After living in Peru for nearly two years, my home here in
Chimbote has truly passed from something new and temporary to something stable,
routine, and ordinary. The people living
around me who were once strangers have become my neighbors, and we greet each
other with a smile each time I pass by. “To
the church,” they say. “Yes,” I
respond. The streets between my house
and the parish, downtown, and the market, and the numerous cars and vans of
various numbers that speed by, are no longer daunting mysteries but familiar,
well-worn routes. The people I live with
are no longer “other volunteers,” but friends, companions, and
co-collaborators. And most of all, the “child
workers,” the “people with disabilities,” and the parishioners, young and old, have
become Cristian, Jessica, Teresita, Olga, Patty, Nataly, Danny, Richard, Oscar…
and on and on. While obviously never
replacing my family back home, the individuals in my immediate reality have
definitely come to be people I turn to, people I feel comfortable with, people
I share my story with and people who continually honor me with their stories as
well.
Now, as the date for my departure is nearing (July 24), I’m
beginning to feel this reality slipping away.
When I leave, my community here will not cease to be a part of my
reality, but they will take “segundo plano” as they say in Spanish, or “second
plane.” They will no longer be my daily
routine. They will become the people
that I “keep in touch with.” And I have to say, that's not easy to imagine.
Needless to say, I am excited to see my family and friends
back home and dive into a new adventure, a new unknown. But while I am still here, I will strive to be here.
I hope to communicate the love and gratitude that I feel toward each
person that has touched my life here, and probably cry a little, while
remembering that no matter where we are, our lives are always interwoven with
the lives of others.
And hey, I’m not gone yet!
Three weeks left, and each day is an opportunity for transformation in
God’s love.
