Words

Emily Ruskamp:
“Evangelize,” says one bullet point on the Youth Minister’s “How we show our Christian commitment” presentation. “We need to spread the message of Jesus Christ.”
Later, I hear a knock on the door. “Do you read the word of God? Let me show you a few passages. You’re a missionary? But you don’t go door-to-door? Let me show you where the Bible says God wants us to go door-to-door…”
Later still, my theater group performs an interpretation of Saint Francis’s Canticle of Creation. I am fire. We spend two hours wrapping ourselves with colored cloths and painting each other’s faces, plus taking pictures, dancing around the dressing room, getting nervous, calming our nerves, enjoying the rare luxurious mirrors and lighting, laughing, yelling, panicking when something or someone is missing, and solving last-minute glitches. I am not nervous because my fire dance is well-practiced, but I worry a little that we won’t impress the one hundred youth who are gathering in Chimbote for a regional conference. All-in-all, it goes well, they applaud us, and we take an hour-and-a-half scrubbing our faces and singing children’s songs in the dressing room, then we meander back to the parish, conversing, laughing, and talking about our hunger. As we approach the parish, we slowly split up, each one to her or his own house.
Another day in youth ministry. Another day evangelizing. Another day not going-door-to-door, but doing my best to let God work with me nonetheless. Today it was a Franciscan fire dance, tomorrow who knows what it will be!


Kelli Nelson:
He walked toward me sharing the sidewalk in his dust washed jeans, simple brown jacket, worn sneakers, a grand toothless grin, his thin body carrying a head held high with what seemed a disposition of, “life is good.” I watched him, drawn by this composition, suddenly sucked into his world. It was as though he was moving to his own soundtrack making other creatures come to life with his nod, the point of his finger, or shine of his eyes. Stopping abruptly as if he had dropped something, he spun around, retraced a few steps and reached to greet a small butterfly who without hesitation claimed home on his hand. The man of about forty or so years stood, turned, and continued his walk in my direction glowing with a contentment that became my own. As we approached the point of meeting he invited the butterfly to his chest where it lingered. Our eyes met, the man’s and mine, and we shared a smile that filled me up and continues to do so this very moment. How I wish to speak of God’s love like him.



Katie Langley:
Miscommunications have become a daily part of my Peruvian life. Speaking in another language is hard, and it is even harder when your comments are constantly being misinterpreted into something else entirely. Here in Chimbote, for example, if you compliment someone’s garden, the reply will most likely be, “Ok, this Saturday at 4pm you come over and I will teach you how to garden.” All of a sudden your intended side-comment to start a conversation becomes an obligation.
Two weeks ago I was in a patient’s house and her daughter was crocheting a scarf. I was standing alone with her in the living room and decided to speak with my toddler-age Spanish after about 30 seconds of awkward smiling.
Me: Me gusta tu chalina. (I like your scarf)
Her: Gracias!! Sabes que como tejer?? (Thanks!! Do you know how to crochet??)
Me: No, no puedo. (No, No I can’t)
Her: Bueno, este Jueves a las 4 in la tarde puedes venir y te enseño. Puedes comprar linea in Al Centro hoy dia antes de 9. (Great, this Thursday at 4:00 in the afternoon you can come and I will teach you. You can buy yarn downtown today before 9pm.)

Needless to say, this situation escalated into a twice a week visit to this lady’s house to learn how to crochet my new red scarf. I have about 6 inches done so far, 3 more feet to go. Two days ago, I was talking about cooking lunch for my community every Monday with another nurse. It went a little something like this:

Me: Tengo que cocinar cada Lunes (I have to cook every Monday)
Her: Que te gusta cocinar?? (What do you like to cook??)
Me: No puedo cocinar muy bien. Puedo cocinar pasta y otros cosas muy facil. (I can’t cook very well. I can cook pasta and other easy things.)
Her: Pues, este noche tengo tiempo libre. Me llamas antes de 6:00 y puedo venir a tu casa enseñarte como cocinar Estofado de Pollo. Hasta luego!! (Well, tonight I have free time. Call me before 6:00pm and I can come to your house and teach you how to make Estofado de Pollo. See you later!!).

I was left standing there mid-sentence (“But I have English class tonight and can’t….), a vegetarian with a date to learn how to make a chicken and rice dish before 6pm.
At first this attitude seemed presumptuous and frustrated me, but I am starting to see the beauty in it all. The Peruvians attitude is to drop everything they are doing just to share their culture and lives with someone they barely know. In The United States, we are all so rushed and living inside of ourselves that it is a huge inconvenience to have to pause and share something with another person. Our usual way of communicating is to have an interaction to get our point across. Here in Chimbote, the interactions are so much more about sharing presence, life, stories, hobbies, language, and love. Their openness and willingness to bring you into their culture with open arms is so beautiful and genuine. While I might not be too excited about having 3 more feet of red scarf to crochet, I feel blessed to have this time to share with the Señora who is teaching me. It is about the conversation and the presence, not just the messy ball of red yarn sitting beside me.