Keeping it in context

On this day in Rey Curré, I awoke with a recognizable feeling but one which I have yet to acknowledge up until now.  I didn't want to go teach at the school.  I wanted to be home.  I felt homesick.  Almost 7 months have passed of not laying eyes on the cornfields of the Midwest, my family, my friends, a steaming plate of Skyline chili, the streets of Indy and Cincy, the faces of Greensburg, my brother's big oak kitchen table, my sister's fluffy green L-shaped couch, my nephews...I will have to practically introduce myself to them when I arrive home for Christmas.  They grow so much, so quickly.  But, being abroad this long is like sifting for gold: the things I truly care about remain steadfast even after everything else has been washed away.  A sifting has been taking place in my heart these first few days after a long two-week break, and it has left me feeling rich in love but poor in spirit.

Yesterday, the day began with heart-wrenching news.  A mother of two of my favorite students is suffering from a very severe illness.  Her eyes welled with tears as she confessed her fears.  I threw the best arrows I know at the hopelessness and anxieties that haunt her:  "God is always with you, even in the darkest of times.  You have to have hope.  Our thoughts are powerful."  Needless to say, the day rolled on, and I spent the morning implementing a teamwork activity with my 5th and 6th graders that was just what the doctor ordered.  When a teacher assigns groups and everyone repeatedly begins grumbling, that calls for a little interpersonal workshop. 

Later, my eyes dampened again as I watched one of my 2nd graders finally leave the classroom, his mother dragging him in tow.  He had sat static in his chair for almost 45 minutes even after I had dismissed him from his 5 minute punishment for disobedience.  I spent the first few minutes telling him how special he is.  Then, I waited patiently while he tried to punish me for causing him embarrassment.  Discipline is always painful at the time, but it's worth the pain because it eventually yields good things.

After school, I made ice creams with my host niece to help raise money for some things the school needs.  Her calming and gentle way of being ministered to my weary state.  And, a short walk and some laughs with a good friend further lifted my spirits before I made my way to a weekday church gathering. 

For the first time since arriving, I confidently call myself a teacher because now I see it as one of the roles out of many that I am living out here: host daughter, host sister, host aunt, friend, sister in Christ, volunteer, comforter, counselor, "cook," reporter, writer, dreamer, singer, servant.  Each of them carries a certain responsibility that I embrace as equally important as all of the others.  It turns out that they overlap and collide and blend together in harmony like I never knew that they could.  Chatting with my host niece gives me new ideas for the classroom, communing with the church gives me inspiration and perseverance as a volunteer... 

After giving testimony to such a full life that I have here, how could I have felt so anxious to return home?  Because everything has its context, including this year.  It is a chapter in a book.  It is a step of a journey.  It is a breath.  There were breaths before it, and God-willing, there will be breaths after it.  It is a harvest.  There would be nothing to bring in if the farmer hadn't planted.  Everything that I have done up until this point in my life has served a purpose in preparing, supporting, and sustaining me this year. 

Each class I taught, each fact I sought,

each lap I swam, each mile I ran,

each vacation spent, each prayer sent,

each book digested, each dollar invested,

each song I sung,  each Spanish word on my tongue,

each friendship cultivated, each holiday celebrated.   
  

And, my expectations and dreams for what succeeds this year daily affects my attitude.  When I remember that this year is finite, I am that much more motivated to serve to my fullest capacity.  Not to mention, I'm that much more closer to seeing all of you that I miss dearly!  5 more months to go!

Therefore, I'm rich in love because I have more than I could want or ask for, but poor in spirit because I look around me and see so much more need than one person could possibly fulfill.  I am a volunteer, and I am only one person.  I can't change the world on my own.  But, I can't let that stop me from trying.  We can all be world changers, wherever we are.  Sometimes it costs a lot, but sometimes it only takes a smile.  A song that I have recently been listening to captures this attitude the best.  It's called "Walk on the Water" by Brit Nicole.  The chorus goes like this... 

 

"So what are you waiting for?

What do you have to lose?

Your insecurities try to alter you

You know you're made for more

So don't be afraid to move

Your faith is all it takes for you to

Walk on the water too."

What kind of faith does it take to walk on water?  Or, maybe it's not the measure of the faith that counts.  Better yet, in what or whom is the faith that conquers such feats?

More than just surviving...

On this day in Rey Curré, I noticed that half a year just went by.  The good news is that half a year remains.  It's good news for duel purposes: because I've still got plenty of time to continue serving and seeing and sharing life here and because I've only got a half a year to go before I will be reunited with my community in the States, with a whole year of experiences to bring home.  I want that these experiences will shape my future:  my relationships, my occupation, my resources, my time, my worldview, my faith, my character, and my dreams.  Most have been good, some have been hard, but many of these experiences, I could not have anticipated even if I wanted to. 

For instance, I never thought...

...that I would have better hygiene here than I do in the States.  (I reluctantly adopted the custom of two showers a day, but I have to admit it's the only way to survive this hot, southern climate and still have friends.)

My Tico brother and I with some of the little guys at church.

...that I would put everything on hold at about 8:30am and 3:30pm everyday to look for a cup of coffee.

...that I would introduce a third grade Tican to my parents over Skype and watch him and my dad make faces at each other.

...that I would find a surrogate brother, half a world away.

...that I would sing a song in front of a Tican church.  (The best part is, I showed my colleagues at the elementary school a recording of the song, and immediately after, they eagerly asked me to translate what I was singing to Spanish.  The only trouble is that I was singing in Spanish.  Or, at least I was trying.  Next stop, pronunciation practice!  ;)

Genesis and her cake, right before Diego dunked his hands in it!

...that I would make a birthday cake for my host niece's first birthday!  And, in the process, teach my third grader, Raúl, a thing or two about baking. 

...that I would witness that same niece taking some of her first steps.

...that I would give impromptu guitar lessons.  (They don't seem to mind that I could count on two hands the number of chords and rhythms that I know how to play.)

...that I would travel to Las Vegas on bicycle biweekly to teach English to a group of 20 eager, energetic first through sixth graders.

...that I would wear jeans to work in a tropical climate.  (Somehow, dressing up here always involves wearing pants.)

...that I would wake up to find out that a scorpion spent the night on top of my covers.

...that I would eat rice and beans for dinner, heat them up again for breakfast, serve myself some more rice and beans for lunch at the school cafeteria, and then round off the day with another healthy plate of rice and beans.  (But, no worries, it's always accompanied by a chicken leg or a slice of fried pork and an avocado or tomato.  And, at breakfast, I eat rice and beans mixed together which has a special name: gallo pinto, or "painted rooster."  They get really creative with the rice and beans here. ;)

...that I would do a dance while taking my laundry off the line just to avoid being bitten by the flesh-eating ants. (It hurts!)

Why do I delight in such simple things?  To everyone else in Curré, this is life.  But to me, it's unexpected and exciting.  I'm a biology student looking under a microscope for the first time.  I'm a movie-goer watching the newest release.  I'm an athlete finishing first at long last.  I'm a math student solving her first equation.  I'm a toddler learning to walk.  We search for things and cherish things beyond our immediate needs: food, water, shelter.  Why?  Could it be that we were made for more than just surviving?  Could it be that we were made to be conquerors? (Romans 8:37-39)

Free to be me!

On this day in Rey Curré, I began by unpacking my moist, sandy clothes from a weekend at the beach with a group of the volunteers, headed to church where we celebrated Father's day with a good game of cornhole, and rounded out the day teaching my fourth adult English class.  

On Friday, I dished out $6 for a bus ride and three hours later, I was at the beach settling into the hostel with an early morning beach walk on the schedule.  Though the walk was delayed by some much appreciated beach lounging, it was nonetheless breathtaking.  Without a camera in hand, my mind searched for the words to describe the beauty I was seeing, feeling, and hearing.  The waves crashed in and stretched for meters up the deserted beach, fauna-covered hills rising up in the background.  We admired the hundreds of crabs making their castle in the black, porous boulders, walking through the waves as they rushed in and parted quickly, meeting again on the other side.  My eyes were opened wide under the cloud-covered sky, and my hair whipped around my face in the wind which foretold of the coming rain.  While my feet sunk into the drenched sand and I stared out into the empty horizon, I remembered what a blessing it is to be here in Costa Rica, and I wondered at the Artist of such a scene painted before me.  Afterward, we arrived back at the hostel and soaked up one another's company, relating stories of our small-town Costa Rican lives. 

Sometimes when I start taking myself too seriously, a change of scenery puts me back in the right mindset.  For that reason, going to the beach this weekend was a good decision.  I returned to Curré, anxious to see my host family and friends, to begin another week of classes, to meet the unexpected, giant insect or two, but most pertinently, to be myself.  With so many amazing past and present volunteers, I sometimes feel like I have big shoes to fill.  But, I embrace the thought that I have the freedom to be exactly who I am right now, no more and no less.  

My new roommate

On this day in Rey Curré, I met my new roommate.   Don't worry Mom, I killed it.  Correction:  My host brother-in-law killed it because I was scared.  Anyway, thank God for mosquito nets.  Apparently, they keep out more than just mosquitos.

On volunteering

On this day in Rey Curré, the sun rose above the tree-covered hills, lit up the Inter-American highway snaking through the little pueblo, and danced on the steadily rising river before rolling back over the hills, casting red streaks in its path.  The day came and went just as it has been for centuries.  Only on this day, and every day for the past 5 months, I got to experience life here along with the community of Indigenous people that moved here in the early 20th century after splitting off from the neighboring reservation to take advantage of life by the river.

On this peaceful Sunday, I enjoyed a late morning and woke up to the sound of my host nephew laughing in the living room.  I went out to the kitchen and washed dishes while my host mom, Freddy, fixed us a breakfast of fried eggs and plantains.  Our kitten, my new defense against the mice that keep trying to board with me, rubbed up against my legs as we ate.  Afterward, I showered, put on my brown peasant dress, and walked to church, Bible in hand.  We sang adoration songs and listened to Olman remind us to turn the attention away from ourselves and reserve the praises for the Creator, not the creation.  My good friend, and the keyboard player for the church, accompanied me home, bidding me goodbye with "God bless you, Sara," in his halted, Latin-American accent. 

I quickly ate a late lunch of spaghetti, made with the surplus of tomatoes that Freddy didn't want to let go to waste, and I hopped on my computer to greet my family on Skype.  After a coffee break, I headed to my classroom to prepare for Adult English classes.  Few people are attending, but this week, I plan to hold an informational meeting to get the word out.  They helped me spell out the letters phonetically as we practiced pronunciations, and I shushed away the 6th graders that giggled outside the window.  I returned home and ate a warm, filling dinner.  Now, I'm working on my blog.  It's like a fellow volunteer commented, the months go quickly but the days go slowly.

Two weeks ago, we had our mid-service meeting, and we discussed the meaning of volunteering.  Is it the people we're serving, or is it more about ourselves?  Why did we come here in the first place?  I have to be honest in saying that my decision to come here was more about me than about other people.  I wanted to capitalize on the Spanish speaking opportunity and try out English-teaching in a real-life setting as opposed to studying about it in the university.  I wanted to live in a different country and learn about a different way of life from a different culture of people.   I wanted to see beautiful beaches and hear the monkeys in the trees.  It's true that I want to serve these people to the best of my ability.  It's true that I want to make a difference in the world. But, did I have to come to 2,000 miles south of my hometown to be a world-changer?  No.  Each of us can change the world, wherever we are.  A smile.  A kind letter.  An effective lesson plan.  A well-built bridge.  A patient reply.  A parent loving her child.  A marriage preserved.  A grateful thought.  A hug.  Forgiveness granted.  Grace accepted. 

Giving without expecting anything in return.  That's what love is, and it changes the world.  So, in some ways, that's what a volunteer is.  We give, we love, and we change the world.  And, we go home with empty pockets.  But, we are paid, and it's much more valuable than a sum of money.  It's a hug from a 1st grader.  It's hearing the 3rd graders singing the "Clean up" song in their math class.  It's hearing a high school student say they will miss you when you are gone.  It's making a bowl of guacamole from the freshly picked avocados and sitting on the floor to enjoy a movie in Spanish subtitles with friends.  It's taking a walk to a 100 meter water fall down the road, a native Indian and friend as your tour guide.  It's receiving a text message from your friend in the community saying, "Dios te ama."  ("God loves you.")  It's visiting your fellow volunteers and meeting the people that fill their days and their hearts.  It's the things that no amount of money could buy that are worth the most.

Satisfied Senses

On this Saturday in Rey Curré, my senses captured a host of sights, smells, sounds, and tastes.  When I opened my eyes, I saw the mosquito net hanging above me, and I smelled the "gallo pinto," fried rice and beans, cooking.  As I went for a morning run, I heard the sound of one of my most affectionate students, Maria, yelling, "Tiiicher!"  After inviting me to her house for a quick review lesson, I accepted and was gifted with a fresh cup of a pineapple rice drink.  I held her baby brother, but not for long, because they made the comment that he had "gripe," or the flu, and I want to stay far away from that.

In the afternoon, I heard for the first time the sound of a pig squealing right before it took its last breath.  My host brother held the pig down while a family friend beat it over the head and drained its blood at the neck with a knife.  I make it sound gruesome because it was.  But, I can't believe how much pork I have eaten in my life and, up to this point, had yet to see it from the farm to the table.

Later, I smelled the pork cooking over the wood fire stove, and I heard the sound of my computer keys ticking away as I finished writing a test for my 3rd graders and prepared for Adult classes on Sunday.  I heard the Spanish church songs as I prepared myself for the service on Sunday. 

In the early evening, I took a short walk up the road to the home of the retired Indian language teacher.  I heard her recite the words for father and mother in the Borucan language as I tried to imitate.  Constantly keeping myself in the shoes of a learner helps me to be a better teacher.  Right now, this indigenous language is just a bunch of letters and sounds, but equally, my students probably feel the same way about English. 

Finally, I enjoyed the tastes of the pork, rice, beans, and fried plantains as I rounded the evening off with dinner and a short Skype call with my sister, brother-in-law, and two wild nephews. ;) 

It was a lovely day and altogether intriguing to my senses.

Reflecting, Past and Present

On this day in Rey Curre, I am sitting outside the house of my host sister, ripe mangos dropping from the tree in front of me, working on lesson planning.  One too many mangos fell, and I had to go into the house and devour a few.  (How distracting that can be!)  Afterward, I returned and figured it was high time I update my blog.  On the 28th of April, I completed 25 years of age.  It was a wonderful birthday.  A walk to a waterfall, rice and beans cooked over a wood fire stove at a friend's house, a long walk back with a full stomach, a Skype birthday call from my parents, birthday wishes on Facebook, and a birthday cake from my host family.  It was unlike any birthday I've ever had: not better, just different. 

With frequency, an unforeseen memory of my childhood or college years or post-college years will pass through my mind.  I don't know if they're a symptom of being away from home for a long time, but regardless, they are always welcome.  It reminds me of what goodness and opportunity I have been given.  Snapshots flash through my mind of family vacations, holding my nephews, and coaching swimming.  I remember dancing with a choreographer one summer, driving a stick shift for my uncle's business another, and working as a camp counselor yet another.  I recall "cousin days," traveling to Spain and Haiti, and playing music with the family.  One minute, I'm preparing lessons for English classes and the next thing I know, I'm transported to some time in my past.  How many classes have I taken?  How many places have I visited?  How many days have I gone to bed with a full stomach and woken up in a dry, clean bedroom?  How many times have I been coached and mentored and counseled?  How many family and friends do I have that care about me?  I can't even begin to count.

I've been filled up to the point of overflowing with good things: love, support, opportunity, and hope.  Here, I have an entire community with which to share those good things.  I've just begun my fourth month of teaching English at the elementary school.  I've been tutoring a few high school students for several months.  I started classes with Kinder and adults this week.  I've traveled to the Caribbean coast, the tallest mountain, the cloud forests, the quaint coffee valley, and the Pacific coast.  I've witnessed weddings, baptisms, and birthday parties.  I've spent evenings on the porch chatting or playing cards.  I've cried from stress.  I've cried from missing family.  I've woken up almost every morning and thought to myself, "I am living in Costa Rica this year. Wow!"  I've eaten more plates of rice and beans than I can count.  I've devoured avocados and ripe mangos by the dozen.  I've taken walks with locals and played soccer with the grade school kids.  I've sang songs at the local church and received with eagerness the prayers of the pastor.  I've struggled to be present here and maintain the strong ties with so many amazing people back home.  I've met and spent time with so many good people here.  Every day is filled with laughter and some days bring tears, but every day I am thankful to be here.

Even as I pour myself out, the people here are continually pouring into me.  I spent one afternoon walking around to different homes to invite people to come to the adult classes, and I came back with 5 avocados, a chocolate-covered marshmallow, and an invitation to private lessons of the indigenous language.  Another afternoon, I went for a walk and bumped into a student who then took me to visit her house.  There we shared crackers, coffee, and laughs, and her little dog curled up in my lap and fell asleep.  Last Saturday, I went to my friend's house who plays piano for the church.  We practiced music and schemed about translating new songs.  Meanwhile, his mom served me coffee and plantains, and before I left, gifted me a painting and a little hand-stitched wallet. 

These are the memories that will unexpectedly pop into my mind in the years to come, and leave me feeling incredibly thankful and eager to continue sharing and serving.