Day seven began similarly to the rest, and I wasn't complaining. The thin eggy pancakes, the squeeze bag of raw honey, Tyler stockpiling the strawberry jelly packs, all were becoming a welcome and comforting routine. I needed that little bit of comfort that morning for I knew what the coming day held. That day was going to be take-two of the door to door evangelism thing.
Soon we were off to what I would consider, at least in appearance, the poorest neighborhood we encountered on the trip. To further punctuate this thought, Fabio decide to come along with us, just in case. Upon arriving and scoping out the area, two things became apparent: 1) corrugated aluminum seemed to be the building material of choice for most of the residents and, in some cases, just leaning a few pieces together constituted a room. 2) This particular neighborhood was just the tip of the impoverished iceberg. For running through the valley below was what looked like a river of makeshift shanties, even worse off in appearance the homes above.
As I stood surveying the slums below, it didn't feel real. I felt like I was in some incredibly immersive movie. Yet the reality persisted, as sounds of vitality rose from the rag-tag neighborhood. A hailing neighbor, a barking dog, children shouting in play perfumed the air with glimpses of everyday life. It's moments like this that offer perspective and ever elusive sobriety in regards to the privileged conditions in which I live. And from that, the door to door just sort of amorphously commenced.
With my trusty Karina at my side, we addressed our first home. An older woman answered the door and upon hearing we were missionaries, welcomed us inside to pray over their home and her sick daughter. The woman called for her husband and daughter to come and join us. After introductions, I placed my hand on the daughter's shoulder and we began to pray. As I was praying for healing over this woman, she began to sway in tight, little circles which became larger in larger as the prayer progressed. Soon she was whipping around pretty significantly. When I finished praying, she stopped. It was peculiar, and I don't know what else to really say about it. Anyway, I thanked the family for allowing us in their home and the pastor of the church we were partnered with for the day shared with them a little information about his church while Karina and I headed to the next house.
It felt good having a door opened up to us right off the bat. In fact, soon after, Karina and I were engaged with another homeowner just down the road. Though he did not let us into his home, he did grace us with a good twenty minutes, or so, of conversation. His name was Alberto and I have to say, the conversation we had was probably the first "real" feeling interaction I've had during a door to door session. After getting over the initial wrenching of the conversation into the deep end of things, the situation really seemed to open up. I no longer felt like I was giving some sales pitch or presenting my argument in a debate team competition, and his responses weren't drenched with staunch overtones in an attempt to politely to shoo me from his porch.
As we talked, he wore the common shoe of the people we'd been meeting. He was Catholic in the sense that he owned a Bible, and stuttered when asked about where he felt he'd go when he died. I, in turn, explained to him the assurance we have in Jesus Christ --that know matter the misdeeds of our past, no matter how badly we've screwed up, our citizenship in Heaven is affirmed when we come into relationship with Jesus and acknowledge Him as our Savior. He seemed to hear me in a very real way. Then he asked me an interesting question that I, in some way probably due in part to my own occasional wonders, somewhat expected.
"So, you say that Christ forgives all sins. That no matter what you've done, you are forgiven and are going to Heaven if you accept Jesus as your Savior?" Alberto asked. I affirmed. He continued, "So, say a man, (he referenced a historical figure but I forgot the name) in his past, murdered hundreds of children, but before he died he accepted Christ as his Savior. What happens to him? Is he in Heaven or Hell?"
I kind of laughed at the question, applauding him for the difficulty of the premise. You know what I told him? Something I feel Christians don't say near enough are often too prideful to admit --I don't know.
"I don't know," I admitted. "There's know way I can know the condition of the man's relationship with Christ, but I will say this. I feel that the Grace that God provides is bigger than any of us can ever fathom, or even want to fathom in some cases." And I left it there. I was okay with not knowing the answer.
And in regards to the example Alberto provided, I trust that God, in his infinite wisdom and character, would judge justly, and that justice may very well look differently than we, as creatures hindered by our fallen nature and finite state, might expect.
He seemed satisfied with my admission and the conversation continued. Talk continued to touch on the realm of salvation and at one point I asked him if he'd like to acknowledge Jesus Christ as his Savior in that moment and, consequently, have assurance of where he'd go when he died. Again, the realness of his response was refreshing. He explained that it is something that he'd like to think some more about. He mentioned maybe going to a Bible Study the local church was hosting, or talking to someone in the church. I encouraged him to do so and lauded him in his approach to a decision such as this.
"Please, do take your time in deciding this. This is the most important decision you will make in your life, it warrants contemplation. Take all the time that you need, but no more than you have to." I also explained to him that this is a personal decision that he was making, one between him and God. He does not need to seek out a pastor or deacon in order to make this something official. He can talk directly to Jesus Himself.
As we were saying our goodbyes, Alberto asked a question that sent a warmth throughout my entire being, "Will I see you again?"
I smiled as I responded, "I don't know. I'll be back next year. If we come to this neighborhood again, I'll look for you. I expect great news next time I see you." Then I added. "You know, if you buy into this relationship with Jesus thing, then I have no doubt we will see each other again, in Heaven."
By this time, I was feeling it. Real conversation and real good can be had with this whole door to door thing! Who'd a thunk? Even when we'd get the, "Go away!' from the back of the house, or the I'm-pretending-I'm-not-home-but-doing-a-bad-job-at-it-by-still-making-noise charade, my confidence was still brimming. God was working in these interactions --door to door, done in love, and God was showing up!
Soon, Karina and I were at the porch of a little old lady's home. She was very sweet and greeted us through the bars of the window we hailed her from. She apologized for not going so far as to invite us in and explained that the last time she let people claiming to be missionaries into her home, they robbed her -- a notion that I still have a hard time stomaching. So we settled for relating across the window sill.
Our interaction was more stereotypical of the many we experienced that trip. Again, we found someone entrenched in religion, offering rather passive and automated responses to our inquiries. We did get to love on her though, and pray whilst holding her boney little hands through the wrought iron. As the conversation wrapped, she offered us some homemade popsicles. Weary of the water source, I passed, but Karina happily obliged. She opted for coconut, which was literally pulverized coconut frozen in an upside down cup shape, with little chunks of the hairy, brown exterior and all.
The final interaction we had that morning was with a kid likely only a few years younger than myself. Again, the barred window was our medium and after some initial hesitation/suspicion, he really started to open up. His name was Leonardo and he was currently studying engineering at what I assume was the university level. As conversation turned God-ward, he revealed that he felt that there was a distance between himself and God. When asked who's fault he felt that was, he admitted it was probably his. As he acknowledged this I noticed a distance in his eyes, as though that admission had struck something deep within himself.
"You know," I started. "God is always right there. No matter how far away you think you've run, you can simply turn around and find Him standing right beside you."
He seemed to agree with me. Then he asked me one of my favorite questions of the trip. "How do you pray to God?"
"Just like you are having a conversation with a friend." I replied. "Just like you and I are talking right now. Be real. Be honest. It's not like there isn't anything he doesn't know already. Let him know how you really feel. Your thoughts, your fears, your anger, your doubt. He can take it."
Again, I could feel him listening. There was that beautiful discomfort in his face that told me God was at work. That his very spirit was responding. There's such a profound meaningfulness in experiences like that. It's something that I can't describe and am really only beginning to recognize myself.
By that time the rest of the group was gathered about half a block away and motioned to me that it was time to go. The three of us prayed together and then Karina and I headed back to the group.
On our way back to the city, we stopped by a Chinese restaurant for lunch, at which Fabio joined us. Much to everyone's excitement, Fabio's girlfriend agreed to meet us there as well. She was welcomed with open arms, as Fabio beamed with pride introducing her to everyone.
Due to the cancellation of a mural we were scheduled to paint in a local skate park, we had the afternoon free. Being that we were leaving the next morning, many of us took the time to peruse the shops around our hotel for gift to bring back to family and friends.
After managing to end up in a shop by myself attempting to buy four bracelets for five thousand pesos a piece and having the shop worker thinking I was trying to haggle with him, a group of us went on a quest to find Alexsa an indigenous musical instrument to bring back to the States. As we walked to a music shop north of our hotel, we came across a rather large group of people gathered in a circle in the plaza with the large tree mentioned in a previous post. These spectacles weren't uncommon in a city that had mostly B-grade street performers seemingly on every corner. However the performance at the center of this particular circle was rather unsettling. Two men had constructed a little altar on the ground with various trinkets and what appeared to be a Bible. They proceeded to theatrically buzz about the space provided by the crowd, uttering incantations and pouring water on the ground. The whole display really messed with me, it just felt dark.
After shaking off the uneasiness caused by such a scene, we continued on to the music store where Alexsa purchased what I would describe as a crude version of an auto-harp. I forget what it's actually called but it had a cool, rustic look to it.
On our way back, we came across some street vendors sitting on the corner of a high foot-traffic area and decided to check out their wares. There were two jewelry vendors who I assumed were together based on their matching hippie exteriors/vibes. They had a huge array of really well done bracelets, necklaces, and the like. Lirio, being a jewelry maker herself, jumped right into conversation with the two. Meanwhile, Janice and I decided to talk to the third, likely unrelated guy sitting down at the same corner.
His name was Juan and he wielded a classical guitar and a love for '90s grunge music. He asked if we knew of Nirvana, we nodded, and after explaining that he knows very little English but will attempt to sing in it anyway, began to play. Though the name of the song escapes me, I was impressed with his rendition of it. Firstly, because I'm impressed with anyone who can sing and play guitar at the same time, but mainly because his minimal grasp on English actually aided him in his emulation of Kirt Cobain.
The next song on his playlist came from a genre I'm much less familiar with, Argentinian grunge. Again, I really enjoyed the performance. As I sat there listening to this grubby street performer, flanked by hippie jewelers in the middle of a shopping district in downtown Armenia, Colombia I had yet another one of those God-is-so-good / How-could-I-have-even-imagined-an-experience-such-as-this moments.
After Juan finished and we applauded, he began to explain to me that he desired to go to Buenos Aires, Argentina, that as far as he was concerned, it was the hub of musical talent in South America. I, in turn, told him about the city of Nashville having a similar accolade in the States. This peaked his interest greatly. The proceeding few minutes consisted of him inquiring about the so-called Music City, including how to get to said place. His eyes glistened as I regaled with talk of talented musicians on every corner and recording studios on seemingly every street.
As it came time for us to head back to the hotel, Juan gave me his Facebook information while the girls finalized their purchases from the assumed hippie couple. I particularly enjoyed that interaction. In some ways it was a slice of normalcy. It felt like a conversation I could easily find myself in back in the U.S.
The remainder of the night consisted of dinner at one of the larger local restaurants --at which I had a rather odd turkey sandwich swimming in an orange glaze-- along with various conversations and mulling about the hotel lobby. An obvious undertone however, was the fact that tomorrow we were leaving to go back to the U.S., a notion that, to my complete surprise, made me rather sad.
No comments:
Post a Comment