If my beanie could talk it would tell you happy stories. If my beanie could talk it would tell you of the desolate streets of El Alto, Bolivia. It would tell you about the unimpressive graffiti that litters the houses. It would tell you of the dreaded locks on the street dogs. It would tell you of the clouds we walk through at 14,000 feet to get to ministry. It would tell you about playing soccer at the rehab center. It would tell you of the beautiful brick houses that line the cliffs of La Paz. It would tell you of the 5 blankets we sleep under, cuddled into our sleeping bags. It would tell you of the Salt Flats and all of God’s glory. If my beanie could talk it would tell you about sitting on top of a rusty train with MC, Jack, and Amaris.
If my beanie could talk it would tell you stories of confusion. It would tell you about the time Gabbie, Tate, and I walked through the closed market only to look up and find a bird hanging from a telephone line. It would tell you about the time we walked past a stand that hung a dead baby llama to ward off evil spirits. It would tell you about the witchcraft stands. It would tell you about the time we choked down cow heart for lunch. It would tell you how our water evaporates quickly when we boil it. If my beanie could talk it would tell you when we do our laundry our clothes don’t dry because of the cold. It’d tell you that even sleep-aid wasn’t helpful trying to fall asleep on a bus. If my beanie could talk it’d tell you we forget that the girls that hug us are actually addicts.
If my beanie could talk it would tell you stories of laughter. It would tell you how we tried to play soccer and ended up not being able to breathe. It would tell you of all the pot-stirrers on team Stay Salty and Gospel Juice. It would tell you what it means to have and to hold. It would tell you about all the things I’ve said wrong in Spanish. If my beanie could talk it’d tell you it doesn’t matter because laughter is universal. It would tell you about singing and dancing to “Despascito” in the rehab center. If my beanie could talk it’d tell you southerners don’t know the meaning of cold.
If my beanie could talk it would tell you stories of heartbreak. It would tell you about the 15-year-old that tried to commit suicide on Saturday. It would tell you about the 14-year-old drug addict I sit next to everyday at lunch. It would tell you about her abusive father. If my beanie could talk it would tell you about the other 14-year-old, who started drinking and smoking at age 9. It would tell you about the 18-year-old we prayed for as she was shaking from withdrawals. It would tell you about the 22-year-old on her knees bawling and begging for help. If my beanie could talk it would tell you about the 13-year-old, whose mother died and father has no idea where she is. It would tell you we laughed while playing basketball yesterday afternoon. It would tell you that she ran away from rehab last night. It would tell you she ran away with 2 of my favorite girls. If my beanie could talk it would tell you I am heartbroken. If my beanie could talk it’d tell you I miss them.
If my beanie could talk it’d share the Gospel with the same sense of urgency we do.
