it's so fluffy

"As they were going along the road, someone said to Him, 

'I will follow You wherever You go.' And Jesus said to him, 

'The foxes have holes and the birds of the air have nests, 

but the Son of Man has nowhere to lay His head.'" 

-Luke 9: 57-58

As our plane began its final descent into Lima, I shared some profound reflections with my sister by relating my emotions to those of Agnes in Despicable Me, whose excitement can hardly be contained by the words she chooses:

While Lima is far from fluffy, the knowledge that I would soon be re-immersed in a world of crazy drivers, humid ocean air, Peruvian Spanish slang, delicious piles of rice, cumbia music, crowing roosters, street-side venders, etc., etc…. was too much to bear.  No words could suffice.

Plus, I got to see my brother for the first time since he moved to Peru in September. 

So it was a complicated whirlwind of desires—desiring to see my brother, help my sister experience Peru, have sibling share time, meet my brother’s community, have an authentic experience of Lima, and, under the surface of all those desires, really wanting to go to Chimbote.  Because, said and done, yes, I was happy just to be in Peru, but Lima is not my home. 

Lima

Unfortunately, it is my brother’s home and his primary experience of Peru (which I say with a smile because there are wonderful things about Lima, too, but it’s kind of its own world). 

Despite all the noisy traffic and polluted air, the overwhelming characteristic of the visit for me was a sense of community.  I felt communion with my brother and sister as we explored the new ways we had grown apart and together during the previous several months.  I was embraced by the Sodalit community as they continuously went out of their way to make sure my sister and I were happy and comfortable.  I felt pride in observing so many signs that my brother has developed meaningful relationships not just within his household but with all the people around him—little acts of kindness and teasing from the ladies who cook for his community, a warm greeting from the neighborhood guard, affection and respect from the community leaders of Las Tunas in Pamplona Alta, where my brother visits regularly. 

I was opened up to a new dimension of Peru, a dimension that my brother is more at home in than I am.  He became the caretaker, the money handler, the bus navigator, the presenter… all roles that I had previously filled when family came to visit me in Peru. 

This new dimension now also included my younger sister.  Her unique perspective and insights as we explored the saints and churches of Lima helped me reach a new depth of reflection on Peru’s unique history.

So it was difficult to say goodbye to my family, especially Jeff, but he has now become an integrated piece of my experience of Peru, and in a way I feel closer to him now than ever.

Chimbote

Lima was nice, but I can’t help but grin when I remember pulling in to the Terminal Terrestre (bus terminal) in Chimbote.  The foul smell of fish, the taste of humid salty air, venders selling sandwiches of pan francesa and shredded chicken and cups of hot quinoa for breakfast… I was home.

There were so many little things that I hadn’t even realized I miss.  I miss bumpy moto rides blasting reaggaton music.   I miss the accessibility of fresh fruits and veggies, snacks, and household products through the local market or corner stores.  I miss the mornings: donkey carts, cool air, people heading off to work, people just finishing the party, women starting lunch still wearing their pajamas.  I miss hanging up my laundry on the roof.  I miss bargaining with taxi drivers.  I miss cachangas and combinado and Inca Cola and fresh bread and fishing boats and having neighbors… (My heartache gets stronger with each sentence I write!)

During my four and a half days in Chimbote, I was busy from one activity to the next from morning until night.  I could frame these activities in many ways—things I did, foods I ate, places I went… but none would provide exactly the right fit, because the visit was, more than anything, about being together. 

If there was any doubt in my mind before this visit, it’s gone now: what makes Chimbote home for me isn’t its cultural charm.  What makes Chimbote home are the youth in my parish family.

I was so touched by the effort everyone made to spend time with me, as well as their generosity and hospitality.  We played volleyball, had a theater practice, waited in line two hours for a pollada (chicken dinner), went for walks, went out to eat, danced, took pictures, talked, laughed…

Returning to Chimbote has helped me to recognize that many of my friendships there are truly unique.  They are not based on age or similar life stages; they are not based on shared career interests; they are not based on political ideology or even religion. 

They are based on our desire for community.  Everyone who comes through the youth program, even if they don’t stay, is seeking to belong somewhere.  And those who stay learn to love each other not because of everything they share in common, but simply because they are members of the same community.  (Am I painting an idyllic picture?  The community certainly isn’t perfect, but the love is there!)

Thanks to the grace of God and the love of my friends in our little corner of Chimbote, I feel affirmed in the fact that I do belong in their community.  I am not just a passing breeze through their lives, and neither are they through mine. 

We are friends.  We are a community.  And I can’t think of one place where I feel more comfortable and more alive than I do at San Francisco parish in Chimbote, Perú.

Chicago

After hugging two of my best friends goodbye at the bus terminal in Chimbote, we watched each other through the bus window as we texted words that we had been unable to say out loud. 

We are sad, but you are a part of us now and you will always have a home here, they wrote.

As I read, I let them see my tears.  I replied that they are also a part of me, and that I hope to be able to carry the love that they have shown for me and share it with other people wherever I go.

On the bus ride from Chimbote to Lima, I wrote in my journal:

Thank you, God, for so many meaningful relationships in my life… so many opportunities to love you and be loved by you.

                            I love falling in love,

and I know I will again, dónde sea.

Now as I prepare to expand the territory that I can call home, I open my heart to let that happen, so that I may continue to be so excited about life that I can hardly contain it in my words.  

Reflection on Japan 2: Itadakimasu = “I humbly receive”

Itadakimasu.

What I love about this word is, while it’s roots are Buddhist, it’s meaning does not exclude any specific religion nor turn off the non-religious.  While those who believe in God may automatically interpret this as a nod toward God, as I did, its intended meaning does not necessarily assume that God is in the picture at all. 

Reflecting the Buddhist principle of respect for all living things, itadakimasu is a recognition of all the living beings that contributed to my ability to consume a meal—from the plants and animals that may have been used to make it, to the farmer or hunter or grocer or factory worker or cook or all of the above who were crucial to the process of this food being placed upon my table.

To integrate this phrase into my own world of understand, I ask, what are the dominant attitudes that I have experienced regarding the same act of consuming food?

A bowl of strawberries I was given from a friend I made in
Nagaoka--they were grown in Nagaoka, she proudly told me
in broken English.

One that comes to mind quickly is the idea of "blessings." I think many of us were taught to recognize food and other material possessions as blessings.  Without criticizing our use of the word, I simply question what it makes me think and feel. 

Yes, it brings God into the picture, which for me as a Christian is good.  However, it also leaves me feeling that somehow this food or material item dropped directly from heaven and into my hands.  It does not bring to my mind the expansive community that I belong to, the people I am now intimately connected to, because of my consumption of this product.

Then there’s the attitude that many of us were directly or indirectly taught, that of entitlement: I am able to eat this food because I worked for it and I deserve it.  This is especially true when we indulge in some luxury—I can eat this chocolate because I deserve it! 

Not that we shouldn’t reward good behavior, but this attitude again cuts me off from the rest of society.  Not only did I work hard to earn this, but somebody else, or perhaps many people, have worked just as hard so that I could be rewarded.  And, unfortunately in many cases with our food today, the people involved in the processes of food production have not been rewarded in proportion to their labor.

As a Christian it becomes easy to just shrug sympathetically and say that their sacrifice will be rewarded in heaven, but this kind of lets us off the hook.  Though we are not of the world, we are in the world, which requires us to be stewards of creation and promoters of the peace and justice and hope and love characteristic of the Kingdom of God.

Setting aside my predisposition toward blessings and entitlement, I can begin to appreciate the deeper meaning that, “Itadakimasu/I humbly receive,” evokes in me, and let it transform the way I think and live.

Now, I haven’t spent enough time in Japan to see if words translate to action.  But I have been touched by the humble gratitude expressed in such a simple word. 

For me it reaches beyond just a feeling of abstract gratitude and calls us to greater consciousness.  It helps us to remember that we are not an island, but an intricately connected community.  It brings to mind issues of justice and respect for life that we rarely prompt ourselves to think about, all before the first delicious bite of food enters our mouths.

A young boy paying respects to the temple of Buddha.

Scott and I enjoying
Japanese cuisine.... french
fries with chopsticks :)

And this is not even to mention the cultural, if not explicit, presence of this beautiful word in other aspects of Japanese life that I have been blessed to witness humbly given--the simple but profound acknowledgment of another person in bowing, the kindness of complete strangers in helping me find my way, the celebration of life and community in the midst of a tragic history, the deep appreciation and honor shown toward historic temples and shrines, the pride and delight shown in restaurants and hotels to be able to share something of themselves, the unashamed expressions of fashion and self-identity.  No culture is without flaw, but each has much to offer.

Recognizing my limitations in expressing my full gratitude, I humbly receive.

reflection on japan 1: itadakimasu

One morning in Japan, after devouring our fresh-from-the-oven Japanese bakery pastries, S. headed to work and I set out for a neighborhood in Tokyo called Shinjuku.  My destination was Shinjuku Gyoen National Park, a large area of trees and ponds featuring an English-style grassy area, a French-style rose garden, and a more expansive Japanese garden.  I bought a to-go lunch from the train station before navigating my way to the gardens.

Once there, I wandered around a bit, finally settling under a tree in the Japanese gardens to eat my lunch, something like popcorn chicken with rice and a couple of BBQ meatballs.  

Breakfast

Some of the more adventurous lunch
selections.

An intersection in Shinjuku on my way from the train station
to the park.

A young couple in traditional Japanese
dress having a photo shoot in the Japanese garden.

My Lunch.

All around me, people were talking and laughing as they opened up their baskets and distributed food--young couples, groups of moms with their young children, girl friends and coworkers escaping from the city noise for a restful lunch.

Near me, two young women (my age?) settling under a tree, laid down their blanket, and unpacked plates, wine glasses, and chopsticks.

I glanced their way more often than normal, observing their behavior and etiquette--feet tucked to the side (I quickly shifted my legs from cross-legged to one side), a patterned plastic picnic blanket beneath them (I did my best to make my slip open plastic bag look like a blanket), their homemade food brought in reusable containers (I felt even more shame at my plastic disposable-packed lunch).

But when they finished setting everything up, before they started eating, my self-consciousness switched to excitement as they did something I was familiar with.

"Itadakimasu," they said as they each put their hands together and bowed slightly.  They said it in a way that was smiling and full of energy, almost singing, stressing the "maas" at the end of the word.

Aha!  I know that word! I thought, delighted at this real-world event that actually connected to something I had learned about before.  With hesitating, I used up a bit of my 100MB of international data to send S. a message about my astuteness. 

He had just taught me that word--which I had trouble remembering beyond the first syllable that sounded like "eat"--in the days previous, as the word used by Japanese before eating a meal.  He explained it to be kind of like saying grace, but not exactly, roughly translating it on-the-spot as something like "I have been given."

I like that, I had thought, and had told him so.  And now, after seeing it in action, I felt more confident about my desire to adopt this little piece of true Japanese culture, feeling it to be a rite-of-passage in my immersion.

I felt myself standing up a little bit straighter when crossing paths with other "tourists."  I earned it, after all.  I knew where to find the most delicious breakfast, I could navigate the trains, I knew how to enjoy lunch like the locals, and I could recognize Japanese words and recite them back if given a moment to recall them.

I had yet to understand that the true meaning of this little word was something quite contrary to the pride I felt at learning it.

¿No entiendes? – a reflection on (not) speaking Japanese

I’ve been in Japan one week now. Communication, or rather lack of, is definitely a struggle. My brain seems to think that a foreign language=Spanish. A couple days ago, the woman who greeted us as we came and went from our hotel in Tokyo said to me, “Going out?” as I was heading toward the door, and I said, “Si,” before thinking “yes” or the Japanese affirmative “eh.”

Last night I dreamt that I was getting a souvenir at a shop here in Japan, and at the register the woman began speaking to me in Japanese. At my reaction of a blank stare, she said, “¿No entiendes?” (Spanish for, “You don’t understand?), and I excitedly began speaking to her in Spanish. I think it was a reflection of my increasing desire for a personal encounter amidst the fast-paced world of Tokyo—that is, a personal encounter beyond the mute pointing and nodding that had gotten me thus far.

Now Nagaoka is an even more daunting challenge. Unlike Tokyo, it is anything but a tourist destination, especially for foreigners. But it seems to already be unraveling some small surprises.

Entrance to the train station.

Some houses along a small river through Nagaoka. 

This morning I wandered into a small gift shop, after having passed by without entering, debating about it, and finally deciding to go for it. It was full of little wooden carvings of Japanese symbols like monkeys and dragons and various other carvings for home décor. The store owner emerged, a woman about 60 years old.

“Konichiwa,” I said, acknowledging her. She began speaking rapidly in Japanese.

“Nihongo.. skoshidake…” I stumbled. Japanese… just a little. And she nodded and watched me silently. I got up the courage to use one of the phrases I had been practicing all week with no real-life application to date.

“Atsui des ne.” It’s hot outside, huh? She agreed, then quickly disappeared through a side door. She emerged a couple minutes later with hot tea, and poured me a cup. I took it, thanked her, and sat down to drink. After a few moments in silence, she tried to speak English to me.

“You like…(some mumbling)?” I said yes. Then we began to have a broken conversation with bits and pieces of her English and my Japanese, as I explained where I was from and why I was in Nagaoka. As we reached the limit of our basic language skills, she went next door and came back with another woman, a friend.

Her friend appeared to know even less English, but quickly became quite concerned about me and my situation.

For the next two hours they attempted to help me figure out things to do in Nagaoka, first calling an English teacher friend they knew to translate. He suggested they take me back to the hotel where somebody would speak English. So, even though my hotel was right across the street, they closed down shop and escorted me to the hotel desk for help. The hotel clerk suggested taking me to some information center. So, they walked me a few blocks to the International Center where we could get some materials in English. Following one of the suggestions of the girl there, they then walked me to a main events center, where they directed me toward a 3-D theater showing a 15-minute video of Nagaoka’s famous fireworks show.

Itki, Me, and Yoku, posing for a picture before saying goodbye.

Though we had only known each other a few hours, we had trouble saying goodbye. We took a picture together, we shook hands several times, I thanked them, they said lots of things in Japanese that I didn’t understand, and they finally left.

Me watching the 3-D movie
of fireworks.

Not knowing a language certainly makes meaningful human interaction harder to come by, but not impossible—if only I were always brave enough to walk through the door of the small, mysteries gift shops!

my sad is

Really good days are those when I am attentive enough to appreciate the mystery of the people around me. Part of my current job is picking up eight high school newcomers from the high school and driving them five blocks to the middle school, where the newcomers program is based, and then driving them back. I don't teach them, so our contact is pretty minimal. Our conversations are basic, with their limited English and my efforts to avoid speaking purely in Spanish with most of them (to push them to learn English, and to not exclude those who aren't Spanish-speaking). But they are a cheery bunch and we usually manage to have positive interactions. One day this week I loaded up the girls and as we started moving, I asked them how they were. Some didn't catch the question; somebody said "fine" from the back of the van. "Are you happy?" I asked emphatically. I got some nods, and a couple of smiles. One of the girls raised her hand. "I am sad." "Sad? Why? Did something happen?" I asked in English before slipping into Spanish to make sure she understood. "¿Algo pasó?" "No. My sad is my brother." Her brother still lives in Guatemala, so she hasn't seem him for several months. Then another girl chirped up from the back. "My sad is Guatemala." Then another voice joined in--"My sad is my grandma." I didn't quite know how to respond, so I taught them to say, "I miss..." But somehow their attempt to speak with incorrect English seemed to convey their feelings better. I am thankful for the simple honesty with which those girls expressed deep and painful truths. I pray that we can all speak our sadness--and our happiness--and be a support for one another each and every day.

white girl

I recently started a new job, taking the place of a teacher's aid on maternity leave.  I help with the Schuyler Middle School's newcomers program, a classroom full of 6th-8th graders who have come from abroad and are learning English to transition into the regular classroom.

I love it so far, and am getting to know students from across Latin America--Guatemala, Mexico, Cuba--and from around the world with a student from Hong Kong and two families from Ethiopia.  Yes, Schuyler, Nebraska is becoming quite a modern-day melting pot.

We push our students to speak in English as much as possible, but now that the Spanish-speakers know I speak their language, they often opt for that route.  I was teasing one of our Ethiopian students that he's going to finish school speaking both English and Spanish, and he said, "Si."

We've also had a few moments to get to know each other a little better, while they work on projects or have a little down town in between classes.  A conversation this week reminded me that the difficult reality of immigration is never too far beneath the surface.  It was with one of our Mexican students, when he realized that I'm a "white girl."

"Where are you from?" he asked me, in Spanish.
"Not from Schuyler, but close to here," I replied, assuming "Dodge" would mean nothing to him.
"But in the United States?"
"Yeah."
"Were you born here?" he continued.
"Yes."
"Oh, so you have papers."
Of course I do, I thought, and told him so, almost as if he were joking.  But he wasn't.
"So where are you parents from?"
"Here.  They were born here too."
"And your grandparents?"
"Also from here."
"Oh, so you're a güera (white girl), no offense."
"Yeah," I conceded.  I am a white girl.
"Ohh.  So what kind of music do you like?"

This is just one snippet that gives a bit of insight from his perspective.  Unfortunately living without papers is a reality lived by many in Schuyler, even many students, which is why we must keep pushing for a more just and effective system of laws opening our country to immigrants and welcoming those who are here.  

I am excited, because I will be filling this position until the end of the school year, which will give me a chance to build more solid relationships with the students.  And at any rate, the newcomers classroom will be a good transitional step into the program in Intercultural Ministry that I'll be starting in the fall!

...are you hispanic?

Shout out to my mom, Joan, for suggesting I tell the following story on my blog.

One of the special highlights of substitute teaching for me is that the two schools where I´m teaching both have significant Latin American immigrant populations, which sometimes gives me the opportunity to speak Spanish and always gives me the opportunity to gain insight into the lives of immigrant children in rural Nebraska.  And, sometimes, it just gives me a little laugh.

I recently substitute taught for the Spanish teacher at an Elementary school.  Ironically, all students take Spanish at this school, even if they are Spanish-speaking.  So although I was only teaching basics, as I moved from class to class many of the students could tell by the way I pronounced the words that I actually knew Spanish.  That was definitely the case as I started class with the 5th graders, and two students toward the back were whispering back and forth even as I began the lesson.

"Eyes up here and mouths closed, please," I stated firmly without losing my place in the lesson.  The whispering boy raised his hand.

"Do you have a question?" I asked him skeptically.  Satisfied, he lowered his hand and pointed to his friend.

"She wants to know if you're Hispanic."

I smiled, flattered.  I was often tempted to tell students I was Peruvian, but when the words came out I always ended up telling the truth.  So I explained that no, I am not Hispanic, but that I do speak pretty good Spanish because I lived in Peru.  From somewhere in the room I heard someone whisper, "See, I told you!"

We continued with the lesson, though classes with Spanish-speaking students are always more energy-charged once they know I know.

And that makes it all the more fun!

Merry Christmas from my family!

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on pilgrimage

I've heard it said that saints make saints.  Some proof of that is that four of the most popular Peruvian saints, St. Turibius, St. John Macías, St. Martin de Porres, and St. Rose of Lima all lived during the same time and knew each other.   I imagine they inspired each other, and empowered each other to live authentic lives for God.

Of course, it's just another way of saying being around great people helps to make you a better person, if you aren't interested in sainthood.  I am so blessed to be surrounded by many great people--that is, people striving for greatness.  I'm sure they wouldn't want to be categorized as "great" :).  Though to their credit, I recently heard that the idea that accomplishments and intelligence make greatness is kind of a Western idea, and many Eastern cultures place more merit in the struggling itself.  So, I suppose simply striving to be great people makes them great people, and that's why I am so grateful for them!

One of those people who is particularly present with me right now is my little brother Jeff, who just reminded me in his blog not to bound myself by limits.  It's a difficult thing in a culture where the "path to success" is often a bit cookie-cutter.  And it's a particular struggle for me now as I am on the brink of a life-defining step!  (ironically, isn't every step we take life-defining?)

It just started snowing again outside the window of this coffee shop in downtown Minneapolis, and there's something you can't beat about the coziness of watching it snow outside while you are toasty warm inside!  I'm here for several reasons, which could be stated pretty simply or honestly.

Stated simply, I'm here to visit a couple of graduate schools.

Stated honestly, I'm here to be attentive to the movements deep in my soul as I contemplate the next step, and I'm here to do it in the company of one of my soul mates, another of those great people in my life.  That would be Kelli,  my two-year housemate and roommate in Peru, who I haven't seen since we parted ways in the Houston airport on July 31st, and whose influence on me must not be understated!

So I thank you for your prayers/positive vibes directed my way on this vocational journey!  And thanks for being great people!  You can be sure I will be sending up prayers and emitting all the positive vibes I can so that all of us can progress together toward a world community driven by love for all our brothers and sisters.   Peace!

toes on cold cement

There are about three places in the world where time truly stands still, where the past and the future cease to exist and all that matters is the present.  One of those is under a tree outside my host family´s house in the mountains of the Dominican Republic, one is on and around the sand dune just outside Chimbote on Avenida Perú, and the other, the place I currently resort to, is on the front porch of my parents' house.

My parents' house faces east, so on a fall morning the crisp air is warmed by the rising sun.  It's a sensation I truly appreciate after living in Chimbote, where sunshine equals burning, and "winter" basically means cloudy.  Fall and winter are much less bearable without sunshine, but here we get the best of both worlds.

Anyway, it is a very grounding place, perfect for drinking morning coffee and imaging God's face smiling at me, as Sr. Dorothy has recommended I do.  As of this week I have begun to feel the anguish of having to choose a future as I realize that grad school apps are due in a mere couple of months.  That means battling questions like, "How will this program help you to achieve your personal and professional goals?"  A difficult question when I don't know what those goals are!  Though thanks to my good professor C-los, I am realizing that the answers are already within me, I just have to listen closely.  Still, it's one thing to be internally aware of them, and another to put them down on paper.

But I will not be intimidated, because as I was reminded yesterday by the first reading, I am not alone!  This verse showed up at the perfect time.  So perfect, that I used it again today to add a drawing inspired by the landscape I see every morning, opening to reveal the right path.  And that's what I will leave you with!  May it be a message for us all, especially those of us in the midst of difficult decisions (which, actually, is probably everybody)!

"Ya estoy enviando a mi Ángel delante de ti para que te proteja en el viaje, hasta indroducirte en el lugar que te he preparado.  Anda derecho en su presencia y hazle caso: no le seas rebelde." -Éxodo 23, 20-21a

The color quality isn't great since I used colored pencils,
but I'm not trying to be a famous artist :)

"See, I am sending an angel before you, to guard you on the way and bring you to the place I have prepared.  Be attentive to him and heed his voice.  Do not rebel against him." -Exodus 23: 20-21a

wait--i´m not going to see them tomorrow?

I have been home in Nebraska for one month now.  At times it feels just like it has my whole life -- like my house -- and at moments that feeling will suddenly disappear when I see a picture of people in Chimbote, or think about what I would be doing if I were still there, or get a crazy urge to hear Alejandro sing, "Procuro Olvidarte" as he does (almost) every Sunday at theater rehearsal or to play a "dinámica," or Peruvian ice-breaker game.  In those moments I become acutely aware that "home" is no longer defined by one place, and the feeling of being home will never be fully satisfied neither here nor there.

Of course, it´s not exactly a new concept for me.  In many ways, I went through similar transition pains after returning from a semester in the Dominican Republic,  but that time was also very different.  While I did come to love my host families in the Dominican Republic very much, and missed them painfully, in those four months I never quite just became somebody´s "neighbor."  Yes, in Chimbote I was always the "misionera" or the "gringa" for most strangers, but for many people I was also just Emily.  After two years I was really just beginning to feel totally comfortable being me, in a totally different culture and language.  

And then suddenly Kelli and I were sitting on a bench outside the San Antonio airport waiting for a ride to take us back to the world of air-conditioned meetings and ready-made food.  Occasionally I have heard it said as, "back to the real world," which is perhaps how it seems to those who haven´t known anything else.  But quite honestly, since being home I haven´t felt further from the real world, and have felt much more like I´m walking through a dream world than I ever did in Chimbote.

Complement this dream-like state with a series of really happy hellos and really sad goodbyes as my siblings come and go -- home to California, off to college in Ohio, or into religious formation in Peru -- plus recognizing that to be happy I need to seek life-giving activities here (about to start substitute teaching and likely volunteering in youth ministry in a nearby parish)... and we start to get a somewhat accurate, yet still very incomplete, idea of the past month.

In many ways I think I haven´t even realized yet that nowhere in my near future are spontaneous trips to the beach, theater rehearsals, English conversation nights, community lunches, arguing matches with the cats, intense parish volleyball games, walks home with the kids from LENTCH, delicious late-night street foods, etc., etc., etc....

But that´s okay, because the real blessing is having so many people in Chimbote who will continue to be a part of my life, and discovering the ways that God will continue to use me and teach me through the people who now surround me.  

So I do ask you to pray for me in this transition, not for my own sake but for the sake of unity, of family, of sharing and of understanding.  So I can continue to move and be moved towards building God´s kingdom in this country I have come home to, a country very divided, so that we can all enjoy a world where cooperation and respect for one another is primary. 

Thanks for reading.  Hasta pronto!  Peace.

in the in-between

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.

say NO to conga!



One of the lakes that will be destroyed by the Conga Mine project.



I feel compelled to write about the Conga project, one of the biggest issues today for Peru and for all consumers and defenders of our world’s natural resources.



The existing Yanacocha mine near Cajamarca.



Conga is a mining expansion of the Yanacocha mine in Cajamarca, Peru, operated by Newmont Mining Corporation from Denver, Colorado. Newmont, with the millions of dollars it has to invest in Conga, hopes to expand its mining operations to include a mountain overlooking Cajamarca believed to contain large amounts of gold. But for the people of Cajamarca, it is a proposal to destroy their way of life. This mountain is viewed as sacred by the community, and is the source of several rivers and lakes that provide the drinking water for Cajarmarca and the surrounding area. The entire area has mobilized into massive strikes that, at the end of last year, shut down Cajamarca for multiple months. The regional president has voiced his opposition to the project, in addition to many other community leaders. But we still keep waiting for an answer.



As a result of the strikes last year, President Humala and other government leaders came to an agreement with the strike organizers to pause the project in order to conduct further studies about its potential environmental impact. Today, the results of an international appraisal with the power to settle the issue once and for all were supposed to be released. Anticipating its release, the people of Cajamarca again came together to protest for 24 hours until its release, saying that if the results came out in favor of Newmont, they would move together to the sites of their lakes and reservoirs and physically block the machinery from beginning demolition. And today, holding our breath, we find out that the results have been postponed another week. One of my Peruvian friends, after finding out, scoffed and said, “That means corruption.” I wouldn’t be surprised, as the company and the Peruvian government already have a history of corruption, as documented in a PBS special done in 2006 about the very same mountain, and in which Newmont vowed to never again try to exploit that area. (The documentary is called “The Curse of Inca Gold,” and I highly encourage you to watch it online, just search for it on Google). I believe it is also a tactic to break up the extremely united community of Cajamarca while they wait another week for the results. But I suspect that a community that has fought for so long and so hard to defend their natural resources will not back down.



Prayer vigil in the plaza of Cajamarca.  Photo from La Republica.



So, what does this have to do with you? First of all, it’s a United States company and United States investors who are fueling this inhumane and completely disrespectful project completely against the wishes of the local community. You can even look up the Conga project on financial pages (NEW). So, if you have money in the stocks, I encourage you to find out if Newmont Mining or Conga is part of that portfolio, and drop it immediately. Or, as a stockholder, write to them and demand that they respect environmental and human rights. Also, avoid buying gold and other precious metals, because they likely come from this or other unjust mining projects. If you aren’t a stockholder, pray for the leaders, pray for the community of Cajamarca, and tell other people about it so more people are aware of the destruction being caused by our hands.

This is yet another example of how much ground is being lost (literally) in the battle between profit and concern for the common good. And this issue does not stop short of touching the life of each and every one of us. But if you are really interested, don’t just take my word for it. Do research. Learn more. Visit. Look at images of gold mines in Peru. Do anything. But don’t do nothing.

Thanks for reading. I wish you the best!

water wars

Things have been pretty stirred up here in our neck of Chimbote these past few days.  Apparently, something broke, or something had to be turned off, or something, and what we know for sure is that this whole corner of the city has been without water for five whole days with no certainty of when it’s coming back.

In our part of town, the city water usually comes twice a day, once in the morning and once in the afternoon, for an hour or two at a time.  During that time period, most households fill up large tanks, some on the ground and some on top of the roof, for daily usage.  Once in awhile, the water doesn’t show up, so most people have enough capacity to last a day or two on what they have, but not much longer.  Sometimes a specific house or street will go several days without water, but in that case neighbors are quick to share.  In this case, we’re going on six days of no water to an area of perhaps 3-5,000 households (or maybe more), with no forewarning that people should conserve as much as possible. 

We didn’t even notice until day 3 when one of our neighbors commented on it.  We, unlike most households, have a small well in our backyard that fills automatically when the city water comes.  Then we pump it to a tank on our roof, and thus get running water.  So we started conserving – minimal showering, saving sink water to flush the toilet, etc. – and we still haven’t run out completely.

Saturday night, just about the time when everybody had finally run out of water, I walked out of theater practice and saw a huge line up of people with their buckets lined up on the curb.  Several blocks away, a huge water truck was making its way toward us.  It seemed like a good solution, so I went home unconcerned.  A little while later I went with a neighbor family to take buckets to be filled by the same truck.  What I saw when I got there was complete chaos – the hose on the back of the water truck open, with nobody designated to control it, and ten to twenty people pushing and shoving with their buckets to get filled up.  People were yelling, water was being spilled, the truck driver tried to do his best by advancing when it seemed to get too crazy and going to a spot in the line that was more orderly.  But then people would just bombard the water hose all over again, pushing and yelling to get their share. 

My 15-year-old neighbor said to me, “And these people claim to be Christians.” 

I told him, “In the moment of desperation, we forget what it means to be Christian.”  But I don’t know who’s to blame.

Suddenly, with the water hose still open, the truck driver just took off, leaving water spilling out and lots of people with empty buckets behind him.  I suppose he finally just got fed up.  I can’t say I wouldn’t have done the same.

Since that night, the situation seems to have calmed down a bit.  Other water trucks have been coming to fill buckets, and people have realized that there is enough to go around.  But we still wait anxiously, because when conserving water, sanitation tends to go down, everyone seems a little more stressed out, clothes don’t get washed, plants don’t get watered, etc., etc.  It’s okay, though.  Our lives aren’t being threatened, and hey, millions of people around the world live in worse conditions every day, so I can push my water conservation to the limit for a few days. 

It does make one pause and think, though.  The poverty in Chimbote is not a desperate poverty, but where there is a denial of a basic right, there is undignified living.  So we will continue to fight, so that Jesus may be dignified in every man, woman, and child in Chimbote, in Peru, and around the world.

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Two days after I wrote the original post, today, I am finally posting it, and I am happy to say that the water is back!  Yesterday´s newspaper headline on the front page was ¿Until When? with a huge photo of people waiting with their buckets.  Finally lots of pressure got them to hurry up and fix whatever was broken!

"just being" together

On Sunday, March 18, the Peruvian government issued a presidential decree that it would come down much more harshly on informal mining (mining of whatever mineral without belong to a specific company, i.e., somebody who has iron ore on their land so they just mine it and sell it).  Later that day, hundreds of men and women who work in informal mining got together all over the country to voice their opinion.  In Peruvian democracy, that means blocking major highways so that no travel or commerce can happen, thereby calling everyone’s attention.  This time, it meant blocking the Pan-American Highway in a town called Casma, about 2 hours south of Chimbote, thus restricting any travel whatsoever to the capital, Lima, from anywhere in the northern part of the country.

Normally, it wouldn’t phase me too much as I really spend most of my time in Chimbote, but this time, I was especially grateful for the strike, because I happened to have a visit from two people that I love very much, and because of the strike got to spend another whole day with them.  Yes, my parents have now experienced cuy, anticuchos, crazy taxi drivers, dust upon dust upon dust, hand-washing, 24-hour cars honking and dogs barking, the delicious odor of the fish factories, Peruvian rice, fresh maracuyá juice, the sparkling waves of the Bay of Chimbote, the serenity and poverty and diversity of the agricultural zones surrounding the city, cold showers, ceviche AND chicarrón de pescado (yum!), Peruvian hospitality, and lots of others things that make up my daily life… (by the way, if there are words above that you don’t understand, that means you need to come visit Peru!)  As my mom said so well, meeting the people of Peru is much better than seeing the touristy sites of Peru!

But most of all, we got to hang out, catch up, get to know each other again (I’m only begin to discover all the characteristics I’ve inherited from them), have fun, laugh, talk about God and a little about politics (but not too much, haha), and as my dad said, just “be.” 

So for that extra day… thank you to the miners for standing up for their rights (and for resolving the conflicting in good timing!), hair dresser who had a cancelled appointment, to the Confirmation leaders who had to go it alone in the rehearsal, to our feedlot employees who were reliable and helped my dad be stress-free, to Jeff for lending an extra hand at home when he could have been doing a million other things for spring break, to Kim for taking care of Zoe, to Orbitz for finally referring us to American Airlines, to American Airlines for at least attempting to reduce to transfer fees, to Giancarlo for being relentless with the bus line, to my community mates for being all-around amazing, and to my PARENTS, Steve and Joan, for stepping outside their comfort zones into a completely foreign and unknown world, trusting that everything will work out, in order to better understand their daughter and why she does what she does. 

We live the lives that we live so that they may be shared, and in that sharing we all walk a little deeper into the mysterious beauty of life. 

god in a lion suit

^"People were bringing little children to Jesus for him to place his hands on them, but the disciples rebuked them. When Jesus saw this, he was indignant. He said to them, “Let the little children come to me, and do not hinder them, for the kingdom of God belongs to such as these. Truly I tell you, anyone who will not receive the kingdom of God like a little child will never enter it.” And he took the children in his arms, placed his hands on them and blessed them." -Mark 10:13-16

Hello everyone!

Here I am updating my blog.. I`m at the sister`s house helping to translate for a meeting, but it turns out they only need me when the connection goes bad so in the meantime I thought I`d write a little update :)

I was supposed to be leaving for a camping trip on the beach in an hour and a half... but last night the few youth leaders who had committed to going all had "last minute changes" in their availability, so the trip is postponed (which means cancelled). It`s okay for me, because we would have had to stay up all night to finish sewing our rice-sack tent.  Now we can finish it tranquilamente for the next venture.

Last night was the closing presentation for our kids summer program at the parish.  Each class prepared a little number for the parents, which included theater (La Niña de la Selva/The girl from the Jungle), dance (one from the jungle and one from the highland), and a couple of songs.  For our English class we presented the camp song "Baby Shark," so they will forever remember that tiburón is shark!  (important if they ever find themselves on a beach in the U.S.) It`s amazing how much the emotion and nervousness involved in a formal presentation can really bring people closer together, especially children!  The high emotion wasn`t enough to calm some of our most rowdy kids, but I suppose the lion running around stage attacking the other actors when it`s not his turn adds to the entertainment. 

We formed a pretty tight community, as several parents told me that their children "acostumbraron," or got used to their classes at the parish.  We hope they continue attendance!  There`s lots of work to do in terms of building up children`s ministry in our parish, and it`s a tiring job, but I think we did it pretty well!

Lately I`ve been becoming more and more interested in liturgical ministry, especially in relation to youth.  I´ve never been a huge fan of Catholic liturgies, finding that my faith really came alive in direct encounters with people, and not so much in the church building.  But the institution of our Catholic faith maintains that the liturgy is the center of our shared faith, so I´ve begun to ask, if that`s true, why don`t I feel it?  And I think it has a lot to do with the way we go about liturgy.  Instead of asking how to make the liturgy come alive for its participants, we restrict ourselves to the way it "should be" or the way it`s always been done.  The point of Eucharist, of liturgy, is communion.  Why do we not create a space the promotes encounter with the person sitting in front of or behind us? Why our style of praying really reflect the intimacy and union that their words express?  If young people are going to see that the liturgy is even more important for our parish community than game nights, sports tournaments, and trips to the beach, all of which we do really well, they need to be shown that it`s true.  Just repeating "the liturgy is important, the Eucharist is the center of our fatih" isn`t going to do it.  They have to be shown, they have to feel it. 

Anyway, theory is one thing.  Practice is another.  And right now, chasing around a growling 5-year-old boy in a lion suit is what brings us together, what reminds us of our common call.  So we`ll continue looking for ways to enhance our faith, but we won`t reject the value of what we have!

Thanks for reading.  Would love to hear from you!

Wishing you PEACE in your heart and RESTLESSNESS in your spirit :)