Peace be with you. And also with you.

Well, my work week started with quite a scare.  On Sunday afternoon I went to the bus terminal in San Jose and got my ticket to Puerto Viejo.  From there I take the rickety bus into El Jardin - a 30 minute drive made 2 hours by the resistance of the gravel and detours down side roads that I don't even think Louis and Clark could navigate.  It was only a week or two ago that I almost missed my stop because of the power outage, so I the last couple bus rides I had paid extra attention as not to get stranded in the middle of a banana plantation.  About an hour and a half down the road, the bus comes to a screeching halt.  The bus driver, an extra-large man with dark skin and glasses, turns his head back and yells "I need water!  Somebody get me some water!  Hurry!"  Everyone kind of looks around at each other - a little bewildered at the outburst and unsure if he meant THEIR water.  When his cries didn't stir any commotion, he yelled again "Come on, peopl!  HELP ME!  I NEED WATER!!"  At this point, people startled scrambling around their seats, grasping for bags, hands searching inside purses and backpacks until finally half-empty water bottles are being transferred up to the front of the bus in an assembly line formation by all the passengers standing in the aisle who had got on the bus too late to get a seat.  People began sitting up in their seats, trying to peer over their neighbor's shoulder to figure out what's going on.  Now, I know nothing about cars or engines or buses or mechanical logic of any kind mostly because of my refusal to give time to something I find so unbearably boring, but I initially thought that maybe the bus was overheating or some fluid level was low and the bus driver needed water to cool it down or... something.  But after people had time to sufficiently eavesdrop conversations with the driver at the front of the bus, the news came trickling back through the seats like a rain drop playing connect the dots with the others while it sporadically slides down the window pane.  I looked expectantly at the man riding beside me after he had stuck his head over the seat in front of us to get the low-down and he, undoubtedly considering my blue eyes, pale skin and freckles as a irreversible language barrier, finally told me that the driver had had an "attack."  An attack?  "What kind of attack?" I asked.  He shrugged his shoulders.  "An attack," he said.  There were three women at the front of the bus with pieces of paper and cardboard fanning the bus driver as he lay spread out in his seat with his head thrown back.  There was a steady stream of murmurs as we waited to see what would happen next.  After a while, it seemed the bus driver was able to explain that he had low blood sugar and that was the cause of it.  One of the ladies called out for anyone with candy so I sent up the three suckers I had in my bag left over from San Martin lessons as well as my bottled water.  The driver kept saying that he felt like he was dying.  People began taking out their phones to try an call an ambulance.  Since we were already 1 1/2 hours into the ride, getting signal was pretty difficult.  Some got off the bus to walk while others stuck their cell phones out the window looking for any bars.  Someone finally got in touch with an emergency operator and it was on its way.  While we waited, the bus driver called into the bus terminal in Puerto Viejo and explained what had happened.  He said he couldn't go any further, he couldn't drive the bus, and he thought he was going to die.  He told them they needed to send another driver to take us the rest of the way as we were 30-40 minutes (and 12 side roads, twists, and turns) away from San Julian, the end of the route.  Now, around this time, when people began to realize that we were to wait in the middle of the road for another driver to come, many passengers got off the bus and decided to walk to their home.  Some 10 minutes away, others 2 hours away.  I'm not sure if this decision had to do with impatience or distrust in the actual execution of sending another driver in a timely manner... or at all.  Now, this is the part of the story where I got a little nervous.  My stop was about a 3 hour walk away (I think); however, I was pretty unsure of anything more than the general direction of El Jardin.  So, as half the passengers began to file off the bus to walk home, I just sat there, wondering if the banana plantation we were parked next to had any deadly pesticides that would negatively impact the night's rest I would get under a banana tree.  The bus driver had caught his breath enough to begin apologizing for the inconvenience, assuring us that another driver was coming, and apologizing some more.  It didn't take much for the rest of the passengers on the bus to assure him that he had nothing to worry about, that he needed to focus on his health, that everything would be okay.  They told him to not think anything of it and that it was no problem - these people, stuck three hours from their homes.  I was moved by their concern for the driver and the ease with which they took this inconvenient turn of events.  And that's how they handled it, as an inconvenience.  They were not mad at the driver, upset at their late arrival, or even anxious for the arrival of the next driver.  Now, since I've been here, I have constantly had to try and shed my American concern for punctuality.  It was in this moment, as I watched the passengers standing at the windows of the bus being rhythmically outlined by the flashing lights of the ambulance, that I saw for the first time one of the blessings of this cultural disregard for time.  It allowed the people on this bus to prioritize, without question or hesitation, the health of the bus driver as the number one concern and encouraged them to look at this situation as a one that was simply uncontrollable and, therefore, not worth worrying about.  They refuse to worry about that which is uncontrollable.  After the driver was taken away by the ambulance, the rest of the passengers and I were left sitting on the lifeless bus, in the middle of the road, as the sun was setting behind the oversized banana leafs.  Then I began to laugh, because, really, what else do you do in a situation like that but cast your concerns up to the sky to someone MUCH smarter than you and live in that moment with Him and those around you.  Thirty minutes later, another driver came and took us 15 minutes down the road where we waited there for another 30 minutes for a different driver to take us to El Jardin.  I arrived to Hazel's house that night a couple hours late but was glad to see their faces.

All went well in El Jardin the next day on Monday.  The class I really struggled with last time, first grade, behaved much better this round.  I implemented a lot more activities with individual work to avoid arguments between classmates and encourage personal accomplishment versus class competition.  A few days ago, I also talked with a German volunteer stationed in Puerto Viejo.  She will be teaching English classes on Saturday in El Jardin at the church.  When she first told me, I thought having two volunteers in the same community might be a bit of an overkill, but after thinking about it, I didn't think too much education could ever be an overkill.  We spent a few hours talking and I explained to her what I thought was best to teach, etc.  It is kind of exciting that the children in El Jardin now have a triple threat of English education:  the teacher there Weds-Fri, me on Mondays, and the German volunteer on Saturdays.  Since we are all collaborating I really feel like this community might thrive.

Monday was Marilyns' birthday.  I spent the day at school yelling "Happy Birthday" to her across the front lawn strictly for embarassment purposes only.  I made her a card and gave it to her mid-day.  She's turning 11.  That night they had a special dinner for her with chicken soup, rice (of course), and beans (only natural).  She invited a couple girls over from school and their ate as well.  I noticed that here, at least in the poor community of El Jardin, presents were not really a big concern.  Hazel mentioned getting her something at some point, but it was not necessary to get Marilyn anything, nor did she seem upset that he present was dinner.  I don't know if this is more of a money issue or a cultural difference.  However, we spent the evening sitting in chairs and spread out on the floor eating her birthday dinner and talking.

On Tuesday afternoon I began my walk to San Julian.  I asked to borrow Hazel's mom's umbrella because the sun was fiercely radiant that day and I didn't want my skin any redder than it was from the heat.  It wasn't 20 minutes down the road that a truck pulled up and offered me a ride.  I have been walking to and from San Julian for about a month now and there has not been one afternoon that I haven't been offered a ride.  Once in a semi-truck, another on a tractor, once with the principal from San Julian, once with two men contracted to gather rice from fields, etc.  It reminds me of the Southern hospitality of North Carolina, but more like in the early 1900's when horror stories and scary movies didn't give hitch-hiking such a bad name.  This last time I got a ride from three men who go around the countryside collecting scrap metal and other recyclable materials to sell in San Jose.  They weigh the pieces, pay the families, and then sell them for more in the city.  Though I guess it is technically hitch-hiking, the routine has become so familiar and expected now that hitch-hiking has too negative of a connotation to describe how much I enjoy getting to know all these people.  Not to mention, they all drive so slow down these gravel roads infested with potholes and large rocks that I feel confident that if anything were to happen I could easily open to the door and step out of the car.

All is going well at San Julian.  I teach afternoon classes to the seniors and help them with reading comprehension for their English final exams in November.  I usually have the students practice with three articles and answer questions.  Though the work is routine and exhausting, I am trying to have them practice the reading comprehension strategies so frequently that when their exam comes they automatically are able to decipher the article and pull out the answers.  I want them to look at that exam in November and think "This is it? I've worked longer and harder questions for the last two months."  Two girls came up to me after class on Tuesday and told me that they felt much more confident about their exam in November.  They said the strategies we had been working on made reading comprehension so much easier that it kind of seemed silly how they used to go about it before.  This affirmation made me feel really good, like I was doing at least one thing right here if nothing else.

On Tuesday at 5 I planned to go to the Catholic service down the road with Hazel and her boyfriend.  A few kids from El Jardin who had seen me there the last time asked if I was going this week.  When I said yes one boy said that if I was going, he would go.  When I was about to leave, Jahayda asked if she could come with me.  I told her yes but to hurry as she was in her pajamas already.  She ran back to get changed and we left when Hazel and her fiance came to look for us at the church.  We all walked together down the road.  Before the service started, Carlos, Hazel's fiance, Jahayda, and I walked around the front yard of the church and picked flowers to fill the vases with.  When we came back in we took our seats in the second pew.  Juan Luis, a boy from school came and wiggled himself into a seat between Carlos and me.  The best part of the service was when we shared the peace.  There were many students from El Jardin there.  I hugged and kissed both Jahayda and Juan Luis.  I did the same with Carlos and Hazel.  And when I looked up, there was a line of kids in the aisle ready to share the peace with me.  The boys flushed with embarassment at a hug and the girls anxious to kiss my cheek.  There were probably 15 of them.  It's funny how at school some of them act up; they scream in my class when I ask them not to, they interrupt while I'm talking, or they take 5 minutes to get their English notebooks out because they don't feel like writing.  I get frustrated with them and I get upset that they don't listen.  I get angry when they disobey me.  But as we share the peace, I forget all of it.  I can't remember one misdeed they've done and I have trouble remembering why I was frustrated with them yesterday.  They are perfect in my eyes all over again.  They are beautiful and their eyes are so shiny and hopeful for affection.  Their smiles are heartbreakingly precious and I am in awe of how full I feel when I hold them in my arms.  All I want to do is love them.  I want them to know how much I care for them.  And I want to tell them that nothing could change how I feel.

I think that is what sharing the peace is supposed to be about.  Everything washed clean.  Every transgression between you and that person before is gone, because, if you mean it, you are sharing God's peace with them and God's peace leaves no room for grudges or stubborness.  If we are to live in peace with God, we must live in peace with each other.  This is the chance to put action to our words, because though we pray for peace in foreign countries plagued by war and we pray for peace in cities rampant with violence, if we cannot put action to peace in our own lives, we are then too at fault for perpetuating hate in this world.  When you kiss someone's cheek or shake someone's hand and share peace with them, you are throwing up your white flag and laying any resentment or discordance between you two to rest.  This is your chance, as well as theirs, to start over.  To take peace literally and forgive.  To be forgiven.  To do it all over again better.  Kinder.  Wiser.  With more understanding.  With a softer heart.  And after you have shared that peace, after you have allowed your heart to be transformed by that peace, you begin to get a hint of what God must feel for us.  Forgiveness without justification.  Love so blinding it's hard to focus attention on anything other than how beautiful and loved this person is before your eyes.  I imagine that's how God feels.  Watching us down here on earth, aching all over with the desire to hold us.  To love us.  Like this great abyss of love that anyone could get swallowed up into if they would just come close enough.  But I am not God and it isn't two hours later that Hector, Jahayda's brother, has ripped one of my playing cards for fun and I want to snatch it out of his hands and not let him play anymore.  Or Jahayda has asked me 8 more questions after we've already said goodnight and I want to tape her mouth shut.  I'm not going to romanticize that moment in the church out of context of the rest of my life because I am human.  I won't pretend that it's easy to look at others in God's eyes or that it's easy to forgive.  It's not.  But isn't it those moments when we do, however short, when we are able to see life through God's eyes, that we live for?  That make everything else worth it?  That make everything a little easier to swallow?  That make getting stranded on a bus in the middle of a banana plantation funny?  That make you recognize that a child asks you questions because they love you and not because they want to get on your nerves?  That make you a little bit better the next time around?

After being here a little over a month, and having so many experiences such as this that make me think about God and talk about the generosity of people or describe the beauty instead of functionality of a garden, I began to think that maybe being here has made me romanticize or exaggerate my experiences.  But now, I don't think it's about making something sound better than it really was or exaggerating or romanticizing people or interactions.  I think it's about being willing to see life through God's perspective.  Letting "the Light of God's presence so fully fill your mind that you view the world through Him" (Sarah Young).  And if that allows me to look at one of my students as I did that night, with nothing but love, then let His Light shine on and in all of us.

That night Jahayda and I walked back to the church alone because Hazel and Carlos stayed to talk to the priest.  We ended the church service with a song called "Demos gracias al Senor" - "Let's give thanks to God."  Jahayda jumped on my back and I put her on my shoulders.  We continued down the lamplit gravel clapping our hands and singing the tagline of the song over and over - let's give thanks to God, let's give thanks, let's give thanks to God *clap clap clap*.  I'm sure that I will remember that moment until I can remember nothing else.

On Wednesday morning I went back to San Jose, worked in the office for a bit that day, and then joined a dance lesson after work.  A man named Roy who's about 50 or 60 was teaching some of the women in the office some steps.  The class turned out to be Roy and 6 other women, including myself.  I don't think he minded the disproportionate ratio.  I first learned the basic salsa steps, then the merengue.  At the end Roy taught me the Costa Rican cumbia.  I learned the cumbia in Chile but Roy assured me that this was much different.  He was so, so right.  The Costa Rican cumbia is composed mostly of jumping up and down as you make your steps.  It is so fun.  Here's people who can do it much better than me: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SzUhc-Ua8ns (and I promise I wore more clothes than her)

It turned out these dance moves came in handy because on Friday night Jeff (a Costa Rican friend we have here), Martin (german volunteer), Nadine (Other german volunteer), and I went out dancing.  This bar had a huge dance floor about half the size of a gymnasium and only played dancing music.  No reggateon or rap allowed seemed to be the motto.  There were a bunch of people there, all to dance.  The couples were made of all shapes and sizes and we spent the first 30 minutes just watching the people move across the floor.  We finally got up the courage to dance and had a blast.  I don't know how we managed to move though, because earlier that evening Jeff brought over some spaghetti that his mom made us.  I made homemade chocolate chip cookies and the Germans made a salad.  We had a feast.  Then to our surprise Jeff also brought a dessert called choco-bananos which are frozen bananas dipped in chocolate.  Delicious is inadequate to describe the creaminess of a frozen banana as it melts in your mouth or the pleasure it brings as the chocolate mixes with the combination.  We sat there at the table after eating it all and doubted our ability to get to the bus.  However, we made it to the dance club and worked off at least the cookies as we danced all night.

On Saturday morning I had an information session for the San Sebastian community interested in English classes.  I put up posters on the door, made announcements to the administration in the church, spoke with the congregation of San Sebastian, and all that week.  Based on the low participation numbers in San Martin, I got ready for the morning with little hope of more than 10 people.  I had made little information sheets for those interested to fill out with the names, contact information, age, etc.  I was contemplating what community I would go to next if nobody came, etc.  Around 10, one of the men from the San Sebastian congregation showed up.  He had said he was interested in classes when I announced it last Sunday.  He told me he had made signs himself and put them up in every convenient store in the community.  I thanked him and hoped he wouldn't be too disappointed when noone responded.  After that my neighbors came over with their son and filled out piece of paper for him as well as his father.  They stuck around and chatted with me while we waited.  Before I knew it, the mother was on the phone calling friend after friend to tell her what was going on.  She told me a family with four children was coming in a little bit.  Then Leo, my neighbor came over and wished me luck.  I told him thank you and it wasn't 20 minutes later that I saw him bang on 6 doors on the other side of my street and tell them to go over and sign up for English classes.  He winked at me and went back to work.  Before the clock turned 11am, I had accumulated just under 40 slips of paper of people who were interested in the classes ages ranging from 5 to 57.  Holy blessing.  It had everything to do with the support of the community members and church members who had come to support me and put up posters without me even asking.  Oh, and something about God having a plan for us and this community and everything... haha.  Obviously.

So now, I have 40 people, 40 numbers to call, and 40,000 decisions to make about classes and how to divide them, what to teach, teachers to talk to, lesson plans to organize.  There is an obvious desire for English education in this area and please pray that I can provide that.

Well, it's Sunday morning, the church service in our living room/sanctuary is over and I am about to head off to El Jardin to do it all over again. But, you know, without any possibility of routine or monotony because unpredictable seems to be the only predictable thing in this country.