Lynn Myrick

December Celebrations

2012-01-19T21:10:00.000-08:00

December in Bolivia works double-time as a month of celebrations. Whereas those of us from the United States spend the month Christmas shopping, decorating our homes, and writing Christmas cards, people in Bolivia are also commemorating the rites of spring, which includes the commencement of summer vacation, graduations, and even dance recitals. In the picture below is a high school graduation, which is called a promotion. These students have completed programs in the technical arts: computer technology and fashion design, among others. In the picture below, Hermana Elsa, the head of the school, introduces the dancers who will perform during the graduation ceremony. I have seen many traditional dance performances in the past two years, and even performed myself, but this student performance was of a profession calibre.

This school is called San Francisco and Santa Clara Colegio, and the tuition is $3 a month. Because the tuition is so affordable for people of little means (and the education excellent), the parents work together, almost as a co-operative, to keep the school going, working on the school grounds and in the large beautiful garden between the buildings and the walls that surround and protect the school.

I am going to teach for the second time in my life at a high school. I had just agreed to teach English classes the next year at this school, as well as take on a catechesis class. In fact, I am at this time teaching two interim English classes in the summer session. At the time of the ceremony, when I thought of myself as a mere onlooker, I suddenly found myself being introduced to the crowd of parents, relatives, and friends in the auditorium as the new English instructor. Not in the least a known quantity, I was the subject of applause in a room full of people whom I did not know. I had not done anything worthy yet; I had merely agreed to try to do something worthy. So I was surprised by the show of appreciation, or rather, the welcoming applause of the people whose children I was teach.

Another graduation or promotion ceremony took place the next day, Sunday. My husband and I have a young friend in our barrio. Her name is Lizbeth, and just a couple of weeks after we had moved to Cochabamba, we were sitting on the bus, talking in English, when a girl behind us asked us if we could give her English lessons. Apparently, she had been listening in and heard that we were teaching English classes. We agreed to visit her at her house sometime, meet her family, and have English conversation with her once a week. She took us up on our offer, and called us up to make these English conversation lessons happen. After being here for a year, we no longer offer private tutoring, not even to Lizbeth, but we have developed a strong friendship with her and her family.

In addition to introducing me to the shopping venues of Cochabamba, Lizbeth has been an active participant in the campus ministry film series Filmania, which Joel and I have helped to promote. The campus ministry of San Simon University, called pastoral juvenil, sponsored two film series last semester, in which we screened films and led discussions about the moral, social, and political dilemmas that emerged in the films. Lizbeth has been an avid discussant, bringing her friends and high school teachers to the film series. When we showed the classic film To Kill a Mockingbird, definitely a relevant film for us in Bolivia because of its theme of racism, Lizbeth almost finished the book in English before attending the screening. Sorry to say, the film ruined the book for her because she did not expect Tom Robinson to die at the end of the narrative.

Lizbeth was also the only Bolivian to attend our all-Franciscan Thanksgiving dinner. She takes care of our pets when we are on vacation and drinks hot chocolate in our house when it is cold and rainy outside. She introduced us to her older brother Nelson who is mastering Japanese, German, and English in his work as a travel agent in Uyuni (he is an economist by education and trade, and continues to look for work relevant to his degree). The four of us watched Happy Feet at our house one Friday night. Her parents have offered us hospitality on many Saturday afternoons (almuerzo [lunch]), as well as providing the twelve plates of food on Good Friday (a Cochabamba tradition in which families eat 12 plates of food on the afternoon of Good Friday, a plate for each disciple. While most Catholics are fasting, Cochabambinos are struggling to force down another plate of food. It should be noted that the plates do not contain meat.). We had Christmas breakfast with them as well, a meal of many varieties of sweet breads, one of which was very much like the beignets served at Cafe du Monde in New Orleans.

One last celebration in December: my birthday dinner. The Franciscans--the missioners and Padre Iggie--came, as well as Lizbeth and her parents (the Belizes). Fellow missioner Nora made my cake, and I received a number of thoughtful gifts.

Consecrated Time

2011-10-18T21:50:00.000-07:00

Recently, I have been seeking a definition of the term consecrated time. I know that the consecrated life refers to the dedicated lives of the religious (nuns, sisters, brothers, and priests), wherein the individual takes vows of poverty, obedience, and chastity. I also know that just as a life may be consecrated, objects may be consecrated as well. The Catholic Encyclopedia defines consecration as "act by which a thing is separated from a common and profane to a sacred use, or by which a person or thing is dedicated to the service and worship of God by prayers, rites, and ceremonies. (http://www.newadvent.org/cathen/04276a.htm) .

What, then, is consecrated time? For Christians, Sundays are consecrated to God; therefore that day is set aside as a "Dia del Senor" (the Lord's Day), as our Sunday liturgical bulletin reads. God was the one who consecrated that day to sacred use, a day for us to rest and to think more about our Creator. One web site I found suggested that any time spent alone, exclusively alone, with God, is consecrated time. Any time that is separated from the common time and dedicated to the service and worship to God may be consecrated time. So when I am sitting alone, reading the Bible or praying, I am consecrating my time to God. While I was in Vanderbilt Divinity School, many students there told me that they wanted to be in the presence of the Divine at all times. One could turn to Brother Lawrence's The Practice of the Presence of God, where one reads that for Brother Lawrence, "common business," is the medium through which one can experience God (http://www.christianitytoday.com/ch/131christians/innertravelers/brotherlawrence.html). Brother Lawrence probably felt that he was practicing what he would be doing for all eternity. Also, Christians receive the promise that if they give a cup of cold water to one of Christ's "little ones," it is as though they are giving it to Jesus himself. Here too, one is in the presence of the Divine.

I hope that my blogs will focus not only on the events here in Bolivia and my cultural interactions with the people here, but my own moments of consecrated time. In this blog, I am going to write about two recent events that I witnessed and participated in, wherein the time allotted was, in a sense, time set apart for sacred us: the 100-year celebration of the founding of the Maryknoll order and the Transitus of St. Francis, the 802-year anniversary of Francis' death, when he passed from this world to the next, his transitus. In these two events that I was able to participate in, both orders, or families, as we say, set aside time to reflect upon their mission, past, present, and future, that is, their participation in God's work on earth . The time set apart was consecrated, in my view, because the Maryknoll family and the Franciscan family withdrew from the world in order to contemplate their roles as God's people in Latin America, and to seek guidance from one another and from God.

At the symposium of the 100 year anniversary of the Maryknolls, celebrated at the Maryknoll Mission Center in Cochabamba, as well as in other places in the world, I encountered not only the Maryknoll fathers, brothers, sisters, and missioners, but also missioners from other religious orders. Some idigenous people participated as well, talking about the role of the Maryknolls in their lives, and assisting in the closing ceremony, which invoked practices and rites from their own religion before the missioners arrived. Father Mike Gilgannon, a Kansas City diocese priest, who has been in La Paz, Bolivia, for 37 years, was also there to lead discussion. He has been our friend since we moved to Carmen Pampa, and back here to Cochabamba. He has been a primary source for our education about Bolivia, along with Father Ignatio Harding (Iggie), our Franciscan mentor in Cochabamba.

The questions asked in the course of the symposium were two-fold: where have the Maryknoll missioners been, and where are they going? Of course, there were many in attendance who were not part of the Maryknoll order but missioners belonging to another order, like the Franciscans, for example, that the questions extended to us all. An important question for me was, How can we be "church" to the people here? By "we," I mean the entire Latin American Catholic church, since all of its members are actually on mission. One aspect of this is how do we reach those people who are Catholics but who don't participate in church, Mass, religious feast days, and other activities? How do we reach the young people? How can we be relevant to the people here?

Barbara J. Fraser, a former Maryknoll missioner who works now as a photographer and journalist based in Lima, Peru, one of the presenters at the conference, reported on the current status of the Maryknoll order. Its numbers are down, and the age of the priests and brothers is up. Some of her major points focused on the contributions that Maryknoll has made and continues to make to the Catholic Church. For example, as Father Raymond Finch,Maryknoll superior general from 1996-2002, and director of the Maryknoll Mission Center in Cochabamba, states, the Maryknolls support "the value and individual worth of all people and cultures," wherever they are, primarily recognizing the "contribution, the worth and beauty in people who are on the margins and have been hurt by society."

Further, as Maryknoll priest "John Conway, 81, says, citing the motto of a Maryknoll founder, "We come, perhaps, when we're needed and not wanted, because we're unknown. We leave when we are wanted but not needed." Fraser goes on to write in her article that this concept of mission is born out in the continuance of those projects begun by the Maryknoll fathers, brothers, and sisters, long ago, that bear fruit to this day. The local churches, schools, and centers are run by the people themselves, a testament, I would say, to the foresight of both the Maryknolls and the people in the regions served (see http://www.americancatholic.org/news/report.aspx?id=3654).

I heard this motto from a sister who trained missioners in the Society of African Missionaries (SMA's), when I was in Ossining, New York, training with three other groups of missioners, among them the Maryknolls hosting the sessions. This is to say that the Catholic mission movement today goes forth to serve the people on the margins, working for peace and justice, and advancing the protection and sharing of the world's resources with all cultures, but especially the marginalized ones.

The symposium began on Thursday, August 25, and finished on Saturday morning, August 27th. It was energizing to return to the Maryknoll Language Institute, to visit the campus where Joel and I had studied Spanish for the first time. We were glad to reconnect with the Maryknoll fathers and one brother, as well as visit with some teachers and staff who were part of the conference. The beauty of the campus still overpowered me. Here is the Maryknoll Fathers and brothers' house, which is located behind the language institute.

Here is the back of the language institute, where Joel taking some time to write between panel discussions.

After the panels, the talks, and the small group discussions, the Maryknolls awarded gifts of appreciation to the contributors. Among those honored was our friend Father Mike Gilgannon, from La Paz.

Mike has worked in campus ministry for years, while also fulfilling his duties as a priest at different churches through the La Paz region. He is a well-known writer for the National Catholic Reporter, as well as a recognized authority on Bolivian culture and politics.

The month of October found Joel and me spending more time with the Franciscan family. Whereas the "Transitus" of St. Francis was not celebrated per se here in Cochabamba, as it was in the Franciscan monastery in Washington, D.C, we had a three day tridium, in which the Franciscans celebrated Mass for three days prior to the feast day of St. Francis. The Franciscan family was out in force for all four Masses, but particularly for the Mass on the day of St. Francis' death. I had heard that traditionally, a Dominican preaches at the Transitus Mass, to show the solidarity between the two orders. This was the case at the San Francisco Church in Cochabamba. A Dominican priest preached, and Dominicans also sang in the choir.

Our mentor, Brother Ignatio Harding (Father Ignation, "Iggie") processed in with the other Franciscan priests and brothers.

Iggie is on the left

Afterwards, there was a fiesta in the Franciscan Center, with dancing, music, and refreshments. The friars served us drinks and delicious food, as all well-wishers celebrated the life and legacy of our founder, Francis.

I recalled my introduction to the Transitus at the Franciscan Monastery in Washington, D.C. two years ago. It was the 800-year celebration of Francis' transitus, truly a special anniversary, marked by our candlelight vigil at the church grounds, with hundreds of people present. This Mass at Cochabamba evoked the earlier Transitus in my mind. And as with all Masses, it was consecrated time, the Eucharist, the "source and summit of Catholic life and Mission," in Pope John Paul II's words.

Here in Latin American, birthdays are very important. The word for birthday, cumpleanos, comes from the verb, cumplir, which means to achieve, to fulfill. When one has a birthday, the year has been fulfilled. At this time one looks backwards at the year that has passed and anticipates the year to come. The two celebrations, of the Maryknolls' first hundred years and of the Franciscans' 802 years, were moments of reflection and anticipation. This time was consecrated to God, and as a witness and participant, I was swept up in the spirit that surrounded me.

Thoughts on Labor Day

2011-09-24T20:59:00.000-07:00

The last time we Franciscan missioners met to have a reflection together (sometimes we check in, sometimes we just eat together, and other times we pray and reflect as a group), I wanted to talk about the Catholic Church's "Labor Day Statement" that was published by the United States Conference of Catholic Bishops. How does the Church's stand on the rights of the worker help us to understand our role as missioners in a poor country? The title of the statement, "Human Costs and Moral Challenges of a Broken Economy," while written in the context of the problems of the United States, elicited a strong response from us as missioners in Bolivia

While in formation in Washington, D.C., all of us had studied the Rerum Novarum enclyclical by Pope Leo XIII that served as the foundation for over a century of Catholic social teaching and its view on the dignity of workers. In this country where we live now, college graduates drive taxis or find other ways to support themselves, while beggars line the streets of Cochabamba. Of course, the U.S. bishops' Labor Day Statement called to our attention all the problems facing workers in our own country, drawing attention to the failing U.S. economy.

I have thought a lot recently about unemployment and underemployment in my own country, simply because it is all over the newspapers. I graduated years ago and experienced a recession that could be construed as just as bad as the one that has hit college graduates in the past few years. My son's graduating class, 2010, was hit hard by the recession as the new graduates sought meaningful work.  I watched anxiously as they looked for work, some taking internships, one going to the Peace Corps, another working for a year before returning to school this year, while others persisted until they found acceptable or even suitable jobs. I know that the Middlebury graduates were full of optimism, energy, and idealism, desiring to take the values of their college into the workplace. I admired their patience and their trust that they would lead lives of meaning, that they would be able to make their own contribution to the world.

Similarly, I watch my daughter working in her Ph.D. program and teaching undergraduate classes. Both she and her husband are following their separate career paths, trusting that their professional lives will continue to evolve as they advance in their fields.

This trust that one's life will have purpose, the faith that opportunities will eventually allow one to forge ahead in reaching career or professional goals, as one adapts to the circumstances one finds onself in, is not a mode of thinking for North Americans alone. As one who worked as a campus minister one year at Furman University, besides teaching college for 28 years, and then coming to Bolivia to teach at the Catholic University in the yungas and currently working with the college students at San Simon University,  I find that students here are just as aware as students in the U.S. that jobs will be scarce when they graduate, that it will take time, networking, and strategy to find one's place. These students lead interesting, purposeful lives while going to school, and their optimism and good works will continue as they make their way in an economy with fewer opportunities than those for U.S. graduates.

College students in Bolivia seem to remain in school longer than the four years in the U.S., with the medical and law students remaining much longer, as expected, although here they begin their professional training in their freshman year. The students whom I have met from San Simon are majoring in law, medicine, communication arts, business or engineering, to name a few majors (or carreras) and I read in the Bolivian Weekly that more trendy, marketable, and relevant (to the needs of Bolivia) majors are being developed. I have been told that younger siblings choose their major according to the books that their older siblings have bought--books are so costly here. The students at Carmen Pampa (the Catholic University in the yungas) come to school to get an education in nursing, agonomy, eco tourism, education, or veterinary medicine. The students could carry their education and training back to their communities and work there. They could be leaders. Some students from Carmen Pampa eventually come to the larger universities, in La Paz, or here in Cochabamba, at San Simon. The students have hopes that they will get work, and here in Cochabamba, students seem to be selecting majors based on what work is available when they get out. At the Cristo Rey technological school in the city, the administrators believe that the tech students who spend about three years learning a trade, whether in auto mechanics, engineering, or styling and cutting hair, stand a better chance of making a better wage than the college grads. It should be noted, also, that as all students have to write a thesis to complete their licenciatura (undergraduate degree), which in theory takes four years, many don't finish their thesis to complete their schooling.

Most of the jobs here are in agriculture, services, and industry, in descending order. Here, the unployment rate stands at 8.3% , according to the Index Mundi website, but a campesina selling lemons and manzanilla (good for tea or skill ailments) is counted as employed. According to the U.S. Department of State website, Bolivia is an entrepreurial country, where most college grads intend to start their own businesses. The average salary is under $300 a month per person (that equals our stipend and living expenses). The two pervasive problems in Bolivia, according to the Bolivian Weekly, is the percentage of income necessary to buy food, and the deficiencies in access to safe water and sanitary services. (http://www.boliviaweekly.com/report-bolivia-poorest-of-latam-countries/2259/). Next to Haiti, Bolivia is the poorest country in Latin America, with 2/3 of the population, mostly farmers, living in poverty (http://www.state.gov/r/pa/ei/bgn/35751.htm). The life expectancy for the average Bolivian is  67.5 years of age, and the median age is 22.5 years old, which accounts for why I often feel that I am the oldest person in the room or on the bus. (http://en.worldstat.info/South_America/Bolivia).

According to the UNICEF report this year,¨ in Bolivia there are 2 million children who live in extreme poverty, 800,000 who work in the street, 6,000 who live in the street, 2,000 who live in pentitentiaries with their parents, and more than 32,000 who live in homes for abandoned children¨ (http://www.boliviaweekly.com/category/education-youth/page/2 ).

The entrepreneurial system accounts for why doctors seem so accessible in Bolivia. Doctors here have to scramble for business; the simple fact of having an M.D. is not a guarantee of an excellent income. One must develop one's reputation and business. Our anfitrion (host), Henry, a pediatrician, works in a clinic in the mornings and teaches in the university in the evenings. He is not a wealthy man; his wife works as an accountant, they lived frugally, and they take in Maryknoll students as boarders. But he has an excellent reputation in the city, and is a tireless worker.

Further, last week when I stopped in at the medical center on Guayacan, not far from my house, I asked the attendant which medicine I should take for an infected bite on my arm (my arm was swollen from the elbow down). I told the attendant that I was afraid that I had been bitten by a benchuga (a beetle whose bite can lead to Chargas, which eventually enlarges the heart after a period of ten years, unless the disease is intercepted in its early stages). He looked at my arm, declared that I had been bitten by a spider, and proceeded to get me some antibiotics for my injury. When he was counting out the pills, he looked up and informed me that he was not a pharmacist, but a doctor. I had begun to think that I was dealing with a professional, so I was not surprisedto hear that a doctor had waited on me. He did not even charge me for my consultation. But the relief that I felt when I left the medical center was immense: I was terribly afraid of the benchuga beetle, and not so afraid of spider bites.

Dr. Wendy at Carmen Pampa was a mere thirty-year-old whose job was to care for the college students, faculty, and the townspeople. She was astute, energetic, and idealistic about her work. She delivered babies, coaxed mothers into vaccinating their infants, and managed all of the campus healthcare needs. She knew English because her older brother had insisted on her taking English classes. Considered tall (my height), she was athletic, traveling up and down the mountain with ease, and always available. All these examples point out that doctors don't take their clientele for granted and don't always have a receptionist or a nurse who runs interference for them.

I learned before coming to Bolivia that many professionals are out of work, that lawyers and doctors and university professors drive taxis.  In a country of subsidized gasoline, taxi drivers make a good wage, but who would want to drive a taxi if they could be working in their field? Taxi drivers are usually among the friendliest and kindest people in Cochabamba, answering our questions and getting us where we need to go, with benevolence and solicitude.

The job market in Bolivia is an intensified version of what is occuring in the United States: few prospects for new college grads, record underunemployment. More so than in the United States, there is a large gap between the rich and the poor. And in Bolivia, begging is a business. I would prefer to buy the over-priced peanuts from the woman who holds out her wares to buses and automobiles caught in the afternoon traffic jam than to drop a Boliviano (worth fifteen cents) in the outstretched hand of a beggar. Once while walking down the Prado, I was accosted by a young girl, very bright looking and full of energy, who kept jumping in front of me, demanding that I give her money. I saw that her mother was with her, working the same side of the street. I wanted to shake the girl and tell her to go to school; I wanted to upbraid the mother for teaching her daughter her own trade, begging.

One of the labor issues that is bothering people the most here these days is the problem of Bolivians' migrating to other countries in order to support their families. A Maryknoll sister who has been here for over fifty years informed me that parents with young children will work in Spain, Argentina, Brazil, and the United States (I have also heard that Italy is country that employs Bolivians who can't find work in their own country). In these instances, both parents (or the one parent, if the family is a single-parent household) will work in another country and send a lot of money back home to the grandparents or aunts who are caring for the children. I was told that the parents intend to work for only a couple or years in order to straighten out their finances, but wind up working many more years than planned.In these instances, we see children raised by grandparents who cannot control them or cannot connect with them. Some children are left in the incapable hands of their older brother or sister, who may be as young as fourteen. These are only some of the situations that I have heard about. But the instances of children left behind while the parents earn money abroad

But as I read the statistics about the United States--unemployment, underemployment, children living in poverty, college grads with school debt and few prospects of employment, the growing gap between the rich and the poor, economic stagnation, uncertainty for those who are retiring or who are unable to work because of illness, and the government's difficulties in finding solutions for these problems--I see that the United States, although not in as impoverished as Bolivia, had a lot to think about on Labor Day this year.

To this end,with both the United States and Bolivia in mind, I want to offer some words from the "Labor Day Statement" from the chairman of the Committee on Domestic Justice and Human Development, from the United States Conference of Catholic Bishops:

"Our faith gives us a particular way of looking at this broken economy. From the prophets of the Old Testament to the example of the early Church recorded in the New Testament, we learn that God cares for the poor and vulnerable, and he measures the faith of the community by the treatment of those on the margins of life. . . .

"This long tradition places work at the center of economic and social life. In Catholic teaching, work has an inherent dignity because work helps us not only to meet our needs and provide for our families, but also to share in God’s creation and contribute to the common good. People need work not only to pay bills, put food on the table, and stay in their homes, but also to express their human dignity and to enrich and strengthen the larger community (Gaudium et Spes, no. 34). Human labor represents "the collaboration of man and woman with God in perfecting the visible creation" (Catechism of the Catholic Church, no. 378).

"Over the last century, the Church has repeatedly warned about the moral, spiritual, and economic dangers of widespread unemployment. According to the Catechism, "Unemployment almost always wounds its victim’s dignity and threatens the equilibrium of his life. Besides the harm done to him personally, it entails many risks for his family" (no. 2436). One of the most disturbing aspects of current public discussion is how little focus there is on massive unemployment and what to do to get people back to work. In Gaudium et Spes, the Second Vatican Council declared that 'It is the duty of society to see to it that, according to prevailing circumstances, all citizens have the opportunity of finding employment' (no. 67). As Pope Benedict warns, "Being out of work or dependent on public or private assistance for a prolonged period undermines the freedom and creativity of the person and his family and social relationships, causing great psychological and spiritual suffering" (Caritas in Veritate, no. 25). A society that cannot use the work and creativity of so many of its members is failing both economically and ethically."

These were strong words for me, as I reviewed my efforts since graduating from college years ago with a "useless" English degree. I had always felt bad when I could not find meaningful work, and always wondered why it made me feel degraded when was between jobs. The church's teachings that work "expresses human dignity and enrichess and strengthens the larger community" helped me to understand that we are made to do work, that it makes us feel a part of the whole, even to the extent that we are collaborating with God to perfect God's visible creation." And the church also warns about the harm done to people who are out of work and dependent upon others, private or public: they suffer great psychological and spiritual harm.

As our Franciscan group meditated on the Labor Day Statement, we compared our findings on work in Bolivia. One missioner pointed out that a talented and well-educated teacher could not get work in a school because she belonged to the wrong political party; hence, she worked in an after-school center. This would no occur in the United States, but again, there are many well-educated workers who do not have jobs simply because there aren't enough to go around.

So on this labor day, I see the problems of a broken economy in both Bolivia and in my own country. I see the many vendors in the cancha, and wonder who is going to buy all the goods displayed for blocks and blocks for consumers. I rejoice when a young person who has just graduated from college, either here or in the U.S., finally lands a decent job.

As a missioner, I have the ability to choose where I work. My question is where will I do the most good with my education, training, and ability to speak Spanish. I feel lucky to have my job, a job where my purpose is to supply what the people want and need. So far, people here in Bolivia need English teachers. Yes, I can do that. I taught English for twenty-eight years at the college level. I am also trained as a college chaplain. Yes, there seems to be a need for chaplains here. Other opportunities emerge: writing, singing in the choir, running a film series, and I hope many more chances to work here in Bolivia.

I am grateful to those who have supported me financially here; I am also grateful to those of you who are reading my blog; I need to have friends from home to be with me on this mission. Emerson said, "Do your work that I may know you." I know enough about the Victorian work ethic, as well as the Puritan work ethic, to know that work itself can be over-emphasized. But work is indeed our way of collaborating with God.It is one means by which we express ourselves,use our talents, and feel that we are making a difference in our world. It gives us a sense of communty. Work also, in the most expedient sense, is the means by which we can support ourselves, our families, and maintain self respect in being self-sufficient. If we are paid a living wage, we may then eat healthy food, live in decent housing, have adequate healthcare, and provide for an education for our children and even provide for ourselves in retirement .

I am glad that the Catholic church has a history of addressing the ideals of the dignity of work and the inherent rights of workers. I understand better my own drive to engage in meaningful work, and will strive to advace its ideals in the real world.

The Flaw in a Missioner's Contract

2011-08-14T23:25:00.000-07:00

Courtney and Kris, Emer's oldest friends, with me, at
Emer's wedding. Courtney entered the convent 2 days later.

When I was home for some 33 days in June and July, Joel and I gave an extemporaneous talk to a group of novitiates at the Dominican Motherhouse, St. Cecilia congregation, in Nashville, Tennessee. One of my daughter Emer's dearest and oldest friends, Courtney, had joined the novitiate class and had issued us a special invitation to talk with her new sisters about mission in Bolivia. As I surveyed the group of bright, attentive women before me, I realized that they had given up family and friends to embrace their new lives as Dominican sisters. Just minutes before, as our family walked with Courtney, now Sister Courtney--Emer, her new husband, Alin, Joel and I--Courtney had been explaining that while she herself had agreed to the tenets of her life as a sister, other members of her family had been forced to accept a set of new rules, or a contract that they had not agreed to. Her mother, for example, would never have desired to sign a contract that would keep her from seeing her own daughter except on special days. The next year would bring even more isolation, as their lives became more cloistered, from their loved ones.

As I glanced at my own daughter, I realized that she had not wanted to sign this mission contract of ours, the one that her father and I had signed, that we would move to Bolivia for three years, to return only for major family events: a death in the family, a wedding, or the birth of a grandchild. We were able to take one vacation midway through our service, which was why we were walking with her in Nashville, Tennessee, at this moment Still, she had given us her blessing when we left, a blessing that is easier to give in the abstract than to maintain on a daily basis.

It had been six months ago that I had returned, in December 2010 to be with one of my dearest friends, Perle Dumas, whose physical condition was so dire that it was said that she would not live beyond that Christmas. At the age of eighty-four, she was recovering from a stroke that had paralyzed her right side. Still, when I saw her in the rehabilitation home in Crestview, Florida, she was sitting up in her wheelhair, waiting for me. She had determined that she would be sitting up, not lying down in bed, when I arrived. We talked as usual, although she tired easily. During my visit, she was able to come to her son's home and in addition eat at two of her favorite seafood restaurants in town. Except for the fact that she was tired, both mentally and physically, our visit went well. A couple of weeks later, I returned to see her with Emer and Alin. She gave Emer her Christmas present, and met Emer's new husband for the first time. She had not been able to attend the wedding because her stroke occurred just a month before.

I was unable to talk with her on the phone when I returned to Bolivia, though, because she was nearly deaf, and communication was possible only when I was in her physical presence. I felt that I was locked away from her, unable to communicate orally. All I could do was send her letters, and those were rare.

After my return to Bolivia, I heard that life had improved for Perle: her medication had been changed, and due to this change, thanks to the vigilance of her son, she was able to think clearly again. She had a serious love interest, and he was included in those nights away from the rehabilitation center when she dined out with her son and daughter-in-law. I was beginning to think that Perle would be there when I returned from Bolivia. She had even told me that she would be waiting for me.

Norbert, Perle, me, and Joel, waiting for Emer
after Baccalaureate services

Both of us were wrong. She died on July 20th, and I have been trying to absorb this fact ever since. My daughter, her husband, and her friend Mike, who had met Perle at Emer and his graduation from Harvard, attended the memorial service.

Perle has been one of my major financial supporters while I am on mission. Like Joel and me, she felt strongly that we had been called to go to Bolivia. She has accompanied me nearly all of my life as a mentor and friend. Missioner contracts by definition entail separation from one's friends and family. This is the flaw, despite email, MagicJack, and Skype, and the fact that new friends fill our lives in our new country. Still, one of the last things that Perle told me--Perle, who had come with our family to England and to Cambridge, Massachusettes, for Emer's graduation--was that she just didn't think that she would be able to make it to Bolivia. But on these sunny mornings when I walk to work, looking at the snow-covered peak of Tunari in the dawning day, I can believe that she has made it to Bolivia.

Tunari in the distance

Parable

2011-07-25T22:23:00.000-07:00

Three Sundays ago, three days after Joel and I returned from a month-long visit to the United States, we went to Sunday Mass at our chapel, Exaltación, and heard the parable of the Sower (la parábola del sembrador), amply expounded upon in the homily by Padre Juan Francisco, a La Sallette priest hailing from Boston, Massachusetts (he has been in Bolivia for decades).

For two Sundays in a row, July 10 and 17, the Sunday lectionary abounded with parables based on the sowing of seeds: first, the parable of the sower and the different destinies of the seeds that landed on different types of soil, and the next week, the parable of the sower who sowed good seed but his enemy came in the night and sowed bad seed among the good, as well as the parable of the mustard seed. Here is the reading:

Fifteenth Sunday in Ordinary Time

Matt 13:1-9

On that day, Jesus went out of the house and sat down by the sea.
Such large crowds gathered around him
that he got into a boat and sat down,
and the whole crowd stood along the shore.
And he spoke to them at length in parables, saying:
“A sower went out to sow.
And as he sowed, some seed fell on the path,
and birds came and ate it up.
Some fell on rocky ground, where it had little soil.
It sprang up at once because the soil was not deep,
and when the sun rose it was scorched,
and it withered for lack of roots.
Some seed fell among thorns, and the thorns grew up and choked it.
But some seed fell on rich soil, and produced fruit,
a hundred or sixty or thirtyfold.
Whoever has ears ought to hear.”

Matt 13: 18-23
“Hear then the parable of the sower.
The seed sown on the path is the one
who hears the word of the kingdom without understanding it,
and the evil one comes and steals away
what was sown in his heart.
The seed sown on rocky ground
is the one who hears the word and receives it at once with joy.
But he has no root and lasts only for a time.
When some tribulation or persecution comes because of the word,
he immediately falls away.
The seed sown among thorns is the one who hears the word,
but then worldly anxiety and the lure of riches choke the word
and it bears no fruit.
But the seed sown on rich soil
is the one who hears the word and understands it,
who indeed bears fruit and yields a hundred or sixty or thirtyfold.”

I watched and listened as Juan Francisco walked around the church, asking the people in the pews to share the ways that they heard the word of God. The children said that they heard it from their parents and teachers. The adults said that they heard God’s Word through the Bible and at Mass, as well as witnessing it through their families, the priests, and one another. The emphasis in this parable, I noted, mentally, was in hearing and understanding the word. Fearful that I would be called on as Juan Francisco walked around the church, seeking his homily from his own flock, I mentally racked up some answers in the best Spanish I could muster. I was glad that he merely welcomed back Joel and me as he passed by our pew (a row of white plastic chairs). But as I reflected on the parable, I could see that God’s word in my life had for a brief time been choked by “worldly anxiety and the lure of riches.”

Before leaving Bolivia for our trip home, I was distressed about many things in my life as a missioner, and thus frantically searched the Bible for answers. I probably was playing “Bible Bingo,” in which I randomly opened my Bible, hoping that some comforting or instructive words would leap off the page and into my uneasy heart. I found some interesting but to me, obscure, passages. My life at that time was chaotic and disorganized, and it seemed that my relationship to God, and God’s word, was the same.

In the States we experienced a hectic round of visits with friends and family. There was little time to attend Mass, except on Sundays. Even in the St. Charles Catholic Church in Bloomington, IN, where Emer and her husband Alin live, which we consider our Bloomington church, I took Communion “the wrong way,” accustomed as I was to dipping the host in the chalice, the way it is done in many churches here in Bolivia. The Eucharistic minister told me that “we don’t dip anymore.” Another cultural adjustment as one returns home.

During the months of May and June, I felt lost in the world around me, and unintegrated when alone. My world was upside down (boca abajo) in the month of May, and in June, I experienced the confusion that naturally comes with being back home in the States.

Somehow, though, when Joel and I were in the States, we were able to do many positive things:

We gave a talk about our mission work at a small prayer group in Antioch, Tennessee (St. Ignatius Catholic Church)
We gave a short presentation to the postulants at the St. Cecelia congregation mother house in Nashville, Tennessee. This group was the newest class of Dominican sisters, of whom our daughter’s very good friend Courtney Barnes was a member.
My family celebrated my father’s eighty-eighth birthday, combined with Father’s Day. Almost everyone was in attendance, except for my younger sister, whose daughter just happened to give birth to yet another great-grandchild, in Henderson, Tennessee, at the time when my father was being celebrated.
Joel and I celebrated our thirty-fifth wedding anniversary.
Joel, Emer, Alin (Emer’s husband), and I had an early celebration of Joel’s sixtieth birthday.
I had long conversations with our daughter, and so did her dad.
I had coffee with my dissertation director, whom I had not seen since defending my dissertation, twenty-three years ago when I was pregnant with Norbert. My advisor continues to be the same steady, sharp, witty, and supportive person that he was years ago when I was struggling to write my doctoral thesis. He still looked the same, continues to work in and be eminent in his field, and remains one of the best listeners I have ever known. He had a peaceful spirit, this man who had been generous with his mind and spirit in supporting all of us who had come into the English doctoral program because we loved literature and enjoyed thinking, talking, and writing about culture and books. It was an honor for me to introduce him to my daughter, Emer, who is now embarking on her third year of graduate school in the same English program. As he spoke with her about the classes she was taking and her professors, it was evident that he continued to maintain an interest in the department from which he had retired fourteen years ago.
I reconnected with friends and family, sharing many meals with them, or just taking time to enjoy long, undistorted telephone calls (Skype does not always provide clear phone conversation in Bolivia).
I re-encountered our home in Mount Juliet, and endured the sadness of walking through our empty house that has not been rented since January. It was in need of upgrading, as the realtors say, and we hope that if we can’t sell it by the end of the summer, it will be ready, once more, with improvements, for rental.

Although there were many moments of clarity, cohesion, and purpose while I was on vacation, I also had moments of unease. During my visit home, I received an email from Megeen White, a veteran FMS missioner who had given us workshops while our class of missioners was in formation. She sent me a message that struck home: was I giving myself enough time to reflect, pray, and just rest, mentally and physically, from the stress of working with so many people in need while on mission? I will add to that some advice that I had received from a Mexican immigrant who talked with me before I went to D.C. for formation. He told me that while on mission I would need to pray for at least two hours in the morning before embarking on my work each day. Not much of an exaggeration of what is truly necessary, I would say, given my experiences here.

So, I was ready to hear the parable of the sower when I returned to my home church in Barrio Majesterio in the South Zone, in Cochabamba, Bolivia. What is the word of God and where do we find it? My answer is this: it is, of course, to be found in Scripture. It is found in spiritual writings; in the Franciscan office; in poetry, novels, essays, in op-ed pieces in newspapers and journals; in the words and actions of the priests, sisters, friars, and missioners with whom I worship and work; in the children I tutor each morning, in the college students I work for and with at the pastoral juvenil, near the large public university, San Simon, and in the words of the inmates at El Abra, whose conversation with me after class makes me feel that I can somehow continue to carry on the work of accompaniment in El Abra that was first begun by Fr. Mike Johnson, who worked in this prison for six years, but who is now at St. Camillus in Silver Springs, Maryland. His picture is in the vestry of the Catholic church at El Abra prison, a portrait of his unmistakably North American face, his attire, a Franciscan habit, and in his arms, El Abra itself, the priest protectively holding it in his arms. His legacy at El Abra is still in force, and one day, both he and the inmates hope that he can return, if only for a visit.

Hearing the word of God is both a disposition and an action. Indeed, as Juan Francisco said, God’s word may be found everywhere. After this Mass, I determined that I would start a Scripture study class—not too different but in a small way, of course, from St. Francis’ literally rebuilding God’s church, San Damiano, brick by brick, when he heard God commission him to “rebuild my church.”

When I asked others about beginning a Scripture study class, I was told that one already existed. So Joel and I started to attend the class on Thursday nights, in the spirit of Franciscan accompaniment. One night after class, as I walked one of the Maryknoll volunteers home, I heard her talk about her future as a sister in the Carmelite order. She extolled the virtues of fulfilling her calling both in her daily work and as a sister. Her graduate work combined Hispanic culture, and translation of literature. She was very excited about the prospect of combining the life of a contemplative with her chosen career. Her vision of her future was inspiring to me: I was in awe of the young person, younger than my own daughter, who was going to dedicate her life to God. I thought of Courtney, whose novitiate class we had addressed on our vacation, and I was moved deeply by the thought of so many young people who had given their lives to God.

At the same time, I was jealous of the Maryknoll volunteer, soon to be a Carmelite sister. Her life as a contemplative sounded so compelling and sweet. Before becoming a Franciscan missioner, I had been struck by the service of Franciscan friars, priests, and sisters: they were dedicated to serving the poor, working for peace and justice, and caring for mother earth. They were constantly busy, and when I joined the Franciscan family, I feared that it would be difficult to find time for the personal reflection and reading of Scripture that I enjoyed while living in my home in Tennessee and while in Divinity School at Vanderbilt.

When I was in formation at Casa San Salvador, on Quincy Street in Washington, D.C., our schedule was indeed busy, and I was never one to make demands to have time alone if someone seemed to need conversation or company. I had told myself that availability to others mattered more than my own desire and need for personal prayer, reflection, and reading of Scripture or other literature that sustained me. My time in both Carmen Pampa and Cochabamba had brought had created more demands on my time, with an intense call to serve those closest to me.

After speaking with the Maryknoll volunteer who had chosen a contemplative lifestyle,it struck me that I too could lead a contemplative life as a missioner, and so I would. I desperately needed to spend more time with the Bible, in simply reading, writing, and reflecting. I needed more time to pray. The anxieties that choke the Word are real, and while all of my experiences both here in Bolivia and in the United States are part of my identity and growth, I did need to spend more time with the word of God.

"The seed sown among thorns is the one who hears the word,
but then worldly anxiety and the lure of riches choke the word
and it bears no fruit.
But the seed sown on rich soil
is the one who hears the word and understands it,
who indeed bears fruit and yields a hundred or sixty or thirtyfold.”

To reiterate, hearing the word of God is both a disposition and an action. I needed to perform the act of “hearing the word of God,” as well as remain open to its revelation in my life. Many people who read my blog have spiritualities that are different from my own. They have other ways in which they are present to God. They have places where they go to find the Divine. They read other kinds of literature and appeal to inspirational people in their lives.

My way is to read the Scripture and to pray. I have accepted that my lifestyle is both contemplative and active. The four charisms of the Third Order Regular spirituality are Conversion of the Heart, Poverty, Contemplation, and Minority. For me, Conversion of the heart and Contemplation are the two Franciscan charisms that have received short shrift in my life. But even when I examine the charism of Conversion, I note that this charism has three elements, only one of which engages the contemplative life. The first element consists of acknowledging God in the living word, in the words, deeds, and teachings of Jesus. The last two have to do with adoring God in one’s lifestyle, and serving God by working for justice and peace. As for the charism of Contemplation, the Rule of St. Francis says that “because we are made in God’s image, it is possible for us to seek union with God as we do God’s will. Thus, the Franciscan does not flee the world in order to ‘escape’ to God, but seeks immersion in its sacramental reality.”¹

In the end, all reflection leads us to God’s incarnational world. I am not worried about my contemplative life drawing me away from the world, but I am worried that my immersion in the world might pull me away from God. Like many students who spend two hours studying for every hour in class, I may need more time in reflection than in actual mission. In Jesus’ words, hearing and understanding God’s word does not diminish one’s productivity, but increases it:

"But the seed sown on rich soil
is the one who hears the word and understands it,
who indeed bears fruit and yields a hundred or sixty or thirtyfold.
Additionally, the Hebrew Bible states, as found in the lectionary on the same Sunday,
Thus says the LORD:
Just as from the heavens
the rain and snow come down
and do not return there
till they have watered the earth,
making it fertile and fruitful,
giving seed to the one who sows
and bread to the one who eats,
so shall my word be
that goes forth from my mouth;
my word shall not return to me void,
but shall do my will,
achieving the end for which I sent it.

Is 55:1-11

As the priest told us, God’s word comes to us in many ways. In Jesus words, “let anyone with ears listen!”

¹Franciscan Morning and Evening Praise, The Franciscan Federation, Third Order Regular of the Sisters and Brothers of the United States. Washington, D.C.: Franciscan Federation, 2009. 742, 843.

Our Wednesday breakfast group that meets after morning Mass: Sr. Lilly (Maryknoll, from Louisville, KY), Brother Adrian, Maryknoll volunteer Willa (California), Padre Juan Francisco (from Boston), Padre David, Sr. Maggie (Maryknoll, from Tanzania), and me

Padre David blessing the people after Mass

The San Damiano Cross

San Damiano Church in Assisi
Francis was commissioned by God to "rebuild my church" while praying in this chapel.
Apparerently, God was speaking figuratively, not literally.
Still, the church seems to be in good repair.

Our unweeded garden

On This Easter Weekend

2011-04-26T20:31:00.000-07:00

On this Easter Weekend,

I am living in the South Zone of Cochabamba, Bolivia, near the Alalay Lagoon, and this Friday after attending the veneration of the Cross at the Mass of our local church, I walked up the hill in our neighborhood with other members of my church, in the procession that enacted the stations of the Cross. In this picture you can see one of the electrical towers on the hill above me as they appear from my back yard.

When I left Cochabamba last June, I felt that as a visitor to the city, I had seen all that the city had to offer. I knew by heart the main avenues and plazas, had discovered my favorite restaurants, and had visited the main attractions. As an outsider or tourist, I knew the city. But upon our return, we have become residents of the city. We live in a neighborhood in the South Zone, reputedly the poorest part of town, but somehow our neighborhood has its own beauty, well-tended parks and new covered canchas where the children can play soccer, basketball, or volleyball, or the families can gather for socializing. The existence of so many canchas demonstrates Bolivia’s acknowledgement that sun here is dangerous for all during the daytime. A new high school named October 24 (the date of President Evo Morales’ birthday) is just up the street from our small house, and just around the corner is the Cochabamba home of Evo himself.

It is a new Cochabamba for us. Our current home was the former home of the Maryknoll missioners, Evan and Susan Cuthbert, and their daughters Mary and Rose, who have returned to Boston after six years of service. We knew them as we know most of the Maryknoll missioners—they came to events at the Maryknoll Language Institute, and Evan planned the Maryknoll students’ trip to Chapari, a major coca-growing region in Bolivia (along with the Nor Jungas, where we lived before moving here) and the jungle region of Bolivia, as the Chapari River is a tributary of the Amazon.

The home and yard are models of ecological sustainability, with a thriving vegetable garden, covered by netting to offset the Bolivian sun, an ample compost pit, rain barrels, and a grassy yard with lantana, large geraniums, bougainvilleas, a lilac bush, herbs (sage, basil, anise, and rosemary), and a grapevine growing on the lattice over the patio. We also enjoy the pacai tree, which provides shade and pacai for those who enjoy this kind of fruit. On the Dia de los Niños (Children’s Day), the owners of our house came with their children and nephew to harvest the picai. We were honored to be a part of their celebration and know that the picai would be enjoyed by others. Here is one shot of our yard.

We have added rose bushes, impatiens, vincas, and daisies. Unlike Nora’s rose bushes, our roses have not been besieged by aphids, but by the strong cutter ants, who had stolen our rose petals to decorate their own homes. Somehow, with a little incentive to go elsewhere—yes, we did sprinkle some offsetting granules of, yes, ant poison around our rose bushes—the colony moved to the other side of our yard where they live in harmony with us and the rose bushes.
Truly, we had moved into a place where we could enjoy the beauty of Cochabamba, the city of eternal spring, and live in a Bolivian neighborhood with people from all economical and educational levels.

a flowering aloe plant in our yard

We are regulars at the tiendas on our street—where we buy milk, bread, eggs, butter, and cokes, a popular drink here in Bolivia. We buy meat from a woman who sells chicken and beef until noon, or we can buy pork chops or chicken from Sofia, the large vendor about three blocks away. If we walk just a few blocks, past the new high school, cancha, and park, we can select our fruits and vegetables from an array of fresh produce. This tienda is on one of the main avenues of our neighborhood (the avenue is not paved, but the dusty roads made of stones serve the buses and taxis well). On the next corner is the hardware store, which has supplied us with shovels, light bulbs (florescent ones, of course), and the hose and piping we have needed to connect the water from our underground water tank to the tank above our house. Joel has made friends with the family who runs the hardware store.

Around that corner is the neighborhood Catholic Church, run by the La Salette missionaries from La Salette, France. Padres Juan Francisco and David are the accessible priests there, along with Brother Adrien. Three orders of sisters serve this parish—sisters of St. Joseph, sisters of Santisimo, and the Maryknolls. Joel and I are teaching English classes to the St. Joseph and Santisimo sisters, who live close to the central church. I work in the tutoring center every morning from ten until twelve with one of the Maryknoll sisters, Maggie (originally from Tanzania). Maggie and her fellow sister, Lil (originally from Louisville, Kentucky), along with my language school partner, Minh, live in what was once the priests’ house next to the chapel, Exultación, which is one of the two satellite chapels of the La Salette parish. It was with the people of this parish that I climbed to the top of the hill that arches over my own backyard, when I walked the via cruces (stations of the cross) with my fellow parishioners on Friday afternoon, after the 3:00 veneration of the Cross service.

I am immersed in the social life of my neighborhood. Working with the children in the tutoring center, teaching (along with Joel) the two orders of sisters who are obligated to learn English, as well as attending early weekday Masses at the parish church and having breakfast with the sisters and priests afterwards on Wednesdays, I know that I have meaningful work to perform even if there is a blockade or transportation strike. But I still have work to do outside the neighborhood.

I work with the internados (inmates) at the prison El Abra, which means “the clearing,” on Thursday and Friday afternoons. Joel and I teach English classes for two hours each day, using the library as our media room and the church as our classroom. The library was created when Father Mike Johnson, now the pastor at St. Camillus Church in Silver Springs, Maryland, was there in 2000-2006.We have eighteen students, although on a typical day, ten will show up for class. We attended Easter Mass at the prison.

I also work in the theology library at the pastoral juvenil, the college campus ministry office in Cochabamba, very close to San Simon, a large university in Bolivia. The students at the juvenile have welcomed me into their community. To show them my gratitude for all their conversation and for sharing in their worship services (always original, reverent, and relevant), I brought them two apple pies last week. We polished these off with dispatch, and I hope to bring fudge pies the next time. (Pie crusts cook well at a higher altitude, or at least that is my theory.)
These students are not necessarily preparing to be sisters, nuns, or priests. They are studying in many different disciplines: orthodontics, medicine, communication, and engineering, for example. But they are serious about serving Christ in their careers, and have dedicated themselves to lives of service. In this sense, and in many other ways, they remind me of the EVM students (exploration of vocational ministry) when I was an intern chaplain at Furman University, who, like the students in Cochabamba, see their lives as mission, regardless of which career they choose to enter. They are the Church.

Likewise, all the missioners, priests, brothers, and sisters who surround Joel and me in our life here in Cochabamba, in our neighborhood, in the rural areas, and in the city, have provided a sense that God’s kingdom is growing incrementally. As one of the padres here has told me, the goal of the missionaries in Latin America is to understand the needs and wants of the people here, and address those needs as well as we can, and to understand that it is only in the moment, with the person in front of us, that we see Christ. This reminds me of the perspective of Mother Teresa, whose vision was always directed to the individual in front of her, but it also reminds me of the famous prayer of the Archbishop of San Salvador, Oscar Romero, martyred in 1980:

It helps, now and then, to step back and take a long view.
The kingdom is not only beyond our efforts, it is even beyond our vision.
We accomplish in our lifetime only a tiny fraction of the magnificent enterprise that is God’s work.
Nothing we do is complete, which is another way of saying that the kingdom lies beyond us.
No statement says all that can be said. No prayer fully expresses our faith.
No confession brings perfection. No pastoral visit brings wholeness.
No program accomplishes the church’s mission. No set of goals and objectives includes everything.
That is what we are about:
We plant the seeds that one day will grow.
We water seeds already planted, knowing that they hold future promise.
We lay foundations that will lead to further development.
We provide yeast that produces effects beyond our capabilities.
We cannot do everything and there is a sense of liberation in realizing that.
This enables us to do something, and to do it very well.
It may be incomplete, but it is the beginning, a step along the way, an opportunity for
God’s grace to enter and do the rest.
We may never see the end results, but that is the difference between the master builder and the worker.
We are the workers, not master builders, ministers, not messiahs.
We are prophets of a future not our own.

A Reflection on Family Reunions

2011-02-25T14:11:00.000-08:00

Festival Weekend in Carmen Pampa: Family Reunion

This mother lives in Carmen Pampa,
And her children live in Caranavi.
To me, she is the mother who comes to the children’s library
when it is closing.
She seeks books for her children,
who live far away from her.
She wants them to dream of worlds other than their own.

On this day, her son, the eldest, who wears glasses,
can hold onto this woman who brings him books,
Whose love reaches him over the mountains
when they are apart—
The daughter, too, molds her body to her mother’s, absorbing strength and love.
This weekend will be long, and it stretches before them
like a parade of dancers-- never-ending.

The father is not here.
Perhaps he has to work in Caranavi,
As the mother has to work in Carmen Pampa.
There are no harsh words in this family,
no recriminations,
even if the parents no longer know one another.

I only know that that the children and their mother
meld into a family of three, the touch of the children
reminding her of all those days that
stretch behind her as the weekend is spread out before them,
a glorious banquet where all may love one another
as much as they want, until the moment of return
to separate lives,
where children return to their schools, and parents return to work,
when a mother thinks about which books her children would enjoy.

My husband is shooting the picture.
He is a father, and his children are far away.
I am a mother, and I am looking at the picture.
I have been in this photo,
my children so young and close to me,
my husband taking the picture.

I always bought my children books
And took them to libraries.
Now that I am far away from my child,
I look at pictures and think about the books she is reading.

I cannot send my son books now, but I know that
Because I bought him books, some of which he did not read,
He knew that I wanted him to live in other places-- not just Tennessee.

This reunion is short.
But the children will carry their books back to Caranavi,
and smile as they dream of their return.

Intercarreras and Goodby to UAC-Carmen Pampa

2011-01-05T14:43:00.000-08:00

We are leaving Carmen Pampa, where we had anticipated that we would stay for the entire three years of mission. However, considering all the variables, our organization, FMS, and we decided that we should return to Cochabamba to serve in the urban ministry there. I want to take this time in my blog to highlight those major events that I both witnessed and took part in at this Unidad Academica Campesina, UAC, one branch campus of the Catholic University of Bolivia.

The Intercarreras, which means “between the majors” (carrera also means "race"), was the university's celebration of the school’s anniversary. Each one of the six majors here, including pre-university, competed in sports (volleyball, futbol [soccer], and basketball [women’s]), theatre, karaoke, and dance (both traditional Bolivian dance and modern). The loud cheering of the students for their own teams in the competitions reminded me of high school pep rallies, with gigantic banners and each group donning its carrera colors.

I was surprised by the intensity of the competition, as well as unprepared for the way that it would pre-empt classes. As I mentioned in the previous blog, one of my classes was cancelled because students had to select their carrera’s Mr. and Ms. Carmen Pampa candidates. Students missed classes so that they could go to skit and dance practice. I myself rushed into class one day after a strenuous forty-five minute dance practice (I danced the morenada, a dance that involved just a few variations of dance steps, designed in terms of costume and exertion for young to middle-aged women). Arriving afterwards in the classroom, I not only looked disheveled-- had been pulled away from my class preparation in order to practice the dance--my my brain was disheveled.

Everything stopped the Wednesday of the week of the anniversary celebration. All students, faculty, and staff were mandated to attend the official opening of the new women’s dorm. The area in front of the dorm, and behind our apartment, had been newly grated and graveled. The perfectly landscaped dorm shone in its pristine beauty. After many speeches, some Afro-Bolivian music, and a play that dramatized the plight of the poor, Andean student who was welcomed with open arms and a beca (scholarship) into the university, many of the participants danced in the hot sun, glad that they could celebrate the bounty represented by the new building, provided for the most part by USAID (Aid from the United States). After the celebration, all of us in the audience were able to troop into the new dorm to see for ourselves the dormitory rooms, shining bathrooms, and study rooms. All the women living on the upper campus would live in the new residence, which would open up more room for all and enable more students to come to Carmen Pampa.

The Minister of Coca, a dignitary from USAID, another dignitary, and Padre Freddy, president of UAC-Carmen Pampa, perform the ribbon-cutting ceremony.

All of us listening to the speeches during the ceremony. If you enlarge this, read the sign about campesino education and note that I am standing up against the wall.

A dramatic reenactment of two parents learning that their daughter will be able to attend college at UAC-Carmen Pampa.

Afro-Bolivian musicians and dancers.

Joel took this picture of me with his students Elizabeth and Nieves, who have recently graduated.

The new women's dorm

Padre Israel, on the right, touring the new dorm with the rest of us. Israel is a priest as well as a student in the agronomy department. He is a dedicated priest and a friendly, unassuming person.

Each night brought a new competition: drama, dance, and karaoke. The theme receiving most air play was violence in the home. Alcoholic fathers were the source of much of this violence, which reflected a significant social problem in Bolivia. The nursing students presented a satire on the cholitas in the marketplace. Although I couldn’t make out all of the language, I had been to the marketplace enough to laugh at the satire, one which I as a gringa would not dare to make.

A comedic skit about cholitas in the market.

The entire university was out in force for four days, From Thursday, September 30th (actually on the 29th, if one counts the “ribbon cutting” of the new dorm) until Sunday night, activities began at 7:00 a.m. and ran until 2:00 in the morning. There was a celebration of the transitus of St. Francis also, when all of us created a natural setting for the St. Francis statue, along with his dog (or domesticated wolf). Just before Mass, a hummingbird flew into the sanctuary and began drinking the nectar of the cut flowers that we had placed in the “woods” surrounding our saint. Joel took many pictures of the hummingbird, but in only photo is one able to see it easily.

The festival industry in Bolivia is a booming business. On the Sunday when we were to dance on the soccer field, all of us had paid for and donned our costumes. As a morenada dancer, I had a lot of trouble braiding my graying hair to complete my outfit (green polera skirt, lacy white blouse, green pointed high heels, dangling earrings, and the typical female bowler hat. A visiting friend of one of Joel’s students took me to the eco-tourism dorm to braid my hair, from scalp to tip of the hair. Using a lot of water, many little rubber bands, and finally putting the tassels at the end of my trenzas (braids), she became a very good friend in the meantime. We talked about the difference between her university experience in La Paz and her friend’s in the campo, as well as about our beliefs as Christians. She wanted to use her English, which was impeccable, and I was only too glad to listen to and talk with her.

Our dance began on the stony road in front of the church and proceeded to the soccer field. I danced with the school’s lawyer, the Columbian missionary Manuala, and Lucia, who worked in the main office, along with the school nurse/librarian Danny, the head of the organic gardening Rosemary, and my department head, Ximana. All of us were mutually supportive, dancing in very high heels on a road that I had difficulty walking on in my walking shoes. But on and on we danced, the force of peer pressure on another, and the all-for-one, one-for-all mentality. We looked pretty good, although one step continued to confuse me.

The whole school danced. Dancing was, it is true, mandatory, and all of us had to pay for our not-inexpensive uniforms, but it was with a sense of solidarity that staff, faculty, and students danced. Joel was the official photographer, and his pictures caught all of us in action, a bit winded, overheated, with blisters forming on our feet (mine remained there for a month), but grinning as we dipped, waved our hands, and swayed to and fro. I thought of the subversive nature of some of the native dances, the dances that depicted the enslavement of the African slaves brought to Bolivia, as well as the indigineous men and women forced to work for the Spanish. The rattles of the dancers stood for the clattering chains of the slaves, and the long tongues on the masks showed the slaves’ exhaustion. One costume of the male dancers was comprised of a series of decorative circles that completely hampered all movement except for the dancing of the feet. Other dances stemmed from the European heritage. My own costume was drawn from the costumes of the choleras of the Andes, the polera skirt being the same skirt worn by peasant women in Spain, and enforced on the indigenous women in the Andes. The bowler hat was a fashion foisted off on the women, and one part of my dance, which clashed crazily with the costume’s history, was my own fascination with my own jewelry (which I had failed to purchase or borrow). The women who danced this dance were wealthy women who had inherited the skirts of enslaved women, but whose lace and jewelry, along with the bowler hat, bespoke pride in wealth.

I am including other pictures of my friends, students, and colleagues, who also danced:

One of the children who visit our library, also the son of two faculty members.

Here are Carlos and Gladys, our upstairs neighbors. Both of them work for the university and have a toddler,

Our students in eco-tourism

Doctora Wendy, our campus physician,
on the left; Desiderio, professor in agronomy; and Ximena, head of eco-tourism.

Cheering students during the night competitions. As one might guess from the skeleton dressed in red, the color of the nursing major, these are the nursing students.

Modern dance also asserted itself in the later competitions. These young students are talented dancers!

After days of competing in sports, dance, theater, and karaoke (our major won in karaoke!), we had a lot of difficulty calming down from the festivities. It was only after the intercarreras Joel and I were caught in a blockade in La Paz and missed two weeks of classes. After three weeks of vacation, one could say, the two of us were able to resume our work in the classroom. Our students have now headed home for summer vacation, have gone to other universities for more school work, or are on the job market. The students in eco-tourism were a tight-knit , hard-working group, andwe hope to cross their paths in the future.

A Typical Atypical Day

2010-11-24T10:19:00.000-08:00

A Typical Atypical Day
Today has been a typical atypical day. Joel and I went to bed the night before at 10:00, only to re-awaken about 2:30. We have a lot of things on our minds about our mission in Carmen Pampa, and of course, we spent a couple of hours talking. Joel took the initiative to cut up a pineapple, which, for once, was not over-ripe.

After awakening again at 8:00, I prepared my class and went down the hill to teach. I had my i-touch and speakers ready for student listening. I was also anticipating my students' book reports: we are reading children's books, like Lyle, Lyle, Crocodile, Mercer Mayer and Lillian Hoban books (illustrator of Bedtime for Frances). I was excited because one of my students was very interested in the witty writing of the Lyle, Lyle Crocodile book. All year, he has demonstrated a moderate interest, but when confronted with interesting twists on words, he had lit up with enthusiasm. So I walked into my classroom, anticipating another good class--Joel going up to the second floor to the language lab with his class and our fellow instructor Chris closing the door to his class room for second-year students. But where was my class? I looked at an empty room.

All semester there have been problems with class cancellation: the big celebration of the school's anniversary, called the intercarreras, the faculty retreat in the following week (which created a three-week hiatus between classes for my students in education), and numerous other events that pre-empted class: a birthday party for the head of the Eco-Tourism department, the dedication of a new building (which the student body and all faculty were obliged to attend), a lecture on bats (we had visiting scientists here at Carmen Pampa who were studying the numerous bats here), as well as compulsory campus cleanup days, and the election of Mr. and Ms. UAC (Unidad Academica Campesina--Carmen Pampa). I had recovered from the initial shock of class cancellations (once, 4 out of 7 classes cancelled), and our students, coming onto the end of the 20-week semester, were attending class in earnest, putting their academic work at the top of their list of priorities.After writing a note on the board, "All students will be counted absent today," followed by the date and my signature, I left the classroom after twenty minutes.

Walking back to the volunteer house, I saw two of our of guests sitting outside the church--our German volunteer, all of nineteen years old, had three guests for the week, a friend from high school, her mother, and the friend's Bolivian boyfriend. It struck me that I had the keys to the locked church that they were sitting outside of. So I offered to open the church to show them the Franciscan Church--the statue of Francis, the small fountain of water, which I couldn't turn on, the aguayo backdrop behind the hand-carved crucifix, and of course, the trip up to the bell tower, where a panoramic view could be enjoyed by all. No, it didn't stand up to the churches and spires of Germany, but it was in its own way erene and inspiring.

Then, I showed the small group our children's library, which is more like a childen's playhouse than a library. Now, it is very spic and span, after I washed the windows, walls, and curtains, and scrubbed down the table, chairs, and bench. Puzzles, games, crayons, and coloring books were stacked neatly on the small blue shelves against the wall. Later that day, Joel would be showing the movie Toy Story 3 on the homemade screen, while the children eat the popcorn that he made in the wee hours with our deluxe popcorn popper, along with the Tampico (a version of Tang in a bottle) he would buy for them, sitting on the large straw mats on the newly-created cement floor (thank you, José Tintaya!). The children would sit on the brightly colored mats that we had purchased two weeks ago in La Paz. I am told that sometimes there are 22 children in this space.

After serving as a tour guide for the first time, I gave our guests hugs as they departed by mini-van to Coroico, from which they would then travel to La Paz. The mother herself would be going on to Germany, while the daughter and her boyfriend would return to Cochabamba. I was glad that my day had not been wasted, that I had indeed occupied the role of a docent (from Merriam -Webster's 1 : a college or university teacher or lecturer 2 : a person who leads guided tours especially through a museum or art gallery).

Having asked Joel to take over my office hour for me (which I later found, was impossible because the office was locked), I packed up my mochila (backpack) and started up the hill. I was accompanied by Don Oscar, the head of community service on the lower campus [Manning], who told me that he actually lived in the house beside the coffee plantation (cafetal), along with his wife and three children, two of whom went to the elementary school that the Xavier brothers had founded in Carmen Pampa, the oldest of whom attending a high school in a nearby town.Bidding him good-bye at the cafetal, I continued to trudge up the hill at my own pace, walking by the state-of-the-art, cutting edge recycling center.

Suddenly at the head of the trail, I saw my class. I heard a gentle, "Oh NO . . . " emit from the female students. There was the other docente, the head of our eco-tourism department, leading my students from the upper campus (Leahy), where Joel and I live, down the path to the lower campus. It had been a field trip for the students! How nice! And the other docente had simply forgotten to inform me. Alas, there had been no transportation available or the students would have been back on the lower campus by 11:00 a.m., in time for class. After some teasing and a lot of reassurance that I wasn't angry, the tired crew proceeded down the hill.

I went on to my apartment. That morning, even before preparing my class, I had done what I typically do when I am a little depressed: I cleaned my apartment (which, by the way, is spotless as I type). I had deep-cleaned the bathroom, which resists cleanliness, mostly due to the shower that somehow leaks over the stall (the shower stall is the locale for washing all of our clothes) and the dust that collects in our apartment that is tracked into the bathroom onto the water throughout the space. As I came into the apartment, I attacked the dishes in the sink, took a shower (always has to be done after a walk up the hill), started another "load" of clothes in the shower stall, and decided to roast some raw peanuts for snacking.

I received a Skype call from Emer, which I certainly would have missed on a typical day. Her new family is visiting for Thanksgiving, her husband's parents and brother, which brought to mind the obvious: our family was apart for the first time ever on Thanksgiving. It was good that she was responsible for the Thanksgiving dinner for the new in-laws, as one experience could cancel out the other one. On Skype, I was able to visit with our cat, Elliott, who has been in our family for seven years.Carmen Pampa's Thanksgiving would be celebrated on Saturday. Joel is responsible for the sweet potatoes, and I am making the fudge pies and apple cider. A comparison of my menu with Emer's as well as the menu for my own family in Nashville (I got to talk with my dad's wife, Mary, so I am connecting with family today in the event that the internet breaks tomorrow--the family that will gather tomorrow in Nashville is my dad, his wife, Mary, my younger brother and his intended, Wendy, and my sister's family) revealed that Thanksgiving meals should somehow be comprised of a green bean casserole, mashed potatoes, devilled eggs, and fudge pies, along with the usual turkey and dressing.

At Carmen Pampa, we will be celebrating Thanksgiving with 27 people all told, priests, sisters, the core group of volunteers/missioners/gringo staff, and some visitors from the U.S. embassy in La Paz. Unlike the North Americans who will be eating in wintry dining rooms, possibly with candlelight, we will be dining in the flower-lined garden between the Convent and the volunteer house, with two tarps to keep the sun out of our eyes. I am told that our guests will bring six bottles of wine each.

Tonight there will be no Mass, since the priests and sisters are having a diocesan-wide convocation. But Wednesday night Masses are iffy these days, and I know that last week after I set up the Mass, I was told by the main office that there would not be a Mass. I took everything down and locked up the church, only to find that one of the priests had driven from Coroico at the last minute to have Mass. When he arrived, just about ten minutes after I had closed up the church on the upper campus, I sheepishly waved at him from the tienda where I was eating my fried chicken and french fries. NOT MY FAULT, I wanted to say. I really like this particular priest.

There are so many opportunities for mis-communication. The president of the college had not felt well, so he went home, after telling the office that there would be no Mass. Later, the other priest was told that Fr. Freddy was sick, and jumped into his car to have Mass. The replacement priest remarked on how clean the church was, with fresh flowers, but no people. The same thing happens on the lower campus, where I am told to have the church down there ready for Mass, since there is a fifty-fifty chance that there will be a Mass. If my Spanish were as good as Sr. Jean's, and I pray that one day it will be much better than it is now, I will do what she would do if she were not on a two-month vacation: I would have a Communion service. And maybe someday I will give what Catholics call a "reflection" (so called if a female or other non-ordained person gives a sermon/homily) in Spanish. Having preached in Protestant churches, but not in the Catholic Church, I am able to do some things in my own language that I cannot do in Spanish.

I have now arranged to communicate by email with the priests on Wednedays and Thursdays. So things get better as I learn the Bolivian ropes. Our cell phone tower was working for two days, but a thief stole the cable, costing over fifteen thousand dollars, and so we are once again back to ground zero: a cell phone in every pocket and a brand-new tower on the hill, but no cellular communication.

As I have written my blog, I have been waiting for the faculty bus to take all of us administrators down to the lower campus for the faculty meeting. This is a rare opportunity for me to go to the meeting, since the Mass is definitely not going to happen. But the bus has not appeared (I later found out that it was in the shop in Coroico).Tonight, because the Mass is definitely cancelled, Joel and I are able to attend the English club meeting: the students studying English are able to watch movies in English, play cards or games, and have an immersion night in English. I am waiting to find out if the social hour is actually going to take place.

What does work? The campus ministry meetings always happen every Tuesday night; the Wednesday night Masses were celebrated like clockwork until about three weeks ago, with beautiful flowers and joyous music; Sunday Mass always "happens;" English program meetings and community meetings convene without fail, and the students have been coming to class faithfully since Joel and I had to miss two weeks of classes due to the blockade. I noted also that one of the most beautiful garden paths that I have ever seen, in North American, Europe, and South America, had been created less than a half mile below our living quarters, and that tourists from other towns in Bolivia had come to enjoy both its beauty and the vista it offers of the Andes Mountains.

I can't help but think that as my Spanish improves, I will be more "in the know" about what happens and what doesn't happen. In the United States, I was one of those people who always came to meetings about ten minutes late. Maybe I was a kind of rebel; here my rebellion takes the form of being on time. **I look forward to seeing what kind of person emerges from this mission experience in the coming two years.

**I still have the capacity to be late . . . .

Hellenism or Hebraism?

2010-10-15T11:40:00.000-07:00

We are vacationing in La Paz by compulsion because of the blockade to the yungas (hot tropical valleys) that is keeping us from taking a mini van or bus from La Paz to our home in Carmen Pampa. The road block hardly seems resolvable by negotiation because the cocaleros (coca growers) are not only demanding that they be allowed to grow larger quantities of coca but are seeking the resignation of the vice-minister of the department of coca. Why would the cocaleros want this person removed? In my mind, he is someone who is not one of them and does not cooperate with their objectives and needs. Does a president remove someone from office simply because a group of protesters asks for that removal? Even though Evo Morales was the president of the coca growers union, I don’t think that he would undo his decision to place this person in the vice-ministerial role. Morales removes people from office if they are found to be corrupt, but not because a protest group seeks their removal. But we shall see.

Hence, I don’t think that we will have safe passage to the yungas for a while. We have an extended stay in La Paz, the city where Joel and I come once a month to get our checks cashed, so to speak, and buy those commodities, like cheese, wheat flour, or even items for the apartment, that are unavailable in Coroico, the tourist town just six kilometers (3 miles or so) from Carmen Pampa. I also have an internist here who sees me regularly.

The town seems European to me, and the apartment houses and homes remind me both of those in Cochabamba, and of those villas in the Alps, particularly in Bavaria. Oxygen is sparse, so we can’t easily climb the hills here that remind me of San Francisco—they are so steep—and Joel and I have to remind one another that we must stop to catch our breath. The coffee houses, the favorite one being Alexander Coffee, the parks, and the cleanliness of the city appeal to us. Artist shops (artesanias) abound, and the cathedrals offer us a sense of the holy as well as the artistic. We are going to the national museum today, as well as to the anthropological museum, which will tell us more about other indigenous groups in Bolivia. We want to take in the art, history, and current events of La Paz, and thus, Bolivia. The Spanish words are hard for me to remember, so I rely on Joel to write things down, feeling that I should be making my own list.

The question of what kind of person I have become has struck me hard. I don’t want to sightsee. I do want to learn about the culture and history of the country that I am calling my home for three years. Have I become a person entirely dedicated to performing my duty? What happened to the person who used to want to travel to other places, where I could visit cathedrals, castles, and the homes of departed artists, where I could re-imagine scenes from British or European novels taking place before me, or envision the ruins come to life with people from long ago?

Matthew Arnold, in his essay Culture and Anarchy castigated his nineteenth-century British audience for become so enmeshed in trying to fulfill their responsibilities, carried away by the “fire of duty,” that they were guilty of crushing the explorative minds of their artists, scientists, and innovative thinkers—those people whose genius could carry their nation to greatness. He wrote about the strictness of duty as that which could either quench or balance the expansiveness of consciousness. People needed to make room for the genius of those whose vision rose above morality. Don’t get me wrong: Arnold was a poet, an inspector of schools, a teacher whose methods many times over-rode his own reach for new ideas, and a literary and social critic. He was quintessentially Victorian in his energy, desire to reform the world, and stringent ethics. But he, like John Stuart Mill, not Jon Stewart, saw the need to create a society in which the geniuses of art, economics, science, and philosophy would feel enough at home to flourish and push people to encounter their visionary ideas and art.

Am I too much of a missioner, so driven by the zeal of duty, that I cannot open my eyes to the cultural horizons here in La Paz? Why am I so driven to return to my post, where my students are being taught by substitute teachers and I am not there to accompany the niňos in the children’s library or help with campus ministry?

Part of my response to these questions is that I am actually not fulfilling my duties in Carmen Pampa, but am here because of the bloqueo or blockade. Although people here in the house where I am staying, the Maryknoll Casa, have advised me to descansar, or rest, I want to return to my work.

But I will catch up on my writing, this blog, emails, thank-you letters, and my own journal writing. As I do this, I understand that while I am working, I am also encouraging my Hellenistic side to explore ideas around me, to contemplate this society and my own life. We missioners met in Cochabamba for a retreat just a few days ago in the sense that we ate together, talked a lot, and had a prayer service. In my view, at this point in mission, we are feeling the difficulties of being on mission. All of us have been sick, some more devastatingly than others, others have been overworked, well, all of us have been, and none of us have had enough “down time,” to use Clare’s words. Clare has inspired me because of her efforts to create balance in her life, despite continual illnesses for the past three months. She goes to exercise classes, always takes time for friends, and keeps up her personal journal, all with intentionality. And as all five of us sat down at the table in Clare and Nora’s apartment, where the missioners before us, Richard and Kristen, lived, and we read the Franciscan office together, passing the book around the table, I felt a surge of spiritual vitality that had been missing in my life. We were still in community, having come from the Casa Salvador in Washington, D.C., on Quincy Street, just a few houses down from the Franciscan Monastery. We were all “feeling it,” feeling the problems and dislocation of being on mission in another country. We wanted to do our best here, to find our niches, to walk with our friends in Bolivia in these difficult times. Being with them all somehow felt like being at home, and I did not want to leave, despite the fact that we all had work to do.

So Joel and I have returned to La Paz, and in a state of limbo, are trying to unravel all our thoughts about being on mission. By definition, being on mission is Hellenistic because we are expanding our consciousness. This is a euphemism because all of our ideas about how life should be are challenged. We need only to keep our minds open to experience new ways of doing, being, and seeing. As missioners, we are also enlivened by the zeal to do good. But what I think we also need is the space for contemplation, prayer, writing, and thinking. We desire so ardently to be available to the people that sometimes we are not available to ourselves or to God.

So, we are privileged to visit the national art museum today. The efforts to render the beauty of the world in art cannot be disregarded while we are captive in this city. Our sense of reality will be challenged and shaped by our encounters with new ideas, history (new to us), and art. A part of this realization that we must continually encounter beauty and ideas within our world is our belief that we have to grow larger in order to live in the worlds that we have come to. The Hellenistic view of the ever-expanding consciousness is indeed Franciscan. Francis may have said that there was no need to build a bookshelf because then he would have to find books to put on it, but he would have sanctioned Clare and Nora’s venture into the concha to purchase a bookshelf for those many books lying around their apartment. Francis was non-materialistic, but he was not against the ideas found in books, or the way that books nurture our spirits.

So there is a time to read books, write letters to friends (for if we don’t talk with them, how will we know who we are, who they are, and how we have grown?), go to museums as well as bookstores, art galleries, and cathedrals, both to pray and to just take in the beauty, and time to just look into the landscape and compare the mountains in La Paz to those in the yungas and Cochabamba. We are Hellenistic and Hebraistic because we want to love this world, appreciate it, and make it a more just, hospitable place for human beings, made in God’s image. And we must also write, for how will we know what we think if we don’t write it down? Here, on mission, in limbo in La Paz, one can be both Hellenistic and Hebraistic. One can find a kind of balance.

Not Coca, But Basil

2010-09-26T22:23:00.000-07:00

"It's Hard to Dehydrate Food in the Yungas, among other Things"

In Carmen Pampa, at our apartment at the UAC (Unidad Academica Campesina), most food preparation and cooking take longer than we are used to. Here is one shot of our kitchen: in the foreground are the basil leaves that are so abundant here at the college. We decided to dry the leaves so that we could store them for another time, since we can't possibly find enough recipes for the basil that we get from Rosemary, the person in charge of the organic garden across the road from our house.

Note also the water filters, two of them, in the background. We can purify five two-liter bottles of drinkable water in record time with our stainless steel water filter, where we pour the water after we have boiled it for twenty minutes (due to the altitude). To the right, you see the invaluable jar of peanut butter (brought in by visitors from the United States), as well as the other staples that belong in a typical cupboard.

We have accustomed ourselves to soaking the fruit and vegetables in a solution called DG-6, a kind of bleach that kills bacteria and parasites,. Everything takes much longer here, from purifying water, to preparing fruits and vegetables, to washing clothes by hand.

The morning commute, however, takes the same amount of time as it did when I commuted to work when living in a community outside the environs of Nashville, Tennessee. As I walk down the hill from the upper campus, Campus Leahy, to the lower one, Campus Manning, to teach my 11:00 English class, I feel that my new lifestyle is much improved over my former one, when I endured the traffic jams on Interstate 440 on the way to teach class.

Here, I slip down the mountainside (what one instructor calls a "controlled fall") in a mere twenty minutes, taking the shortcuts that the students have created, even to the extent of creating a hillside of steps cut from the ground itself, easy to go down but daunting to climb back.

At this point, the steepest part of the commute is over.

I pass the tea plantation before coming to the coffee plantation. The coffee plantation is next to the "cafetal," which is the structure where the coffee beans are dried and refined. It is an elaborately designed structure, with a large roof to protect the coffee beans as they dry. At night when we walk up the hill, the lights there are still on and people continue working there. Coffee production at Carmen Pampa is a small operation, with just enough coffee to sell to the locals (like Joel and me), but the coffee is the best that I have ever tasted.

After crossing through the other managed areas of the hillside, I cut through the pueblo of Carmen Pampa itself, weaving my way between the homes of the people living there.

Here, when I first aimed my camera at some of the ducks on the steps, the rest of the ducks scurried up to join them, as if they wanted to be included in the picture too.

I pass the cows also as I walk down to the lower campus. Finally, I pass the hog shed, where the hogs are always snorting. I feel a twinge of guilt as I walk past then, knowing that I am a huge fan of Carmen Pampa ham, the best that I have ever tasted (just like the coffee!). The ham is a cross between Tennessee country ham and Virginia ham in the United States. Joel and I buy our eggs, ham, chicken, and coffee from the farmers close by, as well as benefiting from the continual harvest of vegetables from the organic gardens here.

The recycling center itself is cutting edge, from my perspective. In effect, we have the production, processing, and recycling of our food here before our eyes. In another blog, I will give all the details of our recycling center, along with pictures. This center, like all other aspects of food production and re-use of waste is fundamental to the research projects and resulting theses of the students who study here. Joel and I are the beneficiaries of this educational process.

The schedule for us here is challenging, when one factors in the climb back up the hill to perform other duties, among them, pastoral. The problem for me is not so much that we are scheduled to do many kinds of work, like continuing to facilitate the children's library that Jean and Lee Lechtenberg established, teaching two classes, working with campus ministry, and preparing Mass and having Liturgy of the Hours every morning at 6:30 on our upper campus, but that the commute up and down the hill to attend to these responsibilities is so exhausting. As ever when one is on mission, all activities take longer to do and many activities may be shifted around on the calendar. One may prepare a class only to find that the students have been re-routed that day for a campus clean-up or a lecture that has materialized at the last moment--one that students actually should attend because opportunities for exposure to this information are limited and must be grasped when available.

Last night at the Maryknoll House in La Paz, where Joel and I stay when we come to the city, I was reading a Spiritual Directory for missioners (that I randomly found somewhere close to the chapel) and noted that two of the key qualities for missioners were accessibility and adaptability. My response to this is in the affirmative. My job here is to be accessible when and where I am wanted, and my other duty is to adapt to the circumstances of those times when I am accessed by those who may need what I have to offer.

With that lengthy sentence, I will close my blog. This weekend in La Paz, where we come to buy necessary goods for our apartment in the yungas, we have the companionship of a few friends from Carmen Pampa who came here also, as well as the conversation of a priest who has lived in Bolivia for 36 years, almost as long as our mentor Fr. Iggie Harding. Fr. Mike Gilgannon lives in the Maryknoll House and works in the department of La Paz, as a priest, educator, writer, and general administrator of programs. It is good to have the differences offered by the city in La Paz to offset our experiences in the place that we call home, Carmen Pampa. It is also good to hear the words of advice from a seasoned priest who has been in Bolivia for so long. From him, I discover that my reactions to the differences in culture are quite typical for a citizen from the U.S., and I also hear that Bolivia has been evolving over the years to a more efficient nation. I also hear of his optimism about the Morales government as well as his optimistic stories about his work in establishing youth groups, both college and high school, and new parishes to accommodate the migratory groups who are moving down into the city from the campo (countryside). I take away from the Maryknoll House his courage and optimism so that I may have a little more spring in my step (Oh those aching knees!!) as I climb back up the hillside after working in the campus below.

"How beautiful are the feet of missioners on the mountains"

2010-07-14T20:36:00.000-07:00

“Que hermosos los pies de los misioneros en las montaňas”

When we graduated from our five-month course at the Maryknoll Language Institute, we students were asked to create our own liturgy and put together a talent show. I had signed up for the liturgy committee, so that was my focus. Our motto this year was “How beautiful the feet of the missionaries on the mountains,” taken from Isaiah 52:7:

“Cuán hermosos son sobre los montes los pies del que trae buenas nuevas, anuncia la paz, teniendo una buena noticia, que anuncia salvación, que dice a Sión: ‘Tu Dios es Rey!’”

How beautiful upon the mountains are the feet of those who bring good news, announcing peace, bringing good news, who announce salvation, who say to Zion, ‘Your God is King!”

It had not been easy to write the liturgy because the customary symbol for graduation was the camino, the road that the missioners take as they travel to serve God’s people. The professors at Maryknoll were ready to plug in the same graduation slogan, but our class wanted to take advantage of the symbolic terrain of the mountains that surrounded us in Cochabamba, as well as the mountains that would challenge us in other areas of Latin America, and Bolivia in particular. For Joel and me, this would be the Andes at our mission site at Carmen Pampa, and the nearest city of size, the plateau of La Paz, the highest capital city in the world. As a rule, the mountains beckoned to us in all their beauty, but the high altitude challenged our bodies’ ability to adapt to the higher altitudes. We needed stronger lungs and more red blood corpuscles to survive at those heights. Climbing mountains, one must plant one’s feet firmly as one ascends.

The liturgy, once begun, took on a life of its own, becoming the work of many hands. The sisters from Japan and Korea created mountains from choice fabric draped artistically on the walls of the grand sala, transforming the plain white walls into an evocative mountain landscape. My conversation partner of five months, Minh, had cut letters from magazines to articulate the slogan alongside the mountain mural. The letters from the multi-colored magazine print flashed their luminous message as the students processed into the graduation, one by one leaving their backpacks, or mochilas at the base of the mountains depicted on the sala wall. Our Franciscan missioner Clare, leading the ceremony, spoke briefly of the choices that each missioner/ brother / sister / priest had to make when figuratively packing his or her backpack to come on mission, what to leave behind, and what to bring.

The professors had selected one hymn that fit the students’ theme:

EL SEÑOR ELIGIÓ
El Señor eligió a sus discipulos
Los mandó de dos en dos.
(The Lord selected his disciples and sent them out two by two)

CORO:
Es hermoso ver bajar de la montaña
Los pies del Mensajero de la paz
(How beautiful to see at the foot of the mountains the feet of the messengers of peace)

How appropriate this theme was for us: primarily, it is the poor who live on the mountains, in El Alto, where two Methodist students would be going; in the yungas, where Joel and I would be going; and even the hills that extended beyond the South Zone of Cochabamba, the poverty-stricken section of Cochabamba, where two of our Franciscans would be serving. What good news would we bring, except that God’s kingdom is coming, that we have come to promote peace and justice, and that we would come as those who serve the people? In all respects, our climb on the mountains would be strenuous.

Our Franciscan missioner Nora headed up the talent show. In addition to helping to write the script for the skit, performing in many dances, she was the M.C., entertaining the audience between the acts with the patter of jokes in Spanish, dressed in whatever costume she happened to be wearing at the time, so omnipresent she seemed to be. We heard Tony, our Irish Christian brother, present a program on the Irish potato famine, and then sing an Irish ballad commemorating it. Becky, returning from her mission in El Alto, sang a beautiful solo, accompanied by Jose Luis, whose guitar and voice accompanied her melody. One Brazilian priest and two Asian sisters sang in turn in their own languages different verses of a haunting song. In addition to skits, student dancing, and one student’s (Carl’s) trumpet solos, we watched as the Maryknoll priests, staff, and professors performed one Bolivian dance in full costume for us. Finally, we watched a professional dance troupe, and then listened to Jose Luis’s own band whose repertoire exceeded our expectations.

The festivities went on until the late afternoon. We had more grilled meat, potatoes, rice, and fresh vegetables than we could eat, along with desserts and cold drinks. As we sat on the edge of what usually was the volleyball court, under to ample white tent, we watched Bolivian dancing and listened to the music of the band. Then the mood changed as members of the audience began to dance. Gradually, as the dancing continued, I myself gradually began to wind down. I had not slept much the night before, having written my farewell speech, the despedida, that all of us were required to give, in the wee hours of the morning. I watched as the students, one by one, told their professors and friends goodbye, walking away from the world that that had enfolded us so completely since January when we had first stepped out of the airplane in our new country, experiencing our first challenge of altitude sickness from the new heights (12,000 feet above sea level) to which our calling had led us. We had acclimated to the challenge of altitude; now we would strive to acclimate ourselves to the life of mission to which we were called.

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I am including here pictures of the mountains that I have seen since coming to my mission site in Carmen Pampa, the Unidad Académica Campesina (UAC-Carmen Pampa), part of the Catholic University of Bolivia, where Joel and I will be helping to teach English, work in campus ministry, and do any other work that is assigned to us. We live on the upper campus, called the Leahy campus, where the students majoring in agronomy, education, and pre-university (those courses taken before the students begin their majors) live. The lower campus, a mile and a half down the mountainside, houses those students whose majors are veterinary science, eco-tourism, and nursing. On the lower campus is the volunteer house, which is the community living space for volunteers, most of whom come from the United States. Sara Mechtenberg, communications liason, lives there as well, and Hugh Smeltekop, Vice-Director General, lives in an apartment nearby. Sister Jean, a member of the order of the Missionary Franciscan Sisters of the Immaculate Conception, lives in the Convent next door to the volunteer house. Joel and I will occasionally walk down to eat a meal, or just visit.

Coroico, the town nearest to us, where we buy our food and staples. It is a popular tourist town for hiking and gaining access to "the road of death," "the most dangerous road in the world," where many bicyclists test their mettle against a perilous road along the edge of the mountains.

Here are two views of the lower campus, Campus Manning, as Joel and I walk down the road to visit the lower campus. In the second picture, note the tree in the foreground, which is an ambibo. It is filled with ants that live within it and "protect" the tree. One dare not bother this tree! In the picture, one can see the church tower and surrounding buildings.

When Joel and I took a mini-bus to La Paz, we got a chance to snap this shot of the canopy of clouds that obscured the very deep mountain valleys. Our mini bus stopped because a crew was repairing a rock slide on the side of the mountain.

For perspective purposes, here I am on the side of the road in front of the morning fog or rain clouds that had settled over the bottom of the mountain valley.

Here is a view from one of the upper roads around La Plaz as we wound up the Altiplano.

Not a mountain view, but a view of the congregation during Mass at the church, Christo Rey, Christ the King. As we walked up the aisle for Communion, the choir sang "EL SEÑOR ELIGIÓ," with the words, "How beautiful to see at the foot of the mountains the feet of the messengers of peace."

2010-05-21T06:28:00.000-07:00

The Language Barrier as Bloqueo (blockade)
May 5, 2010

I am more comfortable attending a Mass in English than I am attending a Mass in Espaňol. But since I am living in Latin America, I usually attend Masses in Spanish. Some worship experiences, however, have been meaningful for me, despite the language barrier. For example, in the second week of Lent, Joel and I joined our neighbors as they participated in the Stations of the Cross. In a circumscribed section of our neighborhood, fifteen homes had erected shrines representing each station of the Cross, culminating in the fifteenth station, that of the Resurrection. As Joel and I walked from one shrine to another with our host couple, Lily and Henry, we knew that the physical act of walking from one shrine to another was enriching our Lenten experience. So on we walked in the darkness, from one lighted shrine and then another-- kneeling, singing with the seminarians whose guitars and voices floated through the crisp air, listening to the Scripture and praying with the neighbors, and finally, getting a blessing from the holy water that the priest had blessed at our own house. This experience needed no translation from Spanish into English.

In the church itself, when one stands, sits, and kneels in one place for a long period of time, it is helpful for the mind to have something to latch onto. The Easter Vigil that I attended weeks ago was a long one, and in Spanish, of course. Without a program to follow and no liturgical guide, I was lost in a sea of Spanish, occasionally clinging to the words that I knew. The Vigil was beautiful, with candlelight, music, and much of the liturgy in song. To my own surprise, though, I began to feel like a child, forced to sit through a service that I was not a part of and did not understand. I felt suffocated and wanted to flee from the church during the long Mass.
The part of Mass that I miss the most is the homily. I need to know what the minister is saying, the way the Living Word is being channeled through the homilist. My experience of Mass is emotional (the music and the message), intellectual (the liturgy and homily), and spiritual (particularly in the Eucharist itself, but throughout the service). I needed to hear the words of the homily in English, but as a person in an immersion program, I felt that my desire for a homily in English was dodging my main reason for being in school, to learn Espaňol. Still, I longed for the intellectual experience of hearing my favorite priests’ messages before the Eucharist: Fr. Steve at Holy Rosary in Nashville, TN, whose homilies formed the foundation of my knowledge of the Catholic faith; Fr. Pat, the Catholic chaplain at Furman University in Greenville, SC, whose homilies seemed to address whatever problem I was having at the time; and Fr. Joe Nangle, the Franciscan priest whose homilies at Casa San Salvador always included the new missioners’ reflections on what he had said and what we thought about the readings for the Mass. (We were a close group of friends during those Masses.) When I left these celebrations, I had received the body and blood of Jesus as well as God’s message to me, both of which sustained me as I went back into the world of stress and deadlines.

Here at Maryknoll Language Institute, there are many priests who are studying Spanish, beginners and veterans. Some come from the United States. Because of the demand for pastoral ministry among the growing Hispanic population in our country, North American priests need to be prepared for conversational Spanish, and Maryknoll is a good school for both cultural and language immersion. Priests from the U.S. also study here because they, like us missioners, are going to work here in Latin America. What better way for the English-speaking priests to prepare for celebrating Masses in Spanish than for them to have Mass for the rest of the students? Thus these Masses are generally said in Spanish, which is part and parcel of the language immersion process.

For a couple of weeks, however, when the congregation consisted only of English speakers, we were lucky enough to have a Maryknoll priest say Mass for us, and he celebrated the entire Mass in English! How wonderful it was for me to connect sound and sense in worship! What’s more, after the homily, all of us discussed both his homily and our own responses to the liturgy. It reminded me of the Masses at the Franciscan mission house, with Joe Nangle.

Now, at Maryknoll (and I want to add that these Masses are arranged for by the language students themselves), we celebrate Mass in Spanish, but the current celebrant, a young priest from Georgia, gives his homilies in Spanish, followed by translation in English. Another priest from Boston, who has just begun to celebrate Mass, follows his example, but gives his homilies in English, with apologies, of course. Fortunately, the small group there has been English-speaking.
With time, practice, and lots of Spanish classes, I am getting closer to comprehension of the Mass. Like most Catholics, I know the liturgy of the Eucharist, and as I added some simple Spanish words to my vocabulary, like pan for bread, and tocar for take, along with pronouns and prepositions, I could follow the words of the Eucharist. Gradually, I came to learn the Lord’s Prayer, the Gloria, and the congregational responses in Espaňol. On Thursday mornings in our Spanish classes, we read the entire liturgy of the Word aloud, in order to improve our pronunciation. As I read the words, I now have minimal difficulty translating them into viable English. Still, the written word is far easier for me than the oral one.

And so last Friday, the first Friday in May, I was walking back from the Immigration Office, where I have spent so many days trying to complete my visa for the coming year, as well as getting my carnet, my identification card for Bolivia. As I passed the church at Cala Cala, St. Ann’s, I noticed that the doors of the church were open—they are usually locked with a heavy iron gate barricading the entrance. It came into my mind that this was First Friday. As I gingerly peeked into the small chapel at the back of the church, I saw that it was almost filled with older women, praying the Rosary. On the altar was the Monstrance, flanked by flowers. I was definitely the youngest woman present, and no men were there. The Rosary was repeated in Spanish, and the women were singing hymns together, in harmony, truly a beautiful sound. I found the program, sat down with them, and prayed the Rosary with them. Yes, I had learned how to say the Rosary in Spanish. In this moment of time, I was one of them.

There is no happy ending to this story yet. But as I spend more time in this country, these times of affinity and understanding will multiply. Tomorrow, I will go to Mass at St. Ann’s, where I go each Sunday, and the homily will be in Spanish. I will comprehend the readings from Scripture because I have studied them in Spanish, the rites because I am accustomed to them, and maybe a little more of the homily than I did the week before. This is all that I can ask for.

***************

Here are two pictures of the Maryknoll Chapel: a view of the front and one of the side chapel.

May 21, Part II

“Truly I tell you, unless you change and become like children, you will never enter the kingdom of heaven” Matt 18:3

Sometimes it seems that my ability to communicate in Espaňol is determined by the desire of the other person to communicate. When I am in the position of a consumer, that is when I am in a taxi, at the supermarket , or in a store, the driver or salesperson seems to have a lot of patience when I convey to him or her what I need. The guard in our neighborhood, our Bolivian family, and of course, our instructors at the language school listen carefully to me when I express my thoughts and needs.

What can be difficult is listening to presentations in another language. Joel and I went to the International Conference for Climate Change here in Bolivia last month, and found it difficult to follow the panel discussions and talks there. For a week, we went from one talk to another at the Univale (University of the Valley), a large, modern university in the neighboring town of Tiquipaya. I could follow the general thrust of the ideas, but was at a loss as to why the audience cheered when it did. Eventually, we found the headsets that enabled us to hear the presentations in English. What a difference! And even now, this week, when I attended a long talk on children’s rights at the Franciscan Social Center, sponsored by Franciscans International, I checked with other missioners to make sure that I had my facts straight. I have had to write emails in Espaňol, as well as attend dinners and lunches where the only language spoken was Espaňol. I made an announcement to the Institute about making plans for our graduation—in Espaňol. This was indeed my first time to make a public announcement in my new language. To my surprise, the people gathered around me applauded. Why? They knew that I had crossed a threshold.

I think that now I can put my biggest challenge, and worst experience, back in February, in perspective. This experience has to do with my efforts to extend my visa and get my identification card (carnet) for my three-year residence here. With very little Espaňol, I went to the first police station to have my fingerprints made as well as two photographs, one serious, and one smiling. I supposed at the time that both photographs could serve the authorities well, especially if I were a “wanted” person. This was just the beginning of many afternoons and mornings of attempting to get a carnet. All five of us missioners went to have blood tests, to be sure that we did not have HIV or tuberculosis. The understanding here was that any mistake made by either ourselves or the official was our problem to correct, whether we had to get another test because our results had been lost or our name had been typed incorrectly.

Our second-to-last stop was the police station by the lake. I went there four times to get my papers. I did not make friends with the officer who was in charge of my papers, and I felt that this was due to my inability to speak effectively. The directions and commands were put to me in a harsh way, in another language. When I stood there, not knowing what to do, I was basically told to leave the crowded room. I felt the tone of the command, but only eventually did I realize that I no longer had any business being there. I was upset about the way that I had been treated, and frustrated because I could not understand what had happened. Still, I had to return three more times to get my paperwork done, and had to make a special effort to convince the people there that I was married, not single. Did I have my marriage license with me, they asked. All seemed hopeless—but someone just handed me my papers with the correction on the back (yes, my marriage did exist). I was free at last to go on to the immigration office, the last way station in our efforts to work legally as volunteers in Bolivia.

The important point here is that everyone is alone when he or she goes to the various stations for a visa. The immigration office is the last stop, and I have been there three times and will go once more to get my carnet. After moving from one room to another in the building, I got to the point where I was to fill out a large form in Espaňol. I doggedly began filling it out, noting that I had mistakenly told someone in the previous office that I was 67 years old, not 57. Ouch! I was as eager to correct this error as I was to make sure that it was official that I was a married woman. In a timid voice, I asked one of the officials if I could correct this. It won’t matter, he said, but then asked me if I would like to speak in English. His words were gentle, “Don’t worry about this. I will help you to fill out the form.” He was pleasant, smiling, and generous with his time. For the first time during my efforts to get my visa and carnet, someone was speaking English with me as I tried to complete this important and significant task.

All of us missioners encountered this kind young man who helped us to complete our final application forms. But because I was the most needy, I was the most grateful. I made a mental note to be a better United States citizen when I returned home and noticed someone from another country who seemed unsure or afraid. I understood from my own experience the need for drivers licenses to be given in one’s own language (I have flunked the drivers license test in my own language . . . .), even when someone is basically fluent in the new language.
Yesterday when I was walking to school, I passed a blind woman on the sidewalk, carrying her child in one arm and tapping her walking stick with the other. I was concerned about her crossing the busy intersection ahead. Where was my Spanish now? What could I do? Directly behind me was a guard from Maryknoll. He spoke Spanish fluently but between the two of us, we could think of nothing to do. We could not walk her home or to her workplace. Would better Spanish help me at this time? Later in the day, Joel and I encountered a four-year-old on the street whose brothers and sisters had run away and left him alone. We saw him crying and Joel called out to him in Spanish. He was too upset to answer, but when we saw his brothers and sister, we told them that he had gone around the corner. They flew after him.

The demands for us to know the language here are great, and we keep trying. I was discouraged yesterday from my performance in my classes. I took this sense of discouragement home with me, and as I wrote my blog last night, I decided that a cup of hot chocolate would cheer me up. I went downstairs to the kitchen, where Lily, our host mom, was soaking her arm in a large bowl of hot mantequilla tea. Her grandson, Sebastian, had tattooed his grandmother’s arm—totally—with the magic markers that Joel and I had given him for his saint’s day. She was laughing as she performed this unusual ritual. We talked about the problems that we were having with our families, not new topics for us. I told her that I needed hot chocolate to make myself feel better about my Spanish. She looked at me intently and told me every day I improved a little more. She meant it.

When we first came here, Dan Moriarty, a Maryknoll lay missioner, told us that speaking Spanish was a way of taking on poverty. As Joel has put it, we choose to be marginalized when we chose to come here to speak in a foreign language. As an English professor and editor, I have always appreciated the power of the written and spoken word. I was well armed in my communication skills. Now, I am a beginner in this language, and sometimes need the help of others to communicate. I am the marginalized one, despite my education and experience. But as Lily told me, each day I get better, and so just as a child learns to talk and read in his or her own language, I too will mature in this new medium of communication. Poco a poco . . . .

Called to go where one is needed but not wanted . . .

2010-04-11T21:42:00.000-07:00

Missioners are called to “go where they are not wanted but needed, and stay until they are not needed but wanted.”

This quote comes from James Anthony Walsh, the founder of the Maryknoll Missionaries. I first heard it from the lay missioner Teresa of the Society of African Missionaries, at Ossining, New York, where the Maryknoll’s Bethany House is located and where we Franciscans were trained for one week. Recently, I heard this again from a Maryknoll priest, Ken (Padre Juancho in Spanish), who is working in a mission site where he feels that he may not be wanted, but needed.

Two weeks ago, I had dinner with Ken and his friends. The occasion was a surprise birthday party for Ken. The dinner was hosted by a longtime friend of his, a physician who has opened her home to one of our fellow students at the Maryknoll Institute. Some of us students were invited to help him celebrate. As it had happened, three of us had visited Padre Ken at his home mission site the Sunday before. As ten of us gathered around the large dining room table to eat spaghetti and a large cake, I wondered at the vast difference between our immediate surroundings, a spacious, well-appointed condominium in North Cochabamba, where the prosperous middle class lives, and the place that Ken calls his home.

Ken lives near K’ara K’ara, the city dump of Cochabamba. The dump is indeed a place where priests are not wanted, at least at this time. There is political controversy about this dump, and although it has been closed three times for its dangerous toxic waste and its unregulated disposal of this waste, it is nevertheless still open. Why? At this point, it seems that the city of Cochabamba needs this dumping ground: when we missioners arrived on January 6 of this year, we noticed in passing that the dumpsters in the city were overflowing with garbage. We found out when we visited Padre Ken on March 14, on a Sunday, that there had been a strike, and for that reason there was no garbage pickup. There is a real need for a dumping ground for the waste of Cochabamba, and there is money to be made by keeping the dump open. Money is made when the town or pueblo of K’ara K’ra fines the mayor of the city for dumping the town’s garbage in its pueblo.

The town can make a lot of money with these fines, but the barrios (or neighborhood districts) closest to the dump get the money, which is held in something like an escrow account until a suitable project worthy of this jointly held money is presented to the mayor or city officials. The issue becomes a delicate one because not everyone agrees about which barrios should receive the money and who will be in charge of how it will be spent. So, to put it mildly, there is a lot of disagreement within the pueblo, and the last priest who lived in K’ara K’ara was asked to leave the town because of his involvement in the town's problems. Ken himself is circumspect about the situation: he has come into the community, living above the dump itself, where we had a bird’s eye view of the pools of toxic waste that actually looked like picturesque ponds from our vantage point above the barrio. Poverty, the determined struggle of humanity to survive, and the ravaging of nature often look pretty from afar. I have seen many strikingly gorgeous sunsets in smog-ridden cities.

We citizens of the United States are very interested in recycling. Here, there is no need to organize a recycling campaign or make it a part of municipal works. The people here rummage through the dump for recyclables, and I would predict that few items that can be sold are overlooked. I was reminded of scenes of garbage dumps from Slumdog Millionaire (and who would have guessed? Sisters from Mother Teresa’s Missionaries of Charity have a prominent convent nearby. They must feel at home in performing charitable works among the poor in K’ara K’ara).

The problem is, of course, that the toxicity of the dump poses a terrible danger to the health of those in search of marketable goods. The hazardous waste from hospitals had been placed in a special area surrounded by a protective fence; somehow the fence disappeared. The economic need of the people takes precedence over their own health. In milder form, just living close to the dump poses many health problems for the residents there. One recalls the residual effects of Love Canal, where 21,000 tons of waste were buried beneath 36 blocks of a neighborhood in Niagra Falls, New York; the residents eventually developed cancer and their children were born with congenital defects. Many poor people live in this pueblo because it is so inexpensive. Developers have created small dwellings here, and sold it to families who either don’t know that they may be in danger or have been driven to accept whatever dwelling they can afford.

Our Sunday morning with Ken was pleasant, with much talk about his struggle to initiate catechetic classes and celebrate Mass in a district that has other pressing concerns. He pointed out that the people in the barrios do organize on Sundays for community improvements. At the time when we walked up to his quarters on the hill, we saw a soccer (futbol) game being played by the truck drivers who had the day off.

In Ken’s quarters, we had tea and an assortment of cookies, bread, pates, and snack bars while we were there. As we talked, a three-year-old named Oliver came into the room with us. He had stayed at the doorway, playing with his toy dump truck and bulldozer, his play imitating reality, before I could coax him into our company. The little boy smacked one of the two dogs that were lying in front of the doorway a couple of times, the dog obligingly moved, and Oliver came to sit on my lap. Most children are attractive, but Oliver had dimples, large, lovely brown eyes, and liked affection. As I held him, Nora gently lifted his shirt, with his permission, and we saw a complex temporary tattoo on his tummy, matched by one on his back, and one on his arm. I became aware that his clothes were filthy, but that made me feel even more protective towards this little boy.

Oliver is not an orphan, but his father has died, and his mother is an alcoholic. The mother ran off and left the responsibility to her sister-in-law. Her daughter cares for Oliver.Ken explained to us that abandoned children are taken into families and cared for as one of their own. Oliver is such a case. The older sister who lives in the family where Ken resides cares for the little boy. I have one picture of him, playing in the dirt behind the shed in the yard.

I noticed that after Oliver left our room, his sister changed his shirt. When we left the property, I said a few words to her in Spanish, and she didn’t reply. At first, I blamed her lack of response on my poor Spanish, but later, I reflected that she might speak Quechua.

While we sat there in Ken’s humble room, which actually had molding around the ceiling, along with finished walls, I noticed that Ken was nonetheless connected more than I would want to be with the natural world. A pigeon house just outside his room allowed the pigeons to perch on his windowsill and keep an eye on us. The friendly, but dirty, dogs wandered in and out of the room, and the dishes were washed outside, with the usual cold water that people here use for washing, and dried in a tub placed on a rock. The bathroom facilities were also outside, but the outhouse was private and the toilet flushed extremely well. These were Ken’s digs, where he lives in order to be present, available, for the people in this poverty-stricken barrio seriously close to the toxic waste of the dump. I am including here the view from Ken's big back yard.

After enjoying morning tea, we hiked over to the Maryknollers’ picnic, held at Padre Poncho’s church, where I had some of the best barbeque that I had ever tasted, along with an add-a-dish lunch that reminded me of church picnics in Tennessee. It was the best food that I had had since coming here, and I wondered if Padre Poncho’s origins in Kentucky had anything to do with the perfection of the barbeque. We met Maryknoll priests, missioners (and their families, some of them having young children), and the sisters who had been in Bolivia for at least 45 years. We Franciscan lay missioners were welcomed into the Maryknoll family, and all of us are family unto one another here. We learned about each one of them as they introduced themselves. We too made our introductory speeches. After lunch, there was an organizational meeting of a male and female scout troop by one of the Maryknoll sisters, and for some of us who had missed church that morning, an intimate and moving Mass with Padre Ken, our guide, mentor, and host for the day. Here is a picture of Nora (a Franciscan), Minh (a Maryknoll missioner), Padre Ken, and his two dogs.

At this early stage of my introduction to Bolivia, I am glad that I am not exposed to such outings on a daily basis, although I expect a daily exposure to such poverty and hot-button issues. But the day seeped into my sub-conscious, where so many of these experiences are residing since my arrival here. The beautiful boy, Oliver, came into my mind as I prayed. A prayer for Ken’s well-being and sustenance from God also came to mind (Ken says that God has been very present to him during his 22-month residence at K’ara K’ara). But I pray that he will not lose heart in his poco a poco work there, where it is evident to me that the villagers there know him and like him. A priest sometimes takes quite a psychological beating in these hinterlands. Finally, how are these desperately poor residents at K’ara K’ara to be helped when their immediate need for food, clothing, shelter, and money overshadow their long-term well-being?

I found it necessary to arrange a short dinner with Fr. Ignatio Harding, our mentor (“Iggy”) just to get some stability in my sense of the Franciscan mission here. The Maryknoll fathers and sisters have been immensely supportive spiritual leaders, but I needed to hear from St. Francis, so I turned to a Franciscan priest.

To sum up Iggie’s words, we Franciscans are called to walk with the poor. This occurs on many levels. Some people are called, and actually desire, to be among the poor, living among them, even taking on their poverty. I thought of St. Damian living among the lepers and taking on their illness at the end of his life. Others are called to come nearer to the poor, to be there among them but not take on their poverty. Still on the next level, some are called to have a heart and mind for the poor, to be able to imagine their needs and to feel stricken in the heart when any injustice against God’s poor has been perpetrated.

When Padre Ken read my blog, he agreed, and let me know that he was well aware of those people who brought about change in this world, people who live in comfortable houses but who work through political and social systems to change legislation, as well as people whose prayers are heard by the God who hears the cry of the poor.

I knew that before coming here, I tried to have a heart for the poor, trying to be aware of their needs, as well as the needs of orphans, the suffering of people in violent situations, in war, and the needs of the aged, infirm, diseased, and dying. But I am here to live close to the poor, to be with them in spirit and in daily life. But no, I am not able to live near K’ara K’ara, and knowing my own limits, I continue to pray for and be a friend to Padre Juancho (Ken).

A Late Post: Carnaval in Cochabamba

2010-03-09T21:11:00.000-08:00

A blog begun on February 16, 2010, the end of Carnaval in Cochabamba

It is 11:00 p.m. on Tuesday, February 16, 2010, in Cochabamba, Bolivia, and in another hour, the Carnival season will end. In my quarters on the second floor of our home in North Cochabamba, I hear the sounds of laughter and shouting, cars passing, and the occasional rapid boom-boom-boom of a pack of Chinese firecrackers just set off. On the Fourth of July in Tennessee, dogs jump their fences when fireworks explode. We always brought our sensitive Dalmatians inside the house to calm their nerves. When Henry, our host dad here, sets off a pack of firecrackers just outside the house, very close to where the family gathers for food and drink, the dogs don’t even flinch as the firecrackers explode.

Joel and I had scheduled this weekend to travel to the college where we are hoping to work in Carmen Pampa. This trip was to have taken six hours by bus on a Friday night just to get to La Paz—we had bought buscama tickets, meaning that we had booked large seats on the bus that reclined into almost comfortable beds. We bought four tickets on Thursday night, for Clare, Nora, Joel, and me, so that we would be read to leave on Friday night. Unfortunately, Joel was set back by a recurrence of an amoeba attack, and was literally unable to get out of bed all day on Friday. Some Tinitazol pills for parasites, the oral rehydration packets, and the blanco (white) diet were the course of treatment prescribed by our doctor host, Henry. By the afternoon, Joel was able to walk around, but the long trip to Carmen Pampa was out of the question. Clare and Nora were still able to go, but Joel and I would have to wait another time. We went on to plan B.

We were invited to spend Monday and Tuesday with our host family and their extended families, a round of Carnaval parties that would introduce us to the festivities of the season. Ever since we arrived, the city has been celebrating, but as the last four days approach, with a weekend and two days off for most working people, the energy, music, and numbers of globos (water balloons thrown at innocent passersby) rise. Best to remain inside those last two days, unless one wants to get drenched by the water balloons and water pistols hurled at us by people lurking on the street corners and on the backs of trucks that pass by.

We went to one birthday party, a cumpleanos for a cousin, on Monday. The children were out in the sunshine as the adults pumped up a large swimming pool for the children. It was dutifully filled, and then the soaking began. Henry and Lily, our host dad and mom, acted like children as they pointed the water hose at anyone who ventured into the yard. Buckets of water were poured on guests as they arrived, sometimes buckets filled at the freezing-cold water spigot. I remained dry longer than anyone. We had gone to Mass that day, a memorial for the grandfather whose birthday was that day, and I was in a skirt and blouse, unlike the others in shorts and tee-shirts. Lily and Henry heartlessly soaked their own children and the friends they had brought with them. The youngest generation, ranging from three to six years old, were continually shooting their water guns and receiving a baptismal soaking from a full bucket of water. As fiesta music played in the background, Andean, contemporary, or Latina dance music, the meat was barbecued, the salsa made, and the side dishes were brought out onto the tables. As all of us tried to get dry before our meal, and tried to stay dry afterwards, a nearly impossible task, we watched as new arrivals were either pushed into the pool or doused with a bucket of water. No one was left with any dignity at this party.

Joel and I walked home—a few blocks—and noticed that no one threw water balloons at us. Why should they? We were already soaked as we trudged home.
The next day, today, is Fat Tuesday, by North American standards. Here, the Lenten season is different from the one at home. We followed the customs of our host family. Joel and I were invited to help decorate the outside of the house for Carnaval. We strung rolls of ribbon on the outside of the house, weaving it in and out of the decorative but protective metal guards over the windows. We threaded the ribbons around the small trees and plants in the garden, like garlands wound around Christmas trees. We blew up balloons and tied them all over the house, inside and out. We started a charcoal fire and placed a pre-packaged collection of ritual objects on top of the flames. This was a koa, the things burned as a way of honoring Mother Earth, or Pachamama, as the indigenous people call it. Finally, we opened a bottle of sweet wine, which tasted like sherry, poured out glasses for everyone, and then poured libations throughout the house, at all four corners. Traditionally, I am told, chicha, the popular fermented drink made of maize, is used, but not this time.
For good measure, I took my glass of sherry up to our own quarters and poured it at all four corners of our large room. It was not holy water, but I felt almost as if I were blessing my own living space, along with that of my host family. I thought of all the traditions observed in my own home at Christmas time, the family rites of leaving out Christmas cookies for Santa Claus, although the children were grown, hanging up stockings, or simply the ritual of selecting and decorating the Christmas tree.

After observing traditions, we all got into the family car and drove two blocks to Lily’s brother’s house, where we were to eat dinner. But no, dinner would not be ready for two more hours. What to do? Joel and I, not knowing what was happening but trusting in our family’s judgment, went along for the ride to places unknown outside Cochabamba.

First, we paid a surprise visit to a nephew, his wife, and two small children. There, we participated in their rites of Carnaval as well. Another koa is burned. I learned more about the symbolic meaning of the objects that were burned. The white objects burned (such as play money) represent the house, money, car, work, books, that is, the things of material worth to the family. Other ritual objects burned were white flowers or petals (for peace), cinnamon (for harmony), sugar (for happiness), and coca (for union and community). The koa ritual expresses thanks for food, the garden, flowers, grass, water, work, and health. Just as some people eat black-eyed peas for good luck at the beginning of the New Year, this practice is a way of asking for prosperity in the coming year: good work, food, money, peace, harmony in the house, happiness, and tranquility.

I thought that the Tuesday festivities before Ash Wednesday, Miercoles de Cenizas, would bring the carnaval season to a close, but I was yet to see the city’s parade of dancers or bailarinos. This procession of dancers, representing many organizations of the city, would dance from 9:00 in the morning until 11:00 at night. The next weekend we would purchase seats in one of the many bleachers set up on the parade route around the city. The exuberance, energy, and costumes of the dancers held my attention as each group danced by, with its musicians walking behind, blowing trumpets and beating drums. However, my favorite moment of the entire day was the one hour when Joel and I left the fiesta to drink some coffee at the Brasilian café, a quiet, darkened place where we could talk, safe for the moment from the globos.

So my experience of Carnaval extended beyond Ash Wednesday, and I found myself between two cultures, one that was exuberantly celebrating life with food, dance, and drink, and one that was focusing on examination of the inner self, fasting, almsgiving, and prayer. As we left the parades that evening, I felt some balance of the two worlds as I watched Henry give three street children the leftover ham and cheese sandwiches from our repast earlier. In the midst of these bright festivities, alms.

Settling into a Routine

2010-01-31T06:11:00.000-08:00

We have settled down to a routine here in Cochabamba, most of which involves attending language classes. A typical day involves getting up around six o’clock, studying a little, taking some time for reflection, getting dressed, and then heading down to the kitchen, where our desayuno, or breakfast, is already prepared. If we are not running late, we always sit down to eat the fruit, with yogurt and a sprinkling of a topping that we have been told is good for us. Cheese and bread are next, along with the coffee that we have been drinking since we woke up. After that, we bolt out of the house and walk to the MLI, taking care to avoid strange dogs, since we have been sufficiently warned about the predominance of rabies here. Most of the dogs, we know, and some of them bark at us because they know that is their role, protecting their casas. We walk past the homes in the neighborhood, all behind walls and fences. The gardens (jardins) are enticingly verdant with an abundance of flowers that we have seen only in pictures. The cobblestone roads, which we sometimes have to use when it rains, because the sidewalks are slick, take us to the main road, Avenue Circumvalacion, where we have to carefully cross the road at the red light, ignored by some drivers. Along the way, we notice that there are many restaurants, with beautiful gardens inside, interspersed among the homes. We hear that there is live music in one of these restaurants on Friday nights, and that the food is very good. We also pass photocopy stores, one bicycle store, and an Internet café. Our total distance to school is one half of a mile exactly.

If we are on a morning class schedule, we have two classes before our 9:35 break, when all students have coffee, tea, and bread during which time various announcements are made. Sometimes, a Wednesday lecture is announced—there is always a lecture on Wednesday afternoons after classes, when students learn about Latin American history, politics, and culture—or a new student is introduced. I am accustomed to being the oldest person in most situations, but at the Maryknoll Language Institute, I feel that I am surrounded by my peers, since it is never too late to learn a new language, take on a new direction in one’s life work, and be a missioner in Latin America. We return to our classes, full of bread, coffee, and tea. My fellow classmate and I have learned about the Cedron tree at the school entrance, which furnishes the leaves for a fragrant citrus tea, and we sometimes pick some leaves for a different tea experience. The last two classes of the morning somehow seem harder than the first two.

Classes end at 11:30, and I am always at loose ends. Do I socialize with everyone, or make my way to the student room, where many people are answering emails, visiting Facebook, or talking with family and friends, using Skype? I usually socialize and then rush to read emails before returning home for lunch. Lunch is a huge meal, called almuerzo (which the dictionary defines as a mid-morning snack, and one thinks of the Hobbits’ second breakfast). But no—it is the huge meal of the day, and one may anticipate spaghetti and meat sauce, steak and vegetables, chicken soup with large pieces of chicken in the soup pot, seasoned pork, minute steaks or fried chicken, or Cochabamban dishes, such as pique macho, a colorful stew made of chopped meat, various peppers, onions, French fries, and chopped hot dogs, among other ingredients or sillpancho, which is layers of rice, friend potatoes, and a thin piece of meat, topped with an egg. Lunch always comes with a variety of vegetables, potatoes or rice or both, pickled carrots, onions, carrots, peppers, and green beans. Someone always manages to prepare a fruit juice, made from lemons, water melon, or papayas.

Joel and I will inevitably head back to the Institute after our meal for more work on the Internet. Wednesdays are afternoon lecture days, followed by a social hour, where students may enjoy peanuts, chips, cheese and crackers, popcorn, all the goodies that are so plentiful in the States, and very appreciated here. Thursdays, our Franciscan missioners have an hour and a half meeting, with a check-in and a prayer service, which we take turns preparing. We light the candle that our mentor Fr. Ignacio Harding (Iggie) gave us. Clare presented a reflection on Henry Nouwen’s book Gracias, his journal on his days in Bolivia. My service was a reflection on the liturgical year and the ways that worshippers participate in Mass. How will we respond to celebrating the different feast days and seasons in a country where we don’t know the language? I asked my fellow missioners. After our time for reflection, there is a volleyball game, and I was foolhardy enough to join in last week. Some people went out for dinner, coffee, and ice cream afterwards.

Language school students may or may not get together on the weekends. Friday nights are popular times to explore the restaurants in the city. Last night, a group of students, Joel included, went to a restaurant called Casablanca, a restaurant not on the Institute’s “eating guide,” but all of us are venturing out to new places, where we feel the food is safe for our gringo consumption. I did not go last night. Feeling some low energy and very queasy in the stomach, I stayed at home and tried to learn more verbs, nouns, and phrases in Espanol. It was soothing to have the living quarters to myself. Andean music floated through my open window, and I recalled the band that played for the four groups of missioners who trained together for a week at Ossining, New York, where the Maryknoll school, Bethany, is located. Only one of the Maryknoll missioners is here at the language school, Mingh, and I am the lucky one who gets to take classes with her. As I review my Espanol, I listen to the music. This neighborhood, or barrio, is close, and one doesn’t mind hearing the music from bands nearby as people enjoy their weekend fiestas. I have even become accustomed to the inhuman voice of the fruit vendor calling out the names of fruits he has to sell over the loudspeaker as his truck travels through the neighborhood. Over the loudspeaker, the unearthly sound sends a chill up my spin, but the other day when I saw him selling his fruit, his very human appearance belied his sinister call to buy fruit. The parrot next door is a common recurrent sound. In the States, we are so intent upon our own rights to solitude and quiet, but here, it feels good to know that other people are buying fruit and enjoying their Friday nights with friends.

Tomorrow, Joel will go to buy soccer tickets with our host, Henry. One may feel guilty about enjoying the pastimes of the middle class, so similar to our own at home, but let’s face it, we all love soccer, and the family enjoys making us feel at home in our new country. Henry and Lily have even said that they may visit us when Joel and I go to Carmen Pampa to work (their daughter lives in La Paz); be that as it may, we feel very lucky to be able to converse with them even a little bit. We spent one evening this week just looking at weird animals on the internet, comparing the creatures that inhabit our respective countries: possums, bats, raccoons, snakes indigenous to each continent, some creatures that I have never seen before.

I want to include some pictures here of Cochabamba. The second Saturday when we were here, the Maryknoll Language Institute arranged for us a full tour of Cochabamba, which took us to visit the gigantic Christ statue on the hill over the city, many plazas in the city, and finally to a beautiful restaurant inside a kind of park, where we had a bountiful lunch alfresco or afuera with the other students. After almuerzo, I looked to my right to see Joel swimming laps in the pool just yards away from our dinner table. The park, or resort, was well landscaped, with soft St. Augustine grass underfoot. Exotic flowers lined the sidewalks, and parrots and parakeets peered at us from their capacious cages. Joel and Nora (fellow missioner) took some close-up pictures of the flowers. The setting was tranquil and beckoning. All of us were humble, grateful, in our moment of happiness and peace, knowing that we were privileged to have such beauty and food on this gorgeous day on the hills above the city so full of poor people.

Other pictures were taken by Joel on the Sunday when we met with Iggie at the Franciscan Social Center. We were invited by Iggie to visit the Center, and somehow managed to arrive on the day when all Bolivian schools, churches, and markets were closed, the day when the country celebrated the nation’s acceptance of its new constitution. The five missioners came to the Center, met with Fr. Edwin Quispe, whose parish in Cochabamba is flourishing, and watched the video he had made of his parish’s many activities. We went to Richard and Kristen’s apartment, where they lived when they worked in Cochabamba, and went through all of the boxes that they had left behind, full of CDs, DVDs, books, coat hangers, Spanish-English note cards (which I took) on handy rings, a cell phone that Clare is now using, pillows, bedding, a ziplock of Ibuprofen, and many other useful items. Seeing us look through these boxes of things that would be of use to us as missioners in the coming years, Iggie wished us Feliz Navidad. We found it imperative to have a picture taken of us in the main room where other missioners had gathered before our time, and then spent some time talking about our future assignments and learning more about the country we are becoming a part of.

The center was closed, but Iggie took us to the different sections where social services were offered. Clinics ranged from dental, to medical, to psychological. There was a meeting place for Alcoholics Anonymous, for alcoholism is a big problem here, a Comedor Popular, which is a kitchen serving lunch to many children and adults on Saturday at noon. Very interesting to me was the children’s burn center. Here children who have been burned and are on the road to rehabilitation are cared for as they wait for further treatment and surgery. Without proper care of the burn wounds, the burn victims regress and have to have repeat surgeries. But here, under the expert care given in the center, the children can be treated with dignity and respect while they are on the road to recovery. On the road to recovery? I asked. The best part is that these burns that have ravaged and disfigured the children can be treated, and I was told that after treatment, the children look as if they have never been burned.

I am caught up in learning the language, getting to know our host family, trying to get around in a city where no one speaks English, and keeping in touch with the people I love back home. After that, it is journaling, reading, personal reflection, and developing relationships with other people here, Bolivian, North American, or other. I have received some nice hugs from the grandson, Sebastian, and even got to play with some puppies at a home where we dropped off his mother and him for a play date. But I am continually aware of the many hungry stray dogs in this city, and even more aware of the underfed children and their impoverished parents. As I enjoy the good in life, I am always aware that somewhere others are going without. Even today, as our host family treated us to ice cream and empanadas at a city café, we were interrupted by a family of four, a mother and three children who held out their hands for money. I watched in silence as Henry got up from his ice cream and bought four empanadas for them. Lilly told us, they might get some food with the money but it will probably be taken from them by the father to buy alcohol. What kind of help helps? We missioners have learned to think carefully about this question. It was a good example for Joel and me, as we watched Henry buy food for the uninvited guests. All of us, then, were able to enjoy the beautiful day in good company, without hunger.

Living with a Bolivian Family

2010-01-26T14:29:00.000-08:00

What motivates a family to host students for the Maryknoll Language Institute? I know that for many Americans, no amount of money could tempt them to give up their privacy ten months out of the year (there are two sessions at the Institute, five months each) to open up their home to strangers. It takes planning, cooperation within the family, and much prayer. Still, I know that many American families participate in programs that do just that, and find it enriching.

Our host family is hard working, close knit, and hospitable. Joel and I are the sojourners here, and we feel very welcomed. Our living quarters are upstairs from the central living space, with a separate entrance, where we have as much storage as we need, a comfortable bed, our own bathroom, complete with a hot shower (although temperamental), as well as a refrigerator, television, and DVD player. On Saturday, our hostess and her son went with us to the Concha, the huge marketplace in the city, to purchase lamps for our room, so that we have lots of lighting for studying at our desk and for late night-time reading. Although the family is a busy one, with adult children living at home and doing their own laundry, we have no problem gaining access to the family clothesline after washing our clothes in the LG (Life is Good) washing machine.

Senor Henry Rosa, the father, met us at the airport when we de-boarded from the plane, our names on a large placard he held up. Exhausted and wearing warm winter clothing, we managed to get our luggage into his Nissan Pathfinder, where we blinked in the hot summer sun as he drove us to our new home in the northern part of Cochabamba, the most prosperous part of the city. We were residing only four blocks from the Maryknoll Institute.

Henry is a pediatrician who also teaches at one of the universities (Universidad) in Cochabamba. He was on vacation when we arrived almost three weeks ago, but today is his first day to return to work. He teaches three classes at the Universidad. Lily Arze, our hostess, works at the Ambassador Hotel in what seems to me a tourist area near the center of the city, where attractive shops, like the Spitting Llama and interesting cafes may be found. There are three children (ages 22, 23, and 25), one daughter-in-law, and one grandson. The oldest daughter, aged 25, lives in La Paz, where she is a production engineer for the most popular beer brewery in Bolivia. The grandson, Sebastian, is taking swimming lessons and plays soccer and catch in the courtyard with his father and grandfather. His energy is boundless, and he talks nonstop, except for the one day when he was ill. The whole family is present for the main meal in the middle of the day; no one misses the mid-day meal, ever.

Infinite patience best describes the family’s efforts to ease Joel and me into the world of Spanish-speaking persons. How many times have I asked Lily, the mother here, to give me the Spanish words for wash, sleep, or even cherries or oatmeal? Her pronunciation, like that of Henry, her husband, is clear and distinct, yet my middle-aged brain hears a word and promptly forgets it. I have created small note-cards to aid my memory, and Joel and I try to write the new words on cards or put them on the computer almost immediately after talking with our host family. Henry noticed my ring of note cards and asked if he could copy them, in solidarity with our efforts to learn Spanish. Joel offered him his own vocabulary list from the computer. The atmosphere is jovial, and the conversation routine is much like charades. Our mutual encounters will enrich both families’ vocabulary and perspective on the world. The many jokes and stories show us that our cultures and mindsets are not too foreign to each other. Both are solicitous about our well-being, and Lily is particularly understanding of Joel’s so-called addiction to caffeine. Talks around the kitchen table after dinner are the best times for communication. All four of us, the two couples especially, find that the dialogue becomes easier to understand as the night goes on. We talk about soccer (we all went to the soccer game yesterday), our favorite music, how our day went—we even exchange stories about our pasts. Henry, Lily, Joel, and I discovered that we are all the same age, give or take a year, and that Lily and I were the same age when we had our oldest child. We have been married 33 years; they have been married 34.
One Sunday afternoon, when Lily’s mother was visiting, all of us discussed the secrets to a successful marriage (the mother had been married for more than sixty years).

This family has been hosting students since 1984. This is the year when Lupita (Guadalupe), the oldest daughter, was born, and also the year when our daughter, Emer, was born. Lily is so well organized in her presentation of meals that I have to remind myself that this is not a bed and breakfast. Joel and I have asserted our rights as more than guests when we help clear the table and take our turn doing the dishes.

Lily works outside the home, so she prepares the noon meal sometime in the morning before work or at night after the small supper. This morning at 5:00, when I got up a little earlier, I noted that the breakfast table was already set for all of us, and I have seen potatoes peeled and rice cooked before she goes to work. We have at least four kinds of fruit in the morning, from melons, cherries, and grapes, to apples and bananas. The first and last meals of the day are taken in the kitchen; the noon meal in the dining room, with everyone present, including all three children, the daughter-in-law, and the grandson, Sebastian, aged 3. All family members help prepare, from cutting vegetables (plentiful) to clearing the table and doing the dishes. This family is the most egalitarian that I have seen in sharing chores.

Like my fellow missioners, I want to learn Spanish so that I may have grown-up conversations with the family I live with. There are so many questions that I want to ask them about themselves. It could be that our host family is our primary teachers here in Bolivia. They take this task to heart, and I hope that I will not try their patience as I ask them to repeat the same word for the fourteenth time.

“Poco a poco, lado a lado, lento pero seguro” (Little by little, side by side, and slowly but surely)

2010-01-16T14:57:00.000-08:00

“Poco a poco, lado a lado, lento pero seguro” (Little by little, side by side, and slowly but surely)

Since arriving here in Cochabamba, I have come across these phrases many times. I am hearing poco a poco in my language school, as I, along with my fellow students, struggle to learn Spanish, and lento pero seguro from our host family, who has been hosting students since 1984. Lado a lado, a phrase that I found in my Spanish workbook referring to the ways that vowels work when they occur side by side, found its existential equivalent in the candle that our Franciscan mentor, Fr. Ignacio Harding, whom we call Iggie, presented to us when the four of us new missioners came to eat lunch with him at his Franciscan Center (our fifth missioner, Catherine, arrived here in Cochabamba on Wednesday—she is taking a short refresher course in Spanish). The words “Tu va commingo” (I go with you) are inscribed on the tall, sturdy candle, which reminds me of a Pascal candle in church. The five of us Franciscan missioners are to light this candle weekly when we meet for prayer, communal reflection, and, most likely, a meal. Iggy will join us whenever he is available, but the purpose, I think, is for us to support one another in our prayers and reflection. Yes, I go with you is appropriate for us missioners working overseas, and the promise lets us know that our Lord does go with us, along with our mentor, Iggy, each other, and all friends here and at home. We do not go alone here.

In the following blogs that I write, these three phrases will dominate. As I learn the names and places of my new environment, I will supply them. I am determined not to remain in my own abstractions, but to recreate the world as I see it.

"How to Get on a Plane to Come to Bolivia for Three Years"

It had taken all summer for Joel and me to sell our furniture, keeping only our piano and an antique secretary, and giving away the rest. Most challenging was selling some of our books, and boxing the rest. As an English professor for many years, and one whose career change at the age of fifty-something meant that I had to buy even more books to pursue a degree in theology at Vanderbilt Divinity School, I knew that these books had to be stored for future use. I think of the piano that I inherited from my mother, the one I learned to play on, and the one my children learned to play on, now residing in an Anglican church in Franklin, Tennessee, now being used for piano lessons in the church. I recall the family china and silver securely boxed and placed in my twin brother’s basement in Madison, Tennessee, and the other wares boxed up and placed in a friend’s climate-controlled storage barn in Fairview, Tennessee.

Even the night before we left the country, we took another load of boxes from the Franciscan mission house, where we had lived for three months, to my aunt’s home in the same city, Washington, D.C. In the future, her daughter will take them on to Tennessee. One does not go on mission alone, clearly, since so much help from our family and friends at home is needed. Still, little by little Joel and I culled our things in the five days we had to whittle down our possessions so that they might be packed into two trunk-sized duffel bags and two carry-on bags apiece. I recall leaving two garbage-sized bags of clothes in the basement of the FMS house (Casa San Salvador), all those clothes that I had really never worn much over the years or had been worn until they were worn out. Our daughter, Emer, aged 25, who had come to stay at the FMS house with us before our departure, was pragmatic in her efforts to help me select what to take and what to leave behind.

Most of the books in my library were already packed away in Tennessee; still, I had to pare down my collection even more, and today as I look on the desk in the room that my husband and I occupy in Cochabamba, I count sixteen books brought here.

Painful though it was, all the packing done, the extra boxes dispatched to my aunt’s house, I found myself at the Baltimore-Washington airport with the other missioners. At the last minute, I discovered that I had some clothes with me that I had planned to stuff into a carry-on. No room! No luck! Emer took care of this problem in the women’s restroom at the airport. I could layer my clothes, all extra socks going on top of one another, jeans worn under slacks, and blouses layered over one another. There! Recalling Heidi as she was transported to her grandfather in the Alps, dresses layered over dresses so that her clothes did not have to be packed in a suitcase, I was ushered from the restroom, feeling somewhat confined in my many layers of clothing. Joel recalled the indigenous Bolivian women, who layered on skirt over the other. I was going into this new element with cultural adaptation in mind.

The FMS office had basically closed for the afternoon as everyone accompanied us to the airport to give us a magnificent send-off. Families of the missioners were there, and after the camcorder interviews with all of us, many, many hugs, and some private time with our families, we began to move through security. My daughter remained there at the security entrance until we had been completely declared safe to go after all the computers and carry-ones were inspected. I am sure that all three of us in my family recalled those good-byes during the college years when our two children were leaving for what seemed like an interminable amount of time to go to college or to attend a summer program. Our family tradition is to wave until the traveler is totally out of sight, jumping up to wave as the act of separation becomes more imminent. My last glimpse behind was to see Emer, still waving as we finally turned to go. She would soon be a continent away, our daughter, but we would see her in July when she would visit, and we would talk with her with our Skype connection.

As we went down the narrow corridor, the four of us boarded the plane to Charlotte, North Carolina; to Miami, Florida; to La Paz, Bolivia; and then on to Cochabamba. We were together as a group, Clare, Nora, Joel, and I, but our families, friends, and our FMS support team, were with us as well as we made our way to our new home in a time zone the same as our own.

All You Have to Do Is Show Up

2009-12-20T07:21:00.000-08:00

All You Have to Do Is Show Up
Friday, December 18, 2009

When I was in Divinity School at Vanderbilt, I was friends with a fellow student who had suffered all kinds of setbacks after beginning her program in Divinity School. Keeping up with her academic responsibilities was a challenge for her, but she doggedly continued to attend class regularly and somehow got her work done. Later, when I experienced my own terrible and tragic setback, she took me by the hand and said, “Lynn, all you have to do is show up.” Having watched her move steadily through her program, I knew that I could do the same.
I showed up. I graduated with a Masters in Theological Studies in 2008. I applied for jobs as a campus minister that spring, and then I showed up for an interview at Furman University and was hired as a chaplaincy intern.

The next spring, my husband, Joel Vaughn, and I showed up for the May discernment weekend at Casa San Salvador, and became Franciscan lay missioners.

As I write my first blog, I am again showing up. At this time, I am in my own hometown, which is the town where my children also grew up, Nashville, Tennessee, and its environs. I am saying good-bye to my family and friends. With all my anxiety about missing someone on my list, I have returned to my friend’s advice, “All you have to do is show up.”

I showed up at the Vanderbilt Divinity School all-faith chapel service. It was the last service of the semester, and we were praying over and “sending forth” the December graduates. One of these happened to be a young friend of mine, who had been discerning to be a priest (Vanderbilt is primarily a Protestant and “other” Div School. He was being sent forth by his community of scholars. I had the privilege of placing my hands on his shoulder (along with about ten other people) and praying for him. Another student, an ordained Methodist minister, who had asked me to participate in a panel discussion at her church, was also being sent forth by her peers. When the service was over, I shouted to her, “I’m going to Bolivia!” “I know!,” she shot back, “I got your letter, and I am going to support you!!”

I showed up at my children’s parochial school this morning, around 8:10, and the school was having its first Eucharistic Adoration service for the young students. Memories of my children’s Masses there at this beloved academy came to mind as I watched the children in their uniforms absorb this new experience in the church, one which I as an adult always treasure. Afterward, I happened to see the teacher whose religion class is going to follow my husband and me as FMS missioners in Bolivia. I also saw my children’s teachers, who have never forgotten them. This was a good way for a mother to say good-bye to her children’s childhood.

Tonight, I went to a special service for bereaved parents whose children had died. My husband and I have been in this exclusive club for three years, having lost our son during his freshman year at Middlebury College, in Vermont.

Tonight, at the service, all we had to do was show up. We celebrated Mass with all the parents there who had lost children, as well as those who had come there in solidarity with their suffering. After the service, a couple walked over to us. It was my advisor from the Div School and his wife, another professor of mine. “We were thinking about you during the service, and now you are here. “ I had been anxious about missing out on seeing these people while I was in town.

We showed up. Our trip back home has been one in which we have bumped into friends whom we never would have seen. We have carried our new Franciscan Lay Missioner cards with us wherever we go, and complete strangers have asked for our cards. Is this what is meant by the Franciscan ministry of presence? All I know is that all we had to do was show up.

I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow.
I feel my fate in what I cannot fear.
I learn by going where I have to go.

Theodore Roethke, “The Waking”