Debrief

I left my small-town, two-gate airport at night and came back at night so I wondered if it really happened or if it was a dream. Waiting at the luggage carousel, ankles itchy from mosquito bites, arms itchy from an old sunburn, the almost empty orange Rx bottle of antibiotic jammed in my pocket; all built a case against the dream theory.

The memories come in snippets, but began to settle into place today. I took my two youngest sisters to visit Grandma for lunch and go for a hike in the woods. First, though, we stopped at the cemetery a few miles from Grandma's. The headstone, recently placed, is regal, fitting, profound. Grandma did a good job designing it. It was cold, so, despite coats and hiking boots, we only stood there a minute. But it was long enough for me to remember the day. Especially the way my 6 inch wedges had pinched my toes. Especially, hopelessness. So much has happened since last July. I'm very thankful for the events of this past week...  

After teaching all afternoon, I was tired and thirsty. Simon* didn't know that, but he waved me into the garden—a grove of fruit trees that grow in the southeast corner of the Colegio Moriah compound. He deftly hacked away at a fresh-picked coconut with his machete, then set the hefty orb in my hands. I tipped my head back and slaked my thirst. Simon is a good man. He does not have a steady job because he's Haitian and the paperwork hasn't gone through. But he works hard, serves at Colegio Moriah in his spare time, and here and there God provides for his family.

Simon's son is 9 months old. He's a hunk—chubby thighs, chubby cheeks, a head of coarse brown curls. I held him for a few minutes during church, before swapping him for an infant with 6 fingers on each hand. Five minutes under a surgeon's care, a few stitches, and a post-op visit is all it would take. But I don't know when or if that will happen. Until it does, the extra appendages dangle uselessly, and I hope they don't get caught in something...damaged...infected.

Another toddler was asleep on the hard wooden pew in front of me. He was sweaty, and beautiful. His eyelids fluttered slightly as voices raised praise in Creole and bass pumped through the old amplifiers. It resonated in my thoracic cavity, echoing off my ribs and messing with my heart's rhythm. Where the Spirit of the Lord is, there is freedom. There is family. I like holding children.

*pseudonym

When we played basketball with middle-schoolers Saturday afternoon in 90* heat, there was a moment when the ball bounced off the backboard and we all reached to catch it. I looked up. The sun was in the corner of my eye, but there was the ball, and there were our outstretched arms: a gradient of color from 100% cocoa to translucent tupelo honey set against a backdrop of crystalline blue. We were all reaching for the same thing: unified. 

There were two things I was not expecting. Well, okay, three. I'll start with the latter: I was not expecting my mission to work. But it did. Despite my tiredness, despite my nerves, despite having to lie down between sessions because I can only take so much stimulation, it was a smashing success. Glory be to God. I taught all the students, and spoke in church four times. I'm glad I had a translator because the pauses gave me space to pray for help. 

Another thing I was not expecting was the paucity of English speakers. Joke's on me. Less than a handful of people I interacted with throughout the week could accommodate my ignorance and speak English to me. Maryah and Kristen were always saving me.

Finally, I was not expecting to find family. "I felt welcomed" is an understatement. "I've never been loved like that" is an overstatement, because I've been loved well my whole life. But you get the point. There is something unspeakably awesome about the gospel's ability to make anyone instant family. It's being touched and held by holiness in a rebellious world. I am in love with the church.

"As for the saints in the land, they are the excellent ones in whom is all my delight."

"Two are better than one...a threefold cord is not easily broken." I generally picture that as a husband-wife-child dynamic. But you know, it applies to sisters as well. Working alongside each other for a week in the Dominican changed our relationship. We left the petty grievances of childhood behind and were women together. Why do I pout about being a one-woman team? I have a team. They are my siblings.

I admire Maryah for her service at Colegio Moriah. "Teacher's assistant" may not sound super impressive, but it takes a hero. Those kids don't like to listen. Piecing together the stories of their home-lives rips up your heart. "Maybe that's why the kid doesn't listen." To top if off, there aren't even enough school supplies. The pages of the library books are limp with humidity. There is dirt. The classrooms are dark and stuffy to boot if they aren't on a corner, with multiple walls given to windows. The bathrooms are disgusting—over 400 kids, pre-school to 12th grade, sharing 6 toilets.

The environment is toxic. Until you build up immunity, even treated water makes you sick. Noise pollution keeps you up at night. Someone in the area thinks burning plastic is a good way to get rid of it. There is no public health system to keep the people in check. When Maryah was up half the night coughing, Kristen and I hung out with her under the mosquito netting. Girls talk about lots of things in the middle of the night.

The students, the school, are governed by heroes, but even heroes can only do so much when there isn't enough money.

 Maryah and Kristen rented an entire bus to carry us and a mixture of 20 students, teachers, and friends, to the coast. It takes money, so it doesn't happen a lot. Some of them couldn't swim, even though they are just a half-hour car trip to the water. We tried to teach them. Floating on my back still feels like a miraculous hilarity to me, so it is hard to teach.

All winter I have not let myself go running. I've been trying to give my joints a break, trying to let my body find some sort of equilibrium, trying to keep the stress induced by freezing air to a minimum. That Sunday afternoon, when I finally had a break, when we were all at the shore, I had to run. I had to let it out. With no explanation I took off, sprinting, stretching my stride as long as I could to shock my muscles out of hibernation. It felt so good. A few hundred meters out I slowed, filled my blood with fresh oxygen blown in off the sea.

I turned at the sound of laughter. They had followed: A dozen pairs of legs giving flight. Feet pounded out a beat on the quasi-cement formed at the water's edge. They were a blur of smiles and neon swimsuits. The girls' filmy cover-ups trailed behind. For an afternoon we lived a little like we will in heaven, when we've been freed once and for all from the cages that uniquely constrain each of us.

We had to run. It's what you do when you are happy.

The littlest children are almost always happy. They smile up at you, a mouthful of baby pearls. They are too little to know, but Colegio Moriah is saving their lives. With education, with childhood memories of being safe, fed, and loved at school if not at home, with seeds of the gospel planted in hearts that are fertile like the Caribbean soil, they have a chance at a life that is not a textbook case of evolutionary Darwinism drenched in sin. Survival won't be the plot line of their lives. They will be equipped to serve, to raise resilient children themselves. Equipped to pause and watch the sun rise, its new mercies glinting off palm fronds and corrugated steel roofs. They will taste and see that the Lord is good and be loved by Him. 

They will. If we help the children, they will.

 In high school I was stirred by Alan Paton's 1948 novel, Cry, The Beloved Country, which is themed around apartheid and redemption in South Africa. His book has perhaps subliminally directed my life. At the end of one chapter he wrote: "And money is not something to go mad about, and throw your hat into the air for. Money is for food and clothes and comfort, and a visit to the pictures. Money is to make happy the lives of children. Money is for security, and for dreams, and for hopes, and for purposes. Money is for buying the fruits of the earth, of the land where you were born."

Happy children grow into resilient adults. Make happy the life of a child by sponsoring a student at Colegio Moriah for just $25/month now (click here).

In a Church Basement

Today is Thanksgiving. It came in the last few days of November this year so it was almost late to its own party. I'm just glad it is here. I've looked forward to it almost as much as when I was littler; not because I got to dress up as a Native American and play with my cousins, but because it breaks up my incessant schedule.

This morning, then, I woke up and pulled on my favorite American Eagle jeans and a comfy flannel shirt―both no-nos at work. I ate some yogurt and a pancake and then we all piled into the truck and drove less then 10 miles up the other side of the lake to a Presbyterian church Mom and Dad had heard was running a soup kitchen of sorts.

The church building was typical looking, white-sided with a dirt parking lot that had melted and refrozen just enough times to be a death trap to any pedestrian. We wobbled (not gobbled) around until we found an unlocked door that lead downstairs to the basement―I recall the appropriate vernacular is "fellowship hall."

It smelled like the church basements of my childhood: musty, dank, and corn casserole. It looked like them too. I swear a church isn't a church unless it has the ugliest carpet that's always colored a cross between tennis ball and vomit green. The perfect carpet to accommodate those one or two families (Lord love 'em, 'cause we don't) who still come to Sunday morning church even though their kid was throwing up all night long and ain't done yet.

Also just like other churches I've known, the people were pretty wonderful: cheerful, hospitable, a little nervous. Everyone trying to make conversation but making mostly bad jokes instead―that we all laugh at.

The whole thing coughed and sputtered a bit as it started, but they've only been doing it about 6 years, and until last year it was a pretty small event. This year, they made and delivered 150 Thanksgiving dinners to local people in need, and projected a hundred or two would come to the church for a meal.

It was a cool experience to help out for a few hours, even if it was just setting tables, or plating pie, or scooping mashed taters―a 15 year old on my left dishing up squash, and an 80 year old on my right serving turkey―into takeout box after takeout box.

Everything I do these days seems so, so small. I go to a small church. I helped out today at another small church. I'm just a waitress and a college student. I've been here 20 years and so far have left very small footprints. I'm blessed that some of those footprints are in Italy, but even my time there was small, working with Saints Equipped to Evangelize, a very small ministry.

Most of us, we are born and we live and we do small things and then we die.

A very small part of my very small self likes to think this is just a "season" in my life. The verse that runs something like "be faithful in the small things and God will give you big things" repeats in my head sometimes, tells me to keep breathing, to get one more "A," to serve up one more Steuben Reuben panini with a smile.

That very small part of me wonders if I might, one day, have a big footprint. One day, could I be the next Katie Davis, Anne Voskamp, (Oprah Winfrey, anyone?), Gladys Aylward, Florence Nightingale...? Could I change enough of the world to be a world-changer?

What is it inside of me that makes me want to be that kind of person, when I'm honestly not all that enthralled with life? Is it the little kid in me that still thinks I'm gonna be an Olympian or an astronaut or president? I ask, because...my desire to do big things, be a "world-changer," may or may not be right. It may not be necessary.

Most people (at 20 years old I'm still looking to "most people" to get hints on how to play this game) don't do big things. Most people leave a haphazard string of small footprints, not fancy big ones.

Know what? I know often times those ineloquent, crooked lines are beautiful and tell the story of lives lived humanly, but lived well; lives that loved and served and spread joy. I also know that at the end of the line, it doesn't matter about the size of the footprint―it's the size of the heart that made the footprint.

Thing is, I'm convinced that any big heart has the potential to leave a big footprint and I don't want to settle if there's the possibility that God will grow my heart and strengthen my steps and bring more honor to himself.

'Cause if I gotta live and God won't have mercy and take me right now like I want Him to, damn it, I'm gonna live well.

Cloud 9

It is that time of year that I like to call "seasonal twilight," because when you stand outside in any random location—thanks to leafless trees, puddles, and green/yellow grass—you can convince yourself that it is late winter going on spring rather than late fall going on winter (like the undefined period of time when you don't know if the sun is either just about to rise or just finished setting, if that metaphor needs explaining). I find it nice to pretend it's the former, since after Christmas and a few fun days of ice and snow, all there is to look forward to is cold and more snow and ice and slush and grey grey grey. Of course, that is when school comes to the rescue. I have to hand it to the world, Christmas break really is perfectly scheduled and it's nice to start up again in January when the weather gets wintery.

The realization that Christmas break is coming has just dawned on me today. I haven't let myself think about break until now. I'm not sure if that was a self-defense mechanism, or if I've just been busy, or if school has simply become a routine. Whichever way, a break is starting to sound awfully refreshing. Having done school straight since June 27, from my vantage point a 4 week Christmas break looks like an icy cold slice of perfectly ripe watermelon on a wonderfully hot 80 degree day. In a tank-top and shorts. Swinging on the disc swing. Surrounded by green.

Yeah yeah yeah quit daydreaming mattea. The literal hot chocolate with whipped cream and fuzzy hats and Christmas parties with friends that are coming your way are very fun too.

Speaking of which, we did have our first Christmas party on Saturday with the Epp's care group. Er, community group. Whatever it's called. But first, we all went caroling. We met at the Maxim's house and it didn't take long for a couple people to point out that I was the only one not wearing Christmas colors. Oops. I tried saying something like the wise men probably wore purple sweatshirts but I don't think anyone bought into it.

Across from the Maxim's is an elderly retirement complex, and we were scheduled to sing carols for them at about 3:00pm Saturday. We even advertised (hm, one of those tricky words where you could spell it the American way or the English way. I'm sticking with English since I spelled gray "grey" above lol). So we didn't know if we'd have a lot of people, or just a few.

When we got to the main meeting room, there were 3 cute looking old ladies sitting there waiting for us. By the end of our caroling we had attracted a grand total of six people, but all well. They seemed appreciative. One of them had even baked us a Hawaiian cake. But she warned us that it might not have turned out, seeing as she had forgotten to put the egg in at the proper time. Which made us wonder...when you did finally remember to put the egg in was it before or after you baked it? Haha, it really was sweet of her though. They kept thanking us profusely, even though our singing was only tolerable. For "Away in a Manger," we started off too low, so we couldn't even get out the "no crib for a bed" part. Everyone laughed, of course, and we started again, higher this time. But I couldn't sing after that because, though most everyone else had managed to except maybe Maryah, I just couldn't stop laughing. There is nothing worse than suppressing laughter; it's a horrid feeling. But we got through it alive.

Afterward we went to the Perl's and ate. Then Mr. Perl, the game king, got out his Christmas jeopardy board. We split into teams and it ended up that all of my family was on one team. We won. And I'm not sure if we are going to get invited back to that community group because Mr. Maxim said, at the end of the night, "I just got introduced to a whole other side of the Wilber's. You guys are competitive." (And he has known us for 6-8 years.) I guess we went a little overboard on the cheering and hand signals and bouncing. 

Sunday morning we arrived at church rather early. I was quite excited when I saw (and smelled) the Christmas tree, and the day only got better after that. Warren Boetcher was up...or over...however that works...and he preached from Daniel 12. Once again exciting, because it was apocalyptic literature; however he put a new spin on it, preaching on one of my favorite topics: how to live in light of eternity. 

After church we somehow ended up with the Hinterberger's again. Though it is a rather swell thing to end up with. Mikaela, Maryah and I rocked the aprons, got all domestic and made pancakes. I think we may have had 20 people in that kitchen since the Crogan's and a few Jeror's were there too. I'll say that if there ever was organized, happy chaos, that was it. It gets the title "organized" because we eventually ended up with lunch on the table, not on the ceiling. "Happy" because everyone was laughing or smiling or talking or singing (songs of choice: Every Move I Make, O Come All Ye Faithful, and Banana Pancakes). "Chaos" because that is just what happens whenever we get together.

Though the entire day did have sort of a surreal quality to it (and not because I was high...at least, I don't think I was). You just get this feeling that you don't deserve any of this. I don't deserve it. I don't deserve God's gift of salvation, let alone all the other gifts He gives me. His forgiveness is way more than enough, but for some reason He didn't stop there. He put me in the best family, with a wonderful mom, a role model dad, and siblings who are amazing. Set me in a great church, that sure, has definitely seen some storms, but is looking at clearer horizons. Given me friends who make me smile, and afternoons like yesterday that are spent on cloud nine. Even if it's really just simple things like decorating the tree at church or flipping pancakes with Mikaela or dancing or running up the road singing Christmas songs at the top of your lungs 'til you can't breathe.

I guess there is no such thing as "could have," but for the sake of things I'm going on a "could have" spiel. I could have been born somewhere else. I could have not graduated high school. I could have headed down a dark, dark road that doesn't reach the light again. I could have rejected the gospel. I could be trapped in some South Asian brothel. I could be all alone. I could be lost and fearful. I could be starving to death.

But I'm not.

God put me here, as a Wilberito, not there. Yeah here is hard in its own ways—everyone has their burdens to bear. But when I think of what I deserve (for the world to blow up in my face and then spend an eternity in pain)...it's an understatement to say I'm rather glad, rather grateful, He did put me here.