Some basics for those of you just now dropping in: My sister and I are on an 11-month Christian mission trip to 11 different countries across 4 continents. We’re headed to: Argentina, Bolivia, Paraguay, Chile, Uganda, Ethiopia, Rwanda, Serbia, Bulgaria, Romania, Cambodia, and Thailand. The work will range from country to country in partnership with established ministries in each area. We’ll work in orphanages, build churches, minister to trafficked women, and more.
It’s month 1. My team is in Santiago, Chile.
We’re working with a local church.
In America, there is only one stray dog. He is gaunt and sheepish. He is always an ugly brown or dull grey or maybe black-but-for-the-dust. It’s the same breed every time, every place. Driving across the country you might think to yourself, “Hmm. How did you make it all the way over here, little mutt? I saw you three states ago.” Sure now he is darker and taller and maybe might be a she, but the air of every stray is the same.
Not so in Chile. There is no rule of thumb for a Santiago stray. They are big woolly sheepdogs and tiny chows. Mangy and not. Dalmatians and huskies and poodles and hounds. There are more dogs in Santiago than people. This may or may not be a true statement. But this is my blog, and I can exaggerate if I want.
There is a dog on every corner, in every house, near every building. Five in the alley by our church, two around that park, one walking with the child and his abuela. One panoramic photo of a typical Santiago street may capture eleven dogs, and that is not an exaggeration.
The houses on our street are squeezed together. Each one has a tall gate in front so that they make a seamless line of patchwork textures. Chilean people are like the Israelites, each building his portion of the wall. I thought at first that the gates were for security. Actually, they are for the dogs, to keep them inside and out.
Hermana Victoria says “In Santiago, muchos perros, sin alimañas.” She thinks for a second. “No vermins.”
I suppose “sin alimañas” is a good excuse for all of these dogs to be here, but Victoria has also told me about the time a dog bit her face. She’s the second in the church, and Hermano Luis still has a pretty nasty scar stretching from his ear lobe to the bottom of his chin.
We are living in the back of the church. The congregation has graciously cleared out two classrooms and provided seven cots. There’s a shower and a kitchen. We sleep well now that we’ve grown accustomed to the uncomfortable sounds of mice.
The scurrying isn’t the issue; it’s the squealing and squeaking and general squuu noises. Sam and I moved our beds to the center of the room after discovering holes on the floor beneath them. The animañas still come out every night, but Taylor says to imagine they are throwing a little mouse party and that helps a bit.
Our ministry host is great. Broad-shouldered and self-assured, Pastor David is a presence. The elderly women in the church are very proud of their young and handsome minister. He insists that we all speak Spanish and began the month of lessons with an emphatic “Pahst-or Dah-veed.” It’s a week before we discover that his English is perfect.
He keeps us very busy. We make house visits on weekdays to the elderly and sick and other people “con muchas problemas.” Pastor David says this with a squint like he’s not sure how much to tell us. At every house we sing a song, deliver a message, and pray. Chilean people will not let you leave without having eaten anything. Surprisingly, the menu is always the same: soda and Lays and a cake that every Chilean woman bakes the same way. Now having politely drank many glasses, I can say quite confidently that I don’t like Fanta, especially Fanta Zero.
One of our house visits ends with the woman insisting we take home lemons. Here she is on the left directing Pastor David to exactly the lemons she’d like him to pick. Her husband is the reason for our visit. His illness has kept them confined to their house for weeks.
On Tuesdays we work with the hermanas de la iglesia. They are the most precious group of women I’ve yet to meet. They meet to sing and pray and have coffee. At the last session, one of the hermanas, 82 years old, stood up to proudly sing “I’m in the Lord’s Army.” In Spanish, of course, and with all the motions. After the meeting, we split up into teams of 3 and visit the homes of every sick person in the church.
On Wednesday nights and Saturday mornings we have an open to the public prayer meeting. Saturday afternoons are spent at a mission for children where we lead a service. I’ll try to write a full blog post about that soon. Sundays are for Bible classes and a traditional church service.
We speak at every event. We’ve each prepared two testimonies, a reflection, and a Bible story in Spanish. Pastor David called this our “Como se dice..? Ahhh… homework.” Ah, homework. Every morning the space buzzes with people writing, rewriting, translating, and reciting.
And that’s about it. Life in Santiago is going well. It’s a lot, but I’m happy. Last Monday (our off day), we went to a park with Pastor David, his wife Luz Maria, and their young son Emmanuel.
The park is beautiful- one large hill topped with a shining white statue of the Virgin Mary, arms spread like Christ the Redeemer in Rio, a snake curled up beneath her feet. My team turned away from the statue (sorry, Mary) to view the city spread out before us. Buildings stack and back each other into the mountains. On the other side of the range, Argentina. In the brief moment of silence before we dissolve into Instagramming tourists, we pray.
Lord, thank you for bringing us to Santiago. Thank you for allowing us to be a part of the good work you are doing here, one we trust you’ll be faithful to complete after we’re gone. Thank you for the pleasure of serving you. Thank you for being a God of brilliant, life-shaking, wondrous adventure.
