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.  

How the Time Flies (a really late part 3 of 3)

Huge tree in Petén.

06.05.13

No sé que voy a hacer cuando regreso a Minnesota y no hay viajes y excursiones todo el tiempo. Through my time here in Guatemala, and especially these last five weeks, I have really seen the beauty that is present in this world – both through the creations of God and man. The short weekend trips are definitely not enough. Every time we travel outside of Sacetepequez (the district we live in), I am left wanting more and wishing that I could simply sit and soak in the wonder surrounding me. It might have started an addiction to travel. . .

The view from the top of a ruin at Tikal.

            One of the greatest parts of Guatemala is its diversity. Both within the people groups  and in la tierra or geography, there is a stark difference that creates a sense of newness everywhere we go. Whether it be mountains, oceans, lakes, volcanoes, pueblos, or cities, Guatemala has something to offer. Four weeks ago, we made the trek to Tikal, Petén. (Most of you are likely familiar with this image associated with Guatemala – Mayan ruins standing stark in vast green forest.) We woke at 3:30 AM, Malaria pills packed, shorts on, and with groggy footsteps we made our way to the door to await the shuttle. After an unmemorable (as in it was too early to do anything but try and sleep) ride to Guatemala City, we boarded a small, 18-passenger plane. Fortunately, we were able to take a 45-minute plane ride to Tikal, rather than the 14-hour bus ride.

Our snack box on the plane! So cute!

Coffee Plant! 

            When we arrived in Petén, our excited tour guide in a large hat helped us board a tour bus (I’ve now officially ridden a tour bus!) that took us to the ruins of Tikal. For several hours we wandered around, walking where people had once walked, climbing where people had once lived, meandering through public squares that had been used thousands of years before. It felt like taking a step back in time, seeing the intelligence and ingenuity of a people group who had been taken over long ago. Trying to convince myself that I was actually walking through Mayan ruins took some effort.  

Ruin in Tikal 

We climbed to the top! 

            

          We spent the night and the next day in a town called Flores, which was actually a small island. The brightly painted buildings, busy open stores, and welcoming restaurants all facing the water made for a magical environment. We spent the time playing games, swimming in the lake, walking around, and eating the most delicious pancakes ever. All too soon we had to leave the hotel and make our way back to Antigua. 

            

          The next weekend, after saying our goodbyes to language school, Becky, Anna, Anita, and I made our way to Río Dulce. Puedo decir que era uno de los lugares más bonitos por toda mis viajes. For several hours we made our way, getting hotter and hotter, north to the east side of Guatemala. Later that night, we found ourselves in Backpacker’s Hotel. The hotel itself was somewhat of a dock – I could see the water underneath the holes in our bathroom floor – and had a great view of the river and the ginormous bridge looming over it. The next day upon arriving we awoke early to . . . well, to be honest, I wasn’t sure what. It was kind of a show up and hope to see some cool things after a really long car ride sort of trip. I was in luck. By 9:00 that morning we found ourselves in a waterfall/natural hot spring. Here we had the “pool” essentially to ourselves while we swam about under the hot-springs. We then climbed to the top of the waterfall and received a natural mud-bath scrub that made our skin especially soft. Even though I was bit by a fish, the experience was incredible. I have to imagine that there is a place similar to this in heaven. The stress of the last weeks of school and the build-up of learning about difficult things that were emotionally stressing washed away in the heat of the water dripping down upon me, sitting on a warmed rock with my feet in a cool pool. I am almost tempted not to put up any pictures because it can’t actually capture the beauty of it all. The picture can’t show you the way the water glinted as it peaked over the waterfall. It can’t allow you to hear the melody of the birds, mixing with the swirl of water from the river over stones. A picture doesn’t capture the slight breeze rustling the trees and bringing the smell of the water to your face, upturned to catch the sun spreading light through the trees. I wish I could just bring you all with me to experience it for yourselves.

They call this place "Paradise." 

            That day we also swam in Lake Isabel, one of the four big lakes of Guatemala and made our way around the castle of San Felipe – known for its many canons to fight against pirates. We also made our way down a canyon, faces upturned to the rocks hundreds of feet above our canoe. The stillness of the world increased as we made our way from the park where a church was having a small get-together. Although we did not make it to Livingston (which means I’ll just have to come back), the trip left me in awe of the wonder of Guatemalan landscape.

Lago Isabel 

Castillo de San Felipe

            The final trip we made did not so much structure around the beauty of Guatemalan tierra, so much as the incredible people. We made our way to Panajachel. Here we stayed in a huge, luxurious room and did a lot of shopping. It was strange to see that everything was sellable – and with force. Venders walked around, following our large group of gringos, pushing the best price of their necklace, bag, hotel, boat ride, or menu. Although we were able to see the fourth lake – Lake Atitlan – we couldn’t swim in it due to pollution. Instead we walked around, shopped, ate, talked, took a boat tour around the lake surrounded by mountains and volcanoes, and shopped again. It was an excellent opportunity to get to know people from our group a little bit better.

Anna, Andre, and I in San Antonio - part of the boat tour in Panajachel

Mountains around Lake Atitlan 

Panajachel before it was swarmed with shoppers

            I LOVE TO TRAVEL! 

The Hope of the Future and the Influence We Have

So this is not part 3 of 3 of my backwards-forwards-it-will-come-together blogging set. I promise I will next talk about my vacations in these last few weeks. However, if you know me, writing is somewhat of a release for me. So with this last experience, with these sentiments pounding in my heart and making it hard to sleep, I decided to share the sticky burden with all who read this. Thus, here it is: 

08.05.13

            As is possible with most bad habits, this one started on the playground. This specific playground was fairly normal: scrawling chalk drawings, small metal slides speckled with rust spots, and squeaky swings that shuffled in the wind when left unburdened.

            This playground was boxed in by the pre-kinder nursery rooms, 90 children staring with expectant eyes as the morning’s clouds rolled away. It was beneath this beating sun that we pulled out what turned out to be some sort of magical, child-magnetizing tool, far better than video games or even candy – bubbles.

Within mere seconds of blowing the first stream of glistening bubbles, our small gringo group of three made fast friends. The three to six year-olds who had previously kept a safe distance from the blonde giants came running to play. Immediately, I was transformed from bubble-holder to jungle gym – kids on my shoulders, in my lap, dripping bubble solution down my sweater and on my tennis.

But this story does not really pertain to the magic bubbles at all, not really. No, this story finds its center with one particular boy. Like all the cryptic authors say, we’ll call him . . . Marcos.

I think it would be fair to say that Marcos is an average boy. His black cap of hair is in need of a cut and flops in strange patterns when he is running. His mini polo shirt – like his hair, a little to big – is cinched in tight where it meets his jeans. His big, brown eyes widen when any compliments are paid toward his fast-and-good-for-running Spiderman sneakers.

Marcos, for being a fiver year-old boy with un montón of directed energy, is also a somewhat accomplished sharer. With only three bottles of bubbles to share with the 50 children swarming the playground, sharing was imperative. Although reluctant to let go of the bubble-wand – especially after a disappointing release of tiny bubbles – Marcos did surprisingly well relinquishing his turn to the next child.

Usually, that is. As I watched the pattern of Marcos’s behavior blossom, my heart sunk, heavy with disappointment.

One thing that is important to understand about Guatemala is that since the colonization of Central America, there has been a gap between the Spanish and the indigenous. Never mind that they make up 60 percent of the current population, still today the mayan population holds meager jobs, has less access to education, and fights against bitter stereotypes that have become their reality. (That, of course, is a generalization, but it is one that I have come to see as fairly accurate.) The tourist industry has capitalized on their broader features and colorful clothing, but in cultural society, the indigenous are often disregarded as less than valuable.

So I watched as Marcos would share and laugh with his little boy friends – the ones who looked like him and had parents and traditions like his. When the little girl, dressed in her mini traditional huipil, pushed her hand into the circle to play, Marcos’s reaction was to first walk away from her. When she followed, he’d blow bubbles directly into her face. After a while of her persisting, he turned to shoving and grabbing the wand from her hand. As he saw acted out on the streets each day, possibly in his home – this is what he did.

So perhaps you can see why I lost my breath a little and felt like desperation was clawing at my throat. These were children. They are the “hope of the future,” our crowning glory, the innocent – and they simply acted out in their little-child world, the dirty adult games their parents and their society had set before them. With the selfish attitudes and disregarding actions given to them as toys, they eagerly put on their too-big roles. Do we know the power we have?

How the Time Flies (2)

30.04.13

Centro Linguistico Mayo - my school of eight weeks

Flat Samuel and I hard at work in class! 

The walk home from school, past Parque Central, take a left past Monoloco.

Pues, aquí estamos – parte dos. So for the last four weeks since my previous set of blog-posts about our trip to Sumpango over Holy Week, I have been in school. So that you have a clear depiction of my daily life (hopefully that is at least of some interest to you if you’re reading this) over the last month before moving to Magdalena: First, I would rise each day and get ready for breakfast by 7:00 with my other housemates. Then we’d walk to school by 8:00. Here we would reunite with the other Bethel students and pray over the day. From there we would separate and each find our teachers. Each student had their own professor and met in the same place each day. This time my teacher, Ana María, and I had our own room on the second floor. From 8:15ish until around 10:00 we’d work through the schedule outlined for us – this session I was studying the history of Latin America. Somewhere in those two hours we made our way below to grab a coffee – hard work requires sustenance, right? Then again at 10:00 coffee was available, this time with sweetbread and a half-hour break. Usually during this time the other students and I sat on the roof, talking and taking in the view and the sounds of the school next door. Que rico, no?

The view from one side of the terraza. We usually sat in those benches while drinking our coffee and eating our sweetbread. 

The roof. Some students had classes on this level. 

            After the break we all returned to our studies until 12:00. We then each walked home to have lunch with our host-families at 1:00. This was always my favorite meal of the day, as it was the biggest and usually the most “typical.” Lunch also almost always included tortillas and guacamole, so that fueled my appreciation as well. After lunch, my roommate and one or two other friends and I usually went to a café for more reliable internet and a comfortable space where we could do homework. As Antigua is a very tourist-centered city, we had a plethora of options. One of our favorites was a café in which the rooftop seating overlooked the central park. It is always amazing to see the mix of people who meander through and how they interact with one another.

On the walk to school. Me encantan las flores aquí.

Simply a view from the backside of the school, La Merced across town.

            This last Friday, it was definitely difficult to say goodbye to the school. El ambiente era algo tan especial. Being in a setting where everyone is there to foster learning, encouragement, and thoughtful thinking is such a special experience. Over the last eight weeks we’ve spent there, I’ve grown close to my teachers, our little group of students and their professors with whom I’ve shared activities, and other staff involved at the school. I think everyone could probably attest to my share of tears that were shed. I was extremely blessed to share the time I did in such a supportive environment. I know I am lucky to have access to have the education I do, but this time really showed me the power of relationships and learning, especially combined. I will carry those memories in my heart forever.  

My teacher from the first session of classes, the lively Rosa María. 

The group of professors and students with whom I sometimes worked. We watched movies together, discussed, and had quite a bit of fun. 

. . . and the delicious chocolate cake we finished together the last day of classes . . . que rico! 

My professor from the second session, the wonderful and confident Ana María.

How the Time Flies

Part 1 - 29.04.13

            This morning I started my day, stomach full of pancakes and mango, walking up a hill (huffing slightly), smiling. “¡Buenos días!” I’d been waiting 10 weeks to say that again. Once again, we have moved back to Magdalena Milpas Altas, which means that, once again, it is culturally acceptable – and encouraged – to greet everyone in passing. It’s something totally unique to pueblo culture and I love it.

            So yes, we’ve moved back to Magdalena. But what happened in the last several weeks? Bastante. I’ve done some traveling, finished classes, encountered some more incredible people, and started once again working at Hermano Pedro. However, to me it would make more sense to describe it all Star Wars style. For those of you less nerdy folks, I’m going to start farther toward the beginning, sequentially, and work my way back.

            Yesterday, after a six-hour bus ride back from Río Dulce (more to come about that in later blogs), we finished up our packing. After hugging our host mom goodbye, taking a final picture of the palomias (insectos tan feos) sharing my bed, and trying to shove ridiculously full suit-cases into the van, we made our way up the winding curves from Antigua to Magdalena. It was definitely a bitter/sweet moment – I’ve enjoyed the freedom and access and comfort we’ve had in Antigua, but I’ve been looking forward to being part of the family again. Throughout the whole ride, I could feel my stomach churning. It was more than just the pizza eaten hours before. I was nervous. I couldn’t tell you why because as soon as we arrived in the home, I instantly felt relief.

Myself, Doña Patrícia (our Antigua host-mom), and Anna

            Estella and Lizbeth (my same host-mom and sister we stayed with before) met us at el cruz – the cross centered next to the pillas at the heart of Magdalena. From here we rolled down and then up, ending in our same room. After a brief conversation with the family – hoping my improvement in español was made evident – and listening to our dad give the same sentiments about being welcomed into the family, Anna and I unpacked and prepared our things for the next three weeks.

            The next morning I woke up early, read my Bible, and got ready. I was amazed how easy it was to fall back into a routine. At 7:30 we made our way to breakfast and talked with our host-mom. From there, we walked down and then up to Mario’s house – the pastor who has given us the use of his roof. Here we held worship with the other people in the group and the Students International staff, singing a couple of songs and drinking our coffee.

            On the way out we grabbed our packed lunches and everybody went off to their sites. Today was a lucky day because we were able to get a ride to Antigua and only had to take the bus one time. A little less interesting, but definitely more comfortable.

            Finally arriving at Hermano Pedro, it was an incredible day. I simply cannot believe the joy the residents there have given me. I can’t escape the cheesy way of saying it, but they’ve given me so much. For the morning we wandered around the school session – where the residents have various projects – and talked with several of the patients. In so many ways I felt honored. People remembered me, shared their stories with me, drew pictures with me, made jokes with me. The love that some of the people at Hermano Pedro have taught me has put so many of my previous experiences and actions to shame.

Nineth, Amanda, Myself, and Anita - my incredible group mates!

            After eating our lunch in the office (we stopped to by 10 cent avocados to add to our sandwiches – no big deal), we went back for a little over an hour to spend some time with the ladies, painting nails and talking. With a little extra time we made a run to one of the many miraculous panaderias (like a bakery, but better) for milojas – one of the tastiest treats ever.

            We then waited for the bus and walked up the hill from the bus stop to where we live higher up in Magda. After a delicious dinner with our family, Anna and I studied a little for our test on Thursday, watched some Mentalist, and are now in the process of going to bed.

            Mientras escribir esto, mi corazón es tan lleno. I am content and feel wonderfully filled. I feel so blessed to be in such a place and cannot wait to see what the next three weeks brings me.

The fountain from Central Park in Antigua

Part Two coming soon! 

Yet Another Set of Tears

Otra vez, estoy llorando.  Crying, again. It seems to be a pattern for me here in Guatemlala.(And I thought I was emotional before!) But as strange as it sounds, these tears were caused by something found, something gained. These tears spouted from the heart of someone leaving something wonderful behind.

            My wonderful roommate (I’m not just saying that in case she reads it) spent some time in Sumpango, Guatemala a few years back, helping with missions work. Named in Kaqchiquel, Sumpango means the place of the skulls. It is located in the mountains next to a large cemetery. Much more like Magdalena, Sumpango is not an area founded in money as Antigua. This last week, we went back with Anna to translate between the church and a group of 30 Wisconsinite youth. Translate. Traducir. Me. I know, I was freaking out too.

            However, all went well. More than well, gracias a Dios. I am blown away by the things God used me for in this trip; I would have definitely shortsighted myself. As I told Anna yesterday, “Never, once, did I imagine myself in Guatemala. Translating. For a missions trip. Successfully!” I am truly amazed. But I digress. Continuamos. The reason for the tears: 

            La gente. Que bonita la gente. I wish I were a good enough writer to illustrate my heart, clearly outlined here on the page for you. I wish I could traverse the miles to open up and show you the brokenness, something actually beautiful amidst the pain. I wish I could simply share these memories, letting each and every one of you experience the same joy, peace, and devastation welling inside. Since my own humanness hinders me, I will do my best to give you a glimpse of my last week in Sumpango.

This is a view of Sumpango from the side of the mountain. 

            Pastor Oscar, the missions coordinator of the Los Olivos (the church we worked with in Sumpango) graciously invited us into his home. His wife Karla and their kids made us feel right where we should be, giving over their own rooms to us in an order to house us. Karla fed us (and ALL of the Wisconsinites, sometimes waking with less than two hours of sleep to give everyone a hearty breakfast), joked with us, and made us feel welcome. We played dolls with the kids, sat on the sofa (a real sofa!), Emily (nine years old) did my hair for me, and we even got to use the most incredible, lovely, wonderful shower ever. I was reminded once again how much comfort being comfortable physically can bring.

            Suzanne, an intern at the church also living with the family, worked with us translating. A few hours upon arriving, we made our way to the churches newly constructed soccer field that they’ve been putting work into for a few years. It seems like a small thing, but it's a huge effort to connect the community and the youth within it. Caught up in my own nerves and insecurities, I watched the youth play soccer, seeing the initial hesitation and segregation between the Guatemalan youth and the Wisconsinites. After dinner and a quick break, we made our way to the church for a joint worship service – once again, the Guatemalan and Wisconsin youth housed together for the same activity. At this point, I felt I might throw up. Me? Translate for an entire group of 60 some people? Nevertheless, with a fairly smooth transition, I helped communicate the games were going to play, in addition to a small skit. And, even more encouraging, I watched throughout the night as the two separate groups began to interact, trying to communicate despite the barrier. I listed to their voices mix in worship – two distinct languages, one song, one purpose. It was absolutely beautiful.

            Sunday, we woke up at 4:00 AM in an effort to be at a water-park with the church before it opened. Here we witnessed a baptism and spent the majority of the time at a the beach, soaking in the sun and the heat once again. It was a great morning and a fairly easy day. Monday, on the other hand, was exhausting – mentally and psychically. In the early morning, we made our way back to the soccer field. My group was in charge of clearing away a huge plot of land that will, eventually, house the future church. (The current congregation is too large and the church is looking for more room.) With machetes and rakes, the youth cleared almost the entire lot. I also had the great opportunity to meet some Guatemalan youth my own age, something more difficult to do in Antigua. For at least 45 minutes I talked with one young man who I will definitely remember for the rest of my life. I listened as he spoke on and on about his aspirations, his hard work, the trails he faces, and his desire to put God above it all. He talked about the difficulties he has, but encouraged me with his determination to better his circumstances and rely on faith. After listening, I felt completely inspired to approach my own life with a revamped passion and purpose. Podemos aprender en cada situación. 

            That night, we met again at the church to do home visits – by far the most terrifying part of my experience. Separated from Anna and Andre, I was split into a group of five Wisconsinites (who spoke relatively little Spanish) and two Guatemalans (who spoke no English). I was torn between terror and relief that perhaps it would be harder to notice my mistakes through lack of ability to communicate. We made our way to three different homes of youth in the community. Here I translated a brief message on behalf of the Guatemalan youth leaders and then translated the testimonies and growth stories of the Wisconsinites to the Guatemalan party. With a few mistakes but overall success, the night went really well. I was left in awe of my ability to communicate and the ability of the group to share and be honest with each other. To finish everything out we had dinner with a different youth pastor. Here again I translated between the group at my table and the Guatemalan pastor. It was a great time to see the exchanges and questions arise at the table and to have the opportunity to help answer them.

            Tuesday, all of the Wisconsinites, about 40 Guatemalan youth, and ourselves (making a group of about 70 in total) climbed a mountain. For seven hours. Siete horas. Pensaba que muriera. I can honestly say it was a strain. However, well worth it. Absolutamente vale la pena. Without a doubt, this was one of my favorite parts of the trip. Starting out, as someone who doesn’t exercise, I was a little nervous about how it would go. After we’d walked a while outside of town, we stopped to collect in groups. Here I turned to Anna, “Anna! Todavía estoy viviendo!” I was still living! I could do this. Her response did not elicit much confidence: “Maddie, we still haven’t started yet.” Oh boy.

            The climb was beautiful. The views were incredible and as we made our way up it because more exotic, complete with giant colorful centipedes, hanging vines, and wet, chilly air. The ground was steep and, at points, involved climbing with hands as well as feet, pulling on anything that would support my weight and hopefully not leave me with spines in my hands. Reaching the top we had a picnic and them, almost literally, tumbled most of the way down the steep sides of the mountain. The whole way up I hung pretty close to the same group, mostly people from Sumpango, laughing and whining right along with them as we all trekked about. By the end of the day, I was exhausted, but, all the same, filled with joy from my head to my toes.

            At many points along the way, I definitely wanted to stop. I was tired, I had no confidence in my ability to climb, my face looked as if I’d spent the day at the beach (that’s how red it was, said one of the people in my group), and my legs were aching. It was here that the people of Sumpango taught me what I think the point of fellowship should be. Everything the church pastor had been talking about – the importance of community and attending church – came together. Right away when we started to climb, I was pulled into a group. Immediately upon entering, jokes were made, names were given, food was offered. When things got difficult, every time I wanted to quit there was someone behind me: “Vamos Maddie! Sí se puede Maddie!” And of course, “Cuidado Maddie!” every time I almost tripped. Even when I tried to stop – I just wanted to stand still for a minute, my poor feet, I couldn’t keep going – the person behind me gave me a nudge, offered me their walking stick, and said that we would just keep going.

            That, I can feel in every fiber, is what fellowship – what true friendship – should look like. When things are rough and it feels like all I want to do is quit, when I’m floundering for air, there is someone there to push me forward, doing what I can’t do myself in that moment. And, of course, having the honor of returning the favor. I have never felt so immediately welcomed into a sense of community as I did this last week. The sense of “homeness” I felt, so very far from home, amazed me and warmed my heart. Not only was the group open and non-isolating, but truly loving. Amable, to be sure.

            Thus, to leave the people who had opened their arms to us – even to leave the group from Wisconsin who had grown so much over our short time there, by the end asking deeper questions and trying in broken Spanish to communicate – was the cause of tears. It was a wonderful experience, one which I will treasure forever and could never imagine my future without. So though my heart is broken, I am grateful.  Una bendiga grande.