My first few days in Chile consisted mostly of tourism. I've got to be honest - in the midst of doing all these things that were certainly fun and interesting I couldn't help being a little frustrated with it all. I spent six months preparing myself for missions work. When were we going to help people? Where was God supposed to fit in with all this?I was excited for that Saturday. It was the day we moved in with our host families and visited our first church. I was ready to see something amazing!
My group had yet to see the neighborhood in which we would be staying. From brief converstaions with Marco the most I had learned about La Comunida Florida was that it "was nothing like the hotel" in which we'd spent the last two nights.
Okay. Telling. Then again, most homes aren't like a four-star hotel.
So our team drove away from the rich city center still unsure of what to expect. The buildings and streets got smaller and more closely packed together, spiked iron fences rose up, and unrecognizable graffiti crowded the brick and concrete walls that surrounded homes and businesses. Thin stray dogs roamed unchecked in the streets and cars were parked on the sidewalks. From our position on the ground, the houses seemed to stop only where the Andes began in the east.
La Comunida Florida was unlike any place I had ever been before. I am from a quiet, small town and I felt like I should have been intimidated, but I wasn't. There was nothing but peace. I only wanted to meet my family and prepare for the service that night.
The night before, during a team meeting, Elizabeth told us how we would be conducting our church services. After the church finished their worship service, the whole team was supposed to introduce themselves, and then sing a Spanish version of "Open the Eyes of my Heart"* Once introductions were finished, three team members would share their testimonies in place of a sermon, and we would make ourselves available for a time of prayer at the close of the service.
Elizabeth asked for volunteers for that first night, and God called me to volunteer. God had to have called me, because the thought of sharing my testimony with a crowd of strangers absolutely terrified me. I would never have done that on my own.
Those nerves were twisting around in my stomach as we pulled up at the church and I met my host family for the first time. We dragged our bags into the sanctuary, where a handful of people were waiting in a semi-circle to meet us. Afternoon sunlight was streaming through the windows onto a brown tile floor and lit up yellow walls. Even though it was warm and sunny outside the room was surprisingly cool.
Our team made our way one-by-one around the circle and greeted our hosts. Because of the language barrier, conversations stayed brief.
Lisa introduced me and my teammate, Crystal, to a petite, elderly woman at the far end of the room. She had stayed very quiet the entire time, to the point that I had nearly forgotten that she was there. Her name was Hermana Delfina,** and she was the head of the household with which Crystal and I would be staying.
A man was waiting in a car for us outside. His name was Denis, and he told us in Spanish as we loaded our things into the car that he was married to Hermana Delfina's daughter, Ruth. He, Ruth, Delfina, and their two daughters, Areli (5 years old) and Cata (1 year old) lived a few blocks away from the church, and they ran a general store and butcher shop from the first floor of their home.
The conversation was entirely in Spanish, but I was surprised to discover that I could understand so much. Crystal had taken French in high school, so I operated as translator most of the time. Although I had to apologize for my atrocious grammar and gringa accent,* I was communicating. After a two-year break from a high school beginner's Spanish class, conversation was a miracle and a blessing from God. Even the days I thought we had wasted on tourism proved helpful; Denis knew about many of the places we visited and it acted as a springboard for more conversation.
We met Ruth, Areli and Cata at the entrance to the store. Areli and Cata were shy at first, and stayed close to their mother as we hauled our things into the house and up the stairs to Areli's room, where we would be sleeping for the next two weeks.
I knew I would like Ruth from the moment I met her. She was young, only in her late twenties, and I thought she was one of the prettiest ladies I had ever met. We chatted while the store was mostly empty and Crystal and I were beginning to get settled in. She told me that Areli was learning English in Kindergarten and she hoped that Crystal and I could teach her some new words while we were there.
When the store emptied of customers a young man who worked at the butcher counter came in and introduced himself. His name was Daniel and he was a relative of Ruth and Delfina. He was twenty, closer to me and Crystal's age, and much to Crystal's delight, he knew a lot of English! He studies biology at a college in Val Paraiso during the week, but on the weekends he helps the family run the store. I asked him where he learned to speak English and he laughed.
"From television," he replied. "I love American TV!"
I think I'm going to do myself a favor and start watching Telemundo more often. My language skills need all the help that they can get.
Business started to pick up again after lunch, and Crystal and I were left to entertain ourselves for the afternoon. They had cable and internet access, so Crystal checked her email and watched cartoons with Areli while I prepared for the church service that night.
I sat with a pen in my hand and my journal open in front of me. I knew I should write it down (I would be pausing frequently for a translator), but where should I begin?
I had told my testimony to others in the past, but I had never been able to bring myself to write it down.**** How on earth could I tie it all together and make it make sense? There was something about writing it out that made it seem all the more real and permanently fixated in my memory, and there was much
that I would sometimes rather forget.So I prayed as I wrote. God is the author of my story, not me, and I kept that in mind as my mind blanked out and my pen scribbled across the page. I put it all out of my head and trusted Him to give me the right words, even though I was scared that they would be neither recieved nor understood. I finished with barely enough time to change into a skirt and blouse before we left for the service.
Our team drove through heavy traffic for nearly half an hour to get to Puente Alto, a community in another part of Santiago. In the dark it looked almost exactly like Comunida Florida, and I wondered how we made it there without getting lost.The Puente Alto church was slightly smaller than the church in Comunida Florida, but it was filled with smiling people and a wealth of energy.
The worship service began, and the congregation exploded as people began to sing and dance at the top of their lungs. Girls in white and pink flowing skirts swayed to the music and waved brightly colored scarves, and a boy blasted out a brassy melody on the trumpet. I could not understand the words but I could feel God's presence nonetheless, so I began to sing and dance with them. I had never worshipped with such carefree abandon before, and I was almost sad when the music ended and my team took over for the service.
After our introductions and the song, I was the first to speak. It took me until I had walked up to the podium and opened my journal to realize that all my nervousness had disappeared. I wasn't scared at all. Why should I be? I was reading verbatim from notes, Lisa was on the stage with me to translate, and the end, God was in charge of it all.
I spoke calmly into the microphone and forgot the crowd completely. The story was telling itself with hardly any true effort on my part. The world didn't become real again until I realized that I finished and everyone was applauding and I looked over to see that Lisa was crying. Before I went to sit down again, she gave me a hug.
I was exhausted and stayed very quiet after the service. Somewhere in it all, God had affected some people very deeply that night, and I wasn't sure what He'd made me say to produce such an effect. Three women approached me after the service crying the same way that Lisa had been and just held me for a while.
No words, just a hug, warm and comforting and full of nothing but love. It reminded me of "The Hug Poem," by Bradley Hathaway. It is my favorite beat poem, and it brings tears to my eyes every time I hear it read aloud. If you would like to read it (and I strongly recommend that you do) I've attached a link to a video of Bradley Hathaway performing "The Hug Poem" at the end of this blog.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_AYvnfGJoxg
*The Spanish translation (Abre Mis Ojos)
Abre mis ojos, O Cristo
Abre mis ojos, Senor
Yo quiero verte
Yo quiero verte
Verte alto y sublime
Brillando en el luz de tu gloria
Derrame su poder y amor
Cuando cantamos santo santo
Santo santo santo
Santo santo santo
Santo santo santo
Yo quiero verte
**Hermana is the Spanish word for "Sister." It is not uncommon for adult members of the congregation to address each other as Brother or Sister in conversation.
*** "Lo siento! Soy gringa, y mi gramatica es muy, muy mal!" Marco loved that one.
****If you haven't heard my story and would like to hear it in its entirety, I would be happy to share it over coffee or a long walk around town. It is too long and personal for me to share here, but I am very open to questions at any time.
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