The Missionary’s Prayer

This morning I have been going through some things that I wrote way back when we first arrived on the field.  Things have changed so much since then.  This one particularly stuck out to me, for two reasons.  One, I wrote it in July of 2004, when we had been on the field for only seven months.  I wasn’t jaded or cynical at that point.  And two, I need to be reminded in my current jaded, cynical state that we are here for a reason, and it really has nothing to do with my own personal comfort.  Even after 10 years, I have so far to go…

The Missionary’s Prayer

   Father, help me to love these people as you love them.  Remind me that “Their ways are not my ways, nor are their thoughts my thoughts.”  Forgive my selfish pride in thinking that my way is always the best way.  Help me to see the differences between us as strengths, rather than weaknesses.  When I feel wronged, and I will, remind me that I am to forgive others as you have forgiven me.  I pray that they will also forgive me my trespasses, which will be many.
   When the opportunity for love comes my way, allow me to put off my foolish ideas.  Do not let an opportunity to show your love to someone pass, simply because I am worried about physical things.  I have the blessing of going home and washing, while many here do not.  When I am offered a meal of foods that are strange to me, prepared by hands that I do not know, remind me to accept it graciously and enjoy it in the spirit of sacrifice in which it is offered.    Take me beyond the ragged exterior to the heart within.
   When I am asked to be in places that offend my sensibilities, remind me that you left Heaven to come to a world that offended everything in you.  Yes, the places here where people live are dirty, and I wonder that they can survive in a garbage dump, or a village with no clean running water…You saw earth in much the same way.  Allow me to look past the physical to the eternal, as you did for me.  
   My purpose here is not to change their way of life, but to embrace it, and to see the beauty that their traditions merit.  Show me the wonder in their worship, in their music…in their living.  And when at last you call us home, I will find the joy that comes with kneeling at your feet with my brothers from this foreign land.  And our understanding of each other will be complete.

” So neither he who plants not he who waters is anything, but only God, who makes things grow…”
                                                                                                                       1 Corinthians 3:7

Why???

I have been a missionary for over 9 years.  I would consider myself “seasoned.’  I have seen abject poverty that words cannot even begin to describe.  I know what desperation looks like, feels like, smells like, sounds like and tastes like.  I have seen people surrender every last shred of their humanity and fight like the hounds of hell were on their tail to get to a one pound bag of rice.  And I’ve cried, knowing that it was the only thing holding off starvation for their babies, and that when it was gone, they would have no idea where the next pound of rice would come from.  And after all of this time.  All of these experiences.  All of this…life…I still have one question that eats at my very soul.

Why?

Why do they keep having babies?  Why do they keep having babies that they cannot feed and care for?  And please know that I am not speaking from a “two cars in the nice suburban garage and an iPod under the Christmas tree” mindset.  I came into this life with that mindset–if they can’t take care of their babies to my standards, then they aren’t doing a good job.  I have learned that I was totally, completely wrong.  I am talking about basic necessities like food and clothing.  Every day I pass mothers selling candy in the streets, just trying to earn enough to buy their little ones a piece of bread.  Typically, there are two or three playing in the median strip, one baby on her back, and most likely more children that have gotten old enough to fend for themselves, whatever that looks like.  There is no man in the picture–he left long ago.  She looks old.  Defeated.  Beaten down.  Do they love their babies?  My mama’s heart wants desperately to believe that they do, but I don’t know.  I just don’t know.  I can’t help but wonder if the desperation and the fear and the helplessness has pushed aside the love, and if all they see is another mouth to feed.

Yesterday the authorities removed five children from one of these mamas.  We know this mama personally–she is part of the ministry at the dump.  They took five of her nine children.  Two others died at birth, and one precious baby died before his first birthday of malnutrition.  I do not know where the sixth child is–presumably he is old enough to take care of himself.  I know some of you are asking why we didn’t do enough to prevent this.  Please believe me when I tell you we’ve done all we can, but sometimes all you can do is still not enough. 

Most of these precious babies have different fathers, and not one of them is around to help.  They took what they wanted, and she let them, either because she was hoping desperately that one of them would finally see her as beautiful and care enough to stay…or because she no longer believes that it’s possible for someone to see her as beautiful, and she just doesn’t care any more.  Birth control is not an option.  Even if she could afford it, she wouldn’t take it, because at this level of poverty, women believe that they only thing that will keep their man around is if they can give him babies.  And it almost never keeps him around. 

I know that I am not here to judge, but to help.  I know that there is probably something terribly wrong with me for even thinking this way.  And I realize that I have probably caused some of you to wonder why I’m here.    It’s about breaking the cycle of poverty and hopelessness.  It’s about change.

I love those babies.  I love holding them and playing with them.  I love their grubby little faces.  I love making them smile and giggle–especially the tiny ones who have already lost the sparkle in their eyes–they already know that life is hard and hungry and that it isn’t going to get any better. 

I love what I have been called to do.  But I still wonder…Why?

Coffee beans

I’m reading a book called “How coffee saved my life” by a missionary to Uruguay.  In the book she talks about mate (mah-tay), which is a tea that they drink in many parts of Latin America, including here in Ecuador.  One of the things about mate is that it serves as an appetite suppressant, which is essential when you don’t have enough food to eat to begin with.  The author talks about the social part of mate.  You don’t drink it alone.  It’s a part of a very social culture.

I started thinking about coffee, and how coffee “works” here in Ecuador.  I am an avid coffee drinker.  I take my travel mug with me to work every day-Starbucks, of course.  I collect Starbucks travel mugs, much to the frustration of my loving hubby.  When we were packing to come to the field, before I had started my travel mug collection, I had a bunch of $.25 mugs that I had picked up at Goodwill along the way.  I decided that I didn’t need to bring them, since they surely would be available here.  Or not.  When we came in 2004, travel mugs were almost unheard of.  In fact, the regular coffee cups were miniature-made for Lilliputians.  I was quickly initiated into the “coffee culture” of Ecuador…and it may have been the most culture shock that I went through.

Coffee here is a social event.  It’s not about the coffee itself.  Which is good, because “good” coffee here-at least to my Ecuadorian friends-consists of Nescafe (instant) poured into hot water with copious amounts of hot milk and sugar added.  It tastes like what I would imagine motor oil sweetened with sugar would taste like.  When we first came, and after I made it clear to my sweet hubby that I DON’T drink instant coffee, and that in the interest of marital harmony and staying on the field for longer than three days, we needed to find a coffee maker and real coffee, we discovered that “real” coffee was just as bad.  Prior to about 2006, Ecuador exported all of the good coffee and left the dregs to those of us who lived here.  Fortunately for all involved, the country has seen the error of it’s ways, and we now actually have really GOOD coffee.  Although most of my Ecuadorian friends still prefer motor oil.

I mentioned that coffee is a social event.  You don’t really see people here carrying travel mugs, or driving around with a mug of coffee in their car.  Coffee is meant to be shared.  Every day around 10:00 in the morning, most places have “cafecito”, or “little coffee”.  For about half an hour, they share their coffee and their lives, juntos (together).  When people get together socially outside of work, it involves coffee.  We have Juan Valdez and Sweet and Coffee, both of which are coffee spots.  You almost never see people get a coffee to go.  It involves sitting down at a table and being a part of the world around you, even for just a few minutes.  At Starbucks, in the US, you see people sitting in a corner with their coffee and their computer.  Here that doesn’t  happen as frequently.  In this culture you don’t “disengage” yourself from the world.

This has been quite a challenge for me.  I am painfully shy, and very introverted.  I need to be able to disengage on a regular basis in order to be able to engage.  Coffee for me represents solitude, tranquility and peace.  I love the way that it smells-the aroma itself is refreshing.  I have learned however, to appreciate the social part of coffee.  I can go to cafecito and enjoy the company of others.  I usually take my own mug and it’s often filled with my own coffee.  (OK fine.  I’ll admit it.  I’m a coffee snob.  No motor oil, no Lilliputian cups, no styrofoam (NO STYROFOAM) cups, no artificial creamer.  And no percolated coffee.  I’m a snob.  Admitting it is the first step to healing, although I wouldn’t hold my breath if I were you.)  I’m still not likely to contribute too much to the conversation-I’ll just listen, Thank You.  But I’m learning.  After 7+ years here, it is amazing how much I still have to learn.  I’m glad learning involves coffee.  It makes the journey that much sweeter.