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One Year Later...

It's already been one year since Mexico. To commemorate that awesome experience, I thought it fitting to post the essay I submitted for our church bulletin.

My Mission Experience

“This was all a mistake. I shouldn’t be here.”

That thought kept echoing in my mind after Father Lim announced that the temperature outside the bus was 90-some degrees and that it was really humid. Having been a Michigander all my life, I already knew I hated tropical-like weather and avoided it as much as possible. So when I heard about the conditions outside the bus, I did what any person on the brink of entering a new environment would do: I panicked. I panicked as I disembarked from the bus into the humid darkness some ten minutes later. I was still panicky even when the smiling villagers of San José crowded around to welcome us to their pueblo. I almost ran back to the bus when I first laid eyes on the seat-less ceramic bowl they called a toilet and the bucket used for flushing it—both of which were swarmed with flying and dead insects. And that first night, as I lay on my sleeping bag in the stuffy one-room schoolhouse, I groaned inwardly: Lord, how am I going to survive this? Why am I here?

What I said to myself on the bus was actually true; I wasn’t supposed to be on this mission. Yet I somehow ended up on the team—albeit a little reluctantly. I had no idea what to expect from this mission except what I had heard at the health clinic where I got my immunization medication: malaria, malaria, malaria. And a little about unsafe water causing severe diarrhea. I didn’t even know the name of the village where we would be staying. All I could hope for as we neared Tehuantepec was good health, nice people, and maybe even a good time. Well, I got that… and so much more.

The next five days of intense work, relentless heat, and biting insects really tested my limits. As I worked, I thought a lot—mostly because I had energy for little else. I thought about God, asking Him for extra strength and offering my work as a prayer for everyone I knew who had asked for it. Later, I would occupy my mind more with debating which was better: the work I was doing, or the flames of Purgatory. To be honest, at some points Purgatory started looking really good. Now and then I would pray again, asking for relief from my misery.

He must have heard my prayer. Little by little, I began to notice and focus more on the good in each day: the occasional breeze that cooled us while working under the burning sun; learning how to make real cement; swimming in a cool lake after a hard day’s work on the farm; turning to see the beaming faces of villagers eager to learn English; the joyous laughter of children and their parents as they competed in the mini-Olympics; learning to truly appreciate the “Day of Rest”, especially when spent at a gorgeous, sunny beach; being wowed by the driving skills of Omar, who is possibly the finest bus driver in Mexico; getting to know the people of San José and feel the genuine warmth of their hearts; eating incredibly delicious Mexican food at almost every meal; watching a red sun rise from and disappear behind hazy mountains each day; stepping outside at night to cool off in the gentle rain; and when the sky cleared, seeing the flashes of lightning that lit up the sky throughout the night. What had seemed unbearable to me at first became the most simple, the most beautiful way of life. I wondered why we all didn’t learn to live this way, concerned with only the basics: working, eating, playing, and sharing with others. I realized that after that difficult first day, I never once thought of home nor even missed it. Our time in San José was almost up, yet I really didn’t want to leave.

They held an amazing talent show the last night we were there. Afterwards, as I stood by the bonfire and looked around, I marveled at how these people who had once been strangers to me, who I never even knew existed, had somehow in five days become a part of me. I then looked up and was awestruck by the millions of stars spread across the night sky. I thought about Abraham and wondered if he felt the same way after God spoke to him and he saw all those stars thousands of years ago. I felt a sudden kinship to this Biblical forefather, much like what I felt with the people of San José, as I finally understood our mission’s statement:

…All the parts of the body, though many, are one body, so also Christ....... If one part suffers, all the parts suffer with it; if one part is honored, all the parts share its joy. (1 Cor 12: 12-26)

We may live in different times and different places, yet we are all intimately connected to one another through and in Christ.

Some teenaged boys of the village stuck around after everyone had gone home, vowing to stay up all night just so that they could say ‘goodbye’ to us when we left. We passed the time sitting around the dying bonfire, laughing, singing, and discussing random subjects. One of the boys kept the bonfire going with what I found out later were dried leaves he took from the roof of the church. A couple others ran home and brought back soda to pass around. A boy named José gave me a necklace inscribed with the words: The Doors, Mago de Oz (Wizard of Oz). I laughed when I first read it, but then I thought how this mission was somewhat like that movie. We endured hardships each day. Some of us faced and conquered our fears. Yet in spite of these challenges, there were beautiful moments that made it all worthwhile in the end.

When the time came for us to go, I felt a little like Dorothy as I headed towards the bus wearing red flip flops, new friends on either side of me. One of them pulled me aside and told me how much they all appreciated us coming to their village to live and work side-by-side with them. For that, we would always be in their hearts. He then asked us to return. As I pondered this, a lady from the village walked up to our group. She had woken up before 4 a.m. just to bring us some food she had prepared as a farewell gift. As we went around sharing our final goodbyes, I said to myself: Yep. I think we better come back.

Losing a Piece of Myself Is Traumatizing

I was feeling culinarily adventurous (is that even a word?) yesterday. After considering the hot weather and an abundance of produce in the fridge, I decided upon cold soba noodle salad. To save some time, I went against my better judgment and brought out the mandolin slicer to get the nice julienne-cut for all the vegetables. I made another even bigger mistake after that: I got relaxed. It wasn't long before I sliced a small portion of my pinky off. As my future depends on having ten functional fingers, I naturally panicked at first. I shook in trepidation as I examined the damage done to my right pinky. The verdict: I can still play. An enormous wave of relief broke through my fear, freeing me to head to the cabinet for some First Aid. [sigh]
First chance I get, I am throwing that slicer away.

Winding Down from a Busy Weekend

I think church musicians are some of the only people in the world who can sincerely say: Thank God for Monday.

ugh.

Oh Heavenly Night

We met outside the store last night. At first, I felt I had seen you somewhere before and struggled to remember when and under what circumstances. I jolted to full attention when I realized who you were: my first love. You smiled your invitation to stroll around the block together, and I smiled back affirmatively. We talked of many things--those prerequisite inquiries into what the other had done these past years. You finally broached the one question quietly lurking behind every topic we discussed earlier: Have you found someone? I stammered my usual replies to this--I've been too busy, I'm not really looking, etc. Without missing a beat, you looked deeply into my eyes and unabashedly confessed I'm still in love with you. Liquid fire and ice raced through my veins as I gazed back and shyly admitted the same. Beaming, you turned to face the sidewalk in front of us and moved your left hand a little closer to my right as we continued walking down the dimly-lit street. Together.

'Blessings' Can Be Such a Curse

I still am in disbelief that the following actually happened to me yesterday:

Let me set the scene for you. Yesterday was Laundry Day (when I designate a day as such, it's serious business: many loads and actually adhering to the garment care instructions on the labels). I was getting towards the end of my laundry run and was feeling pretty exhilarated about finally checking this gargantuan task off my longish to-do list. I just picked up a load out of the dryer and was ready to move upstairs for folding and sorting. I had left an empty basket on the washer, so I lifted the full basket up over the empty one so I could carry them both upstairs with me. Being cheery and full of song is a dangerously distracting condition, and I realized it soon after I dropped the heavy basket down over that empty one. I hesitate to describe exactly what happened, but let's just say that I got one of my two 'babies' caught between the handles of the two laundry baskets. Yeeeeeeah. Big. BIG. Ouch. What followed was white hot agony punctuated by some 'choice words' for the offending baskets. Some self-administered medical care was required.

The moral to this story? If you got extra 'blessings', keep 'em clear of falling laundry baskets. The End. [*sigh*]

I Hurt When You Do

here i am again, unsure what to call the thoughts that flit about my head this afternoon. i know i'm in the middle of finals week--don't worry, i've got my priorities straight-- so i will try to keep this brief.

i've been keeping tabs on friends lately, either through get-togethers, conversations, or reading about their lives on their blogs. up till now, i've been relatively able to read/listen sans involvement. i usually don't post comments to any of their depressing, more troubling entries. i generally don't email or call them when things seem to be getting rough for them. when we meet up to talk, i listen to their problems in silence. it's not that i don't care. i read and listen because i care. it may seem callous at times when i don't cry with you or when i don't say anything after one of your emotional rants, but believe me when i say that my silence is the best help i can offer you. my silence carries all the understanding and sympathy my limited vocabulary cannot convey, and more important than that, it carries my sincerest prayers for you. i simply am unable to participate in your misery. i would if i could, but, selfish as this may sound i have to protect myself. from what, you asked. by distancing myself, i protect myself from falling right next to you in that same pit of despair and loneliness. i've been through that hell before, and in some ways it's made me stronger. but i know i'm not strong enough to fight it a second time-- like giving liquor to reformed alcoholics. there are days when i feel its return, but then i combat it by filling myself with Love and the joy, the happiness that accompanies His presence. and when i am so full of His joy, i cannot be unhappy; it goes against the nature to even try to be unhappy, even for the sake of others.

ultimately, i won't apologize for being unable to be unhappy and angry with you. on the other hand, i am sorry that my joy and contentment with life bothers you because i wish you, too, could have all that is in my heart. and until the day when you do experience it... i'll be quietly sitting by your side, listening and praying for you.