It is COLD. I have lived in summer for most of the past 6 months. Last month on the Caribbean coast, it was in the 90’s all the time. I am not used to 70’s and 50’s here in Miranda, an hour outside of Quito, Ecuador. It might have to do with the elevation: 8700 ft.
Before I begin to reflect about my month in Colombia, I would like to thank everyone who has prayed and donated for my trip. This has been one of the best decisions I have ever made in my life, and it is because of y’all that I have been able to stay in Latin America. If you would like to continue to support some of my companions, here are some more opportunities. July 1st is our deadline for being fully funded to be able to continue on the mission field. Here are some of my friends who still need funding:
Leah Nestor
Katrina Nixon
Meg McCluskey
Missy Geiszler
Katrina Palazuelos Rico
Karissa Rodriguez
Amanda Bednar
I really haven’t had a lot of time to process Colombia. Or rather, I have not made enough time. For safety’s sake, we had to stay indoors a lot, so we spent a lot of time entertaining ourselves via games or movies, and I did not spend enough time reflecting. It was not an easy month. I had some issues to go through with kids banging on our doors. It was also not a particularly safe month.
It also rather hurts to think too hard about it, even though I know I want to remember, I want to let it hurt, I want to smile and cry. It hurts because it was so good. I knew by about mid-month that I didn’t want to leave. Colombia is mine. Some countries you go to, you enjoy, you may even want to revisit, but they aren’t really yours. But Colombia is mine. Even before I left, I was already making scenarios in my head about how I could go back.
I have never felt like I did in Colombia in any other country: like I belonged. I shouldn’t have belonged. Cartagena used to be a big slave trading port from Africa for the Spanish, so most people in that neighborhood are of African descent. I was looking back at old pictures from college the other day – one of which I was at a formal wearing a white dress. My skin was so white that part of the top of the dress blended in- needless to say that I stuck out in a town where I only saw one other white person. Also, we lived in an area with a lot of poverty- people who did not know where their next meal was coming from, people with no air conditioning, leaky tin roofs and peeling walls, power and water outages, who could not afford to send their children to school because they could not buy the uniform or supplies, kids who roamed the streets late at night because they didn’t have a bedtime. Alcoholism, neglect, drugs, abuse, teen and pre-teen pregnancy – this was daily life for some of them. I love chocolate and fish. I sometimes complain about my parents’ overprotectiveness. It doesn’t mean that I live on top of the world or that I don’t have my own problems and heartaches –but they look completely different than those of this neighborhood. It was kind of like a Latin American suburb/inner city life – and I’m a small town kind of girl. I should not have felt so at home, but I did. I want to be stuck there for longer. I want to experience it more. I want more time to come out of my shell, play even more with the children, and make friends with the youth. I want to go with Carlie and make the Latin boys at the soccer field think twice about underestimating gringa girls and their soccer skills. I want more conversations with our contacts and our friends. I want to see another time when my new brother lights up with a Holy Spirit revelation and wonder where it comes from. I want to watch his eyes sparkle as he does something else hilarious to make us laugh until it hurts. I want to be able to swim at the beach with everybody, diving through the clear Caribbean waters like a fish. I want to hear another firm, loving discourse from our host’s wife, who has some incredible stories and more wisdom than an owl. Coastal Spanish is drastically different than other kinds of Spanish, but by the end of the month, I could understand a lot better. I want more of that chatter, of that barrio slang, of that companionship and community which in an odd way is reminiscent of the South. I left them wanting more.
When I got on that final bus, all I wanted to do was find a private place to cry. And I don’t cry for just anyone.
O Padre celestial, mi Amor, mi Amigo, tú quién sabe todas corazones, tú sabes los deseos de mi corazón mejor que mí mismo. Anhelo ver más de ti en los ojos de mis amigos en mi barrio. Por favor, tráeme para atrás algún día, más pronto que tarde. Quiero mi gente por mi lado otra vez.
