A Broken Heart

If you were to open me up, splay me out on a table or something of the like, I’m sure there you would find my heart, torn in two, broken through in a messy zig-zag pattern. It wouldn’t be anything like the cheesy romantic pictures with their bright colors and clean lines. You’d find my heart strained, ripped and stringy, trying desperately to cling to itself once again.

The truth is, half of my heart will stay here in Guatemala. It will stay in Hermano Pedro, with my friends in Sumpango, my leaders in SI, the places I’ve visited, and the man who plays the harmonica outside of the tienda. It will stay in the cool breeze under the heavy sun, which moves the palm trees and shuffles the flowers. It will stay in the color of the sky, the antique buildings of Antigua, and the hesitant smile of the little boy on the bus. Yes, part of my heart will stay here in the sound of the language on my tongue. It will stay in Central Park and next to the occupied pillas. My heart will be in the lilting trumpet that played Easter morning. My heart will be with the people of the basurero, those sleeping on the streets, the ones fighting the corruption, and the teachers of the language school, hoping to inspire a better world through open communication. My heart will be with the welcoming arms of the church and the hopeful women fighting for their own rights. My heart will be in the busy, crazy streets of Guatemala City; with the remnants of our group; the artist on the side of Arc Street; even the funnily-dressed tourist making their way down the street.

So with my heart tearing in my chest, saying goodbye and taking in each experience for the “last time,” I find myself begging. Please God take me back here. And with the pain of having planted some of my heart here, I see joy in the prospect of seeing these people I love once again – if not here, in the life after. Unfortunately, I find the word “blessed” lacking and dry – probably due to overuse and certain abuse. God has used an experience I never had dreamed of having to push me into a place I never thought I could be – not just physically, but emotionally, spiritually, and psychologically. Coming back I’m scared to answer the question: How was Guatemala? Guatemala. What can I say? Incredible, sometimes scary, disheartening, lovely, beautiful, friendly, in places dirty, touristy, indigenous, historical, wrenching, ancient, modern – a heap of things I couldn’t begin to describe with mere words. Guatemala. With the mere word a gust of emotions washes over me. Guatemala. Something resonates in my chest. Guatemala. Now a part of me.

My poor, weakened heart. Yes, it’s hurt. It’s broken and bleeding. The wounds are fresh and painful. But that will change one day. One day, the halves will scar over and be all the stronger for their current damage. One day, my heart will beat clean, clear, strong beats that will ring through wherever I find myself. And, one day, I will use that remembering heart to reach out and touch the heart of others – perhaps yours. And one day, maybe one day, my longing heart will finds its way back to the place that will forever remain buried deep within.