Growing up so fast

My baby boy is graduating Kindergarten tomorrow.

OK, so Elias isn't a baby and he's not technically mine, but does the fact that he calls me Mom count for anything?

It's kind of cool to only be 22 years old and have 10 boys without ever having sported a baby bump or changed a dirty diaper. Sometimes I want to hang them by their ears, but they're growing on me. . . and growing up.

Each night when I tuck the boys in, I go around and pray with each one. It's nice to be able to talk to God together and it also gives me a chance to learn more about them. I get to ask them how their day was, hear them tell me about a goal they made or the bump on their leg that won't go away. Of course they're typical boys. I often shove my nose into my sweatshirt when the farts start to fly. I mean, give them a break, they eat beans at almost every meal and they're boys. Some of them like hugs, some don't. Some give me a kiss on the cheek and some give me two.

Manuel wets the bed and Roberto's afraid of the dark. Javier and Enrique roll from side to side before they fall asleep [They're brothers]. Anael likes to have his feet tickled. Nahum doesn't like to pray. Marvin prays his dad will stop drinking and find Jesus.

Sometimes I pray, sometimes they do. Sometimes we pray in English and sometimes in Spanish. Sometimes their prayers are short, but there are times they surprise me. Friday was Nahum's 14th birthday. He has never prayed, but he promised me he would pray on his birthday. I told him he'd better make it good, make it 10 minutes long or something, but all joking aside, I wasn't ready for the beautiful prayer that left his lips. He prayed for wisdom and kindness. He prayed for me. He thanked God for another year of life and asked for His safety and guidance. When he finished, I felt so blessed.

Friday night I also had the blessing of spending some time looking at photographs of the kids when they were younger. I walked with Tania, Laurel and a few of the girls to the home of Txus to drop them off. She has five of the girls living with her in her cottage at the bottom of the hill by the school. She invited us in and it was so refreshing to be in a home again. I felt safe and happy. We laughed at chubby cheeks and fat bellies and had fun picking out who we recognized in the box of photos.

They're growing up so fast. . . they're still crazy boys who fart on each other and have to be reminded to hang up their towels, but I hope one day they'll grow up to be strong, smart young men who will make the world a better place. But it's one step at a time, and for now we'll settle for a Kindergarten graduation.

Chillian' like a villain

It’s cold. I’m cold. I have a cold. Is it wrong that 65 degrees now seems like sweater weather?

I slop two globs of soupy beans on each plate, followed by eggs, bread and aguacate. “Let me try the milk,” cry all four boys, thrusting their colored plastic cups in my direction. I drip a few drops in each cup, waiting for the verdict. “It’s really good,” Enrique says. I proceed to fill all four cups, and then try it myself. Gross. If I were to describe its flavor for a food magazine, this is what I would say; the Hogar’s warm soy milk has a sweetly rich undertone, and is often, as on days such as this, followed by an overpowering burnt flavor that sears the palette and mutilates the taste buds. There, a brief yet adequate description as to why I did not help myself to more.

I pry my stale roll apart and begin to make a sandwich. I smear on the avocado, beans and eggs and take a bite, conscious that as I bring the thing closer to my mouth and nose, I become more aware of the smell. I am instantly glad for my cold, wishing both of my nostrils were stuffed. I close my eyes, desperately trying to imagine I’m eating something else; raspberry flavored Yoplait yogurt and granola, Tropicana orange juice, pancakes and peanut butter and applesauce, waffles, anything to take my mind off of the disgusting sandwich in my hand. I stare across the table at Manuel. He’s happily slobbering all over his plate and asking for seconds.
There’s a week until Thanksgiving. This will be the first time in 22 years that I have not been with my family. I’m here with a bigger family. A family that drives me crazy, makes me angry, makes me cry, makes me laugh. . .

And as I sat here writing this, I found out that one of my fellow SMs was murdered on the island of Yap. Kristen Wolcott. And here I am writing about burnt milk and sloppy beans.

She went away this year with the same purpose as I did, to serve God. I feel unworthy. I feel guilty. I feel depressed. It’s times like these when I wonder what my purpose is. When does it begin, when does it end? Had hers ended? I don't like to ask questions, but it's definitely hard not to.

The post was supposed to be about being thankful. I have so much to be thankful for, despite my momentary lapses while eating sloppy bean breakfast sandwiches. . . and yet, now I feel the greatest gift I'm given is another day of life. Why her and not me? I don't know. I suppose this is a reminder and an incentive to work harder and be a better missionary.

Bus ride

I sit on the brown bus seat and glance around. A small girl of about 7 or 8 years in a red shirt immediately catches my eye. She stares, I stare. The bus driver starts the engine and maneuvers us onto the street and on our way. The girl moves two seats in front of me, in front of a middle-aged couple with their arms draped around each other. My eyes move from the graffiti-plastered seat to the back of his gray-flecked hair and her bushy ponytail. He occasionally plants a tender kiss on her forehead or cheek and they seem content munching cookies with pink icing and sprinkles. For a split second the little girl smiles at me and arranges her arm on the windowsill and looks out. I look out too. The wind ruffles her chocolate brown hair and tugs at her brilliant blue and black-edged ponytail holder. The now familiar side streets of Santa Barbara fill my view. Are we seeing the same things, I wonder. We pass the market. A plump lady wearing an apron sits in her booth, surrounded by plantains, onions, potatoes and fruit. We pass a pulperia*, two, three, I lose count. We pass wizened old men with salt and pepper beards. We pass wooden electrical poles with pictures of people running for office. A certain Thelma for mayor grins at me from her plastic poster. I wonder if she would be smiling so widely if she knew her makeup looked like an overly frosted birthday cake. Salsa music flows around me like an ocean tide, pulling me under with each beat. Majestic mountain grandeur rises above the pathetic buildings, clouds and mountain tops meld together until there seems to be no separation between earth and sky. My eyes fall back to the filthy streets littered with empty plastic water bags and shiny candy wrappers that glint in the afternoon sun. Laundry hangs on makeshift lines in dirty yards. Mothers hold babies on their hips and an almost toothless old man smokes a cigarette. How long before all of this seems normal to me? How long before my life in the States seems like a forgotten dream? The bus slowly empties as we near our destination. The little girl gets off. I savor the air as we turn onto the main road and increase our speed. I’m conscious again, conscious of life whizzing by. But it was the little things that made the ride interesting; the overturned cardboard box and the diaper-clad baby, the old man in a straw hat with a bag slung over his back and a rusty machete clutched in his right hand. Who am I? Where am I going? Am I just an unsympathetic bystander, watching from my comfortable bus seat as the world suffers, struggles, groans, begs, dances, sleeps, eats, cries, laughs outside my window?

Be the change you want to see in the world.
-Mahatma Gandhi

*A pulperia is a tiny convenience store, usually connected to a person's home.

Temper Tantrums in E major

I gaze at the goldenrod curtain and burnished pink walls on the platform and take in the off-tune singing and sea of plaid shirts. The plaid shirts are the result of kind and thoughtful donations by people who apparently don’t realize how painful a mass collection of plaid shirts can be on the eyes. I desperately hope the sparse arrangement of fans will chase away the sleepiness that threatens to drag me under. A violent tug of war between my English thoughts and the Spanish sermon ensues, and then another tugging begins. His little arms surge upward and before I have time to arrange myself in a ladylike manner, he’s on my lap.

Elias, 7, is my youngest boy. He’s almost permanently attached to my hip. . . leg. . . arm. . . neck. For some reason I have become a huge part of his life. He calls me Mami and is constantly begging for hugs and kisses. The problem is he’s also very, very, very disobedient. I have tried so many disciplinary tactics with him, but nothing seems to work. There are the early morning battles to wake up and shower, struggles to eat vegetables and finish what’s on his plate, and church. Oh, church.

It often starts out quite peacefully. He settles himself on my lap to draw and rearrange my hair, but then the long service begins and I dread the scene I know will unfold at any time. We make it through song service and prayer, but his impatience grows and he rattles the green plastic chairs. I shoot our neighbors embarrassed glances, the kind mothers give annoyed customers in the check-out line as their children whine for candy. I sternly tell him if he continues, I will take him outside. He gets angry and crawls under some chairs and throws papers on the floors. I’m stuck. If I talk to him again, I’m enforcing his negative behavior and he’s only doing it because he knows it will get my attention. He comes back to the row in front of me and pushes a little girl and another chair. I see that action must be taken and I swoop in like a hawk descending on its prey and swiftly walk outside. I’ve done this before and I’m quite prepared to do it again. I vaguely remember similar scenarios involving my father and I. There’s only one problem. *Patrick. He’s sitting in the back on one of the detestable green chairs watching me drag Elias out. Great, he’s going to come meddle. I inwardly grown. He’s quite good at it. In fact, he often meddles with my disciplinary tactics, and I struggle to remain silent while he butts in, assuming I’m not handling the situation well. I decide to take Elias right outside the doors, hoping that if Patrick can see him and me, he won’t feel the need to come investigate. I plop down and stare into Elias’ eyes. You know why I brought you out Elias? He looks down at his hands. Elias, you know that’s not how we behave in church. I begin to pray with him, despite his efforts to shrug me off. I tell him we’ll sit here until he’s ready to go back in. I give him five minutes. I tell him I’m ready and proceed to bring him along. He shakes his head. Elias, I’m going to count to five. If you’re not ready on five, I’m going to spank you. Uno, dos, tres, cuatro. . . cuatro y media. . . cinco. I spank him twice and wait for the soft crying to ensue. It’s like clockwork. I take him on my lap and begin to comfort him. It would probably have taken about one more minute for him to calm down and be ready to go back in. . .

And then, the sun ceases to shine. Patrick’s familiar shadow looms above us and I glance up angrily. He doesn’t want to go back into church? I explain the situation briefly and before I have a chance to finish my spiel, he drags him off my lap and leads him away. I fume. Meddler, I want to scream. I sit there and a few angry tears squeeze their way out. I walk back into church knowing there’s no way I’ll glean anything from the sermon now. Anger boils in my veins. It’s easy for him to discipline him, he only deals with him once a week. Try getting him up in the morning or making him brush his teeth. Try having him bang on your door while you’re trying to take a nap. Try making him do his chores or finishing his food. Try LIVING with him. I want to say all this while waving my freckled fist. Church ends and I’m about to sulk out, but before I can escape, Patrick is back with Elias. He sits down and tells Elias to apologize, coddling and coaxing him. Minutes tick by and I arrange my face in a pensive pout. People are leaving and the church is almost empty. I start to get up and tell Patrick Elias can apologize before lunch. Wait, he’s almost ready, he pleads. I sit down, glaring. Two more minutes pass and Elias looks around with no intention of apologizing. Honestly, I want an apology from Patrick, not from Elias. I grow impatient. Finally, Elias tumbles out an apology and Patrick shoots me a triumphant grimace. Yeah, great work. You got a kid to apologize after an hour, do you want a cookie? Did you make the atomic bomb too or invent the Internet? I charge out to the bus and get on.

I know I sound incredibly rude. I sound like a person you wouldn’t want working as a student missionary. In fact, I don’t even sound like a Christian. Over the course of writing this blog I hoped some magical lesson would unveil itself, yet none has. I’ve had a rough week. I had a difficult and embarrassing talk with one of the staff, which resulted in me crying in front of her and some of the kids. I got food poisoning and spent Thursday afternoon and night throwing up. And at church, where I thought I might find myself close to God again, I had another human moment. Oh, the joy of human moments. I bask in them daily here.

I am afraid I have a long way to go in my growth as a Christian. Sometimes I’m like Elias. I desire to be so close to God, to give him hugs and kisses and bang on His door until He answers, but when He doesn’t answer or He scolds me, I’m tempted to throw chairs around and make a raucous. I decided to reread one of my favorite Bible verses.

My flesh and my heart may fail, but God is the strength of my heart and my portion forever.Psalm 73:26

This year I’m being tested. My flesh and my heart have failed me, and I need to learn to lean on my Father’s strength and not my own. My own cries out, my own gossips and is easily angered, but His, His is perfect. I wanted to give Patrick a piece of my mind, and probably would have if I’d had a chance. I want to yell at the kids and stomp my feet when the staff just don’t get it, it being my point of view. I want to jump on a plane and fly home. I want an easy button.

The journey continues. . .

*Name changed for privacy