Blessings

Yesterday was a day of blessings-- not that the day was easy, or comfortable, but the blessings came in the midst of difficult circumstances, which made them all the more moving, all the more real, all the more beautiful.

I woke up at eight, ready to tackle the day. Martha and I went to pick up Carlos (a man I will share more about as tonight's blog session unfolds) and from his apartment we headed to Steven City, a town which borders Winchester and which houses Steven City UMC, the building to which we were headed.

We met Pat at the church, the woman I roomed with over conference. She is a small, lovely woman, atleast eighty and a bit hard of hearing. She has a huge heart for mission, and has been serving people and providing resources for people since she was a young adult. Anyways, Pat called us down to the church because a member of Steven City UMC had recently passed away; before she passed, she decided to leave all the furniture in her house (as well as other odds and ends) to the community that Amor y Paz serves.

As I followed Martha's son's truck out of the church parking lot and to this generous woman's home, I couldn't help but feel incredibly privileged to get to be the hands that moved and delivered this furniture. Talk about walking on holy ground-- the sense of awe and wonder I felt as we hauled sofas, and beds, and beaureaus into our cars is indescribable. How I somehow got to be the messenger of this grace, the deliverer of these blessings is beyond me; yet I'm so glad this church's, this woman's, this community's story has somehow collided with mine, and has allowed me to see God's goodness and loveliness firsthand.

So I told you I'd fill you in more on Carlos at some point, and I think his story is where we should head next. I met Carlos last week. Pastora Martha and I visited his family's apartment to register his daughter, Yasmin, for the summer program. Being in their apartment just about broke my heart. The scent of mildew filled my nostrils before we even reached the doorway-- I'll let that information suffice to give you an idea of what it smelt like inside the actual apartment. Yasmin was taking a nap in her "bed" when we arrived-- an old, tattered mattress, that was stained and basically falling apart. There were no sheets, no blankets, just her small, sweet face pressed against the dirty mattress.

And if that weren't enough to choke me up, the whole apartment was lined with bags-- no furniture really, just bags of stuff. I'm not sure if they were trash bags, bags of food, clothes, or what, but they were everywhere. There was nowhere for Yasmin or here little sister Evelyn to put their clothes, no place for them to sit really, no place for them to draw, or read, or play. I stood there stunned, stifling-- in part because of the heat of an apartment with no air conditioning and in part from the sadness of it all, the injustice of it all, that these little ones who are no different than me, no less valuable than me, no less precious, or innocent, or deserving of care, could exist in such a torn, broken, filthy place.

After signing Yasmin up for the program that day, I have to admit I had my thoughts, my judgements about their circumstances. I thought maybe Carlos wasn't working hard enough, maybe he didn't care that his daughters were living without so many of their basic needs met. I'm ashamed to admit I thought all these things, that I judged him from just one small encounter, but I definitely did. Granted, I figured the system didn't make it easy for him, but even considering all the factors that are presumably working against him, I still wondered why he wasn't doing more, why he wasn't doing better, why his daughters had to share a dirty, greasy, beat-up mattress every night.

So now enter Carlos into this new day, this day that we are going to move furniture, to load up our cars with books, and linens, and coffee tables. Carlos and I worked side-by-side most of the day. We were the only two really capable of moving the heavy furniture (Like I mentioned, Pat is in her eighties and Martha has had some serious health problems within the past few years). So he and I worked together to move sofas, bookcases, beds, dressers-- you name it. We laughed while we tried to maneuver large pieces of furniture through narrow doorways or up flights of stairs; we grunted when things got heavy, took breaks when our bodies needed rest, smiled and tried to communicate though we didn't speak each other's languages.

Carlos is from an indigenous group of people from Hidalgo, Mexico. His people speak a dialect of Spanish that is almost completely distinct from the language the rest of the Latino community here speaks. It began to make sense why things have been so challenging for Carlos and his family. Not only is he working against the issues normally confronted by immigrant families, but he is doing it without any support, without any real form of community or family, because even those who would be glad to help can't understand him, can't communicate with him or his wife enough to offer any real form of assistance. Plus, on top of all that, I learned that Carlos suffers from some sort of handicap, some loss of hearing in one of his ears that resulted from an accident a few years back.

So here I am, confronted with all the details of Carlos' story, working alongside him, seeing his work ethic and willingness to help and to volunteer his time firsthand, and all my previous thoughts and judgements seem so shallow, so predictable, so far removed from this man who is smiling at me, laughing with me, pushing, and pulling, and lifting any and every piece of furniture that comes our way.

And now comes the most beautiful part of the day, the part that brings tears to my eyes even now. Before we left Steven City, Sra. de la Rosa pulled me aside and told me to drive to Carlos' apartment. She told me, "He doesn't know it, but the beds he just tied to the roof of my car are for his girls."

So I followed Martha back to Winchester, to this tiny apartment, and as soon as we stepped outside, Carlos ran up the steps, got his family, and began unloading furniture he thought was going to other families, into his own home. Yasmin and Evelyn ran up and down the stairs with each load, giddy smiles shining across their faces. We threw away their mattress. We cleared space for two beds. Martha and I assembled the beds together as the whole family stood close-by, in shock by the transformation their apartment was going through. I called the girls to my side and opened the bags that held their new bedding-- beautiful pink and white quilts with green floral sheets and pillowcases. Their faces lit up. They marveled at the quilts' patterns, at the colors, the designs, the softness of these things that were now theirs. Until this sacred, indescribable moment, I never really considered a bed, a blanket, as things one could take for granted, but seeing these girls feel so lucky, so privileged to have their own beds, their own sheets, their own comforters, changed that perception and caused me to broaden my understanding of privilege and of gratitude.

I called my mom after getting back in the car to leave Carlos' apartment. I wept the whole way through our conversation; I'm surprised she could even make out what I was saying through my cracking, shaking voice. She told me how happy she was for me, how she knows it's these types of moments that I live for, and she's so right in saying that. I've never felt more alive than when I was putting together these beds for Yasmin and Evelyn. I've never experienced more joy than when I looked in their eyes and saw gratitude and wonder, or when I looked over my shoulder on my way out of the apartment and saw them each tucked under the covers, giggling and kicking their feet from all the excitement. I've never felt more in tune with who I am and with who God wants me to be than when I left the tiny apartment, sat for a moment in Martha's car, and let it all soak in.

What an incredble, holy thing to take part in. I thank God that I have this opportunity to live here in Winchester, to be a part of this struggling community, to somehow (because of the relationships and the trust Martha has built with everyone here) be let in enough to see their challenges, their hardships, their pain-- the vulnerable pieces of their lives that threaten to break them, and discourage them, and keep them from realizing the worth and potential they have as children of God. I feel nothing but gratitude towards everyone here for allowing me in, for carving room for me in their lives, even though so many of my own experiences create so many potential barriers between us.

Thank you, God, that you are one who breaks down barriers, and who does not allow the things that stand between us to remain in place. I'm so grateful to be experiencing, firsthand, the ways in which you make all things new, fresh, redeemed. Continue to lead, and teach, and use me. Amen.


Other blessings of the day:

My supervisor Pauline and her husband brought me their car to borrow for the weekend. It was a completely unexpected surprise and will allow me to explore Winchester, and let my introverted-self have some time on my own.

One of the women in the community sent me dinner at the church tonight. First off, the meal was delicious-- she made sopas, which are homemade tortillas topped with frijoles, cheese, onions, and some strips of chicken. Even more than having happy taste buds, though, I really took this as a sign of welcome and hospitality. At first I think the community (though very welcoming) was a bit unsure about me. With the women especially, I felt like they were wondering about me, my intentions, and the ways I approach/view their community. So this meal meant so much more than a full stomach to me. It really came as a symbol of love and acceptance, a gesture that fully recognized me as welcome in the community, worth thinking of and taking care of. Again, this whole day and all its experiences has made me feel richly blessed. I hope wherever you are, you, too, are experiencing God's rich blessings and providence.

Peace, Love, and Thankfulness,

Nicole