Every Day I'm Strugglin'

I got issues. And I'm pretty sure I'm not the only one. I think all Christians have things (call it "sin" or "problems" or whatever) that we struggle with. Like, every day. And every now and then I hear some really good sermon or read a cool Bible verse about surrender and have a little come-to-Jesus moment and "give Him my struggle." (whatever that means) And that night I lay my head on my pillow feeling a hundred pounds lighter and ready to live the rest of my life issue-free.

Then I wake up. And my darling little issue has found it's way home and is waiting patiently at the foot of my bed, and I struggle with it again. All day long. The cycle continues. This has been the story of my life this past week. There is a desire that I am trying to give up and trying to relinquish (whatever that means), but its ability to cling to me makes even duct tape green with envy. I listen to the sermons. I sing the songs. I read the verses. I pray the words. And every day it still stares me in the face, stealing my attention, energy, and peace. Oh, the frustration!

And of course I'm like, "Come on, God! Throw me a bone here! I'm in the middle of a foreign country trying to love kids, and You let this issue invade my mind constantly. Can't You do something?!" Today I realized, of course God can do something. But maybe He doesn't want to. Maybe when it comes to battles with issues, He's more glorified in our struggle than in our victory. Maybe He wants to see us fight for it every now and then. Maybe it's good for us to wrestle all night like Jacob. And, yeah, that stinks for us. But maybe there's a lesson to learn in this daily struggle that we wouldn't learn in a quick victory. What that lesson is, I don't know. Or maybe I do. Maybe one of my lessons is that it's okay. Whatever's happening, it's okay. I just need to chill out, do what I can do, and let God do what He can do. And if what He wants to do is sit back and watch me struggle for every inch of progress, that's okay. As long as I keep moving forward--however slow and choppy my steps--it's okay. Things happen in phases; that's just life. Issues come, issues go, and new issues will take their place. Life is struggle. The beauty of it is that we never struggle alone. It'll all work out. For now I struggle. And that's okay.

Savin' the World

Why did I choose to come to Mexico? For ten weeks? When I had never been out of the country or on a mission trip before? Because I'm a little bit weird. You see, I started studying poverty towards the end of high school, and since then I have read many books and watched many documentaries. I have pieced together the web of poverty strand by strand. I have analyzed different approaches to poverty alleviation and researched organizations like World Vision. And I have always sworn that I will never be one of the kids who likes a picture of a poor kid on Facebook and considers themselves an activist. I would actually do something about it. Surely I was God's answer to the world's problems. Why had poverty not been solved yet? Because I was still in school, duh! I just needed a few years; it was all under control. I just needed to get to the poor people I read about it in books. Then I would save the world.

Last Tuesday we held VBS in a community here. A young, physically disabled woman came. Her foot was so contorted she limped badly. It appeared to me to be a clubfoot. I had seen pictures, but never met anyone in real life with such an awful injury. And I realized that it could have been easily fixed with surgery when she was a young child. 

That night we returned to Camp Vergel, where I had met Alejandro the night before. This time instead of giving caballitos to the kids, I accompanied one of the long-term missionaries to visit a lady. The lady spoke English; she had grown up in North Carolina and been deported last year. So I sat in a room (probably 15 ft by 12 ft or so) where this lady lives with her husband and two nephews. She offered us Coke, and we drank some. She didn't have anything else. It is my prayer that I become a person who will share until I have nothing left. We chatted with her about life, and she told us that she was working on getting a high school certificate. She only has an elementary certificate now. That reminded me of the film "Girl Rising" I watched a few months ago that talks about how important educating girls is in order to fight poverty.

After we returned to the film ministry, I was giving a piggy back ride to Alejandro when I noticed a little boy standing alone, shivering and barefoot with his arms tucked in his short sleeve tee shirt. And he was coughing so hard. I asked him if he was cold, and he said yes. So I talked with him for a while and ended up pulling him close, trying to warm him up. He coughed and coughed, and my mind started spinning. Could I get him a sweatshirt? No, because that wouldn't be fair to the other kids. Medicine? I didn't have any. And to take him to a doctor would require finding his parents, getting permission, and I still couldn't because that wouldn't be repeatable every time we find a coughing child. So I held him, cried, and prayed. Then I left. And he was still cold. And he was still sick.

It hurts not being able to help. The only thing I thought was keeping me from helping "the poor people" was distance. Now I see them face-to-face and am still powerless. The answer to the world's problems? I can't even provide warmth for one little boy. But maybe I'm not supposed to save the world. Maybe that's Jesus' job. This world is so broken--to try to fix it is in vain. Instead all we can do is hold the world as it dies, cradle it gently and whisper hope of a life to come in its ears. And I will continue to hug the cold out of a coughing little boy until God shows me something more to do. In the meantime, He'll save the world. He has to.

When love is spelled c-a-b-a-l-l-i-t-o

So the first week-long American team was here this past week, and it was a blast. Most of them didn't know it, but it was also my first time on a mission trip here. I had never before experienced VBS or film ministry (where we show Christian films in a migrant camp), so I was as excited or more so than they were. And this week did not disappoint.

Monday night we went to Camp Vergel for film ministry. We pulled in with five big 15 passenger vans, and the kids in the park came running. They jumped up onto benches yelling "Caballito! Caballito!", which means piggy back ride. So we packed them around on our backs, one right after the other. It was crazy and chaotic, but the single best moment in my life. I had been so limited by my inability to speak the language for the past few weeks, it was nice to have a way to minister that didn't require words. So I let child after child climb up and raced the other Americans with kids on their backs. We spun and danced and sang and jumped and chased and it was awesome. And then we all settled down on the ground, pulled a few kids into our laps, and watched VeggieTales.

During the film, I sat with a little boy named Alejandro and his two sisters. The girls just kind of sat there, smiling. But Alejandro -- oh my goodness. I let him sit on my lap with his little sister, but that wasn't enough for him. So he wrapped his arm around my neck and pressed his cheek against mine. And I died inside. And as my tears wet the top of his hoodie, I kissed his little head and prayed that God would never let me forget that feeling. That feeling that called out a commitment to do whatever it takes to love, protect, and care for little Alejandros all over the world. If that means living in Mexico or Africa or Kentucky, I didn't care. If it means going without hot showers or Nutella or friends or family, I didn't care. And I hope I never do.

As I hugged Alejandro goodbye, neither of us wanted to let go. So a little barefoot Mexican boy and a blonde-haired Kentucky girl held each other. Words were unnecessary. And I left my heart in a migrant camp in Baja, Mexico.

A first time for everything...

So my first trip out of the country isn't the only "first" I've encountered these past couple of weeks. And let me just say, I love "firsts." They are usually fun and hilarious, and I'll remember them forever. So here's a few "firsts" I've had here in Mexico:

First time I saw a donkey painted like a zebra.
First time I saw a jackrabbit. (It was huge! And it's ears were huge! And I get really excited about everything, apparently.)
First time I saw the Pacific Ocean.
First time I saw seals in the wild. (Really, really cool.)

And my new favorite: first time I fought a 12 year old girl. And lost. This one requires some explanation. So on Saturday one of the long-term missionaries here (Cassie) and I had a girl over (I'll call her Yosie) to bake sugar cookies. After the cookies were done (and eaten), Yosie invited us over to her house. We walked over with her, and after she showed us all of her trophies from karate matches (and there were lots of trophies), she got out her sparring equipment. And told me to suit up. So I did.

And I spent the next 15 minutes running from a little girl. I have never been hit so hard before in my entire life. And even when she had me backed into a corner crying "Mercy!", she still didn't slow down. But pain and all, it was blast. And this is the same little girl who very much didn't like me when I first got here because I don't speak Spanish (and I don't blame her one bit. I wouldn't like me either.). But I think she's coming around. She was impressed that I could kick over her head, so that scored me some points. And even though she beat me like a drum, she asked when we could fight again. And I'm looking forward to it.

To hug, or not to hug?

That is the question, indeed. So church here is cool. I don't understand anything that's going on, but it's cool. And at the end of every service they have people who have had birthdays in the past week go up front. The band plays a birthday song, and everyone else (I mean everyone) lines up and gives the birthday people hugs. Cool, right? Except that I am now part of the everyone else who gives hugs. And I don't know these people. And does a grown man really want a white chick he's never met to hug him, even if it is his birthday?

Different cultures are awesome. I love being in a new place with new ways of doing things. And honestly, even though I'm not the touchiest person ever, I like the hugs and handshakes that always happen upon meeting in Mexico. I enjoy watching people interact with each other here. Tonight after church was over, one of the birthday men (a sizeable guy--I wouldn't mess with him) was sitting on the front row. His very elderly mother came up behind him and began rubbing his face and neck with her hands. It was so sweet to see this big man being tenderly caressed by his mama. And I pity the fool who would mess with the elderly lady, because she has sons who'd do anything for their mom. The love among family here is amazing. Cousins and nieces and in-laws and uncles--everyone sticks up for each other. They are so close, and I love it. I wish we had more of that in the States. I mean, who couldn't use a few dozen more family members in their corner?

Well, I still don't know what to do about the birthday hugs situation, but here's what I'll go with for now. I will hug ladies and children. With the men, if they initiate the hug, fine. If I have previously met them and hung out with them, I'll hug them. If I couldn't pick them out of a line-up, I'll leave it at a handshake. And if I offend anyone, hopefully they'll just write it off as a stupid gringo mistake. Because that's exactly what it will be.

Jesus Jail

I realized today that, while here in Mexico, I have a lot in common with prisoners. Yep, I said it. Prisoners. Here are a few reasons:
1. I live in a compound, surrounded by a wall.
2. I am not (in any circumstance) allowed to leave this compound without proper supervision.
3. I live in a tiny room with a sink in the corner.
4. I am reduced to doing push-ups and running in place in this tiny room with a sink in the corner.
5. This tiny room I live in is so tiny I have to angle my body just right to fit on the ground so I can do aforementioned push-ups.

If you haven't guessed, yes, I tried to work out today. And it was terrible. They say you never know what you got till it's gone. Running is what I didn't know I had. Now I know it, and I don't have it anymore. And I feel like if I go one more week without getting to run I may explode. I'm no fitness guru (you can tell that by looking at me), and when I run it isn't for a fast pace or huge mileage. It's to feel free. And alone. And capable of making myself move. Slowly and for not too long, but still moving. Ah, I miss it so bad.

So this is my whiny post. Poor, pitiful me; stuck in Mexico without a gym. There are missionaries giving up food today for Jesus, and I'm freaking out because I think I'll get fat. Talk about misplaced priorities! And honestly, this can be a learning experience for me. I mean, just today I discovered burpees. They're awful, but I'm adjusting to doing what I can with what I'm given. I'm praying that over the next few weeks Jesus gives me a running partner, but until then, jumping jacks it is. And I'll be fine here in Jesus Jail. A little chunkier, sure, but fine. Gotta run now; there's still time for 10 more burpees before church.

Foul language

No, this post isn't about swearing. It's about language. And how I think language itself is pretty foul. Don't get me wrong; I love to talk. I'll talk your ear off if you let me. And stories--ah, stories are the greatest. But some days language just stinks. And I'd like to clobber those idiots who decided a tower at Babel was a good idea.

For one thing, there is sometimes confusion in language. Especially when one doesn't know the language being spoken. *sheepishly raises hand* So the other day I was meeting a guy around my age for the first time, and instead of telling him "mucho gusto" (nice to meet you), I said "me gusta" (I like). *facepalm* So, yeah, now everyone here probably thinks I'm a creeper. And that poor guy is probably still running. But seriously, I'm so scared to try to speak Spanish because I'm sure to say something wrong or weird or even offensive. So I speak a different language...

On Monday another missionary here and I went with some kids to the beach. A little girl I had just met held my hand the whole way and chattered on and on about who-knows-what. I'm hoping she could tell by the perplexed look on my face that I had no idea what she was saying. I don't think she cared. I skipped when she skipped and ran when she ran. We made funny faces at her brother, and she laughed. No words necessary. Then we got to the beach where I followed her a few feet into the frigid water before running out yelling "frio, frio, frio!" (cold, cold, cold) She laughed some more. And a few gestures later I was covered in sand from trying to do somersaults, which I'm pretty sure I'll never be able to do. But the boys found it amusing. And who needs words to understand the game of tag? Seriously, if someone charges at you, you'll take off running soon enough. So we played and played. And they talked (probably about me), and I listened. Without understanding, but I listened. And I was grateful. I was grateful because beneath all the English and Spanish there was another language being spoken. The language of good, old-fashioned fun. And that's one language I'm fluent in.

But the children!

Today marks a week that I have been away from home--that I have been somewhere in Mexico. Wow, it's been going pretty fast. And it's been challenging. Especially the language aspect (I'll post more about that later). And I often get very frustrated with myself, and when I get frustrated, I get angry, which makes me unhappy, which makes me sad, which makes me want to go home. So everyday (at least once) I have a little come-apart where I start packing my bags swearing I'm going to back to the States early. And then guess what happens. Kids. Kids happen.

So today my come-apart happened around lunch. I was sitting listening to adults speak in Spanish, trying to figure out a way to politely excuse myself so I could go to my room and sit in utter misery. Enter the children. When they came in, I gestured my way around asking them to help me make cookies. An hour and a heaping mess later, there were chocolate chip cookies, and the kids loved them. Then we moved outside, where I had two boys help me go over Spanish flashcards. It was so funny, because they were explaining the  meaning of the words in Spanish, so I didn't have a clue what was going on. I just kept nodding. Then I had them teach me some songs in Spanish (and we sang in opera-like voices because one boy here loves to sing like he's in an opera). To finish off, I asked one to teach me soccer. Which I now like very much. As he rode off on his bike he yelled, "Adios, Kayla!" and something about practicing Spanish tomorrow. I'm looking forward to it.

Then for supper tonight, the other missionary and I were joined by three kids, who were an absolute hoot. They know I can't understand Spanish and fully take advantage of that fact. One stood up on a chair and began guffawing, then asked, "Who am I?" I pointed to myself, and she died laughing. They're so cute I can't be mad, though. So they continued making fun of the way I laugh, how tall I am, and how much I eat. Quite theatrically, they acted out how rats run when they hear my footsteps because I'm so big. And they sat amazed as I ate yet another plate of pasta.

If not for these kids, I don't know how I would make it here. They turn my tears into laughter in a heartbeat. They truly are amazing, and I hope that by the end of the summer I'll know enough Spanish to be able to thank them in their language. Even if they do make fun of my laugh.

Oh, dear

I’m 4 days into my ten week trip to Baja, Mexico, and I have a line from a song in Les Miserables stuck in my head. “What have I done? Sweet Jesus, what have I done?” Yep, pretty much. The first 2 days were cool; I was at a retreat with all the other missionaries (read “Americans”) who spoke English. Then Thursday I came down to the clinic. The missionaries here are absolutely fantastic, but not knowing the language is very difficult. While I was moving in, some kids came by to see the other short term missionary who has lived here for a year and gotten to know the kids really well. She introduced me to them and told them I don’t know Spanish. When one heard this, he stomped out of the room yelling “No more Americans! They’re ruining the place!” I didn’t think this was how it was supposed to go. So like a strong, mature adult, I went to my room, crawled under my blanket, and cried. What had I done? Sweet Jesus, what had I done?

But it’s amazing how I can go from choking back tears to laughing in just a few minutes. Yesterday, breakfast was rough. Spanish + homesickness = not good. Then we went out to eat, where I tried ordering in Spanish. *bangs head on desk* Then we went to the store where everything was written in Spanish, and everyone (but me, of course) was speaking Spanish. *bangs head on desk harder* And then I only had American money and couldn’t get change in pesos so I ended up with $13 worth of quarters. Yes, quarters. *doesn’t even bother* So just when I was about to call about moving up my flight date, some boys came by and invited the other missionary here for a walk. And said I could come along. So for the next 2 hours or so they tried to teach me Spanish. And a few minutes after they left, the very one responsible for the “No more Americans!” episode mentioned above showed back up with some picture books. We then sat outside while I tried to pronounce Spanish and he critiqued my efforts. This is getting somewhere.

It’s just crazy. I hate it. I love it. At the same time. And it’s been less than a week. But when I’m just about to run in front of a car, someone is kind to me. Someone is patient with me. A little boy brings a book to my door, and we play charades forever trying to figure each other out. My faith in humanity is restored, and I am given the strength to stay just a few more minutes. Which turn into hours. Which will turn into days and weeks. I will make it. And I will love it here. In fact, I already do.