You!**

I woke up this morning and I was so surprised by the attitude that came out of me. Lo and Po and I were scheduled this morning to go visit some of the families of the Mi Esperanza church and of the children who attend the OANSA (awana) on Saturday mornings. I was originally supposed to go with another lady, but she cancelled because she had other things to do. The pastor wanted me to go with Lo and Po anyway, however, to get a handle on what we do during home visits and to practice my Spanish (which is, as I learned today, called "Castellana" here). In the waking moments of my brain's activity, however, it was very unfair that I had to get up and go visit people I didn't know when the other lady wasn't going to. By rights, I should get to stay in bed, right? Let me insert here that it's been drizzling and raining, off and on, for three days now. It is cold, and the air in my room was cold, and my nose was stuffy when I woke up. Also, since there is no interior heating and the houses here are made out of concrete blocks, the cold air readily seeps through the windows and hangs over my poor stuffy nose. Yes. It was a regular pity party in my room this morning. Also showering in air that cold with a stuffy nose should be a crime. 

Since it was raining, however, not many people would come out of their houses to acknowledge us, let alone talk to us. The first stop we made, the family took pity on us and invited us inside. After that, however, Lo simply went up to the gates to deliver the medicine she was bringing, because the people clearly did not want to be bothered on such a miserable day. I was relieved. Primarily, I was relieved because I'm embarrassed of my Spanish. Everyone makes out like I'm fluent and I know what I'm doing, but I don't know just about anything of conjugations, and the words don't come to my mind readily when I'm trying to explain something. More often than not, when I'm called upon to speak, all my Spanish disappears and it takes half my English with it. I thought in the car for a while about what I was going to do when it came time for me to go on visits by myself, and I think the thought actually made me a little nauseous. But what I have realized is this: I have got to stop looking at Ministry as something where I have all of my buttons in one bowl. (hahahaha. I just made that up.) I don't know why this never comes to my mind in the moment, but if I will just admit to people that I probably don't know what I'm doing, then they're much more likely to be forgiving when I use a word here that means something completely different than it did in Costa Rica.  

I think the real problem here is that I have not come to a point where I have an intentional purpose for being where I am and doing what I'm doing. This has literally been a theme for all of my life. That's embarrassing. Also, it's scary. It's scary that the Lord brought together enough money to send me to the other half of the world, and I don't have a specific purpose in mind for being here. But maybe I do. Maybe there is something in my mind that I want to do, because when Forest Schell (Sarah's husband--they planted Mi Esperanza) asked me why I was here, I told him I wanted to have a permanent and lasting impact on something in the world. I wanted to do something lasting. And that is a true and noble cause, indeed, but the problem comes when I try to decide, at the end of all this, if I have or have not had a permanent and lasting impact on anything. 

[[Here is what it comes to: life doesn't come with a soundtrack, usually the lighting sucks, and you don't often get to see the final outcome of what you planted. Believe you me: we have tons of experience with this in the Prayer Room at my college. Many, many, many times, the Lord puts something on our hearts to pray for, and we pray for it. I have been praying for freedom and for revival for almost three years at my college...and it is only every couple of months that I get a glimpse of something that looks a little like freedom or revival. Does that mean that the Lord isn't answering our prayers? Absolutely not. He has never been unfaithful, and He will not start now.]]

I feel like an outsider here, and that's natural. I've not even been here a week, I'm not fluent in the language, I don't understand (fully) the monetary system, the traffic scares the poop out of me (almost), and I don't know anyone except the girl I share a room with. Not really, really know. And so, like so many times in the past year of my life, I find myself kind of floating, a little bit alone and a little bit crowded. A little bit overwhelmed and a little bit passive. I don't like it.

[[There was a time between school and Paraguay that was dedicated to rest and a complete lack of responsibility. That is a good thing, and beautiful thing. My mentor, a missionary lady from Cambodia, says in reference to rest: "I think it is time for all of the things to stop." I love that. You can see how she's a good mentor for me. (: One day I will understand the difference between taking time for required rest (even in the midst of a struggle) and becoming stagnant or giving up. Far too often, the first turns into the latter, but just as often, the first is ignored for fear of the latter. So we must all draw careful lines.]]

I don't like it because I don't know how to get out of it. I don't want this to be the norm, and I feel like it has been for far too long.  A friend from school has been talking for a while about being on the sidelines, and how it's time for him to get back in the battle, and I think I might be in the same place. I am thinking that "too long" is just about approaching for me. It is time to re-enter the battle. I am going to ask the Lord for a specific direction that He would like me to move in while I am here in Paraguay. I would like you to pray with me. I don't want a task to accomplish or an objective to fulfill; I want to know where His heart would have my heart try to lead other hearts. Am I making sense? I don't want a grocery list where failure is perfectly defined and the stakes are high enough to discourage me. I don't want the Ikea instruction manual to a perfectly organized cross-cultural ministry. I don't want a honey-do list that I can't accomplish, and I certainly don't want to expect disappointment in His eyes. [[side note: how could an omniscient God ever be disappointed?]] I want to know where His heart is and follow it, no matter how dark the road, how bumpy the path, or how dangerous the sounds from under the brush.

Since today was so rainy and think-y, and we didn't have a whole lot to do, I spent quite a bit of time thinking. The first conclusion I came to was that I miss the jungle. I don't know if I will ever stop missing the jungle. Asuncion is beautiful, but I miss the song of the jungle outside my window at night. I love Latin culture, but I still don't like cities. I do not think those two things will change. The second conclusion that I came to was that I am not at home here either. I will not be at home here, just like I will not be at home anywhere on this earth. I think ever since the end of my junior year of high school, when I stood on the stairs between my bedroom and the living room and realized that the house I lived in was no longer my home, I have been running to something. I have been running as hard as I can, and I have been searching frantically for somewhere that I can call home. I haven't found it yet. Sometimes I think that if I just run fast enough, I will arrive somewhere, I will see someone, and I will say, "Oh. This is where I am supposed to be." And I am not saying that Paraguay is not where I am supposed to be. I am saying that my heart will not be at rest until I am Home, and that Home is Jesus. You know when you haven't cried in a long time, and then you do, and right before the tears fall, your eyes hurt, like it's painful to make the tears? That's what my heart feels like when I think about Home.

Another conclusion I came to is that a part of the reason I came to Paraguay was because I love adventure. I have accepted it: I like change. I want things to shift and move. I don't want to be in the same place for the rest of my life. I suppose that there will come a time when I will stop searching for an ideal place and decide that the one I am  in is perfect for my family and I, but for now, for now. And I have been struck since I have been here how normal everything is. People have the same struggles here as they do in America. They're impatient with traffic and they have to budget their money and they don't always get what they want. Some are poor and some are rich; some are friendly and some are not. They wear cologne and tight pants and their children cause a ruckus in the grocery store and sometimes they pick their noses on the bus when they think no one is looking. They don't always know what to believe, and sometimes they don't care, and the appreciate beauty and nature and cool looking buildings. So why am I here? What am I here to do? There is nothing special about me. I don't even speak their language very well. What am I doing more than 6,000 miles away from my home, in a place where I don't know anything about anything about anything, thinking I am going to help someone? 

Before, when I would ask these questions, a sort of strange depression would set in. These questions have always been the source of my discouragement, because I didn't know the answers. I couldn't justify the actions of my Father in placing me exactly where I was, and I couldn't answer for how I had stewarded the time I had been given in the place where I was. I think this time that will not be the case, simply because of the above paragraph with the bold letters. I know that there will be people praying for me, and I know that I will be praying. And for now, my purpose will be to find where Jesus is and put myself there. 

sometimes all you need is a 20 minute nap in Kate's bed. also another cup of coffee.

This morning (Wednesday) we got up early enough to be ten minutes away at 8am and look like our brains were on for an organization/prayer group of the Alliance missionaries in Asuncion. The meeting was wonderful and lasted about four hours. They called it my welcome breakfast, and we had fruit and coffee and french toast casserole and an egg casserole with bacon (YUM BACON) and it was all around quite lovely. It's funny how as soon as someone says, "tell us a little bit about yourself," you forget absolutely every fact you ever knew about yourself and can't remember even your own name. Also, you start thinking, "hmm, what interesting things can I tell these people about my interesting life and my awesome sense of humor?" And then you try to make a joke and forget all your english. It just evaporates out of your head. Then you really start thinking, and you realize your life isn't really all that interesting and everything that makes you sound distinguished in the Estados Unidos just makes you sound kind of silly when you say it here. So yes. I had a mild internal identity crisis this morning, over coffee and mangoes.
When the meeting was done, Sarah showed me the budget sheet and kind of where my money will go while I'm here. I pay my own rent and utilities and I buy my own groceries. I also ride the bus just about wherever I need to go, unless Lo is going there as well, in which case, Po and I ride with her. 
When the money/business things were finished up, Lo, Sarah, Po and I went to a place called God's Pan, which means "God's Bread." I'm not sure why they used the English for God, but that's what it is. Lo wanted to go to check out prices for Paraguayan Stroganoff (a very different thing than american stroganoff) for a short term team coming in Sunday morning. God's Pan is a type of restaurant called comida por kilo, which means "food by the kilo," or "food by weight." Basically you see what they have and pay for how many kilos you want. I mean, unless it's for a party, people don't usually walk in and buy six kilos of alfredo, but the main point is that there's a unit price and you pay by the weight of the amount of food you want. 
After that, Po and I went back to Sarah's house and ate our empanadas from God's Pan. I had one ham and cheese empanada and one chicken empanada. I think I liked the ham and cheese better, because their chicken (like in the tarte I had for lunch on monday and dinner today) was ground and mixed with some vegetables and spices. I like chicken, but the ground stuff is a strange texture. 
So after lunch, Sarah and Po and I started talking about schedules for the next couple weeks. I didn't have a planner at that point, and we were discussing logistics for 3 or 4 appointments a day, for 14 different days. My mind almost exploded. I am a very visual person, and so I like to write things in a linear manner (like in a planner) [hey, manner, planner! haha] and sort them all ouot in my brain until I can remember them in their correct spots. But all of this information, you see, was bouncing around in my head like 27 children drinking Red Bull in a bouncy house. I hope you all enjoy that visual. (: So my mental state was very quickly going downhill, but I was making a pretty solid effort to stay focused and keep working. I guess my eyes were starting to do something weird, because Sarah looked up at me and said, "Let me know when we're reaching overload, okay? We're doing tons of information today, so we can totally take breaks." I then asked if I could just put my head down for a couple minutes, but Sarah promptly banished me from the dining room while she made a few organizational calls, and told me I would be retrieved from Kate's (one of the twins) bed when I was needed again.
I can't even tell you how grateful I was for Kate's bed. With its fluffy pink pillow and pink and yellow quilt (both matching Little Lauren's across the room), there was nothing more I could ask for in the napping arena. I don't think I even fell asleep, but I talked to Jesus a little bit and mentally pulled all of the poky information out of my brain so it could organize itself on the pillow while I closed my eyes and smiled.
When we finished with all the logistics and planning talk, about a half hour later, and Forest had drawn the most beautiful map of our area of Asuncion in the back of my journal, complete with highlighted bus routes and labeled streets and starred missionary houses, we decided to go to the store to get a new sim card for the Nokia brick that was to be my cell phone. It cost about $7.50 (30 mil guaranias) to get a new sim card and quite a few minutes, and then Sarah left Po and I in the mall to find the SuperSeis (another version of the HiperSeis, a grocery store/ supermarket) and ride the bus home. 
Let me tell you about that bus. Every time I get on the bus, it's right before dinner, and we eat dinner very late here in Paraguay. Also my lunches have been pretty small, and so I'm generally pretty hungry. But on both days we've ridden buses, I've been particularly hungry, and the adrenaline rush of bus riding (not a joke) actually causes my blood sugar to drop. The first time we rode a bus, it was raining outside, which meant everyone was inside, and there was barely anyone on the bus. Today, however, was my second time on the bus, and there was no rain. I am telling you, if I had let go of that pipe that goes along the top of the bus that you're supposed to hold onto, I would not have fallen over. and everyone who gets on the bus permiso's their way to the back of the bus so they can be right there when it's time to get off. Well let me tell you what. When it was my turn to get to the back of that bus, they were stacked four thick on each side, plus the ones in the seats. It was kind of like popping a pimple. Sorry, bad analogy. Ummm. It was kind of like...nope. Pimple analogy is all I've got. I kept moving further and further back, and the further back I got in the bus, the more people there were, and the tighter the squeeze. There was a peak point where I seriously just had to shove through. Also may I note that Lauren shouted for the bus driver to wait because he was about to leave because Lauren had already safely and soundly gotten off, and he wasn't waiting any longer. However. We are both alive. In these kinds of situations, I am especially tempted to be ashamed of my US American-ness, as well as my body size and manly voice and whatever else I can think of. But when it comes down to it, everybody rides the bus and everybody gets squished. Let me tell you. It is very strange to have that many strangers' butts touch your butt (yes, accidentally, but still) in one afternoon and have to tell yourself that this is a culturally acceptable form of communication. You heard me. Bus people communicate through butts.  
Also elbows.
It has been a long day. (:

driving slowly over speed bumps, stopping for intersections, and other things South Americans don't do.

TUESDAY. 
What an adventure today was. This morning at 9:45, I was cracking an egg into a pot (because the pan was on the bottom the the stack, and it was a top-of-the-stack kind of morning), when Bruce and Sylvia, two of the sweetest people you will ever meet, pulled up to the gate outside of the driveway. Po went sprinting up the hall to let them in, sprinting down the hall to get her key, and sprinting back up the hall to let them in. I moved my egg around the pot at a more rapid pace. Egg finished and wrapped in a tortilla, I grabbed all my things and plopped a little water into my water bottle, and then jogged for the car. Bruce and Sylvia welcomed me into their car, into Paraguay, and if this was a movie from Hallmark, into their hearts. (I am laughing really hard at my own jokes today. Forgive me. Hahahahahaha.) Sylvia was so excited to take me to the HiperSeis (supermarket) that she actually brought me a copy of the paper she typed up at the beginning of her term in Asuncion, listing each useful thing in each aisle of the store, from the entrance to the exit, by aisle number. We walked around the store, going over each aisle and which brands were the cheapest and best quality, and although I had been to the same store the day before and had a tour, Sylvia managed to teach me quite a few new things, like how to order freshly ground coffee and freshly ground beef, and which powdered sugar is the powderiest. Did you know that the phrase for "powdered sugar" in Spanish literally means, "Sugar that you can't squeeze"? So cool.
After the grocery store, we went to the Feria, which only happens on Tuesdays. It literally means "fair," and it's in a blocked off parking garage under a shopping mall. There are tables filling one entire floor of the parking garage, piled high with all kinds of fresh vegetables, fruits, cheeses, meats, breads, jams and jellies, and different honeys. While I was meandering around, Sylvia did her shopping. I stopped at a little Chinese vendor who had these cool tea mugs (of course) that come with a strainer inside them. They were so pretty! Sylvia came to try to buy bean sprouts, but couldn't remember their Spanish name and couldn't find them on the table. We bought some honey and some vegetables, as well as a bag of fresh peanuts, and then Bruce surprised us with Chipa and hot Cocido! Chipa is original to Paraguay and the Guarani people. It is a piece of bread about the size of the palm of my hand. Onions are boiled with salt until they're soft and then whipped with milk, mashed corn kernels, butter, and Paraguayan cheese. The resulting paste is baked for about an hour, and it comes out with a half-inch thick crust and a wet still in the middle. Not all the way to gooey, but not dry either. It's glorious. Cocido is a very sweet milk tea. Sugar is carmelized with Yerba Maté leaves and then mixed into boiling water to make tea. Then the mixture is strained and hot milk is added. It's glorious. (I would not repeat myself if glorious wasn't the right word.) (:
After the Feria, Bruce and Sylvia dropped Po and I off at the Schells' house, and we went from there to the Orfanato (orphanage).
At the Orfanato, I was placed in a room of 11 2-year-olds. There were toys all over the tile floor, and the children all flocked over to look at me, after being instructed to call me Tía (means "aunt," but is used to connote a family-like relationship with people who sometimes aren't actually related. The children call each female worker Tía and each male worker Tío.) When I arrived, the workers were in the process of picking up mattresses from the floor where they had been placed for nap time and stacking them on top of a book shelf.
I had only been in the room a few minutes when bathroom time came upon us. Two of the workers took the girls into the girls' bathroom and I went with the other to help with the boys. We took all their pants and diapers off and set them in a row on little wooden trainer toilets with removable plastic toilet bowls. Each boy in turn was taken up onto a changing table and cleaned with a rag, which was rinsed between boys. Then each was put in a fresh diaper and dressed in a clean pair of pants. After they'd been clothed, they were given to me to wash their hands and face, without soap. The clean ones were made to sit on little stools against the bathroom wall and wait until the others were finished, but they didn't want to sit down. At first, I had to tell them over and over to sit back down, but I realized that when they didn't sit, I came over and nudged them down with my hands on their heads. They liked my hands on their heads. So they kept standing up. So instead, I sat down by them and played the pat the head game, which is where I muss up their hair and tickle them so randomly that they don't know which is coming next. pretty soon they were each patting their own heads and bellies to get me to muss their hair or tickle them again, and after that, when I left, they stayed sitting as I'd asked them. They were the ones that came and sat on me later. (:
We went back in the classroom and the children lined up against the wall to receive their cookies and bottles. Not long after the bottles were passed out, they were being flung around the room, leaving little puddles all over the tile floor already scattered with toys and dirt. The children loved the tickling game, and so we played that one again. [I bet Dania and Stephanie aren't surprised. (; ] There was one little boy named Daniel who liked to hit people when they came over to talk to me, so that he wouldn't have to get off my lap. We fixed that one by removing him from my lap when he hit someone, but leaving him there as long as he was willing to share me with Maria Paz y Jose Miguel. Chrisian was another boy who would not stop climbing up on the tables. He also was the toy thief of the day. I can't even tell you how many times He took toys from the girls, just to get his Tías to shout. It was kind of funny.
After the Orfanato, Po (who had been working in a different classroom with seven and eight year olds--I don't envy her) and I walked about 20 minutes to the bus stop, rode the bus for about 8 minutes, and then walked another 20 minutes to the Schell's house. We had dinner with another US American family, and then Lo (the girl in whose apartment we're currently living) made us churros. I laughed so hard that I cried, and I think I may have snorted. (: I love these missionaries.

take-off and land (part two)

Yesterday at one o'clock in the morning, I ate dinner in a plane. I had my left arm in the air, holding the right corner of the seat in front of me, so that the two Argentine men in their 40's who occupied the seats between me and the aisle could have their elbow room. The one immediately to my left was doing the same for the guy next to him. Neither of them spoke hardly any English, but they knew I could mostly understand them, and they made completely sure that if I even thought about having to get up to go to the bathroom in the middle of the night, I was to wake them immediately, or they would have to be angry with me. And every time the stewardess came by with drinks, instead of waiting for her to ask me what I wanted in English, (the majority of the workers from the Miami Airport and its flights were bilingual) they would ask her what she had and then turn to me and repeat the list, as if they were translating. I would tell them which I wanted, and they would ask for mine first, before ordering theirs. Once they even repeated my answer from the last time, assuming I wanted a refill. I didn't, but they were so sweet I could have kissed them. Both of them. I am not even exaggerating. (;
Yesterday at five o'clock in the morning, I was awake once again, after about three solid hours of sleep and lots of eye-closing and eye-opening and butt-shifting, and I was staring out the window into the inky black, broken only by the little bulb on the end of the plane's wing. So, so slowly, there began to be a little light on what looked like a forest. I realized after looking out the window on the other side of the plane that the sun was rising, and I was watching it seep across the tops of the clouds we were flying over. The plane was above the second layer of clouds, and the words kept marching through my mind, "It's 5am and I'm as far above the clouds as you are beneath them." Yes, I was composing the intro sentence for a blog post. That is how tired and bored I was. That is also how much the movies on the plane's TV sucked. So what I am telling you is that I watched the sun rise over Bolivia at 5am, traveling more than 800 kilometers per hour, at 39,000 feet. WHAT. Also it was -59 degrees Fahrenheit outside the plane. The display said so.

Sooooo I got off the plane and did all the boring customs things like pay 15 dollars extra for my $160 visa because I suppose I looked gullible, and the guy said they had a fee that wasn't on the sign for the processing of the papers. I am telling you, I did not believe him for a minute, and I was ill that he did it, but I wasn't sure how well round-house kicks to the face to government officials in South America at 7:49am would be received. If I had been sure, I can tell you this: I would be $15 richer right now and that man would not have a nose. He had really good hair, though, I have to give him that. (:

Sarah (the missionary lady) and Po, my roommate, met me at the airport, a mere hour and a half after I finally sat down on the sidewalk, imagining things like: "What if they forgot I was coming today? No, no way! I talked to them yesterday," and "I wonder if that bench will be comfortable tonight when I am sleeping on it," and "I could take one of these taxis, except I don't know where they live, I don't have any money, and I don't have a phone to call them with to say I'm coming to their house. Also even if I did have a phone, I don't know their number." At one point, a police man came up to me and started asking me questions, but he was talking so fast and his accent was so thick that I couldn't understand anything he said. Also I had tangerine jello and cream cheese on two crackers for breakfast (four hours ago at that point) and only three hours of sleep. (I am telling you, if that Argentine man had been a foot taller, I swear I would have leaned over in my seat and slept on his shoulder. I tried to scooch down in my seat but he was just too short.) So the policeman-who-I-didn't-know-was-a-policeman said, "My friend... English," and pointed into the building. I waited while he went to get his translator, and they asked me if there was any problem (because who sits on the sidewalk unless there's a problem?). I said I was just waiting for a friend to come get me, and they said, Okay, they just wanted to make sure. They smiled a whole bunch and then began walking away, at which point the older policeman-who-I-still-didn't-know-was-a-policeman told his very younger and very attractive translator to please inform me that they were Policia. Thennnn I understood all the questioning. Three hours into Paraguay and the Policia already think I'm an endangered youth. YES. (:
End of the story: Sarah and Po came and got me--everyone else they'd picked up from the airport hadn't come through the pearly gates until an hour and a half after their flight landed, so they figured the'd skip the wait (and presumably the 7:30 wake-up) and meet me when I would actually be available.
Then I moved in to my apartment, laid on the bed for about 25 minutes, walked 20 minutes to the Supermarcado HiperSeis (supermarket) because Po needed some groceries and wanted to show me around the store a little, had a piece of tarta (like a one-inch-thick pie, with literal pie crust, only with ground chicken and cheese and bell peppers in the middle) for lunch, slept three hours, and then got up and made dinner. The lights went out in the middle of dinner-making, so we worked by flashlight, and then we put the food in the microwave for storage and went to English classes. Po taught English to one student, Lo (the 2 year intern whose apartment we're staying in) taught a cooking class to about 8 kids between the ages of seven and twelve, and I joined a bible study with the Pastor J, of the Mi Esperanza church.
The home, dinner, Pinterest date with Po, and bed!
Thus ended Monday. (:

take-off and land, take-off and land (part one)

I am sitting here in the Miami Airport, and I am drinking the biggest iced coffee Dunkin Donuts had. It was probably brewed before lunch, but I forgot to pack food. Somehow in all my planning, (or lack of planning. Hahaha…I packed yesterday) I didn’t think of bringing anything to eat between 2pm Sunday afternoon and 7:45am Monday morning. I can’t help but laugh. So here I sit, with iced coffee, pretzels, and the only thing I did manage to bring: chocolate. I had half a bag of Dove chocolates in my room at home (Surprise!) and I found Harry London mint chocolate (the best mint chocolate there ever was) for super cheap the day before I left. SO. I have chocolate. And coffee. And pretzels.

Airports are both my favorite and least favorite places in the world. As I was walking from my landing terminal to my next boarding terminal, I saw a plane that was boarding for Bogota. It was the last call. I seriously stopped walking in the middle of the huge walkway because everything in me wanted to forget my luggage and my commitments and my plans and everything in Paraguay and America and everywhere else in the world, and switch my ticket to Bogota. I don’t know where this strange wanderlust came from. I want to go every place that humans can go. I want to leave footprints in all of the deserts and wear every different kind of clothing. I want to identify with every people group, to become a part of them. I want to have people to call family, all over the world. I can’t decide if this is just another kind of greed or not. Airports are my favorite because there is so much opportunity that when I sit down and watch it all walk past me, I get a little giddy. People-watching is my favorite. I want to speculate and build stories. I want to make up relationships and understand why people’s eyes are drawn to certain things and not to others. I want to see how each of these threads are woven into culture and time, and I want to follow the threads to their roots. The idea is so much more captivating than it should be—probably because it’s impossible. I will never know all of the people that are here.

They are also my least favorite because they make me leave little pieces of me all over the world; pieces that I will never recover. They cause me to, by necessity, hack shapes out of the fabric of my being and tie them around yucca trees and house stilts and the ankles of foreign children. Leaving is easy, it’s the coming back that’s so hard.

I think Jesus is teaching me about Hope. Some of you already know that Hope has been a huge and terrifying thing in my life lately. Maybe it’s a not-thing. I am not sure. I can’t understand it and I don’t know where it comes from and I’m not sure I want it but I don’t think I can do without. This Hope-thing began with me not knowing what to set my heart on when I wasn’t sure that all the money would come in for this trip. I wanted to plant my Hope in the fact that God's will would be done, but how did I know his will would be done? What if the people he told to send money to me didn’t listen? Then I wanted to set my hope on the idea that He could redeem any situation in my life, but I have been down that road before. Although I know that He can redeem any situation, the idea was of no comfort, and there wasn’t much of a direction to that kind of Hope. When I would think of Hope, two things would come to mind.

The first was a huge, nebulous idea where I have reasonable cause for belief that good things will eventually come about, whether they’re what I want or not, and that at the end of all things, I will go to heaven (whether that’s actually what I think it is or not). In this version of Hope, I am unsure of anything except the ultimate ending in heaven and the Lord’s ability to use every circumstance for his Glory. I have no idea what that last part means except that it brings to mind an image of a cruel man with a salt-and-pepper bear sitting in a rocking chair on a creaky porch, sipping lemonade and watching people die. That is not my God, and so I will openly say that Glory is not something I understand yet. Someone once told me to live inside the revelation I’ve been given. Since I don’t understand Glory, I will not try to explain it to anyone until He explains it to me.

The second kind of Hope that came to mind was more like certainty. I wanted to know what was going to happen for sure (i.e. the money does or does not come in for the trip to Paraguay) and then be able to act on that surety. But that is a very, very dangerous thing. You see, I have spent my life (like many women, I believe) teaching myself how to keep a chokehold on my Hope. It’s safer not to hope at all, or if you have to, to have the first kind—the nebulous kind. The second kind is childish. It is sure of something that it has no right to be sure of, and it puts all its stakes in that thing.

I’m not sure about those two kinds of hopes, but I think I know something for sure about my kind of Hope now. It’s not a static thing. It isn’t just an object that you have or don’t have. It’s not something you acquire. It’s alive, and it grows and changes. I think it is a tiny, tiny animal, and it is wild, for sure. The first time, you barely have the strength, but you can’t go without, so you choose it. It’s like a tiny little spark, and it burns inside you when you choose it. It’s so scary, but it’s not big enough to take you over, so you choose it again. Maybe like an addiction? Only it is a good thing, a green thing. A thing that looks foul and feels fair, a thing that only comes from Aslan’s Country.

[He gives good gifts to His children//The Lord gives and the Lord takes away: Blessed be the name of the Lord.]

I think I am beginning to like it. It’s dangerous, but it’s mountain-climbing dangerous, not hitting-my-elbow-on-a-running-circular-saw dangerous.

Last topic of the day: Dove Chocolates. They have these touchy-feely inspirational quotes on the insides of the foil wrappers, and most are the typical, “Women just really don’t hear enough of this,” business, but there was one today on one of my chocolates about choosing to enjoy the moment you’re in. I think (especially during red-eye travel) that can be a hard thing to intentionally do. But I think it goes along with Hope. I haven’t quite figured out how, but I am going to figure it out. I also think that it will be pivotal to giving and receiving the most I can during the two months I will be in Paraguay. It is not something I do well, so I think I will practice.  

All of the people sitting here waiting to board my plane are speaking Spanish. They speak much faster than the Costa Ricans. I’m a little afraid.