Blink

Once upon a time, there was a girl in high school, who kept track of all the days left of senior year. She started at “One day down, 176 to go.”

Then suddenly it was “176 days down, one to go.” And that scared her. She went home that day and cried.



Then she blinked.

She carefully cut nine pieces of double-sided tape. One on each corner. One in the middle. One on each imaginary diagonal line between the pieces at the corners and the one in the middle.

Then she turned over the paper, centered it on the last page of her scrapbook, and pressed it down.

A copy of her college diploma.

So much can happen in a blink.

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.

Lovely Anticipation

There's something beautiful about knowing that you're well on your way to a new adventure.  It became real (again!) two hours ago, when I registered for classes for next semester. Seeing it gave me goosebumps: Location: Ecuador, Quad A. Considering that all fifteen or so of my classes have been on the main campus (and, therefore, firmly on US soil), it's a thrilling prospect.

Do you know how far CEDEI (the school we're studying at) is from my house? 3,149 miles, as the crow flies. That's over twice the distance I've ever been from home. (I'm beginning to sound like Samwise Gamgee here.)

  I'm going to be thoroughly immersed in the culture, living with a host family and speaking only Spanish. I'll be far away from my church family, attending a small Protestant church where I hope my American-ness won't be held against me. I'll be gypped in the markets in the zocalo. I'll be identified immediately as a gringo by my weird Chicago accent. I'll be jounced and jolted on a two-day bus trip through the Andes to a point 3931 miles from home. I'll take lots of pictures and try not to be too obvious about it. 

And it will be wonderful. I'll come back with a hint of an Ecuadorian accent, with wonderful tales of seeing the Lost City of the Incas. I'll come back with a pair of simple earrings, which will quickly become my favorite pair, made there by a delightful old lady who can't see as well as she used to when her children were small. I'll say that Mamá said this or Papá said that or my brother did this or my sister did that, and none of you will understand why I forget to clarify that I mean my host family. 

I'll have a better idea of who I am when I get back. I'll know more about syncretistic religion than I ever wanted to know. I'll have a bigger burden for those people, the ones so engulfed in a mixture of Catholicism and native religions that the truth is unknown. I'll know them personally.

And I'll never be the same. It's a sobering thought.