Jeremuddy (or, Surrender 201)

So they threw Jeremiah into the cistern. It was full of mud, and he sank in.

Oh yuck.

And that's the Gospel truth. You can read about it in Jeremiah 38. Spoiler alert: they pull him out. But not until throwing down some old rags to buffer his armpits from the rope.

What?! Armpits?!

No disrespect to Jerry and his plight; I'm sure it would be terrifying to fall into a pit and then sink into another. But part of me wishes the anecdote about the third and fourth pits of the story would have been something a bit more relevant to my life. For instance, God could throw in a sentence about which presidential candidate I'm supposed to vote for.

Needless to say, my Bible commentary had nothing to say about the significance of Jeremiah's armpits, but it did have something to say about ol' Ebed-melech, the guy who headed up the rescue party. Probably a eunuch and head of the King's harem, Ebed-melech had something nobody else in Jerusalem seemed to have at that time, the oft-cited and under-appreciated fear of the Lord. The guy had respect for God, and therefore, His servant. He made sure Jeremiah was as well cared-for as the war-ravaged city could afford.

Jerry told them all over and over again that Jerusalem would fall to the Babylonians if they didn't shape up and stop insulting their relentlessly loving God. Nobody listened. Jeremiah is known as the "Weeping Prophet." I would cry too if a city hated me and God told me to wear a diaper. "But that's not fair!" you say. "The guy's only trying to help, and God makes him do the stupidest things!" Well yeah, but its nothing Jesus didn't do.

Because of Ebed-melech's fear of the Lord, God saved his life, a privilege that God only offered to those who surrendered to the Babylonians. But Ebed-melech did surrender, and even before he stepped outside the city. True surrender is a heart attitude.

Isn't that what God wanted anyway? Heart surrender? He made Jeremiah tell the Israelites again and again that their lives would be spared if they surrendered. Easy, right? Surrender 101. Just walk outside, toss up a white flag, and get your one-way ticket to Babylon. But with a temple, a Holy City, and honor to defend, the white flag wasn't the most popular option. Plus, who was gunna guarantee that you would live as soon as you stepped out from behind the safety of the city walls? If you weren't killed for defecting, it was war out there. It was a risk, but God promised them life. By surrendering to the enemy, they showed they trusted God to save them. It was God's last call for the faithful. And he saved those who were faithful.

God is Just and patient. People say the Old Testament portrays a ruthless, hateful God, quick to kill. But have you read the whole thing? What about the way God, time after time after time, gives second chances, third chances, hundredth chances to a  group of people who treat their Creator as a hobby? Surrender 201 is the art of stepping out and trusting the loving God of second chances, whether that means stepping out in a war zone, wearing a loincloth, or risking your reputation to toss some extra padding to the weird old guy in the hole. Surrender 201 is open to students of any age or major. The only prerequisite is a willingness to put your trust in God. To surrender your life to Him.

The Oops Factor (And why it's not enough)

I find life's most complex issues are usually best illustrated by the daily struggles of three-year-olds.

After two years working on and off at a daycare, I have realized the lack of sincerity that the typical toddler exhibits in his apologies. The rough "I'm sorry" is usually spawned in the back of the throat, continuing laboriously on it's way through tightly-drawn lips. The arms are often crossed during this guttural event, which is usually finished off with a sharp turn of the head. The entertainment value of such an event is positively correlated with the number of ounces of cold-press I've enjoyed that morning.

But the thing that REALLY gets me is when kids throw rocks at the other kids on the playground. I recall one instance in particular. Every time I told him to stop, the kid would look at me, grin from ear to ear, and launch another handful of rocks from a pudgy fist. Why? Because he can. But this isn't just a kid thing, this is an everybody thing.

Sin really only comes in one variety: Original.

Our church is discussing the Beatitudes this summer, a subject that only gets more complicated as time goes on. "Blessed are those who mourn," (or in other words, blessed are those who mourn for their sins) has been a major concern to me. Accepting Christ at an age where apologies often aren't sincere
has made me wonder if my apology has ever been sincere.

Have I mourned for my sins?

The first time I asked myself this question, I was reminded of one night a couple years back. A friend accused me of a long list of offenses against her, and I knew I was guilty of each one. I had been caught in the act, casual gossip still stuck in my teeth, and she was the one who had caught me.

Those who have been in a similar situation know what follows. Your heart suddenly becomes a bowling ball. You can't comfort because you've made your words worthless, and every apology is like shooting a blank at your ugly mistake. It's a helpless feeling.

I hadn't felt so incredibly guilty in my whole life. I spent hours trying to figure out how to make it up to this friend, the whole time realizing that my error would always stick with me, and that, if she would allow me to earn her trust back, it would take a very long time.

The only difference between me and the kid who throws rocks is that I felt remorse, the oops factor.

What the Oops Factor is:

The concept of the Oops Factor is simple; it's the ability to feel regret for a mistake. It's what makes apologies sincere. You don't have to be a Christian to have the oops factor, you just have to understand that your mistakes hurt others, not just yourself. It is unselfish remorse, or, in other words, you are sad because you've made someone else sad, not because of the consequences you will receive.

What the Oops Factor is NOT:

But what I have been learning recently is that the born-again Christian feels something more, something beyond compassion for those we've hurt. Christians also feel remorse because they have hurt God as well, because they know that this and other sins separate them from God, who is perfect and perfectly Just. From what I can gather, this type of remorse is simply called mourning. And "blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted." (Matthew 5:4)

The Mourning Thing:

Mourning brings comfort? Yes, because only when we mourn for the magnitude of our sins can we truly understand the even greater magnitude of God's Grace. When we mourn, we pull the shrapnel out of the wound, realize the depth of our injury, and surrender to God's ability to heal. It's more than saying sorry. It's more than being sorry. It's more than feeling sorry for others. It's realizing that your actions have separated you from your Creator, your truest love. Then the comfort comes. Only through Grace is our hopeless situation remedied. We mourn because we've made a mess of things and can't fix it; we are comforted because God fixes our mess.

Real Life:

The other day I was looking through old files on my computer. I came across a letter written a couple years ago. It was an apology to the friend I had offended. As I read through it, these few sentences caught my eye.

But Christ demonstrated his own love for me in this, that according to His Mercy, he saved me. I am horribly flawed, I’ve always known this, but it is nights like tonight during which I truly realize my need for a savior.


Could it be that this was the moment of true mourning I was afraid I lacked? Knowing you're imperfect is the Oops Factor, but realizing your need for a savior? That sounds like mourning to me. I'm a worrier to a fault, and concerns like this tend to stick with me. But perhaps this is why I'm a writer as well, so that by recording things I feel, I create a helpful history of thoughts I would otherwise doubt or question in the future.

More than Ever, Same as Always

It took 3 gruesome flights and 36 hours, but, by God's Grace, I'm safely home in the US.

With ALL of my luggage.

There hasn't been much time to rest. I was swept from one whirlwind into another. A day and a half of coffee/lunch dates at Taylor, not to mention packing up nearly everything I own and forgetting to say goodbye. The long car trip home. Then subbing at the daycare, cleaning the house and getting it ready to sell, finishing up practicum work. Things should cool down by the end of this week, but that doesn't lessen the sad state in which I once again find myself; time with God has once again become a chore to me.

But why does it have to be? You'd think that in this whirlwind, it would be a comfort to vent to the Big Man Upstairs. You'd think. But it isn't. When I get free time, I play Tetris or sleep. Sometimes both at once (you know you're tired when you start to drift off between Tetris blocks).

I know that in this situation I need God more than ever. But I've said the same thing a hundred times: "God, I need You more than ever right now." I've come to realize this is because I always need God more than ever.

I want to please God. I want to get to know Him, but life is busy, exciting even. I'm surrounded by people I've missed, and I want to spend time with them. There's a lot of work to be done, and I want to help. But God keeps calling me back to reality, reminding me that no matter how much I am able to accomplish in my busy life, I still need Him more than ever.

There's so much I don't understand. Sometimes reading the Bible creates more questions than it answers, and I wonder why God does what He does. But I am convinced and rooted in one truth --- it is the eventual answer to every unanswerable question; it explains every action of His deity, and prompts us to wait for Him to move. It is the comfort to every fear and the balm of every frustration. It has tied me down, and I have no desire to escape. It is the key to real peace and the reason for real freedom.

It is, O, how He loves us.

Ecuador: A Mirror for Reflection

So here I am. 72 hours left in Cuenca, a few in Quito, then hopefully back in Indiana by Tuesday night. 

I can almost taste that Starbucks Frapp. And there are random times throughout the day when I will cringe at the sudden thought of how much I miss one person or another. Some of the most important people in my life, including my family, I haven't seen for nearly five months.

Turns out that's a really long time... longer than I thought.

But God has taken me into His hands over the past few months... and placed me in front of a mirror. He told me to take a good hard look at who I was and what was important to me. And since I didn't have the option to go home for three and a half months, I had no choice but to look. 

God showed me a girl who He has chosen, rescued, guided, and molded into a servant. He showed me a girl who is searching for Him, but who isn't searching only for Him. He showed me how I had let my love of comfort take precedence over my love for others. And He showed me how I could change.

God showed me that I needed Him every single hour of every single day. He called me to spend my mornings with Him, and He blessed me through that. I suddenly found myself outside of my room more, and I grew closer to my family here.

God showed me that I don't have to live with a lack of confidence. I thought I was confident enough. I liked who I was, but apparently God wanted more. He asked me why I assumed people wouldn't like me, and I had look to hard in that mirror to figure out why.

But most of all, God showed me an impatient daughter, a girl who always wanted the next thing, the weekend, the next trip, the return flight. A girl who was rarely satisfied. Nothing else God showed me shocked me more, and nothing brought me greater frustration. So God got to work. God taught me patience more times than I ever thought possible. Waiting for taxis, waiting for family, waiting for months. He asked me why it was all about me, and I told Him because I wanted it that way. So He kept working. He broke my anxious spirit until I began to learn to enjoy the moment, even when I wasn't in control. He's still working on that one. 

Yesterday I stood to the entrance of my host family's house. We rarely walk through the front door, but I remember walking through it on my very first day in Cuenca, dragging my life behind me in suitcases. A house always seems different after you've lived in it. Your perspective of the colors, the sense of space, is always different after you've seen it from every angle. I stood there and remembered my first impressions. I remember I was weighted by the idea of being away from home so long, and I still am. 

But I'm glad that I came. And not just because it's been fun, but because the house isn't the only thing that seems to have changed.

Ecuador: Time (or why clocks can't hold hands)

In less than three weeks, we're planning to leave Cuenca. All the mountains, the Centro, working in the lab, visits to Paute, night outings with the family, cafecito, trips to some of the most exotic places I've ever been... it's almost over, and I'm ready to head back. But I still have time left, and if I plan on being any kind of decent, I'll live the stuff I written in this blog so far.

With so much going on back home, it's been difficult living here. My family is moving this summer, something I've NEVER done before. Our new house is being built. I've been chosen as PA (Taylor's version of RA) of my floor next year, and I'm missing the PA class as I try to handle my first PA decisions overseas. All kinds of relationships have been put on hold, some are struggling or stressful or changing. I've formed new relationships here with all kinds of people, some of those will continue, but many will end as well.

I've named this post "Time" because the theme has been showing up in my life as of late. And it's not just because my time here is winding down. I've realized how much I depend on the clock to direct my life. For example, my host family enjoys not telling me that they have an outing planned until literally hours before the event (they had planned out my entire Saturday, through 3pm, and didn't tell me until ten o'clock last night. Not to mention that last week we almost took an overnight trip with a few hours notice. For fun.) When I DID find out that we were going somewhere the next morning, I asked my sisters when we were leaving. They told me, in all seriousness: "In the morning."

Touché.

No, no. "What hour are we leaving?" I was told 9 am. We didn't leave until eleven.

I feel that here would be a good place to insert an intelligent quote by a formerly-intelligent-but-currently-dead man on the subject of time, but I don't especially want to take the time to look one up.

Talk about getting the culture gap smashed in your face; why did it take me till now to figure this out? In America, time is exact, to the minute, the second even. Here... take your sweet time. Showing up half an hour late is showing up "on time" to many events. The clocks in Ecuador are really just here for decoration and mild suggestion.

I really was under the impression that I was a flexible sort of person, at least in comparison with my friends. Compared to these people, I got a lot to learn. I've been wondering if I've been letting the clock control my life lately, especially in all my eagerness to get home. I wake up in the morning, count how many days I have left here, and then count back that many days to get an idea of how long it will feel. I've always watched the clock in boring classes, during boring events, basketball practices, and even during events I really enjoy, just to see how much time I have left. Time. I'll take mine measured to the second, nicely packaged, ready to ship.

Now, don't get me wrong. If we ignore time and just live in the moment, we lose sight of it's value. It's like drinking a milkshake without looking at the glass. How big is the glass? How much delicious Oreo shake is left? If you drink it too slow, it will all melt into a warm puddle, if you drink it too fast, it'll be gone before you know it, and you'll have a lovely brain freeze. So pacing yourself is a good thing. Even Jesus did that, constantly reminding his disciples before his death that his time was short. They knew this way what kind of time they had to work with, they knew the value of soaking up every single one of Jesus' precious words, and the importance of remembering them. However, we can fall on the other extreme, and watch the descending level of milkshake so obsessively that we don't enjoy all that Oreo goodness. Or, in other words, we can spend all of our time with the clock instead of the people around us. Clocks can't hold hands, or even lend us one to help. They can't point us in the right direction. That's people. Time is a tool to help us realize the value of the relationships that keep us in step.

So when you spend time with God, family, friends, people you wish would move Madagascar, stop looking at the clock. Use the clock, live by the people.

He said, "That you love the Lord your God with all your passion and prayer and muscle and intelligence—and that you love your neighbor as well as you do yourself." -Luke 10:27 (The Message)

Ecuador: Practice what you Pray

Once upon a time, a God-fearing pastor was trapped on the roof of his house by a massive flood. But since he was a God-fearing man, he was unafraid. He simply prayed that God would rescue him from danger.


Soon a man in a motor boat floated by. When he saw the pastor, he back-paddled hard against the current and shouted to the him, "Hey you! Get in boat, there's room!"


But the pastor was a God-fearing man, so he smiled and responded "No, thanks, God's going to save me."


The water level continued to rise, and soon some kids floated by on a large raft. When they saw the pastor, they also shouted to him to come with them in the raft. But, being the God-fearing man that he was, the pastor smiled and waved them off saying, "No, thanks. God's going to save me."


The flood continued to rise, and the pastor was up to his knees in water when a rescue helicopter flew in and positioned itself right above him. A member of the Coast Guard was lowered down to the pastor, yelling at him, "We've got you now! You're safe!"


But since the pastor was a God-fearing man, he calmly informed his rescuer that help was unnecessary. "No thanks," he said once again, "God's going to save me."


The flood continued to rise, and rise, and eventually, the pastor drowned.


On entering the gates of heaven (it may be noted here that Billy Graham was actually standing at St. Peter's usual post that day while he went to get some lunch) the pastor was ushered in to meet his Maker. When the pastor saw God, he asked him "Lord, I trust You completely, but I don't always understand Your ways. Why didn't You save me from the flood?"


God rolled His celestial eyes and sighed. "Kid, I sent you a boat, a raft, and a helicopter. It's you I don't understand."

I don't remember where I first heard this story, but I remembered it just a few days ago, when a friend reminded me to practice what I pray.

I have been praying recently that God would give me the desire to fully participate in and enjoy life in Ecuador. It a great opportunity, and I don't want to ruin the last few weeks with my impatience to get back to the states. So I prayed. And prayed some more. I began to wonder why God seemed unwilling to give me a changed heart.

Thank God for best friends, upon whom I can release a myriad of disorganized frustrations for them to sort through. I tried my best to put these frustrations into words, and I was simply told to start doing.

Go. Get out there. Dwell on the awesome. Throw yourself into activities. Faith is a verb, and so is enjoy. Enjoy it! God is sending me helicopters, daily opportunities to change my 'tude, and here I am waiting for Him to show up in the flesh and cast a magic 'tude-changing spell on my heart.

If we simply pray and sit tight, waiting for God to fix everything, we might as well be standing dumbly on the roof, waiting for God to rescue us as he tries to rescue us. So I went to a home church gathering. I decided to enjoy it. And I did! I listened carefully to the rapid-Spanish conversations, chimed in when possible, and chatted with a couple people individually for much longer than I thought possible. I was proud of me.

If you read this and pray for me, pray that, above all, I will wake up and get on the helicopter God is offering me so that I can enjoy my last few weeks in Ecuador to the full. =)

"Come close to God, and God will come close to you." -James 4:8a

Ecuador: Heartitude Surgery

In the country where cow paths are actually created by cows, it's time that broke some old habits.

As you may recall from my last post, I was having a bit of trouble with my general attitude towards living in another country. I didn't have a corazón abierto, an open heart to the cultural differences I was experiencing. And as a result, I tended to see these differences as negative. I still don't have it all figured out, but I've made some changes to help me see this opportunity in a whole new light.

Bypass 1: The me and God thing
No, it's not a typo or disappointing grammatical error. I came first, or at least my time did. So I did something I never thought I could do. Prepare yourself for something that may cause your myocardium to cease autonomic activity...

I got up early.

Early.

I'm pretty sure my host family just about fell over when they found me in the kitchen early on Sunday morning two weeks ago, coffee on, Bible open. Prior to this drastic life change, I had been waking up literally fifteen minutes before the taxi came to pick me up for spanish in the morning. And that was just waking up. Removing myself from the bed took longer. My taxi buddies can attest to the fact that the coffee and pan always tagged along with me on the way to class, my hair was like a large storm cloud drifting past my face, and make-up? What's make-up?

And this was not just a recently-formed habit. I've been doing this since high school, when my morning workout was chasing the school bus down. I have always grossly underestimated the amount of time it will take me to decide that school is important enough to wake up for. So when I just recently found myself sitting at the kitchen table at 6:30 am, praying and reading, I knew it was all God.

Bypass 2: The pouting thing
This one's been a bit more difficult for me, mostly because it's a general tilt of my personality. I can get in a rut and I can stay there, and I will stay there, and there's nothing you can do about it because I want to stay there. I have labored my whole life under the delusion that I was not dramatic. I guess I was just too far gone to notice.

I had to start opening up my heart just a little, even in places where I thought it was already open. That means at home church, I will talk to people I don't know in a language I don't fully comprehend. That means I will throw myself into activities instead of just wishing they were over. Like I said, this is the most difficult bypass for me, and I still have a long way to go.

Bypass 3: The viewing-life-through-the-negatives thing
"You're going to miss someone or something all the time, no matter where you are," my wise friend Lindsay offered as she sipped her Chai at the gringo coffee shop. "That's life. You can't live everywhere and be with everyone at the same time."

So wait... it's ok if I miss people, places, things... other nouns?

I don't even know where I live anymore. Indiana? Minnesota? Ecuador? All three? I'm divided, so isn't it natural that I'm going to miss one place or another sometimes?

Yes.

This is what the open heart is all about. You are allowed to miss places you are not. You are required to live fully where you currently are. Viewing life through the negatives means you make a list of reasons why you don't like this place, viewing life in a more positive light means you make a longer list of why you are so incredibly blessed to be where you are. So I did.

"Jesus looked at them intently and said, "Humanly speaking, it is impossible. But with God everything is possible."" -Mat. 19:26

Ecuador: The Anatomy of an Open Heart

Last night, I prayed for answers. This morning, I got them.

To make a long story short, I wasn't feeling at home in Ecuador. It's the middle of March, and I wanted to return home. Which home? No clue. I missed TU. I missed Minnesota. I was beginning to feel the first signs of a marvelous cold. No one was home. I wandered around the house, wrapped in a blanket, tea in hand, bemoaning my situation and talking to the dog.

It was a good time to pray.

I prayed for an attitude change. A heart change. It seems like just about every other TU student here would stay in Cuenca well into the summer if she had a tent and a box of pan. "Not I," said the tall gringa. I miss the burbs, the hipster coffee shop where you can watch them roast the coffee beans, my friends at TU, my family in Minnesota, going to the hipster coffee shop with my dad, Fitzwilliam (my guitar)... So as I was laying it all out for the Big Man Upstairs, I realized that what I really missed was independence. I want to be able to do what ever the heck I want, whenever I want to. Me. My life. Mine.

It was a very good time to pray.

Today in Spanish class, la professora was having us read through papers of past TU students so we could correct grammar and practice conversation about the themes. During one paper, Loli stopped  us and began to talk about having a good experience in Cuenca. The gist of what she was saying, translated (since there is almost NO English in class) is this:

"Your experience in Cuenca is what you make it. There have been students who came here who didn't have a good experience. They would talk about the trash in the streets, the weird foods, and other imperfections of Cuenca. They weren't willing to appreciate all the differences and see the good things. They focused on what they didn't like. They didn't have corazones abiertos.

Open hearts.

So after God dropped this chancho on my head, I realized my corazón wasn't quite as abierto as I had previously assumed. Oh yeah, I came here convinced that mine would NOT be the heart of a close-minded American. After all, I'm a Christian, so I understand everything. I would smile at the cultural differences and remember, since I'm educated, that no culture is better than another. And then I would smile contently because I am educated and can comprehend such depths of wisdom. And then I would go have a burger.

My heart needs to be opened, and I think it's only going to happen with God's help. Some people seem to have open hearts from birth, and they are the ones who go on to host shows on the travel channel or become missionaries in the jungle or live with monkeys. As for me, I technically still live in the house I've lived in since day three, I didn't leave the country until I was sixteen, I'm an introvert, and I love being comfortable.

Open hearts are allowed to be comfortable once in a while, but they shouldn't live in comfort forever. Don't get me wrong, I am in no way endorsing the aesthetic lifestyle, which I believe gave God some solid headaches back in the day. An open heart doesn't stay home all the time. An open heart gets into the world and lives in it. And when an open heart visits different countries, it has the will and energy to be a part of the culture, to focus on the positive facades and not the negative.

An open heart doesn't say "I have to." It says "I get to." And open heart welcomes change because change is exciting, not rejects it because it's tiring. An open heart doesn't have to be comfortable, it has to be willing.

I asked God to change my heart. God told me to open it.

Prayer answered.

"Teach us to number our days, that we may gain a heart of wisdom." -Psalm 90:12

Ecuador: La Alta

So here's the deal. To all those chicas who have ever wished they could add a few inches to their height...

That's what heels are for.

There are those of us who always stand in the back of the group photo. Who were stuck on the bottom of the human pyramid with the boys. Who never got picked in Red Rover because there was no stopping five feet of nine-year-old charging through the other team's line. Who have had the unfortunate experience of crushing on guys who are shorter than us, which is more or less like placing a bouquet of your hopes and dreams into an H-Bomb.

Or watching Cuenca Bus 15 drive away with your debit card.

But us tall girls know how to deal. When we attend Verbo Church, turn around during the service, and realize we are taller than all of the two hundred people seated behind us, we simply smile and imagine what it will be like to be the tallest nun in the nunnery. We are women of flat shoes and hard hearts. We put make-up under our chins and quietly cackle at your bald spot. They're not really "short shorts" unless we're wearing them, and what you call a "dress" is actually just a shirt.

The Galápagos was especially interesting. One night a group of us went to an ice cream shop. As I stood in line, a small child must have seen me (or my knee) out of the corner of her eye. She did a double take, after which she spent five terrifying seconds lifting her gaze up to my face. I felt like the first specimen in the Caucasius Altas zoo exhibit. Her expression was one I will never forget. I believe it was the same way I looked at the large Goofy-costumed man during my 1998 trip to Disney World.

But there are definitely pros to being tall. For instance, when your host mom accidentally sets the microwave on fire and can't reach the circuit breaker to flip off the power, she will call for your help. Whether or not you are able to help is irrelevant. You are needed. When the Spanish prof needs to erase the board, you will be there. People will always complement you when you look like a model; they'll keep good and quiet when you don't. And when you walk down the streets of Cuenca, you get honked at by d-bags, but not approached. They're not stupid.

In all honestly, I'm content being nearly six feet tall. It's just that here, I stand out even more than in the states. I'm not just white, I'm white AND tall, and I can feel the stares as I walk down the street. So I moan and complain to whoever is lucky enough to hear, and will probably continue to do so until I a) marry Goliath or b) finally get it through my head that it doesn't matter. I can just see God rolling His celestial eyes and
saying, "Oh Libby, my beloved daughter... shut up."

  "O LORD, you have examined my heart
      and know everything about me.
  You know when I sit down or stand up.
      You know my thoughts even when I’m far away.
  You see me when I travel
      and when I rest at home.
  You know everything I do.
  
  If I ride the wings of the morning,
      if I dwell by the farthest oceans,
  even there your hand will guide me,
      and your strength will support me.
  
  You made all the delicate, inner parts of my body
      and knit me together in my mother’s womb.
  Thank you for making me so wonderfully complex!
      Your workmanship is marvelous—how well I know it."
  

~ Psalm 139:1-3, 9-10, 13-14 ~

Ecuador: The Humbling Experience of Being Foreign

There's nothing quite like sharing a meal with the host family. The conversation, the inside jokes, and me sitting there, dumb as a rock, grasping for any hint of the general topic of discussion. As a result, I have learned what I call Meal Survival Spanish, a more primitive Spanish dialect which includes an equal amount of phrases and hand motions, sometimes used in conjunction with one another. Below is nearly comprehensive list of all phrases I use during meals.

• "Gracias."
• "No, Gracias."
• "Estoy llena." ("I'm full," usually paired with a casual wave of the right hand.)
• "Cómo?" ("What?")
• "(Slight smile and head nod, to indicate a mild level of comprehension.)"
• "Más despacio, por favor." ("Slow down, please. I feel like an idiot.")
• "(Slight smile and head nod, to pretend to indicate a mild level of comprehension.)"

So as I recline at the table, I have plenty of time to ponder the benefits of my ignorance. I am served just as much humility at every meal as mote. Nothing busts an over-built self-confidence like a few well-meant, extremely simplified questions. Usually this occurs in the middle of an animated conversation. Then one member of the family will turn to me and ask me something like "Le gusta la cerveza?" ("Do you like beer?") or "Ha visto Titanic?" ("Have you seen Titanic?"). I smile and answer like a five-year-old at parent-teacher conferences, and the conversation picks up where it left off, at Mach 5, leaving me in the dust.

I want to tell this family that I'm not a freeloader, that I'm grateful for all that they do. I want to tell them about myself, my life back home, my friends at Taylor, all the stupid pranks we do, that one time we stayed up till three throwing popcorn all over the floor. But right now I have the opportunity to not hear the sound of my own voice. I have the opportunity to love with actions, because I can't love with words. I say thank you ten times more than is necessary (or even sane), I make my bed in the morning, I offer to help with family chores, I give gifts, and my Bible is getting more use than it has in a very long time.

The book of James comes to mind. It's basic message is this: "So you say you're a Christian, great. Now show me by the way that you live." Walk your talk. Listen to God and do what He says. Don't just say you will serve others, really serve them.

"If you are wise and understand God's ways, prove it by living an honorable life, doing good works with the humility that comes from wisdom." -James 3:13

Ecuador: Gringos and Guinea Pigs

The past few days have been so incredibly full of new experiences, I don't know where to start! So I'll start with this little beauty right here:

The List of New Things I Have Done in Ecuador (So Far):

~I have eaten Cuy (fire-roasted Guinea Pig)
My family took me out into el campo (the country) on Sunday, where we joined some of my host dad's clients for a traditional dinner, surrounded by beautiful grass-covered mountains. (I fully embraced my gringa-ness by bringing my camera and taking pictures of everything, so check out Facebook.) My first impression of the Cuy was, unfortunately, not positive. A casually-dress woman was holding a long, thick wooden stick, three inches wide, over the flames of a cooking fire. I followed the stick with my eyes to its end, where I discovered -- unexpectedly -- the smallish naked mammal. It had been placed on the stick in such a way that it appeared the little guy had tried to swallow the hefty cooking stick post-mortum, and had in fact succeeded. When the food was ready, my host dad made a point of personally bringing one to me on a fully-decorated platter, breaking off a piece of the crispy-fried skin, and offering it to me. Being the tallest and the whitest at the party, I'm pretty sure everyone was looking at me when I put it in my mouth. But... it was good! The meat tasted like chicken, and it was the kind of food that even the young kids at the party really enjoyed.

~I have had water balloons chucked at me in the street 
For the annual holiday called "Carnival," which is apparently a really big deal here, people throw water balloons at strangers, especially gringo strangers. Everyone's a target. During a period of time in which I got slightly lost in the streets of Cuenca (slightly lost = lost with three maps and a cell phone) there were two instances in which balloons were thrown at me from moving cars. But, by the Grace of God, I narrowly avoided certain soakage. I plan to participate in the fun when Carnival week actually arrives.

~I have attended a Spanish church service
I was able to grasp very little of the sermon, but the lyrics of the worship songs were posted, so I was able to understand and sing along. We sang "Revelation Song" in Spanish (Santo, Santo, Santo, Dios todopoderoso!)

~I have danced to Ecuadorian music at a house blessing ceremony
Most people here are Catholic, and the serious one's do house blessing ceremonies. From what I could gather, all you need is a priest, about a hundred of your closest friends, and tons of food. It's definitely a family event, but when you add a little alcohol (not for me and the priest, of course) to the adult population, it turns into a mini dance party. Very fun. We also got to throw coins off the roof to the guests below. Amazing.

~I have gone downtown!
After almuerzo on Tuesday, we got rides to el centro, downtown Cuenca. We went to a really cool heladeria (ice cream place) called Freddo's (shout out to Scott Painter and Armila Francis!). We walked around a bit and felt (almost) Ecuadorian.

~I have made talking to God a regular thing...
... and I love it! Let's face it, it's easy to get lonely here. I only see my friends for classes and outings; most of the time I'm at home. My family is great, but due to a significant language barrier, I can only talk to them so much. But God speaks English, and Spanish, (and Libbyish) and He has been drawing me closer through this experience. I depend on Him more, and He refreshes me and gives me true joy when I feel especially alone. But don't wait until you go to another country to enjoy learning more about God. Make time. Pray. Chat it up. LISTEN. He's worth it. =)

Please continue to pray for my group and I. We're just starting to get to know the city, the culture, and the people. The initial shock is over, but pray that we will lean on God when it really hits us that we're so far from home. Pray for health, safety, and fun. Thanks so much for the prayers already; I know we have been especially blessed so far!

Love in Christ, Libby

Ecuador: Becoming Part of the Fam(ilia)

So I'd thought I'd start out with a little narrative to snag the attention of my readers:

Once upon a time, there was a girl who thought she could speak Spanish pretty well.

Then she went to Ecuador.

The End.

I compare my knowledge of Spanish to a typical Tabloid-reading female's knowledge of celebrities. I KNOW all about it; I know the particulars, the dirty details. I've stared at it for years. But, since I've never actually spent quality time with it, sat down, had coffee with it, I really don't know a darn thing about it. These people talk fast. And they tend to be totally fine with letting the ends of words disappear like salsa de tomate in a house full of kids.

We've been living with out host families in Cuenca for three days now. Our first two days were spent touring Quito, visiting el Mitad del Mundo and experiencing a very interesting cultural dance performance, with special guest, deer/man-in-loincloth. (warning: not appropriate for children under the LTC). The landscape is beautiful here. It's easy to forget how big mountains really are until you're standing at the bottom of one. The weather is mild. Not too hot, not too cold, not too rainy. It's like living in one of those greenhouses at the local gardening center. Please look at the pictures posted on Facebook for a wow.

The last three days have been a rush off new people, new places, and mucho embarrassments. I have already accidentally told my host family that:

1. I have a boy living in my dorm room at Taylor.

2. I would like to wait in the face.

3. My host father is a woman.

4. Something incorrect about a shower. And since the word for shower is "ducha," I would really prefer never to find out why my seventeen-year-old host sisters were laughing at me.

Not to mention I set the house alarm off one night...

There's nothing quite like sitting at the table with extended family and having no clue what they're saying. That plus the face-reddening mistakes above makes for a very humbling experience.

In all honesty, I have been very frustrated with myself in the past few days, so if ya'll could pray for me, that would be better than best. I know it's only been three days, but I feel so stupid sometimes. Questions need to be repeated and rephrased for me. I can't tell if people are insulting me or complementing me. I'm  taller than everyone. EVERYONE. I add to conversations whenever I can, but most of the time I just can't. They might as well be speaking Arabic when they talk to each other. No lo comprendo.

As a result though, I have been praying and reading my Bible on my own more often. I'm a bit scared now when I think about being here well into May. I have definitely stepped outside my comfort zone. I miss the comfort of being able to control the details of my life and to share them with the people I live with. Everything has changed.

Almost everything...

My God is the same. He was with me in the States, He came with me on the planes, and He was waiting for me in Ecuador. Dios me ama.

Only when we step off our familiar foundations and become drifters do we learn what it really means to make God our permanent Rock. A Foundation not bound to a place, person, or group. I'll go for that.

Hasta luego!!!

Libby

Relevant Revelations (I cAn HaS ScRipTuRE?!??!)

Today I was thinking, since the LOLCATZ "Bible" is, bizarrely, currently in existence, a Street Vernacular Bible  is probably in order.


"So the Big Man Upstairs made some peeps kinda like Him.
  Fellas and shawties, He made them."


or, better yet... 


"Then God looked over all He had made, and He saw that it was legit. Ballin'. Yea God.''


My personal favorite though would be the Social Media Bible, replete with characteristic spelling mistakes and the occasional auto correct fail:


"in the beginning Goddddddd created the hevens n the earth the earth was forgets and empty n darknes covered the deeeeeeep waters + the Spirit of God was Hoosier over the surface of the waters lol tru dat #hegotswag"


...Or we could stick to the classics...

Let's be Real(ism): Adventures in Historic

I currently have a love/hate relationship with Historic Christian Belief. Here's a few simple equations that sum up why:

Love = relevant reading - pointless homework

Hate = redundant lectures + uncomfortable chairs

Love + Hate = Historic Christian Belief

I've been learning so much about my faith in this focused J-Term class, but as soon as we start getting into the --- in my opinion --- completely irrelevant details, I lose touch with the main idea of the class. Lectures are typically based on the theological reflections of an old man, either bald or bearded (or both) living somewhere within the lingering shadow of the Roman/Holy Roman empire. Some were martyred, some wrote prolifically, one even went eunuch (O, Origen!), but the one thing they all have in common is the excessive amount of time spent on tweaking the works of art that were their theologies.

I realize that much of this tweaking was the result of off-kilter beliefs that required further investigation, but I've been a Christian almost my whole life, and I've never even thought about most of this stuff, much less wrestled with it. For instance: how is guilt transferred from Adam to the rest of humanity through the Fall? Traducianism says it's almost genetic, Creationism say it comes with each fresh new soul. Or what about sin itself? The Eastern Church says it's the corruption of "original sin"; the Western Church says it's "original guilt."

I say: Does it freaking MATTER?!

Either way, we're sinners in need of salvation. The class is really meant to highlight the common "pillars," if you will, of Christian belief, and I understand this.

But sometimes I wish Augustine would have left the constant reflection to his bathroom mirror.

Stay Tuned...

I will now be using this blog as I prepare to travel to Ecuador, and I hope to be able to give frequent updates while I'm there. So stay tuned!