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.
It’s month 2. My team is in Mendoza, Argentina.
We’re working with a YWAM base.
Welcome to BLOGATHON. I haven’t had any WiFi in Argentina, so I need to play catch up. You’ll be getting five updates tonight. Prepare for the fourth and final Chile blog and all four Argentina posts. Enjoy! Next stop: Bolivia!
BLOGATHON 5/5: Thanksgiving in Argentina
I forgot that today was Thanksgiving. And who could blame me? Sorry, Squanto, but this Argentine November has very little in common with your holiday. The air is hot and dusty. The people are going about their day sans football Americana. We actually do have a turkey on base, but he is alive and well, gobbling about in a pen among six chickens, eight ducks, and two geese.
At breakfast my team was irritable. There were a few short words, some sniping. We were missing home and not handling it well. Later we will cry through a team time. “I don’t want to wish any day away,” my teammate will say. “But I? wish this day was over.”
Served an hour late, breakfast was leftover cookies from yesterday’s kids camp. My gluten intolerant teammate went hungry until someone found apples in the kitchen.
“Sorry, no,” she says. “I have an apple allergy.” Of course, she does.
Lack of food on Thanksgiving. The irony isn’t lost on us, though we don’t exactly appreciate it. And there’s no coffee. Suddenly we’re resentful of the little that we were offered. On all other mornings, we have been thankful. This is the second ugly irony.
Our ministry for the day was to teach English at a poor community school about a mile’s walk from the base. Just as the sun and the brisk walk was beginning to refresh the group, a dog was run over four feet from us. For your sake, I won’t describe the scene, except to say that the dog was pretty large and the car was very, very low to the ground. It was brutal. Two of my teammates cried; one of them came very near to vomiting.
I went in the school feeling overwhelmed and sad and more than a little traumatized, nerves shot since the short and loud yelp. The day felt stacked against us. I looked at my watch in surprise. I had only been awake for three hours.
Our first class was disorganized and long. The kids were receptive but unruly. Before the second class starts we meet in an office to regroup.
We were working with a heavyset woman named Susanna. She seems a bit frazzled. I know she can tell that we’re upset, but she doesn’t know why. She’s operating at arm’s length, tiptoeing around these seven Americans. “So….” she starts, “how do you like Argentina?” I listen to my team respond politely to her polite questions.
I feel like crying. I’m thinking of my mom, home in Galveston, making cornbread stuffing, far far away from this city, these children with their big eyes and holes in their shoes. I’m thinking of how my kid brother will fill more than half of his plate with mashed potatoes and how my little sister would dance with me to Christmas songs. I’m thinking of my island where dogs don’t get hit by cars and my whole family is there and no one is ever sad. I’m thinking of my mom cooking the ham with pineapple. I’m thinking of my mom and pumpkin pie. I’m thinking of my mom.
“Actually-“ I break in, unsure of the question they are responding to. Susanna turns to me, confused by my outburst. “Actually today is very hard for us. It is a very big day in our country- a holiday. All of our families are together.” I’m thinking that she doesn’t deserve this. It isn’t her fault that I’m emotional. I’m thinking of how I should put on a happy face for this sweet Argentine woman. I’m thinking of my mom.
Susanna’s eyes get misty. “I know. I know exactly.” She begins to cry. “My daughter lives in New Zealand. Today is her birthday.”
I think it was time to go to the next class, but neither of us cared. I walk over, take the books out of her hands, place them on the table, and hold her. I let her hold me. We cry together. I’m thinking of my mom. She is thinking of her daughter.
We cannot be missionaries with half our emotions. The world needs our joy and our hope. But it also needs our pain. It needs to be understood. There’s a reason that Jesus kept the nail scars.
So, I am thankful this Thanksgiving. For Argentina, for Susanna, for her daughter and my mother, and for our shared pain. I am thankful for my Savior, who left his home for me. He understands my aching heart, and he is near to my brokenness. And he sent a mother to hold me today.
Why, my soul, are you downcast? Why so disturbed within me? Put your hope in God, for I will yet praise him, my Savior and my God. Psalm 42:5
