This week has been a hard one. So, my heart is looking for some reminders of what it felt like to be in Guatemala. Mike actually told me he missed my Guatemala face. I am pretty sure I got some sun? I definitely didn’t look Guatemalan, though. But really, I looked healthy and happy and not exhausted (like I do). I miss that place and that feeling of just … peace. Life just isn’t a rush there. I’m sure for many of our friends that move their lives to Guat the wait for nearly everything, e.g. car insurance, can send one into hysterics, but honestly, what’s the rush? Just like mornings on the roof, breakfast arrival at 8 and frozen mango cups you can drill at with a plastic spoon for an eternity if you’d like (still such a great idea, Anita!), the pace is just less frantic than here in the States.
I feel like I have to apologize because
everyone my friend Doug keeps asking for more about Guatemala, but today? Well, today it will have to wait. Instead, it’s a time for a different kind of celebration.
Are you ready to talk Tuesday? Isn’t that how they always tell people to keep going … one day at a time? I mean, I don’t want to rush it or anything. To be honest, I kind of love that this takes forever because every time I get to write about Guatemala again, my heart starts to swell and I feel super happy. But I also realize that we’re aging. So, I’ll get right to it.
I know it’s super hard to believe that we’d only arrived at my team’s very first day in Guatemala last we connected but I also know you can’t be surprised by my wordiness by now. #amiright?
I have an affinity for the word ‘redux’. Quite simply, it means revisited; however, it also is synonymous with restored. There are no two words more adequate to describe my second adventure to Guatemala. Revisited? Yes. Restored? Oh goodness. If restoration existed in a bottle and it was known as agua pura, then without a doubt I would know it came from the place that has officially taken residence in my heart. Continue reading
I remember that morning so vividly. I woke up to a phone call from my mom. She sounded shaken and shared the news about my dear friend Paul. Early that morning, the morning of April 5, 2013, he had been overcome when a fire broke out in his home. He was gone. And I sat on the floor and cried.
This happens every time. Well, each time? I get back from Guatemala and I simmer like hamburger helper on the stove trying to reconcile what in the actual heck just happened.
I’ve found myself in a not-so-fun game of tug of war the past few weeks … except I am the the little ribbon in the middle and at one end, the Lord is pulling me towards His grace and undeniable freedom. At the other, the enemy is like, ‘whoa, no you don’t. this girl is mine. she knows she isn’t strong enough to do the hard things.’
I finished a workout early Saturday morning and laid my worn-out (and now older) self on the floor completely out of breath. I had unwillingly found extra time in the day due to an early wake-up call from a horrible (never to be shared aloud again) dream. As I slowly worked back to a normal rhythm of inhales and exhales, all I could do was appreciate that I could and recall that she couldn’t.
‘2017. We made it.’
This is exactly what I heard a young woman almost breathe with a voice of relief as we started our trek back to our car after Kalamazoo’s annual New Year’s Fest.