So I Eat Ormigas

It’s true. I don’t know how many or how often. But I know I eat them because I live in a country where they invade kitchens whenever cooks leave the room. Monday I saw, paid for, and moved into a beautiful one bedroom apartment perfectly located in the center of Villarrica. Its cream ceramic tile and off white/ pale yellowish walls give it a clean, fresh feeling. It has a good sized balcony, just perfect for sitting outside and drinking coffee (or terere, if you’re Paraguayan) while looking out over the tops of trees, tiled roofs, and tall stone walls. I’m hoping to put a small round table out there, someday. I can open the balcony doors and the window above my sink to get a pretty good cross breeze across the apartment. I just love it. Except for the ormigas (that’s Spanish for ants, by the way). They’re still a little gross.

I remember Carol telling me when I first moved to Paraguay that ants don’t discriminate between rich and poor. That conversation kinda went in one ear and out the other until this week, when I began to have ant problems of my own. It’s so true, though. See, they gather whenever you’re not in the room or look the other way. Really. And they’re obnoxiously tiny. My counter is black and marbly, so I can’t really see them (good move on the part of the owner, I think) unless they’re on non-black things like washcloths, food, utensils, etc. Anyway, there’s absolutely, positively no way to avoid them. Really. I’ve asked missionaries and Paraguayans alike. My boss told me about a time when he set a pretzel on the end of the couch and put it in his mouth a few minutes later and felt his mouth moving. Yup. His pretzel had been covered in ants. Bummer. In the last week, the good Lord has performed a wonder of wonder, miracle of miracles, for which at least 2 special people in my life have been praying for 26 years; I’ve become more meticulously clean than my mother, Beth. En serio. I won’t even eat a meal anymore before all dishes used in its preparation have been washed, food put away, and counters hosed down. Ants may come, but they’re not going to leave muy satisfecha, if I can help it. I’ve stopped spraying because it feels pointless and the other day I brought a Nemo cup to my mouth and it still smelled like Raid. That can’t be healthy.

Last night I was at a prayer meeting (good missionary move, I know) and my mind wandered a little when Eva was praying in Espanol. I was really trying to stick with her, but accidentally distracted myself with thoughts of certain ant infestation back on the home front. Then I thought of that watch-the-ant proverb. Now, I know Solomon was referring to the cultural heritage of ants’ German Mennonite work ethic, but my thoughts were elsewhere. No matter how many I killed, it was as if none had ever died. The fallen were replaced by ranks of fresh ants ready to annoy me by their very presence on my cutting board. They were an indestructible army because of their willingness to die. If the dead ants had really cared about preserving themselves (and they had the “luxury” of rational thought), they wouldn’t have dared show their blasted bodies in my presence. But they didn’t care about their individual lives. They cared about their mission. They weren’t individuals. They were a group. Together they formed a body. Their mission was to annoy me. Mission accomplished. True, they could have stayed alive by running away when I came in the room, but they would have then failed to fulfill their mission. In managing to save their lives, they’d be choosing an existence of unfulfilling mediocre ease.

So then I thought of the Church, springing out of soil watered by the blood of saints. I thought of ancient Rome and Europe during the reformation. And I thought of China. And of Ethiopia. And of Indonesia. And of the Middle East. And then I thought of myself. And of modern Europe and North America. At a missions conference in December, I heard an African pastor compare the growth of the Church in the 2/3 world (what we used to call “Third World”) with its decline in the West. He suggested they would in fact be drinking from a poisoned chalice to adopt the Christianity of a dying Western Church. That’s a tough pill. Is it true? Is our theology really that far off? Or is it our practice that needs attention? We talk about dying to ourselves and being instruments available unto the Lord. But I care a whole lot about my own life. I really hate being too hot, too cold, too hungry, too sick, or too tired. I can’t tolerate feeling lonely, rejected, belittled, unappreciated, and overlooked. Without even thinking, I jump to my feet when I feel that my rights have been violated or I’ve been treated unfairly. I don’t want to be anybody’s doormat. And I assume that God, too, wants me to be comfortable, esteemed, and loved in and by this world…

Food for thought.

Community pt 2

“’Don’t you go talking about things you don’t understand, Nikabrik,’ said Trufflehunter. ‘You Dwarfs are as forgetful and changeable as the Humans themselves. I’m a beast, I am, and a Badger what’s more. We don’t change. We hold on. I say great good will come of it… we Beasts remember.’” Though it was set in the fictitious land of Narnia, CS Lewis’ forementioned commentary on human nature resonates with me; I have such limited perspective. Part of me wants to blame this shortsightedness on the enlightenment and modernism. I wonder how our faith has been affected by the basic assumption that seeing is believing, anything trustworthy can be reproduced in a scientific lab. Hebrew prophets recorded God as saying, “test me and prove me.” But we think you can’t prove something unless we can see, understand, and calculate it. Spiritually, then, our eyes naturally default to accepting that which is before us, rather than believing what is, that which might be just outside the realm of our immediate experience. But maybe it’s not the Enlightenment or Modernism. Maybe it’s just fallen human nature. Maybe. Regardless of how and why it came to be this way, how quickly we forget what’s True. I think that’s one reason why we were designed to live in community, to remind one another of who we are, what we’re about, who God is, and what He’s about.

I often forget that God has given me unique abilities. Sometimes I think I missed roll call on the day when He “led captives in His train and gave gifts to men.” Nearly 2 years ago, I sat in my first official SIM interview with Ruth Clark and Lilli Palacio. I think they were supposed to be interviewing me, but we got sidetracked and spent the majority of our time talking about the Bible study I had been leading. I had also been wondering if God could use me because I was such a Jack-of-all-trades, master-of-none. They enthusiastically brought light to all of the ways that God had been preparing me for this next step, focusing, though, on their observation that God had perhaps given me special abilities to teach the Bible. I walked out of their office feeling affirmed and empowered to continue the journey.

I remember the Sunday afternoon before I left for Paraguay, when my family went around the dinner table and all shared one of my qualities that would serve me well on the mission field. We wrote them all down on a piece of my mom’s “Beth Riegsecker-Lugbill” paper and I carried it with me to the Ortiz’ home in Villarrica. I got it out several times in the privacy of my bedroom, trying to knock truth into my brain when it felt so far away from my current reality.

When I returned home in December, we sat around that same dinner table, and they shared reasons they were proud of me. I just cried and cried and cried. The things they were saying felt so far from being true. I felt so unaccomplished. I felt like a survivor, but certainly not a thriver. I felt like I had been a little beaten up and came home pretty bruised. But they told me that I had done some things well, that I wasn’t a failure. Their affirmation has kept me going.

“I hate being a missionary. I hate being a missionary. I hate it. I hate it. GOD, I HATE THIS! Why do I have to do this. I absolutely hate it!” I was walking out to Grandma and Grandpa’s slate-blue jeep in Archbold, Ohio. It was parked outside Fairlawn Haven Nursing Home, where my Grandma Lugbill was trying to recover from her most recent bout of strokes. We were most likely taking our last family picture. I couldn’t stay for the picture, though, because I had to catch a stupid plane bound for the largest missions conference in the US. That’s right, I was on my way to encourage young people to become missionaries. So the photographer positioned me and my mom behind the empty couch, and took our picture alone. She’d paste it into the family shot, later. Grandma was wheeled in. Her face was freezing. She was disoriented. She didn’t know who I was. I hugged her, gave her a kiss, and said goodbye, because I was in a hurry to catch my stupid plane. Then I called my brother over and told him goodbye. I would be flying directly from the stupid conference to the east coast, where I’d have a month of training in teaching ESOL, during which he and his new wife would fly back to California. I wouldn’t see them again until… I didn’t know when. Maybe 3 years. It probably wouldn’t be that long, but it might be. I just hugged him and cried. I didn’t want to let go. But I had to catch that stupid plane, so I walked out into the freezing cold to the slate blue jeep with my mom, and left the rest of the family behind. I hated being a missionary. I just hated it. I hated being alone. And I was on my way to tell kids to become missionaries. Boy, would I be convincing.

At Urbana, I was surrounded by people who had been there. I was first welcomed by familiar faces. Willy and Angela were there. Dave and Sheryl. Bob Hay. Oh, how I needed to see them. I just hated being a missionary. I hated saying goodbye. I hated it. I needed to see them. They were familiar. They were safe. And then there were the new people. I sat by Dan? that night. He had been a TESOL teacher in Japan. He had thrived. He had left his mark there. He hadn’t looked back. He inspired me to try and do the same. And he had a sweatshirt that said “Free Hugs.” Then there were Marcus and Jen. I didn’t get to spend a whole lot of time with them, but their gentle presence encouraged me to embrace life’s pain and allow God to shape my character through it. Then I met Laura, Pam, and Chris. They had all worked with university students in South America. They had loved it. They had lived in the moment and invested in the lives of young people. We had lunch, one day, and they shared their experiences and ideas with me. We talked about life, too. God used them to give me some hope that these next few years could be filled with good things. Before coming to Urbana, I didn’t want to go back to Paraguay. I knew I had to, but I didn’t want to. I was feeling everything in my immediate realm of experience. I was remembering the loneliness and frustration of Paraguay and the pain of goodbyes. I was forgetting the joy of being God’s instrument. I wasn’t looking through eyes of faith, waiting and hoping for what would be. My will was changeable. But my fellow SIMers reminded me of God’s goodness and faithfulness. They listened to my story and freely told theirs, both important steps in affirming my calling and lightening my weary heart. I needed them.

I spent last Saturday evening at the home of 2 AMBS professors. For two hours, they advised me on steps to take toward reaching my goal of going to graduate school. We discussed my interest in ethics, other religions, peace studies, and Christianity. By the end of our time, together, they said it sounded as if I should pursue a degree in Biblical studies. Everything always comes back to this. Try as I may to enter into a more “applicable” or prestigious field, it always comes back to teaching Bible. I’m so thankful that I have people in my life to recognize and affirm this natural and exciting direction.

Finally, last night I drove down to my alma mater and had dinner with an old professor. I didn’t know exactly why I was making the trip; the weather was bad, gas expensive, and time short. But whenever I meet with this woman, I leave feeling more at peace with God, and mysteriously awed and inspired to seek His face. Furthermore, she is one of the only female professors that I know, which makes here a good candidate for my questions about grad school. I spent a lot of the drive considering what I wanted from her and how I would direct the conversation. Should I just come out and ask her to be a professional mentor? Should I tell her my story? How much? Should I ask her for a book list? Should I ask about a research paper to do in Paraguay? About 30 minutes from campus, I remembered God’s faithfulness, and the gracious resiliency in Faye’s eyes. “This evening is Yours, Lord. You know what I need. Please direct our conversation as You would have it go. I know You love me.”

We went to Ivanhoes and found a booth in the back. We talked a little about her job and the transition that she was experiencing, and then moved into descriptions of my last 6 months. About an hour into our time, together, I noticed myself smiling a lot and giving professional missionary responses to her questions. I didn’t like it. I wanted to be real with her. I wasn’t doing as well as I was communicating. “Dr. Chechowich,” I began, “the two years after graduating from Taylor were good years, for me. I feel like I really began taking charge of my life and making decisions. During those 2 years, I became the person that I wanted to be. But these last several months have been really hard, and I feel like I’ve taken several steps backward. I don’t feel very resilient, these days.” She didn’t deny it. She didn’t say I was fine. She didn’t say I was being too hard on myself. But neither did she help me come up with an action plan. She told me I was going to make it. She encouraged me to keep going. She told me that there were times to do things we didn’t feel like doing, and times to treat ourselves like we’d treat a good friend. I told her I was the kind of friend who’d bake you a pan of brownies. She asked what was wrong with that? Maybe not the whole pan, she said, but a plate with a few brownies can communicate a lot of love and make a lot of things feel better! What a statement. Thank you, Dr. Chechowich. I had gone in wanting to talk busness. But the Lord knew what I needed, which was to talk life. I’m not sure if Faye had that sense, or not, but she was certainly guided by Him and inspired me. She knew that my life was more important than my career. And she encouraged me to live well. Thank You, Lord.

The community keeps us on track. It reminds us of what we know though we cannot see it. It speaks the truth when we’re forgetful. I’m so thankful.