So I last wrote when we were in Huancané. After that, we went to Conima via a big bus on which was just us and the drivers. That was nice. Pastor Ruben and Louisa saw us off. When we got to Conima, the first thing we realized was that we couldn't use the oven (thus the stove as well) in the kitchen. So we call the ever-faithful Pastor Ruben, and early the next morning, he brought the stove top the team used last year. We spent the day walking around (a lot): we went the beach and waded and then we went to a overlook from which we could see all of Conima and the areas around it. Then we walked to Nancy, a lady who sells firewood and has a great interest in and knowledge of the Bible. We went often to visit her through the weeks and talk about different things. She professed Jesus as her Savior through grace and was always willing to chat.
By the way, despite buying wood from her, we never could light a fire properly in the fireplace that was in our living room on the fourth floor. Funny story: we wanted to have a fire one night but couldn't get just the wood to light. So Patty tells us the word to use to buy stuff to help us in our mission. Katie, James and I all thought she was saying the word for "coal," but actually it was the word for alcohol. So armed with this word that obviously sounds like and certainly means "alcohol" but to us is "coal," we go from store to store, politely asking for alcohol. Somehow we figure out the implications of our request and laugh about how we the gringo missionaries were seemingly seeking a nip late on a cold night. We do go back to each store and explain that we wanted alcohol for lighting a fire only. We get some, but we must simply lack the primal skill of making fire because we personally never did get that thing to light for long.
Our days were different. For most of the time, we went to one of the schools on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. That was enjoyable. We taught English (numbers, colors, greetings, body parts with "Head, Shoulders, Knees and Feet"), Bible stories (Noah & the flood, David & Goliath and the birth of Jesus) and songs ("Padre Abraham," "Eres Todopoderoso" and "El Amor de Dios").
One thing we did the entire time was community storying. On Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays, we would go to the municipal building and tell Bible stories in chronological order to whomever came. We spent a lot of time inviting people; the main group who came were kids. That was a bit hard; we knew those at the church back home would be expecting us to minister to more than just kids - who we saw at the schools, with whom we played soccer and frisbee outside the house a lot, and now who came to the storying - but as a team, we came to except it. If these precious, sometimes wild kids are who God sends, let's embrace it and run with it. So over time, we adapted our stories to be more kid-friendly (meaning shorter with lots of questions scattered throughout).
We still built relationships with some adults as well. Nancy, mentioned earlier, was one we visited about once a week. One man, Juan de Dios, was very welcoming. He lived down this very steep hill in town and always home when we came by to talk. So it was always precarious as to whether we were willing to check on him; that trip usually only produced an unanswered door and five huffing-and-puffing missionaries. But one of the times we checked, he was there, and we had a very good conversation about religion and how one is saved. He is hard-of-hearing, so the conversation could also be described as loud and slightly disconnected between the questions and responses. Another person we really got to know was Sophia, the niece of the man who lets us rent his house and the owner of the tienda a few steps outside our front door. She was always so friendly, probably the most patient with us and our lack of English and change. We saw her many times a day, buying food for meals and other things like matches and these Bolivian chocolate wafers that we fell in love with. I never got very deep with her, but I believe some of the others did.
One area in which we did not sacrifice much was in our bellies. Sure, we didn't have fast food or unbottled water, but we had Patty. She is a marvelous cook. One of our favorite splurges was to buy lamb and make something that sounded like "esto faudo" but that is not the right spelling and I can't seem to find it online. But it very, very good. Another of Patty's specialties was lomo saltado made with chicken. She also made chicken ceviche once - a very popular Peruvian dish. I liked it a lot; it was much better than the pricey fish ceviche than I tried at the Lima airport - that tasted exactly like what ceviche was: spicy raw fish "cooked" with the acid from the lemon. Other successes: Molly and James made some good arroz chaufa (chinese-fried rice) once while the Bible school team was there; Katie made a great spaghetti with homemade marinara sauce; and I mastered the art of french toast. And of raman noodles, our nearly everyday lunch: you crush them, boil them, and junk them up with the packaged flavoring. Of course, I already knew make a delicious bowl of raman before Peru, but not with hen-flavored raman. It was exciting to try, but to those of you who are wondering, it doesn't taste much different than chicken-flavored.
The two things God really taught me were patience and trust. Patience with the very slow life that is to found in Conima, Peru, and trust in his not-always-clear-or-even-logical plan. We did not sweep the community into a storm of evangelizing and baptizing like I had subconsciously prepared myself for. We did not start a church. We did not even have someone come to profess Jesus as Lord (at least while I was there). But you know what, I did get to dance with a precious girl named Katie on almost a daily basis. I did get to glorify in God's creation every time I stepped outside and looked at the lake. I did get to take the weight of people at the medical clinic, from the 70 and 80-year-old Aymarans with their bowler hats and canes to the little babies who never failed to cry in the hands of a gringa. I did get to ask a room full of third and fourth graders who Jesus is and hear them respond with "Dios!" This is a truth God has taught me: The mission wasn't a failure by any standard that matters.
Thank you for caring; thank you for reading. Thank you for any and all prayers. If you would like to continue, there are still two Aledoians there, in Huancané. Patty is one her way home to Lima, I believe. And there is still a community of lovely people in Conima, some of whom believe they have to strive for their salvation, some of whom simply don't know. Some, I believe, are serving God and his Son with their whole hearts - another thing I learned was to not assume we were the only "true" Christians there (1 Kings 19). God was at work there before we came, yet He choose to use us, choose to use me. Quite remarkable.
(A treat for those who endured to the end: For some reason, videos aren't loading onto this blog easily but I have two on this very same blog entry that is posted on my personal blog. Here's the link: ellen-grace.blogspot.com)
No comments:
Post a Comment