Dear Fourteen-Year-Old Me

I’ve been reading through my old journals, and I want to tell myself a few things:

Dear fourteen-year-old me,

You don't know me yet, since I won't exist for ten more years. To me, those ten years feel like a lifetime. 

You might not recognize me right away; I've changed considerably. In fact, you’re probably horrified by the person I’ve become. You probably see me as shockingly liberal, though perhaps moderate-conservative would be a better descriptor. You no doubt think I'll be a bad influence on you, but rest assured - I don't think I've permanently damaged anybody by influencing them.

The truth is that as I’ve grown up, I’ve opened my heart and my mind to the Bible and closed them to the extra stuff that’s so important to you. You're still so very young, and you know nothing more than the small, narrow world around you.

Oh, I’ve offended you; that wasn’t my intention. I still haven’t outgrown my bluntness, I’m afraid.

However, my point still stands: you don’t know as much as you think you know. It's true that you're a compulsive researcher; and it’s good that you're willing to seek out opposite viewpoints to the ones you hold. That will challenge your mind like very little else will. You just don't realize that there are opinions and facts out there that never come up in your little world of rigid, two-dimensional morality.

In your view, everything is sure and certain; everything has a moral edge so sharp you could cut your finger on it. That’s not how it works. There isn’t a dichotomy of good and evil; good is still good and evil is still evil, but there are myriads of ways they can overlap. Just because something isn't wrong doesn't make it right. Just because something isn't ideal doesn't make it bad. The right thing with faulty justification might still cause heartache. The right argument with the wrong motive will still push people away. The wrong belief for a good reason doesn't make it right. The decision you honestly thought was right turning out to be wrong because you didn’t have all the facts doesn't mean you sinned. There is more to righteousness than rules.

Your opinions on some things will change entirely. That’s a good thing, too. Time has a curious way of uncovering different facets of an issue. For instance, your insistence on never owning an iPod because it is inherently sinful will age rather badly in the future. Your belief that the King James Bible is the only one that’s not part of some demonic agenda will fare badly, too, as you do your research. So will your conviction that any music other than hymns is of the Devil. 

Your judgment of morality based on appearances will transform as well, as you find out that Godliness has more to do with the heart than with unyielding behavioral rules, and modesty has more to do with an attitude than clothes. You’ll meet people who are more modest in short shorts than others are in those dreadful things you call culottes*.

These are some superficial examples. The main thing that I want to say to you, dear little fourteen-year-old me, is that changing doesn’t mean you’re falling away from the faith. Oh, no! You’re finding your faith, faith in a God who loves this broken world like he loves you – with all he is. Find a different translation of the Bible, and read through it. Let God be God, and don’t try to explain away the uncomfortable facets of his nature. Find comfort in an uncomfortable God, who doesn’t have to conform to your ideas of what a god should be to still be God.

Read through the Mosaic Law and get a firmer understanding of the love and care underlying every interaction God has with his people - better than you’ve ever gotten from your narrow reading of the Gospels - and start from there. Throw out the old, legalistic teaching (as much as you can) and find what the text says. Get the historical background for it all. It will help.

You will not lose your faith, I promise you. Instead, you will rediscover the God you have faith in. And he is a good God, never fear. He is a far greater God than you ever realized. He is a more loving God than you ever knew. He is terrible in his goodness, wise in his anger, and right in his love. He is an active God, not withholding his love from those you see as unlikely and unlovely candidates, for you were – and I am still – unlikely and unlovely as well. He is an unrelenting, unstoppable God. He is the God who the world desperately needs.

The God you think you know resembles him, to be sure, but He is infinitely better.

This is what I want to tell you, little me.

That you’re wrong, about so many things, and only time can show you that. 

That you're right, about so many things, but you lack the compassion and gentleness to make a difference with it.

That the world is less scary than you know, and far more broken than you can ever guess. That it's your part to go out into it and do something about that.

That tolerance doesn't have to mean acceptance and approbation. It can mean the knowledge that with that person's background and circumstances, your life and choices would be no different, because you are no different from them without the mercy of Christ.

That the 'goodness of God leads to repentance' not because, as you think, it might guilt people into acknowledging him, but because thankfulness and gratitude to a good God might lead to wanting to know him.

That you’ll keep on changing, that you’ll keep on stumbling forward the best you can, that life is good outside your bubble. 

That you, and I, have so much more to learn, and good people to learn it with.


Sincerely,


Your future self

*Also, if a reader has managed to avoid experience with the specific type of culottes I mean, here's a photo:

(Also, think about it, Little Me: if you’re climbing a tree, are culottes - long, flowing, to the ground, and VERY wide at the bottom - or pants more modest? “Culottes!” you say, and I don’t say anything, because I have the benefit of knowing that someday you will change your mind. It will take years, and traveling to a different country, but it will happen.)

Morality in Photos

It's an interesting thing that I've noticed about England: photography isn't allowed in churches or chapels. Photography might be considered fine in most other places, or even the rest of the building, including Hampton Court Palace, the Tower of London, the Roman Baths, or ancient stone circles.

The reason given on the signs in front of these churches and chapels is that these places are places of worship. They're not just considered pretty places utterly devoid of any real value. There are signs to say, "This is a place of worship. Please do not use cameras or electronics here."

There are plaques, memorials, signs, churches everywhere. Regardless of what it is, the name of Jesus, while maybe not put on much anymore, is just kept there if it's already there. Church history and English history are inextricably intertwined, and it seems that the majority of the lay population is perfectly contented to leave it that way.

I think that it's mainly a symbolic gesture, more than any real devotion, but it's still an interesting contrast from what we see in America.

Journey to Grace

I can't vouch for the universality of this statement, nor can I claim to have fleshed out all of the whys and wherefores of it, but I'll throw it out there anyway.

During my research on language policy in Illinois, and after seeing how much language is tied into immigration, I have decided this:

We can never be better than our worst opinion of another. 

I've come across websites so filled with hatred that I had to wonder whether they were real; sadly, they were. My question is, how can anyone claim to be better than another, if they believe that the "other" is (to put it mildly) sub-human and disgusting?

I firmly believe that anyone who believes that someone is less valuable than they themselves are, whether due to popularity, station, ethnicity, or anything else, has proved that they themselves are really beneath the people they are against.

Am I guilty of prejudice? Certainly, at times. However, the grace of God has taught me that no matter how wonderful I think I am, I am still unworthy of grace. That's why it's grace; that's why we have no right to withhold it from others.

Preconceived Notions Part 2

There were some things I was expecting when I came to Ecuador.

I was expecting to find Ecuadorian young people just as impervious to the things of God as their American counterparts. I was positive that I would enjoy my time here. I was sure that I would be ripped off in the markets. I was planning on getting sick. I was almost certain that the toilet would not flush the opposite direction; simply because I am a Beckett and cool things like that just don’t work for me. I was expecting to get burned when I went to the beach for Carnaval.

I was right on all counts. And being right definitely doesn't always make me happy.

Out of all those preconceived notions, it doesn't really matter that there isn't peanut butter or cheddar cheese readily available. It doesn't matter that showers are only hot for the first three minutes. It doesn't really matter that I've been gypped in markets, or that I've gotten sick. Or that I’m about the same color as a lobster, complete with oozing blisters on my arms.

What does matter is that first right expectation: that Ecuadorian young people can be just as godless as Americans. It’s not really a case of just being Americanized; this is a world-wide phenomenon, at least in developed/developing countries.

And it’s so sad.

One Month

According to the calendar, I have been in Ecuador for 4 weeks. (That first Saturday didn't count for me, since I showed up in Quito at 11 PM.) I've learned and experienced so much in this extremely long and extremely short month that I doubt I can put it all into one blog post. Nevertheless, I shall try.

I've learned that weather is unpredictable. There is no snow in Ecuador, but rain, hail, sunshine, clouds, wind, heat, cold, and drizzle can all happen within a few hours. Clouds do not always mean rain, and sunshine does not mean it's not currently raining. So it's a good idea to bring my ridiculous green poncho everywhere I go, able to transform myself at will into a walking tent.

I've learned that traffic is a game. Since the car and the pedestrian (or bus and pedestrian) cannot be in the same place at the same time, the car speeds up to get there first. It doesn't matter where "there" is. Horns are the main feature of every car, and are used frequently. Seatbelts are used less frequently.

I've learned that the combination of stairs and a backpack is my sworn enemy at high elevations. There are 50 steps to climb on the way to school every morning (unless I take the bus, which is an entirely different thing), four flights of stairs inside the school, and four flights to get to my house. And then there is another flight to get to the kitchen.

I've learned that the bus system works only when you know how to work it. (In that respect, it's like marriage.) I've learned not to stand up more than twenty seconds from my stop, or they'll let me off right there. RIGHT there.

I've learned that soup is not thick and chunky here. It is before they put it in the blender, but it just doesn't seem to end up on the table that way. And then they put popcorn, mote, or mini french fries in it to give it some texture. Go figure.

I've learned that I'm not as afraid of dogs as I used to be. That's a good thing, because I've had to walk right through the middle of a group of seven stray dogs. They also like to follow me. One followed me from the bus stop right to the entrance of CEDEI.

Speaking of dogs, there are two categories of dogs here. There are stray dogs that no one cares about, and there are lap dogs dressed in sweaters and carried everywhere. When the two categories slightly overlap, you get dogs that live outside and are pampered inside.

I've learned that most expats from the States are ultimately just annoying. They yell into their cell phones, laugh loudly enough that pigeons don't stick around, and are generally the most entitled bunch of people I've ever seen. They are generally retired Americans, who talk about "the" Facebook as if it's a wonder that their daughter in Colorado "liked" the same picture as their Ecuadorian friend.

I've learned that I cannot seem to talk English well anymore. Spanglish is becoming more of a thing, when we speak English at all. We put definite articles in when we translate from Spanish to English, and it's common to repeat things in Spanish slowly when someone says, "What?" We don't always translate to English.

I've learned that Inca Lounge has the best American hamburgers, and Chiplote (that's spelled right) has the most wonderful taco salad. La Fornace's pizza is better than Tutto Freddo's, but you can't beat Cafe Austria's spaghetti. I've learned that there's a supermarket by the stadium, and that a burger place is definitely not at the intersection of 3 de noviembre and Gran Colombia.

I've learned that streets have odd names. I live on 24 de mayo; there's a 12 de abril and a 10 de agosto. Fray Vicente Solano vies with Gaspar Sangurima for difficulty saying fast. And doesn't Benigno Malo sound evil? The only street name that makes sense is Calle Larga: long street.

I've learned that Ecuadorians love to put alcohol sauce in ice cream. It's nasty stuff. They like to cook with it, too, but that's not so bad because the alcoholic taste goes away and all that's left is a taste that they could do very well without but don't want to.

We've learned that Parque de la Madre is a wonderful place to just lie on the grass and talk. It's also a place for couples to attempt to swallow each others' faces mouth-first for ten minutes without needing air.

I've learned that I'm hopeless with the preterite and gendered words in general. Thankfully my host family laughs at me and then corrects me. I haven't made any extreme blunders yet (as far as I know!), but it will happen sometime. Hopefully it won't end up being obscene.

But the best thing I've learned is that God is here, too. For the first three weeks it seemed like something was blocking His presence here. I've since come to realize that it doesn't matter if He's being blocked; He is still here. And then He tore through the barriers and made me realize that nothing can actually keep Him out. It was such a glorious lesson that I can't really explain it on a blog post! But it reminded me of this poem I wrote a while back:

No death nor life could shut Him in; no grave had power to hold Him.
No throne could keep Him from his own, nor wrath nor hell enfold Him.
Though leaving scars in their cruel wake, no spike could e'er detain Him.
Though sealed by Caesar's royal seal, no tomb could e'er contain Him.

No demon foul could conquer Him, no traitor could betray Him,
For all was done by God's decree and Christ by death portrayed Him.
And by His death 'tis true now that for one blood-bought forever,
No death nor life nor any else from the love of God can sever.

Lessons and Longings

I've been in Cuenca nearly two weeks now, and in Ecuador for three. It seems like so much longer. Imagine that every day was made up of 48 hours instead of 24. I'd have been gone from home for six weeks instead of three. That's how long it seems.

Every day I ache for home, for my church, for my mom's hug. Every day I long for the feeling of driving a car again, the feeling of the lovely embrace of heat produced by my furnace and not by the sun, the feeling of running around the house barefoot if I like. Every day I look at the delectable soups and main courses my host mom makes and I long for the taste of my mom's simple cooking.

I miss being able to cook my own food. I miss being able to whisper about my day with my sister at night. I miss having a pitch-black room to sleep in. I miss having sound-reducing insulation around my window. I miss pinto beans (they're not here; the only beans here are huge and white or purple). I miss the feeling of a one-year-old settled comfortably on my hip, and the feeling of a three-year-old's hand confidingly placed in mine. I miss going on the so-called "grand adventures" I used to go on with that one-year-old and three-year-old, consisting entirely of going down one set of stairs, through the basement and up another flight of stairs before completing the circuit another twenty times.

There is so much that I miss by not being home. However, there is much I would have missed had I decided to stay home.

I would have missed fulfilling a lifelong dream of visiting the Ecuadorian jungle. Smelling the color green in all its various shades. Visiting some of the oldest cathedrals in Quito and Cuenca. The Equator. The friendships I'm developing with my group. Driving through the mountains with a driver who bus-races (I don't get it, either). Seeing all the places I've only seen in pictures. Haggling in the markets. Swimming in a waterfall's pool in the Amazonian jungle. Seeing ants an inch long. Flying over the Panama Canal, lit up in the setting sun. Going to a Catholic mass for the first time in my life. Walking to school through old and new Cuenca. Touring one of the older houses in Cuenca. Telling scary stories in the jungle.

I would have missed having a dysfunctional water tube on the Napo River. Being subjected to a wonderful hail storm at 14000 feet above sea level. Falling over while trying to walk on the Equator. Waiting at a street crossing with a guy carrying three machetes. Seeing a random banana vendor washing his hands without soap in a rain puddle on a busy street. Hearing an old gringo yelling into his cell phone about how "let's get together" (and rolling our eyes at how loud "those Americans" are). Climbing 50 uneven steps on my way to school. Taking the bus and getting off too soon. Being drenched in a sudden jungle rain storm.

There are many lessons I've learned.

I've learned that they do sell peanut butter in one place in Cuenca. That it's not advisable to order trout at the Cafe Austria because you'll get the entire fish, head and all. That political parades can go by at any time of day or night. That it takes 45 minutes to get to school walking fast. That you have to watch out for deep holes in weird places. That you have to be on the lookout for cars when crossing traffic circles. That they don't sell pocket folders in Cuenca. That "empapado" can mean either "soaked" (like rain) or "drunk." That fireworks can go off at any time.

At the Equator, I learned what it means that you can't try to walk the line between obedience and disobedience. Either there is the one or the other, but not both. Like trying to serve God and something else, it's impossible.

In the jungle, I learned that, as Proverbs 24:16 says, it doesn't matter how many times you fall, as long as you get back up right away. (I fell far more times than seven.)

On my way to school, I learned that two are truly better than one, since it's so much harder to walk alone than with a friend.

And I'm still learning. After all, that's why I'm here, not at home.

Revolving Doors

I suppose going to Ecuador is kind of like using a revolving door. There is a whole new world on the other side, which I can see from where I stand. Looking through, it looks fascinating.

Once I step inside the revolving door (otherwise known as getting on the airplane), I have a choice.

I can leave the relative safety of the revolving door (my comfort zone) and step out into the unknown. I can explore the world on the other side, then step back into the door when it's time and arrive back at the same place I left from, bringing my new friendships back with me.

Or I can stay in the revolving door, doing nothing that stretches my abilities, prejudices, or viewpoint. I can say that I was "in" Ecuador, like I can say that being on the inside of the revolving door means I was "in" a building, but I won't have really seen it or experienced it.

I'm going to go with the first, if at all possible. I fully intend to experience Ecuadorian life to the fullest, as much as I can without going against my conscience.

After all, Jesus did the first. It would have been so much easier for Him to just come for a week or so, redeem us, and go back to heaven, leaving us behind - redeemed, but without a relationship. He didn't do that. He stayed among us for thirty-three years, teaching us, loving us, building relationships. He became one of us, even though He was the epitome of a foreigner (think of something like being God and then being a human and God at once).

With that in mind, it won't be so hard to "be" an Ecuadorian.