WARNING: SOME OF THE MATERIAL IN THIS BLOG MAY NOT BE SUITABLE FOR CHILDREN. SO, IF YOU’RE ONE OF MY KIDDOS READING, HAVE MOM OR DAD READ IT FIRST AND THEY CAN TALK TO YOU ABOUT THE BLOG.
Gringo Nation. That was the title of my blog that I was typing yesterday (Sept 2) before lunch. Catchy title, I know. Steven knocked on our door and asked if we were ready to go to lunch. We shut down our computers and put our books away. Each day, we’ve been going to a local restaurant for some authentic Peruvian food. It only costs 3.5 soles, about $1.50 USD.
We made our way to the gate, ready for the 15-minute walk. Kayla (name changed), the 10-year-old daughter of our host missionaries came trotting up to greet us. She’s the most beautiful little Guatemalan girl with the sweetest personality. I gave her a hug and kissed her on top of the head.
“Maybe one day next week we can ask Mom or Dad if you can eat at the restaurant with us- that would be fun! But for now, I’ll see you when we get back.”
We continued walking and talking. Jamie and I were processing our time in Peru (this is our 4th time back to this country). We’ve been discussing how, even on the World Race, it’s easy to go through the motions. We have a schedule this month and we know what’s expected of us each day. The monotony sometimes makes you numb.
Any numbness we were feeling was quickly erased.
As we walked on the left side of the street, a large truck flew past us. But it didn’t stay on the right side of the road. It decided to squeeze between Jamie and the building on the left. And they decided to do it while going really fast. A taxi quickly followed suit behind the truck.
“Hey! That’s our truck!” I yelled. Our truck. I really meant Tom’s (name changed) truck, our host missionary. He had been so gracious in offering us rides to the grocery store and markets that I felt like it was ours.
Why was he going so fast? And so close to Jamie? From what I know of him, he doesn’t seem like the practical joker, surely not something that would put people in danger.
As I looked back up at the truck that was flying down the street, I realized it wasn’t Tom in the truck. I didn’t recognize the driver- maybe it was one of the 40 Ecuadorians that was staying with us this week? But they were going so fast, I had a hard time believing it was anyone we knew. And why was there a taxi following it?
All my thoughts and questions stopped when I looked at Jamie. She had tears welling up in her eyes.
“I just want to cry,” she said.
I didn’t blame her. 2 inches. That’s all the room there was between her and the truck. I grabbed her and hugged her.
“It’s okay. He didn’t hit us.”
We walked in silence the rest of the way to the restaurant, undoubtedly playing the “what if” game. We were distracted once more when a man approached us and spoke to us in Spanish about starting some program to better the relations between foreigners and Peruvians. Ironic. We were confused and made some kind of small talk. We still don’t know if these events are correlated some how.
We ate, like we always eat. We walked back. And it will probably be the last time I walk “home” to the children’s home.
Everyone was gathered outside. Distraught faces. It didn’t take long to find out why. Tom’s truck had been stolen. As he and Kayla were leaving the property to take their puppy to the vet, they attempted to get around a slow moving taxi when men came out of the taxi and forced the two out of the truck.
The truck then zoomed down the road and that’s when it passed Jamie and I. All the details were coming together now.
Tom and a few Peruvians went to the police station to report the incident. They’re fairly certain the thieves hid the truck somewhere nearby but are doubtful they’ll ever see it again.
I gave Kayla a big hug. It hit me hard when I remembered the last words I had said to her- “See you when we get back.”
What if… I hate that game.
We spent some time listening and processing with each other, then everyone went their separate ways. The outreach we had been planning was cancelled and we were told to say on the property until further notice. I took the opportunity to rest and watch Beauty and the Beast with the girls. We were at the best part, when she’s wearing her yellow dress, when Steven came in.
With 25 minutes left in the movie (and very sleepy faces), we were told that we needed to pack our bags. They didn’t think the thieves would return to the property but they didn’t want to take that risk. To most of the world, if you’re white, you’re rich. And there were 13 “rich” people living in one location.
We were leaving soon.
Soon? What does soon mean? An hour? Right now? Where are we going? Where are we staying? Questions flooded my brain. Sorry Belle, you’ll have to wait until later. I closed my computer and began the packing process. The good thing about being a Racer, is you really don’t have that much stuff. Everything fit right back into my pack…even the dirty stuff.
As one can imagine, many thoughts and emotions were flooding through my head at this point. But there was a task at hand- leaving. So I packed and was ready. Hurry up and wait.
I walked around the property with the girls one last time. We reminisced about the wheelbarrows of dirt we had moved, the bricks we had made, the rebar we painted. We sat down on a concrete wall that would one day be a fountain and soaked in the evening sunset.
I helped make this wall. Yeah, I dug the trench. I mixed the concrete. I hauled the concrete. I poured the concrete.
Many long hours of hard work were put in to this children’s home. A part of me will be here forever.
We said our goodbyes to our host missionaries, to Claudia, to Joca, to the Maestros. They are the ones who will continue the ministry here. Their dream is to see children forever transformed by the Gospel, to remove the violence that permeates this city one child at a time, to give them a chance at a better life. I believe they will.
The bus pulled up and we loaded it with our stuff. There’s my life, in a bag. Except I’m finding I’m leaving little parts of me wherever I go and I’m picking up little pieces of other people. I don’t know how it’s all going to fit after 11 months…
Below is the blog I wrote before heading to lunch:
Gringo Nation
“For nation will rise against nation, and kingdom against kingdom and there will be famines and earthquakes in various places…But the one who endures to the end will be saved. And this gospel of the kingdom will be proclaimed throughout the whole world as a testimony to all nations, and then the end will come.”
Matthew 24:7, 13-14
I’ve been reading through the Gospel of Matthew during my times with the Lord. Chapter 24 focuses on Jesus’ second coming and the events that will lead up to it.
This week we’ve been a bit more crowded at the children’s home, as 40 Ecuadorians have come for a weeklong mission trip to aid in the construction. Ecuadorians typically don’t like Peruvians. If you read up on the wars and conflicts these two countries have had, you’d realize that they are nations against each other. Good thing the family of God doesn’t play by those rules…
This thought of nation against nation got me thinking. How often, on a daily basis, are we reminded that we are Americans? Maybe when we watch the evening news and hear about how our troops are doing against their troops? Maybe…
Soon it will be September 11th, the 10 year anniversary of this monumental day in America’s history. I’ll be in transit from Peru to Bolivia. I won’t be partaking in the memorial services and be watching the news broadcasts with you all. I’ll probably be sitting on a bus. Having people stare at me because I look different than they do.
We’ve made up a game based on how many times we’re reminded we don’t belong here. It doesn’t have a name but the rules are simply this- when we walk out of the children’s home into the streets of Trujillo, I start my stopwatch and we wait to see how long it takes to hear, “GRINGO!” That’s it, that’s the game.
And believe me, we hear it. Children sitting outside their homes on the hillside scream it until we acknowledge them- sometimes we have to say “hello” 3 or 4 times before they’ll stop. Kids follow us down the street daring their friends to say hello to us because we’re white. When we show up at the day care the kids scream and flock to all the giants, desperately wanting to be held and given attention.
So, I’m reminded quite often that I’m different and this isn’t my home.
But I’ve known for quite some time now that this world is not my home. We’re here for a short time- our lives are but a vapor, a wave tossed in the ocean. My home is in Heaven, where nations cease to exist and we all worship God Himself.
“God’s dwelling is with men, and He will live with them. They will be His people, and God Himself will be with them and be their God. He will wipe away every tear from their eyes. Death will exist no longer; grief, crying, and pain will exist no longer, because the previous things have passed away.”
Revelation 21:3-4
As you remember the events of our country’s history this week, I encourage you to reflect on what it means to be an American- in this world and the one that is to come.
So that’s what I wrote right before going to lunch. Right before my “normal” routine was completely shattered. Right before my transient life was kicked up a notch.
As I write this blog, I’m sitting at a hostel in a beach town 30 minutes from the children’s home. I’m safe. We’re safe. I don’t know what this week will hold but I know who holds it.
I look out my window and see the ocean. I can hear the waves as they crash into the shore. That’s my life, a wave tossed in the ocean. As we grieve leaving a ministry and people we love, we are trusting in God’s sovereignty, believing He is working all things together for good.
