Blessings

Today is just another work day in Iquitos, Peru, but back home in the U.S. you all are celebrating Thanksgiving. It's that time of year again when we pause to count those things for which we are thankful - family, friends, jobs, children, grandchildren, church families - the things we deem 'good' in our lives. But when is the last time we thanked God for our troubles? I know, I know - you think I've lost my mind. Or have I? In my recent study of the book of James, I was greeted immediately with these words from the opening chapter:

Consider it pure joy, my brothers,
whenever you face trials of many kinds,
because you know that the testing
of your faith develops perseverance.
Perseverance must finish its work
so that you may be mature and complete,
not lacking anything. 

James 1:2-4

Are you kidding me? I'm supposed to be joyful in the hard times of my life? I should trust that something beneficial is being accomplished in my misery? If you're like me, you are 'thankful' to fast forward through those moments/days/seasons of life. Yet the reality of the Scriptures is that God not only allows difficulties to befall me, He goes a step further and works in those trying times to further mold me into the person He intends me to be. If trials are blessings, then the past couple of years have left me with my cup overflowing. I should be one of the most grateful people in the world; and I am. 

In January 2010, my husband and I took our first steps onto the path that would eventually take us to the altar. But before we said our "I Do's," we faced many months of criticism, judgment, and outright opposition to our relationship. My character, integrity, and entire Christian walk came under scrutiny. Gossip raged about me and my life became like a specimen in a lab with numerous 'scientists' jockeying for position around the microscope to take a look at me and perhaps even poke and prod me as well. While we were loved, encouraged, supported and defended by many in our respective families, in our church family, and among our friends, those who stood against us often did so in a very public, deeply hurtful way. It was a tribulation that would tear at the very core of our beings and test our faith like nothing else ever had. Collins bore the brunt of the attacks as he was on the front lines in the U.S., while I grieved and ached from a distance here in the jungle. We shared our individual and collective pain frequently with each other, and more than once wondered, out loud, why God was leading us in this direction when it was clearly filled with so much heartache. Innumerable prayers and days of poring through the Scriptures revealed to us that the accomplishing of His good and perfect will would not be pain free, nor should it be in light of the price that was paid for our salvation.

Now, nearly two years later, we are beginning to emerge from the desolation of the desert. Every day - 'poco a poco' as we say in Spanish - we realize just how blessed we have been by the trials we faced because they drove us straight into the outstretched arms of Jesus, both as a couple and as individuals. He became the only solace for our pain and we gained a most valuable insight - that we, one man and one woman, are ultimately unable to meet the most profound, soul-level needs of the other - only God can fill those voids, satisfy those yearnings, and bring peace in the midst of turmoil. As a result, on April 16, 2011, our marriage began firmly and completely rooted in God as our foundation. It is virtually impossible not to be grateful for this truth that we could not fully grasp were it not for ' our light and momentary troubles' (II Corinthians 4:17). I invite you to join Collins and me in counting all that we encounter in our lives as blessings - the good as well as the not-so-good.

And so I leave you on this Thanksgiving day with lyrics penned by my precious friend, Laura Story:

'Blessings' - by Laura Story

We pray for blessings; we pray for peace
Comfort for family, protection while we sleep
We pray for healing, for prosperity
We pray for Your mighty hand to ease our suffering
But all the while You hear each spoken need
Yet love us way too much to give us lesser things

CHORUS
'Cause what if Your blessings come through raindrops
What if Your healing comes through tears
What if a thousand sleepless nights
Are what it takes to know You're near
What if trials of this life are Your mercies in disguise

We pray for wisdom, Your voice to hear
We cry in anger when we cannot feel You near
We doubt Your goodness; we doubt Your love
As if every promise from Your word is not enough
And all the while You hear each desperate plea
But long that we'd have faith to believe

Repeat CHORUS

When friends betray us; when darkness seems to win
We know the pain reminds this heart that this is not, this is not our home
It's not our home

'Cause what if Your blessings come through raindrops
What if Your healing comes through tears
What if a thousand sleepless nights
Are what it takes to know You're near
What if my greatest disappointments, or the aching of this life
Is the revealing of a greater thirst this world can't satisfy
And what if trials of this life: the rain, the storms, the hardest nights
Are Your mercies in disguise

***Laura Story, originally from Spartanburg, SC, is an up and coming artist on the Christian music scene. She won a Dove Award in 2008 for Inspirational Album and has since been nominated twice for Female Vocalist. You can find her music on iTunes and YouTube, or you may visit her website at laurastorymusic.com.***

Picture It…If You Can

I would love to be able to supply you with photographic evidence of this, but Villa ran before I could stop laughing and get a steady enough hand to take the picture. But I think a mental image will do you just fine!

Today we have had a true 'rainy season' day. The morning consisted of intermittent showers interrupted by sunshine and extreme humidity. By around 1:30 p.m., though, the sky opened up and the torrential tropical downpour began. At first I was kicked back, enjoying the soothing effects of the rain - hanging with my pups and doing a little reading - when Villa returned from lunch. About the same time, the wind picked up and I decided I should probably make my rounds of the house to be sure none of the rooms were getting wet due to open windows. I shrieked and panicked as soon as I got to the room that serves as both the pharmacy and the Medical Missions office. I flashed back to my British Literature and caught myself quoting Samuel Taylor Coleridge's poem The Rime of the Ancient Mariner - 'water, water everywhere.' And there was water alright - LOTS of it - but the wind had nothing to do with it. It was raining down the inside of the exterior wall as well as through the ceiling rendering the accountant's computer thoroughly doused. 

While I was in the house trying to do technological damage control and get the computer out of the water, wiped down, and in front of a fan to dry out (I have no idea if the computer will ever work again - and given that I'm not fond of the mix of electricity and water it won't be me who tests it), Villa scaled the roof to discover that an overabundance of leaves had clogged the gutters and the pile up left the rain nowhere to go but through the roof, soaking the ceiling tiles, thus creating a one inch pool of water in both the office and an adjoining bedroom. Villa cleaned the roof off and I began alternately soaking and wringing the mop to get the standing water taken care of (this job was way too big for a few towels).

When all was said and done we were both sopping wet. Not a problem for me - I live here and so do my clothes; Villa, however, is not so fortunate. Having been on the roof during the worst of the downpour, he looked like he'd just emerged from the Amazon after a swim. I offered to throw his clothes in the dryer, but he said he didn't have anything else to wear, so he asked for a towel and headed to the pond house to wring out his clothes before he headed home. About 15 minutes later he appeared at the back door wearing only the towel, socks, and tennis shoes (he'd gone onto the roof barefooted so these were dry), and holding his clothes in his hands saying that after he showered the clothes were just too cold and wet to put back on, wanting to know if I would give them a spin in the dryer. I said of course I would, but first I needed to get my camera to take a picture of him and I exploded laughing. As I bolted for the camera, he dropped his clothes in the doorway and, holding the towel securely in place so as not to scar me for life, took off running for the pond house again. I tried to tail him, but afraid of falling again and actually getting hurt this time I couldn't keep up with him in my flip-flops on the slick concrete and he got away. I was laughing too hard to get anything other than a blur anyway. After that he hid and wouldn't come back; he yelled from a distance, somewhere out of sight, for me to leave his dry clothes sitting on top of the dryer and he would come get them and put them on. Ordering me to go back in the house, to close the door, and to stay away from the windows he said, and I quote, "I don't trust you with that camera because you will send the picture to everybody in the U.S. and they will laugh at me." What can I say? He's got me pegged.

Did I mention that I absolutely love this life here?

Slippin' and Slidin'

Life in the world of full-time foreign missions is a regular, daily exercise in intensely spiritual and emotional experiences; both the highs and the lows come with the territory and lead me into fuller, deeper communion with God - for that I am grateful. But not everything about mission work is heavy. There are everyday occurrences that require laughter as a coping mechanism (i.e. dealing with cultural and language issues), and others that are just outright hilarious. 

If we had seasons here we would be entering spring, but since we are situated only about 3.5 degrees below the equator - so close we can almost touch this imaginary line - the climate here is pretty consistent year round (other areas of Peru are jealous when they are in the throes of winter). Instead we jungle people distinguish our seasons using the terms 'rainy' and 'dry' (which is subject to questioning because we often have as much rain during the 'dry' season as we do in 'rainy'). We are entering what is considered the official 'rainy season.'

Last week brought several days of torrential rain to Iquitos. On Thursday morning, during a particularly potent downpour, I was scheduled to meet with the architect in charge of the new construction here on the Jardin property at 7 a.m. Having spent so much time on this property over the past 5 years, I am well aware that the dampness and dense foliage in here produces algae, and this said algae makes itself at home on concrete surfaces. It doesn't take a rocket scientist to figure out that algae and rain make a very slick combination. Because I am aware of this, however, I was being overly cautious as Villa and I headed out the back door of the main house and across the property to the construction area. Walking gingerly, I paid close attention to the sidewalk, avoiding spots with the potential for disaster. But on this day, caution would not be enough…

The gigantic rain drops pelted me, slapping my jacket with a steady rhythm, as the fatal moment arrived. It happened so fast, yet it was as if I was moving in slow motion. Mere steps away from my destination, I placed my flip-flop clad foot down and began what can only be described as a half-split, followed by a partial back-bend and full leg extension, accompanied by a backstroke motion (ensuring that my upper back hit the concrete first), followed by the painful thud of my rear, winding down into a rocking motion, and ending with me lying flat on my back in a full stretch (arms overhead, elongated body and all). I'll allow you a break here to recover from the hysterical laughter you are now experiencing as a result of the mental picture of my crash.

In reality the fall took about 15 seconds (or less) from start to finish, but it seemed more like 5 minutes as I watched Villa reaching out for me in his unsuccessful attempt to catch me, or at least help break my fall while shouting "No, Pamelita, No, Pamelita, No Pamelita!" Perhaps the highlight of my slippin' and slidin' was lying on the algae coated concrete (my legs actually came to rest in a sopping wet pile of deteriorating leaves) in the pouring rain, most of my clothes and body now covered in muck, listening to the construction workers cheering and clapping. Evidently I delivered an award-winning performance. 

Luckily my sense of humor was not injured in the least - my first reaction was to laugh. Other than a sore wrist and a still-aching tail bone, no harm was done, and three days later I chuckle heartily when I think about how I must have looked on my way down. 

You'll be happy to know that business did not suffer - I picked my filthy, dirty self up, walked over to the engineer, shook his hand, and met with him as planned.

And So Goes My Life…

It has been a little more than a week now since the last gringo mission team departed from Iquitos, and it feels very strange to be in the house and on the property alone after 12 weeks of guests. I'd like to be able to say that things have slowed down a bit, but so far that hasn't happened. Bringing a mission team season to a close and getting adjusted to work without gringos again is more involved than you might think.

While life here may remain busy, it is never dull, routine, or boring. Just this morning, as I was getting my day started around 7:30 a.m., I heard the dogs going berserk. Such behavior at that time of day usually indicates that some scared animal (typically a cat) has either gotten trapped and cannot get away from them, or is already in the process of an untimely demise. So out the back door I went, whistling and calling their names. As I exited the house, I saw Dolly pawing at the door of one of the storage rooms, barking ferociously with Tamy jockeying for position and a chance to illustrate the euphemism "fighting like cats and dogs." About that same time I heard "meow," and another "meow" coming from inside the storage room. But something sounded weird, unnatural about this cat. Thinking that it had already been attacked and managed to get away from the salivating beasts that roam my yard so it could pass from this world in a somewhat peaceful manner, I grabbed Dolly by the collar, dragging her away from the door while Tamy followed. 

The next sound I heard was laughing; it was a very familiar, unmistakable giggle. I turned to see Villa emerging from the storage room where he had been hiding and "meowing." It seems he needed some entertainment to get the week started properly and thought the best way to achieve that was to taunt the dogs. Who does that??? He even went so far as to tell me that he plays practical jokes on the dogs all the time when I'm in the U.S. and it's just the three of them living here together. I have no idea exactly what that means and I don't want to know!

Suffice it to say that Villa continues to recover nicely from his gall bladder surgery.

I Got Married!

While there are not enough pages in cyber space to recount the journey I've taken during the last 18 months, suffice it to say that a lot has been going on in my personal life - which, at least in part, accounts for the decreased number of blog posts.

In January 2010 my entire world was turned upside down. While I was in the U.S. celebrating the holidays with my family and friends, Collins McCraw informed me that after six months of prayer he was sure that I was the woman he was supposed to marry. For so many reasons this was a complete shock to me, not the least of which was that I had moved to Iquitos to start a new life and a new career here. Isn't that just like God? To interrupt my plan with His own?

Collins and I embarked on a journey that would change us, and many people around us, forever. We have faced obstacles and encountered hardships that we never imagined would come our way; and we have known joy and deep peace like no other time in our lives as well. We have learned what it means to keep our eyes focused on God and move forward one step at a time while a storm is raging around us. A number of years ago an older woman that I was in a prayer meeting with approached me and told me she had a word from the Lord for me. She held my face in her hands and looked intently, deliberately into my eyes as she spoke the simple but profound words that I have never forgotten: "The waves are crashing all around you dear one. You will feel like you are drowning. But have no fear, because you will look at Jesus and you will walk on water. Tears come at night, my love, but joy surely does come in the morning." Other than recognizing the biblical images and references in her words, I had no idea why she was speaking them to me. At that point my life was on an even keel, I was happy and content, and everything was going my way. Not too far into the future, though, the waters would become choppy and I would go back to those words repeatedly to get me through that particular moment's trial. But it wouldn't be until Collins and I began our relationship that I would understand the fullness of her prophetic phrases.

As I begin anew with my blogging efforts, parts of my story with Collins will surface as God reveals to me, one piece at a time, the purpose of that leg of the journey and how it fits into the big picture of His perfect plan for me. I have come to understand in a new way that the events of my life are not compartmentalized into personal and professional; they are not categorized into friends, family, colleagues and enemies. Rather they are all intricately woven together to create a work of art. God takes even the most severely broken pieces of my life and turns them into something stunning. The exchange of beauty for ashes is breathtaking.

God has always known the deep desire of my heart to find a soul mate and to be married; but, he also knows my tendency to lose sight of Him and to allow my priorities to become disordered. So He delivered the answer to a lifetime of prayers in such a way that He, and only He, would receive the glory. He took me down a path that would not allow Collins to become the object of my worship. I can say with absolute certainty that you would not be looking at the picture below if I had not kept my eyes fixed completely on God over the past year and a half. I know Collins would say the same.

"You will seek me and find me when you seek me with all your heart." ~ Jeremiah 29:13. My life's verse has taken on a whole new meaning for me and that is that God is present even in the darkest moments, but I can't see Him if I'm not looking for Him. While it is true that in the marriage relationship a man and woman are to pursue each other and make each other a priority, it will all be wasted energy if each is not first actively pursuing the most significant love of all in a deep and abiding relationship with the God of the universe.

I leave you today with these words:
To God be the glory for the things He has done…
A Dios sea la gloria por lo que hizo por mi…


April 16, 2011



Johnny

            

I met Johnny two years ago on my first visit to a local AIDS Hospice House here in Iquitos called Casa Hogar - Algo Bello Para Dios, which roughly means "Home -Something Beautiful for God." At that time Johnny was HIV-positive, but had not yet developed full-blown AIDS. I do not know how Johnny contracted the deadly virus, and I didn't ask, because it was none of my business; all I know is that he had to be good medicine for the patients because he had a brilliant smile that brought light to a dark place. Johnny was a very young man, in his 20's, and appeared healthy, but he knew what the future held for him. For that reason he came to the hospice every day to help attend to those who were suffering and facing imminent death. He knew that one day, sooner than he would like, he would need that same care, and so he gave what he knew he would want to receive were it him lying in one of those beds: a smile, a kind word, a ministry of presence, in addition to help with bathing, dressing, and eating. Living in a city where access to antiretroviral medications is virtually non-existent, and being so poor that he couldn't afford them anyway, Johnny's fate was sealed. But he didn't let that stop him from loving and being loved, from helping and being helped.

I looked forward to my visits to the hospice because I knew I would see my buddy. Though I took the time to sit and chat with all the patients, I always spent a little extra time with Johnny. It made me happy to be around him. How ironic.

Throughout the two years that I knew him, I watched Johnny's health begin to deteriorate. I watched him move from being a volunteer worker at the hospice, to a patient in one of the beds. I saw his physical body change from that of a healthy young man, to a skeleton with skin. The one thing that never changed, however, was that contagious smile. The last time I saw Johnny was in December and he was bedridden, in constant pain, unable to swallow and therefore couldn't eat, and unable to talk, with his only sounds being grunts or moans. When I walked into his room, in spite of his suffering, his face lit up with that signature gigantic grin. Though he couldn't answer me, I talked to him anyway. I told him I knew he was in pain, and watched as he shook his head yes while the tears rolled out of his eyes down the side of his face. I prayed for him, told him I was going to the U.S. to be with my family for Christmas, but that I would see him when I got back to Iquitos. As I walked out that day, I knew in my heart that he wouldn't be there when I returned.

On my first visit to the hospice in 2011, I learned that Johnny slipped into eternity on New Year's Eve. Man, do I miss him. I was over there just this week and had the privilege of not only talking with the patients, but also presenting each one with a new mattress, a sheet, a pillow, a towel, a toothbrush and toothpaste, a bar of bath soap, and a package of laundry detergent. (A huge thank you to Betty Fleming's Sunday School class at Fountain Inn Presbyterian Church for their donation that enabled the purchase of these items for the AIDS patients!) It was a happy time of being able to give and enjoy watching them receive, but, for me, there was an emptiness. There will always be a gaping hole that Johnny left when he passed away.

The caskets lined up in a row along a wall down one of the halls in the hospice house are a poignant reminder that life is fleeting. It reminds me of the urgency of our call as Christians to spread the Gospel. And it has caused me to wrestle with the questions: "What exactly am I doing to really witness to others and share Jesus with them?;" "Can I do more?;" "Did I love my family, my friends, my enemies today in the way I should?;" "Will I have regrets if they are not here tomorrow?;" and "Will I be greeted with the phrase, 'Well done good and faithful servant' if I should be called home today?" If I'm honest, I'm not totally thrilled with some of my answers to these questions, which poses the ultimate question, "What am I going to do about it?"

Adios, Johnny. My life would be less today if I had never met you. You are missed. 

Gratitude

Where does the time go? It's hard to believe that Thanksgiving is only a few days away, that Christmas is just around the corner, and that another year is quickly drawing to a close. Yet once again it is that time of year when we pause to count our blessings. As I begin my 2010 list of thanks, I find myself pondering exactly what it means to be grateful. After looking up the word in the dictionary and tossing around ideas of how others might define it, I'm going to function from the following definition that I have crafted from my brainstorming and research:

grateful - adj. - deeply and abidingly appreciative and thankful to God for His deliverance and His blessing

God has abundantly and extravagantly blessed me:

• With a biological family that loves and supports me - my parents, brother, sister-in-law, niece, aunts, uncles, cousins, and the precious grandparents who touched my life for such a very short time before they went home ahead of me. In some shape or fashion they all helped raise me in the way that I should go, then they set me free to wander, to stray, to struggle, and to return, rejoicing and suffering with me, all the while understanding that I belong to God and His plan for my life is perfect.

• With a spiritual family that was in place before I ever knew I needed one or cared whether or not I had one, and remains in place, lifting me up at times and in ways of which I am totally unaware - First Presbyterian, Calvary Baptist, and First Baptist Churches, Ware Shoals, SC; the Baptist Student Union at Wofford College; Westminster Presbyterian Church, Spartanburg, SC; First Presbyterian Churches of Huntington, WV, Jefferson City, MO, and Sumter, SC, First Scots Presbyterian Church, Charleston, SC, Middle Octorara Presbyterian Church, Quarryville, PA; the Presbyterian Churches of Peru in Iquitos, Santa Clara, Nuevo Valentin, Gallito, Quistacocha, Santo Tomas, Tamshiyacu, and Santa Maria. These individual fellowships, for me, form one body that, past, present, and future, surround me with grace and mercy.

• With an opportunity to work and serve on two continents, in two countries, using two languages, living in two cultures, thus multiplying both my trials and my rewards. But without the first, what good, really, is the latter?

• With a foreign family - Edgardo Villa, Margarita Diaz, Ina Lopez, Maria Lopez, Maria Helmi, Jorge and Martha Foinquinos, German and Enith Rios, Clever and Reina Rengifo, Guillermo and Graciela Flores, Edward and Soila Huaman, Rony and Maria Pilco, Ricardo and Lupe Jara. These and countless other Peruvians open their hearts, homes, and respective families to me, taking me in as the lone white person among the brown people, and loving me as one of their own, proving day after day, minute by minute that genuine love is blind and in Christ we are all one.

• With one man - Collins McCraw - who loves me more than I deserve to be loved by another human being. He turned my life upside down back in January and started us down a path toward unconditional love and lifetime commitment. He comes alongside me and joins me in a mutual pursuit of the God who made us and saves us. God has chosen him to be the answer to and ultimate fulfillment of thirteen years of my heart's cry for a mate. This relationship has not been easy and has come with a great price and significant sacrifice, making it all the more valuable. It is not difficult to submit myself to the man who has already, in so many ways, laid down his life for mine.
  
  I thank God for all of this and so much more. I am especially grateful for the many trials and tribulations of this year, and 2010 has had more than its fair share of them. Yes, I know it sounds strange to make such a statement and I even find myself looking at the previous sentence and wondering who in their right mind could say that. Yet it's only in the tough times that deliverance can be experienced. I have learned so much more about who I am, but more importantly about who God is. The refiner's fire is painful, no doubt, but there is also no denying the beauty that is a result of the burn.
  
  I have been delivered and I have been blessed, and for this I am deeply and abidingly appreciative and thankful to God.

Ladder Climbing Dog

For those of you who wonder what my "normal," "day-to-day" life is like in Iquitos, here's a glimpse into my morning so far:

The municipality contacted me to tell me that the trees growing inside El Jardin are hanging over the wall on the street side, making a nice, shady canopy for those traversing the sidewalk. The problem is, they are also sitting on power lines. Obviously, because the trees originate on the Jardin property, it is our responsibility to cut them. And if we don't do so immediately we will be facing a fine and still have the responsibility to cut them. Now, that all makes perfect sense and I don't disagree - except for the fact that the previous time this happened, the municipality took care of the tree trimming because of the danger in working around the power lines. (Thus the reason I have not arranged for them to be cut; naturally I assumed it would be taken care of once again.) When I tried to explain that to the man he assured me that such a thing had NEVER happened because they do not operate that way (so now I'm crazy - which might be a legit point - and I imagined the trees being cut along with the conversation that lead to them being cut by someone that I did not hire to do so).

Anyway, rather than argue with the guy over the municipality's 'rules' (subject to change depending on who you talk to), Villa and I started scrambling to find a tree trimmer. So we find one, negotiate a price with him, and get him started working, because I sure don't want to pay a fine (which would be some ridiculous, arbitrary amount based on what someone thinks this white girl is worth). Now the tree guy is busy hacking away at branches with his machete, Villa is supervising (of course), and I sit down in front of my computer to begin catching up on the emails I was not able to send/answer yesterday due to a 5 hour power outage (a regular occurrence these days).

I'm reading and typing when something in my peripheral vision gets my attention; I turn my head to the left to see Dolly's front legs stretched out so that her paws just reach the fourth step of the tree cutter's ladder, one hind leg is extended, barely touching the first rung, and the other hind leg is firmly planted on the second step as she continues to climb in pursuit of the man and his falling branches. With visions of a broken spine and imminent euthanasia resulting from less than adequate ladder scaling skills, rather than run for my camera, I ran for the dog. With all four of her feet planted safely on solid ground again, I almost wish I'd grabbed the camera first so that you skeptics would believe this actually happened (anyone who has met Dolly does not doubt the veracity of this story).

Just another "typical" day in the jungle. Now back to work...

Close to Crisis

It's all the talk around town - on the TV news, in the papers, on the streets; Iquitos is approaching a water crisis. Due to lack of significant rainfall over the past couple of months (and, I'm sure, other geological, ecological, and environmental factors that I neither know about nor understand), the rivers are essentially drying up. According to local record keepers, the rivers are the lowest they have been in 40 years.

The consequences of this are numerous. Those who fish for a living are having difficulty getting into deep enough water to be able to catch anything. The river taxis and other boats are losing business - with each passing day it is harder to get into or out of the ports, or close enough to the villages and towns along the rivers to allow passengers to disembark (this in addition to general hazards in the rivers caused by the shallowness of the water). And Sedaloreto has already begun shutting down the city water system for brief periods of time each day in an effort to conserve water; the next step will be outright water rationing (for people who own the large water tanks this isn't too dire of a problem because they can retain enough water to bathe and cook each day - the problem will come for the poorest of the poor who only have small containers in which to store water in their homes). These and a host of other problems are lurking.

Please pray for significant rain. We need more than the light 15-20 minute showers we've been getting about once a week. We need those torrential downpours, the ones that last for hours and that the jungle is famous for. Though we are not at alarm stage yet, at this point we have to begin thinking about and preparing for the future.

For those who have never been here before, the following pictures won't mean much to you, but for the rest of you, well, you're in for a surprise!

Itaya River at the Boulevard
The land here is very green and beautiful, but it is typically under water.  The ground is dry and solid as it has baked in the sun for weeks now and people walk out past the trees trying to get to what is left of the river out there to get water for washing and cooking.  The picture was taken standing in front of the Medical Missions property on the Malecon - where the original Iquitos Presbyterian Church was located.

Itaya River at Puerto Huequito
This is the port the mission teams typically use for river travel. Notice the houses floating in the shallow inlet, blocked from moving by the sand bar that has surfaced.

Itaya River at Puerto Huequito
Past the sewer outlet (large concrete structure in foreground) you can see grounded boats here as well.  Also you can see how far out the sandbar extended as well as the size of the riverbank past the sand bar.

Bella Vista Port on the Nanay River
If you look in the upper left hand corner you'll see the white building that is the Iquitos Boat Club - looking to the right of that you will see the grounded boats sitting on dry land.  The distance across the Nanay to Santo Tomas is narrowing as the river dries up.

I Slept Through an Earthquake

I've always known that I was a fairly sound sleeper (and I can snore pretty well too, so I'm told, though, of course, I don't believe it), but evidently my slumber is a little deeper than I realized. The neighboring country of Ecuador recently experienced a significant earthquake - somewhere between 6.9 and 7.1 - about 100 miles southeast of the capital city of Quito, putting its epicenter fairly close to the border of Peru. Thankfully the depth of the earthquake was estimated to be 115 miles below the Earth's surface, so direct impact and damage was minimal. The quake occurred just before 7 a.m. on a Thursday morning.

A day or two later Villa asked me if I had felt the house shaking on the Thursday morning in question. Naturally I looked at him and started laughing, because I assumed he was yanking my chain, as he frequently does. He swore he was serious, but then Villa has been known to tell a fish tale a time or two. When Ina arrived I asked her if anything strange had happened at her house early that Thursday morning, and without hesitating she said, "Yes, both of my girls and I woke up because our beds were shaking and we later heard on the news that there was an earthquake in Ecuador." Ok, so Villa got to Ina earlier and she was playing along. Better to do my research elsewhere. So, as I went about my business for the day, I started asking around and, sure enough, the answers were consistent with Villa's story; people reported feeling the floors in their homes tremble or being awakened because their beds were moving. Margarita also confirmed that the tremors awakened her patients in the hospital. Not a big deal, nothing scary, no dishes crashing to the floor, no glass shattering, nothing like that, just a very noticeable, however slight, movement of the tierra. And I slept right through it.

But there's another part to this story. Around 3 a.m. on the morning of the earthquake I woke up terribly thirsty. Villa and I had shared one of our favorite dishes for dinner the previous evening - fried rice with chicken, pork, and shrimp, doused in soy sauce, and all the salt and MSG was kicking in. As I stood in the light of the open refrigerator door gulping water from my old Young Life nalgene bottle, I heard the soft patter of water hitting the ground. I thought to myself, as I walked toward the window over the kitchen sink, 'how nice, we haven't had rain in several weeks now, we need it.' But as I arrived at the sink and looked out said open window, nothing was falling from the sky and the ground was perfectly dry, but still I was hearing drops of water. I didn't have to investigate long to find out where the sound was coming from, because as soon as I stepped into the screen porch room, there in the dim illumination of the lights on the path leading to the front gate was the answer. Dolly, my now 7 month old yellow lab, was hopping and jumping and splashing, having herself a grand old time in the fountain of water spewing forth from the small pvc tube of an old irrigation line she'd managed to locate and chew holes into. Like a pig in mud, literally, she couldn't have been enjoying herself more. I had no idea how long the water had been gushing, and visions of a whirling meter sent me running straight to Villa's room to wake him up and tell him we had work to do. Thus began the clean up and repair.

It took us until 4:30 a.m. to dig up more of the pipe, cut it off, add another, new piece of pipe to the cut off part, use matches and some kind of really sticky stuff to melt and seal up the end of the tube, then bury it again, all the while trying to keep Dolly out of the huge mud puddle she'd created (she thought that our descent to our hands and knees on the ground in her pool meant we had come to play with her). At this point we were soaking wet, covered in mud ourselves, and ready to keep digging a much bigger hole to put Dolly in - well, I was; Villa found the whole deal to be quite humorous. After a quick shower and a change of clothes, I went back to bed somewhere in the vicinity of 5 a.m., thoroughly exhausted. Is it any wonder I never felt the earth move?

Missionaries and Narcs

Few, if any, of the many experiences I have had in Iquitos over the past eight years compare to last week's accosting on the high seas - or the high river (well, low river right now). Anyway, we're cruising down the Amazon, headed back to Iquitos after a hard day's work in the jungle village of Gallito. A few people on the boat are conversing over the scream of the outboard motor, some are catching a few zzzz's, while others are quietly contemplating a week well-spent and marveling over God's exquisite landscaping. Out of nowhere, a boat intersects us in the middle of the river. Our driver eases off the gas, then kills the engine, and, as we float closer to the mystery boat, the outlines of automatic and semi-automatic weapons take shape as extensions of the muscular arms holding them, pointing them skyward, followed by the menacing stare of a very large, very black, very serious Shepherd breed dog.

The large yellow letters on the black vests worn over black shirts and atop black pants and black combat boots (can you feel the sense of foreboding I felt at the moment?) by the handful of stern-faced, albeit handsome, Latino men on board indicated that they were with the Peruvian National Police - narcotics agents patrolling the Amazon for drug traffic. Most people would be thinking, no problem - we aren't drug mules, so we're in the clear. But panic struck me immediately as I tried to maintain a worry-free expression for the benefit of the mission team on my boat. First, we were carrying what can only be referred to as a 'butt-load of contraband.' As several of the mission team members were medical professionals, they had been conducting a basic medical clinic in Gallito, and on our boat were two large military green duffle bags loaded down with bags of ibuprofen, acetaminophen, naproxen, cold/flu/allergy meds, antiparasitics, vitamins, antibiotics just to name a few. Granted nothing was illegal, but when you have pale skin in a foreign land, legality doesn't necessarily mean much at times. I was deathly afraid the narcs were going to ask to see the contents of the bags, at which time I was going to have to step up and try to explain.

The other fear that plagued me in the moment was that we would be petitioned for a 'propina' in order to be released and sent on our way. 'Propina' literally means tip or gratuity, but also doubles as a polite way of saying bribe money. It is not uncommon for police officers (or anyone for that matter) in Peru to solicit propinas to do the job for which they are already being paid (but I will refrain from climbing onto my soap-box and preaching a laborious sermon on the injustice of that brand of crime). I knew that, if such talks began, there was only one way for the negotiations to go - south. If they were so inclined to demand bribes, the amounts would not be small; after all, these police officers were looking at a boat full of middle-class, white North Americans who, by Peruvian standards, would be classified as very wealthy on the socio-economic scale. I all but held my breath and prayed mightily that whatever the boat driver was saying to the head-honcho on the police boat would be an adequate explanation of who we were and what we were doing, would appeal to his sense of moral integrity, and would not result in me having to talk (because stress-laden, pressure filled situations like that guarantee a total loss of my ability to communicate effectively in Spanish).

Thankfully, within a few minutes we resumed our trek to Iquitos. After the collective sigh of relief, the trepidation turned to excitement over what had just taken place. Events like this, after they are over and everything turned out ok, make the best mission team stories. And the frighteningly exhilarating thrill of it all just might be what encourages a few hesitant bystanders to take the plunge and join next year's team on their Amazon Adventure!

Happy Anniversary…To…Me!

One year ago today I began my new life as a missionary in Iquitos, Peru. I cannot believe it has already been a year. My how time flies. As I reflect on the past 12 months, a lot has happened, but today I find myself thinking about the funny stuff - the humor that has made the tough days easier, the good times even better, and has ultimately made this foreigner feel like she is at home. So I'll share with you a few glimpses of the lighter moments of this last year:

• Countless nights I've been unable to sleep because my German Shepherd and Yellow Lab ran a cat up a tree and decided the best course of action was to sit at the base of the tree and bark to lure it down again, totally unmoved by my 3 a.m. threats to cut their tails off if they didn't hush.
• The morning I went out to feed the maccaw only to find it hanging upside down by one foot after getting its leg wrapped up in some twine; it later bit both me and Villa as we were trying to get it unwrapped - some kind of thanks for saving its life.
• Learning that the word "foca" means seal, as in a sea animal, and that the word "foco" means light bulb, and being told that it is not possible to purchase a foc'a' at the hardware store.
• Over all the noise from the motokars in the street, hearing a horn playing, of all things, Dixie. I felt like I was being secretly video taped for a bad episode of The Dukes of Hazzard.
• Visiting with the wife of one of the pastors after she had surgery - and just in case I didn't believe that she'd actually been operated on, she called for her daughter who brought out a large jar which contained her uterus.
• Consulting with Villa on his "plan of war" to catch the neighbor who insists on putting his trash in front of our house instead of his own.
• Observing the high class tastes of my Yellow Lab, Dolly, as she dives in the pond behind the house to retrieve snails; she then diligently works to crack the shell and extract her very own doggy escargot.
• Coming back to Iquitos after a visit to the U.S. to find my washing machine would no longer work. Further investigation by the technician revealed that a couple of mice had taken up residence inside the machine while I was gone and chewed through most of the wires.
• Watching Villa make what he referred to as 'poison sandwiches' to put in the storage room to kill our pet rat.
• Shining my flashlight on the pond at night to locate the orange eyes of the alligator my friend Todd put there; then, witnessing its demise as one of the elders from the church next door removed it after I promised he could take it home and have it for dinner.
• Laughing uncontrollably with Villa in church the next day when the preacher used an alligator story as an illustration in his sermon.
• Rescuing a toad frog after Dolly, the Yellow Lab, decided he might be a toy for her to play with and was pawing him to death.
• Chasing Dolly around the yard every time mail is delivered if she gets to the gate before I do. Let's just say that when she greets the mailman, the yard is soon decorated with very small pieces of water bills and bank statements.
• The day I forgot the gate was bolted and didn't have my key to open it for one of the pastors. He didn't know I could see him through the peephole and later told me he thought God was speaking out loud to him in a woman's voice when he heard me calling his name telling him to wait for me to get the key.
• Getting up in the morning to find feathers all over the door mat after Tamy, my German Shepherd, decided to have a bird for breakfast.

And these are just a few of the lighter moments that have made this one of the most amazing years of my life. I wish I could put into words everything about this time that has forever changed me. Not only do I have a much greater knowledge and better understanding of my Peruvian friends, but also of myself, and especially God. My 'head knowledge' has grown, and my 'heart knowledge' has deepened. I am totally humbled by this incredible opportunity that I have been given.

Poignant Quotes

Cross-cultural relationships can be tricky, even difficult, but they can also be some of the most rewarding. It doesn't matter if those relationships are established among different cultures within the U.S., or if they develop as a result of foreign missions experiences in other countries. Any time people of different cultures, ethnicities, family backgrounds (or whatever else may be the basis for the differences) come together, unless there is an effort to get to know, to respect, and to understand each other, conflict will ensue. I do think, however, that if you are traveling to another country for the purpose of mission work, disaster relief, or any other area of service to those in need, especially if you are North American, you have a responsibility to step out of yourself and see things from the perspective of the locals you've come to serve. For many years now, long before I ever moved to Peru to live and work in the foreign mission field, I've been reading everything I can get my hands on about cross-cultural ministry and relations. Not surprisingly, there are threads of similarities, common themes that run throughout the literature, and we, as North Americans in search of ways to serve humanity, would do well to heed the suggestions and warnings made by those who've both walked the path before us, and remained behind to clean up the messes we make, however unintentional those messes may have been. For it is only when we step outside of ourselves that we can truly serve.

I recently read for a second time Duane Elmer's book Cross-Cultural Servanthood, Serving the World in Christlike Humility. I will share the bibliographical information on the book at the end of this blog post, but first I want to share what I think are some of the most poignant points of the book. These statements and passages have now made me uncomfortable twice, causing me to stop, to think, to ponder, to evaluate. If you are involved in cross-cultural ministry, whether in the U.S. or abroad, I hope you, too, will take the time to consider how the following quotes might apply to you. After all, our goal is to propagate the pure Gospel. My personal goal is to do so with as little interference from me as possible.

"Many [locals] said that they valued the [foreign] missionary presence and the love they felt from them. But many said…, 'Missionaries could more effectively minister the gospel of Christ if they did not think they were so superior to us'" (15).

"You can't serve someone you do not understand. If you try to serve people without understanding them, you are more likely to be perceived as a benevolent oppressor" (20).

"We [North Americans] see them with less economic goods, less hygiene, less schooling, less housing, less infrastructure, less spiritual maturity, less knowledge, and less 'toys.' We believe that we can help them. So we set out to tell them how it ought to be done. By that, we mean how we do it in the West. This 'telling' approach…rarely works at all anywhere today. But…people see it for what it is: pride" (92).

"We [think] we don't have to get close to our hosts, even while in their culture…We'd be better off getting on with the task rather than 'wasting time' talking with people and sharing their life experiences…since we already 'know' what they need. We turn others into objects…[In doing so] we create dependent relationships. Others rely on us for goals, direction, resources, nurture and status. Such dependency eventually turns bitter because it daily robs people of their dignity" (94-95).

"Unless we too connect deeply with the people of our host culture, we will neither see nor interpret their situation accurately: their pain, their values, their structures, their social limitations, their dreams…our well-meaning help won't fit their reality. The Christ we show them will be more North American than the true Christ…" (104).

"Witness not grounded in the local cultural realities has historically led to the claim that Christianity is a 'white man's religion' or 'foreigners' religion.' Jesus fits comfortably into all cultures, but we have to learn how to express him in the local context…We must also be careful not to mistake our own cultural values with biblical truth" (109-110).

"God says that truth is available through the Scripture and through creation…That means we may learn about God as we learn about other cultures. He has not revealed all of his knowledge and wisdom to the Western cultures alone or to any one culture. But each culture can make a significant contribution to our understanding about who God is and how he works in this world" (131).

"By choosing to be a servant, we relinquish power, control, and unilateral decision making in favor of listening, learning, and understanding, and emerge with a decision that reflects the wisdom of God and his people" (172).

I love foreign missions. I am in awe of those who serve abroad, giving up country, family, home, and numerous luxuries, whether for only a few years or for a lifetime; I aspire to be like them. I think short-term mission teams are great; they have the capacity to add to the body of Christ, but also to spiritually grow believers in both the host and visiting countries. I think Christians are at their best when they are reaching out to help those in need. Unfortunately, though, we (by 'we' I mean North Americans - gringos, if you will) do assume an air of superiority, most of the time without even realizing that is what we are doing. The attitude may be wholly unintentional, yet it is entirely devastating. I've been guilty of it myself. But (as our friendly highway patrolmen like to say when pulling us over) ignorance is no excuse. If we wish to be true disciples of the Gospel, we must make a conscious effort to leave behind all of our notions of how things 'should' be done, ideas about intelligence being directly related to levels of education, preconceptions about how worship 'ought' to be conducted, and schedules that are inflexible, leaving no room for relaxing and socializing - check these things at the U.S. border; you can pick them up again when you re-enter the country. Additionally, we must let go of the fears that plague us and either keep us from going, or hinder God from working through us, such as: fear of flying, fear of spiritual inadequacy, fear of language barriers, fear of unfamiliar foods, fear of insects, fear of hot/cold weather. If God has called you to go, He will equip you. As more than one friend has told me during this first year of my service in Peru, God does not expect us to be perfect, just faithful.

May we all, like Jesus, have the heart of a servant.

Elmer, Duane. Cross-Cultural Servanthood, Serving the World in Christlike Humility. 

     Downer's Grove, IL: InterVaristy Press,2006.

ISBN - 10 0-8308-3378-1 or ISBN - 13 978-0-8308-3378-8

Hot Dogs

It used to take a lot to get me excited, but that was before I moved to Peru.

I hate grocery shopping just as much, if not more, here in Iquitos than I did in Spartanburg. At least in the 'Burg I can enjoy one-stop shopping at my friendly neighborhood Super Wal-Mart. In Iquitos, I make my shopping lists (yes, I said lists, plural) according to the market or supermarket where the necessary items can be found. Fresh fruits and vegetables are best purchased in the open-air markets where the vendors sell their locally grown produce. Spices (the American ones I'm familiar with) are located in a specific mini-market, which is the equivalent of a gas station store in size, only with more variety and options. A tienda (small store) inside the Belen Market has the best prices on toilet paper, paper towels, and household cleaning supplies. Super Mercado Piramides is the closest thing to an American grocery store here; it is a larger store with aisles and real grocery carts to push, and is the best place to find ground beef, fish, and chicken (the locals would disagree with me on that, but I am a gringa and I like to buy such things from a nice, refrigerated display case where I don't have to see the remains lying around from the untimely deaths of said animals while flies hover over the "fresh" meat). If I want a modest selection of imported items I go to Los Portales, a smaller version of Piramides.

It was at Los Portales two weeks ago that I spied, for the first time, actual American hot dogs (as opposed to their Peruvian counterparts whose color alone encourages you to say, 'No thanks, I think I'll pass') and real hot dog buns to boot. It was all I could not to start screaming "HOT DOGS!!!" at the top of my lungs, and start running around in circles doing my best impression of Macauley Culkin in Home Alone. I promptly purchased said hot dogs and buns. Later that day I whipped up some chili, chopped up an onion, made sure I wasn't running low on mustard, and had the biggest, messiest hot dog ever. I thought I was in heaven.

Villa is a human guinea pig, or garbage disposal as the case may be. In his words, "Pamelita, you know I can't say no to food, no matter what kind it is." A couple of days ago I bought more hot dogs and buns. Upon seeing the buns on the kitchen counter, Villa inquired as to what they were for. When I explained, he wasted no time letting me know that he wanted to try an American hot dog, so yesterday we had lunch together. Suffice it to say that Villa has fallen in love with yet another gringo institution (all that's left pretty much is apple pie and Chevrolet, because he already likes baseball and we just crossed hot dogs off the list - for those of you who remember the commercial).

Though I can cook, I am not a cook; but I have often heard it said that a cook loves watching people enjoy her meal as much as she likes preparing it. I have to say, it made my heart swell with pride to see Villa eat hot dogs until he nearly made himself sick. So far his list of foreign foods includes tacos (complete with my homemade guacamole which he loves to eat straight out of the bowl with crackers), Italian style pasta salad (thanks to my mom for mailing me packages of pepperoni), and, now, hot dogs. He informed me today that I should search for a new recipe while I am in the U.S. and bring all the necessary ingredients back to Iquitos and make him a new gringo dish when I return. It is a simple thing, but it makes me happy.

Bon appétite! Oh wait, that's French. How do you say it in Spanish?

La Reina y La Princesa

I am currently working on my next soul-searching, thought-provoking blog post, but more than a few of you have asked to see more pictures of the reigning Queen and Princess of El Jardin. I'm happy to report that they are finally beginning to get along, however there are still moments when the Princess aggravates the Queen just a little too much. Overall, though, they seem to like each other these days, except at meal time of course - my girls will still wage all out war over food. Nothing like a little kiss (or is it a bite?) to show some affection. Notice the potted plant in the background. Once upon a time there was taller greenery there before the tiny canine lawnmower decided to destroy it. Of course that doesn't even compare to the tree Ina potted that she planned to transfer to the yard. I liken it to a Charlie Brown Christmas tree as it is now merely a twig with a few leaves remaining on top.

Dolly follows Tamy everywhere, including into the pond for a swim. I couldn't help but laugh when my little mud-covered piglet emerged. The first time was a true Kodak moment - subsequent swims, not so funny, especially when she darted through the kitchen door and ran through the house, leaving a trail of sludge behind her.

Tamy's moment of surrender. Poor girl can't even take a nap without Dolly climbing all over her - or using her as a pillow.

I like to refer to this as "Total Relaxation." When you can roll over onto your back, legs in the air, prop yourself against a tree, and never move despite people laughing and taking pictures of you, then you really don't have a care in the world. Oh to sleep like that - well, not exactly like that (wouldn't be very lady-like)!

If only I had a camera with the ability to take pictures in rapid succession you would be able to see what happened next. After one too many nibbles on the ear with those razor-sharp puppy teeth, the Queen had reached her limit and sent the Princess running to hide behind me, yelping all the way. There's never a dull moment in the kingdom of El Jardin.

Hola, Dolly!

I am a new mommy! Before anyone gets too excited, let me say that my infant has four legs, a tail, blonde fur, floppy ears, brown eyes, ferocious breath, and teeth as sharp as razors. This baby cries all night (well, she did the first 3-4 nights), whines when she can't see anyone, chews on whatever is in her path at the moment, and eats/sleeps/goes potty on a fairly regular schedule (not including her in-house accidents). Her name is Dolly and she is my six week old yellow Labrador puppy.

No, nothing happened to Tammy, my 7 year old German Shepherd. She thinks something has happened to her, like she's committed some terrible sin whose resulting punishment is the presence of the new, hyperactive, barking bundle of energy, but she is fine, save a mile-long jealous streak.

We (meaning myself and Todd Garrett - head of Medical Missions of Iquitos) made the decision to get another dog for several reasons. First, Tammy has been the watch dog of the El Jardin property for a long time now and can teach the new puppy what to do. We didn't want to wait until Tammy passed on to doggy heaven, taking all her good guardian secrets with her. Second, the property here is fairly large - two dogs can canvass it better than one. Finally, after a string of break-ins on my block from October to December, what better time could there be to install a new four-legged alarm system? I began my dog search prior to going to the U.S. for the holidays. Thanks to Villa, I was able to get in touch with the man who gave us Tammy, and, as luck would have it, he had recently bred two yellow labs and said the puppies were due to be born around Christmas.

Upon my return to Iquitos a couple of weeks ago, I got a phone call saying my puppy was ready to come to her new home. Boy, was I in for a rude awakening! The last time I had a newborn was about 17 years ago, so to say I had forgotten how much attention puppies require is a gross understatement. After two sleepless nights due to sound barrier breaking wailing and howling, trips outside every couple of hours in order to avoid unwanted clean-ups, and playing referee between the new addition and the current queen of the yard to keep one from literally killing the other, I didn't know whether to cry, scream, take her back to her canine mother, or all of the above. But now, a week later, things have settled down a bit. Tammy and Dolly are getting used to each other (though they definitely are not friends yet), Dolly is sleeping through the night on the screened porch (until she's big enough to join Tammy outdoors), and I have learned the value of grabbing an afternoon power nap (when the baby sleeps, mommy sleeps).

What's in a name? Tammy (pronounced Tommy based on the Spanish pronunciation of the letter 'a') is short for Tamshiyacu. I'm not really sure who named her, but she shares her name with the jungle town that one of our AMF sister churches is partnered with. When Todd and I first began discussing getting another dog for the property, I immediately thought about what I would name her (since I knew I would get another female). Naturally I began with a list of Latino names - and even though I really liked some of them, none really felt right. Then one night I was in the shower with music from my iPod blasting (as is my custom) when an old, well-worn tune had me tapping my foot and shampooing simultaneously. I sang along, loudly (as is also my custom - when there are no guests in the house), the familiar lyrics of Here You Come Again by none other than Dolly Parton, who just happens to be one of Todd's favorite singers (no kidding - who knew she was anybody's favorite?). And so the story goes of how Dolly (the dog) came into her name.

And now, for the moment you've all been waiting for, the pictures. I have tried to get some shots of Dolly and Tammy together, but Tammy will not be still long enough. At this point she allows Dolly about 30 seconds of aggravation time before she jumps up and runs off to hide. Hopefully in the future…

…meanwhile, it's hard to beat unconditional puppy love!

Breath of Heaven

Happy New Year! Well, it's not new anymore, but as this is my first entry of 2010, can you humor me?

Way back in 2009, when Thanksgiving quickly rolled into the month of December, I began to experience my first ever bout with writer's block - a condition which has plagued me for nearly two months. For weeks now I have written and erased repeatedly, stared at a blank screen, and finally, exasperated, turned off the computer hoping for better days. I wouldn't say I'm prolific again yet, but I do have a few thoughts brewing to share with you. Here goes...

While I realize Christmas past is gone and Christmas future is literally eleven months away, I feel the need to revisit my 2009 Advent season to put the proper perspective on my 2010 blog season.

It was mid-December, less than two weeks before Christmas, and I could hardly contain myself as I approached the Plaza de Armas. To my utter delight, the lamp posts that surround the square were elegantly wrapped in white lights, a giant Christmas tree, tastefully decorated in oversized ornaments, stood majestically, shadowing the life-size nativity scene, which could not have been complete without the tribal jungle natives standing guard on either side of the Baby Jesus (next to the Magi of course), while the glass front of the lobby of the El Dorado Five Star Hotel glowed, looking like a picture from the holiday edition of Southern Living magazine. An enormous smile spread across my face and I squealed with excitement, which made my Peruvian friends laugh. The scene was so simple, yet so beautiful. I felt like a little girl again and Christmas was something special - I cannot remember the last time I felt that way.

As you might imagine, Christmas in Peru is quite different from the way we celebrate in the U.S. While U.S. stores are already stocking their Christmas paraphernalia and malls are decking their halls before the last piece of Halloween candy is eaten by a young trick-or-treater (maybe before the first piece is even purchased), you won't find any evidence of the holidays in Iquitos until after December 1, and then you only catch an occasional glimpse - the real decorating doesn't begin until December 15. (I cannot begin to explain how refreshing it was to not be sick of Christmas before Thanksgiving!) Though from time to time you will see images of the white-bearded guy in the big red suit, the myth of Santa Claus is not perpetuated here. The Peruvians, however, do believe each child should get a new toy for Christmas (notice I said toy - singular), and those who are able buy extras and give them to less fortunate friends and neighbors who cannot afford gifts for their kids. In the 2-3 days prior to Christmas, long lines form in every neighborhood and at many churches as adults ladle out steaming hot chocolate into the cups the children bring with them in events known as "chocolatadas." The markets are lined with various brands of "panetton," the fruit bread that is traditionally eaten with the holiday meal at midnight, when Christmas Eve becomes Christmas Day (those who can afford it also have another round of hot chocolate). Christmas Eve is a time of reflection, particularly for those who are spiritual; many Christians spend at least part of the day in church. Commerce ceases on Christmas Day and people emerge from their homes to hang out in the streets all day with their neighbors. It is an opportunity to be together; not a time for opening presents or running themselves ragged with a hectic schedule of meals and travel, but a time to really enjoy family and friends.

That's it. If you're like me, you're surprised by the simplicity of it all. The pace is slow (not unlike the rest of the year); there is no holiday rush. Certainly I was anxious to get back to the U.S. to be with my family and friends on Christmas, but I am glad I opted to remain in Iquitos until December 23, to experience Advent in a new, refreshing way.

This year (oops, last year) I found myself listening to one particular song over and over again, haunted by the melody while pondering its words. It is written from the perspective of the Virgin Mary as she contemplates her magnanimous role in God's ultimate plan of salvation. It occurred to me that this is not just Mary's story, but the tale of every one of us who claim to be believers. We, too, carry Jesus inside us; we have an awesome responsibility to take Him into a lost and dying world. It is a daunting task to say the least, and I (like Mary) question God's wisdom, even His sanity, when He chose me to bear witness to Him, knowing how often and how completely I would mess up. In the midst of her fear and loneliness, Mary realizes that her own strength won't get her very far. Consider the words of the song penned by Amy Grant:

I have traveled many moonless nights; cold and weary, with a babe inside.
And I wonder what I've done-
Holy Father, you have come and chosen me now, to carry your son.

I am waiting in a silent prayer; I am frightened by the load I bear.
In a world as cold as stone, must I walk this path alone?
Be with me now...
Be with me now…

Breath of heaven, hold me together; be forever near me, breath of heaven.
Breath of heaven, light in my darkness, pour over me your holiness, for you are holy,
Breath of heaven.

Do you wonder, as you watch my face, if a wiser one should have had my place? But I offer all I am for the mercy of your plan; help me be strong...
Help me be...
Help me…

Breath of heaven, hold me together; be forever near me, breath of heaven.
Breath of heaven, light in my darkness, pour over me your holiness, for you are holy,
Breath of heaven.

"Be with me now…, help me…, pour over me your holiness…" - simple words; a profound prayer. As the first month of 2010 is already drawing to a close, and as I get back into my Peruvian routine, recovering from a very hectic month of traveling, meetings, and fundraising, I want , no, I desperately need, the breath of heaven.

3 Hours, 46 Minutes, 42 Seconds…

A distinct difference between Iquitos, Peru and Spartanburg, SC (or possibly the entire U.S. as far that goes) is that people here have time for each other. One of my favorite daily sights is when my neighbors come out of their homes, toting their rebar rocking chairs, and arrange themselves on the sidewalks in front of their homes to while away the afternoons/evenings talking to each other. They typically sit for hours chatting with family members and friends, and often passersby will stop as well to introduce themselves or simply to say hello. It's because of this habit that I know everyone up and down Napo Street and they know me - I am the gringa who lives on the corner of the seventh block.

Peruvians enjoy each other's company; it has taken some time for me to get accustomed to this. I'm used to being with people for a purpose: whether at work, in a meeting, at church, in Wal-Mart - wherever we are in the U.S. we always have an agenda, and much of the time we get antsy if someone in any of those locations wants to halt us for too long as we fear we will be late for the next place/event on the list, or we just plain get irritated when people stop us to talk because we want to be left alone. Even at parties or other social functions, at best our conversations are superficial, and we flit around from person to person, lest we actually have to talk about something of substance. Of course I realize that there are plenty of people who do regularly have meaningful conversations - I'm not saying it never happens - but, in general, to the outside observer, ours is a culture that is always busy being with people, but never really having time for them.

Among the things I love most about my life here is that every day, at some point, Villa and I take a break from whatever work we have going on and sit in our own rebar rocking chairs and talk. It is priceless time, because in it I deepen my friendship with the person who takes care of me literally every day, I laugh (and sometimes cry), and I learn valuable lessons about Peruvian culture and language. Perhaps more importantly, I have been granted more than a few opportunities to share my faith and my reason for being here with someone who is not particularly religious and does not go to church, but believes in the sovereign God because he says that same God is so obvious in my life (at which time I get my much needed, regular dose of humility, because I know myself well, and if Villa sees God in me it is only because He truly is there).

Then yesterday I went home with Juan. Since the deaths of their parents, his sister, Beatrice, is the only woman in the house (for all practical purposes), living with 5 of her 6 brothers, her 2 children, her husband, and occasionally the girlfriends of 2 of the brothers, as well as the kids these brothers have produced with said girlfriends. At any given time there may be 12 or more people inhabiting the 3 rooms (one of them is not a bathroom as there is no plumbing where they live) of their wooden shack (which is better than most in that they have a concrete floor (vs. dirt) and aluminum shingles (vs. thatch) for a roof). To say the least, Beatrice has a life that 26 year olds in the U.S. cannot begin to fathom, with the burden of caring for everyone in the house falling on her shoulders. On the way there I asked Juan if she would be upset that he was bringing me home with him unannounced; he looked at me like I'd lost my mind. Actually he was a little insulted and asked me why I would say such a thing. I tried to explain to him that, in the U.S., it is not polite to drop in on people without calling first - he didn't understand. So, the motokar deposited us on the edge of the paved road and off we went on foot, down the dirt road together. When we walked into the house, there were people everywhere and Beatrice was trying to tend to all of their needs (one brother was standing in front of her with a needle and thread, wanting her to stitch up his ripped shorts, another was yelling at her because he couldn't find his shoes, yet another wanted to know if she planned to make lunch that day), while simultaneously spanking her 3 year old and nursing her 5 month old baby that was nestled in the crook of her left arm. But when she saw me standing in the doorway, she broke into a huge smile, forgot about everything around her, invited me in to sit on her bed with her, and told me she knew company was coming because a butterfly had flown through her window earlier in the day. Almost immediately everyone else in the house flocked to me as well, and before I knew it, 6 of us were all piled up on the bed together talking, laughing, and playing with the baby, while the 3 year old crawled all over me as though I were playground equipment. And so went the next 3 hours. Juan stood in the corner of the room for most of the time, watching from a distance and beaming proudly, because his family was embracing me (as he already knew they would) and because I was returning the favor. Before I left I was hugged, kissed, and invited to come back any time and often. In reality (and in my mind) a similar situation in the U.S. plays out very differently (and to most anyone, myself included, who says they would react in the same manner as Beatrice, I have only this to say - liar, liar, pants on fire!). From Juan's family, I learned a lot about what it means to make a person, a total stranger and a foreigner no less, feel welcome, valued, respected, and appreciated.

In case you've been wondering about the title of this blog post, 3 hours, 46 minutes, and 42 seconds would be the length of time my brother and I talked on the phone one Saturday afternoon back in September. Anyone who knows him is reading this and thinking, "What??? I don't believe it. There is no way Brad McAbee talked that long to anyone about anything," as he is typically a man of few words. Nevertheless, I speak only the truth - we did actually talk that long. Now, nearly 3 months later, I have no idea what we talked about (and it really doesn't matter), but I have yet to forget the amount of time. In the midst of his crazy football season schedule and my tumultuous transition to foreign missionary life, for one afternoon we let the rest of the world go by and simply made time for each other.

As I count my blessings tomorrow, my list will be decorated with my family and many friends back home, and punctuated by the unmerited privilege I have been given to live here in Peru, being accepted and loved by people who have taught me more than I could ever hope to help them. And if I take nothing else from my time here, I hope I never forget the infinite value of the individual (family, friend, and/or stranger alike) and the importance of just being with them no matter what else is going on around me.

Happy Thanksgiving!

Big Juan and Little Juan

On my second trip to Iquitos in 2003, I met an 18 year old kid named Juan. So handsome and charismatic, with a smile that would light up the Boulevard on the darkest of nights, and the ability to speak relatively fluent English, he easily charmed many gringos visiting Iquitos - that is until he stole from them (money, shoes, shirts, caps, whatever was within easy reach when they weren't watching), or they saw him falling down drunk (or high, or both, as the case may be). Suddenly he wasn't cute anymore, and he became more of a street thug than a dirt-poor kid down on his luck. Juan is one of 6 children born into extreme poverty to a mother who died of cancer when he was in his early teens, and a father who daily went about the business of drinking himself to death (and unfortunately did just that earlier this year) for as long as Juan can remember. For most of his life he's been roaming the streets, searching for a place to belong, and getting into trouble. He's known all over town and pretty much no one has anything good to say about him - locals and gringos alike - with the exception of those who are just like him. Now, at age 25, he seems even more troubled and more lost than he was when we first came to know each other.

Juan typically spends what little money he may have of his own for drugs and alcohol (eating is low on his list of priorities), so when I am with him it is usually in a restaurant, as it is my habit to feed him. As I sat at Ari's Burger last Friday (a popular open-air restaurant on the Plaza de Armas) watching him savor every bite of his plate of rice mixed with shrimp, chicken, and pork and a side of fried plantains, he said he'd heard I was living in Iquitos now. As you might imagine, Juan isn't known for his honesty; he tells people what they want to hear, very little of which is ever true. I have always been aware of this, but the look on his face was priceless as I recalled, out loud, all the lies I knew for certain he'd told me throughout the years. He was fuming mad at first and about to get up and leave the table when I said, "Today we start over. Whatever happens, whatever you do, no matter how bad it is, even if you think I'm going to be furious (which I probably will), you must tell me the truth." He agreed (do I think for one minute that he's going to suddenly be honest? - not on your life, but we had to start somewhere), and we began a conversation that would lead me into a mighty internal struggle for many days to come, teach me more about sharing than I've ever learned from anyone in my life, and bring me face-to-face with not only his need for a Savior, but even more so, my own.

It was almost like he was relieved when I invoked the honesty policy as he poured out the 'not-so-good' things he'd done since the last time I saw him. (By the way, the last time I had seen him was more than 2 years ago, prior to his tour of duty in the Peruvian Army, when Frank Gonda and I were taking him to a medical clinic to get the gaping hole in his forehead stitched up after one of his drunken brawls, which had also left him without his 4 beautiful, pearly white front teeth, and I was MAD.) When he finished purging, he said he didn't expect me to understand, because I'd probably never done anything really bad in my life. He also said he knew God wasn't interested in him because God doesn't have any use for people who can't change, and, no matter how hard he tried to change, he always seemed to fall back into his old ways. Raw honesty - that's what was on the table; gone were the well-rehearsed responses he'd fed to countless members of U.S. church mission teams, tickling their ears, making some of them believe they'd actually gotten through to him. There's neither space nor reason to recount all the details of our conversation, but I assured him that plenty of skeletons reside in my closet and told him if God required people to successfully change themselves before they could come to Him, then Heaven would be an empty place. He pressed me further asking what God would say if he messed up again that same night, and I told him God would say the same thing to Juan Sangama that He says to Pam McAbee when she messes up every day of her life - He would say that His mercies are new every morning and His grace abounds and He would invite Juan, just as He invites Pam and everyone else in the world, to lay our burdens on Him and let Him be about the business of saving us. He didn't believe me.

Meanwhile, a filthy, shoeless, little boy with quarter sized holes in the chest of his sleeveless t-shirt and rips in his threadbare shorts paused in front of our table (we were sitting at one of the tables closest to the street) to watch Juan eat. Without missing a beat, Juan signaled for the waitress to bring another plate, fork, and glass and, in the midst of this intense conversation, raked a pile of rice onto the plate, added a couple of slices of fried bananas, and poured the rest of his drink into the extra cup. He held up his hand to me indicating a pause in our discussion, invited the little boy, a total stranger, (also named Juan as we later found out) to sit down, put the food in front of him, and told him to eat. Little Juan told us that he is 7 years old and lives on the corner of Raymondi and Nauta streets (which means that he sleeps on the street underneath a cardboard box) and that his mom won't let him live at her house in Belen (the section of town where the poorest of the poor live) because she has too many other kids and he is old enough to take care of himself - he hasn't seen her in months and she never comes looking for him. Little Juan ate until he was full, then stood up, looked me in the eyes and said "Gracias," smiled, and walked away. Before his meal was over, Big Juan would invite yet another stranger to join us and would share his food a second time. Never have I ever been so unselfish.

Three hours later, Juan insisted on walking the 7 blocks with me to El Jardin. The last thing he wanted to know for that day was if we could get together regularly to talk now that I called the jungle my home. The answer, of course, was yes. We didn't bother to make any plans; though Iquitos is a city of nearly half a million people, it is a small, isolated place, and people aren't hard to find. All I have to do is walk up to the Plaza or Boulevard, ask anyone if they have seen him, then come back home. Later that day or the next, whenever I venture out again, he will be waiting for me. We said our 'see-you-laters,' and as the heavy iron gate slammed shut between us, I felt like I was carrying the equivalent of its weight into the house with me.

Inside, I sat on my couch for another 3 hours - just sat - pondering - things like why a 7 year old is considered old enough to fend for himself, why a 25 year old grows a little more hopeless every day, how anyone can really help in a substantial way in the face of such huge generational and cultural problems, why I am here and ultimately what good I can do, where God is in all of this, where the church is in all of this - then the tears began. I told a friend later that what I'd seen and experienced was nothing new - it is the reality of daily life here - I see it every time I leave the house. But on Friday, it was like I was seeing it all again for the very first time. In The Irresistible Revolution, Shane Claiborne says, "When we look through the eyes of Jesus, we see new things in people. In the murderers, we see our own hatred. In the addicts, we see our own addictions. In the saints, we catch a glimpse of our own holiness. We can see our own brokenness, our own violence, our own ability to destroy, and we can see our own sacredness, our own capacity to love and forgive. When we realize that we are both wretched and beautiful, we are freed up to see others the same way" (264). Maybe that's what happened. Maybe in Juan I saw everything that is good and bad about me all at the same time. Maybe for the first time I quit silently, subconsciously judging him (in the same way that others did openly, making mine a more grievous offense). Maybe I realized "No one is beyond redemption" (253). And maybe, just maybe, for one brief moment, I had the ability to love as God loves.

Ding, Dong the Alligator is Dead

Once upon a time, for whatever reason, my friend Todd Garrett decided that the water in the pond here at El Jardin (the Medical Missions property where I live in Iquitos) was lonely, so he purchased a baby alligator and put it in the pond to keep the water company. Yes, I know, your minds are rambling through the same list of rhetorical questions as mine, with the primary one being: Has he lost his mind? Needless to say, since June I have been on a quest to find and remove the creature. Naturally I was not about to perform the task at hand, so several days a week for the past 5 months I have said to Villa that he needs to take care of this. He has given me one excuse after another as to why it hasn't been done: too much water in the pond (he can't get in to look), too little water in the pond (it has dried up due to lack of rain and the alligator has buried itself in the mud), too much mud (he doesn't have any boots), and my personal favorite, he hasn't seen the alligator in weeks therefore it must be dead and/or gone (you can see the logic, right?). I bought him a pair of wading boots for the purpose of getting in the pond to search; we also have a machete and any number of other tools that could be used to remedy the problem, yet the excuses continue.

Even I know that the best time to locate an alligator is at night with a flashlight, so Monday evening, just after dark, I took my little linterna and traipsed to the back of the property where the pond is located. One quick sweep across the water with the beam of light and, sure enough, there they were - 2 little orange eyes peering at me. Elder Luis and a couple of other guys were hanging out at the church next door and called out to me, asking what I was doing. I told Luis that I desperately wanted to get rid of the alligator and asked if he knew anyone who'd be willing to come get it out (since Villa is obviously as much a fraidy-cat as I am). Luis asked if I had a bat or other heavy object (which I did) and said he could take care of the problem himself. So I ran to the gate to let him in. Fifteen minutes later, after a good whack on the head with a metal rake, Luis scooped the unconscious reptile out of the water, took further measures to ensure it was dead, then picked it up by the tail and promptly carried it out the gate with him and over to the church for everyone to see. And that was that.

Of course, when Villa found out the next day, he turned on the machismo and said he would have been able to get it too if he'd been here at night (at which time I reminded him that he spent 3 weeks of nights here while I was in the U.S. in September). He just laughed that silly little giggle of his and shrugged his shoulders. So now we're on to worrying about bigger and better things, such as how to make El Jardin more secure for me after the string of break-ins on this block over the past week. How's that for a cliff hanger?