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.