Worthy

July 31

(Let’s all take a moment to pretend it’s July 31. More cheers to no Internet.)

 Well it’s Friday night. I did actually end up getting to Familia Feliz, although I was honestly starting to question if the day would ever come. Pretty much the most eventful trip ever.

Daniella and I are living together in la Casa de los Fruto Secos. We live in a thatch-roofed house with eight little boys. I met six of these boys when I came in March. They looked like little angels with their big brown eyes and shirts tucked in. Whenever I would look at one of them they would burst into a smile that made my heart melt. And so when I found out there was an opening to live with them, I was desperate to fill it.

On my way here, I was so anxious to find out where I was living. To my great surprise, when I arrived I was directed to the thatch-roofed house with Dani and the precious little boys.

And it has been chaos.

They hate showering. They hate brushing their teeth. They hate putting on clean clothes. (But let’s be honest. What little boy doesn’t?)

One of the lines they know in English just happens to be No, Teacher.

We get them up around 6:00 am (next week when school starts it will be earlier). It doesn’t matter how many times I raise up their mosquito nets and pull the blankets off their tiny little heads and scream BUENOS DIAS in their ears, they still seem to think it’s 3 am and they’re set to sleep for hours.

And then there’s the bathroom. Yes, we all share a bathroom. There are bricks about five inches high separating the shower from the other half of the bathroom that has the toilet. But there is no shower curtain. And there is also no drain on the other side. So basically if water gets from the shower to the other side of the bricks (which it does every time someone showers), it creates a swamp of lovely smelly water in our darling little bathroom. It’s like you get to use the restroom and wade in nastiness at the same time. Lovin’ it.

It is a completely different lifestyle here. I mean, I love simple living.  Let me tell you. I’m all about not doing my hair. But it doesn’t come without its frustrations.

There’s a boy in our house named Wilfredo. He comes from an indigenous tribe. Before he came here he had never seen a cow, lived off of fish, and would probably be lucky if he showered once every two weeks.

The other night we were getting ready for prayer meeting. All the boys are supposed to wear dress pants, a button-down collared shirt, a belt and tie, and nice dress shoes. My goodness they look sharp.

Wilfredo had just taken a shower and gotten dressed. He came over to me, his hair still dripping wet, and asked if he could use a mirror.

I walked into my room and grabbed the mirror off the table. I held it up to him to see if that’s really what he wanted. I tend to not always guess right. Si, Teacher, he said.

I held it up just high enough so that he could see his face.

The second Wilfredo saw himself in the mirror, his shoulders straightened up. He stood a little taller. His big brown eyes beamed and he looked at himself with such pride. I bet he stood there for thirty seconds, tightening his tie and straightening his collar and looking at his young face, proud of who he was.

And it was not pride as in I am better than everyone.

It was I am smart. I am capable. I am worthy.

And I just stood there, holding the mirror and watching this kid who is so new to Christianity and showering twice a day and dressing up for special events embracing change and embracing who he is becoming.

I wanted Wilfredo to be in that moment forever. I want him to always feel as though he is enough.

And that is why I am here.

All these little boys who still cry when they get hurt and beg me to swing in my hammock need to understand how much value their little lives hold.

They need to know how they are important and special and irreplaceable.

They need to know that there is a God who loves them infinitely and unconditionally and forever.

And so when they refuse to brush their teeth. When they will not shower. When it’s my fifth time moving their mosquito nets and throwing the blanket off their heads and screaming BUENOS DIAS in their little ears.

When I’m sick of sharing a bathroom.

When I’m tired of long skirts.

When I spend the night in a hotel and wake up to fifty mosquito bites….on one arm (yeah, that happened).

When I don’t know if I can handle one more No, Teacher.

I will take a deep breath and remember why I am here.

And it is not for comfort.

It is so I can take these little kids by the hands and look into their big brown eyes and say

You are strong. You are capable. You are worthy.