So I’ve been feeling rather sorry for myself of late. Just pretty lame actually.
I read over the blogs that I wrote 2-3 years ago and I wonder where all that wonder and awe went. I wonder where the passion is. I wonder where my faith is. I wonder why I ever thought that this culture was the greatest thing around. I laugh bitterly at my innocence, at the fumbles, the naiveté, and the language gaffs. I think about the friendships that I haven’t kept up, the family that I miss desperately, the nephews that are growing up without me, the house in C-Vegas with the amazing perennials, my parents passing their years with me so far away, the job that I was so good at, the miracle of birth every time. I wind myself up into a pool of pity and wallowing. Ugh. Disgusting. I wait up for my husband to get home and become infuriated that I’m not independent anymore, that I am not the one that folks are waiting on- I’m the “waitee”, so needy. I remember being part of a church, MY church. Valued there. Carried in the arms of my people who knew me (from birth on up) and would be walking with me for the rest of my life.
It’s been a rough couple weeks.
My husband kinda saw this coming and reminded me as I was wailing the other night that I cried like this 2 Christmases ago. He tried to tell me that lots of people here love me too, that I’m cherished. It just didn’t feel the same. It felt like I’d be the only one really celebrating Jesus’ birthday, all by my lonesome. It felt like the wonder of the manger was lost. (I may have mentioned that I’m dramatic once or twice?)
Then today.
I went to Bastida. Baby Nicole’s mom wanted to see me. She had some peanuts saved for me. I packed up a little suitcase of socks and some cheap toys and vitamins and headed out by myself. 30 minute drive. Amidst these stunning mountains with the palm trees cresting over my head, the valley full of fields of yucca and plantains and rice and everything spreading out before me. I’ve seen it a million times. The sun was crashing through the clouds. There were a bunch of motorcycles speeding alongside me and Dominicans walking alongside the road, coming home from the fields and work. Kids with bags of pigeon peas, cilantro for sale along every speed bump. The drive felt really fast. I was pulling up to the exit before I knew it and there they were. 4 little guys. Waiting for me by the highway. God only knows how long they were waiting for me to arrive. They just knew that I was coming. It was Baby Nicole’s brothers. They ran as fast as they could to leap into the back of the pickup and tell me everything at once “We’ve been waiting, Mom’s got peanuts for you…and I saved you a mango and I hope it’s still there….Mom came home from work early to see you… Nicolita is waiting for you….we KNEW you were coming…we’ve been saving onions for you too…we HOPED it was you….everyone wants to see you…can you stop and pick up you know who….” and it went on and on.
And I started to feel it. A teeny tiny bit of something… maybe belonging, maybe just the feeling of being where I should be. As we drove the mile or so inside the tiny town, other kids started piling into the truck and the little guys excitedly pointed out everyone in their houses and by the side of the road. Then I could see ahead of me little Nicole running excitedly down the little road to see me, jumping in excitement. The whole family was waiting when I got there and sent folks immediately to make some juice. We all burst out of the truck and hauled the suitcase out and it disappeared inside the house and was never seen again.
And Martina (Baby Nicole’s mom) and I sat and talked. And then we walked to see where she is building her new house. She’s the hardest worker that I know, working in the fields every day to support her kids alone. She’s just missing a bit of cement and the doors and roof and windows but she’s getting there. She had a big bag saved for me of the fruit of her labor, pigeon peas and peanuts and onions and peppers. Her wide smile was the perfect gift and I remembered the day of Nicole’s birth, how quiet and stoic she was. How she hugged me a few hours later, how I was shaking for most of the day, the adrenaline still coursing through my body. Today she wanted me to visit some folks with her and so we were off. We checked on a woman who had had a stroke first. She still can’t walk but was so gentle and sweet “Nicole, when can you come back? Is your mother doing well? I’ve never met her but please send her my regards… And your husband?”. Humbling.
And then the chaos that is Bastida rained down…but in a GOOD way.
The boy that we did surgery on a couple weeks ago that barely speaks- “Let me see your hand…Wow- it looks great!”. It really did heal about ten billion times better than I thought it would.
The man who had surgery 6 months before reported in- “I feel pretty good on the inside…don’t know how it looks from the outside though- what do you think?”
The pregnant 14 year old -“Can you check pregnant ladies at your clinic? I don’t know how far along I am….”
Ricardo, the tiny little 18 month old with a huge umbilical hernia- “Hang in there buddy….grow a little bit and we’ll be happy to take care of that hernia”.
The poor kid with a huge mouth absess- “Call me tomorrow on your way to the clinic and we will take care of this right away…”
The pregnant mama holding the one year old - “When can I see a dentist?” “Call me tomorrow and we’ll set you up”
And then Martina says “Oh look- there’s Julio” (They call Julian “Julio” in Bastida). And I see him, hiding behind a tree sitting with some friends, that crazy shy grin- the same one I knew 8 years ago. And I remember crying when we couldn’t find him in San Juan and they said he had gone to the capital. And then I remember finding him in Bastida when Baby Nicole was born and knowing God had sent me there. I remember when his Grandma died, sitting there praying SO awkwardly with his family. I remember bringing him to the clinic to see Caceres with his spider bite. I remember his failures, his fighting, his anger, his hope, all that Julian is to me. And here he is again, the battler, the wounded, the warrior. He’s covered in cement because he’s working.
And I’m taking deep breaths because it’s coming back to me. It’s Christmas. There was a baby. In a manger. Just like Baby Nicole…sliding out into my hands those 4+ years ago. And there IS wonder…just like the miracle of finding Julian. There is excitement…just like 4 little boys waiting and waiting and waiting and chattering in the pickup. There is joy- in seeing friends who used to be patients but now are part of my story here. There is belonging and embraces and gifts of yucca and guandules and frankincense and myrrh.
So I cry the whole way back to San Juan. Not because I’m sad but because I’m happy. Yup, I’m way overdue to see my family and friends in the States. And I’ll get there. I will. But for right now, I’m going home to my husband, who is waiting for me. Waiting. For me. I’m going back to my little apartment where we have Christmas lights and a teeny tiny tree to remind us of the glitter of the season, of the Bright Shining Son. I’m going to think about a fire and hot chocolate with bread to dip into it tomorrow night…because that’s part of the Dominican culture that I love. I will watch movies with Dan and Kari and Laura and Welly and Monch and ya know what- they are my church here. They value me and will carry me in their arms and walk with me in my life here. I will listen to Handel’s Messiah and sing “Unto us a Child is Born” remembering just how my Dad sings it. And I will read the glorious glorious words in Isaiah that prophesy the same:
For to us a child is born, to us a son is given, and the government will be on his shoulders. And he will be called Wonderful Counselor, Mighty God, Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace. Isa 9:6
Merry Christmas…to us a Savior has been Born. And He is Christ the King. Happy birthday Jesus.
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