It’s always hard for me to write something unless I’m inspired. When I came back from Guatemala with the World Race this year, I was inspired. In fact, I was ready to write a book. In reality, I only wrote about two chapters, then I just got lazy. Here is one of the chapters I wrote for my future book that will be entitled
So When Are You Going to Get a Real Job?–My Life as a Missionary. Enjoy…
Coming Home
“If you’re just visiting, welcome to Nashville. If you’re from Nashville, welcome home,” the flight attendant announces over the speaker. Those last two words echo in my brain,
welcome home. This strange sense of pride mixed with happiness comes over me. Tears begin to come, but I fight them back just as I did when I was leaving Nashville a few months ago. Anticipation rises within me, wanting to see my dad’s face as I make my way to baggage claim. I weave in and out of people wondering if they’re fellow Nashvillians, wondering if they’re happy to be home.
Welcome to Music City, U.S.A., one sign reads.
I see the people in their boots and cowboy hats and think
Yep, they’re tourists. Everyone who isn’t from here thinks that’s how we dress.
I start to think how good it will be to be back home again. My own queen-sized bed, my own room, a shower with hot water, and a flushing toilet are all at my disposal. Then, feelings of guilt begin to come. It scares me how easily I can slide right back into my “American lifestyle.” I drive my car, talk on my cell phone, and use my own personal computer.
Just a week earlier, I was living in Guatemala eating rice and vegetables and speaking Spanish. I was trying my best to blend in with the people and their culture, frustrated with the fact that I will forever be seen as white and rich, even though I barely had enough money to get me through the rest of my trip.
I remember one instance where about five or six young boys were surrounding me asking for one quetzal, the currency in Guatemala. “Dame un quetzal!” they were repeating over and over. At first I ignored them, but then I got frustrated.
“Give
me a quetzal!” I said in Spanish. “I know I’m a white girl, but I don’t have any money. So give
me a quetzal!”
The boys stared at me for a minute, probably not expecting me first, to know Spanish, and second, to say those words to them. Then, they began to laugh and so did I as we kept asking one another for a quetzal. I think I ended up giving them some gum. It was all I had.
Now, I’m here living with my parents again. The fridge is stocked with all the stuff I like. My dad even went out and bought vanilla-caramel Coffee-mate just for me.
Every room has a TV. I haven’t watched TV in months. Everything on the news is brand-new to me. All the commercials for the new reality shows just make me laugh.
I sit and watch TV because I don’t have to think. I don’t have to try and process all I’ve seen and done for the past two months. I don’t have to be reminded of little Rosalia who I saw in the hospital in Guatemala. There for nothing more than a cleft palette, her parents lived too far away to come visit her. I was secretly a little disappointed to find out that she had parents. I wanted to take her home with me.
Doctors were waiting for her to gain enough weight so they could operate on her lip. She would lie in her cage-like crib all day unless someone came to pick her up or feed her. For two days, that someone was me.
How she would smile though it was difficult to see it in her mouth. I could see it in her eyes. Her world was better because someone came to pick her up, rock her a little bit, and talk to her. The hardest part of my day was putting her back in her crib. As soon as I would lay her head on her pillow and slip my hand out from underneath, she would start to cry. I would always end up picking her back up and putting her back down several times before I would have to leave her. I discovered that lightly blowing on her face seemed to calm her down. Her eyes would brighten and the crying would stop for a few seconds. I wondered if anyone else had discovered this neat little trick.
Seeing her for the last time, lying in that cage is the image I want to forget. Talk about heart-breaking. Watching TV seems to take me away from it all. I have to help those contestants on
The Price Is Right make the right decision! “One dollar, Bob! One dollar!”
