Jumble ‘o thoughts

It’s JULY! With about 20 days left before I land in Salt Lake, I’m beginning to count my “lasts” in Ecuador. I haven’t gone so far as registering for a cheesy, online calendar that tracks the number of hours and seconds left until your big event, but I am keeping a mental list of small mile-markers, or “lasts.”

Around the corner, I’ll experience my last: federal holiday, trip to the supermarket, group work-out, day in the office, and weekend reading at the pool here (life is tough).

All of these lasts make me sigh with relief because they’re snooze-worthy routines. Routines I often begrudgingly step through thinking, “If only I were [here], spending time with [this person], having [this thing].” These routines are ones I’ll never have to keep again. “Hallelujah,” I say to myself.

In the midst of my mental countdown, Saturday our commander threw a surprise 20th-anniversary party for his wife and invited all the military and civilian employees here. “Last formal party downtown with co-workers,” I thought. “Check.” I was incredibly grateful for his hospitality and chance to celebrate a strong, God-centered marriage. But I’ll confess, in the back of my mind, I was satisfied marking another weekend off the calendar.

But it hit me that night that I’m also going to experience my last: trip to a restaurant and karaoke bar with these sweet Ecuadorian girls, conversation with the servers in our chow hall (all in Spanish now!), home-cooked meal at the house of my close friend Maria-Elena, and time with my kids at Shekinah orphanage who are desperate for love. Not to mention time in uninterrupted silence.

My eyes are pulled toward the first group of mundane routines. They are safe and surface-level. How can I not notice, and thank God, EVERYday for the routine ways He allows me to experience relationships in Ecuador? Because they’re small? Because they’re not what I expect?

I am reading a John Ortberg book called “Love Beyond Reason,” and this snippet is so applicable: “Envy is wanting what another person has and feeling badly that I don’t have it. Envy is disliking God’s goodness to someone else and dismissing God’s goodness to me. Envy is desire plus resentment. Envy is anticommunity…Envy is primarily a sin of the eye. It makes my brother’s piece of cake look bigger and better than mine. This is why Dante says that in hell, the envious must go through eternity with their eyes sewn shut.”

In many ways, my eyes have been shut to the blessings and relationships God’s designed for me here. I’ve been preoccupied with things I miss about the States; I’ve been disappointed this deployment wasn’t face-paced and chalk-full of people. I will go ahead and call it like I see it: envious. Ortberg goes on to say the only lasting antidote to envy is living as one who has been chosen by God – who is uniquely loved. Sigh…why am I such a toddler sometimes.

H-o-m-e

And…whoosh. I can’t believe a month’s gone by, and I’m practically a month from traveling home. How quickly 190 days have gone (okay, being a bit sarcastic).

I cannot find the right words to describe how much I’m looking forward to home. My gut is aching for the comfort, depth and freedom of time spent with my boo (a.k.a. Brian), friends and family in familiar places.

Strangely, I have the urge to come back to the States and nest. Not in a let’s-have-kids kind of way, but I find my thoughts wandering to all things domestic. Hanging out in a cozy backyard, cooking elaborate meals, starting one of the dozen craft projects I’ve bookmarked, and sinking into a new couch (one without holes and massive amounts of fabric discoloration).

And a puppy would be nice.

I practically salivate when Real Simple and Rachael Ray magazines arrive in the mail. And as I start a mental map of the places Brian and I should road trip this year, I look forward to the parks and ice cream joints in our home towns over the adventure of a new city. Why on earth am I drawn like a moth to a bug zapper? Does something snap when a woman reaches 25 1/2 that turns her into an 80-year-old with knitting needles?

Right now, I will chalk it up to an extended season of living on my own like a nomad. I was not built for this…but as I’ve been repeating as often as bitterness creeps in, there will never be another time in my life like this to discover my contentment in Christ alone. His grace and Spirit are enough. He is where I will dwell and find comfort and stability…persistence and listening will be the key for the next month.

Speaking of craving home, God gave me a sweet glimpse of it last week. Two of our friends from Kansas City, Dave and Suzannah, stopped through Manta on their way to the Ecuador/Argentina soccer game in Quito. They’re both teachers and taking advantage of their summer break by traveling through South America. I am awarding them gold stars for their courage in taking the local buses around the country and roughing it for the first week when Suz’s bag didn’t show at the airport.

Things I loved about their visit: great hugs; authentic conversation; Dave making my orphanage kids laugh hysterically; Suz asking if our mall had something similar to Old Navy; introducing them to shrimp soup; Dave asking after a day in Manta, “What else is there to see here? [smiling] I already know the answer.”

Amazing album

Mis ninos

Okay, suffice it to say: step 1) Jesus saves me; step 2) Jesus saves the world through me. I am beginning to understand what step 2 may look like. A visit to an orphanage last week confirmed God’s preparing me to bring His hope, power and grace to this twisted world through serving kids. Orphans, abused, rejected. Bring it on.

Hips don’t lie

In case you missed it, Billboard’s Latin Music Awards were presented last week in Miami Beach. I missed our Puerto Rican, satellite version of E! News, but I’m sure it was a gathering of ridiculously good-looking people oozing with natural rhythm.

Before coming to Ecuador, my interest in Latin music had very clear boundaries: Shakira and acoustic guitar (no, NOT Esteban). I am not a fan of Reggaeton (think hip hop, Daddy Yankee) nor mariachi, which I associate with old men in costume eyeing under-dressed girls on the Spanish channel.

Our adorable Ecuadorian-American secretary has been good enough to school me, and she loaned me her CD collection this weekend. With a new stock and love for Latin music, I thought I’d share the below gems. Up next…karaoke!

- Buena Vista Social Club: Quite possibly the coolest Latin band of the century with more awards and compilations than you can count. Their iTunes Essentials list says it all, but you’ll feel like you’re walking through the streets of Cuba with these guys.

- Mana: Latin America’s version of U2, known for their live sets. Their look is a little Michael Bolton for me, but the music’s great.

- Julieta Venegas: The Latin version of everything I love in pop music! If you’re into a Regina Spektor, Josh Kelley, Ingrid Michaelson-sound, you’ll dig this girl.

- Marc Anthony: Two words: hot damn. This man can sing and get you dancing. I’m blown away by the salsa rhythms on his 2007 El Cantante album. J.Lo knew what she was doing.

Not quite Galapagos, but still an island in the sun!

Buenas! (The short, uneducated way of saying good night.) Last Saturday, a group of us drove two hours south to a port town called Puerto Lopez and took an hour-and-a-half boat ride to an island for hiking and snorkeling. Isla de la Plata, known to locals as the “Poor Man’s Galapagos,” was something else.

For starters, 18 of us were crammed into this twin-engine boat like we were fleeing Castro’s Cuba. One of the motors flickered on and off for most of the trip, and while we joked about Gilligan’s “three-hour tour,” I thought I might have a panic attack if we actually stranded in the middle of the Pacific.

When we made it (whew) to the island, we immediately started out on a hike. No kidding, for the following two-and-a-half hours the only animal we saw was the infamous blue-footed booby. Now, I understand this island and the Galapagos are the only two places in the world where this species nests…but there were hundreds of them. Way too close for comfort (think city pigeons). And it was mating season. And I hate birds.

Boys being boys, the rest of the day, I had the pleasure of hearing every rendition of a “boobie island” joke they could think of. Sigh.

There were two pros to the trip though that made it completely worth it: 1) snorkeling with tropical fish and swimming over a coral reef (my adrenaline was pumping the entire time as I spastically mistook my co-workers’ appendages for sharks…but I could have floated over that “Finding Nemo” pink reef forever); 2) I didn’t get an ounce of sunburn (this is a huge feat on the Equator, but I did look like a total mom wearing a visor, bandana and sleeved shirt and piling on sunblock like my life depended on it).

Hugs and love (and three months left)!

Gone local

For one reason or another, the phrase “going local” is common among Americans here. Usually, it refers to attitudes and tastes that reflect the local culture (let’s just say aggressive driving, last-minute planning and suntans are a glimpse of how quickly we’ve adapted).

As far as food goes, after three months in Ecuador, I have undoubtedly gone “that!” Here’s a sample of my favs:

1) Ceviche de cameron (cold, shrimp soup with tomatoes, onions, cilantro and lime) and these crazy-good smashed, baked banana chips

2) Jugo (always fresh-squeezed, and passionfruit is a favorite). Fried egg, sausage and corn-type nuts are a mere sidedish to the drink.

3) Cafe con leche. For some reason, we’re only able to buy Ecuadorian coffee in restaurants. But I’ve seen some homes with fresh-picked coffee beans drying in a box on their front porch. Stalker? No. Addict? Yes.

Perfume and tears

Today’s Easter! Unlike any Easter I’ve experienced.

No colored eggs, new clothes, Spring flowers (although a shout-out to Mom and Dad for the box of candy, including the classic Peeps). Our chapel’s Easter service was strangely bare this morning – only six people, a message and communion. And I’m certain our chow hall won’t stray from its traditional, greasy-spoon fare tonight.

While I whole-heartedly believe this holiday is more marked in significance and celebration than any other, dialing down the drama of the weekend has been refreshing. I found myself drawn to a new character in the passion story. She’s far from the lead, but Mary Magdalene’s relationship and actions toward Jesus during his last week on earth have struck a cord in me.

Without getting into too much detail, MM was healed by Jesus and began following him and the disciples and caring for them. A few days before Jesus sat with the 12 at the last supper and washed their feet, MM came to his feet. She broke open her most expensive perfume and let down her hair to clean his travel-wearied feet. I heard in one message that the oils, which she also poured over his head, were likely one of the last scents he smelled on the cross.

Fast forward to Sunday. MM took off for his tomb in the dark, early hours of the morning. When she and the other women saw he wasn’t there, she ran back to tell the disciples. In John 20, when Peter and John ran to the grave to see for themselves, she wasn’t far behind. She was beside herself there, left to grieve on her own, when Jesus appeared to her – the first person he chose to reveal his scarred, but not defeated, body to.

I am touched by the fact that Jesus considered MM a friend. Her constant kneeling and awe of him, her contemplative spirit around him, her drive to be present in nearly every scene of his final week on earth. She was willing, and Jesus encouraged her, to just adore him.

MM’s sister, Martha, and brother, Lazarus, had their own ways of connecting with their friend, Jesus. Maybe at this point in time, he’s asking me to slow down and pull a MM – maybe even discover portions of her character are strengths of mine.

It’s been awhile since my last post, but I am starting to hold my head up higher. Not in a prideful way, but in terms of beginning to understand my identity – namely, that it’s inseparable from today.

A Blues song

I know I have precious little to be upset about here. Thankfully, I am not dodging sniper fire, like those deployed to the Middle East, nor wading through snow (my heart goes out to you, Utah). And let’s not forget that Mizzou made its way into the Sweet Sixteen (can I get an M-I-Z?!).

But to be authentic, I can’t write for miles about how much I’m loving life in Ecuador. Nope, that won’t do. My heart is actually racing as I consider the horrible things I could write (and really, my biting thoughts) about circumstances here. If you were a betting man, you would put money on me angrily clomping away on the keyboard for 10 minutes before realizing I need to take a deep breath…and hold down the delete key.

Typically, a good margarita or bowl of fro-yo would take the edge off, but since I don’t have access to either, this will be my figurative “exhale.” Count your lucky stars I’ve taken a breath mint. 

To an outsider, I’m sure my life looks like a giant temper tantrum right now. I am overcome by a strange mix of claustrophobia, anxiousness and laziness. Every time I sit down to be productive (i.e. read, write, draw, study for the GRE), I realize I’m sitting on the same bed I use as a desk, kitchen table, couch…and bed. I actually try different combinations of the lights in my room or different settings on the thermostat to make the ambiance feel new. Sad, I know.

I am also to a point where everything in me wants to rebel from spending time with my co-workers (one rant that makes me laugh from the unwritten post is that we’re the size of an FLDS family). They know a lot about me – what I will and will not eat in the chow hall, how often I Skype with my husband, my favorite comfy pants. And ashamedly, I was outright offended this weekend when they suggested I spend more time with them at a movie, restaurant, service project and parade (a parade is a bit over the top, right?).

If it boils down to one thing, I am weary for home. I miss my family (Bri), friends and freedom. It is really painful to be still. I have a knot in my stomach nearly every time I step into my room about how wisely I will chose to use the ample free time God’s given me here. I want to distance myself from the people who are always surrounding me, but at the same time, I so badly want them to know who I am.

I am singing the blues. But I also know where to seek strength…

Chabela!

Over the past two weeks, I’ve been making a concerted effort to improve my Spanish. The fact that I’ve lived in a Spanish-speaking country for two months now (can you believe it? I’m 1/3 of the way through this sucker!) and haven’t cared much until now is quite sad. But let me explain.

Nearly everyone I interact with in the office speaks English. If our bilingual secretary steps out, I can get by with the basics. We have translators who are paid to interpret news releases, brochures, ect. I am also well-versed in the “I need help” look and am quick to give it to bilingual friends when I reach my communication threshold with a local or reporter. And then there’s Wilbur.

Wilbur is a sweet middle-aged man who drives the base shuttle. I run into him a handful of times each week on the bus or in the office (he occasionally brings in coconut or chocolate sweet bread from the Ecuadorian Air Force’s bakery…ref previous post on Latin America women).

Two weeks ago, Wilbur was driving me back to the dorms at the end of the day. Despite working here for nearly a decade, he speaks zero English. I clumsily tried to talk with him about where he’s from and his family, and it turns out his wife died several years ago, and he’s raised three girls on his own. With teary eyes he continued on, in what I’m positive were loving words about his late-wife, and I didn’t understand a word. Call me a feeler, but I was so disappointed I missed out on the crux of our conversation that I committed to getting my butt to Spanish class twice a week.

It’s going well so far (although there was that time I called my teacher a good “whale” rather than a good “dancer”), and I learned I have a true Spanish name. Ciao to those ill-fitting names like “Elena” and “Eva” in high school Spanish class. Ciao to locals calling me “Bak” or “Bad.” From now on, I’m Chabela. It has a nice ring to it, right? From my understanding, it’s short for Isabel, or Elizabeth, and also the title of a horrendous Antonio Aguilar song. Only this adorable kid on You Tube can make it bearable. With love!