May 15, 2009 Dear loyal and early morning Readers,
(ahem: Sum, Lou, Mama V, Annie, Deanna)
I have not forgotten you. I promise. I’m just too busy to breathe.
Send back up. Or lots of chocolate.
Love,
Emily
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May 11, 2009 There are things about Colombia that have had to grow on me and things that I’m only just figuring out and things that I have a feeling will haunt me forever and I’m grateful for them all.
Something in particular that seems to inhabit all of the above listed categories are phrases that I hear repeated over and over again here. They’re a different way of saying things and they strike me as beautiful every time I hear them. How could I not share?
“A la orden.”
It’s a simple saying used in supermarkets, department stores, taxis and occassionally by friends or students with an affectionate smirk. It means “at your service” and may be used in different contexts. For example, “I love your shoes, Maria.” “A la orden, Mees.”
“Te mando un besito.”
At the end of phone conversations, people don’t say goodbye. They send you a kiss and usually make the muah sound, too. Now, how cute is that? I think I just might try it out when I get home.
“Con mucho gusto.”
Before I came to Colombia, the only way I’d ever heard of to say “you’re welcome” in Spanish was de nada. Here, we never use that phrase. We say “con mucho gusto” and though it’s used the same way situationally, the literal translation is “with much pleasure” and that just makes me smile.
“Mi Dios le pague.”
I think this might be my favorite. I’d heard it said scores of times before I actually caught the phrase in its entirety and understood it completely. When you do something kind for someone, especially an unexpected or unearned kindness, the person rarely says thank you. They say, “Mi Dios le page.” My God shall pay you.
And so, friends, es con mucho gusto that I write this little blog for you and should you ever need a Spanish translator, of course, es a la orden. But, I must warn you, my Spanish still has some significant holes in it. Still, should you choose this imperfect me, I assure you that mi Dios le page. Until then, te mando muchos besitos! MUAH!
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May 8, 2009 I’ve had lots of hard days in Colombia. I’m woman enough to admit that.
There was the Virus o’ Death and the time I made a scene in an airport. There was the apartment flood and the day my computer crashed. Oh, and that one particular ride home from the valley when I nearly tossed my cookies. And then, there was today.
Parents’ Day in Colombia.
And well, the thing is, I miss my parents. ‘Cause they’re pretty much rockstars. Okay, that’s a stretch. Daddy’s a redneck bread man and Momma’s a banker with the sweetest Southern drawl in three states, but they’re rockstars to me and I miss them.
My students were asked by the administration to make cards to give to their parents at a school wide assembly this morning. I wanted the ones we did to be extra special and something that moms and dads would hold onto for a while. I even promised blow pops to kids that made their parents cry with their words. Trashy excuse for bribery, I know.
For good measure, I made one of my own to use as an example. My parents haven’t seen it, so I guess they didn’t cry and I didn’t shed a tear making it. Not even one. Because why would I? I mean, I’m an adult for cryin’ out loud. And I’m not emotional at all. Really.
MOM: my friend. biscuit cooker. banker. sneezer. late night giggler. house decorator. bargain shopper. hardest worker. go out to eater. my Momma.
DAD: my hero. strong. brave. loving. kind. worker. dancer. baseball thrower. pool fixer. hugger. breakfast buyer. laugher. my Daddy.
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May 7, 2009 Nicknames are a big deal in Colombia. It’s a cultural phenomenon that I don’t particularly understand, but I’ve learned to embrace it.
Husbands call their wives gorda and no one gets slapped and wives call their husbands viejo and no one’s ego is bruised. Kids call each other by all sorts of monikers on the playground and the very thought of using someone’s full name is virtually unheard of around here, if not downright offensive.
Thus, we shorten names or change them altogether and life goes on in this Andes utopia of mine.
I live in this world now, too, and when Colombian friends call me anything other than mona I wonder what I’ve done to get them up in arms at me. Did I say something wrong? Did I miss a dinner date? Did I fudge my Spanish again?
So, I understood completely yesterday when sweet Juan Camilo came into my room after recess.
He was evidently in quite a tizzy and his normal charming, gentle temperament had morphed into little-devil-child from Union county. (No offense, Anna.) I let the class get settled into some independent work and then took him outside for a cool down chat.
“What’s the deal, big guy?”
“Nada,” he answered me in his native and strictly prohibited Spanish.
Uh-oh. This must be serious, I thought, because when kids use Spanish to explain something to me, it’s a BIG deal; it sure better be.
“Come on, Juanca. Out with it.”
“Well… well…” he stuttered and stammered as he tried to gain some momentum. “It’s that… it’s that,” and the rest rushed out in a flurry of fifth grade, unrequited flirting anxiety, “It’s that Maria doesn’t love me, Mees! I mean, she doesn’t even call me Juanca anymore. She calls me Juan Ca-MILO!”
Oh, the woes of fifth grade love.
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May 4, 2009
The finca where we stayed. With four Colombian families. That speak zero English. Until they step into a frigid shower. When the word s**t becomes universal.
Standing next to a waterfall. That we had to walk past a bear’s cave to find. In the rain. Through shin deep mud. With a temperature of approximately 40 degrees. Holy cow. Or bear. Whatever.
Sitting on a bench. At the top of a mountain. That was across six log bridges. That were laying over one mean looking, rain-swelled river. Where we drank sugar cane water and ate chunks of cheese. For a thrifty 3.000 pesos. Supply and demand. Sheesh.
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April 30, 2009 Puentes are a blessing
and I’m running away.
To a town
not very far from here
with a family that calls me their own.
To walk and sleep
and ride on horses.
To write more stories
and dream more dreams
and share them all with you.
Back on Monday, friends.
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April 30, 2009 I woke up at 5:00 a.m. like always, put my feet on the cold tile floor, shuffled to the bathroom. Washed my face, brushed my teeth, pulled my hair into a ponytail. A “cheer pony” for Sisser.
Running shoes, jacket, keys, watch.
Good morning to the doorman, then out onto the street.
And try as I might I just couldn’t get started. So, instead of running or submitting myself to the torture that is The Shred, I walked.
Down the hill, past the stadium, and wave to a friend who’s up at this ungodly hour as well.
Around the block and past the coffee shop, back to my door.
“Cansadita, Mees?”
“Si, senor.”
“Por fin. Piense que usted era invencible”
“No, sir. I assure you that I am not invincible.”
We both laughed and he looked at me tenderly and said words I should have heard a while ago.
“We all need rest, child.”
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April 27, 2009 
I still remember the day that Lindsay left for India. She was all nerves and excitement and living her dream and leaving her love behind- even if she didn’t know he was her love just yet.
She’s all fierce and gentle like that and I prayed for her heart while she was gone and for the heart of every precious child of The Father she’d meet there.
And when she came back, she was different. Everything about her was different.
The truth is, I’m not sure what happened to her while she was there, but I think she realized three things in those days while she was away. She realized that Jesus takes the very best care of her heart and that He must have meant for her to share it.
So, that’s what she did.
She gave the part of her heart that she didn’t leave in India to Ben and she loves him fiercely with it. And she loves the two little boys that they have together with a fury that only a mother can possess. And in the quiet moments and in the chaos I know full well that India still speaks to her and she loves that land and the children in it, too.
And she’ll go back someday and I’d bet my life on the fact that she’ll bring a little girl home from there.
But for now, my sweet Lindsay and her three men are in Georgia and the Compassion crowd is in India. These incredible bloggers are giving up ten days of their lives to spread the word about Compassion, to see the impact that it has on the world, and to give a first hand account of how incredible it truly is to release a child from poverty in Jesus’ name.
So, while they’re there read their stories, leave them comments, encourage them. Pray for them. Pray for their peace and for their words and most of all, pray for the children of India and the hope that they have in Jesus. The hope we all have in Jesus.
Posted in compassion 1 Comment »
April 26, 2009 Two friends and I spent the weekend down the mountain where the sun shines without fail. We layed underneath it and let our skin turn pink as we drank juice and listened to music from the finca next door.
Late this afternoon as we pulled back into Manizales and the familiar cloudy sky, Celeste said, “This is one of those weekends when you look around and realize that this is really your life.”
I laughed at her childlike honesty and felt exactly the same way.
This is my life.
Crowded Jeep terminals packed with people selling things and yelling things and shuffling hurriedly about. A gallery full of plantain wagons and pallets of produce brought in from nearby farms. A drive down a crooked mountain highway where coffee plants are the shoulders of the road. Ten Colombians and three gringas crammed into a rundown vehicle sweating and fighting off nausea.
Buying fresh fruit from the roadside vendor that doesn’t up his price when he sees my eyes and hair– at least not after I called him on it the first time he tried his she-doesn’t-speak-Spanish scam. Lying on the grass of a finca that isn’t ours wondering why it feels like home.
Yes, this is my life and not a soul from Mississippi would believe it.
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April 24, 2009 Sometimes I totally nerd out as a teacher.
Last night in my PTA adult English class, we were working on life maps. Each person was to use bubble letters (woot! woot! throw back to high school!) to write their name and then use pictures or words inside the bubbles to show the most important events of their lives.
Now, I love teaching these adults. They’re funny and witty and they have their minds in the gutter the biggest part of the time which inevitably makes my face red, but happens to be hysterical.
So, they’re all working away and coloring and thinking and looking like my fifth graders bent over their desks in concentration.
And then Guillermo in a bout of frustration exclaims with fervor, “Aye, Mees, this is impossible! My name is longer than my life!”
I just had to laugh out loud. Bless him.
Oh, and in case you’re a visual learner here’s my unfinished example:
Posted in teaching 3 Comments »
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