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.