WSC Debriefing: Released into the Wild

Here’s a question: if I go living my life and doing things, but don’t blog about it, do those things really happen?

Home, sweet home. My city, Kansas City. 

This is conflict that I am faced with. I mean, for Pete’s sake, my blog is called “Adventuras en Peru” (Adventures in Peru) and I haven’t been in Peru for over a month, yet I continue to blog. But, with my World Service Corps time now being completely over, it’s hard for me to justify still using this blog. Perhaps another day there will be another blog, devoted to education or travelling or something; but for the time being, I’m going to go ahead and say it: this is my last post.

After SPEC, Katrina and I headed back to my home in Blue Springs. We had a free Sunday inbetween SPEC and World Service Corps debriefing, so I spent the day showing Katrina a little bit of Kansas City. We nerded out at the Liberty Memorial, strolled through Union Station, toured Kansas City’s own Boulevard Brewery and stopped by the large fountain on the Plaza. We topped the day off with a barbeque dinner with my Dad, eating so much that we felt slightly miserable afterwards.

The WSC Reps when we started this all, one year ago. 

Monday we dove into World Service Corps training. We had worship services, received some resume tips and learned about ways to stay connected with the church post-World Service Corps. Throughout the week we had the chance to chat with other reps, which was my favorite part of the experience. We got to banter with the short-term reps from Chile about the cultural differences between Peru and its neighbor to the south and, naturally, all of the reps launched into their worst bathroom stories; to me, cranking your poop up in the compost heap in Hawaii took the take.

We also tackled the question we’d all been finding difficult: “How was your trip?” Everyone recognized that the question was often asked as a nice gesture, but many of us expressed our frustrations with it; how are you supposed to define your trip in a quick, sentence long response? How do you explain someone something they can never fully understand? And how do you address their expectation that everything was fantastic—always.

Temple Sanctuary Selfie! Is that wrong?  

Monday to Wednesday we spent the entire week together, sharing meals and chatting about our different assignments; each one seemed to have their own vibe. Eben gave a lot of tours in Kirtland, Ohio; the reps from Hawaii attended a lot of camps; the reps from Detroit worked a lot with children; the girls from Chile attended some protests; the reps from South Korea regularly hiked mountains; the girl from Tahiti attended a baptism inside a hidden cave. Everyone came back loaded with stories. In college, I’d always found it interesting that all the international students hung out together. Very few of them were from the same country but they still had the same, unspeakable bond. I still don’t understand it, but I felt it among the World Service Corps reps. We had all gone different places and seen very different things—and somehow, that made us the same.

Where all the WSC reps were, just a few months ago. 

Wednesday was our big finale to World Service Corps: our Presentations and Sending Forth. I liked to call the Sending Forth our “release into the wild.” To an extent, especially among the long-term reps, it was like we’d forgotten how to live as adults in North America. How to work, how to socialize, how to operate in English. The most basic things, like how to eat, we had to learn again. What do you mean rice and potatoes don’t come with this meal? Why aren’t there any dogs running the streets? Why are we so far away from the ocean?

As Wednesday evening fell, each rep shared a five minute testimony of what they did and what their experience meant to them. Each presentation was powerful in its own ways. The girls from Chile’s voice cracked as they talked about how they’d bonded during their experience. The girl from Tahiti lamented that she couldn’t stop comparing church in the States to church in Tahiti. Katrina and I focused on specific stories, both from Huanuco, where we’d struggled, but learned that things would always be okay.

The WSC gang on our first day of debriefing. 

And I think, going forward, that was what we needed to talk about and we needed to remember; life after World Service Corps does exist, and it’s all going to be okay. As presentations finished, the reps slowly filed out of the Temple, heading their own ways: going to college to clean out dorm rooms, road tripping to Florida, preparing to fly to California. Like that, it was over. Like that, it was done.

The next morning, real life came too quickly; I had technology training for my teaching job at 9 a.m. and Katrina had to leave for the airport just afterwards. We said our hurried goodbyes (I was still operating on Peru time and running late), both understanding but not knowing how to express it—the two of us were the only ones who could really understand what Peru, what Honduras, what SPEC, what all of it really mean to each other. I sped off to work and Katrina headed out to the airport. And at the moment, we could no longer deny it: World Service Corps was officially over.

Goodbye for now: my last picture with Katrina. 

World Service Corps Program Coordinator was sure to tell us that nobody ever really stops being a World Service Corps rep. Your time in the program comes to a close, but you carry that experience with you always. There are parts you wish you could leave behind and there are parts you wish you could cling on to more tightly; but no matter what, we carry it with us. And it’s a load I’m more than happy to bare.

So with that, my World Service Corp term and “Adventuras en Peru” come to a close. Even if you just came here and looked at pictures—I thank all of you for reading. Blogging has been a wonderful way for me to process and share what this year of my life has meant, and seeing my page views go up made me feel like people were right there, sharing these experiences with me. So thank you for reading—I’ll see you when the next big adventure arrives. 

SPECTACULAR: Who Wants To Try Purple Snot?

Fun Fact: When I signed up for World Service Corps, I was living in Lamoni, Iowa working for Graceland University. Up until one week before moving to Lima, I called Lamoni my home.

People kept saying, "I can't believe you're still together." 

So—it felt somewhat fitting that my last World Service Corps duty before debriefing should be to attend a camp, SPECTACULAR, in Lamoni on Graceland’s campus. All good things start and end in Iowa, right?

Anyway, as soon as IYF was over, Katrina and I’s next adventure began: SPECTACULAR. To give you a little background SPEC is the largest gathering of youth in Community of Christ. It happens every year in July at Graceland University and it’s a week where high school aged students come together to participate in themed classes, sports, and worship.

Emily & Avery playing at the WSC booth. 

Once again, Katrina and I found ourselves delegationless, which essentially means we didn’t have any “home” group that we belonged to. Throughout the week we found other people like us who titled that role many a nice-sounding thing: support minister, SPECtator, helper, floater; meanwhile, Katrina and I simply just referred to ourselves as “creepers” the whole week.  

While the role of SPEC Creeper doesn't sound overly delightful, Katrina and I enjoyed ourselves with it, utilizing the free time to hang out with old and new friends. I also felt personally obligated to show Katrina the "real" Lamoni; thus we made a late night Kum & Go run, visited the Pizza Shack and stopped by the park at Slip's Bluff. People continually marveled at the fact that we still wanted to pass our time together after living in the same room for over a year and we simply told them all that we'd forgotten how to live independently.

Our SPEC duties were somewhat similar to our IYF duties: we helped run the World Service Corps information booth, taught classes about World Service Corps and shared our testimonies. Each element of our job had a slightly different vibe this time around.

It's never really SPEC if Lost & Found isn't there. 

The classes we taught were largely based on our specific country and our specific experiences. Katrina and I shared pictures and talked about some of our favorite moments: from our trips to Amazon jungle and Machu Picchu, to special events like Dia de la Playa (Beach Day) at church. We ended the class with giving the kids a taste of Peru: Chicha Morrada. Chicha Morranda is a purple desert with the texture/appearance of pudding. It has cinnamon and apple in it, but after Katrina and I dubbed it “purple snot” nobody seemed to jazzed about trying it.

Our testimonies were shared with a group of about 75 kids during our “SPEC Today” classes. I focused on a theme that anybody could do World Service Corps, all they had to do was try. This was my only role during the weeklong SPEC Today class, which gave me the odd realization that we weren’t the leaders in charge of things anymore—in fact, we were preparing to become your Average Joe again.

Fireworks on the GU quad.

The week was sprinkled with special activities: a campfire, talent shows, musical performances, plays, and, of course, the annual dance. Each day we usually shared lunch with Eben, a World Service Corps rep from India, who continually pointed out that all Americans wanted to eat was bread and cheese.

I began to find that each time I was around a Tahitian, I wanted to speak Spanish to them. For the record, in Tahiti they speak both Tahitian and French; they do not speak Spanish. This is a recent habit I developed while in Peru and constantly have to fight to control. Oh, you speak Russian? Let me speak Spanish to you and do you no help at all. After knowing what it’s like to struggle with language for a year, you just want to help the people around with the same struggle (whether you can effectively do so or not.)

Finally the last day of SPEC fell upon us and it was touching to walk across the quad and see everyone bidding their new friends farewell. Kids from other countries gave tearful farewells to the friends they may never see again. The Tahitians were out with shell necklaces, generously giving them to everyone nearby. It began to sink it to Katrina and I that after a month in the “homestretch” we really were in the homestretch now—all we had to do was debrief. We had less than a week left as World Service Corps volunteers.

Ready or not, here it came.

IYF Missouri: Just A Little Different Than Honduras

Theodore Roosevelt once said, “Comparison is the thief of joy.”

That statement is probably the best thing you can remember when you’re reentering your home country after being gone for a long time. Yes, there are things you like more about your home country. Yes, there are things you liked more about your host country. You can sit around sorting those things out all day—or, you can just try to live your life.

Reunited with my mom! 

Katrina and I arrived in Kansas City around midnight on Friday, July 11. My parents greeted us in the airport, bearing gifts: Chipotle burrito bowls. There was joyful hugging, there was exited jabbering and there was the cramming of over-sized suitcases into my mom’s car. We were home.

We spent our first few days in the country catching up on things: talking with our family, investigating new phone plans and drinking in some American culture. We made a point to attend a Royals baseball game.

Katrina and I with some friends at a KC Royals game! 

And after a few days to recover we were off and running again for the International Youth Forum (IYF) in Missouri. Now, naturally, IYF Missouri and IYF Honduras were vastly different. For starters, there were about ten times more kids at IYF Missouri than at IYF Honduras (which made the sleeping arrangements rather different—there was no giant dorm room where 350 girls could sleep.) IYF Honduras had three different countries in attendance, IYF Missouri had more: South Korea, the United Kingdom, Australia, Germany, Spain, Canada, Tahiti and more. The venues and budget were also vastly different: IYF Honduras was at a humble little campground called La Buena Fe; IYF Missouri was in World Church Headquarters.

The Temple, where IYF Missouri was held. 

For reasons like these, and many more, IYF Missouri and IYF Honduras were vastly different and, at times, that difference was painful for Katrina and I. We had come fresh from touching and beautiful experiences in Honduras and couldn’t help but compare those kids to the ones at IYF Missouri. Without delegation attachments the bonds we formed so easily in Honduras were challenging in Missouri. The kids had different priorities and different ways of expressing their faith. Was one group better? Simply, they were just different.

Katrina and I’s roles in IYF were different was well. We both helped out with a World Service Corps class that was held twice during the week and we also helped out with “small” groups. While our small groups in the United States were at least twice the size of our small groups in Honduras, it still broke things down for us and gave us a better opportunity to connect with the kids.

Katrina and Eben at the WSC booth. 

Our final day of small groups, our kids were given the symbolic task of washing each other’s feet. While many group leaders were skeptical of how this activity would play out, my group rose to the challenge and had absolutely no problem with washing their neighbor’s feet. My entire group participated, without questions, and even lightly chatted during the activity.

Perhaps Katrina and I’s biggest task during the week was giving a brief testimony during one of the worship services. While Katrina and I had grown accustomed to giving testimonies, this was our first testimony in front of such a large crowd (more than 600 people.) This was also my first testimony in English, which, somehow made the task seem even harder.

Yet, when the time came, Katrina and I partnered with Emile, a World Service Corps rep from Tahiti, and Eben, a World Service Corps rep from India and stepped up to the plate. Katrina and Eben read a prayer and Emile and I shared testimonies. The stage lights were slightly blinding, but perhaps the weirdest part of the experience was seeing yourself on the tv screen. After the testimonies and prayer, Emile led a quick song with the audience and we scampered off the stage.

Saying goodbye to Emile--he was headed home to Tahiti. 

As IYF came to a close, I felt the tugs of the real world calling me back. I had to miss our final worship service to fill out paperwork and take a tour of my new school, which were exciting things to do, but with unfortunate timing. I finished my tour, drove back to Independence, said a few goodbye and picked up Katrina.

A final difference of the two IYFs was that IYF Missouri was significantly shorter than IYF Honduras. It had felt as though we were just starting things and they were already over. Our first week in the States was full, a little overwhelming and slightly confusing. People kept asking us what it was like to be back in the States and we’d always admit, “I don’t know yet; I haven’t had time to process it.” And it was an issue that wasn’t going to change anytime soon—we had less than a day off and then we were Lamoni bound: SPECTACULAR camp was up next. 

FIJ Honduras: Foro Internacional de Jovenes

*Quick Disclaimer, then I’ll let you be on your way. I wrote most of this post on July 10, but haven’t had time to post it until just now. Stay tuned for long overdue updates from IYF (Missouri), SPEC and World Service Corps debriefing*

Decorating La Buena Fe for IYF! 

Buenas tardes, hermanos, y aquí son mis últimos saludos de Honduras.

Right, so if you don’t speak Spanish—Welcome to my last post from overseas as a World Service Corps volunteer. It’s weird, right? In less than 18 hours, we’ll be aboard a plane, to begin our last leg of The Great Migration. It’s weird.

Regardless, let’s recap.

Friday afternoon we headed out for La Buena Fe to start getting everything in order. There was much hanging of decorations and petty bickering over insignificant details, which is how I imagine many camps start. Eventually curtains were hung, cardboard letters were forcefully stapled into the cement wall and night fell as Katrina and I carefully selected what we estimated to be the best beds in the women’s dorm, which was two, giant connected rooms, stuffed with roughly 60 beds.

With Saturday came the slow arrival of the campers. We impatiently waited as people from El Salvador, Honduras, and Nicaragua trickled in, registering them and dishing out multicolored bracelets that said the weeks’ theme “Valor Para” (Courage.) In total, we ended up with about 60 kids, ages 14-28, with the grand majority of them being 16-18.

These boys were absolutely hilarious--never a dull moment. 

From there, the week began to fly. Apostle Barbara Carter flew in to deliver classes based on the week’s theme. The kids also attended classes that specifically focused on elements of Community of Christ, like Enduring Principles and Priesthood. I have never seen such dedicated students. The kids showed up to every class early with their bibles and notepads in hand. They took avid notes and there were moments when I looked up to realize that I was the only person in my entire row doodling in their notebook (guilty as charged.) They asked questions, even when they knew it would make class run late. My friends, these kids are a teacher’s dream.

My favorite part of our daily routine was small group time, because it gave me a chance to know eight of the campers really well. During this time, I was continually impressed by how open and willing these kids are to sharing their personal testimonies. It was touching to witness how these

kids started the week and where they ended up—they were living proof that camps and forums like this make a difference in people’s lives.

My kids in my small group--I'm so proud of them!

Every night, the kids hit the showers, put on their Sunday-best (for the women this included menacing stilettos) and we had a dynamic church service—and I don’t think you quite understand what I mean by “dynamic.” I feel like every “cool” church in movies is always some Southern Baptist congregation in the middle of nowhere Alabama where everyone is fanning themselves with a program, but there’s a fantastic preacher screaming, people nodding and rumbling “amen” and a triumphant, energetic choir decked out in shiny graduation-esc robes. Honduran church isn’t quite like that—but it’s by far the closest I’ve ever gotten to it. There’s a lot of passionate hand raising during the songs, spontaneous prayers mumbled aloud to one’s self and series of questions where you get to yell “Gloria a Dios!” or simply applaud and cheer loudly. The preachers were a mix a local leaders and leader’s from the World Church, each with distinctly different styles and tactics for delivering their message. 

Perhaps the most picturesque church moment was during Luis Dias’ sermon, which rivals anything you’ve ever seen depicted in a movie. It was a marathon of passionate yelling and I honestly have no idea how Luis was breathing, because it was an endless, energetic flowing monologue without pause or falter.  When he started, the room was thick was the day’s sweaty air, but as he continued a chilled breeze swept inside, ruffled the curtains, and eventually thunder rolled and lightening flashed behind him—it was seriously like something out of a movie. The part they don’t show in the movie is that at this point, the front two rows have to move because there’s a hole in the roof and everyone’s starting to get wet.

Ladee and Ana "helping" clear some brush.

The week was also loaded with special events—a talent night, a campfire, a service day where we cleared brush on the new grounds and, perhaps my personal favorite, an excursion day where we visited a local park that had a beautiful waterfall. 

By the time we hit talent night I had a grand realization—I have lost all shame that I once possessed (which honestly was never that much.)  One of the camp leaders mentioned to me I should sing a song for the talent show—I politely declined and told her I have no vocal skills. An hour later, she told me it was my last chance to add myself to the list—and that was all the “convincing” I needed. Before Katrina knew what hit her, I had signed her, one of the translators, one of the campers, and myself up to sing “The Funky Chicken” which is “El Pollo Loco” in Spanish. Despite not knowing the exact lyrics, we performed it for everyone and when it came time for “ la cucaracha” (cockroach) we were the only ones in the building rolling around on the floor (myself, shamelessly.)

Luis (wearing a Christmas tie) delivering his sermon. 

Campfire night presented us with another shameless opportunity to sing out of key, as we attempted to lead two songs, one of which (a round of Kum-Ba-Ya) was an absolute disaster (although the boys did get a kick out of the chanting version and yelled it at random moments throughout the rest of the camp.) Immediately following that would-be embarrassment, it was my turn to give a testimony about my journey with World Service Corps. Under a five-minute restriction, it was a bit of a challenge—not to mention the fact that it had to be shouted as I walked around the giant circle we’d formed around the campfire; however, I think it went well and I hope it at least spoke to a few of the campers listening.

Our last day of camp is perhaps the day that stands out the clearest in my mind--the day we spent swimming near a huge waterfall. Because swimming levels varied, the kids stayed in a shallow area playing games, building human pyramids, pushing eat other in the water and singing. I spent half the day talking with the girls from Nicaragua and half the day swimming with the rest of the kids. While the  afternoon’s bonding time was amazing, the best part of the day came later that night during worship.

The fantastic waterfall near where we swam. 

Things started with some fantastic music, including a few more songs from the rich voice of Guillermo then concluded with a sermon from Hermana Digna—but the main even turned out to be the time allotted for testimonies. Things started out slowly with a few reluctant hands, but built momentum as the night went on. There were apologies to family members for conflicts, stories of struggle and depression and talk of spiritual transformation. A number of kids mentioned originally not wanting to go to camp, only to arrive and have their lives changed. One boy shared a story of fasting for two days, just to decide if he should attend camp or not. Carlos Mejia tried to wrap up the testimonies multiple times, but the kids refused to be silent—they wanted their stories heard. With a slew of late testimonies, the service ran well over three hours long, later than 11 p.m. with the most genuine and touching testimonies I’ve ever heard. These kids are courageous and pour their entire hearts into IYF—and the result is huge, transformational experiences.

And just like that, the week that had began so slowly had ended so quickly. We were given a little over an hour to socialize and say some goodbyes after the testimony service, since many of the kids were leaving at different times early the next morning. Katrina and I headed out before 8 a.m. and we drove home from La Buena Fe reflecting. 

With Geri, the fantastic translator, Darywn and WILFREDO! 

When we arrived back in San Pedro Sula, we were greeted by Wilfredo, Darwyn (from Bolivia), Jaenette (from Colombia), Gustavo (from Chile) who were in Honduras for some meetings with Carlos. It was amazing to see Wilfredo one last time before heading home to the US and weird to think that we didn't know when we would see him again. After the headed out for their meeting, Katrina and I spent the remainder of the day with the Mejia family, packing, uploading photos and, of course, eating one last round of baleadas. The next morning came too soon and before we knew it we were bidding yet another family goodbye and heading to the airport.

See ya, David Enrique!

And that my friends, is the jist of Honduran experience. For a while, Katrina and I didn’t know if we were excited to go to Honduras or not—it was a weird state of being in limbo between leaving Peru and returning home. Yet, looking back, I wouldn’t have done it any other way. Honduras was, in some ways, just as rich of an experience as Peru was. It was a different viewpoint of the Community of Christ and a reminder that just because two countries speak Spanish, doesn't mean that they have much in common. 

And now--limbo is over, and it's time to remember what Community of Christ is like in the United States. 

**As mentioned earlier, I’m writing a few more posts before I retire from blogging (for now anyway.) Check back in a few days to hear about IYF in the US!**

Honduras: The Land of Coffee, Butter and Baleadas

Buenas Noches from Honduras!

I’m sitting just outside of Carlos Mejia’s house in San Pedro Sula, enjoying the late-afternoon breeze that is finally sweeping away some of today’s thick heat. I recently finished a cup of Honduran coffee, which, as rumor would have it, is the best coffee in the world, and I’m attempting to keep myself from gorging on the family’s recent purchase of chicharron flavored chifle (banana chips and pork grinds.) Today is a good day.

So let’s recap.

Check out the cupcake setup at the youth event! 

After a quick layover in Panama, we arrived in Honduras Friday night. Carlos Mejia picked us up in the airport and we quickly swang by his house in San Pedro Sula, before going to dinner to eat a Honduran favorite: Baleadas. Baleadas are a big tortilla stuffed with beans, cheese, and butter, then topped off with your choice of side: chicken, pork, eggs, avocado etc. Now I know what you’re thinking—all the ingredients in this sound totally normal except for the butter. Why is their butter in this? And, isn’t this just a burrito? No. It’s not a burrito. And yes, the butter is necessary. I have no idea why, but the butter is better here and is magically delicious.

Anyway, I got my baleada with eggs and chorizo and it was delicious. I also found out that baleadas give you what I have dubbed “the pancake effect.” This is where you don’t realize that you’re incredibly full until it’s too late, then you walk around stuffed to the gills with food, swearing that the food is continuing to expand while inside of you. Needless to say, our full stomachs ensured that we slept well that night.

Carlos preaching Sunday morning in San Pedro Sula. 

Saturday we had a little more time to get to know the family. Carlos and his wife, Carmen, have two daughters, Carla, a public defender, and Carmen Luisa, who is currently a stay-at-home mom with her two-year-old son, David. Carmen Lusia and her husband, Ronald, live right next door to Carlos and the houses have a nice outdoor area that connects them. Carla lives with her parents and shares a room with Alejandra, her cousin. While the residence is technically two separate houses, the family passes in and out of the houses like they are one. Cooking is done in Carlos’ house. TV is watched in Carmen Luisa’s house. General conversation and dining seems to happen in the nice outdoor area outside the two houses where the air is a little fresher. Which reminds me…

Honduras is hot. Now, allow me to admit that I’m a bit of a baby—but my excuse is that it was winter when we left Peru and we were acclimated to cold weather. In Honduras it’s about 93 here during the day, which is about the same temperature as the Midwest, I know, I know; but here’s the kicker: air conditioning isn’t popular in Honduras. In fact, we generally only have air condition when we sleep thanks to a handy little unit in our room; this is truly a gift from God. Any other time of the day and we are slightly melting. I think I find myself telling Katrina that I’m so sweaty I smell by at least 11 a.m. every day. Sorry, America—as your ambassador here in Honduras, I’m currently giving everyone the impression that Americans are sweaty and smelly. You’re welcome.

Katrina trying Banana soda. 

Anyway—getting back to business, Saturday night was our first chance to see the congregation in San Pedro Sula. We attended an annual event that celebrates the youth in the congregation. About 20 young adults showed up, dressed to the nines. Carlos gave a brief sermon, but the night was mainly devoted to enjoying the young adult band that was cranking out praise music and enjoying eachothers’ company.

Sunday morning was what I shall call “marathon church.” We attended three back to back services in San Pedro Sula and were in church from 6 a.m. to about 1 p.m. Marathon church. It was interesting to see that each service had a different vibe, thought I will admit that the 10 a.m. service was my favorite; there were a few young adults that danced alongside the praise band and more time for testimonies and dynamics.

The final service ended with an activity where congregation members could wash each other’s feet in reference to John 3:1-17, where Jesus washes his disciple’s feet. I will pause here to say that the church in Central America is a bit more eccentric—and I mean that in the best of ways. There seems to generally be a lot more crying in church, and the feet washing definitely brought on a lot of tears. The San Pedro Sula congregation is going through a bit of a struggle at the moment and the congregation recently lost about 70% of their membership, along with their pastor. I think this made the event particularly emotional.  

With Jordanna, Emily, Alejandra & Carla. 

After, church wrapped up, there was a little time for socializing, and we headed to Pizza Hut with the family to have a celebratory lunch. I am not ashamed to admit that I drank three full glasses of horchata at lunch, which is a lot like drinking an entire container of almond-flavored coffee creamer. After lunch, we took a little time for siesta, in which nearly everyone slept, but Jordanna, a 15-year-old in the San Pedro congregation, and I powered through our sleepiness to watch the Costa Rica v. Greece game (yes, I am still addicted to the World Cup. And yes, everyone here is rooting for Costa Rica, so it was fantastic.)

Stepping into this week, since Monday, we’ve devoted most of our time to preparation for the International Youth Forum (IYF). Tuesday we had the chance to visit the campground, La Buena Fe, where the forum will be held. We also got to sit in on a meeting where local church leaders bought the church campgrounds, which was a pretty big moment for Comunidad de Cristo because La Buena Fe is where the church was born in Central America.  After taking inventory of the campgrounds sizing up a few things, we headed out. La Buena Fe is right off of a large and beautiful lake and places to eat fried bass and tilapia are abundant, so we stopped for lunch on the way home. We absolutely demolished some fried bass, and it was certainly in the top three greatest fish I’ve had during my year with World Service Corps (which is saying something. Also…for the record, the best fish of the year was the trout on the island of Tequile in Lake Titicaca. Best fish EVER.)

We (finally) got dressed in our Sunday best! 

And that brings us me back to tonight, with my empty coffee cup and the warm Honduran breeze. We've had a rushed, but wonderful experience with the Mejia family so far, including soccer practice with little David, movie night with Carla and Alejandra, and lessons in tortilla making with Carmen Lusia. The family here is beautiful and truly mean it when they say, "My house is your house."

Our time for last second preparations is quickly running out—the camp director, Steve Hatch, arrives tonight, tomorrow is devoted to some last second prep and Friday we head back to La Buena Fe to get things ready. The IYF starts Saturday and finishes up Thursday morning, then we head back to the United States on Friday—thus our time ever continues to run out.

I won’t have internet at our campgrounds, but I’m hopeful that I’ll be able to post one more time before we head back to the land where football is played with a brown, spiral-shaped ball. So—until next time! 

The Great Migration: Go North

Okay kids, I've got less than an hour to post something before we have to leave for the airport, so I'm going to throw something together for you. Sound good?

Wilfredo and I playing around at Costa Verde. 

Monday was a catch-up day for Katrina and I. Normal people would have used the day to get ready for our departure, so, naturally, we packed nothing, planned nothing and accomplished very little, other than watching excessive amounts of the World Cup.

Tuesday we were normal people and got out of the house. We started the day with a morning run on Costa Verde with Wilfredo. Costa Verde is this nice area the borders the Pacific Ocean and runs from Callao all the way to the more touristic area of Miraflores. After about 5K, we stripped off our shoes and waded into the ocean, which was fantastic. I’d always wanted to run near the beach and it was a great way to signify finally accomplishing my goal.

Ready to dip my feet in! 

After that, we headed back to Graciela’s house so Wilfredo could cook ceviche for us one last time. Ceviche is Wilfredo’s specialty and about as Lima as you get when you talk about Peruvian cuisine. As always, the ceviche was fantastic and left me slightly depressed that I won’t be living near the ocean again anytime soon.

Wednesday was our last visit with Virgilio, one of the oldest members of the congregation in Filadelfia, and as always the night involved coffee, sandwiches and hours of conversation about how the church could make improvements. I don’t always get too into the “this is what we’re doing wrong” conversations, but it is nice to see that there are congregation members here who don’t want to just maintain the church—they want to improve it.

Enjoy the Pacific Ocean after our run.

Thursday we took Wilfredo on one more run—this time our traditional loop around the airport, then came back just in time to watch the USA v. Germany game. Katrina, like a responsible adult, spent most of the game packing, cleaning and preparing things, and Wilfredo and I spent the entire game absolutely glued to the television and yelling nonsensical and non-helpful things at it, such as, “STOP PASSING IT BACKWARDS.” But—we advanced! I’ll take it.

Thursday night we had some of the family over for one last goodbye. Our flight leaves at 2 p.m. today, thus the majority of our host family will be at work and can’t “despedirnos” at the airport—so we thought a night-before party was necessary. We had soda and cake and our host family took turns responding to three prompts for us:

1.       I suppose that…

2.       I’m grateful that…

3.       I hope that…

By far the hardest part of the night was the last person to answer the prompts—Wilfredo—because he got a little choked up. We’ve spent more time with Wilfredo than anyone in Peru and we’ve shared a mountain of experiences together—from painting the church in Monte Sion, to driving to Huánuco, to simply attending all the weekly church events. Over the last year Wilfredo has been an essential part of our existence, and I like to believe we’ve been rather important to him as well. That goodbye, in just a few minutes now, should be the most challenging of them all.

Wilfredo's famous ceviche. 

And folks—that’s where we stand. Our bags our packed (and we really hope they aren’t over the weight limit), we’ve cleared our things out of all the rooms and now we’re just helplessly watching out time in Peru run out.

Again, it’s impossible to say what this year has meant to me—partially because I’m still so close to it. I like to think this year is like a Monet painting, in that when your close, it just looks like a bunch of nonsensical blobs—but when you step away, you see something entirely beautiful. I don’t think we’ll be able to really get the idea of how the painting looks until we hang up our World Service Corps shirts for the last time.

Speaking of which—we have 33 days left as World Service Corps volunteers. Here’s the breakdown of what’s to come:

Cancha, I will miss you. 

-1 week visiting congregations in Honduras

-1 week helping with the International Youth Forum (IYF) in Honduras

-1 week helping with the International Youth Forum (IYF) in Independence, MO

-1 week helping with SPECTACULAR

-A few days of debriefing with World Service Corps

And so begins our great migration north. I think it’s pretty freaking awesome that I’ll be able to say I’ve been to South, Central and North America in 2014. But more than checking another few countries to off my list, I think it’s cool to say I’ve participated in congregations in each of those places. Lived with host families. Made lasting connections.

And, with that folks—it’s time to pack the computer back up. I’m hoping to post in Honduras, but if I can’t—I’ll see you back on the other side. 

Our Last Service: Fuzzy Llamas & General Sappiness

It’s amazing to me how, while so many people have a distaste for public speaking, when you get down to actually doing it, your time feels so limited.

Flying like eagles with my kid's class in Monte Sion. 

For example, when someone tells you, “Melissa, can you share a 10 minute testimony about your year in Peru?” it feels like an impossible feat. Oh yes—let me just cram 525,600 minutes into 600 seconds, no big deal. All the same, this was what that lay ahead of me not just once, but twice last weekend—and here’s how it went down.  

Our last night in Monte Sion was bitter-sweet. We started the night with our kid’s classes, Katrina teaching the kids under eight years old, and myself teaching the kids ages 8-13. My last few classes in Monte Sion have been nothing short of free-for-all—angry teacher voice included; however, Saturday’s class went more smoothly than any other class this month. We talked about the scripture that says, “They will soar on wings like eagles” and we spent the class making eagles out of the hand prints

of our classmates.

With Gaby and Shirley. 

When time ran out, we took some pictures to commemorate our time together and it was time to say goodbye to some of the wonderful children that give the Monte Sion congregation such life. Perhaps the most challenging goodbye was with Gaby, an 11 year old who is ridiculously helpful, sweet, patient and understanding. I was sad to see that Aner, one of my favorite boy students, couldn’t make it; class is generally easier without Aner’s mischievousness, but there’s never quite as much life without him. Luckily, I did see him for Friday’s English class—so our last memory together can be him proudly saying, “Hola LOSER!” after we learned soccer-related words.

After our goodybes with the little ones, we started the church service. Gladys, who was presiding, allowed some time for farewell testimonies from congregation members, and of course, Katrina and myself. It was touching to see how many people came out for the farewell—nearly everyone we’d met in the congregation came out to say goodbye. And it was humbling to hear some of their words—commending us for spending a year away from home and calling us “patient” (something I have perhaps never in my life been called.)

Thanks for the memories, Monte Sion! 

When it came time for Katrina and I to talk, we took different approaches. Katrina talked about some specific memories we’d shared with the congregation—namely, Día Del Niño, painting and singing in the soccer field located just outside the church. I chose to go with a metaphor (shocking, right?) talking about how one year can be such a short moment in our lives—like the 15 minute break in the middle of a World Cup soccer game—but it can change how you approach the other half of the game. Both of us ended our testimonies with a mountain of thanks—for their patience, for the attendance, for their encouragement and spirit, and then came the hugs, tears and pictures.

And—just like that—a year of Friday and Saturday nights in Monte Sion ended and what we’ve known as our weekly rituals and routines, changed. Thus, Sunday was upon us and with it our last church service in Fildadelfia. We made the event an all-day affair, heading to Prudencio’s house at 11 a.m. to make a pisco cake and watch a bit of the World Cup with the family. Around 2 p.m. we had our traditional “special event at Prudencio’s house” lunch, which includes barbecued chicken and beef, Peru’s special corn “choclo”, and potatoes drenched in Livia’s famous delicious creams and sauces. On principle, we all ate until we were miserably full.

Sharing our testimonies in Filadelfia. 

Eventually 5 p.m. was upon us and we shared in one last church service with the family. I spent most of the service really trying to enjoy some of my favorite things about church in Peru—specifically my favorite Spanish hymns. The service wrapped up quickly, then afterwards we held a separate event for our goodbyes. A few select congregation members shared testimonies, including some especially touching words from our host sister, Karen. Then Jhonny, the pastor in Filadelfia, gave us some going away presents that fantastically represented Peru—big fuzzy llamas and snow hats.

Before we knew it, it was time for Katrina and I to once more attempt to address an amazing year of our life in just ten minutes. This time around, Katrina and I both mentioned specific moments we’d loved with our Peruvian family—from watching Prudencio (who can’t swim) wade out into the deep waters of the Pacific Ocean, to our host family having nightly conversations with Tommy the cat.

With our fantastic presents. 

Then, once again, it was time for the singing, the hugging, and the pictures and like that—our last service in Filadelfia was over. We hugged and said some goodbyes, thankful that we have a going away party planned for Thursday night so that these wouldn’t have to be our very last ones.

And—with that what can I say?

I guess the best way I have to describe things is that metaphor that I used in Monte Sion. If life is a big soccer game, and my trip to Peru is my one year break in things, I can say that I don’t think I was going into the half with the lead. I went into the half tired, cramping and a little disheartened with the score board. So was Peru some big motivational speech from the coach in the locker room? Not necessarily. It was more like it was just sitting in silence with my teammates, knowing they were there with me, and taking a moment to breathe and remember what we came here for.

We simply have too many memories with Wilfredo to count.

I think if the World Cup has taught me anything, it’s that you can’t go into the World Cup honestly expecting your team to win it all—for Pete’s sake, there are more than 7 billion people in this world, and you think those nine players on the field are the absolute best of all of them? And, even if they were, is life really that predictable? No. But—what you can expect is the electricity of playing the game of being involved in something bigger than yourself. And I think we got a reminder of that during our time in Peru.

At times, I’m scared of coming home to the United States. Because in Peru, everything you do is important, because you only have one year to do it, and you’re doing it in another country. World Service Corps has been like having the chance to live like you’re dying—with the benefit of not actually having to die at the end of it (thank goodness.)

Thanks for the memories, Filadelfia! 

But more than all of that, I have to make clear that while our time in Peru was a bit of a novelty, it never felt like it was just a novelty. From day one, the people here have made us feel at home and that we’re not just these weirdos that turned up on their doorstep (which, in fact, we are.) I was talking to a friend from home the other day and he told me that the life of someone who loves to travel is hard, because you’re always somehow wishing that you’re somewhere that you’re not. I don’t know that I completely agree with that statement—but I can say that after this year I do have two sets of families. I have my American father, mother, sister, brother-in-law, etc. and I have my Peruvian version. 

And that’s the dangerous thing about going out and doing something like World Service Corps—it’s that you’ve now developed ANOTHER split in your personality and both of your multiple personalities can never be fully satisfied at once. This is particularly interesting for me, because I already have about 17 personalities.  I am now a journalist AND a teacher. I’m a Christian AND a sloppy disaster. I’m a health nut that likes to eat peanut butter in massive quantities.  I enjoy close, intimate connections with others and I’m completely horrified of romantic relationships. And now—I’m an American and a Peruvian. I don’t really understand how there is space for all of that inside of me, but maybe that’s why I’ve been gaining weight lately…or that could go back to the peanut butter thing.

Our fantastic host family: Karen, Jhonny, Graciela & Rocio. 

Regardless my friends—that is where I stand. One more personality to tally up, a year of memories and all rested up, ready to take the field for the second half. I have no better way of explaining it—at least not at the moment.

I'll try to post  again before we leave Peru, because, frankly, I don’t know if we will have time or the internet access to make blog posts from Honduras; but also because we ARE doing some cool things this week—running along the Pacific Ocean, eating ceviche, and, of course, watching the USA v. Germany game with Wilfredo. Entonces—hasta luego.

Our Last Week: Sexual Pottery and the Fish Market

Folks, Katrina and I have had our last bible study, kid’s classes and services in both Monte Sion and Filadelfia—and still, none of it feels real. I don’t know if I can fully explain why, but here’s my attempt:

Museo Larco: Funeral Headress

When you go on vacation, the new place you’re in never feels like home. It never becomes your entire life, your daily, weekly and monthly routine. You never start calling someone your “Peruvian mother” or “Peruvian cousin,” make friends with the girl down the street while buying empanadas or discover that the best Peruvian coffee comes from Chanchamayo. You never forget that you’re going home at the end of all of this—because, in fact, you’re living out of your suitcase and you’re running seriously low on clean clothes and you kind of need to go home.

But for a year, Peru has been my life. Everything I do IS Peru. My year has seriously been devoted to existing in Peru and little more than that. It’s been devoted to acclimating as best I can, being a chameleon and blending into the church here, as if I had been here all along, you just didn’t notice. So then you tell me that I’m leaving here and it’s like your mom saying, “We’re selling the house you grew up in and we’re all moving to Canada.” You’re kind of like…no.

Museo Larco: Different Club Heads

But—believe it or not, the sand runs out and in less than 75 hours, we’ll be on a plane, headed to Honduras, with no real plans to return to Peru. I feel like it’s somewhat comparable to shaving my head. My hair is a somewhat essential part of who I am that, for some reason or another, I have to completely get rid of, and see what’s there afterwards. I’m hoping there aren’t any weird scars or lumps I didn’t know about.

But—enough of those confusing similes, I will have plenty of time later to ramble on about what goodbye to Peru really feels like in a later post—let’s recap.

Our last two weeks have mainly been devoted to rushing around and doing all of the things we’ve been saying we would do for ages now. This included, Monday, going to Larco Museum. Now, a museum is a museum, so I won’t go into too much detail on this, but I DO want to say that this was one of the first times that Katrina and I decided we wanted to go somewhere and found our way there by public transit, all by ourselves, without even telling anyone we were going. I feel like we should get some kind of, “You’re almost like real people now” medal for this.

Some of the delicious selections at the Pesquero. 

The other thing I have to say is that the Incans made a lot of sexual ceramics, for ceremonial/traditional/informative purposes. A lot of these relics didn’t survive the Spanish conquistadores because they were slightly mortified to find relics of anal sex sitting in the homes of the Incas; however, some artifacts did survive the colonization and Larco Museum has two entire rooms devoted to them. If, like me, you have somehow failed to develop any maturity whatsoever in your life, this room is both interesting and hilarious.

We finished up Monday by watching the USA v. Ghana game and I can officially say I now VERY much enjoy soccer and have completely lost control of my hands while watching it. Sometimes they fly up above my head and I find myself yelling, “GOOOOAAALLLLL!!!” and in other moments they clutch my face and I watch the game through my fingers, like Chuckie on the Rugrats. It’s slightly mortifying behavior, but I seriously have no ability to stop it and I’m not about to stop watching soccer—I just started liking it.

Apparently a lot of people like to buy seaweed. 

Tuesday was a big day for Katrina and I as we checked two things off our Peru list—both fish related. We started our morning at a sunny 5:30 a.m. and headed to the “pesquero” (fish market) with our host aunt, Consuelo. Consuelo goes to the fish market every morning, buys about 50 lbs of fish, then sells it at the local market here in Callao. Being from the Midwest, I’ve never been to anything remotely close to a fish market before, and it was fascinating. Perhaps my favorite thing was seeing all the massive swordfish laid out, then hacked into reasonable amounts of food. My least favorite part is that the men in the fish market act like they are sailors on shore leave (which, for all I know, they are) and the whistling is completely overwhelming. One of them sees us, realizes that Katrina and I are white and look awkwardly out of place, and thus somehow appealing (I don’t understand this logic) and commences whistling—and what follows is a chorus of whistling and clapping from at least 50 people, that lasts a mortifying full 30 seconds, while you drag a giant bag of dead fish through the market. I think Consuelo’s favorite part of the morning was when a very old man who couldn’t really walk anymore asked us if we were single, then told us he was single too.

Consuelo and Katrina outside the Pesquero. 

After that charming experience, we washed up and headed out to sushi with Wilfredo. Wilfredo loves sushi, but nobody else in his family does. Actually—Wilfredo loves a lot of things that it seems only Katrina and I happen to love. Anyway, since most of the time he has nobody to eat sushi with, we decided it was simply necessary that we go out to sushi with him.

Peru has the second largest Japanese population in Latin America (after Brazil) and was the first Latin American country to allow Japanese immigration. For that reason, about 0.3% of Peru’s population today is Japanese-Peruvian and there are few Japanese cultural centers sprinkled throughout Lima. What else does this mean? Let’s do some math:

Port City + Japanese Influence = Fantastic Sushi.

We went to a sushi spot called K’tana that was a fantastic mix of Peru and Japan. Perhaps my favorite part of the experience was the drinks—green tea mixed with orange and passion fruit—I am a complete sucker for delicious tea and this more than satisfied.

Japanese-Peruvian Sushi--Delicious. 

After Tuesday, our week trickled away, mainly due to the World Cup. My friends, Katrina and I have about a billion things to plan—IYF classes in Honduras, being a particularly large one—yet the World Cup has come in and obliterated any hopes I ever had at being productive. I have transformed into one of those large blow up men that flap around in the wind outside of businesses all crazy like to attract attention and bring in customers—expect I just flap around for no purpose at all, cheering for any team that speaks Spanish or has a remotely endearing quality.

However, my complete lack of self-discipline and work ethic did not slow the week down, and Friday was quickly upon us. It was my last turn teaching the adult bible study in Monte Sion. This week’s topic dealt with addressing conflicts in a marriage, but I quickly modified the theme to addressing conflicts in a family, since I am probably the worst person you could consult on marital issues. The class went well and it was particularly nice to have partner discussion and the opportunity to chat with Maria about her family. Maria’s family regularly attends church in Monte Sion and I adore her children—but I’ve never got to meet her husband, so it was nice to finally hear a little about what he was like (even if it was in the context of conflict.) We finished up class and rode in silence for a bit, knowing what was coming tomorrow—our very last day in Monte Sion.

Wilfredo and I enjoying some green tea! 

And on this note—I’m going to awkwardly and abruptly end this post—because I think our goodbye weekend justifies its own entry (and this post is already absurdly long…and the Uruguay v. Itay game is on.) My friends, I enjoy writing and I like to hear myself type, but I have to say capturing the sentiments of our goodbyes is a near impossible feat. Not only because of emotion behind it, but because I also feel like a dog that’s watching its owners pack up their suitcases—I know something big is happening, but I don’t really fully understand what; but I DO know that it means change and that makes me want to make high pitch whining noises that nobody particularly enjoys.

Does that make sense? I didn’t think so. Anyway—until next time.