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.

Turkey 2

Today I had dinner with one of the girls who sells the valentine cards. I am so ashamed. I know this isn’t a good place to make public confessions, but neither is it a good place to make public fun of people, which I did in my last entry, so I’m out of good options. I just feel sick. Over the last number of months, I’ve trained myself to avoid eye contact with beggars and kids trying to sell things on the streets and buses, because when you look at them they assume you want something. So I just don’t look at them, anymore. Jesus wouldn’t do that. I hate the way they swarm you when they think you’ll give them something. Crowds gathered around Jesus because He healed their sick and filled their stomachs. “And when he saw the crowds, he had compassion for them, because they were harassed and helpless, like sheep without a shepherd” (Matt 9:36). I have in no way been acting like Jesus. I haven’t just been mean, I’ve treated them like they weren’t people, like they didn’t even exist. That’s so unJesus.

So this afternoon I made cupcakes and went down to a corner where the kids get on and off of the busses. I was planning to treat them like human beings and pay a few of them to practice Spanish with me. On the way, a raggedy girl approached me and started begging. My first reaction was to ignore her. Then I remembered Jesus and I looked into her eyes (while still saying no). But then I remembered that I was on my way to hang out with beggar kids and moments before asked the Lord to direct me to the right ones. She said she was so hungry and wanted money for dinner. So I asked her what she felt like eating. We were outside a mall, so I directed her inside up to the food court. She got a hamburger and fries. I got a pizza. I’m not used to seeing people eat that fast. Looking at her skinny arms I couldn’t eat much of my pizza. She took the leftovers home to her pregnant mom and 5 siblings. She told me all about the cards. She buys 30 of them in the morning for 3 mil. She sells them for 1 mil a piece, so she ends up making 27 mil for the day (just under $5). Her mom uses the money to buy milk for the baby.

It didn’t take long for her face to transform into that of a child. She turned into a little girl, again. Her eyes became lighter and wider. She smiled. She was really cute. She told me about her family and her favorite subjects in school. She told me which soccer team she likes. She’s only 12. I told her I was a missionary. She didn’t know what that was. I told her God had sent me to tell her that He loved her. We walked around the mall for a while. She got some pineapple juice.

When we got back outside it was dark. The busses aren’t safe at night. It’s one of the first rules; never take the busses at night. I still had enough money for a taxi. Before we parted ways, she hugged me and said thank you. People never hug in Paraguay. There was a creepy guy hanging around. I was so freaked out that I was just concentrating on getting safely to the taxi stand that I forgot about her, for a minute. Before getting into the taxi, I looked back to make sure the guy wasn’t bothering her, but she had already left. She was going to take the bus. I consoled myself by telling myself that she wasn’t a target, like they say I am. Well, she wasn’t a target for robbery, that is. My stomach turns when I consider how vulnerable a desperate, degraded 12 year old girl really is. I just feel awful.

And he said to him, "You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your mind. This is the great and first commandment… Whatsoever you do for the least of these, you do for Me… And a second is like it: You shall love your neighbor as yourself.

Father, forgive me. Forgive me for intentionally hardening my heart. Forgive me for ignoring the poor. Forgive me for treating them as if they were subhuman. Forgive me for scorning them in my heart, and then for publicly making fun of them in my last blog. Forgive me for forgetting why I’m on this earth. Forgive me for taking Your family name in vain. Forgive me for refusing a glass of cold water. I have not loved. I have not reflected Jesus. And God, keep her safe, tonight.

Feel like Turkey?

Have you ever thought that your life would make a good movie? Yesterday was one of those days. I woke up before 4 with a pounding headache and itchiness from my fingertips to my toes. I think I’ve recently discovered an allergy to mangoes. Can we just say BFB (Big Fat Bummer)? One day we woke up and every street of Paraguay was covered in fallen mangos. Naturally, we ate mangos for breakfast, lunch, dinner, and snacks. The next morning the size of my face had doubled, with my right eye swollen completely shut. After 24 hrs of steroids and benadryl, the effects of my mango gluttony began to subside. I think I’m still breathing the pollen into my bloodstream, though, so I’m on the 24-7 Actifed/ Advil overdose plan to reduce the itching and sinus pressure. Anyway, my Thanksgiving started out by satisfying my drug habit. Several hours later, I took off for 6 hours of private Spanish instruction. It’s important to note that I was still wearing my glasses, on account of my tired eyes/ sleep deprivation issues. I was not in top form.

So I walked the 10 minutes to Sacramento, and took my stand on the side of the double lane highway. I was having a little trouble flagging down my bus (hacienda senas, I learned yesterdayJ), because I couldn’t make out their numbers until they were barreling past. Finally, though, I saw a “55” and stepped out into the middle of the left lane to wave him over. Now, note that I am the only one who boarded at this time. I was not at a bus stop. Those don’t exist. You just stand on the side of the road, wherever and whenever you please, to catch the next passing collectivo. Therefore, instead of me having to walk an extra 2 minutes to a bus stop, the bus stops every 10 seconds to pick up random people scattered along its route. I really think someone should give this system a second thought. Anyway, I paid my 2.200 when I boarded and settled in for the 10 minute show. er, I mean ride. The next person to board was a man selling pineapples. After him came the guy with sunglasses, chewing gum, socks, earrings, CDs, fingernail clippers, and an assortment of other treasures. Then came the girl with the cards. They look like the valentines that you exchange with your grade school friends, and they have a note attached that says something like “I’m poor and I don’t have a way of earning money, so I’m selling these cards. Would you buy them as a demonstration of mercy and compassion? God bless you.” I had seen all of this, before. But then I had a surprise. The next guy to board starts out, “Good morning, everyone. On your ride to work, this morning, I have a very exciting offer for you! Did you know you are breathing in ugly air that will eventually kill you? Our world is being trashed and you are at risk, together with your aging parents and precious children. But I have a solution for you. This is my miracle powder. Dissolve 2 tablespoons in a glass of milk or water, morning and night, for the rest of your life and your health will be spared. In the stores, you can buy one week’s worth of my miracle powder for 25.000, but this is your lucky day! I am offering YOU a special price of just 5.000! Care for yourself and your loved ones. Buy my miracle powder, today.” Then he went down the isles and people really bought the stuff! I was in absolute shock. Not 2 minutes later, another guy got on and gave another presentation for another product. And people bought his stuff, too! I was witnessing Paraguayan infomercials on a public transport!

When we got close to the school, I made my way to the back and pulled the cord above the door. The driver threw open the doors as he was coming to a quick stop, I jumped out onto the curb, and it sped along its way. On my way inside I passed a guy who declared, in English, “Oh my G--. You are so beautiful!” I’m sure it’s one of the only phrases he knows, because it’s a statement that I’ve heard by countless Paraguayan men. Same phrase. Same obnoxious vocal inflection. Somewhere in Paraguay, I’m convinced that there’s a “how to pick up a Peace Corp Volunteer” class that teaches its pupils to say, “Oh my G--. You are so beautiful!” And just to make sure you don’t think I’m exhibiting false humility, let’s remember condition of my face. Those of you who have seen me in my glasses understand my reason for doubting this man’s sincerity. For those of who you have not had such a privileged viewing, I assure you that there is a reason for my denying you. It was at this point that I just started laughing and wished someone were following me around with a video camera.

OK. So then I had 3 hours of class with a new teacher named Edgar. He has spent some time living in the States, so he knew that it was Thanksgiving. Naturally, all of our examples were related to celebrating the holiday with loved ones. We were working on the subjective grammar structure, so we had to make sentences that followed the pattern “It’s necessary that… It’s important that… It’s horrible that…” He would ask me questions, using one of these phrases, and I would have to respond. Our class went something like this (in Spanish):

Edgar: It’s necessary that you eat turkey on Thanksgiving.
Alyssa: It’s important that you…
Edgar (interrupting her): No, Alyssa, use necessary.
Alyssa: It’s not absolutely necessary that you…
Edgar (again, interrupting her): No, Alyssa, you need to practice the affirmative response.
Alyssa (feeling the potential of prolonged tiredness, loneliness, and glasses induced ugliness combining to create sudden and unexplainable weepiness): It’s necessary that you eat turkey on Thanksgiving.
Edgar: Exactly, Alyssa. It’s necessary that you eat turkey on Thanksgiving.

That’s just one example. We had 3 hours together.

Everything, though, turned around after lunch, gracias a Dios. I typically (por lo general, I’ve learned this week) avoid Paraguayan coffee, because I know that to drink it would just be setting myself up for extreme disappointment. And I emphasize extreme. On this occasion, however, I was beginning to wallow, and didn’t think that a lousy cup of coffee could make things too much worse. So like a country singer who had just lost my house, dog, boyfriend, and taste for quality, I approached the counter of Havanna’s and ordered a shot of Italian Espresso. Little did I know the impact of that decision on the remainder of my life, here in Paraguay. That little Paraguayan barista served me the most nirvana inducing shot of espresso that I have ever experienced. The moment it hit my lips, my body fell into an immediate state of deep tranquility unlike anything I have previously known. As I stood to make my way back to the classroom, my entire body felt as if it had just received an hour long massage. Is that what drugs feel like? If so, it’s good that I never tried them at Taylor, or I would have been a quick addict.

After class, I went grocery shopping and then headed back to the guest house to prepare Thanksgiving dinner for myself and Fiona, another SIM missionary. Fiona’s British, so it was her first time eating a Thanksgiving dinner. I have an amazing mom and grandma who always cook, so it was my first time preparing a Thanksgiving dinner. I felt like such a grown up. I was greatly enjoying myself until I couldn’t turn on the stove for the fried chicken. It had been working earlier, so I assumed it had run out of gas. The woman who manages the property wasn’t home, so her daughter gave me keys for the downstairs kitchen. So as not to create extra clean-up, I prepared everything upstairs, limiting the downstairs one to the use of the stove and oven. This meant countless trips up and down the stairs, in and out the doors, both hands occupied with pots brimming with hot grease and boiling water. The evening was not tranquilla (a favorite word of Paraguayans).

Gracias a Dios, almost no tears were shed on my first real holiday away from home (talking on the phone with Grandma Betty was a little much). On the contrary, it was a very funny day, earning it a noteworthy place in my personal history as the most ironic, thus far. If only I’d had my camera for the Paraguayan infomercial. Oh, and today I discovered that my gas hadn’t run out, last night. I had unplugged the stove to beat my mashed potatoes.

Fellowship of Suffering

Last night I laid in bed for over an hour, crying almost the whole time. I missed home so badly. My mind kept replaying last week’s scene of Renae softly rubbing Cora’s back, immediately jumping to memories of my own mom. It created a physical ache in my chest. Then I’d picture Lindsay taking Eva’s hand during Thursday’s prayer meeting, coming before the Lord as husband and wife, and be filled emotion, once again. I kept asking God to hold me. My whole being was just aching to be held. I wanted my mom, my dad, my brothers, my sister, my grandparents, my aunts and uncles, my cousins, my pastors, my friends, my future husband, my God. I really wasn’t feeling too discriminating. People here don’t hug. I was absolutely craving physical touch. Last night, I didn’t want to mask the pain by distracting myself with a book or a movie or a letter home. I just wanted the Lord. I want to get to the place where I can be ok with just Him. I kept asking for Him, and I completely trusted Him. But I couldn’t feel Him as deeply as I wanted. There had to be more. There had to be. But He wasn’t filling the void. I felt so lonely. All I could do was espero for someday. But could I bear the time between now and then? And then I got so mad at myself. Why was I so upset? God had blessed me with so much! Why couldn’t I focus on all of His gifts? Why couldn’t I have more joy? I felt like such a failure. Mind over matter, Alyssa. Come on, stop being so self-centered. I felt like such a failure for feeling sorry for myself. I wanted to talk to Lori. I knew she’d understand loneliness. I can’t understand hers; it’s so much more profound. But I knew she’d understand mine. I’m sure there are many days, no, many times each day, when she has to turn her head away because she just can’t watch mothers interacting with their little girls. Sometimes, you don’t want people to say anything conciliatory. You want to look into their eyes and know they understand. You just don’t want to be alone. Last night, though, I felt really alone. I just cried and cried and cried. And it was storming, outside.

I woke up, this morning, to crashing thunder and heavy rain. I wanted to skip church more than anything. But I went and it was incredible. God gave me joy during the time of musical worship. Joy. What a gift. My brain checked out toward the end of the Spanish sermon (as it regularly does), but something the pastor said made everyone start hugging one another. It was a church service unlike any I had ever seen. Last night I had laid in bed craving the embrace of my dad, grandpa, uncles, and brothers. This morning, for the first time in Paraguay, I was hugged by Joel, Cecia, Janice, Laura, Lucas, Leti, David Chamoro, Maka-ko, and Ana. It was incredible. Thank You, God. Thank You. You are good. Thank You for loving me. And thank You for demonstrating that love in such a specific way.

Many people were tearful. At one point I was standing with David, Cecia, and Janice. David noticed Ana standing alone, whispered something to the girls, and they went over to hug her. Soon after, I looked over and saw Leti sitting by herself, eyes red and face downcast. I went over to her, moved the books on the seat next to her, sat down, and put my arm around her slumped shoulders. She laid her head on my shoulder and just cried and cried and cried. I knew the feeling. We didn’t exchange any words for the first 5-10 minutes, at which point I asked if she wanted to talk. She said no. A few moments later, I felt led to ask if she missed her dad. She nodded yes. “Me, too,” I said in a broken voice. We both started crying, again. We didn’t have to say anything else.

My pain can’t be compared with Leti’s. Her dad abandoned their family to start a new one in Argentina. She’s only 15. I have felt dropped and abandoned, though not by my dad. But I still miss him, a lot. I’ve felt really alone, here. But I know that my dad loves me. I can always go back to him. He hasn’t chosen to leave me. I wish rejection and loss weren’t a part of my life experience portfolio. I wish I never felt alone. This morning, though, I was so thankful to be able to cry with Leti. I still can’t wait for Christmas, though.

sweet surrender. blessed hope.

God is so good! I’ve often heard that the brightest dawns follow the darkest nights. I haven’t posted anything, lately, because I’ve been really down and lacking in creative energy. Yesterday was especially tough. I’m going to share a portion of my journal from last night and this morning. I think it probably shows my distress, but what I cannot communicate is the way He transformed my heart. I can only describe it as the breaking forth of the dawn. He lifted me to my feet, removed the heavy burden I had been carrying, cut through the fog, and infused me with the most incredible joy and peace that I could imagine, directly into my heart. At one point, I was so overwhelmed with joy, that I grabbed a Bethel College Chapel Band worship CD (“Eversing”). my blue, green, and yellow tie-died Discman, teal winter puffy coat, and ran outside to another missionary’s huge backyard where I could sing to my heart’s content. For over an hour, God gave me the sweetest time of worship and prayer, right in the middle of their volleyball court, surrounded by fruit trees and mandioca plants. It was so so so good. I’m sad to think that my words will never communicate my heart’s lightness. If you are experiencing a time of darkness, I pray that hearing of God’s faithfulness in my life can bring you a tiny bit of hope. Living underneath that cloud is awful. But He is there. He is there. He wants to free You. He is with you. Hold on until He breaks forth into your darkness and brings you into His glorious light. He will do it. I promise. He loves you and wants to lift you up. Hold on. Hold on. Hold on. He’s coming soon.

Before reading, however, I must warn you that this entry contains some bad language. I'm really sorry if you're offended.

Sweet Surrender. Blessed Hope.
September 3-4, 2006

And God cannot be mocked. A man reaps what he sows. I have been sowing to both the Spirit and the flesh. I feed both. I want both. I’m scared of living without either. Life without Spirit means an eternity in hell. Mortification of the flesh means hell on earth. Feeding the flesh numbs the discomfort. I cry out to the Spirit, but embrace the flesh. I hope for the Spirit, but rely on the flesh. I ask to be filled with the Spirit. But I just don’t wanna be empty. Who really cares where the filling comes from? If it’s gonna be, it’s up to me, damn it, and the flesh is a hell of a lot more reliable. I know where (I determine that). I know when (I determine that). I know how much (I determine that). I know the results (law of diminishing returns). I know.

Do I want this knowledge? Did God really say you can’t eat from any of the trees in this garden? The cost is really high. But if it’s gonna be, it’s up to me… Right? Are there any alternatives? Yes. But it’s a costly and risky exchange. I can transfer the ultimate responsibility for my life from me to God. I can continue crying out to Him, hoping for Him, and asking for Him. And that’s it. If He doesn’t pull through, He doesn’t pull through. But He says He’ll pull through. Can I trust Him?

OK, God. I am yours. I trust You to care for me. I trust You. But I’m really messed up. Really messed up. I always crawl off the alter. I don’t know how to stay up there. But I trust you. I trust you. God, my flesh… please do something about it. Please crucify it, God.
“Alyssa, I already did.”
God, I want You to crucify my flesh.

“Alyssa, I did. I did. I did. Believe this, my dear child. I am living in You. My Spirit is inside You. It has already defeated the power of sin and death. It is stronger than anything in this entire world, as well as heaven and earth. Stay close to Me, Alyssa. I will never reject You. I will never leave you nor forsake you. I am with you. I already know you. I knit you together in your mother’s womb. I know you and I still chose you as my own. I still called you, justified, and glorified you, even though I know You, Alyssa. It is a done deal. Done. Finished. Stay close to me. As for the cross, you’re right. It does hurt a lot. I know. But, Alyssa, I am here. I love you. I’ve already been there. You’re gonna make it because I am with you. Alyssa, I have already been there and I would never want anyone I love to endure it. But I also know what’s on the other side. It’s so good, Alyssa. My resurrection, glorification, freedom from my flesh, and abiding in the presence of the Father is so incredible. Trust Me. That’s the only reason I allow you to go to the cross. It’s not to prove yourself to me. It’s not because you are a bad person. It’s not because you’re dirty and you need purging. It’s not any of these things; that’s why I had to go. You just have to follow me. But it’s so good on the other side. I want you, here. And until you get here, I will be with You, there, and that will be worth it, too. I am with You, Alyssa. I know You and I love You. And when you get here, it will be so good. I will say, ‘well done, my good and faithful servant. Come and share, compartir, in your Master’s happiness.’ And We will worship the Father, unhindered by Self. You will worship Me. Alyssa, You’ll freely worship! You’re right. The cross is painful. It’s an instrument of torture. But it’s effective. It’s one hundred percent effective. Its victims never hang there, forever. They die. And then they’re brought down. And in our case, they’re raised to new life. You’re gonna make it, Alyssa, as long as you rely on Me. You’ll finally rest. I am with You. I am with You. You will not be alone. Abide in Me. Stay close to me. I will never leave You alone. I love You. Stay close to Me. I will never leave You alone. I love You.

Why is surrender so beautiful? Why does my heart want to jump out of my throat when I hear these songs about surrendering everything to Jesus? That should be scary. Letting go usually implies something negative. But I want to do it. I can’t wait to do it, because I know the object of the surrender. I can’t wait for You to take it! I love You! Thank You for taking it! Thank You for taking me. I love You. You are so beautiful. You are doing it. You are faithful to finish what You started. You are bringing forth fruit. One day, I will stand before Your throne. Hope and expectation. That about sums it up. Thank You for hope, dear Lord. You are so good! So, so good. Thank You for giving me hope. Thank You for the reality that gives weight to the hope. Thank You for both the hope and the reality. You are so good. You are merciful. I love You. Thank You. I just can’t say it enough. Thank You. Thank You. You are good. Thank You. I love You. Thank You.

Initiation Day

Yesterday was a big initiation day. First, I became Paraguayan. On my way to buy groceries for my offical initiation, I accidentally entered into the ranks of Paraguayans who have been burned by motos. Motercycles here are $500-$600 and you can set up monthly payment plans, so they’re a really good transportation option for people who don’t make a ton of money. There are actually more of these family vehicles than cars. Usually the 2 or 3 kids sit in front and the parents will wrap their arms around from behind. Therefore, nearly everyone has had a moto burn. It’s the type of thing that usually only happens once, though, because you tend to learn your lesson. In the states, parents warn their kids about touching hot stoves. In Paraguay, I’d imagine warnings abound about not touching hot motos. Unfortunately, I missed that lesson and now have a 2 inch seeping burn. But hey, I’ve joined the ranks.

Anyway, I got my groceries and went over to Laura’s house for my first attempt at co-hostessing a surprise birthday party for our friend, Joel. Actually, it was my first attempt at cooking in Paraguay. I didn’t think about the foolishness of combining the two events (cooking and doing it for large number of people) until I was in the grocery store and I realized that I wouldn’t have the same ingredients. Hm. We were going to have a penne carbonera, of sorts. Well, I’d just put in things that sounded like they’d go well together. They had the basics- milk, pasta, cheese, and bacon. It was when I got to Laura’s that I learned the Spanish equivalent for the English phrase, I’ve bitten off more than I can chew (Yo abarque mas de lo que aprieto, for those of you who are curious). You see, Paraguayans don’t measure with ounces, cups, tea spoons, or tablespoons. Hm. I had always been taught that exact measurements were pretty important with baking. Well, I certainly didn’t have the “run to Dairy Queen and pick up an ice cream cake” option, so I eyeballed everything and hoped for the best. Boiling chocolate pudding over the stove for the first time and beating my own whipped cream was also somewhat nerve racking, but what could I do? If the brownies didn’t turn out, I’d need the pudding and whipped cream to mask their taste in my Death by Chocolate. I had already dug my hole pretty deep, after all. Many deep breaths and over 2 hours later, we sat down to eat. It was actually pretty good. After the meal, Laura leaned across our large dinner table to congratulate me and tell me I had passed the test. I didn’t know I was being tested at the time, but she told me that this had been an initiation, of sorts; if they liked my food, I was going to be accepted into their friendship circle. I guess I’m in. I’m so excited! I really enjoy this group. They’re a bunch of young teachers from the school where I teach English. Laura’s South African, but she married a Paraguayan while she was over here as an exchange student and now they have 4 kids. All of the others are in their early twenties. I think God knew how much I would appreciate being initiated, so He covered my cooking with extra grace.

OK, so back to unofficial initiation- the burn. My little sister, Noemi, just came in to ask if I’d like a really good natural remedy for my leg. I said yes, assuming that she was much more experienced in treating Paraguayan moto burns than was I. When she left to go get the remedy, though, I began to have doubts. Natural healers around here prescribe some pretty interesting cures. Earlier today, I heard of a woman being instructed to tie two frogs to her open wound. Supposedly, the infection would be transferred to the frogs, and she’d be healed as soon as the frogs died. After the frogs died and she didn’t get better, she went to a medical doctor who ended up extracting several spoonfuls of maggots out of her leg. I was recalling all of this while my little sister was outside fetching my remedy. When she returned from the front yard holding something green, I nearly hit the roof. I was so thankful when I realized it was a leaf, but still wondered what I had gotten myself into. She proceeded to cut it open and pour its sap onto my burn. She said it was a very, very good remedy. It was aloe vera! Yeah. She took me outside their front door to see the live plant. And here I had thought it was just landscaping. Oh no, my host family has an aloe plant growing outside our front door and I’m supposed to go and get fresh aloe as often as I’d like until the burn heals. Are any of you that cool?