Saturday night I took it easy and read a book called "The Kite Runner" (was really popular a few years back) front to back. I was going to save some of it for all the bus time I have on the way to El Jardin but it was fantastic and I couldn't stop reading it. They say some people have addictive personalities and though mine doesn't fall under the drug category, I think I might be addicted to words.
Sunday morning I attended the church service which is conveniently located in the front of my house. The bible reading for that day was about the King who held a banquet and invited all the rich, important people to come but they never showed up and kept disobeying the King and hurting people around them. So the King got sick of it and told his servants to go out into the streets and invite anyone and everyone they could find to the feast. So they did and everyone came - the good, the bad, the poor, the middle class - everyone except the rich, horrible, mean people. During the sermon the pastor talked about the metaphor of the parable and how many people interpret God as the King who invited everyone to the feast but only a few decide to take him up on the offer, just like He offers Himself to us - to love us, comfort us, and give us peace - but not all of us put our faith in Him.
In services here, the sermons are more like an open discussion in which the pastor starts it off and everyone else finishes it up with their thoughts and interpretation. It's actually really neat and, as the pastor said himself, it is not uncommon that some of the most insightful analyses come from the congregation. So, my friend Jeff, who we often go out dancing with, raised his hand and offered his view of the story. He began to speculate on the reason why the rich and important didn't feel the need to come to the banquet and what he said was this: "A lot of people read this parable and think that these people didn't come to the feast, or that people don't have faith in God, because they don't respect Him or don't believe He even exists. They interpret these people to be simply bad who sin and don't care about doing the right thing. But I think that the metaphor involves food for a reason. This is not just a story of believers and non-believers, evil and pure, good and bad. Black and white is too simple. There is more to it than that. I think it's possible that some of these people did not come to the feast, did not deem it important, because they were not hungry. Maybe they'd already eaten McDonald's that day or filled up on a bag of potato chips before dinner. These are the people who do not think they need to eat. They do not think they need to take part in the feast. They don't need this feast to feel full because they've already eaten."
We all sat in the church after he spoke and thought about it for a little bit because this interpretation implicated us all in a very real way. How many times do we turn down the feast because we think we don't need it? Because we've filled ourselves up on arrogance and pride? We don't need God's love because we're fine by ourselves. We're doing well in work, our relationships are stable, and our family isn't fighting. That is until someone dies or we lose a lot of money or our significant other breaks up with us. And then we come running back to the banquet, busting through the doors, hungry for comfort and peace. It is not only non-believers who deny the feast, but believers who find themselves above the need for it. Already full, self-sufficient, and capable of feeding themselves.
I think what Jeff was getting at in the end was stop eating junk food. Stop filling up on accomplishments of this world and thinking that they can replace the peace and light of God in our hearts. Your promotion is a fantastic opportunity but do not allow it to fool you into thinking that you don't need to be eternally loved. And that community service you did the other weekend was really nice but if you decieve yourself into believing that you don't need as much help and healing as those people you served then you will return to the feast, to the feet of God, hungrier and hungrier. We are broken people in need of nourishment we cannot provide for ourselves. Fact.
After the service I headed off to El Jardin which has slowly but surely become my favorite place in Costa Rica. When I hopped the bus to El Jardin from Puerto Viejo I was surprised to see the bus driver who had had the low blood sugar attack a few weeks back. His return left me a little conflicted as I lowered myself into my seat. While I was glad he was back and healthy, I couldn't help but replay the little scare we had in the banana fields a month ago. Red ambulance lights, 20 people walking miles to their home in the dark, my contemplation of banana leafs as a suitable cot for the night. I really hoped he was up for the job. As I looked out the window of the bus we passed a man riding a horse carrying a chainsaw. Here, there is the most unnatural mix of modern technology and old-fashioned tradition. Men carrying powertools on horseback, TVs and DVD players on the floor of one-room shacks. It's like constantly finding an anachronistic reference in literature (an inconsistency in some chronological arrangement; anything that is or seems to be out of its proper time in history). Here I am, waking up with the chickens on the floor of the two room house at Jahayda's and then a cell phone rings. Or I'm out back washing clothes in a steel tub by hand and hanging them on the line with Hazel and then I look inside and Marilin is playing solitaire on the laptop. A land of anachronisms.
On Monday I taught, as usual, six classes in El Jardin. After working here a couple months, I am much closer to the staff and enjoy spending time with them between classes. As there are only a little over 100 students at the school, there are only 3 other teachers besides me, the principal, the janitor, and the cook. As I've explained, students come to school in two shifts. First grade, second grade, and fifth grade have classes in the morning from 7am until 11:30am. Third grade, fourth grade, and sixth grade have classes in the afternoon from 12pm to 4pm. This means that the three teachers each teach two grades - one in the morning and one in the afternoon.
Fran is the teacher for second and third grade. He is an older man of about 50 who is obsessed with his motorcycles and, oddly enough, rocks. He loves stones. Find him a rock shaped like a sphere, a perfect ball, and you have found his pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. He's shown me pictures of his home where he has designs made out of rocks in his front yard, a fountain of stones, and a walkway up to his front porch made completely out of rocks he found. He's a man of great passion. His other passion is coffee, like everyone else in Costa Rica, and he makes a point to offer it to me at least 8 times a day despite the fact that he knows I do not drink or like coffee (a mortal sin in Costa Rica). I thought if I promised him that I would drink a cup with him on my last day that he would ease up, but the deal had no effect and he continues to harrass my beverage preferences and defenseless taste buds.
Jenny is the teacher for first grade and sixth grade. She likes to plop down in the seat right in front of me in the cafeteria and tell me about all her students. She teaches first grade so about every 15 minutes one of them is running in to tattle tale on someone. "Johnny stuck gum up Kevins nose." "Hector is gluing Windy's hands to the picnic table." "Eduardo said he drove his dad's motorcycle but he's lying, right teacher?" Every time they leave she rolls her eyes and pretends to be annoyed but I know she loves them. When I smile at her children, she beams at me as if I've silently given her permission to dote on them. She's invited me to stay at her house in Puerto Viejo this coming Tuesday. She wants me to meet her family and cook for me. I naturally said yes as kitchen affairs are a daunting task for me. This little school is the most beautiful landmark in my travels thus far. Its bright pink paint covering every inch of school building is directly representative of the color it paints my insides when I see all their faces. I have come to know every single student in that school, most by name, and it could now never be just a school to me.
Every time I return from El Jardin, people in San Jose who ask me where I have been always respond saying "Oh man, you've been there? A lot of rain up there, huh?" This has been a serious source of confusion for me because, after two months, it has rained maybe three times in El Jardin. Each time for a maximum of 30 minutes and the majority of it drizzle. It is always blazing hot, dry, and warm enough to evaporate any water attempting to question this climate. A couple weeks ago Hazel and her family had to dig a completely new well in their yard because the one they built in their house was dried up. They went 6 days without water, having to borrow from their neighbors and shower with small buckets of water. Hazel's father and his sons dug the well in a few nights after their 9 hour shifts in the pineapple plantations and worked well into the night. This did not scream "land of rain" to me and I was perpetually confused by peoples' reactions to El Jardin.
Well, a week ago, on my way to El Jardin, on the bus I sat with one of the teachers from the high school in San Julian where I teach English classes on Tuesdays. We got on the subject of climate and he explained to me that usually El Jardin is completely flooded during rainy season (June - November; hitting its peak in November) and sometimes buses can't even get in and out of the town because the roads are so swamped. He told me that this year had been the driest rainy season in 10 years. What luck, I thought to myself.
Anyway, my latest trip to El Jardin this last Sunday through Wednesday served as the rainy season inauguration as storms poured through the streets. On Monday there was so much rain that it flooded the schoolyard and students could barely play during their break. (I say barely because this did not stop them from running through the puddles and getting completely dirty between classes) On top of that, all the school buildings have tin roofs so during my class with third grade, the class of 30 students, the rain was falling so hard and loud on the tin roof that I could barely hear my own voice. The ting tings of rain swelled and throbbed in our ears. It was during this time that the students took the opportunity to scream at the top of their lungs. I, defenseless against rain and an army of rowdy children, just watched them and waited until the rain slowed. I had kind of assumed that being a country of two seasons: rainy season and dry season, that the students might have become somewhat accustomed to the rain. I thought that the stereotypically chaotic expecation U.S. teachers have for their students when it rains might not culturally translate here, but I was wrong. On so many levels.
On Tuesday, after teaching a fifth grade class in El Jardin, I set off on my 3 mile trek to San Julian around 11am. I put my headphones in and set off. There are three main stretches of road during the journey that are lined on both sides with pasture as far as the eye can see and not a soul in sight apart from the cows grazing in the merciful shade of the trees. During these long stretches, I typically take a look behind me to make sure no one is around and then sing to the songs in my headphones at the top of my lungs. This day, while I was singing, one of my headphones fell out of my ears as I was making a dramatic head roll in the middle of a sassy lyric about heartbreak. I was so startled to hear my voice so small and engulfed in silence that I stopped mid-note. I looked behind me again. No one. It was so silent. I began to think of how far I was away from anyone, in actuality how alone I was. And it's strange feeling to be so alone and not lonely. Hearing my voice challenge the resounding silence made me realize how loud the silence was and how far away I was from anyone. But I did not feel alone, I just felt free. God is everywhere I want Him to be. If I open my eyes wide enough I see Him in everything and everyone around me.
Class in San Julian went well. We reviewed Costa Rican celebrations, holidays, and festivals. I had the students practice with different articles and they did very well. After class the students stuck around and talked to me for a while. We started talking about challenging words to say in English and Spanish. They challenged me with a couple words that included a lot of R-rolling and X's which are always hard for me. It was then that I had to bust out "antidisestablishmentarianism" and wow them all. I spent 10 minutes helping them practice the pronunciation. I told them if any of their friends asked them if they could speak English, then they should just say yes and then say the word. No one would question them. Unless they spoke English...
Hazel and I walked back to El Jardin together after school. It had rained a little bit during class but was now clear with blue skies. I had brought my umbrella for the walk strictly for the sun because I'm not really into skin cancer and red is not my color. Well, it wasn't 10 minutes into our 40 minute walk that it began to rain. Hazel didn't have an umbrella because her fiance took her to school that day on his motorcycle. I pulled my umbrella out and sheltered us both from the drizzle. Here they call drizzle "pelillo de gato" which means cat hair. If it is drizzling outside they say that it's raining cat hair because apparently cat hair is extremely fine... like small rain drops (the simile was a little lost on me too).
Ten minutes after on our walk home, that the petty cat hair had turned into full on hairballs. I had to stop to wear my backpack on my front like I was a pregnant woman just so it could get some shelter from the umbrella. Hazel was walking cock-eyed as she bear-hugged her satchel full of homework and books. Finally the rain and gusts of wind became so strong that it threatened to break my umbrella. Hazel and I walked together with our hands on the inside of the umbrella pushing against the wind so that it wouldn't turn itself inside out. At first avoiding puddles, the entire road slowly became one big river and walking in it was inevitable. My bag had gotten so wet that I eventually had to take my rain jacket off and put it over my backpack instead, exposing my entire back to the fury of the hairballs that were rapidly falling from the sky. Hazel and I, trying to share the umbrella, were practically walking on top of each other with our heads so close together that we could have been mistaken for a pair of siamese twins conjoined at the forehead. Twenty minutes into the walk and it became evident that the umbrella was only useful for keeping dry 1/4 of our bodies which we designated for our bags. The rest of us - pants, back, shirt, hair - was all saturated right down to the bone. It all became so much at once that side-stepping down the road, I caught Hazel's eye, and we began giggling. This only naturally turned into full-blown laughter and we continued that way the rest of the walk; waddling, crouching, and laughing hysterically until we arrived home. At one point, grasping for breath and wiping away tears of laughter and rain drops from her face, Hazel asked me "Why are we laughing?!" I said "What else are we going to do?!" This made her laugh harder and we continued to do so until we got home.
Rainy season was in full swing now. I orginally bought an umbrella for the sun in El Jardin and my long walks to San Julian, but now, in both San Jose and El Jardin, the umbrella has saved me from needing to change my clothes too many times. It is kind of strange carrying an umbrella for any reason. In the US I don't think I've owned one since I was around age 7 and I used it because it matched my rain boots and looked cute for photo ops. Driving from building to building and always having access to a car, we don't do a lot of walking out of necessity in the US. Grab a rain jacket and you can make it through the 20 steps you have to take from your car to the building.
Because of this, I have almost lost my umbrella 5 times in the couple weeks that I've had it leaving it everywhere I take it. It has also forced me to recognize some umbrella etiquette of which I was previously unaware. For example, if you are walking on the sidewalk towards someone else who also has an open umbrella and you look at that person before they look at you, then you are obligated to raise your umbrella while they continue on their way. I've also noticed that old women will not move their umbrellas for you regardless of order of eye contact and women in general are much less likely to risk getting their hair wet by moving their umbrellas than men. Finally, I have also been challenged a couple times by the size of a door or gate frame and the width of my umbrella. Now, when approaching an entrance with an open umbrella I have three options: I can 1) stop the flow of traffic and test measurements by poking my umbrella through the door making sure it fits or 2) assume my umbrella is too big, half close my umbrella and awkwardly scadattle through the door. Now, both options 1 and 2 ensure two things: 1) getting through the door without harming my umbrella or the frame, BUT it also 2) guarantees my identification as a gringo, a tourist, and most definitely not a local. Option three is riskier, but one I much more prefer. This involves forging through each and every entrance without knowing whether or not it will fit but believing that guaranteeing looking like a gringa by stopping is worse than the potential of getting stuck in the door frame. Umbrellas are a lot of work.
Wednesday, October 12th, is Columbus day all over the world; however, it's been changed more to "Culture Day" here in Costa Rica where different nationalities and traditions are celebrated. So, on Wednesday at 9am, the church in El Jardin had a celebration and opening of the ecological sanctuary. The bishop was coming and all the lutheran pastors for ILCO. For the celebration, the children's group at the church, led by Hazel, were preparing two traditional Costa Rican dances and an interpretive dance of a song. On Tuesday night, all the kids who were involved came over to the church to practice. Hazel came with a stereo and the music, the girls with their traditional skirts, and the boys as they were. Usually I play cards with Jahayda, Hector, Camilo, and Dugla, their uncle, in the kitchen/living room of the house at the church, but on Tuesday night we all piled into the children's room at the church and watched the rehearsal. Like normal, some of the younger kids had no idea what was going on and thought their time better spent crawling on the tables in the room. The boys complained about the number of times it was rehearsed and moved with such short, robotic and UN-emphatic movements that it was hard to tell if they were moving at all. They glanced around perpetually preoccupied and self-conscious that someone was watching them. The girls twisted and twirled like they were performing in The Nutcracker and laughed at all the boys. Hazel had to quell complaints and order children to get in their respective lines over and over. And I just sat there, with Seylin (Jahayda's youngest sister) on my lap, moving her arms to the rhythm of the song as she giggled. I sat there with Maria (her mom) standing behind me, us both watching Hector twirl three more times than was necessary. I sat there with Dugla beside me nudging each other every time someone messed up but making sure no one saw us smile. Right then, I felt like I was home. It felt like just another Wednesday Night Live we used to have at church, or just like the pancake supper after Christmas caroling at nursing homes. I didn't feel like I was in the of the rain forest, smack-dab in the midst of some of the poorest people I had ever met. The musky yellow light of the room hovered over us and we were just a church family doing church stuff. It was then that I started to wonder if maybe God calls us to spend time with and serve those who have less than us, not necessarily to help them, but to help us realize that in the end, there is not so much different between us afterall. That He provides what we need, what we truly need, regardless of worldly circumstances. My good friend David Ethier once said to me "Nicolette, pity kills." We bothed laughed when he said it, but I've thought about it ever since and wondered whether or not he was right. Tuesday night I decided he was. I know that these people want for many things - more clothes for their children, higher salaries for the physically-taxing labor they do, ovens that work, separate rooms for their children to sleep in, etc. But when you get right down in the middle of it, you come to realize that first and foremost, pitying anyone will not provide anything for them. It is a wasted emotion. And the second is that there is little to pity. All that is most important is as present here as it is anywhere else - God and love and family and community and friends and all that other mushy stuff people always talk about. It's all here. Better to pity those who don't have those things.
After rehearsal, everyone headed back to their houses and I took the few steps it was back to Jahayda's house behind the church. Since the celebration was the next day, many women from the community had come and cleaned the church out. They also moved the bed I normally sleep in in the church into Jahayda's house. Now, I need to explain the layout of this house so you can better understand where I slept on Tuesday night.
This house has two doors. One in the front, one in the back. When you walk in the door at the front of the house, you enter the room which serves as the kitchen, dining room, and living room. It has one table that has a TV on it. There is a bench and two chairs. There is another table with food and ingredients on it. On the far side of the room is the sink. That's it. Then there is a wall with a door that leads to the bedrooms. This is just one room where both Maria, her husband, and their four children sleep on two beds. You enter the room and to the left are shelves that are lined with all the clothes they own. They also hung a hammock here as well as a clothesline. To the right are the two beds less than a foot apart from each other protected by mosquito nets. For Tuesday night, they moved the bed I have into the bedroom space where the hammock usually is. And it is there where I slept. I have to admit, it was strange sleeping with the whole family. There was something very odd about sleeping next to Maria and her husband in their house. I can't remember the last time I slept next to another adult that wasn't one of my parents or sister, especially in their own house. Just imagine inviting someone to your house, then gathering everyone for bed and herding them all into your room. However, it only made me feel closer to this family that I already love.
On Monday at school, Tuesday during rehearsal, and all Wednesday morning as people prepared for the celebration there were whispers of gringos coming to visit. They heard that there were going to be 5 of them at the event on Wednesday and this was a source of excitement and anxiety for many people in the town. The church was completely cleaned out, men and boys spent those few days raking leaves and moving stones in the garden, and the women finished their crafts of jewelry and embroidered tablecloths that were to be sold the next day. And as they hustled and bustled about making preparations for the foreigners, I realized that for the first time, I was on the inside. I was behind the scenes of the visit. I was not the one to be prepared for, I was to help prepare. I was braiding Hazel's hair in the church while the visitors filed in the front gate. I was gathering leaves in the garden to make sure the presentation was fit for viewing by guests. Maria was asking me to put a sheet up in the door frame between her kitchen/living room/dining room and bedroom so that people passing through the house couldn't see our room. I felt so blessed to know that in that moment they saw me as family, a regular. I had proved myself consistent and a constant presence in the community. No longer someone to accommodate, but to help accommodate. My white shirt was sprinkled with mud and dirt from gathering leaves that morning and my hands are still marked with blisters on both thumbs from using the machete, and it was all worth it because I was proud to be, at least for that day, considered one of them.
The ceremony included a sermon by Pastor Nehemias about the importance of the earth and how it was a gift to us and not to be trampled upon. A dedication to the garden from Bishop Melvin. A word of thanks by the principals from El Jardin and San Julian. An art exhibit by the women of the community. A tour through the ecological sanctuary by the men. Traditional dances by the children of El Jardin and breakdancing by three young men who came from an urban neighborhood in San Jose. Maria and her sister made lunch and refreshments for all 50 people that came and spent the entire celebration at the wooden fire pit stirring pots and roasting pork. The celebration was fantastic. The garden was beautiful and the bright, shiny colors of the girls' silk dresses clashed brilliantly with the mirage of green that spread to every corner of sight. The large tree in the middle of the garden arched slowly over the pews that were placed outside for people to sit on creating a natural picture frame that gathered everyone tight in its form.
Jahayda
Juan Luis
Makenzi, Marilin, Vanessa, Seylin
The garden
Amber and Seylin
Maria (on right) and her sister
Malady and Hector
The visitors sitting on the pews waiting for the dances
The kids in the garden
The best part of the whole celebration was that, outside of the visitors, I knew every person there. I knew the cooks, Maria and her sisters. I knew all the children dancing on the lawn performing. I knew the women who had made the crafts and had been to or slept in most of their houses. I knew the men circling the garden, awaiting the reactions of the guests to their hard work. They all had a name and a face and a story to me now. I thought back to how hard it was coming here the first couple of weeks. How different it was, how I didn't know anyone, how I felt like I was in the middle of nowhere alone. But after two months everything in my life here had changed. I meant something to people here, and they to me. I now know that places are nothing without the people in them. I also know that no place will ever be home unless you are involved in the lives of those around you. Take the time to be important to somebody and you might stop wondering what you're missing.
Some boys from fourth and fifth grade rode by the front of the church a couple of times until they stopped at the gate and just sat there peering in. They were all sitting on their bikes in a circle; one leg on a pedal and one leg balancing themselves on the ground. Every boy and man here wears gel in their hair. If I didn't know better, I'd think they were born that way out of the womb. They were also all wearing their uniforms from school; white shirt and navy blue pants. They looked like they were straight out of a scene from the musical "Grease." Danny Zuko and Kenicki, Sonny and Putzie waiting outside the soda shop for Rizzo and the girls to come out and play. Substituting bicycles for motorcyles of course. Anyway, I went outside the gates to talk to them and invite them in. "No teacher, I don't want to. Will you bring me a plate of food?" "Teacher, I'm embarrassed. I don't want to." "Are there gringos inside teacher? How many? Where are the from? What do they speak? What does it sound like?" "No teacher, I'm too nervous. I'd be embarrassed."
I laughed at how silly they were being and felt a little perplexed at what on earth they would have to be embarassed of. I look at them and I see these beautiful boys. Fantastically witty and full of laughter. They are too young to know how good looking they are and too indifferent to education to know how smart. They love to make people laugh and glow with accomplishment when I chuckle at their jokes in class. When I look at them I am completely bewildered at what on earth they would have to be embarassed of. I look at them and I want to show them off to anyone who will see. Look at the beautiful, intelligent boys full of light and life! Look at them! Talk to them! Take advantage of every second you get to spend with them!
On my way home on the bus that afternoon I thought a little bit more about it and I began to uncover that maybe the way I look at these children is the slightest fraction of how God looks at us. Recognizing our flaws and our mistakes, and, despite the inevitability of us doing it over and over again, I just wonder if He can't help but push that aside and gaze at us with utter adoration for all that He created us to be. Funny and joyful. Honest and loyal. Whatever it is we do best, allowing Himself to let that part of us overshadow the bad. And I imagine His confusion when we can't even look at Him. When we won't even speak His name because we feel embarrassed of what we've done or the person we've become. When we don't like who we are. And, with a crumpled brow, He looks at us and says "You are mine. Always. Forever. Why would you ever be embarassed in front of me?" I think it's hard for us to understand that type of love. That offense after offense we're taken back. Forgiven. And even more so, loved. We are not forgiven out of indifference, but out of love. When we are welcomed back, He is proud of us all over again for everything we are. Everything we've become. All that is good and from Him.
I wonder what the world would be like if we all saw ourselves through those eyes. Recognizing our own self-worth. Living with the confidence of eternal love. Who would we be? What could we accomplish if we spent more time imagining how God saw us than those around us? Who's lives could we change if we believed Him when He said we are His and loved forever? For if we are to have no shame in the sight of God, who on this earth should have the power to cause us embarrassment?
You should know that God thinks you are just the cutest little thing there ever was. Kind of like this: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GZrkA84wOQU So start acting like you know it.
Bye! Cutie!
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