It was 2 something in the morning. I am alone in the house for a few weeks, and so my pajama attire consisted of a muscle tee and underwear. In the summer heat of Córdoba, even in the middle of the night, it felt like too much, but I could never go for less for emergency reasons. Such as a phone call around this time from a stranger.
At first, I was just going to let it ring (I do after all, hold to the personal mantra of not every phone call nor doorbell must be answered). But, I remembered that some missionary friends were expected to come in any time, I figured I should double check.
The groggy morning voice surfaced, "Hello," I managed.
A male voice responded asking to know who I was. Asking to talk to some one named V--.
I calmly told him that he had the wrong number.
"C'mon bitch, pass the phone," he said insistently.
"Look," I told him. "While I might love to hand it over to this person, I promise you that he or she is not here. My name is Sharayah and you have the wrong number."
"Who!?"
As if pronouncing for a kindergartner, and perhaps thinking this man was drunk, "Sha... ray... ah.." Knowing he would forget my name in the morning.
Perhaps I crossed a line. Perhaps I should have just hung up, but something kept me there whilst no-name tried, to no avail, to say my own correctly.
"But who are you? Are you joking with me? I know I dialed the right number.."
"I'm from the States, and that is why my name is not usual. No, still not joking. You have the wrong house."
And here is the point at which he started to warm up to the idea that I was who I said I was. He tried knowing my age, what I do in Argentina, the neighborhood where I live. To all of these I refused to respond, because one could only guess his motives were impure. So I interrupted him.
"Look," I said. "While you want to know who I am, there's a question I have for you that is more important than all of these details."
"And that is?"
"Do you believe in God?"
I swear I could hear the crickets chirping, even over the noises of the radio in the background on his end of the line.
He finally answered, "Well.. yes. I mean.. Yes. Yes I believe in God."
"And what does that mean for you?" I asked.
"Well yes means ye--"
"No no.. What does it mean to believe in God?"
Another uncomfortable silence, though perhaps more for him than for me. I could sense that I would be getting to my bed soon, and I was grateful.
He finally mustered, "That he exists."
Without hesitation, "Right. And that is not enough in my opinion."
"Wait, what?" no-name said. "What does it mean to believe in God for you?"
Inhale, exhale: "I believe in Jesus Christ. That only through him, through his sacrifice on the cross can we be saved. Through him we have a reason for living; because of his work, I trust him enough to come all the way to Argentina to serve."
The crickets had formed an entire orchestra by this point. And yet, the guy still ended up surprising me.
"You know what?" he says. "I think I did dial the wrong number, but that it was no accident."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean that, I really needed to hear what you just said."
A couple seconds later he continues. "Thank you. Sorry for bothering you. Have a good night."
I hung up half expecting for it to ring again for some reason. It didn't, and I calmly made it over to my bed, adjusting the fan to face me at a better angle.
But ten minutes later, the phone did sound again. It was him, calling to apologize for not trusting that I was who I said I was.
"And I just talked with my dad," he tells me. "I told him about your question and how that's really stuck with me. I can't get over it.."
My mind is burning with a question and I can't explain how it got there. I want to ask him, 'Who died?' but before I can--
"You see, I have been falling away from God for quite some time now. Add to this that two months ago, my godfather died, and it just made me question the faith all the more.."
How did that question enter my head?
"I'm sorry to hear that," I tell him. "Truly, it's never easy to know the answers in the middle of painful circumstances."
He continues with his history of growing up in a Catholic church, knowing about the Bible and all that. "I did some things I shouldn't have done," he says.
"Well, I think you're right," I remark. "It wasn't an accident that you dialed the wrong number. I will be praying for you--"
"Alejandro," he says. "My name is Alejandro."
"And mine is still Sharayah."
The necessary laughter to ease any felt tension ensued.
We chatted a little bit more, and I recommended a church in the downtown area as an option. He had asked where I go, which unfortunately is a church that meets in my house, and I was still not willing to trust the guy completely.
"I can't say that it's easy to trust someone who calls a stranger 'bitch' within seconds of the conversation," I said.
He tries to cover up the offense, saying something about thinking it was his niece joking with him.
"All the same," I say. "If I thought it were my nephew, I would never call him a zorro."
Again.. nervous, and yet calming laughter.
----------
A friend of mine, after hearing this story, told me that he had recently had a dream about me. We were talking on Skype and he said that he saw someone behind me that was questionable. "It made me crazy. I didn't know who to call or what to do except wake up and start praying for you."
He told me that the person looked as if it was someone trying to take away my integrity.
What a word to use in this moment. And I doubt my friend, Cristian, realized the impact that word has had on me in my life. I mean, I still carry to this day one of the best compliments someone has ever given me: "It is clear that you are a person of integrity, Sharayah."
Two men of the Bible are given the adjective of integrity: Job and Daniel. When we look at their lives, we see that they were men of prayer and sacrifice. Job would even over-sacrifice if you will, to cover the offenses his children may or may not have caused. Daniel prayed every day, no matter what the law might say against it.
Both men went through some of the worst trials one could face. In fact, both had lost it all--Job lost family and riches, Daniel lost his homeland and lived under foreign rule. Yet, they were men of integrity who leaned on God despite circumstances. They knew that believing in God's goodness over their current depravity was sufficient to help them persevere.
So when someone speaks over you with a weighty word such as integrity, you must look to these two Biblical precedents. It's as strong as having someone named after you--you feel the pressure to set the example as best as you can, even though you know it's impossible.
But I must ask, did the description "integrity" come before or after the lives of Job and Daniel? Kind of like what had happened with Moses, who was called "no ordinary child" in the book of Acts. How did they know, lest they had read the rest of the story?
What I do know is I am ever so thankful for the prayers. Perhaps integrity is something one does not manage on their own, but within the community of faithful believers, who help us see how best to endure a testing of our faith. When I realized I was being prayed for in this aspect of my life, I wanted to be all the more careful with how I act around other men specifically, and to also lean all the more on Christ for my strength.
Thursday, January 24, 2013
Monday, November 26, 2012
Oskar
Sometimes I wonder how these sorts of things happen to me. It was nothing planned, though I suppose they rarely are, these moments. I'll share the context nonetheless.
Returned from the institute and just as I got home, Eva was leaving to meet with some mutual friends for lunch in a nearby park. She invited me, but I declined, saying I needed to buy my ticket to Mendoza. Which I had every intention of leaving right away to do so. But then I got distracted.. writing an update letter, as well as chatting with a friend on Facebook.
I finally made my way to the bus terminal, and found my ticket to be much less expensive than I was planning. So that's a plus, and it made me happy enough to walk a little before going home. Everything went faster than expected, so I found myself wandering to San Martín Square where I took a seat to continue reading my book.
Even this comes with details, as I have always planned to sit and enjoy an afternoon in the square. It's almost always full of people, and well, I'm a people watcher. At the same time, I watch after myself, and took a seat in an empty bench with no one around.
Until Oskar came, and sat on the bench a little ways away from mine. Just in time?
I was reading when he first said, "Disculpa", asking for the time. "4 minus 20," I casually tell him.
A few minutes later, he "disculpa"s again. Basically he realizes that I'm not from here, as I am reading a book in English. "Well no, but I do live here.."
The next thing I know this man of about 35 is telling me about all his worries and doubts about God. He knows Scripture, which helps a lot, but it's as though there are some things that are missing. I encourage him to think about what church is, and to realize the true power of the Holy Spirit.
And to be honest, it was a Spirit-filled moment considering all of the theology he brought up. I'm not that smart, and so it was cool that various verses came to mind to help with the conversation. Ahem, in Spanish.
So I present to everyone Oskar. A gentlemen trying to figure out the whys of life.. lacking peace.. and yet enjoying many things at the same time. Pray for him.
What a way to begin my second week back in the country!!!
Returned from the institute and just as I got home, Eva was leaving to meet with some mutual friends for lunch in a nearby park. She invited me, but I declined, saying I needed to buy my ticket to Mendoza. Which I had every intention of leaving right away to do so. But then I got distracted.. writing an update letter, as well as chatting with a friend on Facebook.
I finally made my way to the bus terminal, and found my ticket to be much less expensive than I was planning. So that's a plus, and it made me happy enough to walk a little before going home. Everything went faster than expected, so I found myself wandering to San Martín Square where I took a seat to continue reading my book.
Even this comes with details, as I have always planned to sit and enjoy an afternoon in the square. It's almost always full of people, and well, I'm a people watcher. At the same time, I watch after myself, and took a seat in an empty bench with no one around.
Until Oskar came, and sat on the bench a little ways away from mine. Just in time?
I was reading when he first said, "Disculpa", asking for the time. "4 minus 20," I casually tell him.
A few minutes later, he "disculpa"s again. Basically he realizes that I'm not from here, as I am reading a book in English. "Well no, but I do live here.."
The next thing I know this man of about 35 is telling me about all his worries and doubts about God. He knows Scripture, which helps a lot, but it's as though there are some things that are missing. I encourage him to think about what church is, and to realize the true power of the Holy Spirit.
And to be honest, it was a Spirit-filled moment considering all of the theology he brought up. I'm not that smart, and so it was cool that various verses came to mind to help with the conversation. Ahem, in Spanish.
So I present to everyone Oskar. A gentlemen trying to figure out the whys of life.. lacking peace.. and yet enjoying many things at the same time. Pray for him.
What a way to begin my second week back in the country!!!
Friday, August 31, 2012
Fran
So I go to Córdoba Immersions, and I usually have an expectation of knowing what I am doing. The funny thing is, I don't. I also know this, and yet my expectation remains..
Therefore, I am put into this position of leader of a team of students. Usually, you will get troubled kids, but you'll often be balanced out by good ones as well. The problem is when the troubled kids impact the good ones.
Franco is a good kid. He would try to speak English (at the English camp given in Argentina), he would offer good ideas, he would participate. But some of the games are challenging, and everyone on the team is complaining. One kid is trying to have all the attention, but is not encouraging the team.
In one game, everyone does so well, but they don't finish the challenge. They look to the others and complain, "But they have it easier!" "But it's impossible!"
So Franco quits. He leaves the group completely, and sits with the others who can't play due to broken arms or legs (seriously).
I call him, and another who is more of the problem. "We want you to participate, but we need to work as a team. So if you want to participate again, show me that you care. Sit here and cheer us on. The team will decide when you can join again."
Neither of them were enthusiastic about this, but I had to get them away from their friends that only made their leaving the team worse.
I was heartbroken by the brokenness of our team. I even cried with Marisol and Russell about how the good kids were not getting to enjoy their time because of the influence of the negative ones. They offered some tips, gave their hugs. I sat by the pool while the kids swim, and decided to write a little note to Franco, in Spanish, telling him how I felt about his potential. 'I understand that it must be difficult to work with our team, and it's your choice, but what a lastima that we miss out on what you could contribute.'
He sheepishly came to me later saying he wanted to participate. And then, at the end of the camp, he wrote this letter:
"I'm thankful for Sarayah for understand me and give me other choice for participate. I'm sorry for what I do."
Simply precious.
I am reminded that we can't change someone ever. I often return to this conclusion about how only God can change a heart. But I wanted to stress more the idea that we can't make much of a difference in a matter of days.. hours really. How much more awesome when God is kind enough to show us a smidgen of hope in such a short time!
Therefore, I am put into this position of leader of a team of students. Usually, you will get troubled kids, but you'll often be balanced out by good ones as well. The problem is when the troubled kids impact the good ones.
Franco is a good kid. He would try to speak English (at the English camp given in Argentina), he would offer good ideas, he would participate. But some of the games are challenging, and everyone on the team is complaining. One kid is trying to have all the attention, but is not encouraging the team.
In one game, everyone does so well, but they don't finish the challenge. They look to the others and complain, "But they have it easier!" "But it's impossible!"
So Franco quits. He leaves the group completely, and sits with the others who can't play due to broken arms or legs (seriously).
I call him, and another who is more of the problem. "We want you to participate, but we need to work as a team. So if you want to participate again, show me that you care. Sit here and cheer us on. The team will decide when you can join again."
Neither of them were enthusiastic about this, but I had to get them away from their friends that only made their leaving the team worse.
I was heartbroken by the brokenness of our team. I even cried with Marisol and Russell about how the good kids were not getting to enjoy their time because of the influence of the negative ones. They offered some tips, gave their hugs. I sat by the pool while the kids swim, and decided to write a little note to Franco, in Spanish, telling him how I felt about his potential. 'I understand that it must be difficult to work with our team, and it's your choice, but what a lastima that we miss out on what you could contribute.'
He sheepishly came to me later saying he wanted to participate. And then, at the end of the camp, he wrote this letter:
"I'm thankful for Sarayah for understand me and give me other choice for participate. I'm sorry for what I do."
Simply precious.
I am reminded that we can't change someone ever. I often return to this conclusion about how only God can change a heart. But I wanted to stress more the idea that we can't make much of a difference in a matter of days.. hours really. How much more awesome when God is kind enough to show us a smidgen of hope in such a short time!
Saturday, February 11, 2012
Eduardo, 19
Cletis had gotten to know a group of younger folk from the hostel. I seemed to keep up with the older generation. From a Canadian guy who had been hurt by his ex-wife, to an Italian who was encouraged by the work I do, wanting to invest in a children's home in Brazil work permitting, to a French couple that always cooked something interesting each evening.
But one opportunity arose for me to converse with the young Brazilian Eduardo. He had sat down for lunch at my table, while I was reading the Bible. Naturally, he asked what that was about. I explained that I like to read, and this book is particularly interesting.
Subject changed, and he asked if there was anything going on between Cletis and I. I reassured him with a laugh, that there is no "onda" there whatsoever. We are traveling together because we work together. Once again, got to explain the reason I am in Argentina at all, which stems from what God first did for me.
"Would you like to know my theory on life?" He asked. Sort of with a smirk, with a desire to press my buttons and get me angry. Little did he know..
As he explained his theory, I told him that it sounded a lot like this television show I had watched recently called Battlestar Galactica. Speechless, I explained the basics of the show, and he nodded. "Yeah! That's kind of it! I can't believe someone else has already thought of it and even made a tv show out of it!"
It made me chuckle a little bit. I remember thinking that I knew all there was to know when I was 19. Reality can bite.
But then he said to me, "You know though, I think God is trying to speak to me. I just don't know how to listen."
"Go on," I said.
He told me of a time when a random old woman had told him that he needed to be careful. His girlfriend wanted to hurt him. That evening when he was visiting her at her house, he found a knife in her dresser drawer. She was embarrassed that he found out. She was planning on attacking him.
I know it's a strange story, but there was nothing in his face to show that he was lying.
"And there was this one time," he began, retelling an account in which he had gone hiking in Brazil and had gotten lost. In desperation he yelled out, and a fox appeared. It blocked him from a certain path so he went to another. The fox followed him, blocked him, and followed him until he was back in a safe place.
"What could it all mean?" he asked.
Eduardo said that he prays all the time. He doesn't always know what to pray, but he does it all the same.
I told him that maybe the very book I was reading would serve him well. "In a way," I explained. "In a way, the Bible is the other half of the conversation. We talk to God through prayer, and He talks to us through his Word." (I intended the double entendre, but I am unsure if he followed.)
I told him I would get him a Bible if he really wanted, and we again looked at me in disbelief. "You would do that?!"
"Por su puesto!" I smiled. And he wrote his mailing address for me. Now to find a Portuguese Bible.. haha.
He always smiled when we saw each other again, and even made an effort to sit with me a couple times more to talk about the day. You could sense the difference between him and the others, versus wh
But one opportunity arose for me to converse with the young Brazilian Eduardo. He had sat down for lunch at my table, while I was reading the Bible. Naturally, he asked what that was about. I explained that I like to read, and this book is particularly interesting.
Subject changed, and he asked if there was anything going on between Cletis and I. I reassured him with a laugh, that there is no "onda" there whatsoever. We are traveling together because we work together. Once again, got to explain the reason I am in Argentina at all, which stems from what God first did for me.
"Would you like to know my theory on life?" He asked. Sort of with a smirk, with a desire to press my buttons and get me angry. Little did he know..
As he explained his theory, I told him that it sounded a lot like this television show I had watched recently called Battlestar Galactica. Speechless, I explained the basics of the show, and he nodded. "Yeah! That's kind of it! I can't believe someone else has already thought of it and even made a tv show out of it!"
It made me chuckle a little bit. I remember thinking that I knew all there was to know when I was 19. Reality can bite.
But then he said to me, "You know though, I think God is trying to speak to me. I just don't know how to listen."
"Go on," I said.
He told me of a time when a random old woman had told him that he needed to be careful. His girlfriend wanted to hurt him. That evening when he was visiting her at her house, he found a knife in her dresser drawer. She was embarrassed that he found out. She was planning on attacking him.
I know it's a strange story, but there was nothing in his face to show that he was lying.
"And there was this one time," he began, retelling an account in which he had gone hiking in Brazil and had gotten lost. In desperation he yelled out, and a fox appeared. It blocked him from a certain path so he went to another. The fox followed him, blocked him, and followed him until he was back in a safe place.
"What could it all mean?" he asked.
Eduardo said that he prays all the time. He doesn't always know what to pray, but he does it all the same.
I told him that maybe the very book I was reading would serve him well. "In a way," I explained. "In a way, the Bible is the other half of the conversation. We talk to God through prayer, and He talks to us through his Word." (I intended the double entendre, but I am unsure if he followed.)
I told him I would get him a Bible if he really wanted, and we again looked at me in disbelief. "You would do that?!"
"Por su puesto!" I smiled. And he wrote his mailing address for me. Now to find a Portuguese Bible.. haha.
He always smiled when we saw each other again, and even made an effort to sit with me a couple times more to talk about the day. You could sense the difference between him and the others, versus wh
Naty, 27
She mentioned Hebrew. Then she mentioned that she'd been to Israel. I was quick to put two and two together and she affirmed. Yes, she's Jewish. We talked about the culture a little and finished up the meal. On the way home we realized we were staying in the same hostel, so we mentioned grabbing a bite to eat for dinner much later on.
While I was hanging out in the room, reading, Naty knocked at the door.
"Hey, sorry I can't make dinner tonight. I ran into a couple of Israelis in our hostel and they invited me to a Shabbat."
I was overjoyed for her, and then timidly asked, "You think it would be okay if I came? I've always wanted to go to a traditional Shabbat."
She was shocked. I assured her that if I couldn't go, since I'm a Christian, I understood. But I had so much curiosity!
She checked with her friends, and I joined her for a beautiful Shabbat in the middle of Ushuaia. No, they didn't speak Spanish. The sixty or so present spoke only in Hebrew, in which case, I understood nothing. However, I loved it all the same, embracing the beauty of the community that chose to meet despite being from other parts of the world, on vacation, etc. etc. I enjoyed listening to the message, and most, listening to the young men, adorned in their yamakas, singing and reading Scripture.
I was a little tired though, and apologized for my need to leave early. Two hours had already passed, and there was no telling how much longer it would take. Not to mention that the only plans for afterward were to go to a bar, which doesn't exactly fill me up.
The next day, I had gone to Laguna Esmerelda and came home with a stomach ready to eat, and eat well. Specifically, the famous King Crab of Ushuaia! I had to coax Naty to come with me, only because she didn't want to spend too much money to go out to eat. I reassured her that I had a friend (Friend!) who had blessed me and I wanted to use that money to bless her. So she acquiesced.
I asked her more questions about the Jewish culture. I was able to coincide a lot that I had already learned through a former roommate, as well as other studies of the Bible I had done. Which is when, after all the explaining had been done, she said to me,
"What do you believe any way?"
As shocked as she was on Friday, I had to hold every excitement inside me. "As in, what I believe as a Christian?"
"Yeah. I have no idea about any of it. Can you explain it to me?"
Umm.. YEAHHH!!!!!
And so I progressed through the basics, but also used the facts of the Old Testament to show the need for the Savior Jesus. I added how important it was for Jesus to resurrect, so He could give us the gift of the Holy Spirit. "And I know the Holy Spirit is real because in all of this time that I have been talking with you, I feel His power giving me the words and making it clear."
She nodded. "It's all so fascinating," she said. She told me she had never known about Jesus, and that she wanted to study more about Him if possible. I pointed her in the direction of the Bible and how it helps me to understand God's character in general.
We finished up dinner and didn't get to talk much more during our time together. Nonetheless, it was an amazing conversation, and I was able to give her a bracelet with the colors that express the salvation story. I added a note thanking her for her time and for all I learned from her. She wrote me back before she left about how it was a pleasure to get to know one another.
Monday, January 30, 2012
Vane, 32
Who knew it would be the very next day in which she and I would bike all of Tierra del Fuego National Park.
And like with pretty much everyone here, we shared our lives. I explained the work I am priveliged to be a part of, she explained more of her life.
She´s back home in Río Cuarto because her sister has contracted cancer. Which means she had to leave behind the job she loved in the city (where I live), her boyfriend, her home that she had grown accustom to.
But she was so joyous throughout the day. Perhaps the better term is hopeful. She loves her sister and doesn´t want her to suffer. Her sister clearly loves her enough to let Vane enjoy a month of vacation to be away from all of the stress life can bring.
I hope to stay in contact with Vane when I return. One of the perks afforded by Facebook allows us to stay in touch. Well, apart from the cell phone too. All that to say, how blessed for us to run into each other. And what a blessing to go to the end of Route 3 at the end of the park with her (picture to come!).
Carlos, 25
It was Georgiana, from Bs. As. who was accompanied by this Brasilero. And since the internet wasn´t working for me any way, I was able to leave with them, and save 20 pesos for the cab fare.
We talked a little bit. The taxi drivers are always wanting to learn from where their passengers come, so this one was surprised by the variety we provided, and that we were all complete strangers.
On the hike up the mountain, Georgiana had to stop and turn back, but Carlos and I kept going. We are both determined people, and we were going to touch the glacier! The only problem, is it took all the energy out of me in order to carry on a decent conversation. My heart was in my throat, and it wasn´t until we reached the top that words finally came through.
Turns out he studied Naval Engineering, which took him to Norway for half a year to study the fjords. So.. he knows Portuguese, Spanish, English, and even a little Norwegian. But multiple languages is not a surprise anymore as I travel throughout Argentina. It´s just natural.
We didn´t talk too much more, apart from the basic information of our lives. There was the complaint on my end about how I have to pay 300 dollars just to enter his country, but he reassured me that changes are on the horizon. Woohoo!
The next day we had more time to chat. Again, Georgiana backed out of the plans to go to Playa Larga, so Carlos and I made the simple hike. It led us to some daunting rocks that we happily climbed, but as no end was in sight, we stopped for a snack before turning back around.
He opened up more about his beliefs. A Catholic, who desires to be married only once and to never divorce. He seems to have good morals. "But are they enough?" I thought to myself.
We headed home, and had one more encounter where I shared with him some Fernet I had ordered at the bar.
Sunday, December 18, 2011
Cristian, taxi driver
It was a late night Sunday back in September. Really has time flown by so? Yet I'll never forget Cristian if not simply for the fact that he can be included in my many taxi driver incidents that I seem to be a magnet for.
I was coming home from Dean Funes, a short weekend with my good friend Noemi you may have read about in a previous post (or could read about now, I suppose - ha). We split a taxi on our way home, so I was now alone with a younger man. So young that it lead to my question:
"How long have you been driving a taxi?"
"Oh I just started," he told me. "Where are you from?"
I get that a lot. Most people are nice about it and just say it's my blue eyes. Clear eyes is the direct translation. I kind of like that.. but I digress. People have been kind in the last few months that they only notice because I talk slower, although my pronunciation is good.
And so the conversation continued, mainly along the lines of why I am here and what I want to do with my life.
"You probably are only interested in guys from the United States," he probed at one point.
"Not necessarily," I explained. "But as I've told you before, I've got some big dreams.." (we had talked about the possibility of India for example) .."so whoever the guy is, he's gotta be willing to dream big too.
"It IS important that he believes in Jesus," I nonchalantly added.
We were arriving to the house and I noticed him slow down after I said that. He was looking in the rearview mirror at me a lot, and I kind of just brushed it off.
"Look," I finished. "All I'm trying to say is that if Jesus could die for me even when I didn't deserve it, the least I could do is serve His people who are in need, wherever that may be."
The car stopped, and he paused after he had given me back my change and receipt.
"That's really interesting," he said to me. "Really."
I can still remember how his composure had changed from his first, more uncomfortable question, to where we were now. I was praying for wisdom in our conversation, as well as for the meter to not go crazy with how slow he was going at the end there. I was also very thankful to have friends waiting outside the house the moment I had arrived. One of them joked with me when I came out after a few minutes, "What? Were you sharing the gospel with him or something?"
"Actually, yeah," I smiled.
I was coming home from Dean Funes, a short weekend with my good friend Noemi you may have read about in a previous post (or could read about now, I suppose - ha). We split a taxi on our way home, so I was now alone with a younger man. So young that it lead to my question:
"How long have you been driving a taxi?"
"Oh I just started," he told me. "Where are you from?"
I get that a lot. Most people are nice about it and just say it's my blue eyes. Clear eyes is the direct translation. I kind of like that.. but I digress. People have been kind in the last few months that they only notice because I talk slower, although my pronunciation is good.
And so the conversation continued, mainly along the lines of why I am here and what I want to do with my life.
"You probably are only interested in guys from the United States," he probed at one point.
"Not necessarily," I explained. "But as I've told you before, I've got some big dreams.." (we had talked about the possibility of India for example) .."so whoever the guy is, he's gotta be willing to dream big too.
"It IS important that he believes in Jesus," I nonchalantly added.
We were arriving to the house and I noticed him slow down after I said that. He was looking in the rearview mirror at me a lot, and I kind of just brushed it off.
"Look," I finished. "All I'm trying to say is that if Jesus could die for me even when I didn't deserve it, the least I could do is serve His people who are in need, wherever that may be."
The car stopped, and he paused after he had given me back my change and receipt.
"That's really interesting," he said to me. "Really."
I can still remember how his composure had changed from his first, more uncomfortable question, to where we were now. I was praying for wisdom in our conversation, as well as for the meter to not go crazy with how slow he was going at the end there. I was also very thankful to have friends waiting outside the house the moment I had arrived. One of them joked with me when I came out after a few minutes, "What? Were you sharing the gospel with him or something?"
"Actually, yeah," I smiled.
Thursday, August 11, 2011
Marta Franco
Meeting people often is dependent upon one or two smaller choices. As in, I had made the choice earlier in the week to go for a walk with Flor at 2pm on Thursday. I meet with Noemi every Thursday morning, in the middle of the city, at 11am. I always walk to the city, but sometimes, especially if you need to be back by 2, it's better to take the bus back.
The bus stop I'm best acquainted with for where I am on Thursday mornings has a bad reputation. I used to have to cook for 7, and had chosen to meet with Noemi on the same morning as the designated cook day at that time. The agony of waiting for that E4 had become intolerable--I was so thankful to have more time to get back home when we switched days.
Sure enough, the bus didn't come. I was alone at the stop for awhile, and was contemplating walking just a little bit further, to Nuevo Centro, to wait at the stop in which 3 buses that I could take home make a stop. "No, I will wait," I told myself.
The line slowly accumulated. I paid more attention to the kids across the street, waiting to go home from morning classes. Two boys started chasing each other. One fell and it caused the other to trip up too. Both were laughing furiously, and I joined them, thinking I had just witnessed a miniature version of something straight from the Three Stooges.
"I don't know what gets into boys to act that way," said the woman next to me.
I just laughed some more. "Boys will be boys."
She was not accustom to the irregularity of the E4 stopping where we were, and I could see her growing impatient. Bus after bus passed, but never the one we needed. I explained the inconstancy, but we were also noticing (the "we" now including the much larger line) that all of the buses were packed to the max. An E4 finally came, but refused to stop as it was too full.
She asked me where I was going as I had begun thinking about giving up and walking home after all. Maybe even just going to a place where it was easier to pick up a taxi (when I despise taking taxis if I can help it). I explained the approximate location and she said that she lived close. Just a few blocks earlier than where I get off. She invited me to take a cab, even willing to pay for the half that led to her house, and I would pay for the shorter trip onward to my humble abode.
Of course, then came the question of where I was from, as she could tell from my accent that I wasn't from Argentina. Completely lost in this conversation, another 15 minutes passed with no bus (nor taxi), but what seemed to be a budding friendship.
She is a student from the school of languages, studying French. She has four children, one girl who is my age. She is a Christian, with missionary friends from other countries.
Before I knew it, we continued the conversation on a very empty E4 that was taking an unusual route through the city. We exchanged information with an open invitation to her house to meet everyone.
When I got home, Flor called to say that she couldn't go for a walk today. Translation, I could have walked home any way.
The bus stop I'm best acquainted with for where I am on Thursday mornings has a bad reputation. I used to have to cook for 7, and had chosen to meet with Noemi on the same morning as the designated cook day at that time. The agony of waiting for that E4 had become intolerable--I was so thankful to have more time to get back home when we switched days.
Sure enough, the bus didn't come. I was alone at the stop for awhile, and was contemplating walking just a little bit further, to Nuevo Centro, to wait at the stop in which 3 buses that I could take home make a stop. "No, I will wait," I told myself.
The line slowly accumulated. I paid more attention to the kids across the street, waiting to go home from morning classes. Two boys started chasing each other. One fell and it caused the other to trip up too. Both were laughing furiously, and I joined them, thinking I had just witnessed a miniature version of something straight from the Three Stooges.
"I don't know what gets into boys to act that way," said the woman next to me.
I just laughed some more. "Boys will be boys."
She was not accustom to the irregularity of the E4 stopping where we were, and I could see her growing impatient. Bus after bus passed, but never the one we needed. I explained the inconstancy, but we were also noticing (the "we" now including the much larger line) that all of the buses were packed to the max. An E4 finally came, but refused to stop as it was too full.
She asked me where I was going as I had begun thinking about giving up and walking home after all. Maybe even just going to a place where it was easier to pick up a taxi (when I despise taking taxis if I can help it). I explained the approximate location and she said that she lived close. Just a few blocks earlier than where I get off. She invited me to take a cab, even willing to pay for the half that led to her house, and I would pay for the shorter trip onward to my humble abode.
Of course, then came the question of where I was from, as she could tell from my accent that I wasn't from Argentina. Completely lost in this conversation, another 15 minutes passed with no bus (nor taxi), but what seemed to be a budding friendship.
She is a student from the school of languages, studying French. She has four children, one girl who is my age. She is a Christian, with missionary friends from other countries.
Before I knew it, we continued the conversation on a very empty E4 that was taking an unusual route through the city. We exchanged information with an open invitation to her house to meet everyone.
When I got home, Flor called to say that she couldn't go for a walk today. Translation, I could have walked home any way.
Thursday, February 17, 2011
Ariane
Sometimes you think you've figured someone out, and then they surprise you. I have much to learn from this one, and I'm thankful for the opportunity to know her. More so, I'm thankful that as God would have it, we have been able to hang out even more than I thought possible considering she lives over 500 km away.
Ariane is desperate for Jesus. She is consistent with reading the Word every morning, and she has a journal filled with prayers and lists and reminders of all the things God has done for her or shown her.
When she asks you questions, it's because she genuinely wants to know the answer. If someone interrupts the conversation, she lightly grabs your arm, "Can we finish this later?" she asks. "I really want to know."
She strives to know Spanish well. Instead of sitting with her fellow Germans in the group, you will always see Ari leaning over and beginning conversations with the Argentinians. She doesn't falter although her Spanish is lacking, for she sees every opportunity as one to get better. Or even more, every opportunity as one to share Christ.
She is sensitive to a fault. Sometimes she is too preoccupied about how someone feels that it makes her worry how she is perceived. But of all the faults to have, I suppose this is better than others.
Any way, I like Ari a lot. It's amazing the way God puts people in your lives that even if they live half a world away (she returns to Germany in August), He knows what He's doing.
Ariane is desperate for Jesus. She is consistent with reading the Word every morning, and she has a journal filled with prayers and lists and reminders of all the things God has done for her or shown her.
When she asks you questions, it's because she genuinely wants to know the answer. If someone interrupts the conversation, she lightly grabs your arm, "Can we finish this later?" she asks. "I really want to know."
She strives to know Spanish well. Instead of sitting with her fellow Germans in the group, you will always see Ari leaning over and beginning conversations with the Argentinians. She doesn't falter although her Spanish is lacking, for she sees every opportunity as one to get better. Or even more, every opportunity as one to share Christ.
She is sensitive to a fault. Sometimes she is too preoccupied about how someone feels that it makes her worry how she is perceived. But of all the faults to have, I suppose this is better than others.
Any way, I like Ari a lot. It's amazing the way God puts people in your lives that even if they live half a world away (she returns to Germany in August), He knows what He's doing.
Thursday, November 11, 2010
Hernan
He works at the local librería where one can not only buy basic school supplies, but the ever-necessary cospeles as well.
I've bought a few things there now, often for the crafts for the girls' institute. This means I usually enter with my other missionary half, Sarah. One can also send letters from this location, so we find it handy to become acquaintances. When we felt we had seen the jefe, or head honcho, enough times, we decided we could finally introduce ourselves.
"Me shamo Sah-rah," said the first (written phonetically). I followed with the typical, emphasized three syllable routine of Shuh-ray-uh (but I roll the R for good measure, even if it's not correct according to Spanish).
He smiled. "No.. Sarah es más facil. Sarah uno y Sarah dos!"
We laughed. No one else has to know that I acquiesce to a nickname, after all.
I like Hernan not only because he is patient with us, but he also always greets us with the equivalent of "Hello beautiful!" I begin to wonder if that's the reason Latin women are more comfortable in their curvy figures: they're always greeted with a kiss and called "mi amor" and "bella" everywhere they go!
We don't know very much about him as of yet. I've learned that he has a young boy, and I've noticed (not because I was trying to notice, mind you) the hair from his chest protruding from the top of his shirt. He's not greasy by any means. It's just something that caught my eye.
I've bought a few things there now, often for the crafts for the girls' institute. This means I usually enter with my other missionary half, Sarah. One can also send letters from this location, so we find it handy to become acquaintances. When we felt we had seen the jefe, or head honcho, enough times, we decided we could finally introduce ourselves.
"Me shamo Sah-rah," said the first (written phonetically). I followed with the typical, emphasized three syllable routine of Shuh-ray-uh (but I roll the R for good measure, even if it's not correct according to Spanish).
He smiled. "No.. Sarah es más facil. Sarah uno y Sarah dos!"
We laughed. No one else has to know that I acquiesce to a nickname, after all.
I like Hernan not only because he is patient with us, but he also always greets us with the equivalent of "Hello beautiful!" I begin to wonder if that's the reason Latin women are more comfortable in their curvy figures: they're always greeted with a kiss and called "mi amor" and "bella" everywhere they go!
We don't know very much about him as of yet. I've learned that he has a young boy, and I've noticed (not because I was trying to notice, mind you) the hair from his chest protruding from the top of his shirt. He's not greasy by any means. It's just something that caught my eye.
Noemí
I sat alone in the second floor of McDonald's. I whispered to myself, "How did I get here?"
Obviously I had walked. I woke up extra early to help shave off those extra pounds I've gained lately; to walk the 3.32 miles to the intersection of Colón and Jose Avellenida. I had arrived early, so as to visit the Disco and pull together some of the final ingredients I would need for lunch later.
But I meant the moment. It's only week two of Spanish lessons with Miss Noemí. She's a petite one, with dyed blonde hair and bright pink lips. Her English is very good, so I'm not sure why she wants to tradeoff English lessons for Spanish ones with me. I'm pretty desperate for any sort of advancement in the language though, even if it means I work harder to explain my native tongue in depth.
At this point, she had disappeared to the bathroom. She excused herself before exiting quickly, and only a few tears had escaped by that time.
"I-I-I just don't know what happened," I repeated to myself. I prayed silently for wisdom and clarity.
I had pulled together some important pronunciation guides, only 4 for now, as they are numerous. We had walked through them, practicing the "c" sound and the "w" sound--how they are affected when followed by certain vowels. We spent a few more moments on the "-ed" ending, as it can either add a syllable, sound like a /d/ or a /t/. Sometimes I don't think I fully comprehend the English language, but I remember some of the pronunciation tips for Russian and think that these are much simpler.
Afterward, I asked her what else she wanted to practice. She suggested that I just ask a few questions and she can work on saying verbs correctly. So I asked her a question about her past, to practice the simple past tense as well as the imperfect.
"When you were a young girl, what did you want to grow up to be?" I asked. I try to simplify my questions for complete comprehension. It's how I hope Spanish speakers address me while I'm still learning.
A brief moment of silence, as Noemí recollected not only her reply, but how to phrase it correctly with her limited personal English lexicon. She explained that she had at first wanted to be a missionary, but then pursued teaching so that was the end of that. For some reason, I asked her more specific questions on the former. "Why did the dream to be a missionary end?"
She explained that she wanted to be able to make money, and that after beginning schooling for teaching, it just made sense to let go of the first dream. I pondered that for a moment, then went a little further:
"May I ask," I started timidly. "What does the word 'missionary' mean to you?"
I was confused with her first answer, the one that mentioned money as being part of her decision. Noemí continued, saying that at least for the Argentinian missionaries, they all live in poverty and don't take care of their kids.
I hid my astonishment, and calmly asked, "That's interesting. What do you think the Bible's definition of a missionary is?"
She stopped. "What?" I waited. She gathered herself before continuing. This wasn't the point she started crying though, that would come soon enough. "I-I dunno. What is the definition for you?"
I tried to reiterate that this was about what the Bible said. My mind went straight to Paul (though I had to say Pablo so she understood who I was talking about), and how he was a tentmaker. It is possible for missionaries to work, with the implication of making money, too.
What's more, all of us are called to share the good news with people. At our jobs, in our schools, on the street, with whoever we meet! She agreed to this part. "So in your own job, you too are a missionary!" I smiled.
One dramatic pause. "It's just.. It's just.."
My first tinge of confusion came here. Her eyes were getting a little red.
"When I grew up, my father was a pastor. He was very strict on us. My sisters now do not go to church, and.. and.." she wiped her tears. "I'm so sorry. Excuse me!"
I've been thinking about writing a book. Just two days ago I told my friend that I want to write a book about the variety of work involved under the title "missionary." From cooking and cleaning, to speaking and encouraging, to relationships and 5 minute acquaintances. I'm not so sure it will actually happen, but this occurrence startled me. Maybe I have my chapter one?
No. I wasn't thinking this during the time in McDonald's. When Noemí returned, she apologized again and said we could talk about something else. I stopped her.
"First," I said and looked directly into her eyes. "I want to say that I'm so sorry for what you experienced."
"Thank you," she sniffled.
"Seriously, I'm very sorry that that happened to you, and I'm sorry to hear about your sisters. It's not fair."
Exhale.
"Please know too, that what you've experienced is actually quite common." I went on to explain some of the trends of the church in the south of the U.S. and how many are turned away from the legalistic approach, the condemnation and judgment for things that either aren't talked about in the Bible at all, or are things taken out of context.
I could see her entire being calming down, though still glass-eyed. I thanked God for help during that conversation, and even more for her response. She had said that she had repressed the desire to answer most of these questions about becoming a missionary because of her experience growing up.
"But I'm 43 years old now," she said. "I need to consider these questions again."
Indeed, there is no age at which one can not be a missionary.
Obviously I had walked. I woke up extra early to help shave off those extra pounds I've gained lately; to walk the 3.32 miles to the intersection of Colón and Jose Avellenida. I had arrived early, so as to visit the Disco and pull together some of the final ingredients I would need for lunch later.
But I meant the moment. It's only week two of Spanish lessons with Miss Noemí. She's a petite one, with dyed blonde hair and bright pink lips. Her English is very good, so I'm not sure why she wants to tradeoff English lessons for Spanish ones with me. I'm pretty desperate for any sort of advancement in the language though, even if it means I work harder to explain my native tongue in depth.
At this point, she had disappeared to the bathroom. She excused herself before exiting quickly, and only a few tears had escaped by that time.
"I-I-I just don't know what happened," I repeated to myself. I prayed silently for wisdom and clarity.
I had pulled together some important pronunciation guides, only 4 for now, as they are numerous. We had walked through them, practicing the "c" sound and the "w" sound--how they are affected when followed by certain vowels. We spent a few more moments on the "-ed" ending, as it can either add a syllable, sound like a /d/ or a /t/. Sometimes I don't think I fully comprehend the English language, but I remember some of the pronunciation tips for Russian and think that these are much simpler.
Afterward, I asked her what else she wanted to practice. She suggested that I just ask a few questions and she can work on saying verbs correctly. So I asked her a question about her past, to practice the simple past tense as well as the imperfect.
"When you were a young girl, what did you want to grow up to be?" I asked. I try to simplify my questions for complete comprehension. It's how I hope Spanish speakers address me while I'm still learning.
A brief moment of silence, as Noemí recollected not only her reply, but how to phrase it correctly with her limited personal English lexicon. She explained that she had at first wanted to be a missionary, but then pursued teaching so that was the end of that. For some reason, I asked her more specific questions on the former. "Why did the dream to be a missionary end?"
She explained that she wanted to be able to make money, and that after beginning schooling for teaching, it just made sense to let go of the first dream. I pondered that for a moment, then went a little further:
"May I ask," I started timidly. "What does the word 'missionary' mean to you?"
I was confused with her first answer, the one that mentioned money as being part of her decision. Noemí continued, saying that at least for the Argentinian missionaries, they all live in poverty and don't take care of their kids.
I hid my astonishment, and calmly asked, "That's interesting. What do you think the Bible's definition of a missionary is?"
She stopped. "What?" I waited. She gathered herself before continuing. This wasn't the point she started crying though, that would come soon enough. "I-I dunno. What is the definition for you?"
I tried to reiterate that this was about what the Bible said. My mind went straight to Paul (though I had to say Pablo so she understood who I was talking about), and how he was a tentmaker. It is possible for missionaries to work, with the implication of making money, too.
What's more, all of us are called to share the good news with people. At our jobs, in our schools, on the street, with whoever we meet! She agreed to this part. "So in your own job, you too are a missionary!" I smiled.
One dramatic pause. "It's just.. It's just.."
My first tinge of confusion came here. Her eyes were getting a little red.
"When I grew up, my father was a pastor. He was very strict on us. My sisters now do not go to church, and.. and.." she wiped her tears. "I'm so sorry. Excuse me!"
I've been thinking about writing a book. Just two days ago I told my friend that I want to write a book about the variety of work involved under the title "missionary." From cooking and cleaning, to speaking and encouraging, to relationships and 5 minute acquaintances. I'm not so sure it will actually happen, but this occurrence startled me. Maybe I have my chapter one?
No. I wasn't thinking this during the time in McDonald's. When Noemí returned, she apologized again and said we could talk about something else. I stopped her.
"First," I said and looked directly into her eyes. "I want to say that I'm so sorry for what you experienced."
"Thank you," she sniffled.
"Seriously, I'm very sorry that that happened to you, and I'm sorry to hear about your sisters. It's not fair."
Exhale.
"Please know too, that what you've experienced is actually quite common." I went on to explain some of the trends of the church in the south of the U.S. and how many are turned away from the legalistic approach, the condemnation and judgment for things that either aren't talked about in the Bible at all, or are things taken out of context.
I could see her entire being calming down, though still glass-eyed. I thanked God for help during that conversation, and even more for her response. She had said that she had repressed the desire to answer most of these questions about becoming a missionary because of her experience growing up.
"But I'm 43 years old now," she said. "I need to consider these questions again."
Indeed, there is no age at which one can not be a missionary.
Sunday, September 26, 2010
Chechu
Chechu's real name is Sergio. He's a young man from our boys' institute that we visit each week. Chechu is very aggressive. In fact, he has the inability to control his behavior at times, and will just break out very Hulk-like, into extreme rage. I was told that one time, he had to have 4 people hold him down.
Chechu also has poor eyesight. He often has to bring things very close to his face in order to distinguish, well, anything, but mainly he looks for the color of things. Since his eyesight is so poor, he often gets frustrated and just feels for things around him in order to toss them. Or hit them. He even hit the other girl volunteer at one time, and all the other boys scolded him for hitting a chica.
I wonder very much about his life, how frustrating everything must be. No real home, such limited physical abilities. The friends around you are only your friends because they have nowhere to go either. That last part may or may not be true, but I think there's an element of truth in it. Is his main goal each day merely survival? What is his hope?
I don't know much more than I give myself credit, but this young man is now on my heart so much.
We (our team of volunteers) are currently praying for his eyesight. We are inquiring of a local eye doctor who is part of a foundation that works with cataracts and might be willing to perform surgery on Chechu's eyes for free. If this is God's will, we pray for the opportunity to swiftly approach!
Chechu also has poor eyesight. He often has to bring things very close to his face in order to distinguish, well, anything, but mainly he looks for the color of things. Since his eyesight is so poor, he often gets frustrated and just feels for things around him in order to toss them. Or hit them. He even hit the other girl volunteer at one time, and all the other boys scolded him for hitting a chica.
I wonder very much about his life, how frustrating everything must be. No real home, such limited physical abilities. The friends around you are only your friends because they have nowhere to go either. That last part may or may not be true, but I think there's an element of truth in it. Is his main goal each day merely survival? What is his hope?
I don't know much more than I give myself credit, but this young man is now on my heart so much.
We (our team of volunteers) are currently praying for his eyesight. We are inquiring of a local eye doctor who is part of a foundation that works with cataracts and might be willing to perform surgery on Chechu's eyes for free. If this is God's will, we pray for the opportunity to swiftly approach!
Monday, September 6, 2010
Irish taxi 4
It was getting on Irish taxi number 4 that I got a glimpse of the harder side of Dublin. Ariel and I had watched some of it one Sunday evening as it was the first time we had ever seen that many older women wasted, and being pulled by (we hope) their husbands to walk straight to get home. But the morning of my departure, at the ungodly hour of 4am, revealed even more.
Wow. I just realized that I don't remember this taxi driver's name. Nonetheless, he was probably one of my favorites. He carried my luggage into the trunk while I gaped at across the street. Hundreds of taxis lined the streets where hundreds if not more teenagers and young adults were walking, stumbling, up the street.
I questioned the driver if it was true what they say, "Are there really more taxis in Dublin than in NYC?"
"Ay," was his response. "We have 28 thousand of 'em."
New York City, as I had just been there to find this number out, has 13. Ter-teen tousand, if you're Irish.
We continued on and the usual small talk ensued. But with me, it's never small talk, as some of the first questions was where I was going and why. When I explained that I was a youth worker, the driver said, "Oh! That's great. Must be a very rewarding job!"
He then proceeded to tell me about his life. One that began with the high hopes of being a professional football player. He was even drafted (is that the right term?) for the English Premier League when he was 18. When he took some time off, he ended up breaking his leg, which stopped that dream.
"But you know?" He paused. "I wouldn't be who I am today if I had played." (Oh how I wish you could hear the rhythm and intonations of my friend the taxi driver.)
"I wouldn't be married to the woman I am now. She is a wonderful woman. And I wouldn't have the kids I do. i would take this life over that one any day."
That's quite a lot coming from a taxi driver. It made me think of my summer on the couch with a torn ACL and so I told him about it. We agreed that there are a lot of things that happen not the way we planned them, but they happen for a reason. I even got to share with him my story about the loss of my cousin and the adoption of my brother, trying to make sure I explained that I knew Jesus loved me and worked out the story for His glory. I even briefly mentioned the circumstances that allowed me to go to Argentina. Some things can be heart-breaking, but we need them.
He then told me about the sickness of his father. He said he's starting to believe that God really does care about him because of the comfort his father is receiving. We arrived to the airport about this time and couldn't go on, but he said he was so grateful he got to take me to the airport. I was just as if not more grateful for him, so I gave him a nice tip.
Wow. I just realized that I don't remember this taxi driver's name. Nonetheless, he was probably one of my favorites. He carried my luggage into the trunk while I gaped at across the street. Hundreds of taxis lined the streets where hundreds if not more teenagers and young adults were walking, stumbling, up the street.
I questioned the driver if it was true what they say, "Are there really more taxis in Dublin than in NYC?"
"Ay," was his response. "We have 28 thousand of 'em."
New York City, as I had just been there to find this number out, has 13. Ter-teen tousand, if you're Irish.
We continued on and the usual small talk ensued. But with me, it's never small talk, as some of the first questions was where I was going and why. When I explained that I was a youth worker, the driver said, "Oh! That's great. Must be a very rewarding job!"
He then proceeded to tell me about his life. One that began with the high hopes of being a professional football player. He was even drafted (is that the right term?) for the English Premier League when he was 18. When he took some time off, he ended up breaking his leg, which stopped that dream.
"But you know?" He paused. "I wouldn't be who I am today if I had played." (Oh how I wish you could hear the rhythm and intonations of my friend the taxi driver.)
"I wouldn't be married to the woman I am now. She is a wonderful woman. And I wouldn't have the kids I do. i would take this life over that one any day."
That's quite a lot coming from a taxi driver. It made me think of my summer on the couch with a torn ACL and so I told him about it. We agreed that there are a lot of things that happen not the way we planned them, but they happen for a reason. I even got to share with him my story about the loss of my cousin and the adoption of my brother, trying to make sure I explained that I knew Jesus loved me and worked out the story for His glory. I even briefly mentioned the circumstances that allowed me to go to Argentina. Some things can be heart-breaking, but we need them.
He then told me about the sickness of his father. He said he's starting to believe that God really does care about him because of the comfort his father is receiving. We arrived to the airport about this time and couldn't go on, but he said he was so grateful he got to take me to the airport. I was just as if not more grateful for him, so I gave him a nice tip.
Thursday, September 2, 2010
Irish taxi 2 and 3
Colm. Pronounced call-um. Rhymes with Gollum, but no relation. Trust me.
This was our driver in Killarney to surfing at Inch Beach. Obviously, much of my thankfulness for this man was taking me to an adventure I had been anticipating for many weeks now. Nevertheless, he was also a man very proud of his part of the country, making sure we knew about the horticulture and area through which we drove. We had talked about some of the rules for Gaelic Games, and on our way back (since he also made sure to pick us up after a few hours of surfing), he showed us a Gaelic field--140 yards long!!!
What made him fun was his accent required a bit more concentration. The country folk do not always end their words, which, added to the Irish accent, can be difficult to comprehend. At the same time, he also put me to sleep with how lovely he sounded. haha. Or maybe I was tired from surfing. I dunno.
I laughed harder later that day with our taxi driver named Donal (see? no ending "d" to that name either). I noticed he had the same last name as Colm, that is, O'Donaghue. "O yes, we are related!" he proclaimed.
Earlier that day, we had asked Colm about his family and he responded that he is the youngest of brothers.
Donal, however, said "O no, I am the youngest!"
This was our driver in Killarney to surfing at Inch Beach. Obviously, much of my thankfulness for this man was taking me to an adventure I had been anticipating for many weeks now. Nevertheless, he was also a man very proud of his part of the country, making sure we knew about the horticulture and area through which we drove. We had talked about some of the rules for Gaelic Games, and on our way back (since he also made sure to pick us up after a few hours of surfing), he showed us a Gaelic field--140 yards long!!!
What made him fun was his accent required a bit more concentration. The country folk do not always end their words, which, added to the Irish accent, can be difficult to comprehend. At the same time, he also put me to sleep with how lovely he sounded. haha. Or maybe I was tired from surfing. I dunno.
I laughed harder later that day with our taxi driver named Donal (see? no ending "d" to that name either). I noticed he had the same last name as Colm, that is, O'Donaghue. "O yes, we are related!" he proclaimed.
Earlier that day, we had asked Colm about his family and he responded that he is the youngest of brothers.
Donal, however, said "O no, I am the youngest!"
Irish taxi 1
Kieran. Pronounced kee-rahn, stressed second syllable.
This man was very kind to us. We got to talk about all sorts of things, but seemed to focus on a certain sport known only in America as soccer. The day he took us to our hotel was the day we had tickets for a futbol match, so Kieran volunteered to pick us up later that day. This was a common theme among cab drivers in Ireland--something I loved dearly.
He picked us up for the 40min drive to Tallaght Stadium. Kieran laughed at how much I couldn't pronounce the name of the stadium, so I just continued to pick on how much he couldn't pronounce my name. But then I still lost as it turned out the game, excuse me, match, began at 8 instead of 7. No worries, Kieran just drove us to a nearby mall so we could have dinner.
As if all this weren't enough, he also insisted on picking us up after the match. He had to get special permission to pick us up from a certain spot, and was impressed that we found him. On the ride home, we had a great time talking about the sport some more, and even getting to know him. I was very thankful for Kieran.
This man was very kind to us. We got to talk about all sorts of things, but seemed to focus on a certain sport known only in America as soccer. The day he took us to our hotel was the day we had tickets for a futbol match, so Kieran volunteered to pick us up later that day. This was a common theme among cab drivers in Ireland--something I loved dearly.
He picked us up for the 40min drive to Tallaght Stadium. Kieran laughed at how much I couldn't pronounce the name of the stadium, so I just continued to pick on how much he couldn't pronounce my name. But then I still lost as it turned out the game, excuse me, match, began at 8 instead of 7. No worries, Kieran just drove us to a nearby mall so we could have dinner.
As if all this weren't enough, he also insisted on picking us up after the match. He had to get special permission to pick us up from a certain spot, and was impressed that we found him. On the ride home, we had a great time talking about the sport some more, and even getting to know him. I was very thankful for Kieran.
Monday, August 16, 2010
Boiling Pot
I just realized that this is probably a better title of the various people I meet in New York. I only have a couple for this blogisode.
Grimaldi's: Very obviously Brooklyn man sat next to me in the famous pizza place (think German). When the woman sitting across from him went to the bathroom, he confided in me that he was on a date. We mainly just chatted about pizza, but my favorite interaction moment was when he asked me if I was from New York.
"Do I sound like it?" I said, appalled that he would even ask.
"Well no.."
"But to answer your question, I'm from Texas," I said.
"Well I wouldn't have guessed that place either!"
Ha.
Ellis Island ferry: Jen and Richard are Christians. We got to talk about my upcoming travels and they encouraged me. The other fun tidbit is Richard works for a company that makes the ballots we vote on. I asked him a question he apparently gets asked all the time--"So whose fault was it with all the chads?"
Corner of 54th and 8th: I noticed a man reading a thick book. I was too nervous the first time I passed him, but the second time, I prayed and stopped. "Excuse me," I said. "What are you reading?"
He took pause before answering the Bible. "It's a Thai-English Bible. I study."
The man is short, dark skinned, and balding. He asked me to sit with him since he found out that I am a Christian too. "You are si-ter in Chri'," he smiled at me. "You come to Thailan' an' teach English. Help build church!"
He talked about feeling God call him to bring the Thai people in New York together. That they may stop worshipping Buddha and start serving our Lord. He said that he used to own a big water company in Thailand, but when he became a believer he felt he was supposed to leave and sell what he had.
I explained to him what I was doing. He smiled again, excited that I am young and willing to work.
"That is great. Come over to Thailan' afterward."
Hehe. He didn't give up. He even gave me his address, because he wants to write to me about what he is studying in the Bible (he's currently working on memorizing Ephesians) and make sure that I come afterward to teach. All I could think is who knows? I prayed for him before we parted ways, as he had to get back to work.
Grimaldi's: Very obviously Brooklyn man sat next to me in the famous pizza place (think German). When the woman sitting across from him went to the bathroom, he confided in me that he was on a date. We mainly just chatted about pizza, but my favorite interaction moment was when he asked me if I was from New York.
"Do I sound like it?" I said, appalled that he would even ask.
"Well no.."
"But to answer your question, I'm from Texas," I said.
"Well I wouldn't have guessed that place either!"
Ha.
Ellis Island ferry: Jen and Richard are Christians. We got to talk about my upcoming travels and they encouraged me. The other fun tidbit is Richard works for a company that makes the ballots we vote on. I asked him a question he apparently gets asked all the time--"So whose fault was it with all the chads?"
Corner of 54th and 8th: I noticed a man reading a thick book. I was too nervous the first time I passed him, but the second time, I prayed and stopped. "Excuse me," I said. "What are you reading?"
He took pause before answering the Bible. "It's a Thai-English Bible. I study."
The man is short, dark skinned, and balding. He asked me to sit with him since he found out that I am a Christian too. "You are si-ter in Chri'," he smiled at me. "You come to Thailan' an' teach English. Help build church!"
He talked about feeling God call him to bring the Thai people in New York together. That they may stop worshipping Buddha and start serving our Lord. He said that he used to own a big water company in Thailand, but when he became a believer he felt he was supposed to leave and sell what he had.
I explained to him what I was doing. He smiled again, excited that I am young and willing to work.
"That is great. Come over to Thailan' afterward."
Hehe. He didn't give up. He even gave me his address, because he wants to write to me about what he is studying in the Bible (he's currently working on memorizing Ephesians) and make sure that I come afterward to teach. All I could think is who knows? I prayed for him before we parted ways, as he had to get back to work.
Sunday, August 15, 2010
Kaleidoscope
Throughout New York, I have taken several opportunities to meet people. Unfortunately, I only got one name, but here are the plethora of experiences:
Airport: In DFW, a man introduced himself to me as he saw me putting away my Mac. He wanted to know how the computer run, because he was looking into buying one himself. Of course, I had many great things to say. I also got to learn about him, a geologist, on his way to the Arctic Circle for a cruise and hoping to see some polar bears. He shared with me his other adventures, as he and his wife enjoy taking the National Geographic tours. One of them just so happened to be to Ushaia, you know, the southernmost city in the world. In Argentina. :)
Taxi: My driver was from Punjab. But as I have run into several other Indians in NYC, I'm starting to wonder if they just give that address because it's one of the easiest to say. Any way, he had turned on NPR which was discussing the Proposition 8 issue. He scoffed. So I asked him why, and he went into a rant about his homophobia. Interesting.
Empire 1: State building that is. Rode up the elevator with a couple from Holland. They shared with me some places to go, and were shocked when I told them I was going so I could talk with people about Jesus. Unfortunately, the elevator ride ended before I could continue.
Empire 2: I got a name this time--Tajmil. I was trying to figure out where the old Woolworth building was so naturally I asked one of the workers. Little did I know that he knew everything there was to know about the buildings and their history. (Duh, he works there!) Any way, he was also very kind, and I'm thinking was wanting to meet up sometime later as he kept shoo-ing away his fellow workers who wanted something from him. Too bad he actually had to go eventually.
Flatiron: It started raining, and as the India independence party was close by, some older gentlemen asked if they could share the umbrella that went over my table. Of course! I told them, and then they continued conversing without me. It was not too big of a deal, but it was lovely to hear Hindi again, and to catch a few sounds.
Thursday, July 29, 2010
Nameless
I was trying to catch her name, but her tag was covered by her scarf. She was the cashier at Victoria's Secret, a place I went to today to stock up on underwear. Plus, I had a coupon, and one should always come prepared with a coupon :)
The point is, I'm still guilty of prejudice. To break down the word for you, I'm guilty of pre-judgments. This girl was really pretty. Put together pretty. She had great makeup that wasn't too much, but really brought out her eyes. And her outfit was simple, yet perfectly accentuated by (also simple) jewelry. I was trying to think of who she reminded me of when she began a short conversation.
I explained to her that I was getting ready for a big trip, 'Certainly,' I had thought, 'she wouldn't care what kind of trip.'
"Oh? Where are you going? What's it for?"
Gulp. I explain.. certainly, she doesn't care..
"NO WAY!" she says "I've been wanting to go on one for awhile now. I almost went to Puerto Rico for Spring Break, but it didn't work out. I'm going to do my best to go soon."
"Really?" I'm shocked. I don't know why I let a pretty girl be outside of wanting to serve Jesus. Maybe it's because she works at Victoria's Secret? Then again, I'm shopping there.. me=hypocrite.
Then I remembered, she looks just like Olivia Wilde. No joke.
The point is, I'm still guilty of prejudice. To break down the word for you, I'm guilty of pre-judgments. This girl was really pretty. Put together pretty. She had great makeup that wasn't too much, but really brought out her eyes. And her outfit was simple, yet perfectly accentuated by (also simple) jewelry. I was trying to think of who she reminded me of when she began a short conversation.
I explained to her that I was getting ready for a big trip, 'Certainly,' I had thought, 'she wouldn't care what kind of trip.'
"Oh? Where are you going? What's it for?"
Gulp. I explain.. certainly, she doesn't care..
"NO WAY!" she says "I've been wanting to go on one for awhile now. I almost went to Puerto Rico for Spring Break, but it didn't work out. I'm going to do my best to go soon."
"Really?" I'm shocked. I don't know why I let a pretty girl be outside of wanting to serve Jesus. Maybe it's because she works at Victoria's Secret? Then again, I'm shopping there.. me=hypocrite.
Then I remembered, she looks just like Olivia Wilde. No joke.
Monday, July 26, 2010
Carlo
Soccer can have its perks. This time I met Carlo, father of Lorenzo and Stephano (or Stefano), who saw the small group of us playing in a neighborhood park. He asked us if we were on a team together, to which I chuckled.
I may have my soccer cleats, shin guards and long soccer socks now, but don't let them fool you. Wink!
When he continued talking with us, I realized that he had a European accent of some sort. He's from Holland, but had moved to Texas with his wife just a few weeks ago. Since I'm headed off to Nether-land soon, I asked for some places I should visit, and we talked a wee bit about the World Cup (I didn't include how aggressive his team was).
The best part though, was when his two kids decided to play with us. The boys joined me and we kicked the soccer ball around. Lorenzo made me his team mate, and he was so cute each time he scored a goal. He would run with his arms outstretched and this huge grin on his face. Then he'd come give me a high five and say, "Vee are winning!!" He was very adamant about keeping score.
Then, too, when one of us would score, the goalie would toss out the ball for us to dribble in. I laughed each time the boys would catch the ball and then put it by their feet. "Geen handen!" the father would yell.
Got a chance to talk with Carlo about Corrie Ten Boom, as she is a native Dutchie. He didn't know who I was talking about, but if he comes back next week, I'm hoping to give him her book. I find it cool that I just learned about her, and got a chance to share about Christ some through her story.
I may have my soccer cleats, shin guards and long soccer socks now, but don't let them fool you. Wink!
When he continued talking with us, I realized that he had a European accent of some sort. He's from Holland, but had moved to Texas with his wife just a few weeks ago. Since I'm headed off to Nether-land soon, I asked for some places I should visit, and we talked a wee bit about the World Cup (I didn't include how aggressive his team was).
The best part though, was when his two kids decided to play with us. The boys joined me and we kicked the soccer ball around. Lorenzo made me his team mate, and he was so cute each time he scored a goal. He would run with his arms outstretched and this huge grin on his face. Then he'd come give me a high five and say, "Vee are winning!!" He was very adamant about keeping score.
Then, too, when one of us would score, the goalie would toss out the ball for us to dribble in. I laughed each time the boys would catch the ball and then put it by their feet. "Geen handen!" the father would yell.
Got a chance to talk with Carlo about Corrie Ten Boom, as she is a native Dutchie. He didn't know who I was talking about, but if he comes back next week, I'm hoping to give him her book. I find it cool that I just learned about her, and got a chance to share about Christ some through her story.
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