Love Does Not Fail

Love is not proud

Love does not boast

Love after all

Matters the most

Love does not run

Love does not hide

Love does not keep

Locked inside

Love is the river that flows through

Love never fails you

Love will sustain

Love will provide

Love will not cease

At the end of time

Love will protect

Love always hopes

Love still believes

When you don't

Love is the arms that are holding you

Love never fails you

When my heart won't make a sound

When I can't turn back around

When the sky is falling down

Nothing is greater than this

Greater than this

Love is right here

Love is alive

Love is the way

The truth the life

Love is the river that flows through

Love is the arms that are holding you

Love is the place you will fly to

Love never fails you

-Brandon Heath

Joy

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.

It Has Been Worth It All

May 16

It’s after ten which means it’s after my bed time.

There’s a mountain of papers beside me which I’m doing a wonderful job of not grading.

Across from me is Dani’s bed which is totally empty and I miss her like crazy. Before I couldn’t imagine my year without her, and now that she’s gone, I can and am beyond thankful she has been here to share the laughter and tears with me. It’s a lot to take on my own.

In exactly one week I will be on my way home. The thought of that brings so many emotions I just don’t even know where to begin.

Such pure excitement in finally seeing my family again and being part of my sister’s wedding.

Excitement for being back with my friends and working at camp.

But then I think of leaving the kids, and in all sincerity, it is the most indescribable feeling.

The other night I was talking to Dani about it and I told her how I think of all the kids I have to leave and I feel sick to my stomach. But the thought of leaving my little boys doesn’t even cross my mind. And it’s not I forget about them. It’s that the literal thought of leaving them seems unreal. They are a part of me. Each of them, no matter how much work they can be and how upset they can make me, holds my heart. They’re mine.

And I can’t grasp the thought of leaving them. Of giving them up.

These past couple days have had really difficult moments. Last night I went to give worship to my boys. I started to talk to them about how it’s the last week and we should make it great. But they all started going off on how they don’t get enough parties and we don’t buy them enough cookies and blah blah blah.

I was obviously upset. Which, looking back, it’s a total eight year old thing to complain about. Food and parties are the greatest thing in the world to them. But at the time? I took it personally. I couldn’t believe that after ten months that’s what they had to tell me.

Little Rodrigo wasn’t having it though. He sat there, glaring at those making the comments, and started throwing out things to contradict them.

We don’t get parties because we don’t obey.

We have enough food.

Stop talking. That’s not true.

This little boy who just turned nine had my back like no one else. So after sending the other boys to bed, I asked him to come to my room. He walked in, that cute little walk, and sat with me. And I thanked him for what he did. And I cried. And he just hugged me, laughing at my tears, and saying I love you Mami Darian. I love you Mami Darian.

And I’m telling you. It doesn’t matter how hard the day is. It doesn’t matter how disobedient the kids can be. It doesn’t matter what hurtful things I listen to or how overwhelmed I feel. It’s always worth it.

Candace taught art this semester and had everyone carve something out of wood for their final project. This past Thursday, they brought their projects to the Big House and us staff bought the ones we wanted with cookies or clothes or money. It was a really cool idea.

Yucet had a really big biplane. It was so well done, but I thought it would be difficult to bring home.

I didn’t really want to buy it, but no one else had and I didn’t want him to feel like no one wanted what he had made. So I walked over and asked him if I could buy his plane. He was rather awkward about it, which made me think he didn’t want to give it away and kind of made me regret the whole scenario.

He told me he wanted to finish it up and would bring it to me later.

And he did. He had drawn some tribal things on it, but I asked him to put his name.

He sat in Dani’s bed with a pen for a few minutes.

The propeller says “Love you.”

The top wing says “I love you very much Teacher Darian. Have a safe trip. God bless you.”

And the bottom wing says “Hello Teacher Darian. I love you very much. You take care of me very well. I am happy. I adore you a lot. Have a safe trip when you go to your country. Love you.”

And that plane I didn’t really want to buy has become one of the most precious belongings in the world to me.

The same night of the art show, Brian, who I have really gotten close to this semester, came over and gave me a giant hug. He looked at me, so very sincerely, and said

Thank you for everything. This year has been marvelous with you.

The next day he was walking to his house when he saw me walking out of mine. He ran over, like a scene from the movies, with such excitement and gave me the biggest hug in the world. And I had just seen him the day before.

Every day is worth it.

Saturday night the boys brought a few things to me they found in Josue’s things that they discovered he had stolen from the big house.

I brought him down and told him that for every thing he had taken he would write “I am honest. I will not steal.” ten times.

He was really upset. Josue gets really angry. But by the next night he had written all his sentences. He came into my room to show them to me.

I knelt down so that I was at eye level with him and asked him what the sentences said. I had told him beforehand since he can’t read, but thought maybe he had forgotten.

He had no idea.

It says I am what?

I asked.

He looked at me.

I am a robber, he said.

This little boy truly thought I made him write that he is a robber forty times.

Josue. No. You are not a robber. It says I am honest. Because you are honest. That’s why you are punished for stealing, because that’s not who you are. You are a good boy, and so you do good things because that’s who you are.

Tears poured from his face. And I knelt there with this little boy who is so unaware of how beautiful he is. And afterward I hugged him and he just hugged me and cried and I just told him I love him

and every day is worth it.

I’ve printed a lot of pictures of me with the kids so that I can give it to them when I leave. Today Kevin was helping me translate what I want to say to them into Spanish.

And I look at the picture of he or she and I.

And I think of the year or semester I have spent with them.

And all the memories we have.

And all the times we have laughed.

Or cried.

Or talked.

Or the math problems or English classes.

The hug circle Friday and Saturday nights.

And then I see the little paragraph I wrote them.

And it’s never enough.

Words are never enough.

One picture. One little letter. It’s not enough.

I kind of feel myself shutting down to the idea of lasts.

This past Saturday night was the last hug circle. And I didn’t even bring my camera. Because the idea of taking last pictures was too much. I just wanted to enjoy it. And I did. It’s impossible not to.

I guess I just feel like I am all over the place. I feel like I have so many connections here. So many people I love. And the idea of just packing up and leaving it all, of leaving them, is stunning.

Friday the kids head home. It’s the end of Monday. I have four days.

I picture hugging them the last time and I honestly don’t know if I’ll be able to let go.

My first blog was about how much I had to do, how overwhelmed I felt, how sad it was to leave my life in America behind.

I called it Worth it All because I said one day I would look back and say that.

I would say it was worth it.

The hard good-byes.

The endless shopping.

The money raising.

And now I’m on the other end of it. The year is all but over. And I think of what I have received this year.

I think of the ridiculous adventures I have been on.

I think of the incredible other missionaries I have been with and the fun we have had.

I think of the life lessons I have learned.

I think of the moments of wanting absolutely, without a doubt, nothing else.

I think of the children who love me and the children I love.

And I was right. It has been worth it all.