Otherwhere After the Green

It's here. The day of what they call "repatriation," or returning to your home country after a time living in Otherwhere. Thursday morning I submit to the strange limbo of plane travel and that night I emerge in the many-fruited landscape known as Michigan, to the warmth of the people who know me best... a "home" more penciled-in than taken for granted, these days.

For the last two years,  I've lived in a summer world, viewing sunshine or starlight from the rooftop while listening to bachata floating by from the nearby colmado. Sweating like crazy at afternoon outreaches while keeping kids in line, and literally having to peel dust off in the shower. Smelling plumeria one moment and sewage the next. Drinking ants in my coffee and tasting the fruit of the chocolate plant. An hour and a half from beaches and riches, next door to a row of mansions... and a two-minute walk from people who live in ways I could never have imagined before I lived here and knew them. This place and its people have changed me. And now, confronted by a return to everything I knew before, I have to figure out how to tuck and roll when I land. My passport country will have changed, too... I can't expect things to be the same. So how does New Lyndi fit with New but Old Home?

"How do you see yourself as different now?" my thought-provocative brother inquired a couple of phone calls ago, when I was expressing my internal turmoil.

I suddenly couldn't answer him. "It's... just different," I attempted feebly. "I think different, I feel different... I talk different..." I suddenly felt like a little kid trying to explain why she deserved to go first in line, trying to convince him I was allowed to feel somehow "special" just for living someplace else and coming back. That wasn't my brother's intent, I'm sure, but... why did words fail to describe the Lyndi before and after?

My friend Trena has been overseas for 30 years. "I don't know if you can ever explain it to someone who has never done it," she said. "Not fully."

As we say here on the Casa Grande base, I'm neither home culture nor here culture anymore, neither yellow nor blue. I'm green. And... it's not easy being green.

In the time I've been gone, I've...
...learned to have a conversation in two or more languages to make sure everyone understands.
...gotten used to communication barriers and working HARD to be understood.
...learned that there's almost always a way to fix broken things instead of buying new ones.
...had to learn to rely on other people's systems to fulfill my needs... and on their schedules to drive me places.
...lived at a strangely slower pace, because time is not as important here.
...been broken to pieces and reassembled.
...been hurt by certain circumstances and healed by others.
...learned to save face for other people because that's important to them.
...been taken out of control to see who I become.
...have come face to face with lesser versions of myself, and I haven't always won.
...learned to mop my bedroom floor... instead of a vacuum or a Swiffer or what have you.
...learned that expectations are dangerous, so it's better to have none and stay flexible.
...seen both the beauty achieved and the damage done by American missionaries.
...learned that the world is way bigger than the US of A!
...lived with the values of a different place.
...practiced laughing cross-culturally.
...learned more new songs in Spanish than I have in English.
...heard voices raised in other languages in songs of devotion for our Creator.
...watched so many faces light up with understanding of their salvation.

And I have seen God...
...make a way where there was no way.
...provide in specific and miraculous senses.
...heal people of diseases.
...deliver people from demonic oppression.
...reveal His character in the heavens.
...draw me closer to His heart.
...meet me in my loneliness.
...join people from many nations at His throne by His Spirit.

So now I...
...translate everything in my head.
...am stuck with the eternal sense that in an English conversation there's a Spanish word to express it better, or vice versa.
...have the tendency to use both languages in the same sentence.
...immediately think to ask the question "what brought you here?" to make small talk.
...think more frugally.
...hesitate to take defective merchandise back to the store.
...would never complain to the management about my food in a restaurant.
...think twice about going out alone as a woman.
...fear different things.
...am confident in new ways.

...trust God more.

...worship and lead worship in a new-to-me way that considers a wider variety of perspectives and how they engage.

So now people will ask, "How was your trip? Was it everything you hoped it would be?"
And I will ache inside as I tell them that yes, it's been great! And I have grown tremendously! I have seen people healed and lives changed... my own included! And I will politely not tell them that it wasn't a trip, it is my life... and life is never exactly "everything you hope it will be." Because so often it is more. Oh so much more.

In two days I will hear faint strains of music fading away like a colorful tropical dream as I float up and leave home to go home. Catch the last glimpses of the people here I care about most as I walk away from them in the airport for the last time, at least for now.

Off for another round of trying to figure out where to put down roots, and how far down to let them grow. When you are a sojourner, you don't ever get to go "home." If you can't take "home" with you, you never get to be there. And whatever "home" I find... there's no telling how long I will get to stay. It is bittersweet, and it is good, and this makes way for the next adventure. The next open world, further up and further in where my Friend awaits.

I am a triangle, I am green, I am whatever you want to call me as long as it means I am literally neither here nor there. I live in Otherwhere, and Otherwhere is my home.

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Adventures Farther South: Colombia

Back in November, I made a specific request: "Lord," I said, "please give me opportunities to travel to other Latin American countries."

A couple weeks later, my friend Tammy, whom I met at Casa Grande through the Chapel Project (see A Neighborhood Called Blessing) messaged me. "We need an interpreter to travel with our group from Advancing Native Missions for 3 weeks to do a conference for women in ministry in Colombia," she said. "Would you pray about it?"

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Ridin' in Style...Dominican Style

My second year in the DR has increased my independence, so I'm learning all about ways to get out and about. Not many people own vehicles, so public transport is the option of the day! You can always call a taxi, but you don't have to as long as you've got a handle on the cars.

Ohhh G cars. And M cars. And CJ cars-- public transportation options known as carros públicos, or conchos, which run on routes like buses for cheap rates, will pick you up at any point along their route, and have no limitations on the number of passengers they carry. Literally. If you can still see an empty lap, the car's not full yet!  

Where these:

Get you this:

Possibly with them:

And maybe with them:

Hopefully with her!

But most importantly, they get you where you're going.The best part of this mode of transportation is that it's cheap ($20 DOP = $.44 US) and gets you from point A to point B and you don't have to walk. Upon further consideration, I must also point out that these are also the only good parts about it unless you include "it's always an adventure" on your list of assets.

The first question: Is it safe? There are stories of crazy drivers (but every driver here is crazy) and pickpockets riding a little too close to unsuspecting passengers, and you will end up having to walk a bit (possibly through doubtful territory) to connect the car route with your destination. However, if you follow proper Public Car Protocol (ie, don't pull out your cell phone, don't keep money in your pocket, avoid using the cars after dark) chances are good you'll avoid incident and be just fine.


To give credit where it's due, I have to say that the best photos here came from a Google search of "Dominican conchos"-- which I highly recommend you look up yourself because some of those pics are just mindblowing. It's kinda awesome... and one of those thing's that's pretty darn Dominican.

And however squished your concho ride might be today, just remember: it could always be worse!

                                                 

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Antagony

By all rights, we should not have allowed John Boy Walton to live.

Ants like John Boy have this obnoxious tendency to call in the rest of the Walton family to do their best impression of Hugh Jackman as Jimmy Fallon's Aussie houseguest. So I reiterate, John Boy's laborious trek across Kristan's pockmarked concrete floor should have been curtailed the moment we spotted him trying to cart off remnants of our apartment-christening picnic.



Ants in the DR generally have overactive lifestyles, anyway... Hundreds (literally) of the little toilers have taken up residence in the walls and under the floor of my room, until drinking ants in my coffee is a pretty unshocking event, and I've even tried a peanut butter and honey with ant sandwich, which was quite delicious. Standing at my dresser feels like a visit to a peculiar kind of arcade, where "Whack-an-Ant" is the main attraction... as my friend Jay so accurately depicts here:

Ah, a life overseas.

Kristan's thoughts on ants and cohabiting with them generally resemble my own... This is, of course, why she and I have found a remarkably solid friendship. That plus a bunch of other things. Ant-hatred is an important detail in life and relationships.

But instead of conspiring to assassinate this wee invader, we turned into the paparantzzi, getting down on his level to try to get a selfie with the crumb-bearing celebrity.

"I GOT HIS GOOD SIDE!" Kristan hollered.

She did, too. Entertainment is hard to come by here, what can I say?

So we snapped some photos, then sat back to finish our picnic and watch as Walton struggled across the pitted and peeling concrete floor with a burdensome crumb as big as he was, and it almost looked like he was traversing a map of the world, continent by continent, canyon by canyon.

Like us.

I think we all feel like John Boy Walton from time to time, weighed down by a load heavier than we can bear, trying to make our goal and get our stash from point A to point B, a journey that probably only matters to us ourselves, though we might get surprised by the occasional paparazzi squad of onlookers who don't help so much as provide irritation or maybe entertainment. Because our journey isn't the same as anybody else's and giants might lurk somewhere out there, ready to squash us at their slightest whim. A journey like that, in a big, big world like that, where we feel so small and insignificant, makes it easy to cower in fear and never even get our crumb from point A to point B.

The Israelites felt that way as they were looking at the Promised Land. Great produce, fertile country... but they were just one nation... plus, GIANTS!!!

They rebelled against their journey, and it took 40 years in the desert for them to realize that the giants didn't matter because God fought for them. He fought for them, and he won them a home. They were only responsible for carrying their crumb and trusting.

I am responsible to carry my crumb of my purpose and trust that in his greater, bigger plan he will guide my steps to fulfill his goals and get all the glory. If I am truly his daughter... that's all I need.

Night Momma. Night Daddy. Night Mary Ellen. Night John Boy.

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The Distance to Liberty Hill

Sometimes you don't realize the blessing you've received in relationship until the sweetest ones of your life land at your door once again... and you realize that distance has not changed you, only separated you, and you love each other as much as ever.

I used to live in a place called Liberty Hill, and when my heart thinks of home, my imagination runs to that door. Friends live there, and some don't live there though you forget that sometimes because they always come, in a sweet community and fellowship of girls at the foot of the Rockies. They laugh and the door revolves and somehow the pragmatic sense of everyday life does not touch the charm and captive idealism that sparkles with the high-altitude sun and azure sky that always seem to shine down on the garden parties and birthdays and snow days. I found myself there, and I grew and changed and somehow they loved me anyway.

They become part of you, you become part of them. A heart sisterhood.  And if you leave, part of them comes with you.

I left them to move to the Dominican Republic. They encouraged me to do it. "Within a year, you're going to find yourself on a plane headed to Latin America," Nicole prophesied. "If you don't do it, you're going to be sorry you never did," Lauren once told me. Though she couldn't say goodbye to me when time came for me to go. "See ya buddy," was all she said, and turned her face away.

We all like the going, but none of us like goodbyes.

The in-between times last long... mottled with bright spots when we write or talk or visit. And I sometimes wonder why I left.

The hellos seem just that much sweeter.

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Miracle of the Firefall

Staring into a wildfire down the sights of a water pistol: A decent comparison for fighting fires in the DR during a drought.

We've had one rainshower in the last 3 months. No drizzles, no sprinkles, no afternoon cloudbursts. So the grass has dried into straw, palm-thatched roofs wait like ready kindling, and most of our yard resembles a tinderbox.

Enter a neighbor who decided today is a great day for brushburning in the field next door.

*FACEPALM*

Around 9:30 Tim comes in grumbling about the stupid neighbor who has a brushfire he can't handle.

Trena: Did you call the fire department?
Tim: They won't do anything anyway. They probably don't even have water.

The fire department unfortunately has the reputation of showing up with empty water tanks, it's true. And our electricity is out, though we're on generator power, so we have limited access to the water that's in our own well.

Tim headed back outside, and Trena and I exchanged looks. Any report of fire in this dry spell is not encouraging. And then we both paused.

Trena, frowning: I hear it.
Me, with a wash of memories from the last time I heard this sound: I hear it too.

We get up and dash outside, neither of us expecting what we saw. Only feet from the fence separating our property from the neighbor's goat pasture was a wall of flame, steadily eating its way closer and closer to our parched grass and thatched roofs.

My mom read me Little House on the Prairie, folks. I know what happens when fire gets out of control in a dry field.

I've encountered fire a bit too closely on a couple of occasions now. The car accident with TUFW a couple of years ago, two years of horrendous wildfires in Colorado Springs, a couple of instances of near-wildfires started by crazies out near Cottonwood Creek behind the Doneys' house. Now this one.

So this is not a welcome sight.

Trena: My birds are going to die!

She rushes to find a garden hose to start dousing the thatched roofs of the birdcages. A cloud of smoke is wafting toward the poor trapped birdies.

Me, I stand there looking useless and contemplating homelessness, awash in the crackling, rippling flames and the burning heat that descended on us from above, amplified by the grass-fed bonfire next door. And then I get the brilliant idea that I am no good to anybody wearing flipflops, and I race upstairs to change into sneakers and frankly consider what I should pack if it comes down to that. Dratted panic.

Meanwhile, Conrad does call the fire department. And I join Yolanda and we race through the house shutting the persianas, the slatted window "shades" that are usually open all the time to let the breeze through, to keep them from letting in the smoke, which is already settling in an unsettling blue haze in the air.

And then I take these pictures and realize the only thing I can do is get people praying... so, thank you social media!

The fire department arrives within minutes, and they fight alongside our guys. But as suspected... they only have half a tank of water. So although from one side they can start drowning the flames with water from their hose, from the other side there is nothing but our yard workers pointing garden hoses with doubtful pressure and firemen running around with green branches they cut from the trees in the burning field.

Garden hoses were not meant to be firefighting tools, friends. And yet they were pretty much our only (physical) hope.

The firetruck quickly exhausts its supply of water, but by then thankfully it seems we are down to smoldering coconuts and palm trunks... no more open flames. Fire contained.

Firetruck and fire fighters pack up to leave, but they are no sooner down the road than we have another outburst of flames! Our guys all jump the fence and scramble to reconnect the hoses at a better angle to protect our property, and Conrad grabs a branch to beat it out DR-style. We don't bother to call the fire department back... with no water, what can they do anyway?

We are all grateful when they're successful... and we keep an eye on that field the rest of the day, thanking God for his protection. Bit nervewracking, that!

The following day, I ask Genaro to take me out to the field where the fire started because I have a sneaking suspicion about what I'll see: even though the fire came close, I had noted that it was almost as if there were a line that it did not cross. I wanted to see if that was true.

The goat field was coal black, but next to our property, in front of that big house (La Casa Grande) there in these photos, you can see the hedge of protection. It's almost an even line of untouched grass around our property. except the areas we doused with hose water, where it's wider. In the picture just above this paragraph, if you zoom in you can see that the leaves on the guayava trees are scorched at a level higher than the thatched roofs of the birdcages, but no sparks flew and caught flame. I know it's because people prayed.

I love seeing God's hand at work... 

A thousand may fall at your side,

ten thousand at your right hand,
but it will not come near you.
If you say, “The Lord is my refuge,”
and you make the Most High your dwelling,
No harm will overtake you,
no disaster will come near your tent. (Ps. 91:8,9,10)

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The Grit.. The Grime... A Tropical Summer

Today was the kind of hot, tropical day that makes you wish you lived closer to the beach... when you sit in front of your fan, tongue almost lolling out of your head like one of the four dogs who sit outside your door because they wish they had a fan like yours, and still the sweat pours and seeps from your pores, from pores you didn't know you had, and every time you touch the back of your neck to catch a droplet of sweat, your finger comes away with a layer of grit and grime that maybe came half from the dusty, dry-humid air and half from you yourself. And you sit, sticky and damp and moist, until you have to get up and do something. When you make it back to your fan's soothing puddle of air current, you are no longer moist. You are pooling and puddling and resigning yourself to the fact that this is how it works... and pretty much willing to swear lifelong fealty to the fan.

Good news is, for you this is normal. Everyone else carries around their own sweat rag and has a sweat spot similar to yours. And so despite all the aforementioned measures... you hardly even notice beyond commenting to your friend, "It seems awfully hot today, doesn't it?"

On days like today, you are grateful for your shower that finally comes at 10p.m. because it means you can relinquish the grit and the grime and wash away the weary worries and sweaty stickiness and fall to sweet sleep under the beautiful breeze of your best friend, the fan.

Long live electricity.

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Reentry 101

We all know what happens when a spaceship re-enters the atmosphere: it superheats, and unless it has been built to withstand the friction it encounters as it flies back toward earth, it might disintegrate or burn up before it gets there.

They say there's a similar process for missionaries, too, but I hadn't experienced it before so I thought I would note it.

It really didn't help that I don't do big cities on an average day. Getting a taxi to the hotel where I'd meet my family cost me an hour and a half, three failed calls to taxis who didn't send drivers to the airport, and $80 I didn't have ($$$).

The hotel required payment for their internet, and the price tag was huge ($$$).

I was also emotionally ragged from the travel and probably some hormonal jazz going on. Plus I hadn't eaten and there were no restaurants nearby. After I talked to my parents, who were still en route, and they encouraged me to just order room service ($$$ again), I collapsed and had an exhausted, hungry cry before going to clean up and get a shower while waiting for the food to arrive.

I'd thought that might be the worst of it.

But the next day we decided to eat lunch in one of the museum restaurants in Chicago. Not going to lie, I'd already had a few overwhelmed moments that morning when I realized that Americans actually stand in a clear, calm line to wait for tickets... not something I'm super used to seeing anymore, I guess. But I walked up to the food serving tables in the cafeteria line at the museum with a sudden sense of overwhelming desire to just leave. Here I am, staring suddenly at an excessively laden steamtable and wondering why I can't see individual items. Kale salads and three kinds of soup as well as a pizza table and a pasta bar, not to mention the desserts and the fruits and seafood. And I got grumpy. Couldn't decide, felt like I was treading water or maybe drowning in it, retreating into myself.

And my mom looked at me. "Are you okay?"

That's when I realized. "I think... I'm doing reverse culture shock right now... sorry..."

"I wondered," she said. Oh, sometimes mommas are so wise.

And all that over lunch.

And then... clothes shopping. Where's the line between "I get this because I need it and don't get to a store very often" and "well, there's money I could use for this, but technically it's not in the budget"?

Okay, so re-entry was maybe not as easy as I'd expected. Going from a developing country to a five-star hotel in Chicago for a weekend with my family overwhelmed me with a sudden influx of luxury and excess I'm just not used to. I live on a pretty tight budget and the mental processes to match... if I don't have the money, I shouldn't spend it.

But I made it this time, by God's grace (and good deal of grace from everyone else, too. Haha). And I guess next time I'll know better what to expect.

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Picky, Picky: A Culture of Contentment

Culture clash in my head today, combined with a little guilt.

Our electricity has been out more than usual lately. Now, down here it's unreliable at best on a good day... largely due to the fact that a big chunk of the population illegally taps into the community power supply and doesn't pay for power. So the company shuts off the service intermittently to offset those costs and keep prices a little lower for those of us who DO pay (since we are actually therefore paying for all of the tagalongs, too). The downside: People who actually pay for uninterrupted electricity often go without any for several hours a day. Not to mention that people whose jobs depend on having electricity (factory work, computer work, etc.) get a smaller paycheck and couldn't afford to pay their electric bill even if they had any inclination to do so.

In any case. We think maybe they switched up our schedule or the circuit we're on, because the outages have changed, and we're going on battery inverters or turning on the generator for several hours a day, several times a day, just to keep work moving around here. Which is expensive...not to mention kind of disruptive and irritating.

But the truth of the matter is, those alternative power sources are a huge blessing! We have it pretty good, and where I sit I hardly feel the outages. Nope, I've got no fan for a few hours, no functional outlets in my bedroom. But...I still have internet, of all things.

However... I'm catching myself complaining a lot lately, if only internally. Ugh, I have to move ALL THE WAY out to the other room to find an outlet to charge my computer (or whatever other electronic device my life happens to depend on at the moment)?  Whyyy am I roasting to death without a breeze? Biggest complaint: It's just not convenient!

Lyndi, take a chill pill. What would you do if we didn't have the inverter at all?

Heh! Proof provided: I, my friends, am an American who is WAY too used to having things exactly how she wants them. I'm also a missionary living in a third-world country, but among other Americans... so our lifestyle is by far not USA standard, but it's also waaaaay better than the majority of the people around us. My little grumblefests are actually only doing me damage.

In US culture we have the right to be picky.

• We can be picky about what we eat. (This one's been a big deal for me here since I trained myself for several years to be super picky for health reasons. Here, I pretty much never get  a choice because I pretty much don't do any of my own shopping. And US grocery stores may be one of the things I miss most!)
• We can be picky about standards at our jobs, and communication systems there. (Down here, it takes three attempts with the local services to actually get something fixed. At least. Because you can guarantee it won't be done right the first time. Email is not effective. Everyone is always late.)
• We can be picky about our cars. (Welp, got rid of that concern when I left Maizie in the US!)
• We have the right to complain if the electricity doesn't work. (Already kinda demonstrated how that one looks!)

"Have it your way" isn't just a slogan... It's a lifestyle. It's an expectation and even an entitlement complex we should think a little bit more about living without.

I'm living on the grace of those around me. I'm on a support budget, but I have plenty of space and live here with nice people who work super hard to keep it in shape, and moving forward. We're actually pretty progressive, given the resources at our disposal.

It's me and my expectations that need to change.

I'm not saying it's bad to have an opinion, desire to make improvements... or want to be comfortable. If things are broken, we should fix them-- it's part of that stewardship thing in Scripture. So where do I draw the line between "finding myself content in whatever situation" and falling into a lapse of desire to actually make things better? How is contentment different from stagnation and apathy... which actually can lead to depression? How can I lose my "right" to have things "new and improved"... but maintain a healthy desire and interest in developing an environment or system that supports creativity, given the resources I do have available to me? I'm still working on the answers to those questions. What I do know is that I don't want to demand to have things "my way" at the expense of "the narrow way." We don't need to depend on creature comforts for our contentment.

I didn't move to the tropical mission field to have everything convenient, just for me. Jesus didn't say that "going" was going to be comfortable all the time. If I complain, I'm really only doing myself damage.

And I guess that's why I'm writing this...to remind myself and maybe you in the process that on the days when the lights go out, the drain gets plugged, you get a flat tire, the city hasn't repaired that pothole yet, your favorite shirt is at the cleaners', you can't find the other shoe, you got stuck at that red light again, and you're all out running late... the opposite of that miserable grumbling complaint is gratitude.

Stop for a second, take a deep breath, and tell God thank you. Ask him to replace your complaint with an attitude of gratitude. There is a sun in the sky, even if it's behind clouds. You have a car. You've got freedom to travel (and numerous other freedoms not celebrated often enough until they're lost). There are people who care about you. You're not hungry and starving somewhere else. You are alive and kicking and it is a new day, without (m)any mistakes in it yet. His mercies are new every morning, and that new song of joy He's promised is throbbing with its gentle hum, just waiting for your thankfulness to awaken it to play in your ears.

If you want, comment below: What are you thankful for today?

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Tropical Trimmings: The Holidays, DR Style

As an American in a foreign culture, home traditions suddenly become a cushion of comfort to cling to-- something we, as the international population of the DR, can gather around and celebrate regardless of the fact that we're as far from family and familiarity as could be imaginable. That's the power of tradition, I suppose. Customs carry a certain amount of "home" with them, so turkey and mashed potatoes (pavo y pure de papas) prepared on November 27 this year went a long way to unite us and remind us of how thankful we are that we can do that.

The Walker family and the Casa Grande staff-- our Thanksgiving family this year. I'm thankful for all of them!

Pumpkin dump cake deliciousness, anyone? As maybe you can tell, we had some good desserts!

Darren makes fantastic apple pie.

This is Mark. Mark has a knife. That turkey didn't have a chance.

Dominicans make a lot smaller deal out of Halloween than the US does, and they don't celebrate Thanksgiving (although Black Friday is becoming a traffic-stopping event). So down here? Christmas decorations have been going up since mid-October. Little lights and fake evergreenery adorn the wood-slat or cinder-block houses, arousing the holiday spirit.

Or pop bottles in the shape of an evergreen work, too! We saw it lit up at night, and it was kinda pretty.

Stores and truck beds both are making the most of the season. I even saw a guy wandering through traffic selling blinky Santa hats at a stoplight, but it was dark, so unfortunately I didn't have the best photo op for that.

The airport is also expecting the arrival of baby Jesus.

Although they're having a hard time predicting if His arrival is on time or delayed. Also, I keep thinking that snow belongs in this picture somehow. But I guess weather delays don't affect Him much.

To the weather's credit, it's actually been cooling off to upper 60s at night. Though maybe that isn't quite freezing, a blizzard did blow into the Casa Grande dining room with the arrival of December... Pictures of that didn't quite turn out, but it looked kinda like this:

As fun as it's been to watch the holiday spirit unfold down here, I confess I'm really looking forward to family and friend time in Michigan, Arizona, and Colorado at the end of this month. If you're in any of those areas, I'd love to see you! Just give me a holler and we'll see what we can figure out!

In the meantime... merry Christmas!

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A Neighborhood Called Blessing (Chapel Project 10/2014)

On the edge of the dump is a barrio, a neighborhood, called Cienfuegos (a hundred fires). That name is applicable not only because it was founded years ago by a hundred families whose homes had burned down, but also because the acrid smell of smoke lingers in the air almost all the time. When it's not smoke, it reeks of garbage.





Cienfuegos isn't known for being a nice neighborhood. Neither is Bendición, the neighborhood on its outskirts. But last week the Casa Grande team linked arms with Don and Joyce McCauley, Wayne and Liz Duley, and the rest of the group from Chapel Project, to complete a church building and grow the church body there in Bendición.

That's what Chapel Project does, about five times a year. Don comes in and scouts out a pastor who's got a church just waiting to be built, and he gets the balls rolling so that by the time the team arrives, they can complete the roof, the wiring, the painting, etc.

I got to serve as an interpreter for the week, in addition to leading worship for a couple church services we attended-- going out with the evangelism teams as we prayer-walked our way through the dirt streets and sub-neighborhoods, talking to the neighbors and telling them about Jesus. Gonna be honest: I hadn't had much experience with that before. But this was a good one! And now, by the end of the week, after translating those verses and those words so many times, I feel like I could probably do something similar myself sometime.

Always some time to hang out and hug some neighborhood kids, too.

Pants are optional, right?

I called this guy, Frailin, "Gorila" because he was climbing all over EVERYTHING. What'd he do? Call me "Gorila" right back. He hung out with us all week long... and this is his  trumpet. AKA his tool for troublemaking. Seriously. Just think about what you could do with a piece of pipe!

And seeing a guy get to actually read the Bible for the first time-- he's learning how to read now, and we gave him reading glasses to help-- was an incredible experience.

We got hot, we got dusty (should've seen my sneakers before I threw them in the washing machine last Friday), and probably a little dehydrated from time to time (though that wasn't the fault of Debbie, who kept the Gatorade stocked and the water flowing!).

By the end of the week, it looked like a real and true church building, a little orange oasis in the middle of that dusty community. More than 97 people packed inside the building for the dedication, and probably the same number gathered outside to listen and peek through the windows.

 Busy week. We were all pretty exhausted by the time it was over, though I think we're all looking forward to next month's chapel, too. Our prayer is that through Pastor Modesto and his church's faithful service to Bendición, the area will truly become una bendición, a blessing.

Also, I shamelessly borrowed this last photo and about four of the others (the ones I'm actually IN) from Justin Claeys, a team member from Virginia. Thanks for your fantastic photography, Justin!

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A Defective Missionary Comes Clean

So here I am, sitting in a non-air-conditioned, tile-floored room in the southernmost corner of tropical, non-USA North America, where I have no electricity today except for the battery-powered inverter whose name I bless every time the power goes out. Calling myself a missionary, learning how to minister to other people. But... I'm going to make a confession.

I don't like evangelism.

There must be something wrong with me. I mean, I clearly felt a call to missions. Isn't evangelizing what missionaries do??? But the thought of standing on street corners, preaching to convince people to change their ways, persuading crowds that there's a loving God who desires relationship with them... honestly does not inspire me. One on one I could share my faith til I'm blue in the face, based on my relationship with that person. But I just don't get excited about "the lost." I am not impassioned to reach this enigmatic "lost."

Aren't we all called to evangelize? Great Commission and all that?

This is something I thought about before I signed up to work with an evangelistic missions organization here in the Dominican Republic. A lot. And don't get me wrong, I feel like I'm in the right place at the right time for my journey, and I have a TON of respect for the ministry here at La Casa Grande. For this season, I'm called to serve them and learn from them. And that's good. 

Based on some reading I've done (the Perspectives course, John Piper's Let the Nations Be Glad!) and some helpful conversations with my friend Stacey, here's the conclusion I've come to about my mission-- as well as missions and evangelism as a whole.

Evangelism is a gift, and it's a phase of missions as a whole. But we are NOT universally CALLED to evangelize.

The Great Commission says "Go and preach" and "Go and make disciples," depending on which passage you read. Nowhere does it actually say "Go and evangelize."

A "mission," any mission (a spy mission, a shopping mission, a military mission) has a specific goal. For us, as Christians? It's to make disciples. Evangelism isn't the goal. It's a tool and a step along the way.

*Insert sigh of relief here.* I don't have to want to evangelize. I don't have to weep over the multitudes of lost souls in the world--although I may still have compassion for them. Very rarely is it even possible to deeply love faceless strangers whose stories we don't know. 

God's purpose in missions, come to find out, is his own glory. He works in us to demonstrate his glory in our lives-- thus, he is best pleased by us when our joy in serving him as a disciple, our joy in worshipping him, also points to his glory. When people who turn to follow him increase the amount of worship he receives from his creation. My ministry, my mission, is to help others learn to love God. To enter into worship with him. And that is an idea that truly thrills me to my core.

So sharing our faith, encouraging others to worship with us... isn't necessarily motivated by our love for people. It's motivated first by our love for God.

Missions exists because worship doesn't. 

Not because heaven's not full enough yet. Not because people are going to hell.

It's because God covets glory from his creation. 

And that's why I'm sitting here, hoping for a breeze. That's why I have to wipe sweat off my guitar in some of the windowless box churches we visit, why I keep going to evangelistic outreaches. 

That's how a defective missionary revives a mission: His is the kingdom, the power, and the glory forever.

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Shots in the Dark

Just as I turned out the lights the other night, about a half dozen shots ripped through the air. So close they sounded like they were being fired from the roof outside my bedroom. What on earth??

The lights went back on. I could hear the dogs going crazy in the yard. Something was definitely wrong, but my curiosity in that moment really could have killed. I made myself stay put.

I confess that my first guess for the shots was my "house brother" Darren, the Johnsons' son. If you've been to La Casa Grande when Darren's around, you already know that this is a common dining room view:

Darren's a protector, and he walks around with a rifle. He also just happens to like guns. Okay, then.

But I was wrong-- I found out in the morning (after being awakened by a second volley of shots) that Darren had been soundly asleep when all the ruckus occurred. There had been a riot (they called it a "strike," or huelga) out in front of Casa Grande the night before-- neighbors burning tires, cutting down trees, banging on our gate, and throwing rocks, petitioning the government to repair the lunar-scaped (i.e., pitted and cratered) road we live on, 3 kilometers of dirt and occasionally concrete that turns into a river every time there's a rainstorm.

The shots had been fired by police, attempting to break up the violence. Three people were hit with rubber bullets and birdshot. Ow.

Our neighborhood isn't bad. We have some great neighbors, and in the daylight it's not so scary. We do live on the edge of a very bad neighborhood, Los Pérez, known for drugs and prostitution and a couple of amazing pastors who have made it their life work to be lights in that darkness. They're actively working to take back the ground for Christ, but it's going to take some time, some prayer... and a little road repair wouldn't hurt, either.

As a missionary, sometimes you break down dividing walls.
Other times, you're grateful for your razor-wire fence.

Another day in the DR!

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Speech Recognition

Language. Communication. Identity. Any sociologist could tell you they're related. And sometimes this language-learning thing I'm currently engaged in pinpoints something in life that's a little larger-scale.

So last night we were in the car, headed to our missions-themed church service, when I found another question to ask. I've had a lot of those lately as I tackle Spanish-- specifically the rapid-fire shortcut Spanish spoken here in the DR. Hearing and truly understanding is still my biggest battle, especially when it comes to specific expressions and idioms, whether they're de la calle (street slang) or campesino (lower register, from the country).

"Hey Conrado," I said. "I read a list of expressions this week that might be specifically Mexican. So do they say 'por si las moscas' here?" (Translated literally, it's "for if the flies," though it's used like "just in case.")

"Yeah, they use it here," Jhon said.

I could tell Conrado was frowning. "Yeah... but it's like street language, you know? You shouldn't use it. It doesn't sound right."

"Why not?" As far as I knew, the phrase was nothing obscene, just a local idiom.

"Because the kind of women who talk that way are callejeras," (meaning they hang out on the street all day) "and you're different. You're not like them. You're a daughter of God. Una princesa."

This made me think. Learning the slang and street-speak is actually pretty fun, but still. Think Professor Henry Higgins: From listening to you, an astute person can tell where you're from, your education level, the type of work you're involved in, who your parents were, what your values are, your social strata. 

I hadn't really considered that the language I choose to use actually depicts my identity in the kingdom of God. It identifies me to those I talk to as someone with grace or love, as someone who knows who she is, as someone with confidence in her identity-- or as none of those things. 

The mouth speaks what the heart is full of. (Lk. 6:45)

It's not a matter of pride, or of somehow trying to show I'm "better" than anyone else. There is value in using street-speak at times, to reach and relate with those who are there right now (or heck, to make jokes because it sounds silly when I talk that way with my gringo accent). Or from a spiritual perspective, to speak to those who may only hear words that are presented that way. But for me to adopt that kind of language as my own would be a contradiction and denial of my true self, and would negatively affect my potential efficacy. Take James 3:9-12, for example: 

With the tongue we praise our Lord and Father, and with it we curse human beings, who have been made in God's likeness. Out of the same mouth come praise and cursing. My brothers and sisters, this should not be. Can both fresh water and salt water flow from the same spring? My brothers and sisters, can a fig tree bear olives, or a grapevine bear figs? Neither can a salt spring produce fresh water.

If I have the authority of "royalty," choosing speech that can't convey or command that would be a serious error. If I am royalty and still speak as a (figurative) peasant, how am I identified as being different while I travel through this world, but still am not "of" it (Jn. 17:16)? 

What's the true language of our kingdom? Well, since God has put each of us in different places and created us with different strengths, your "royal speech" might sound pretty different from mine. But the language of God's kingdom will always share some strong common characteristics. 

• Loving (1 Cor. 13:1-- If I speak in the tongues of men and of angels, but have not love, I am only a resounding gong or a clanging cymbal.)
• Life-giving (Prov. 18:21-- The tongue has the power of life and death, and those who love it will eat its fruit.)
• Unconformed to worldly patterns (Rom. 12:1-2-- Do not conform to the pattern of this world, but be transformed by the renewing of your minds.)
• Discerning (Prov. 13:3-- Whoever guards his mouth preserves his life; he who opens wide his lips comes to ruin.)
• Reverent toward God (2 Tim. 2:16-- But avoid irreverent babble, for it will lead people into more and more ungodliness.)
• Truth-telling (1 Pet. 3:10-- Let him keep his tongue from evil and his lips from speaking deceit.)
• Blessing (Rom. 12:14-- Bless those who persecute you. Bless and do not curse.)
• Edifying and encouraging (Eph. 4:29--Let no corrupting talk come out of your mouths, but only such as is good for building up, as fits the occasion, that it may give grace to those who hear.)
• Self-controlled and not obscene (Col. 3:8-- But now you must put them all away: anger, wrath, malice, slander, and obscene talk from your mouth.)

I'm sure I'm missing a few. Suggestions welcome!

Whatever language I'm speaking, it's got to be flavored by the language of the kingdom of God. So what do the words we choose, the idioms we employ, and the sentences we speak (whether in English, Spanish, street slang, country twang, or whatever language) say about who we are in Christ? What's the best way to keep that powerful tongue in check?

Other thoughts?

Kingdom people at a street outreach in Pueblo Nuevo, Santiago.

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Successes, Failures, and Menu Options (AKA, This Post Is Overdue)

Just thought I'd give any interested parties an update on life in the tropics. Here’s what I’ve been doing since I got to this country!

May 6-June 15: I spent six weeks in the capital, Santo Domingo, where I lived a middle-class Dominican life (church, family routines, cooking, making new friends). I met a lot of great people who wanted to show me everything, and I consequently amazed them with my ability to bake (nobody here even makes box mixes, even if they’ve got a super nice oven) and my adoration of peanut butter (my host family had never tried PBJ before). Hurray for culture training!

June 15-Present: Coming back to Santiago and La Casa Grande began our summer. I’m working on newsletters, the website, and prayer cards, as well as leading worship in almost every meeting we attend. We’ve hosted four teams from the States since I got here and are expecting our next one tomorrow. Gotta confess, having teams here is my favorite. I get to be part tour guide, part interpreter, part worship leader, and just have fun integrating with the groups.

July 21-26: Spent a week away from Casa Grande in Cotuí, a more rural city of 70,000 people and very little US influence, where I worked with a local pastor and her summer reading camp for kids whose reading skills are a bit behind. I also had the opportunity to share a message in church at their Friday night youth service, as well as to attend the memorial service of a 12-year-old who had passed away, and see what a typical maternity ward looks like here. Sobering stuff—and very real.

I’d like to share some successes… and some not-so-much-es.

SUCCESS!!

• Introduced my Santiago Casa Grande family to French-press coffee. They like it!
• Can list at least seven ways to cook a plantain, which is like a less-sweet banana with a potato-like consistency  (mangu, mofongo, tostones, fried mature, in soup, boiled, in sushi)
• Have tried mango jam, mango jam with cinnamon, mango cobbler, mango slices, green mango salad, and mango salsa (this is what happens when there’s a bumper crop of mangos and fewer teams coming through than normal!)
• Made some friends with some little girls!
• Improved my Spanish—have even had the pleasure of serving as a casual interpreter for some of our groups coming through

 Not So Much!

• Tried mondongo, a national dish made from cow tripe. It’s… about as tasty as it sounds.
• Attempted to eat boiled green bananas for breakfast (this is a typical Dominican thing I’m just not getting the hang of liking)
• Contracted a stomach bug that had me down for two days with some nasty digestive symptoms
• Did not avoid getting chikungunya, the latest mosquito borne virus that causes severe arthritis-like joint pain, a high fever, and a two-day rash. I got a mild case, but… that was interesting.
• Attempted to learn to play worship songs using a non-movable solfège system (musical friends will get me on this one), which basically renames all the notes in a stationary Do-a-Deer style, meaning that “Do” is always C. It’s common to play that way down here, but I’m still not catching on!

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