May 22
I remember a couple years ago I was riding in the car with my dad
and I asked him what he thought of God.
He said God is like a flower. He's beautiful and perfect exactly the
way He is. When we try to take Him apart and analyze Him and figure everything
out, we lose His beauty. He's just like a flower: best left and admired for exactly what it is.
I just got through saying goodbye to the kids who hold my heart.
It was a moment I had thought about and dreaded since I decided to
be a student missionary.
I've imagined it a million times. I've cried thinking about it. I've
played it over and over again in my head. I've come to acceptance and
then gone into denial about the reality that it really will come and I really
do have to leave them all.
And then it really came.
And I really left them all.
It started Friday. I woke up around 6:30 am to say goodbye to Ruben,
my Fruito Seco who fills the house with laughter, Dagner, the child I adored
ever since I came over a year ago in March, Yucet, the one I sat with by the
road when he wanted to run away and he visits me constantly ever since, and
Fabiola, the one who calls me her only mom.
Not the easiest thing to wake up to.
I woke up crying. And I cried as I hugged them goodbye. And I cried
as I watched them walk to the road to wait for a taxi.
Dagner was so sweet. He gave me a thousand hugs. Fabiola cried along
with me. Yucet and Ruben were such boys. Hugs and I love yous and heading to
the road for the next adventure.
And all throughout the day kids left. Six more of our boys left. We
lost Byron, Elvis, Limber, Joel, Josue, and Ronald. Only Hugo, Fermin, and
Rodrigo stayed: our three musketeers who we met back in March when we came for
the first time.
I made a card for almost every single kid with a picture of us on
the front. I told them how much I loved them, would miss them, and that I would
be praying for them. Some were short and sweet; a lot of the kids can’t even
read. Some were long and I cried writing them.
I cannot tell you how much
closure it gave me giving them those. Knowing they'll have it to remember me
and our time together and that I love them.
Saturday I went to San Buena with the boys. Miguel preached and we
ate potluck and, as per usual, Jonatan put on an incredible afternoon service
full of singing and so much laughter.
Then we headed back to have our final worship together and our final
hug circle.
And then Dani and I were up until three, packing our room with our
three musketeers running around and claiming everything we left behind. And
then we went to bed. But stayed up a little later, talking about how unreal it
is that it's really over.
And then today were the hard goodbyes.
Briyan.
Hugo.
Wilfredo.
Amy.
Manfred.
Jesus.
Rodrigo.
Fermin.
Alan.
Jahel.
I stood out there by the road as the taxi driver patiently waited
for Dani and I to have the courage to get in and let him drive us away.
Not a moment passed when a kid wasn't in my arms, as we said we
loved each other and promised the other we would never ever forget him or her.
Fermin and Rodrigo played with their little trucks on the side of
the road. As I knelt down to hug them one last time, they gave me a hug, but their little boy
grins didn't leave their sweet faces. And that's how I'll always remember them: those
little, mischievous, smiling boys who filled my heart with so much love and
joy.
Saying goodbye to Jahel was the saddest thing I have ever had to do
in my life. And I can't really bring myself to write about it.
And now I'm in a plane, flying to Santa Cruz. And the day after
tomorrow I'll be in a plane flying to America.
On a few of the cards I gave to the kids I wrote
Soy mejor porque te conozco.
I am better because I know you.
But I should have written that on every card. A million times.
And afterward I should have said thank
you. Thank you for teaching me.
I can't think of final words because there is just too much.
I can't close this all up because I don't have closure yet myself.
I haven't come to acceptance yet that my year with them is over.
And I probably won't for a while.
It helps to tell myself I’ll see them again, because I don’t believe
this is the end.
But what I can say is that
these kids have shown me how true it is what my dad said.
It is true that God is like a flower.
And in the same way, I think God's message is like a flower.
And I think other people are like flowers.
And I think the way we are supposed to live is like a flower.
My entire life I have lived in a place where it is important to be
pretty and athletic and wealthy and successful.
And then this year I spent all day every day with kids who saw me
and loved me and that was that.
And I saw them and loved them and that was that.
Please don't get me wrong. There were really hard and difficult times.
Sometimes I felt useless. I felt unloved or unwanted. I didn’t leave all that
behind in America.
But at the end of the day, love always won. I always loved the kids
and the kids always loved me.
I thought maybe coming here would make me more convinced of what I
believe and why I believe it. Or maybe change what I believe altogether.
And it did all that.
I learned God is love.
Period.
Try to take that apart and you change it and you lose His beauty.
And then there's life.
I lived a simple life.
No internet. No hot water. No air conditioning.
No makeup. No nice clothes.
No looking good when you’re not feeling good. No pretending.
I spent the day with the people in front of me.
And I learned life isn't really that complicated unless you
complicate it.
It is best lived, not analyzed.
And I know I am one person. I know there are tragic things in this
world. I know my perspective isn't any more correct or important than any other
person. I know life deals different hands to everyone.
I'm just trying to say that for me, I found joy this year.
And as tempting as it is for me to think that this joy came from 60 plus
little Bolivian children, I don't think that's true.
Because joy is within, not without.
And I think joy came because I was giving. I was living. I was doing
instead of talking. Taking action instead of planning. I was putting together
instead of taking apart.
And so, as I’m heading home to a totally different life...
In a different country
With different people
And a different culture
With different views,
I hope to remember what these kids taught me.
That life and people and God
Are like a flower.
Take it apart and you lose its beauty.
And I can tell you, from the deepest part of my heart
That after living here
And seeing a bigger picture of God
And getting to know some of His little people
After holding their hands
And wiping their tears
And teaching them
And tucking them in
And holding them close and thinking
There is nowhere
else I would rather be
I can tell you
I don’t want to take it apart
I don’t want to lose it
I don’t want to change it
Because life
and God
and God’s people
are beautiful.
Infinitely and indescribably beautiful
exactly how they are.
