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.

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!

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.

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!"

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.

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.

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.