Monday, June 25, 2007

The Clinic

I recently spent a week translating for a Clinica Mobil. This is basically a doctor’s office in a trailer. The clinic offered services in General Medicine, Pediatrics, Dentistry, Ophthalmology, and Gynecology. They needed seven different translators, one for each different clinic, plus one in triage (getting all of the basic information down), and one in the pharmacy (which offered free medicine). Cesar needed Meredith and me to serve as translators. From the moment we arrived at the first day of the clinic, I was so impressed with the group of volunteers. It was about 9:00am when we arrived with the other translators, and there was a hustle and bustle underway. Half of the team from Central UMC in Florence, SC was already working hard on the construction of a church in Concepción (a town about 30 minutes outside of Huancayo), while the other half was organizing their medical posts. Not one of theme seemed unhappy to be there.

Because I am a woman (there were few women translators), I was needed in Gynecology. Meredith got to spend the day playing with children in Pediatrics, while I learned a whole slew of new vocabulary, as one would imagine, in order to accommodate our patients.

The second day of the clinic we were in a pueblo near Huancayo called San Jeronimo. The line was already wrapped around the side of the building when we arrived. We served many women that day, some pregnant, some not… some sick, some well… but there is one woman whose face will never leave my memory. For the sake of honoring her privacy I will call her Maria. Maria came to see us late in the morning. I asked her the usual questions while Sloan, the OB/GYN nurse, took down my translations of her answers. Then Maria began to cry. I walked over, and sat beside her on our make-shift exam table and asked her what she felt that she needed that day. She said so meekly, “I fear that I might be pregnant.” Sloan immediately grabbed a pregnancy test out of the many mounted containers of medicine, and we directed her to the bathroom so that we could do the test in the privacy of our trailer. When she returned, I hurried her to the front of our line, much to the dismay of some of those who were still waiting… I had to do some crowd control, to which they responded graciously. I helped Maria up on to the exam table where she looked at me with fear and dread. Because I was the translator I was the one who had to tell her that indeed she was pregnant. I took a deep breath, and invited her to relax and do the same. She cracked a little bit of a smile. Then I told her, “Maria, the test is positive, which means that you are pregnant.” She began to cry.

Sloan told me everything that I needed to explain to her, from the approximate due date of the baby, to prenatal vitamins, to the clean-home delivery kit. (I am pretty much a pro at explaining how to cut an umbilical cord). I asked Maria if she would like to talk to a pastor before going home. She said that she would, so I ditched my post at gynecology for a few minutes, thanked the women in line for their patience and then escorted Maria to the church (which was the waiting room). I invited her to sit and went in search of Cesar Sr. (my supervisor’s wonderful dad), for a pastoral presence to be with Maria. When I couldn’t find him, I felt kind of defeated, and went back to sit with Maria for a few minutes. We sat in silence while she held my hand and cried. Then I realized something.

I heard myself saying inside my head, “Stephanie! YOU are a pastor. Why don’t YOU do this??” I know that sounds like a pretty delayed response… how could I have been so slow to realize it? I was so caught up in my tasks as a translator for the week, and a teacher during my time in Peru, that I forgot that indeed I AM a pastor. I confessed my idiocy to Maria, and asked her if she would like to talk to ME. I felt a little unqualified, but indeed she wanted me to listen to her. We talked about how this baby, even though it is baby #6 being born into uncertain financial situations, is a gift. I told her that God loves her and her child, and that the Psalmist tells us that God knits us together in the wombs of our mothers. I touched her newly pregnant stomach and told her that there was LIFE here. She put her hand on top of mine and said, “Sí, Mamita… sí.”

After we prayed, she cried and I choked back tears. I told her that I would be praying for her. She kissed my cheek and held me in an embrace for a long time. I was being summoned back to Gynecology to translate and I needed to go.

That afternoon, I saw countless faces of women who came in and out of the clinic. I played volleyball with a couple of school girls while we were waiting for our next rush of patients. I can’t remember any of their names, and only a few of their faces. Later that afternoon, as we were about to leave, I saw María walking past the clinic with 4 small children chasing after her grabbing on to her legs, and saying “!Mamí! Mamí!” She looked up from the kids for a moment, still carrying her prenatal vitamins and other medicines, and our eyes met. For the first time that day, María smiled. I jumped down out of the clinic (keep in mind that it is a trailer you have to step up into), and she turned around and walked back to me. I kissed her face and told her that I loved her. She held my hand for a minute, said, “God bless you, Mamita,” smiled, and walked away holding her vitamins in one hand, and the hand of her 3 year old with the other.

Thursday, June 21, 2007

Come for Supper!

So! Last weekend, I made a fabulous, jet-setting trip (read: my flight was rebooked, I heard my name in the airport multiple times as I almost missed connections, and when switched to another airline, my luggage was oh-so-conveniently lost) back to DC and "the" Universityfor a dear friend's wedding weekend. Though many of us haven't seen each other in some time, we all came together from around the country to gather and celebrate the love, laughter, friendships, and blessings of our lives. It was so refreshing to spend time with the girls, and feel so instantly at ease and at home with folks I just don't get to see much anymore, but who I love all the same ... Not to mention, I'm realizing how important REST and RESPITE are to the daily life of a minister (or any human being, for that matter!). Sometimes we just get into a rhythm and go go go, not realizing we need a break or vacation until we arrive there. Only in the last week or so has the work here at L'Arche gotten to be just a bit tiring (okay ... exhausting), so I am glad that the opportunity for self care presented itself and I capitalized on it!

After such a great reunion of friends, it was completely to my surprise that when I arrived back in Canada, I found a very special note waiting for me!




"Amey Come For Supper Love Linda." Haha ... this gives new meaning to the idea of making one's requests known! Let me explain a bit ... Linda is a wondeful, energetic, joyful woman who lives in one of the L'arche houses down the street. She visits Corner House (my home) every Tuesday for supper. For whatever reason, Linda has taken quite a liking to me and is very insistent that I come spend time with her (how sweet!) She works with Leah, an MTS student at Duke, and always asks when Leah's "sister" is coming (ahem ... this is me, though Leah and I are opposite in appearance in almost every way!). Whenever we see each other at a L'Arche gathering or in passing, she invites me to sing and dance and spend time with her ... For Linda, there is something very critical about relationship and bonding that is connected to sharing a meal and communing with one another. It is important enough to write a note (my name is even spelled correctly! wow!), a brief but direct letter to make sure I knew I was invited, welcomed, and wanted for dinner.
I cannot tell you (a) how completely hilarious this was, knowing Linda's buoyant personality, or (b) how deeply touching this was. I had just spent a crazy weekend in the States being reminded that the concept of "home" is rooted in relationship, in community, in knowing and being known, in loving and being loved. With nostalgia and the comfort of being "home" with close friends in hand, I returned to the Corner House to find myself, once again, at home ... fully welcome, deeply missed, and truly loved. Moreover, to find myself among amazing people I now call friends who I never expected to be so close to!

My invitation reminded me of the words in Revelation: "Listen! I am standing at the door, knocking; if you hear my voice and open the door, I will come in to you and eat with you, and you with me." (3:20). How many opportunities to dine together, with God or the people of God, do we miss every day? Christ invites us daily to "come for supper," to be filled with daily bread, to feed others along our way. Do we take the invitation seriously? Do we realize the sign of love and relationship that supper represents? The pace of life here at L'Arche is so different from the rushed and hectic pace of life in the "real world," and it has slowed me down enough to be grateful for the smallest of moments in the days. L'arche has shown me the beauty of sharing life together, and made so clear the reality that communion/community/relationship are at the heart of what it means to be the people of God. I'm just grateful not to be so wrapped up in the sounds of society to miss the gentle knocking of Christ upon my heart through this experience.
May we all take a moment to enjoy the abundant feast of life before us, and share our joys and gifts on this journey. Take time for God, take time for self, and take time to "Come for supper ..." Oh! And as for Linda, we have a dinner date planned next week ... I can't wait!

Linda with Talia and Donna at Corner House.

Poopy Pants

As a young child (well it actually lasted into college) I suffered from an awful "Audreyism" as some of my friends my call it. My problem was getting very excited, which doesn't seem like a problem within itself, but what would happen when I got excited was really the difficulty that was distressing. You see when I would get excited I would pee in my pants! Well a few days ago I met my match in a young boy from Claremont.

Last Tuesday I went with Phakimisa on a field trip to St. Mary's School (an all girls private school). Each year the girls in the school prepare a package for a different child in one of the preschools that Phakimisa supports. So around 10:00 am we loaded thirty children on each taxi (what we might call a 16 seater bus) and made our way to the school. For many of the children involved this was their first time on a taxi and their first time seeing a whole lot of white people. Once we got to the school the staff played with them for a while, then the bell rang and a rush of girls dressed in blue uniforms rushed to greet the children. We all played on the tennis courts for a while and then went to the little party that was set up with biscuits, and tea, and presents. For the three to five year old this venue was really like Christmas, it only happens once a year and is full of gifts and surprises. So each of the children were called by name to come and receive their gift and they all sat with the girls and played with their toys and had biscuits and tea. As we were wrapping the afternoon up the children started to head back to the taxis, but one boy was still waiting in the grass and had the most distressing look on his face. I went to him and asked what was wrong and why he had such a sad face on and got no response. So I helped him stand up and when I did there was a new smell in the air other than freshly cut grass. So I looked on the ground and saw nothing, then I turned my head and saw the child's pant was completely brown. I then saw the need for the sad face. His teacher took notice and came over and took him to the bathroom, where he lost his pants and came to the taxi butt naked. By miracle in his gift he received pants and was able to where those. I inquired why the boy pooped in his pants. I didn't know if he wasn't potty trained or didn't know where to go. The teacher's answer was so simple: "He told me that he just got so excited that he pooped his pants!"

Speaking from experience, I must say it is a bittersweet problem to have. Many times your happiness, most thrilling moments are stained in some way by the mess you make. My heart ached for the boy as I noticed what real vulnerability there is in being excited, even in truly experiencing life. As one whose pride increases with age, as one who tries to keep her emotions under control (and bodily functions these days), and as one who might even exchange truly living for perfection, it was refreshing to be with a boy who simply let it all hang out. It was amazing to see a little boy who let himself experience life so much that he had no control over his body or his actions. Maybe this is the kind of freedom that Christ has set us free for. Not that we are now free to use the bathroom wherever we want but maybe it is this kind of freedom, which lets us truly live, that is the factory of love. I pray that I might experience this freedom of life more and more while I am here. I pray that I might be so wrapped up in life, and the liberating presence of Christ that all I can think to do is to love, and maybe once, just once be so excited that I pee in my pants!

Sunday, June 17, 2007

The River


Last Friday morning Meredith and I left for La Selva (the Amazon Rainforest) where we were asked to teach a weekend seminar. As we were driving to La Selva I began to feel a little bit puny for the first time in my 5 weeks in Peru. Perhaps it was the winding down the mountains, taking each curve a little bit faster than I would have if I were driving; but I am convinced that my puniness was largely because the music that was accompanying our journey for the first couple of hours was not any kind of beautiful Peruvian melody, but the dissonant sounds of a tea salesman. That’s right… tea. The funny thing about the trip is that I would have probably enjoyed some tea, but the man gave a shpeel that lasted at least an hour before he began to walk up and down the aisle of the bus aggressively and loudly attempting to guilt people into buying his tea. I generally do not react violently to situations, but I was about 1 step away from lurching over my seat, throwing up on him and then shoving his tea in his mouth so as to mute his unnecessarily loud sales pitch. Then, I realized that Jesus probably would not have done that, so neither should I.

The second half of our trip began as a group of 3 musicians boarded the bus. They were funny and friendly, and won my heart as they played the music of the Peruvian Andes that I love. As they were playing, the mountains changed from the dry high mountain ranges to a lower range covered completely in green. We were getting close to La Selva. I opened my window and breathed the air of the Amazon rainforest for the first time in my life. We were almost there.

After a 5 hour bus ride, and a one hour car ride, we arrived in Pucharini. We were greeted by the most beautiful scenery; their names were Moises, Ruth, Sadith, Dan and Brion. This family housed and fed us for three days, and became our friends. We taught our “seminar” Friday and Saturday, relying heavily on Godly Play to tell the stories of the Old Testament. On Saturday after I facilitated my last class, we played, worshipped, had dinner, sang songs in the native language Ashaninka (taught by the children of Pucharini at the dining room table of Moises and Ruth), and slept like babies. When we were awoken early Sunday morning by the rooster crowing and the dog barking, we went to go bath in the river.

Even though, by our North American standard we were filthy, in some ways I have never felt so clean. There was something that I can’t seem to name that changed in my soul in those minutes of washing my face, feet and hair in el Rio Perene. It was as if I was cleansed of the grime of the city, of my life of convenience, of the annoying tea salesman, of my pride, and of my fear. Something about bathing in this river woke me up. Maybe it was the cold water on my face, or the balancing act I did on the rocks, but in those moments when Meredith and I were guided to the river bank by Sadith, our 13 year old hostess, I felt the Spirit of God with me more strongly than I ever have before. (This is Sadith.)

After our last bath in the river on Sunday morning, we were driven up to the church, which is high into the green, jungle-covered mountain. We talked, played and laughed for about an hour before the service started. Moises invited Meredith and I to come into the sanctuary to ask which of us would be preaching. Meredith looked at me and said… “It’s your turn.” She had preached off the cuff on Saturday evening in a time of prayer, singing and praise that we had to end our time of teaching. I sat down on the banco (bench), covered in leaves and probably lots of small bugs after playing in the jungley hillside with the kids and opened to the Psalms. The whole weekend, I had been hearing the words of Psalm 8 play through my mind. So, we prayed the Psalm together and by the grace of God, there was a sermon.

The same God who loves that obnoxious tea salesman, who sings through the traditional music of the Peruvian Andes, who covers the mountains with green, who fills the riverbeds with sparkling water, who shines through the faces of Moises, Ruth, Sadith, Dan and Brion, who leads me to the riverside, who cleanses me of my sins, who guides me with her hand on the steep walk up from the river… I felt that same God with me as I fumbled through my spontaneous Spanish sermon, and remembered that God’s name truly is majestic in ALL the earth.

Tuesday, June 12, 2007

The Face of Jesus

I have been praying over the last few days to see the face of Jesus. One would think for a seminarian this would be a rather regular occurrence, but for some reason the past few weeks my eyes have been preoccupied in looking at the whole new world that I am living in rather than where Jesus might be within it. Yes, I have reflected on the church and Jesus working in and through the church through the different ways they are engaged in the community. I have even been wrapped up in what Jesus seems to be doing in this place. But I have been yearning to see Jesus and really praying for that. Today I saw her.

This morning I spent my time with Phakamisa Ministry at my church. The word Phakamisa means "to lift up, and let grow" in Zulu. The ministry does many things but primarily trains women to be preschool teachers and caregivers in their townships. The ministry runs five days a weeks and four of those mornings begin with a time of worship. The worship time is spent in singing, prayer request, and the lighting of candles (a candle is lit for every person they might know who has died in the past two weeks, six candles were lit today). In the service today Jesus was sitting next to me. She was small and had the most beautiful smile that was laced with wrinkles on both sides. Her eyes as well were painted with the wrinkles only brushed on by wisdom. Between every prayer there was a song and during each song she would rise and slowly walk to the music and pray as though she carried the world on her 75 year old shoulders. This Gogo (a name used for woman who are older and caregivers) took care of eleven children in her small home.

In our closing song I began to think about this Gogo and also began to think of Jesus, and his words in Matthew saying, "Let the little children come to me, and do not hinder them, for the kingdom of heaven belongs to such as these." In that moment I knew Jesus had shown up for me! And also that Jesus shows up everyday to the eleven children she gives care too! In that same moment Gogo's cell phone went off with some obnoxious tune and she quickly grabbed it out of her shirt (many people keep it there so no one will steal it). The ring abruptly shattered my highly spiritual moment. Yet, after that we both laughed and hugged, and she held my hand through the closing prayer rubbing it gently as could imagine Jesus did when Matthew says, "when he had placed his hands on them, he went from there." I started to tear up during our prayer, for in her touch I realized that I was simply a little child who needed a touch from Jesus, and as Jesus always does, he showed up!

Monday, June 11, 2007

Taking it Easy

Greetings again from Guatemala.

Having spent the better part of a decade at Duke, I´ve gotten pretty used to being busy, to always having an assignment to turn in or something to check off my to-do list. So my first week here, I saw all the sights, studied real hard and started to get frustrated that I was not yet fluent in Spanish. After all, I had been immersed in it for a whole week. As it turns out, I needed to relax a little.

When I signed up to go to Central America this summer, somewhere in my mind I was thinking that I´d have a nice, laid-back summer. And for the most part (at least so far), I have been right. Granted, I´ve had some struggles and I´ve had to make some adjustments, but I´ve got it pretty good here. I learn Spanish for a few hours in the morning, my adopted Guatemalan sisters have lunch ready for me when I get home, and I have the afternoons and evenings free to do pretty much whatever I want. I have a lot of free time and very few responsibilities. And to be honest, there have been some days where I was bored out of my mind. I think I have walked down every street in the city. And I can only conjugate so many verbs and hike up so many mountains. With nothing pressing to do, I´ve really had to learn how to relax.

In some places, taking it easy is part of the culture. I´m not sure that´s the case here given the speed at which the buses dart around mountain curves. And I have never heard people honk their car horns so often. In any case, relaxing isn´t really part of the culture I have been in for the past few years. As such, I´ve had to work really hard at slowing down and taking it easy.

And work I have. I´ve found a couple of quiet little cafes. And I´ve bought a few good, used books. And I´ve spent hours at a table drinking the same (no longer) hot chocolate. It´s all still fairly new to me. And I admit, I have been tempted, while sitting in one of my favorite new spots, to make a list of all the things I need to do before I head to El Salvador later this week. But I´ve held off, because in forcing myself to relax, in forcing myself to slow down and take it easy, I think I´m learning a little more about what it means to be human. As a student in the Divinity School, I´m blessed with many wonderful opportunities and experiences. But often, I find that it´s not until well after those experiences that I even realize how wonderful they were. But even my reflection and belated enjoyment are rushed by the need to get on with the next thing.

But now I´ve had a taste of what it´s like to slow down, to live in the moment, as they say. And I rather like it. I can get lost in my thoughts. I can read a book for fun. I can stare off into the distance, watching the clouds dance up the side of the mountain without worrying about what´s not getting done. I can truly begin to feel the life and love that fills every place because I´m no longer busy plowing right through it.

Seann Duffin
M.Div. ´08
Quetzaltenango, Guatemala.

Thursday, June 7, 2007

And a picture ...

This is a picture of a core member and myself on a walk last week ... another assistant was taking random shots and got this one. I hope you all are enjoying the simple moments in life, wherever you are (especially to you friends in South Africa -- I know how cold it is!)

Love,
Amey


Rhythm of Life

Note: This is my reflection for the Center for Reconciliation. I hope you enjoy! - Amey

Tap. Tap. Tap. My outstretched hand gently raps upon the maple dining table in shared anticipation by all seated in the round. For a moment silence echoes a reminder of the gift that is to come, the beat of our hearts relinquished to the steady sound of fingertips suspended in midair. Lauren* is hungry and rocks her body to and fro in time with my hand, her fiery eyes fixed trance-like upon the heavens. With a heavy sigh her eyes meet mine with an intensity that, under other circumstances, would be riddled with austerity. But the eyes of my heart perceive this look to be one of compassion and love. Eyes again focused away but with expert quickness, Lauren grips my hand and instinctively takes over the beat. In a rich, gravelly contralto, Lauren slowly makes out the first few words of the familiar song. Kum-Bah-Yah! Out of tune, the others at the table eagerly join in on My Lord! Kum-bah-yah! Internally I shed a tear of joy, knowing that while it is perhaps polite to ask, overwhelming evidence indicates that God has not just ‘come by here,’ but permanently resides in this place.

This scenario takes place nightly before dinner at Corner House, my home in L’Arche Daybreak. Daybreak is but one part of an international federation of communities dedicated to living and working alongside people with profound disabilities. For my placement, I and other house assistants participate in and share life together with the core members of our community. Those here with disabilities are indeed at the ‘core’ of life, not because they are less independent, but because their simple gifts of love and grace prophetically speak to the world about the true essence, the very core, of life in Christ. L’Arche seeks to understand itself as part of the body of Christ by creating intimate and authentic community with those whom the world easily ignores. With faith and commitment, L’Arche creates home; I am eternally grateful to be part of this family.

The scenario above features Lauren, a brilliant woman who loves to sing, play, and listen to music. Lauren does not communicate verbally, but is able to form some words and utilize hand signals to convey her desires. She is dependent upon assistants to help her in most aspects of life but displays amazing alertness and vibrancy.

Like most of us, Lauren requires a good deal of time to establish a bond of trust before she will allow a person into her space. Upon our first greeting, she was agitated and disinterested. Our second greeting left me with scratches. After that, I made sure to give her space, but slowly began to form a bond with her through music. Lauren loves to hold your hands while you clap or keep time against the arm of her wheelchair. Where words aren’t always adequate, melodies seem to fill the spaces between.

One day, as I sat down to fiddle around at the piano, another assistant asked Lauren if she wanted to play with me. She rolled her wheelchair closer and gently placed Lauren’s hand upon mine. This was one of the sweetest touches I have ever experienced. As I played, Lauren moved in closer and closer. I looked her in the eyes as we sang a worship melody. Without warning Lauren grabbed my arm and rested against me; in that moment, time stopped. After weeks of working, Lauren’s hug confirmed the love and trust we have begun to share.

How much easier would life be if we so fully trusted God? The ladies I work with depend on others for everything, but are so gracious and grateful in the process. When Christ calls us to follow, He does not always include a detailed map. Rather, we are to trust the leading and direction of the Spirit with faith to believe that God makes our paths straight and will provide our needs. L’Arche reminds me of my own dependency upon God to be my daily sustenance; it is the only way I can live and love abundantly. As I look forward to the sacred moments and lessons of my time here, I pray the cadence of life here is one I will not quickly forget.

Amen.

Monday, June 4, 2007

Eyes to See

Okay, okay ... my apologies for disappearing in, well, Canada (here is where I must tell you that I still feel just a bit silly posting on the international blog ... but a technicality is a technicality!). It isn't that I haven't wanted to share. In fact, I've got quite a few drafts saved in Blogger as we speak. I just have had a difficult time in my attempts to be authentic and real knowing the inadequacy of language to express this experience ...

You see, three of the four core members (those living with disabilities) in the L'arche home that I live and work with are unable to communicate with words. And, as someone who LOVES to talk, er, I mean ... as someone who loves to write, and has a deep appreciation for poetry, means of communication, and rich theological texts ... I've realized yet again how much language fails us, and how profound the adage actions speak louder than words really is.

What do you say to an amazing woman who is surviving muscular leukodystrophe? As a child, her parents were informed that she would probably not live past ten years of age. Next month, I will be here to celebrate her 35th birthday. Don't tell me that miracles don't happen. Don't think that eloquence quickly bridges the echoing silence that grips my heart every time I see her precious, sacred soul.

I'd like to share a story about this amazing woman (I'll call her "Sasha"). When she was diagnosed with this devastating disorder as a child, her parents were informed that she would soon become blind. Her father was stricken with grief, but, as he tells it, Sasha's mother brought him back to reality. Knowing that their beloved daughter would soon be able to see no more, they made the decision to fill her mind with as many beautiful visual memories as they possibly could while they still had time.

As such, the entire family (mom, dad, Sash and her younger brother and sister) piled into an RV headed initially to visit family six hours north in Canada. And where exactly did they end up? In Tijuana, Mexico!!! Can you believe it? They traveled throughout Canada as well as the States. Riding through the desert, the family drank Coke after Coke to keep cool and keep quiet. Sasha rode on her father's back as the family hiked the Grand Canyon. Not to mention, she has been on EVERY single ride at Disney World. In the midst of tragic news, her family chose to breathe life into their daughter. To show her the world while she had eyes to see, so that when her physical sight failed her she would always perceive and remember with her heart.

Her hearing is fading these days, but I speak in a calm voice and make sounds that she can recognize. Comfort is the priority in a daily routine that cycles around medicines and tubes and creams. She never learned English, but I sing to her anyway. She doesn't leave the house these days, so I sit alongside her and gently massage the hands that do not unclench on their own. I move quickly to apply pressure to the soles of her feet when her muscles begin to violently spasm. I clumsily attempt gentleness as I hourly reposition her small body.

Every time I look at Sasha I behold the beauty of the Lord. I cannot tell you how humbled I am to see her wide, blind eyes gazing up at me. The wave of love and compassion that she causes to wash over me is indescribable. And I am convinced that she is indeed able to see. Perhaps not the forms and faces of those around her. But Sasha sees the heart of God. She isn't concerned about what I look like, dress like, act like, want to be like. She has no use for the things deemed important by the world. She sees prophetically beyond all of these things and searches my heart for that which is authentic and that which is real. She can see love and compassion, and God's lavish outpouring, more clearly than anyone I know. She sees beyonds my many flaws, and is teaching me what it means to truly love, to truly be Christ in the world.

With blind eyes and no words, Sasha speaks. She speaks of what it means to be a part of a body, a community, founded in love and compassion and grace. She speaks of the amazing faith and heart to survive the worst of circumstances. She leads me into a greater knowledge of the Kingdom. Her profound message is one that causes me to stop and reconsider the gift of breath I breathe each moment, and to more fully engage ministry definitively as an act of service.

Sasha's eyes are wider than mine. They are filled with something altogether lovely. They are of a keen clarity. I pray God continues to use her to give me new eyes to see ... she has already filled me with beautiful memories and visions that my heart will never lose sight of.

Paralyzed by Politics

The past few days in the part of South Africa that I am located (the Natal Region- the North West Coast) have been very interesting and have opened up for many political conversations. The word in the air is strike! Yes, last week workers that get paid by the government (teachers at public schools, doctors and nurses at public hospitals, construction workers, road workers, etc.) have been on strike. Not all of them, but a vast majority. Their plea is for a 12% increase in their pay, not that much when you consider higher up officials in the government have recently received a 30% increase or more to their salary. For South Africa this will be a telling moment about the post 1994 Government. Many wonder if democracy will reign, it seems that most of the people I have talked to believe it will and even believe the full request will be met. This topic struck up a conversation between me and two doctors from this area who were friends of friends and not really associated with the church. One of them worked in the private sect, the other in the public sect. Race was of course a man topic at hand. They spoke about the equity that occurs in the workplace (this is a formula for race at the workplace, both private and public, different for every area and even for most businesses. The goal is to balance the race within the workplace) and how it is a good thing but also frustrating because if there is no one that fits the race description one is looking for then the job does not get filled. In the course of our conversation they mentioned Cuban doctors. This sparked my interest because of my huge connection with the Cuban Methodist Church.

The conversation started with them simply explaining the process of doctor exchange with Cuba but ended in a rather heated battle, of which I went away rather bruised with much to think about. The main source of heat surrounded the topic of South Africa's involvement with Cuba. I did not understand why South Africa, a country which fought for liberation of its people, would be in close relationship with Cuba, a country which I have always understood to have a fairly oppressive government. I thought my question was fairly rational, yet my political conversation partner thought that it was filled with Western North American propaganda. His response to me was a quick comment on the oppression that the American government has on its own people and expressed to me that my thoughts on Cuba were taken from my Western perspective. He explained to me how Cuba helped South Africa win its independence from Namibia years ago and many people in the East or other third World countries view Castro as an anti-imperialist hero. And even if the government saw injustice in an ally country he told me that many times countries will overlook domestic issues of their allies in fear of a lack of international support. (This is also a way to explain South Africa's silence to the oppression in Zimbabwe at the current moment.) I understand all of these politics but at the same time it does make me rather sick that fraternity pledges have become the litmus test for international relations rather than integrity or ethical standards. I guess it is time for me to crawl out of my naive notions of the world and accept the reality of international relations.

Over the past few days I have accepted that I do have a western mind. I am coming to understand that not everyone has the ability or strength or desire to have armed forces and is unwilling to wage war at the drop of a hat or get involved in another countries domestic policy because they have issues. All of that I can understand. I think what my doctor friend did not understand about me is that although I have grown up with a Western mind of privilege and prosperity, I am not comfortable with it- my country, my own economics, and my president. I don't think that he understood either that I have been to Cuba twice, and have heard and seen oppression in that place, as well as a great health and education system, but it is not a coincidence that many of the doctors who came on exchange from Cuba found spouses and have stayed in this country. I understand that international relationships between countries are complex but I also understand the web that is oppression is complex, and as an American I am apart of that complex mixture of oppression simply by buying clothes from a company that maintains sweat shops. This complexity leaves me rather paralyzed at the moment. Yet, I know the church has something to say, to the strike the government workers are involved in, to the politics of countries such as Cuba, yet, I wonder how the church says what it has to say. Every situation is different and requires different tactics of resistance so I guess I can't know the answers to all these issues right now! But, what I do know is that I cannot stay paralyzed by politics and either can the church. So for right now I guess I must pray for the Holy Spirit to snap me out of my paralyzed state and show me in each moment where I must speak , or smile, or hug, or say no, or simply pray.

Friday, June 1, 2007

Slowing Down

Hello again from Guatemala. I was happy to read Audrey´s post (see Small Words below) about communication difficulties and the need to use small words. Believe it or not, the four of us who came to Guatemala with little to no Spanish skills have had our fair share of communication difficulties. And while it is awkward to use very simple words and even more awkward to use only one verb tense, I have been amazed at what I can say and what I can understand if I have the patience to try.

Monday through Friday we are enrolled in a language school here in Xela. Most of my time is spent learning verb conjugations and memorizing vocabulary words. But sometimes I have been able to just sit down and talk with my tutor, Luis. Now, I have a patient and curious teacher who asked me to tell him about Methodism. Over the course of two afternoons, I explained to him the history and structure of The United Methodist Church--to the best of my knowledge and ability anyway. I´ve also explained to Luis the crazy concept of camping out for Duke basketball tickets. And conversely, Luis has told me about the Guatemalan civil war and the complex structure of the fan base of Los Super Chivos (Xela´s professional soccer team--2007 national champions, by the way).

Using only the most basic concepts and phrases, we have learned a whole lot about some seriously complex issues. But like I said above, it has taken loads of patience (mostly on Luis´ part). His willingness to use only small words and to sit patiently while I flip through my Spanish-English dictionary to find the word bishop or conference or tent has allowed us to communicate information that is important in our lives. The understanding is partial, at best, but I´m pretty certain that is better than no understanding at all.
Being spoken to only in Spanish has changed the way I listen to others. I can´t think ahead or prepare a response before the other person is finished speaking. I can only concentrate on every word, hoping for some understanding. Now, I wonder what will happen when I return to the U.S. and can once again speak in my native tongue to other English speakers. I wonder what I will be able to explain or what I will be able to understand if I slow down and use simple concepts, if I use small words, and if I listen patiently while others try to explain to me something that is important to them.

Seann Duffin
M. Div. ´08
Quetzaltenango, Guatemala