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.