Mangos and Christmas

On this day in Rey Curré, I was sitting on the porch wearing shorts in November and sipping milk from a coconut, when suddenly a salamander dropped excrement on my foot per usual and one of my students invited me over for chicken with rice to celebrate her birthday, and I smiled to myself knowing that these moments are numbered and, partly, for that very reason, priceless.

Our delicious Thanksgiving day din din.

The other 16 volunteers and I attended our end-of-service meeting this past week in Orosi, a suitable place considering it was where our service began 11 months ago for training.  During one of our sessions, we shared one word to describe how we feel about leaving Costa Rica and another word to describe how we feel about going home, which is cleverly the same question in disguise.  Confused.  Scared.  Excited.  Just to name a few.

The new field director and I kicking it before the meal.

To stay true to character, I went allegorical and said "mangos" and "Christmas," respectively.  When I think about leaving Costa Rica, I think mangos because they are so so good, and I can't get enough of them; but, they are only for a season and that is part of what makes them so special.  There is an old proverb that says, "You don't know what you have until it's gone."  Knowing from the get-go that this year was finite has made me be as present as possible in every moment...every class, every hike, every meeting, every conversation, every meal, every cold shower, every sunset, every bike ride, every soccer game, every coffee break, every bus ride, every church service, every dance break, every chill time, every vacation, every chat.  [Wow, when I put it that way, that doesn't sound all that different from my life in the States.  Aside from the cold showers and the coffee breaks.  I'm all for adopting the coffee breaks, but I could do without the cold showers.]  Point is, we have a choice each day to sleep through it or bound into it with eyes wide open.  Each day is a gift.  If there is one thing that Ticans never tire of saying it's, "si Dios quiere," or in another words, "God-willing."  We don't know if we will wake up tomorrow morning, but the point is that we would be prepared either way.  What does it mean to be prepared to die?

And, Christmas.  That one word describes exactly how I feel about going home.  Christmas means loved ones and a celebration of hope.  I will soon be reunited with friends and family, and I am reminded that there are good things ahead. 

"For I know the plans I have for you, plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future."  Jeremiah 29:11

An unforgettable day

 On this day in Rey Curré, a day passed that I'm sure I will never forget.  I got up and taught classes this morning in Curré like normal.  And, in the early afternoon, I hopped on a bike with my friend and went to teach at Las Vegas, a couple of kilometers down the road and over the river and through the woods, as I've done numerous times over the past few months.  But, today was different.  When I arrived, I saw balloons hanging on the walls and chairs sitting around in the corridor, but not a child was to be seen.  The director greeted me and then reached over and knocked lightly on the classroom door and, next thing I know, the door swings open and 20 familiar little faces pop out with grins as wide as the Térraba river during the rainy season.  They gave me kisses and hugs and filed into their seats.  The director invited me to sit down as the students were eager to present to me all the songs and chants that I had taught them in the previous weeks.  They sang "Hello students!  Hello teacher!  How are you?  How are you?  I am fine, thank you.  I am fine, thank you.  How are you?  How are you?"  They chanted the days of the week with the hand motions.  They sang, "Head, shoulders, knees, and toes."  And, one student did jumping jacks as the others counted in English.  The director ended the presentation by commenting on how much they had learned in such little time.  "This is the fruit of your labors," she told me.  I did my best to express my gratitude in Spanish:  "Thank you so much!  It has been an absolute pleasure to teach each and every one of you.  You should be proud of yourselves because you have all learned a lot in a very short amount of time.  I have no doubt that each and every one of you can learn to speak English."  But, if I could do it over, I would have told them much more.  I would have told them that English is only one of the hundreds of languages spoken all over this vast world that God has created.  That this has been a stretch of your minds to begin learning a new skill and a proof to yourself that you can learn new things and reach your dreams.

That teaching you a little bit of English is very little in comparison to the overwhelming love that you have showed me in your enthusiasm, in your smiles and hugs, and in the truckload of fresh fruits and vegetables that you sent home with me:  oranges, mandarins, lemons, coconuts, 2 species of bananas, and a pineapple. (Which, by the way, made for quite the difficult trip on the bicycle over the hills, through the woods, and crossing the river...but, well worth it to see the looks on your faces as your proudly gifted me crops taken off of your own land.)  

And, on top of all this, I got to know a young lady that I would say is close to royalty.  In her colorful knit hat and subtle smile, she came up to me and proudly gifted me three little painted, wooden knick knacks and begged me to take a picture with her.  Thirty minutes later, I'm walking past her house, my bike handles and arms loaded down with fresh produce, and she comes running out to me, "Teacher!!"  "My mom wanted me to ask if you could find a wig for me in the United States."  She quickly pulled off her knit cap, revealing her hairless head.  "It's just that, I am like this."  My heart jumped up into my throat, and I smoothed down the few remaining hairs and drew her close for a hug.  "I will do everything I can to send one to you,"  I told her.  And, as I'm walking away, a tightness in my throat, she yells out to me again with a grin on her face, "Teacher!  And, let it be a normal one!" And, with a deep breath and a smile, I quickly shouted back, "Okay!  Of course!"  Somehow, the weight of the fruits and vegetables didn't seem so much anymore.  And, that verse in the Bible where it says that God calls us to love like little children took on a whole new light.  Some children are facing problems that bring grown men to their knees, but they can still show a smile to the world.  I arrived back to Rey Curré, tired but different.  I went into my room and cried like a baby and then I wrote this down so that I will never forget how precious children are and what a tremendous role it is to protect them and teach them and love them and forgive them and believe in them and hope for them.  

 

Put yourself in these shoes

On this day in Rey Curre, I came across a very interesting, very pertinent passage in the science fiction book that I'm reading...

"Ever since he awoke on the space-ship Ransom had been thinking about the amazing adventure of going to another planet, and about his chances of returning from it.  What he had not thought about was being on it.  It was with a kind of stupefaction each morning that he found himself neither arriving in, nor escaping from, but simply living on, Malacandra; waking, sleeping, eating, swimming and even, as the days passed, talking.  The wonder of it smote him most strongly when he found himself, about three weeks after his arrival, actually going for a walk.  A few weeks later he had his favourite walks, and his favourite foods; he was beginning to develop habits...and the young of the species were different again.  They were delightful."

This is an excerpt from C.S. Lewis' Out of the Silent Planet.  He has a way of writing that puts me in the shoes of the characters, but I didn't need to try these shoes on;  I've already got a pair.  ;)