If you walked down the street of Los Angeles – where there are chain link fences and unmowed lawns of weeds and beautiful bright flowers, or cemented over front yards and barking dogs who may or may not be domesticated, and you look up and Yosemite towers over this neighbourhood, then you know what Los Andes is like. The downtown wraps around a Forest Gump “life is like a box of chocolates” park and is full of hole in the wall restaurants, boutiques, stores, and street food vendors. It makes me think of Mexican LA like neighbourhood mixed with downtown Bay Area San Rafael shops.
The neighbourhood from the mountains seems tight and full of similar housing structures all one story mixed with a plethora of trees of different textures, and highlighted in the corner with the spires of an ancient church.
The flat plane of the valley is interrupted by little hills much like flat Arizona is. Surrounded by a dark ring of mountains that are dwarfed by even larger snow capped mountains – one of which is the third tallest in the world – we are told.
Our hosts here are pastors of a small baptist congregation. You could almost walk right past the church without knowing it since it is simple and its parking lot ajoins a school’s next door, which is likewise almost unnoticeable. The joint parking lot is behind a rolling gate much like the rest of the residence neighborhood’s.
I would tell you, if you reached the bright blue painted wall you’ve gone too far.
Turn around and follow the black metal fence until you came to the brick red columns which gaurd the gate in front of a simple cream colored house with red steps and roof and an undemanding cross made of yellow tinted glass windows indented into the wall on the left of the structure – almost behind a tree.
The tree is more unique than the church. Large thin oval seed pods hang in clusters all over the tree – clattering in the breeze.
The front doors are a blond wood that seem like they’d open outward – since sometimes the door inverts a little the wrong way – and the hinges announce an arrival with a musical grating of wood grain.
Inside the light filters through the windows creating a forest like chapel atmosphere. It’s all white painted bricks and blond wood pews. The floor is pink vinyl and a simple cross draped with a white piece of sackcloth adorns the wall to the left of the stage.
There’s no instruments and no special formalities, people come as they are. They gather to learn about Jesus, study the bible, and laugh over coffee, tea, and bread.
The week stretches out like a rubber band and finishes as quickly as if the bands been released.
The room on the side of the sanctuary has become home. I wake to the morning light steaming through the sky light, beside me Cristina’s steady rhythm of breath, and again, the blankets askew.
I perpetually feel on the edge of an incoherent thought.
I wake up early and huddle myself off to school where I assist Sebastian, the middle school English teacher who I’ve been assigned to. My two other team mates have been assigned preschool/kindergarten and 1-6th grade. On break I smile at random students who gather about and ask me questions I can’t understand.
We play cats cradle and smile at eachother. I look forward to the walk home with my teammates. The way the light falls through the trees onto the sidewalk. Being able to study the random foliage and berries, and avoiding sidewalk landmines: called dogpoop.
I’m getting used to the casual dogs that litter the sidewalks – in random places; and occasionally seem to chauffer us home.
I look forward to hot cups of black tea.
When I get up in the middle of the night to use the bathroom I know by the subtle shades of black and grey where to walk.
The moments I treasure the most are our hosts lunches outside. I treasure the way she talks with us; her smile which comes from her heart straight out her eyes.
The other day I sat outside resting in the shade and enjoying the fresh air and heard our hosts brothers testimony.
These are the things I came for. To hear the stories of God around the world. To hear about the ways He pursues people. To hear about His faithful reckless search.
To see the broken whole in His love.
I’ve heard three testimonies since I’ve arrived in Chile.
And something apparent hit me.
God is the same today, yesterday, here, there, wherever, whenever.
It’s always the same story; the human search for happiness, the broken realities of life. And the response to God’s amazing invitation. The grabbing of a life that’s better than life.
Telling his testimony he wept, and I wept with Him.
Taste and See, the scripture says. Taste and See that the Lord is good!
I am here in Chile and the Lords grace is like the scent of jasmine winding over the walls of hearts wide, and tall, and crumbling.
