Americans and Peruvians do things a little differently.
This month my team is serving at a church in the beautiful mountain town of Tarma, Peru. The church runs an outreach three days of the week, the main goal of which is to feed a hot meal to underprivileged children in the community. Our role: help five Peruvian women prepare food for three hundred hungry tummies in a kitchen about the size of a master bathroom.
The first few days were a bit rocky, to say the least. The language barrier caused some confusion as to our job and the cultural differences added to the mistakes we made in our attempt to offer assistance. Frustrations ran high on both sides, my team feeling useless and disappointing, while the Peruvian women believed us incompetent of simple food preparation. We did our best to be helpful without getting in the way, but still felt trampled upon, knowing the women viewed us a complete joke.
Then something changed.
After a few afternoons of serving the children food and playing with them in the courtyard, I chose to spend an entire day plunked in front of a basin washing the dishes. Like I said before, there are close to three hundred children fed each day, making the pile of dishes accumulated from ten in the morning until four in the afternoon seemingly endless. I got yelled at for washing, rinsing, drying, stacking, and probably even breathing on the dishes wrong (I couldn’t tell exactly what they were yelling, considering it was all in Spanish), but I stuck with it. To help with the dullness of the task, I put on some music and hummed along.
And that was it. The day was done and I thought I had gotten no further along in gaining the respect of these women than before. I made my rounds and gave each woman a kiss and a “gracias, Hermana,” which to my surprise was returned with a smile and, dare I say, a slightly enthusiastic “gracias, Hermanita!”
The next day, things continued as before but with a decrease in the belittling laughter and an increase in warmth and conversation. I returned to the dishes, this time asking about the women’s families and telling them about my own. Afterwards, the women insisted I turn on my music and sing loudly, and we even laughed over my ludicrous attempts to say the Spanish words for random objects in the kitchen and teach them the English equivalent. By the end of the day, a few other teammates had entered the kitchen and we ended up swapping National Anthems and acting out Disney songs together.
In the midst of all this, two of my favorite children came in, Leydy and Kenni. I realized they were the twins of the quietest kitchen worker, Sylvia. After showing her their coloring pages, they ran to me, showering me with hugs, kisses, and of cries of “Hermanita Deborah! Hermanita Deborah!!!” I hugged them back and little Leydey crawled into my lap until well after the dishes had been washed.
A day or two passed and Sylvia, Leydy and Kenni were over for dinner with our hosts, a neighbor and her young daughter; fifteen in all were crammed around the table in the small kitchen. Before the meal was served I had time to braid hair, spin them around, play clapping games, and fit all three children on my lap, bouncing them up and down like a galloping horse. I saw Sylvia smiling wide, so appreciative that a random girl from America would care so much for her children.
After a lighthearted dinner, our host Miguel asked us to pray for Sylvia and the neighbor woman. He explained that both women had children and their husbands were either away or had never been in the picture. The first woman shared her concerns for her teenage son and his wavering success in school, and she described the difficulty of providing for her children without the help of a husband. Then came Sylvia’s turn. She barely got a word out before sobs escaped her mouth like water breaking out from a dam. She managed to communicate that she´s all alone in raising the twins. Alone and unprepared and scared. Let me tell you something, from there on out, things got real.
No longer was this woman simply one of the intimidating kitchen ladies. No longer was she merely the shy, quiet woman who sat next to me as I washed dishes. No longer was she only the mother of the twins I had come to love so dearly. She became a friend and a sister, a woman who is my peer and a woman whom I desire to love and serve well.
Since that night, my view of the kitchen ladies has shifted. I see them as I see Sylvia; as women worth getting to know, women with stories and families and struggles. Women I can love and woman I can serve well, even if it’s only for a month.
I now know that serving is a lot less about getting a job done, and a lot more about caring about the person whom you’re serving. It’s about expressing your appreciation so that people know how much you truly love them and care about their needs. I’ve not done a good job of this in the past. I’ve not shown my friends and family how much I admire them, nor have I expressed the level of gratitude I feel towards them.
In the midst of my comfortable lifestyle, I’ve allowed selfishness to trump servant-hearted love. I´ve failed the Lord, but I´m not willing to fail him again, not on the Race nor back at home. I´ve learned that the strongest of cultural and language barriers can be broken by the simplest act of love.
“The smallest act of kindness is worth more than the grandest intention.” –Oscar Wilde
